Part 3 (2/2)

It was a depressing day, and yet there was no relaxation of energy in the men who were darting here and there eagerly, each intent on his errand, with eyes fixed on the goal and with lips set in stern determination. As Curtis Van Dyne thrust himself through the throng on the Broadway sidewalk, leaving the frowning Post-office behind him, and pa.s.sing before the blithe effigy of Nathan Hale, he almost laughed aloud as it suddenly struck him how incongruous it was that a statue of a man who had gladly died for his country should be stuck there between two buildings filled with men who were looking to their country, to the nation or to the city, to provide them with a living. But he was in no mood for laughter, even saturnine; and if anything could have aroused his satire, it would have been not a graven image, but himself.

He was in the habit of having a good opinion of himself, and he clung to his habits, especially to this one. Yet he was then divided between self-pity and self-contempt. For a good reason, so it seemed to him--and he was pleased to be able to think that it was an unselfish reason--he was going to take a step he did not quite approve of. He went all over the terms of the situation again as he turned from Broadway toward the City Hall; and the pressure of circ.u.mstances as he saw them brought him again to the same conclusion. Then he resolved not to let himself be worried by his own decision; if it was for the best, then there was no sense in not making the best of it.

So intent was he on his own thought that he did not observe the expectant smile of an older man who was walking across the park in front of the City Hall, and who slackened his gait, supposing that the young lawyer would greet him.

When Van Dyne pa.s.sed on unseeing, the other man waited for a second and then called, ”Curtis!”

The young man had already begun to mount the steps. He turned sharply, as though any conversation would then be unwelcome, but when he saw who had hailed him he smiled cheerfully and held out his hand cordially.

”Why, Judge,” he began, ”I didn't know you were home again! I'm glad you are better. They told me you might have to go away for the rest of the winter.”

”That's what they told me, too,” answered Judge Jerningham; ”and I told them I wouldn't go. I'm paid for doing my work here, and I don't intend to s.h.i.+rk it. I expect to take my seat again next week.”

There was a striking contrast between the two men as they stood there on the steps of the City Hall. Judge Jerningham was nearly sixty; he had a stalwart frame, almost to be called stocky; his black hair was grizzled only, and his full beard was only streaked with white. He had large, dark eyes, deep-set under cavernous brows. His clothes fitted him loosely, and, although not exactly out of style, they were not to be called modish in either cut or material. Curtis Van Dyne was full thirty years younger; he was fair and slight, and he wore a drooping mustache.

He was dressed with obvious care, and his garments suited him. He looked rather like a man of fas.h.i.+on than like a young fellow who had his way to make at the bar.

”By the way,” said the Judge, after a little pause, which gave Van Dyne time to wonder why it was that the elder man had called him--”by the way, how is your sister? I saw her in church on Sunday, and she looked a little pale and peaked, I thought.”

”Oh, Martha's all right,” the young man answered, briskly. ”Aunt Mary attends to that.”

”Do you know what struck me on Sunday as I looked at Martha?” asked the Judge. ”It was her likeness to her mother at the same age.”

”Yes,” Van Dyne replied, ”Aunt Mary says Martha's very like mother as a girl.”

”And your mother was never very hearty,” pursued the Judge. ”Don't you think it might be well to get the girl out of town for a little while next month? March is very hard on those whose bronchial tubes are weakened.”

”I guess Martha can stand another March in New York,” the young man responded. ”She's all right enough. I don't say it wouldn't be good for her to go South for a few weeks, but--Well, you know I can't telephone for my steam-yacht to be brought round to the foot of Twenty-third Street, and I don't own any stock in Jekyll Island.”

The Judge made no immediate answer, and again there was an awkward silence.

The younger man broke it. He held out his hand once more. ”It's pleasant to see you looking so fit,” he said, cordially.

The other took his hand and held it. ”Curtis,” he began, ”it isn't any of my business, I suppose, and yet I don't know. Who is to speak if I don't?”

”Speak about what?” asked Van Dyne, as the Judge released his hand.

The elder man did not answer this question. Apparently he found it difficult to say what he wished.

”I happened to see a paragraph in the political gossip in the _Dial_ this morning,” he began again; ”I don't often read that sort of stuff, but your name caught my eye. It said that the organization was enlisting recruits from society as an answer to the slanderous attacks that had been made on it, and that people could see how much there was in these malignant a.s.saults when they found the better element eager to be enrolled. And then it gave half a dozen names of men who had just joined, including yours and Jimmy Suydam's. I suppose there is no truth in it?”

”It's about as near to the truth as a newspaper ever gets, I fancy,” Van Dyne answered. His color had risen a little, and his speech had become a little more precise. ”I haven't joined yet, but I'm going to join this week. Pat McCann is to take us in hand, Jimmy and me; he's our district leader.”

”Pat McCann!” and the Judge spoke the name with horrified contempt.

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