Part 50 (1/2)
Neither Jean nor you have that understanding. Let me tell you a story: You asked Phil to escort Lettie Conlow home one night in August. About one o'clock in the morning Phil went from his home down to the edge of the cliff where the bushes grow thick. What took him there is his own business. It is all written in a letter that I can get possession of at any time that I need it, Lettie was there. Why, I do not know. She asked him to go home with her, but he refused to do so.”
Judson would have spoken but my father would not permit it here.
”She started out to that cabin at that hour of the night to meet you, started with Jean Pahusca, as you had commanded her to do, and you know he is a dangerous, villainous brute. He had some stolen goods at the cabin, and you wanted Lettie to see them, you said. If she could not entrap Phil that night, Jean must bring her out to this lonely haunted house. You led the prayer meeting that week for Dr. Hemingway. Amos Judson, so long as such men as you live, there is still need for guardian angels. One came to this poor wilful erring girl that night in the person of Bud Anderson, who not only made her tell where she was going, but persuaded her to turn back, and he saw her safe within her own home.”
”It's Phil that's deceived her and been her downfall. I can prove it by Lettie herself. She's a very warm friend and admirer of mine.”
”She told me in this room not two hours ago that Phil had never done her wrong. It was she who asked to have you summoned here this morning, although I was ready for you anyhow.”
The end of Judson's rope was in sight now. He collapsed in his chair into a little heap of whining fear and self-abas.e.m.e.nt.
”Your worst crime, Judson, is against this girl. You have used her for your tool, your accomplice, and your villainously base purposes. You bribed her, with gifts she coveted, to do your bidding. You lived a double life, filling her ears with promises you meant only to break.
Even your pretended engagement to Marjie you kept from her, and when she found it out, you declared it was false. And more, when with her own ears she heard you a.s.sert it as a fact, you sought to pacify her with promises of pleasures bought with sin. You are a property thief, a receiver of stolen goods, a defamer of character. Your hand was on the torch to burn this town. You juggled with the official records in the courthouse. You would basely deceive and marry a girl whose consent could be given only to save her father's memory from stain, and her mother from a broken heart. And greatest and blackest of all, you would utterly destroy the life and degrade the soul of one whose erring feet we owe it to ourselves to lead back to straight paths. On these charges I have summoned you to this account. Every charge I have evidence to prove beyond any shadow of question. I could call you before the civil courts at once. That I have not done it has not been for my son's sake, nor for Marjie's, nor her mother's, but for the sake of the one I have no personal cause to protect, the worst one connected with this business outside of yourself and that scoundrel Mapleson--for the sake of a woman. It is a man's business to s.h.i.+eld her, not to drag her down to perdition. I said I would send for you when it was time for you to come again, when I was ready for you. I have sent for you. Now you must answer me.”
Judson, sitting in a crumpled-up heap in the big armchair in John Baronet's private office, tried vainly for a time to collect his forces.
At last he turned to the one resource we all seek in our misdoing: he tried to justify himself by blaming others.
”Judge Baronet,” his high thin voice always turned to a whine when he lowered it. ”Judge Baronet, I don't see why I'm the only one you call to account. There's Tell Mapleson and Jim Conlow and the Rev. Dodd and a lot more done and planned to do what I'd never 'a dreamed of. Now, why do I have to bear all of it?”
”You have only your part to bear, no more; and as to Tell Mapleson, his time is coming.”
”I think I might have some help. You know all the law, and I don't know any law.” My father did not smile at the evident truth of the last clause.
”You can have all the law, evidence, and witnesses you choose. You may carry your case up to the highest court. Law is my business; but I'll be fair and say to you that a man's case is sometimes safer settled out of court, if mercy is to play any part. I've no cause to s.h.i.+eld you, but I'm willing you should know this.”
”I don't want to go to court. Tell's told me over and over I'd never have a ghost of a show”--he was talking blindly now--”I want somebody to shake you loose from me. That's it, I want to get rid of you.”
”How much time will it require to get your counsel and come here again?”
If a man sells his soul for wealth, the hardest trial of his life comes when he first gets face to face with the need of what money cannot buy; that is, loyalty. Such a trial came to Judson at this moment. Mapleson had warned him about Baronet, but in his puny egotistic narrowness he thought himself the equal of the best. Now he knew that neither Mapleson nor any other of the crew with whom he had been a law-breaker would befriend him.
”They ain't one of 'em 'll stand by a fellow when he's down, not a one,”
the little man declared.
”No, they never do; remember that,” John Baronet replied.
”Well, what is it you want?” he whined.
”What are you going to do? Settle this in court or out of it?”
”Out of it, out of it,” Judson fairly shrieked. ”I'd be put out of the Presbyterian Church if this gets into the courts. I've got a bank account I'm not ashamed of. How much is it going to take to settle it?
What's the least will satisfy you?”
”Settle it? Satisfy me? Great heavens! Can a career like this be atoned for with a bank check and interest at eight per cent?” My father's disgust knew no bounds.
”You are going to turn over to the account of Marjory Whately an amount equal to one-half the value of Whately's estate at the time of his death, with a legal rate of interest, which according to his will she was to receive at the age of twenty. The will,” my father went on, as he read a certain look in Judson's face, ”is safe in the vault of the courthouse, and there are no keys available to the box that holds it.