CHAPTER XXII
The Judge Gets a Shock
Princess Sukey stood severely staring at the Judge.
He was in his favorite place—in his own study, with his own dear books, in his own capacious armchair, and with his door wide open for little Bethany’s noon homecoming.
It was not yet time for her to come, and to-day she would be late, for she had warned “Daddy Grandpa” that she must stay for a few minutes after school to talk about a birthday party that one of her schoolmates was about to give.
In the meantime the Judge, sitting comfortably back in his chair, was occupied with his own thoughts, and uncommonly lively thoughts they were, judging by his face.
The pigeon stared still more severely. Being of a serious disposition, she never approved of laughter—and the Judge was laughing now.
He was thinking of Airy. Her pranks amused him immensely. The day before she had been invited to dine with him. The Judge could see her coming into the room, her mouth primly set, her sharp eyes going to and fro. She did nothing spontaneously. With slavish imitation she studied the other children. She ate as Bethany did, she made use of Dallas’s and Titus’s phrases, and if she had not one of theirs at hand she kept silence.
“Upon my word, Sukey,” said the Judge, mischievously, to the pigeon, “I believe Airy is going to make a lady of herself, after all. They say that a faithful imitation is a good original. I foresee, though, many lessons ahead for us. The little witch has made up her mind to spend a good part of her time in studying us. Well, we don’t care—we don’t care,” and he laughed again.
“It seems to me,” he said at last, taking off his glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief, “that I laugh far more over children than I used to. I believe that as a young man I took my family too seriously. Certain it is that I get more real amusement and enjoyment out of the children of my adoption than I did out of my own dear little ones. How I wish I had them round me now!” and he sighed.
The pigeon wrathfully shook herself. She wanted no more children about. There were too many now for her taste, and elevating her head she said, sharply, a great many times, “Rookety cahoo! rookety cahoo!”
The Judge looked at her. Her greenish-yellow eyes were fixed on him with a steady glare. They seemed to mesmerize him, and in two minutes the Judge’s dear old white head was nodding.
He was having forty winks before luncheon, but during the forty winks he had time to dream. He was facing a crowded courtroom, there was trouble somewhere; he did not seem to know just what it was. A great noise and confusion uprose. He tried to speak, but could not, and in his distress he awoke.
When he went to sleep the room had been quiet, the house was quiet, the street was quiet. Now the noise in his dream seemed to have followed him into real life—or did he fancy it? and he put up a hand as if to stop the singing in his ears. He hoped he was not getting deaf.
There certainly was a noise, a great noise abroad, and it was not in his ears. He heard carriages in the street and banging of doors, loud voices in the hall below, and now there were persons rushing upstairs.
He was still slightly confused. He had a vision of the pigeon listening, her hooded head on one side, her body vibrating with anger, then a dozen or more persons hurried into the room and invaded his armchair.
The Judge sat helplessly back and looked at them. What was the matter?
Foremost among the newcomers was young Mrs. Everest, her face like a poppy, the plumes of her big hat nodding against his white head as she bent over him.
She was almost screaming, she was so excited. “You dear old man, I’ve always wanted to kiss you, and I’m going to do so now.”
The Judge smiled feebly. Did she, too, want to be adopted? He made no resistance, but he certainly made no response as her affectionate arms were thrown round him and a kiss was sweetly placed on his forehead.
It was a congratulatory embrace, he felt that; but what had he done, what had happened?
“Allow me to shake hands and felicitate you,” said a second joyful voice, and Berty’s husband seized and wrung his hand.
The Judge struggled out of his chair. There was Berty’s brother Boniface, there were several young Everests, there were Charlie Brown, Titus, Dallas, and some other boys that he did not know, and what were those two young fellows doing with notebooks? Reporters, of course. Oblivious of the chatter and confusion about them they were rapidly taking notes, their eyes going all round the room, even to the top of the bookcase, where stood an indignant, frightened pigeon looking down at this invasion of her home.
The Judge soon forgot the reporters. He was just about to ask what he had done that he should be written up for the press when his dismayed eyes fell on a little creature somewhat in the background.
Who was that? If he were in his sane mind he would say that it was Bethany dressed as a boy. Her hair was cut short, she had on a boy’s suit of clothes, and, astonishing to tell, she, quite oblivious of the laughing and talking about her, was amusing herself by playing horse on a chair that she had overturned.
She was astride it. “Gee up, horsie,” the Judge heard her say, and she whipped and beat the chair with her plump little palm.
The Judge gazed helplessly at Mrs. Everest and ejaculated, “Is she crazy?”
“Poor little dear,” said the young woman, indignantly, “those wretches played on her lively imagination and tried to transform her into a boy.”
“What wretches?” asked the Judge, feebly, but Mrs. Everest had too little command of herself to answer him. “There’s the Mayor,” she cried, “I hear his voice,” and she ran out in the hall.
“More carriages!” one young Everest squealed, and they, too, dashed out.
“Tom Everest,” said the Judge, solemnly, to Berty’s husband, “what is this all about?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, absently, and the Judge knew that he had not heard his question, for he continued a lively conversation that he was having with Boniface.
“I tell you, Bonny, that you shan’t take all the credit from our police force. It’s all very well for those New York men to crow. They weren’t in it.”
“They were, Tom,” replied Bonny, indignantly.
The Judge stared. Boniface Gravely was a young elegant who prided himself on his good manners. What dispute had he come here in his study to settle? He never had seen him out of temper before. Now he was red and flushed, and looked as if he could strike his brother-in-law.
The Judge caught other phrases from other excited ones. “The police—cab—driving fast—running away—railway station—caught them in time.” Something startling had evidently happened.
He put out one of his long arms and drew Titus toward him. “Grandson, what is all this about?”
“B-b-lest if I know,” said Titus, bluntly. “I never saw such a mix-up in my life. The people are just pouring into the house, and they’re all too excited to explain. I tried to get hold of Dallas, but he’s sparring over there in a corner with the dirtiest little ragamuffin I ever saw. He’s called Cracker, and I guess Dallas saw him stealing something.”
“You might keep your eyes open, Titus,” groaned the Judge. “I never had such an irruption into my house as this before.”
“W-w-whatever it is, Bethany’s in it,” said Titus. “I hear them talking about her.”
“Can’t you get hold of her, Titus, and take those clothes off?”
Titus looked sharply at him. His grandfather’s voice was almost childish. These people were driving him distracted.
“Come out in the hall, grandfather,” he said, taking him by the arm, “the air is cooler.”
“Law me,” he groaned, when they reached the hall window, “look at the carriages dashing down the avenue. The Brown-Gardners’ and the Darley-Jameses’, and the Rector’s—”
“Titus,” called a sudden voice, “there’s a deputation from your school coming. They’ve just telephoned. Can you go down and receive them?”
“No, I can’t,” growled Titus, “I’m going to stay with grandfather. Go yourself.”
Dallas raised himself on tiptoe and stared across some heads at them.
“Anything I can do for the Judge?” he asked, calling a halt in his excitement.
“No,” responded Titus, “go on. I’ll stay with him.”
“A telephone message for Mr. Tom Everest,” called a piercing voice. “His father wants him on business at the iron works.”
The Judge straightened his tall form and looked in through the open door of his study. A strange young man sat at his telephone desk. He was receiving and giving messages, as if the house belonged to him.
“The Mayor to see the Judge, the Mayor, the Mayor,” reiterated a number of voices, and a passage was made between the people, who by this time crowded the staircase and the upper hall.
Titus guided his grandfather to the big hall window and threw it wide open.
Mr. Jimson, the Mayor, was a medium-sized, bluff, hearty man, for whom the Judge had great respect. He was a man who made no pretensions to elegance, but the Judge admired him for his honesty. This was his second term as mayor. During the first one he had threatened to resign on account of corruption in civic affairs. He had been urged to remain in office by all the best citizens of the town, and owing to their efforts many reforms had been effected.
Just now he was beaming on the Judge.
“Congratulations!” he said, extending a hand and heartily shaking the Judge’s. “I’m glad you caught those fellows.”
“Thank you,” said the Judge, simply. He possessed a certain kind of pride that would not allow him to seek information from the chief official of the city, even though he seemed the only one capable of giving it.
“Just look at the people swarming down the avenue,” continued the Mayor. “I wish the people of Riverport held me in such estimation. This your grandson? How do you do, young sir? I’m pleased to meet you,” and he shook hands with Titus.
Titus was as proud as his grandfather, so he, too, did not seek enlightenment.
Suddenly Mrs. Everest stood at the Judge’s side. He did not know how she got there.
“Worked my shoulders through the press,” she said, gayly; “there’s an art in it. You turn one blade, then the other, and they cut the crowd. Dear Judge, the house is packed—not another one can get in. They’re lining up on the sidewalk and the middle of the street. Just see. You can’t shake hands with all. You’ll have to make a speech.”
As if her thought had communicated itself to the crowd, or, rather, perhaps, that the people on the street had caught sight of the Judge’s white head, there arose a sudden cry, “Speech! Speech!”
The Judge looked helplessly about him.
The jam on the staircase, in the hall, and in the study took up the cry, “Speech! Speech!”
The Judge, brought to bay, turned rebukingly to Mrs. Everest. “Speech! Speech! but what shall I speechify about?”
“Why, about this trouble—about your loss and—”
“Speak louder, I beg,” exclaimed the Judge, putting his hand behind his ear and bending down to catch her words. “There is such a roaring that I can’t hear.”
She put up her lips, and in a clear, flutelike voice called out to him, “Exhort them to love their homes and families, to keep them pure, to protect their children. I think you’ll do best on general lines. Don’t make personal references.”
The Judge set his face. “I see,” he said, firmly, “that is some kind of a complimentary demonstration, but I am not the kind of man to talk about a thing I do not understand. Tell me in a few words what all this means.”
Berty stared at him in amazement. “Has no one told you?” she vociferated.
He shook his head. “No one.”
“Kidnapers tried to steal Bethany,” she cried. “We rescued her. The people are glad.”
The Judge understood. “Thank you,” he said, gravely. Then he faced the crowd in the street.
It was not a cold day, and the really soft spring wind blew aside his white hair as he looked from the window at his assembled and assembling citizens, for others were yet arriving.
For just one instant he faltered. He was not a public speaker, and he had never addressed a crowd like this. He might have failed, or he might have made a lame and halting speech, if it had not been for the presence of a hand somewhat smaller than his own.
Titus was standing by him, his own dear grandson was watching him anxiously. The Judge thought of him and of the other children of his family. He would speak so that they might be proud of him, and his voice rang out on the clear noonday air: “My dear fellow citizens, I thank you for this grand sympathetic gathering. In trouble or in joy, the inhabitants of a city should stand together. Stand by each other, and stand by your families. We read in Holy Writ that God setteth the solitary in families; also that ye shall not afflict any widow or fatherless child. Now, a fatherless child has been afflicted. Wicked men attempted to lay hands upon her, but they were defeated.”
A burst of applause interrupted the Judge, and with his blood tingling in his veins he went on with the delivery of the best twenty-minute impromptu speech that had ever been given in Riverport, so the newspapers said next day.
The speech was not concluded with as much dignity as it had been begun. It certainly had a more affecting conclusion than beginning. The Judge was just about to close. He was about to thank his friends and acquaintances and well wishers for the honor they had done him, when out of the profound silence about him there arose a little cry—a child’s cry.
Bethany, happy at first in her play at riding a horse, had soon become alarmed by the continued influx of strangers. Some kind-hearted persons had taken it upon themselves to comfort her, and for a time had succeeded.
The child, however, wanted Daddy Grandpa, and refused to be consoled for his absence. She did not care if he were making a speech, and her wailing cry grew louder and louder, until at last some one had the happy thought of passing her out to the Judge. She was lifted along from one set of strong arms to another, until at last her little feet were on the window sill beside the Judge, and her arms were about his neck.
The close-cropped head was laid across his mouth. He could not utter a word. The crowd understood the little affectionate, frightened, childish embrace, and a tremendous cheering and clapping broke out.
The Judge fell back from the window, and the Mayor stepped forward.
“Three cheers for the Judge,” he said, waving his hat in the air, “and then three cheers for the children of Riverport.”
The cheers were given with a will, and then the crowd began to disperse.
Titus slipped up to Mrs. Everest. “Look here, Mrs. Berty, send all these folks out of the house. I can’t, as I’m under my own roof. It’s too much for grandfather.”
“Very well,” she said, nodding her black head. “I’ll just let a few stay.”
“Don’t you let anyone stay,” the boy said, obstinately, “but yourself. Grandfather will want you to explain this affair to him.”
“Not my brother and the Mayor?” she said, wistfully.
“No brothers and no mayors,” said the boy. “Excuse me for seeming rude, but grandfather looks pale. He wasn’t well yesterday.”
Mrs. Everest ran up to the Mayor and whispered to him.
He was a man of businesslike methods, and in ten minutes there wasn’t a person in the house outside the family, except Mrs. Tom Everest, though a few groups still loitered on the sidewalk.
She went into the study with the Judge and Bethany, and Titus ran downstairs to tell Higby to let no one come upstairs without permission.
Titus could not find Higby at first. After a time he discovered him behind the door in the pantry, crying in a low and dispirited way.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
Higby raised a tearful face.
“Mi-mi-missis Blodgett slapped me.”
“And what did she slap you for? I’ll bet you deserved it.”
“I-I-I’m a bachelor,” whimpered Higby, “a-a-an’ she’s a widder.”
“Well, suppose you are, and suppose she is,” said the boy, impatiently, “what of it? She wouldn’t slap you for that?”
“When I-I-I saw the crowd I thought she m-m-might be scared, an’ I put m-m-my arm round her.”
“Scared! You goose, you’d scare quicker than she would.”
“An’ she sl-sl-slapped me,” continued Higby, dolefully, “an’ she said, You sas-sas-sassy ole dog. An’ I-I-I aint a dog.”
“More’s the pity,” said Titus, unfeelingly. “You’d have more sense if you were. Now, listen to me. Grandfather wants to keep quiet. If anyone comes to see him put him or her in the parlor and come for me. If you let anyone upstairs without orders from us I’ll give you a slap compared with which Mrs. Blodgett’s would be a caress. Do you understand?” and he took the old man by the shoulder and gently shook him.
Higby smiled through his tears. “B-b-bless you, Master Titus. You want to m-m-make ole Higby laugh.”
“Do you understand?” asked the boy.
The old man nodded.
“Put your handkerchief in your pocket,” commanded Titus.
Higby did so.
“Stand up, walk out into the hall, strut a little, if you can.”
Higby, with a wan smile, tried to strut, and to such good effect that Titus, taken with a sudden fit of laughter and choking, was obliged to retire behind the pantry door. Presently he came out.
“Higby, repeat after me: ‘A bachelor’s life is a lively life.’”
“A-a-a ba-ba-bachelor’s life is a l-l-lovely life.”
“Lively, you goose.”
“L-l-lively life.”
“None of your widows for me.”
“None of your w-w-widders for me.”
“Now, don’t you feel better?”
“Yes, sir,” said Higby. “I’ll put me a-a-arm round the stair post afore I-I-I’ll put it round that widder again,” and he marched valiantly up to the aforesaid post and struck it with such vehemence and comicality that Titus put down his head and ran precipitately upstairs.
Higby’s admiration for Mrs. Blodgett was a standing joke in the family.