“He cannot see you,” said Hepzibah, with quivering voice.  “He cannot see visitors.”

“A visitor—­do you call me so?” cried the judge.  “Then let me be Clifford’s host, and your own likewise.  Come at once to my house.  I have often invited you before.  Come, and we will labour together to make Clifford happy.”

“Clifford has a home here,” she answered.

“Woman,” broke out the judge, “what is the meaning of all this?  Have you other resources?  Take care, Hepzibah, take care!  Clifford is on the brink of as black a ruin as ever befel him yet!”

From within the parlour sounded a tremulous, wailing voice, indicating helpless alarm.

“Hepzibah!” cried the voice.  “Entreat him not to come in.  Go down on your knees to him.  Oh, let him have mercy on me!  Mercy!”

The judge withdrew, and Hepzibah, deathly white, staggered towards Phoebe.

“That man has been the horror of my life,” she murmured.  “Shall I never have courage enough to tell him what he is?”

IV.—­The Spell is Broken

The shop thrived under Phoebe’s management, and the acquaintance with
Mr. Holgrave ripened into friendship.

Then, after some weeks, Phoebe went away on a temporary visit to her mother, and the old house, which had been brightened by her presence, was once more dark and gloomy.

It was during this absence of Phoebe’s that Judge Pyncheon once more called and demanded to see Clifford.

“You cannot see him,” answered Hepzibah.  “Clifford has kept his bed since yesterday.”

“What!  Clifford ill!” said the judge, starting.  “Then I must, and will see him!”

The judge explained the reason for his urgency.  He believed that Clifford could give the clue to the dead uncle’s wealth, of which not more than a half had been mentioned in his will.  If Clifford refused to reveal where the missing documents were placed, the judge declared he would have him confined in a public asylum as a lunatic, for there were many witnesses of Clifford’s simple childlike ways.

“You are stronger than I,” said Hepzibah, “and you have no pity in your strength.  Clifford is not now insane; but the interview which you insist upon may go far to make him so.  Nevertheless, I will call Clifford!”

Hepzibah went in search of her brother, and Judge Pyncheon flung himself down in an old chair in the parlour.  He took his watch from his pocket and held it in his hand.  But Clifford was not in his room, nor could Hepzibah find him.  She returned to the parlour, calling out to the judge as she came, to rise and help find Clifford.

But the judge never moved, and Clifford appeared at the door, pointing his finger at the judge, and laughing with strange excitement.

“Hepzibah,” he said, “we can dance now!  We can sing, laugh, play, do what we will!  The weight is gone, Hepzibah—­gone off this weary old world, and we may be as lighthearted as little Phoebe herself!  What an absurd figure the old fellow cuts now, just when he fancied he had me completely under his thumb!”