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diff --git a/18140-0.txt b/18140-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9e2795 --- /dev/null +++ b/18140-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9815 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of An Alabaster Box, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Florence Morse Kingsley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: An Alabaster Box + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Florence Morse Kingsley + +Illustrator: Stockton Mulford + +Release Date: April 10, 2006 [eBook #18140] +[Most recently updated: March 29, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Jeff Kaylin and Andrew Sly + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ALABASTER BOX *** + + + + +An +Alabaster Box + +By +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman +and +Florence Morse Kingsley + +Illustrated by +Stockton Mulford + +D. Appleton and Company +New York London +1917 + +......There came a woman, having an alabaster box of ointment, very +precious; and she broke the box..... + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + + + + +Chapter I. + + +“We,” said Mrs. Solomon Black with weighty emphasis, “are going to get +up a church fair and raise that money, and we are going to pay your +salary. We can’t stand it another minute. We had better run in debt to +the butcher and baker than to the Lord.” + +Wesley Elliot regarded her gloomily. “I never liked the idea of church +fairs very well,” he returned hesitatingly. “It has always seemed to me +like sheer beggary.” + +“Then,” said Mrs. Solomon Black, “we will beg.” + +Mrs. Solomon Black was a woman who had always had her way. There was +not one line which denoted yielding in her large, still handsome face, +set about with very elaborate water-waves which she had arranged so +many years that her black hair needed scarcely any attention. It would +almost seem as if Mrs. Solomon Black had been born with water waves. + +She spoke firmly but she smiled, as his mother might have done, at the +young man, who had preached his innocent best in Brookville for months +without any emolument. + +“Now don’t you worry one mite about it,” said she. “Church fairs may be +begging, but they belong to the history of the United States of +America, and I miss my guess if there would have been much preaching of +the gospel in a good many places without them. I guess it ain’t any +worse to hold church fairs in this country than it is to have the +outrageous goings on in the old country. I guess we can cheat a little +with mats and cakes and things and not stand any more danger of +hell-fire than all those men putting each other’s eyes out and killing +everybody they can hit, and spending the money for guns and awful +exploding stuff that ought to go for the good of the world. I ain’t +worried one mite about church fairs when the world is where it is now. +You just run right into your study, Mr. Elliot, and finish your sermon; +and there’s a pan of hot doughnuts on the kitchen table. You go through +the kitchen and get some doughnuts. We had breakfast early and you +hadn’t ought to work too hard on an empty stomach. You run along. Don’t +you worry. All this is up to me and Maria Dodge and Abby Daggett and a +few others. You haven’t got one blessed thing to do with it. All you’ve +got to do is to preach as well as you can, and keep us from a free +fight. Almost always there is a fuss when women get up a fair. If you +can preach the gospel so we are all on speaking terms when it is +finished, you will earn your money twice over. Run along.” + +Wesley Elliot obeyed. He always obeyed, at least in the literal sense, +when Mrs. Solomon Black ordered him. There was about her a fairly +masterly maternity. She loved the young minister as firmly for his own +good as if he had been her son. She chuckled happily when she heard him +open the kitchen door. “He’ll light into those hot doughnuts,” she +thought. She loved to pet the boy in the man. + +Wesley Elliot in his study upstairs—a makeshift of a study—sat munching +hot doughnuts and reflecting. He had only about one-third of his sermon +written and it was Saturday, but that did not disturb him. He had a +quick-moving mind. He sometimes wondered whether it did not move too +quickly. Wesley was not a conceited man in one sense. He never had +doubt of his power, but he had grave doubts of the merits of his +productions. However, today he was glad of the high rate of speed of +which he was capable, and did not worry as much as he sometimes did +about his landing at the exact goal. He knew very well that he could +finish his sermon, easily, eat his doughnuts, and sit reflecting as +long as he chose. He chose to do so for a long time, although his +reflections were not particularly happy ones. When he had left the +theological seminary a year ago, he had had his life planned out so +exactly that it did not seem possible to him that the plans could fail. +He had graduated at the head of his class. He had had no doubt of a +city church. One of the professors, a rich man with much influence, had +practically promised him one. Wesley went home to his doting mother, +and told her the news. Wesley’s mother believed in much more than the +city church. She believed her son to be capable of anything. “I shall +have a large salary, mother,” boasted Wesley, “and you shall have the +best clothes money can buy, and the parsonage is sure to be beautiful.” + +“How will your old mother look in fine feathers, in such a beautiful +home?” asked Wesley’s mother, but she asked as a lovely, much-petted +woman asks such a question. She had her little conscious smile all +ready for the rejoinder which she knew her son would not fail to give. +He was very proud of his mother. + +“Why, mother,” he said, “as far as that goes, I wouldn’t balk at a +throne for you as queen dowager.” + +“You are a silly boy,” said Mrs. Elliot, but she stole a glance at +herself in an opposite mirror, and smiled complacently. She did not +look old enough to be the mother of her son. She was tall and slender, +and fair-haired, and she knew how to dress well on her very small +income. She was rosy, and carried herself with a sweet serenity. People +said Wesley would not need a wife as long as he had such a mother. But +he did not have her long. Only a month later she died, and while the +boy was still striving to play the rôle of hero in that calamity, there +came news of another. His professor friend had a son in the trenches. +The son had been wounded, and the father had obeyed a hurried call, +found his son dead, and himself died of the shock on the return voyage. +Wesley, mourning the man who had been his stanch friend, was guiltily +conscious of his thwarted ambition. “There goes my city church,” he +thought, and flung the thought back at himself in anger at his own +self-seeking. He was forced into accepting the first opportunity which +offered. His mother had an annuity, which he himself had insisted upon +for her greater comfort. When she died, the son was nearly penniless, +except for the house, which was old and in need of repair. + +He rented that as soon as he received his call to Brookville, after +preaching a humiliating number of trial sermons in other places. Wesley +was of the lowly in mind, with no expectation of inheriting the earth, +when he came to rest in the little village and began boarding at Mrs. +Solomon Black’s. But even then he did not know how bad the situation +really was. He had rented his house, and the rent kept him in decent +clothes, but not enough books. He had only a little shelf filled with +the absolutely necessary volumes, most of them relics of his college +course. He did not know that there was small chance of even his meager +salary being paid until June, and he had been ordained in February. He +had wondered why nobody said anything about his reimbursement. He had +refrained from mentioning it, to even his deacons. + +Mrs. Solomon Black had revealed the state of affairs, that morning. +“You may as well know,” said she. “There ain’t a cent to pay you, and I +said when you came that if we couldn’t pay for gospel privileges we +should all take to our closets and pray like Sam Hill, and no charge; +but they wouldn’t listen to me, though I spoke right out in conference +meeting and it’s seldom a woman does that, you know. Folks in this +place have been hanging onto the ragged edge of nothing so long they +don’t seem to sense it. They thought the money for your salary was +going to be brought down from heaven by a dove or something, when all +the time, those wicked flying things are going round on the other side +of the earth, and there don’t seem as if there could be a dove left. +Well, now that the time’s come when you ought to be paid, if there’s +any decency left in the place, they comes to me and says, ‘Oh, Mrs. +Black, what shall we do?’ I said, ‘Why didn’t you listen when I spoke +out in meeting about our not being able to afford luxuries like gospel +preaching?’ and they said they thought matters would have improved by +this time. Improved! How, I’d like to know? The whole world is sliding +down hill faster and faster every minute, and folks in Brookville think +matters are going to improve, when they are sliding right along with +the Emperor of Germany and the King of England, and all the rest of the +big bugs. I can’t figure it out, but in some queer, outlandish way that +war over there has made it so folks in Brookville can’t pay their +minister’s salary. They didn’t have much before, but such a one got a +little for selling eggs and chickens that has had to eat them, and the +street railway failed, and the chair factory, that was the only +industry left here, failed, and folks that had a little to pay had to +eat their payings. And here you are, and it’s got to be the fair. Seems +queer the war in Europe should be the means of getting up a fair in +Brookville, but I guess it’ll get up more’n that before they’re through +fighting.” + +All this had been the preliminary to the speech which sent Wesley forth +for doughnuts, then to his study, ostensibly to finish his lovely +sermon, but in reality to think thoughts which made his young forehead, +of almost boyhood, frown, and his pleasant mouth droop, then +inexplicably smooth and smile. It was a day which no man in the flush +of youth could resist. That June day fairly rioted in through the open +windows. Mrs. Black’s muslin curtains danced in the June breeze like +filmy-skirted nymphs. Wesley, whose imagination was active, seemed to +see forced upon his eager, yet reluctant, eyes, radiant maidens, +flinging their white draperies about, dancing a dance of the innocence +which preludes the knowledge of love. Sweet scents came in through the +windows, almond scents, honey scents, rose scents, all mingled into an +ineffable bouquet of youth and the quest of youth. + +Wesley rose stealthily; he got his hat; he tiptoed across the room. +Heavens! how thankful he was for access to the back stairs. Mrs. Black +was sweeping the parlor, and the rear of the house was deserted. Down +the precipitous back stairs crept the young minister, listening to the +sound of the broom on Mrs. Black’s parlor carpet. As long as that +regular swish continued he was safe. Through the kitchen he passed, +feeling guilty as he smelled new peas cooking for his delectation on +Mrs. Black’s stove. Out of the kitchen door, under the green hood of +the back porch, and he was afield, and the day had him fast. He did not +belong any more to his aspirations, to his high and noble ambitions, to +his steadfast purpose in life. He belonged to the spring of the planet +from which his animal life had sprung. Young Wesley Elliot became one +with June, with eternal youth, with joy which escapes care, with the +present which has nothing to do with the past or the future, with that +day sufficient unto itself, that day dangerous for those whose feet are +held fast by the toils of the years. + +Wesley sped across a field which was like a field of green glory. He +saw a hollow like a nest, blue with violets, and all his thoughts +leaped with irresponsive joy. He crossed a brook on rocky stones, as if +he were crossing a song. A bird sang in perfect tune with his mood. He +was bound for a place which had a romantic interest for him: the +unoccupied parsonage, which he could occupy were he supplied with a +salary and had a wife. He loved to sit on the back veranda and dream. +Sometimes he had company. Brookville was a hot little village, with a +long line of hills cutting off the south wind, but on that back veranda +of the old parsonage there was always a breeze. Sometimes it seemed +mysterious to Wesley, that breeze. It never failed in the hottest days. +Now that the parsonage was vacant, women often came there with their +needlework of an afternoon, and sat and sewed and chatted. Wesley knew +of the custom, and had made them welcome. But sometimes of a morning a +girl came. Wesley wondered if she would be there that morning. After he +had left the field, he plunged knee-deep through the weedage of his +predecessor’s garden, and heart-deep into luxuriant ranks of dewy +vegetables which he, in the intervals of his mental labors, should +raise for his own table. Wesley had an inherent love of gardening which +he had never been in a position to gratify. Wesley was, in fancy, +eating his own green peas and squashes and things when he came in sight +of the back veranda. It was vacant, and his fancy sank in his mind like +a plummet of lead. However, he approached, and the breeze of blessing +greeted him like a presence. + +The parsonage was a gray old shadow of a building. Its walls were +stained with past rains, the roof showed depressions, the veranda steps +were unsteady, in fact one was gone. Wesley mounted and seated himself +in one of the gnarled old rustic chairs which defied weather. From +where he sat he could see a pink and white plumage of blossoms over an +orchard; even the weedy garden showed lovely lights under the +triumphant June sun. Butterflies skimmed over it, always in pairs, now +and then a dew-light like a jewel gleamed out, and gave a delectable +thrill of mystery. Wesley wished the girl were there. Then she came. He +saw a flutter of blue in the garden, then a face like a rose overtopped +the weeds. The sunlight glanced from a dark head, giving it high-lights +of gold. + +The girl approached. When she saw the minister, she started, but not as +if with surprise; rather as if she had made ready to start. She stood +at the foot of the steps, glowing with blushes, but still not confused. +She smiled with friendly confidence. She was very pretty and she wore a +delicious gown, if one were not a woman, to observe the lack of fashion +and the faded streaks, and she carried a little silk work-bag. + +Wesley rose. He also blushed, and looked more confused than the girl. +“Good morning, Miss Dodge,” he said. His hands twitched a little. + +Fanny Dodge noted his confusion quite calmly. “Are you busy?” said she. + +“You are laughing at me, Miss Dodge. What on earth am I busy about?” + +“Oh,” said the girl. “Of course I have eyes, and I can see that you are +not writing; but I can’t see your mind, or your thoughts. For all I +know, they may be simply grinding out a sermon, and today is Saturday. +I don’t want to break up the meeting.” She laughed. + +“Come on up here,” said Wesley with camaraderie. “You know I am not +doing a blessed thing. I can finish my sermon in an hour after dinner. +Come on up. The breeze is heavenly. What have you got in that bag?” + +“I,” stated Fanny Dodge, mounting the steps, “have my work in my bag. I +am embroidering a center-piece which is to be sold for at least twice +its value—for I can’t embroider worth a cent—at the fair.” She sat down +beside him, and fished out of the bag a square of white linen and some +colored silks. + +“Mrs. Black has just told me about that fair,” said Wesley. “Say, do +you know, I loathe the idea of it?” + +“Why? A fair is no end of fun. We always have them.” + +“Beggary.” + +“Nonsense!” + +“Yes, it is. I might just as well put on some black glasses, get a +little dog with a string, and a basket, and done with it.” + +The girl giggled. “I know what you mean,” said she, “but your salary +has to be paid, and folks have to be cajoled into handing out the +money.” Suddenly she looked troubled. “If there is any to hand,” she +added. + +“I want you to tell me something and be quite frank about it.” + +Fanny shot a glance at him. Her lashes were long, and she could look +through them with liquid fire of dark eyes. + +“Well?” said she. She threaded a needle with pink silk. + +“Is Brookville a very poor village?” + +Fanny inserted her pink-threaded needle into the square of linen. + +“What,” she inquired with gravity, “is the past tense of bust?” + +“I am in earnest.” + +“So am I. But I know a minister is never supposed to know about such a +word as bust, even if he is bust two-thirds of his life. I’ll tell you. +First Brookville was bust, now it’s busted.” + +Wesley stared at her. + +“Fact,” said Fanny, calmly, starting a rose on the linen in a career of +bloom. “First, years ago, when I was nothing but a kid, Andrew +Bolton—you have heard of Andrew Bolton?” + +“I have heard him mentioned. I have never understood why everybody was +so down on him, though he is serving a term in prison, I believe. +Nobody seems to like to explain.” + +“The reason for that is plain enough,” stated Fanny. “Nobody likes to +admit he’s been made a fool of. The man who takes the gold brick always +tries to hide it if he can’t blame it off on his wife or sister or +aunt. Andrew Bolton must have made perfectly awful fools of everybody +in Brookville. They must have thought of him as a little tin god on +wheels till he wrecked the bank and the silk factory, and ran off with +a lot of money belonging to his disciples, and got caught by the hand +of the law, and landed in State’s Prison. That’s why they don’t tell. +Reckon my poor father, if he were alive, wouldn’t tell. I didn’t have +anything to do with it, so I am telling. When Andrew Bolton embezzled +the town went bust. Now the war in Europe, through the grinding of +wheels which I can’t comprehend, has bankrupted the street railway and +the chair factory, and the town is busted.” + +“But, as you say, if there is no money, why a fair?” Wesley had paled a +little. + +“Oh,” replied the girl, “there is always the hoarding instinct to be +taken into account. There are still a lot of stockings and feather beds +and teapots in Brookville. We still have faith that a fair can mine a +little gold out of them for you. Of course we don’t know, but this is a +Yankee village, and Yankees never do spend the last cent. I admit you +may get somebody’s funeral expenses out of the teapot.” + +“Good Lord!” groaned Wesley. + +“That,” remarked the girl, “is almost swearing. I am surprised, and you +a minister.” + +“But it is an awful state of things.” + +“Well,” said Fanny, “Mrs. B. H. Slocum may come over from Grenoble. She +used to live here, and has never lost her interest in Brookville. She +is rich. She can buy a lot, and she is very good-natured about being +cheated for the gospel’s sake. Then, too, Brookville has never lost its +guardian angels.” + +“What on earth do you mean?” + +“What I say. The faith of the people here in guardian angels is a +wonderful thing. Sometimes it seems to me as if all Brookville +considered itself under special guardianship, sort of a hen-and-chicken +arrangement, you know. Anyhow, they do go ahead and undertake the +craziest things, and come out somehow.” + +“I think,” said Wesley Elliot soberly, “that I ought to resign.” + +Then the girl paled, and bent closer over her work. “Resign!” she +gasped. + +“Yes, resign. I admit I haven’t enough money to live without a salary, +though I would like to stay here forever.” Wesley spoke with fervor, +his eyes on the girl. + +“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.” + +“I most certainly would, but I can’t run in debt, and—I want to marry +some day—like other young men—and I must earn.” + +The girl bent her head lower. “Why don’t you resign and go away, and +get—married, if you want to?” + +“Fanny!” + +He bent over her. His lips touched her hair. “You know,” he began—then +came a voice like the legendary sword which divides lovers for their +best temporal and spiritual good. + +“Dinner is ready and the peas are getting cold,” said Mrs. Solomon +Black. + +Then it happened that Wesley Elliot, although a man and a clergyman, +followed like a little boy the large woman with the water-waves through +the weedage of the pastoral garden, and the girl sat weeping awhile +from mixed emotions of anger and grief. Then she took a little puff +from her bag, powdered her nose, straightened her hair and, also, went +home, bag in hand, to her own noon dinner. + + + + +Chapter II. + + +A church fair is one of the purely feminine functions which will be the +last to disappear when the balance between the sexes is more evenly +adjusted. It is almost a pity to assume that it will finally, in the +nature of things, disappear, for it is charming; it is innocent with +the innocence of very good, simple women; it is at the same time subtle +with that inimitable subtlety which only such women can achieve. It is +petty finance on such a moral height that even the sufferers by its +code must look up to it. Before even woman, showing anything except a +timid face of discovery at the sights of New York under male escort, +invaded Wall Street, the church fair was in full tide, and the managers +thereof might have put financiers to shame by the cunning, if not +magnitude, of their operations. Good Christian women, mothers of +families, would sell a tidy of no use except to wear to a frayed edge +the masculine nerves, and hand-painted plates of such bad art that it +verged on immorality, for prices so above all reason, that a broker +would have been taken aback. And it was all for worthy objects, these +pretty functions graced by girls and matrons in their best attire, with +the products of their little hands offered, or even forced, upon the +outsider who was held up for the ticket. They gambled shamelessly to +buy a new carpet for the church. There was plain and brazen raffling +for dreadful lamps and patent rockers and dolls which did not look fit +to be owned by nice little girl-mothers, and all for the church organ, +the minister’s salary and such like. Of this description was the church +fair held in Brookville to raise money to pay the Reverend Wesley +Elliot. He came early, and haunted the place like a morbid spirit. He +was both angry and shamed that such means must be employed to pay his +just dues, but since it had to be he could not absent himself. + +There was no parlor in the church, and not long after the infamous exit +of Andrew Bolton the town hall had been destroyed by fire. Therefore +all such functions were held in a place which otherwise was a source of +sad humiliation to its owner: Mrs. Amos Whittle, the deacon’s wife’s +unfurnished best parlor. It was a very large room, and poor Mrs. +Whittle had always dreamed of a fine tapestry carpet, furniture +upholstered with plush, a piano, and lace curtains. + +Her dreams had never been realized. The old tragedy of the little +village had cropped dreams, like a species of celestial foliage, close +to their roots. Poor Mrs. Whittle, although she did not realize it, +missed her dreams more than she would have missed the furniture of that +best parlor, had she ever possessed and lost it. She had come to think +of it as a room in one of the “many mansions,” although she would have +been horrified had she known that she did so. She was one who kept her +religion and her daily life chemically differentiated. She endeavored +to maintain her soul on a high level of orthodoxy, while her large, +flat feet trod her round of household tasks. It was only when her best +parlor, great empty room, was in demand for some social function like +the church fair, that she felt her old dreams return and stimulate her +as with some wine of youth. + +The room was very prettily decorated with blossoming boughs, and +Japanese lanterns, and set about with long tables covered with white, +which contained the articles for sale. In the center of the room was +the flower-booth, and that was lovely. It was a circle of green, with +oval openings to frame young girl-faces, and on the circular shelf were +heaped flowers in brilliant masses. At seven o’clock the fair was in +full swing, as far as the wares and saleswomen were concerned. At the +flower-booth were four pretty girls: Fanny Dodge, Ellen Dix, Joyce +Fulsom and Ethel Mixter. Each stood looking out of her frame of green, +and beamed with happiness in her own youth and beauty. They did not, +could not share the anxiety of the older women. The more anxious +gathered about the cake table. Four pathetically bedizened middle-aged +creatures, three too stout, one too thin, put their heads together in +conference. One woman was Mrs. Maria Dodge, Fanny’s mother, one was +Mrs. Amos Dix, one was Mrs. Deacon Whittle, and one was unmarried. + +She was the stoutest of the four, tightly laced in an ancient silk, +with frizzed hair standing erect from bulging temples. She was Lois +Daggett, and a tragedy. She loved the young minister, Wesley Elliot, +with all her heart and soul and strength. She had fastened, to attract +his admiration, a little bunch of rose geranium leaves and heliotrope +in her tightly frizzed hair. That little posy had, all unrecognized, a +touching pathos. It was as the aigrette, the splendid curves of waving +plumage which birds adopt in the desire for love. Lois had never had a +lover. She had never been pretty, or attractive, but always in her +heart had been the hunger for love. The young minister seemed the ideal +of all the dreams of her life. He was as a god to her. She trembled +under his occasional glances, his casual address caused vibrations in +every nerve. She cherished no illusions. She knew he was not for her, +but she loved and worshipped, and she tucked on an absurd little bow of +ribbon, and she frizzed tightly her thin hair, and she wore little +posies, following out the primitive instinct of her sex, even while her +reason lagged behind. If once Wesley should look at that pitiful little +floral ornament, should think it pretty, it would have meant as much to +that starved virgin soul as a kiss—to do her justice, as a spiritual +kiss. There was in reality only pathos and tragedy in her adoration. It +was not in the least earthy, or ridiculous, but it needed a saint to +understand that. Even while she conferred with her friends, she never +lost sight of the young man, always hoped for that one fleeting glance +of approbation. + +When her sister-in-law, Mrs. Daggett, appeared, she restrained her +wandering eyes. All four women conferred anxiously. They, with Mrs. +Solomon Black, had engineered the fair. Mrs. Black had not yet appeared +and they all wondered why. Abby Daggett, who had the expression of a +saint—a fleshy saint, in old purple muslin—gazed about her with +admiration. + +“Don’t it look perfectly lovely!” she exclaimed. + +Mrs. Whittle fairly snapped at her, like an angry old dog. “Lovely!” +said she with a fine edge of sarcasm in her tone, “perfectly lovely! +Yes it does. But I think we are a set of fools, the whole of us. Here +we’ve got a fair all ready, and worked our fingers to the bone (I don’t +know but I’ll have a felon on account of that drawn-in rug there) and +we’ve used up all our butter and eggs, and I don’t see, for one, who is +going to buy anything. I ain’t got any money t’ spend. I don’t believe +Mrs. Slocum will come over from Grenoble, and if she does, she can’t +buy everything.” + +“Well, what made us get up the fair?” asked Mrs. Dodge. + +“I suppose we all thought somebody might have some money,” ventured +Abby Daggett. + +“I’d like to know who? Not one of us four has, and I don’t believe Mrs. +Solomon Black has, unless she turns in her egg-money, and if she does I +don’t see how she is going to feed the minister. Where is Phoebe +Black?” + +“She is awfully late,” said Lois. She looked at the door, and, so +doing, got a chance to observe the minister, who was standing beside +the flower-table talking to Ellen Dix. Fanny Dodge was busily arranging +some flowers, with her face averted. Ellen Dix was very pretty, with an +odd prettiness for a New England girl. Her pale olive skin was flawless +and fine of texture. Her mouth was intensely red, and her eyes very +dark and heavily shaded by long lashes. She wore at the throat of her +white dress a beautiful coral brooch. It had been one of her mother’s +girlhood treasures. The Dix family had been really almost opulent once, +before the Andrew Bolton cataclysm had involved the village, and there +were still left in the family little reminiscences of former splendor. +Mrs. Dix wore a superb old lace scarf over her ancient black silk, and +a diamond sparkled at her throat. The other women considered the lace +much too old and yellow to be worn, but Mrs. Dix was proud both of the +lace and her own superior sense of values. If the lace had been admired +she would not have cared so much for it. + +Suddenly a little woman came hurrying up, her face sharp with news. +“What do you think?” she said to the others. “What do you think?” + +They stared at her. “What do you mean, Mrs. Fulsom?” asked Mrs. Whittle +acidly. + +The little woman tossed her head importantly. “Oh, nothing much,” said +she, “only I thought the rest of you might not know. Mrs. Solomon Black +has got another boarder. That’s what’s making her late. She had to get +something for her to eat.” + +“Another boarder!” said Mrs. Whittle. + +“Yes,” said the little woman, “a young lady, and Mrs. Solomon Black is +on her way here now.” + +“With _her_?” gasped the others. + +“Yes, she’s coming, and she looks to me as if she might have money.” + +“Who is she?” asked Mrs. Whittle. + +“How do I know? Mrs. Mixter’s Tommy told my Sam, and he told me, and I +saw Mrs. Black and the boarder coming out of her yard, when I went out +of mine, and I hurried so’s to get here first. Hush! Here they come +now.” + +While the women were conferring many people had entered the room, +although none had purchased the wares. Now there was stark silence and +a concentrated fire of attention as Mrs. Black entered with a strange +young woman. Mrs. Black looked doubtfully important. She, as a matter +of fact, was far from sure of her wisdom in the course she was taking. +She was even a little pale, and her lips moved nervously as she +introduced the girl to one and another. “Miss Orr,” she said; sometimes +“Miss Lydia Orr.” + +As for the girl, she looked timid, yet determined. She was pretty, +perhaps a beauty, had she made the most of her personal advantages +instead of apparently ignoring them. Her beautiful fair hair, which had +red-gold lights, should have shaded her forehead, which was too high. +Instead it was drawn smoothly back, and fastened in a mat of compact +flat braids at the back of her head. She was dressed very simply, in +black, and her costume was not of the latest mode. + +“I don’t see anything about her to have made Mrs. Fulsom think she was +rich,” Mrs. Whittle whispered to Mrs. Daggett, who made an unexpectedly +shrewd retort: “I can see. She don’t look as if she cared what anybody +thought of her clothes; as if she had so much she’s never minded.” + +Mrs. Whittle failed to understand. She grunted non-assent. “I don’t +see,” said she. “Her sleeves are way out of date.” + +For awhile there was a loud buzz of conversation all over the room. +Then it ceased, for things were happening, amazing things. The strange +young lady was buying and she was paying cash down. Some of the women +examined the bank notes suspiciously and handed them to their husbands +to verify. The girl saw, and flushed, but she continued. She went from +table to table, and she bought everything, from quilts and hideous +drawn-in rugs to frosted cakes. She bought in the midst of that ominous +hush of suspicion. Once she even heard a woman hiss to another, “She’s +crazy. She got out of an insane asylum.” + +However nobody of all the stunned throng refused to sell. Her first +failure came in the case of a young man. He was Jim Dodge, Fanny’s +brother. Jim Dodge was a sort of Ishmael in the village estimation, and +yet he was liked. He was a handsome young fellow with a wild freedom of +carriage. He had worked in the chair factory to support his mother and +sister, before it closed. He haunted the woods, and made a little by +selling skins. He had brought as his contribution to the fair a +beautiful fox skin, and when the young woman essayed to buy that he +strode forward. “That is not for sale,” said he. “I beg you to accept +that as a gift, Miss Orr.” + +The young fellow blushed a little before the girl’s blue eyes, although +he held himself proudly. “I won’t have this sold to a young lady who is +buying as much as you are,” he continued. + +The girl hesitated. Then she took the skin. “Thank you, it is +beautiful,” she said. + +Jim’s mother sidled close to him. “You did just right, Jim,” she +whispered. “I don’t know who she is, but I feel ashamed of my life. She +can’t really want all that truck. She’s buying to help. I feel as if we +were a parcel of beggars.” + +“Well, she won’t buy that fox skin to help!” Jim whispered back +fiercely. + +The whole did not take very long. Finally the girl talked in a low +voice to Mrs. Black who then became her spokeswoman. Mrs. Black now +looked confident, even triumphant. “Miss Orr says of course she can’t +possibly use all the cake and pies and jelly,” she said, “and she wants +you to take away all you care for. And she wants to know if Mrs. +Whittle will let the other things stay here till she’s got a place to +put them in. I tell her there’s no room in my house.” + +“I s’pose so,” said Mrs. Whittle in a thick voice. She and many others +looked fairly pale and shocked. + +Mrs. Solomon Black, the girl and the minister went out. + +The hush continued for a few seconds. Then Mrs. Whittle spoke. “There’s +something wrong about that girl,” said she. Other women echoed her. The +room seemed full of feminine snarls. + +Jim Dodge turned on them, and his voice rang out. “You are a lot of +cats,” said he. “Come on home, mother and Fanny, I am mortal shamed for +the whole of it. That girl’s buying to help, when she can’t want the +things, and all you women turning on her for it!” + +After the Dodges had gone there was another hush. Then it was broken by +a man’s voice, an old man’s voice with a cackle of derision and shrewd +amusement in it. “By gosh!” said this voice, resounding through the +whole room, “that strange young woman has bought the whole church +fair!” + +“There’s something wrong,” said Mrs. Whittle again. + +“Ain’t you got the money?” queried the man’s voice. + +“Yes, but—” + +“Then for God’s sake hang onto it!” + + + + +Chapter III. + + +After Jim Dodge had taken his mother and sister home, he stole off by +himself for a solitary walk. The night was wonderful, and the young +man, who was in a whirl of undefined emotion, unconsciously felt the +need of a lesson of eternal peace. The advent of the strange girl, and +her unprecedented conduct had caused in him a sort of masculine vertigo +over the whole situation. Why in the name of common sense was that girl +in Brookville, and why should she have done such a thing? He admired +her; he was angry with her; he was puzzled by her. + +He did not like the minister. He did not wonder that Elliot should wish +for emolument enough to pay his way, but he had a little contempt for +him, for his assumption of such superior wisdom that he could teach his +fellow men spiritual knowledge and claim from them financial reward. +Aside from keeping those he loved in comfort, Jim had no wish for +money. He had all the beauty of nature for the taking. He listened, as +he strolled along, to the mysterious high notes of insects and +night-birds; he saw the lovely shadows of the trees, and he honestly +wondered within himself why Brookville people considered themselves so +wronged by an occurrence of years ago, for which the perpetrator had +paid so dearly. At the same time he experienced a sense of angry +humiliation at the poverty of the place which had caused such an +occurrence as that church fair. + +When he reached Mrs. Solomon Black’s house, he stared up at its glossy +whiteness, reflecting the moonlight like something infinitely more +precious than paint, and he seemed to perceive again a delicate, +elusive fragrance which he had noticed about the girl’s raiment when +she thanked him for his fox skin. + +“She smelled like a new kind of flower,” Jim told himself as he swung +down the road. The expression was not elegant, but it was sincere. He +thought of the girl as he might have thought of an entirely new species +of blossom, with a strictly individual fragrance which he had +encountered in an expedition afield. + +After he had left the Black house, there was only a half mile before he +reached the old Andrew Bolton place. The house had been very +pretentious in an ugly architectural period. There were truncated +towers, a mansard roof, hideous dormers, and a reckless outbreak of +perfectly useless bay windows. The house, which was large, stood aloof +from the road, with a small plantation of evergreen trees before it. It +had not been painted for years, and loomed up like the vaguest shadow +of a dwelling even in the brilliant moonlight. Suddenly Jim caught +sight of a tiny swinging gleam of light. It bobbed along at the height +of a man’s knee. It was a lantern, which seemed rather an odd article +to be used on such a night. Then Jim came face to face with the man who +carried the lantern, and saw who he was—Deacon Amos Whittle. To Jim’s +mind, the man resembled a fox, skulking along the road, although Deacon +Amos Whittle was not predatory. He was a small, thin, wiry man with a +queer swirl of white whisker, and hopping gait. + +He seemed somewhat blinded by his lantern, for he ran full tilt into +Jim, who stood the shock with such firmness that the older man +staggered back, and danced uncertainly to recover his balance. Deacon +Amos Whittle stuttered uncertain remarks, as was his wont when +startled. “It is only Jim Dodge,” said Jim. “Guess your lantern sort of +blinded you, Deacon.” + +Then the lantern almost blinded Jim, for Whittle swung it higher until +it came on a level with Jim’s eyes. Over it peered Whittle’s little +keen ones, spectacled under a gray shag of eyebrows. “Oh it is you!” +said the man with a somewhat contemptuous accent. He held Jim in slight +esteem. + +Jim laughed lightly. Unless he cared for people, their opinion of him +always seemed a perfectly negligible matter, and he did not care at all +for Amos Whittle. + +Suddenly, to his amazement, Amos took hold of his coat. “Look a’ here, +Jim,” said he. + +“Well?” + +“Do you know anything about that strange woman that’s boardin’ to Mis’ +Solomon Black’s?” + +“How in creation should I know anything about her?” + +“Hev you seen her?” + +“I saw her at the fair tonight.” + +“The fair at my house?” + +“Don’t know of any other fair.” + +“Well, what do you think of her?” + +“Don’t think of her.” + +Jim tried to pass, but the old man danced before him with his swinging +lantern. + +“I must be going along,” said Jim. + +“Wait a minute. Do you know she bought the whole fair?” + +“Yes, I do. You are blinding me with that lantern, Deacon Whittle.” + +“And she paid good money down. I seen it.” + +“All right. I’ve got to get past you.” + +“Wait a minute. Do you s’pose that young woman is all right?” + +“I don’t see why not. Nothing against the law of the land for her to +buy out a church fair, that I know of.” + +“Don’t you think it looks sort of suspicious?” + +“It’s none of my business. I confess I don’t see why it’s suspicious, +unless somebody wants to make her out a fool. I don’t understand what +any sane person wants with all that truck; but I don’t pretend to +understand women.” + +Whittle shook his head slowly. “I dunno,” he said. + +“Well, I don’t know who does, or cares either. They’ve got the money. I +suppose that was what they were after.” Jim again tried to pass. + +“Wait just a minute. Say, Jim, I’m going to tell you something. Don’t +you speak of it till it gets out.” + +“Fire away. I’m in a hurry.” + +“She wants to buy this old Bolton place here.” + +Jim whistled. + +“You know the assignees of the Bolton estate had to take the house, and +it’s been running down all these years, and a lot of money has got to +be spent on it or it’ll tumble down. Now, this young woman has offered +to pay a good round sum for it, and take it just as it is. S’pose it’s +all right?” + +“How in creation should I know? If I held it, and wanted to sell it, +I’d know darn well whether it was all right or not. I wouldn’t go +around asking other folks.” + +“But you see it don’t seem natural. Folks don’t do things like that. +She’s offering to pay more than the place is worth. She’ll have to +spend thousands on it to make it fit to live in. She says she’ll pay +cash, too.” + +“Well, I suppose you’ll know cash when you see it. I’ve got to go.” + +“But cash! Lord A’mighty! We dunno what to do.” + +“I suppose you know whether you want to sell or not.” + +“Want to sell! If we didn’t want to sell this old shebang we’d be dumb +idiots.” + +“Then, why in the name of common sense don’t you sell?” + +“Because, somehow it don’t look natural to me.” + +“Well, I must confess that to throw away much money on an old shell +like that doesn’t look any too natural to me.” + +“Come now, Jim, that was a real nice house when it was built.” + +Jim laughed sarcastically. “Running up your wares now, are you?” + +“That house cost Andrew Bolton a pile of money. And now, if it’s fixed +up, it’ll be the best house in Brookville.” + +“That isn’t saying much. See here, you’ve got to let me pass. If you +want to sell—I should think you would—I don’t see what you are worrying +about. I don’t suppose you are worrying for fear you may cheat the +girl.” + +“We ain’t goin’ to cheat the girl, but—I dunno.” Whittle stood aside, +shaking his head, and Jim passed on. He loitered along the shaggy hedge +which bordered the old Bolton estate, and a little farther, then turned +back. He had reached the house again when he started. In front of the +gate stood a shadowy figure, a woman, by the outlines of the dress. Jim +continued hesitatingly. He feared to startle her. But he did not. When +he came abreast of her, she turned and looked full in his face, and he +recognized Miss Orr. He took off his hat, but was so astonished he +could scarcely utter a greeting. The girl was so shy that she stammered +a little, but she laughed too, like a child caught in some mischief. + +“Oh, I am so glad it is you!” she said. + +“Well, taking all things into consideration, so am I,” said Jim. + +“You mean—?” + +“I mean it is pretty late for you to be out alone, and I’m as good as a +Sunday School picnic, with the superintendent and the minister thrown +in, for you to meet. I’ll see you home.” + +“Goodness! There’s nothing to be afraid of in this little place,” said +the girl. “I have lived in New York.” + +“Where there are policemen.” + +“Oh, yes, but one never counts on that. One never counts on anything in +New York. You can’t, you know. Its mathematics are as high as its +buildings, too high to take chances. But here—why, I saw pretty near +the whole village at that funny fair, didn’t I?” + +“Well, yes, but Brookville is not a walled town. People not so +desirable as those you saw at the fair have free entrance and egress. +It is pretty late.” + +“I am not in the least afraid,” said the girl. + +“You have no reason to be, now.” + +“You mean because you have happened along. Well, I am glad you did. I +begun to think it was rather late myself for me to be prowling around, +but you will simply have to leave me before I get to my boarding house. +That Mrs. Black is as kind as can be, but she doesn’t know what to make +of me, and on the whole I think I would rather take my chances stealing +in alone than to have her spy you.” + +“If you wanted to come out, why didn’t you ask the minister to come +with you?” Jim asked bluntly. + +“The minister! Oh, I don’t like ministers when they are young. They are +much better when all the doctrines they have learned at their +theological seminaries have settled in their minds, and have stopped +bubbling. However, this minister here seems rather nice, very young, +but he doesn’t give the impression of taking himself so seriously that +he is a nervous wreck on account of his convictions. I wouldn’t have +asked him for the world. In the first place, Mrs. Black would have +thought it very queer, and in the second place he was so hopping mad +about that fair, and having me buy it, that he wouldn’t have been +agreeable. I don’t blame him. I would feel just so in his place. It +must be frightful to be a poor minister.” + +“None too pleasant, anyway.” + +“You are right, it certainly is not. I have been poor myself, and I +know. I went to my room, and looked out of the window, and it was so +perfectly beautiful outdoors, and I did want to see how this place +looked by moonlight, so I just went down the back stairs and came +alone. I hope nobody will break in while I am gone. I left the door +unlocked.” + +“No burglars live in Brookville,” said Jim. “Mighty good reasons for +none to come in, too.” + +“What reasons?” + +“Not a blessed thing to burgle. Never has been for years.” + +There was a silence. The girl spoke in a hushed voice. “I—understand,” +said she, “that the people here hold the man who used to live in this +house responsible for that.” + +“Why, yes, I suppose he was. Brookville never would have been a Tuxedo +under any circumstances, but I reckon it would have fared a little +better if Mr. Bolton hadn’t failed to see the difference between mine +and thine. I was nothing but a kid, but I have heard a good deal about +it. Some of the older people are pretty bitter, and some of the younger +ones have it in their veins. I suppose the poor man did start us down +hill.” + +“You say ‘poor man’; why?” asked the girl and her voice trembled. + +“Lord, yes. I’m like a hound sneaking round back doors for bones, on +account of Mr. Bolton, myself. My father lost more than ’most anybody, +but I wouldn’t change places with the man. Say, do you know he has been +in State’s Prison for years?” + +“Yes.” + +“Of course any man who does wrong is a poor man, even if he doesn’t get +caught. I’m mighty glad I wasn’t born bitter as some of the people here +were. My sister Fanny isn’t either. She doesn’t have much, poor girl, +but I’ve never heard her say one word, and mother never blames it on +Mr. Bolton, either. Mother says he is getting his punishment, and it +isn’t for any of us to add to it.” + +“Your sister was that pretty girl at the flower table?” + +“Yes—I suppose you would call her pretty. I don’t really know. A fellow +never does know, when the girl is his sister. She may look the best of +the bunch to him, but he’s never sure.” + +“She is lovely,” said Lydia Orr. She pointed to the shadowy house. +“That must have been a nice place once.” + +“Best in the village; show place. Say, what in the name of common sense +do you want to buy it for?” + +“Who told you?” + +“Oh, I met old Whittle just before I met you. He told me. The place +must be terribly run down. It will cost a mint of money to get it in +shape.” + +“I have considerable money,” stated the girl quite simply. + +“Well, it’s none of my business, but you will have to sink considerable +in that place, and perhaps when you are through it won’t be +satisfactory.” + +“I have taken a notion to it,” said the girl. She spoke very shyly. Her +curiously timid, almost apologetic manner returned suddenly. “I suppose +it does look strange,” she added. + +“Nobody’s business how it looks,” said Jim, “but I think you ought to +know the truth about it, and I think I am more likely to give you +information than Whittle. Of course he has an ax to grind. Perhaps if I +had an ax to grind, you couldn’t trust me.” + +“Yes, I could,” returned the girl with conviction. “I knew that the +minute I looked at you. I always know the people I can trust. I know I +could not trust Deacon Whittle. I made allowances, the way one does for +a clock that runs too fast or too slow. I think one always has to be +doing addition or subtraction with people, to understand them.” + +“Well, you had better try a little subtraction with me.” + +“I don’t have to. I didn’t mean with everybody. Of course there are +exceptions. That was a beautiful skin you gave me. I didn’t half thank +you.” + +“Nonsense. I was glad to give it.” + +“Do you hunt much?” + +“About all I am good for except to run our little farm and do odd jobs. +I used to work in the chair factory.” + +“I shouldn’t think you would have liked that.” + +“Didn’t; had to do what I could.” + +“What would you like to do?” + +“Oh, I don’t know. I never had any choice, so I never gave it any +thought. Something that would keep me out of doors, I reckon.” + +“Do you know much about plants and trees?” + +“I don’t know whether I know much; I love them, that’s all.” + +“You could do some landscape gardening for a place like this, I should +think.” + +Jim stared at her, and drew himself up haughtily. “It really is late, +Miss Orr,” he said. “I think, if you will allow me, I will take you +home.” + +“What are you angry about?” + +“I am not angry.” + +“Yes, you are. You are angry because I said that about landscape +gardening.” + +“I am not a beggar or a man who undertakes a job he is not competent to +perform, if I am poor.” + +“Will you undertake setting those grounds to rights, if I buy the +place?” + +“Why don’t you hire a regular landscape man if you have so much money?” +asked Jim rudely. + +“I would rather have you. I want somebody I can work with. I have my +own ideas. I want to hire you to work with me. Will you?” + +“Time enough to settle that when you’ve bought the place. You must go +home now. Here, take my arm. This sidewalk is an apology for one.” + +Lydia took the young man’s arm obediently, and they began walking. + +“What on earth are you going to do with all that truck you bought?” +asked Jim. + +Lydia laughed. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea,” +said she. “Pretty awful, most of it, isn’t it?” + +“I wouldn’t give it house room.” + +“I won’t either. I bought it, but I won’t have it.” + +“You must take us for a pretty set of paupers, to throw away money like +that.” + +“Now, don’t you get mad again. I did want to buy it. I never wanted to +buy things so much in my life.” + +“I never saw such a queer girl.” + +“You will know I am not queer some time, and I would tell you why now, +but—” + +“Don’t you tell me a thing you don’t want to.” + +“I think I had better wait just a little. But I don’t know about all +those things.” + +“Say, why don’t you send them to missionaries out West?” + +“Oh, could I?” + +“Of course you can. What’s to hinder?” + +“When I buy that place will you help me?” + +“Of course I will. Now you are talking! I’m glad to do anything like +that. I think I’d be nutty if I had to live in the same house as that +fair.” + +The girl burst into a lovely peal of laughter. “Exactly what I thought +all the time,” said she. “I wanted to buy them; you don’t know how +much; but it was like buying rabbits, and white elephants, and—oh, I +don’t know! a perfect menagerie of things I couldn’t bear to live with, +and I didn’t see how I could give them away, and I couldn’t think of a +place to throw them away.” She laughed again. + +Jim stopped suddenly. “Say.” + +“What?” + +“Why, it will be an awful piece of work to pack off all those +contraptions, and it strikes me it is pretty hard on the missionaries. +There’s a gravel pit down back of the Bolton place, and if you buy it—” + +“What?” + +“Well, bury the fair there.” + +Lydia stopped short, and laughed till she cried. “You don’t suppose +they would ever find out?” + +“Trust me. You just have the whole lot moved into the house, and we’ll +fix it up.” + +“Oh, I can’t tell you how thankful I am to you,” said Lydia fervently. +“I felt like a nightmare with all those things. Some of them can be +used of course, but some—oh, those picture throws, and those postage +stamp plates!” + +“They are funny, but sort of pitiful, too,” said Jim. “Women are sort +of pitiful, lots of them. I’m glad I am a man.” + +“I should think you would be,” said the girl. She looked up in his face +with an expression which he did not see. He was regarding women in the +abstract; she was suddenly regarding men in the individual. + + + + +Chapter IV. + + +Elliot slept later than usual the morning after the fair. Generally he +slept the beautiful, undisturbed sleep of the young and healthy; that +night, for some reason, he did not. Possibly the strange break which +the buying of the fair had made in the course of his everyday life +caused one also between his conscious and unconscious state, which his +brain refused to bridge readily. Wesley had not been brought face to +face, many times in his life, with the unprecedented. He had been +brought before it, although in a limited fashion, at the church fair. +The unprecedented is more or less shattering, partaking of the nature +of a spiritual bomb. Lydia Orr’s mad purchase of that collection of +things called a fair disturbed his sense of values. He asked himself +over and over who was this girl? More earnestly he asked himself what +her motives could be. + +But the question which most agitated him was his relations with the +girl, Fanny Dodge. He realized that recently he had approached the +verge of an emotional crisis. If Mrs. Black whom he had at the time +fairly cursed in his heart, in spite of his profession, had not +appeared with her notice of dinner, he would be in a most unpleasant +predicament. Only the girl’s innate good sense could have served as a +refuge, and he reflected with the utmost tenderness that he might +confidently rely upon that. He was almost sure that the poor girl loved +him. He was quite sure that he loved her. But he was also sure, with a +strong sense of pride in her, that she would have refused him, not on +mercenary grounds, for Fanny he knew would have shared a crust and +hovel with the man she loved; but Fanny would love the man too well to +consent to the crust and the hovel, on his own account. She would not +have said in so many words, “What! marry you, a minister so poor that a +begging fair has to be held to pay his salary?” She would have not +refused him her love and sympathy, but she would have let him down so +gently from the high prospect of matrimony that he would have suffered +no jolt. + +Elliot was a good fellow. It was on the girl’s account that he +suffered. He suffered, as a matter of course. He wanted Fanny badly, +but he realized himself something of a cad. He discounted his own +suffering; perhaps, as he told himself with sudden suspicion of +self-conceit, he overestimated hers. Still, he was sure that the girl +would suffer more than he wished. He blamed himself immeasurably. He +tried to construct air castles which would not fall, even before the +impact of his own thoughts, in which he could marry this girl and live +with her happily ever after, but the man had too much common sense. He +did not for a moment now consider the possibility of stepping, without +influence, into a fat pastorate. He was sure that he could count +confidently upon nothing better than this. + +The next morning he looked about his room wearily, and a plan which he +had often considered grew upon him. He got the keys of the unoccupied +parsonage next door, from Mrs. Black, and went over the house after +breakfast. It was rather a spacious house, old, but in tolerable +preservation. There was a southeast room of one story in height, +obviously an architectural afterthought, which immediately appealed to +him. It was practically empty except for charming possibilities, but it +contained a few essentials, and probably the former incumbent had used +it as a study. There was a wood stove, a standing desk fixed to the +wall, some shelves, an old table, and a couple of armchairs. Wesley at +once resolved to carry out his plan. He would move his small store of +books from his bedroom at Mrs. Black’s, arrange them on the shelves, +and set up his study there. He was reasonably sure of obtaining wood +enough for a fire to heat the room when the weather was cold. + +He returned and told Mrs. Black, who agreed with him that the plan was +a good one. “A minister ought to have his study,” said she, “and of +course the parsonage is at your disposal. The parish can’t rent it. +That room used to be the study, and you will have offers of all the +wood you want to heat it. There’s plenty of cut wood that folks are +glad to donate. They’ve always sent loads of wood to heat the +minister’s study. Maybe they thought they’d stand less chance of hell +fire if they heated up the gospel in this life.” + +“Then I’ll move my books and writing materials right over there,” said +Elliot with a most boyish glee. + +Mrs. Black nodded approvingly. “So I would.” She hesitated a moment, +then she spoke again. “I was just a little bit doubtful about taking +that young woman in yesterday,” said she. + +Elliot regarded her curiously. “Then you never had met her before?” + +“No, she just landed here with her trunk. The garage man brought her, +and she said he told her I took boarders, and she asked me to take her. +I don’t know but I was kind of weak to give in, but the poor little +thing looked sort of nice, and her manners were pretty, so I took her. +I thought I would ask you how you felt about it this morning, but there +ain’t any reason to, perhaps, for she ain’t going to stay here very +long, anyway. She says she’s going to buy the old Bolton place and have +it fixed up and settle down there as soon as she can. She told me after +you had gone out. She’s gone now to look at it. Mr. Whittle was going +to meet her there. Queer, ain’t it?” + +“It does look extraordinary, rather,” agreed Elliot, “but Miss Orr may +be older than she looks.” + +“Oh, she ain’t old, but she’s of age. She told me that, and I guess +she’s got plenty of money.” + +“Well,” said Elliot, “that is rather a fine old place. She may be +connected with the Bolton family.” + +“That’s exactly what I think, and if she was she wouldn’t mention it, +of course. I think she’s getting the house in some sort of a business +way. Andrew Bolton may have died in prison by this time, and she may be +an heir. I think she is going to be married and have the house fixed up +to live in.” + +“That sounds very probable.” + +“Yes, it does; but what gets me is her buying that fair. I own I felt a +little scared, and wondered if she had all her buttons, but when she +told me about the house I knew of course she could use the things for +furnishing, all except the cake and candy, and I suppose if she’s got a +lot of money she thought she’d like to buy to help. I feel glad she’s +coming. She may be a real help in the church. Now don’t color up. +Ministers have to take help. It’s part of their discipline.” + +Sometimes Mrs. Solomon Black said a wise and consoling thing. Elliot, +moving his effects to the old parsonage, considered that she had done +so then. “She is right. I have no business to be proud in the +profession calling for the lowly-hearted of the whole world,” he told +himself. + +After he had his books arranged he sat down in an armchair beside a +front window, and felt rather happy and at home. He reproached himself +for his content when he read the morning paper, and considered the +horrors going on in Europe. Why should he, an able-bodied man, sit +securely in a room and gaze out at a peaceful village street? he asked +himself as he had scores of times before. Then the imperial individual, +which obtrudes even when conscience cries out against it, occupied his +mind. Pretty Fanny Dodge in her blue linen was passing. She never once +glanced at the parsonage. Forgetting his own scruples and resolves, he +thought unreasonably that she might at least glance up, if she had the +day before at all in her mind. Suddenly the unwelcome reflection that +he might not be as desirable as he had thought himself came over him. + +He got up, put on his hat, and walked rapidly in the direction of the +old Bolton house. Satisfying his curiosity might serve as a palliative +to his sudden depression with regard to his love affair. It is very +much more comfortable to consider oneself a cad, and acknowledge to +oneself love for a girl, and be sure of her unfortunate love for you, +than to consider oneself the dupe of the girl. Fanny had a keen sense +of humor. Suppose she had been making fun of him. Suppose she had her +own aspirations in other quarters. He walked on until he reached the +old Bolton house. The door stood open, askew upon rusty hinges. Wesley +Elliot entered and glanced about him with growing curiosity. The room +was obviously a kitchen, one side being occupied by a huge brick +chimney inclosing a built-in range half devoured with rust; wall +cupboards, a sink and a decrepit table showed gray and ugly in the +greenish light of two tall windows, completely blocked on the outside +with over-grown shrubs. An indescribable odor of decaying plaster, +chimney-soot and mildew hung in the heavy air. + +A door to the right, also half open, led the investigator further. Here +the floor shook ominously under foot, suggesting rotten beams and +unsteady sills. The minister walked cautiously, noting in passing a +portrait defaced with cobwebs over the marble mantelpiece and the great +circular window opening upon an expanse of tangled grass and weeds, +through which the sun streamed hot and yellow. Voices came from an +adjoining room; he could hear Deacon Whittle’s nasal tones upraised in +fervid assertion. + +“Yes, ma’am!” he was saying, “this house is a little out of repair, you +can see that fer yourself; but it’s well built; couldn’t be better. A +few hundred dollars expended here an’ there’ll make it as good as new; +in fact, I’ll say better’n new! They don’t put no such material in +houses nowadays. Why, this woodwork—doors, windows, floors and all—is +clear, white pine. You can’t buy it today for no price. Costs as much +as m’hogany, come to figure it out. Yes, _ma’am!_ the woodwork alone in +this house is worth the price of one of them little new shacks a +builder’ll run up in a couple of months. And look at them mantelpieces, +pure tombstone marble; and all carved like you see. Yes, ma’am! there’s +as many as seven of ’em in the house. Where’ll you find anything like +that, I’d like to know!” + +“I—think the house might be made to look very pleasant, Mr. Whittle,” +Lydia replied, in a hesitating voice. + +Wesley Elliot fancied he could detect a slight tremor in its even flow. +He pushed open the door and walked boldly in. + +“Good-morning, Miss Orr,” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched +hand. “Good-morning, Deacon! ...Well, well! what a melancholy old ruin +this is, to be sure. I never chanced to see the interior before.” + +Deacon Whittle regarded his pastor sourly from under puckered brows. + +“Some s’prised to see _you_, dominie,” said he. “Thought you was +generally occupied at your desk of a Friday morning.” + +The minister included Lydia Orr in the genial warmth of his smile as he +replied: + +“I had a special call into the country this morning, and seeing your +conveyance hitched to the trees outside, Deacon, I thought I’d step in. +I’m not sure it’s altogether safe for all of us to be standing in the +middle of this big room, though. Sills pretty well rotted out—eh, +Deacon?” + +“Sound as an oak,” snarled the Deacon. “As I was telling th’ young +lady, there ain’t no better built house anywheres ’round than this one. +Andrew Bolton didn’t spare other folks’ money when he built it—no, +_sir!_ It’s good for a hundred years yet, with trifling repairs.” + +“Who owns the house now?” asked Lydia unexpectedly. She had walked over +to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and stood +looking out. + +“Who owns it?” echoed Deacon Whittle. “Well, now, we can give you a +clear title, ma’am, when it comes to that; sound an’ clear. You don’t +have to worry none about that. You see it was this way; dunno as +anybody’s mentioned it in your hearing since you come to Brookville; +but we use to have a bank here in Brookville, about eighteen years ago, +and—” + +“Yes, Ellen Dix told me,” interrupted Lydia Orr, without turning her +head. “Has nobody lived here since?” + +Deacon Whittle cast an impatient glance at Wesley Elliot, who stood +with his eyes fixed broodingly on the dusty floor. + +“Wal,” said he. “There’d have been plenty of folks glad enough to live +here; but the house wa’n’t really suited to our kind o’ folks. It +wa’n’t a farm—there being only twenty acres going with it. And you see +the house is different to what folks in moderate circumstances could +handle. Nobody had the cash to buy it, an’ ain’t had, all these years. +It’s a pity to see a fine old property like this a-going down, all for +the lack of a few hundreds. But if you was to buy it, ma’am, I could +put it in shape fer you, equal to the best, and at a figure— Wall; I +tell ye, it won’t cost ye what some folks’d think.” + +“Didn’t that man—the banker who stole—everybody’s money, I mean—didn’t +he have any family?” asked Lydia, still without turning her head. “I +suppose he—he died a long time ago?” + +“I see the matter of th’ title’s worrying you, ma’am,” said Deacon +Whittle briskly. “I like to see a female cautious in a business way: I +do, indeed. And ’tain’t often you see it, neither. Now, I’ll tell +_you_—” + +“Wouldn’t it be well to show Miss Orr some more desirable property, +Deacon?” interposed Wesley Elliot. “It seems to me—” + +“Oh, I shall buy the house,” said the girl at the window, quickly. + +She turned and faced the two men, her delicate head thrown back, a +clear color staining her pale cheeks. + +“I shall buy it,” she repeated. “I—I like it very much. It is just what +I wanted—in—in every way.” + +Deacon Whittle gave vent to a snort of astonishment. + +“There was another party looking at the place a spell back,” he said, +rubbing his dry old hands. “I dunno’s I exac’ly give him an option on +it; but I was sort of looking for him to turn up ’most any day. Course +I’d have to give him the first chance, if it comes to a—” + +“What is an option?” asked Lydia. + +“An option is a—now, let me see if I can make a legal term plain to the +female mind: An option, my dear young lady, is—” + +The minister crossed the floor to where the girl was standing, a +slight, delicate figure in her black dress, her small face under the +shadowy brim of her wide hat looking unnaturally pale in the greenish +light from without. + +“An option,” he interposed hurriedly, “must be bought with money; +should you change your mind later you lose whatever you have paid. Let +me advise you—” + +Deacon Whittle cleared his throat with an angry, rasping sound. + +“Me an’ this young lady came here this morning for the purpose of +transacting a little business, mutually advantageous,” he snarled. “If +it was anybody but the dominie, I should say he was butting in without +cause.” + +“Oh, don’t, please!” begged the girl. “Mr. Elliot meant it kindly, I’m +sure. I—I want an option, if you please. You’ll let me have it, won’t +you? I want it—now.” + +Deacon Whittle blinked and drew back a pace or two, as if her eagerness +actually frightened him. + +“I—I guess I can accommodate ye,” he stuttered; “but—there’ll be some +preliminaries—I wa’n’t exactly prepared— There’s the price of the +property and the terms— S’pose likely you’ll want a mortgage—eh?” + +He rubbed his bristly chin dubiously. + +“I want to buy the house,” Lydia said. “I want to be sure—” + +“Have you seen the rooms upstairs?” asked the minister, turning his +back upon his senior deacon. + +She shook her head. + +“Well, then, why not—” + +Wesley Elliot took a step or two toward the winding stair, dimly seen +through the gloom of the hall. + +“Hold on, dominie, them stairs ain’t safe!” warned the Deacon. “They’ll +mebbe want a little shoring up, before— Say, I wish—” + +“I don’t care to go up now, really,” protested the girl. “It—it’s the +location I like and—” + +She glanced about the desolate place with a shiver. The air of the +long-closed rooms was chilly, despite the warmth of the June day +outside. + +“I’ll tell you what,” said the deacon briskly. “You come right along +down to the village with me, Miss Orr. It’s kind of close in here; the +house is built so tight, there can’t no air git in. I tell you, them +walls—” + +He smote the one nearest him with a jocular palm. There followed the +hollow sound of dropping plaster from behind the lath. + +“Guess we’d better fix things up between us, so you won’t be noways +disappointed in case that other party—” he added, with a crafty glance +at the minister. “You see, he might turn up ’most any day.” + +“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the girl, walking hurriedly to the door. “I—I +should like to go at once.” + +She turned and held out her hand to the minister with a smile. + +“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I wanted you to see the house as it +is now.” + +He looked down into her upturned face with its almost childish appeal +of utter candor, frowning slightly. + +“Have you no one—that is, no near relative to advise you in the +matter?” he asked. “The purchase of a large property, such as this, +ought to be carefully considered, I should say.” + +Deacon Whittle coughed in an exasperated manner. + +“I guess we’d better be gitting along,” said he, “if we want to catch +Jedge Fulsom in his office before he goes to dinner.” + +Lydia turned obediently. + +“I’m coming,” she said. + +Then to Elliot: “No; there is no one to—to advise me. I am obliged to +decide for myself.” + +Wesley Elliot returned to Brookville and his unfinished sermon by a +long detour which led him over the shoulder of a hill overlooking the +valley. He did not choose to examine his motive for avoiding the road +along which Fanny Dodge would presently return. But as the path, +increasingly rough and stony as it climbed the steep ascent, led him at +length to a point from whence he could look down upon a toy village, +arranged in stiff rows about a toy church, with its tiny pointing +steeple piercing the vivid green of many trees, he sat down with a sigh +of relief and something very like gratitude. + +As far back as he could remember Wesley Elliot had cherished a firm, +though somewhat undefined, belief in a quasi-omnipotent power to be +reckoned as either hostile or friendly to the purposes of man, showing +now a smiling, now a frowning face. In short, that unquestioned, wholly +uncontrollable influence outside of a man’s life, which appears to rule +his destiny. In this rôle “Providence,” as he had been taught to call +it, had heretofore smiled rather evasively upon Wesley Elliot. He had +been permitted to make sure his sacred calling; but he had not secured +the earnestly coveted city pulpit. On the other hand, he had just been +saved—or so he told himself, as the fragrant June breeze fanned his +heated forehead—by a distinct intervention of “Providence” from making +a fool of himself. His subsequent musings, interrupted at length by the +shrieking whistle of the noon train as it came to a standstill at the +toy railway station, might be termed important, since they were to +influence the immediate future of a number of persons, thus affording a +fresh illustration of the mysterious workings of “Providence,” +sometimes called “Divine.” + + + + +Chapter V. + + +There existed in Brookville two separate and distinct forums for the +discussion of topics of public and private interest. These were the +barroom of the village tavern, known as the Brookville House, and Henry +Daggett’s General Store, located on the corner opposite the old Bolton +Bank Building. Mr. Daggett, besides being Brookville’s leading +merchant, was also postmaster, and twice each day withdrew to the +official privacy of the office for the transaction of United States +business. The post office was conveniently located in one corner of Mr. +Daggett’s store and presented to the inquiring eye a small glass +window, which could be raised and lowered at will by the person behind +the partition, a few numbered boxes and a slit, marked “Letters.” + +In the evening of the day on which Miss Lydia Orr had visited the old +Bolton house in company with Deacon Whittle, both forums were in full +blast. The wagon-shed behind the Brookville House sheltered an unusual +number of “rigs,” whose owners, after partaking of liquid refreshment +dispensed by the oily young man behind the bar, by common consent +strolled out to the veranda where a row of battered wooden armchairs +invited to reposeful consideration of the surprising events of the past +few days. + +The central chair supported the large presence of “Judge” Fulsom, who +was dispensing both information and tobacco juice. + +“The practice of the legal profession,” said the Judge, after a brief +period devoted to the ruminative processes, “is full of surprises.” + +Having spoken, Judge Fulsom folded his fat hands across the somewhat +soiled expanse of his white waistcoat and relapsed into a weighty +silence. + +“They was sayin’ over to the post office this evening that the young +woman that cleaned up the church fair has bought the old Bolton place. +How about it, Jedge?” + +Judge Fulsom grunted, as he leveled a displeased stare upon the +speaker, a young farmer with a bibulous eye and slight swagger of +defiance. At the proper moment, with the right audience, the Judge was +willing to impart information with lavish generosity. But any attempt +to force his hand was looked upon as a distinct infringement of his +privilege. + +“You want to keep your face shut, Lute, till th’ Jedge gets ready to +talk,” counseled a middle-aged man who sat tilted back in the next +chair. “Set down, son, and cool off.” + +“Well, you see I got to hurry along,” objected the young farmer +impatiently, “and I wanted to know if there was anything in it. Our +folks had money in the old bank, an’ we’d give up getting anything more +out the smash years ago. But if the Bolton place has actually been +sold—” + +He finished with a prolonged whistle. + +The greatness in the middle chair emitted a grunt. + +“Humph!” he muttered, and again, “Hr-m-m-ph!” + +“It would be surprising,” conceded the middle-aged man, “after all +these years.” + +“Considerable many of th’ creditors has died since,” piped up a lean +youth who was smoking a very large cigar. “I s’pose th’ children of all +such would come in for their share—eh, Judge?” + +Judge Fulsom frowned and pursed his lips thoughtfully. + +“The proceedings has not yet reached the point you mention, Henry,” he +said. “You’re going a little too fast.” + +Nobody spoke, but the growing excitement took the form of a shuffling +of feet. The Judge deliberately lighted his pipe, a token of mental +relaxation. Then from out the haze of blue smoke, like the voice of an +oracle from the seclusion of a shrine, issued the familiar recitative +tone for which everybody had been waiting. + +“Well, boys, I’ll tell you how ’twas: Along about ten minutes of twelve +I had my hat on my head, and was just drawing on my linen duster with +the idea of going home to dinner, when I happened to look out of my +office window, and there was Deacon Whittle—and the girl, just coming +up th’ steps. In five minutes more I’d have been gone, most likely for +the day.” + +“Gosh!” breathed the excitable young farmer. + +The middle-aged man sternly motioned him to keep silence. + +“I s’pose most of you boys saw her at the fair last night,” proceeded +the Judge, ignoring the interruption. “She’s a nice appearing young +female; but nobody’d think to look at her—” + +He paused to ram down the tobacco in the glowing bowl of his pipe. + +“Well, as I was saying, she’d been over to the Bolton house with the +Deacon. Guess we’ll have to set the Deacon down for a right smart +real-estate boomer. We didn’t none of us give him credit for it. He’d +got the girl all worked up to th’ point of bein’ afraid another party’d +be right along to buy the place. She wanted an option on it.” + +“Shucks!” again interrupted the young farmer disgustedly. “Them options +ain’t no good. I had one once on five acres of timber, and—” + +“Shut up, Lute!” came in low chorus from the spell-bound audience. + +“Wanted an option,” repeated Judge Fulsom loudly, “just till I could +fix up the paper. ‘And, if you please,’ said she, ‘I’d like t’ pay five +thousand dollars for the option, then I’d feel more sure.’ And before +I had a chance to open my mouth, she whips out a check-book.” + +“Gr-reat jumping Judas!” cried the irrepressible Lute, whose other name +was Parsons. “Five thousand dollars! Why, the old place ain’t worth no +five thousand dollars!” + +Judge Fulsom removed his pipe from his mouth, knocked out the +half-burned tobacco, blew through the stem, then proceeded to fill and +light it again. From the resultant haze issued his voice once more, +bland, authoritative, reminiscent. + +“Well, now, son, that depends on how you look at it. Time was when +Andrew Bolton wouldn’t have parted with the place for three times that +amount. It was rated, I remember, at eighteen thousand, including live +stock, conveyances an’ furniture, when it was deeded over to the +assignees. We sold out the furniture and stock at auction for about +half what they were worth. But there weren’t any bidders worth +mentioning for the house and land. So it was held by the +assignees—Cephas Dix, Deacon Whittle and myself—for private sale. We +could have sold it on easy terms the next year for six thousand; but in +process of trying to jack up our customer to seven, we lost out on the +deal. But now—” + +Judge Fulsom arose, brushed the tobacco from his waistcoat front and +cleared his throat. + +“Guess I’ll have to be getting along,” said he; “important papers to +look over, and—” + +“A female woman, like her, is likely to change her mind before tomorrow +morning,” said the middle-aged man dubiously. “And I heard Mrs. Solomon +Black had offered to sell her place to the young woman for twenty-nine +hundred—all in good repair and neat as wax. She might take it into her +head to buy it.” + +“Right in the village, too,” growled Lute Parsons. “Say, Jedge, did you +give her that option she was looking for? Because if you did she can’t +get out of it so easy.” + +Judge Fulsom twinkled pleasantly over his bulging cheeks. + +“I sure did accommodate the young lady with the option, as aforesaid,” +he vouchsafed. “And what’s more, I telephoned to the Grenoble Bank to +see if her check for five thousand dollars was O. K.... Well; so long, +boys!” + +He stepped ponderously down from the piazza and turned his broad back +on the row of excited faces. + +“Hold on, Jedge!” the middle-aged man called after him. “Was her check +any good? You didn’t tell us!” + +The Judge did not reply. He merely waved his hand. + +“He’s going over to the post office,” surmised the lean youth, shifting +the stub of his cigar to the corner of his mouth in a knowing manner. + +He lowered his heels to the floor with a thud and prepared to follow. +Five minutes later the bartender, not hearing the familiar hum of +voices from the piazza, thrust his head out of the door. + +“Say!” he called out to the hatchet-faced woman who was writing down +sundry items in a ledger at a high desk. “The boys has all cleared out. +What’s up, I wonder?” + +“They’ll be back,” said the woman imperturbably, “an’ more with ’em. +You want t’ git your glasses all washed up, Gus; an’ you may as well +fetch up another demijohn out the cellar.” + +Was it foreknowledge, or merely coincidence which at this same hour led +Mrs. Solomon Black, frugally inspecting her supplies for tomorrow +morning’s breakfast, to discover that her baking-powder can was empty? + +“I’ll have to roll out a few biscuits for their breakfast,” she +decided, “or else I’ll run short of bread for dinner.” + +Her two boarders, Lydia Orr and the minister, were sitting on the +piazza, engaged in what appeared to be a most interesting conversation, +when Mrs. Black unlatched the front gate and emerged upon the street, +her second-best hat carefully disposed upon her water-waves. + +“I won’t be gone a minute,” she paused to assure them; “I just got to +step down to the grocery.” + +A sudden hush fell upon a loud and excited conversation when Mrs. +Solomon Black, very erect as to her spinal column and noticeably +composed and dignified in her manner, entered Henry Daggett’s store. +She walked straight past the group of men who stood about the door to +the counter, where Mr. Daggett was wrapping in brown paper two large +dill pickles dripping sourness for a small girl with straw-colored +pig-tails. + +Mr. Daggett beamed cordially upon Mrs. Black, as he dropped two copper +pennies in his cash-drawer. + +“Good evening, ma’am,” said he. “What can I do for you?” + +“A ten-cent can of baking-powder, if you please,” replied the lady +primly. + +“Must take a lot of victuals to feed them two boarders o’ yourn,” +hazarded Mr. Daggett, still cordially, and with a dash of confidential +sympathy in his voice. + +Mr. Daggett had, by virtue of long association with his wife, acquired +something of her spontaneous warm-heartedness. He had found it useful +in his business. + +“Oh, they ain’t neither of ’em so hearty,” said Mrs. Black, searching +in her pocket-book with the air of one who is in haste. + +“We was just speakin’ about the young woman that’s stopping at your +house,” murmured Mr. Daggett. “Let me see; I disremember which kind of +bakin’-powder you use, Mis’ Black.” + +“The Golden Rule brand, if you please, Mr. Daggett.” + +“H’m; let me see if I’ve got one of them Golden Rules left,” mused Mr. +Daggett.... “I told the boys I guessed she was some relation of th’ +Grenoble Orrs, an’ mebbe—” + +“Well; she ain’t,” denied Mrs. Black crisply. + +“M-m-m?” interrogated Mr. Daggett, intent upon a careful search among +the various canned products on his shelf. “How’d she happen to come to +Brookville?” + +Mrs. Black tossed her head. + +“Of course it ain’t for me to say,” she returned, with a dignity which +made her appear taller than she really was. “But folks has heard of the +table I set, ’way to Boston.” + +“You don’t say!” exclaimed Mr. Daggett. “So she come from Boston, did +she? I thought she seemed kind of—” + +“I don’t know as there’s any secret about where she _come_ from,” +returned Mrs. Black aggressively. “I never s’posed there was. Folks +ain’t had time to git acquainted with her yit.” + +“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Daggett, as if the idea was a new and valuable +one. “Yes, ma’am; you’re right! we ain’t none of us had time to git +acquainted.” + +He beamed cordially upon Mrs. Black over the tops of his spectacles. +“Looks like we’re going to git a chance to know her,” he went on. “It +seems the young woman has made up her mind to settle amongst us. Yes, +ma’am; we’ve been hearing she’s on the point of buying property and +settling right down here in Brookville.” + +An excited buzz of comment in the front of the store broke in upon this +confidential conversation. Mrs. Black appeared to become aware for the +first time of the score of masculine eyes fixed upon her. + +“Ain’t you got any of the Golden Rule?” she demanded sharply. “That +looks like it to me—over in behind them cans of tomatoes. It’s got a +blue label.” + +“Why, yes; here ’tis, sure enough,” admitted Mr. Daggett. “I guess I +must be losing my eyesight.... It’s going to be quite a chore to fix up +the old Bolton house,” he added, as he inserted the blue labeled can of +reputation in a red and yellow striped paper bag. + +“That ain’t decided,” snapped Mrs. Black. “She could do better than to +buy that tumble-down old shack.” + +“So she could; so she could,” soothed the postmaster. “But it’s going +to be a good thing for the creditors, if she can swing it. Let me see, +you wa’n’t a loser in the Bolton Bank; was you, Mis’ Black?” + +“No; I wa’n’t; my late departed husband had too much horse-sense.” + +And having thus impugned less fortunate persons, Mrs. Solomon Black +departed, a little stiffer as to her back-bone than when she entered. +She had imparted information; she had also acquired it. When she had +returned rather later than usual from selling her strawberries in +Grenoble she had hurried her vegetables on to boil and set the table +for dinner. She could hear the minister pacing up and down his room in +the restless way which Mrs. Black secretly resented, since it would +necessitate changing the side breadths of matting to the middle of the +floor long before this should be done. But of Lydia Orr there was no +sign. The minister came promptly down stairs at sound of the belated +dinner-bell. But to Mrs. Black’s voluble explanations for the unwonted +hour he returned the briefest of perfunctory replies. He seemed hungry +and ate heartily of the cold boiled beef and vegetables. + +“Did you see anything of _her_ this morning?” asked Mrs. Black +pointedly, as she cut the dried-apple pie. “I can’t think what’s become +of her.” + +Wesley Elliot glanced up from an absent-minded contemplation of an egg +spot on the tablecloth. + +“If you refer to Miss Orr,” said he, “I did see her—in a carriage with +Deacon Whittle.” + +He was instantly ashamed of the innocent prevarication. But he told +himself he did not choose to discuss Miss Orr’s affairs with Mrs. +Black. + +Just then Lydia came in, her eyes shining, her cheeks very pink; but +like the minister she seemed disposed to silence, and Mrs. Black was +forced to restrain her curiosity. + +“How’d you make out this morning?” she inquired, as Lydia, having +hurried through her dinner, rose to leave the table. + +“Very well, thank you, Mrs. Black,” said the girl brightly. Then she +went at once to her room and closed the door. + +At supper time it was just the same; neither the minister nor the girl +who sat opposite him had anything to say. But no sooner had Mrs. Black +begun to clear away the dishes than the two withdrew to the vine-shaded +porch, as if by common consent. + +“She ought to know right off about Fanny Dodge and the minister,” Mrs. +Black told herself. + +She was still revolving this in her mind as she walked sedately along +the street, the red and yellow striped bag clasped tightly in both +hands. Of course everybody in the village would suppose she knew all +about Lydia Orr. But the fact was she knew very little. The week +before, one of her customers in Grenoble, in the course of a business +transaction which involved a pair of chickens, a dozen eggs and two +boxes of strawberries, had asked, in a casual way, if Mrs. Black knew +any one in Brookville who kept boarders. + +“The minister of our church boards with me,” she told the Grenoble +woman, with pardonable pride. “I don’t know of anybody else that takes +boarders in Brookville.” She added that she had an extra room. + +“Well, one of my boarders—a real nice young lady from Boston—has taken +a queer notion to board in Brookville,” said the woman. “She was out +autoing the other day and went through there. I guess the country +’round Brookville must be real pretty this time of year.” + +“Yes; it is, real pretty,” she had told the Grenoble woman. + +And this had been the simple prelude to Lydia Orr’s appearance in +Brookville. + +Wooded hills did not interest Mrs. Black, nor did the meandering of the +silver river through its narrow valley. But she took an honest pride in +her own freshly painted white house with its vividly green blinds, and +in her front yard with its prim rows of annuals and thrifty young +dahlias. As for Miss Lydia Orr’s girlish rapture over the view from her +bedroom window, so long as it was productive of honestly earned +dollars, Mrs. Black was disposed to view it with indulgence. There was +nothing about the girl or her possessions to indicate wealth or social +importance, beyond the fact that she arrived in a hired automobile from +Grenoble instead of riding over in Mrs. Solomon Black’s spring wagon. +Miss Orr brought with her to Brookville one trunk, the contents of +which she had arranged at once in the bureau drawers and wardrobe of +Mrs. Black’s second-best bedroom. It was evident from a private +inspection of their contents that Miss Orr was in mourning. + +At this point in her meditations Mrs. Black became aware of an +insistent voice hailing her from the other side of the picket fence. + +It was Mrs. Daggett, her large fair face flushed with the exertion of +hurrying down the walk leading from Mrs. Whittle’s house. + +“Some of us ladies has been clearing up after the fair,” she explained, +as she joined Mrs. Solomon Black. “It didn’t seem no more than right; +for even if Ann Whittle doesn’t use her parlor, on account of not +having it furnished up, she wants it broom-clean. My! You’d ought to +have seen the muss we swept out.” + +“I’d have been glad to help,” said Mrs. Black stiffly; “but what with +it being my day to go over to Grenoble, and my boarders t’ cook for and +all—” + +“Oh, we didn’t expect you,” said Abby Daggett tranquilly. “There was +enough of us to do everything.” + +She beamed warmly upon Mrs. Black. + +“Us ladies was saying we’d all better give you a rising vote of thanks +for bringing that sweet Miss Orr to the fair. Why, ’twas a real success +after all; we took in two hundred and forty-seven dollars and +twenty-nine cents. Ain’t that splendid?” + +Mrs. Black nodded. She felt suddenly proud of her share in this +success. + +“I guess she wouldn’t have come to the fair if I hadn’t told her about +it,” she admitted. “She only come to my house yesterd’y morning.” + +“In an auto?” inquired Abby Daggett eagerly. + +“Yes,” nodded Mrs. Black. “I told her I could bring her over in the +wagon just as well as not; but she said she had the man all engaged. I +told her we was going to have a fair, and she said right off she wanted +to come.” + +Abby Daggett laid her warm plump hand on Mrs. Black’s arm. + +“I dunno when I’ve took such a fancy to anybody at first sight,” she +said musingly. “She’s what I call a real sweet girl. I’m just going to +love her, I know.” + +She gazed beseechingly at Mrs. Solomon Black. + +“Mebbe you’ll think it’s just gossipy curiosity; but I _would_ like to +know where that girl come from, and who her folks was, and how she +happened to come to Brookville. I s’pose you know all about her; don’t +you?” + +Mrs. Solomon Black coughed slightly. She was aware of the distinction +she had already acquired in the eyes of Brookville from the mere fact +of Lydia Orr’s presence in her house. + +“If I do,” she began cautiously, “I don’t know as it’s for me to say.” + +“Don’t fer pity’s sake think I’m nosey,” besought Abby Daggett almost +tearfully. “You know I ain’t that kind; but I don’t see how folks is +going to help being interested in a sweet pretty girl like Miss Orr, +and her coming so unexpected. And you know there’s them that’ll invent +things that ain’t true, if they don’t hear the facts.” + +“She’s from Boston,” said Mrs. Solomon Black grudgingly. “You can tell +Lois Daggett that much, if she’s getting anxious.” + +Mrs. Daggett’s large face crimsoned. She was one of those soft, easily +hurt persons whose blushes bring tears. She sniffed a little and raised +her handkerchief to her eyes. + +“I was afraid you’d—” + +“Well, of course I ain’t scared of you, Abby,” relented Mrs. Black. +“But I says to myself, ‘I’m goin’ to let Lydia Orr stand on her two own +feet in this town,’ I says. She can say what she likes about herself, +an’ there won’t be no lies coming home to roost at _my_ house. I guess +you’d feel the very same way if you was in my place, Abby.” + +Mrs. Daggett glanced with childish admiration at the other woman’s +magenta-tinted face under its jetty water-waves. Even Mrs. Black’s +everyday hat was handsomer than her own Sunday-best. + +“You always was so smart an’ sensible, Phoebe,” she said mildly. “I +remember ’way back in school, when we was both girls, you always could +see through arithmetic problems right off, when I couldn’t for the life +of me. I guess you’re right about letting her speak for herself.” + +“Course I am!” agreed Mrs. Black triumphantly. + +She had extricated herself from a difficulty with flying colors. She +would still preserve her reputation for being a close-mouthed woman who +knew a lot more about everything than she chose to tell. + +“Anybody can see she’s wearing mournin’,” she added benevolently. + +“Oh, I thought mebbe she had a black dress on because they’re stylish. +She did look awful pretty in it, with her arms and neck showing +through. I like black myself; but mourning—that’s different. Poor young +thing, I wonder who it was. Her father, mebbe, or her mother. You +didn’t happen to hear her say, did you, Phoebe?” + +Mrs. Solomon Black compressed her lips tightly. She paused at her own +gate with majestic dignity. + +“I guess I’ll have to hurry right in, Abby,” said she. “I have my bread +to set.” + +Mrs. Solomon Black had closed her gate behind her, noticing as she did +so that Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr had disappeared from the piazza +where she had left them. She glanced at Mrs. Daggett, lingering +wistfully before the gate. + +“Goodnight, Abby,” said she firmly. + + + + +Chapter VI. + + +Mrs. Maria Dodge sifted flour over her molding board preparatory to +transferring the sticky mass of newly made dough from the big yellow +mixing bowl to the board. More flour and a skillful twirl or two of the +lump and the process of kneading was begun. It continued monotonously +for the space of two minutes; then the motions became gradually slower, +finally coming to a full stop. + +“My patience!” murmured Mrs. Dodge, slapping her dough smartly. “Fanny +ought to be ready by now. They’ll be late—both of ’em.” + +She hurriedly crossed the kitchen to where, through a partly open door, +an uncarpeted stair could be seen winding upward. + +“Fanny!” she called sharply. “Fanny! ain’t you ready yet?” + +A quick step in the passage above, a subdued whistle, and her son Jim +came clattering down the stair. He glanced at his mother, a slight +pucker between his handsome brows. She returned the look with one of +fond maternal admiration. + +“How nice you do look, Jim,” said she, and smiled up at her tall son. +“I always did like you in red, and that necktie—” + +Jim Dodge shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. + +“Don’t know about that tie,” he said. “Kind of crude and flashy, ain’t +it, mother?” + +“Flashy? No, of course it ain’t. It looks real stylish with the brown +suit.” + +“Stylish,” repeated the young man. “Yes, I’m a regular swell—everything +up to date, latest Broadway cut.” + +He looked down with some bitterness at his stalwart young person clad +in clothes somewhat shabby, despite a recent pressing. + +Mrs. Dodge had returned to her bread which had spread in a mass of +stickiness all over the board. + +“Where’s Fanny?” she asked, glancing up at the noisy little clock on +the shelf above her head. “Tell her to hurry, Jim. You’re late, now.” + +Jim passed his hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin. + +“You might as well know, mother; Fan isn’t going.” + +“Not going?” echoed Mrs. Dodge, sharp dismay in voice and eyes. “Why, I +did up her white dress a-purpose, and she’s been making up ribbon +bows.” + +She extricated her fingers from the bread and again hurried across the +floor. + +Her son intercepted her with a single long stride. + +“No use, mother,” he said quietly. “Better let her alone.” + +“You think it’s—?” + +The young man slammed the door leading to the stairway with a fierce +gesture. + +“If you weren’t blinder than a bat, mother, you’d know by this time +what ailed Fan,” he said angrily. + +Mrs. Dodge sank into a chair by the table. + +“Oh, I ain’t blind,” she denied weakly; “but I thought mebbe Fannie—I +hoped—” + +“Did you think she’d refused him?” demanded Jim roughly. “Did you +suppose—? Huh! makes me mad clean through to think of it.” + +Mrs. Dodge began picking the dough off her fingers and rolling it into +little balls which she laid in a row on the edge of the table. + +“I’ve been awful worried about Fanny—ever since the night of the fair,” +she confessed. “He was here all that afternoon and stayed to tea; don’t +you remember? And they were just as happy together—I guess I can tell! +But he ain’t been near her since.” + +She paused to wipe her eyes on a corner of her gingham apron. + +“Fanny thought—at least I sort of imagined Mr. Elliot didn’t like the +way you treated him that night,” she went on piteously. “You’re kind of +short in your ways, Jim, if you don’t like anybody; don’t you know you +are?” + +The young man had thrust his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets and +was glowering at the dough on the molding board. + +“That’s rotten nonsense, mother,” he burst out. “Do you suppose, if a +man’s really in love with a girl, he’s going to care a cotton hat about +the way her brother treats him? You don’t know much about men if you +think so. No; you’re on the wrong track. It wasn’t my fault.” + +His mother’s tragic dark eyes entreated him timidly. + +“I’m awfully afraid Fanny’s let herself get all wrapped up in the +minister,” she half whispered. “And if he—” + +“I’d like to thrash him!” interrupted her son in a low tense voice. +“He’s a white-livered, cowardly hypocrite, that’s my name for Wesley +Elliot!” + +“But, Jim, that ain’t goin’ to help Fanny—what you think of Mr. Elliot. +And anyway, it ain’t so. It’s something else. Do you—suppose, you +could—You wouldn’t like to—to speak to him, Jim—would you?” + +“What! speak to that fellow about my sister? Why, mother, you must be +crazy! What could I say?—‘My sister Fanny is in love with you; and I +don’t think you’re treating her right.’ Is that your idea?” + +“Hush, Jim! Don’t talk so loud. She might hear you.” + +“No danger of that, mother; she was lying on her bed, her face in the +pillow, when I looked in her room ten minutes ago. Said she had a +headache and wasn’t going.” + +Mrs. Dodge drew a deep, dispirited sigh. + +“If there was only something a body could do,” she began. “You might +get into conversation with him, kind of careless, couldn’t you, Jim? +And then you might mention that he hadn’t been to see us for two +weeks—’course you’d put it real cautious, then perhaps he—” + +A light hurried step on the stair warned them to silence; the door was +pushed open and Fanny Dodge entered the kitchen. She was wearing the +freshly ironed white dress, garnished with crisp pink ribbons; her +cheeks were brilliant with color, her pretty head poised high. + +“I changed my mind,” said she, in a hard, sweet voice. “I decided I’d +go, after all. My—my head feels better.” + +Mother and son exchanged stealthy glances behind the girl’s back as she +leaned toward the cracked mirror between the windows, apparently intent +upon capturing an airy tendril of hair which had escaped confinement. + +“That’s real sensible, Fanny,” approved Mrs. Dodge with perfunctory +cheerfulness. “I want you should go out all you can, whilest you’re +young, an’ have a good time.” + +Jim Dodge was silent; but the scowl between his eyes deepened. + +Mrs. Dodge formed three words with her lips, as she shook her head at +him warningly. + +Fanny burst into a sudden ringing laugh. + +“Oh, I can see you in the glass, mother,” she cried. “I don’t care what +Jim says to me; he can say anything he likes.” + +[Illustration] “Oh, I can see you in the glass, mother,” she cried. + + +Her beautiful face, half turned over her shoulder, quivered slightly. + +“If you knew how I—” she began, then stopped short. + +“That’s just what I was saying to Jim,” put in her mother eagerly. + +The girl flung up both hands in a gesture of angry protest. + +“Please don’t talk about me, mother—to Jim, or anybody. Do you hear?” + +Her voice shrilled suddenly loud and harsh, like an untuned string +under the bow. + +Jim Dodge flung his hat on his head with an impatient exclamation. + +“Come on, Fan,” he said roughly. “Nobody’s going to bother you. Don’t +you worry.” + +Mrs. Dodge had gone back to her kneading board and was thumping the +dough with regular slapping motions of her capable hands, but her thin +dark face was drawn into a myriad folds and puckers of anxiety. + +Fanny stooped and brushed the lined forehead with her fresh young lips. + +“Goodnight, mother,” said she. “I wish you were going.” + +She drew back a little and looked down at her mother, smiling +brilliantly. + +“And don’t you worry another minute about me, mother,” she said +resolutely. “I’m all right.” + +“Oh, I do hope so, child,” returned her mother, sniffing back her ready +tears. “I’d hate to feel that you—” + +The girl hurried to the door, where her brother stood watching her. + +“Come on, Jim,” she said. “We have to stop for Ellen.” + +She followed him down the narrow path to the gate, holding her crisp +white skirts well away from the dew-drenched border. As the two emerged +upon the road, lying white before them under the brilliant moonlight, +Fanny glanced up timidly at her brother’s dimly seen profile under the +downward sweep of his hat-brim. + +“It’s real dusty, isn’t it?” said she, by way of breaking a silence she +found unbearable. “It’ll make my shoes look horrid.” + +“Walk over on the side more,” advised Jim laconically. + +“Then I’ll get in with all those weeds; they’re covered with dust and +wet, besides,” objected Fanny.... “Say, Jim!” + +“Well?” + +“Wouldn’t it be nice if we had an auto, then I could step in, right in +front of the house, and keep as clean as—” + +The young man laughed. + +“Wouldn’t you like an aëroplane better, Fan? I believe I would.” + +“You could keep it in the barn; couldn’t you, Jim?” + +“No,” derided Jim, “the barn isn’t what you’d call up-to-date. I +require a hangar—or whatever you call ’em.” + +The girl smothered a sigh. + +“If we weren’t so poor—” she began. + +“Well?” + +“Oh—lots of things.... They say that Orr girl has heaps of money.” + +“Who says so?” demanded her brother roughly. + +“Why, everybody. Joyce Fulsom told me her father said so; and he ought +to know. Do you suppose—?” + +“Do I suppose what?” + +Jim’s tone was almost savage. + +“What’s the matter with you, Jim?” + +Fanny’s sweet voice conveyed impatience, almost reproach. It was as if +she had said to her brother, “You know how I must feel, and yet you are +cross with me.” + +Jim glanced down at her, sudden relenting in his heart. + +“I was just thinking it’s pretty hard lines for both of us,” said he. +“If we were rich and could come speeding into town in a snappy auto, +our clothes in the latest style, I guess things would be different. +There’s no use talking, Fan; there’s mighty little chance for our sort. +And if there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s what folks call +sympathy.” + +“So do I!” cried Fanny. “I simply can’t bear it to know that people are +saying behind my back, ‘There’s _poor_ Fanny Dodge; I wonder—’ Then +they squeeze your hand, and gaze at you and sigh. Even mother—I want +you to tell mother I’m not—that it isn’t true—I can’t talk to her, +Jim.” + +“I’ll put her wise,” said Jim gruffly. + +After a pause, during which both walked faster than before, he said +hurriedly, as if the words broke loose: + +“Don’t you give that fellow another thought, Fan. He isn’t worth it!” + +The girl started like a blooded horse under the whip. She did not +pretend to misunderstand. + +“I know you never liked him, Jim,” she said after a short silence. + +“You bet I didn’t! Forget him, Fan. That’s all I have to say.” + +“But—if I only knew what it was—I must have done something—said +something— I keep wondering and wondering. I can’t help it, Jim.” + +There was an irrepressible sob in the girl’s voice. + +“Come, Fan, pull yourself together,” he urged. “Here’s Ellen waiting +for us by the gate. Don’t for heaven’s sake give yourself away. Keep a +stiff upper lip, old girl!” + +“Well, I thought you two were never coming!” Ellen’s full rich voice +floated out to them, as they came abreast of the Dix homestead nestled +back among tall locust trees. + +The girl herself daintily picked her way toward them among the weeds by +the roadside. She uttered a little cry of dismay as a stray branch +caught in her muslin skirts. + +“That’s the sign of a beau, Ellen,” laughed Fanny, with extravagant +gayety. “The bigger the stick the handsomer and richer the beau.” + +“What made you so late?” inquired Ellen, as all three proceeded on +their way, the two girls linked affectionately arm in arm; Jim Dodge +striding in the middle of the road a little apart from his companions. + +“Oh, I don’t know,” fibbed Fanny. “I guess I was slow starting to +dress. The days are so long now I didn’t realize how late it was +getting.” + +Ellen glanced sympathizingly at her friend. + +“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to come, Fanny,” she murmured, “Seeing +the social is at Mrs. Solomon Black’s house.” + +“Why shouldn’t I want to come?” demanded Fanny aggressively. + +“Well, I didn’t know,” replied Ellen. + +After a pause she said: + +“That Orr girl has really bought the Bolton house; I suppose you heard? +It’s all settled; and she’s going to begin fixing up the place right +off. Don’t you think it’s funny for a girl like her to want a house all +to herself. I should think she’d rather board, as long as she’s +single.” + +“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Jim Dodge coolly. + +“You folks’ll get money out of it; so shall we,” Ellen went on. +“Everybody’s so excited! I went down for the mail this afternoon and +seemed to me ’most everybody was out in the street talking it over. My! +I’d hate to be her tonight.” + +“Why?” asked Fanny shortly. + +“Oh, I don’t know. Everybody will be crowding around, asking questions +and saying things.... Do you think she’s pretty, Jim?” + +“Pretty?” echoed the young man. + +He shot a keen glance at Ellen Dix from under half-closed lids. The +girl’s big, black eyes were fixed full upon him; she was leaning +forward, a suggestion of timid defiance in the poise of her head. + +“Well, that depends,” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think she’s +_pretty_.” + +Ellen burst into a sudden trill of laughter. + +“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “I supposed all the men—” + +“But I do think she’s beautiful,” he finished calmly. “There’s a +difference, you know.” + +Ellen Dix tossed her head. + +“Oh, is there?” she said airily. “Well, I don’t even think she’s +pretty; do you, Fan?—with all that light hair, drawn back plain from +her forehead, and those big, solemn eyes. But I guess she _thinks_ +she’s pretty, all right.” + +“She doesn’t think anything about herself,” said Jim doggedly. “She +isn’t that kind of a girl.” + +Ellen Dix bit a vexed exclamation short. + +“I don’t believe any of us know her very well,” she said, after a +pause. “You know what a gossip Lois Daggett is? Well, I met her and +Mrs. Fulsom and Mrs. Whittle coming out of the Daggetts’ house. They’d +been talking it over; when they saw me they stopped me to ask if I’d +been to see Miss Orr, and when I said no, not yet, but I was going, +Lois Daggett said, ‘Well, I do hope she won’t be quite so close-mouthed +with you girls. When I asked her, real sympathizing, who she was +wearing black for, she said she had lost a dear friend and never even +told who it was!’” + +Jim Dodge threw back his head and burst into a laugh. + +“Served her right,” he said. + +“You mean Lois?” + +“You didn’t suppose I meant Miss Orr; did you?” + +Jim’s voice held a disdainful note which brought the hot color to +Ellen’s cheeks. + +“I’m not so stupid as you seem to think, Jim Dodge,” she said, with +spirit. + +“I never thought you were stupid, Ellen,” he returned quickly. “Don’t +make a mistake and be so now.” + +Ellen gazed at him in hurt silence. She guessed at his meaning and it +humiliated her girlish pride. + +It was Fanny who said somewhat impatiently: “I’m sure I can’t think +what you mean, Jim.” + +“Well, in my humble opinion, it would be downright stupid for you two +girls to fool yourselves into disliking Lydia Orr. She’d like to be +friends with everybody; why not give her a chance?” + +Again Ellen did not reply; and again it was Fanny who spoke the words +that rose to her friend’s lips unuttered: + +“I can’t see how you should know so much about Miss Orr, Jim.” + +“I don’t myself,” he returned good-humoredly. “But sometimes a man can +see through a woman better—or at least more fair-mindedly than another +woman. You see,” he added, “there’s no sex jealousy in the way.” + +Both girls cried out in protest against this. + +It wasn’t so, they declared. He ought to be ashamed of himself! As for +being _jealous_ of any one—Fanny haughtily disclaimed the suggestion, +with a bitterness which astonished her friend. + +It was something of a relief to all three when the brilliantly +illuminated house and grounds belonging to Mrs. Solomon Black came in +view. Japanese lanterns in lavish abundance had been strung from tree +to tree and outlined the piazza and the walk leading to the house. + +“Doesn’t it look lovely!” cried Ellen, scattering her vexation to the +winds. “I never saw anything so pretty!” + +Inside the house further surprises awaited them; the music of harp and +violins stole pleasantly through the flower-scented rooms, which were +softly lighted with shaded lamps the like of which Brookville had never +seen before. + +Mrs. Solomon Black, arrayed in a crisp blue taffeta, came bustling to +meet them. But not before Fanny’s swift gaze had penetrated the +assembled guests. Yes! there was Wesley Elliot’s tall figure. He was +talking to Mrs. Henry Daggett at the far end of the double parlors. + +“Go right up stairs and lay off your things,” urged their hostess +hospitably. “Ladies to the right; gents to the left. I’m so glad you +came, Fanny. I’d begun to wonder—” + +The girl’s lip curled haughtily. The slight emphasis on the personal +pronoun and the fervid squeeze of Mrs. Black’s fat hand hurt her sore +heart. But she smiled brilliantly. + +“Thank you, Mrs. Black, I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds!” she said +coldly. + + + + +Chapter VII. + + +“Does my hair look decent?” asked Ellen, as the two girls peered into +the mirror together. “The dew does take the curl out so. It must be +lovely to have naturally curly hair, like yours, Fanny. It looks all +the prettier for being damp and ruffled up.” + +Fanny was pulling out the fluffy masses of curling brown hair about her +forehead. + +“Your hair looks all right, Ellen,” she said absent-mindedly. + +She was wondering if Wesley Elliot would speak to her. + +“I saw that Orr girl,” whispered Ellen; “she’s got on a white dress, +all lace, and a black sash. She does look pretty, Fanny; we’ll have to +acknowledge it.” + +“Ye-es,” murmured Fanny who was drawing on a pair of fresh white +gloves. + +“You aren’t going to wear those gloves down stairs, are you, Fan? I +haven’t got any.” + +“My hands are all stained up with currant jelly,” explained Fanny +hurriedly. “Your hands are real pretty, Ellen.” + +Ellen glanced down at her capable, brown hands, with their blunt +finger-tips. + +“Did you ever notice _her_ hands, Fanny?” + +Fanny shook her head. + +“Her nails are cut kind of pointed, and all shined up. And her hands +are so little and soft and white. I suppose a man—do you think Jim +would notice that sort of thing, Fanny?” + +Fanny snapped the fastenings of her gloves. + +“Let’s go down stairs,” she suggested. “They’ll be wondering what’s +become of us.” + +“Say, Fan!” + +Ellen Dix caught at her friend’s arm, her pretty face, with its full +pouting lips and brilliant dark eyes upturned. + +“Well?” + +“Do you suppose— You don’t think Jim is mad at me for what I said about +_her_, do you?” + +“I don’t remember you said anything to make anybody mad. Come, let’s go +down, Ellen.” + +“But, Fan, I was wondering if that girl— Do you know I—I kind of wish +she hadn’t come to Brookville. Everything seems—different, already. +Don’t you think so, Fanny?” + +“Oh, I don’t know. Why should you think about it? She’s here and +there’s no use. I’m going down, Ellen.” + +Fanny moved toward the stairs, her fresh young beauty heightened by an +air of dignified reserve which Ellen Dix had failed to penetrate. + +Wesley Elliot, who had by now reached the wide opening into the hall in +the course of his progress among the guests, glanced up as Fanny Dodge +swept the last step of the stair with her unfashionable white gown. + +“Why, good evening, Miss Dodge,” he exclaimed, with commendable +presence of mind, seeing the heart under his waistcoat had executed an +uncomfortable _pas seul_ at sight of her. + +He held out his hand with every appearance of cordial welcome, and +after an instant’s hesitation Fanny laid her gloved fingers in it. She +had meant to avoid his direct gaze, but somehow his glance had caught +and held her own. What were his eyes saying to her? She blushed and +trembled under the soft dark fire of them. In that instant she appeared +so wholly adorable, so temptingly sweet that the young man felt his +prudent resolves slipping away from him one by one. Had they been +alone—... + +But, no; Ellen Dix, her piquant, provokingly pretty face tip-tilted +with ardent curiosity, was just behind. In another moment he was +saying, in the easy, pleasant way everybody liked, that he was glad to +see Ellen; and how was Mrs. Dix, this evening? And why wasn’t she +there? + +Ellen replied demurely that it had been given out on Sunday as a young +people’s social; so her mother thought she wasn’t included. + +They entered the crowded room, where Deacon Whittle was presently heard +declaring that he felt just as young as anybody, so he “picked up +mother and came right along with Joe.” And Mrs. Daggett, whose placid +face had lighted with pleasure at sight of Fanny and Ellen, proclaimed +that when the day came for _her_ to stay at home from a young folks’ +social she hoped they’d bury her, right off. + +So the instant—psychological or otherwise—passed. But Fanny Dodge’s +heavy heart was beating hopefully once more. + +“If I could only see him alone,” she was thinking. “He would explain +everything.” + +Her thoughts flew onward to the moment when she would come down stairs +once more, cloaked for departure. Perhaps Wesley—she ventured to call +him Wesley in her joyously confused thoughts—perhaps Wesley would walk +home with her as on other occasions not long past. Jim, she reflected, +could go with Ellen. + +Then all at once she came upon Lydia Orr, in her simple white dress, +made with an elegant simplicity which convicted every girl in the room +of dowdiness. She was talking with Judge Fulsom, who was slowly +consuming a huge saucer of ice-cream, with every appearance of +enjoyment. + +“As I understand it, my dear young lady, you wish to employ Brookville +talent exclusively in repairing your house,” Fanny heard him saying, +between smacking mouthfuls. + +And Lydia Orr replied, “Yes, if you please, I do want everything to be +done here. There are people who can, aren’t there?” + +When she saw that Fanny had paused and was gazing at her doubtfully, +her hand went out with a smile, wistful and timid and sincere, all at +once. There was something so appealing in the girl’s upturned face, an +honesty of purpose so crystal-clear in her lovely eyes, that Fanny, +still confused and uncertain whether to be happy or not, was +irresistibly drawn to her. She thought for a fleeting instant she would +like to take Lydia Orr away to some dim secluded spot and there pour +out her heart. The next minute she was ready to laugh at herself for +entertaining so absurd an idea. She glanced down at Lydia’s ungloved +hands, which Ellen Dix had just described, and reflected soberly that +Wesley Elliot sat at table with those dainty pink-tipped fingers three +times each day. She had not answered Ellen’s foolish little questions; +but now she felt sure that any man, possessed of his normal faculties, +could hardly fail to become aware of Lydia Orr’s delicate beauty. + +Fanny compelled herself to gaze with unprejudiced eyes at the fair +transparent skin, with the warm color coming and going beneath it, at +the masses of blond hair drawn softly back from the high round +forehead, at the large blue eyes beneath the long sweep of darker +lashes, at the exquisite curve of the lips and the firmly modeled chin. +Yes; Jim had seen truly; the ordinary adjective “pretty”—applicable +alike to a length of ribbon, a gown, or a girl of the commoner +type—could not be applied to Lydia Orr. She was beautiful to the +discerning eye, and Fanny unwillingly admitted it. + +Lydia Orr, unabashed by the girl’s frank inspection, returned her gaze +with beaming friendliness. + +“Did you know I’d bought a house?” she asked. “It’s old and needs a lot +of repairing; so I was just asking Judge Fulsom—” + +“Deacon Amos Whittle is, so to say, a contractor,” said the Judge +ponderously, “and so, in a way, am I.” + +“A contractor?” puzzled Lydia. “Yes; but I—” + +“If you’ll just give over everything into our hands connected with +putting the old place into A-number-one shape, I think you’ll find you +can dismiss the whole matter from your mind. In two months’ time, my +dear young lady, we’ll guarantee to pass the house over to you in +apple-pie order, good as new, if not better.... Yes, indeed; better!” + +The Judge eyed his empty saucer regretfully. + +“That’s the best ice cream—” he added with total irrelevance. “Have +some, won’t you? I hear they’re passing it out free and permiscuous in +the back room.” + +“I think we should like some cream, if you please, Judge Fulsom,” said +Lydia, “if you’ll keep us company.” + +“Oh, I’ll keep company with you, as far as strawberry ice cream’s +concerned,” chuckled the Judge, his big bulk shaking with humor. “But I +see Mis’ Fulsom over there; she’s got her weather eye on us. Now, watch +me skeedaddle for that cream! Pink, white or brown, Miss Orr; or, all +three mixed? There’s a young fellow out there in charge of the freezers +that sure is a wonder. How about you, Fanny?” + +The two girls looked at each other with a smile of understanding as the +big figure of the Judge moved ponderously away. + +“We never had ice cream before at a church sociable,” said Fanny. “And +I didn’t know Mrs. Solomon Black had so many lanterns. Did you buy all +this?” + +Her gesture seemed to include the shaded lamps, the masses of flowers +and trailing vines, the gay strains of music, and the plentiful +refreshments which nearly every one was enjoying. + +“It’s just like a regular party,” she added. “We’re not used to such +things in Brookville.” + +“Do you like it?” Lydia asked, doubtfully. + +“Why, of course,” returned Fanny, the color rising swiftly to her face. + +She had caught a glimpse of Wesley Elliot edging his way past a group +of the younger boys and girls, mad with the revelry of unlimited cake +and ice cream. He was coming directly toward their corner; his eyes, +alas! fixed upon the stranger in their midst. Unconsciously Fanny +sighed deeply; the corners of her smiling lips drooped. She appeared +all at once like a lovely rose which some one has worn for an hour and +cast aside. + +“It’s such a little thing to do,” murmured Lydia. + +Then, before Fanny was aware of her intention, she had slipped away. At +the same moment Judge Fulsom made his appearance, elbowing his smiling +way through the crowd, a brimming saucer of vari-colored ice cream in +each hand. + +“Here we are!” he announced cheerfully. “Had to get a _habeas corpus_ +on this ice cream, though. Why, what’s become of Miss Orr? Gone with a +handsomer man—eh?” + +He stared humorously at the minister. + +“Twa’n’t you, dominie; seen’ you’re here. Had any ice cream yet? No +harm done, if you have. Seems to be a plenty. Take this, parson, and +I’ll replevin another plate for myself and one for Miss Orr. Won’t be +gone more’n another hour.” + +Fanny, piteously tongue-tied in the presence of the man she loved, +glanced up at Wesley Elliot with a timidity she had never before felt +in his company. His eyes under close-drawn brows were searching the +crowd. Fanny divined that she was not in his thoughts. + +“If you are looking for Miss Orr,” she said distinctly, “I think she +has gone out in the kitchen. I saw Mrs. Solomon Black beckon to her.” + +The minister glanced down at her; his rash impulse of an hour back was +already forgotten. + +“Don’t you think it’s awfully warm in here?” continued Fanny. + +A sudden desperate desire had assailed her; she must—she would compel +him to some sort of an explanation. + +“It’s a warm evening,” commented the minister. “But why not eat your +cream? You’ll find it will cool you off.” + +“I—I don’t care much for ice cream,” said Fanny, in a low tremulous +voice. + +She gazed at him, her dark eyes brimming with eager questions. + +“I was wondering if we couldn’t—it’s pleasant out in the yard—” + +“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, Miss Dodge,” Wesley Elliot’s +tone was blandly courteous—“I’ll try and find you a chair. They appear +to be scarce articles; I believe the ladies removed most of them to the +rear of the house. Pardon me—” + +He set down his plate of ice cream on the top shelf of Mrs. Solomon +Black’s what-not, thereby deranging a careful group of sea-shells and +daguerreotypes, and walked quickly away. + +Fanny’s face flushed to a painful crimson; then as suddenly paled. She +was a proud girl, accustomed to love and admiration since early +childhood, when she had queened it over her playmates because her +yellow curls were longer than theirs, her cheeks pinker, her eyes +brighter and her slim, strong body taller. Fanny had never been +compelled to stoop from her graceful height to secure masculine +attention. It had been hers by a sort of divine right. She had not been +at all surprised when the handsome young minister had looked at her +twice, thrice, to every other girl’s once, nor when he had singled her +out from the others in the various social events of the country side. + +Fanny had long ago resolved, in the secret of her own heart, that she +would never, never become the hard-worked wife of a plodding farmer. +Somewhere in the world—riding toward her on the steed of his passionate +desire—was the fairy prince; her prince, coming to lift her out from +the sordid commonplace of life in Brookville. Almost from the very +first she had recognized Wesley Elliot as her deliverer. + +Once he had said to her: “I have a strange feeling that I have known +you always.” She had cherished the saying in her heart, +hoping—believing that it might, in some vague, mysterious way, be true. +And not at all aware that this pretty sentiment is as old as the race +and the merest banality on the masculine tongue, signifying: “At this +moment I am drawn to you, as to no other woman; but an hour hence it +may be otherwise.” ... How else may man, as yet imperfectly monogamous, +find the mate for whom he is ever ardently questing? In this woman he +finds the trick of a lifted lash, or a shadowy dimple in the melting +rose of her cheek. In another, the stately curve of neck and shoulder +and the somber fire of dark eyes draws his roving gaze; in a third, +there is a soft, adorable prettiness, like that of a baby. He has +always known them—all. And thus it is, that love comes and goes +unbidden, like the wind which blows where it listeth; and woman, +hearing the sound thereof, cannot tell whence it cometh nor whither it +goeth. + +In this particular instance Wesley Elliot had not chosen to examine the +secret movements of his own mind. Baldly speaking, he had cherished a +fleeting fancy for Fanny Dodge, a sort of love in idleness, which comes +to a man like the delicate, floating seeds of the parasite orchid, +capable indeed of exquisite blossoming; but deadly to the tree upon +which it fastens. He had resolved to free himself. It was a sensible +resolve. He was glad he had made up his mind to it before it was too +late. Upon the possible discomfiture of Fanny Dodge he bestowed but a +single thought: She would get over it. “It” meaning a quite pardonable +fancy—he refused to give it a more specific name—for himself. To the +unvoiced opinions of Mrs. Solomon Black, Mrs. Deacon Whittle, Ellen +Dix, Mrs. Abby Daggett and all the other women of his parish he was +wholly indifferent. Men, he was glad to remember, never bothered their +heads about another man’s love affairs.... + +The chairs from the sitting room had been removed to the yard, where +they were grouped about small tables adequately illuminated by the moon +and numerous Japanese lanterns. Every second chair appeared to be +filled by a giggling, pink-cheeked girl; the others being suitably +occupied by youths of the opposite sex—all pleasantly occupied. The +minister conscientiously searched for the chair he had promised to +fetch to Fanny Dodge; but it never once occurred to him to bring Fanny +out to the cool loveliness of mingled moon and lantern-light. There was +no unoccupied chair, as he quickly discovered; but he came presently +upon Lydia Orr, apparently doing nothing at all. She was standing near +Mrs. Black’s boundary picket fence, shielded from the observation of +the joyous groups about the little tables by the down-dropping branches +of an apple-tree. + +“I was looking for you!” said Wesley Elliot. + +It was the truth; but it surprised him nevertheless. He supposed he had +been looking for a chair. + +“Were you?” said Lydia, smiling. + +She moved a little away from him. + +“I must go in,” she murmured. + +“Why must you? It’s delightful out here—so cool and—” + +“Yes, I know. But the others— Why not bring Miss Dodge out of that hot +room? I thought she looked tired.” + +“I didn’t notice,” he said.... “Just look at that flock of little white +clouds up there with the moon shining through them!” + +Lydia glided away over the soft grass. + +“I’ve been looking at them for a long time,” she said gently. “I must +go now and help cut more cake.” + +He made a gesture of disgust. + +“They’re fairly stuffing,” he complained. “And, anyway, there are +plenty of women to attend to all that. I want to talk to you, Miss +Orr.” + +His tone was authoritative. + +She turned her head and looked at him. + +“To talk to me?” she echoed. + +“Yes; come back—for just a minute. I know what you’re thinking: that +it’s my duty to be talking to parishioners. Well, I’ve been doing that +all the evening. I think I’m entitled to a moment of relaxation; don’t +you?” + +“I’m a parishioner,” she reminded him. + +“So you are,” he agreed joyously. “And I haven’t had a word with you +this evening, so far; so you see it’s my duty to talk to you; and it’s +your duty to listen.” + +“Well?” she murmured. + +Her face upturned to his in the moonlight wore the austere loveliness +of a saint’s. + +[Illustration] Her face upturned to his in the moonlight, wore the +austere loveliness of a saint’s. + + +“I wish you’d tell me something,” he said, his fine dark eyes taking in +every detail of delicate tint and outline. “Do you know it all seems +very strange and unusual to me—your coming to Brookville the way you +did, and doing so much to—to make the people here happy.” + +She drew a deep, sighing breath. + +“I’m afraid it isn’t going to be easy,” she said slowly. “I thought it +would be; but—” + +“Then you came with that intention,” he inferred quickly. “You meant to +do it from the beginning. But just what was the beginning? What ever +attracted your attention to this forlorn little place?” + +She was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast. Then she smiled. + +“I might ask you the same question,” she said at last. “Why did you +come to Brookville, Mr. Elliot?” + +He made an impatient gesture. + +“Oh, that is easily explained. I had a call to Brookville.” + +“So did I,” she murmured. “Yes; I think that was the reason—if there +must be a reason.” + +“There is always a reason for everything,” he urged. “But you didn’t +understand me. Do you know I couldn’t say this to another soul in +Brookville; but I’m going to tell you: I wanted to live and work in a +big city, and I tried to find a church—” + +“Yes; I know,” she said, unexpectedly. “One can’t always go where one +wishes to go, just at first. Things turn out that way, sometimes.” + +“They seemed to want me here in Brookville,” he said, with some +bitterness. “It was a last resort, for me. I might have taken a +position in a school; but I couldn’t bring myself to that. I’d dreamed +of preaching—to big audiences.” + +She smiled at him, with a gentle sidewise motion of the head. + +“God lets us do things, if we want to hard enough,” she told him quite +simply. + +“Do you believe that?” he cried. “Perhaps you’ll think it strange for +me to ask; but do you?” + +A great wave of emotion seemed to pass over her quiet face. He saw it +alter strangely under his gaze. For an instant she stood transfigured; +smiling, without word or movement. Then the inward light subsided. She +was only an ordinary young woman, once more, upon whom one might bestow +an indulgent smile—so simple, even childlike she was, in her unaffected +modesty. + +“I really must go in,” she said apologetically, “and help them cut the +cake.” + + + + +Chapter VIII. + + +Jim Dodge had been hoeing potatoes all day. It was hard, monotonous +work, and he secretly detested it. But the hunting season was far away, +and the growing potatoes were grievously beset by weeds; so he had cut +and thrust with his sharp-bladed hoe from early morning till the sun +burned the crest of the great high-shouldered hill which appeared to +close in the valley like a rampart, off Grenoble way. As a matter of +fact, the brawling stream which gave Brookville its name successfully +skirted the hill by a narrow margin which likewise afforded space for +the state road. + +But the young man was not considering either the geographical contours +of the country at large or the refreshed and renovated potato field, +with its serried ranks of low-growing plants, as he tramped heavily +crosslots toward the house. At noon, when he came in to dinner, in +response to the wideflung summons of the tin horn which hung by the +back door, he had found the two women of his household in a pleasurable +state of excitement. + +“We’ve got our share, Jim!” proclaimed Mrs. Dodge, a bright red spot +glowing on either thin cheek. “See! here’s the check; it came in the +mail this morning.” + +And she spread a crackling bit of paper under her son’s eyes. + +“I was some surprised to get it so soon,” she added. “Folks ain’t +generally in any great hurry to part with their money. But they do say +Miss Orr paid right down for the place—never even asked ’em for any +sort of terms; and th’ land knows they’d have been glad to given them +to her, or to anybody that had bought the place these dozen years back. +Likely she didn’t know that.” + +Jim scowled at the check. + +“How much did she pay for the place?” he demanded. “It must have been a +lot more than it was worth, judging from this.” + +“I don’t know,” Mrs. Dodge replied. “And I dunno as I care +particularly, as long’s we’ve got our share of it.” + +She was swaying back and forth in a squeaky old rocking-chair, the +check clasped in both thin hands. + +“Shall we bank it, children; or draw it all out in cash? Fanny needs +new clothes; so do you, Jim. And I’ve got to have a new carpet, or +something, for the parlor. Those skins of wild animals you brought in +are all right, Jim, if one can’t get anything better. I suppose we’d +ought to be prudent and saving; but I declare we haven’t had any money +to speak of, for so long—” + +Mrs. Dodge’s faded eyes were glowing with joy; she spread the check +upon her lap and gazed at it smilingly. + +“I declare it’s the biggest surprise I’ve had in all my life!” + +“Let’s spend every cent of it,” proposed Fanny recklessly. “We didn’t +know we were going to have it. We can scrub along afterward the same as +we always have. Let’s divide it into four parts: one for the house—to +fix it up—and one for each of us, to spend any way we like. What do you +say, Jim?” + +“I shouldn’t wonder if Mrs. Deacon Whittle would furnish up her best +parlor something elegant,” surmised Mrs. Dodge. “She’s always said she +was goin’ to have gilt paper and marble tops and electric blue plush +upholstered furniture. I guess that’ll be the last fair we’ll ever have +in that house. She wouldn’t have everybody trampin’ over her flowered +Body-Brussels. I suppose _we_ might buy some plush furniture; but I +don’t know as I’d care for electric blue. What do you think, son?” + +Jim Dodge sat sprawled out in his chair before the half-set table. At +this picture of magnificence, about to be realized in the abode of +Deacon Amos Whittle, he gave vent to an inarticulate growl. + +“What’s the matter with you, Jim?” shrilled his mother, whose +perpetually jangled nerves were capable of strange dissonances. +“Anybody’d suppose you wasn’t pleased at having the old Bolton place +sold at last, and a little bit of all that’s been owing to us since +before your poor father died, paid off. My! If we was to have all that +was coming to us by rights, with the interest money—” + +“I’m hungry and tired, mother, and I want my dinner,” said Jim +brusquely. “That check won’t hoe the potatoes; so I guess I’ll have to +do it, same as usual.” + +“For pity sake, Fanny!” cried his mother, “did you put the vegetables +over to boil? I ain’t thought of anything since this check came.” + +It appeared that Fanny had been less forgetful. + +After his belated dinner, Jim had gone back to his potatoes, leaving +his mother and sister deep in discussion over the comparative virtues +of Nottingham lace and plain muslin, made up with ruffles, for parlor +curtains. + +“I really believe I’d rather spend more on the house than on clo’es at +my age,” he heard his mother saying, happily, as he strode away. + +All during the afternoon, to the clink of myriad small stones against +the busy blade of his hoe, Jim thought about Lydia Orr. He could not +help seeing that it was to Lydia he owed the prospect of a much needed +suit of clothes. It would be Lydia who hung curtains, of whatever sort, +in their shabby best room. And no other than Lydia was to furnish Mrs. +Whittle’s empty parlor. She had already given the minister a new +long-tailed coat, as Jim chose to characterize the ministerial black. +His cheeks burned under the slanting rays of the afternoon sun with +something deeper than an added coat of tan. Why should Lydia Orr—that +slip of a girl, with the eyes of a baby, or a saint—do all this? Jim +found himself unable to believe that she really wanted the Bolton +place. Why, the house was an uninhabitable ruin! It would cost +thousands of dollars to rebuild it. + +He set his jaw savagely as he recalled his late conversation with +Deacon Whittle. “The cheating old skinflint,” as he mentally termed +that worthy pillar of the church, had, he was sure, bamboozled the girl +into buying a well-nigh worthless property, at a scandalous price. It +was a shame! He, Jim Dodge, even now burned with the shame of it. He +pondered briefly the possibilities of taking from his mother the check, +which represented the _pro rata_ share of the Dodge estate, and +returning it to Lydia Orr. Reluctantly he abandoned this quixotic +scheme. The swindle—for as such he chose to view it—had already been +accomplished. Other people would not return their checks. On the +contrary, there would be new and fertile schemes set on foot to part +the unworldly stranger and her money. + +He flung down his hoe in disgust and straightened his aching shoulders. +The whole sordid transaction put him in mind of the greedy onslaught of +a horde of hungry ants on a beautiful, defenseless flower, its torn +corolla exuding sweetness.... And there must be some sort of reason +behind it. Why had Lydia Orr come to Brookville? + +And here, unwittingly, Jim’s blind conjectures followed those of Wesley +Elliot. He had told Lydia Orr he meant to call upon her. That he had +not yet accomplished his purpose had been due to the watchfulness of +Mrs. Solomon Black. On the two occasions when he had rung Mrs. Black’s +front door-bell, that lady herself had appeared in response to its +summons. On both occasions she had informed Mr. Dodge tartly that Miss +Orr wasn’t at home. + +On the occasion of his second disappointment he had offered to await +the young lady’s home-coming. + +“There ain’t no use of that, Jim,” Mrs. Black had assured him. “Miss +Orr’s gone t’ Boston to stay two days.” + +Then she had unlatched her close-shut lips to add: “She goes there +frequent, on business.” + +Her eyes appeared to inform him further that Miss Orr’s business, of +whatever nature, was none of _his_ business and never would be. + +“That old girl is down on me for some reason or other,” he told himself +ruefully, as he walked away for the second time. But he was none the +less resolved to pursue his hopefully nascent friendship with Lydia +Orr. + +He was thinking of her vaguely as he walked toward the house which had +been his father’s, and where he and Fanny had been born. It was little +and low and old, as he viewed it indifferently in the fading light of +the sunset sky. Its walls had needed painting so long, that for years +nobody had even mentioned the subject. Its picturesquely mossy roof +leaked. But a leaky roof was a commonplace in Brookville. It was +customary to set rusty tin pans, their holes stopped with rags, under +such spots as actually let in water; the emptying of the pans being a +regular household “chore.” Somehow, he found himself disliking to +enter; his mother and Fanny would still be talking about the +disposition of Lydia Orr’s money. To his relief he found his sister +alone in the kitchen, which served as a general living room. The small +square table neatly spread for two stood against the wall; Fanny was +standing by the window, her face close to the pane, and apparently +intent upon the prospect without, which comprised a grassy stretch of +yard flanked by a dull rampart of over-grown lilac bushes. + +“Where’s mother?” inquired Jim, as he hung his hat on the accustomed +nail. + +“She went down to the village,” said Fanny, turning her back on the +window with suspicious haste. “There was a meeting of the sewing +society at Mrs. Daggett’s.” + +“Good Lord!” exclaimed Jim. “What an opportunity!” + +“Opportunity?” echoed Fanny vaguely. + +“Yes; for talking it over. Can’t you imagine the clack of tongues; the +‘I says to _her_,’ and ‘she told _me_,’ and ‘what _do_ you think!’” + +“Don’t be sarcastic and disagreeable, Jim,” advised Fanny, with some +heat. “When you think of it, it _is_ a wonder—that girl coming here the +way she did; buying out the fair, just as everybody was discouraged +over it. And now—” + +“How do you explain it, Fan?” asked her brother. + +“Explain it? I can’t explain it. Nobody seems to know anything about +her, except that she’s from Boston and seems to have heaps of money.” + +Jim was wiping his hands on the roller-towel behind the door. + +“I had a chance to annex a little more of Miss Orr’s money today,” he +observed grimly. “But I haven’t made up my mind yet whether to do it, +or not.” + +Fanny laughed and shrugged her shoulders. + +“If you don’t, somebody else will,” she replied. “It was Deacon +Whittle, wasn’t it? He stopped at the house this afternoon and wanted +to know where to find you.” + +“They’re going right to work on the old place, and there’s plenty to do +for everybody, including yours truly, at four dollars a day.” + +“What sort of work?” inquired Fanny. + +“All sorts: pulling down and building up; clearing away and replanting. +The place is a jungle, you know. But four dollars a day! It’s like +taking candy from a baby.” + +“It sounds like a great deal,” said the girl. “But why shouldn’t you do +it?” + +Jim laughed. + +“Why, indeed? I might earn enough to put a shingle or two on our own +roof. It looks like honest money; but—” + +Fanny was busy putting the finishing touches to the supper table. + +“Mother’s going to stop for tea at Mrs. Daggett’s, and go to prayer +meeting afterward,” she said. “We may as well eat.” + +The two sat down, facing each other. + +“What did you mean, Jim?” asked Fanny, as she passed the bread plate to +her brother. “You said, ‘It looks like honest money; but—’” + +“I guess I’m a fool,” he grumbled; “but there’s something about the +whole business I don’t like.... Have some of this apple sauce, Fan?” + +The girl passed her plate for a spoonful of the thick compound, and in +return shoved the home-dried beef toward her brother. + +“I don’t see anything queer about it,” she replied dully. “I suppose a +person with money might come to Brookville and want to buy a house. The +old Bolton place used to be beautiful, mother says. I suppose it can be +again. And if she chooses to spend her money that way—” + +“That’s just the point I can’t see: why on earth should she want to +saddle herself with a proposition like that?” + +Fanny’s mute lips trembled. She was thinking she knew very well why +Lydia Orr had chosen to come to Brookville: in some way unknown to +Fanny, Miss Orr had chanced to meet the incomparable Wesley Elliot, and +had straightway set her affections upon him. Fanny had been thinking it +over, ever since the night of the social at Mrs. Solomon Black’s. Up to +the moment when Wesley—she couldn’t help calling him Wesley still—had +left her, on pretense of fetching a chair, she had instantly divined +that it was a pretense, and of course he had not returned. Her cheeks +tingled hotly as she recalled the way in which Joyce Fulsom had +remarked the plate of melting ice cream on the top shelf of Mrs. +Black’s what-not: + +“I guess Mr. Elliot forgot his cream,” the girl had said, with a spark +of malice. “I saw him out in the yard awhile ago talking to that Miss +Orr.” + +Fanny had humiliated herself still further by pretending she didn’t +know it was the minister who had left his ice cream to dissolve in a +pink and brown puddle of sweetness. Whereat Joyce Fulsom had giggled +disagreeably. + +“Better keep your eye on him, Fan,” she had advised. + +Of course she couldn’t speak of this to Jim; but it was all plain +enough to her. + +“I’m going down to the village for awhile, Fan,” her brother said, as +he arose from the table. But he did not, as was his custom, invite her +to accompany him. + +After Jim had gone, Fanny washed the dishes with mechanical swiftness. +Her mother had asked her if she would come to prayer meeting, and walk +home with her afterwards. Not that Mrs. Dodge was timid; the +neighborhood of Brookville had never been haunted after nightfall by +anything more dangerous than whippoorwills and frogs. A plaintive +chorus of night sounds greeted the girl, as she stepped out into the +darkness. How sweet the honeysuckle and late roses smelled under the +dew! Fanny walked slowly across the yard to the old summer-house, where +the minister had asked her to call him Wesley, and sat down. It was +very dark under the thick-growing vines, and after awhile tranquillity +of a sort stole over the girl’s spirit. She gazed out into the dim +spaces beyond the summer-house and thought, with a curious detachment, +of all that had happened. It was as if she had grown old and was +looking back calmly to a girlhood long since past. She could almost +smile at the recollection of herself stifling her sobs in her pillow, +lest Jim should hear. + +“Why should I care for him?” she asked herself wonderingly; and could +not tell. + +Then all at once she found herself weeping softly, her head on the +rickety table. + +Jim Dodge, too intently absorbed in his own confused thoughts to pay +much attention to Fanny, had walked resolutely in the direction of Mrs. +Solomon Black’s house; from which, he reflected, the minister would be +obliged to absent himself for at least an hour. He hoped Mrs. Black had +not induced Lydia to go to the prayer meeting with her. Why any one +should voluntarily go to a prayer meeting passed his comprehension. Jim +had once attended what was known as a “protracted meeting,” for the +sole purpose of pleasing his mother, who all at once had appeared +tearfully anxious about his “soul.” He had not enjoyed the experience. + +“Are you saved, my dear young brother?” Deacon Whittle had inquired of +him, in his snuffling, whining, peculiarly objectionable tone. + +“From what, Deacon?” Jim had blandly inquired. “You in for it, too?” + +Whereat the Deacon had piously shaken his head and referred him to the +“mourner’s pew,” with the hope that he might even yet be plucked as a +brand from the burning. + +Lydia had not gone to the prayer meeting. She was sitting on the +piazza, quite alone. She arose when her determined visitor boldly +walked up the steps. + +“Oh, it is you!” said she. + +An unreasonable feeling of elation arose in the young man’s breast. + +“Did you think I wasn’t coming?” he inquired, with all the egotism of +which he had been justly accused. + +He did not wait for her reply; but proceeded with considerable humor to +describe his previous unsuccessful attempts to see her. + +“I suppose,” he added, “Mrs. Solomon Black has kindly warned you +against me?” + +She could not deny it; so smiled instead. + +“Well,” said the young man, “I give you my word I’m not a villain: I +neither drink, steal, nor gamble. But I’m not a saint, after the +prescribed Brookville pattern.” + +He appeared rather proud of the fact, she thought. Aloud she said, with +pardonable curiosity: + +“What is the Brookville pattern? I ought to know, since I am to live +here.” + +At this he dropped his bantering tone. + +“I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said gravely. + +“You mean—?” + +“About your buying the old Bolton place and paying such a preposterous +price for it, and all the rest, including the minister’s back-pay.” + +She remained silent, playing with the ribbon of her sash. + +“I have a sort of inward conviction that you’re not doing it because +you think Brookville is such a pleasant place to live in,” he went on, +keenly observant of the sudden color fluttering in her cheeks, revealed +by the light of Mrs. Solomon Black’s parlor lamp which stood on a stand +just inside the carefully screened window. “It looks,” he finished, “as +if you—well; it may be a queer thing for me to say; but I’ll tell you +frankly that when mother showed me the check she got today I felt that +it was—charity.” + +She shook her head. + +“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “You are quite, quite in the wrong.” + +“But you can’t make me believe that with all your money—pardon me for +mentioning what everybody in the village is talking about— You’ll have +to convince me that the old Bolton place has oil under it, or coal or +diamonds, before I—” + +“Why should you need to be convinced of anything so unlikely?” she +asked, with gentle coldness. + +He reddened angrily. + +“Of course it’s none of my business,” he conceded. + +“I didn’t mean that. But, naturally, I could have no idea of coal or +oil—” + +“Well; I won’t work for you at any four dollars a day,” he said loudly. +“I thought I’d like to tell you.” + +“I don’t want you to,” she said. “Didn’t Deacon Whittle give you my +message?” + +He got hurriedly to his feet with a muttered exclamation. + +“Please sit down, Mr. Dodge,” she bade him tranquilly. “I’ve been +wanting to see you all day. But there are so few telephones in +Brookville it is difficult to get word to people.” + +He eyed her with stubborn resentment. + +“What I meant to say was that four dollars a day is too much! Don’t you +know anything about the value of money, Miss Orr? Somebody ought to +have common honesty enough to inform you that there are plenty of men +in Brookville who would be thankful to work for two dollars a day. I +would, for one; and I won’t take a cent more.” + +She was frowning a little over these statements. The stalwart young man +in shabby clothes who sat facing her under the light of Mrs. Solomon +Black’s well-trimmed lamp appeared to puzzle her. + +“But why shouldn’t you want to earn all you can?” she propounded at +last. “Isn’t there anything you need to use money for?” + +“Oh, just a few things,” he admitted grudgingly. “I suppose you’ve +noticed that I’m not exactly the glass of fashion and the mold of +form.” + +He was instantly ashamed of himself for the crude personality. + +“You must think I’m a fool!” burst from him, under the sting of his +self-inflicted lash. + +She smiled and shook her head. + +“I’m not at all the sort of person you appear to think me,” she said. +Her grave blue eyes looked straight into his. “But don’t let’s waste +time trying to be clever: I want to ask you if you are willing, for a +fair salary, to take charge of the outdoor improvements at Bolton +House.” + +She colored swiftly at sight of the quizzical lift of his brows. + +“I’ve decided to call my place ‘Bolton House’ for several reasons,” she +went on rapidly: “for one thing, everybody has always called it the +Bolton place, so it will be easier for the workmen and everybody to +know what place is meant. Besides, I—” + +“Yes; but the name of Bolton has an ill-omened sound in Brookville +ears,” he objected. “You’ve no idea how people here hate that man.” + +“It all happened so long ago, I should think they might forgive him by +now,” she offered, after a pause. + +“I wouldn’t call my house after a thief,” he said strongly. “There are +hundreds of prettier names. Why not—Pine Court, for example?” + +“You haven’t told me yet if you will accept the position I spoke of.” + +He passed his hand over his clean-shaven chin, a trick he had inherited +from his father, and surveyed her steadily from under meditative brows. + +“In the first place, I’m not a landscape gardener, Miss Orr,” he +stated. “That’s the sort of man you want. You can get one in Boston, +who’ll group your evergreens, open vistas, build pergolas and all that +sort of thing.” + +“You appear to know exactly what I want,” she laughed. + +“Perhaps I do,” he defied her. + +“But, seriously, I don’t want and won’t have a landscape-gardener from +Boston—with due deference to your well-formed opinions, Mr. Dodge. I +intend to mess around myself, and change my mind every other day about +all sorts of things. I want to work things out, not on paper in cold +black and white; but in terms of growing things—wild things out of the +woods. You understand, I’m sure.” + +The dawning light in his eyes told her that he did. + +“But I’ve had no experience,” he hesitated. “Besides, I’ve considerable +farm-work of my own to do. I’ve been hoeing potatoes all day. Tomorrow +I shall have to go into the cornfield, or lose my crop. Time, tide and +weeds wait for no man.” + +“I supposed you were a hunter,” she said. “I thought—” + +He laughed unpleasantly. + +“Oh, I see,” he interrupted rudely: “you supposed, in other words, that +I was an idle chap, addicted to wandering about the woods, a gun on my +shoulder, a cur—quite as much of a ne’er-do-well as myself—at my heels. +Of course Deacon Whittle and Mrs. Solomon Black have told you all about +it. And since you’ve set about reforming Brookville, you thought you’d +begin with me. Well, I’m obliged to you; but—” + +The girl arose trembling to her feet. + +“You are not kind!” she cried. “You are not kind!” + +They stood for an instant, gazing into each other’s eyes during one of +those flashes of time which sometimes count for years. + +“Forgive me,” he muttered huskily. “I’m a brute at best; but I had no +business to speak to you as I did.” + +“But why did you say—what made you ever think I’d set about +reforming—that is what you said—_reforming_—Brookville? I never thought +of such a thing! How could I?” + +He hung his head, abashed by the lightning in her mild eyes. + +She clasped her small, fair hands and bent toward him. + +“And you said you wanted to be—friends. I hoped—” + +“I do,” he said gruffly. “I’ve told you I’m ashamed of myself.” + +She drew back, sighing deeply. + +“I don’t want you to feel—ashamed,” she said, in a sweet, tired voice. +“But I wish—” + +“Tell me!” he urged, when she did not finish her sentence. + +“Do you think everybody is going to misunderstand me, as you have?” she +asked, somewhat piteously. “Is it so strange and unheard of a thing for +a woman to want a home and—and friends? Isn’t it allowable for a person +who has money to want to pay fair wages? Why should I scrimp and haggle +and screw, when I want most of all to be generous?” + +“Because,” he told her seriously, “scrimping, haggling and screwing +have been the fashion for so long, the other thing rouses mean +suspicions by its very novelty. It’s too good to be true; that’s all.” + +“You mean people will suspect—they’ll think there’s something—” + +She stood before him, her hands fallen at her sides, her eyes downcast. + +“I confess I couldn’t believe that there wasn’t an ulterior motive,” he +said honestly. “That’s where I was less noble than you.” + +She flashed a sudden strange look at him. + +“There is,” she breathed. “I’m going to be honest—with you. I have—an +ulterior motive.” + +“Will you tell me what it is?” + +Her lips formed the single word of denial. + +He gazed at her in silence for a moment. + +“I’m going to accept the post you just offered me, Miss Orr; at any +salary you think I’m worth,” he said gravely. + +“Thank you,” she murmured. + +Steps and the sound of voices floated across the picket fence. The gate +rasped on its rusted hinges; then slammed shut. + +“If I was you, Mr. Elliot,” came the penetrating accents of Mrs. +Solomon Black’s voice, “I should hire a reg’lar reviv’list along in th’ +fall, after preservin’ an’ house-cleanin’ time. We need an outpourin’ +of grace, right here in Brookville; and we can’t get it no other way.” + +And the minister’s cultured voice in reply: + +“I shall give your suggestion the most careful consideration, Mrs. +Black, between now and the autumn season.” + +“Great Scott!” exclaimed Jim Dodge; “this is no place for me! Good +night, Miss Orr!” + +She laid her hand in his. + +“You can trust me,” he said briefly, and became on the instant a +flitting shadow among the lilac bushes, lightly vaulting over the fence +and mingling with the darker shadows beyond. + + + + +Chapter IX. + + +“Now, Henry,” said Mrs. Daggett, as she smilingly set a plate of +perfectly browned pancakes before her husband, which he proceeded to +deluge with butter and maple syrup, “are you sure that’s _so_, about +the furniture? ’Cause if it is, we’ve got two or three o’ them things +right in this house: that chair you’re settin’ in, for one, an’ +upstairs there’s that ol’ fashioned brown bureau, where I keep the +sheets ’n’ pillow slips. You don’t s’pose she’d want that, do you?” + +Mrs. Daggett sank down in a chair opposite her husband, her large pink +and white face damp with moisture. Above her forehead a mist of airy +curls fluttered in the warm breeze from the open window. + +“My, ain’t it hot!” she sighed. “I got all het up a-bakin’ them cakes. +Shall I fry you another griddleful, papa?” + +“They cer’nly do taste kind o’ moreish, Abby,” conceded Mr. Daggett +thickly. “You do beat the Dutch, Abby, when it comes t’ pancakes. Mebbe +I could manage a few more of ’em.” + +Mrs. Daggett beamed sincerest satisfaction. + +“Oh, I don’t know,” she deprecated happily. “Ann Whittle says I don’t +mix batter the way she does. But if _you_ like ’em, Henry—” + +“Couldn’t be beat, Abby,” affirmed Mr. Daggett sturdily, as he reached +for his third cup of coffee. + +The cook stove was only a few steps away, so the sizzle of the batter +as it expanded into generous disks on the smoking griddle did not +interrupt the conversation. Mrs. Daggett, in her blue and white striped +gingham, a pancake turner in one plump hand, smiled through the odorous +blue haze like a tutelary goddess. Mr. Daggett, in his shirt-sleeves, +his scant locks brushed carefully over his bald spot, gazed at her with +placid satisfaction. He was thoroughly accustomed to having Abby wait +upon his appetite. + +“I got to get down to the store kind of early this morning, Abby,” he +observed, frowning slightly at his empty plate. + +“I’ll have ’em for you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, papa,” soothed +Mrs. Daggett, to whom the above remark had come to signify not merely a +statement of fact, but a gentle reprimand. “I know you like ’em good +and hot; and cold buckwheat cakes certainly is about th’ meanest +vict’als.... There!” + +And she transferred a neat pile of the delicate, crisp rounds from the +griddle to her husband’s plate with a skill born of long practice. + +“About that furnitur’,” remarked Mr. Daggett, gazing thoughtfully at +the golden stream of sweetness, stolen from leaf and branch of the big +sugar maples behind the house to supply the pewter syrup-jug he +suspended above his cakes, “I guess it’s a fact she wants it, all +right.” + +“I should think she’d rather have new furniture; Henry, they do say the +house is going to be handsome. But you say she wants the old stuff? +Ain’t that queer, for anybody with means.” + +“Well, that Orr girl beats me,” Mr. Daggett acknowledged handsomely. +“She seems kind of soft an’ easy, when you talk to her; but she’s got +ideas of her own; an’ you can’t no more talk ’em out of her—” + +“Why should you try to talk ’em out of her, papa?” inquired Mrs. +Daggett mildly. “Mebbe her ideas is all right; and anyhow, s’long as +she’s paying out good money—” + +“Oh, she’ll pay! she’ll pay!” said Mr. Daggett, with a large gesture. +“Ain’t no doubt about her paying for what she wants.” + +He shoved his plate aside, and tipped back in his chair with a heavy +yawn. + +“She’s asked me to see about the wall paper, Abby,” he continued, +bringing down his chair with a resounding thump of its sturdy legs. +“And she’s got the most outlandish notions about it; asked me could I +match up what was on the walls.” + +“Match it up? Why, ain’t th’ paper all moldered away, Henry, with the +damp an’ all?” + +“’Course it is, Abby; but she says she wants to restore the house—fix +it up just as ’twas. She says that’s th’ correct thing to do. ‘Why, +shucks!’ I sez, ‘the wall papers they’re gettin’ out now is a lot +handsomer than them old style papers. You don’t want no old stuff like +that,’ I sez. But, I swan! you can’t tell that girl nothing, for all +she seems so mild and meachin’. I was wonderin’ if you couldn’t shove +some sense into her, Abby. Now, I’d like th’ job of furnishin’ up that +house with new stuff. ‘I don’t carry a very big stock of furniture,’ I +sez to her; but—” + +“Why, Hen-ery Daggett!” reproved his wife, “an’ you a reg’lar +professing member of the church! You ain’t never carried no stock of +furniture in the store, and you know it.” + +“That ain’t no sign I ain’t never goin’ to, Abby,” retorted Mr. Daggett +with spirit. “We been stuck right down in the mud here in Brookville +since that dratted bank failed. Nobody’s moved, except to the +graveyard. And here comes along a young woman with money ... I’d like +mighty well to know just how much she’s got an’ where it come from. I +asked the Judge, and he says, blamed if he knows.... But this ’ere +young female spells op-per-tunity, Abby. We got to take advantage of +the situation, Abby, same as you do in blackberrying season: pick ’em +when they’re ripe; if you don’t, the birds and the bugs’ll get ’em.” + +“It don’t sound right to me, papa,” murmured his wife, her kind face +full of soft distress: “Taking advantage of a poor young thing, like +her, an’ all in mourning, too, fer a near friend. She told Lois so ... +Dear, dear!” + +Mr. Daggett had filled his morning pipe and was puffing energetically +in his efforts to make it draw. + +“I didn’t _say_ take advantage of _her_,” he objected. “That’s +somethin’ I never done yet in my business, Abby. Th’ Lord knows I don’t +sand my sugar nor water my vinegar, the way some storekeepers do. I’m +all for ‘live an’ let live.’ What I says was—... Now, you pay +attention to me, Abby, and quit sniffling. You’re a good woman; but +you’re about as soft as that there butter! ...” + +The article in question had melted to a yellow pool under the heat. +Mrs. Daggett gazed at it with wide blue eyes, like those of a child. + +“Why, Henry,” she protested, “I never heerd you talk so before.” + +“And likely you won’t again. Now you listen, Abby; all I want, is to do +what honest business I can with this young woman. She’s bound to spend +her money, and she’s kind of took to me; comes into th’ store after her +mail, and hangs around and buys the greatest lot o’ stuff— ‘Land!’ I +says to her: ‘a body’d think you was getting ready to get married.’” + +“Well, now I shouldn’t wonder—” began Mrs. Daggett eagerly. + +“Don’t you get excited, Abby. She says she ain’t; real pointed, too. +But about this wall paper; I don’t know as I can match up them stripes +and figures. I wisht you’d go an’ see her, Abby. She’ll tell you all +about it. An’ her scheme about collecting all the old Bolton furniture +is perfectly ridiculous. ’Twouldn’t be worth shucks after kickin’ +’round folk’s houses here in Brookville for the last fifteen years or +so.” + +“But you can’t never find her at home, Henry,” said Mrs. Daggett. “I +been to see her lots of times; but Mis’ Solomon Black says she don’t +stay in the house hardly long enough to eat her victuals.” + +“Why don’t you take the buggy, Abby, and drive out to the old place?” +suggested Mr. Daggett. “Likely you’ll find her there. She appears to +take an interest in every nail that’s drove. I can spare the horse this +afternoon just as well as not.” + +“’Twould be pleasant,” purred Mrs. Daggett. “But, I suppose, by rights, +I ought to take Lois along.” + +“Nope,” disagreed her husband, shaking his head. “Don’t you take Lois; +she wouldn’t talk confiding to Lois, the way she would to you. You’ve +got a way with you, Abby. I’ll bet you could coax a bird off a bush as +easy as pie, if you was a mind to.” + +Mrs. Daggett’s big body shook with soft laughter. She beamed rosily on +her husband. + +“How you do go on, Henry!” she protested. “But I ain’t going to coax +Lydia Orr off no bush she’s set her heart on. She’s got the sweetest +face, papa; an’ I know, without anybody telling me, whatever she does +or wants to do is _all_ right.” + +Mr. Daggett had by now invested his portly person in a clean linen +coat, bearing on its front the shining mark of Mrs. Daggett’s careful +iron. + +“Same here, Abby,” he said kindly: “whatever you do, Abby, suits _me_ +all right.” + +The worthy couple parted for the morning: Mr. Daggett for the scene of +his activities in the post office and store; Mrs. Daggett to set her +house to rights and prepare for the noon meal, when her Henry liked to +“eat hearty of good, nourishing victuals,” after his light repast of +the morning. + +“Guess I’ll wear my striped muslin,” said Mrs. Daggett to herself +happily. “Ain’t it lucky it’s all clean an’ fresh? ’Twill be so cool to +wear out buggy-ridin’.” + +Mrs. Daggett was always finding occasion for thus reminding herself of +her astonishing good fortune. She had formed the habit of talking aloud +to herself as she worked about the house and garden. + +“’Tain’t near as lonesome, when you can hear the sound of a voice—if it +is only your own,” she apologized, when rebuked for the practice by her +friend Mrs. Maria Dodge. “Mebbe it does sound kind of crazy— You say +lunatics does it constant—but, I don’t know, Maria, I’ve a kind of a +notion there’s them that hears, even if you can’t see ’em. And mebbe +they answer, too—in your thought-ear.” + +“You want to be careful, Abby,” warned Mrs. Dodge, shaking her head. +“It makes the chills go up and down my back to hear you talk like that; +and they don’t allow no such doctrines in the church.” + +“The Apostle Paul allowed ’em,” Mrs. Daggett pointed out, “so did the +Psalmist. You read your Bible, Maria, with that in mind, and you’ll +see.” + +In the spacious, sunlighted chamber of her soul, devoted to the memory +of her two daughters who had died in early childhood, Mrs. Daggett +sometimes permitted herself to picture Nellie and Minnie, grown to +angelic girlhood, and keeping her company about her lonely household +tasks in the intervals not necessarily devoted to harp playing in the +Celestial City. She laughed softly to herself as she filled two pies +with sliced sour apples and dusted them plentifully with spice and +sugar. + +“I’d admire to see papa argufying with that sweet girl,” she observed +to the surrounding silence. “Papa certainly is set on having his own +way. Guess bin’ alone here with me so constant, he’s got kind of +willful. But it don’t bother me any; ain’t that lucky?” + +She hurried her completed pies into the oven with a swiftness of +movement she had never lost, her sweet, thin soprano soaring high in +the words of a winding old hymn tune: + +Lord, how we grovel here below, +Fond of these trifling toys; +Our souls can neither rise nor go +To taste supernal joys! ... + + +It was nearly two o’clock before the big brown horse, indignant at the +unwonted invasion of his afternoon leisure, stepped slowly out from the +Daggett barn. On the seat of the old-fashioned vehicle, to which he had +been attached by Mrs. Daggett’s skillful hands, that lady herself sat +placidly erect, arrayed in her blue and white striped muslin. Mrs. +Daggett conscientiously wore stripes at all seasons of the year: she +had read somewhere that stripes impart to the most rotund of figures an +appearance of slimness totally at variance with the facts. As for blue +and white, her favorite combination of stripes, any fabric in those +colors looked cool and clean; and there was a vague strain of poetry in +Mrs. Daggett’s nature which made her lift her eyes to a blue sky filled +with floating white clouds with a sense of rapturous satisfaction +wholly unrelated to the state of the weather. + +“G’long, Dolly!” she bade the reluctant animal, with a gentle slap of +leathern reins over a rotund back. “Git-ap!” + +“Dolly,” who might have been called Cæsar, both by reason of his sex +and a stubbornly dominant nature, now fortunately subdued by years of +chastening experience, strode slowly forward, his eyes rolling, his +large hoofs stirring up heavy clouds of dust. There were sweet-smelling +meadows stacked with newly-cured hay on either side of the road, and +tufts of red clover blossoms exhaling delicious odors of honey almost +under his saturnine nose; but he trotted ponderously on, sullenly aware +of the gentle hand on the reins and the mild, persistent voice which +bade him “Git-ap, Dolly!” + +Miss Lois Daggett, carrying a black silk bag, which contained a +prospectus of the invaluable work which she was striving to introduce +to an unappreciative public, halted the vehicle before it had reached +the outskirts of the village. + +“Where you going, Abby?” she demanded, in the privileged tone of +authority a wife should expect from her husband’s female relatives. + +“Just out in the country a piece, Lois,” replied Mrs. Daggett +evasively. + +“Well, I guess I’ll git in and ride a ways with you,” said Lois +Daggett. “Cramp your wheel, Abby,” she added sharply. “I don’t want to +git my skirt all dust.” + +Miss Daggett was wearing a black alpaca skirt and a white shirtwaist, +profusely ornamented with what is known as coronation braid. Her hair, +very tightly frizzed, projected from beneath the brim of her straw hat +on both sides. + +“I’m going out to see if I can catch that Orr girl this afternoon,” she +explained, as she took a seat beside her sister-in-law. “She ought to +want a copy of Famous People—in the best binding, too. I ain’t sold a +leather-bound yit, not even in Grenoble. They come in red with gold +lettering. You’d ought to have one, Abby, now that Henry’s gitting more +business by the minute. I should think you might afford one, if you +ain’t too stingy.” + +“Mebbe we could, Lois,” said Mrs. Daggett amiably. “I’ve always thought +I’d like to know more about famous people: what they eat for breakfast, +and how they do their back hair and—” + +“Don’t be silly, Abby,” Miss Daggett bade her sharply. “There ain’t any +such nonsense in Famous People! _I_ wouldn’t be canvassing for it, if +there was.” And she shifted her pointed nose to one side with a +slight, genteel sniff. + +“Git-ap, Dolly!” murmured Mrs. Daggett, gently slapping the reins. + +Dolly responded by a single swift gesture of his tail which firmly +lashed the hated reminder of bondage to his hind quarters. Then +wickedly pretending that he was not aware of what had happened he +strolled to the side of the road nearest the hay field. + +“Now, if he ain’t gone and got his tail over the lines!” cried Mrs. +Daggett indignantly. “He’s got more resistin’ strength in that tail of +his’n—wonder if I can—” + +She leaned over the dashboard and grasped the offending member with +both hands. + +“You hang onto the lines, Lois, and give ’em a good jerk the minute I +loosen up his tail.” + +The subsequent failure of this attempt deflected the malicious Dolly +still further from the path of duty. A wheel cramped and lifted +perilously. + +Miss Daggett squealed shrilly: + +“He’ll tip the buggy over—he’ll tip the buggy over! For pity’s sake, +Abby!” + +Mrs. Daggett stepped briskly out of the vehicle and seized the bridle. + +“Ain’t you ashamed?” she demanded sternly. “You loosen up that there +tail o’ yourn this minute!” + +“I got ’em!” announced Miss Daggett, triumphantly. “He loosened right +up.” + +She handed the recovered reins to her sister-in-law, and the two ladies +resumed their journey and their conversation. + +“I never was so scared in all my life,” stated Lois Daggett, +straightening her hat which had assumed a rakish angle over one ear. “I +should think you’d be afraid to drive such a horse, Abby. What in +creation would have happened to you if I hadn’t been in the buggy?” + +“As like as not he wouldn’t have took a notion with his tail, Lois, if +I’d been driving him alone,” hazarded Mrs. Daggett mildly. “Dolly’s an +awful knowing horse.... Git-ap, Dolly!” + +“Do you mean to tell me, Abby Daggett, that there horse of Henry’s has +took a spite against _me?_” demanded the spinster.... “Mebbe he’s a +mind-reader,” she added darkly. + +“You know I didn’t mean nothin’ like that, Lois,” her sister-in-law +assured her pacifically. “What I meant to say was: I got so interested +in what you were saying, Lois, that I handled the reins careless, and +he took advantage.... Git-ap, Dolly! Don’t you see, Lois, even a horse +knows the difference when two ladies is talking.” + +“You’d ought to learn to say exactly what you mean, Abby,” commented +Miss Daggett. + +She glanced suspiciously at the fresh striped muslin, which was further +enhanced by a wide crocheted collar and a light blue satin bow. + +“Where’d you say you were goin’ this afternoon, Abby?” + +“I said out in the country a piece, Lois; it’s such a nice afternoon.” + +“Well, _I_ should think Henry’d be needing the horse for his business. +I know _I’d_ never think of asking him for it—and me a blood relation, +too, trying to earn my bread and butter tramping around the country +with Famous People.” + +Mrs. Daggett, thus convicted of heartless selfishness, sighed vaguely. +Henry’s sister always made her feel vastly uncomfortable, even sinful. + +“You know, Lois, we’d be real glad to have you come and live with us +constant,” she said heroically.... “Git-ap, Dolly!” + +Miss Daggett compressed her thin lips. + +“No; I’m too independent for that, Abby, an’ you know it. If poor Henry +was to be left a widower, I might consider living in his house and +doing for him; but you know, Abby, there’s very few houses big enough +for two women.... And that r’minds me; did you know Miss Orr has got a +hired girl?” + +“Has she?” inquired Mrs. Daggett, welcoming the change of subject with +cordial interest. “A hired girl! ...Git-ap, Dolly!” + +“Yes,” confirmed Miss Daggett. “Lute Parsons was telling me she came in +on th’ noon train yesterday. She brought a trunk with her, and her +check was from Boston.” + +“Well, I want to know!” murmured Mrs. Daggett. “Boston’s where _she_ +came from, ain’t it? It’ll be real pleasant for her to have somebody +from Boston right in the house.... G’long, Dolly!” + +“I don’t know why you should be so sure of that, Abby,” sniffed Miss +Daggett. “I should think a person from right here in Brookville would +be more company. How can a hired girl from Boston view the passin’ and +tell her who’s goin’ by? I think it’s a ridiculous idea, myself.” + +“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s somebody she knows,” surmised Mrs. Daggett. +“’Twould be real pleasant for her to have a hired girl that’s mebbe +worked for her folks.” + +“I intend to ask her, if she comes to the door,” stated Lois Daggett. +“You can drop me right at the gate; and if you ain’t going too far with +your buggy-riding, Abby, you might stop and take me up a spell later. +It’s pretty warm to walk far today.” + +“Well, I was thinkin’ mebbe I’d stop in there, too, Lois,” said Mrs. +Daggett apologetically. “I ain’t been to see Miss Orr for quite a +spell, and—” + +The spinster turned and fixed a scornfully, intelligent gaze upon the +mild, rosy countenance of her sister-in-law. + +“Oh, _I see!_” she sniffed. “That was where you was pointing for, all +the while! And you didn’t let on to me, oh, no!” + +“Now, Lois, don’t you get excited,” exhorted Mrs. Daggett. “It was just +about the wall papers. Henry, he says to me this mornin’—... Git-ap, +Dolly!” + +_“‘Henry says—Henry says’!_ Yes; I guess so! What do you know about +wall papers, Abby? ...Well, all I got to say is: I don’t want nobody +looking on an’ interfering when I’m trying to sell ‘Lives of Famous +People.’ Folks, es a rule, ain’t so interested in anything they got to +pay out money fer, an’ I want a clear field.” + +“I won’t say a word till you’re all through talkin’, Lois,” promised +Mrs. Daggett meekly. “Mebbe she’d kind of hate to say ‘no’ before me. +She’s took a real liking to Henry.... Git-ap, Dolly.... And anyway, +she’s awful generous. I could say, kind of careless; ‘If I was you, I’d +take a leather-bound.’ Couldn’t I, Lois?” + +“Well, you can come in, Abby, if you’re so terrible anxious,” relented +Miss Daggett. “You might tell her, you and Henry was going to take a +leather-bound; that might have some effect. I remember once I sold +three Famous People in a row in one street. There couldn’t one o’ them +women endure to think of her next door neighbor having something she +didn’t have.” + +“That’s so, Lois,” beamed Mrs. Daggett. “The most of folks is about +like that. Why, I rec’lect once, Henry brought me up a red-handled +broom from th’ store. My! it wa’n’t no time b’fore he was cleaned right +out of red-handled brooms. Nobody wanted ’em natural color, striped, or +blue. Henry, he says to me, ‘What did you do to advertise them +red-handled brooms, Abby?’ ‘Why, papa,’ says I, ‘I swept off my stoop +and the front walk a couple of times, that’s all.’ ‘Well,’ he says, +‘broom-handles is as catching as measles, if you only get ’em th’ right +color!’ ... Git-ap, Dolly!” + +“Well, did you _ever!_” breathed Miss Daggett excitedly, leaning out of +the buggy to gaze upon the scene of activity displayed on the further +side of the freshly-pruned hedge which divided Miss Lydia Orr’s +property from the road: “Painters and carpenters and masons, all going +at once! And ain’t that Jim Dodge out there in the side yard talking to +her? ’Tis, as sure as I’m alive! I wonder what _he’s_ doing? Go right +in, Abby!” + +“I kind of hate to drive Dolly in on that fresh gravel,” hesitated Mrs. +Daggett. “He’s so heavy on his feet he’ll muss it all up. Mebbe I’d +better hitch out in front.” + +“She sees us, Abby; go on in!” commanded Miss Daggett masterfully. “I +guess when it comes to that, her gravel ain’t any better than other +folks’ gravel.” + +Thus urged, Mrs. Daggett guided the sulky brown horse between the big +stone gateposts and brought him to a standstill under the somewhat +pretentious _porte-cochère_ of the Bolton house. + +Lydia Orr was beside the vehicle in a moment, her face bright with +welcoming smiles. + +“Dear Mrs. Daggett,” she said, “I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been +wanting to see you all day. I’m sure you can tell me—” + +“You’ve met my husband’s sister, Miss Lois Daggett, haven’t you, Miss +Orr? She’s the lady that made that beautiful drawn-in mat you bought at +the fair.” + +Miss Orr shook hands cordially with the author of the drawn-in mat. + +“Come right in,” she said. “You’ll want to see what we’re doing inside, +though nothing is finished yet.” + +She led the way to a small room off the library, its long French +windows opening on a balcony. + +“This room used to be a kind of a den, they tell me; so I’ve made it +into one, the first thing, you see.” + +There was a rug on the floor, a chair or two and a high mahogany desk +which gave the place a semblance of comfort amid the general confusion. +Miss Lois Daggett gazed about with argus-eyed curiosity. + +“I don’t know as I was ever in this room, when Andrew Bolton lived +here,” she observed, “but it looks real homelike now.” + +“Poor man! I often think of him,” said kindly Mrs. Daggett. “’Twould be +turrible to be shut away from the sunshine f’r even one year; but poor +Andrew Bolton’s been closed up in State’s prison fer—l’ me see, it mus’ +be goin’ on—” + +“It’s fifteen years, come fall, since he got his sentence,” stated the +spinster. “His time must be ’most up.” + +Lydia Orr had seated herself in an old-fashioned chair, its tall carved +back turned to the open windows. + +“Did you—lose much in the bank failure, Miss Daggett?” she inquired, +after a slight pause, during which the promoter of Famous People was +loosening the strings of her black silk bag. + +“About two hundred dollars I’d saved up,” replied Miss Daggett. “By now +it would be a lot more—with the interest.” + +“Yes, of course,” assented their hostess; “one should always think of +interest in connection with savings.” + +She appeared to be gazing rather attentively at the leather-bound +prospectus Miss Daggett had withdrawn from her bag. + +“That looks like something interesting, Miss Daggett,” she volunteered. + +“This volume I’m holdin’ in my hand,” began that lady, professionally, +“is one of the most remarkable works ever issued by the press of any +country. It is the life history of one thousand men and women of +world-wide fame and reputation, in letters, art, science _an’_ public +life. No library nor parlor table is complete without this +authoritative work of general information _an’_ reference. It is a +complete library in itself, and—” + +“What is the price of the work, Miss Daggett?” inquired Lydia Orr. + +“Just hold on a minute; I’m coming to that,” said Miss Daggett firmly. +“As I was telling you, this work is a complete library in itself. A +careful perusal of the specimen pages will convince the most skeptical. +Turning to page four hundred and fifty-six, we read:—” + +[Illustration] “Just hold on a minute; I’m coming to that,” said Miss +Daggett firmly. + + +“I’m sure I should like to buy the book, Miss Daggett.” + +“You ain’t th’ only one,” said the agent. “Any person of even the most +ordinary intelligence ought to own this work. Turning to page four +hundred and fifty-six, we read: ‘Snipeley, Samuel Bangs: lawyer +ligislator _an’_ author; born eighteen hundred fifty-nine, in the town +of—’” + +At this moment the door was pushed noiselessly open, and a tall, spare +woman of middle age stood upon the threshold bearing a tray in her +hands. On the tray were set forth silver tea things, flanked by thin +bread and butter and a generous pile of sponge cake. + +“You must be tired and thirsty after your drive,” said Lydia Orr +hospitably. “You may set the tray here, Martha.” + +The maid complied. + +“Of course I must have that book, Miss Daggett,” their hostess went on. +“You didn’t mention the title, nor the price. Won’t you have a cup of +tea, Mrs. Daggett?” + +“That cup of tea looks real nice; but I’m afraid you’ve gone to a lot +of trouble and put yourself out,” protested Mrs. Daggett, who had not +ventured to open her lips until then. What wonderful long words Lois +had used; and how convincing had been her manner. Mrs. Daggett had +resolved that “Lives of Famous People,” in its best red leather +binding, should adorn her own parlor table in the near future, if she +could persuade Henry to consent. + +“I think that book Lois is canvassing for is just lovely,” she added +artfully, as she helped herself to cake. “I’m awful anxious to own one; +just think, I’d never even heard of Snipeley Samuel Bangs—” + +Lois Daggett crowed with laughter. + +“Fer pity sake, Abby! don’t you know no better than that? It’s Samuel +Bangs Snipeley; he was County Judge, the author of ‘Platform Pearls,’ +and was returned to legislature four times by his constituents, besides +being—” + +“Could you spare me five copies of the book, Miss Daggett?” inquired +Lydia, handing her the sponge cake. + +“Five copies!” + +Miss Daggett swiftly controlled her agitation. + +“I haven’t told you the price, yet. You’d want one of them +leather-bound, wouldn’t you? They come high, but they wear real well, +and I will say there’s nothing handsomer for a parlor table.” + +“I want them all leather-bound,” said Lydia, smiling. “I want one for +myself, one for a library and the other three—” + +“There’s nothing neater for a Christmas or birthday present!” shrilled +Lois Daggett joyously. “And so informing.” + +She swallowed her tea in short, swift gulps; her faded eyes shone. +Inwardly she was striving to compute the agent’s profit on five +leather-bound copies of Famous People. She almost said aloud “I can +have a new dress!” + +“We’ve been thinking,” Lydia Orr said composedly, “that it might be +pleasant to open a library and reading room in the village. What do you +think of the idea, Miss Daggett? You seem interested in books, and I +thought possibly you might like to take charge of the work.” + +“Who, me?— Take charge of a library?” + +Lois Daggett’s eyes became on the instant watchful and suspicious. +Lydia Orr had encountered that look before, on the faces of men and +even of boys. Everybody was afraid of being cheated, she thought. Was +this just in Brookville, and because of the misdeeds of one man, so +long ago? + +“Of course we shall have to talk it over some other day, when we have +more time,” she said gently. + +“Wouldn’t that be nice!” said Mrs. Daggett. “I was in a library once, +over to Grenoble. Even school children were coming in constant to get +books. But I never thought we could have one in Brookville. Where could +we have it, my dear?” + +“Yes; that’s the trouble,” chimed in Lois. “There isn’t any place fit +for anything like that in our town.” + +Lydia glanced appealingly from one to the other of the two faces. One +might have thought her irresolute—or even afraid of their verdict. + +“I had thought,” she said slowly, “of buying the old Bolton bank +building. It has not been used for anything, Judge Fulsom says, since—” + +“No; it ain’t,” acquiesced Mrs. Daggett soberly, “not since—” + +She fell silent, thinking of the dreadful winter after the bank +failure, when scarlet fever raged among the impoverished homes. + +“There’s been some talk, off and on, of opening a store there,” chimed +in Lois Daggett, setting down her cup with a clash; “but I guess +nobody’d patronize it. Folks don’t forget so easy.” + +“But it’s a good substantial building,” Lydia went on, her eyes resting +on Mrs. Daggett’s broad, rosy face, which still wore that unwonted look +of pain and sadness. “It seems a pity not to change the—the +associations. The library and reading room could be on the first floor; +and on the second, perhaps, a town hall, where—” + +“For the land sake!” ejaculated Lois Daggett; “you cer’nly have got an +imagination, Miss Orr. I haven’t heard that town hall idea spoken of +since Andrew Bolton’s time. He was always talking about town +improvements; wanted a town hall and courses of lectures, and a +fountain playing in a park and a fire-engine, and the land knows what. +He was a great hand to talk, Andrew Bolton was. And you see how he +turned out!” + +“And mebbe he’d have done all those nice things for Brookville, Lois, +if his speculations had turned out different,” said Mrs. Daggett, +charitably. “I always thought Andrew Bolton _meant_ all right. Of +course he had to invest our savings; banks always do, Henry says.” + +“I don’t know anything about _investing_, and don’t want to, either—not +the kind he did, anyhow,” retorted Lois Daggett. + +She arose as she spoke, brushing the crumbs of sponge cake from her +skirt. + +“I got to get that order right in,” she said: “five copies—or was it +six, you said?” + +“I think I could use six,” murmured Lydia. + +“And all leather-bound! Well, now, I know you won’t ever be sorry. It’s +one of those works any intelligent person would be proud to own.” + +“I’m sure it is,” said the girl gently. + +She turned to Mrs. Daggett. + +“Can’t you stay awhile longer? I—I should like—” + +“Oh, I guess Abby’d better come right along with me,” put in Lois +briskly ... “and that reminds me, do you want to pay something down on +that order? As a general thing, where I take a big order—” + +“Of course—I’d forgotten; I always prefer to pay in advance.” + +The girl opened the tall desk and producing a roll of bills told off +the price of her order into Miss Daggett’s hand. + +“I should think you’d be almost afraid to keep so much ready money by +you, with all those men workin’ outside,” she commented. + +“They’re all Brookville men,” said Lydia. “I have to have money to pay +them with. Besides, I have Martha.” + +“You mean your hired girl, I suppose,” inferred Miss Daggett, rubbing +her nose thoughtfully. + +“She isn’t exactly—a servant,” hesitated Lydia. “We give the men their +noon meal,” she added. “Martha helps me with that.” + +“You give them their dinner! Well, I never! Did you hear that, Abby? +She gives them their dinner. Didn’t you know men-folks generally bring +their noonings in a pail? Land! I don’t know how you get hearty +victuals enough for all those men. Where do they eat?” + +“In the new barn,” said Lydia, smiling. “We have a cook stove out +there.” + +“Ain’t that just lovely!” beamed Mrs. Daggett, squeezing the girl’s +slim hand in both her own. “Most folks wouldn’t go to the trouble of +doing anything so nice. No wonder they’re hustling.” + +“Mebbe they won’t hustle so fast toward the end of the job,” said Lois +Daggett. “You’ll find men-folks are always ready to take advantage of +any kind of foolishness. Come, Abby; we must be going. You’ll get those +books in about two weeks, Miss Orr. A big order takes more time, I +always tell people.” + +“Thank you, Miss Daggett. But wouldn’t you—if you are in a hurry, you +know; Mr. Dodge is going to the village in the automobile; we’re +expecting some supplies for the house. He’ll be glad to take you.” + +“Who, Jim Dodge? You don’t mean to tell me Jim Dodge can drive an auto! +I never stepped foot inside of one of those contraptions. But I don’t +know but I might’s well die for a sheep as a lamb.” + +Lois Daggett followed the girl from the room in a flutter of joyous +excitement. + +“You can come home when you get ready, Abby,” she said over her +shoulder. “But you want to be careful driving that horse of yours; he +might cut up something scandalous if he was to meet an auto.” + + + + +Chapter X. + + +Mrs. Daggett was sitting by the window gazing dreamily out, when Lydia +returned after witnessing the triumphant departure of the promoter of +Famous People. + +“It kind of brings it all back to me,” said Mrs. Daggett, furtively +wiping her eyes. “It’s going t’ look pretty near’s it used to. Only I +remember Mis’ Bolton used to have a flower garden all along that stone +wall over there; she was awful fond of flowers. I remember I gave her +some roots of pinies and iris out of our yard, and she gave me a new +kind of lilac bush—pink, it is, and sweet! My! you can smell it a mile +off when it’s in blow.” + +“Then you knew—the Bolton family?” + +The girl’s blue eyes widened wistfully as she asked the question. + +“Yes, indeed, my dear. And I want to tell you—just betwixt +ourselves—that Andrew Bolton was a real nice man; and don’t you let +folks set you t’ thinking he wa’n’t. Now that you’re going to live +right here in this house, my dear, seems to me it would be a lot +pleasanter to know that those who were here before you were just good, +kind folks that had made a mistake. I was saying to Henry this morning: +‘I’m going to tell her some of the nice things folks has seemed to +forget about the Boltons. It won’t do any harm,’ I said. ‘And it’ll be +cheerfuller for her.’ Now this room we’re sitting in—I remember lots of +pleasant things about this room. ’Twas here—right at that desk—he gave +us a check to fix up the church. He was always doing things like that. +But folks don’t seem to remember.” + +“Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Daggett, for telling me,” murmured Lydia. +“Indeed it will be—cheerfuller for me to know that Andrew Bolton wasn’t +always—a thief. I’ve sometimes imagined him walking about these +rooms.... One can’t help it, you know, in an old house like this.” + +Mrs. Daggett nodded eagerly. Here was one to whom she might impart some +of the secret thoughts and imaginings which even Maria Dodge would have +called “outlandish”: + +“I know,” she said. “Sometimes I’ve wondered if—if mebbe folks don’t +leave something or other after them—something you can’t see nor touch; +but you can sense it, just as plain, in your mind. But land! I don’t +know as I’d ought to mention it; of course you know I don’t mean ghosts +and like that.” + +“You mean their—their thoughts, perhaps,” hesitated Lydia. “I can’t put +it into words; but I know what you mean.” + +Mrs. Daggett patted the girl’s hand kindly. + +“I’ve come to talk to you about the wall papers, dearie; Henry thought +mebbe you’d like to see me, seeing I don’t forget so easy’s some. This +room was done in a real pretty striped paper in two shades of buff. +There’s a little of it left behind that door. Mrs. Bolton was a great +hand to want things cheerful. She said it looked kind of sunshiny, even +on a dark day. Poor dear, it fell harder on her than on anybody else +when the crash came. She died the same week they took him to prison; +and fer one, I was glad of it.” + +Mrs. Daggett wiped her kind eyes. + +“Mebbe you’ll think it’s a terrible thing for me to say,” she added +hastily. “But she was such a delicate, soft-hearted sort of a woman: I +couldn’t help feelin’ th’ Lord spared her a deal of bitter sorrow by +taking her away. My! It does bring it all back to me so—the house and +the yard, and all. We’d all got used to seeing it a ruin; and now— +Whatever put it in your head, dearie, to want things put back just as +they were? Papa was telling me this morning you was all for restoring +the place. He thinks ’twould be more stylish and up-to-date if you was +to put new-style paper on the walls, and let him furnish it up for you +with nice golden oak. Henry’s got real good taste. You’d ought to see +our sideboard he gave me Chris’mas, with a mirror and all.” + +Having thus discharged her wifely duty, as it appeared to her, Mrs. +Daggett promptly turned her back upon it. + +“But you don’t want any golden oak sideboards and like that in this +house. Henry was telling me all about it, and how you were set on +getting back the old Bolton furniture.” + +“Do you think I could?” asked the girl eagerly. “It was all sold about +here, wasn’t it? And don’t you think if I was willing to pay a great +deal for it people would—” + +“’Course they would!” cried Mrs. Daggett, with cheerful assurance. +“They’d be tickled half to death to get money for it. But, you see, +dearie, it’s a long time ago, and some folks have moved away, and +there’s been two or three fires, and I suppose some are not as careful +as others; still—” + +The smile faded on the girl’s lips. + +“But I can get some of it back; don’t you think I can? I—I’ve quite set +my heart on—restoring the house. I want it just as it used to be. The +old furniture would suit the house so much better; don’t you think it +would?” + +Mrs. Daggett clapped her plump hands excitedly. + +“I’ve just thought of a way!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll bet it’ll work, +too. You know Henry he keeps th’ post office; an’ ’most everybody for +miles around comes after their mail to th’ store. I’ll tell him to put +up a sign, right where everybody will see; something like this: ‘Miss +Lydia Orr wants to buy the old furniture of the Bolton house.’ And you +might mention casual you’d pay good prices for it. ’Twas real good, +solid furniture, I remember.... Come to think of it, Mrs. Bolton +collected quite a lot of it right ’round here. She was a city girl when +she married Andrew Bolton, an’ she took a great interest in queer old +things. She bought a big tall clock out of somebody’s attic, and +four-posted beds, the kind folks used to sleep in, an’ outlandish old +cracked china plates with scenes on ’em. I recollect I gave her a blue +and white teapot, with an eagle on the side that belonged to my +grandmother. She thought it was perfectly elegant, and kept it full of +rose-leaves and spice on the parlor mantelpiece. Land! I hadn’t thought +of that teapot for years and years. I don’t know whatever became of +it.” + +The sound of planes and hammers filled the silence that followed. Lydia +was standing by the tall carved chair, her eyes downcast. + +“I’m glad you thought of—that notice,” she said at last. “If Mr. +Daggett will see to it for me—I’ll stop at the office tomorrow. And +now, if you have time, I’d so like you to go over the house with me. +You can tell me about the wall papers and—” + +Mrs. Daggett arose with cheerful alacrity. + +“I’d like nothing better,” she declared. “I ain’t been in the house for +so long. Last time was the day of the auction; ’twas after they took +the little girl away, I remember.... Oh, didn’t nobody tell you? There +was one child—a real, nice little girl. I forget her name; Mrs. Bolton +used to call her Baby and Darling and like that. She was an awful +pretty little girl, about as old as my Nellie. I’ve often wondered what +became of her. Some of her relatives took her away, after her mother +was buried. Poor little thing—her ma dead an’ her pa shut up in +prison—... Oh! yes; this was the parlor.... My! to think how the years +have gone by, and me as slim as a match then. Now that’s what I call a +handsome mantel; and ain’t the marble kept real pretty? There was +all-colored rugs and a waxed floor in here, and a real old-fashioned +sofa in that corner and a mahogany table with carved legs over here, +and long lace curtains at the windows. I see they’ve fixed the ceilings +as good as new and scraped all the old paper off the walls. There used +to be some sort of patterned paper in here. I can’t seem to think what +color it was.” + +“I found quite a fresh piece behind the door,” said Lydia. “See; I’ve +put all the good pieces from the different rooms together, and marked +them. I was wondering if Mr. Daggett could go to Boston for me? I’m +sure he could match the papers there. You could go, too, if you cared +to.” + +“To Boston!” exclaimed Mrs. Daggett; “me and Henry? Why, Miss Orr, what +an idea! But Henry couldn’t no more leave the post office—he ain’t +never left it a day since he was appointed postmaster. My, no! +’twouldn’t do for Henry to take a trip clear to Boston. And me—I’m so +busy I’d be like a fly trying t’ get off sticky paper.... I do hate to +see ’em struggle, myself.” + +She followed the girl up the broad stair, once more safe and firm, +talking steadily all the way. + +There were four large chambers, their windows framing lovely vistas of +stream and wood and meadow, with the distant blue of the far horizon +melting into the summer sky. Mrs. Daggett stopped in the middle of the +wide hall and looked about her wonderingly. + +“Why, yes,” she said slowly. “You certainly did show good sense in +buying this old house. They don’t build them this way now-a-days. +That’s what I said to Mrs. Deacon Whittle— You know some folks thought +you were kind of foolish not to buy Mrs. Solomon Black’s house down in +the village. But if you’re going to live here all alone, dearie, ain’t +it going to be kind of lonesome—all these big rooms for a little body +like you?” + +“Tell me about it, please,” begged Lydia. “I—I’ve been wondering which +room was his.” + +“You mean Andrew Bolton’s, I s’pose,” said Mrs. Daggett reluctantly. +“But I hope you won’t worry any over what folks tells you about the day +he was taken away. My! seems as if ’twas yesterday.” + +She moved softly into one of the spacious, sunny rooms and stood +looking about her, as if her eyes beheld once more the tragedy long +since folded into the past. + +“I ain’t going to tell you anything sad,” she said under her breath. +“It’s best forgot. This was their room; ain’t it nice an’ cheerful? I +like a southwest room myself. And ’tain’t a bit warm here, what with +the breeze sweeping in at the four big windows and smelling sweet of +clover an’ locust blooms. And ain’t it lucky them trees didn’t get +blown over last winter?” + +She turned abruptly toward the girl. + +“Was you thinking of sleeping in this room, dearie? It used to have +blue and white paper on it, and white paint as fresh as milk. It’d be +nice and pleasant for a young lady, I should think.” + +Lydia shook her head. + +“Not,” she said slowly, “if it was _his_ room. I think I’d rather—which +was the little girl’s room? You said there was a child?” + +“Now, I’m real sorry you feel that way,” sympathized Mrs. Daggett, “but +I don’t know as I blame you, the way folks talk. You’d think they’d +have forgot all about it by now, wouldn’t you? But land! it does seem +as if bad thoughts and mean thoughts, and like that, was possessed to +fasten right on to folks; and you can’t seem to shake ’em off, no more +than them spiteful little stick-tights that get all over your +clo’es.... This room right next belonged to their baby. Let me see; she +must have been about three and a half or four years old when they took +her away. See, there’s a door in between, so Mrs. Bolton could get to +her quick in the night. I used to be that way, too, with my +children.... You know we lost our two little girls that same winter, +three and five, they were. But I know I wanted ’em right where I could +hear ’em if they asked for a drink of water, or like that, in the +night. Folks has a great notion now-a-days of putting their babies off +by themselves and letting them cry it out, as they say. But I couldn’t +ever do that; and Mrs. Andrew Bolton she wa’n’t that kind of a parent, +either— I don’t know as they ought to be called _mothers_. No, she was +more like me—liked to tuck the blankets around her baby in the middle +of th’ night an’ pat her down all warm and nice. I’ve often wondered +what became of that poor little orphan child. We never heard. Like +enough she died. I shouldn’t wonder.” + +And Mrs. Daggett wiped the ready tears from her eyes. + +“But I guess you’ll think I’m a real old Aunty Doleful, going on this +way,” she made haste to add. + +“There’s plenty of folks in Brookville as ’ll tell you how stuck-up an’ +stylish Mrs. Andrew Bolton was, always dressed in silk of an afternoon +and driving out with a two-horse team, an’ keeping two hired girls +constant, besides a man to work in her flower garden and another for +the barn. But of course she supposed they were really rich and could +afford it. _He_ never let on to _her_, after things begun to go to +pieces; and folks blamed her for it, afterwards. Her heart was weak, +and he knew it, all along. And then I suppose he thought mebbe things +would take a turn.... Yes; the paper in this room was white with little +wreaths of pink roses tied up with blue ribbons all over it. ’Twas +furnished up real pretty with white furniture, and there was ruffled +muslin curtains with dots on ’em at the windows and over the bed; Mrs. +Andrew Bolton certainly did fix things up pretty, and to think you’re +going to have it just the same way. Well, I will say you couldn’t do +any better.... But, land! if there isn’t the sun going down behind the +hill, and me way out here, with Henry’s supper to get, and Dolly +champing his bit impatient. There’s one lucky thing, though; he’ll +travel good, going towards home; he won’t stop to get his tail over the +lines, neither.” + +An hour later, when the long summer twilight was deepening into gloom, +Jim Dodge crossed the empty library and paused at the open door of the +room beyond. The somber light from the two tall windows fell upon the +figure of the girl. She was sitting before Andrew Bolton’s desk, her +head upon her folded arms. Something in the spiritless droop of her +shoulders and the soft dishevelment of her fair hair suggested +weariness—sleep, perhaps. But as the young man hesitated on the +threshold the sound of a muffled sob escaped the quiet figure. He +turned noiselessly and went away, sorry and ashamed, because +unwittingly he had stumbled upon the clew he had long been seeking. + + + + +Chapter XI. + + +“Beside this stone wall I want flowers,” Lydia was saying to her +landscape-gardener, as she persisted in calling Jim Dodge. “Hollyhocks +and foxgloves and pinies—I shall never say peony in Brookville—and +pansies, sweet williams, lads’ love, iris and sweetbrier. Mrs. Daggett +has promised to give me some roots.” + +He avoided her eyes as she faced him in the bright glow of the morning +sunlight. + +“Very well, Miss Orr,” he said, with cold respect. “You want a border +here about four feet wide, filled with old-fashioned perennials.” + +He had been diligent in his study of the books she had supplied him +with. + +“A herbaceous border of that sort in front of the stone wall will give +quite the latest effect in country-house decoration,” he went on +professionally. “Ramblers of various colors might be planted at the +back, and there should be a mixture of bulbs among the taller plants to +give color in early spring.” + +She listened doubtfully. + +“I don’t know about the ramblers,” she said. “Were there +ramblers—twenty years ago? I want it as nearly as possible just as it +was. Mrs. Daggett told me yesterday about the flower-border here. +You—of course you don’t remember the place at all; do you?” + +He reddened slightly under her intent gaze. + +“Oh, I remember something about it,” he told her; “the garden was a +long time going down. There were flowers here a few years back; but the +grass and weeds got the better of them.” + +“And do you—remember the Boltons?” she persisted. “I was so interested +in what Mrs. Daggett told me about the family yesterday. It seems +strange to think no one has lived here since. And now that I—it is to +be my home, I can’t help thinking about them.” + +“You should have built a new house,” said Jim Dodge. “A new house would +have been better and cheaper, in the end.” + +He thrust his spade deep, a sign that he considered the conversation at +an end. + +“Tell one of the other men to dig this,” she objected. “I want to make +a list of the plants we need and get the order out.” + +“I can do that tonight, Miss Orr,” he returned, going on with his +digging. “The men are busy in the orchards this morning.” + +“You want me to go away,” she inferred swiftly. + +He flung down his spade. + +“It is certainly up to me to obey orders,” he said. “Pardon me, if I +seem to have forgotten the fact. Shall we make the list now?” + +Inwardly he was cursing himself for his stupidity. Perhaps he had been +mistaken the night before. His fancy had taken a swift leap in the dark +and landed—where? There was a sort of scornful honesty in Jim Dodge’s +nature which despised all manner of shams and petty deceits. His code +also included a strict minding of his own business. He told himself +rather sharply that he was a fool for suspecting that Lydia Orr was +other than she had represented herself to be. She had been crying the +night before. What of that? Other girls cried over night and smiled the +next morning—his sister Fanny, for example. It was an inexplicable +habit of women. His mother had once told him, rather vaguely, that it +did her good to have a regular crying-spell. It relieved her nerves, +she said, and sort of braced her up.... + +“Of course I didn’t mean that,” Lydia was at some pains to explain, as +the two walked toward the veranda where there were chairs and a table. + +She was looking fair and dainty in a gown of some thin white stuff, +through which her neck and arms showed slenderly. + +“It’s too warm to dig in the ground this morning,” she decided. “And +anyway, planning the work is far more important.” + +“Than doing it?” he asked quizzically. “If we’d done nothing but plan +all this; why you see—” + +He made a large gesture which included the carpenters at work on the +roof, painters perilously poised on tall ladders and a half dozen men +busy spraying the renovated orchards. + +“I see,” she returned with a smile, “—now that you’ve so kindly pointed +it out to me.” + +He leveled a keen glance at her. It was impossible not to see her this +morning in the light of what he thought he had discovered the night +before. + +“I’ve done nothing but make plans all my life,” she went on gravely. +“Ever since I can remember I’ve been thinking—thinking and planning +what I should do when I grew up. It seemed such a long, long time—being +just a little girl, I mean, and not able to do what I wished. But I +kept on thinking and planning, and all the while I _was_ growing up; +and then at last—it all happened as I wished.” + +She appeared to wait for his question. But he remained silent, staring +at the blue rim of distant hills. + +“You don’t ask me—you don’t seem to care what I was planning,” she +said, her voice timid and uncertain. + +He glanced quickly at her. Something in her look stirred him curiously. +It did not occur to him that her appeal and his instant response to it +were as old as the race. + +“I wish you would tell me,” he urged. “Tell me everything!” + +She drew a deep breath, her eyes misty with dreams. + +“For a long time I taught school,” she went on, “but I couldn’t save +enough that way. I never could have saved enough, even if I had lived +on bread and water. I wanted—I needed a great deal of money, and I +wasn’t clever nor particularly well educated. Sometimes I thought if I +could only marry a millionaire—” + +He stared at her incredulously. + +“You don’t mean that,” he said with some impatience. + +She sighed. + +“I’m telling you just what happened,” she reminded him. “It seemed the +only way to get what I wanted. I thought I shouldn’t mind that, +or—anything, if I could only have as much money as I needed.” + +A sense of sudden violent anger flared up within him. Did the girl +realize what she was saying? + +She glanced up at him. + +“I never meant to tell any one about that part of it,” she said +hurriedly. “And—it wasn’t necessary, after all; I got the money another +way.” + +He bit off the point of a pencil he had been sharpening with laborious +care. + +“I should probably never have had a chance to marry a millionaire,” she +concluded reminiscently. “I’m not beautiful enough.” + +With what abominable clearness she understood the game: the +marriage-market; the buyer and the price. + +“I—didn’t suppose you were like that,” he muttered, after what seemed a +long silence. + +She seemed faintly surprised. + +“Of course you don’t know me,” she said quickly. “Does any man know any +woman, I wonder?” + +“They think they do,” he stated doggedly; “and that amounts to the same +thing.” + +His thoughts reverted for an uncomfortable instant to Wesley Elliot and +Fanny. It was only too easy to see through Fanny. + +“Most of them are simple souls, and thank heaven for it!” + +His tone was fervently censorious. + +She smiled understandingly. + +“Perhaps I ought to tell you further that a rich man—not a millionaire; +but rich enough—actually did ask me to marry him, and I refused.” + +“H’mph!” + +“But,” she added calmly, “I think I should have married him, if I had +not had money left me first—before he asked me, I mean. I knew all +along that what I had determined to do, I could do best alone.” + +He stared at her from under gathered brows. He still felt that curious +mixture of shame and anger burning hotly within. + +“Just why are you telling me all this?” he demanded roughly. + +She returned his look quietly. + +“Because,” she said, “you have been trying to guess my secret for a +long time and you have succeeded; haven’t you?” + +He was speechless. + +“You have been wondering about me, all along. I could see that, of +course. I suppose everybody in Brookville has been wondering and—and +talking. I meant to be frank and open about it—to tell right out who I +was and what I came to do. But—somehow—I couldn’t.... It didn’t seem +possible, when everybody—you see I thought it all happened so long ago +people would have forgotten. I supposed they would be just glad to get +their money back. I meant to give it to them—all, every dollar of it. I +didn’t care if it took all I had.... And then—I heard you last night +when you crossed the library. I hoped—you would ask me why—but you +didn’t. I thought, first, of telling Mrs. Daggett; she is a kind soul. +I had to tell someone, because he is coming home soon, and I may +need—help.” + +Her eyes were solemn, beseeching, compelling. + +His anger died suddenly, leaving only a sort of indignant pity for her +unfriended youth. + +“You are—” he began, then stopped short. A painter was swiftly +descending his ladder, whistling as he came. + +“My name,” she said, without appearing to notice, “is Lydia Orr Bolton. +No one seems to remember—perhaps they didn’t know my mother’s name was +Orr. My uncle took me away from here. I was only a baby. It seemed best +to—” + +“Where are they now?” he asked guardedly. + +The painter had disappeared behind the house. But he could hear heavy +steps on the roof over their heads. + +“Both are dead,” she replied briefly. “No one knew my uncle had much +money; we lived quite simply and unpretentiously in South Boston. They +never told me about the money; and all those years I was praying for +it! Well, it came to me—in time.” + +His eyes asked a pitying question. + +“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “I knew about father. They used to take me to +visit him in the prison. Of course I didn’t understand, at first. But +gradually, as I grew older, I began to realize what had happened—to him +and to me. It was then I began to make plans. He would be free, +sometime; he would need a home. Once he tried to escape, with some +other men. A guard shot my father; he was in the prison-hospital a long +time. They let me see him then without bars between, because they were +sure he would die.” + +“For God’s sake,” he interrupted hoarsely. “Was there no one—?” + +She shook her head. + +“That was after my aunt died: I went alone. They watched me closely at +first; but afterward they were kinder. He used to talk about +home—always about home. He meant this house, I found. It was then I +made up my mind to do anything to get the money.... You see I knew he +could never be happy here unless the old wrongs were righted first. I +saw I must do all that; and when, after my uncle’s death, I found that +I was rich—really rich, I came here as soon as I could. There wasn’t +any time to lose.” + +She fell silent, her eyes shining luminously under half closed lids. +She seemed unconscious of his gaze riveted upon her face. It was as if +a curtain had been drawn aside by her painful effort. He was seeing her +clearly now and without cloud of passion—in all her innocence, her +sadness, set sacredly apart from other women by the long devotion of +her thwarted youth. An immense compassion took possession of him. He +could have fallen at her feet praying her forgiveness for his mean +suspicions, his harsh judgment. + +The sound of hammers on the veranda roof above their heads appeared to +rouse her. + +“Don’t you think I ought to tell—everybody?” she asked hurriedly. + +He considered her question in silence for a moment. The bitterness +against Andrew Bolton had grown and strengthened with the years into +something rigid, inexorable. Since early boyhood he had grown +accustomed to the harsh, unrelenting criticisms, the brutal epithets +applied to this man who had been trusted with money and had defaulted. +Even children, born long after the failure, reviled the name of the man +who had made their hard lot harder. It had been the juvenile custom to +throw stones at the house he had lived in. He remembered with fresh +shame the impish glee with which, in company with other boys of his own +age, he had trampled the few surviving flowers and broken down the +shrubs in the garden. The hatred of Bolton, like some malignant growth, +had waxed monstrous from what it preyed upon, ruining and distorting +the simple kindly life of the village. She was waiting for his answer. + +“It would seem so much more honest,” she said in a tired voice. “Now +they can only think me eccentric, foolishly extravagant, lavishly +generous—when I am trying— I didn’t dare to ask Deacon Whittle or Judge +Fulsom for a list of the creditors, so I paid a large sum—far more than +they would have asked—for the house. And since then I have bought the +old bank building. I should like to make a library there.” + +“Yes, I know,” he said huskily. + +“Then the furniture—I shall pay a great deal for that. I want the house +to look just as it used to, when father comes home. You see he had an +additional sentence for trying to escape and for conspiracy; and since +then his mind—he doesn’t seem to remember everything. Sometimes he +calls me Margaret. He thinks I am—mother.” + +Her voice faltered a little. + +“You mustn’t tell them,” he said vehemently. “You mustn’t!” + +He saw with terrible clearness what it would be like: the home-coming +of the half-imbecile criminal, and the staring eyes, the pointing +fingers of all Brookville leveled at him. She would be overborne by the +shame of it all—trampled like a flower in the mire. + +She seemed faintly disappointed. + +“But I would far rather tell,” she persisted. “I have had so much to +conceal—all my life!” + +She flung out her hands in a gesture of utter weariness. + +“I was never allowed to mention father to anyone,” she went on. “My +aunt was always pointing out what a terrible thing it would be for any +one to find out—who I was. She didn’t want me to know; but uncle +insisted. I think he was sorry for—father.... Oh, you don’t know what +it is like to be in prison for years—to have all the manhood squeezed +out of one, drop by drop! I think if it hadn’t been for me he would +have died long ago. I used to pretend I was very gay and happy when I +went to see him. He wanted me to be like that. It pleased him to think +my life had not been clouded by what he called his _mistake_.... He +didn’t intend to wreck the bank, Mr. Dodge. He thought he was going to +make the village rich and prosperous.” + +She leaned forward. “I have learned to smile during all these years. +But now, I want to tell everybody—I long to be free from pretending! +Can’t you see?” + +Something big and round in his throat hurt him so that he could not +answer at once. He clenched his hands, enraged by the futility of his +pity for her. + +“Mrs. Daggett seems a kind soul,” she murmured. “She would be my +friend. I am sure of it. But—the others—” + +She sighed. + +“I used to fancy how they would all come to the station to meet +him—after I had paid everybody, I mean—how they would crowd about him +and take his hand and tell him they were glad it was all over; then I +would bring him home, and he would never even guess it had stood +desolate during all these years. He has forgotten so much already; but +he remembers home—oh, quite perfectly. I went to see him last week, and +he spoke of the gardens and orchards. That is how I knew how to have +things planted: he told me.” + +He got hastily to his feet: her look, her voice—the useless smart of it +all was swiftly growing unbearable. + +“You must wait—I must think!” he said unsteadily. “You ought not to +have told me.” + +“Do you think I should have told the minister, instead?” she asked +rather piteously. “He has been very kind; but somehow—” + +“What! Wesley Elliot?” + +His face darkened. + +“Thank heaven you did not tell him! I am at least no—” + +He checked himself with an effort. + +“See here,” he said: “You—you mustn’t speak to any one of what you have +told me—not for the present, anyway. I want you to promise me.” + +Her slight figure sagged wearily against the back of her chair. She was +looking up at him like a child spent with an unavailing passion of +grief. + +“I have promised that so many times,” she murmured: “I have concealed +everything so long—it will be easier for me.” + +“It will be easier for you,” he agreed quickly; “and—perhaps better, on +the whole.” + +“But they will not know they are being paid—they won’t understand—” + +“That makes no difference,” he decided. “It would make them, perhaps, +less contented to know where the money was coming from. Tell me, does +your servant—this woman you brought from Boston; does she know?” + +“You mean Martha? I—I’m not sure. She was a servant in my uncle’s home +for years. She wanted to live with me, so I sent for her. I never spoke +to her about—father. She seems devoted to me. I have thought it would +be necessary to tell her—before— He is coming in September. Everything +will be finished by then.” + +His eyes were fixed blankly on the hedge; something—a horse’s ears, +perhaps—was bobbing slowly up and down; a faint rattle of wheels came +to their ears. + +“Don’t tell anyone, yet,” he urged, and stepped down from the veranda, +his unseeing gaze still fixed upon the slow advance of those bobbing +ears. + +“Someone is coming,” she said. + +He glanced at her, marveling at the swift transition in her face. A +moment before she had been listless, sad, disheartened by his apparent +disapproval of her plans. Now all at once the cloud had vanished; she +was once more cheerful, calm, even smiling. + +She too had been looking and had at once recognized the four persons +seated in the shabby old carryall which at that moment turned in at the +gate. + +“I am to have visitors,” she said tranquilly. + +His eyes reluctantly followed hers. There were four women in the +approaching vehicle. + +As on another occasion, the young man beat a swift retreat. + + + + +Chapter XII. + + +“I am sure I don’t know what you’ll think of us gadding about in the +morning so,” began Mrs. Dix, as she caught sight of Lydia. + +Mrs. Dix was sitting in the back seat of the carryall with Mrs. Dodge. +The two girls were in front. Lydia noticed mechanically that both were +freshly gowned in white and that Fanny, who was driving, eyed her with +haughty reserve from under the brim of her flower-laden hat. Ellen Dix +had turned her head to gaze after Jim Dodge’s retreating figure; her +eyes returned to Lydia with an expression of sulky reluctance. + +“I’m so glad to see you,” said Lydia. “Won’t you come in?” + +“I should like to,” said Mrs. Dodge. “Jim has been telling us about the +improvements, all along.” + +“It certainly does look nice,” chimed in Mrs. Dix. “I wouldn’t have +believed it possible, in such a little time, too. Just cramp that wheel +a little more, Fanny.” + +The two older women descended from the carryall and began looking +eagerly around. + +“Just see how nice the grass looks,” said Mrs. Dodge. “And the flowers! +My! I didn’t suppose Jim was that smart at fixing things up.... Aren’t +you going to get out, girls?” + +The two girls still sat on the high front seat of the carryall; both +were gazing at Lydia in her simple morning frock. There were no flowers +on Lydia’s Panama hat; nothing but a plain black band; but it had an +air of style and elegance. Fanny was wishing she had bought a plain hat +without roses. Ellen tossed her dark head: + +“I don’t know,” she said. “You aren’t going to stay long; are you, +mother?” + +“For pity sake, Ellen!” expostulated Mrs. Dodge briskly. “Of course +you’ll get out, and you, too, Fanny. The horse’ll stand.” + +“Please do!” entreated Lydia. + +Thus urged, the girls reluctantly descended. Neither was in the habit +of concealing her feelings under the convenient cloak of society +observance, and both were jealously suspicious of Lydia Orr. Fanny had +met her only the week before, walking with Wesley Elliot along the +village street. And Mrs. Solomon Black had told Mrs. Fulsom, and Mrs. +Fulsom had told Mrs. Deacon Whittle, and Mrs. Whittle had told another +woman, who had felt it to be her Christian duty (however unpleasant) to +inform Fanny that the minister was “payin’ attention to Miss Orr.” + +“Of course,” the woman had pointed out, “it wasn’t to be wondered at, +special, seeing the Orr girl had every chance in the world to catch +him—living right in the same house with him.” Then she had further +stated her opinions of men in general for Fanny’s benefit. All persons +of the male sex, according to this woman, were easily put upon, +deceived and otherwise led astray by artful young women from the city, +who were represented as perpetually on the lookout for easy marks, like +Wesley Elliot. + +“He ain’t any different from other men, if he _is_ a minister,” said +she with a comprehensive sniff. “They’re all alike, as far as I can +find out: anybody that’s a mind to soft-soap them and flatter them into +thinkin’ they’re something great can lead them right around by the +nose. And besides, _she’s_ got _money!_” + +Fanny had affected a haughty indifference to the doings of Wesley +Elliot, which did not for a moment deceive her keen-eyed informer. + +“Of course, anybody with eyes in their heads can see what’s taken +place,” compassionated she, impaling the unfortunate Fanny on the +prongs of her sympathy. “My! I was telling George only yesterday, I +thought it was a _perfect shame!_ and somebody ought to speak out real +plain to the minister.” + +Whereat Fanny had been goaded into wishing the woman would mind her own +business! She did wish everybody would leave her and her affairs alone! +People had no right to talk! As for speaking to the minister; let any +one dare—! + +As for Ellen Dix, she had never quite forgiven Lydia for innocently +acquiring the fox skin and she had by now almost persuaded herself that +she was passionately in love with Jim Dodge. She had always liked +him—at least, she had not actively disliked him, as some of the other +girls professed to do. She had found his satirical tongue, his keen +eyes and his real or affected indifference to feminine wiles pleasantly +stimulating. There was some fun in talking to Jim Dodge. But of late +she had not been afforded the opportunity. Fanny had explained to Ellen +that Jim was working terribly hard, often rising at three and four in +the morning to work on his own farm, and putting in long days at the +Bolton place. + +“She seems to have most of the men in Brookville doing for her,” Ellen +had remarked coldly. + +Then the girls had exchanged cautious glances. + +“There’s something awfully funny about her coming here, anyway,” said +Ellen. “Everybody thinks it’s queer.” + +“I expect she had a reason,” said Fanny, avoiding Ellen’s eyes. + +After which brief interchange of opinion they had twined their arms +about each other’s waists and squeezed wordless understanding and +sympathy. Henceforth, it was tacitly understood between the two girls +that singly and collectively they did not “like” Lydia Orr. + +Lydia understood without further explanation that she was not to look +to her nearest neighbors for either friendship or the affection she so +deeply craved. Both Ellen and Fanny had passed the place every day +since its restoration began; but not once had either betrayed the +slightest interest or curiosity in what was going on beyond the barrier +of the hedge. To be sure, Fanny had once stopped to speak to her +brother; but when Lydia had hurried hopefully out to greet her it was +only to catch a glimpse of the girl’s back as she walked quickly away. + +Jim Dodge had explained, with some awkwardness, that Fanny was in a +hurry.... + +“Well, now, I’ll tell you, Miss Orr,” Mrs. Dix was saying, as all five +women walked slowly toward the house. “I was talking with Abby Daggett, +and she was telling me about your wanting to get back the old furniture +that used to be in the house. It seems Henry Daggett has put up a +notice in the post office; but so far, he says, not very many pieces +have been heard from. You know the men-folks generally go after the +mail, and men are slow; there’s no denying that. As like as not they +haven’t even mentioned seeing the notice to the folks at home.” + +“That’s so,” confirmed Mrs. Dodge, nodding her head. “I don’t know as +Jim would ever tell us anything that happened from morning till night. +We just have to pump things out of him; don’t we, Fanny? He’d never +tell without we did. His father was just the same.” + +Fanny looked annoyed, and Ellen squeezed her arm with an amused giggle. + +“I didn’t know, mother, there was anything we wanted to know, +particularly,” she said coldly. + +“Well, you know both of us have been real interested in the work here,” +protested Mrs. Dodge, wonderingly. “I remember you was asking Jim only +last night if Miss Orr was really going to—” + +“I hope you’ll like to see the house,” said Lydia, as if she had not +heard; “of course, being here every day I don’t notice the changes as +you might.” + +“You aren’t living here yet, are you?” asked Mrs. Dix. “I understood +Mrs. Solomon Black to say you weren’t going to leave her for awhile +yet.” + +“No; I shall be there nights and Sundays till everything is finished +here,” said Lydia. “Mrs. Black makes me very comfortable.” + +“Well, I think most of us ladies had ought to give you a vote of thanks +on account of feeding the men-folks, noons,” put in Mrs. Dodge. “It +saves a lot of time not to have to look after a dinner-pail.” + +“Mother,” interrupted Fanny in a thin, sharp voice, quite unlike her +own, “you know Jim always comes home to his dinner.” + +“Well, what if he does; I was speaking for the rest of th’ women,” said +Mrs. Dodge. “I’m sure it’s very kind of Miss Orr to think of such a +thing as cooking a hot dinner for all those hungry men.” + +Mrs. Dodge had received a second check from the assignees that very +morning from the sale of the old bank building, and she was +proportionately cheerful and content. + +“Well; if this isn’t handsome!” cried Mrs. Dix, pausing in the hall to +look about her. “I declare I’d forgotten how it used to look. This is +certainly better than having an old ruin standing here. But, of course +it brings back old days.” + +She sighed, her dark, comely face clouding with sorrow. + +“You know,” she went on, turning confidentially to Lydia, “that +dreadful bank failure was the real cause of my poor husband’s death. He +never held up his head after that. They suspected at first he was +implicated in the steal. But Mr. Dix wasn’t anything like Andrew +Bolton. No; indeed! He wouldn’t have taken a cent that belonged to +anybody else—not if he was to die for it!” + +“That’s so,” confirmed Mrs. Dodge. “What Andrew Bolton got was +altogether too good for him. Come right down to it, he wasn’t no better +than a murderer!” + +And she nodded her head emphatically. + +Fanny and Ellen, who stood looking on, reddened impatiently at this: + +“I’m sick and tired of hearing about Andrew Bolton,” complained Ellen. +“I’ve heard nothing else since I can remember. It’s a pity you bought +this house, Miss Orr: I heard Mr. Elliot say it was like stirring up a +horrid, muddy pool. Not very complimentary to Brookville; but then—” + +“Don’t you think people will—forget after a while?” asked Lydia, her +blue eyes fixed appealingly on the two young faces. “I don’t see why +everybody should—” + +“Well, if you’d fixed the house entirely different,” said Mrs. Dix. +“But having it put back, just as it was, and wanting the old furniture +and all—whatever put that into your head, my dear?” + +“I heard it was handsome and old—I like old things. And, of course, it +was—more in keeping to restore the house as it was, than to—” + +“Well, I s’pose that’s so,” conceded Mrs. Dodge, her quick dark eyes +busy with the renovated interior. “I’d sort of forgot how it did look +when the Boltons was livin’ here. But speaking of furniture; I see Mrs. +Judge Fulsom let you have the old sofa. I remember she got it at the +auction; she’s kept it in her parlor ever since.” + +“Yes,” said Lydia. “I was only too happy to give a hundred dollars for +the sofa. It has been excellently preserved.” + +“A hundred dollars!” echoed Mrs. Dix. “Well!” + +Mrs. Dodge giggled excitedly, like a young girl. + +“A hundred dollars!” she repeated. “Well, I want to know!” + +The two women exchanged swift glances. + +“You wouldn’t want to buy any pieces that had been broke, I s’pose,” +suggested Mrs. Dodge. + +“If they can be repaired, I certainly do,” replied Lydia. + +“Mother!” expostulated Fanny, in a low but urgent tone. “Ellen and I—we +really ought to be going.” + +The girl’s face glowed with shamed crimson. She felt haughty and +humiliated and angry all at once. It was not to be borne. + +Mrs. Dix was not listening to Fanny Dodge. + +“I bid in the big, four-post mahogany bed at the auction,” she said, +“and the bureau to match; an’ I believe there are two or three chairs +about the house.” + +“We’ve got a table,” chimed in Mrs. Dodge; “but one leg give away, an’ +I had it put up in the attic years ago. And Fanny’s got a bed and +bureau in her room that was painted white, with little pink flowers +tied up with blue ribbons. Of course the paint is pretty well rubbed +off; but—” + +“Oh, might I have that set?” cried Lydia, turning to Fanny. “Perhaps +you’ve grown fond of it and won’t want to give it up. But I—I’d pay +almost anything for it. And of course I shall want the mahogany, too.” + +“Well, we didn’t know,” explained Mrs. Dix, with dignity. “We got those +pieces instead of the money we’d ought to have had from the estate. +There was a big crowd at the auction, I remember; but nobody really +wanted to pay anything for the old furniture. A good deal of it had +come out of folks’ attics in the first place.” + +“I shall be glad to pay three hundred dollars for the mahogany bed and +bureau,” said Lydia. “And for the little white set—” + +“I don’t care to part with my furniture,” said Fanny Dodge, her pretty +round chin uplifted. + +She was taller than Lydia, and appeared to be looking over her head +with an intent stare at the freshly papered wall beyond. + +“For pity sake!” exclaimed her mother sharply. “Why, Fanny, you could +buy a brand new set, an’ goodness knows what-all with the money. What’s +the matter with you?” + +“I know just how Fanny feels about having her room changed,” put in +Ellen Dix, with a spirited glance at the common enemy. “There are +things that money can’t buy, but some people don’t seem to think so.” + +Lydia’s blue eyes had clouded swiftly. + +“If you’ll come into the library,” she said, “we’ll have some lemonade. +It’s so very warm I’m sure we are all thirsty.” + +She did not speak of the furniture again, and after a little the +visitors rose to go. Mrs. Dodge lingered behind the others to whisper: + +“I’m sure I don’t know what got into my Fanny. Only the other day she +was wishing she might have her room done over, with new furniture and +all. I’ll try and coax her.” + +But Lydia shook her head. + +“Please don’t,” she said. “I want that furniture very much; but—I know +there are things money can’t buy.” + +“Mebbe you wouldn’t want it, if you was t’ see it,” was Mrs. Dodge’s +honest opinion. “It’s all turned yellow, an’ the pink flowers are +mostly rubbed off. I remember it was real pretty when we first got it. +It used to belong to Mrs. Bolton’s little girl. I don’t know as +anybody’s told you, but they had a little girl. My! what an awful thing +for a child to grow up to! I’ve often thought of it. But mebbe she +didn’t live to grow up. None of us ever heard.” + +“Mother!” called Fanny, from the front seat of the carryall. “We’re +waiting for you.” + +“In a minute, Fanny,” said Mrs. Dodge.... “Of course you can have that +table I spoke of, Miss Orr, and anything else I can find in the attic, +or around. An’ I was thinking if you was to come down to the Ladies’ +Aid on Friday afternoon—it meets at Mrs. Mixter’s this week, at two +o’clock; you know where Mrs. Mixter lives, don’t you? Well; anyway, +Mrs. Solomon Black does, an’ she generally comes. But I know lots of +the ladies has pieces of that furniture; and most of them would be +mighty glad to get rid of it. But they are like my Fanny—kind of +contrary, and backward about selling things. I’ll talk to Fanny when we +get home. Why, she don’t any more want that old painted set—” + +“Mother!” Fanny’s sweet angry voice halted the rapid progress of her +mother’s speech for an instant. + +“I shouldn’t wonder if the flies was bothering th’ horse,” surmised +Mrs. Dodge; “he does fidget an’ stamp somethin’ terrible when the flies +gets after him; his tail ain’t so long as some.... Well, I’ll let you +know; and if you could drop around and see the table and all— Yes, some +day this week. Of course I’ll have to buy new furniture to put in their +places; so will Mrs. Dix. But I will say that mahogany bed is handsome; +they’ve got it in their spare room, and there ain’t a scratch on it. I +can guarantee that.... Yes; I guess the flies are bad today; looks like +rain. Good-by!” + +Lydia stood watching the carryall, as it moved away from under the +milk-white pillars of the restored portico. Why did Fanny Dodge and +Ellen Dix dislike her, she wondered, and what could she do to win their +friendship? Her troubled thoughts were interrupted by Martha, the +taciturn maid. + +“I found this picture on the floor, Miss Lydia,” said Martha; “did you +drop it?” + +Lydia glanced at the small, unmounted photograph. It was a faded +snapshot of a picnic party under a big tree. Her eyes became at once +riveted upon the central figures of the little group; the pretty girl +in the middle was Fanny Dodge; and behind her—yes, surely, that was the +young clergyman, Wesley Elliot. Something in the attitude of the man +and the coquettish upward tilt of the girl’s face brought back to her +mind a forgotten remark of Mrs. Solomon Black’s. Lydia had failed to +properly understand it, at the time. Mrs. Solomon Black was given to +cryptic remarks, and Lydia’s mind had been preoccupied by the +increasing difficulties which threatened the accomplishment of her +purpose: + +“A person, coming into a town like Brookville to live, by rights had +ought to have eyes in the backs of their heads,” Mrs. Black had +observed. + +It was at breakfast time, Lydia now remembered, and the minister was +late, as frequently happened. + +“I thought like’s not nobody would mention it to you,” Mrs. Black had +further elucidated. “Of course _he_ wouldn’t say anything, men-folks +are kind of sly and secret in their doings—even the best of ’em; and +you’ll find it’s so, as you travel along life’s path-way.” + +Mrs. Black had once written a piece of poetry and it had actually been +printed in the Grenoble _News_; since then she frequently made use of +figures of speech. + +“A married woman and a widow can speak from experience,” she went on. +“So I thought I’d just tell you: he’s as good as engaged, already.” + +“Do you mean Mr. Elliot?” asked Lydia incuriously. + +Mrs. Black nodded. + +“I thought you ought to know,” she said. + +Mr. Elliot had entered the room upon the heels of this warning, and +Lydia had promptly forgotten it. Now she paused for a swift review of +the weeks which had already passed since her arrival. Mr. Elliot had +been unobtrusively kind and helpful from the first, she remembered. +Later, he had been indefatigable in the matter of securing workmen for +the restoration of the old house, when she made it clear to him that +she did not want an architect and preferred to hire Brookville men +exclusively. As seemed entirely natural, the minister had called +frequently to inspect the progress of the work. Twice in their rounds +together they had come upon Jim Dodge; and although the clergyman was +affable in his recognition and greeting, Lydia had been unpleasantly +surprised by the savage look on her landscape-gardener’s face as he +returned the polite salutation. + +“Don’t you like Mr. Elliot?” she had ventured to inquire, after the +second disagreeable incident of the sort. + +Jim Dodge had treated her to one of his dark-browed, incisive glances +before replying. + +“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question satisfactorily, Miss Orr,” was +what he said. + +And Lydia, wondering, desisted from further question. + +“That middle one looks some like one of the young ladies that was here +this morning,” observed Martha, with the privileged familiarity of an +old servant. + +“She must have dropped it,” said Lydia, slowly. + +“The young ladies here in the country has very bad manners,” commented +Martha, puckering her lips primly. “I wouldn’t put myself out for them, +if I was you, mem.” + +Lydia turned the picture over and gazed abstractedly at the three words +written there: “Lest we forget!” Beneath this pertinent quotation +appeared the initials “W. E.” + +“If it was for _me_ to say,” went on Martha, in an injured tone, “I’d +not be for feedin’ up every man, woman and child that shows their face +inside the grounds. Why, they don’t appreciate it no more than—” + +The woman’s eloquent gesture appeared to include the blue-bottle fly +buzzing noisily on the window-pane: + +“Goodness gracious! if these flies ain’t enough to drive a body +crazy—what with the new paint and all....” + + + + +Chapter XIII. + + +Lydia laid the picture carefully away in a pigeonhole of her desk. She +was still thinking soberly of the subtle web of prejudices, feelings +and conditions into which she had obtruded her one fixed purpose in +life. But if Mr. Elliot had been as good as engaged to Fanny Dodge, as +Mrs. Solomon Black had been at some pains to imply, in what way had she +(Lydia) interfered with the dénouement? + +She shook her head at last over the intricacies of the imperfectly +stated problem. The idea of coquetting with a man had never entered +Lydia’s fancy. Long since, in the chill spring of her girlhood, she had +understood her position in life as compared with that of other girls. +She must never marry. She must never fall in love, even. The inflexible +Puritan code of her uncle’s wife had found ready acceptance in Lydia’s +nature. If not an active participant in her father’s crime, she still +felt herself in a measure responsible for it. He had determined to grow +rich and powerful for her sake. More than once, in the empty rambling +talk which he poured forth in a turgid stream during their infrequent +meetings, he had told her so, with extravagant phrase and gesture. And +so, at last, she had come to share his punishment in a hundred secret, +unconfessed ways. She ate scant food, slept on the hardest of beds, +labored unceasingly, with the great, impossible purpose of some day +making things right: of restoring the money they—she no longer said +_he_—had stolen; of building again the waste places desolated by the +fire of his ambition for her. There had followed that other purpose, +growing ever stronger with the years, and deepening with the deepening +stream of her womanhood: her love, her vast, unavailing pity for the +broken and aging man, who would some day be free. She came at length to +the time when she saw clearly that he would never leave the prison +alive, unless in some way she could contrive to keep open the clogging +springs of hope and desire. She began deliberately and with purpose to +call back memories of the past: the house in which he had lived, the +gardens and orchards in which he once had taken pride, his ambitious +projects for village improvement. + +“You shall have it all back, father!” she promised him, with passionate +resolve. “And it will only be a little while to wait, now.” + +Thus encouraged, the prisoner’s horizon widened, day by day. He +appeared, indeed, to almost forget the prison, so busy was he in +recalling trivial details and unimportant memories of events long since +past. He babbled incessantly of his old neighbors, calling them by +name, and chuckling feebly as he told her of their foibles and +peculiarities. + +“But we must give them every cent of the money, father,” she insisted; +“we must make everything right.” + +“Oh, yes! Oh, yes, we’ll fix it up somehow with the creditors,” he +would say. + +Then he would scowl and rub his shorn head with his tremulous old +hands. + +“What did they do with the house, Margaret?” he asked, over and over, a +furtive gleam of anxiety in his eyes. “They didn’t tear it down; did +they?” + +He waxed increasingly anxious on this point as the years of his +imprisonment dwindled at last to months. And then her dream had +unexpectedly come true. She had money—plenty of it—and nothing stood in +the way. She could never forget the day she told him about the house. +Always she had tried to quiet him with vague promises and imagined +descriptions of a place she had completely forgotten. + +“The house is ours, father,” she assured him, jubilantly. “And I am +having it painted on the outside.” + +“You are having it painted on the outside, Margaret? Was that +necessary, already?” + +“Yes, father.... But I am Lydia. Don’t you remember? I am your little +girl, grown up.” + +“Yes, yes, of course. You are like your mother— And you are having the +house painted? Who’s doing the job?” + +She told him the man’s name and he laughed rather immoderately. + +“He’ll do you on the white lead, if you don’t watch him,” he said. “I +know Asa Todd. Talk about frauds— You must be sure he puts honest +linseed oil in the paint. He won’t, unless you watch him.” + +“I’ll see to it, father.” + +“But whatever you do, don’t let ’em into my room,” he went on, after a +frowning pause. + +“You mean your library, father? I’m having the ceiling whitened. It—it +needed it.” + +“I mean my bedroom, child. I won’t have workmen pottering about in +there.” + +“But you won’t mind if they paint the woodwork, father? It—has grown +quite yellow in places.” + +“Nonsense, my dear! Why, I had all the paint upstairs gone over—let me +see—” + +And he fell into one of his heavy moods of introspection which seemed, +indeed, not far removed from torpor. + +When she had at last roused him with an animated description of the +vegetable garden, he appeared to have forgotten his objections to +having workmen enter his chamber. And Lydia was careful not to recall +it to his mind. + +She was still sitting before his desk, ostensibly absorbed in the rows +of incomprehensible figures Deacon Whittle, as general contractor, had +urged upon her attention, when Martha again parted the heavy cloud of +her thoughts. + +“The minister, come to see you again,” she announced, with a slight but +mordant emphasis on the ultimate word. + +“Yes,” said Lydia, rousing herself, with an effort. “Mr. Elliot, you +said?” + +“I s’pose that’s his name,” conceded Martha ungraciously. “I set him in +the dining room. It’s about the only place with two chairs in it; an’ I +shan’t have no time to make more lemonade, in case you wanted it, m’m.” + + + + +Chapter XIV. + + +The Reverend Wesley Elliot, looking young, eager and pleasingly worldly +in a blue serge suit of unclerical cut, rose to greet her as she +entered. + +“I haven’t been here in two or three days,” he began, as he took the +hand she offered, “and I’m really astonished at the progress you’ve +been making.” + +He still retained her hand, as he smiled down into her grave, +preoccupied face. + +“What’s the trouble with our little lady of Bolton House?” he inquired. +“Any of the workmen on strike, or—” + +She withdrew her hand with a faint smile. + +“Everything is going very well, I think,” she told him. + +He was still scrutinizing her with that air of intimate concern, which +inspired most of the women of his flock to unburden themselves of their +manifold anxieties at his slightest word of encouragement. + +“It’s a pretty heavy burden for you,” he said gravely. “You need some +one to help you. I wonder if I couldn’t shoulder a few of the grosser +details?” + +“You’ve already been most kind,” Lydia said evasively. “But now— Oh, I +think everything has been thought of. You know Mr. Whittle is looking +after the work.” + +He smiled, a glimmer of humorous understanding in his fine dark eyes. +“Yes, I know,” he said. + +A silence fell between them. Lydia was one of those rare women who do +not object to silence. It seemed to her that she had always lived alone +with her ambitions, which could not be shared, and her bitter +knowledge, which was never to be spoken of. But now she stirred +uneasily in her chair, aware of the intent expression in his eyes. Her +troubled thoughts reverted to the little picture which had fluttered to +the floor from somebody’s keeping only an hour before. + +“I’ve had visitors this morning,” she told him, with purpose. + +“Ah! people are sure to be curious and interested,” he commented. + +“They were Mrs. Dodge and her daughter and Mrs. Dix and Ellen,” she +explained. + +“That must have been pleasant,” he murmured perfunctorily. “Are you—do +you find yourself becoming at all interested in the people about here? +Of course it is easy to see you come to us from quite another world.” + +She shook her head. + +“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “—If you mean that I am superior in any way +to the people of Brookville; I’m not, at all. I am really a very +ordinary sort of a person. I’ve not been to college and—I’ve always +worked, harder than most, so that I’ve had little opportunity +for—culture.” + +His smile broadened into a laugh of genuine amusement. + +“My dear Miss Orr,” he protested, “I had no idea of intimating—” + +Her look of passionate sincerity halted his words of apology. + +“I am very much interested in the people here,” she declared. “I +want—oh, so much—to be friends with them! I want it more than anything +else in the world! If they would only like me. But—they don’t.” + +“How can they help it?” he exclaimed. “Like you? They ought to worship +you! They shall!” + +She shook her head sadly. + +“No one can compel love,” she said. + +“Sometimes the love of one can atone for the indifference—even the +hostility of the many,” he ventured. + +But she had not stooped to the particular, he perceived. Her thoughts +were ranging wide over an unknown country whither, for the moment, he +could not follow. He studied her abstracted face with its strangely +aloof expression, like that of a saint or a fanatic, with a faint +renewal of previous misgivings. + +“I am very much interested in Fanny Dodge,” she said abruptly. + +“In—Fanny Dodge?” he repeated. + +He became instantly angry with himself for the dismayed astonishment he +had permitted to escape him, and increasingly so because of the +uncontrollable tide of crimson which invaded his face. + +She was looking at him, with the calm, direct gaze which had more than +once puzzled him. + +“You know her very well, don’t you?” + +“Why, of course, Miss Dodge is—she is—er—one of our leading young +people, and naturally— She plays our little organ in church and Sunday +School. Of course you’ve noticed. She is most useful and—er—helpful.” + +Lydia appeared to be considering his words with undue gravity. + +“But I didn’t come here this morning to talk to you about another +woman,” he said, with undeniable hardihood. “I want to talk to you—_to +you_—and what I have to say—” + +Lydia got up from her chair rather suddenly. + +“Please excuse me a moment,” she said, quite as if he had not spoken. + +He heard her cross the hall swiftly. In a moment she had returned. + +“I found this picture on the floor—after they had gone,” she said, and +handed him the photograph. + +He stared at it with unfeigned astonishment. + +“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Well—?” + +“Turn it over,” she urged, somewhat breathlessly. + +He obeyed, and bit his lip angrily. + +“What of it?” he demanded. “A quotation from Kipling’s Recessional—a +mere commonplace.... Yes; I wrote it.” + +Then his anger suddenly left him. His mind had leaped to the solution +of the matter, and the solution appeared to Wesley Elliot as eminently +satisfying; it was even amusing. What a transparent, womanly little +creature she was, to be sure! He had not been altogether certain of +himself as he walked out to the old Bolton place that morning. But +oddly enough, this girlish jealousy of hers, this pretty spite—he found +it piquantly charming. + +“I wrote it,” he repeated, his indulgent understanding of her mood +lurking in smiling lips and eyes, “on the occasion of a particularly +grubby Sunday School picnic: I assure you I shall not soon forget the +spiders which came to an untimely end in my lemonade, nor the +inquisitive ants which explored my sandwiches.” + +She surveyed him unsmilingly. + +“But you did not mean that,” she said. “You were thinking of +something—quite different.” + +He frowned thoughtfully. Decidedly, this matter should be settled +between them at once and for ever. A clergyman, he reflected, must +always be on friendly—even confidential terms with a wide variety of +women. His brief experience had already taught him this much. And a +jealous or unduly suspicious wife might prove a serious handicap to +future success. + +“Won’t you sit down,” he urged. “I—You must allow me to explain. +We—er—must talk this over.” + +She obeyed him mechanically. All at once she was excessively frightened +at what she had attempted. She knew nothing of the ways of men; but she +felt suddenly sure that he would resent her interference as an +unwarrantable impertinence. + +“I thought—if you were going there today—you might take it—to her,” she +hesitated. “Or, I could send it. It is a small matter, of course.” + +“I think,” he said gravely, “that it is a very serious matter.” + +She interpreted uncertainly the intent gaze of his beautiful, somber +eyes. + +“I came here,” she faltered, “to—to find a home. I had no wish—” + +“I understand,” he said, his voice deep and sympathetic; “people have +been talking to you—about me. Am I right?” + +She was silent, a pink flush slowly staining her cheeks. + +“You have not yet learned upon what slight premises country women, of +the type we find in Brookville, arrive at the most unwarrantable +conclusions,” he went on carefully. “I did not myself sufficiently +realize this, at first. I may have been unwise.” + +“No, you were not!” she contradicted him unexpectedly. + +His lifted eyebrows expressed surprise. + +“I wish you would explain to me—” he began. + +Then stopped short. How indeed could she explain, when as yet he had +not made clear to her his own purpose, which had grown steadily with +the passing weeks? + +“You will let me speak, first,” he concluded inadequately. + +He hastily reviewed the various phrases which arose to his lips and +rejected them one by one. There was some peculiar quality of coldness, +of reserve—he could not altogether make it clear to himself: it might +well be the knowledge of her power, her wealth, which lent that almost +austere expression to her face. It was evident that her wonted +composure had been seriously disturbed by the unlucky circumstance of +the photograph. He had permitted the time and occasion which had +prompted him to write those three fatefully familiar words on the back +of the picture altogether to escape him. If he chose to forget, why +should Fanny Dodge, or any one else, persist in remembering? + +And above all, why should the girl have chosen to drop this absurd +memento of the most harmless of flirtations at the feet of Lydia? There +could be but one reasonable explanation.... Confound women, anyway! + +“I had not meant to speak, yet,” he went on, out of the clamoring +multitude of his thoughts. “I felt that we ought—” + +He became suddenly aware of Lydia’s eyes. There was no soft answering +fire, no maidenly uncertainty of hope and fear in those clear depths. + +“It is very difficult for me to talk of this to you,” she said slowly. +“You will think me over-bold—unmannerly, perhaps. But I can’t help +that. I should never have thought of your caring for me—you will at +least do me the justice to believe that.” + +“Lydia!” he interrupted, poignantly distressed by her evident +timidity—her exquisite hesitation, “let me speak! I understand—I know—” + +She forbade him with a gesture, at once pleading and peremptory. + +“No,” she said. “No! I began this, I must go on to the end. What you +ought to understand is this: I am not like other women. I want only +friendship from every one. I shall never ask more. I can never accept +more—from any one. I want you to know this—now.” + +“But I—do you realize—” + +“I want your friendship,” she went on, facing him with a sort of +desperate courage; “but more than any kindness you can offer me, Mr. +Elliot, I want the friendship of Fanny Dodge, of Ellen Dix—of all good +women. I need it! Now you know why I showed you the picture. If you +will not give it to her, I shall. I want her—I want every one—to +understand that I shall never come between her and the slightest hope +she may have cherished before my coming to Brookville. All I ask +is—leave to live here quietly—and be friendly, as opportunity offers.” + +Her words, her tone were not to be mistaken. But even the sanest and +wisest of men has never thus easily surrendered the jealously guarded +stronghold of sex. Wesley Elliot’s youthful ideas of women were totally +at variance with the disconcerting conviction which strove to invade +his mind. He had experienced not the slightest difficulty, up to the +present moment, in classifying them, neatly and logically; but there +was no space in his mental files for a woman such as Lydia Orr was +representing herself to be. It was inconceivable, on the face of it! +All women demanded admiration, courtship, love. They always had; they +always would. The literature of the ages attested it. He had been too +precipitate—too hasty. He must give her time to recover from the shock +she must have experienced from hearing the spiteful gossip about +himself and Fanny Dodge. On the whole, he admired her courage. What she +had said could not be attributed to the mere promptings of vulgar +sex-jealousy. Very likely Fanny had been disagreeable and haughty in +her manner. He believed her capable of it. He sympathized with Fanny; +with the curious mental aptitude of a sensitive nature, he still loved +Fanny. It had cost him real effort to close the doors of his heart +against her. + +“I admire you more than I can express for what you have had the courage +to tell me,” he assured her. “And you will let me see that I +understand—more than you think.” + +“It is impossible that you should understand,” she said tranquilly. +“But you will, at least, remember what I have said?” + +“I will,” he promised easily. “I shall never forget it!” + +A slight humorous smile curved the corners of his handsome mouth. + +“Now this—er—what shall we call it?—‘bone of contention’ savors too +strongly of wrath and discomfiture; so we’ll say, simply and +specifically, this photograph—which chances to have a harmless +quotation inscribed upon its reverse: Suppose I drop it in the +waste-basket? I can conceive that it possesses no particular +significance or value for any one. I assure you most earnestly that it +does not—for me.” + +He made as though he would have carelessly torn the picture across, +preparatory to making good his proposal. + +She stopped him with a swift gesture. + +“Give it to me,” she said. “It is lost property, and I am responsible +for its safe-keeping.” + +She perceived that she had completely failed in her intention. + +“What are you going to do with it?” he inquired, with an easy +assumption of friendliness calculated to put her more completely at her +ease with him. + +“I don’t know. For the present, I shall put it back in my desk.” + +“Better take my advice and destroy it,” he persisted. “It—er—is not +valuable evidence. Or—I believe on second thought I shall accept your +suggestion and return it myself to its probable owner.” + +He was actually laughing, his eyes brimming with boyish mischief. + +“I think it belongs to Miss Dix,” he told her audaciously. + +“To Miss Dix?” she echoed. + +“Yes; why not? Don’t you see the fair Ellen among the group?” + +Her eyes blazed suddenly upon him; her lips trembled. + +“Forgive me!” he cried, aghast at his own folly. + +She retreated before his outstretched hands. + +“I didn’t mean to—to make light of what appears so serious a matter to +you,” he went on impetuously. “It is only that it is _not_ serious; +don’t you see? It is such a foolish little mistake. It must not come +between us, Lydia!” + +“Please go away, at once,” she interrupted him breathlessly, “and—and +_think_ of what I have said to you. Perhaps you didn’t believe it; but +you _must_ believe it!” + +Then, because he did not stir, but instead stood gazing at her, his +puzzled eyes full of questions, entreaties, denials, she quietly closed +a door between them. A moment later he heard her hurrying feet upon the +stair. + + + + +Chapter XV. + + +August was a month of drought and intense heat that year; by the first +week in September the stream had dwindled to the merest silver thread, +its wasted waters floating upward in clouds of impalpable mist at dawn +and evening to be lost forever in the empty vault of heaven. Behind the +closed shutters of the village houses, women fanned themselves in the +intervals of labor over superheated cookstoves. Men consulted their +thermometers with incredulous eyes. Springs reputed to be unfailing +gradually ceased their cool trickle. Wells and cisterns yielded little +save the hollow sound of the questing bucket. There was serious talk of +a water famine in Brookville. At the old Bolton house, however, there +was still water in abundance. In jubilant defiance of blazing heavens +and parching earth the Red-Fox Spring—tapped years before by Andrew +Bolton and piped a mile or more down the mountain side, that his +household, garden and stock might never lack of pure cold water—gushed +in undiminished volume, filling and overflowing the new cement +reservoir, which had been one of Lydia Orr’s cautious innovations in +the old order of things. + +The repairs on the house were by now finished, and the new-old mansion, +shining white amid the chastened luxuriance of ancient trees, once more +showed glimpses of snowy curtains behind polished windowpanes. Flowers, +in a lavish prodigality of bloom the Bolton house of the past had never +known, flanked the old stone walls, bordered the drives, climbed high +on trellises and arbors, and blazed in serried ranks beyond the broad +sweep of velvet turf, which repaid in emerald freshness its daily share +of the friendly water. + +Mrs. Abby Daggett gazed at the scene in rapt admiration through the +clouds of dust which uprose from under Dolly’s scuffling feet. + +“Ain’t that place han’some, now she’s fixed it up?” she demanded of +Mrs. Deacon Whittle, who sat bolt upright at her side, her best summer +hat, sparsely decorated with purple flowers, protected from the +suffocating clouds of dust by a voluminous brown veil. “I declare I’d +like to stop in and see the house, now it’s all furnished up—if only +for a minute.” + +“We ain’t got time, Abby,” Mrs. Whittle pointed out. “There’s work to +cut out after we get to Mis’ Dix’s, and it was kind of late when we +started.” + +Mrs. Daggett relinquished her random desire with her accustomed +amiability. Life consisted mainly in giving up things, she had found; +but being cheerful, withal, served to cast a mellow glow over the +severest denials; in fact, it often turned them into something +unexpectedly rare and beautiful. + +“I guess that’s so, Ann,” she agreed. “Dolly got kind of fractious over +his headstall when I was harnessin’. He don’t seem to like his sun hat, +and I dunno’s I blame him. I guess if our ears stuck up through the top +of our bunnits like his we wouldn’t like it neither.” + +Mrs. Whittle surveyed the animal’s grotesquely bonneted head with cold +disfavor. + +“What simple ideas you do get into your mind, Abby,” said she, with the +air of one conscious of superior intellect. “A horse ain’t human, Abby. +He ain’t no idea he’s wearing a hat.... The Deacon says their heads get +hotter with them rediculous bunnits on. He favors a green branch.” + +“Well,” said Mrs. Daggett, foiling a suspicious movement of Dolly’s +switching tail, “mebbe that’s so; I feel some cooler without a hat. But +’tain’t safe to let the sun beat right down, the way it does, without +something between. Then, you see, Henry’s got a lot o’ these horse hats +in the store to sell. So of course Dolly, he has to wear one.” + +Mrs. Whittle cautiously wiped the dust from her hard red cheeks. + +“My! if it ain’t hot,” she observed. “You’re so fleshy, Abby, I should +think you’d feel it something terrible.” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Daggett placidly. “Of course I’m fleshy, +Ann; I ain’t denying that; but so be you. You don’t want to think about +the heat so constant, Ann. Our thermometer fell down and got broke day +before yesterday, and Henry says ‘I’ll bring you up another from the +store this noon.’ But he forgot all about it. I didn’t say a word, and +that afternoon I set out on the porch under the vines and felt real +cool—not knowing it was so hot—when along comes Mrs. Fulsom, a-pantin’ +and fannin’ herself. ‘Good land, Abby!’ says she; ‘by the looks, a +body’d think you didn’t know the thermometer had risen to ninety-two +since eleven o’clock this morning.’ ‘I didn’t,’ I says placid; ‘our +thermometer’s broke.’ ‘Well, you’d better get another right off,’ says +she, wiping her face and groaning. ‘It’s an awful thing, weather like +this, not to have a thermometer right where you can see it.’ Henry +brought a real nice one home from the store that very night; and I hung +it out of sight behind the sitting room door; I told Henry I thought +’twould be safer there.” + +“That sounds exactly like you, Abby,” commented Mrs. Whittle +censoriously. “I should think Henry Daggett would be onto you, by now.” + +“Well, he ain’t,” said Mrs. Daggett, with mild triumph. “He thinks I’m +real cute, an’ like that. It does beat all, don’t it? how simple +menfolks are. I like ’em all the better for it, myself. If Henry’d been +as smart an’ penetrating as some folks, I don’t know as we’d have made +out so well together. Ain’t it lucky for me he ain’t?” + +Ann Whittle sniffed suspiciously. She never felt quite sure of Abby +Daggett: there was a lurking sparkle in her demure blue eyes and a +suspicious dimple near the corner of her mouth which ruffled Mrs. +Whittle’s temper, already strained to the breaking point by the heat +and dust of their midday journey. + +“Well, I never should have thought of such a thing, as going to Ladies’ +Aid in all this heat, if you hadn’t come after me, Abby,” she said +crossly. “I guess flannel petticoats for the heathen could have waited +a spell.” + +“Mebbe they could, Ann,” Mrs. Daggett said soothingly. “It’s kind of +hard to imagine a heathen wanting any sort of a petticoat this weather, +and I guess they don’t wear ’em before they’re converted; but of course +the missionaries try to teach ’em better. They go forth, so to say, +with the Bible in one hand and a petticoat in the other.” + +“I should hope so!” said Mrs. Whittle, with vague fervor. + +The sight of a toiling wagon supporting a huge barrel caused her to +change the subject rather abruptly. + +“That’s Jacob Merrill’s team,” she said, craning her neck. “What on +earth has he got in that hogs-head?” + +“He’s headed for Lydia Orr’s spring, I shouldn’t wonder,” surmised Mrs. +Daggett. “She told Henry to put up a notice in the post office that +folks could get all the water they wanted from her spring. It’s +running, same as usual; but, most everybody else’s has dried up.” + +“I think the minister ought to pray for rain regular from the pulpit on +Sunday,” Mrs. Whittle advanced. “I’m going to tell him so.” + +“She’s going to do a lot better than that,” said Mrs. Daggett.... “For +the land sake, Dolly! I ain’t urged you beyond your strength, and you +know it; but if you don’t g’long—” + +A vigorous slap of the reins conveyed Mrs. Daggett’s unuttered threat +to the reluctant animal, with the result that both ladies were suddenly +jerked backward by an unlooked for burst of speed. + +“I think that horse is dangerous, Abby,” remonstrated Mrs. Whittle, +indignantly, as she settled her veil. “You ought to be more careful how +you speak up to him.” + +“I’ll risk him!” said Mrs. Daggett with spirit. “It don’t help him none +to stop walking altogether and stand stock still in the middle of the +road, like he was a graven image. I’ll take the whip to him, if he +don’t look out!” + +Mrs. Whittle gathered her skirts about her, with an apprehensive glance +at the dusty road. + +“If you das’ to touch that whip, Abby Daggett,” said she, “I’ll git +right out o’ this buggy and walk, so there!” + +Mrs. Daggett’s broad bosom shook with merriment. + +“Fer pity sake, Ann, don’t be scared,” she exhorted her friend. “I +ain’t never touched Dolly with the whip; but he knows I mean what I say +when I speak to him like that! ...I started in to tell you about the +Red-Fox Spring, didn’t I?” + +Mrs. Whittle coughed dryly. + +“I wish I had a drink of it right now,” she said. “The idea of that Orr +girl watering her flowers and grass, when everybody else in town is +pretty near burnt up. Why, we ain’t had water enough in our cistern to +do the regular wash fer two weeks. I said to Joe and the Deacon today: +‘You can wear them shirts another day, for I don’t know where on earth +you’ll get clean ones.’” + +“There ain’t nothing selfish about Lydia Orr,” proclaimed Mrs. Daggett +joyfully. “What _do_ you think she’s going to do now?” + +“How should I know?” + +Mrs. Whittle’s tone implied a jaded indifference to the doings of any +one outside of her own immediate family circle. + +“She’s going to have the Red-Fox piped down to the village,” said Mrs. +Daggett. “She’s had a man from Boston to look at it; and he says +there’s water enough up there in the mountains to supply two or three +towns the size of Brookville. She’s going to have a reservoir: and +anybody that’s a mind to can pipe it right into their kitchens.” + +Mrs. Whittle turned her veiled head to stare incredulously at her +companion. + +“Well, I declare!” she said; “that girl certainly does like to make a +show of her money; don’t she? If ’tain’t one thing it’s another. How +did a girl like her come by all that money, I’d like to know?” + +“I don’t see as that’s any of our particular affairs,” objected Mrs. +Daggett warmly. “Think of havin’ nice cool spring water, just by +turning a faucet. We’re going to have it in our house. And Henry says +mebbe he’ll put in a tap and a drain-pipe upstairs. It’d save a lot o’ +steps.” + +“Huh! like enough you’ll be talkin’ about a regular nickel-plated +bathroom like hers, next,” suspicioned Mrs. Whittle. “The Deacon says +he did his best to talk her out of it; but she stuck right to it. And +one wa’n’t enough, at that. She’s got three of ’em in that house. +That’s worse’n Andrew Bolton.” + +“Do you mean _worse_, Ann Whittle, or do you mean _better?_ A nice +white bathtub is a means o’ grace, I think!” + +“I mean what I said, Abby; and you hadn’t ought to talk like that. It’s +downright sinful. _Means o’ grace! a bathtub!_ Well, I never!” + +The ladies of the Aid Society were already convened in Mrs. Dix’s front +parlor, a large square room, filled with the cool green light from a +yard full of trees, whose deep-thrust roots defied the drought. Ellen +Dix had just brought in a glass pitcher, its frosted sides proclaiming +its cool contents, when the late comers arrived. + +“Yes,” Mrs. Dix was saying, “Miss Orr sent over a big piece of ice this +morning and she squeezed out juice of I don’t know how many lemons. Jim +Dodge brought ’em here in the auto; and she told him to go around and +gather up all the ladies that didn’t have conveyances of their own.” + +“And that’s how I came to be here,” said Mrs. Mixter. “Our horse has +gone lame.” + +“Well now, wa’n’t that lovely?” crowed Mrs. Daggett, cooling her +flushed face with slow sweeps of the big turkey-feather fan Mrs. Dix +handed her. “Ain’t she just the sweetest girl—always thinking of other +folks! I never see anything like her.” + +A subtle expression of reserve crept over the faces of the attentive +women. Mrs. Mixter tasted the contents of her glass critically. + +“I don’t know,” she said dryly, as if the lemonade had failed to cool +her parched throat, “that depends on how you look at it.” + +Mrs. Whittle gave vent to a cackle of rather discordant laughter. + +“That’s just what I was telling Abby on the way over,” she said. “Once +in a while you do run across a person that’s bound to make a show of +their money.” + +Mrs. Solomon Black, in a green and white sprigged muslin dress, her +water-waves unusually crisp and conspicuous, bit off a length of thread +with a meditative air. + +“Well,” said she, “that girl lived in my house, off an’ on, for more +than two months. I can’t say as I think she’s the kind that wants to +show off.” + +Fifteen needles paused in their busy activities, and twice as many eyes +were focused upon Mrs. Solomon Black. That lady sustained the combined +attack with studied calm. She even smiled, as she jerked her thread +smartly through a breadth of red flannel. + +“I s’pose you knew a lot more about her in the beginning than we did,” +said Mrs. Dodge, in a slightly offended tone. + +“You must have known something about her, Phoebe,” put in Mrs. Fulsom. +“I don’t care what anybody says to the contrary, there’s something +queer in a young girl, like her, coming to a strange place, like +Brookville, and doing all the things she’s done. It ain’t natural: and +that’s what I told the Judge when he was considering the new +waterworks. There’s a great deal of money to be made on waterworks, the +Judge says.” + +The eyes were now focused upon Mrs. Fulsom. + +“Well, I can tell you, she ain’t looking to make money out of +Brookville,” said Abby Daggett, laying down her fan and taking an +unfinished red flannel petticoat from the basket on the table. “Henry +knows all about her plans, and he says it’s the grandest idea! The +water’s going to be piped down from the mountain right to our doors—an’ +it’ll be just as free as the Water of Life to anybody that’ll take it.” + +“Yes; but who’s going to pay for digging up the streets and putting ’em +back?” piped up an anxious voice from a corner. + +“We’d ought to, if she does the rest,” said Mrs. Daggett; “but Henry +says—” + +“You can be mighty sure there’s a come-back in it somewhere,” was Mrs. +Whittle’s opinion. “The Deacon says he don’t know whether to vote for +it or not. We’ll have rain before long; and these droughts don’t come +every summer.” + +Ellen Dix and Fanny Dodge were sitting outside on the porch. Both girls +were sewing heart-shaped pieces of white cloth upon squares of +turkey-red calico. + +“Isn’t it funny nobody seems to like her?” murmured Ellen, tossing her +head. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they wouldn’t let her bring the +water in, for all she says she’ll pay for everything except putting it +in the houses.” + +Fanny gazed at the white heart in the middle of the red square. + +“It’s awfully hard to sew these hearts on without puckering,” she said. + +“Fan,” said Ellen cautiously, “does the minister go there much now?” + +Fanny compressed her lips. + +“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied, her eyes and fingers busy with an +unruly heart, which declined to adjust itself to requirements. “What +are they going to do with this silly patchwork, anyway?” + +“Make an autograph quilt for the minister’s birthday; didn’t you know?” + +Fanny dropped her unfinished work. + +“I never heard of anything so silly!” she said sharply. + +“Everybody is to write their names in pencil on these hearts,” pursued +Ellen mischievously; “then they’re to be done in tracing stitch in red +cotton. In the middle of the quilt is to be a big white square, with a +large red heart in it; that’s supposed to be Wesley Elliot’s. It’s to +have his monogram in stuffed letters, in the middle of it. Lois +Daggett’s doing that now. I think it’s a lovely idea—so romantic, you +know.” + +Fanny did not appear to be listening; her pretty white forehead wore a +frowning look. + +“Ellen,” she said abruptly, “do you ever see anything of Jim nowadays?” + +“Oh! so you thought you’d pay me back, did you?” cried Ellen angrily. +“I never said I cared a rap for Jim Dodge; but you told me a whole lot +about Wesley Elliot: don’t you remember that night we walked home from +the fair, and you—” + +Fanny suddenly put her hand over her friend’s. + +“Please don’t talk so loud, Ellen; somebody will be sure to hear. I’d +forgotten what you said—truly, I had. But Jim—” + +“Well?” interrogated Ellen impatiently, arching her slender black +brows. + +“Let’s walk down in the orchard,” proposed Fanny. “Somebody else can +work on these silly old hearts, if they want to. My needle sticks so I +can’t sew, anyway.” + +“I’ve got to help mother cut the cake, in a minute,” objected Ellen. + +But she stepped down on the parched grass and the two friends were soon +strolling among the fallen fruit of a big sweet apple tree behind the +house, their arms twined about each other’s waists, their pretty heads +bent close together. + + + + +Chapter XVI. + + +“The reason I spoke to you about Jim just now,” said Fanny, “was +because he’s been acting awfully queer lately. I thought perhaps you +knew—I know he likes you better than any of the other girls. He says +you have some sense, and the others haven’t.” + +“I guess that must have been before Lydia Orr came to Brookville,” said +Ellen, in a hard, sweet voice. + +“Yes; it was,” admitted Fanny reluctantly. “Everything seems to be +different since then.” + +“What has Jim been doing that’s any queerer than usual?” inquired +Ellen, with some asperity. + +Fanny hesitated. + +“You won’t tell?” + +“Of course not, if it’s a secret.” + +“Cross your heart an’ hope t’ die?” quoted Fanny from their childhood +days. + +Ellen giggled. + +“Cross m’ heart an’ hope t’ die,” she repeated. + +“Well, Jim’s been off on some sort of a trip,” said Fanny. + +“I don’t see anything so very queer about that.” + +“Wait till I tell you— You must be sure and not breathe a word, even to +your mother; you won’t, will you?” + +“Fan, you make me mad! Didn’t I just say I wouldn’t?” + +“Well, then; he went with _her_ in the auto; they started about five +o’clock in the morning, and Jim didn’t get home till after twelve that +night.” + +Ellen laughed, with studied indifference. + +“Pity they couldn’t have asked us to go along,” she said. “I’m sure the +car’s plenty big enough.” + +“I don’t think it was just for fun,” said Fanny. + +“You don’t? What for, then?” + +“I asked Jim, and he wouldn’t tell me.” + +“When did you ask him?” + +“The morning they went. I came down about half past four: mother +doesn’t get up as early as that, we haven’t much milk to look after +now; but I wake up awfully early sometimes, and I’d rather be doing +something than lying there wide awake.” + +Ellen squeezed Fanny’s arm sympathetically. She herself had lost no +moments of healthy sleep over Jim Dodge’s fancied defection; but she +enjoyed imagining herself to be involved in a passionate romance. + +“Isn’t it _awful_ to lie awake and think—_and think_, and not be able +to do a single thing!” she said, with a tragic gesture. + +Fanny bent down to look into Ellen’s pretty face. + +“Why, Ellen,” she said, “is it as bad as that? I didn’t suppose you +really cared.” + +She clasped Ellen’s slender waist closer and kissed her fervently. + +Ellen coaxed two shining tears into sparkling prominence on her long +lashes. + +“Oh, don’t mind me, Fan,” she murmured; “but I _can_ sympathize with +you, dear. I know _exactly_ how you feel—and to think it’s the same +girl!” + +Ellen giggled light-heartedly: + +“Anyway, she can’t marry both of them,” she finished. + +Fanny was looking away through the boles of the gnarled old trees, her +face grave and preoccupied. + +“Perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you,” she said. + +“Why, you haven’t told me anything, yet,” protested Ellen. “You’re the +funniest girl, Fan! I don’t believe you know how to—really confide in +anybody. If you’d tell me more how you feel about _him_, you wouldn’t +care half so much.” + +Fanny winced perceptibly. She could not bear to speak of the +secret—which indeed appeared to be no secret—she strove daily to bury +under a mountain of hard work, but which seemed possessed of mysterious +powers of resurrection in the dark hours between sunset and sunrise. + +“But there’s nothing to—to talk about, Ellen,” she said; and in spite +of herself her voice sounded cold, almost menacing. + +“Oh, very well, if you feel that way,” retorted Ellen. “But I can tell +you one thing—or, I _might_ tell you something; but I guess I won’t.” + +“Please, Ellen,—if it’s about—” + +“Well, it is.” + +Fanny’s eyes pleaded hungrily with the naughty Ellen. + +“You haven’t finished your account of that interesting pleasure +excursion of Jim’s and Miss Orr’s,” said Ellen. “Isn’t it lovely Jim +can drive her car? Is he going to be her regular chauffeur? And do you +get an occasional joy-ride?” + +“Of course not,” Fanny said indignantly. “Oh, Ellen, how can you go on +like that! I’m sure you don’t care a bit about Jim or me, either.” + +“I do!” declared Ellen. “I love you with all my heart, Fan; but I don’t +know about Jim. I—I might have—you know; but if he’s crazy over that +Orr girl, what’s the use? There are other men, just as good-looking as +Jim Dodge and not half so sarcastic and disagreeable.” + +“Jim can be disagreeable, if he wants to,” conceded Jim’s sister. “When +I asked him where he was going with the car so early in the morning—you +know he’s been bringing the car home nights so as to clean it and fix +the engine, till she can get somebody—I was surprised to find him +putting in oil and tightening up screws and things, when it was +scarcely daylight; and I said so. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. ‘You +just ’tend to your own knitting, Fan,’ was all he said; ‘perhaps you’ll +know some day; and then again, perhaps you won’t.’” + +“And didn’t you find out?” cried Ellen, her dark eyes alight with +curiosity. “If that doesn’t sound exactly like Jim Dodge! But you said +you heard him when he came in that night; didn’t he tell you anything +then?—You don’t think they ran off to get married? Oh, Fan!” + +“Of course not, you goose! Do you suppose he’d have come back home +alone, if it had been anything like that?” + +Ellen heaved a sigh of exaggerated relief. + +“‘Be still, my heart’!” she murmured. + +“No; they went to get somebody from somewhere,” pursued Fanny. + +“To get somebody from somewhere,” repeated Ellen impatiently. “How +thrilling! Who do you suppose it was?” + +Fanny shook her head: + +“I haven’t the slightest idea.” + +“How perfectly funny! ...Is the somebody there, now?” + +“I don’t know. Jim won’t tell me a thing that goes on there. He says if +there’s anything on top of the earth he absolutely despises it’s a +gossiping man. He says a gossiping woman is a creation of God—must be, +there’s so many of ’em; but a gossiping man—he can’t find any word in +the dictionary mean enough for that sort of a low-down skunk.” + +Ellen burst into hysterical laughter. + +“What an idea!” she gasped. “Oh, but he’s almost too sweet to live, +Fan. Somebody ought to take him down a peg or two. Fan, if he proposes +to that girl, I hope she won’t have him. ’Twould serve him right!” + +“Perhaps she won’t marry anybody around here,” mused Fanny. “Did you +ever notice she wears a thin gold chain around her neck, Ellen?” + +Ellen nodded. + +“Perhaps there’s a picture of somebody on it.” + +“I shouldn’t wonder.” + +Ellen impatiently kicked a big apple out of her way, to the manifest +discomfiture of two or three drunken wasps who were battening on the +sweet juices. + +“I’ve got to go back to the house,” she said. “Mother’ll be looking for +me.” + +“But, Ellen—” + +“Well?” + +“You said you knew something—” + +Ellen yawned. + +“Did I?” + +“You know you did, Ellen! Please—” + +“’Twasn’t much.” + +“What was it?” + +“Oh, nothing, only I met the minister coming out of Lydia Orr’s house +one day awhile ago, and he was walking along as if he’d been sent for— +Never even saw me. I had a good mind to speak to him, anyway; but +before I could think of anything cute to say he’d gone by—two-forty on +a plank road!” + +Fanny was silent. She was wishing she had not asked Ellen to tell. Then +instantly her mind began to examine this new aspect of her problem. + +“He didn’t look so awfully pleased and happy,” Ellen went on, “his head +was down—so, and he was just scorching up the road. Perhaps they’d been +having a scrap.” + +“Oh, no!” burst from Fanny’s lips. “It wasn’t that.” + +“Why, what do you know about Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr?” inquired +Ellen vindictively. “You’re a whole lot like Jim—as close-mouthed as a +molasses jug, when you don’t happen to feel like talking.... It isn’t +fair,” she went on crossly. “I tell you everything—every single thing; +and you just take it all in without winking an eyelash. It isn’t fair!” + +“Oh, Ellen, please don’t—I can’t bear it from you!” + +Fanny’s proud head drooped to her friend’s shoulder, a stifled sob +escaped her. + +“There now, Fan; I didn’t mean a word of it! I’m sorry I told you about +him—only I thought he looked so kind of cut up over something that +maybe— Honest, Fan, I don’t believe he likes her.” + +“You don’t know,” murmured Fanny, wiping her wet eyes. “I didn’t tell +you she came to see me.” + +“She did!” + +“Yes; it was after we had all been there, and mother was going on so +about the furniture. It all seemed so mean and sordid to me, as if we +were trying to—well, you know.” + +Ellen nodded: + +“Of course I do. That’s why you wouldn’t let her have your furniture. I +gloried in your spunk, Fan.” + +“But I did let her have it, Ellen.” + +“You did? Well!” + +“I’ll tell you how it happened. Mother’d gone down to the village, and +Jim was off somewhere—he’s never in the house day-times any more; I’d +been working on the new curtains all day, and I was just putting them +up in the parlor, when she came.... Ellen, sometimes I think perhaps we +don’t understand that girl. She was just as sweet— If it wasn’t for— If +I hadn’t hardened my heart against her almost the first thing, you +know, I don’t believe I could help loving her.” + +“Fanny!” cried Ellen protestingly. “She certainly is a soft-soap +artist. My mother says she is so refined; and Mrs. Daggett is always +chanting her praises.” + +“Think of all she’s done for the village,” urged Fanny. “I want to be +just, even if—” + +“Well, I don’t!” cried Ellen. “I just enjoy being real spiteful +sometimes—especially when another girl gobbles all the men in sight; +and I know I’m prettier than she is. It’s just because she’s new +and—and stylish and rich. What made you give in about your furniture, +Fan?” + +“Because I—” + +Fanny stopped short, puckering her forehead. + +“I don’t know whether I can explain it, Ellen; but I notice it every +time I am with her. There’s something—” + +“Good gracious, Fan! She must have hypnotized you.” + +“Be quiet, Ellen, I’m trying to think just how it happened. She didn’t +say so very much—just sat down and watched me, while I sewed rings on +the curtains. But the first thing I knew, I piped up and said: ‘Do you +really want that old furniture of mine so much?’ And she said— Well, +no matter what she said; it was more the way she looked. I guess I’d +have given her the eyes out of my head, or any old thing.” + +“That’s just what I told you,” interrupted Ellen. “There are people +like that. Don’t you remember that horrid old what’s-his-name in +‘Trilby’?” + +“Don’t be silly, Ellen,” said Fanny rebukingly. “Well, I took her up to +my room and showed her my bed and bureau and washstand. There were some +chairs, too; mother got them all for my room at that old auction we’ve +heard so much about; I was just a baby then. I told her about it. She +sat down in my rocking-chair by the window and just looked at the +things, without saying a word, at first. After a while, she said: ‘Your +mother used to come in and tuck the blankets around you nice and warm +in the night; didn’t she?’” + +“‘Why, I suppose she did,’ I told her. ‘Mother’s room is right next to +mine.’ ... Ellen, there was a look in her eyes—I can’t tell you about +it—you wouldn’t understand. And, anyway, I didn’t care a bit about the +furniture. ‘You can have it,’ I said. ‘I don’t want it, and I don’t see +why you do; it isn’t pretty any more.’ I thought she was going to cry, +for a minute. Then such a soft gladness came over her face. She came up +to me and took both my hands in hers; but all she said was ‘Thank +you.’” + +“And did she pay you a whole lot for it?” inquired Ellen sordidly. + +“I didn’t think anything about that part of it,” said Fanny. “Jim +carried it all over the next day, with a lot of old stuff mother had. +Jim says she’s had a man from Grenoble working in the barn for weeks +and weeks, putting everything in order. My old set was painted over, +with all the little garlands and blue ribbons, like new.” + +“But how much—” persisted Ellen. “She must have paid you a lot for it.” + +“I didn’t ask mother,” said Fanny. “I didn’t want to know. I’ve got a +new set; it’s real pretty. You must come over and see my room, now it’s +all finished.” + +What Fanny did not tell Ellen was that after Lydia’s departure she had +unexpectedly come upon the photograph of the picnic group under a book +on her table. The faded picture with its penciled words had meant much +to Fanny. She had not forgotten, she told herself, she could never +forget, that day in June, before the unlooked-for arrival of the +strange girl, whose coming had changed everything. Once more she lived +over in imagination that perfect day, with its white clouds floating +high in the blue, and the breath of clover on the wind. She and Wesley +Elliot had gone quietly away into the woods after the boisterous +merriment of the picnic luncheon. + +“It’s safe enough, as long as we follow the stream,” Fanny had assured +him, piloting the way over fallen logs and through dense thickets of +pine and laurel, further and further away from the sounds of shrill +laughter and the smoky smell of the camp fire, where the girls were +still busy toasting marshmallows on long sticks for the youths who +hovered in the rear. + +The minister had expressed a keen desire to hear the rare notes of the +hermit thrush; and this romantic quest led them deep into the forest. +The girl paused at last on the brink of a pool, where they could see +the shadowy forms of brook trout gliding through the clear, cold water. + +“If we are quiet and listen,” she told him, “I think we shall hear the +hermit.” + +On a carpet of moss, thicker and softer than a deep-piled rug, they sat +down. Not a sound broke the stillness but the gurgle of water and the +soft soughing of the wind through great tree tops. The minister bared +his head, as if aware of the holy spirit of solitude in the place. +Neither spoke nor stirred; but the girl’s heart beat loud—so loud she +feared he might hear, and drew her little cape closer above her breast. +Then all at once, ringing down the somber aisles of the forest came the +song of the solitary bird, exquisite, lonely, filled with an +indescribable, yearning sweetness. The man’s eloquent eyes met her own +in a long look. + +“Wonderful!” he murmured. + +His hand sought and closed upon hers for an instant. Then without +further speech they returned to the picnickers. Someone—she thought it +was Joyce Fulsom—snapped the joyous group at the moment of the +departure. It had been a week later, that he had written the words +“Lest we forget”—with a look and smile which set the girl’s pulses +fluttering. But that was in June. Now it was September. Fanny, crouched +by the window where Lydia Orr had been that afternoon, stared coldly at +the picture. It was downright silly to have carried it about with her. +She had lost it somewhere—pulling out her handkerchief, perhaps. Had +Lydia Orr found and brought it back? She ardently wished she knew; but +in the meanwhile— + +She tore the picture deliberately across, thereby accomplishing +unhindered what Wesley Elliot had attempted several days before; then +she burned the fragments in the quick spurt of a lighted match.... Lest +we forget, indeed! + + + + +Chapter XVII. + + +The day after the sewing society Ellen Dix went up to her room, after +hurriedly washing the dinner dishes. It was still hot, but a vague haze +had crept across the brazen sky since morning. Ellen’s room looked out +into cool green depths of trees, so that on a cloudy day it was almost +too dark to examine the contents of the closet opposite its two east +windows. + +It was a pretty room, freshly papered and painted, as were many rooms +in Brookville since the sale of the old Bolton properties. Nearly every +one had scrimped and saved and gone without so long that the sudden +influx of money into empty pockets had acted like wine in a hungry +stomach. Henry Daggett had thrice replenished his stock of wall papers; +window shades and curtaining by the yard had been in constant demand +for weeks; bright colored chintzes and gay flowered cretonnes were +apparently a prime necessity in many households. As for paper hangers +and painters, few awaited their unhurried movements. It was easy for +anybody with energy and common sense to wield a paintbrush; and old +paper could be scraped off and fresh strips applied by a simple +application of flour paste and the fundamental laws of physics. One +improvement clamors loudly for another, and money was still coming in +from the most unexpected sources, so new furniture was bought to take +the place of unprized chairs and tables long ago salvaged from the +Bolton wreck. And since Mrs. Deacon Whittle’s dream parlor, with its +marble-tops and plush-upholstered furniture, had become a solid +reality, other parlors burgeoned forth in multi-colored magnificence. +Scraggy old shrubs were trimmed; grass was cut in unkempt dooryards; +flowers were planted—and all because of the lavish display of such +improvements at Bolton House, as “that queer Orr girl” persisted in +calling it; thereby flying in the face of public opinion and local +prejudice in a way which soured the milk of human kindness before the +cream of gratitude could rise. + +Everybody agreed that there was something mysterious, if not entirely +unnatural in the conduct of the young woman. Nobody likes unsolved +riddles for long. The moment or century of suspense may prove +interesting—even exciting; but human intelligence resents the Sphynx. + +Ellen Dix was intensely human. She was, moreover, jealous—or supposed +she was, which often amounts to the same thing. And because of this she +was looking over the dresses, hanging on pegs along her closet wall, +with a demurely puckered brow. The pink muslin was becoming, but +old-fashioned; the pale yellow trimmed with black velvet might get +soiled with the dust, and she wasn’t sure it would wash. She finally +selected a white dress of a new and becoming style, attired in which +she presently stood before her mirror adjusting a plain Panama hat, +trimmed simply with a black ribbon. Not for nothing had Ellen used her +handsome dark eyes. She set the hat over her black hair at exactly the +right angle, skewering it securely in place with two silver pins, also +severely simple in their style and quite unlike the glittering +rhinestone variety offered for sale in Henry Daggett’s general store. + +“I’m going out for a while, mother,” she said, as she passed the room +where Mrs. Dix was placidly sewing carpet rags out of materials +prodigiously increased of late, since both women had been able to +afford several new dresses. + +“Going to Fanny’s?” inquired Mrs. Dix.... “Seems to me you’re starting +out pretty early, dear, in all this heat. If you’ll wait till sundown, +I’ll go with you. I haven’t seen their parlor since they got the new +curtains up.” + +“I’m not going to Fanny’s, right off,” said Ellen evasively. “Maybe +I’ll stop on the way back, though. ’Tisn’t very hot; it’s clouded up +some.” + +“Better taken an umbrella,” her mother sent after her. “We might get a +thunder storm along towards four o’clock. My shoulder’s been paining me +all the morning.” + +But Ellen had already passed out of hearing, her fresh skirts held well +away from the dusty wayside weeds. + +She was going, with intentions undefined, to see Lydia Orr. Perhaps +(she was thinking) she might see Jim Dodge. Anyway, she wanted to go to +Bolton House. She would find out for herself wherein lay the curious +fascination of which Fanny had spoken. She was surprised at Fanny for +so easily giving in about the furniture. Secretly, she considered +herself to be possibly a bit shrewder than Fanny. In reality she was +not as easily influenced, and slower at forming conclusions. She +possessed a mind of more scope. + +Ellen walked along, setting her pointed feet down very carefully so as +not to raise the dust and soil her nice skirts. She was a dainty +creature. When she reached the hedge which marked the beginning of the +Bolton estate, she started, not violently, that was not her way, but +anybody is more startled at the sudden glimpse of a figure at complete +rest, almost rigidity, than of a figure in motion. Had the old man whom +Ellen saw been walking along toward her, she would not have started at +all. She might have glanced at him with passing curiosity, since he was +a stranger in Brookville, then that would have been the end of it. But +this old man, standing as firmly fixed as a statue against the hedge, +startled the girl. He was rather a handsome old man, but there was +something peculiar about him. For one thing he was better dressed than +old men in Brookville generally were. He wore a light Palm Beach cloth +suit, possibly too young for him, also a Panama hat. He did not look +altogether tidy. He did not wear his up-to-date clothes very well. He +had a rumpled appearance. He was very pale almost with the paleness of +wax. He did not stand strongly, but rested his weight first on one +foot, then on the other. Ellen recovered her composure, but as she was +passing, he spoke suddenly. His tone was eager and pitiful. “Why Ann +Eliza Dix,” he said. “How do you do? You are not going to pass without +speaking to me?” + +“My name is Dix, but not Ann Eliza,” said Ellen politely; “my name is +Ellen.” + +“You are Cephas Dix’s sister, Ann Eliza,” insisted the old man. His +eyes looked suddenly tearful. “I know I am right,” he said. “You are +Ann Eliza Dix.” + +The girl felt a sudden pity. Her Aunt Ann Eliza Dix had been lying in +her grave for ten years, but she could not contradict the poor man. “Of +course,” she said. “How do you do?” + +The old man’s face lit up. “I knew I was right,” he said. “I forget, +you see, sometimes, but this time I was sure. How are you, Ann Eliza?” + +“Very well, thank you.” + +“How is Cephas?” + +“He is well, too.” + +“And your father?” + +Ellen shivered a little. It was rather bewildering. This strange old +man must mean her grandfather, who had died before her Aunt Ann Eliza. +She replied faintly that he was well, and hoped, with a qualm of +ghastly mirth, that she was speaking the truth. Ellen’s grandfather had +not been exactly a godly man, and the family seldom mentioned him. + +“He means well, Ann Eliza, if sometimes you don’t exactly like the way +he does,” said the living old man, excusing the dead one for the faults +of his life. + +“I know he does,” said Ellen. The desire to laugh grew upon her. + +She was relieved when the stranger changed the subject. She felt that +she would become hysterical if this forcible resurrection of her dead +relatives continued. + +“Do you like an automobile?” asked the old man. + +“I don’t know, I never had one.” + +The stranger looked at her confidingly. “My daughter has one,” he said, +“and I know she bought it for me, and she has me taken out in it, but I +am afraid. It goes too fast. I can’t get over being afraid. But you +won’t tell her, will you, Ann Eliza?” + +“Of course I won’t.” + +Ellen continued to gaze at him, but she did not speak. + +“Let me see, what is your name, my dear?” the man went on. He was +leaning on his stick, and Ellen noticed that he trembled slightly, as +though with weakness. He breathed hard. The veinous hands folded on top +of the stick were almost as white as his ears. + +“My name is Ellen Dix,” she said. + +“Dix—Dix?” repeated the man. “Why, I know that name, certainly, of +course! You must be the daughter of Cephas Dix. Odd name, Cephas, eh?” + +Ellen nodded, her eyes still busy with the details of the stranger’s +appearance. She was sure she had never seen him before, yet he knew her +father’s name. + +“My father has been dead a long time,” she said; “ever since I was a +little girl.” + +The man appeared singularly disquieted by this intelligence. “I hadn’t +heard that,” he said. “Dead—a long time? Well!” + +He scowled, flourishing his stick as if to pass on; then settled to his +former posture, his pale hands folded on its handsome gold top. + +“Cephas Dix wasn’t an old man,” he muttered, as if talking to himself. +“Not old. He should be hale and hearty, living in this good country +air. Wonderful air this, my dear.” + +And he drew a deep breath, his wandering gaze returning swiftly to the +girl’s face. + +“I was just walking out,” he said, nodding briskly. “Great treat to be +able to walk out. I shall walk out whenever I like. Don’t care for +automobiles—get you over the road too fast. No, no; I won’t go out in +the automobile, unless I feel like it! No, I won’t; and there’s an end +of it!” + +He brought his stick down heavily in the dust, as if emphasizing this +statement. + +“Guess your father left you pretty well off, eh, my dear?” he went on +presently. “Glad to see you looking so fresh and neat. Always like to +see a pretty girl well dressed.” + +The man’s eyes, extraordinarily bright and keen, roved nimbly over her +face and figure. + +“No, he did not,” replied Ellen. “My father used to be rich,” she went +on. “I’ve heard mother tell about it hundreds of times. We had horses +and a carriage and plenty of money; but when the bank went to pieces my +father lost everything. Then he died.” + +The man was peering at her from under his shaggy gray brows. + +“But not because the bank failed? Surely not because he lost his money? +That sort of thing doesn’t kill a man, my dear. No, no!” + +“It did,” declared Ellen firmly. + +The man at once seemed to grow smaller; to huddle together in his +clothes. He muttered something unintelligible, then turned squarely +about, so that Ellen could see only his hunched back and the glistening +white hair cut close behind his waxen ears. + +The girl walked thoughtfully on, but when she paused to look back she +saw that he had resumed his slow walk in the opposite direction, his +stick describing odd flourishes in the air, as before. + +When she reached Bolton House she was ushered into a beautiful parlor +by a prim maid in a frilled cap and apron. The maid presented to her +attention a small silver tray, and Ellen, blushing uncomfortably +because she had no card, asked for Miss Orr. + +Soon the frilled maid reappeared. “I’m sorry, Miss,” she said, “I +thought Miss Lydia was at home, but I can’t find her anywheres about.” + +She eyed Ellen’s trim figure doubtfully. “If there was any message—” + +“No,” said Ellen. “I only came to call.” + +“I’m real sorry, Miss,” repeated the maid. “Miss Lydia’ll be sorry, +too. Who shall I say, please?” + +“Miss Dix,” replied Ellen. She walked past the maid, who held the door +wide for her exit. Then she paused. A surprising sight met her eyes. +Lydia Orr, hatless, flushed as if by rapid flight, was just reaching +the steps, convoying the strange old man Ellen had met on the road a +short time before. + +The maid at her back gave a little cry. Ellen stood staring. So this +was the person Jim Dodge had gone to fetch from somewhere! + +“But it isn’t too warm for me to be walking out to take the air,” she +heard, in the heavy mumble of the man’s voice. “I don’t like being +watched, Lydia; and I won’t stand it, either. I might as well be—” + +Lydia interrupted him with a sharp exclamation. She had caught sight of +Ellen Dix standing under the deep portico, the scared face of the maid +looking over her shoulder. + +Ellen’s face crimsoned slowly. All at once she felt unaccountably sorry +and ashamed. She wished she had not come. She felt that she wanted +nothing so much as to hurry swiftly away. + +But Lydia Orr, still holding the strange old man by the arm, was +already coming up the steps. + +“I’ll not go in the automobile, child,” he repeated, with an obstinate +flourish of his stick. “I don’t like to ride so fast. I want to see +things. I want—” + +He stopped short, his mouth gaping, his eyes staring at Ellen. + +“That girl!” he almost shouted. “She told me—I don’t want her here.... +Go away, girl, you make my head hurt!” + +Lydia flashed a beseeching look at Ellen, as she led the old man past. + +“Please come in,” she said; “I shall be at liberty in just a moment.... +Come, father!” + +Ellen hesitated. + +“Perhaps I’d better not, today,” she murmured, and slowly descended the +steps. + +The discreet maid closed the door behind her. + + + + +Chapter XVIII. + + +Ellen did not at once return home. She walked on reflecting. So the old +man was Lydia Orr’s father! And she was the first to know it! + +The girl had never spoken of her father, Ellen was sure. Had she done +so, Mrs. Solomon Black would certainly have told Mrs. Whittle, and Mrs. +Whittle would have informed Mrs. Daggett, and thence, by way of Mrs. +Dodge and Fanny, the news would long ago have reached Ellen and her +mother. + +Before she had covered a quarter of a mile of the dusty road, Ellen +heard the muffled roar of an over-taking motor car. She glanced up, +startled and half choked with the enveloping cloud of dust. Jim Dodge +was driving the car. He slowed down and stopped. + +“Hello, Ellen. Going down to the village? Get in and I’ll take you +along,” he called out. + +“All right,” said Ellen, jumping in. + +“I haven’t seen you for an age, Jim,” said Ellen after awhile. + +The young man laughed. “Does it seem that long to you, Ellen?” + +“No, why should it?” she returned. + +“I say, Ellen,” said Jim, “I saw you when you came out of Bolton House +just now.” + +“Did you?” + +“Yes.” He looked sharply at Ellen, who smiled evasively. + +“I was going to call,” she said with an innocent air, “but Miss Orr +had—a visitor.” + +“Look here, Ellen; don’t let’s beat about the bush. Nobody knows he’s +there, yet, except myself and—you. You met him on the road; didn’t +you?” + +“Yes,” said Ellen, “I met him on the road.” + +“Did he talk to you?” + +“He asked me what my name was. He’s crazy, isn’t he, Jim?” + +The young man frowned thoughtfully at his steering wheel. + +“Not exactly,” he said, after a pause. “He’s been sick a long time and +his mind is—well, I think it has been somewhat affected. Did he— He +didn’t talk to you about himself, did he?” + +“What do you want to know for?” + +“Oh, he appeared rather excited, and—” + +“Yes; I noticed that.” She laughed mischievously. + +Jim frowned. “Come, Ellen, quit this nonsense! What did he say to you?” + +“If you mean Mr. Orr—” + +He turned his eyes from the road to stare at her for an instant. + +“Did he tell you his name was Orr?” he asked sharply. + +It was Ellen’s turn to stare. + +“Why, if he is Miss Orr’s father—” she began. + +“Oh, of course,” said Jim hurriedly. “I was just wondering if he had +introduced himself.” + +Ellen was silent. She was convinced that there was some mystery about +the pale old man. + +“He said a lot of awfully queer things to me,” she admitted, after a +pause during which Jim turned the car into a side road.... “I thought +you were going to the village.” + +“This will take us to the village—give you a longer ride, Ellen. I’ll +take you home afterwards.” + +“After what?” + +“Why, after we’ve got the mail—or whatever you want.” + +“Don’t you think Miss Orr and that queer old Mr. —— If his name isn’t +Orr, Jim, what is it?” She shot a quick glance at him. + +“Good Lord!” muttered Jim profanely. + +He drew the car up at the side of the road and stopped it. + +“What are you going to do?” inquired Ellen, in some alarm. “Won’t it +go?” + +“When I get ready,” said Jim. + +He turned and faced her squarely: + +“We’ll have this out, before we go a foot further! I won’t have the +whole town talking,” he said savagely. + +Ellen said nothing. She was rather angry. + +“The devil!” cried Jim Dodge. “What’s the matter with you, Ellen?” + +“With me?” she repeated. + +“Yes. Why can’t you talk?” + +She shrugged her shoulders. “I want to go home,” she said. + +He seized her roughly by the wrist. “Ellen,” he said, “I believe you +know more than you are willing to tell.” He stared down into her eyes. +“What did he say to you, anyway?” + +“Who?” + +“You know well enough. The old man. Lord, what a mess!” + +“Please let me go, Jim,” said Ellen. “Now look here, I know absolutely +nothing except what I have told you, and I want to go home.” + +_“Ellen!”_ + +“Well?” + +“Can you keep a secret?” + +“Of course I can, Jim!” She met his dark gaze squarely. + +“Well, rather than have you spreading a piece of damnable gossip over +the village— Of course you would have told everybody.” + +“You mean about meeting the old man? But won’t everybody know? If he +goes out and talks to people as he did to me?” + +“You haven’t told me what he said.” + +Ellen raised her brows with a mischievous air. + +“I didn’t care to spread any—what sort of gossip did you say, Jim?” + +“Confound it! I didn’t mean that.” + +“Of course I could see he was some one who used to live here,” she went +on. “He knew father.” + +Jim had thrust his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets. He uttered an +impatient ejaculation. + +“And he said he should go out whenever he felt like it. He doesn’t like +the automobile.” + +“Oh, it’s an impossible proposition. I see that plainly enough!” Jim +said, as if to himself. “But it seems a pity—” + +He appeared to plunge into profound meditation. + +“I say, Ellen, you like her; don’t you? ...Don’t see how you can help +it. She’s a wonder!” + +“Who? Miss Orr?” + +“Of course! Say, Ellen, if you knew what that girl has gone through, +without a murmur; and now I’m afraid— By George! we ought to spare +her.” + +“We?” + +“Yes; you and I. You can do a lot to help, Ellen, if you will. That old +man you saw is sick, hardly sane. And no wonder.” + +He stopped short and stared fixedly at his companion. + +“Did you guess who he was?” he asked abruptly. + +Ellen reflected. “I can guess—if you’ll give me time.” + +Jim made an impatient gesture. “That’s just what I thought,” he +growled. “There’ll be the devil to pay generally.” + +“Jim,” said Ellen earnestly, “if we are to help her, you must tell me +all about that old man.” + +“_She_ wanted to tell everybody,” he recollected gloomily. “And why not +you? Imagine an innocent child set apart from the world by another’s +crime, Ellen. See, if you can, that child growing up, with but one +thought, one ideal—the welfare of that other person. Picture to +yourself what it would be like to live solely to make a great wrong +right, and to save the wrongdoer. Literally, Ellen, she has borne that +man’s grief and carried his sorrow, as truly as any vaunted Saviour of +the world. Can you see it?” + +“Do you mean—? Is _that_ why she calls it _Bolton_ House? Of course! +And that dreadful old man is— But, Jim, everybody will find it out.” + +“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “But they mustn’t find it out just +yet. We must put it off till the man can shake that hang-dog air of +his. Why, he can’t even walk decently. Prison is written all over him. +Thank God, she doesn’t seem to see it!” + +“I’m so glad you told me, Jim,” said Ellen gently. + +“You won’t say a word about this, will you, Ellen?” he asked anxiously. +“I can depend on you?” + +“Give me a little credit for decency and common sense,” replied Ellen. + +Jim bent over the wheel and kissed her. + + + + +Chapter XIX. + + +Rain was falling in torrents, slanting past the windows of the old +parsonage in long gray lines, gurgling up between loosened panes, and +drip-dropping resoundingly in the rusty pan the minister had set under +a broken spot in the ceiling. Upstairs a loosened shutter banged +intermittently under the impact of the wind, which howled past, to lose +itself with great commotion in the tops of the tall evergreens in the +churchyard. It was the sort of day when untoward events, near and far, +stand out with unpleasant prominence against the background of one’s +everyday life. A day in which a man is led, whether he will or not, to +take stock of himself and to balance with some care the credit and +debit sides of his ledger. + +Wesley Elliot had been working diligently on his sermon since nine +o’clock that morning, at which hour he had deserted Mrs. Solomon +Black’s comfortable tight roof, to walk under the inadequate shelter of +a leaking umbrella to the parsonage. + +Three closely written pages in the minister’s neat firm handwriting +attested his uninterrupted diligence. At the top of the fourth page he +set a careful numeral, under it wrote “Thirdly,” then paused, laid down +his pen, yawned wearily and gazed out at the dripping shrubbery. The +rain had come too late to help the farmers, he was thinking. It was +always that way: too much sunshine and dry weather; then too much +rain—floods of it, deluges of it. + +He got up from his chair, stretched his cramped limbs and began +marching up and down the floor. He had fully intended to get away from +Brookville before another winter set in. But there were reasons why he +felt in no hurry to leave the place. He compelled himself to consider +them. + +Was he in love with Lydia Orr? Honestly, he didn’t know. He had half +thought he was, for a whole month, during which Lydia had faced him +across Mrs. Solomon Black’s table three times a day. + +As he walked up and down, he viewed the situation. Lydia had declared, +not once but often, that she wanted friends. Women always talked that +way, and meant otherwise. But did she? The minister shook his head +dubiously. He thought of Lydia Orr, of her beauty, of her elusive +sweetness. He was ashamed to think of her money, but he owned to +himself that he did. + +Then he left his study and rambled about the chill rooms of the lower +floor. From the windows of the parlor, where he paused to stare out, he +could look for some distance up the street. He noticed dully the double +row of maples from which yellowed leaves were already beginning to fall +and the ugly fronts of houses, behind their shabby picket fences. A +wagon was creaking slowly through a shallow sea of mud which had been +dust the day before: beyond the hunched figure of the teamster not a +human being was in sight. Somewhere, a dog barked fitfully and was +answered by other dogs far away; and always the shutter banged at +uncertain intervals upstairs. This nuisance, at least, could be abated. +He presently located the shutter and closed it; then, because its +fastening had rusted quite away, sought for a bit of twine in his +pocket and was about to tie it fast when the wind wrenched it again +from his hold. As he thrust a black-coated arm from the window to +secure the unruly disturber of the peace he saw a man fumbling with the +fastening of the parsonage gate. Before he could reach the foot of the +stairs the long unused doorbell jangled noisily. + +He did not recognize the figure which confronted him on the stoop, when +at last he succeeded in undoing the door. The man wore a raincoat +turned up about his chin and the soft brim of a felt hat dripped water +upon its close-buttoned front. + +“Good-morning, good-morning, sir!” said the stranger, as if his words +had awaited the opening of the door with scant patience. “You are +the—er—local clergyman, I suppose?” + +At uncertain periods Wesley Elliot had been visited by a migratory +_colporteur_, and less frequently by impecunious persons representing +themselves to be fellow warriors on the walls of Zion, temporarily out +of ammunition. In the brief interval during which he convoyed the +stranger from the chilly obscurity of the hall to the dubious comfort +of his study, he endeavored to place his visitor in one of these two +classes, but without success. + +“Didn’t stop for an umbrella,” explained the man, rubbing his hands +before the stove, in which the minister was striving to kindle a +livelier blaze. + +Divested of his dripping coat and hat he appeared somewhat stooped and +feeble; he coughed slightly, as he gazed about the room. + +“What’s the matter here?” he inquired abruptly; “don’t they pay you +your salary?” + +The minister explained in brief his slight occupancy of the parsonage; +whereat the stranger shook his head: + +“That’s wrong—all wrong,” he pronounced: “A parson should be married +and have children—plenty of them. Last time I was here, couldn’t hear +myself speak there was such a racket of children in the hall. Mother +sick upstairs, and the kids sliding down the banisters like mad. I left +the parson a check; poor devil!” + +He appeared to fall into a fit of musing, his eyes on the floor. + +“I see you’re wondering who I am, young man,” he said presently. “Well, +we’re coming to that, presently. I want some advice; so I shall merely +put the case baldly.... I wanted advice, before; but the parson of that +day couldn’t give me the right sort. Good Lord! I can see him yet: +short man, rather stout and baldish. Meant well, but his religion +wasn’t worth a bean to me that day.... Religion is all very well to +talk about on a Sunday; broadcloth coat, white tie and that sort of +thing; good for funerals, too, when a man’s dead and can’t answer back. +Sometimes I’ve amused myself wondering what a dead man would say to a +parson, if he could sit up in his coffin and talk five minutes of +what’s happened to him since they called him dead. Interesting to think +of—eh? ...Had lots of time to think.... Thought of most everything that +ever happened; and more that didn’t.” + +“You are a stranger in Brookville, sir?” observed Wesley Elliot, +politely. + +He had already decided that the man was neither a _colporteur_ nor a +clerical mendicant; his clothes were too good, for one thing. + +The man laughed, a short, unpleasant sound which ended in a fit of +coughing. + +“A stranger in Brookville?” he echoed. “Well; not precisely.... But +never mind that, young man. Now, you’re a clergyman, and on that +account supposed to have more than ordinary good judgment: what would +you advise a man to do, who had—er—been out of active life for a number +of years. In a hospital, we’ll say, incapacitated, very much so. When +he comes out, he finds himself quite pleasantly situated, in a way; +good home, and all that sort of thing; but not allowed to—to use his +judgment in any way. Watched—yes, watched, by a person who ought to +know better. It’s intolerable—intolerable! Why, you’ll not believe me +when I tell you I’m obliged to sneak out of my own house on the sly—on +the sly, you understand, for the purpose of taking needful exercise.” + +He stopped short and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, the +fineness of which the minister noted mechanically—with other details +which had before escaped him; such as the extreme, yellowish pallor of +the man’s face and hands and the extraordinary swiftness and brightness +of his eyes. He was conscious of growing uneasiness as he said: + +“That sounds very unpleasant, sir; but as I am not in possession of the +facts—” + +“But I just told you,” interrupted the stranger. “Didn’t I say—” + +“You didn’t make clear to me what the motives of this person who tries +to control your movements are. You didn’t tell me—” + +The man moved his hand before his face, like one trying to brush away +imaginary flies. + +“I suppose she has her motives,” he said fretfully. “And very likely +they’re good. I’ll not deny that. But I can’t make her see that this +constant espionage—this everlasting watchfulness is not to be borne. I +want freedom, and by God I’ll have it!” + +He sprang from his chair and began pacing the room. + +Wesley Elliot stared at his visitor without speaking. He perceived that +the man dragged his feet, as if from excessive fatigue or weakness. + +“I had no thought of such a thing,” the stranger went on. “I’d planned, +as a man will who looks forward to release from—from a hospital, how +I’d go about and see my old neighbors. I wanted to have them in for +dinners and luncheons—people I haven’t seen for years. She knows them. +She can’t excuse herself on that ground. She knows you.” + +He stopped short and eyed the minister, a slow grin spreading over his +face. + +“The last time you were at my house I had a good mind to walk in and +make your acquaintance, then and there. I heard you talking to her. You +admire my daughter: that’s easy to see; and she’s not such a bad match, +everything considered.” + +“Who are you?” demanded the young man sharply. + +“I am a man who’s been dead and buried these eighteen years,” replied +the other. “But I’m alive still—very much alive; and they’ll find it +out.” + +An ugly scowl distorted the man’s pale face. For an instant he stared +past Wesley Elliot, his eyes resting on an irregular splotch of damp on +the wall. Then he shook himself. + +“I’m alive,” he repeated slowly. “And I’m free!” + +“Who are you?” asked the minister for the second time. + +For all his superior height and the sinewy strength of his young +shoulders he began to be afraid of the man who had come to him out of +the storm. There was something strangely disconcerting, even sinister, +in the ceaseless movements of his pale hands and the sudden lightning +dart of his eyes, as they shifted from the defaced wall to his own +perturbed face. + +By way of reply the man burst into a disagreeable cackle of laughter: + +“Stopped in at the old bank building on my way,” he said. “Got it all +fixed up for a reading room and library. Quite a nice idea for the +villagers. I’d planned something of the sort, myself. Approve of that +sort of thing for a rural population. Who—was the benefactor in this +case—eh? Take it for granted the villagers didn’t do it for themselves. +The women in charge there referred me to you for information.... Don’t +be in haste, young man. I’ll answer your question in good time. Who +gave the library, fixed up the building and all that? Must have cost +something.” + +The minister sat down with an assumption of ease he did not feel, +facing the stranger who had already possessed himself of the one +comfortable chair in the room. + +“The library,” he said, “was given to the village by a Miss Orr, a +young woman who has recently settled in Brookville. She has done a good +deal for the place, in various ways.” + +“What ways?” asked the stranger, with an air of interest. + +Wesley Elliot enumerated briefly the number of benefits: the purchase +and rebuilding of the old Bolton house, the construction of the +waterworks, at present under way, the library and reading room, with +the town hall above. “There are,” he stated, “other things which might +be mentioned; such as the improvement of the village green, repairs on +the church, the beginning of a fund for lighting the streets, as well +as innumerable smaller benefactions, involving individuals in and +around Brookville.” + +The man listened alertly. When the minister paused, he said: + +“The young woman you speak of appears to have a deep pocket.” + +The minister did not deny this. And the man spoke again, after a period +of frowning silence: + +“What was her idea?— Orr, you said her name was?—in doing all this for +Brookville? Rather remarkable—eh?” + +His tone, like his words, was mild and commonplace; but his face wore +an ugly sneering look, which enraged the minister. + +“Miss Orr’s motive for thus benefiting a wretched community, well-nigh +ruined years ago by the villainy of one man, should be held sacred from +criticism,” he said, with heat. + +“Well, let me tell you the girl had a motive—or thought she had,” said +the stranger unpleasantly. “But she had no right to spend her money +that way. You spoke just now of the village as being ruined years ago +by the villainy of one man. That’s a lie! The village ruined the +man.... Never looked at it that way; did you? Andrew Bolton had the +interests of this place more deeply at heart than any other human being +ever did. He was the one public-spirited man in the place.... Do you +know who built your church, young man? I see you don’t. Well, Andrew +Bolton built it, with mighty little help from your whining, +hypocritical church members. Every Tom, Dick and Harry, for miles +about; every old maid with a book to sell; every cause—as they call the +thousand and one pious schemes to line their own pockets—every damned +one of ’em came to Andrew Bolton for money, and he gave it to them. He +was no hoarding skinflint; not he. Better for him if he had been. When +luck went against him, as it did at last, these precious villagers +turned on him like a pack of wolves. They killed his wife; stripped his +one child of everything—even to the bed she slept in; and the man +himself they buried alive under a mountain of stone and iron, where he +rotted for eighteen years!” + +The stranger’s eyes were glaring with maniacal fury; he shook a +tremulous yellow finger in the other’s face. + +“Talk about ruin!” he shouted. “Talk about one man’s villainy! This +damnable village deserves to be razed off the face of the earth! ...But +I meant to forgive them. I was willing to call the score even.” + +A nameless fear had gripped the younger man by the throat. + +“Are you—?” he began; but could not speak the words. + +“My name,” said the stranger, with astonishing composure, in view of +his late fury, “is Andrew Bolton; and the girl you have been praising +and—courting—is my daughter. Now you see what a sentimental fool a +woman can be. Well; I’ll have it out with her. I’ll live here in +Brookville on equal terms with my neighbors. If there was ever a debt +between us, it’s been paid to the uttermost farthing. I’ve paid it in +flesh and blood and manhood. Is there any money—any property you can +name worth eighteen years of a man’s life? And such years— God! such +years!” + +Wesley Elliot stared. At last he understood the girl, and as he thought +of her shrinking aloofness standing guard over her eager longing for +friends—for affection, something hot and wet blurred his eyes. He was +scarcely conscious that the man, who had taken to himself the name with +which he had become hatefully familiar during his years in Brookville, +was still speaking, till a startling sentence or two aroused him. + +“There’s no reason under heaven why you should not marry her, if you +like. Convict’s daughter? Bah! I snap my fingers in their faces. My +girl shall be happy yet. I swear it! But we’ll stop all this sickly +sentimentality about the money. We’ll—” + +The minister held up a warning hand. + +An immense yearning pity for Lydia had taken possession of him; but for +the man who had thus risen from a dishonorable grave to blight her +girlhood he felt not a whit. + +“You’d better keep quiet,” he said sternly. “You’d far better go away +and leave her to live her life alone.” + +“You’d like that; wouldn’t you?” said Bolton dryly. + +He leaned forward and stared the young man in the eyes. + +“But she wouldn’t have it that way. Do you know that girl of mine +wouldn’t hear of it. She expects to make it up to me.... Imagine making +up eighteen years of hell with a few pet names, a soft bed and—” + +“Stop!” cried Wesley Elliot, with a gesture of loathing. “I can’t +listen to you.” + +“But you’ll marry her—eh?” + +Bolton’s voice again dropped into a whining monotone. He even smiled +deprecatingly. + +“You’ll excuse my ranting a bit, sir. It’s natural after what I’ve gone +through. You’ve never been in a prison, maybe. And you don’t know what +it’s like to shake the bars of a cell at midnight and howl out of sheer +madness to be off and away—somewhere, anywhere!” + +He leaned forward and touched the minister on the knee. + +“And that brings me back to my idea in coming to see you. I’m a +level-headed man, still—quite cool and collected, as you see—and I’ve +been thinking the situation over.” + +He drew his brows together and stared hard at the minister. + +“I’ve a proposition to make to you—as man to man. Can’t talk reason to +a woman; there’s no reason in a woman’s make-up—just sentiment and +affection and imagination: an impossible combination, when there are +hard realities to face.... I see you don’t agree with me; but never +mind that; just hear what I have to say.” + +But he appeared in no haste to go on, for all the eagerness of his eyes +and those pallid, restless hands. The minister got quickly to his feet. +The situation was momentarily becoming intolerable; he must have time +to think it over, he told himself, and determine his own relations to +this new and unwelcome parishioner. + +“I’m very sorry, sir,” he began; “but—” + +“None of that,” growled Bolton. “Sit down, young man, and listen to +what I have to say to you. We may not have another chance like this.” + +His assumption of a common interest between them was most distasteful; +but for all that the minister resumed his chair. + +“Now, as I’ve told you, my daughter appears unwilling to allow me out +of her sight. She tries to cover her watchfulness under a pretense of +solicitude for my health. I’m not well, of course; was knocked down and +beaten about the head by one of those devils in the prison— Can’t call +them men: no decent man would choose to earn his living that way. But +cosseting and coddling in a warm house will never restore me. I want +freedom—nothing less. I must be out and away when the mood seizes me +night or day. Her affection stifles me at times.... You can’t +understand that, of course; you think I’m ungrateful, no doubt; and +that I ought—” + +“You appear to me, a monster of selfishness,” Wesley Elliot broke in. +“You ought to stop thinking of yourself and think of her.” + +Bolton’s face drew itself into the mirthless wrinkles which passed for +a smile. + +“I’m coming to that,” he said with some eagerness. “I do think of her; +and that’s why— Can’t you see, man, that eighteen years of prison don’t +grow the domestic virtues? A monster of selfishness? You’re dead right. +I’m all of that; and I’m too old to change. I can’t play the part of a +doting father. I thought I could, before I got out; but I can’t. Twice +I’ve been tempted to knock her down, when she stood between me and the +door.... Keep cool; I didn’t do it! But I’m afraid of myself, I tell +you. I’ve got to have my liberty. She can have hers.... Now here’s my +proposition: Lydia’s got money. I don’t know how much. My +brother-in-law was a close man. Never even knew he was rich. But she’s +got it—all but what she’s spent here trying to square accounts, as she +thought. Do they thank her for it? Not much. I know them! But see here, +you marry Lydia, whenever you like; then give me ten thousand dollars, +and I’ll clear out. I’m not a desirable father-in-law; I know that, as +well as you do. But I’ll guarantee to disappear, once my girl is +settled. Is it a bargain?” + +Elliot shook his head. + +“Your daughter doesn’t love me,” he said. + +Bolton flung up his hand in an impatient gesture of dissent. + +“I stood in the way,” he said. “She was thinking of me, don’t you see? +But if I get out— Oh, I promise you I’ll make myself scarce, once this +matter is settled.” + +“What you propose is impossible, on the face of it,” the minister said +slowly. “I am sorry—” + +“Impossible! Why impossible?” shouted Bolton, in a sudden fury. “You’ve +been courting my daughter—don’t try to crawl out of it, now you know +what I am. I’ll not stand in the way, I tell you. Why, the devil—” + +He stopped short, his restless eyes roving over the young man’s face +and figure: + +“Oh, I see!” he sneered. “I begin to understand: ‘the sanctity of the +cloth’—‘my sacred calling’— Yes, yes! And perhaps my price seems a bit +high: ten thousand dollars—” + +Elliot sprang from his chair and stood over the cringing figure of the +ex-convict. + +“I could strike you,” he said in a smothered voice; “but you are an old +man and—not responsible. You don’t understand what you’ve said, +perhaps; and I’ll not try to make you see it as I do.” + +“I supposed you were fond of my girl,” mumbled Bolton. “I heard you +tell her—” + +But the look in the younger man’s eyes stopped him. His hand sought his +heart in an uncertain gesture. + +“Have you any brandy?” he asked feebly. “I—I’m not well.... No matter; +I’ll go over to the tavern. I’ll have them take me home. Tired, after +all this; don’t feel like walking.” + + + + +Chapter XX. + + +The minister from the doorstep of the parsonage watched the stooped +figure as it shambled down the street. The rain was still falling in +torrents. The thought crossed his mind that the old man might not be +able to compass the two miles or more of country road. Then he got into +his raincoat and followed. + +“My umbrella isn’t of the best,” he said, as he overtook the toiling +figure; “but I should have offered it.” + +Andrew Bolton muttered something unintelligible, as he glanced up at +the poor shelter the young man held over him. As he did not offer to +avail himself of it the minister continued to walk at his side, +accommodating his long free stride to the curious shuffling gait of the +man who had spent eighteen years in prison. And so they passed the +windowed fronts of the village houses, peering out from the dripping +autumnal foliage like so many watchful eyes, till the hoarse signal of +a motor car halted them, as they were about to cross the street in +front of the Brookville House. + +From the open door of the car Lydia Orr’s pale face looked out. + +“Oh, father,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” + +She did not appear to see the minister. + +Bolton stepped into the car with a grunt. + +“Glad to see the old black Maria, for once,” he chuckled. “Don’t you +recognize the parson, my dear? Nice fellow—the parson; been having +quite a visit with him at the manse. Old stamping-ground of mine, you +know. Always friendly with the parson.” + +Wesley Elliot had swept the hat from his head. Lydia’s eyes, blue and +wide like those of a frightened child, met his with an anguished +question. + +He bowed gravely. + +“I should have brought him home quite safe,” he told her. “I intended +ordering a carriage.” + +The girl’s lips shaped formal words of gratitude. Then the obedient +humming of the motor deepened to a roar and the car glided swiftly +away. + +On the opposite corner, her bunched skirts held high, stood Miss Lois +Daggett. + +“Please wait a minute, Mr. Elliot,” she called. “I’ll walk right along +under your umbrella, if you don’t mind.” + +Wesley Elliot bowed and crossed the street. “Certainly,” he said. + +“I don’t know why I didn’t bring my own umbrella this morning,” said +Miss Daggett with a keen glance at Elliot. “That old man stopped in the +library awhile ago, and he rather frightened me. He looked very odd and +talked so queer. Did he come to the parsonage?” + +“Yes,” said Wesley Elliot. “He came to the parsonage?” + +“Did he tell you who he was?” + +He had expected this question. But how should he answer it? + +“He told me he had been ill for a long time,” said the minister +evasively. + +“Ill!” repeated Miss Daggett shrilly. Then she said one word: “Insane.” + +“People who are insane are not likely to mention it,” said Elliot. + +“Then he is insane,” said Miss Daggett with conviction. + +Wesley looked at her meditatively. Would the truth, the whole truth, +openly proclaimed, be advisable at this juncture, he wondered. Lydia +could not hope to keep her secret long. And there was danger in her +attempt. He shuddered as he remembered the man’s terrible words, “Twice +I have been tempted to knock her down when she stood between me and the +door.” Would it not be better to abandon this pretense sooner, rather +than later? If the village knew the truth, would not the people show at +least a semblance of kindness to the man who had expiated so bitterly +the wrong he had done them? + +“If the man is insane,” Miss Daggett said, “it doesn’t seem right to me +to have him at large.” + +“I wish I knew what to do,” said Elliot. + +“I think you ought to tell what you know if the man is insane.” + +“Well, I will tell,” said Elliot, almost fiercely. “That man is Andrew +Bolton. He has come home after eighteen years of imprisonment, which +have left him terribly weak in mind and body. Don’t you think people +will forgive him now?” + +A swift vindictiveness flashed into the woman’s face. “I don’t know,” +said she. + +“Why in the world don’t you know, Miss Daggett?” + +Then the true reason for the woman’s rancor was disclosed. It was a +reason as old as the human race, a suspicion as old as the human race, +which she voiced. “I have said from the first,” she declared, “that +nobody would come here, as that girl did, and do so much unless she had +a motive.” + +Elliot stared at her. “Then you hate that poor child for trying to make +up for the wrong her father did; and that, and not his wrongdoing, +influences you?” + +Miss Daggett stared at him. Her face slowly reddened. “I wouldn’t put +it that way,” she said. + +“What way would you put it?” demanded Elliot mercilessly. He was so +furious that he forgot to hold the umbrella over Miss Daggett, and the +rain drove in her hard, unhappy face. She did not seem to notice. She +had led a poisoned life, in a narrow rut of existence, and toxic +emotions had become as her native atmosphere of mind. Now she seemed to +be about to breathe in a better air of humanity, and she choked under +it. + +“If—” she stammered, “that was—her reason, but—I always felt—that +nobody ever did such things without—as they used to say—an ax to +grind.” + +“This seems to me a holy sort of ax,” said Elliot grimly, “and one for +which a Christian woman should certainly not fling stones.” + +They had reached the Daggett house. The woman stopped short. “You +needn’t think I’m going around talking, any more than you would,” she +said, and her voice snapped like a whip. She went up the steps, and +Elliot went home, not knowing whether he had accomplished good or +mischief. + + + + +Chapter XXI. + + +Much to Mrs. Solomon Black’s astonishment, Wesley Elliot ate no dinner +that day. It was his habit to come in from a morning’s work with a +healthy young appetite keen-set for her beef and vegetables. He passed +directly up to his room, although she called to him that dinner was +ready. Finally she went upstairs and knocked smartly on his door. + +“Dinner’s ready, Mr. Elliot,” she called out. + +“I don’t want any today, thank you, Mrs. Black,” was his reply. + +“You ain’t sick?” + +“Oh, no, only not hungry.” + +Mrs. Black was alarmed when, later in the afternoon, she heard the +front door slam, and beheld from a front window Elliot striding down +the street. The rain had ceased falling, and there were ragged holes in +the low-hanging clouds which revealed glimpses of dazzling blue. + +“I do hope he ain’t coming down with a fever or something,” Mrs. Black +said aloud. Then she saw Mrs. Deacon Whittle, Lois Daggett, Mrs. +Fulsom, and the wife of the postmaster approaching her house in the +opposite direction. All appeared flushed and agitated, and Mrs. Black +hastened to open her door, as she saw them hurrying up her wet gravel +path. + +“Is the minister home?” demanded Lois Daggett breathlessly. “I want he +should come right down here and tell you what he told me this noon. +Abby Daggett seems to think I made it up out of whole cloth. Don’t deny +it, Abby. You know very well you said.... I s’pose of course he’s told +you, Mrs. Black.” + +“Mr. Elliot has gone out,” said Mrs. Black rather coldly. + +“Where’s he gone?” demanded Lois. + +Mrs. Black was being devoured with curiosity; still she felt vaguely +repelled. + +“Ladies,” she said, her air of reserve deepening. “I don’t know what +you are talking about, but Mr. Elliot didn’t eat any dinner, and he is +either sick or troubled in his mind.” + +“There! Now you c’n all see from that!” triumphed Lois Daggett. + +Mrs. Deacon Whittle and Mrs. Judge Fulsom gazed incredulously at Mrs. +Solomon Black, then at one another. + +Abby Daggett, the soft round of her beautiful, kind face flushed and +tremulous, murmured: “Poor man—poor man!” + +Mrs. Solomon Black with a masterly gesture headed the women toward her +parlor, where a fire was burning in a splendidly nickeled stove full +five feet high. + +“Now,” said she; “we’ll talk this over, whatever it is.” + + + + +Chapter XXII. + + +A mile from town, where the angry wind could be seen at work tearing +the purple rainclouds into rags and tatters, through which the hidden +sun shot long rays of pale splendor, Wesley Elliot was walking rapidly, +his head bent, his eyes fixed and absent. + +He had just emerged from one of those crucial experiences of life, +which, more than the turning of the earth upon its axis, serve to age a +human being. For perhaps the first time in the brief span of his +remembrance, he had scrutinized himself in the pitiless light of an +intelligence higher than his own everyday consciousness; and the sight +of that meaner self, striving to run to cover, had not been pleasant. +Just why his late interview with Andrew Bolton should have precipitated +this event, he could not possibly have explained to any one—and least +of all to himself. He had begun, logically enough, with an illuminating +review of the motives which led him into the ministry; they were a +sorry lot, on the whole; but his subsequent ambitions appeared even +worse. For the first time, he perceived his own consummate selfishness +set over against the shining renunciations of his mother. Then, step by +step, he followed his career in Brookville: his smug satisfaction in +his own good looks; his shallow pride and vanity over the vapid +insincerities he had perpetrated Sunday after Sunday in the shabby +pulpit of the Brookville church; his Pharisaical relations with his +people; his utter misunderstanding of their needs. All this proved +poignant enough to force the big drops to his forehead.... There were +other aspects of himself at which he scarcely dared look in his utter +abasement of spirit; those dark hieroglyphics of the beast-self which +appear on the whitest soul. He had supposed himself pure and saintly +because, forsooth, he had concealed the arena of these primal passions +beneath the surface of this outward life, chaining them there like +leashed tigers in the dark.... Two faces of women appeared to be +looking on, while he strove to unravel the snarl of his self-knowledge. +Lydia’s unworldly face, wearing a faint nimbus of unimagined +self-immolation, and Fanny’s—full of love and solicitude, the face +which he had almost determined to forget. + +He was going to Lydia. Every newly awakened instinct of his manhood +bade him go. + +She came to him at once, and without pretense of concealment began to +speak of her father. She trembled a little as she asked: + +“He told you who he was?” + +Without waiting for his answer she gravely corrected herself. + +“I should have said, who _we_ are.” + +She smiled a faint apology: + +“I have always been called Lydia Orr; it was my mother’s name. I was +adopted into my uncle’s family, after father—went to prison.” + +Her blue eyes met his pitying gaze without evasion. + +“I am glad you know,” she said. “I think I shall be glad—to have every +one know. I meant to tell them all, at first. But when I found—” + +“I know,” he said in a low voice. + +Then because as yet he had said nothing to comfort her, or himself; and +because every word that came bubbling to the surface appeared banal and +inadequate, he continued silent, gazing at her and marveling at her +perfect serenity—her absolute poise. + +“It will be a relief,” she sighed, “When every one knows. He dislikes +to be watched. I have been afraid—I could not bear to have him know how +they hate him.” + +“Perhaps,” he forced himself to say, “they will not hate him, when they +know how you— Lydia, you are wonderful!” + +She looked up startled and put out her hand as if to prevent him from +speaking further. + +But the words came in a torrent now: + +“How you must despise me! I despise myself. I am not worthy, Lydia; but +if you can care—” + +“Stop!” she said softly, as if she would lay the compelling finger of +silence upon his lips. “I told you I was not like other women. Can’t +you see—?” + +“You must marry me,” he urged, in a veritable passion of self-giving. +“I want to help you! You will let me, Lydia?” + +She shook her head. + +“You could not help me; I am better alone.” + +She looked at him, the glimmer of a smile dawning in her eyes. + +“You do not love me,” she said; “nor I you. You are my friend. You will +remain my friend, I hope?” + +She arose and held out her hand. He took it without a word. And so they +stood for a moment; each knowing without need of speech what the other +was thinking; the man sorry and ashamed because he could not deny the +truth of her words; and she compassionately willing to draw the veil of +a soothing silence over his hurts. + +“I ought to tell you—” he began. + +But she shook her head: + +“No need to tell me anything.” + +“You mean,” he said bitterly, “that you saw through my shallow +pretenses all the while. I know now how you must have despised me.” + +“Is it nothing that you have asked me—a convict’s daughter—to be your +wife?” she asked. “Do you think I don’t know that some men would have +thanked heaven for their escape and never spoken to me again? I can’t +tell you how it has helped to hearten me for what must come. I shall +not soon forget that you offered me your self—your career; it would +have cost you that. I want you to know how much I—appreciate what you +have done, in offering me the shelter of an honest name.” + +He would have uttered some unavailing words of protest, but she checked +him. + +“We shall both be glad of this, some day,” she predicted gravely.... +“There is one thing you can do for me,” she added: “Tell them. It will +be best for both of us, now.” + +It was already done, he said, explaining his motives in short, +disjointed sentences. + +Then with a feeling of relief which he strove to put down, but which +nevertheless persisted in making itself felt in a curious lightening of +his spirits, he was again walking rapidly and without thought of his +destination. Somber bars of crimson and purple crossed the west, and +behind them, flaming up toward the zenith in a passionate splendor of +light, streamed long, golden rays from out the heart of that glory upon +which no human eye may look. The angry wind had fallen to quiet, and +higher up, floating in a sea of purest violet, those despised and +flouted rags of clouds were seen, magically changed to rose and silver. + + + + +Chapter XXIII. + + +Fanny Dodge sat by the pleasant west window of the kitchen, engaged in +reading those aimless shreds of local information which usually make up +the outside pages of the weekly newspaper. She could not possibly feel +the slightest interest in the fact that Mr. and Mrs. James M. Snider of +West Schofield were entertaining a daughter, whose net weight was +reported to be nine and three quarters pounds; or that Miss Elizabeth +Wardwell of Eltingville had just issued beautifully engraved +invitations to her wedding, which was to take place on the seventeenth +day of October—yet she went on reading. Everybody read the paper. +Sometimes they talked about what they read. Anyway, her work was over +for the day—all except tea, which was negligible; so she went on, +somewhat drearily suppressing a yawn, to a description of the new +water-works, which were being speedily brought to completion in “our +neighboring enterprising town of Brookville.” + +Fanny already knew all there was to tell concerning the concrete +reservoir on the mountain, the big conduit leading to the village and +the smaller pipes laid wherever there were householders desiring water. +These were surprisingly few, considering the fact that there would be +no annual charge for the water, beyond the insignificant sum required +for its up-keep. People said their wells were good enough for them; and +that spring water wasn’t as good as cistern water, when it came to +washing. Some were of the opinion that Lydia Orr was in a fool’s hurry +to get rid of her money; others that she couldn’t stand it to be out of +the limelight; and still other sagacious individuals felt confident +there was something in it for “that girl.” Fanny had heard these +various views of Miss Orr’s conduct. She was still striving with +indifferent success to rise above her jealousy, and to this end she +never failed to champion Lydia’s cause against all comers. Curiously +enough, this course had finally brought her tranquillity of a sort and +an utter unprotesting acquiescence. + +Mrs. Whittle had been overheard saying to Mrs. Fulsom that she guessed, +after all, Fanny Dodge didn’t care so much about the minister. + +Fanny, deep once more in the absorbing consideration of the question +which had once been too poignant to consider calmly, and the answer to +which she was never to know, permitted the paper to slide off her knee +to the floor: Why had Wesley Elliot so suddenly deserted her? Surely, +he could not have fallen in love with another woman; she was sure he +had been in love with her. However, to kiss and forget might be one of +the inscrutable ways of men. She was really afraid it was. But Wesley +Elliot had never kissed her; had never even held her hand for more than +a minute at a time. But those minutes loomed large in retrospect. + +The clock struck five and Fanny, roused from her reverie by the sudden +sound, glanced out of the window. At the gate she saw Elliot. He stood +there, gazing at the house as if uncertain whether to enter or not. +Fanny put up a tremulous hand to her hair, which was pinned fast in its +accustomed crisp coils; then she glanced down at her blue gown.... Yes; +he was coming in! The bell hanging over the passage door jangled +shrilly. Fanny stood stock-still in the middle of the floor, staring at +it. There was no fire in the parlor. She would be forced to bring him +out to the kitchen. She thought of the wide, luxuriously furnished +rooms of Bolton house and unconsciously her face hardened. She might +pretend she did not hear the bell. She might allow him to go away, +thinking none of the family were at home. She pictured him, standing +there on the doorstep facing the closed door; and a perverse spirit +held her silent, while the clock ticked resoundingly. Then all at once +with a smothered cry she hurried through the hall, letting the door +fall to behind her with a loud slam. + +He was waiting patiently on the doorstep, as she had pictured him; and +before a single word had passed between them she knew that the stone +had been rolled away. His eyes met hers, not indeed with the old look, +but with another, incomprehensible, yet wonderfully soul-satisfying. + +“I wanted to tell you about it, before it came to you from the +outside,” he said, when they had settled themselves in the warm, silent +kitchen. + +His words startled Fanny. Was he going to tell her of his approaching +marriage to Lydia? Her color faded, and a look of almost piteous +resignation drooped the corners of her mouth. She strove to collect her +scattered wits, to frame words of congratulation with which to meet the +dreaded avowal. + +He appeared in no hurry to begin; but bent forward, his eyes upon her +changing face. + +“Perhaps you know, already,” he reflected. “She may have told your +brother.” + +“Are you speaking of Miss Orr?” + +Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. + +“Yes,” he said slowly. “But I suppose one should give her her rightful +name, from now on.” + +“I—I hadn’t heard,” said Fanny, feeling her hard-won courage slipping +from her. “Jim didn’t tell me. But of course I am not—surprised.” + +He evidently experienced something of the emotion she had just denied. + +“No one seemed to have guessed it,” he said. “But now everything is +plain. Poor girl!” + +He fell into a fit of musing, which he finally broke to say: + +“I thought you would go to see her. She sorely needs friends.” + +“She has—you,” said Fanny in a smothered voice. + +For the life of her she could not withhold that one lightning flash out +of her enveloping cloud. + +He disclaimed her words with a swift gesture. + +“I’m not worthy to claim her friendship, nor yours,” he said humbly; +“but I hope you—sometime you may be able to forgive me, Fanny.” + +“I don’t think I understand what you have come to tell me,” she said +with difficulty. + +“The village is ringing with the news. She wanted every one to know; +her father has come home.” + +“Her father!” + +“Ah, you didn’t guess, after all. I think we were all blind. Andrew +Bolton has come back to Brookville, a miserable, broken man.” + +“But you said—her father. Do you mean that Lydia Orr—” + +“It wasn’t a deliberate deception on her part,” he interrupted quickly. +“She has always been known as Lydia Orr. It was her mother’s name.” + +Fanny despised herself for the unreasoning tumult of joy which surged +up within her. He could not possibly marry Andrew Bolton’s daughter! + +He was watching her closely. + +“I thought perhaps, if she consented, I would marry Lydia Orr,” he +forced himself to tell her. “I want you to know this from me, now. I +decided that her money and her position would help me.... I admired +her; I even thought at one time I—loved her. I tried to love her.... I +am not quite so base as to marry without love.... But she knew. She +tried to save me.... Then her father—that wretched, ruined man came to +me. He told me everything.... Fanny, that girl is a saint!” + +His eyes were inscrutable under their somber brows. The girl sitting +stiffly erect, every particle of color drained from her young face, +watched him with something like terror. Why was he telling her +this?—Why? Why? + +His next words answered her: + +“I can conceive of no worse punishment than having you think ill of +me.” ... And after a pause: “I deserve everything you may be telling +yourself.” + +But coherent thought had become impossible for Fanny. + +“Why don’t you marry her?” she asked clearly. + +“Oh, I asked her. I knew I had been a cad to both of you. I asked her +all right.” + +Fanny’s fingers, locked rigidly in her lap, did not quiver. Her blue +eyes were wide and strange, but she tried to smile. + +His voice, harsh and hesitating, went on: “She refused me, of course. +She had known all along what I was. She said she did not love me; that +I did not love her—which was God’s truth. I wanted to atone. You see +that, don’t you?” + +He looked at Fanny and started. + +“My God, Fanny!” he cried. “I have made you suffer too!” + +“Never mind me.” + +“Fanny, can you love me and be my wife after all this?” + +“I am a woman,” said Fanny. Her eyes blazed angrily at him. Then she +laughed and put up her mouth to be kissed. + +“Men will make fools of women till the Day of Judgment,” said she, and +laughed again. + + + + +Chapter XXIV. + + +When the afternoon mail came in that day, Mr. Henry Daggett retired +behind his official barrier according to his wont, leaving the store in +charge of Joe Whittle, the Deacon’s son. It had been diligently pointed +out to Joe by his thrifty parents that all rich men began life by +sweeping out stores and other menial tasks, and for some time Joe had +been working for Mr. Daggett with doubtful alacrity. + +Joe liked the store. There was a large stock of candy, dried fruit, +crackers and pickles; Joe was a hungry boy, and Mr. Daggett had told +him he could eat what he wished. He was an easy-going man with no +children of his own, and he took great delight in pampering the +Deacon’s son. “I told him he could eat candy and things, and he looked +tickled to death,” he told his wife. + +“He’ll get his stomach upset,” objected Mrs. Daggett. + +“He can’t eat the whole stock,” said Daggett, “and upsetting a boy’s +stomach is not much of an upset anyway. It don’t take long to right +it.” + +Once in a while Daggett would suggest to Joe that if he were in his +place he wouldn’t eat too much of that green candy. He supposed it was +pure; he didn’t mean to sell any but pure candy if he knew it, but it +might be just as well for him to go slow. Generally he took a paternal +delight in watching the growing boy eat his stock in trade. + +That afternoon Joe was working on a species of hard sweet which +distended his cheeks, and nearly deprived him temporarily of the power +of speech, while the people seeking their mail came in. There was never +much custom while mail-sorting was going on, and Joe sucked blissfully. + +Then Jim Dodge entered and spoke to him. “Hullo, Joe,” he said. + +Joe nodded, speechless. + +Jim seated himself on a stool, and lit his pipe. + +Joe eyed him. Jim was a sort of hero to him on account of his hunting +fame. As soon as he could control his tongue, he addressed him: + +“Heard the news?” said he, trying to speak like a man. + +“What news?” + +“Old Andrew Bolton’s got out of prison and come back. He’s crazy, too.” + +“How did you get hold of such nonsense?” + +“Heard the women talking.” + +Jim pondered a moment. Then he said “Damn,” and Joe admired him as +never before. When Jim had gone out, directly, Joe shook his fist at a +sugar barrel, and said “Damn,” in a whisper. + +Jim in the meantime was hurrying along the road to the Bolton house. He +made up his mind that he must see Lydia. He must know if she had +authorized the revelation that had evidently been made, and if so, +through whom. He suspected the minister, and was hot with jealousy. His +own friendship with Lydia seemed to have suffered a blight after that +one confidential talk of theirs, in which she had afforded him a +glimpse of her sorrowful past. She had not alluded to the subject a +second time; and, somehow, he had not been able to get behind the +defenses of her smiling cheerfulness. Always she was with her father, +it seemed; and the old man, garrulous enough when alone, was invariably +silent and moody in his daughter’s company. One might almost have said +he hated her, from the sneering impatient looks he cast at her from +time to time. As for Lydia, she was all love and brooding tenderness +for the man who had suffered so long and terribly. + +“He’ll be better after a while,” she constantly excused him. “He needs +peace and quiet and home to restore him to himself.” + +“You want to look out for him,” Jim had ventured to warn the girl, when +the two were alone together for a moment. + +“Do you mean father?” Lydia asked. “What else should I do? It is all I +live for—just to look out for father.” + +Had she been a martyr bound to the stake, the faggots piled about her +slim body, her face might have worn just that expression of high +resignation and contempt for danger and suffering. + +The young man walked slowly on. He wanted time to think. Besides—he +glanced down with a quick frown of annoyance at his mud-splashed +clothing—he certainly cut a queer figure for a call. + +Some one was standing on the doorstep talking to Fanny, as he +approached his own home. Another instant and he had recognized Wesley +Elliot. He stopped behind a clump of low-growing trees, and watched. +Fanny, framed in the dark doorway, glowed like a rose. Jim saw her bend +forward, smiling; saw the minister take both her hands in his and kiss +them; saw Fanny glance quickly up and down the empty road, as if +apprehensive of a chance passerby. Then the minister, his handsome head +bared to the cold wind, waved her farewell and started at a brisk pace +down the road. + +Jim waited till the door had closed lingeringly on the girl; then he +stepped forth from his concealment and waited. + +Abreast of him Elliot stopped; aware, it would seem, of the menace in +the other man’s eyes. + +“You wished to speak with me?” he began. + +“Speak with you—no! I want to kick you.” + +The minister eyed him indignantly. “What do you mean?” + +“You sneaking hypocrite! do you think I don’t know what has happened? +You threw Fanny down, when Lydia Orr came to town; you thought my +sister wasn’t good enough—nor rich enough for a handsome, eloquent +clergyman like you. But when you learned her father was a convict—” + +“Stop!” cried Elliot. “You don’t understand!” + +“I don’t? Well, I guess I come pretty near it. And not content with +telling Lydia’s pitiful secret to all the busybodies in town, you come +to Fanny with your smug explanations. My God! I could kill you!” + +The minister’s face had hardened during this speech. + +“See here,” he said. “You are going too far.” + +“Do you deny that you’ve made love to both my sister and Miss Orr?” +demanded Jim. + +Physically the minister was no coward. He measured the slight, wiry +figure of his wrathful opponent with a coolly appraising eye. + +“My relations with Miss Orr are none of your business,” he reminded +Jim. “As for your sister—” + +“Damn you!” cried Jim. + +The minister shrugged his shoulders. + +“If you’ll listen to reason,” he suggested pacifically. + +“I saw you kiss my sister’s hand! I tell you I’ll not have you hanging +around the place, after what’s gone. You may as well understand it.” + +Wesley Elliot reflected briefly. + +“There’s one thing you ought to know,” he said, controlling his desire +to knock Fanny’s brother into the bushes. + +A scornful gesture bade him to proceed. + +“Andrew Bolton came to see me in the parsonage this morning. He is a +ruined man, in every sense of the word. He will never be otherwise.” + +Jim Dodge thrust both hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, his eyes +fixed and frowning. + +“Well,” he murmured; “what of that?” + +“That being the case, all we can do is to make the best of things—for +her.... She requested me to make the facts known in the village. They +would have found out everything from the man himself. He is—perhaps you +are aware that Bolton bitterly resents his daughter’s interference. She +would have been glad to spare him the pain of publicity.” + +The minister’s tone was calm, even judicial; and Jim Dodge suddenly +experienced a certain flat humiliation of spirit. + +“I didn’t know she asked you to tell,” he muttered, kicking a pebble +out of the way. “That puts a different face on it.” + +He eyed the minister steadily. + +“I’ll be hanged if I can make you out, Elliot,” he said at last. “You +can’t blame me for thinking— Why did you come here this afternoon, +anyway?” + +A sudden belated glimmer of comprehension dawned upon the minister. + +“Are you in love with Miss Orr?” he parried. + +“None of your damned business!” + +“I was hoping you were,” the minister said quietly. “She needs a +friend—one who will stand close, just now.” + +“Do you mean—?” + +“I am going to marry Fanny.” + +“The devil you are!” + +The minister smiled and held out his hand. + +“We may as well be friends, Jim,” he said coolly, “seeing we’re to be +brothers.” + +The young man turned on his heel. + +“I’ll have to think that proposition over,” he growled. “It’s a bit too +sudden—for me.” + +Without another glance in the direction of the minister he marched +toward the house. Fanny was laying the table, a radiant color in her +face. A single glance told her brother that she was happy. He threw +himself into a chair by the window. + +“Where’s mother?” he asked presently, pretending to ignore the excited +flutter of the girl’s hands as she set a plate of bread on the table. + +“She hasn’t come back from the village yet,” warbled Fanny. She +couldn’t keep the joy in her soul from singing. + +“Guess I’ll eat my supper and get out. I don’t want to hear a word of +gossip.” + +Fanny glanced up, faltered, then ran around the table and threw her +arms about Jim’s neck. + +“Oh, Jim!” she breathed, “you’ve seen him!” + +“Worse luck!” grumbled Jim. + +He held his sister off at arm’s length and gazed at her fixedly. + +“What you see in that chap,” he murmured. “Well—” + +“Oh, Jim, he’s wonderful!” cried Fanny, half laughing, half crying, and +altogether lovely. + +“I suppose you think so. But after the way he’s treated you— By George, +Fan! I can’t see—” + +Fanny drew herself up proudly. + +“Of course I haven’t talked much about it, Jim,” she said, with +dignity; “but Wesley and I had a—a little misunderstanding. It’s all +explained away now.” + +And to this meager explanation she stubbornly adhered, through +subsequent soul-searching conversations with her mother, and during the +years of married life that followed. In time she came to believe it, +herself; and the “little misunderstanding with Wesley” and its romantic +dénouement became a well-remembered milestone, wreathed with sentiment. + +But poised triumphant on this pinnacle of joy, she yet had time to +think of another than herself. + +“Jim,” said she, a touch of matronly authority already apparent in her +manner. “I’ve wanted for a long time to talk to you seriously about +Ellen.” + +Jim stared. + +“About Ellen?” he repeated. + +“Jim, she’s awfully fond of you. I think you’ve treated her cruelly.” + +“Look here, Fan,” said Jim, “don’t you worry yourself about Ellen Dix. +She’s not in love with me, and never was.” + +Having thus spoken, Jim would not say another word. He gulped down his +supper and was off. He kissed Fanny when he went. + +“Hope you’ll be happy, and all that,” he told her rather awkwardly. +Fanny looked after him swinging down the road. “I guess it’s all right +between him and Ellen,” she thought. + + + + +Chapter XXV. + + +Jim had no definite plan as he tramped down the road in the falling +darkness. He felt uncertain and miserable as he speculated with regard +to Lydia. She could not guess at half the unkind things people must be +saying; but she would ask for the bread of sympathy and they would give +her a stone. He wished he might carry her away, shielding her and +comforting her against the storm. He knew he would willingly give his +life to make her happier. Of course she did not care for him. How could +she? Who was he—Jim Dodge—to aspire to a girl like Lydia? + +The wind had risen again and was driving dark masses of cloud across +the sky; in the west a sullen red flared up from behind the hills, +touching the lower edges of the vaporous mountains with purple. In a +small, clear space above the red hung the silver sickle of the new +moon, and near it shone a single star.... Lydia was like that star, he +told himself—as wonderful, as remote. + +There were lights in the windows of Bolton House. Jim stopped and gazed +at the yellow squares, something big and powerful rising within him. +Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he approached and looked in. In a +great armchair before the blazing hearth sat, or rather crouched, +Andrew Bolton. He was wearing a smoking-jacket of crimson velvet and a +pipe hung from his nerveless fingers. Only the man’s eyes appeared +alive; they were fixed upon Lydia at the piano. She was playing some +light tuneful melody, with a superabundance of trills and runs. Jim did +not know Lydia played; and the knowledge of this trivial accomplishment +seemed to put her still further beyond his reach. He did not know, +either, that she had acquired her somewhat indifferent skill after long +years of dull practice, and for the single purpose of diverting the +man, who sat watching her with bright, furtive eyes.... Presently she +arose from the piano and crossed the room to his side. She bent over +him and kissed him on his bald forehead, her white hands clinging to +his shoulders. Jim saw the man shake off those hands with a rough +gesture; saw the grieved look on her face; saw the man follow her +slight figure with his eyes, as she stooped under pretext of mending +the fire. But he could not hear the words which passed between them. + +“You pretend to love me,” Bolton was saying. “Why don’t you do what I +want you to?” + +“If you’d like to go away from Brookville, father, I will go with you. +You need me!” + +“That’s where you’re dead wrong, my girl: I don’t need you. What I do +need is freedom! You stifle me with your fussy attentions. Give me some +money; I’ll go away and not bother you again.” + +Whereat Lydia had cried out—a little hurt cry, which reached the ears +of the watcher outside. + +“Don’t leave me, father! I have no one but you in all the world—no +one.” + +“And you’ve never even told me how much money you have,” the man went +on in a whining voice. “There’s daughterly affection for you! By rights +it all ought to be mine. I’ve suffered enough, God knows, to deserve a +little comfort now.” + +“All that I have is yours, father. I want nothing for myself.” + +“Then hand it over—the control of it, I mean. I’ll make you a handsome +allowance; and I’ll give you this place, too. I don’t want to rot +here.... Marry that good-looking parson and settle down, if you like. I +don’t want to settle down: been settled in one cursed place long +enough, by gad! I should think you could see that.” + +“But you wanted to come home to Brookville, father. Don’t you remember +you said—” + +“That was when I was back there in that hell-hole, and didn’t know what +I wanted. How could I? I only wanted to get out. That’s what I want +now—to get out and away! If you weren’t so damned selfish, you’d let me +go. I hate a selfish woman!” + +Then it was that Jim Dodge, pressing closer to the long window, heard +her say quite distinctly: + +“Very well, father; we will go. Only I must go with you.... You are not +strong enough to go alone. We will go anywhere you like.” + +Andrew Bolton got nimbly out of his chair and stood glowering at her +across its back. Then he burst into a prolonged fit of laughter mixed +with coughing. + +“Oh, so you’ll go with father, will you?” he spluttered. “You +insist—eh?” + +And, still coughing and laughing mirthlessly, he went out of the room. + +Left to herself, the girl sat down quietly enough before the fire. Her +serene face told no story of inward sorrow to the watchful eyes of the +man who loved her. Over long she had concealed her feelings, even from +herself. She seemed lost in revery, at once sad and profound. Had she +foreseen this dire disappointment of all her hopes, he wondered. + +He stole away at last, half ashamed of spying upon her lonely vigil, +yet withal curiously heartened. Wesley Elliot was right: Lydia Orr +needed a friend. He resolved that he would be that friend. + +In the room overhead the light had leapt to full brilliancy. An +uncertain hand pulled the shade down crookedly. As the young man turned +for a last look at the house he perceived a shadow hurriedly passing +and repassing the lighted window. Then all at once the shadow, +curiously huddled, stooped and was gone. There was something sinister +in the sudden disappearance of that active shadow. Jim Dodge watched +the vacant window for a long minute; then with a muttered exclamation +walked on toward the village. + + + + +Chapter XXVI. + + +In the barroom of the Brookville House the flaring kerosene lamp lit up +a group of men and half-grown boys, who had strayed in out of the chill +darkness to warm themselves around the great stove in the middle of the +floor. The wooden armchairs, which in summer made a forum of the +tavern’s side piazza, had been brought in and ranged in a wide +semicircle about the stove, marking the formal opening of the winter +session. In the central chair sat the large figure of Judge Fulsom, +puffing clouds of smoke from a calabash pipe; his twinkling eyes +looking forth over his fat, creased cheeks roved impartially about the +circle of excited faces. + +“I can understand all right about Andrew Bolton’s turning up,” one man +was saying. “He was bound to turn up sooner or later. I seen him +myself, day before yesterday, going down street. Thinks I, ‘Who can +that be?’ There was something kind of queer about the way he dragged +his feet. What you going to do about it, Judge? Have we got to put up +with having a jailbird, as crazy as a loon into the bargain, living +right here in our midst?” + +“In luxury and idleness, like he was a captain of industry,” drawled +another man who was eating hot dog and sipping beer. “That’s what +strikes me kind of hard, Judge, in luxury and idleness, while the rest +of us has to work.” + +Judge Fulsom gave an inarticulate grunt and smoked on imperturbably. + +“Set down, boys; set down,” ordered a small man in a red sweater under +a corduroy coat. “Give the Jedge a chance! He ain’t going to deliver no +opinion whilst you boys are rammaging around. Set down and let the +Jedge take th’ floor.” + +A general scraping of chair legs and a shuffling of uneasy feet +followed this exhortation; still no word from the huge, impassive +figure in the central chair. The oily-faced young man behind the bar +improved the opportunity by washing a dozen or so glasses, setting them +down showily on a tin tray in view of the company. + +“Quit that noise, Cholley!” exhorted the small man in the red sweater; +“we want order in the court room—eh, Jedge?” + +“What I’d like to know is where she got all that money of hers,” piped +an old man, with a mottled complexion and bleary eyes. + +“Sure enough; where’d she get it?” chimed in half a dozen voices at +once. + +“She’s Andrew Bolton’s daughter,” said the first speaker. “And she’s +been setting up for a fine lady, doing stunts for charity. How about +our town hall an’ our lov-elly library, an’ our be-utiful drinking +fountain, and the new shingles on our church roof? You don’t want to +ask too many questions, Lute.” + +“Don’t I?” cried the man, who was eating hot dog. “You all know _me!_ +I ain’t a-going to stand for no grab-game. If she’s got money, it’s +more than likely the old fox salted it down before they ketched him. +It’s our money; that’s whose money ’tis, if you want to know!” + +And he swallowed his mouthful with a slow, menacing glance which swept +the entire circle. + +“Now, Lucius,” began Judge Fulsom, removing the pipe from his mouth, +“go slow! No use in talk without proof.” + +“But what have you got to say, Jedge? Where’d she get all that money +she’s been flamming about with, and that grand house, better than new, +with all the latest improvements. Wa’n’t we some jays to be took in +like we was by a little, white-faced chit like her? Couldn’t see +through a grindstone with a hole in it! Bolton House.... And an +automobile to fetch the old jailbird home in. Wa’n’t it lovely?” + +A low growl ran around the circle. + +“Durn you, Lute! Don’t you see the Jedge has something to say?” +demanded the man behind the bar. + +Judge Fulsom slowly tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. “If you +all will keep still a second and let me speak,” he began. + +“I want my rights,” interrupted a man with a hoarse crow. + +“Your rights!” shouted the Judge. “You’ve got no right to a damned +thing but a good horsewhipping!” + +“I’ve got my rights to the money other folks are keeping, I’ll let you +know!” + +Then the Judge fairly bellowed, as he got slowly to his feet: + +“I tell you once for all, the whole damned lot of you,” he shouted, +“that every man, woman and child in Brookville has been paid, +compensated, remunerated and requited in full for every cent he, she or +it lost in the Andrew Bolton bank failure.” + +There was a snarl of dissent. + +“You all better go slow, and hold your tongues, and mind your own +business. Remember what I say; that girl does not owe a red cent in +this town, neither does her father. She’s paid in full, and you’ve +spent a lot of it in here, too!” The Judge wiped his red face. + +“Oh, come on, Jedge; you don’t want to be hard on the house,” protested +the man in the red sweater, waving his arms as frantically as a freight +brakeman. “Say, you boys! don’t ye git excited! The Jedge didn’t mean +that; you got him kind of het up with argufying.... Down in front, +boys! You, Lute—” + +But it was too late: half a dozen voices were shouting at once. There +was a simultaneous descent upon the bar, with loud demands for liquor +of the sort Lute Parsons filled up on. Then the raucous voice of the +ringleader pierced the tumult. + +“Come on, boys! Let’s go out to the old place and get our rights off +that gal of Bolton’s!” + +“That’s th’ stuff, Lute!” yelled the others, clashing their glasses +wildly. “Come on! Come on, everybody!” + +In vain Judge Fulsom hammered on the bar and called for order in the +court room. The majesty of the law, as embodied in his great bulk, +appeared to have lost its power. Even his faithful henchman in the red +sweater had joined the rioters and was yelling wildly for his rights. +Somebody flung wide the door, and the barroom emptied itself into the +night, leaving the oily young man at his post of duty gazing fearfully +at the purple face of Judge Fulsom, who stood staring, as if stupefied, +at the overturned chairs, the broken glasses and the empty darkness +outside. + +“Say, Jedge, them boys was sure some excited,” ventured the bartender +timidly. “You don’t s’pose—” + +The big man put himself slowly into motion. + +“I’ll get th’ constable,” he growled. “I—I’ll run ’em in; and I’ll give +Lute Parsons the full extent of the law, if it’s the last thing I do on +earth. I—I’ll teach them!—I’ll give them all they’re lookin’ for.” + +And he, too, went out, leaving the door swinging in the cold wind. + +At the corner, still meditating vengeance for this affront to his +dignity, Judge Fulsom almost collided with the hurrying figure of a man +approaching in the opposite direction. + +“Hello!” he challenged sharply. “Where you goin’ so fast, my friend?” + +“Evening, Judge,” responded the man, giving the other a wide margin. + +“Oh, it’s Jim Dodge—eh? Say, Jim, did you meet any of the boys on the +road?” + +“What boys?” + +“Why, we got into a little discussion over to the Brookville House +about this Andrew Bolton business—his coming back unexpected, you know; +and some of the boys seemed to think they hadn’t got all that was +coming to them by rights. Lute Parsons he gets kind of worked up after +about three or four glasses, and he sicked the boys onto going out +there, and—” + +“Going out—where? In the name of Heaven, what do you mean, Judge?” + +“I told ’em to keep cool and— Say, don’t be in a hurry, Jim. I had an +awful good mind to call out Hank Simonson to run a few of ’em in. But I +dunno as the boys’ll do any real harm. They wouldn’t dare. They know +_me_, and they know—” + +“Do you mean that drunken mob was headed for Bolton House? Why, Good +Lord, man, she’s there practically alone!” + +“Well, perhaps you’d better see if you can get some help,” began the +Judge, whose easy-going disposition was already balking at effort. + +But Jim Dodge, shouting back a few trenchant directions, had already +disappeared, running at top speed. + +There was a short cut to Bolton House, across plowed fields and through +a patch of woodland. Jim Dodge ran all the way, wading a brook, swollen +with the recent rains, tearing his way through thickets of brush and +bramble, the twinkling lights in the top story of the distant house +leading him on. Once he paused for an instant, thinking he heard the +clamor of rude voices borne on the wind; then plunged forward again, +his flying feet seemingly weighted with lead; and all the while an +agonizing picture of Lydia, white and helpless, facing the crowd of +drunken men flitted before his eyes. + +Now he had reached the wall at the rear of the gardens; had clambered +over it, dropping to his feet in the midst of a climbing rose which +clutched at him with its thorny branches; had run across an acre of +kitchen garden and leaped the low-growing hedge which divided it from +the sunken flower garden he had made for Lydia. Here were more +rosebushes and an interminable space broken by walks and a sundial, +masked by shrubs, with which he collided violently. There was no +mistaking the clamor from the front of the house; the rioters had +reached their quarry first! Not stopping to consider what one man, +single-handed and unarmed, could do against a score of drunken +opponents, the young man rounded the corner of the big house just as +the door was flung wide and the slim figure of Lydia stood outlined +against the bright interior. + +“What do you want, men?” she called out, in her clear, fearless voice. +“What has happened?” + +There was a confused murmur of voices in reply. Most of the men were +decent enough fellows, when sober. Some one was heard to suggest a +retreat: “No need to scare the young lady. ’Tain’t her fault!” + +“Aw! shut up, you coward!” shouted another. “We want our money!” + +“Where did you get yer money?” demanded a third. “You tell us that, +young woman. That’s what we’re after!” + +“Where’s the old thief? ...We want Andrew Bolton!” + +Then from somewhere in the darkness a pebble flung by a reckless hand +shattered a pane of glass. At sound of the crash all pretense of +decency and order seemed abandoned. The spirit of the pack broke loose! + +Just what happened from the moment when he leaped upon the portico, +wrenching loose a piece of iron pipe which formed the support of a +giant wistaria, Jim Dodge could never afterward recall in precise +detail. A sort of wild rage seized him; he struck right and left among +the dark figures swarming up the steps. There were cries, shouts, +curses, flying stones; then he had dragged Lydia inside and bolted the +heavy door between them and the ugly clamor without. + +She faced him where he stood, breathing hard, his back against the +barred door. + +“They were saying—” she whispered, her face still and white. “My God! +What do they think I’ve done?” + +“They’re drunk,” he explained. “It was only a miserable rabble from the +barroom in the village. But if you’d been here alone—!” + +She shook her head. + +“I recognized the man who spoke first; his name is Parsons. There were +others, too, who worked on the place here in the summer.... They have +heard?” + +He nodded, unable to speak because of something which rose in his +throat choking him. Then he saw a thin trickle of red oozing from under +the fair hair above her temple, and the blood hammered in his ears. + +“You are hurt!” he said thickly. “The devils struck you!” + +“It’s nothing—a stone, perhaps.” + +Something in the sorrowful look she gave him broke down the flimsy +barrier between them. + +“Lydia—Lydia!” he cried, holding out his arms. + +She clung to him like a child. They stood so for a moment, listening to +the sounds from without. There were still occasional shouts and the +altercation of loud, angry voices; but this was momently growing +fainter; presently it died away altogether. + +She stirred in his arms and he stooped to look into her face. + +“I—Father will be frightened,” she murmured, drawing away from him with +a quick decided movement. “You must let me go.” + +“Not until I have told you, Lydia! I am poor, rough—not worthy to touch +you—but I love you with my whole heart and soul, Lydia. You must let me +take care of you. You need me, dear.” + +Tears overflowed her eyes, quiet, patient tears; but she answered +steadily. + +“Can’t you see that I—I am different from other women? I have only one +thing to live for. I must go to him.... You had forgotten—him.” + +In vain he protested, arguing his case with all lover’s skill and +ingenuity. She shook her head. + +“Sometime you will forgive me that one moment of weakness,” she said +sadly. “I was frightened and—tired.” + +He followed her upstairs in gloomy silence. The old man, she was +telling him hurriedly, would be terrified. She must reassure him; and +tomorrow they would go away together for a long journey. She could see +now that she had made a cruel mistake in bringing him to Brookville. + +But there was no answer in response to her repeated tapping at his +door; and suddenly the remembrance of that stooping shadow came back to +him. + +“Let me go in,” he said, pushing her gently aside. + +The lights, turned high in the quiet room, revealed only emptiness and +disorder; drawers and wardrobes pulled wide, scattered garments +apparently dropped at random on chairs and tables. The carpet, drawn +aside in one corner, disclosed a shallow aperture in the floor, from +which the boards had been lifted. + +“Why— What?” stammered the girl, all the high courage gone from her +face. “What has happened?” + +He picked up a box—a common cigar box—from amid the litter of abandoned +clothing. It was quite empty save for a solitary slip of greenish paper +which had somehow adhered to the bottom. + +Lydia clutched the box in both trembling hands, staring with piteous +eyes at the damning evidence of that bit of paper. + +“Money!” she whispered. “He must have hidden it before—before— Oh, +father, father!” + +[Illustration] “Money!” she whispered. “He must have hidden it +before—before—” + + + + +Chapter XXVII. + + +History is said to repeat itself, as if indeed the world were a vast +pendulum, swinging between events now inconceivably remote, and again +menacing and near. And if in things great and heroic, so also in the +less significant aspects of life. + +Mrs. Henry Daggett stood, weary but triumphant, amid the nearly +completed preparations for a reception in the new church parlors, her +broad, rosy face wearing a smile of satisfaction. + +“Don’t it look nice?” she said, by way of expressing her overflowing +contentment. + +Mrs. Maria Dodge, evergreen wreaths looped over one arm, nodded. + +“It certainly does look fine, Abby,” said she. “And I guess nobody but +you would have thought of having it.” + +Mrs. Daggett beamed. “I thought of it the minute I heard about that +city church that done it. I call it a real tasty way to treat a +minister as nice as ours.” + +“So ’tis,” agreed Mrs. Dodge with the air of complacent satisfaction +she had acquired since Fanny’s marriage to the minister. “And I think +Wesley’ll appreciate it.” + +Mrs. Daggett’s face grew serious. Then her soft bosom heaved with +mirth. + +“’Tain’t everybody that’s lucky enough to have a minister right in the +family,” said she briskly. “Mebbe if I was to hear a sermon preached +every day in the week I’d get some piouser myself. I’ve been comparing +this with the fair we had last summer. It ain’t so grand, but it’s +newer. A fair’s like a work of nature, Maria; sun and rain and dew, and +the scrapings from the henyard, all mixed with garden ground to fetch +out cabbages, potatoes or roses. God gives the increase.” + +Mrs. Dodge stared at her friend in amazement. + +“That sounds real beautiful, Abby,” she said. “You must have thought it +all out.” + +“That’s just what I done,” confirmed Mrs. Daggett happily. “I’m always +meditating about something, whilst I’m working ’round th’ house. And +it’s amazing what thoughts’ll come to a body from somewheres.... What +you going to do with them wreaths, Maria?” + +“Why, I was thinking of putting ’em right up here,” said Mrs. Dodge, +pointing. + +“A good place,” said Mrs. Daggett. “Remember Fanny peeking through them +wreaths last summer? Pretty as a pink! An’ now she’s Mis’ Reveren’ +Elliot. I seen him looking at her that night.... My! My! What lots of +things have took place in our midst since then.” + +Mrs. Dodge, from the lofty elevation of a stepladder, looked across the +room. + +“Here comes Ann Whittle with two baskets,” she said, “and Mrs. Solomon +Black carrying a big cake, and a whole crowd of ladies just behind +’em.” + +“Glad they ain’t going to be late like they was last year,” said Mrs. +Daggett. “My sakes! I hadn’t thought so much about that fair till +today; the scent of the evergreens brings it all back. We was wondering +who’d buy the things; remember, Maria?” + +“I should say I did,” assented Mrs. Dodge, hopping nimbly down from the +ladder. “There, that looks even nicer than it did at the fair; don’t +you think so, Abby?” + +“It looks perfectly lovely, Maria.” + +“Well, here we are at last,” announced Mrs. Whittle as she entered. “I +had to wait till the frosting stiffened up on my cake.” + +She bustled over to a table and began to take the things out of her +baskets. Mrs. Daggett hurried forward to meet Mrs. Solomon Black, who +was advancing with slow majesty, bearing a huge disk covered with +tissue paper. + +Mrs. Black was not the only woman in the town of Brookville who could +now boast sleeves made in the latest Parisian style. Her quick black +eyes had already observed the crisp blue taffeta, in which Mrs. Whittle +was attired, and the fresh muslin gowns decked with uncreased ribbons +worn by Mrs. Daggett and her friend, Maria Dodge. Mrs. Solomon Black’s +water-waves were crisp and precise, as of yore, and her hard red cheeks +glowed like apples above the elaborate embroidery of her dress. + +“Here, Mis’ Black, let me take your cake!” offered Abby Daggett. “I +sh’d think your arm would be most broke carryin’ it all the way from +your house.” + +“Thank you, Abby; but I wouldn’t das’ t’ resk changin’ it; I’ll set it +right down where it’s t’ go.” + +The brisk chatter and laughter, which by now had prevaded the big +place, ceased as by a preconcerted signal, and a dozen women gathered +about the table toward which Mrs. Solomon Black was moving like the +central figure in some stately pageant. + +“Fer pity sake!” whispered Mrs. Mixter, “what d’ you s’pose she’s got +under all that tissue paper?” + +Mrs. Solomon Black set the great cake, still veiled, in the middle of +the table; then she straightened herself and looked from one to the +other of the eager, curious faces gathered around. + +“There!” she said. “I feel now ’s ’o’ I could dror m’ breath once more. +I ain’t joggled it once, so’s t’ hurt, since I started from home.” + +Then slowly she withdrew the shrouding tissue paper from the creation +she had thus triumphantly borne to its place of honor, and stood off, a +little to one side, her face one broad smile of satisfaction. + +“Fer goodness’ sake!” + +“Did you ev—er!” + +“Why, Mis’ Black!” + +“Ain’t that just—” + +“You never done that all yourself?” + +Mrs. Black nodded slowly, almost solemnly. The huge cake which was +built up in successive steps, like a pyramid, was crowned on its +topmost disk by a bridal scene, a tiny man holding his tiny veiled +bride by the hand in the midst of an expanse of pink frosting. About +the side of the great cake, in brightly colored “mites,” was inscribed +“Greetings to our Pastor and his Bride.” + +“I thought ’twould be kind of nice, seeing our minister was just +married, and so, in a way, this is a wedding reception. I don’t know +what the rest of you ladies’ll think.” + +Abby Daggett stood with clasped hands, her big soft bosom rising and +falling in a sort of ecstasy. + +“Why, Phoebe,” she said, “it’s a real poem! It couldn’t be no han’somer +if it had been done right up in heaven!” + +She put her arms about Mrs. Solomon Black and kissed her. + +“And this ain’t all,” said Mrs. Black. “Lois Daggett is going to fetch +over a chocolate cake and a batch of crullers for me when she comes.” + +Applause greeted this statement. + +“Time was,” went on Mrs. Black, “and not so long ago, neither, when I +was afraid to spend a cent, for fear of a rainy day that’s been long +coming. ’Tain’t got here yet; but I can tell you ladies, I got a lesson +from _her_ in generosity I don’t mean to forget. ‘Spend and be spent’ +is my motto from now on; so I didn’t grudge the new-laid eggs I put in +that cake, nor yet the sugar, spice nor raisins. There’s three cakes in +one—in token of the trinity (I do hope th’ won’t nobody think it’s +wicked t’ mention r’ligion in connection with a cake); the bottom cake +was baked in a milk-pan, an’ it’s a bride’s cake, being made with the +whites of fourteen perfec’ly fresh eggs; the next layer is fruit and +spice, as rich as wedding cake ought to be; the top cake is best of +all; and can be lifted right off and given to Rever’nd an’ Mrs. Wesley +Elliot.... I guess they’ll like to keep the wedding couple for a +souvenir.” + +A vigorous clapping of hands burst forth. Mrs. Solomon Black waited +modestly till this gratifying demonstration had subsided, then she went +on: + +“I guess most of you ladies’ll r’member how one short year ago Miss +Lyddy Orr Bolton came a’walkin’ int’ our midst, lookin’ sweet an’ +modest, like she was; and how down-in-th’-mouth we was all a-feelin’, +’count o’ havin’ no money t’ buy th’ things we’d worked s’ hard t’ +make. Some of us hadn’t no more grit an’ gumption ’n Ananias an’ +S’phira, t’ say nothin’ o’ Jonah an’ others I c’d name. In she came, +an’ ev’rythin’ was changed from that minute! ...Now, I want we sh’d cut +up that cake—after everybody’s had a chance t’ see it good—all but th’ +top layer, same’s I said—an’ all of us have a piece, out o’ compl’ment +t’ our paster an’ his wife, an’ in memory o’ her, who’s gone from us.” + +“But Lyddy Orr ain’t dead, Mis’ Black,” protested Mrs. Daggett warmly. + +“She might ’s well be, ’s fur ’s our seein’ her ’s concerned,” replied +Mrs. Black. “She’s gone t’ Boston t’ stay f’r good, b’cause she +couldn’t stan’ it no-how here in Brookville, after her pa was found +dead. The’ was plenty o’ hard talk, b’fore an’ after; an’ when it come +t’ breakin’ her windows with stones an’ hittin’ her in th’ head, so she +was ’bleeged t’ have three stitches took, all I c’n say is I don’t +wonder she went t’ Boston.... Anyway, that’s my wish an’ d’sire ’bout +that cake.” + +The arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Wesley Elliot offered a welcome +interruption to a scene which was becoming uncomfortably tense. +Whatever prickings of conscience there might have been under the gay +muslin and silks of her little audience, each woman privately resented +the superior attitude assumed by Mrs. Solomon Black. + +“Easy f’r _her_ t’ talk,” murmured Mrs. Fulsom, from between puckered +lips; “_she_ didn’t lose no money off Andrew Bolton.” + +“An’ she didn’t get none, neither, when it come t’ dividin’ up,” Mrs. +Mixter reminded her. + +“That’s so,” assented Mrs. Fulsom, as she followed in pretty Mrs. +Mixter’s wake to greet the newly-married pair. + +“My! ain’t you proud o’ her,” whispered Abby Daggett to Maria Dodge. +“She’s a perfec’ pictur’ o’ joy, if ever I laid my eyes on one!” + +Fanny stood beside her tall husband, her pretty face irradiating +happiness. She felt a sincere pity welling up in her heart for Ellen +Dix and Joyce Fulsom and the other girls. Compared with her own +transcendent experiences, their lives seemed cold and bleak to Fanny. +And all the while she was talking to the women who crowded about her. + +“Yes; we are getting nicely settled, thank you, Mrs. Fulsom—all but the +attic. Oh, how’d you do, Judge Fulsom?” + +The big man wiped the perspiration from his bald forehead. + +“Just been fetchin’ in th’ ice cream freezers,” he said, with his +booming chuckle. “I guess I’m ’s well ’s c’n be expected, under th’ +circumstances, ma’am.... An’ that r’minds me, parson, a little matter +was s’ggested t’ me. In fact, I’d thought of it, some time ago. No more +’n right, in view o’ th’ facts. If you don’t mind, I’ll outline th’ +idee t’ you, parson, an’ see if you approve.” + +Fanny, striving to focus attention on the pointed remarks Miss Lois +Daggett was making, caught occasional snatches of their conversation. +Fanny had never liked Lois Daggett; but in her new rôle of minister’s +wife, it was her foreordained duty to love everybody and to condole and +sympathize with the parish at large. One could easily sympathize with +Lois Daggett, she was thinking; what would it be like to be obliged +daily to face the reflection of that mottled complexion, that long, +pointed nose, with its rasped tip, that drab lifeless hair with its +sharp hairpin crimp, and those small greenish eyes with no perceptible +fringe of lashes? Fanny looked down from her lovely height into Miss +Daggett’s upturned face and pitied her from the bottom of her heart. + +“I hear your brother Jim has gone t’ Boston,” Miss Daggett was saying +with a simper. + +From the rear Fanny heard Judge Fulsom’s rumbling monotone, earnestly +addressed to her husband: + +“Not that Boston ain’t a nice town t’ live in; but we’ll have t’ enter +a demurrer against her staying there f’r good. Y’ see—” + +“Yes,” said Fanny, smiling at Miss Daggett. “He went several days ago.” + +“H’m-m,” murmured Miss Daggett. “_She’s_ livin’ there, ain’t she?” + +“You mean Miss Orr?” + +“I mean Miss Lyddy Bolton. I guess Bolton’s a good ’nough name for +_her_.” + +From the Judge, in a somewhat louder tone: + +“That’s th’ way it looks t’ me, dominie; an’ if all th’ leadin’ +citizens of Brookville’ll put their name to it—an’ I’m of th’ opinion +they will, when I make my charge t’ th’ jury—” + +“Certainly,” murmured Fanny absently, as she gazed at her husband and +the judge. + +She couldn’t help wondering why her Wesley was speaking so earnestly to +the Judge, yet in such a provokingly low tone of voice. + +“I had become so accustomed to thinking of her as Lydia Orr,” she +finished hastily. + +“Well, I don’t b’lieve in givin’ out a name ’at ain’t yourn,” said Lois +Daggett, sharply. “She’d ought t’ ’a’ told right out who she was, an’ +what she come t’ Brookville _for_.” + +Judge Fulsom and the minister had moved still further away. Fanny, with +some alarm, felt herself alone. + +“I don’t think Miss Orr meant to be deceitful,” she said nervously. + +“Well, o’ course, if she’s a-goin’ t’ be in th’ family, it’s natural +you sh’d think so,” said Lois Daggett, sniffing loudly. + +Fanny did not answer. + +“I sh’d _hope_ she an’ Jim was engaged,” proclaimed Miss Daggett. “If +they ain’t, they’d ought t’ be.” + +“Why should you say that, Miss Lois?” asked Fanny hurriedly. “They are +very good friends.” + +Miss Daggett bent forward, lowering her voice. + +“The’s one thing I’d like t’ know f’r certain,” she said: “Did Jim +Dodge find that body?” + +Fanny stared at her inquisitor resentfully. + +“There were a good many persons searching,” she said coldly. + +Miss Daggett wagged her head in an irritated fashion. + +“Of course I know _that_,” she snapped. “What I want t’ know is whether +Jim Dodge—” + +“I never asked my brother,” interrupted Fanny. “It all happened so long +ago, why not—” + +“Not s’ terrible long,” disagreed Miss Daggett. “It was th’ first o’ +November. N’ I’ve got a mighty good reason f’r askin’.” + +“You have?” murmured Fanny, flashing a glance of entreaty at her +husband. + +“Some of us ladies was talkin’ it over,” pursued the spinster +relentlessly, “an’ I says t’ Mis’ Deacon Whittle: ‘Who counted th’ +money ’at was found on Andrew Bolton’s body?’ I says. ‘W’y,’ s’ she, +‘th’ ones ’at found him out in th’ woods where he got lost, I s’pose.’ +But come t’ sift it right down t’ facts, not one o’ them ladies c’d +tell f’r certain who ’t was ’at found that body. The’ was such an’ +excitement ’n’ hullaballoo, nobody ’d thought t’ ask. It wa’n’t Deacon +Whittle; n’r it wa’n’t th’ party from th’ Brookville House; ner Hank +Simonson, ner any o’ the boys. _It was Jim Dodge, an’ she was with +him!”_ + +“Well,” said Fanny faintly. + +She looked up to meet the minister’s eyes, with a sense of strong +relief. Wesley was so wise and good. Wesley would know just what to say +to this prying woman. + +“What are you and Miss Daggett talking about so earnestly?” asked the +minister. + +When informed of the question under discussion, he frowned +thoughtfully. + +“My dear Miss Daggett,” he said, “if you will fetch me the dinner bell +from Mrs. Whittle’s kitchen, I shall be happy to answer your question +and others like it which have reached me from time to time concerning +this unhappy affair.” + +“Mis’ Deacon Whittle’s dinner bell?” gasped Lois Daggett. “What’s that +got t’ do with—” + +“Bring it to me, and you’ll see,” smiled the minister imperturbably. + +“What are you going to do, Wesley?” whispered Fanny. + +He gazed gravely down into her lovely eyes. + +_“Dearest,”_ he whispered back, “trust me! It is time we laid this +uneasy ghost; don’t you think so?” + +By now the large room was well filled with men, women and children. The +ice cream was being passed around when suddenly the clanging sound of a +dinner bell, vigorously operated by Joe Whittle, arrested attention. + +“The minister’s got something to say! The minister’s got something to +say!” shouted the boy. + +Wesley Elliot, standing apart, lifted his hand in token of silence, +then he spoke: + +“I have taken this somewhat unusual method of asking your attention to +a matter which has for many years past enlisted your sympathies,” he +began: “I refer to the Bolton affair.” + +The sound of breath sharply indrawn and the stir of many feet died into +profound silence as the minister went on, slowly and with frequent +pauses: + +“Most of you are already familiar with the sordid details. It is not +necessary for me to go back to the day, now nearly nineteen years ago, +when many of you found yourselves unexpectedly impoverished because the +man you trusted had defaulted.... There was much suffering in +Brookville that winter, and since.... When I came to this parish I +found it—sick. Because of the crime of Andrew Bolton? No. I repeat the +word with emphasis: _No!_ Brookville was sick, despondent, dull, gloomy +and impoverished—not because of Andrew Bolton’s crime; but because +Brookville had never forgiven Andrew Bolton.... Hate is the one +destructive element in the universe; did you know that, friends? It is +impossible for a man or woman who hates another to prosper.... And I’ll +tell you why this is—why it must be true: God is love—the opposite of +hate. Hence All Power is enlisted on the side of _love_.... Think this +over, and you’ll know it is true.... Now the Bolton mystery: A year ago +we were holding a fair in this village, which was sick and impoverished +because it had never forgiven the man who stole its money.... You all +remember that occasion. There were things to sell; but nobody had money +to buy them. It wasn’t a pleasant occasion. Nobody was enjoying it, +least of all your minister. But a miracle took place— There are +miracles in the world today, as there always have been, thank God! +There came into Brookville that day a person who was moved by love. +Every impulse of her heart; everything she did was inspired by that +mightiest force of the universe. She called herself Lydia Orr.... She +had been called Lydia Orr, as far back as she could remember; so she +did no wrong to anyone by retaining that name. But she had another +name, which she quickly found was a byword and a hissing in Brookville. +Was it strange that she shrank from telling it? She believed in the +forgiveness of sins; and she had come to right a great wrong.... She +did what she could, as it is written of another woman, who poured out a +fragrant offering of love unappreciated save by One.... There quickly +followed the last chapter in the tragedy—for it was all a tragedy, +friends, as I look at it: the theft; the pitiful attempt to restore +fourfold all that had been taken; the return of that ruined man, Andrew +Bolton, after his heavy punishment; and his tragic death.... Some of +you may not know all that happened that night. You do know of the +cowardly attack made upon the helpless girl. You know of the flight of +the terrified man, of how he was found dead two days later three miles +from the village, in a lonely spot where he had perished from hunger +and exposure.... The body was discovered by James Dodge, with the aid +of his dog. With him on that occasion was a detective from Boston, +employed by Miss Bolton, and myself. There was a sum of money found on +the body amounting to something over five thousand dollars. It had been +secreted beneath the floor of Andrew Bolton’s chamber, before his +arrest and imprisonment. It is probable that he intended to make good +his escape, but failed, owing to the illness of his wife.... This is a +terrible story, friends, and it has a sad ending. Brookville had never +learned to forgive. It had long ago formed the terrible habits of hate: +suspicion, envy, sharp-tongued censure and the rest. Lydia Bolton could +not remain here, though it was her birthplace and her home.... She +longed for friendship! She asked for bread and you gave her—a stone!” + +The profound silence was broken by a sob from a distant corner. The +strained listeners turned with a sharp movement of relief. + +“Fer pity sake!” faltered Abby Daggett, her beautiful, rosy face all +quivering with grief. “Can’t nobody do nothing?” + +“Yes, ma’am!” shouted the big voice of Judge Fulsom. “We can all do +something.... I ain’t going to sum up the case against Brookville; the +parson’s done it already; if there’s any rebuttal coming from the +defendant, now’s the time to bring it before the court.... Nothing to +say—eh? Well, I thought so! We’re guilty of the charges preferred, and +I’m going to pass sentence.... But before I do that, there’s one thing +the parson didn’t mention, that in my opinion should be told, to wit: +Miss Lydia Bolton’s money—all that she had—came to her from her uncle, +an honest hardworkin’ citizen of Boston. He made every penny of it as a +soap-boiler. So you see ’twas _clean_ money; and he left it to his +niece, Lydia Bolton. What did she do with it? You know! She poured it +out, right here in Brookville—pretty nigh all there was of it. She’s +got her place here; but mighty little besides. I’m her trustee, and I +know. The five thousand dollars found on the dead body of Andrew +Bolton, has been made a trust fund for the poor and discouraged of this +community, under conditions anybody that’ll take the trouble to step in +to my office can find out....” + +The Judge paused to clear his throat, while he produced from his +pocket, with a vast deal of ceremony, a legal looking document dangling +lengths of red ribbon and sealing wax. + +“This Bond of Indemnity, which I’m going to ask every man, woman and +child of fifteen years and up’ards, of the village of Brookville, +hereinafter known as the Party of the First Part, to sign, reads as +follows: Know all men by these presents that we, citizens of the +village of Brookville, hereinafter known as the Party of the First +Part, are held and firmly bound unto Miss Lydia Orr Bolton, hereinafter +known as the Party of the Second Part.... Whereas; the above-named +Party of the Second Part (don’t f’rget that means Miss Lydia Bolton) +did in behalf of her father—one Andrew Bolton, deceased—pay, +compensate, satisfy, restore, remunerate, recompense _and re-quite_ all +legal indebtedness incurred by said Andrew Bolton to, for, and in +behalf of the aforesaid Party of the First Part.... + +“You git me? If you don’t, just come to my office and I’ll explain in +detail any of the legal terms not understood, comprehended and known by +the feeble-minded of Brookville. Form in line at nine o’clock. First +come, first served: + +“We, the Party of the First Part, bind ourselves, and each of our +heirs, executors, administrators and assigns, jointly and severally, +firmly by these presents, and at all times hereafter to save, defend, +keep harmless and indemnify the aforesaid Party of the Second Part +(Miss Lydia Bolton) of, from and against all further costs, damages, +expense, disparagements (that means spiteful gossip, ladies!) +molestations, slander, vituperations, etc. (I could say more, _but_ +we’ve got something to do that’ll take time.) And whereas, the said +Party of the Second Part has been actually drove to Boston to live by +the aforesaid slander, calumniations, aspersions and libels—which we, +the said Party of the First Part do hereby acknowledge to be false and +untrue (yes, and doggone mean, as I look at it)—we, the said Party of +the First part do firmly bind ourselves, our heirs, executors, +administrators an’ assigns to quit all such illegalities from this day +forth, and forever more.” ... + +“You want to get out of the habit of talking mean about Andrew Bolton, +for one thing. It’s been as catching as measles in this town since I +can remember. Andrew Bolton’s dead and buried in our cemetery, beside +his wife. We’ll be there ourselves, some day; in the meanwhile we want +to reform our tongues. You get me? All right! + +“And whereas, we, the Party of the First Part, otherwise known as the +village of Brookville, do ask, beg, entreat, supplicate and plead the +f’rgiveness of the Party of the Second Part, otherwise known as Miss +Lydia Orr Bolton. And we also hereby request, petition, implore _an’_ +importune Miss Lydia Orr Bolton, otherwise known as the Party of the +Second Part, to return to Brookville and make it her permanent place of +residence, promising on our part, at all times hereafter, to save, +defend, keep harmless and indemnify her against all unfriendliness, of +whatever sort; and pledging ourselves to be good neighbors and loving +friends from the date of this document, which, when signed by th’ Party +of the First Part, shall be of full force and virtue. Sealed with our +seals. Dated this seventh day of June, in the year of our Lord, +nineteen hundred—” + +A loud uproar of applause broke loose in the pause that followed; then +the minister’s clear voice called for silence once more. + +“The Judge has his big fountain pen filled to its capacity,” he said. +“Come forward and sign this—the most remarkable document on record, I +am not afraid to say. Its signing will mean the wiping out of an old +bitterness and the dawning of a new and better day for Brookville!” + +The Reverend Wesley Elliot had mixed his metaphors sadly; but no one +minded that, least of all the minister himself, as he signed his name +in bold black characters to the wondrous screed, over which Judge +Fulsom had literally as well as metaphorically burned the midnight oil. +Deacon and Mrs. Whittle signed; Postmaster and Mrs. Daggett signed, the +latter with copious tears flowing over her smooth rosy cheeks. Miss +Lois Daggett was next: + +“I guess I ought to be written down near the front,” said she, “seeing +I’m full as much to blame, and like that, as most anybody.” + +“Come on you, Lute Parsons!” roared the Judge, while a group of matrons +meekly subscribed their signatures. “We want some live men-folks on +this document.... Aw, never mind, if you did! We all know you wa’n’t +yourself that night, Lucius.... That’s right; come right forward! We +want the signature of every man that went out there that night, full of +cussedness and bad whiskey.... That’s the ticket! Come on, everybody! +Get busy!” + +Nobody had attended the door for the last hour, Joe Whittle being a +spellbound witness of the proceedings; and so it chanced that nobody +saw two persons, a man and a woman who entered quietly—one might almost +have said timidly, as if doubtful of a welcome in the crowded place. It +was Abby Daggett who caught sight of the girl’s face, shining against +the soft dark of the summer night like a pale star. + +“Why, my sakes alive!” she cried, “if there ain’t Lyddy Bolton and Jim +Dodge, now! Did you ever!” + +As she folded the girl’s slight figure to her capacious breast, Mrs. +Daggett summed up in a single pithy sentence all the legal phraseology +of the Document, which by now had been signed by everybody old enough +to write their names: + +“Well! we certainly are glad you’ve come home, Lyddy; an’ we hope +you’ll never leave us no more!” + + + + +Chapter XXVIII. + + +“Fanny,” said Ellen suddenly; “I want to tell you something.” + +Mrs. Wesley Elliot turned a complacently abstracted gaze upon her +friend who sat beside her on the vine-shaded piazza of the parsonage. +She felt the sweetest sympathy for Ellen, whenever she thought of her +at all: + +“Yes, dear.” + +“Do you remember my speaking to you about Jim— Oh, a long time ago, and +how he—? It was perfectly ridiculous, you know.” + +Fanny’s blue eyes became suddenly alert. + +“You mean the time Jim kissed you,” she murmured. “Oh, Ellen, I’ve +always been so sorry for—” + +“Well; you needn’t be,” interrupted Ellen; “I never cared a snap for +Jim Dodge; so there!” + +The youthful matron sighed gently: she felt that she understood poor +dear Ellen perfectly, and in token thereof she patted poor dear Ellen’s +hand. + +“I know exactly how you feel,” she warbled. + +Ellen burst into a gleeful laugh: + +“You think you do; but you don’t,” she informed her friend, with a +spice of malice. “Your case was entirely different from mine, my dear: +You were perfectly crazy over Wesley Elliot; I was only in love with +being in love.” + +Fanny looked sweetly mystified and a trifle piqued withal. + +“I wanted to have a romance—to be madly in love,” Ellen explained. “Oh, +you know! Jim was merely a peg to hang it on.” + +The wife of the minister smiled a lofty compassion. + +“Everything seems so different after one is married,” she stated. + +“Is that really so?” cried Ellen. “Well, I shall soon know, Fan, for +I’m to be married in the fall.” + +_“Married? Why, Ellen Dix!”_ + +“Uh—huh,” confirmed Ellen, quite satisfied with the success of her +_coup_. “You don’t know him, Fan; but he’s perfectly elegant—and +_handsome!_ Just wait till you see him.” + +Ellen rocked herself to and fro excitedly. + +“I met him in Grenoble last winter, and we’re going to live there in +the _sweetest_ house. He fell in love with me the first minute he saw +me. You never knew anyone to be so awfully in love ... m’m!” + +Without in the least comprehending the reason for the phenomenon, Mrs. +Wesley Elliot experienced a singular depression of spirit. Of course +she was glad poor dear Ellen was to be happy. She strove to infuse a +sprightly satisfaction into her tone and manner as she said: + +“What wonderful news, dear. But isn’t it rather—sudden? I mean, +oughtn’t you to have known him longer! ...You didn’t tell me his name.” + +Ellen’s piquant dark face sparkled with mischief and happiness. + +“His name is Harvey Wade,” she replied; “you know Wade and Hampton, +where you bought your wedding things, Fan? Everybody knows the Wades, +and I’ve known Harvey long enough to—” + +She grew suddenly wistful as she eyed her friend: + +“You _have_ changed a lot since you were married, Fan; all the girls +think so. Sometimes I feel almost afraid of you. Is it—do you—?” + +Fanny’s unaccountable resentment melted before a sudden rush of +sympathy and understanding. She drew Ellen’s blushing face close to her +own in the sweetness of caresses: + +“I’m _so_ glad for you, dear, so _glad!_” + +“And you’ll tell Jim?” begged Ellen, after a silence full of thrills. +“I should hate to have him suppose—” + +“He doesn’t, Ellen,” Jim’s sister assured her, out of a secret fund of +knowledge to which she would never have confessed. “Jim always +understood you far better than I did. And he likes you, too, better +than any girl in Brookville.” + +“Except Lydia,” amended Ellen. + +“Oh, of course, except Lydia.” + + + + +Chapter XXIX. + + +There was a warm, flower-scented breeze stirring the heavy foliage +drenched with the silver rain of moonlight, and the shrilling of +innumerable small voices of the night. It all belonged; yet neither the +man nor the woman noticed anything except each other; nor heard +anything save the words the other uttered. + +“To think that you love me, Lydia!” he said, triumph and humility +curiously mingled in his voice. + +“How could I help it, Jim? I could never have borne it all, if you—” + +“Really, Lydia?” + +He looked down into her face which the moonlight had spiritualized to +the likeness of an angel. + +She smiled and slipped her hand into his. + +They were alone in the universe, so he stooped and kissed her, +murmuring inarticulate words of rapture. + +After uncounted minutes they walked slowly on, she within the circle of +his arm, her blond head against the shoulder of his rough tweed coat. + +“When shall it be, Lydia?” he asked. + +She blushed—even in the moonlight he could see the adorable flutter of +color in her face. + +“I am all alone in the world, Jim,” she said, rather sadly. “I have no +one but you.” + +“I’ll love you enough to make up for forty relations!” he declared. +“And, anyway, as soon as we’re married you’ll have mother and Fan +and—er—” + +He made a wry face, as it occurred to him for the first time that the +Reverend Wesley Elliot was about to become Lydia’s brother-in-law. + +The girl laughed. + +“Haven’t you learned to like him yet?” she inquired teasingly. + +“I can stand him for a whole hour at a time now, without experiencing a +desire to kick him,” he told her. “But why should we waste time talking +about Wesley Elliot?” + +Lydia appeared to be considering his question with some seriousness. + +“Why, Jim,” she said, looking straight up into his eyes with the +innocent candor he had loved in her from the beginning, “Mr. Elliot +will expect to marry us.” + +“That’s so!” conceded Jim; “Fan will expect it, too.” + +He looked at her eagerly: + +“Aren’t you in a hurry for that wonderful brother-in-law, Lydia? Don’t +you think—?” + +The smile on her face was wonderful now; he felt curiously abashed by +it, like one who has inadvertently jested in a holy place. + +“Forgive me, dearest,” he murmured. + +“If you would like—if it is not too soon—my birthday is next Saturday. +Mother used to make me a little party on my birthday, so I thought—it +seemed to me—and the roses are all in bloom.” + +There was only one way to thank her for this halting little speech: he +took her in his arms and whispered words which no one, not even the +crickets in the hedge could hear, if crickets ever were listeners, and +not the sole chorus on their tiny stage of life. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ALABASTER BOX *** + +***** This file should be named 18140-0.txt or 18140-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/1/4/18140/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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