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 pa.s.sion 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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, f.a.n.n.y."

The two older women descended from the carryall and began looking eagerly around.

"Just see how nice the gra.s.s 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?"