CHAPTER XVI.

A PROMISE KEPT.

Quincy was up next morning at eight o'clock and ate his breakfast with 'Zekiel. 'Zekiel said his sister did not sleep well nights, and so would not be down till later.

"Do you want the team this morning, Mr. Pettengill?" asked Quincy.

"No," said 'Zekiel, "but the Boston doctor wrote to Deacon Mason that he was comin' down this afternoon to take that stuff off Huldy's arm, and she wanted me to come up, so I shall be up there all the afternoon."

"That reminds me," said Quincy. "Will you tell Deacon Mason that I want the nurse to stay until to-morrow and I will be up to see her at nine o'clock?"

Quincy took up the reins and started for Eastborough Poorhouse.

He found his uncle weaker than on the day before. Quincy touched his hand, but did not lift it from the bed. Jim pointed towards the door.

"It's all right," said Quincy, "there is no one there."

"Did you get it?" asked Uncle Jim in a whisper.

"Yes," replied Quincy, "and it's safe in the bank in Boston."

"Thank G.o.d!" exclaimed Uncle Jim. "Now I don't care how soon I am called to judgment for my sins."

"Uncle Jim," said Quincy, "I saw my father yesterday afternoon. Would you like to have your brother come see you?"

Uncle Jim shook his head. "It will do no good," said he. "You have done all I could wish for. Pay the town for my board. Give them what they ask. Do with the balance what you wish, Quincy. It is yours."

"Where do you wish to be buried, Uncle?" asked Quincy bravely.

"Right here," replied Uncle Jim. "One of the boys here died about a month ago; his name was Tom Buck. He was a good fellow and did many kind things for me. Bury me side of him."

"One more question, Uncle," said Quincy. "In what town did your wife and children reside when they died?"

"In Amesbury," said Uncle Jim. An idea seemed to strike him. "Well, Quincy, do you suppose you could find where they are buried?"

"Of course I can," Quincy answered.

"Well," continued Uncle Jim, "I don't deserve it, I am not worthy of it, but she always loved me, and so did the children. I never struck her, nor them, nor did I ever speak unkindly to them. I never went home when I was drunk. I deserted them and left them to suffer. I don't think she would object, do you?"

Quincy divined his thoughts and answered, "No, I do not, Uncle."

"If you will do it, Quincy," said Uncle Jim, "I shall die a happy man.

Buy a little lot and put me beside Eunice and the children. Don't put my name on the stone, put her name and those of the children. That will please me best. She will know I am there, but others will not."

"It shall be done as you say, Uncle," said Quincy. "I will be here early to-morrow morning and I shall come every day to see you. Good-by."

He touched his uncle's hand again softly and left the room. Uncle Jim, with a smile upon his wasted face, fell asleep.

Quincy drove leisurely towards Mason's Corner. It was more than twenty-four hours since he had learned who was to be Mrs. Putnam's heiress. He had made a promise. Should he keep it? How could he avoid keeping it? He would see Miss Putnam and be governed by circ.u.mstances.

He reached the Putnam house and was shown into the same room as on the morning before. In a few minutes Lindy joined him. He had never seen her looking better. She had on a handsome gown that he had never seen before. Quincy opened the conversation.

"Did you enjoy your trip to Boston yesterday, Miss Putnam?"

"Oh, yes," replied Lindy, "I must tell you all about it."

"There is no need to, Miss Putnam, I am acquainted with the most important events of your trip already."

"Why, how?" asked Lindy. "Oh, I see," said she, "you had a letter from your father."

"No," said Quincy. "I had the pleasure of a conversation with my father yesterday afternoon in Boston."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Lindy.

"Yes," said Quincy, "but I might have learned all the princ.i.p.al facts without leaving Mason's Corner. In fact, I did learn them in a somewhat distorted shape late last evening."

Lindy colored until her forehead was as red as her cheeks.

"I do not understand you, Mr. Sawyer," she remarked.

"It is easily explained," said Quincy. "Mr. Stiles forgot to mention that it was my father who was your escort and not myself. Of course he would offer the similarity in names as his excuse."

"And so," said Lindy, recovering herself, "you have come here to scold me because Abner Stiles didn't tell the truth. I told you he was a wonderful story teller."

"No, Miss Putnam," said Quincy, "I did not come here for any such purpose. I made you a promise yesterday and I have come to keep it. I know who is to inherit your mother's money. She did not intend to tell me, but the name escaped her unintentionally."

"Did she ask you not to tell me?" asked Lindy.

"No," replied Quincy, "not in so many words."

"Then you must tell me," cried Lindy eagerly.

"Well, I don't know," said Quincy. "Your mother said you would give a thousand dollars to know the name of the person. This fixes the condition on which I shall divulge the name."

"And if I did give you a thousand dollars," inquired Lindy, "what would you do with the money?"

"I should give it to your mother," said Quincy. "She fixed the price of the secret, not I."

Lindy walked to the window and looked out. She wished to know the name.

She had her suspicions, but she could not bear to give up a thousand dollars of her own money, for she knew that this, too, would go to the unknown heiress. She knew Alice Pettengill was in town and at her brother's house. She had been there for a whole day and parts of two others. She would save her money and at the same time learn the truth.

Turning to Quincy she said, "I cannot afford to pay you, or rather my mother, a thousand dollars for the secret. It is not worth it. I will not ask you again for her name, but if you will answer me one simple question I will absolve you from your promise."

Quincy reflected. He knew that Lindy was deep and that she was plotting something while she stood at the window. But he wished this matter over, he was tired of it, so he replied, "I will answer your simple question, Miss Putnam, on one condition. It is that you will not deem me guilty of any intentional discourtesy if, after replying to it, I at once take my leave."

They faced each other, she hardly able to conceal her impatience, he with a stern look upon his face.