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An Alabaster Box, a fiction by Mary E Wilkins Freeman |
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Chapter 24 |
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_ 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 denouement 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. _ |
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