An Alabaster Box Part 44

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 d.a.m.ned 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 f.a.n.n.y."

"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. f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y. 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."

f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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--"

f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y when he went.

"Hope you'll be happy, and all that," he told her rather awkwardly.

f.a.n.n.y 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 ma.s.ses 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sed between them.