An Alabaster Box Part 49

"I never asked my brother," interrupted f.a.n.n.y. "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 f.a.n.n.y, 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, n.o.body '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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y.

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 pa.s.sed 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: G.o.d 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 n.o.body had money to buy them. It wasn't a pleasant occasion. n.o.body 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 G.o.d! 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 n.o.body 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 reb.u.t.tal 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 pa.s.s 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 doc.u.ment 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 a.s.signs, 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' a.s.signs 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, pet.i.tion, 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 doc.u.ment, 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 doc.u.ment 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 doc.u.ment.... 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!"

n.o.body had attended the door for the last hour, Joe Whittle being a spellbound witness of the proceedings; and so it chanced that n.o.body 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 Doc.u.ment, 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

"f.a.n.n.y," 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: