said Mrs. Whittle again.
“Ain't you got the money?” queried the man's voice.
“Yes, but—”
“Then for God's sake hang onto it!”
Chapter III
After Jim Dodge had taken his mother and sister home, he stole off by himself for a solitary walk. The night was wonderful, and the young man, who was in a whirl of undefined emotion, unconsciously felt the need of a lesson of eternal peace. The advent of the strange girl, and her unprecedented conduct had caused in him a sort of masculine vertigo over the whole situation. Why in the name of common sense was that girl in Brookville, and why should she have done such a thing? He admired her; he was angry with her; he was puzzled by her.
He did not like the minister. He did not wonder that Elliot should wish for emolument enough to pay his way, but he had a little contempt for him, for his assumption of such superior wisdom that he could teach his fellow men spiritual knowledge and claim from them financial reward. Aside from keeping those he loved in comfort, Jim had no wish for money. He had all the beauty of nature for the taking. He listened, as he strolled along, to the mysterious high notes of insects and night-birds; he saw the lovely shadows of the trees, and he honestly wondered within himself why Brookville people considered themselves so wronged by an occurrence of years ago, for which the perpetrator had paid so dearly. At the same time he experienced a sense of angry humiliation at the poverty of the place which had caused such an occurrence as that church fair.
When he reached Mrs. Solomon Black's house, he stared up at its glossy whiteness, reflecting the moonlight like something infinitely more precious than paint, and he seemed to perceive again a delicate, elusive fragrance which he had noticed about the girl's raiment when she thanked him for his fox skin.
“She smelled like a new kind of flower,” Jim told himself as he swung down the road. The expression was not elegant, but it was sincere. He thought of the girl as he might have thought of an entirely new species of blossom, with a strictly individual fragrance which he had encountered in an expedition afield.
After he had left the Black house, there was only a half mile before he reached the old Andrew Bolton place. The house had been very pretentious in an ugly architectural period. There were truncated towers, a mansard roof, hideous dormers, and a reckless outbreak of perfectly useless bay windows. The house, which was large, stood aloof from the road, with a small plantation of evergreen trees before it. It had not been painted for years, and loomed up like the vaguest shadow of a dwelling even in the brilliant moonlight. Suddenly Jim caught sight of a tiny swinging gleam of light. It bobbed along at the height of a man's knee. It was a lantern, which seemed rather an odd article to be used on such a night. Then Jim came face to face with the man who carried the lantern, and saw who he was—Deacon Amos Whittle. To Jim's mind, the man resembled a fox, skulking along the road, although Deacon Amos Whittle was not predatory. He was a small, thin, wiry man with a queer swirl of white whisker, and hopping gait.
He seemed somewhat blinded by his lantern, for he ran full tilt into Jim, who stood the shock with such firmness that the older man staggered back, and danced uncertainly to recover his balance. Deacon Amos Whittle stuttered uncertain remarks, as was his wont when startled. “It is only Jim Dodge,” said Jim. “Guess your lantern sort of blinded you, Deacon.”
Then the lantern almost blinded Jim, for Whittle swung it higher until it came on a level with Jim's eyes. Over it peered Whittle's little keen ones, spectacled under a gray shag of eyebrows. “Oh it is you!” said the man with a somewhat contemptuous accent. He held Jim in slight esteem.
Jim laughed lightly. Unless he cared for people, their opinion of him always seemed a perfectly negligible matter, and he did not care at all for Amos Whittle.
Suddenly, to his amazement, Amos took hold of his coat. “Look a' here, Jim,” said he.
“Well?”
“Do you know anything about that strange woman that's boardin' to Mis' Solomon Black's?”
“How in creation should I know anything about her?”
“Hev you seen her?”
“I saw her at the fair tonight.”
“The fair at my house?”
“Don't know of any other fair.”
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“Don't think of her.”
Jim tried to pass, but the old man danced before him with his swinging lantern.
“I must be going along,” said Jim.
“Wait a minute. Do you know she bought the whole fair?”
“Yes, I do. You are blinding me with that lantern, Deacon Whittle.”
“And she paid good money down. I seen it.”
“All right. I've got to get past you.”
“Wait a minute. Do you s'pose that young woman is all right?”
“I don't see why not. Nothing against the law of the land for her to buy out a church fair, that I know of.”
“Don't you think it looks sort of suspicious?”
“It's none of my business. I confess I don't see why it's suspicious, unless somebody wants to make her out a fool. I don't understand what any sane person wants with all that truck; but I don't pretend to understand women.”
Whittle shook his head slowly. “I dunno,” he said.
“Well, I don't know who does, or cares either. They've got the money. I suppose that was what they were after.” Jim again tried to pass.
“Wait just a minute. Say, Jim, I'm going to tell you something. Don't you speak of it till it gets out.”
“Fire away. I'm in a hurry.”
“She wants to buy this old Bolton place here.”
Jim whistled.
“You know the assignees of the Bolton estate had to take the house, and it's been running down all these years, and a lot of money has got to be spent on it or it'll tumble down. Now, this young woman has offered to pay a good round sum for it, and take it just as it is. S'pose it's all right?”
“How in creation should I know? If I held it, and wanted to sell it, I'd know darn well whether it was all right or not. I wouldn't go around asking other folks.”
“But you see it don't seem natural. Folks don't do things like that. She's offering to pay more than the place is worth. She'll have to spend thousands on it to make it fit to live in. She says she'll pay cash, too.”
“Well, I suppose you'll know cash when you see it. I've got to go.”
“But cash! Lord A'mighty! We dunno what to do.”
“I suppose you know whether you want to sell or not.”
“Want to sell! If we didn't want to sell this old shebang we'd be dumb idiots.”
“Then, why in the name of common sense don't you sell?”
“Because, somehow it don't look natural to me.”
“Well, I must confess that to throw away much money on an old shell like that doesn't look any too natural to me.”
“Come now, Jim, that was a real nice house when it was built.”
Jim laughed sarcastically. “Running up your wares now, are you?”
“That house cost Andrew Bolton a pile of money. And now, if it's fixed up, it'll be the best house in Brookville.”
“That isn't saying much. See here, you've got to let me pass. If you want to sell—I should think you would—I