Mrs. Daggett was sitting by the window gazing dreamily out, when Lydia
returned after witnessing the triumphant departure of the promoter of
Famous People.
“It kind of brings it all back to me,” said Mrs. Daggett, furtively
wiping her eyes. “It’s going t’ look pretty near’s it used to. Only I
remember Mis’ Bolton used to have a flower garden all along that stone
wall over there; she was awful fond of flowers. I remember I gave her
some roots of pinies and iris out of our yard, and she gave me a new
kind of lilac bush—pink, it is, and sweet! My! you can smell it a mile
off when it’s in blow.”
“Then you knew—the Bolton family?”
The girl’s blue eyes widened wistfully as she asked the question.
“Yes, indeed, my dear. And I want to tell you—just betwixt
ourselves—that Andrew Bolton was a real nice man; and don’t you let
folks set you t’ thinking he wa’n’t. Now that you’re going to live
right here in this house, my dear, seems to me it would be a lot
pleasanter to know that those who were here before you were just good,
kind folks that had made a mistake. I was saying to Henry this morning:
‘I’m going to tell her some of the nice things folks has seemed to
forget about the Boltons. It won’t do any harm,’ I said. ‘And it’ll be
cheerfuller for her.’ Now this room we’re sitting in—I remember lots of
pleasant things about this room. ’Twas here—right at that desk—he gave
us a check to fix up the church. He was always doing things like that.
But folks don’t seem to remember.”
“Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Daggett, for telling me,” murmured Lydia.
“Indeed it will be—cheerfuller for me to know that Andrew Bolton wasn’t
always—a thief. I’ve sometimes imagined him walking about these
rooms.... One can’t help it, you know, in an old house like this.”
Mrs. Daggett nodded eagerly. Here was one to whom she might impart some
of the secret thoughts and imaginings which even Maria Dodge would have
called “outlandish”:
“I know,” she said. “Sometimes I’ve wondered if—if mebbe folks don’t
leave something or other after them—something you can’t see nor touch;
but you can sense it, just as plain, in your mind. But land! I don’t
know as I’d ought to mention it; of course you know I don’t mean ghosts
and like that.”
“You mean their—their thoughts, perhaps,” hesitated Lydia. “I can’t put
it into words; but I know what you mean.”
Mrs. Daggett patted the girl’s hand kindly.
“I’ve come to talk to you about the wall papers, dearie; Henry thought
mebbe you’d like to see me, seeing I don’t forget so easy’s some. This
room was done in a real pretty striped paper in two shades of buff.
There’s a little of it left behind that door. Mrs. Bolton was a great
hand to want things cheerful. She said it looked kind of sunshiny, even
on a dark day. Poor dear, it fell harder on her than on anybody else
when the crash came. She died the same week they took him to prison;
and fer one, I was glad of it.”
Mrs. Daggett wiped her kind eyes.
“Mebbe you’ll think it’s a terrible thing for me to say,” she added
hastily. “But she was such a delicate, soft-hearted sort of a woman: I
couldn’t help feelin’ th’ Lord spared her a deal of bitter sorrow by
taking her away. My! It does bring it all back to me so—the house and
the yard, and all. We’d all got used to seeing it a ruin; and now—
Whatever put it in your head, dearie, to want things put back just as
they were? Papa was telling me this morning you was all for restoring
the place. He thinks ’twould be more stylish and up-to-date if you was
to put new-style paper on the walls, and let him furnish it up for you
with nice golden oak. Henry’s got real good taste. You’d ought to see
our sideboard he gave me Chris’mas, with a mirror and all.”
Having thus discharged her wifely duty, as it appeared to her, Mrs.
Daggett promptly turned her back upon it.
“But you don’t want any golden oak sideboards and like that in this
house. Henry was telling me all about it, and how you were set on
getting back the old Bolton furniture.”
“Do you think I could?” asked the girl eagerly. “It was all sold about
here, wasn’t it? And don’t you think if I was willing to pay a great
deal for it people would—”
“’Course they would!” cried Mrs. Daggett, with cheerful assurance.
“They’d be tickled half to death to get money for it. But, you see,
dearie, it’s a long time ago, and some folks have moved away, and
there’s been two or three fires, and I suppose some are not as careful
as others; still—”
The smile faded on the girl’s lips.
“But I can get some of it back; don’t you think I can? I—I’ve quite set
my heart on—restoring the house. I want it just as it used to be. The
old furniture would suit the house so much better; don’t you think it
would?”
Mrs. Daggett clapped her plump hands excitedly.
“I’ve just thought of a way!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll bet it’ll work,
too. You know Henry he keeps th’ post office; an’ ’most everybody for
miles around comes after their mail to th’ store. I’ll tell him to put
up a sign, right where everybody will see; something like this: ‘Miss
Lydia Orr wants to buy the old furniture of the Bolton house.’ And you
might mention casual you’d pay good prices for it. ’Twas real good,
solid furniture, I remember.... Come to think of it, Mrs. Bolton
collected quite a lot of it right ’round here. She was a city girl when
she married Andrew Bolton, an’ she took a great interest in queer old
things. She bought a big tall clock out of somebody’s attic, and
four-posted beds, the kind folks used to sleep in, an’ outlandish old
cracked china plates with scenes on ’em. I recollect I gave her a blue
and white teapot, with an eagle on the side that belonged to my
grandmother. She thought it was perfectly elegant, and kept it full of
rose-leaves and spice on the parlor mantelpiece. Land! I hadn’t thought
of that teapot for years and years. I don’t know whatever became of
it.”
The sound of planes and hammers filled the silence that followed. Lydia
was standing by the tall carved chair, her eyes downcast.
“I’m glad you thought of—that notice,” she said at last. “If Mr.
Daggett will see to it for me—I’ll stop at the office tomorrow. And
now, if you have time, I’d so like you to go over the house with me.
You can tell me about the wall papers and—”
Mrs. Daggett arose with cheerful alacrity.
“I’d like nothing better,” she declared. “I ain’t been in the house for
so long. Last time was the day of the auction; ’twas after they took
the little girl away, I remember.... Oh, didn’t nobody tell you? There
was one child—a real, nice little girl. I forget her name; Mrs. Bolton
used to call her Baby and Darling and like that. She was an awful
pretty little girl, about as old as my Nellie. I’ve often wondered what
became of her. Some of her relatives took her away, after her mother
was buried. Poor little thing—her ma dead an’ her pa shut up in
prison—... Oh! yes; this was the parlor.... My! to think how the years
have gone by, and me as slim as a match then. Now that’s what I call a
handsome mantel; and ain’t the marble kept real pretty? There was
all-colored rugs and a waxed floor in here, and a real old-fashioned
sofa in that corner and a mahogany table with carved legs over here,
and long lace curtains at the windows. I see they’ve fixed the ceilings
as good as new and scraped all the old paper off the walls. There used
to be some sort of patterned paper in here. I can’t seem to think what
color it was.”
“I found quite a fresh piece behind the door,” said Lydia. “See; I’ve
put all the good pieces from the different rooms together, and marked
them. I was wondering if Mr. Daggett could go to Boston for me? I’m
sure he could match the papers there. You could go, too, if you cared
to.”
“To Boston!” exclaimed Mrs. Daggett; “me and Henry? Why, Miss Orr, what
an idea! But Henry couldn’t no more leave the post office—he ain’t
never left it a day since he was appointed postmaster. My, no!
’twouldn’t do for Henry to take a trip clear to Boston. And me—I’m so
busy I’d be like a fly trying t’ get off sticky paper.... I do hate to
see ’em struggle, myself.”
She followed the girl up the broad stair, once more safe and firm,
talking steadily all the way.
There were four large chambers, their windows framing lovely vistas of
stream and wood and meadow, with the distant blue of the far horizon
melting into the summer sky. Mrs. Daggett stopped in the middle of the
wide hall and looked about her wonderingly.
“Why, yes,” she said slowly. “You certainly did show good sense in
buying this old house. They don’t build them this way now-a-days.
That’s what I said to Mrs. Deacon Whittle— You know some folks thought
you were kind of foolish not to buy Mrs. Solomon Black’s house down in
the village. But if you’re going to live here all alone, dearie, ain’t
it going to be kind of lonesome—all these big rooms for a little body
like you?”
“Tell me about it, please,” begged Lydia. “I—I’ve been wondering which
room was his.”
“You mean Andrew Bolton’s, I s’pose,” said Mrs. Daggett reluctantly.
“But I hope you won’t worry any over what folks tells you about the day
he was taken away. My! seems as if ’twas yesterday.”
She moved softly into one of the spacious, sunny rooms and stood
looking about her, as if her eyes beheld once more the tragedy long
since folded into the past.
“I ain’t going to tell you anything sad,” she said under her breath.
“It’s best forgot. This was their room; ain’t it nice an’ cheerful? I
like a southwest room myself. And ’tain’t a bit warm here, what with
the breeze sweeping in at the four big windows and smelling sweet of
clover an’ locust blooms. And ain’t it lucky them trees didn’t get
blown over last winter?”
She turned abruptly toward the girl.
“Was you thinking of sleeping in this room, dearie? It used to have
blue and white paper on it, and white paint as fresh as milk. It’d be
nice and pleasant for a young lady, I should think.”
Lydia shook her head.
“Not,” she said slowly, “if it was _his_ room. I think I’d rather—which
was the little girl’s room? You said there was a child?”
“Now, I’m real sorry you feel that way,” sympathized Mrs. Daggett, “but
I don’t know as I blame you, the way folks talk. You’d think they’d
have forgot all about it by now, wouldn’t you? But land! it does seem
as if bad thoughts and mean thoughts, and like that, was possessed to
fasten right on to folks; and you can’t seem to shake ’em off, no more
than them spiteful little stick-tights that get all over your
clo’es.... This room right next belonged to their baby. Let me see; she
must have been about three and a half or four years old when they took
her away. See, there’s a door in between, so Mrs. Bolton could get to
her quick in the night. I used to be that way, too, with my
children.... You know we lost our two little girls that same winter,
three and five, they were. But I know I wanted ’em right where I could
hear ’em if they asked for a drink of water, or like that, in the
night. Folks has a great notion now-a-days of putting their babies off
by themselves and letting them cry it out, as they say. But I couldn’t
ever do that; and Mrs. Andrew Bolton she wa’n’t that kind of a parent,
either— I don’t know as they ought to be called _mothers_. No, she was
more like me—liked to tuck the blankets around her baby in the middle
of th’ night an’ pat her down all warm and nice. I’ve often wondered
what became of that poor little orphan child. We never heard. Like
enough she died. I shouldn’t wonder.”
And Mrs. Daggett wiped the ready tears from her eyes.
“But I guess you’ll think I’m a real old Aunty Doleful, going on this
way,” she made haste to add.
“There’s plenty of folks in Brookville as ’ll tell you how stuck-up an’
stylish Mrs. Andrew Bolton was, always dressed in silk of an afternoon
and driving out with a two-horse team, an’ keeping two hired girls
constant, besides a man to work in her flower garden and another for
the barn. But of course she supposed they were really rich and could
afford it. _He_ never let on to _her_, after things begun to go to
pieces; and folks blamed her for it, afterwards. Her heart was weak,
and he knew it, all along. And then I suppose he thought mebbe things
would take a turn.... Yes; the paper in this room was white with little
wreaths of pink roses tied up with blue ribbons all over it. ’Twas
furnished up real pretty with white furniture, and there was ruffled
muslin curtains with dots on ’em at the windows and over the bed; Mrs.
Andrew Bolton certainly did fix things up pretty, and to think you’re
going to have it just the same way. Well, I will say you couldn’t do
any better.... But, land! if there isn’t the sun going down behind the
hill, and me way out here, with Henry’s supper to get, and Dolly
champing his bit impatient. There’s one lucky thing, though; he’ll
travel good, going towards home; he won’t stop to get his tail over the
lines, neither.”
An hour later, when the long summer twilight was deepening into gloom,
Jim Dodge crossed the empty library and paused at the open door of the
room beyond. The somber light from the two tall windows fell upon the
figure of the girl. She was sitting before Andrew Bolton’s desk, her
head upon her folded arms. Something in the spiritless droop of her
shoulders and the soft dishevelment of her fair hair suggested
weariness—sleep, perhaps. But as the young man hesitated on the
threshold the sound of a muffled sob escaped the quiet figure. He
turned noiselessly and went away, sorry and ashamed, because
unwittingly he had stumbled upon the clew he had long been seeking.