The day after the sewing society Ellen Dix went up to her room, after
hurriedly washing the dinner dishes. It was still hot, but a vague haze
had crept across the brazen sky since morning. Ellen’s room looked out
into cool green depths of trees, so that on a cloudy day it was almost
too dark to examine the contents of the closet opposite its two east
windows.
It was a pretty room, freshly papered and painted, as were many rooms
in Brookville since the sale of the old Bolton properties. Nearly every
one had scrimped and saved and gone without so long that the sudden
influx of money into empty pockets had acted like wine in a hungry
stomach. Henry Daggett had thrice replenished his stock of wall papers;
window shades and curtaining by the yard had been in constant demand
for weeks; bright colored chintzes and gay flowered cretonnes were
apparently a prime necessity in many households. As for paper hangers
and painters, few awaited their unhurried movements. It was easy for
anybody with energy and common sense to wield a paintbrush; and old
paper could be scraped off and fresh strips applied by a simple
application of flour paste and the fundamental laws of physics. One
improvement clamors loudly for another, and money was still coming in
from the most unexpected sources, so new furniture was bought to take
the place of unprized chairs and tables long ago salvaged from the
Bolton wreck. And since Mrs. Deacon Whittle’s dream parlor, with its
marble-tops and plush-upholstered furniture, had become a solid
reality, other parlors burgeoned forth in multi-colored magnificence.
Scraggy old shrubs were trimmed; grass was cut in unkempt dooryards;
flowers were planted—and all because of the lavish display of such
improvements at Bolton House, as “that queer Orr girl” persisted in
calling it; thereby flying in the face of public opinion and local
prejudice in a way which soured the milk of human kindness before the
cream of gratitude could rise.
Everybody agreed that there was something mysterious, if not entirely
unnatural in the conduct of the young woman. Nobody likes unsolved
riddles for long. The moment or century of suspense may prove
interesting—even exciting; but human intelligence resents the Sphynx.
Ellen Dix was intensely human. She was, moreover, jealous—or supposed
she was, which often amounts to the same thing. And because of this she
was looking over the dresses, hanging on pegs along her closet wall,
with a demurely puckered brow. The pink muslin was becoming, but
old-fashioned; the pale yellow trimmed with black velvet might get
soiled with the dust, and she wasn’t sure it would wash. She finally
selected a white dress of a new and becoming style, attired in which
she presently stood before her mirror adjusting a plain Panama hat,
trimmed simply with a black ribbon. Not for nothing had Ellen used her
handsome dark eyes. She set the hat over her black hair at exactly the
right angle, skewering it securely in place with two silver pins, also
severely simple in their style and quite unlike the glittering
rhinestone variety offered for sale in Henry Daggett’s general store.
“I’m going out for a while, mother,” she said, as she passed the room
where Mrs. Dix was placidly sewing carpet rags out of materials
prodigiously increased of late, since both women had been able to
afford several new dresses.
“Going to Fanny’s?” inquired Mrs. Dix.... “Seems to me you’re starting
out pretty early, dear, in all this heat. If you’ll wait till sundown,
I’ll go with you. I haven’t seen their parlor since they got the new
curtains up.”
“I’m not going to Fanny’s, right off,” said Ellen evasively. “Maybe
I’ll stop on the way back, though. ’Tisn’t very hot; it’s clouded up
some.”
“Better taken an umbrella,” her mother sent after her. “We might get a
thunder storm along towards four o’clock. My shoulder’s been paining me
all the morning.”
But Ellen had already passed out of hearing, her fresh skirts held well
away from the dusty wayside weeds.
She was going, with intentions undefined, to see Lydia Orr. Perhaps
(she was thinking) she might see Jim Dodge. Anyway, she wanted to go to
Bolton House. She would find out for herself wherein lay the curious
fascination of which Fanny had spoken. She was surprised at Fanny for
so easily giving in about the furniture. Secretly, she considered
herself to be possibly a bit shrewder than Fanny. In reality she was
not as easily influenced, and slower at forming conclusions. She
possessed a mind of more scope.
Ellen walked along, setting her pointed feet down very carefully so as
not to raise the dust and soil her nice skirts. She was a dainty
creature. When she reached the hedge which marked the beginning of the
Bolton estate, she started, not violently, that was not her way, but
anybody is more startled at the sudden glimpse of a figure at complete
rest, almost rigidity, than of a figure in motion. Had the old man whom
Ellen saw been walking along toward her, she would not have started at
all. She might have glanced at him with passing curiosity, since he was
a stranger in Brookville, then that would have been the end of it. But
this old man, standing as firmly fixed as a statue against the hedge,
startled the girl. He was rather a handsome old man, but there was
something peculiar about him. For one thing he was better dressed than
old men in Brookville generally were. He wore a light Palm Beach cloth
suit, possibly too young for him, also a Panama hat. He did not look
altogether tidy. He did not wear his up-to-date clothes very well. He
had a rumpled appearance. He was very pale almost with the paleness of
wax. He did not stand strongly, but rested his weight first on one
foot, then on the other. Ellen recovered her composure, but as she was
passing, he spoke suddenly. His tone was eager and pitiful. “Why Ann
Eliza Dix,” he said. “How do you do? You are not going to pass without
speaking to me?”
“My name is Dix, but not Ann Eliza,” said Ellen politely; “my name is
Ellen.”
“You are Cephas Dix’s sister, Ann Eliza,” insisted the old man. His
eyes looked suddenly tearful. “I know I am right,” he said. “You are
Ann Eliza Dix.”
The girl felt a sudden pity. Her Aunt Ann Eliza Dix had been lying in
her grave for ten years, but she could not contradict the poor man. “Of
course,” she said. “How do you do?”
The old man’s face lit up. “I knew I was right,” he said. “I forget,
you see, sometimes, but this time I was sure. How are you, Ann Eliza?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“How is Cephas?”
“He is well, too.”
“And your father?”
Ellen shivered a little. It was rather bewildering. This strange old
man must mean her grandfather, who had died before her Aunt Ann Eliza.
She replied faintly that he was well, and hoped, with a qualm of
ghastly mirth, that she was speaking the truth. Ellen’s grandfather had
not been exactly a godly man, and the family seldom mentioned him.
“He means well, Ann Eliza, if sometimes you don’t exactly like the way
he does,” said the living old man, excusing the dead one for the faults
of his life.
“I know he does,” said Ellen. The desire to laugh grew upon her.
She was relieved when the stranger changed the subject. She felt that
she would become hysterical if this forcible resurrection of her dead
relatives continued.
“Do you like an automobile?” asked the old man.
“I don’t know, I never had one.”
The stranger looked at her confidingly. “My daughter has one,” he said,
“and I know she bought it for me, and she has me taken out in it, but I
am afraid. It goes too fast. I can’t get over being afraid. But you
won’t tell her, will you, Ann Eliza?”
“Of course I won’t.”
Ellen continued to gaze at him, but she did not speak.
“Let me see, what is your name, my dear?” the man went on. He was
leaning on his stick, and Ellen noticed that he trembled slightly, as
though with weakness. He breathed hard. The veinous hands folded on top
of the stick were almost as white as his ears.
“My name is Ellen Dix,” she said.
“Dix—Dix?” repeated the man. “Why, I know that name, certainly, of
course! You must be the daughter of Cephas Dix. Odd name, Cephas, eh?”
Ellen nodded, her eyes still busy with the details of the stranger’s
appearance. She was sure she had never seen him before, yet he knew her
father’s name.
“My father has been dead a long time,” she said; “ever since I was a
little girl.”
The man appeared singularly disquieted by this intelligence. “I hadn’t
heard that,” he said. “Dead—a long time? Well!”
He scowled, flourishing his stick as if to pass on; then settled to his
former posture, his pale hands folded on its handsome gold top.
“Cephas Dix wasn’t an old man,” he muttered, as if talking to himself.
“Not old. He should be hale and hearty, living in this good country
air. Wonderful air this, my dear.”
And he drew a deep breath, his wandering gaze returning swiftly to the
girl’s face.
“I was just walking out,” he said, nodding briskly. “Great treat to be
able to walk out. I shall walk out whenever I like. Don’t care for
automobiles—get you over the road too fast. No, no; I won’t go out in
the automobile, unless I feel like it! No, I won’t; and there’s an end
of it!”
He brought his stick down heavily in the dust, as if emphasizing this
statement.
“Guess your father left you pretty well off, eh, my dear?” he went on
presently. “Glad to see you looking so fresh and neat. Always like to
see a pretty girl well dressed.”
The man’s eyes, extraordinarily bright and keen, roved nimbly over her
face and figure.
“No, he did not,” replied Ellen. “My father used to be rich,” she went
on. “I’ve heard mother tell about it hundreds of times. We had horses
and a carriage and plenty of money; but when the bank went to pieces my
father lost everything. Then he died.”
The man was peering at her from under his shaggy gray brows.
“But not because the bank failed? Surely not because he lost his money?
That sort of thing doesn’t kill a man, my dear. No, no!”
“It did,” declared Ellen firmly.
The man at once seemed to grow smaller; to huddle together in his
clothes. He muttered something unintelligible, then turned squarely
about, so that Ellen could see only his hunched back and the glistening
white hair cut close behind his waxen ears.
The girl walked thoughtfully on, but when she paused to look back she
saw that he had resumed his slow walk in the opposite direction, his
stick describing odd flourishes in the air, as before.
When she reached Bolton House she was ushered into a beautiful parlor
by a prim maid in a frilled cap and apron. The maid presented to her
attention a small silver tray, and Ellen, blushing uncomfortably
because she had no card, asked for Miss Orr.
Soon the frilled maid reappeared. “I’m sorry, Miss,” she said, “I
thought Miss Lydia was at home, but I can’t find her anywheres about.”
She eyed Ellen’s trim figure doubtfully. “If there was any message—”
“No,” said Ellen. “I only came to call.”
“I’m real sorry, Miss,” repeated the maid. “Miss Lydia’ll be sorry,
too. Who shall I say, please?”
“Miss Dix,” replied Ellen. She walked past the maid, who held the door
wide for her exit. Then she paused. A surprising sight met her eyes.
Lydia Orr, hatless, flushed as if by rapid flight, was just reaching
the steps, convoying the strange old man Ellen had met on the road a
short time before.
The maid at her back gave a little cry. Ellen stood staring. So this
was the person Jim Dodge had gone to fetch from somewhere!
“But it isn’t too warm for me to be walking out to take the air,” she
heard, in the heavy mumble of the man’s voice. “I don’t like being
watched, Lydia; and I won’t stand it, either. I might as well be—”
Lydia interrupted him with a sharp exclamation. She had caught sight of
Ellen Dix standing under the deep portico, the scared face of the maid
looking over her shoulder.
Ellen’s face crimsoned slowly. All at once she felt unaccountably sorry
and ashamed. She wished she had not come. She felt that she wanted
nothing so much as to hurry swiftly away.
But Lydia Orr, still holding the strange old man by the arm, was
already coming up the steps.
“I’ll not go in the automobile, child,” he repeated, with an obstinate
flourish of his stick. “I don’t like to ride so fast. I want to see
things. I want—”
He stopped short, his mouth gaping, his eyes staring at Ellen.
“That girl!” he almost shouted. “She told me—I don’t want her here....
Go away, girl, you make my head hurt!”
Lydia flashed a beseeching look at Ellen, as she led the old man past.
“Please come in,” she said; “I shall be at liberty in just a moment....
Come, father!”
Ellen hesitated.
“Perhaps I’d better not, today,” she murmured, and slowly descended the
steps.
The discreet maid closed the door behind her.