“I understand,” was my somewhat un-Butterworthian reply. I really did not quite know myself. “What a contrast to the dismal grounds at the other end of the lane!”
This was more in my usual vein. He seemed to feel the difference, for his expression changed at my remark.
“Oh, that den!” he exclaimed, bitterly; then, seeing me look a little shocked, he added, with an admirable return to his old manner, “I call any place a den where flowers do not grow.” And jumping from the buggy, he gathered an exquisite bunch of heliotrope, which he pressed upon me. “I love sunshine, beds of roses, fountains, and a sweep of lawn like this we see before us. But do not let me bore you. You have probably lingered long enough at the old bachelor’s place and now would like to drive on. I will be with you in a moment. Doubtful as it is whether I shall soon again be so fortunate as to be able to offer you any hospitality, I would like to bring you a glass of wine—or, for I see your eyes roaming longingly toward my old-fashioned well, would you like a draft of water fresh from the bucket?”
I assured him I did not drink wine, at which I thought his eyes brightened, but that neither did I indulge in water when in a heat, as at present, at which he looked disappointed and came somewhat reluctantly back to the buggy.
He brightened up, however, the moment he was again at my side.
“Now for the woods,” he exclaimed, with what was undoubtedly a forced laugh.
I thought the opportunity one I ought not to slight.
“Do you think,” said I, “that it is in those woods the disappearances occur of which Miss Knollys has told me?”
He showed the same hesitancy as before to enter upon this subject.
“I think the less you allow your mind to dwell on this matter the better,” said he—“that is, if you are going to remain long in this lane. I do not expend any more thought upon it than is barely necessary, or I should not retain sufficient courage to remain among my roses and my fruits. I wonder—pardon me the indiscretion—that you could bring yourself to enter so ill-reputed a neighborhood. You must be a very brave woman.”
“I thought it my duty—” I began. “Althea Knollys was my friend, and I felt I owed a duty toward her children. Besides—” Should I tell Mr. Trohm my real errand in this place? Mr. Gryce had intimated that he was in the confidence of the police, and if so, his assistance in case of necessity might be of inestimable value to me. Yet if no such necessity should arise would I want this man to know that Amelia Butterworth—No, I would not take him into my confidence—not yet. I would only try to get at his idea of where the blame lay—that is, if he had any.
“Besides,” he suggested in polite reminder, after waiting a minute or two for me to continue.
“Did I say besides?” was my innocent rejoinder. “I think I meant that after seeing them my sense of the importance of that duty had increased. William especially seems to be a young man of very doubtful amiability.”
Immediately the non-commital look returned to Mr. Trohm’s face.
“I have no fault to find with William,” said he. “He’s not the most agreeable companion in the world perhaps, but he has a pretty fancy for fruit—a very pretty fancy.”
“One can hardly wonder at that in a neighbor of Mr. Trohm,” said I, watching his look, which was fixed somewhat gloomily upon the forest of trees now rapidly closing in around us.
“Perhaps not, perhaps not, madam. The sight of a blossoming honeysuckle hanging from an arbor such as runs along my south walls is a great stimulant to one’s taste, madam, I’ll not deny that.”
“But William?” I repeated, determined not to let the subject go; “have you never thought he was a little indifferent to his sisters?”
“A little, madam.”
“And a trifle rough to everything but his dogs?”
“A trifle, madam.”
Such reticence seemed unnecessary. I was almost angry, but restrained myself and pursued quietly, “The girls, on the contrary, seem devoted to him?”
“Women have that weakness.”
“And act as if they would do—what would they not do for him?”
“Miss Butterworth, I have never seen a more amiable woman than yourself. Will you promise me one thing?”
His manner was respect itself, his smile genial and highly contagious. I could not help responding to it in the way he expected.
“Do not talk to me about this family. It is a painful subject to me. Lucetta—you know the girl, and I shall not be able to prejudice you against her—has conceived the idea that I encourage William in an intimacy of which she does not approve. She does not want him to talk to me. William has a loose tongue in his head and sometimes drops unguarded words about their doings, which if any but William spoke—But there, I am forgetting one of the most important rules of my own life, which is to keep my mouth from babbling and my tongue from guile. Influence of a congenial companion, madam; it is irresistible sometimes, especially to a man living so much alone as myself.”
I considered his fault very pardonable, but did not say so lest I should frighten his confidences away.
“I thought there was something wrong between you,” I said. “Lucetta acted almost afraid of you this morning. I should think she would be glad of the friendship of so good a neighbor.”
His face took on a very sombre look.
“She is afraid of me,” he admitted, “afraid of what I have seen or may see of—their poverty,” he added, with an odd
