“I know you’re not,” he answered. “You’ve been terribly frightened.”
His statement was almost a question, and the pupils of her eyes dilated again as she nodded assent.
“I’ll tell you all about it directly,” she said.
She was small … small. That was his main impression. But intelligent. Wise. He waited with a seeming patience praying fervently that Mrs. Slater would not appear until he had found out the source of Deborah’s trouble. He could guess part of it, but he did not want to let his mind stray too far along the vague pathways of unsubstantiated surmise. The girl closed her eyes and obviously strove to adjust herself in a reasonable manner to the subject which was in her mind. It was patent that she did not know how or where to begin, and that she was fearful of not being able to communicate the essence of her story to Dreeme. She wanted to speak reasonably now. To assure herself, perhaps, of her own rationality. He would help. Like a doctor.
“Begin at the beginning,” suggested Dreeme. She opened her eyes. She said:
“I don’t know how to tell you and make it seem like anything. It’s. … It’s more feeling than anything else.”
He nodded sagely, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she began.
“You see I have to do something for my living. Father was killed at the courthouse in Leeminster, and he was all that I had. We lived there … Leeminster, I mean … and father was a constructor. He built houses. There weren’t many to be built, of course. He was working on the ell of the new courthouse and the men mixed cement on the roof of the front porch. One of the bags was pushed off in some way, and it fell on father. He died in half an hour. That was a month ago. Then I had to close up our house … such a little one, sell things, and help finish up father’s business. I had a very good lawyer, Mr. Stopes. Perhaps you knew him?”
Dreeme shook his head.
“Lawyers,” he said, “are out of my line. They never get sick.”
“He was a very good lawyer,” she insisted. “After the estate was settled there was just enough to pay his fee. Then Aunt Slater sent for me. It was only yesterday that I came over. I walked all the way. I thought I should stay here and help Aunt, but it seemed that Mr. Burroughs had heard about me or seen me in Leeminster … he preaches there sometimes … and he told Aunt that Mrs. Westcott needed somebody to help around the house. I didn’t want to help because I am not a servant, and I told Aunt so, but she said that she couldn’t afford to keep me. I thought that was funny, because, after all, she had sent for me. I’m telling you this because I want to show you that I was feeling bad in my mind anyway, and perhaps exaggerated some of the things that happened later.”
Dreeme nodded. Mrs. Slater was like that. She was a New England aunt.
“I didn’t have to come,” proceeded Deborah. “I might have stayed in Leeminster and taught school. Father was very careful about putting me through my studies. Well, I went over late yesterday afternoon to the Westcott farm with Mr. Burroughs. We walked because he said he thought I would like to see the country. I didn’t like the country, and I didn’t like Mr. Burroughs. He is like the country, dull and ghostly and green and sad. I think I first became afraid and nervous on that walk, for Mr. Burroughs, after we started, never said a word to me. We just plodded along, and he would look at me sideways with his funny eyes. I tried to say something once or twice, but he only nodded. I felt as though I was walking into a nightmare. The Westcott farm seemed terribly dreary to me, and I was frightened as soon as that horrible little boy appeared at the fence-gate.”
“Miles,” said Dreeme.
“Is his name Miles?” asked Deborah. “I didn’t know. He had a great growling dog on a rope, and he let it walk after me up the path. It snarled all the way. He started to say something, but Mr. Burroughs just waved his hand and the boy went off through the bushes. We went into the kitchen and Mrs. Westcott was there. Mr. Burroughs introduced me, and I went right to work helping Mrs. Westcott. There were piles of dishes to wash. After that Mrs. Westcott showed me where I was to sleep and where I was to put my things.”
She paused for a moment and shut her eyes, seeming to revisualize inwardly the appearance of Mrs. Westcott.
“She’s quite beautiful, I think,” Deborah proceeded. “But it is what I would call … something frozen-like, you know.”
Dreeme shifted slightly in his chair.
“If you could imagine cold fire, fire that was just like ice, I think that would be Mrs. Westcott,” went on the girl. “She didn’t have much to say to me. She moved around the kitchen like some … like some queen, like somebody who didn’t want to be there and didn’t mean to be there very long. Presently she went away with Mr. Burroughs, and I finished up the work in the kitchen and went into the living room. There wasn’t anything to do there, and I kept on into another room that was full of books. It was just like a library, shelves all around, and such tattered books. There wasn’t one that was new. The only thing that I could think of to do was to dust the books. So I found a bit of cloth and started in on them. It would take a lifetime to dust those books. I had removed an armful from one of the shelves and was about to dust the shelf itself when I saw a
