“In the cool of the evening it is good to walk,” announced the preacher. He spoke as though he were delivering the text for a sermon.
“And much may be seen by night that is invisible by day,” returned Dreeme facetiously. He felt in a high good humor, light-minded, puffed up with a malicious playfulness. He was quite fearless of the community and its inhabitants, “I will not be here long,” he thought to himself. He, after all, was but a sojourner. He did not belong in Marlborough and he was glad of it.
“The true heart of man is often bared to the darkness,” agreed Burroughs in a sententious voice. For an instant Dreeme thought the preacher was laughing at him, and he gazed at the yellow face before him suspiciously. There was no hint of a smile upon that long countenance. It was a sober blank, quite clear of any subtle writing. Indeed, it was a little too guileless. “Perhaps,” Dreeme thought, “I am not as self-sufficient as I think I am.” His eyes returned to Deborah. She was looking at him brightly. Well, he would have to be self-sufficient for her sake. Still, these people were accepting his interpositions too quiescently. He knew that they could not be as weak-willed as that. Humphrey Lathrop had intimated too much. He, himself, had observed too much. Did not Burroughs know that he had met Martha Westcott in the burned mill? Had not Burroughs told all this to Westcott himself? Or had the darkness concealed them from the inquisitive eyes of the preacher? Martha Westcott had said “no” to that and he had believed her. And why had Westcott received his interference in the matter of Deborah’s return to the farm so blandly? What was he planning behind his smiling face and hypnotic eyes? That was it, of course. Westcott was fooling with hypnotism. He had hypnotized Deborah that night and even when he had come for her this very morning he had, for an instant, subjected her will to his. Dreeme scraped his plate clean with outward unconcern but inwardly he was perplexed. “As a matter of fact,” he thought to himself, “I am all at sea.” He was not self-sufficient at all. He was aware of a great many questions, but he could offer but a meager handful of answers. These people were leagued against him, and they intended to do what they pleased with him when the psychological moment came. And that would be when he interfered too strenuously in their designs, when through fool-luck he clogged their purposes. That would be when? The scraping of knives and creaking of chairs aided and abetted his inquiring mind. He pushed his plate back and scowled. Then his features lightened. Of course! A thrill of triumph ran up his spine, and the faraway light in the depths of his mind glowed brighter. It would be when he found the place called Dagon. It would be when he stood on that spot and faced these farmers in the very heart of their mystery. Even as the unfamiliar name flashed across his consciousness the preacher’s yellow hand closed upon his wrist. He lifted startled eyes to the calm equine face.
“I asked,” said the Reverend George Burroughs in his solemn voice, “if you enjoyed strolling in the evening.”
Still at it, eh?
“By myself, yes,” replied Dreeme. The yellow hand disappeared beneath the table.
“It is good to be by one’s self,” remarked the preacher. “He who goes by himself need fear no man.”
The stilted voice of Burroughs rose like the neigh of a horse.
“That is not exactly the saying, is it?” inquired Dreeme politely.
The preacher wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said nothing.
They had finished eating now. The defeated platter lay in greasy subjection. The knives and forks reposed upon the stained field of battle like discarded weapons. The buzzing flies hummed above the debris monotonously. With a clattering of steel-tipped shoes the children squirmed from their chairs and fled through the door. Mrs. Slater and Deborah rose and staggered toward the kitchen under loads of plates and cups and gravy-boats. They were Trojan women carrying the shields of their warriors. The three men still sat in their places as though there was something to be said between them. Walden Slater opened and shut his mouth. He looked helplessly from Burroughs to Dreeme. His sweaty shoulders seemed to climb up about his tanned leathery face. A remnant of bread swung like a miniature acrobat from his chin.
“It’ll be a poor crop,” he mumbled.
“Poor crop,” echoed Burroughs.
“Why will it be a poor crop?” asked Dreeme.
Walden Slater opened his mouth and eyes very wide at that. After a moment he answered weakly:
“Because it will be a poor crop.”
Several minutes of silence ensued.
“The Lord will provide,” remarked Burroughs finally.
Walden Slater did not brighten perceptibly at these glad tidings. He had put his trust in the Lord before, and he knew exactly how much it was rewarded when there was too much sun and not enough rain. He corrugated his brow in the unusual travail of thought.
“I guess …” he commenced.
“If rain …” started Burroughs.
“How much …” questioned Dreeme.
All three men had started at once, and at the surprising medley of voices they ceased abruptly. Each one waited for the other to speak. No one dared to begin. Mrs. Slater and Deborah had removed all the dishes. The red and white tablecloth was folded up and put away. The hot afternoon sun splashed through the windows and flooded the dining room floor. Burroughs cautiously withdrew his chair from the golden pool. Walden Slater spoke with unusual rapidity for him.
“About Deb,” he said, “I guess if she wants to stay, she can. I told Jeff Westcott that. I said. …”
He stopped as abruptly as he commenced.
Dreeme wanted to jump up and fling his arms about the weary farmer. This was what had been on Walden Slater’s mind. This was what
