Part 19 (1/2)

”That,” said the preacher, ”is probably off; though I never discovered in Andrew more evil than a light heart and occasional rebellion. If she loves him still, do not be in haste to jar her sensibility. It is thoughtfulness which engenders love.”

The young women of Kensington were divided about Agnes Wilt. The poorer girls thought her perfect. But some marriageable and some married women, moving in her own sphere of society, criticised her popularity, and said she must be artful to control so many men. There are no depths to which jealousy cannot go in a small suburban society. Agnes, as an orphan, had felt it since childhood, but nothing had ever happened until now to concentrate slander as well as sympathy upon her. It was told abroad that she had been the mistress of her deceased benefactor, who had fallen by the hands of his infuriated son. Even the police authorities gave some slight consideration to this view. Old people remarked: ”If she has been deceiving people, she will not stop now. She will have other secret lovers.”

Inquiries had been made for some time as to who the unknown executor, Duff Salter, might be, when one day Rev. Mr. Van de Lear walked over to the Zane house with a broad-shouldered, grave, silent-eyed man, who wore a very long white beard reaching to his middle. As he was also tall and but little bent, he had that mysterious union of strength and age which was perfected by his expression of long and absolute silence.

”Agnes,” said Mr. Van de Lear, ”this is an old Scotch-Irish friend and cla.s.smate of the late Mr. Zane, Duff Salter of Arkansas. He cannot hear what I have said, for he is almost stone deaf. However, go through the motions of shaking hands. I am told he has heard very little of anything for the past ten years. An explosion in a quicksilver mine broke his ear-drums.”

Agnes, dressed in deep black, shook hands with the grave stranger dutifully, and said:

”I am sure you are welcome, sir.”

Mr. Salter looked at her closely and gently, and seemed to be pleased with the inspection, for he took a small gold box from his pocket, unlocked it and sniffed a pinch of snuff, and then gave a sneeze, which he articulated, plain as speech, into the words: ”Jericho! Jericho!”

Then placing the box in the pocket of his long coat, he remarked:

”Miss Agnes, as one of the executors is a lady, and another is our venerable friend here, who has no inclination to attend to the settlement of Mr. Zane's estate, it will devolve upon me to examine the whole subject. I am a stranger in the East. As Mr. Van de Lear may have told you, I don't hear anything. Will I be welcome as a boarder under your roof as long as I am looking into my old friend's books and papers?”

”Not only welcome, but a protection to us, sir,” answered Agnes.

He took a set of ivory tablets from his pocket, with a pencil, and handing it to her politely, said:

”Please write your answer.”

She wrote ”Yes.”

The deaf lodger gave as little trouble as could have been expected. He had a bedroom, and moved a large secretary desk into it, and sat there all day looking at figures. If he ever wanted to make an inquiry, he wrote it on the tablets, and in the evening had it read and answered.

Agnes was a good deal of the time preoccupied, and Podge Byerly, who wrote as neatly as copper-plate, answered these inquiries, and conducted a little conversation of her own. Podge was a slender blonde, with fine blue eyes and a mischievous, sylph-like way of coming and going. Her freedom of motion and address seemed to concern the stranger. One day she wrote, after putting down the answer to a business inquiry:

”Are you married?”

He hesitated some time and wrote back, ”I hope not.”

She retorted, ”Could one forget if one was married?”

He replied on the same tablet: ”Not when he tried.”

Podge rubbed it all off, and thought a minute, and then concluded that evening's correspondence:

”You are an old tease!”

The next morning, as usual, she wrapped herself up warmly and took the omnibus for her school, and saw him watching her out of the upper window. That night, instead of any inquiries, he stalked down in his worked slippers--the dead man's--and long dressing gown, and, after smiling at all, took Podge Byerly's hand and looked at it. This time he spoke in a sweet, modulated voice,

”Very pretty!”

She was about to reply, when he gave her the ivory tablet, and put his finger on his lip.

She wrote, ”Did you ever fight a duel?”

He shook his head ”No.”

She wrote again, ”What else do they do in Arkansas?”