She was waiting for his answer.
"It would seem so much more honest," she said in a tired voice. "Now
they can only think me eccentric, foolishly extravagant, lavishly
generous--when I am trying-- I didn't dare to ask Deacon Whittle or
Judge Fulsom for a list of the creditors, so I paid a large sum--far
more than they would have asked--for the house. And since then I have
bought the old bank building. I should like to make a library there."
"Yes, I know," he said huskily.
"Then the furniture--I shall pay a great deal for that. I want the
house to look just as it used to, when father comes home. You see he
had an additional sentence for trying to escape and for conspiracy;
and since then his mind--he doesn't seem to remember everything.
Sometimes he calls me Margaret. He thinks I am--mother."
Her voice faltered a little.
"You mustn't tell them," he said vehemently. "You mustn't!"
He saw with terrible clearness what it would be like: the home-coming
of the half-imbecile criminal, and the staring eyes, the pointing
fingers of all Brookville leveled at him. She would be overborne by
the shame of it all--trampled like a flower in the mire.
She seemed faintly disappointed.
"But I would far rather tell," she persisted. "I have had so much to
conceal--all my life!"
She flung out her hands in a gesture of utter weariness.
"I was never allowed to mention father to anyone," she went on. "My
aunt was always pointing out what a terrible thing it would be for
any one to find out--who I was.
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