noise.”
“That ‘one thing,’ indeed! As if that ‘one thing’ wasn’t enough,
all by itself.”
“Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn’t guilty of it.”
“How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody knows he WAS guilty.”
“Mary, I give you my word–he was innocent.”
“I can’t believe it and I don’t. How do you know?”
“It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will make it. I was the
only man who knew he was innocent. I could have saved him, and–
and–well, you know how the town was wrought up–I hadn’t the pluck
to do it. It would have turned everybody against me. I felt mean,
ever so mean; ut I didn’t dare; I hadn’t the manliness to face
that.”
Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent. Then she said
stammeringly:
“I–I don’t think it would have done for you to–to–One mustn’t–
er–public opinion–one has to be so careful –so–” It was a
difficult road, and she got mired; but after a little she got
started again. “It was a great pity, but– Why, we couldn’t afford
it, Edward–we couldn’t indeed. Oh, I wouldn’t have had you do it
for anything!”
“It would have lost us the good-will of so many people, Mary; and
then–and then–”
“What troubles me now is, what HE thinks of us, Edward.”
“He? HE doesn’t suspect that I could have saved him.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, “I am glad of that.
As long as he doesn’t know that you could have saved him, he–he–
well that makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have known he
didn’t know, because he is always trying to be friendly with us, as
little encouragement as we give him. More than once people have
twitted me with it. There’s the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes, and the
Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in saying ‘YOUR FRIEND
Burgess,’ because they know it pesters me. I wish he wouldn’t
persist in liking us so; I can’t think why he keeps it up.”
“I can explain it. It’s another confession. When the thing was new
and hot, and the town made a plan to ride him on a rail, my
conscience hurt me so that I couldn’t stand it, and I went privately
and gave him notice, and he got out of the town and stayed out till
it was safe to come back.”
“Edward! If the town had found it out–”
“DON’T! It scares me yet, to think of it. I repented of it the
minute it was done; and I was even afraid to tell you lest your face
might betray it to somebody. I didn’t sleep any that night, for
worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one was going to
suspect me, and after that I got to feeling glad I did it. And I
feel glad yet, Mary–glad through and through.”
“So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful way to treat him.
Yes, I’m glad; for really you did owe him that, you know. But,
Edward, suppose it should come out yet, some day!”
“It won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because everybody thinks it was Goodson.”
“Of course they would!”
“Certainly. And of course HE didn’t care. They persuaded poor old
Sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and he went blustering over
there and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he was
hunting for a place on him that he could despise the most; then he
says, ‘So you are the Committee of Inquiry, are you?’ Sawlsberry
said that was about what he was. ‘H’m. Do they require
particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a GENERAL answer will do?’
‘If they require particulars, I will come back, Mr. Goodson; I will
take the general answer first.’ ‘Very well, then, tell them to go
to hell–I reckon that’s general enough. And I’ll give you some
advice, Sawlsberry; when you come back for the particulars, fetch a
basket to carry what is left of yourself home in.'”
“Just like Goodson; it’s got all the marks. He had only one vanity;
he thought he could give advice better than any other person.”