“Yes,” said Molly, “and he seems too boyish and full of fun for anything very weird or uncanny. But Mr. Fettiplace certainly believed in something of that kind, didn’t he?”
“Of course, or he wouldn’t be Fettiplace. That sort of thing is always interesting, and the world is full of people who can believe anything if they once put their minds on it. Who is that in our yard?”
“Deacon White, I think. He has come to train up some plants for me.” A moment later she took her father’s arm and asked, with affected humility: “Jimsey, will you do something?”
“No, for it’s sure to be foolish.”
“Well, you are right, but you can do it so much better than I. Deacon White has probably known Mr. Judd ever since he was a little boy, and he would be glad of an opportunity to tell what he knows and give us all the town talk besides. I do wish you would just start him off.”
“Start him off! On what? Judd’s private history? On the delicate matters he doesn’t wish advertised?”
“No, no! Of course not, papa! How unpleasant you are! I only want him to throw some light on the mysterious things Mr. Fettiplace alluded to.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. If you really have a thirst for that sort of knowledge, get a copy of Hans Andersen. He has a better style than Deacon White.”
A few moments later, when Molly and the Deacon were alone in the old garden, her desire for information was gratified to an unhoped-for extent, and the information was of a more detailed and astonishing character than she would have presumed to ask for. The Deacon, a little, round-shouldered, narrow-chested man of seventy, with a sun-dried face, an enormous nose, and a long receding chin with a white beard beneath, possessed a pair of wide-awake eyes that seemed many years younger than himself.
“I never have anything to do with roses without thinkin’ of Amos. Did you ever notice his?”