Molly stood looking over toward the Judd house, wondering how much of the Deacon’s tale was truth, and how much was village gossip exaggerated by repetition.
“Did you ever hear about Josiah’s death?”
Molly shook her head.
“’Twas to him that Amos was fetched from India. One mornin’ Josiah and I were standin’ in the doorway of his barn talkin’. The old barn used to be closer to the house, but Amos tore it down after he built that big new one. Josiah and I stood in the doorway talkin’ about a new yoke of oxen; nothin’ excitin’, for there wasn’t any cause for it. We stood in the doorway, both facin’ out, when Josiah, without givin’ any notice, sort of pitched forward and fell face down in the snow. I turned him over and tried to lift him up, but when I saw his face I was scared. Just at that particular minute the doctor, with Amos sittin’ in the sleigh beside him, drove into the avenue and hurried along as if he knew there was trouble. We carried Josiah into the house, but ’twa’n’t any use. He was dead before we got him there. It was heart disease. At the funeral I said to the doctor it was lucky he happened along just then, even if he couldn’t save him, and I found there was no happen about it; that Amos had run to his house just as he was starting off somewheres else, and told him Josiah was dyin’ and to get there as fast as he could.”
“That’s very strange,” Molly said, in a low voice. She had listened to this story with a feeling of awe, for she believed the Deacon to be a truthful man, and this was an experience of his own. “This mysterious faculty,” she said, “whatever it was, did he realize it fully himself?”
“I guess he did!” and the Deacon chuckled as he went on with his work. “And he used to play tricks with it. I tell you he was a handful.”
“Did you say he lost it as he grew up?”
The Deacon turned about and answered, in a serious tone: “No. But he wants folks to think so. All the same, there’s something between Amos and the Almighty that the rest of us ain’t into.”
One Monday morning, toward the last of June, Molly left Daleford for a two weeks’ visit at the seashore. Her absence caused a void that extended from the Cabot household over to the big white mansion at the further end of the maples. This emptiness and desolation drove the young man to frequent visits upon Mr. Cabot, who, in his turn, found a pleasant relief in the companionship of his neighbor, and he had no suspicion of the solace this visitor derived from sitting upon the piazza so lately honored by the absent girl. The eminent lawyer was not aware that he himself, apart from all personal merit, was the object of an ardent affection from his relationship to his own daughter. For the first twenty-four hours the two disconsolates kept in their own preserves to a reasonable extent, but on Tuesday they took a fishing trip, followed in the evening by a long talk on the Cabot piazza. During this conversation the lawyer realized more fully than ever the courageous ignorance of his neighbor in all matters that had failed to interest him. On the other hand, he was impressed by the young man’s clear, comprehensive, and detailed knowledge upon certain unfamiliar subjects. In spite of his college education and a very considerable knowledge of the world he was, mentally, something of a spoiled child; yet from his good sense, originality, and moral courage he was always interesting.
Wednesday, the third day, brought a northeast gale that swept the hills and valleys of Daleford with a drenching rain. Trees, bushes, flowers, and blades of grass dripping with water, bent and quivered before the wind. Mr. Cabot spent the morning among his books and papers, writing letters and doing some work which the pleasant weather had caused him to defer. For such labors this day seemed especially designed. In the afternoon, about two o’clock, he stood looking out upon the storm from his library window, which was at the corner of the house and commanded the long avenue toward the road. The tempest seemed to rage more viciously than ever. Bounding across the country in sheets of blinding rain, it beat savagely against the glass, then poured in unceasing torrents down the window-panes. The ground was soaked and spongy with tempestuous little puddles in every hollow of the surface. In the distance, under the tossing maples, he espied a figure coming along the driveway in a waterproof and rubber boots. He recognized Amos, his head to one side to keep his hat on, gently trotting before the gale, as the mighty force against his back rendered a certain degree of speed perfunctory. Mr. Cabot had begun to weary of solitude, and saw with satisfaction that Amos crossed the road and continued along the avenue. Beneath his waterproof was something large and bulging, of which he seemed very careful. With a smiling salutation he splashed by the window toward the side door, laid off his outer coat and wiped his ponderous boots in the hall, then came into the library bearing an enormous bunch of magnificent yellow roses. Mr. Cabot recognized them as coming from a bush in which its owner took the greatest pride, and in a moment their fragrance filled the room.