“N-no. Not often. He’s always sorry and ashamed afterward. He’d like to be as kind as God. I believe if he could only fool us into thinking he was God, he could act like Him—ouch, Bella! Go easy.”
“You’re an awful smart boy, Pete. It’s a sin you’ve never had any schooling.”
“Schooling! Gosh! I’ve had all the schooling I could digest. Hugh beat it into me. He’s taught me all he had in his head and a whole lot he never ought to have had there, I guess. But you’ve taught me most, Bella—that’s the truth of it.”
“Me! I never knew anything. They saw to that. They never did anything for me at home but abuse me. Hugh Garth was the only relation I ever had in the world that spoke kind to me. Remember how I used to run over from my folks to tuck you into bed in your little room above the shop, Pete? No, you were too little.”
“Of course, I remember,” the boy replied. “The ankle’s fine now, Bella. Let up. I can’t stand that rubbing. Let me stick the foot up on another chair. There—that’s great. It doesn’t hurt near so bad now. I remember Hugh’s bookshop; yes, I do—honest! I remember sitting on the ladder and listening to him talk to the students when they came in. He always was a gorgeous talker, Bella. They used to stand around and listen to his yarns like kids to a fairy story. Just the same as you and I do now—when we can get him into a good humor. But, you know, he used to like strangers best—to talk to, I mean.”
Bella assented, bitterly. She had begun to clear the table of its almost untouched meal. “Because he could put it over better with a stranger. It isn’t the truth Hugh likes—about himself, or others.”
Pete had begun to whittle a piece of wood. He was a charming figure, slouching down in his chair, slim and graceful, his shapely golden head ruffled, his chin pressed against his chest. His expression was indescribably sweet and boyish, the shadow of anxiety and pain accentuating a wistful if determined cheerfulness. He was deliberately entertaining Bella, diverting her mind from its agony of apprehension. She saw through him, but like a sick child she took the entertainment languidly.
“Now, you’re too dead bent on the truth, Bella. You know you are. You’re a regular bear for the truth.”
“I can’t see anything else,” she said gloomily. “Things are just so to me—no blinking them.”
He put his head a little to one side and contemplated her. “What do you see when you look into the water-bucket, Bella?”