“Ill!” repeated Miss Daggett shrilly. Then she said one word: “Insane.”
“People who are insane are not likely to mention it,” said Elliot.
“Then he is insane,” said Miss Daggett with conviction.
Wesley looked at her meditatively. Would the truth, the whole truth, openly proclaimed, be advisable at this juncture, he wondered. Lydia could not hope to keep her secret long. And there was danger in her attempt. He shuddered as he remembered the man’s terrible words, “Twice I have been tempted to knock her down when she stood between me and the door.” Would it not be better to abandon this pretense sooner, rather than later? If the village knew the truth, would not the people show at least a semblance of kindness to the man who had expiated so bitterly the wrong he had done them?
“If the man is insane,” Miss Daggett said, “it doesn’t seem right to me to have him at large.”
“I wish I knew what to do,” said Elliot.
“I think you ought to tell what you know if the man is insane.”
“Well, I will tell,” said Elliot, almost fiercely. “That man is Andrew Bolton. He has come home after eighteen years of imprisonment, which have left him terribly weak in mind and body. Don’t you think people will forgive him now?”
A swift vindictiveness flashed into the woman’s face. “I don’t know,” said she.
“Why in the world don’t you know, Miss Daggett?”