“Dearest,” he whispered back, “trust me! It is time we laid this uneasy ghost; don’t you think so?”
By now the large room was well filled with men, women and children. The ice cream was being passed around when suddenly the clanging sound of a dinner bell, vigorously operated by Joe Whittle, arrested attention.
“The minister’s got something to say! The minister’s got something to say!” shouted the boy.
Wesley Elliot, standing apart, lifted his hand in token of silence, then he spoke:
“I have taken this somewhat unusual method of asking your attention to a matter which has for many years past enlisted your sympathies,” he began: “I refer to the Bolton affair.”
The sound of breath sharply indrawn and the stir of many feet died into profound silence as the minister went on, slowly and with frequent pauses:
“Most of you are already familiar with the sordid details. It is not necessary for me to go back to the day, now nearly nineteen years ago, when many of you found yourselves unexpectedly impoverished because the man you trusted had defaulted.... There was much suffering in Brookville that winter, and since.... When I came to this parish I found it—sick. Because of the crime of Andrew Bolton? No. I repeat the word with emphasis: No! Brookville was sick, despondent, dull, gloomy and impoverished—not because of Andrew Bolton’s crime; but because Brookville had never forgiven Andrew Bolton.... Hate is the one destructive element in the universe; did you know that, friends? It is impossible for a man or woman who hates another to prosper.... And I’ll tell you why this is—why it must be true: God is love—the opposite of hate. Hence All Power is enlisted on the side of love.... Think this over, and you’ll know it is true.... Now the Bolton mystery: A year ago we were holding a fair in this village, which was sick and impoverished because it had never forgiven the man who stole its money.... You all remember that occasion. There were things to sell; but nobody had money to buy them. It wasn’t a pleasant occasion. Nobody was enjoying it, least of all your minister. But a miracle took place— There are miracles in the world today, as there always have been, thank God! There came into Brookville that day a person who was moved by love. Every impulse of her heart; everything she did was inspired by that mightiest force of the universe. She called herself Lydia Orr.... She had been called Lydia Orr, as far back as she could remember; so she did no wrong to anyone by retaining that name. But she had another name, which she quickly found was a byword and a hissing in Brookville. Was it strange that she shrank from telling it? She believed in the forgiveness of sins; and she had come to right a great wrong.... She did what she could, as it is written of another woman, who poured out a fragrant offering of love unappreciated save by One.... There quickly followed the last chapter in the tragedy—for it was all a tragedy, friends, as I look at it: the theft; the pitiful attempt to restore fourfold all that had been taken; the return of that ruined man, Andrew Bolton, after his heavy punishment; and his tragic death.... Some of you may not know all that happened that night. You do know of the cowardly attack made upon the helpless girl. You know of the flight of the terrified man, of how he was found dead two days later three miles from the village, in a lonely spot where he had perished from hunger and exposure.... The body was discovered by James Dodge, with the aid of his dog. With him on that occasion was a detective from Boston, employed by Miss Bolton, and myself. There was a sum of money found on the body amounting to something over five thousand dollars. It had been secreted beneath the floor of Andrew Bolton’s chamber, before his arrest and imprisonment. It is probable that he intended to make good his escape, but failed, owing to the illness of his wife.... This is a terrible story, friends, and it has a sad ending. Brookville had never learned to forgive. It had long ago formed the terrible habits of hate: suspicion, envy, sharp-tongued censure and the rest. Lydia Bolton could not remain here, though it was her birthplace and her home.... She longed for friendship! She asked for bread and you gave her—a stone!”
The profound silence was broken by a sob from a distant corner. The strained listeners turned with a sharp movement of relief.
“Fer pity sake!” faltered Abby Daggett, her beautiful, rosy face all quivering with grief. “Can’t nobody do nothing?”
“Yes, ma’am!” shouted the big voice of Judge Fulsom. “We can all do something.... I ain’t going to sum up the case against Brookville; the parson’s done it already; if there’s any rebuttal coming from the defendant, now’s the time to bring it before the court.... Nothing to say—eh? Well, I thought so! We’re guilty of the charges preferred, and I’m going to pass sentence.... But before I do that, there’s one thing the parson didn’t mention, that in my opinion should be told, to wit: Miss Lydia Bolton’s money—all that she had—came to her from her uncle, an honest hardworkin’ citizen of Boston. He made every penny of it as a soap-boiler. So you see ’twas clean money; and he left it to his niece, Lydia Bolton. What did she do with it? You know! She poured it out, right here in Brookville—pretty nigh all there was of it. She’s got her place here; but mighty little besides. I’m her trustee, and I know. The five thousand dollars found on the dead body of Andrew Bolton, has been made a trust fund for the poor and discouraged of this community, under conditions anybody that’ll take the trouble to step in to my office can find out....”