“I’ll think about it,” she conceded.
“If I can study out a sure, honourable way.
I’ll promise to think. Now go out there,
and hunt the last scrap of that glass; the children
may cut their feet in the morning.”
Then Kate went in to bed. If she had looked
from her window, she might have seen George scratching
matches and picking pieces of glass from the grass.
When he came to the bottom of the bottle with upstanding,
jagged edges, containing a few drops, he glanced at
her room, saw that she was undressing in the dark,
and lifting it, he poured the liquid on his tongue
to the last drop that would fall.
Before Kate awakened the following morning George
was out feeding the horses, cattle, and chickens,
doing the milking, and working like the proverbial
beaver. By the time breakfast was ready, he
had convinced himself that he was a very exemplary
man, while he expected Kate to be convinced also.
He stood ready and willing to forgive her for every
mean deceit and secret sin he ever had committed,
or had it in his heart to commit in the future.
All the world was rosy with him, he was flying with
the wings of hope straight toward a wonderful achievement
that would bring pleasure and riches, first to George
Holt, then to his wife and children, then to the old
aunt he really cared more for than any one else.
Incidentally, his mother might have some share, while
he would bring such prosperity and activity to the
village that all Walden would forget every bad thing
it had ever thought or known of him, and delight to
pay him honour. Kate might have guessed all this
when she saw the pails full of milk on the table, and
heard George whistling “Hail the Conquering
Hero Comes,” as he turned the cows into the
pasture; but she had not slept well. Most of
the night she had lain staring at the ceiling, her
brain busy with calculations, computations, most of
all with personal values.
She dared not be a party to anything that would lose
Aunt Ollie her land; that was settled; but if she
went into the venture herself, if she kept the deeds
in Aunt Ollie’s name, the bank account in hers,
drew all the checks, kept the books, would it be safe?
Could George buy timber as he thought; could she,
herself, if he failed? The children were old
enough to be in school now, she could have much of
the day, she could soon train Polly and Adam to do
even more than sweep and run errands; the scheme could
be materialized in the Bates way, without a doubt;
but could it be done in a Bates way, hampered and
impeded by George Holt? Was the plan feasible,
after all? She entered into the rosy cloud enveloping
the kitchen without ever catching the faintest gleam
of its hue. George came to her the instant he
saw her and tried to put his arm around her.
Kate drew back and looked at him intently.
“Aw, come on now, Kate,” he said.
“Leave out the heroics and be human.
I’ll do exactly as you say about everything if
you will help me wheedle Aunt Ollie into letting me
have the money.”
