The Long Watch

Book 680: Murder Room

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

'My favourite American crime-writer' New York Herald Tribune New York in the days preceding the American Revolution was a dangerous place to be. Just ask sixteen-year-old James Bethune, who seems to be constantly followed by trouble. Offered a job at a newspaper, James sees out the revolution through the eyes of the paper, surviving incredible odds. When trouble finally catches up to him again, how will he get himself out of it this time?

Release date: November 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

BETHUNE CONSIDERED the window. It was boarded up, but if he had something to pry out the nails, the old chestnut outside
could help him down. Must be after midnight, he reckoned; dark enough in the box-room at any rate. He got out his pocket-knife, fumbled the blade open, and felt for the nails in the board. It was
clumsy work in the dark. He had never been clever with tools; the knife kept slipping. And all the while Mr. Thurstan’s ugly words sounded in his mind.

He stopped after a while to rest, wondering if it would be easier to try the door; the household must be asleep by now. As he moved toward it the knob rattled and a hoarse whisper came through
the keyhole.

“Mr. Bethune? You awake, Mr. Bethune?”

It was suddenly queer to think that Shad had never called him anything else, even when Bethune was a little boy. Even now that he was grown—well, yes, you could say he was grown—
Bethune was not sure it was proper. Gentry, Shad said: a meaningless word. Gentry were those on top, but Shad would say different. “Not all gentry got things, an’ not ever’body
that’s got things is gentry—they’s that Mr. Haines at Taggarts’ Chance. But your pa, he was gentry even with the chains on, an’ so is you.” All very well to say.
Bethune thought it had started a long time back, before he was born, with the man he’d never known, who was his father.

“Mr. Bethune? I got a key to let you out—an’ I got some dinner for you.” The door opened cautiously and the tall shadow of the old butler slipped in.

“You shouldn’t come,” said Bethune. “If Mr. Thurstan finds out—”

“He ain’t goin’ find out.” Shad gave him a meat pasty on a plate. He had had nothing since the middle of the afternoon; it tasted good. “What they goin’ do to
you, Mr. Bethune, you goin’ get whupped?” That was the worst Shad could think.

“He’ll have me gaoled,” said Bethune. “He said might be they’d hang me, Shad.” It seemed to have nothing to do with him; he could say it almost casually.

“Lord! Mought be. They do that, times. Mr. Bethune? You do what he say?”

“Well,” said Bethune. He finished the pie. He considered trying to explain to Shad, but he did not want to talk about it at all.

Shad waited and then said, “You got to git away, Mr. Bethune, an’ never come back, if that’s so. Git away far an’ fast.”

“I reckon,” said Bethune.

“I c’n go fetch your things.” Shad turned to the door and then added, “Lord. Hit’s queer—queer. Once I fix to help your pa git away. He say, you all look
atter Miss Reba an’ the chile. Goin’ git clear off to N’Yawk or Boston, he say, earn money to send for to git ’em away to him. ’Twasn’t to be.” He was an
old man and rambling in his talk.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble for me.”

“You is the one in trouble, Mr. Bethune. Hit’s no thing your pa woulda done, even when he were young like you. Hit’s a wrong thing. But I don’t reckon you oughta git hung
for it. I go fetch your gear.”

Bethune stood alone in the dark, waiting, and thought of what Shad had said, and about his father—the place it started, that was: James Andrew Bethune, like himself.

Shad and the rest could tell him little enough about his father. He knew all they could tell, and he had read in a few books and old pamphlets what they couldn’t tell, about the Stuart
claimant and his armies. And Culloden. Eighteen years back that was, in 1745. James Andrew Bethune was at Culloden. Some of the Scot officers were hanged, but he was one of those deported to the
American colonies as lifetime indenturers, to be sold to the highest bidders. His son reflected that it must have come hard on him—a gentleman they said he was. “Not that he say much,
Mr. Bethune, he were a quiet one like you is.” Mr. Thurstan paid sixty guineas for him and set him to clerking for the factor here at Thurstan Hundred. He was twenty-two, Shad said.
“You his spittin’ image now, Mr. Bethune,” so he had not been what you would call handsome: tall and gangling, sandy-haired, and gray-eyed. Perhaps the indentured girl, Reba,
loved him because he was gentry, then. About his mother Bethune knew little. He went on thinking about it because his mind shied away from the other thing.

Mr. Thurstan had been kind to let them wed, but Shad said it was mostly because Mr. Thurstan was strait-laced and did not want a bastard born in his house, even to bound servants. “They
was both Papist but that don’t signify. Rector, he did it.” Reba Downes her name was, and all they could tell him besides was that she was pretty, and gentle, and bound for seven years
to pay her passage from England. The week after she was delivered of a son, James Bethune ran away from Thurstan Hundred, and the factor was late on his trail so an alarm went out. Mr. Philip
Gerard of Twelvetrees, riding that morning with his sons, sighted the runaway and gave chase; he said afterward he meant only to wound him, but the ball struck too near his heart. “Hit come
hard on Miss Reba—she don’t have heart to fight when the fever git her. Jus’ slip away like, an’ you on’y a month horned.” Sixteen and a half years ago.

Bethune reckoned it had been kind of Mr. Thurstan to raise him: no claim on him for it. But that was behind the way he’d come to be, he knew. Or would it have been the same if Mr. Thurstan
had put him in the charity orphanage in Williamsburg—was it something in himself? For he was an in-between at Thurstan Hundred, Shad and Flora and Azalea and the other house slaves treating
him like gentry, and the Thurstans like a bound boy. Never quite knowing where he was, except always by himself. Yes, that was the start of it.

Shad came back. He had a leather saddlebag filled with Bethune’s clothes. “I didn’t take your ole shoes, Mr. Bethune, or some other gear not good ’nough. I put in the
Good Book Mr. Thurstan give you, I reckon you in need of it. An’ they’s a packet o’ victuals on top. I ain’t no money.”

Shad was taking an almighty risk for him. He wanted to say something about it; after this he could never come back to Thurstan Hundred, never see any of them again, and there were things he
should say—about the time he had the fever and Flora sat up by his bed; about the times Shad had saved delicacies for him when there were guests. It was queer to think—they were Negroes
but you could say they had raised him, as much as anyone had. He could not find the words.

“You better go, Mr. Bethune. Three-four hours to dawn.”

“Yes,” he said. He took the bag and followed Shad out, down the rear stair. He expected the old man to leave him at the door; instead Shad went with him round the house, ghost-white
in the dark, and down the broad carriageway to the stone pillars and the iron gate Mr. Thurstan had sent for all the way to England.

There he stopped. “Mr. Bethune. Things I like to say. I can’t rightly.”

“Yes. I know.” The strange, painful thing was, he’d have been leaving next month anyway, in June, leaving properly. Mr. Thurstan had said he would write to Mr. Wyeth, and there
was a new life all laid out for him. He had not thought to be leaving this way.

Shad shifted uneasily. “Mr. Bethune. You know it were a wrong thing.”

He could not talk about it.

“Your pa, he’d be mighty angerish at it.” It was the worst reproach Shad could utter. “You better git far off, where Mr. Thurstan can’t know. Like your pa say then,
N’Yawk or Boston. You git to the ocean an’ fin’ a boat goin’ north. That’s the way.”

Shad, if found out, would likely be whipped, valued house servant though he was. Bethune said, “You’d better get back, Shad.” Nothing else of what he ought to say; if he had
known the right words they would have stopped in his throat.

“I reckon. I pray the Lord for you, Mr. Bethune. You walk in the Lord’s way an’ ever’thing be right for you.”

Bethune said, “Thank you, Shad. Good-by.”

“Good-by, Mr. Bethune.”

He turned left and started to walk down the road, away from the only home he had ever known, though never his home. But he did not go alone; Margaret went at his side. The words Mr. Thurstan had
said were bad, but they had not hurt so sharp, like a knife in his chest, as the need to leave Margaret. He walked fast to escape her, but she stayed with him; he thought she would stay with him
the rest of his life.

That was why it had happened, because he had never known that he was lonely. There were no Thurstan boys, and Miss Caroline and Miss Honor were older, so boys never came to
Thurstan Hundred—not that he would have been allowed to play with gentlemen’s sons. He had always been sufficient to Bethune: he had to be. Their attitude showed in the way they had
always called him by the one name, so that he almost forgot he had others. Mr. Thurstan had done a duty by him: had the rector give him lessons until he was twelve, when it was apparent that
whatever he might be good for it would not be a trade, unskillful as he was with his hands. But he wrote a better script than the factor.

Mr. Thurstan had talked to him about it. He would provide until Bethune was sixteen, in return for his work. Bethune was to help the factor, Mr. Bolt, at making up accounts, and then if he
wished he could go to Williamsburg, where the lawyer, Mr. Wyeth, would be asked to find work for him as a clerk. Mr. Thurstan made it clear Bethune had no claim, that he’d been given a home
from charity.

Since he had learned to read he had spent most of his free time going through Mr. Thurstan’s library; no one else was greatly interested in it. He found a certain difficulty discussing
what he read with the slaves, and had never been on intimate terms with anyone else. He did the work Mr. Holt set him to, in the office room. His amusements were all of necessity solitary: visiting
the stable, walking the boundaries of the plantation, coming cautiously halfway down the stair to watch when there were guests. It was a revelation when he made a friend.

He had never paid much attention to the youngest Thurstan girl. Margaret was almost two years younger, and for three years she had been living in Williamsburg with her aunt, to attend a
fashionable young ladies’ academy. All that time ago he had scorned girls, but when she came home last Christmas she seemed so changed, and he was so changed—because of Zena?—that
he had felt shy with her.

Margaret was friendly; she was as much interested in him as he in her, but able to show it as he was not. She would come into the office room, in the mornings, and then he got little work done,
and it made him nervous, for he knew that if Mr. Thurstan or Mr. Bolt found them talking the devil would be in it. Margaret asked why, and he could not explain, though he knew. But he liked to have
her come. After a while he was more at ease with Margaret than with anyone he had ever known. It was fine to be admired; no one had ever deferred to him before, but she was younger and a girl, so
looked up to him. She listened to him, and all his defenses were down with her because she understood. He could say anything to Margaret.

It was hard to say when it came to be another kind of feeling. Margaret and Zena: the one had bearing on the other, but he could not say how or why.

That was no new knowledge in him. He had grown up near slave quarters; he could not remember a time he had been ignorant about that, but up to a couple of years ago it had been meaningless fact
to him. Now it was a new, exciting feeling to be explored. And there was Zena keeping it in his mind.

Shad and Flora looked down on Zena: yellow trash. No one had to tell him why. What they called a lightskirt, the way she swung her hips when she walked, and painted her mouth. She liked Bethune:
always smiling at him, hinting at him. Once he had met her in the dark kitchen passage and she had leaned against him like a cat, murmuring, “You want Zena be nice t’ you, honey? You
jus’ say.” And he wanted her, hot and hard, but what made him draw back was, mysteriously, the mere fact that she had offered. He should be the one to say. But he knew sooner or later
he would say, despite the black looks that Shad gave her. She was there to his hand, and this wasn’t the sort of thing you said no to.

He had a clear picture of it: Zena was half the way it was and the other half was how he came to feel about Margaret, the part you read about in stories, the polite part. He knew the difference,
and that was what kept him from approaching Zena. He knew right from wrong: Mr. Thurstan was strict about the household’s attending church.

The plans they made, he and Margaret! Often it seemed to him a foolish children’s dream, that he would go away and make a deal of money, so much Mr. Thurstan would be glad to let him marry
Margaret. “I’d rather marry you than anyone, Bethune, if I’ve got to, and there’s nothing else for a girl. Even if it takes you years and years, I’d wait.”

He did not know how it might be done.

“But you could be anything, Bethune! A lawyer like Mr. Wyeth, or—”

“Oh, yes,” he said with the unsmiling humor that always made her giggle, “I’ve a fine chance of that, plenty of money to pay for schooling and keep me meanwhile. I
don’t know that I’d want to be a lawyer.”

“But you must know what you want! Isn’t there anything you want to do?”

He looked down at the column of figures he was copying for Mr. Bolt. Just as well he was only copying; figures had a way of slipping out from under him, meaningless squiggles. He said haltingly,
“I don’t know, I want—to find out, that’s all.”

“Find out what?” She did not understand, but neither did he, entirely. Find out? The why and wherefore of it, of himself, Bethune, insignificant but important on a crowded planet; of
Thurstan Hundred, and the continent entire; of every man, the thing inside making each what he was, the reason and the beginning and the center force—the answer. He could not use those words,
and it made little sense. He smiled at her.

“I don’t suppose I’ll earn much money clerking.”

“There must be something. Don’t you want it, Bethune? I mean—”

It was not in him to show what he felt.

Perhaps that was the way, to think what he wanted, and that would tell him how to have it. Well, one day he wanted a horse like Bay Brandy, fine and light-paced and lovely as the dawn; but he
would have to learn to ride a bit first. He wanted fine clothes, the kind the young gentlemen wore who used to call on Miss Caroline and Miss Honor, satin breeches and embroidered waistcoats, lace
frills to his shirts, elegant beaver hats, silver-chased buckles on leather shoes, and the things gentlemen owned: a gold snuffbox, a pocket watch, a seal ring, a silver-handled pistol. Like Oliver
Gerard—he had come oftenest, and married Miss Honor last year; for Bethune he symbolized all of them. Bethune did not like Gerard, but envied him—not his dark good looks or
self-confidence, but what he was and what he had. But to have those things you needed money, so the problem was only that—only! And the way to have it was more important than the things
themselves, for it might take a year, say, to earn enough for the fine clothes, and would they balance a year of doing something you hated? But if money meant he could marry Margaret some
day—

He had never asked to kiss her, never touched her hand. Later she would understand that part of it. He was still shy with her. He thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever known, and it did
not occur to him that he had known no others at all. She had dark-brown shining curls, pink-and-white skin, and earnest blue eyes, and he loved her.

He never meant what happened. Afterward he felt it was a thing like thunder or fire, outside his controlling.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Mr. Thurstan had ridden over to Twelvetrees, Mistress Thurstan was napping in her chamber. A changeable February day it was. He and Margaret had gone out to the
stables to see the new foal. No one was about, not Billy or Nego, the coachman, or Abed or the stable boys. Then he heard Billy coming up from the quarters, singing tunelessly to himself, and
Margaret seized Bethune’s arm and whispered, “Let’s hide and scare him—the loft!” That was like youngsters playing; they scrambled up the ladder and lay in the
fragrant hay, Margaret smothering giggles. He knew just when it changed and how, and it was nothing she said or did.

Only suddenly he touched her arm beside him; it was cool and soft. He put his hand on it, and something in his touch made her stop giggling and whisper, “What is it?
Bethune—”

He did not remember consciously touching any other flesh; he looked at the plump white swell of her arm, smoothing his fingers over it, feeling a brief mad impulse to set his teeth in it. He did
not know he would say it until he heard the words. “Margaret, I want to kiss you—let me—”

She gave a little gasp, not expecting it. Queerly he was sorry for her in the midst of loving; she did not understand this as yet. He must not frighten her, but all the same he wanted—he
wanted only to tell her he loved her, and could not say the words, the silly, embarrassing words. He kissed her clumsily, knowing it was clumsy, wishing it to be better to make her understand. And
that was all he ever meant.

But if she had struggled he would have let her go at once. She only lay quiet; she never spoke even his name. And afterward he felt nothing, only a blank of surprise and then embarrassment.
Appallingly, he found he was wishing she would disappear, not be there so close, to let him think about this. Then he was afraid she would cry.

She did not cry. After a while they got up and climbed down the ladder and went back to the house, all without exchanging a word. He was relieved to be alone again.

And then he was afraid she would hate him. But the next time they were alone, with constraint between them now, she said, not looking at him, stumbling over the words,
“I—it’s all right, Bethune. I mean—I didn’t mind. Really.” That was the only mention of it between them. He was ashamed, but he felt easier about it then.

There was so little conscious memory in him of what had happened, it seemed nothing that could have consequences. She did not tell him; it was possible she did not wholly know. He was never to
know how the Thurstans found out, questioned her; and he never blamed her for naming him. He had always known it was wrong.

His chief feeling was surprise that Mr. Thurstan knew all the obscene names to call him, words he had thought only the Nigras and common folk used.

“Little bastard, ungrateful, sly little bastard!” Tamely, after all the rest: “What’ve you to say for yourself?” Mr. Thurstan was white and shaking and deadly.

“I don’t know—what you want me—to say, sir,” Bethune faltered.

“You don’t know! By God—I ought to kill you—” And then the ugly word.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” he had to say. “You don’t understand—” No one ever did.

But he could not blame Mr. Thurstan either for not listening. There were more words, bad ones. Gaol. Hanging. “Ought to kill you myself.” Something about despoilers, and,
“Fifteen she is. Fifteen. My God. The law will deal with you!” He took Bethune up to the box-room to be locked in overnight. “In the morning you’ll be taken to Williamsburg
to the justices.” His words went on sounding in Bethune’s mind a long time when he was left alone.

But however frightened or angry or bewildered he was, there was always one place in his mind that stayed clear and cold. He did not try to justify himself; he had done wrong, and it might be he
deserved to be hanged for it, but that would do no one any good now. He was not going to let them take him to Williamsburg for trial and hanging. It was wrong, yes, but not as wrong as Mr.
Thurstan’s word for it.

Not as if he did not know right from wrong. Running away, that made it worse. He could not delude himself over that. Twice that night he stopped in the road and turned to go back; each time he
went on. All of it was bad: the heavy weight of guilt on him—he reckoned he would never be rid of it. But he wasn’t going to hang. He thought again about his father, and felt queer
kinship with him, a man running away, only he would escape where his father had failed.

After a while he forced himself to stop thinking about it, to fix his mind on where he would make for, what he should do. He supposed Margaret would be there at the back of his mind forever
until he died, but he must stop thinking of her and of what he had done.

He must go on from here as best he could, that was all. No use, either, to wish, If I could go back, make it never to have happened—make it Zena instead. And he hurried his pace away from
home, walking fast through the dark, fast for a man with such a burden of black guilt weighing him down.

WILLIAMSBURG WAS twelve miles from Thurstan Hundred. It was a long way on foot; by morning they would find he was gone, and
Mr. Bolt would come after him on Bay Brandy, and be up to him in an hour if he knew the way Bethune took. Bethune had, however, some cause to be grateful to Bay Brandy, the fastest thing in the
stables. He still had the five shillings he had won from a wager on him in the race last fall, the second time he had been to Williamsburg. He hadn’t decided what to spend it on, the largest
sum he had ever owned, and it was in his pocket now with a threepenny bit Mr. Thurstan had given him on his birthday in November and a penny he had found in the road last week. Five shillings
fourpence: not much, but better than nothing.

In early morning he stopped to rest and ate one of the biscuits Shad had given him; he had just started on when a wagon came up behind him. The driver pulled up his mules and called, “You
like a ride a piece, boy?”

Bethune looked at him and saw he was only being neighborly. He said, “Thanks, sir,” and climbed up to the seat. But the wagoner made him uneasy with questions. He wanted to know
where Bethune was from, where he was going, and why. Bethune never liked questions: at the most casual query he felt like the yard dog rearing up to resent the stranger. He did not think he was
secretive, but he liked his affairs to himself. He saw Mr. Bolt asking questions in town and the driver speaking up, Yes, sir, I met up with a young chap like that. He was glad of the ride into
Williamsburg, but afraid to stop there long. He left the wagoner in Duke of Gloucester Street and walked on out of the town eastward toward the sea.

He walked all that day, another fifteen or eighteen miles, and at dusk came to another town, Yorktown, across the York River from Gloucester Point. It was a much smaller place, with only a few
shops, but it was on water and he could see the masts of ships at the quay.

He thought what he had best do was slip aboard a ship. It was another wrong thing, but five shillings would not pay passage anywhere. He made out two ships anchored offshore—large ones,
and presumably the larger the ship the longer its projected voyage; but there was no possibility of getting out to them. Of those moored at quayside only one was of any size. It looked almost too
easy: there was a broad plank laid from deck to quay, and no sign of life aboard. He crossed the plank, quelling the slight uneasiness in his stomach, and stepped to the deck, aware of unfamiliar
smells—wet boards and salt—sea scents vaguely exciting. He stumbled over an open hatchway, stopped in panic at the noise. When no one challenged, he peered at the dark hole, at last let
himself down, hung a moment, and dropped.

The fall jarred him and the sound was loud in the quiet, but no one came. It was black dark and this was the first ship he had seen in his life; he had no idea where he was. He felt about among
stacked boxes and barrels until he found a clear space, and sat down. Propped against the ship’s side he finished the last of the food in his bag and wondered whether he would be found soon
and what would happen when he was. Presently, surprisingly, he slept. When he woke the ship was swaying and creaking beneath him; they had cast off.

He was very hungry by the middle of the morning, when he was discovered and hauled up before the captain. After the hours in the dark hold the light hurt his eyes, and all he
saw of Captain Marple at first was a large outline in the center of which was a black beard.

The voice was deep and astonishingly mild. “Now, young man, thee knows thee has done wrong in stealing aboard my ship.” Bethune’s vision cleared a trifle and he saw a stout
benign-faced man who looked more like a farmer than a ship captain. His sharp blue eyes raked Bethune. “You may leave the young man to me, Jared, I will deal with him. The first time such a
thing has happened on my ship—very strange. Well, fellow, what is thy name?”

Bethune massaged his wrist where the sailor had gripped him. “I don’t know I’d best say, sir,” he said woodenly. “I’m willing to work my passage, but
I’ve no money to pay.” That was fair enough, if they would let him work out the cost.

“Is thee running off from thy home? How old is thee?”

“No, I’m not. Eighteen,” said Bethune laconically, aware that he might pass for that and rather nettled by the captain’s solicitous glance.

“Is thee a bound man?”

“No, I’m not. I’ve the right to go where I please—”

“In my ship? Where does thee want to go?”

“Where are you sailing, sir?”

“I am bound for New York.”

“Then I reckon that’s where I want to go,” said Bethune unsmilingly.

The captain cocked his head. “Yes, I see thee is older than I thought at first.”

Bethune had never met a Quaker; the captain’s language should have been laughable, but was not.

“Thee does not look to be a villain. Will thee tell the truth? Is there a law warrant out for thee, that thee must hide in my ship?”

“No, nothing like that.” It was the strict truth.

“Thee runs away from thy family, then.”

“I’ve no family, sir.”

“I am John Marple, friend, thee need not call me sir. It is not good that one man should defer to another with worldly terms. Thee is an orphan, then. Very sad.”

Bethune liked Captain Marple. He smiled at the man. “I’m willing to work my passage.”

“It seems I have no choice. Certainly I shall not put back to Virginia for thee, and thee looks an honest enough young man. Does thee know anything of sailing?”

Bethune shook his head.

The captain sighed. “Well, I will find somewhat for thee to do.”

They let Bethune sleep in the forecastle space with the sailors, and even found a blanket for him; he was put to helping the cook in the galley. As it would be only this short while he found it
tolerable, but thought he would not care for a sailor’s life (and remembered how Mr. Bolt used to say he was lazy, fancying himself a gentleman and too finicking to dirty his hands). The
Delaware Star was an old sloop, battered but stout; she was carrying hides, rum, and cloth to New York on this voyage. Bethune was largely ignored by the small crew, save for the
gregarious second mate. He asked the mate if the crew were all Quakers.

“By God, no, boy, not by a long way. But you don’t want to let the old man fool you with his Sunday face an’ Bible talk. Clever as be-damned an’ outlie any skipper on the
Cape. I was with him in the old Queen Louise an’ many’s the time I see him trick the hull British fleet.” The mate grinned. “Runnin’ contraband, same like
seven o’ ten New England skippers—to France. The old man, it’s anything for profit with him—honest, o’ course. To his way o’ thinkin’ England were all
wrong goin’ to war with France, so it were still honest to sell in France. Some handsome profit he had, too.”

“Was he ever caught at it?”

“God save us, not him!” said the mate cheerfully.

Amused, Bethune tried to connect the bold smuggler with Captain Marple and his “thees” and “thys.” He remembered reading about the war with France in Mr. Thurstan’s
newspapers.

On the third day at sea he had his second encounter with the captain. The old Quaker came up behind him on the deck. “What does thee think of the sea, young man?”

“I was wondering if this was as big as the Red Sea in the Bible and what it looked like when it rolled back for the Israelites,” said Bethune truthfully—and without design.

Marple beamed on him. “I see thee has had a decent upbringing. What will thee do in New York? Has thee a trade?”

“No. I was to—that is, I’ve been a clerk.” This was not a lie; he had been—for the factor.

“Ah? Thee is educated. Thy speech is gentle—but curiosity is a sin, I must not pry into thy affairs. I could have fears for thee in the city—thee is young, and New York a
godless place. But I see there is strength and determination in thee, and no frivolity.”

Bethune thought he would not exactly call that a compliment.

“Thee is not talkative,” said Marple, making it another compliment.

“I reckon not,” said Bethune.

“Foolish talk makes much harm. Do thee read in the Bible often?”

“Well—” said Bethune, who found t