herself, verified the story.”
“Oh,” he said, cornered again, “Louisa . . . herself.”
“Believe me, Reverend, when I say I no more wanted to believe this ugly thing when I first heard of it than you want to believe it now. I’m not the sort of woman who accepts every scrap of gossip as the truth, you know that.”
I do not know that, Omar Bond reflected silently, his sad eyes on the face of Agatha Winston.
“Before I accepted one word of this terrible story, I went directly to my niece and questioned her most carefully.”
She stiffened her back, fingers tightening in the lap of her black skirt. “
The story is true,
” she declared.
The Reverend Bond licked his upper lip slowly. He started to say something, then exhaled slowly instead while Miss Winston sat waiting for him to call down the wrath of church and Lord upon the head of John Benton.
“What exactly,” asked the Reverend Bond, “did Louisa say?”
The thin eyebrows of Agatha Winston pressed down over unpleasantly curious eyes.
“Say?” she asked, not certain of what the Reverend was getting at.
“Yes. Surely, you verified her story?”
“I told you,” she said tensely, “I asked her if the incident were true and she said it was.”
“Was she upset?”
Agatha Winston looked more unpleasantly confused. “Of course, she was upset,” she said. “Her honor was insulted; naturally, she was upset. Especially when I told her how her intended husband, Robby Coles, fought John Benton in defense of her.”
The Reverend Bond strained forward, his face suddenly concerned. “Fought?” he asked. “Not . . . not with . . .
guns
?” His voice tapered off in a shocked whisper.
“No, not with guns,” Miss Winston said. “Although—”
The look on the Reverend Bond’s face kept her from continuing but she knew that he was fully conscious of what she had been about to say.
“What I am getting at,” Omar Bond continued, preferring to overlook her probable remark, “is that . . . well, Louisa is very young, very impressionable.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Let me explain, Miss Winston. Please.”
Agatha Winston leaned back, eyes distrusting on the Reverend’s face.
“John Benton is what you might call . . . oh, an
idol
in this town, is he not?” asked Bond.
“Men shall not bow down before idols,” declared Miss Winston.
The Reverend Bond controlled himself.
“I mean to say, he is extremely admired. I do not, for a moment, say that I condone admiration for a man which is based primarily on an awe of his skill with instruments of death. However . . . this does not alter the fact that, among the younger people particularly, John Benton has achieved almost a . . . a legendary status.”
She did not nod or speak or, in any way, indicate agreement.
“I have seen myself,” the Reverend Bond went on, “in the church—young boys and girls staring at him with . . . shall we say, unduly fascinated eyes?”
“I do not—”
“Please, Miss Winston, I shall be finished in a moment. To continue: From the vantage point of my pulpit, I have seen your own niece looking so at John Benton.”
Miss Winston closed her eyes as if to shut away the thought. “I can hardly believe this,” she said, stiffly.
“I say it in no condemning way,” the Reverend Bond hastened to explain. “It is a thoroughly natural reaction in the young. I would not even have mentioned it were it not for what you have just told me.”
“I don’t understand,” said Agatha Winston. “Are you telling me that Louisa
lied
? That her story is a deliberate
falsehood
?”
“No,
no
,” the Reverend said gently, a smile softening his features, “not a lie. Call it rather a . . . a daydream spoken aloud.”
Miss Winston rose irately.
“Reverend, I’m shocked that you should stand up for John Benton, a man who lives by violence. And I’m hurt—
deeply
hurt that you should accuse my niece of deliberately
lying.
”
The Reverend
“Oh,” he said, cornered again, “Louisa . . . herself.”
“Believe me, Reverend, when I say I no more wanted to believe this ugly thing when I first heard of it than you want to believe it now. I’m not the sort of woman who accepts every scrap of gossip as the truth, you know that.”
I do not know that, Omar Bond reflected silently, his sad eyes on the face of Agatha Winston.
“Before I accepted one word of this terrible story, I went directly to my niece and questioned her most carefully.”
She stiffened her back, fingers tightening in the lap of her black skirt. “
The story is true,
” she declared.
The Reverend Bond licked his upper lip slowly. He started to say something, then exhaled slowly instead while Miss Winston sat waiting for him to call down the wrath of church and Lord upon the head of John Benton.
“What exactly,” asked the Reverend Bond, “did Louisa say?”
The thin eyebrows of Agatha Winston pressed down over unpleasantly curious eyes.
“Say?” she asked, not certain of what the Reverend was getting at.
“Yes. Surely, you verified her story?”
“I told you,” she said tensely, “I asked her if the incident were true and she said it was.”
“Was she upset?”
Agatha Winston looked more unpleasantly confused. “Of course, she was upset,” she said. “Her honor was insulted; naturally, she was upset. Especially when I told her how her intended husband, Robby Coles, fought John Benton in defense of her.”
The Reverend Bond strained forward, his face suddenly concerned. “Fought?” he asked. “Not . . . not with . . .
guns
?” His voice tapered off in a shocked whisper.
“No, not with guns,” Miss Winston said. “Although—”
The look on the Reverend Bond’s face kept her from continuing but she knew that he was fully conscious of what she had been about to say.
“What I am getting at,” Omar Bond continued, preferring to overlook her probable remark, “is that . . . well, Louisa is very young, very impressionable.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Let me explain, Miss Winston. Please.”
Agatha Winston leaned back, eyes distrusting on the Reverend’s face.
“John Benton is what you might call . . . oh, an
idol
in this town, is he not?” asked Bond.
“Men shall not bow down before idols,” declared Miss Winston.
The Reverend Bond controlled himself.
“I mean to say, he is extremely admired. I do not, for a moment, say that I condone admiration for a man which is based primarily on an awe of his skill with instruments of death. However . . . this does not alter the fact that, among the younger people particularly, John Benton has achieved almost a . . . a legendary status.”
She did not nod or speak or, in any way, indicate agreement.
“I have seen myself,” the Reverend Bond went on, “in the church—young boys and girls staring at him with . . . shall we say, unduly fascinated eyes?”
“I do not—”
“Please, Miss Winston, I shall be finished in a moment. To continue: From the vantage point of my pulpit, I have seen your own niece looking so at John Benton.”
Miss Winston closed her eyes as if to shut away the thought. “I can hardly believe this,” she said, stiffly.
“I say it in no condemning way,” the Reverend Bond hastened to explain. “It is a thoroughly natural reaction in the young. I would not even have mentioned it were it not for what you have just told me.”
“I don’t understand,” said Agatha Winston. “Are you telling me that Louisa
lied
? That her story is a deliberate
falsehood
?”
“No,
no
,” the Reverend said gently, a smile softening his features, “not a lie. Call it rather a . . . a daydream spoken aloud.”
Miss Winston rose irately.
“Reverend, I’m shocked that you should stand up for John Benton, a man who lives by violence. And I’m hurt—
deeply
hurt that you should accuse my niece of deliberately
lying.
”
The Reverend
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