The strawberry festival and the “tempest” were, of course, the subjects most discussed at the breakfast table next morning. Lute monopolized the conversation, a fact for which I was thankful, for it enabled me to dodge Dorinda's questions as to my own adventures. I did not care to talk about the latter. My feelings concerning them were curiously mixed. Was I glad or sorry that Fate had chosen me to play once more the role of rescuer of a young female in distress? That my playing of the role had altered my standing in Mabel Colton's mind I felt reasonably sure. Her words at parting with me rang true. She was grateful, and she had shaken hands with me. Doubtless she would tell her father the whole story and he, too, in common decency, would be grateful to me for helping his daughter. But, after all, did I care for gratitude from that family? And what form would that gratitude take? Would Colton, like Victor Carver, offer to pay me for my services? No, hardly that, I thought. He was a man of wide experience and, if he did offer payment, it would be in some less crude form than a five dollar bill.
But I did not want payment in any form. I did not want condescension and patronizing thanks. I did not want anything—that was it. Up to now, the occupants of the big house and I had been enemies, open and confessed. I had, so far as possible, kept out of their way and hoped they would keep out of mine. But now the situation was more complicated. I did not know what to expect. Of course there was no chance of our becoming friends. The difference in social position, as they reckoned it, made that too ridiculous to consider as a possibility, even if I wished it, which I distinctly did not. But something, an interview, awkward and disagreeable for both sides, or a patronizing note of thanks, was, at the very least, certain to follow the happenings of the previous night. I wished I had gone home when the Coltons first came to the festival. I wished I had not promised Taylor that I would attend that festival. I wished—I wished a great many things. The thought of young Carver's public snubbing before his friends was my one unmixed satisfaction. I rather imagined that he was more uncomfortable than I was or could be.
Lute crowed vaingloriously over his own good judgment in leaving for home early.
“I don't know how 'twas,” he declared. “Somethin' seemed to tell me we was in for a turrible tempest. I was settin' talkin' with Alvin Baker and eatin' my second sasser of berries, when—”
“SECOND sasser?” interrupted Dorinda, sharply. “Where'd you get money for two sassers? I gave you thirty cents when you started for that festival. It cost you fifteen to get inside the gate, and Matildy Dean told me the church folks was cal'latin' to charge fifteen for a helpin' of berries and cream. And you had two sassers, you say. Who paid for the second one?”
Her husband swallowed half a cup of coffee before replying. Then his reply had nothing to do with the question.
“I don't know how 'twas,” he went on. “I just had the feelin', that's all. Sort of a present—presentuary, I guess, come over me. I looked up at the sky and 'twas gettin' black, and then I looked to the west-ard and I see a flash of lightnin'. 'Nothin' but heat lightnin',' says Alvin. 'Heat lightnin' nothin'!' says I, 'I tell you—”
“Who paid for that second sasser of berries?” repeated his wife, relentlessly.
“Why now, Dorindy—”
“Who paid for 'em? If 'twas Alvin Baker you ought to be ashamed of yourself, spongin' on him for your vittles.”
“Alvin! Good land! did you ever know him to pay for anything he didn't have to?”
“Never mind what I know. Did you get trusted for 'em? How many times have I told you—”
“I never got trusted. I ain't that kind. And I didn't sponge 'em, neither. I paid cash, right out of my own pocket, like a man.”
“You did! Um-hm. I want to know! Well then—MAN, where did the cash in that pocket come from?”
Lute squirmed. “I—I—” he stammered.
“Where did it come from? Answer me.”
“Well—well, Dorindy, you see—when you sent me up to the store t'other day after the brown sugar and—and number 50 spool cotton you give me seventy-five cents. You remember you did, yourself.”
“Yes, and I remember you said there was a hole in your pocket and you lost the change. I ain't likely to forget it, and I shouldn't think you'd be.”
“I didn't forget. By time! my ears ain't done singin' yet. But that shows how reckless you talk to me. I never lost that change at all. I found it afterwards in my vest, so all your jawin' was just for nothin'. Ros, she ought to beg my pardon, hadn't she? Hadn't she now?”
Dorinda saved me the trouble of answering.
“Um-hm!” she observed, dryly. “Well, I'll beg my own pardon instead, for bein' so dumb as not to go through your vest myself. So THAT'S where the other fifteen cents come from! I see. Well, you march out to the woodpile and chop till I tell you to quit.”
“But, Dorindy, I've got one of my dyspepsy spells. I don't feel real good this mornin'. I told you I didn't.”
“Folks that make pigs of themselves on stolen berries hadn't ought to feel good. Exercise is fine for dyspepsy. You march.”
Lute marched, and I marched with him as far as the back yard. There I left him, groaning before the woodpile, and went down to the boat house.
The Comfort's overhauling was complete and I had launched her the week before. Now she lay anchored at the edge of the channel. For the want of something more important to do I took down my shot gun and began to polish its already glittering barrels.
Try as I might I could not get the memory of my adventure in the “tempest” out of my head. I reviewed it from end to end, thinking of many things I might have done which, in the light of what followed, would have been better and more sensible. If, instead of leaving the coachman, I had remained to help him with the frightened horse, I should have been better employed. Between us we could have subdued the animal and Miss Colton might have ridden home. I wondered what had become of Jenkins and the horse. I wondered if the girl knew I carried her through the brook. Victor had said the bridge was down; she must know. I wondered what she thought of the proceeding; probably that splashing about with young ladies in my arms was a habit of mine.
I told myself that I did not care what she thought. I resolved to forget the whole affair and to focus my attention upon cleaning the gun. But I could not forget. I waded that brook a dozen times as I sat there. I remembered every detail; how still she lay in my arms; how white her face looked as the distant lightning flashes revealed it to me; how her hair brushed my cheek as I bent over her. I was using a wad of cotton waste to polish the gun barrel, and I threw it into a corner, having the insane notion that, in some way, the association of ideas came from that bunch of waste. It—the waste—was grimy and anything but fragrant, as different from the dark lock which the wind had blown against my face as anything well could be, but the hurry with which I discarded it proves my imbecility at that time. Confound the girl! she was a nuisance. I wanted to forget her and her family, and the sulphurous personage to whose care I had once consigned the head of the family apparently took a characteristic delight in arranging matters so that I could not.
The shot gun was, at last, so spotless that even a pretense of further cleaning was ridiculous. I held it level with my eye and squinted through the barrels.
“Don't shoot,” said a voice from the doorway; “I'll come down.”
I lowered the gun, turned and looked. “Big Jim” Colton was standing there, cigar in mouth, cap on the back of his head and both hands in his pockets, exactly as he had appeared in that same doorway when he and I first met. The expected had happened, part of it at least. He had come to see me; the disagreeable interview I had foreseen was at hand.
He nodded and entered without waiting for an invitation.
“Morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” said I, guardedly. I wondered how he would begin the conversation. Our previous meeting had ended almost in a fight. We had been fighting by proxy ever since. I was prepared for more trouble, for haughty condescension, for perfunctory apology, for almost anything except what happened. His next remark might have been addressed to an acquaintance upon whom he had casually dropped in for a friendly call.
“That's a good looking gun you've got there,” he observed. “Let's see it.”
I was too astonished to answer. “Let's look at it,” he repeated, holding out his hand.
Mechanically I passed him the gun. He examined it as if he was used to such things, broke it, snapped it shut, tried the locks with his thumb and handed it back to me.
“Anything worth shooting around here?” he asked, pulling the armchair toward him and sitting.
I think I did not let him see how astonished I was at his attitude. I tried not to.
“Why yes,” I answered, “in the season. Plenty of coots, some black duck, and quail and partridge in the woods.”
“That so! Peters, that carpenter of mine, said something of the sort, I remember, but I wouldn't believe him under oath. I could shoot HIM with more or less pleasure, but there seems to be no open session for his species. Where's your launch?”
“Out yonder.” I pointed to the Comfort at her moorings. He looked, but made no comment. I rose and put the gun in the rack. Then I returned to my chair. He swung around in his seat and looked at me.
“Well,” he said, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye, “the last time you and I chatted together you told me to go to the devil.”
This was quite true and I might have added that I was glad of it. But what would be the use? I did not answer at all.
“I haven't gone there yet,” he continued. “Came over here instead. Got dry yet?”
“Dry?”
“Yes. You were anything but dry when I saw you last night. Have many such cloudbursts as that in these parts?”
“Not many. No.”
“I hope not. I don't want another until I sell that horse of mine. The chap who stuck me with him is a friend of mine. He warranted the beast perfectly safe for an infant in arms to drive and not afraid of anything short of an earthquake. He is a lovely liar. I admire his qualifications in that respect, and hope to trade with him again. He bucks the stock market occasionally.”
He smiled as he said it. There was not the slightest malice in his tone, but, if I had been the “friend,” I should have kept clear of stocks for awhile.
“What became of the horse?” I asked.
“Ran away again. Jenkins had just got back into the carriage when another one of those thunder claps started more trouble. The horse ran four miles, more or less, and stopped only when the wheels got jammed between two trees. I paid nine hundred dollars for that carriage.”
“And the coachman?”
“Oh, he lit on his head, fortunately, and wasn't hurt. Spent half the night trying to find a phone not out of commission but failed. Got home about four o'clock, leading the horse. Paine—”
“Yes?”
“Of course you know what I've come here for. I'm much obliged to you.”
“That's all right. You're welcome.”
“Maybe I am, but I am obliged, just the same. Not only for the help you gave Mabel—my daughter—last night, but for that business in the bay the other afternoon.”
So she had told him the whole story. Remembering her last words, as I left her in the hall, I had rather imagined she would.
“That didn't amount to anything,” I said, shortly.
“Why, yes, it did. It might have amounted to a whole lot. I asked Peters some questions about the tides out here and, from what he said, I judge that being stuck on the shoals in a squall might not be altogether a joke. Mabel says you handled the affair mighty well.”
I did not answer. He chuckled.
“How did young Carver enjoy playing second fiddle?” he asked. “From what I've seen of him he generally expects to lead the band. Happy, was he?”
I remained silent. He smiled broadly.
“He isn't any too happy this morning,” he went on. “That young man won't do. I never quoted him within twenty points of par, but Mabel seemed to like him and her mother thought he was the real thing. Mrs. C. couldn't forget that his family is one of the oldest on the list. Personally I don't gamble much on families; know a little about my own and that little is enough. But women are different. However, family or not, he won't do. I should tell him so myself, but I guess Mabel will save me the trouble. She's got a surprising amount of common-sense, considering that she's an only child—and who her parents are. By the way, Paine, what did Carver say when you put him ashore?”
“He—he said—oh, nothing of importance.”
“Yes, I know that. I listened to his explanations last night. But did he say anything?”
“Why, he offered to pay me for my work.”
“Did he? How much?”
“I did not wait to find out.”
“And you haven't heard from him since?”
I hesitated.
“Have you?” he repeated.
“Well, I—I received a note from him next day.”
“Humph! Offering apologies?”
“No.”
“Sent you money, didn't he?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Did he tell you?” I asked.
“No, nobody told me. I'm only trying to find out whether or not I have lost all my judgment of human nature since I struck this sand heap. He did send you money then. How much?”
“Mr. Colton, I—”
“Come now! How much?”
“Well—he sent me five dollars.”
“No! he didn't!”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“Yes,” slowly, “I know you are. I've got that much judgment left. Sent you five dollars, did he. And you sent it back.”
“Yes.”
“Any message with it?”
I was tired of being catechized. I had not meant to tell him anything. Now I decided to tell him all. If it angered him, so much the better.
“I sent him word that what I saved wasn't worth the money.”
To my amazement he was not angry. Instead he slapped his knee and laughed aloud.
“Ho! ho!” he shouted. “Humph! Well, that was. . . . I'd like to have seen his face when he got that message. No, that young man won't do. He won't do at all.”
It was not for me to dispute this conclusion, even if I had disagreed with him, which I did not. I said nothing. He rubbed his knee for a moment and then changed the subject.
“How did you happen to be on the Lower Road at that time of the night?” he asked. “I'm mighty glad you were there, of course, but where did you come from?”
“I left the festival rather late and—”
“Festival? Oh, that thing up at the church. I didn't see you there.”
I had taken pains that he should not see me.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he continued, “that you enjoy a thing like that? What in blazes made Mabel want to go I don't see! She and Carver were set on going; and it would be the treat of a lifetime, or words to that effect. I can't see it myself. Of all the wooden headed jays I ever laid eyes on this town holds the finest collection. Narrow and stubborn and blind to their own interests!”
This was more like what I expected from him and I resented it. It may seem odd that I, of all persons, should have taken upon myself the defense of Denboro and its inhabitants, but that is what I did.
“They are no more narrow and stubborn in their way than city people are in theirs,” I declared. “They resent being ordered about as if their opinions and wishes counted for nothing, and I honor them for it.”
“Do, hey?”
“Yes, I do. Mr. Colton, I tell you that you are all wrong. Simply because a man lives in the country it does not follow that he is a blockhead. No one in Denboro is rich, as you would count riches, but plenty of them are independent and ask no help from any one. You can't drive them.”
“Can't I?”
“No, you can't. And if you want favors from men here you must ask for them, not try to bully.”
“I don't want favors. I want to be treated decently, that's all. When I came here I intended doing things to help the town. I should have enjoyed doing it. I told some of them so. Look at the money I've spent. Look at the taxes I'll pay. Why, they ought to be glad to have me here. They ought to welcome me.”
“So they would if you had not behaved as if you were what some of them call you—'Emperor of New York'. I tell you, Mr. Colton, you're all wrong. I know the people here.”
“So? Well, from what I've been able to learn about you, you haven't associated with many of them. You've been playing a little at the high and mighty yourself.”
Chickens do come home to roost. My attitude of indifference and coldness toward my fellow citizens had been misinterpreted, as it deserved to be. George Taylor was right when he said I had made a mistake.
“I have been foolish,” I said, hotly, “but not for the reason you suppose. I don't consider myself any better than the people here—no, nor even the equal of some of them. And, from what I have seen of you, Mr. Colton, I don't consider you that, either.”
Even this did not make him angry. He looked at me as if I puzzled him.
“Say, Paine,” he said, “what in the world are you doing down in a place like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. You upset my calculations. I thought I spotted you and put you in the class where you belonged when you and I first met. I can usually size up a man. You've got me guessing. What are you doing down here? You're no Rube.”
If he intended this as a compliment I was not in the mood to accept it as such. I should have told him that what I was or was not was no business of his. But he went on without giving me the opportunity.
“You've got me guessing,” he repeated. “You talk like a man. The way you looked out for my daughter last night and the way, according to her story, you handled her and Victor the other afternoon was a man's job. Why are you wasting your life down here?”
“Mr. Colton, I don't consider—”
“Never mind. You're right; that's your affair, of course. But I hate to quit till I have the answer, and nobody around here seems to have the answer to you. Ready to sell me that land yet?”
“No.”
“Going to sell to the public-spirited bunch? Dean and the rest?”
“No.”
“You mean that? All right—all right. Say, Paine, I admire your nerve a good deal more than I do your judgment. You must understand that I am going to close that fool Lane of yours some time or other.”
“Your understanding and mine differ on that point.”
“Possibly, but they'll agree before I'm through. I am going to close that Lane.”
“I think not.”
“I'm going to close it for two reasons. First, because it's a condemned nuisance and ought to be closed. Second, because I make it a point to get what I go after. I can't afford not to. It is doing that very thing that has put me where I am.”
There was nothing to be said in answer to a statement like that. I did not try to answer it.
“Where you're holding down a job like mine,” he continued, crossing his knees and looking out across the bay, “you have to get what you go after. I'm down here and I mean to stay here as long as I want to, but I haven't let go of my job by a good deal. I've got private wires—telegraph and telephone—in my house and I keep in touch with things in the Street as much as I ever did. If anybody tries to get ahead of the old man because they think he's turned farmer they'll find out their mistake in a hurry.”
This seemed to be a soliloquy. I could not see how it applied to me. He went on talking.
“Sounds like bragging, doesn't it?” he said, reading my thoughts as if I had spoken them. “It isn't. I'm just trying to show you why I can't afford not to have my own way. If I miss a trick, big or little, somebody else wins. When I was younger, just butting into the game, there was another fellow trying to get hold of a lead mine out West that I was after. He beat me to it at first. He was a big toad in the puddle and I was a little one. But I didn't quit. I waited round the corner. By and by I saw my chance. He was in a hole and I had the cover to the hole. Before I let him out I owned that mine. It cost me more than it was worth; I lost money on it. But I had my way and he and the rest had found out that I intended to have it. That was worth a lot more than I lost in the mine. Now this Lane proposition is a little bit of a thing; it's picayune; I should live right along if I didn't get it. But because I want it, because I've made up my mind to have it, I'm going to have it, one way or another. See?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “This seems to me like wasting time, Mr. Colton,” I said.
“Then your seeing is away off. Look here, Paine, I'm through fiddling with the deal. I'm through with that undertaker postmaster or any other go-between. I just wanted you to understand my position; that's why I've told you all this. Now we'll talk figures. I might go on bidding, and you'd go on saying no, of course. But I shan't bid. I'll just say this: When you are ready to sell—and I'll put you where you will be some day—”
I rose. “Mr. Colton,” I said, sharply, “you had better not say any more. I'm not afraid of you, and—”
“There! there! there! who said anything about your being afraid? Don't get mad. I'm not—not now. This is a business matter between friends and—”
“Friends!”
“Sure. Business friends. I'm talking to you as I would to any other chap I intended to beat in a deal; there's nothing personal about it. When I get you so you're ready to sell I'll give you five thousand dollars for that strip of land.”
I actually staggered. I said what Lute had said to me.
“You're crazy!” I cried. “Five thousand dollars for that land!”
“Yes. Oh, I know what it's worth. Five hundred is for the land itself. The other forty-five hundred is payment for the privilege of having my own way. Want to close with me now?”
It took me some time to answer. “No,” is a short and simple word, but I found it tremendously difficult to pronounce. Yet I did pronounce it, I am glad to say. After all that I had said before I would have been ashamed to do anything else.
He did not appear surprised at my refusal.
“All right,” he said. “I'm not going to coax you. Just remember that the offer holds good and when you get ready to accept it, sing out. Well!” looking at his watch, “I must be going. My wife will think I've fallen into the bay, or been murdered by the hostile natives. Nerves are mean things to have in the house; you can take my word for that. Good-by, Paine. Thank you again for last night and the rest of it. Mabel will thank you herself when she sees you, I presume.”
He was on his way to the door when I recovered presence of mind sufficient to remember ordinary politeness.
“Your daughter—er—Miss Colton is well?” I stammered. “No ill effects from her wetting—and the shock?”
“Not a bit. She's one of the kind of girls they turn out nowadays. Athletics and all that. Her grandmother would have died probably, after such an upset, but she's as right as I am. Oh . . . er—Paine, next time you go shooting let me know. Maybe I'd like to go along. I used to be able to hit a barn door occasionally.”
He stopped long enough to bite the end from a cigar and strolled away, smoking. I sat down in the armchair. “Five thousand dollars!” . . . “Carver won't do.” . . . “I will have the Lane some time or other.” . . . “Five thousand dollars!” . . . “Next time you go shooting.” . . . “Friends!” . . . “Five thousand dollars!”
Oh, this was a nightmare! I must wake up before it got any worse.
Mother was the only one to whom I told the whole story of my experience in the “tempest” and of Colton's call. She and I had a long talk. She was as surprised to hear of the five thousand dollar offer as I had been, but that I had refused it did not surprise her. She seemed to take my refusal as a matter of course, whereas I was more and more doubtful of my sanity at the time. I knew well enough what the opinion of others would be concerning that sanity and I wondered whether or not they might be right. In fact, I rather resented her calm certainty.
“Mother,” said I, “you speak as if the offer had been five cents instead of five thousand dollars.”
“What difference does it make, Boy?” she asked. “If it had been only a matter of price you would have sold for six hundred and fifty. That is a good deal more than the land is worth, isn't it.”
“I suppose so. But five thousand is a small fortune to us. I am not sure that we have the right to refuse it.”
“Roscoe, if you were alone in this matter—if I were not here to be considered at all—would you have sold the land, no matter what he offered?”
“I don't know, Mother. I think, perhaps, I should.”
“I know you would not. And I know the only reason you feel the refusal may be wrong is because you are thinking what the money might do for me. Do you suppose I will permit you to sacrifice a principle you know is right simply that I may have a few more luxuries which I don't need?”
“But you do need them. Why, there are so many things you need.”
“No, I don't need one. So long as I have you I am perfectly happy. And it would not make me more happy to know that you accepted a bribe—that is what it is, a bribe—because of me. No, Boy, you did exactly right and I am proud of you.”
“I am not particularly proud of myself.”
“You should be. Can't you see how differently Mr. Colton regards you already? He does not condescend or patronize now.”
“Humph! he is grateful because I helped his daughter out of a scrape, that's all.”
“It is more than that. He respects you because you are what he called you, a man. I fancy it is a new experience to him to find some one, down here at any rate, to whom his millions make absolutely no difference.”
“I am glad of it. It may do him good.”
“Yes, I think it will. And what you told him about the townspeople may do him good, too. He will find, as you and I have found, that there are no kinder, better people anywhere. You remember I warned you against misjudging the Coltons, Roscoe. They, too, I am sure, are good people at heart, in spite of their wealth.”
“Mother, you are too charitable for this earth—too unworldly altogether.”
“Haven't you and I reason to be charitable? There! there! let us forget the land and the money. Roscoe, I should like to meet this Miss Colton. She must be a brave girl.”
“She is brave enough.”
“I suppose poor Mr. Carver is in disgrace. Perhaps it was not his fault altogether.”
This was a trifle too much. I refused to be charitable to Victor.
I heard from him, or of him, next day. I met Captain Jed Dean at the bank, where I had called to see Taylor and inquire concerning how he and Nellie got home from the festival. They had had a damp, though safe, journey, I learned, and the Methodist ladies had cleared seventy-four dollars and eighty-five cents from the entertainment.
Captain Jed entered the door as I left the cashier's gate.
“Ship ahoy, Ros!” hailed the captain, genially. “Make port safe and sound after the flood? I'd have swapped my horse and buggy for Noah's Ark that night and wouldn't have asked any boot neither. Did you see Mullet's bridge? Elnathan says he cal'lates he's got willow kindlin' enough to last him all summer. Ready split too—the lightnin' attended to that. Lute Rogers don't talk about nothin' else. I cal'late he wishes lightnin' would strike your woodpile; then he'd be saved consider'ble labor, hey?”
He laughed and I laughed with him.
“I understood Princess Colton was out in the wust of it,” went on Captain Jed. “Did you hear how her horse ran away?”
“Yes,” I answered, shortly; “I heard about it.”
“Never stopped till it got half way to West Bayport. The coachman hangin' onto the reins and swearin' at the top of his lungs all the time. 'Bije Ellis, who lives up that way, says the road smells like a match factory even yet—so much brimstone in the air. The girl got home somehow or other, they tell me. I cal'late her fine duds got their never-get-over. Nellie says the hat she was wearin' come from Paris, or some such foreign place. Well, the rain falls on the just and unjust, so scriptur tells us, and it's true enough. Only the unjust in this case can afford new hats better'n the just, a consider'ble sight. Denboro's lost a promisin' new citizen; did you know it?”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Hadn't you heard? That young Carver feller shook the dust—the mud, I mean—of our roads off his shoes this mornin'. He went away on the up train.”
Here was news. “The up train?” I repeated. “You mean he has gone for good?”
“I should call it for good, for our good, anyhow. Yes, he's gone. Went to the depot in Colton's automobile. His majesty went with him fur's the platform. The gang that saw the proceedin's said the good-bys wan't affectin'. Colton didn't shed any tears and young Carver seemed to be pretty down at the mouth.”
“But what makes you think he has gone for good?” I asked.
“Why, Alvin Baker was there, same as he usually is, and he managed to be nigh enough to hear the last words—if there had been any.”
“And there were not?”
“Nothin' to amount to much. Nothin' about comin' back, anyhow. Colton said somethin' about bein' remembered to the young feller's ma, and Carver said, 'Thanks,' and that was all. Alvin said 'twas pretty chilly. They've got it all figgered out at the post-office; you see, Carver was to come back to the meetin' house and pick up his princess, and he never come. She started without him and got run away with. Some of the folks paddlin' home from the festival saw the auto go by and heard the crowd inside singin' and laughin' and hollerin'. Nobody's goin' to sing a night like that unless they've got cargo enough below decks to make 'em forget the wet outside. And Beriah Doane was over to Ostable yesterday and he says it's town talk there that young Parker—the boy the auto crowd was sayin' good-by to at the hotel—had to be helped up to his room. No, I guess likely the Colton girl objected to her feller's gettin' tight and forgettin' her, so he and she had a row and her dad, the emperor, give him his discharge papers. Sounds reasonable; don't you think so, yourself?”
I imagined that the surmise was close to the truth. I nodded and turned away. I did not like Carver, I detested him, but somehow I no longer felt triumph at his discomfiture. I wondered if he really cared for the girl he had lost. It was difficult to think of him as really caring for any one except himself, but if I had been in his place and had, through my own foolishness, thrown away the respect and friendship of such a girl. . . . Yes, I was beginning to feel a little of Mother's charity for the young idiot, now that he could no longer insult and patronize me.
Captain Jed followed me to the bank door.
“Say, Ros,” he said, “changed your mind about sellin' that Lane land yet?”
“No,” I answered, impatiently. “There's no use talking about that, Captain Dean.”
“All right, all right. Humph! the fellers are gettin' consider'ble fun out of that Lane.”
“In what way?”
He laughed. “Oh, nothin',” he observed, with a wink, “only. . . . Heard any extry hurrahin' over to your place lately?”
“No. Captain, what do you mean?”
“I don't mean nothin'. But I shouldn't wonder if the Great Panjandrum and his folks was reminded that that Lane was still open, that's all. Ho! ho! So long, Ros.”
I did not catch his meaning at the time. A few days later I discovered it by accident. I had been up to the village and was on my way home by the short cut. As I crossed the field behind Sylvanus Snow's abandoned house, the spot where Miss Colton and I had waited on the porch the night of the thunder shower, I heard the rattle of a cart going down the Lane. There was nothing unusual in this, of itself, but with it I heard the sound of loud voices. One of these voices was so loud that I caught the words:
“Now, boys, start her up! Three cheers for the Star Spangled Banner and make 'em loud. Let her go!”
The cheers followed, uproarious ones.
“Try it again,” commanded the voice. “And keep her up all the way along. We'll shake up the 'nerves' I guess. Hooray!”
This was enough. I understood now what Dean had meant by the Coltons realizing that the Lane was still open. I ran at full speed through the scrub and bushes, through the grove, and emerged upon the Lane directly opposite the Colton estate. The wagon—Zeb Kendrick's weir cart—was approaching. Zeb was driving and behind him in the body of the cart were four or five young fellows whom I recognized as belonging to the “billiard room gang,” an unorganized society whose members worked only occasionally but were responsible for most of the mischief and disorder in our village. Tim Hallet, a sort of leader in that society, with the reputation of having been expelled from school three times and never keeping a job longer than a fortnight, was on the seat beside Kendrick, his back to the horse. Zeb was grinning broadly.
The wagon came nearer, the horse barely moving. Tim Hallet waved his arm.
“Now, boys,” he shouted, “let's have some music.”
“'Everybody works but father,And he sets around all day.'—
Whoop her up!”
They whooped her up. I stepped out into the road.
“Here!” I shouted. “Stop that! Stop it, do you hear! Kendrick, what is all this?”
The song stopped in the middle of the verse. Zeb jerked the reins and shouted “Whoa!” Hallet and his chorus turned. They had been gazing at the big house, but now they turned and looked at me.
“Hello, Ros!” said Kendrick, still grinning, but rather sheepishly. “How be you? Got quite a band aboard, ain't I.”
“Hello!” cried Hallet. “It's Ros himself! Ros, you're all RIGHT! Hi, boys! let's give three cheers for the feller that don't toady to nobody—millionaires nor nobody else—hooray for Ros Paine!”
The cheering that followed was not quite as loud as the previous outburst—some of the “gang” may have noticed my attitude and expression—but it was loud enough. Involuntarily I glanced toward the Colton mansion. I saw no one at the windows or on the veranda, and I was thankful for that. The blood rushed to my face. I was so angry that, for the moment, I could not speak.
Tim Hallet appeared to consider my silence and my crimson cheeks as acknowledgments of the compliment just paid me.
“Cal'late they heard that over yonder,” he crowed. “Don't you think so, Ros. We've showed 'em what we think of you; now let's give our opinion of them. Three groans for old Colton! Come on!”
Even Zeb seemed to consider this as going too far, for he protested.
“Hold on, Tim!” he cautioned. “A joke's a joke, but that's a little too much; ain't it, Ros.”
“Too much be darned!” scoffed Hallet. “We'll show 'em! Now, boys!”
The groans were not given. I sprang into the road, seized the horse by the bridle and backed the wagon into the bank. Tim, insecurely balanced, fell off the seat and joined his comrades on the cart floor.
“Hi!” shouted the startled driver. “What you doin', Ros? What's that for?”
“You go back where you come from,” I ordered. “Turn around. Get out of here!”
I saved him the trouble by completing the turn. When I dropped the bridle the horse's head was pointing toward the Lower Road.
“Now get out of here!” I repeated. “Go back where you come from.”
“But—but, Ros,” protested Zeb, “I don't want to go back. I'm goin' to the shore.”
“Then you'll have to go some other way. You can't cross my property.”
Hallet, on his knees, looked out over the seat.
“What's the matter with you?” he asked, angrily. “Didn't you say the town could use this Lane?”
“Yes. Any one may use it as long as he behaves himself. When he doesn't behave he forfeits the privilege. Kendrick, you hear me! Go back.”
“But I don't want to go back, Ros. If I do I'll have to go clear round by Myrick's, two mile out of my way.”
“You should have thought of that before you brought that crowd with you. I won't have this Lane made a public nuisance by any one. Zeb, I'm ashamed of you.”
Zeb turned to his passengers. “There!” he whined, “I told you so, Tim. I said you hadn't ought to act that way.”
“Aw, what are you givin' us!” sneered Hallet. “You thought 'twas as funny as anybody, Zeb Kendrick. Look here, Ros Paine! I thought you was down on them Coltons. We fellers are only havin' a little fun with 'em for bein' so stuck-up and hoggish. Can't you take a joke?”
“Not your kind. Go back, Zeb.”
“But—but can't I use the Lane NO more?” pleaded the driver. “I won't fetch 'em here agin.”
“We'll see about that. You can't use it this time. Now go.”
Zeb reluctantly spoke to his horse and the wagon began to move. Hallet swore a string of oaths.
“I'm on to you, Paine!” he yelled. “You're standin' in with 'em, after all. You wait till I see Captain Jed.”
In three strides I was abreast the cart-tail.
“See him then,” said I. “And tell him that if any one uses this Lane for the purpose of wilfully annoying those living near it I'll not only forbid his using it, but I'll prosecute him for trespass. I mean that. Stop! I advise you not to say another word.”
I did not intend to prosecute Jim, he was not worth it, but I should have thoroughly enjoyed dragging him out of that wagon and silencing him by primitive methods. My anger had not cooled to any extent. He did not speak to me again, though I heard him muttering as the cart moved off. I remained where I was until I saw it turn into the Lower Road. Then I once more started for home.
I was very much annoyed and disturbed. Evidently this sort of thing had been going on for some time and I had just discovered it. It placed me in a miserable light. When Colton had declared, as he had in both our interviews, that the Lane was a nuisance I had loftily denied the assertion. Now those idiots in the village were doing their best to prove me a liar. I should have expected such behavior from Hallet and his friends, but for Captain Dean to tacitly approve their conduct was unexpected and provoking. Well, I had made my position plain, at all events. But I knew that Tim would distort my words and that the idea of my “standing in” with the Coltons, while professing independence, would be revived. I was destined to be detested and misunderstood by both sides. Yes, Dorinda was right in saying that I might find sitting on the fence uncomfortable. It was all of that.
I entered the grove and was striding on, head down, busy with these and similar reflections, when some one said: “Good morning, Mr. Paine.”
I stopped short, came out of the day dream in which I had been giving Captain Jed my opinion of his followers' behavior, looked up, and saw Miss Colton in the path before me.
She was dressed in white, a light, simple summer gown. Her straw hat was simple also, expensive simplicity doubtless, but without a trace of the horticultural exhibits with which Olinda Cahoon, our Denboro milliner, was wont to deck the creations she prepared for customers. Matilda Dean would have sniffed at the hat and gown; they were not nearly as elaborate as those Nellie, her daughter, wore on Sundays. But Matilda or Nellie at their grandest could not have appeared as well dressed as this girl, no matter what she wore. Just now she looked, as Lute or Dorinda might have said, “as if she came out of a band box.”
“Good morning,” she said, again. She was perfectly self-possessed. Remembrance of our transit of Mullet's cranberry brook did not seem to embarrass her in the least. Nellie Dean would have giggled and blushed, but she did not.
Iwas embarrassed, I admit it, but I had sufficient presence of mind to remove my hat.
“Good morning,” said I. There flashed through my mind the thought that if she had been in that grove for any length of time she must have overheard my lively interview with Kendrick and Tim Hallet. I wondered if she had.
Her next remark settled that question.
“I suppose,” she said, soberly, but with the same twinkle in her eye which I had observed once or twice in her father's, “that I should apologize for being here, on your property, Mr. Paine. I judge that you don't like trespassers.”
I was more nettled at Zeb and his crowd than ever. “So you saw that performance,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
“I saw a little of it, and I'm afraid I heard the rest. I was walking here by the bluff and I could not help seeing and hearing.”
“Humph! Well, I hope you understand, Miss Colton, that I did not know, until just now, this sort of thing was going on.”
She smiled. “Oh, I understand that,” she said. “You made that quite plain. Even those people in the wagon understood it, I should imagine.”
“I hope they did.”
“I did not know you could be so fierce, Mr. Paine. I had not expected it. You almost frightened me. You were so very—well, mild and long-suffering on the other occasions when we met.”
“I am not always so mild, Miss Colton. However, if I had known you were within hearing I might not have been quite so emphatic.”
“Then I am glad you didn't know. I think those ruffians were treated as they deserved.”
“Not half as they deserved. I shall watch from now on and if there are any more attempts at annoying you or your people I shall do more than talk.”
“Thank you. They have been troublesome—of late. I am sure we are very much obliged to you, all of us.”
“Not at all.”
“Oh yes, we are. Not only for this, but for—all the rest. For your help the other night especially; I want to thank you for that.”
“It was nothing,” I answered, awkwardly.
“Nothing! You are not very complimentary, Mr. Paine.”
“I mean—that is, I—”
“You may consider rescuing shipwrecked young ladies, afloat and ashore, nothing—perhaps you do it so often that it is of little consequence to you; but I am not so modest. I estimate my safety as worth something, even if you do not.”
“I did not mean that, of course, Miss Colton. You know I did not. I meant that—that what I did was no more than any one else would have done under the same circumstances. You were in no danger; you would have been safe enough even if I had not happened along. Please don't say anything more about it.”
“Very well. But I am very glad you happened along, nevertheless. You seem to have the faculty of happening along just at the right time.”
This sounded like a reference to the episode in the bay, and I did not care to discuss that.
“You—I believe your father said you were not ill after your experience,” I observed hastily.
“Not in the least, thank you. And you?”
“Oh, I was all right. Rather wet, but I did not mind that. I sail and fish a good deal, and water, fresh or salt, doesn't trouble me.”
This was an unlucky remark, for it led directly to the subject I was trying to avoid.
“So I should imagine,” she answered. “And that reminds me that I owe you another debt of thanks for helping me—helping us out of our difficulty in the boat. I am obliged to you for that also. Even though what you saved was NOT worth five dollars.”
I looked up at her quickly. She was biting her lips and there was a smile at the corners of her mouth. I could not answer immediately for the life of me. I would have given something if I had not told Colton of Victor's message and my reply.
“Your father misrepresented my meaning, I'm afraid,” I stammered. “I was angry when I sent that message. It was not intended to include you.”
“Thank you. Father seemed inclined to agree with your estimate—part of it, at least. He is very much interested in you, Mr. Paine.”
“Yes,” I answered, dryly. “I can understand that.”
Her smile broke into a ripple of laughter.
“You are quite distinctive, in your way,” she said. “You may not be aware of it, but I have never known father to be so disturbed and puzzled about any one as he is about you.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, he is, indeed.”
“I am sorry that I am the cause of so much mental strain.”
“No, you are not. From what I have learned about you, from him, I think you enjoy it. You must. It is great fun.”
“Fun! Well, perhaps. Does your—does Mrs. Colton find it funny?”
She hesitated. “Well,” she answered, more slowly, “to be perfectly frank—I presume that is what you want me to be—I think Mother blames you somewhat. She is not well, Mr. Paine, and this Lane of yours is her pet bugbear just now. She—like the rest of us—cannot understand why you will not sell, and, because you will not, she is rather—rather—”
“I see. I'm not sure that I blame her. I presume she has blamed me for these outrageous disturbances in the Lane such as you have just witnessed.”
She hesitated again. “Why yes,” she said, more slowly still; “a little, I think. She is not well, as I said, and she may have thought you were, if not instigating them, at least aware of what was going on. But I am sure father does not think so.”
“But you, Miss Colton; did you believe me responsible for them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, from what I have seen of you, you did not seem to me like that kind of a man. You kept your temper that day in the boat, though you had a good reason for losing it. All this,” with a gesture toward the Lane, “the shouting and noise and petty insults, was so little and mean and common. I did not believe you would permit it, if you knew. And, from what I have learned about you, I was sure you would not.”
“From what you learned about me? From your father?”
“No.”
“Then from whom, pray?”
“From your friends. From that Mr. Taylor and Miss Dean and the others. They spoke of you so highly, and of your mother and your care of her. They described you as a gentleman, and no gentleman would countenance THAT.”
I was so astonished that I blurted out my next question without thinking.
“You were speaking to them about ME?” I cried.
Her manner changed. Possibly she thought I was presuming on our chance acquaintance, or that she made a mistake in admitting even a casual interest; I might consider that interest to be real, instead of merely perfunctory. At any rate, I noticed a difference in her tone. It was as if she had suddenly withdrawn behind the fence which marked the border of our social line.
“Oh,” she said, carelessly, “I did not cross-question, of course. Puzzles are always interesting, more or less. And a puzzle which perplexed my father was certainly unique. So I was a trifle curious, that's all.”
I came to earth with a thud.
“I see,” I said, curtly. “Well, I presume I should thank my friends for the testimonials to my character. And I promise you that you shall not be annoyed again. Good morning, Miss Colton.”
I was turning away when she spoke my name.
“Mr. Paine,” she said.
“Yes, Miss Colton.”
“I have not explained why I was here, on your land, this morning.”
“That is all right. You are quite welcome to be here at any time.”
“Thank you. I told you I was walking by the bluff; that is true, but it isn't the whole truth. I was trying to muster courage to call on your mother.”
I looked at her in amazement.
“Call on Mother!” I repeated.
“Yes, I have heard a great deal about your mother, and nothing except the very best. I think I should like to know her. Do you think she would consider me presuming and intrusive if I did call?”
“Why, Miss Colton, I—”
“Please be frank about it, Mr. Paine. And please believe that my call would not be from idle curiosity. I should like to know her. Of course, if this disagreement about the land makes a difference, if she feels resentful toward us, I will not think of such a thing. Does she? Why do you smile? I am in earnest.”
“I did not mean to smile, Miss Colton. The idea of Mother's feeling resentment toward any one seemed absurd to me, that was all.”
“Then may I call on her?”
“Certainly. That is, if—if you think it wise. If your mother—”
“Oh, Mother has long ago given up trying to solve me. I am a greater puzzle to her than you seem to be to everyone, Mr. Paine. I have spoken to my father about it and he is quite willing. His difference with you is purely a business one, as you know.”
Some of the “business” had been oddly conducted, but I did not raise the point. I could not reason just then. That this spoiled, city-bred daughter of “Big Jim” Colton should wish to know my mother was beyond reasoning.
She said good morning and we parted. I walked home, racking my brains to find the answer to this new conundrum. It was a whim on her part, of course, inspired by something George or Nellie had told her. I did not know whether to resent the whim or not, whether to be angry or indifferent. If she intended to inspect Mother as a possible object of future charity I should be angry and the first call would be the last. But Mother herself would settle all questions of charity; I knew that. And the girl had not spoken in a patronizing way. She had declared that idle curiosity had no part in her wish. She seemed in earnest. What would Mother say when I told her?
Lute was just coming through the gate as I approached it. He was in high good humor.
“I'm goin' up street,” he declared. “Anything you want me to fetch you from the store, Ros?”
I looked at my watch. It was only eleven o'clock.
“Up street?” I repeated. “I thought you were slated to wash windows this forenoon. I heard Dorinda give you your orders to that effect. You haven't finished washing them already?”
“No,” with a broad grin, “I ain't finished 'em. Fact is, I ain't begun 'em yet.”
“So! Does Dorinda know that you are going up street?”
“Um-hm. She knows. Anyhow, she knows I'm goin' somewheres. She told me to go herself.”
“She did! Why?”
“Don't ask ME. I was all ready to wash the windows; had the bucket pumped full and everything. But when I come into the dinin'-room she sung out to know what I was doin' with all that water on her clean floor. 'Why, Dorindy!' I says, 'I'm a-goin' to wash them windows same's you told me to.' 'No, you ain't,' says she. 'But what will I do?' says I. 'I don't care,' says she. 'Clear out of here, that's all.' 'But where'll I clear out to?' I wanted to know. 'I don't care!' she snaps again, savage as a settin' hen, 'so long's you clear out of my sight.' So here I be. Don't ask me why she changed her mind:Idon't know. Nothin' you want to the store?”
“No.”
“Say, Ros, you know what I think?”
“Far be it from me to presume to guess your thoughts, Lute.”
“Well, I think this is a strange world and the strangest thing in it is a woman. You never can tell what they'll do ten minutes at a stretch. I—”
“All right, Lute. I'll hear the rest of the philosophy later.”
“Philosophy or not, it's the livin' truth. And when you're as old as I be you'll know it.”
I went in through the dining-room, steering clear of Dorinda, who scarcely looked up from her floor scrubbing.
“Mother,” said I, entering the darkened bedroom, “I just met the Colton girl and what do you suppose she told me?”
“That she was very grateful to you for coming to her rescue the other night.”
“That, of course. But she told me something else. She said she was coming to call on you. On YOU, Mother!”
I don't know what answer I expected. I flung the announcement like a bombshell and was ready for almost any sort of explosion at all.
“Did she?” observed Mother, placidly. “I am very glad. I have no doubt I shall like her.”
My next remark had nothing to do with Miss Colton.
“Well, by George!” I exclaimed, with emphasis. “Lute IS a philosopher, after all. I take off my hat to him.”