If I had been giving undivided attention to my combined duties as steersman and pilot, instead of neglecting them for other and more engrossing matters, I should, doubtless, have seen the dory before. As it was I had not seen it at all, nor heard the oars. It had sneaked up on the Comfort out of the darkness and its occupant had laid us aboard as neatly as you please.
I was, to say the least, startled and surprised. I dodged the threatening club and turned a dazed face toward the person brandishing it. He appeared to be a middle-sized, elderly person, in oilskins and souwester, and when he spoke a gray whisker wagged above the chin strap of the souwester.
“Who in blazes are you?” I demanded, as soon as I could get the words together.
“Never you mind that. You know who I be all right enough. Be you goin' to pay me for them lobsters? That's whatIwant to know.”
“What lobsters?”
“Them lobsters you've been stealin' out of my pots for the last fortnight.”
“Ihave been stealing?”
“Yes, you. I been layin' for you all night long. I don't know who you be, but you'll pay for them lobsters or come along with me to the lock-up, one or t'other.”
I looked about, over the water. The light toward which I had been trying to steer blazed dead ahead, surprisingly near and bright. Except for that, however, there was no sign of anything except darkness and waves.
“Look here, my man,” I said. “I haven't stolen your lobsters; but—”
“I know better. I don't know who you be, but I'd know you was a thief if I run acrost you in prayer-meetin'. Just to look at you is enough.”
I heard a hysterical giggle from the bench beside me. Evidently the person with the club heard it, too, for he leaned forward to look.
“So there's two of ye, eh!” he said. “Well, by godfreys, I don't care if there's a million! You'll pay for them lobsters or go to the lock-up.”
I laughed aloud. “Very well,” I said. “I am agreeable.”
“You're agreeable! What do you mean by that? This ain't no laughin' matter, I'll tell you that.”
I laughed again. “I don't care what you tell me,” I observed. “And if you will take us somewhere ashore—to the lock-up or anywhere else—I shall be much obliged.”
The occupant of the dory seemed to be puzzled. He leaned forward once more.
“What sort of talk is that?” he demanded. “Where's my lobsters? . . . Hey! What? I swan to man, I believe one of ye's a woman! Have the females turned thieves, too?”
“I don't know. See here, my friend, my name is Paine, and I'm the only lobster aboard this craft. This lady and I belong in Denboro. My launch has run out of gasolene and we have been drifting about the bay since five o'clock. Now, for heaven's sake, don't talk any more, but take us to the lock-up and be quick about it.”
The unknown paid no attention to my entreaty. Instead he leaned still further over the Comfort's rail. The dory careened until I expected to see her capsize.
“I swan to man!” he muttered. “I swan to man! 'Tain't possible I'm mistook!”
“It scarcely seems possible, I admit. But I'm afraid it is true.”
I heard the club fall with a clatter.
“My—godfreys! Do you mean to say—? From Denboro? Out of gasolene! Why—why, you've got sail up!”
“Nothing but a tarpaulin on an oar.”
“And you've been cruisin' all night? Through the fog—the squall—and all?”
“Yes,” wearily, “yes—yes—yes.”
“But—but ain't you drownded?”
“Not quite. If you don't let go of that rail we shall be soon.”
“Driftin' all night! Ain't you wet through?”
“Yes. Might I suggest that we postpone the rest of the catechism until we reach—the lock-up?”
This suggestion apparently was accepted. Our captor suddenly became very much alive.
“Give me a line,” he ordered. “Anchor rope'll do. Where is it? up for'ard?”
He pawed the dory along, hand over hand, until he reached the Comfort's bow. I heard the thump of the anchor as he dragged it into the dory. Then came the creak and splash of oars. His voice sounded from somewhere ahead.
“Head for the light,” he shouted. “I'm goin' to tow you in.”
“In where?”
“In ashore. That's Mack'rel Island light. My name's Atwood. I'm keeper of it.”
I turned to my passenger.
“It looks,” I said, “as if our voyage was almost over.”
And it was. Mr. Atwood had a tough job on his hands, towing the launch. But the make-shift sail helped some and I did my best to steer in his wake. Miss Colton and I had no opportunity to talk. The gentleman in the dory kept up a running fire of remarks, shouted between grunts, and embroidered with cheerful profanity. We caught fragments of the monologue.
“I swan to man—ugh—I thought ye was thieves, for sartin. Some everlastin', dam—ugh—have been sneakin' out nights and haulin' my lobster pots. Ugh—if I'd caught 'em I was cal'latin' to—ugh—break their—ugh—ugh—This dory pulls like a coal barge—I—Wet through, ain't ye? And froze, I cal'late—Ugh—and hungry, too—Ugh—ugh—My old woman's tendin' light. She—ugh—Here we be! Easy now!”
A low shore loomed black across our bows. Above it the lighthouse rose, a white chalk mark against the sky with a red glare at its upper end. Mr. Atwood sprang overboard with a splash. The launch was drawn in at the end of its anchor rope until its keel grated on the sand.
“Now then!” said our rescuer. “Here we be! Made harbor at last, though I did think I'd crack my back timbers afore we done it. I'll tote the lady ashore. You can wade, can't ye?”
I could and I was very glad of the opportunity. I turned to take Miss Colton in my arms, but she avoided me.
“Here I am, Mr. Atwood,” she said. “Oh, thank you.”
She was swung into the air and moved shoreward to the accompaniment of mighty splashings.
“Don't be scart, ma'am,” said Mr. Atwood. “I shan't let ye drop. Lord sakes! I've toted more women in my time than you can shake a stick at. There's more da—that is, there's more summer folks try to land on this island at low tide than there is moskeeters and there's more of them than there's fiddles in—Hi! come on, you, Mr. What's-your-name! Straight as you go.”
I came on wading through eelgrass and water until I reached a sandy beach. A moment later we stood before a white door in a very white little house. Mr. Atwood opened the door, revealing a cosy little sitting room and a gray-haired, plump, pleasant-faced woman sitting in a rocking chair beside a table with a lamp upon it.
“Hello, Betsy!” bellowed our rescuer, stamping his wet rubber boots on the braided mat. “Got company come to supper—or breakfast, or whatever you want to call it. This is Mr. Paine from Denboro. This is his wife, Mrs. Paine. They've been cruisin' all the way from Cape Cod to Kamchatky in a motor boat with no power to it. Don't that beat the Old Scratch, hey?”
The plump woman rose, without a trace of surprise, as if having company drop in at three o'clock in the morning was nothing out of the ordinary, and came over to us, beaming with smiles.
“I'm real glad to see you, Mrs. Paine,” she exclaimed. “And your husband, too. You must be froze to death! Set right down while I fix up a room for you and hunt up some dry things for you to put on. I won't be but a minute.”
Before I could offer explanations, or do more than stammer thanks, and rather incoherent ones at that, she had bustled out of the room. I caught one glimpse of Mabel Colton's face; it was crimson from neck to brow. “Mrs. Paine!” “Your husband!” I was grateful to the doughty Mr. Atwood, but just then I should have enjoyed choking him.
The light keeper, quite unaware that his unfortunate misapprehension of the relationship between his guests might be embarrassing, was doing his best to make us feel at home.
“Take off your boots, Mr. Paine,” he urged. “The old lady'll fetch you a pair of my slippers and some socks in a minute. She'll make your wife comf'table, too. She's a great hand at makin' folks comf'table. I tell her she'd make a cake of ice feel to home on a hot stove. She beats—”
The “old lady” herself interrupted him, entering with a bottle in one hand and a lamp in the other.
“Joshua!” she said, warningly.
“Well, what is it, Betsy?”
“Be careful how you talk.”
“Talk!” with a wink at me. “I wan't goin' to say nothin'.”
“Yes, you was. Mrs. Paine, you mustn't mind him. He used to go mate on a fishin' schooner and, from all I can learn, they use pretty strong language aboard these boats.”
“Pick it up same as a poll parrot,” cut in her husband. “Comes natural when you're handlin' wet trawl line in February. Can't seem to get no comfort out of anything milder.”
“He's a real good-hearted man, Joshua is, and a profession' church member, but he does swear more'n he ought to. But, as I tell the minister, he don't mean nothin' by it.”
“Not a damn thing!” said Mr. Atwood, reassuringly. The bottle, it appeared, contained Jamaica ginger, a liberal dose of which Mrs. Atwood insisted upon our taking as a precaution against catching cold.
“There's nothin' better,” she said.
“You bet there ain't!” this from the lightkeeper. “A body can't get within forty fathoms of a cold with a swallow of that amidships. It's hotter than—”
“Joshua!”
“The Fourth of July,” concluded her husband, triumphantly.
“And now, Mrs. Paine,” went on the lady of the house, “your room's all ready. I've laid out some dry things for you on the bed and some of Joshua's, too. You and your husband—”
I thought it high time to explain.
“The lady is not my wife,” I said, quickly.
“She ain't! Why, I thought Joshua said—”
“He—er—made a mistake. She is Miss Colton, a summer resident and neighbor of mine in Denboro.”
“Sho! you don't say! That's just like you, Joshua!”
“Just like me! Well, how'd I know? I beg your pardon, Miss, I'm sure. Shan't beg your hus—I mean Mr. Paine's pardon; he ought to thank me for the compliment. Haw! haw!”
Miss Colton herself made the next remark.
“If my room is ready, Mrs. Atwood,” she said,, without even a glance in my direction, “I think I will go to it. I AM rather wet.”
“Wet! Land sakes, yes! I guess you be! Come right in, Joshua, take them clothes of yours into our room and let Mr. Paine put 'em on.”
Her husband obeyed orders. After I was alone in the room to which he conducted me and enjoying the luxury of dry socks, I heard him justifying his mistake in stentorian tones.
“I couldn't help it, Betsy,” I heard him say. “I took it for granted they was married. When I hove alongside that motor boat they was a-settin' close up together in the stern sheets and so, of course, I thought—”
“You hadn't any business to. You made that poor young lady blush somethin' dreadful. Most likely they're just keepin' company—or engaged, or somethin'. You ought to be more careful.”
I wondered if the young lady herself heard all this. I didn't see how she could help it.
Kinder-hearted people than these two never lived, I do believe. It was after three in the morning, both had been up all night, we were absolute strangers to them, and yet, without a word of complaint, they gave the remainder of the hours before daylight to making us comfortable. When I dressed as much of myself as a suit of Mr. Atwood's—his Sunday best, I presume—would cover, and, with a pair of carpet slippers about the size and shape of toy ferry boats on my feet, emerged from the bedroom, I found the table set in the kitchen, the teapot steaming and Mrs. Atwood cooking “spider bread” on the stove. When Miss Colton, looking surprisingly presentable—considering that she, too, was wearing borrowed apparel four sizes too large for her—made her appearance, we sat down to a simple meal which, I think, was the most appetizing I ever tasted.
The Atwoods were bursting with curiosity concerning our getting adrift in the motor boat. I described the adventure briefly. When I told of Lute's forgetfulness in the matter of gasolene the lightkeeper thumped the table.
“There, by godfreys!” he exclaimed. “I could see it comin'! That feller's for all the world like a cook I had once aboard the Ezry H. Jones. That cook was the biggest numskull that ever drawed the breath of life. Always forgettin' somethin', he was, and always at the most inconvenient time. Once, if you'll believe it, I had a skipper of another vessel come aboard and, wishin' to be sort of hospitable, as you might say, I offered him a glass of rum.”
“Joshua!”
“Oh, it's all right, Betsy. This was years ago. I'm as good a teetotaler now as you be, and I never was what you'd call a soak. But I've SEEN fellers—Why, I knew one once that used to go to bed in the dark. He was so full of alcohol he didn't dast to light a match fear he'd catch a-fire. Fact! He was eighty-odd then, and he lived to be nigh a hundred. Preserved, you understand, same as one of them specimens in a museum. He'd kept forever, I cal'late, if he hadn't fell off the dock. The water fixed him; he wasn't used to it. He was the wust—”
“Never mind him. Stick to the cook.”
“Yes, yes. Well, I sent that cook for the rum and when he fetched it, I thought it smelt funny. And when I TASTED it—godfreys! 'Twas bay rum; yes, sir, bay rum! same as they put on your hair. You see, he'd forgot to buy any rum when we was in our last port and, havin' the bay rum along he fetched that. 'Twas SOME kind of rum and that was enough for him. I WAS mad, but that visitin' skipper, he didn't care. Drank it down and smacked his lips. 'I'm a State of Maine man,' he says, 'and that's a prohibition state. This tastes like home,' he says. 'If you don't mind I'll help myself to another.' 'I don't mind,' says I, 'but I'm sorry I ain't got any hair-ile. If I had you might have a barber-shop toddy.' Yes, sir! Ho-ho! that's what I said. But he didn't mind. He was—”
And so on. The yarns were not elegant, but, as he told them, they were funny. Mabel Colton laughed as heartily as the rest of us. She appeared to be in fine spirits. She talked with the Atwoods, answered their questions, and ate the hot “spider bread” and butter as if she had never tasted anything as good. But with me she would not talk. Whenever I addressed a remark to her, she turned it with a laugh and her next speech was pretty certain to be addressed to the lightkeeper or his wife. As for our adventure in the launch, that she treated as a joke.
“Wan't you awful scared when that squall struck so sudden?” inquired Mrs. Atwood.
“Dreadfully.”
“Humph!” this from Joshua; “I cal'late Mr. Paine was some scart too. What did you do, Mr. Paine?”
“I rigged that canvas on the oar as soon as possible,” I answered.
“Um-hm. That was good judgment.”
“Tell me, Mr. Atwood,” asked the young lady innocently, “are all seafaring men very dictatorial under such circumstances?”
“Very—which?”
“I mean do they order people about and make them do all sorts of things, whether they wish to or not?”
“Sartin. Godfreys! I never asked nobody what they wished aboard the Ezry H. Jones.”
“And do they tell them to 'sit down and keep still'?”
“Gen'rally they tell 'em to get up and keep movin'. If they don't they start 'em pretty lively—with a rope's end.”
“I see. Even when they are—ladies?”
“Ladies? Godfreys! we never had but one woman aboard the Ezry. Had the skipper's wife one v'yage, but nobody ever ordered her around any to speak of. She was six feet tall and weighed two hundred. All hands was scart to death of her.”
“Suppose she had been ordered to 'sit down and keep still'; what do you think would have happened?”
“Don't know. If 'twas one of the hands I guess likely she'd have hove him overboard. If 'twas the skipper I shouldn't wonder if she'd have knocked him down—after she got over the surprise of his darin' to do such, a thing. She had HIM trained, I tell ye!”
“Miss Colton thinks me rather a bully, I am afraid,” I said. “I did order her about rather roughly.”
Mr. Atwood burst into a laugh. “That Ezry Jones woman was the skipper's wife,” he declared. “Makes a lot of diff'rence, that does. I was considerable of a bully myself afore Betsy got me on the parson's books. Now I'm the most peaceable critter ever you see. Your turn's comin', Miss Colton. All you got to do is be patient.”
“Joshua!” said Mrs. Atwood, in mild reproof. “You mustn't mind his talk, Miss Colton. He's a terrible joker.”
Miss Colton changed the subject. She did not so much as look at me again during the meal and, after it was over, she went to her room, explaining that she was very tired and would try to get a little sleep.
I had discovered that the lighthouse, being close to the mainland, was equipped with a telephone. Now I begged permission to use it. I called up Denboro and asked to be connected with the Colton home. I felt very sure that there would be no sleep in the big house that night and I wished to relieve their anxiety and to send word to Mother. Mr. Colton himself answered my call.
I announced my identity and explained where I was and that his daughter was in my care and perfectly safe.
“Thank God!” was the fervent exclamation at the other end of the wire, and the voice which uttered it was shaking with emotion. “Stay where you are a moment, Paine. Let me tell my wife. She is almost crazy. Hold the wire.”
I held the wire and waited. The next voice which reached my ears was Mrs. Colton's. She asked a dozen questions, one after the other. Was Mabel safe? Was I sure she was safe? Wasn't the poor child almost dead after all she'd been through? What had happened? What was she doing away over there in that dreadful place? Why had I taken her there?
I answered as well as I could, telling briefly of the collision in the fog and what followed. The explanation appeared to be rather unsatisfactory.
“You take the wire, James,” I heard the lady say. “I can't make it all out. Mabel is at some horrid lighthouse and there is no kerosene, or something. The poor child! Alone there, with that man! Tell him she must be brought home at once. It is dreadful for her! Think what she must have suffered! And with HIM! What will people say? Tell him to bring her home! The idea! I don't believe a word—”
“Hello—hello, Paine!” Colton was at the 'phone once more. “Can you get Mabel—Miss Colton, over to Wellmouth, do you think?”
“Yes. I will get a boat as soon as I can. Miss Colton is in her room, asleep I hope. She is very tired and I think she should rest until daylight. I will get her to Wellmouth in time for the morning train.”
“Never mind the train. I'll come after her in the auto. I will start now. I will meet you at the landing—at the wharf, if there is one.”
“Very well. Will you be good enough to send word to my mother that I am safe and sound? She will be worried.”
“Yes, yes, I'll send word. Tell Mabel to be careful and not take cold. . . . Yes, Henrietta, I am attending to everything. Good-by, Paine.”
That was all, not a word of thanks. I did not expect thanks and I made allowances for the state of mind at the mansion; but that telephone conversation, particularly Mrs. Colton's share in it, cast a gloom over my spirits. I did not care to hear more of Mr. Atwood's yarns and jokes. I went to my own room, but I did not sleep.
At half-past five I was astir again. The lightkeeper, it appeared, had an auxiliary engine in a catboat which he owned and could let me have a sufficient supply of gasolene to fill the Comfort's tank. When this was done—and it took a long time, for Joshua insisted upon helping and he was provokingly slow—I returned to the sitting room and asked Mrs. Atwood to call Miss Colton.
“Land sakes!” was the cheery answer, “I didn't have to call her. She's been up for fifteen minutes. Said she was goin' to take a cruise around the lighthouse. I cal'late you'll find her out there somewheres. Go and fetch her here. You two must have a bite—a cup of hot coffee and a biled egg, anyhow—afore you leave. Yes, you must. I shan't listen to a no from either of you.”
I went out and crossed the sandy yard to the whitewashed lighthouse. There was no sign of Miss Colton in the yard, but the door of the lighthouse was open and I entered. No one there. The stairs, winding upward, invited me to climb and I did so. The little room with the big lantern, the latter now covered with a white cloth, was untenanted also. I looked out of the window. There she was, on the iron gallery surrounding the top of the tower, leaning on the rail and gazing out over the water. She had not heard me. For a moment I stood there, watching her.
She was not wearing Mrs. Atwood's gown now, but her own, wrinkled and stained from its last night's drenching in salt water, but dry now. She was bareheaded and her brown hair was tossing in the sea breeze. The sun, but a little way above the horizon and shining through the morning haze, edged her delicate profile with a line of red gold. I had never seen her look more beautiful, or more aristocratic and unapproachable. The memory of our night in the launch seemed more like an unbelievable dream than ever, and the awakening more cruel. For I was awake now. What I had heard over the 'phone had awakened me thoroughly. There should be no more dreaming.
I stepped out upon the gallery.
“Good morning,” I said.
She turned quickly, and I heard her catch her breath with a little gasp.
“I beg pardon,” said I; “I'm afraid I startled you.”
She was startled, that was evident, and, it seemed to me, a trifle embarrassed. But the embarrassment was but momentary.
“Good morning,” she said. “How very silent you can be when you choose, Mr. Paine. How long have you been standing there, pray?”
“Only a moment. I came to call you to breakfast.”
“To breakfast?”
“Yes, Mrs. Atwood insists upon our breakfasting before I take you ashore.”
“Oh! Why didn't you call me? I would have come down.”
“I did not see you until I reached the lantern room. My silence was not premeditated. I made noise enough, or so it seemed to me; but you were so wrapped in your thoughts—”
“Nonsense!” She interrupted me almost sharply. “I was not 'wrapped' in anything, except the beauty of this view. It IS beautiful, isn't it?”
“Very,” I answered, but fear I was not looking at the view. It may be that she noticed this, for she said:
“You have come into your own again, I see. So have I.”
She indicated her gown with a smile and a gesture. I laughed.
“Yes,” I said. “I have returned unto Joshua that which was his.”
“You should have kept it. You have no idea what a picturesque lightkeeper you make, Mr. Paine.”
Somehow or other this harmless joke hurt.
“Yes,” I answered, drily, “that is about my measure, I presume.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I thought the measure rather scant,” she observed, mischievously. “I wish I might have a snap-shot of you in that—uniform.”
“I am afraid the opportunity for that is past.”
“But it—” with a little bubble of mirth, “it was so funny.”
“No doubt. I am sorry I can't oblige you with a photograph.”
She looked at me, biting her lip.
“Is your bump of humor a dent, Mr. Paine?” she inquired. “I am afraid it must be.”
“You may be right. I don't appreciate a joke as keenly as—well, as Mr. Carver, for instance.”
She turned her back upon me and led the way to the door.
“Shall we go to breakfast?” she asked, in a different tone.
Breakfast was a silent meal, so far as we two were concerned. The Atwoods, however, talked enough to make up the deficiency.
As we rose from the table the young lady turned to the lightkeeper.
“Mr. Atwood,” she said, “I presume you are going to be kind enough to take me to Wellmouth?”
“Why, Miss, I—I wan't cal'latin' to. Mr. Paine here, he's got all the gas he needs now and he'll take you over in his launch.”
“Oh! But you will go, if I ask you to?”
“Sartin sure.”
“You have been so very kind that I dislike to ask another favor; but I hoped you would send a telegram for me. My father and mother will be very much alarmed and I must wire them at once. You will have to send it 'collect,' for,” with a rueful smile, “I haven't my purse with me.”
“Land sakes! that'll be all right. Glad to help you out.”
I put in a word. “It will not be necessary,” I said, impatiently. “I have money enough, Miss Colton.”
I was ignored.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Atwood. You will come with me and look out for the telegram?”
“Yes. Yes—yes. But I don't see what you need to send no telegram for. Mr. Paine here, he telephoned to your folks last night.”
She looked at me and then at Joshua.
“Last night?” she repeated.
“Why yes—or this mornin' after you'd gone to bed. He was dead set on it. I could see he was 'most tired and wore out, but he wouldn't rest till he'd 'phoned your folks and told 'em you was safe and sound. Didn't seem to care nothin' about himself, but he was bound your pa and ma shouldn't worry.”
She turned to me.
“Did you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “Your father is to meet us at the Wellmouth wharf.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I intended to. I meant to tell you when I saw you in the lighthouse, but—I forgot it.”
She said no more, but when Joshua, hat and boots on, met us at the door she spoke to him.
“You need not go, Mr. Atwood,” she said. “It will not be necessary—now.”
“Godfreys! I'd just as soon as not. Ruther, if anything.”
He hurried down to the beach. I was about to follow when a hand touched my arm. I turned, to find a pair of brown eyes, misty but wonderful, looking into mine.
“Thank you,” said Miss Colton.
“Don't mention it.”
“But I shall. It was thoughtful and kind. I had forgotten, or—at least—I took it for granted there was no 'phone here. But you did not forget. It was thoughtful, but—it was like you.”
I was breathing hard. I could not look at her.
“Don't,” I said, roughly. “It was nothing. Anyone with common sense would have thought of it and done it, of course.”
“I did not. But you—Oh, it was like you! Always some one else and never yourself. You were worn out. You must have been, after—” with a shudder—“last night. Oh, I have so much to thank you for! I—”
“Come on! Heave ahead!” It was Mr. Atwood, bellowing from the beach. “All aboard for Wellmouth and pints alongshore.”
Betsy appeared in the door behind us.
“All ready, be you?” she asked.
I could not have answered, but my companion was once more as calm and cool as the morning itself.
“All ready,” she answered. “Good-by, Mrs. Atwood. And thank you over and over again. You have been so kind.” With a sudden flash of enthusiasm. “Every one is kind. It is a beautiful world. Good-by.”
She ran lightly down the slope and I followed.
The trip to Wellmouth was of but a half hour's duration. Atwood talked all the time. Miss Colton laughed at his stories and seemed to be without a care. She scarcely looked at me during the passage, and if she caught me looking at her and our glances met she turned away. On the wharf was a big automobile, surrounded by a gaping crowd of small boys and 'longshore loafers.
We drew up beside the landing. Our feminine passenger sprang ashore and ran up the steps, to be seized in her father's arms. Mrs. Colton was there also, babbling hysterically. I watched and listened for a moment. Then I started the engine.
“Shove off,” I ordered. The lightkeeper was astonished.
“Ain't ye goin' ashore?” he demanded.
“No,” I answered, curtly. “I'm going home. Shove off.”
The launch was fifty feet from the pier when I heard a shout. Colton was standing on the wharf edge, waving his hand. Beside him stood his daughter, her mother's arms about her.
“Here! Paine!” shouted Colton. “Come back! Come back and go home with us in the car. There is plenty of room.”
I did not answer.
“Come back! Come back, Paine!” he shouted again. Mrs. Colton raised her head from her daughter's shoulder.
“James! James!” she cautioned, without taking the trouble to lower her voice, “don't make a scene. Let him go in his dreadful boat, if he prefers to.”
“Paine!” cried her husband again.
“I must look out for the launch,” I shouted. “I shall be home almost as soon as you are. Good-by.”
I left the lightkeeper at his island. He refused to accept a cent from me, except in payment for the gasolene, and declared he had had a “fust-rate night of it.”
“Come and see us again, Mr. Paine,” he said. “Come any time and fetch your lady along. She's a good one, she is, and nice-lookin', don't talk! You're a lucky critter, did you know it? Haw! haw! Good-by.”
The Comfort never made better time than on that homeward trip. I anchored her at her moorings, went ashore in the skiff, and hastened up to the house. It was past ten o'clock and I would be over an hour late at the bank. A fine beginning for my first day in charge of the institution!
The dining-room door was open, but no one was in the dining-room. The kitchen door, however, was shut and from behind it I heard Dorinda's voice.
“You can get right out of this house,” she said. “I don't care if you've got a mortgage on the rest of the Cape! You ain't got one on this house, and you nor nobody else shall stay in it and talk that way. There's the door.”
“Dorindy!” wailed another voice—Lute's. “You mustn't talk so—to him! Don't you realize—”
“I realize that if I had a husband instead of a jellyfish I shouldn't have to talk. Be still, you!”
A third voice made itself heard.
“All right,” it growled. “I ain't anxious to stay here any longer than is necessary. Bein' an honest, decent man, I'm ashamed to be seen here as it is. But you can tell that low-lived sneak, Ros Paine, that—”
I opened the door.
“You may tell him yourself, Captain Dean,” said I. “What is it?”
My unexpected entrance caused a sensation. Lute, sitting on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, an agonized expression on his face, started so violently that he almost lost his balance. Dorinda, standing with her back toward me, turned quickly. Captain Jedediah Dean, his hand on the knob of the door opening to the back yard, showed the least evidence of surprise. He did not start, nor did he speak, but looked at me with a countenance as grim and set and immovable as if it had been cast in a mould.
Lute, characteristically enough, uttered the first word.
“By time!” he gasped. “It's Ros himself! Ros—Ros, you know what he says?” He pointed a shaking finger at the captain. “He says you—”
“Keep still!” Dorinda struck her palms together with a slap, as if her husband had been what she often called him, a parrot. Then, without another glance in his direction, she stepped backward and took her stand beside me.
“I'm real glad to see you home safe and sound, Roscoe,” she said, calmly.
“Thank you, Dorinda. Now, Captain Dean, I believe you were sending a message to me just now. I am here and you can deliver it. What is it you have to say?”
Before he could answer Dorinda spoke once more.
“Lute,” she said, “you come along with me into the dinin'-room.”
“But—but, Dorindy, I—”
“You come with me. This ain't any of my business any more, and it never was any of yours. Come! move!”
Lute moved, but so slowly that his progress to the door took almost a full minute. His wife paid no heed to the pleading looks he gave her and stood majestically waiting until he passed her and crossed the sill. Then she turned to me.
“If you want me, just speak,” she said. “I shall be in the dining-room. There ain't no need for Comfort to know about this. She doesn't know that you've been away and hasn't been worried at all. I'll look out for her. Lute'll be with me, so you needn't fret about him, either.”
She closed the door.
“Now, Captain Dean,” I repeated, “what is it you have to say?”
The captain's grim mouth twisted in a savage sneer.
“You know what I'm goin' to say as well as I do,” he answered.
“Possibly, but you had better say it.”
“It won't take me long. You've sold that Shore Lane land to Jim Colton, ain't you?”
“Yes.”
My calm affirmative seemed to astonish him. I think he expected a denial. His hand left the doorknob and he stepped toward me.
“You—HAVE!” he cried. “You don't even take the trouble to—You have the face to stand there and tell me—”
He almost choked.
“Captain Dean,” I interrupted, quickly, “wait a moment. Listen to me. I have sold Colton the land. I did not intend selling it at all, least of all to him, but circumstances compelled me to change my mind. I did it because I was obliged to. It is done. I am sorry I had to do it, but, under the same conditions, I should do it again. I am not ashamed.”
He leaned forward, steadying himself with a hand upon the table, and stared at me.
“You ain't ashamed?” he repeated. “You ain't ashamed! Why, you—Didn't you tell me you'd never sell that land? Didn't you promise me?”
“I did not promise anything. At first I promised not to sell without letting you know of my intention. Afterward I took back that promise.”
“But why did you sell? You said it wan't a question of price at all. You made your brags that it wan't! To me, over and over, you made 'em. And then you sneak off and—”
“Stop! I did think it was not a question of price. Then I found out that it was.”
He clenched his fist.
“Damn you!” he shouted, furiously. “You liar! You sneak! After I—”
“That is enough, Captain. This has gone far enough. I have sold the land—for what seemed to me a good reason—and your calling me names will not change the situation. I don't care to hear them. You had better go.”
“WHAT?”
“I say you had better go.”
“Igo? You'll put me out?”
“No, certainly not. But there is nothing to be gained by a quarrel, and so, for both our sakes, I think you had better go away.”
For a moment I thought he would strike me. Then his fist fell heavily upon the table. His lips were quivering like those of an infirm person. He looked old, and I had never before considered him an old man.
“What made you do it?” he cried, desperately. “What made you do it? Is it all settled? Can't you back out?”
“No.”
“But—but why didn't you sell to me—to the town? If you had to sell why didn't you do that? Why did you go to him?”
“Because he would pay me what I needed; because his price was higher than any you or the town could offer.”
“How did you know that? My heavens above! I'd have paid—I'd have paid most anything—out of my own pocket, I would. I tell you this meant everything to me. I'm gettin' along in years. I ain't been any too well liked here in Denboro, and I knew it. You think that didn't make no difference to me, maybe I pretended it didn't, but it did; by the Almighty, it did! I intended for folks to be thankful to me for—I—Oh, WHY did you do it, Ros?”
I shook my head. I was sorry for him now—sorry and astonished. He had given me a glimpse of the real Jedediah Dean, not the pompous, loud-voiced town politician and boss, but the man desirous of fighting his way into the esteem and liking of his neighbors.
“I'm sorry, Captain,” I said. “If I had known—if I had had time to think, perhaps I might have acted differently. But I had no time. I found that I must have the money which that land would bring and that I had to have it immediately. So I went where I knew I could get it.”
“Money? You needed money? Why didn't you come to me? I'd have lent it to you.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. What do you cal'late I've been backin' you all this summer for? What did I get you that job in my bank for?”
“YOU? George Taylor engaged me for that place.”
“Maybe so. But do you suppose he did it on his own hook? HE couldn't hire you unless the directors said so and the directors don't say anything, the majority of 'em, unless I say it first.Iput the notion in George's head. He didn't know it, but I did. And I put it in the directors' heads, too. Ros Paine, I always liked you, though I did use to think you was a gentleman loafer. There was a somethin' about you even then, a kind of hands-off, mind your own business independence about you that I liked, though I knew mighty well you never liked me. And after you and me got together on this Lane thing I liked you more and more. You could tell me to go to the devil as well as you could anybody else, and I'll shake hands with a feller that'll do that. I always wanted a boy of my own. Nellie's a good girl, no better afloat or ashore, but she is a girl. George is a good feller, too, but somehow, or 'nother, I'd come to think of you as the kind of son I'd have had, if the Almighty had give me one. Oh, what did you do this for?”
I could not answer. He had overwhelmed me. I never felt meaner or more wicked. I had been ready to face him, ready for the interview with him which I knew was inevitable and which I had foreseen, but not this kind of an interview.
He took his hand from the table and stood erect.
“Money!” he said. “You wanted money. You must have wanted it bad. What did you want it for?”
“I can't tell you.”
“You had better. It's your only chance, I tell you that!”
“I can't help it, Captain Dean. I can't tell you. I wish I could.”
He regarded me in silence for a moment. Then: “All right,” he said, solemnly. “I'm through with you, Ros Paine. In one way I'm through with you. In another I ain't. I cal'late you was figgerin' to go straight up to the bank, as bold as brass, and set down at George Taylor's desk and draw your wages like an honest man. Don't you ever dare set foot in that bank again. You're fired! bounced! kicked out! Do you understand?”
“Very well; I understand.”
“You will understand, whether you do now or not. Colton's got the Shore Lane and you've got his dirty money in your pocket. He's paid you, but the town ain't. The town you sold out ain't paid you—but I'm goin' to see that it does. Ros Paine, I'm goin' to drive you out of Denboro.”
He turned on his heel, strode to the door, went out, and slammed it behind him.
I went back to the dining-room. Lute was nowhere in sight, but Dorinda was standing by the mantel, dusting, as usual, where there was no dust. I did not speak but walked toward the door leading to the stairs. Dorinda stepped in front of me.
“Roscoe,” she said, sharply, “can he do it?”
“Do it?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Can he give you your walkin' papers at that bank? Oh, I heard him! I tried not to, but he hollered so I couldn't help it. That kitchen door ain't much thicker'n a sheet of paper, anyhow. Can he do it?”
“I guess so. He seems to be boss of that institution.”
“But can't 'Lisha Warren or some of the other directors help you? Jed Dean don't boss 'Lisha Warren—not much.”
“I shan't ask for help. Please don't trouble me, Dorinda.”
I tried to pass her, but she would not permit it.
“I shan't trouble you, Ros,” she said. “I guess you've got troubles enough without me. But you let me ask you this: Are you goin' to let him drive you out of town?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It may not take much driving,” I announced, listlessly, “if it were not for Mother I should be only too glad to go.”
Again I tried to pass, but this time she seized my arm.
“Roscoe Paine,” she cried, “don't you talk like that. I don't want to hear another word like that. Don't you let Jed Dean or nobody else drive you out of Denboro. You ain't done nothin' to be ashamed of, have you?”
“I sold that land to Mr. Colton. I don't know how Captain Jed found it out, but it is true enough; I did exactly what he said I did.”
“Found out! He found out from somebody over to Ostable where the deed was recorded, that is how he found out. He said so. But I don't care for that. And I don't care if you sold the Lane ten times over. You didn't do it for any mean or selfish reason, that I know. There ain't a selfish bone in your body, Roscoe. I've lived along with you all these years and I know. Nobody that was mean or selfish would give up their chances in life and stay here in this one-hoss town because his ma was sick and had took a notion that she couldn't bear to part with him. Don't you mind Jed Dean—pig-headed old thing!—or anybody else in Denboro. Hold up your head and show 'em you don't care for the whole caboodle of 'em. Let 'em talk and act like fools, if they want to. It comes natural to most of 'em, I cal'late, and they'll be sorry some day. Don't you let 'em drive you out. They won't come inside THIS house with their talk, not while I'm here, I tell you that!”
Her eyes, behind the brass-rimmed spectacles, flashed fire. This was the longest speech I had ever heard her make.
“There, Dorinda,” I said, smiling, “don't worry on my account. I'm not worth it. And, whatever I do, I shall see that you and Lute are provided for.”
Instead of calming her this statement seemed to have the exactly opposite effect.
“Stop it!” she snapped. “The idea! Do you suppose it's for myself I'm talkin' this way to you? I guess 'tain't! My soul! I'll look out for myself, and Lute, too, long's I'm able to walk; and when I can't walk 'twill be because I've stopped breathin'. It's for you I'm talkin', for you and Comfort. Think of her.”
I sighed. “I have been thinking of her, Dorinda,” I declared. “She doesn't know a word about this.”
“Then tell her.”
“I can't tell her my reason for selling, any more than I can tell you—or Dean.”
“Tell her what you can, then. Tell her as much of the truth as you can. She'll say you done right, of course. Whatever you do is right to her.”
I made no reply. She regarded me keenly.
“Roscoe,” she went on, “do you WANT to go somewheres else?”
“I don't know, Dorinda. I might as well be here as anywhere, perhaps. I am rather blue and discouraged just now, that's all.”
“I can't blame you much. But bein' discouraged don't do any good. Besides, it's always darkest just afore dawn, they say; anyhow, I've had that preached to me ever since I was a girl and I've tried to believe it through a good many cloudy spells. Roscoe, don't you let old Jed or anybody DRIVE you out of Denboro, but, if you WANT to go—if you think you'd ought to go, to earn money or anything, don't you worry about leavin' Comfort. I'll look out for her as well as if she was my own. Remember that.”
I laid my hand on hers. “Thank you,” I said, earnestly. “Dorinda, you are a good woman.”
To my surprise the eyes behind the spectacles became misty. Tears in Dorinda's eyes! When she spoke it was in, for her, a curiously hesitating tone.
“Roscoe,” she faltered, “I wonder if you'd be cross if I asked about what wan't any of my business. I'm old enough to be your grandma, pretty nigh, so I'm goin' to risk it. You used to be independent enough. You never used to care for the town or anybody in it. Lately you've changed. Changed in a good many ways. Is somethin' besides this Lane affair frettin' you? Is somebody frettin' you? Are you worried about—that one?”
She had caught me unawares. I felt the blood tingle in my cheeks. I tried to laugh and made a failure of the attempt.
“That one?” I repeated. “I—Why, I don't understand, Dorinda.”
“Don't you? Well, if you don't then I'm just talkin' silly, that's all. If you do, I . . . . Humph! I might have known it!”
She turned like a shot and jerked the door open. There was a rattle, a series of thumps, and a crash. Lute was sprawling upon the floor at our feet. I gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Dorinda sniffed scornfully.
“I might have known it,” she repeated. “Sittin' on the stairs there, listenin', wan't you?”
Lute raised himself to his knees.
“I think,” he panted, “I—I swan! I shouldn't wonder if I'd broke my leg!”
“Um-hm! Well, if you'd broke your neck 'twouldn't have been no more'n you deserve. Shame on you! Sneakin' thing!”
“Now, Dorindy, I—I wan't listenin'. I was just—”
“Don't talk to me. Don't you open your mouth. And if you open it to anybody else about what you heard I'll—I declare I'll shut you up in the dark closet and keep you there, as if you was three year old. Sometimes I think your head ain't any older than that. Go right out of this house.”
“But where'll I go?”
“I don't care where you go. Only don't let me set eyes on you till dinner time. March!”
Lute backed away as she advanced, waving both his hands and pleading and expostulating.
“Dorindy, I tell you . . . WHAT makes you so unlikely? . . . I was just . . . All right then,” desperately, “I'll go! And if you never set eyes on me again 'twon't be my fault. You'll be sorry then. If you never see me no more you'll be sorry.”
“I'll set eyes on you at dinner time. I ain't afraid of that. Git!”
She followed him to the kitchen and then returned.
“Ah hum!” she sighed, “it's pretty hard to remember that about darkest just afore dawn when you have a burden like that on your shoulders to lug through life. It's night most of the time then. Poor critter! he means well enough, too. And once he was a likely enough young feller, though shiftless, even then. But he had a long spell of fever three year after we was married and he's never been good for much since. I try to remember that, and to be patient with him, but it's a pretty hard job sometimes.”
She sighed again. I had often wondered how a woman of her sense could have married Luther Rogers. Now she was telling me.
“I never really cared for him,” she went on, looking toward the door through which the discomfited eavesdropper had made his exit. “There was somebody else I did care for, but he and I quarreled, and I took Luther out of spite and because my folks wanted me to. I've paid for it since. Roscoe,” earnestly, “Roscoe, if you care for anybody and she cares for you, don't let anything keep you apart. If she's worth a million or fifty cents that don't make any difference. It shouldn't be a matter of her folks or your folks or money or pride or anything else. It's a matter for just you and her. And if you love each other, that's enough. I tell you so, and I know.”
I was more astonished than ever. I could scarcely believe that this was the dry, practical Dorinda Rogers who had kept house for Mother and me all these years. And with my astonishment were other feelings, feelings which warned me that I had better make my escape before I was trapped into betraying that which, all the way home from Mackerel Island, I had been swearing no one should ever know. I would not even admit it to myself, much less to anyone else.
I did not look at Dorinda, and my answer to her long speech was as indifferent and careless as I could make it.
“Thank you, Dorinda,” I said. “I'll remember your advice, if I ever need it, which isn't likely. Now I must go to my room and change my clothes. These are too badly wrinkled to be becoming.”
When I came down, after an absence of half an hour, she was sitting by the window, sewing.
“Comfort's waitin' to see you, Roscoe,” she said. “I've told her all about it.”
“YOU'VE told her—what?” I demanded, in amazement.
“About your sellin' the Lane and losin' your job, and so on. Don't look at me like that. 'Twas the only common-sense thing to do. She'd heard old Leather-Lungs whoopin' out there in the kitchen and she'd heard you and me talkin' here in the dinin'-room. I hoped she was asleep, but she wan't. After you went upstairs she called for me and wanted to know the whole story. I told her what I knew of it. Now you can tell her the rest. She takes it just as I knew she would. You done it and so it's all right.”
“Roscoe, is that you?”
It was Mother calling me. I went into the darkened room and sat down beside the bed.
She and I had much to say to each other. This time I kept back nothing, except my reason for selling the land. I told her frankly that that reason was a secret, and that it must remain a secret, even from her.
“I hate to say that to you, Mother,” I told her. “You don't know how I hate it. I would tell you if I could.”
She pressed my hand. “I know you would, Roscoe,” she said. “I am quite content not to know. That your reason for selling was an honorable one, that is all I ask.”
“It was that, Mother.”
“I am sure of it. But,” hesitatingly, “can you tell me this: You did not do it because you needed money—for me? Our income is the same as ever? We have not met with losses?”
“No, Mother. Our income is the same that it has been for years.”
“Then it was not because of me; because you felt that I should have those 'luxuries' you talk about so often? Oh, I don't need them, Roscoe I really don't. I am—I scarcely dare say it for fear it may not be true—but I THINK I am better than I have been. I feel stronger.”
“I know you are better, Mother. Doctor Quimby is very much encouraged.”
“Is he? I am so glad! For your sake, Boy. Perhaps the time will come when I may not be your Old Man Of the Sea as I am now. But you did not sell the land because of me?”
“No.”
“You did not sell it for yourself, that I know. I wonder . . . But, there! I mustn't wonder, and I won't. Captain Dean was very angry and unreasonable, Dorinda says. I suppose his pride is hurt. I'm afraid he will make it unpleasant for you in the village.”
“He will do his best, I'm sure of that.”
“You poor boy! As if you did not have enough to bear without that! He has asked you to resign from the bank?”
I smiled. “He has pitched me out, neck and crop,” I answered. “I expected that, of course.”
“But what will you do? Can't Mr. Taylor help you? Perhaps he will use his influence with the captain.”
“I don't need his influence, Mother. I took the place merely because of a whim. Now that I have lost it I am no worse off than I was before.”
“But you enjoyed the work?”
“Yes.”
I was only beginning to realize how much I had enjoyed it. I sighed, involuntarily.
Mother heard the sigh and the pressure of her hand on mine tightened.
“Poor boy!” she said again. Then, after a moment, “I wish I might talk with Miss Colton about this.”
I started violently. What had put that idea in her head?
“Miss Colton!” I exclaimed. “Mother, whatever you do, don't speak to her—about me.”
“Why not? She has not called on us for some time, but she is interested in you, I know. And perhaps her father could—”
“Mother, don't.”
She was silent for an instant. Then she said, quietly. “Boy, what is it? Is there something else you haven't told me? Something about—her?”
“No, no,” I stammered.
“Isn't there? Are you sure?”
I do not know what reply I should have made. Her question, coming so close upon the heels of Dorinda's hints, upset me completely. Was it written upon my face, for everyone to see? Did I look the incredible idiot that I knew myself to be? For I did know it. In spite of my determination not to admit it even in my innermost thoughts, I knew. I was in love with Mabel Colton—madly, insanely, hopelessly in love with her, and should be until my dying day. I had played with fire too long.
Before I could answer there came a knock at the door. It opened and Dorinda's head appeared. She seemed, for her, excited.
“There's somebody to see you, Ros,” she said. “You'd better come out soon's you can. He's in a hurry.”
“Someone to see me,” I repeated. “Who is it?”
Dorinda glanced at Mother and then at me. She did not so much as whisper, but her lips formed a name. I rose from my chair.
Mother looked at me and then at Dorinda.
“Who is it, Roscoe?” she asked.
“Just a caller on a business matter,” I answered, hurriedly. “I'll be out at once, Dorinda.”
“But who is it, Roscoe?”
“It's Mr. Colton, Mother. He has probably come to—”
“Dorinda,” Mother interrupted me, “ask Mr. Colton to come in here.”
“But, Mother—”
“Ask him to come in here, Dorinda. I should like to meet him.”
Dorinda hesitated, but when Mother spoke in that tone none of us hesitated long. She disappeared. A moment later the door opened wide and Colton entered. The sudden transition from sunlight to semidarkness bewildered him for a moment, doubtless, for he stood there without speaking. Dorinda, who had ushered him in, went out and closed the door. I stepped forward.
“Good morning, Mr. Colton,” I said, as calmly as I could. “You have never met my mother, I think. Mother, this is Mr. Colton, our neighbor.”
Colton turned toward the bed and murmured a few words. For once, I think, he was startled out of his customary cool self-possession. And when Mother spoke it seemed to me that she, too, was disturbed.
“Roscoe,” she said, quickly, “will you draw that window-shade a little more? The light is rather strong. Thank you. Mr. Colton, I am very glad to meet you. I have heard of you often, of course, and I have met your daughter. She has been very kind to me, in many ways. Won't you sit down?”
I drew forward a chair. Our visitor accepted it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Paine,” he said. “I will sit. To be honest, I'm very glad of the opportunity. I have been under the doctor's care for the past few weeks and last night's performance is not the best sort of treatment for a tender digestion. The doctor told me what I needed was rest and sleep and freedom from care. I told him I probably shouldn't get the last item till I was dead. As for the rest—and sleep—Humph!” with a short laugh, “I wonder what he would have said if he had seen me last night.”
Mother's face was turned away from him on the pillow. “I am sorry to hear that you have been ill, Mr. Colton,” she said.
“Ill! I'm not ill. I have never been sick in my life and I don't propose to begin now. If the crowd in New York would let me alone I should be all right enough. There is a deal on there that is likely to come to a head pretty soon and my people at the office are nervous. They keep 'phoning and telegraphing and upsetting things generally. I'll have to run over there myself in a day or two and straighten it out. But there! I didn't come here to worry you with my troubles. I feel as if I knew you, Mrs. Paine.”
“Knew me? Knew ME, Mr. Colton?”
“Yes. I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, but my daughter has spoken of you often. She is a great admirer of yours. I won't tell you all the nice things she has said about you, for she has probably said them to you or to your son, already.”
“You should be very proud of your daughter, Mr. Colton. She is a charming girl.”
“Thanks. Just among us three I'll admit, in confidence, that I think you're right. And I'll admit, too, that you have a pretty good sort of a son, Mrs. Paine. He is inclined to be,” with a glance in my direction, “a little too stubborn and high-principled for this practical world, but,” with a chuckle, “he can be made to listen to reason, if you give him time enough. That is so, isn't it, Paine?”
I did not answer. Mother spoke for me.
“I am not sure that I understand you, Mr. Colton,” she said, quietly. “I presume you are referring to the sale of the land. I do not know why Roscoe changed his mind in that matter, but I do know that his reason was a good one, and an honest one.”
“He hasn't told it to you, then?”
“No. But I know that he thought it right or he never would have sold.”
I broke in here. I did not care to hear my own praises.
“Did you call to discuss the Shore Lane, Mr. Colton?” I inquired. “I thought that affair settled.”
“It is. No, I didn't come to discuss that. Mrs. Paine, I don't know why your son sold me that land, but I'm inclined to think, like you, that he wouldn't have done it unless he thought it was right. I know mighty well he wasn't afraid of me. Oh, you needn't laugh, young man. There ARE people in that fix, plenty of 'em. No, I didn't come to talk 'Lane.' That bird is dead. I came, first of all, to thank you for what you did for my daughter last night.”