And that, in the end, was the answer I sent to Carver with his five
dollars. I spent an hour in my room trying to compose and write a
sarcastic reply to his note, but I finally gave it up. Then I put the
money in an envelope, addressed the latter, and sent it to the big house
by Lute. Lute was delighted with the errand.
“You'll explain to Dorindy, will you?” he asked. “She cal'lates I'm
goin' to clean the henhouse. But I can do that some other time.”
“You can--yes.”
“Do you know--” Lute leaned against the clothes post and prepared to
philosophize. “Do you know,” he observed, “that I don't take no stock in
cleanin' henhouses and such?”
“Don't you? I'm surprised.”
“You're surprised 'cause you ain't thought it out. That's my way; I
always think things out. Most folks are selfish. They want to do what
they want to do, and they want others to want the same thing. If the
others don't want it, then they like to make 'em have it; anyhow.
Dorindy is crazy on cleanin'. She wouldn't live in a dirty house no
more'n she'd live in a lobster pot. It's the way she's made. But a hen
ain't made that way. A hen LIKES dirt; she scratches in it and digs
holes in it to waller in, and heaves it over herself all day long. If
you left it to the hens would THEY clean their house? I guess not! So, I
say what's the use of cruelizin' 'em by makin' 'em live clean when they
don't want to? I--”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Lute, you're wasting your breath. It is
Dorinda you should explain all this to, not to me. And you're wasting my
time. I want you to take that envelope to Mr. Carver; and I want you to
go now.”
“Well, I'm goin', ain't I? I was only just sayin'--”
“Say it when you come back. And if Mr. Carver asks you why I sent that
envelope to him be sure and give him the message I gave you. Do you
remember it?”
“Sartin. That what you done wan't wuth so much.”
“Not exactly. That what I saved wasn't worth it.”
“All right. I'll remember. But what did you save, Ros? Dorindy says
'twas somethin' you found afloat in the bay. If it was somethin'
belongin' to them Coltons I'd have took the money, no matter what the
thing was wuth. They can afford to pay and, if I was you, I'd take the
reward.”
“I have my reward. Now go.”
I had my reward and I believed it worth much more than five dollars.
I had learned my lesson. I knew now exactly how I was regarded by the
occupants of the big house and by the townspeople as well. I should
cherish no more illusions as to my importance in their eyes. I meant to
be really independent from that time on. I did not care--really did not
care--for anything or anybody outside my immediate household. I was back
in the position I had occupied for years, but with one difference: I had
an ambition now. It was to make both sides in the Shore Lane controversy
realize that George Taylor was right when he said I had the whip-hand.
By the Almighty, they should dance when I cracked that whip!
My first opportunity to crack it came a day or two later, when Captain
Dean called upon me. He had a definite proposition to make, although
his Yankee shrewdness and caution prevented his making it until he had
discussed the weather and other unimportant trifles. Then he leaned
against the edge of my work-bench--we were in the boathouse--and began
to beat up to windward of his proposal.
“Ros,” he said, “you remember I told you you was all right, when I met
you at the bank t'other day.”
“I remember,” I answered.
“Yes. Well, I cal'late you know what I meant by that.”
I did not pretend ignorance of his meaning.
“I presume,” I replied, “that you meant I was right in not selling that
strip of land to Mr. Colton.”
“That's what I meant. You kept your promise to me and I shan't forget
it. Nor the town won't forget it, neither. Would you mind tellin' me
just what happened between you and His Majesty?”
“Not at all. He said he wanted to buy the Shore Lane strip and I refused
to sell it to him. He said I was crazy and an infernal robber and I told
him to go to the devil.”
“WHAT! you didn't!”
“I did.”
Captain Jed slapped his knee and shouted in delight. He insisted on
shaking hands with me.
“By the great and everlastin'!” he declared, between laughs, “you're
all right, Ros Paine! I said you was and now I'll swear to it. Told old
Colton to go to the devil! If that ain't--oh, I wish I'd been there!”
I went on sand-papering a valve plug. He walked up and down the floor,
chuckling.
“Well,” he said, at last, “you've made yourself solid in Denboro,
anyhow. And I told you you shouldn't lose nothin' by it. The Selectmen
held a meetin' last night and they feel, same as me, that that Shore
Lane shan't be shut off. You understand what that means to you, don't
you?”
I looked at him, coolly.
“No,” I answered.
“You don't! It means the town's decided to buy that strip of land of
yours. Definitely decided, practically speakin'. Now what'll you sell it
to us for?”
I put down the valve plug. “Captain,” said I, “that land is not for
sale.”
“Not for SALE? What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I have decided not to sell it, for the present, at least.
Neither to Colton nor any one else.”
He could not believe it. Of course I would not sell it to Colton. Colton
was a stuck-up, selfish city aristocrat who thought all creation ought
to belong to him. But the town was different. Did I realize that it was
the town I lived in that was asking to buy now? The town of which I was
a citizen? Think of what the town had done for me.
“Very well,” I answered. “I'm willing to think. What has it done for
me?”
It had--it had--well, it had done a whole lot. As a citizen of that town
I owed it a--a--
“Look here, Captain Dean,” I interrupted, “there's no use in our arguing
the matter. I have decided not to sell.”
“Don't talk so foolish. Course you'll sell if you get money enough.”
“So Colton said, but I shan't.”
“Ros, I ain't got any authority to do it, but I shouldn't wonder if I
could get you three hundred dollars for that strip.”
“It isn't a question of price.”
“Rubbish! Anything's a question of price.”
“This isn't. If it was I probably should have accepted Mr. Colton's
offer of six hundred and fifty.”
“Six hun--! Do you mean to say he offered you six hundred and fifty
dollars for that little mite of land, and you never took him up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you must be a . . . Humph! Six hundred and fifty! The town can't
meet no such bid as that, of course.”
“I don't expect it to.”
He regarded me in silence. He was chagrined and angry; his florid face
was redder than ever; but, more than all, he was puzzled.
“Well,” he observed, after a moment, “this beats me, this does! Last
time we talked you was willin' to consider sellin'. What's changed you?
What's the reason you won't sell? What business reason have you got for
not doin' it?”
I had no business reason at all. Except for Mother's counsel not to
sell, which was based upon sentiment and nothing else, and my own
stubbornness, I had no reason at all. Yet I was, if anything, more firm
in my resolve.
“How about the Lane?” he demanded. “You know what that Lane means to
Denboro?”
“I know what you say it means. The townspeople can continue to use the
Lane, just as they always have, so long as they behave themselves. There
is no use of our talking further, Captain. I've made up my mind.”
He went away, soon after, but he asked another question.
“Will you do this much for me?” he asked. “Will you promise me not to
sell the land to Colton?”
“No,” I said, “I will make no promise of any kind, to anybody.”
“Oh,” with a scornful sniff, “I see. I'm on to you. You're just hangin'
out for a big price. I might have known it. You're on Colton's side,
after all.”
I rose. I was angry now.
“I told you price had nothing to do with it,” I said, sharply. “I am on
no one's side. The town is welcome to use the Lane; that I have told you
already. There is nothing more to be said.”
He shook his head.
“I don't make many mistakes,” he observed, slowly; “but I guess I've
made one. You're a whole lot deeper'n I thought you was.”
So much for the proletariat. I heard from the plutocrats next day.
Sim Eldredge dropped in on me. After much wriggling about the bush he
intimated that he knew of Captain Jedediah's call and what had taken
place.
“You done just right, Ros,” he whispered. He had a habit of whispering
as the Captain had of shouting. “You done just right. Keep 'em guessin';
keep em guessin'. Jed's all upsot. He don't know whether he's keel down
or on his beam ends. He'll be makin' a higher bid pretty soon. Say,”
with a wink, “I see Colton last night.”
“Did you?”
“Yup. Oh, I give him a jolt. I hinted that the town had made you a fine
offer and you was considerin' it.”
“What did you do that for? Who gave you the right to--”
“Sshh! Don't holler. Somebody might be listenin'. I come through the
woods and round the beach so's I wouldn't be seen. What do you s'pose
Colton said?”
“I don't care what he said.”
“You will when I tell you. He as much as offered a thousand dollars for
that land. My crimps! a thousand! think of that! I presume likely you
wouldn't take that, would you, Ros?”
“Sim, I'll tell you, as I told Captain Jed, that land is not for sale.”
I tried to make that statement firm and sharp enough to penetrate even
his wooden head; but he merely winked again.
“All right,” he whispered, hastily, “all right. I guess perhaps you're
correct in hangin' on. Still, a thousand is a lot of money, even after
you take out my little commission. But you know best. You put your trust
in me. I'll keep her jumpin'. I understand. Good-by.”
He went out hurriedly, and, though I shouted after him, he only waved
and ducked behind a beach-plum bush. He did not believe me serious in
my refusal to sell; neither did Dean, or Colton, or, apparently, any one
else. They all thought me merely shrewd, a sharp trader driving a hard
bargain, as they would have done in my place. They might think so, if
they wished; I should not explain. As a matter of fact, I could not have
explained my attitude, even to myself.
Yet this very attitude made a difference, a perceptible difference, in
my position in Denboro. I noticed it each time I went up to the village.
I saw the groups at the post-office and at the depot turn to watch me
as I approached and as I went away. Captain Jedediah did not mention the
Lane again--at least for some time--but he always hailed me cordially
when we met and seemed anxious to be seen in my company. Eldredge, of
course, was effusive; so was Alvin Baker. And other people, citizens of
consequence in the town, who had heretofore merely bowed, now stopped
to speak with me on the street. Members of the sewing circle called
on Mother more frequently, and Matilda Dean, Captain Jed's wife, came
regularly once a week. Sometimes she saw Mother and sometimes she did
not, depending upon Dorinda's state of mind at the time.
Lute, always a sort of social barometer, noticed the change in the
weather.
“Everybody's talkin' about you, Ros,” he declared. “They cal'late you're
a pretty smart feller. They don't just understand what you're up to, but
they think you're pretty smart.”
“No?” I commented, ironically. “Lute, you astonish me. Why am I smart?”
“Well, they don't know exactly, but they cal'late you must be. Oh,
I hear things. Cap'n Jed said t'other night you'd make a pretty good
Selectman.”
“_I_ would? A Selectman?”
“Yup. He as much as hinted that to me; wondered if you'd take the
nomination provided he could fix it for you. Sim Eldredge and Alvin and
some more all said they'd vote for you if they got a chance. ARE you
figgerin' to charge toll on the Lane?”
“Toll? What put that idea in your head?”
“Nothin', only some of the fellers wondered if you was. You see, you
won't sell, and so--”
“I see. That's a brilliant suggestion, Lute. When I adopt it I'll
appoint you toll-keeper.”
“By time! I wish you would. I'd make Thoph Newcomb pay up. He owes me
ten cents; bet it one time and never settled.”
Yes, my position in Denboro had changed. But I took no pride in the
change, as I had at first; I knew the reason for this sudden burst of
popularity. The knowledge made me more cynical than ever--cynical, and
lonely. For the first time since I came to the Cape I longed for a real
friend, not a relative or an acquaintance, but a friend to trust and
confide in. Some one, with no string of his own to pull, who cared for
me because I was myself.
And all the time I had such a friend and did not realize it. The
knowledge came to me in this way. Mother had one of her seizures, one
of the now infrequent “sinking spells,” as the doctor called them, on an
evening when I was alone with her. Dorinda and Lute had gone, with the
horse and buggy, to visit a cousin in Bayport. They were to stay over
night and return before breakfast the next morning.
I was alone in the dining-room when Mother called my name. There was
something in her tone which alarmed me and I hastened to her bedside.
One glance at her face was enough.
“Boy,” she said, weakly, “I am afraid I am going to be ill. I have tried
not to alarm you, but I feel faint and I am--you won't be alarmed, will
you? I know it is nothing serious.”
I told her not to worry and not to talk. I hurried out to the kitchen,
got the hot water and the brandy, made her swallow a little of
the mixture, and bathed her forehead and wrists with vinegar, an
old-fashioned restorative which Dorinda always used. She said she felt
better, but I was anxious and, as soon as it was safe to leave her,
hurried out to bring the doctor. She begged me not to go, because it
was beginning to rain and I might get wet, but I assured her it was not
raining hard, and went.
It was not raining hard when I started, but there was every sign of
a severe storm close at hand. It was pitch dark and I was weary from
stumbling through the bushes and over the rough path when I reached the
corner of the Lane and the Lower Road. Then a carriage came down that
road. It was an open wagon and George Taylor was the driver. He had been
up to the Deans' and was on his way home.
I hailed the vehicle, intending to ask for a ride, but when Taylor
discovered who his hailer was he insisted on my going back to the house.
He would get the doctor, he said, and bring him down at once. I was
afraid he would be caught in the storm, and hesitated in accepting the
offer, but he insisted. I did go back to the house, found Mother in much
the same condition as when I left her, and had scarcely gotten into the
kitchen again when Taylor once more appeared.
“I brought Nellie along to stay with your mother,” he said. “The Cap'n
and the old lady”--meaning Matilda--“were up at the meeting-house and we
just left a note saying where we'd gone. Nellie's all right. Between you
and me, she don't talk you deaf, dumb and blind like her ma, and she's
good company for sick folks. Now I'll fetch the doctor and be right
back.”
“But it's raining pitchforks,” I said. “You'll be wet through.”
“No, I won't. I'll have Doc Quimby here in no time.”
He drove off and Nellie Dean went into Mother's room. I had always
considered Nellie a milk-and-watery young female, but somehow her quiet
ways and soft voice seemed just what were needed in a sick room. I left
the two together and came out to wait for Taylor and the doctor.
But they did not come. The storm was under full headway now, and the
wind was dashing the rain in sheets against the windows. I waited nearly
an hour and still no sign of the doctor.
Nellie came out of Mother's room and closed the door softly behind her.
“She's quiet now,” she whispered. “I think she's asleep. Where do you
suppose George is?”
“Goodness knows!” I answered. “I shouldn't have let him go, a night like
this.”
“I'm afraid you couldn't stop him if his mind was made up. He's dreadful
determined when he sets out to be.”
“He's a good fellow,” I said, to please her. She worshipped the cashier,
a fact of which all Denboro was aware, and which caused gossip to report
that she did the courting for the two.
She blushed and smiled.
“He thinks a lot of you,” she observed. “He's always talking to me about
you. It's a good thing you're a man or I should be jealous.”
I smiled. “I seem to be talked about generally, just now,” said I.
“Are you? Oh, you mean about the Shore Lane. Yes, Pa can't make you out
about that. He says you've got something up your sleeve and he hasn't
decided what it is. I asked George what Pa meant and he just laughed. He
said whatever you had in your sleeve was your affair and, if he was any
judge of character, it would stay there till you got ready to shake it
out. He always stood up for you, even before the Shore Lane business
happened. I think he likes you better than any one else in Denboro.”
“Present company excepted, of course.”
“Oh, of course. If that wasn't excepted I should REALLY be jealous.
Then,” more seriously, “Roscoe, does it seem to you that George is
worried or troubled about something lately?”
I thought of Taylor's sudden change of expression that day in the bank,
and of his remark that he wished he had my chance. But I concealed my
thoughts.
“The prospect of marriage is enough to make any man worried, isn't it?”
I asked. “I imagine he realizes that he isn't good enough for you.”
There was sarcasm in this remark, sarcasm of which I should have been
ashamed. But she took it literally and as a compliment. She looked at me
reproachfully.
“Good enough for me!” she exclaimed. “He! Sometimes I wonder if it is
right for me to be so happy. I feel almost as if it was wrong. As if
something must happen to punish me for it.”
I did not answer. To tell the truth, I was envious. There was real
happiness in the world. This country girl had found it; that Mabel
Colton would, no doubt, find it some day--unless she married her Victor,
in which case I had my doubts. But what happiness was in store for me?
Nellie did most of the talking thereafter; principally about George, and
why he did not come. At last she went in to see if Mother needed her,
and, twenty minutes later, when I looked into the bedroom, I saw that
she had fallen asleep on the couch. Mother, too, seemed to be sleeping,
and I left them thus.
It was almost eleven o'clock when the sound of carriage wheels in the
yard brought me to the window and then to the door. Doctor Quimby had
come at last and Taylor was with him. The doctor, in his mackintosh and
overshoes, was dry enough, but his companion was wet to the skin.
“Sorry I'm so late, Ros,” said the doctor. “I was way up to Ebenezer
Cahoon's in West Denboro. There's a new edition of Ebenezer, made port
this morning, and I was a little bit concerned about the missus. She's
all right, though. How's your mother?”
“Better, I think. She's asleep now. So is Nellie. I suppose George told
you she was with her.”
“Yes. George had a rough passage over that West Denboro road. It's bad
enough in daylight, but on a night like this--whew! I carried away a
wheel turning into Ebenezer's yard, and if George hadn't had his team
along I don't know how I'd have got here. I'll go right in and see Mrs.
Paine.”
He left us and I turned to Taylor.
“You're soaked through,” I declared. “Come out to the kitchen stove.
What in the world made you drive way up to that forsaken place? It's a
good seven miles. Come out to the kitchen. Quick!”
He sat down by the stove and put his wet boots on the hearth. I mixed
him a glass of the brandy and hot water and handed him a cigar.
“Why did you do it, George?” I said. “I never would have thought of
asking such a thing.”
“I know it,” he said. “Course you wouldn't ask it. There's plenty in
this town that would, but you wouldn't. Maybe that's one reason I was so
glad to do it for you.”
“I am almost sorry you did. It is too great a kindness altogether. I'm
afraid I shouldn't have done as much for you.”
“Go on! Yes, you would. I know you.”
I shook my head.
“No, you don't,” I answered. “Captain Jed--your prospective
father-in-law--said the other day that he had been mistaken; he thought
he knew me, but he was beginning to find he did not.”
“Did he say that? What did he mean?”
“I imagine he meant he wasn't sure whether I was the fool he had
believed me to be, or just a sharp rascal.”
Taylor looked at me over the edge of his glass.
“You think that's what he meant, do you?”
“I know it.”
He put the glass on the floor beside him and laid a hand on my knee.
“Ros,” he said, “I don't know for sure what the Cap'n meant, though
if he thinks you're either one of the two he's the fool. But _I_ know
you--better, maybe, than you know yourself. At least I believe I know
you better than any one else in the town.”
“That wouldn't be saying much.”
“Wouldn't it? Well, maybe not. But whose fault is it? It's yours, the
way I look at it. Ros, I've been meaning to have a talk with you some
day; perhaps this is as good a time as any. You make a big mistake in
the way you treat Denboro and the folks in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just that. Your whole attitude is wrong, has been wrong ever
since you first came here to live. You never gave any of us a chance to
know you and like you--anybody but me, I mean, and even I never had
but half a chance. You make a mistake, I tell you. There's lots of good
folks in this town, lots of 'em. Cap'n Elisha Warren's one of 'em and
there's plenty more. They're countrymen, same as I am, but they're good,
plain, sensible folks, and they'd like to like you if they had a chance.
You belong to the Town Improvement Society, but you never go to a
meeting. You ought to get out and mix more.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess my mixing wouldn't be very welcome,” I
said. “And, besides, I don't care to mix.”
“I know you don't, but you ought to, just the same.”
“Nonsense! George, I'm not blind, or deaf. Don't you suppose I know what
Warren and Dean and the rest think of me? They consider me a loafer and
no good. I've heard what they say. I've noticed how they treat me.”
“How you treat them, you mean. You are as cold and freezing as a cake
of ice. They was willing to be friends but you wouldn't have it. And,
as for their calling you a loafer--well, that's your own fault, too.
You OUGHT to do something; not work, perhaps, but you'd be a whole lot
better off if you got really interested in something. Get into politics;
get into town affairs; get out and know the people you're living with.”
“I don't care to know them; and I'm sure they don't care to know me.”
“Yes, they do. I understand how you feel. In this Shore Lane matter now:
you think Cap'n Jed and Colton, because they pretend to call you a fool,
don't respect you for taking the stand you have. They do. They don't
understand you, maybe, but they can't help respecting you and, if they
knew you even as well as I do, they'd like you. Come! I ain't throwin'
any bouquets, but why do you suppose I'd be willing to drive to West
Denboro forty times over, on forty times worse nights than this, for
you? Why?”
“Heaven knows! Would you?”
“I would. I like you, Ros. I took a shine to you the first time I met
you. I don't know why exactly. Why does anybody like anybody else? But I
think a whole lot of you. I know this sounds foolish, and you don't feel
that way towards me, but it's the truth.”
I was amazed. I had always liked George Taylor, but I never felt any
strong affection for him. I was a little less indifferent to him than to
others in Denboro, that was all. And I had taken it for granted that
his liking for me was of the same casual, lukewarm variety. To hear him
declare himself in this way was astonishing--he, the dry, keen, Yankee
banker.
“But why, George?” I repeated.
“I don't know why; I told you that. It's because I can't help it, I
suppose. Or because, as I said, I know you better than any one else.”
I sighed. “Nobody knows me here,” I said.
“One knows you, Ros. I know you.”
“You may think you do, but you don't. You can thank God for your
ignorance.”
“Maybe I ain't so ignorant.”
I looked at him. He was looking me straight in the eye.
“What do you know?” I asked, slowly.
“I know, for one thing, that your name ain't Paine.”
I could not answer. I am not certain whether I attempted to speak or
move. I do remember that the pressure of his hand on my knee tightened.
“It's all right, Ros,” he said, earnestly. “Nobody knows but me, and
nobody ever shall know if I can help it.”
“How--how much do you know?” I stammered.
“Why, pretty much all, I guess. I've known ever since your mother was
taken sick. Some things I read in the paper, and the pictures of--of
your father, put me on, and afterwards I got more certain of it. But
it's all right. Nobody but me knows or shall know.”
I leaned my head on my hand. He patted my knee, gently.
“Are--are you sure no one else knows?” I asked.
“Certain sure. There was one time when it might have all come out. A
reporter fellow from one of the Boston papers got on the track somehow
and came down here to investigate. Luckily I was the first man he
tackled, and I steered him away. I presume likely I lied some, but my
conscience is easy so far as that goes.”
“And you have told no one? Not even Nellie?”
“No. I tell Nellie most things, but not all--not all.”
I remembered afterwards that he sighed as he said this and took his
hand from my knee; but then my agitation was too great to do more than
casually notice it. I rose to my feet.
“George! George!” I cried. “I--I can't say to you what I should like.
But why--WHY did you shield me? And lie for me? Why did you do it? I was
hardly more than a stranger.”
He sighed. “Don't know,” he answered. “I never could quite see why
a man's sins should be visited on the widows and fatherless. And, of
course, I realized that you and your mother changed your name and came
down here to get away from gossip and talk. But I guess the real reason
was that I liked you, Ros. Love at first sight, same as we read about;
hey?”
He looked up and smiled. I seized his hand.
“George,” I said, chokingly, “I did not believe I had a real friend in
the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't
thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my
trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU--anything--I'll do it.
I'll swear to that.”
He shook my hand.
“I know you will, Ros,” he said. “I told you I knew you.”
“If ever I can do anything--”
He interrupted me.
“There's one thing you can do right now,” he said. “That's get out and
mix. That'll please me as much as anything. And begin right off. Why,
see here, the Methodist society is going to give a strawberry festival
on the meeting-house lawn next Thursday night. About everybody's going,
Nellie and I included. You come, will you?”
I hesitated. I had heard about the festival, but I certainly had not
contemplated attending.
“Come!” he urged. “You won't say no to the first favor I ask you.
Promise me you'll be on hand.”
Before I could answer, we heard the door of Mother's room open. George
and I hastened into the dining-room. Doctor Quimby and Nellie Dean were
there. Nellie rushed over to her lover's side.
“You bad boy,” she cried. “You're wet through.”
Doctor Quimby turned to me.
“Your ma's getting on all right,” he declared. “About all that ails her
now is that she wants to see you.”
George was assisting Nellie to put on her wraps.
“Got to leave you now, Ros,” he said. “Cap'n Jed and Matildy'll think
we've eloped ahead of time. Good-night. Oh, say, will you promise me to
take in the strawberry festival?”
“Why” I answered, “I suppose--Yes, Mother, I'm coming--Why, yes, George,
I'll promise, to please you.”
I have often wondered since what my life story would have been if I had
not made that promise.