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.
_I_ was 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: _I_ don'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.”