When I left the boat house I did not go directly home, but wandered
along the beach. I had puzzled my brain with Mr. Keene and his
errand until I determined not to puzzle it any longer that day. If my
suspicions were unfounded and existed merely because of my dislike of
the Bay Shore Company's representative, then they were not worth worry.
If they were well founded I had almost a week in which to discover the
fact. I would dismiss the whole matter from my thoughts. The question
as to whether or not I would sell the land at all to anybody, which was,
after all, the real question, I resolved to put off answering until I
had had my talk with Mother.
I walked on by the water's edge until I reached the Lane; turning into
that much coveted strip of territory I continued until I came opposite
the Colton mansion, where, turning again, I strolled homeward by the
path through the grove. Unconsciously my wandering thoughts strayed to
Mabel Colton. It was here that I had met her on two occasions. I had an
odd feeling that I should meet her here again, that she was here now.
I had no reason for thinking such a thing, certainly the wish was not
father to the thought, but at every bend in the path, as the undergrowth
hid the way, I expected, as I turned the corner, to see her coming
toward me.
But the path was, save for myself, untenanted. I was almost at its end,
where the pines and bushes were scattering and the field of daisies, now
in full bloom, began, when I heard a slight sound at my left. I looked
in the direction of the sound and saw her. She was standing beneath a
gnarled, moss-draped old pine by the bluff edge, looking out over the
bay.
I stopped, involuntarily. Then I moved on again, as noiselessly as I
could. But at my first step she turned and saw me. I raised my hat.
She bowed, coldly, so it seemed to my supersensitive imagination, and
I replaced the hat and continued my walk. I thought I heard the bushes
near which she stood rustle as if she had moved, but I did not look
back.
Then, close behind me, I heard her voice.
“Mr. Paine,” she said.
I turned. She had followed me and was standing in the path, a bit out
of breath, as if she had hurried. I waited for her to speak, but she did
not.
“Good afternoon, Miss Colton,” I said, awkwardly. Some one had to speak,
we could not stand staring at each other like that.
She said “Good afternoon,” also. Then there was another interval of
silence.
“You--you wished to speak to me?” I stammered.
“I DID speak to you,” with significant emphasis on the “did.” “I thought
you might, possibly, be interested to know that Don and I reached home
safely the other day.”
Considering that she had called upon Mother since, it seemed to me
that my knowledge of her reaching home safely might have been taken for
granted; but I said:
“I am very glad to hear it, Miss Colton.”
“We had no difficulty in finding the way after you left us.”
The way being almost straight, and over the main traveled roads, this,
too, was fairly obvious.
“I felt sure you would have no trouble--after I left you,” I answered,
with a significant emphasis of my own.
She did not reply and, as I had nothing further to say, I waited for her
to continue, or to break off the interview. She did neither, but stood,
as if irresolute, looking down and stirring with her foot the leaves at
the edge of the path. Suddenly she looked up.
“Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are making it hard for me to say what I
intended. But I think I should say it, and so I will. I beg your pardon
for speaking as I did when I last saw you. I had no right to judge or
criticize you, none whatever.”
“You do not need to apologize, Miss Colton. What you told me was
probably true enough.”
The conventional answer to this would have been a half-hearted denial of
my statement. I presume I expected something of the sort. But this girl
was not conventional.
“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “I think it was. If I had not thought so
I should not have said it. But that makes no difference. You and I are
strangers, almost, and I had no right to speak as I did. I am impulsive,
I know it, and I often do and say things on impulse which I am sorry for
afterward. I offended you.”
“Oh no, no,” I put in, hurriedly. She had offended me, but this frank
confession touched me more than the offense had hurt. She was doing a
hard thing and doing it handsomely.
“Yes, I offended you,” she repeated, firmly. “I have considered the
matter a good deal since then, and it seems to me that you were right to
feel offended. You had been very kind to me on several occasions and I
had been your”--with a half smile--“your guest that day. I should not
have hurt your feelings. Will you accept my apology?”
“Why, yes, of course, since you insist, Miss Colton.”
“Thank you.”
She was turning to go; and I could not let her go thus. Although she had
apologized for speaking her thought she had not retracted the thought
itself. I was seized with a desire for justification in her eyes. I
wanted to explain; forgetting for the moment that explanations were
impossible.
“Miss Colton,” I said, impulsively.
“Yes?”
“May I--may I say a word?”
“Certainly, if you wish.”
She turned again and faced me.
“Miss Colton, I--I--” I began, and paused.
“Well?” she said, patiently, “What is it?”
“Miss Colton,” I blundered on, “you should not have apologized. You were
right. Your estimate of me was pretty nearly correct. I realized that
when you gave it and I have been realizing it ever since. I deserved
what I got--perhaps. But I should not wish you to think--that is,
I--well, I had reasons, they seemed to me reasons, for being what I
was--what I am. I doubt if they were altogether good reasons; I am
inclined now to think they were not. But I had come to think them good.
You see, I--I--”
I stopped, face to face with the fact that I could not give those
reasons to her or any one else. She was looking at me expectantly, and
with, so it seemed to me, an expression of real, almost eager interest.
I faltered, tried to go on, and then surrendered, absolutely, to the
hopelessness of the situation.
“It is no use,” I said, “I can't tell you what those reasons were.”
I turned as I said it. I did not care to see her expression change. I
knew what she must be thinking and I had no desire to read the thought
in her eyes. I stood there, waiting for her to leave in disgust.
“I can't tell you,” I repeated, stubbornly.
“Very well.” Her tone was as coldly indifferent as I had anticipated.
“Was that all you wished to say to me, Mr. Paine?”
“Miss Colton, I should like to explain if I could. But I cannot.”
“Pray don't trouble yourself. I assure you I had no intentions of asking
for your--reasons. Good afternoon.”
I heard her skirts brush the leaves at the border of the path. She was
going; and the contemptuous slur at my “reasons” proved that she did not
believe them existent. She believed me to be a liar.
“Miss Colton,” I said, sharply; “wait.”
She kept on.
“Wait,” I said again. “Listen to me.”
She seemed to hesitate and then turned her head.
“I am listening,” she said. “What is it?”
“You have no right to disbelieve me.”
“I disbelieve you? Why should you think I disbelieve you? I am not
sufficiently interested to believe or disbelieve, I assure you.”
“But you do. You judge me--”
“_I_ judge you! You flatter yourself, Mr. Paine.”
“But you do. You apologized just now for judging me without a hearing
the other day. You acknowledged that you should not have done it. You
are doing the same thing now.”
“I apologized for presuming to offer advice to a stranger. I did not
apologize for the advice itself. I think it good. I do not care to argue
the matter further.”
“You are not asked to argue. But your sneer at my reasons proves that
you believe that I have none and am merely trying to justify myself with
trumped up and lying excuses. You are wrong, and since you presumed to
judge me then you must listen to me now. I have--or had--reasons for
living as I have done, for being the idler and good-for-nothing you
believe me to be. I can't tell you what they are; I can tell no one. But
I do ask you to believe that I have them, that they are real, and that
my being what you termed ambitionless and a country loafer is not my
condition from choice. It is my right to insist upon your believing
that. Do you believe it?”
At last I had made an impression. My earnestness seemed to have shaken
her contemptuous indifference. She looked at me steadily, frowning a
little, but regarding me less as if I were a clod and more and more as
if I were the puzzle she had once declared me to be. I did not shun her
look now, but met it eye to eye.
“Do you believe me?” I demanded.
Slowly her frown was disappearing.
“Do you believe me?” I said, again. “You must.”
“Must?”
“Yes, you must. I shall make you. If not now, at some other time. You
must believe me, Miss Colton.”
The frown disappeared altogether and she smiled.
“If you order me to I suppose I must,” she said, with a shrug of mock
resignation. “I should have learned by this time that it is useless to
say no when you say yes, Mr. Paine.”
“But do you?”
She turned altogether and faced me.
“I am very glad to believe you,” she said, with simple directness.
I stammered a “Thank you” and was silent. I dared not trust myself to
speak at the moment. Somehow the sincerity of her words moved me far
more than their trifling import warranted. She had declared her belief
that I was not a liar, that was all; and yet I stood there fighting down
all sorts of ridiculous emotions. The situation was decidedly strained,
but, as usual, she saved it.
“It seems to me,” she said, with the twinkle which I had learned
to recognize as a forerunner of mischief on her part, “that you are
inclined to make mountains out of mole-hills, Mr. Paine. Was there any
need to be quite so fiercely tragic? And, besides, I think that even now
you have not told the whole truth.”
“The whole truth? Why, Miss Colton, I have just explained that--”
“Oh, not that truth! Your mysterious 'reasons' are not my affair. And
I have told you that I was willing to take those on trust. But you have
not been quite truthful in another particular. You intimated that you
were an idler. I have been given to understand that you are far from
being an idler just now.”
I was relieved. “Oh, I see!” I exclaimed. “You mean--some one has told
you of my employment at the bank.”
“A number of persons have told me. Surely you did not expect to keep
THAT a secret--in Denboro?”
“Well, scarcely,” I admitted, with a laugh. “That was known almost
before I was sure of it myself. You should have seen Eldredge's face
when I announced my intention. And Lute--Mrs. Rogers' husband--hasn't
completely recovered yet. The sight of me, actually trying to earn a
living, was too much for him. You see what a miracle worker you are,
Miss Colton.”
“Did you really accept the position simply because of what I said to
you?”
“Yes. The chance had been offered me before, but it was your frankness
that shocked me into taking it.”
“Not really? You are joking.”
“No, I'm not. You are responsible. Are you sorry?”
Her answer was a question.
“Are you?” she asked.
“No. At first it seemed ridiculous and strange, even to myself; but now
I like the work. It is like old times.”
“Old times?”
I was forgetting myself again; talking too much was a dangerous
train--for me. I laughed, with pretended carelessness.
“Why, yes; I was employed in a bank at one time. I think I told you
that. Have you been motoring much of late, Miss Colton?”
“Yes. Tell me, please: You really like your work?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I will answer your question. I am not a bit sorry. I am glad I was
impertinent and intrusive, especially now that I have apologized and
you have accepted the apology. I am very glad I told you you should do
something worth while.”
“Even if it were nothing more than to follow Thoph Newcomb's example and
sell fish.”
“Yes,” laughingly, “even that. I WAS impertinent, wasn't I! I don't
wonder you were offended.”
“I needed the impertinence, I guess. But frankly, Miss Colton, I can't
see why you should be glad because I have gone to work. I can't see what
difference my working or idling can possibly make to you.”
“Oh, it doesn't, of course--except on general principles. I am a
dreadful idler myself; but then, I am a woman, and idleness is a woman's
right.”
I thought of Dorinda and of the other housewives of Denboro and how
little of that particular “right” they enjoyed; which thought brought
again and forcibly to my mind the difference between this girl's life
and theirs--and Mother's--and my own.
“A man,” continued Miss Colton, sagely, “should not idle. He should work
and work hard--so that the rest of us may be as good for nothing as we
please. That is philosophy, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“You were good enough not to say what sort of philosophy. Thank you. But
seriously, Mr. Paine, I am fond of your mother--very fond, considering
our short acquaintance--and when I saw her lying there, so patient, and
deprived of the little luxuries and conveniences which she needs, and
which a little more money might bring to her, it seemed to me . . .
Gracious! what a lot of nonsense I am talking! What is the matter with
me this afternoon? Do let's change the subject. Have you sold your land
yet, Mr. Paine? Of course you haven't! That is more nonsense, isn't it.”
I think she had again spoken merely on the impulse of the moment;
doubtless there was no deliberate intention on her part to bring me to a
realization of my position, the position I occupied in her thoughts;
but if she had had such an intent she could not have done it more
effectively. She believed me to have been neglecting Mother, and her
interest in my “doing something worth while” was inspired merely because
she wished Mother to be supplied with those “luxuries and conveniences”
she had mentioned. Well, my question was answered; this was the
difference my working or idling made to her. And, for a minute or two,
I had been foolish enough to fancy her interested, as a friend, in my
success or failure in life. I might have known better. And yet, because
of the novelty of the thing, because I had so few friends, I felt a pang
of disappointment.
But I resolved she should not know she had disappointed me. I might have
been a fool, but I would keep my foolishness a secret.
“No, Miss Colton,” I said, with a smile, “I haven't sold yet.”
“Father said he saw you at the bank. Did he say anything about the
land?”
“He said his offer was still open, that was all.”
“You are resolved not to sell.”
“To him? Yes, I am resolved. I think he knows it. I tried to make it
plain.”
“You say to him. Are you thinking of selling to any one else? To the
town?”
“No. Probably not to any one. Certainly not to your father or the town.”
She looked at me, with an odd expression, and seemed to hesitate.
“Mr. Paine,” she said, slowly, “would you resent my giving you another
bit of--advice?”
“Not at all. What is it this time?”
“Why, nothing. I must not give you any advice at all. I won't. Instead
I'll give you one of Father's pet proverbs. It isn't an elegant one, but
he is very fond of repeating it. 'There are more ways of killing a cat
than choking it to death with butter.' There! you will admit it is not
elegant.”
“But Miss Colton! Killing a cat! What in the world?”
“You mustn't ask me. I shouldn't have said even that. But remember, it
is father's pet proverb. I must go. Please give my love to your mother
and tell her I shall call again soon. Good-by.”
She walked briskly away and did not look back. I went home. I thought a
great deal during the evening and until late that night. When, at last,
I did go to bed I had not made much progress in the problem of the cat,
but I did believe that there was a rat in the vicinity. I was beginning
to scent one. If I was not mistaken it called itself the Bay Shore
Development Company.
I said nothing to Mother of the new proposal to buy our land, but next
morning at the bank I wrote a letter to the cashier of a bank in Boston,
one of our correspondents, and with which our little institution was on
very friendly terms. I asked the cashier to make some guarded inquiries
concerning the Bay Shore Company, to find out, if possible, who was
behind it and also to inquire concerning Barclay and Keene, the real
estate brokers of Milk Street.
The reply to my letter reached me on Friday. It was satisfactory,
eminently so. And when, on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Keene, bland and
smiling as ever, made his appearance at the house, I was ready for him.
I stood on the step and made no move to invite him within. “Well, Mr.
Paine,” he said, cordially, “are you ready to talk business?”
“Quite ready,” I answered.
He beamed with satisfaction.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “Then what is your figure?”
“My figure is a naught,” I replied, with emphasis. “You may tell your
employer that I do not care to sell the land to him, no matter whether
he calls himself James Colton or the Bay Shore Development Company. Oh
yes; and, if you like, you may add that this particular cat declines to
be choked.”
Mr. Keene showed signs of choking, himself, and I shut the door and left
him outside. Lute, who had been listening at the dining-room window and
had heard only fragments of the brief interview, was in a state of added
incoherence.
“Well, by time!” he gasped. “What--what sort of talk was that? Chokin' a
cat! A cat!! We ain't got no cat.”
“Haven't we?” I observed. “Why, no, so we haven't! Perhaps you had
better explain that to Mr. Keene, Lute. It may help him to understand
the situation. And add that I suggest his telling the person who sent
him here that soft-soap is no improvement on butter.”
I think Lute did tell him just that, doubtless with all sorts of excuses
for my insanity, for the next day, Sunday, as I walked along the beach,
a big body came ploughing down the sandy slope and joined me.
“Hello!” said Colton.
“Good morning,” said I.
“How are independence and public spirit these days?”
“Very well, thank you. How are Development Companies developing?”
He put back his head and laughed. He did not seem a bit chagrined or
discomfited. The joke was on him, but he could enjoy it, nevertheless.
In spite of my antagonism toward this man I could not help admiring
certain traits of his character. He was big, in every way. Little
repulses or setbacks did not trouble him.
“Say,” he said, “how did you know about that cat?”
“Saw his footprints,” I replied. “They were all over the scheme. And
your friend Keene purred too loud.”
“I don't mean that. Keene was a fool; that was plain enough for anyone
to see. I had to use him; if Barclay hadn't been sick it might have
been different. But how did you come to send me that message about the
butter? Man, that is one of my favorite sayings--the choking the cat
thing! How did you know that? I never said it to you.”
“Oh, it is an old saying. I have heard it often; and it did seem to fit
in this case. I imagined you would understand and appreciate.”
“Um--yes,” dryly. “I appreciated all right. As to understanding--well,
I'll understand later on. That's another little conundrum for me to
work out. Somebody's been talking, of course. Here! hold on!” as I was
walking away: “Don't go. I want to talk to you.”
He characteristically did not ask whether or not I wanted to talk to
him, but, as I happened to be in no hurry, I stopped and waited for him
to continue. He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked me over,
very much as he might have looked over a horse he was thinking of
buying.
“Paine,” he said, suddenly, “do you want to go to work?”
“Work?” I repeated. “I am at work already.”
“You've got a job, such as it is. It might be work for the average jay,
but it isn't for you. I'll give you something to work at--yes, and work
for.”
I stared at him in wondering suspicion.
“What is this; another Development Company?” I demanded.
“Ha! ha! not this time. No, this is straight. If you'll say that you'll
work for me I'll make an opening for you in my New York office.”
I did not answer. I was trying to fathom the motive behind this new
move.
“I'll put you to work in my office,” he went on. “It may not be much to
begin with, but you can make it anything you like; that'll be up to you.
As to salary--well, I don't know what you're getting in that one-horse
bank, but I'll double it, whatever it is. That will be the start, of
course. After that it is up to you, as I said.”
“Mr. Colton this may be a good joke, but I don't see it--yet.”
“I don't joke often in business; can't afford to.”
“You are really serious? You mean what you say?”
“Yes.”
“But why? You don't know anything about me.”
“I know all that is necessary. And I have found out that you are all
right, so far as bank work goes. That fellow Taylor and some others told
me that. But I didn't need their telling. Why, man, it is part of my
trade to know men when I see them. I have to know 'em. I said a while
ago that you didn't belong in this forsaken hole of a town. God knows
it IS forsaken! Even my wife is beginning to admit that, and she was the
keenest to come here. Some day I shall get sick of it and sell out, I
suppose.”
“Sell out?”
“Oh, not yet. Mabel--my daughter--seems to like it here, for some
unknown reason, and wants to stay. And I don't intend to sell until I've
bought--what I set out to buy. But I'm not the subject we're talking
about just now. You are. Come! here's your chance to be somebody. More
chance than I had, I'll tell you that. You can go to work in my office
next week, if you want to. Will you?”
I laughed at the idea. I believed I had found the motive I was seeking.
“Of course not,” I said. “You can't close the Lane by that kind of
bribery, Mr. Colton.”
“Bribery be hanged! Come, come, Paine! Wake up, or I shall think your
brains aren't up to standard, after all. When I bribe I bribe. When I
ask a man to work for me there are no strings tied to the offer. Forget
your picayune land for a minute. Time enough to remember that when I've
got it, which will be some day or other, of course. I'm making you this
offer because I want you. You're sharp; you saw through that Development
game. You're clever--your sending me that 'cat' message proves it. And
your not telling me where the idea for the message came from proves that
you can keep your mouth shut. I could use a dozen fellows like you, if
I could get them. You interested me right at the start. A chap with sand
enough to tell Jim Colton to go to the devil is always interesting. I'm
offering you this chance because I think it is a good chance for both
of us. Yes, and because I like you, I suppose, in spite of your
pig-headedness. Will you take it?”
“No, thank you,” I answered.
“Why? Because you can't leave your sick mother? She'll be all right.
I was talking with the doctor--Quimby, his name is, isn't it--and he
happened to mention that he was encouraged about her. Said she had been
distinctly better for the last month.”
I could not believe it. Doctor Quimby had said nothing of the sort to
me. It was impossible. Mother BETTER!
“That doesn't mean she is going to be well and strong again, of course,”
he added, not unkindly. “But I think Quimby believes she may be well
enough to--perhaps--sit up one of these days. Be wheeled about in a
chair, or something of that sort . . . Why! what is the matter? You
looked as if I had knocked you out. Hasn't the doctor said anything to
you?”
“No,” I stammered. I WAS knocked out. I could not believe it. Mother,
the bed-ridden invalid of six long years, to be well enough to sit up!
to use a wheeled chair! It could not be true. It was too good to be
true.
“So, you see, you could leave her all right,” went on Colton. “If it was
necessary you could get a nurse down here to look after her while you
were away. And you might get home every fortnight or so. Better take my
offer, Paine. Come!” with a grunt of impatient amusement, “don't keep me
waiting too long. I am not used to coaxing people to work for me; it is
usually the other way around. This offer of mine happens to be pretty
nearly a disinterested one, and,” with one of his dry smiles, “all my
offers are not that kind, as you ought to know. Will you say yes now? Or
do you want till to-morrow to think it over?”
The news concerning Mother had upset me greatly, but my common-sense was
not all gone. That there was something behind his offer I believed, but,
even if there were not--if it was disinterested and made simply because
my unearthing of the Bay Shore “cat” had caught his fancy--I did not
consider for a moment accepting it. Not if Mother was like other women,
well and strong, would I have accepted it. In Denboro I was Roscoe
Paine, and my life story was my own secret. In New York how long would
it be before that secret and my real name were known, and all the old
disgrace and scandal resurrected?
“What do you say?” asked Colton, again. “Want more time to think about
it, do you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “I have had time enough. I am obliged
for the offer and I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot accept.”
I expected him to express impatience or, perhaps, anger; at least to ask
my reasons for declining. But his only utterance was a “Humph!” For a
moment he regarded me keenly. Then he said:
“Haven't got the answer yet, have I? All right. Well,” briskly, “when
are you and I going on that shooting trip?”
“There is no shooting at present,” I answered, as soon as I could adjust
my mind to this new switch in the conversation.
“That so? Any fishing?”
“I believe the squiteague are running outside. I heard they were.”
“What? Squit--which?”
“Squiteague. Weakfish some people call them.”
“They are pretty fair sport, aren't they?”
“Yes, fair. Nothing like bluefish, however.”
“All right. What is the matter with our going squint--squint--something
or othering one of these days? Will you go? Or are you as pig-headed
about that as you are about other things?”
I laughed. “Not quite,” I said. “I should be glad of your company, Mr.
Colton.”
“Next Saturday suit you?”
“Yes. After bank hours.”
“All right. I'll look after the boat. You provide the bait and tackle.
That's fair, isn't it? Right. Be on hand at my dock at one o'clock.
Morning.”
He walked off. Neither of us had thought of the tide--he, probably, not
realizing that high water was an important factor, and I being too much
agitated by what he had said about Mother, and the suddenness with which
the fishing trip was planned, to think calmly of anything.
That week was a strange one to me, and the first of many strange ones.
My manner of life was changing, although I did not realize it and
although the change came through no effort of my own. Our house, which
had been so long almost a hermitage, if a home containing four persons
might be called that, was gradually becoming a social center. Matilda
Dean had called once a week regularly for some time and this particular
week Captain Jed came with her. Captain Elisha Warren and his cousin and
housekeeper, Miss Abbie Baker, drove down for a half-hour's stay. George
Taylor and Nellie spent an evening with us. I feared the unaccustomed
rush of company might have a bad effect upon Mother, but she seemed
actually the better for it. She professed to believe that Denboro was
awakening to the fact of my merits as a man and a citizen. “They are
finding you out at last, Boy,” she said. I laughed at her. I knew
better. It was because of my position in the bank that these people
came. I was making good there, apparently, and the surprise at
this caused Captain Warren and the rest to take a new, and no doubt
transitory interest in me.
And I thought I knew Captain Jed's reason for coming. An interview
between us gave me the inkling. Matilda was in Mother's room and Dean
and I were together in the dining-room.
“Ros,” said the captain, suddenly, “you ain't backin' water, are you?”
“Backing water? What do you mean by that?”
“In this Lane business. You ain't cal'latin' to sell out to Colton,
after all?”
“Well, hardly. Why do you say that?”
“Nothin', maybe. But they tell me you're kind of thick with the R'yal
family lately. Beriah Holt says he see you and the Colton girl come out
of the woods back of his place one afternoon a spell ago. She was on
horseback and you was walkin', but Beriah says you and she was mighty
friendly.”
I might have expected this. In Denboro one does few things unnoticed.
“She had lost her way in the woods and I helped her to find the road
home,” I said, “that was all.”
“Hum! You helped her to find the road the night of the strawberry
festival, too, didn't you?”
“How in the world did you find that out?”
“Oh, it just sort of drifted around. I've got pretty big ears--maybe
you've noticed 'em--and they gen'rally catch some of what's blowin'
past. There was a coachman mixed up in that night's work and he talked
some, I shouldn't wonder; most of his kind do.”
“Well, what of it?” I asked, sharply. “I helped her as I would your
daughter if she had been caught alone in a storm like that. I should
have been ashamed not to.”
“Sartin! Needn't get mad about it. What's this about your takin' his
Majesty off fishin' next Saturday?”
All of my personal affairs seemed to be common property. I was losing my
temper in spite of my recent good resolutions.
“Look here, Captain Dean,” I said, “I have a right to take any one
fishing, if I choose. Mr. Colton asked me to do it and I saw no reason
for saying no.”
“Funny he should ask you. He ain't asked anybody else in town.”
“I don't know that and I don't care. I shall do as I please. I have
no grievance against the Coltons. I shall not sell them my land, but I
reserve the right to meet them--yes, and to associate with them--if I
choose. You and your friends may as well understand that, Captain.”
“There! there! don't get huffy. I ain't got the right to say what your
rights are, Ros. And I don't think for a minute you'd back water on the
Lane business a-purpose. But I do think you're takin' chances. I tell
you, honest, I'm scart of old Colton, in a way, and I ain't scart
of many folks. He's a fighter and he's smart. He and I have had some
talks--”
“You have?” I interrupted.
“Yup. Lively squabbles they was, too. Each of us expressin' our opinion
of t'other and not holdin' back anything to speak of. I don't know how
he felt when we quit, but I know I respected him--for his out and open
cussedness and grit, if nothin' else. And I think he felt the same way
about me. But he's smart--consarn him, he is! And HE never backs water.
That's why I think you're takin' chances in bein' too friendly with him.
He's layin' low and, if you get off your guard just once he'll grab.”
I hesitated; then I made up my mind.
“Captain Dean,” I said, “his smartness hasn't caught me yet. I'm going
to tell you something, but first you must promise not to tell anyone
else.”
He promised and I told him of Mr. Keene and the Bay Shore Company.
He listened, interrupting with chuckles and exclamations. When I had
finished he seized my hand and wrung it.
“By the everlastin'!” he exclaimed, “that was great! I say again, you're
all right, Ros Paine. Even _I_ swallered that Development Company, hook,
line, and sinker. But YOU saw through it!”
“I tell you this,” I said, “so that you will understand I have no
intention of backing water.”
“I know you ain't. Knew it afore and now I know it better. But I can't
understand what the Colton game is--and there is a game, sure. That
daughter of his, now--she may be in it or she may not. She's pretty
and I will give in that she's folksy and sociable with us natives; it's
surprisin', considerin' her bringin' up. Nellie and Matildy like her,
Nellie especial. They're real chummy, as you might say. Talk and talk,
just as easy and common as you and I this minute. I've heard 'em two or
three times at my house when they thought I wasn't listenin' and twice
out of the three they was talkin' about you.”
“About ME?” I repeated.
“Yes. I don't wonder you're surprised. I was myself. Asked Nellie about
it and she just laughed. Said you was the principal object of
interest in town just now, which is more or less true. But it makes me
suspicious, all the same. Why should a girl like that Colton one talk
about a feller like you? You're as fur apart, fur's anything in common
is concerned, as molasses is from vinegar. Ain't that so?”
It was so, of course, but he need not have been so brutally frank in
telling me. However, I nodded and admitted that he was right.
“Yes,” he said. “A blind horse could see there was no sensible, open and
above-board reason for HER bein' interested in YOU. So there's another
reason, the way I look at it, and that's why I'd be mighty careful,
mighty careful, Ros. Her pa's got a new trick up his sleeve and she's
helpin' him play it, that's my notion. So be careful, won't you.”
“I'll be careful,” said I. I knew, as well as I knew my real name--which
he did not--that Mabel Colton was not helping her father play any
tricks. I had seen enough of her to be certain she was not tricky. And,
besides, if she were in sympathy with her parent, why had she given me
the hint which put me on the trail of the Development Company? Why had
she given me the hint at all? That was the real riddle, and I had
not, as yet, hit upon a plausible answer. Those I had hit upon were
ridiculous and impossible, and I put them from my mind. But she was not
tricky, that I knew.
Captain Jed changed the subject and we talked of Nellie's wedding, which
was to take place in a month. The captain was full of various emotions,
regret at losing his daughter and joy because of her getting such a good
husband. His last words were these:
“Ros,” he said, “be careful, for my sake full as much as yours. This
Lane business and Nellie's gettin' married have sort of possessed me,
same as the evil spirits did the swine, in scriptur'. I lay awake nights
fussin' for fear the marriage won't turn out happy or for fear
you'll sell the Lane after all. And one's just as likely to happen as
t'other--which means they're both impossible, I cal'late. But look out
for that Colton girl, whatever else you do. She's a good deal better
lookin' than her dad, but she's just as dangerous. You mark my words,
son, the feller that plays with fire takes chances. So don't be TOO
sociable with any of the tribe.”
And the very next afternoon the dangerous person herself called and she
and I spent an hour in Mother's room, where the three of us chatted
like old friends. She had the rare power of making one forget self and
personal worries and I could readily understand why Mother had been so
completely won by her. She was bright and cheery and sympathetic. Here
there was no trace of the pride of class and the arrogance which had
caused me to hate her so heartily at first. It seemed almost as if
she had set herself the task of making me like her in spite of my
prejudices. My reason told me that this could not be; it was merely her
fancy for Mother which caused her to notice me at all; she had as much
as said so more than once. But I did like her; I acknowledged it in
my thoughts; and, after she had gone, the room, with its drawn shades,
seemed doubly dark and gloomy. Mother was silent for a few minutes and
I, too, said nothing. Then:
“She is a wonderful girl, isn't she, Roscoe,” said Mother.
She was altogether too wonderful, that was the trouble. A girl like
her had no place in our lives. I went out for a walk and a smoke by the
bluff edge; and, almost before I knew it, I found myself standing at
the border of the grove, looking at the great house and trying to guess
which was her room and if she was there and of what or whom she might be
thinking just then. “Mark my words, son,” Captain Jed had declared, “the
feller that plays with fire takes chances.”
I turned on my heel and set out for home. I would take no chances. I
must not play with fire, even though the flames had, for the moment,
dazzled me. I had called myself a fool many times in the past few years,
but I would not be so great a fool as that.