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.”
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