So I resolved, more resolutely than ever, to keep out of her way, to see as little of her as possible! and, as had happened before to similar resolutions of mine with which she was concerned, this one was rendered non-effective, through no fault of my own, almost as soon as it was made. For on Saturday afternoon, as I approached the Colton wharf, laden with bait and rods for the fishing excursion in the Colton boat, I saw her standing there beside her father, waiting for me.
“We've got a passenger, Paine,” said “Big Jim.” “You've met her before, I believe—on the water and in it. No objections to my daughter's going along, have you?”
What could I say; except to announce delight at the addition to our party? Perhaps I did not say it as heartily as I might, for, Miss Colton, who was regarding me with a mischievous smile, observed demurely:
“I am sure he must be delighted, Father. Mr. Paine knows I am very fond of fishing; don't you, Mr. Paine?”
“Yes; oh, yes, of course,” I stammered.
“He does, eh!” Her father seemed surprised. “How did he find that out?”
I thought the question was addressed to her, so I did not answer. She seemed to think otherwise, for she said:
“Did you hear, Mr. Paine? Father asks how you knew I was fond of fishing.”
“Why—er—you told me so, Miss Colton,” I replied. If she had not related her Seabury Pond experience to her parents I did not propose to be trapped into doing so. She laughed merrily.
“Did I?” she asked. “Yes, I believe I did.”
Mr. Colton looked at us, each in turn.
“Humph!” he observed; “I don't seem to be aboard this train. What's the joke?”
She saved me the problem of inventing a satisfactory answer.
“Oh, it's a little joke of Mr. Paine's and my own,” she explained. “I'll tell you about it by and by, Father. It would take too long to tell now. He saved my life once more, that's all.”
“Oh! that's all! Humph! And you did not think a trifle like that worth mentioning to me, I suppose. Would you mind telling me what it was he saved you from this time?”
“From starvation. I was a famished wayfarer and he took me in. There, Daddy, don't puzzle your poor brain any longer. It is all right and I'll tell you all about it when we get home. Now I am sure we should be starting if we are to have any fishing at all. Shall we cast off, Mr.—that is, Captain Paine?”
That fishing trip was not a huge success if judged solely by the size of the catch. The weakfish were not hungry or we did not tempt them with bait to their taste that day. We got a half dozen, of which I caught three, Miss Colton two, and her father but one. His, however, was a big one, much the biggest of the six, and he had a glorious time landing it. He fished as he appeared to do everything else, with intense earnestness and determination. He evidently considered the struggle a sort of personal disagreement between the fish and himself and, as usual, intended to have his way. He succeeded after a while, and announced that he had not enjoyed anything as much since arriving in Denboro.
His daughter also seemed to be enjoying herself. She was quite as good a fisher as her father, and, when the sport was over, and we reeled in our lines preparatory to starting for home, rallied him not a little at having been the least successful of the party. He took her teasing good-naturedly.
“You think it is quite a feat to get the better of your old dad, don't you, my lady,” he observed.
“Of course I do. It is, isn't it?”
He chuckled. “Well, maybe you're right,” he admitted. “You do it oftener than any one else, that is certain. Paine, you might take lessons from her, if you are still hoping to keep up your end in the little fight you and I have on hand.”
She turned to me and smiled. Her graceful head was silhouetted against the red glow of the sunset and a loosened strand of her hair waved in the light breeze.
“I think Mr. Paine does not need lessons from any one,” she said. “He seems to be holding his own very well.”
“But he's frightened, all the same. Come, Paine, own up now. You know you are frightened, don't you?”
“Not very,” I answered, truthfully.
“So? Then you aren't as sensible as you ought to be. A wise man knows when to be scared. Let's make a little bet on it. I'll bet you two to one that I'll own that land of yours inside of six months.”
I shook my head. “I never bet on certainties,” I declared. “I should be ashamed to collect my winnings.”
This seemed to amuse them both, for they both laughed.
“Father,” said Miss Colton, “I am afraid you don't learn by experience. You have lost one bet already, you know.”
“That's so. And I haven't paid it yet, either. I must, or you'll be telling every one that I am a poor sport. Paine, this young lady bet me a new pipe against a box of gloves that you wouldn't—”
“Father,” broke in the young lady, herself, “stop.”
“Oh, all right, all right. Just as you say. But I tell you this, Paine; SHE hasn't any scruples against betting on certainties.”
She was leaning against the cockpit rail, looking forward, and I could not see her face. She spoke without turning.
“You thought yours was the certainty,” she said. “You warned me that I was sure to lose.”
“Did I? Well, you may, even yet. On the whole, I think I'll wait a while before buying those gloves. Remember, there was no time limit. When you said that—”
“Father,” more firmly, “please be quiet. You have said quite enough. Mr. Paine is not likely to be interested in the family gambling.”
I was interested in this particular “gamble.” The wager had, obviously, something to do with me. I suppose I should have felt flattered at being made the subject of a bet in such select circles, but I did not. I had not been informed as to the details of that bet.
There was nothing more said about it at the time and my passengers talked of other things as we sailed home before the fast dying breeze. It died almost altogether as we passed the lighthouse at Crow Point and entered the bay and, for an hour, we barely held our own against the tide. The sun set, twilight came, and the stars appeared one by one. Colton, lying at full length on the deck forward of the cockpit, smoked in lazy enjoyment. His only remark in ten minutes was to the effect that his wife had probably drowned us all, in her mind, a dozen times over by now.
His daughter, sitting by the rail and looking out over the smooth, darkly glimmering water, bade him be quiet.
“You must not talk,” she said. “This is the most wonderful night I ever experienced. How still it is! You can hear every sound. Hark!”
From the dusk, to port, came the clear strokes of a church bell striking eight.
“That is the clock at the Methodist Church, isn't it?” asked Miss Colton.
“Yes,” said I.
“The church where the strawberry festival was held?”
“Yes.”
Colton struck a match to relight his cigar.
“Shouldn't think that would be a pleasant reminder to either of you,” he observed. “I am mighty sure it wasn't to me.”
Miss Colton did not answer, nor did I.
The breeze sprang up again soon after, from a different quarter this time, but the tide had ebbed so far that I was obliged to make the detour around the end of the flat upon which Victor had grounded the dingy. “Big Jim” raised himself on his elbow.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, “here's another joyful spot. Mabel, it was along here somewhere that Paine acquired the habit of carrying you about like a bundle. It must have been a picturesque performance. Wish I might have seen it.”
He laughed heartily.
“Father,” said the young lady, coldly, “don't be silly—please.”
He chuckled and lay down again, and no one spoke during the rest of the voyage. It was after nine when I brought the boat up to the wharf, made her fast, and lowered and furled the sail.
“Better come up to the house with us and have a bit to eat, Paine,” urged Colton. “You must be hungry; I know I am.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said I. “Supper will be waiting for me at home.”
“Glad to have you, if you'll come. Tell him to come, Mabel.”
Miss Colton's invitation was not over-cordial.
“I presume Mr. Paine knows what is best for him to do,” she said. “Of course we shall be glad to have him, if he will come.”
I declined, and, after thanking me for the sail and the pleasure of the fishing trip, they left me, Colton carrying his big squiteague by the gills, its tail slapping his leg as he climbed the bluff. A moment later I followed.
The night was, as my feminine passenger had said, wonderfully quiet, and sounds carried a long way. As I reached the juncture of the path and the Lane I heard a voice which I recognized as Mrs. Colton's. She was evidently standing on the veranda of the big house and I heard every word distinctly.
“You are so unthinking, James! You and Mabel have no regard for my feelings at all. I have been worried almost to death. Do you realize the time? I warned you against trusting yourself to the care of that common FELLOW—”
The “fellow” heard no more. He did not wish to. He was tramping heavily through the dew-soaked undergrowth. He needed now no counsel against “playing with fire.” The cutting contempt of Mrs. James W. Colton's remark was fire-extinguisher sufficient for that night.
Miss Colton and I met again at the door of the bank a day or two later, just at closing time. Sam Wheeler had already gone and I left George at his desk, poring over papers and busily figuring. He was working over time much of late and explained his industry by the fact of his approaching marriage and his desire to make things easy for me to handle while he was on his brief wedding trip. I was not much alarmed by the prospect. He was to be gone but a week and I had become sufficiently familiar with the routine to feel confident in assuming the responsibility. Small, my predecessor, had a brother who had formerly been employed in the bank and was now out of work, and he was coming in to help during the cashier's absence. I was not worried by the prospect of being left in charge, but I was worried about George. He, so it seemed to me, had grown pale and thin. Also he was nervously irritable and not at all like his usual good-natured self. I tried to joke him into better humor, but he did not respond to my jokes. He seemed, too, to realize that his odd behavior was noticeable, for he said:
“Don't mind my crankiness, Ros. I've got so much on my mind that I'd be mean to my old grandmother, if I had one, I guess likely. Don't let my meanness trouble you; it isn't worth trouble.”
I laughed. “George,” I said, “if I ever dreamed of such a thing as getting married myself, you would scare me out of it. You ought to be a happy man, and act like one; instead you act as if you were about to be jailed.”
He caught his breath with a sort of gasp. Then, after a pause and without looking up, he asked slowly:
“Jailed? What in the world made you say that, Ros?”
“I said it because you act as if you were bound for state's prison instead of the matrimonial altar. George, what IS troubling you?”
“Troubling me? Why—why, nothing special, of course. Catching up with my work here makes me nervous and—and kind of absent-minded, I guess. Act absent-minded, don't I?”
He did, there was no doubt of that, but I did not believe it was his work which caused the absent-mindedness.
“If there is any trouble, George,” I said, earnestly; “if you're in any difficulty, personally, I shall be very glad to help you, if I can. I mean that.”
For a moment I thought he hesitated. Then he shook his head.
“I know you mean it, Ros,” he answered. “I'm much obliged to you, too. But there's nothing to help me with. I'm just nervous and tired, that's all.”
I did not believe it, but I felt that I had said all I could, considering his attitude. I bade him good night and left the building. As I came down the steps Miss Colton was just crossing the road from Eldredge's store, a good sized brown paper parcel in her hand.
Ever since the day when Captain Jed had given me his warning I had been strengthening my resolution. The remark of Mrs. Colton's which I had overheard on the night of the fishing trip, although it revealed to me, as I believed, my real standing in the minds of my neighbors, whatever they might pretend when in my company, was, after all, only a minor detail. I knew that I must break off my acquaintance with this girl. By all that was sensible and sane it must be broken off. I must not, for my own sake, continue to meet her, to see her and speak with her. No; I would avoid her if I could, but, at all events, I would break off the association, even if I were obliged to offend her, deliberately offend her, to accomplish my purpose. I swore it; and then I swore at myself for being so weak-minded as to need to swear. That I should be afraid of a girl, a mere girl, ten years younger than I, who, as the casual pastime of an idle summer, had chosen to pretend an interest in me! I was not afraid of her, of course; I was afraid of myself. Not that I was in danger of falling in love with her—that idea was too ridiculous to be even funny. But she was becoming a disturbing influence in my life—that was it, a disturbing influence—and I must not permit myself to be disturbed.
So now, as I saw the disturbing influence crossing the road in my direction, my first thought was to retreat to the bank. But it was too late to retreat; she had seen me, and she bowed pleasantly as she approached.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
I bowed and admitted that the afternoon was a good one, conscious as I did so that Sim Eldredge had followed her to the door of his store and was regarding us with marked interest.
She exhibited the package. “I am acting as my own errand boy, you see,” she said, smiling. “It was such a beautiful day that I refused to send any one for this, or even to ride. I did not realize that a few yards of muslin would make such a bundle. Now I must carry it, I suppose, in spite of appearances.”
I believed I saw an opportunity to escape.
“I am going directly home,” I said. “Let me carry it down for you. I will send it over to your house by Lute.”
“Oh, no thank you. I could not think of troubling Mr. Rogers. But do you really want to carry it? You may, for a while. We will take turns. I am going directly home, too; and we will walk down together. Unless, of course, you are in a hurry.”
I think it was the expression of my face which led her to add the last sentence. If I had had time to think, to summon my resolution, it is possible—yes, it is possible that I should have declared myself to be in a hurry and gone on alone. But she had caught me unawares and resolution was wanting. I announced that I was in no hurry at all, and took the parcel.
We walked on together, she chatting easily, and I pretending to listen, although aware that our progress was watched by eager eyes and commented upon and exclaimed over by many tongues. The drawn shades of parlor windows moved significantly as we passed and, as we turned into the Lower Road, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Sim Eldredge and his clerk and Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker on the store platform, staring after us. As if this audience was not sufficient, and to make the affair complete, we met Captain Dean strutting importantly on his way to the post-office. He bowed and said “Afternoon,” but the look he gave me was significant. There was surprise in it, and distrust. I knew I should have to do more explaining at our next meeting. And I knew, too, or could guess, what was being said that very moment at the store, and of the surmising and theorizing and strengthening of suspicions which would go on at a dozen supper tables that evening.
My companion, however, appeared to be quite unconscious of all this. That I might be suspected and misjudged because she had chanced to prefer my company to a walk home alone did not, evidently, occur to her. There was no reason why it should, of course; she was not in the position where the opinion or suspicions of Denboro's inhabitants need concern her in the least. But I, angry at Captain Jed for his look and with Sim Eldredge and his companions for their impudent stares and the trouble I knew their gossipy tongues would make for me, was gloomy and resentful.
She did most of the talking and I walked beside her, putting in a word occasionally and doing my best to appear as unconcerned as she really was. We crossed Elnathan Mullet's bridge and continued down the Shore Lane. Suddenly I was aware that she had not spoken for some minutes.
“Eh? Yes, Miss Colton; what is it?” I stammered. Then I realized that we were standing beside the granite posts marking the entrance to the Colton grounds. I had been so wrapped in my unpleasant thoughts and forebodings that we had reached our journey's end without my noticing it.
“Well!” I exclaimed, and then added the brilliant observation, “We are here, aren't we.”
“We are,” she said, dryly. “Didn't you know it?”
“Why, I had not realized. The walk has seemed so short.”
“Yes, I'm sure it must. I think you have spoken exactly six words in the last five minutes. Will you come in?”
“Oh no; no, thank you.”
“Why not? Father is in and will be glad to see you.”
“I—I must be getting on toward home. Supper will be ready.”
She bit her lip. “Far be it from me to criticize your domestic arrangements, Mr. Paine,” she said, “but it does seem to me that your housekeeper serves meals at odd hours. It is only a few minutes after four, by my watch.”
She had me at a disadvantage. I imagined I must have appeared embarrassed. I know I felt that way.
“I did not realize . . . I thought it much later,” I stammered.
“Then you will come in? Father will like to discuss the fishing with you, I know. He has talked of little but his wonderful weakfish ever since he caught it.”
“No, thank you, Miss Colton. Really, I must not stop.”
She took the parcel from my hands.
“Very well,” she said, indifferently; “as you please. I thank you for your kindness in walking down with me. Good afternoon, Mr. Paine.”
She turned away. Here was the opportunity I had been waiting for, the opportunity of breaking off our acquaintance. If I knew anything I knew the tone of that “Good afternoon” meant that, for some reason or other, she was offended, just as I had been certain I wished her to be. Here was the opportunity, Heaven sent, to rid my life of its disturbing influence. Just what I had prayed for had come to pass.
And so, to prove the sincerity of my prayers and the worth of my high resolve, I—called her back.
“Miss Colton,” I said.
She, apparently, did not hear me, so I called again.
“Miss Colton.”
“Yes?”
“I seem somehow or other to have offended you.” And even as I said it I realized the completeness of the back-down, realized it and blushed. I was ashamed of my weakness. Yet when she asked me to repeat my words I did so.
“You spoke to me?” she said, coldly.
“I—I said I had not meant to offend you.”
“Why should you imagine that I am offended, pray? You seem to think other people must necessarily regard you as seriously as you do yourself. I am not offended.”
“But you are.”
“Very well; then I am. We won't argue the matter; it is scarcely worth argument, is it?”
This observation called for no answer in particular, at least I could not think of one. While I was groping for a word she spoke again.
“Don't let me detain you, Mr. Paine,” she said. “I am sure your—supper, was it?—must be waiting.”
“Miss Colton, you—you seem to resent my not accepting your invitation to visit your father. I assure you I—I should be very glad to call upon him.”
“Thank you. I will tell him so. He will be grateful, doubtless. Your condescension is overwhelming, Mr. Paine.”
“Miss Colton, everything I say seems to be wrong this afternoon. I don't know what I have done. Twice you have spoken of my condescension.”
Her foot was beginning to pat the grass. I recognized the battle signal, but I kept on.
“I don't understand what you mean by condescension,” I said.
“Don't you, indeed? You are very dense all at once, Mr. Paine.”
“Possibly. But I don't understand.”
For an instant she hesitated. Then she turned on me with a gust of fierce impatience which took my breath away. Her eyes flashed.
“You do,” she declared. “You do understand, I am not blind. Do you suppose I could not see that you wished to avoid me when I met you at the bank just now? That my company was neither welcome nor desired? That you accepted my suggestion of walking down together merely because you could think of no excuse for declining?”
This was a staggerer. And the worst of it was its truth.
“Miss Colton,” I faltered, “I can't understand what you mean. I—”
“You do understand. And please,” with a scornful laugh, “oh, PLEASE understand that I am not troubled because of THAT. Your charming and cultivated society is not indispensable to my happiness, Mr. Paine, strange as that may appear to you. Really,” with cutting contempt, “it is not.”
“That I quite understand, Miss Colton,” I said, “but—”
“But you are like every one else in this horrid, narrow, bigoted place. Don't you suppose that I see it everywhere I go! Every one here hates us—every one. We are intruders; we are not wanted here, and you all take pains to make us feel as uncomfortable as you can. Oh, you are all snobs—all of you.”
I actually gasped.
“Snobs!” I repeated. “We—snobs?”
“Yes. That is exactly what you are. When Father came here he meant to be a citizen, a good citizen, of the town. He had intended to do all sorts of things to help the village and the people in it. He and I discussed ever so many plans for doing good here. And we wanted to be friendly with every one. But how have you treated us! No one comes to see us. We are avoided as if we had the small-pox. The majority of people scarcely speak to us on the street. I am so lonely and—”
She stopped. I had never seen her so agitated. As for me, astonishment is much too mild a term to use in describing my feelings. That these people, these millionaires and aristocrats should feel that they had been avoided and slighted, that we Denboroites were the snobs, that THEY should be lonely because no one, or almost no one, came to call upon them—this was too much for my bewildered brain to grasp all at once.
The young lady went on.
“And you!” she exclaimed. “You are as bad as the rest. Father has called upon you several times. I have called on your mother. Father and I have tried to be friendly and neighborly. Not that we are lacking in friends. We,” haughtily, “are not obliged to BEG for friendship. But we felt it our duty to—”
I interrupted. There is a limit to forbearance and I considered that limit reached.
“Miss Colton,” I declared, “you are talking nonsense. Considering the manner in which your father treated me when we first met, I—”
“How did you treat him? How did you treat Mr. Carver and me when you first met us in the auto? You insulted us. It was plain enough then that you hated us.”
“I—why, Miss Colton, I did not know who you were.”
“Indeed! Would it have made any difference if you had known? I doubt it. No, you are like the rest of the people here. Because we have come from the city you have chosen to be as envious and petty and disagreeable as you can. Even Nellie Dean, whom I know better than any one here, has never returned my call. There is a concerted plan to make us feel we are neither welcome nor wanted. Very well,” disdainfully, “we know it. I, for one, shall not force my presence upon any one of you again. And it is probable that I shall manage to exist even without the delights of Denboro society. Good-by, Mr. Paine.”
“But, Miss Colton—”
“Good-by.”
“Miss Colton, listen to me. You are wrong, all wrong, I tell you. There is no plan or plot to make you feel uncomfortable. We are plain village people here, and you are wealthy and have been used to associating with those of your class. Every one in Denboro knew that when you came, and they have been shy of intruding where they might not be welcome. Then there was that matter of the Lane here.”
“Oh, that precious Lane! I wish I had never seen it.”
“I have wished that a number of times in the past few months. But it is here and the question overshadows everything else in the village just now. It does not seem of much importance to you, perhaps; perhaps it is not so very important to me; but—”
Again she interrupted me.
“I think it is important enough to make you forget—ordinary courtesy,” she declared. “Yes, courtesy. DON'T look at me like that! You know what I mean. As I told you before, I am not blind. Do credit me with some intelligence. All the way during this cheerful walk of ours you scarcely spoke a word. Did you suppose I did not know what was troubling you? I saw how that Captain Dean looked at you. I saw those people staring from the post-office door. I knew what you were afraid of their saying: that you are altogether too companionable with Father and me; that you intend selling the land to us, after all. That is what you thought they would say and you were afraid—AFRAID of their gossip. Oh, it is humiliating! And, for a time, I really thought you were different from the rest and above such things.”
I began to feel as if I were once more a small boy receiving a lecture from the governess.
“I am not at all afraid of them, Miss Colton,” I protested.
“You are. Why? Your conscience is clear, isn't it? You don't intend selling out to my father?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then why should you care what people like that may think? Oh, you weary me! I admired you for your independence. There are few persons with the courage to face my father as you have done and I admired you for it. I would not have had you sell us the land for ANYTHING.”
“You would not?” I gasped.
“Certainly not! I have been on your side all the time. If you had sold I should have thought you, like all the rest, holding back merely for a higher price. I respected you for the fight you were making. You must have known it. If I had not why do you suppose I gave you that hint about the Development Company?”
“Goodness knows!” I exclaimed, devoutly.
“And I was sure you could not be bribed by an offer of a position in Father's office. It was not really a bribe—Father has, for some unexplainable reason, taken a fancy to you—but I knew you would believe it to be bribery. That is why I was so positive in telling him that you would not accept. And now you—oh, when I think of how I have LOWERED myself! How I have stooped to . . . But there! I am sure that supper of yours must be waiting. Pray condescend to convey my regrets to the faithful—what is her name? Odd that I should forget a name like THAT. Oh, yes! Dorinda!—Pray convey my regrets to the faithful Dorinda for being unwittingly the cause of the delay, and assure her that the offense will NOT be repeated. Good-by, Mr. Paine.”
She walked off, between the granite posts and along the curved drive. This time I made no attempt to call her back. The storm had burst so unexpectedly and had developed into such a hurricane that I had had time to do little more than bend my head before it. But I had had time enough to grow angry. I would not have called her back then for the world. She had insulted me, not once only, but again and again. I stood and watched her go on her way, and then I turned and went on my own.
The parting had come. The acquaintance was broken off; not precisely as I had intended it to be broken, but broken, nevertheless, and ended for good and all. I was glad of it. There would be no more fishing excursions, no more gifts of flowers and books, no more charity calls. The “common fellow” was free from the disturbing influence and he was glad of it—heartily glad of it.
Yet his gladness was not as apparent to others as it should, by all that was consistent, have been. Lute, evidently, observed no traces of transcendent happiness, when I encountered him in the back yard, beside the woodpile, sharpening the kindling hatchet with a whetstone, a process peculiarly satisfying to his temperament because it took such a long time to achieve a noticeable result.
“Hello, Ros!” he hailed. “Why! what ails you?”
“Ails me?” I repeated, crossly. “Nothing ails me, of course.”
“Well, I'm glad to hear it. You look as if you'd lost your last friend.”
“I haven't lost any friends. Far from it.”
“Nobody's dead, then?”
“No. Though I could find some who are half dead without trying very hard.”
More perfectly good sarcasm wasted. Lute inquired eagerly if I meant old Mrs. Lobelia Glover. “I heard yesterday she was pretty feeble,” he added. “'Tain't to be expected she'll last a long spell, at her age. Doctor Quimby says she had a spine in her back for twenty years.”
I made no comment upon poor Mrs. Glover's surprising affliction. I merely grunted and went into the house. Dorinda looked at me curiously.
“What's the trouble?” she asked.
“Trouble! There isn't any trouble. You and Lute seem to be looking for trouble.”
“Don't have to look far to find it, in this world. Anything wrong at the bank?”
“No.”
“Um-hm. Settin' so long on the fence make you uneasy? I told you the pickets would wear through if you roosted on 'em too long.”
“There is nothing the matter, I tell you. How is Mother?”
“She ain't any wuss. If 'twan't an impossibility I'd say she was better the last month than I'd seen her since she was took. Nellie Dean called on her this afternoon.”
“Humph! I should think a next week's bride would be too busy to call on any one except possibly the dressmaker.”
“Um-hm. Well, Nellie looks as if she'd been callin' on the dressmaker pretty often. Anyhow she looked worried and Olindy Cahoon's dressmakin' gabble is enough to worry anybody. She left a note for you.”
“Who? Olinda?”
“Land sakes! no! What would Olindy be doin' down here? There ain't any brides to dress in this house, or bridegrooms either unless you're cal'latin' to be one, or Lute turns Mormon. That last notion ain't such a bad one,” with a dry smile. “Another wife or two to help me take care of him would come in handy.”
“Who did leave the note for me, then?”
“Nellie, of course. She wanted me to be sure you got it. Somethin' about that wonderful weddin', I s'pose. I left it upstairs on your bureau.”
I found the note and put it in my pocket to read later on. I did not feel like reading it then. I did not feel like doing anything or seeing any one; yet least of all did I feel like being alone. For if I was alone I should think, and I did not want to think. I prowled about my room for a time and then went down and spent a short time with Mother. Her first question was concerning my day at the bank, and her second if I had seen any of the Coltons recently. “I rather hoped Miss Mabel would come to see me to-day,” she added. “I look forward to her visits so, I think she's a real friend of ours, Roscoe. I know you don't, dear, or you try to believe you do not; but she is—I am convinced of it. I wonder if she will come to-morrow.”
I could have put a stop to her wondering on that subject, but I was in no mood to do it then. I went into the dining-room. Dorinda warned me not to go far from the house because supper would be ready in a few minutes. The word “supper” reminded me of my unfortunate choice of an excuse and the sarcastic reference to our odd domestic arrangements; which reminded me, in its turn, of other sarcasms which had followed it. My “charming and cultivated society” was not necessary to her happiness . . . When she thought of how she had lowered herself . . . Other people did not necessarily regard me as seriously as I did myself . . . And so on . . . until Dorinda called me in to sit at the table, and pretend to eat while she and Lute commented on my lack of appetite and my absent-mindedness.
It was eight o'clock, and I had gone up to my room to escape from their solicitude and pointed questioning, when I happened to think of Nellie's note. I had not been curious concerning its contents, for, as I had agreed to act as best man at the wedding, I assumed, as Dorinda had done, that she had written on that, to her, all-important topic. I took the note from my pocket and tore open the envelope.
Nellie had not written about the wedding. Her letter was a long one, evidently written in great agitation and with words blotted and underscored. Its subject was the man she loved, George Taylor. She was so anxious about him. Did I remember, that night when my mother was ill, how she had spoken of him to me and asked if I had noticed how troubled and worried he seemed of late?
“And, Roscoe,” she wrote, “I have noticed it more and more since then. He IS in trouble. There is something on his mind, something that he will not tell me and that I can see is worrying him dreadfully. He is not like himself at all. I KNOW something is wrong, and I cannot find out what it is. I want to help him SO much. Oh, please, Roscoe, don't think this is just a foolish girl's imagination, and does not amount to anything. It does. I know it does. You are his best friend. Can't YOU find out what is troubling him and help him, for my sake? I have meant to speak to you about this ever so many times, but I seldom see you alone and I could not speak while he was with me. So I decided to write this letter. If you will try, just TRY to find out what ails him and help him I shall never, NEVER forget your kindness. Perhaps he does not want to marry me. Perhaps he does not care for me as much as he thought he did and will not tell me because he does not want me to feel bad. If that is it tell him not to mind my feelings at all. I want him to be happy. If it would make him happier to have me give him up I will do it, even though I shall pray to die right away. Oh can't you help him and me, Roscoe? Please, PLEASE try. A girl ought to be perfectly happy who is going to be married. And I am so miserable. I can't tell Mother and Father because they would not believe me. They would think I just imagined it all. But YOU won't think that, will you? You will see him and try to help him, for my sake.”
And so on, eight closely written pages, ending with another plea to me to see “poor George” and help him, and begging me to “burn this letter, because I should be so ashamed to have any one else see it.”
It was a pitiful letter and, even in the frame of mind I was then in, disgusted with humanity and hating the entire feminine sex, I could not help feeling sorry for Nellie Dean. Of course I was surprised at receiving such a letter and I believed, just as she begged me not to believe, that the cause of her distress and anxiety was more imaginary than real. But that something was troubling George Taylor I had felt certain for a good while. The idea that he did not love Nellie I knew was preposterous. That was not it. There was something else, but what I could not imagine. I wanted to help the girl if I could, but how could I ask George to tell me his secrets? I, with a secret of my own.
After pondering for some time I decided to walk up to George's boarding place and talk with him. Nothing would come of the interview, probably, but I might as well do that as anything else. I must do something, something besides sit in that room and see mocking faces in every corner, faces with dark eyes and scornful lips which told me that my charming and cultivated society was not necessary to their happiness.
Taylor rented the upper floor of a house a quarter of a mile from the bank. His housekeeper answered my ring and informed me that her employer had not yet come home.
“He did not even come home for supper,” she said. “Stayed over to Nellie's probably. You'll most likely find him there.”
But I was pretty certain he was not at the Deans', for as I passed their house, I noticed the windows were dark, indicating that the family, like most of respectable Denboro, had already retired. I walked on to the Corners. Eldredge's store was closed, but the billiard room was radiant and noisy. I could hear Tim Hallet's voice urging some one to take a new cue, “'cause that one ain't pocketed many balls yet.”
I looked across at the bank. The front portion of it was black enough, but the window of the directors' room was alight. I had located the object of my search; the cashier was there, working overtime, as he did so often nowadays.
I had my key in my pocket and I unlocked the big door and entered quietly. The door of the directors' room was open a little way and I tiptoed over and peeped in through the crack. Taylor was seated in a chair beside the big table, his elbows upon the table and his head in his hands. As I stood there, watching him, he took his hands away and I saw his face. Upon it was an expression of abject misery and utter despair. I opened the door and entered.
He heard the sound of the opening door and leaped to his feet. His chair fell backward on the floor with a clatter, but he paid no attention to it.
“Good God!” he cried, wildly. “Who's that?”
He was deathly pale and trembling violently. His appearance startled and alarmed me.
“It's all right,” I said, hastily. “It is I—Paine. I saw the light and knew you must be here. What ails you? What IS the matter?”
For a moment he stood there staring. Then he turned and picked up the fallen chair.
“Oh, it's you, Ros, is it?” he faltered. “I—I—Lord, how you scared me! I—I—”
“George! what IS the matter with you? For heaven's sake! stand up, man!” He was swaying and I thought he was going to faint. “George! George Taylor! Are you ill? I am going for the doctor.”
“No, no! Stay where you are. I ain't sick. I'll be all right in a minute. You—you scared me, creeping in that way. Sit down, sit down.”
He steadied himself with one hand on the table and with the other reached to shut a drawer which had been open beside him. The drawer was almost full of papers, and, lying upon those papers, was a revolver.
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