And that, in the end, was the answer I sent to Carver with his five dollars. I spent an hour in my room trying to compose and write a sarcastic reply to his note, but I finally gave it up. Then I put the money in an envelope, addressed the latter, and sent it to the big house by Lute. Lute was delighted with the errand.

“You'll explain to Dorindy, will you?” he asked. “She cal'lates I'm goin' to clean the henhouse. But I can do that some other time.”

“You can—yes.”

“Do you know—” Lute leaned against the clothes post and prepared to philosophize. “Do you know,” he observed, “that I don't take no stock in cleanin' henhouses and such?”

“Don't you? I'm surprised.”

“You're surprised 'cause you ain't thought it out. That's my way; I always think things out. Most folks are selfish. They want to do what they want to do, and they want others to want the same thing. If the others don't want it, then they like to make 'em have it; anyhow. Dorindy is crazy on cleanin'. She wouldn't live in a dirty house no more'n she'd live in a lobster pot. It's the way she's made. But a hen ain't made that way. A hen LIKES dirt; she scratches in it and digs holes in it to waller in, and heaves it over herself all day long. If you left it to the hens would THEY clean their house? I guess not! So, I say what's the use of cruelizin' 'em by makin' 'em live clean when they don't want to? I—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Lute, you're wasting your breath. It is Dorinda you should explain all this to, not to me. And you're wasting my time. I want you to take that envelope to Mr. Carver; and I want you to go now.”

“Well, I'm goin', ain't I? I was only just sayin'—”

“Say it when you come back. And if Mr. Carver asks you why I sent that envelope to him be sure and give him the message I gave you. Do you remember it?”

“Sartin. That what you done wan't wuth so much.”

“Not exactly. That what I saved wasn't worth it.”

“All right. I'll remember. But what did you save, Ros? Dorindy says 'twas somethin' you found afloat in the bay. If it was somethin' belongin' to them Coltons I'd have took the money, no matter what the thing was wuth. They can afford to pay and, if I was you, I'd take the reward.”

“I have my reward. Now go.”

I had my reward and I believed it worth much more than five dollars. I had learned my lesson. I knew now exactly how I was regarded by the occupants of the big house and by the townspeople as well. I should cherish no more illusions as to my importance in their eyes. I meant to be really independent from that time on. I did not care—really did not care—for anything or anybody outside my immediate household. I was back in the position I had occupied for years, but with one difference: I had an ambition now. It was to make both sides in the Shore Lane controversy realize that George Taylor was right when he said I had the whip-hand. By the Almighty, they should dance when I cracked that whip!

My first opportunity to crack it came a day or two later, when Captain Dean called upon me. He had a definite proposition to make, although his Yankee shrewdness and caution prevented his making it until he had discussed the weather and other unimportant trifles. Then he leaned against the edge of my work-bench—we were in the boathouse—and began to beat up to windward of his proposal.

“Ros,” he said, “you remember I told you you was all right, when I met you at the bank t'other day.”

“I remember,” I answered.

“Yes. Well, I cal'late you know what I meant by that.”

I did not pretend ignorance of his meaning.

“I presume,” I replied, “that you meant I was right in not selling that strip of land to Mr. Colton.”

“That's what I meant. You kept your promise to me and I shan't forget it. Nor the town won't forget it, neither. Would you mind tellin' me just what happened between you and His Majesty?”

“Not at all. He said he wanted to buy the Shore Lane strip and I refused to sell it to him. He said I was crazy and an infernal robber and I told him to go to the devil.”

“WHAT! you didn't!”

“I did.”

Captain Jed slapped his knee and shouted in delight. He insisted on shaking hands with me.

“By the great and everlastin'!” he declared, between laughs, “you're all right, Ros Paine! I said you was and now I'll swear to it. Told old Colton to go to the devil! If that ain't—oh, I wish I'd been there!”

I went on sand-papering a valve plug. He walked up and down the floor, chuckling.

“Well,” he said, at last, “you've made yourself solid in Denboro, anyhow. And I told you you shouldn't lose nothin' by it. The Selectmen held a meetin' last night and they feel, same as me, that that Shore Lane shan't be shut off. You understand what that means to you, don't you?”

I looked at him, coolly.

“No,” I answered.

“You don't! It means the town's decided to buy that strip of land of yours. Definitely decided, practically speakin'. Now what'll you sell it to us for?”

I put down the valve plug. “Captain,” said I, “that land is not for sale.”

“Not for SALE? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I have decided not to sell it, for the present, at least. Neither to Colton nor any one else.”

He could not believe it. Of course I would not sell it to Colton. Colton was a stuck-up, selfish city aristocrat who thought all creation ought to belong to him. But the town was different. Did I realize that it was the town I lived in that was asking to buy now? The town of which I was a citizen? Think of what the town had done for me.

“Very well,” I answered. “I'm willing to think. What has it done for me?”

It had—it had—well, it had done a whole lot. As a citizen of that town I owed it a—a—

“Look here, Captain Dean,” I interrupted, “there's no use in our arguing the matter. I have decided not to sell.”

“Don't talk so foolish. Course you'll sell if you get money enough.”

“So Colton said, but I shan't.”

“Ros, I ain't got any authority to do it, but I shouldn't wonder if I could get you three hundred dollars for that strip.”

“It isn't a question of price.”

“Rubbish! Anything's a question of price.”

“This isn't. If it was I probably should have accepted Mr. Colton's offer of six hundred and fifty.”

“Six hun—! Do you mean to say he offered you six hundred and fifty dollars for that little mite of land, and you never took him up?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you must be a . . . Humph! Six hundred and fifty! The town can't meet no such bid as that, of course.”

“I don't expect it to.”

He regarded me in silence. He was chagrined and angry; his florid face was redder than ever; but, more than all, he was puzzled.

“Well,” he observed, after a moment, “this beats me, this does! Last time we talked you was willin' to consider sellin'. What's changed you? What's the reason you won't sell? What business reason have you got for not doin' it?”

I had no business reason at all. Except for Mother's counsel not to sell, which was based upon sentiment and nothing else, and my own stubbornness, I had no reason at all. Yet I was, if anything, more firm in my resolve.

“How about the Lane?” he demanded. “You know what that Lane means to Denboro?”

“I know what you say it means. The townspeople can continue to use the Lane, just as they always have, so long as they behave themselves. There is no use of our talking further, Captain. I've made up my mind.”

He went away, soon after, but he asked another question.

“Will you do this much for me?” he asked. “Will you promise me not to sell the land to Colton?”

“No,” I said, “I will make no promise of any kind, to anybody.”

“Oh,” with a scornful sniff, “I see. I'm on to you. You're just hangin' out for a big price. I might have known it. You're on Colton's side, after all.”

I rose. I was angry now.

“I told you price had nothing to do with it,” I said, sharply. “I am on no one's side. The town is welcome to use the Lane; that I have told you already. There is nothing more to be said.”

He shook his head.

“I don't make many mistakes,” he observed, slowly; “but I guess I've made one. You're a whole lot deeper'n I thought you was.”

So much for the proletariat. I heard from the plutocrats next day. Sim Eldredge dropped in on me. After much wriggling about the bush he intimated that he knew of Captain Jedediah's call and what had taken place.

“You done just right, Ros,” he whispered. He had a habit of whispering as the Captain had of shouting. “You done just right. Keep 'em guessin'; keep em guessin'. Jed's all upsot. He don't know whether he's keel down or on his beam ends. He'll be makin' a higher bid pretty soon. Say,” with a wink, “I see Colton last night.”

“Did you?”

“Yup. Oh, I give him a jolt. I hinted that the town had made you a fine offer and you was considerin' it.”

“What did you do that for? Who gave you the right to—”

“Sshh! Don't holler. Somebody might be listenin'. I come through the woods and round the beach so's I wouldn't be seen. What do you s'pose Colton said?”

“I don't care what he said.”

“You will when I tell you. He as much as offered a thousand dollars for that land. My crimps! a thousand! think of that! I presume likely you wouldn't take that, would you, Ros?”

“Sim, I'll tell you, as I told Captain Jed, that land is not for sale.”

I tried to make that statement firm and sharp enough to penetrate even his wooden head; but he merely winked again.

“All right,” he whispered, hastily, “all right. I guess perhaps you're correct in hangin' on. Still, a thousand is a lot of money, even after you take out my little commission. But you know best. You put your trust in me. I'll keep her jumpin'. I understand. Good-by.”

He went out hurriedly, and, though I shouted after him, he only waved and ducked behind a beach-plum bush. He did not believe me serious in my refusal to sell; neither did Dean, or Colton, or, apparently, any one else. They all thought me merely shrewd, a sharp trader driving a hard bargain, as they would have done in my place. They might think so, if they wished; I should not explain. As a matter of fact, I could not have explained my attitude, even to myself.

Yet this very attitude made a difference, a perceptible difference, in my position in Denboro. I noticed it each time I went up to the village. I saw the groups at the post-office and at the depot turn to watch me as I approached and as I went away. Captain Jedediah did not mention the Lane again—at least for some time—but he always hailed me cordially when we met and seemed anxious to be seen in my company. Eldredge, of course, was effusive; so was Alvin Baker. And other people, citizens of consequence in the town, who had heretofore merely bowed, now stopped to speak with me on the street. Members of the sewing circle called on Mother more frequently, and Matilda Dean, Captain Jed's wife, came regularly once a week. Sometimes she saw Mother and sometimes she did not, depending upon Dorinda's state of mind at the time.

Lute, always a sort of social barometer, noticed the change in the weather.

“Everybody's talkin' about you, Ros,” he declared. “They cal'late you're a pretty smart feller. They don't just understand what you're up to, but they think you're pretty smart.”

“No?” I commented, ironically. “Lute, you astonish me. Why am I smart?”

“Well, they don't know exactly, but they cal'late you must be. Oh, I hear things. Cap'n Jed said t'other night you'd make a pretty good Selectman.”

“I would? A Selectman?”

“Yup. He as much as hinted that to me; wondered if you'd take the nomination provided he could fix it for you. Sim Eldredge and Alvin and some more all said they'd vote for you if they got a chance. ARE you figgerin' to charge toll on the Lane?”

“Toll? What put that idea in your head?”

“Nothin', only some of the fellers wondered if you was. You see, you won't sell, and so—”

“I see. That's a brilliant suggestion, Lute. When I adopt it I'll appoint you toll-keeper.”

“By time! I wish you would. I'd make Thoph Newcomb pay up. He owes me ten cents; bet it one time and never settled.”

Yes, my position in Denboro had changed. But I took no pride in the change, as I had at first; I knew the reason for this sudden burst of popularity. The knowledge made me more cynical than ever—cynical, and lonely. For the first time since I came to the Cape I longed for a real friend, not a relative or an acquaintance, but a friend to trust and confide in. Some one, with no string of his own to pull, who cared for me because I was myself.

And all the time I had such a friend and did not realize it. The knowledge came to me in this way. Mother had one of her seizures, one of the now infrequent “sinking spells,” as the doctor called them, on an evening when I was alone with her. Dorinda and Lute had gone, with the horse and buggy, to visit a cousin in Bayport. They were to stay over night and return before breakfast the next morning.

I was alone in the dining-room when Mother called my name. There was something in her tone which alarmed me and I hastened to her bedside. One glance at her face was enough.

“Boy,” she said, weakly, “I am afraid I am going to be ill. I have tried not to alarm you, but I feel faint and I am—you won't be alarmed, will you? I know it is nothing serious.”

I told her not to worry and not to talk. I hurried out to the kitchen, got the hot water and the brandy, made her swallow a little of the mixture, and bathed her forehead and wrists with vinegar, an old-fashioned restorative which Dorinda always used. She said she felt better, but I was anxious and, as soon as it was safe to leave her, hurried out to bring the doctor. She begged me not to go, because it was beginning to rain and I might get wet, but I assured her it was not raining hard, and went.

It was not raining hard when I started, but there was every sign of a severe storm close at hand. It was pitch dark and I was weary from stumbling through the bushes and over the rough path when I reached the corner of the Lane and the Lower Road. Then a carriage came down that road. It was an open wagon and George Taylor was the driver. He had been up to the Deans' and was on his way home.

I hailed the vehicle, intending to ask for a ride, but when Taylor discovered who his hailer was he insisted on my going back to the house. He would get the doctor, he said, and bring him down at once. I was afraid he would be caught in the storm, and hesitated in accepting the offer, but he insisted. I did go back to the house, found Mother in much the same condition as when I left her, and had scarcely gotten into the kitchen again when Taylor once more appeared.

“I brought Nellie along to stay with your mother,” he said. “The Cap'n and the old lady”—meaning Matilda—“were up at the meeting-house and we just left a note saying where we'd gone. Nellie's all right. Between you and me, she don't talk you deaf, dumb and blind like her ma, and she's good company for sick folks. Now I'll fetch the doctor and be right back.”

“But it's raining pitchforks,” I said. “You'll be wet through.”

“No, I won't. I'll have Doc Quimby here in no time.”

He drove off and Nellie Dean went into Mother's room. I had always considered Nellie a milk-and-watery young female, but somehow her quiet ways and soft voice seemed just what were needed in a sick room. I left the two together and came out to wait for Taylor and the doctor.

But they did not come. The storm was under full headway now, and the wind was dashing the rain in sheets against the windows. I waited nearly an hour and still no sign of the doctor.

Nellie came out of Mother's room and closed the door softly behind her.

“She's quiet now,” she whispered. “I think she's asleep. Where do you suppose George is?”

“Goodness knows!” I answered. “I shouldn't have let him go, a night like this.”

“I'm afraid you couldn't stop him if his mind was made up. He's dreadful determined when he sets out to be.”

“He's a good fellow,” I said, to please her. She worshipped the cashier, a fact of which all Denboro was aware, and which caused gossip to report that she did the courting for the two.

She blushed and smiled.

“He thinks a lot of you,” she observed. “He's always talking to me about you. It's a good thing you're a man or I should be jealous.”

I smiled. “I seem to be talked about generally, just now,” said I.

“Are you? Oh, you mean about the Shore Lane. Yes, Pa can't make you out about that. He says you've got something up your sleeve and he hasn't decided what it is. I asked George what Pa meant and he just laughed. He said whatever you had in your sleeve was your affair and, if he was any judge of character, it would stay there till you got ready to shake it out. He always stood up for you, even before the Shore Lane business happened. I think he likes you better than any one else in Denboro.”

“Present company excepted, of course.”

“Oh, of course. If that wasn't excepted I should REALLY be jealous. Then,” more seriously, “Roscoe, does it seem to you that George is worried or troubled about something lately?”

I thought of Taylor's sudden change of expression that day in the bank, and of his remark that he wished he had my chance. But I concealed my thoughts.

“The prospect of marriage is enough to make any man worried, isn't it?” I asked. “I imagine he realizes that he isn't good enough for you.”

There was sarcasm in this remark, sarcasm of which I should have been ashamed. But she took it literally and as a compliment. She looked at me reproachfully.

“Good enough for me!” she exclaimed. “He! Sometimes I wonder if it is right for me to be so happy. I feel almost as if it was wrong. As if something must happen to punish me for it.”

I did not answer. To tell the truth, I was envious. There was real happiness in the world. This country girl had found it; that Mabel Colton would, no doubt, find it some day—unless she married her Victor, in which case I had my doubts. But what happiness was in store for me?

Nellie did most of the talking thereafter; principally about George, and why he did not come. At last she went in to see if Mother needed her, and, twenty minutes later, when I looked into the bedroom, I saw that she had fallen asleep on the couch. Mother, too, seemed to be sleeping, and I left them thus.

It was almost eleven o'clock when the sound of carriage wheels in the yard brought me to the window and then to the door. Doctor Quimby had come at last and Taylor was with him. The doctor, in his mackintosh and overshoes, was dry enough, but his companion was wet to the skin.

“Sorry I'm so late, Ros,” said the doctor. “I was way up to Ebenezer Cahoon's in West Denboro. There's a new edition of Ebenezer, made port this morning, and I was a little bit concerned about the missus. She's all right, though. How's your mother?”

“Better, I think. She's asleep now. So is Nellie. I suppose George told you she was with her.”

“Yes. George had a rough passage over that West Denboro road. It's bad enough in daylight, but on a night like this—whew! I carried away a wheel turning into Ebenezer's yard, and if George hadn't had his team along I don't know how I'd have got here. I'll go right in and see Mrs. Paine.”

He left us and I turned to Taylor.

“You're soaked through,” I declared. “Come out to the kitchen stove. What in the world made you drive way up to that forsaken place? It's a good seven miles. Come out to the kitchen. Quick!”

He sat down by the stove and put his wet boots on the hearth. I mixed him a glass of the brandy and hot water and handed him a cigar.

“Why did you do it, George?” I said. “I never would have thought of asking such a thing.”

“I know it,” he said. “Course you wouldn't ask it. There's plenty in this town that would, but you wouldn't. Maybe that's one reason I was so glad to do it for you.”

“I am almost sorry you did. It is too great a kindness altogether. I'm afraid I shouldn't have done as much for you.”

“Go on! Yes, you would. I know you.”

I shook my head.

“No, you don't,” I answered. “Captain Jed—your prospective father-in-law—said the other day that he had been mistaken; he thought he knew me, but he was beginning to find he did not.”

“Did he say that? What did he mean?”

“I imagine he meant he wasn't sure whether I was the fool he had believed me to be, or just a sharp rascal.”

Taylor looked at me over the edge of his glass.

“You think that's what he meant, do you?”

“I know it.”

He put the glass on the floor beside him and laid a hand on my knee.

“Ros,” he said, “I don't know for sure what the Cap'n meant, though if he thinks you're either one of the two he's the fool. But I know you—better, maybe, than you know yourself. At least I believe I know you better than any one else in the town.”

“That wouldn't be saying much.”

“Wouldn't it? Well, maybe not. But whose fault is it? It's yours, the way I look at it. Ros, I've been meaning to have a talk with you some day; perhaps this is as good a time as any. You make a big mistake in the way you treat Denboro and the folks in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. Your whole attitude is wrong, has been wrong ever since you first came here to live. You never gave any of us a chance to know you and like you—anybody but me, I mean, and even I never had but half a chance. You make a mistake, I tell you. There's lots of good folks in this town, lots of 'em. Cap'n Elisha Warren's one of 'em and there's plenty more. They're countrymen, same as I am, but they're good, plain, sensible folks, and they'd like to like you if they had a chance. You belong to the Town Improvement Society, but you never go to a meeting. You ought to get out and mix more.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess my mixing wouldn't be very welcome,” I said. “And, besides, I don't care to mix.”

“I know you don't, but you ought to, just the same.”

“Nonsense! George, I'm not blind, or deaf. Don't you suppose I know what Warren and Dean and the rest think of me? They consider me a loafer and no good. I've heard what they say. I've noticed how they treat me.”

“How you treat them, you mean. You are as cold and freezing as a cake of ice. They was willing to be friends but you wouldn't have it. And, as for their calling you a loafer—well, that's your own fault, too. You OUGHT to do something; not work, perhaps, but you'd be a whole lot better off if you got really interested in something. Get into politics; get into town affairs; get out and know the people you're living with.”

“I don't care to know them; and I'm sure they don't care to know me.”

“Yes, they do. I understand how you feel. In this Shore Lane matter now: you think Cap'n Jed and Colton, because they pretend to call you a fool, don't respect you for taking the stand you have. They do. They don't understand you, maybe, but they can't help respecting you and, if they knew you even as well as I do, they'd like you. Come! I ain't throwin' any bouquets, but why do you suppose I'd be willing to drive to West Denboro forty times over, on forty times worse nights than this, for you? Why?”

“Heaven knows! Would you?”

“I would. I like you, Ros. I took a shine to you the first time I met you. I don't know why exactly. Why does anybody like anybody else? But I think a whole lot of you. I know this sounds foolish, and you don't feel that way towards me, but it's the truth.”

I was amazed. I had always liked George Taylor, but I never felt any strong affection for him. I was a little less indifferent to him than to others in Denboro, that was all. And I had taken it for granted that his liking for me was of the same casual, lukewarm variety. To hear him declare himself in this way was astonishing—he, the dry, keen, Yankee banker.

“But why, George?” I repeated.

“I don't know why; I told you that. It's because I can't help it, I suppose. Or because, as I said, I know you better than any one else.”

I sighed. “Nobody knows me here,” I said.

“One knows you, Ros. I know you.”

“You may think you do, but you don't. You can thank God for your ignorance.”

“Maybe I ain't so ignorant.”

I looked at him. He was looking me straight in the eye.

“What do you know?” I asked, slowly.

“I know, for one thing, that your name ain't Paine.”

I could not answer. I am not certain whether I attempted to speak or move. I do remember that the pressure of his hand on my knee tightened.

“It's all right, Ros,” he said, earnestly. “Nobody knows but me, and nobody ever shall know if I can help it.”

“How—how much do you know?” I stammered.

“Why, pretty much all, I guess. I've known ever since your mother was taken sick. Some things I read in the paper, and the pictures of—of your father, put me on, and afterwards I got more certain of it. But it's all right. Nobody but me knows or shall know.”

I leaned my head on my hand. He patted my knee, gently.

“Are—are you sure no one else knows?” I asked.

“Certain sure. There was one time when it might have all come out. A reporter fellow from one of the Boston papers got on the track somehow and came down here to investigate. Luckily I was the first man he tackled, and I steered him away. I presume likely I lied some, but my conscience is easy so far as that goes.”

“And you have told no one? Not even Nellie?”

“No. I tell Nellie most things, but not all—not all.”

I remembered afterwards that he sighed as he said this and took his hand from my knee; but then my agitation was too great to do more than casually notice it. I rose to my feet.

“George! George!” I cried. “I—I can't say to you what I should like. But why—WHY did you shield me? And lie for me? Why did you do it? I was hardly more than a stranger.”

He sighed. “Don't know,” he answered. “I never could quite see why a man's sins should be visited on the widows and fatherless. And, of course, I realized that you and your mother changed your name and came down here to get away from gossip and talk. But I guess the real reason was that I liked you, Ros. Love at first sight, same as we read about; hey?”

He looked up and smiled. I seized his hand.

“George,” I said, chokingly, “I did not believe I had a real friend in the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU—anything—I'll do it. I'll swear to that.”

He shook my hand.

“I know you will, Ros,” he said. “I told you I knew you.”

“If ever I can do anything—”

He interrupted me.

“There's one thing you can do right now,” he said. “That's get out and mix. That'll please me as much as anything. And begin right off. Why, see here, the Methodist society is going to give a strawberry festival on the meeting-house lawn next Thursday night. About everybody's going, Nellie and I included. You come, will you?”

I hesitated. I had heard about the festival, but I certainly had not contemplated attending.

“Come!” he urged. “You won't say no to the first favor I ask you. Promise me you'll be on hand.”

Before I could answer, we heard the door of Mother's room open. George and I hastened into the dining-room. Doctor Quimby and Nellie Dean were there. Nellie rushed over to her lover's side.

“You bad boy,” she cried. “You're wet through.”

Doctor Quimby turned to me.

“Your ma's getting on all right,” he declared. “About all that ails her now is that she wants to see you.”

George was assisting Nellie to put on her wraps.

“Got to leave you now, Ros,” he said. “Cap'n Jed and Matildy'll think we've eloped ahead of time. Good-night. Oh, say, will you promise me to take in the strawberry festival?”

“Why” I answered, “I suppose—Yes, Mother, I'm coming—Why, yes, George, I'll promise, to please you.”

I have often wondered since what my life story would have been if I had not made that promise.