So she was his daughter.I might have guessed it; would have guessed it if I had possessed the commonest of common-sense.Imight have known that the auto was Colton's.No other machine was likely to be traveling on the Lower Road at that season of the year.She was the pretty daughter of whom Dorinda had spoken to Mother.Well, she was pretty enough; even I had to admit that.
But I admitted it grudgingly.I hated her for her beauty and fine clothes and haughty arrogance.She was the incarnation of snobbishness.
But to be made twice ridiculous even by the incarnation of snobbishness was galling.She was to be my next-door neighbor; we were likely to meet almost anywhere at any time.When I thought of this and of the two meetings which had already taken place I swore at the blue and white water-pitcher on my bureau because it did not contain water enough to drown me.Not that I would commit suicide on her account.She would not care if I did and certainly I did not care whether she would care or not; but if I were satisfactorily dead I probably should not remember what a fool I had made of myself, or Fate had made of me.
Why had I not got out of that library before she came? Oh, if not, why hadn't I stayed and told her father, in her hearing, and with dignity, just what I thought of him and his remarks to me? But no;I had run away.She--or that Victor--would tell of the meeting at the bridge, and all my independence and the rest of it would be regarded as of a piece with that, just the big-headed "smartness"of a country boor.In their eyes I was a nuisance, that was all.
A disagreeable one, perhaps, like the Shore Lane, but a nuisance, one to laugh at and forget--if it could not be gotten rid of.
Why had I gone with Colton at all? Why hadn't I remained at the boathouse and there told the King of New York to go to the mischief? or words to that effect.But I had, at all events, told him that.In spite of my chagrin I could not help chuckling as Ithought of it.To tell Big Jim Colton to go to the devil was, in its way, I imagined, a privilege enjoyed by few.It must have shaken his self-satisfaction a trifle.Well, after all, what did I care? He, and his whole family--including Victor--had my permission to migrate in that direction and I wished Old Nick joy of their company.
Having derived this much satisfaction from my reflections, I went downstairs.Dorinda was setting the table for supper.She looked at me as I came in.
"Been visitin', I hear," she observed, wiping an imaginary speck from the corner of a plate with her "afternoon" apron.
"Yes," said I.
"Um-hm," said Dorinda."Have a good time?"I smiled."I had an interesting one," I told her.
"Um-hm, I judged so, from what Lute said.""Where is Lute?"
"Out in the barn, beddin' down the horse.That is, I told him to do that, but his head was so full of you and what you told him you said to Mr.Colton that I shouldn't be surprised if he's bedded down the hens and was huntin' in the manger for eggs.""Lute thinks I've gone crazy," I observed.
"Um-hm.He was all for fetchin' the doctor right off, but I told him I cal'lated we could bear with your ravin's for a spell.Did you say what he said you said?""I'm afraid I did."
"Um-hm.Well, it didn't do any good, did it?""Good? What do you mean?"
"I mean he didn't obey orders--Colton, that is.""He hadn't when I left."
"I thought not.I never saw any good come from profane language yet; and, besides, judgin' from what I hear about the way that Colton man lives, and what he does on Sundays and all, he'll make the port you sent him to when his time comes.All you need is patience."I laughed, and she began sorting the plated spoons.We had silver ones, but Dorinda insisted on keeping those to use when we had company.In consequence we used them about twice a year, when the minister came.
"Of course," she said, "I ain't askin' you what happened over there or why he wanted to see you.But I give you fair warnin' that, if I don't, Lute will.Lute's so stuffed with curiosity that he's li'ble to bust the stitches any minute.""I'll tell you both, at supper," I said.
"Um-hm," said Dorinda."Well, I can wait, and Lute'll have to.By the way," she added, seeing me about to enter Mother's room, "if it's anything too unpleasant I wouldn't worry Comfort with it.
She'll want to know, of course, but I'd sort of smooth the edges."Mother did want to know, and I told her, "smoothing the edges" all I could.I omitted my final order to "Big Jim" and I said nothing whatever about his daughter.Mother seemed to think I had done right in refusing to sell, though, as usual, she was ready to make allowances for the other side.
"Poor woman," she said, "I suppose the noise of the wagons and all that are annoying to any one with weak nerves.It must be dreadful to be in that condition.I am so sorry for her."She meant it, too.But I, remembering the Colton mansion, what Ihad seen of it, and contrasting its splendor with the bare necessity of that darkened bedroom, found it hard to spare pity for the sufferer from "nerves.""You needn't be," I said, bitterly."I imagine she wouldn't think of you, if the conditions were reversed.I doubt if she thinks of any one but herself.""You shouldn't say that, Roscoe.You don't know.You have never met her.""I have met the rest of the family.No, Mother, I think you needn't he sorry for that woman.She has everything under the sun.
Whereas you--"
"Hush! hush! There is one thing she hasn't got.She hasn't a son like you, Boy.""Humph! That must be a terrible deprivation.There! there!
Mother, I won't be disagreeable.Let's change the subject.Did Matilda Dean come to see you this afternoon?""No.I presume she was too busy.But, Roscoe, it is plain enough why Captain Dean spoke to you about the Lane at the office this morning.He must have heard, somehow, that Mr.Colton wished to buy it.""Yes.Or, if he didn't hear just that, he heard enough to make him guess the rest.He is pretty shrewd.""You promised him you wouldn't sell without telling him beforehand.
Shall you tell him of Mr.Colton's offer?""If he asks me, I shall, I suppose."
