When I left the boat house I did not go directly home, but wandered along the beach.I had puzzled my brain with Mr.Keene and his errand until I determined not to puzzle it any longer that day.If my suspicions were unfounded and existed merely because of my dislike of the Bay Shore Company's representative, then they were not worth worry.If they were well founded I had almost a week in which to discover the fact.I would dismiss the whole matter from my thoughts.The question as to whether or not I would sell the land at all to anybody, which was, after all, the real question, Iresolved to put off answering until I had had my talk with Mother.
I walked on by the water's edge until I reached the Lane; turning into that much coveted strip of territory I continued until I came opposite the Colton mansion, where, turning again, I strolled homeward by the path through the grove.Unconsciously my wandering thoughts strayed to Mabel Colton.It was here that I had met her on two occasions.I had an odd feeling that I should meet her here again, that she was here now.I had no reason for thinking such a thing, certainly the wish was not father to the thought, but at every bend in the path, as the undergrowth hid the way, I expected, as I turned the corner, to see her coming toward me.
But the path was, save for myself, untenanted.I was almost at its end, where the pines and bushes were scattering and the field of daisies, now in full bloom, began, when I heard a slight sound at my left.I looked in the direction of the sound and saw her.She was standing beneath a gnarled, moss-draped old pine by the bluff edge, looking out over the bay.
I stopped, involuntarily.Then I moved on again, as noiselessly as I could.But at my first step she turned and saw me.I raised my hat.She bowed, coldly, so it seemed to my supersensitive imagination, and I replaced the hat and continued my walk.Ithought I heard the bushes near which she stood rustle as if she had moved, but I did not look back.
Then, close behind me, I heard her voice.
"Mr.Paine," she said.
I turned.She had followed me and was standing in the path, a bit out of breath, as if she had hurried.I waited for her to speak, but she did not.
"Good afternoon, Miss Colton," I said, awkwardly.Some one had to speak, we could not stand staring at each other like that.
She said "Good afternoon," also.Then there was another interval of silence.
"You--you wished to speak to me?" I stammered.
"I DID speak to you," with significant emphasis on the "did." "Ithought you might, possibly, be interested to know that Don and Ireached home safely the other day."
Considering that she had called upon Mother since, it seemed to me that my knowledge of her reaching home safely might have been taken for granted; but I said:
"I am very glad to hear it, Miss Colton.""We had no difficulty in finding the way after you left us."The way being almost straight, and over the main traveled roads, this, too, was fairly obvious.
"I felt sure you would have no trouble--after I left you," Ianswered, with a significant emphasis of my own.
She did not reply and, as I had nothing further to say, I waited for her to continue, or to break off the interview.She did neither, but stood, as if irresolute, looking down and stirring with her foot the leaves at the edge of the path.Suddenly she looked up.
"Mr.Paine," she said, "you are ****** it hard for me to say what Iintended.But I think I should say it, and so I will.I beg your pardon for speaking as I did when I last saw you.I had no right to judge or criticize you, none whatever.""You do not need to apologize, Miss Colton.What you told me was probably true enough."The conventional answer to this would have been a half-hearted denial of my statement.I presume I expected something of the sort.But this girl was not conventional.
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "I think it was.If I had not thought so I should not have said it.But that makes no difference.
You and I are strangers, almost, and I had no right to speak as Idid.I am impulsive, I know it, and I often do and say things on impulse which I am sorry for afterward.I offended you.""Oh no, no," I put in, hurriedly.She had offended me, but this frank confession touched me more than the offense had hurt.She was doing a hard thing and doing it handsomely.
"Yes, I offended you," she repeated, firmly."I have considered the matter a good deal since then, and it seems to me that you were right to feel offended.You had been very kind to me on several occasions and I had been your"--with a half smile--"your guest that day.I should not have hurt your feelings.Will you accept my apology?""Why, yes, of course, since you insist, Miss Colton.""Thank you."
She was turning to go; and I could not let her go thus.Although she had apologized for speaking her thought she had not retracted the thought itself.I was seized with a desire for justification in her eyes.I wanted to explain; forgetting for the moment that explanations were impossible.
"Miss Colton," I said, impulsively.
"Yes?"
"May I--may I say a word?"
"Certainly, if you wish."
She turned again and faced me.
"Miss Colton, I--I--" I began, and paused.
"Well?" she said, patiently, "What is it?""Miss Colton," I blundered on, "you should not have apologized.
You were right.Your estimate of me was pretty nearly correct.Irealized that when you gave it and I have been realizing it ever since.I deserved what I got--perhaps.But I should not wish you to think--that is, I--well, I had reasons, they seemed to me reasons, for being what I was--what I am.I doubt if they were altogether good reasons; I am inclined now to think they were not.
But I had come to think them good.You see, I--I--"I stopped, face to face with the fact that I could not give those reasons to her or any one else.She was looking at me expectantly, and with, so it seemed to me, an expression of real, almost eager interest.I faltered, tried to go on, and then surrendered, absolutely, to the hopelessness of the situation.
