There was a somethin' about you even then, a kind of hands-off, mind your own business independence about you that I liked, though I knew mighty well you never liked me.And after you and me got together on this Lane thing I liked you more and more.You could tell me to go to the devil as well as you could anybody else, and I'll shake hands with a feller that'll do that.I always wanted a boy of my own.Nellie's a good girl, no better afloat or ashore, but she is a girl.George is a good feller, too, but somehow, or 'nother, I'd come to think of you as the kind of son I'd have had, if the Almighty had give me one.Oh, what did you do this for?"I could not answer.He had overwhelmed me.I never felt meaner or more wicked.I had been ready to face him, ready for the interview with him which I knew was inevitable and which I had foreseen, but not this kind of an interview.
He took his hand from the table and stood erect.
"Money!" he said."You wanted money.You must have wanted it bad.
What did you want it for?"
"I can't tell you."
"You had better.It's your only chance, I tell you that!""I can't help it, Captain Dean.I can't tell you.I wish Icould."
He regarded me in silence for a moment.Then: "All right," he said, solemnly."I'm through with you, Ros Paine.In one way I'm through with you.In another I ain't.I cal'late you was figgerin' to go straight up to the bank, as bold as brass, and set down at George Taylor's desk and draw your wages like an honest man.Don't you ever dare set foot in that bank again.You're fired! bounced! kicked out! Do you understand?""Very well; I understand."
"You will understand, whether you do now or not.Colton's got the Shore Lane and you've got his dirty money in your pocket.He's paid you, but the town ain't.The town you sold out ain't paid you--but I'm goin' to see that it does.Ros Paine, I'm goin' to drive you out of Denboro."He turned on his heel, strode to the door, went out, and slammed it behind him.
I went back to the dining-room.Lute was nowhere in sight, but Dorinda was standing by the mantel, dusting, as usual, where there was no dust.I did not speak but walked toward the door leading to the stairs.Dorinda stepped in front of me.
"Roscoe," she said, sharply, "can he do it?""Do it?" I repeated."What do you mean?""Can he give you your walkin' papers at that bank? Oh, I heard him! I tried not to, but he hollered so I couldn't help it.That kitchen door ain't much thicker'n a sheet of paper, anyhow.Can he do it?""I guess so.He seems to be boss of that institution.""But can't 'Lisha Warren or some of the other directors help you?
Jed Dean don't boss 'Lisha Warren--not much.""I shan't ask for help.Please don't trouble me, Dorinda."I tried to pass her, but she would not permit it.
"I shan't trouble you, Ros," she said."I guess you've got troubles enough without me.But you let me ask you this: Are you goin' to let him drive you out of town?"I shrugged my shoulders."It may not take much driving," Iannounced, listlessly, "if it were not for Mother I should be only too glad to go."Again I tried to pass, but this time she seized my arm.
"Roscoe Paine," she cried, "don't you talk like that.I don't want to hear another word like that.Don't you let Jed Dean or nobody else drive you out of Denboro.You ain't done nothin' to be ashamed of, have you?""I sold that land to Mr.Colton.I don't know how Captain Jed found it out, but it is true enough; I did exactly what he said Idid."
"Found out! He found out from somebody over to Ostable where the deed was recorded, that is how he found out.He said so.But Idon't care for that.And I don't care if you sold the Lane ten times over.You didn't do it for any mean or selfish reason, that I know.There ain't a selfish bone in your body, Roscoe.I've lived along with you all these years and I know.Nobody that was mean or selfish would give up their chances in life and stay here in this one-hoss town because his ma was sick and had took a notion that she couldn't bear to part with him.Don't you mind Jed Dean--pig-headed old thing!--or anybody else in Denboro.Hold up your head and show 'em you don't care for the whole caboodle of 'em.
Let 'em talk and act like fools, if they want to.It comes natural to most of 'em, I cal'late, and they'll be sorry some day.Don't you let 'em drive you out.They won't come inside THIS house with their talk, not while I'm here, I tell you that!"Her eyes, behind the brass-rimmed spectacles, flashed fire.This was the longest speech I had ever heard her make.
"There, Dorinda," I said, smiling, "don't worry on my account.I'm not worth it.And, whatever I do, I shall see that you and Lute are provided for."Instead of calming her this statement seemed to have the exactly opposite effect.
"Stop it!" she snapped."The idea! Do you suppose it's for myself I'm talkin' this way to you? I guess 'tain't! My soul! I'll look out for myself, and Lute, too, long's I'm able to walk; and when Ican't walk 'twill be because I've stopped breathin'.It's for you I'm talkin', for you and Comfort.Think of her."I sighed."I have been thinking of her, Dorinda," I declared.
"She doesn't know a word about this."
"Then tell her."
"I can't tell her my reason for selling, any more than I can tell you--or Dean.""Tell her what you can, then.Tell her as much of the truth as you can.She'll say you done right, of course.Whatever you do is right to her."I made no reply.She regarded me keenly.
"Roscoe," she went on, "do you WANT to go somewheres else?""I don't know, Dorinda.I might as well be here as anywhere, perhaps.I am rather blue and discouraged just now, that's all.""I can't blame you much.But bein' discouraged don't do any good.
