Shavings Part 15

"No, ma'am, not but that once."

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: "I am surprised that it hasn't been occupied always. Do you ask such a VERY high rent, Mr. Winslow?"

Jed looked doubtful. "Why, no, ma'am," he answered. "I didn't cal'late 'twas so very high, considerin' that 'twas just for 'summer and furnished and all. The Davidsons paid forty dollars a month, but--"

"FORTY dollars! A month? And furnished like that? You mean a week, don't you?"

Mr. Winslow looked at her. The slow smile wandered across his face. He evidently suspected a joke.

"Why, no, ma'am," he drawled. "You see, they was rentin' the place, not buyin' it."

"But forty dollars a month is VERY cheap."

"Is it? Sho! Now you speak of it I remember that Captain Sam seemed to cal'late 'twas. He said I ought to have asked a hundred, or some such foolishness. I told him he must have the notion that I was left out of the sweet ile when they pickled the other thirty- nine thieves. Perhaps you've read the story, ma'am," he suggested.

His visitor laughed. "I have read it," she said. Then she added, plainly more to herself than to him: "But even forty is far too much, of course."

Jed was surprised and a little hurt.

"Yes--er--yes, ma'am," he faltered. "Well, I--I was kind of 'fraid 'twas, but Colonel Davidson seemed to think 'twas about fair, so--"

"Oh, you misunderstand me. I didn't mean that forty dollars was too high a rent. It isn't, it is a very low one. I meant that it was more than I ought to think of paying. You see, Mr. Winslow, I have been thinking that we might live here in Orham, Barbara and I.

I like the town; and the people, most of those I have met, have been very pleasant and kind. And it is necessary--that is, it seems to me preferable--that we live, for some years at least, away from the city. This little house of yours is perfect. I fell in love with the outside of it at first sight. Now I find the inside even more delightful. I"--she hesitated, and then added--"I don't suppose you would care to let it unfurnished at--at a lower rate?"

Jed was very much embarra.s.sed. The idea that his caller would make such a proposition as this had not occurred to him for a moment.

If it had the lost key would almost certainly have remained lost.

He liked Mrs. Armstrong even on such short acquaintance, and he had taken a real fancy to Barbara; but his prejudice against tenants remained. He rubbed his chin.

"Why--why, now, ma'am," he stammered, "you--you wouldn't like livin' in Orham all the year 'round, would you?"

"I hope I should. I know I should like it better than living-- elsewhere," with, so it seemed to him, a little shudder. "And I cannot afford to live otherwise than very simply anywhere. I have been boarding in Orham for almost three months now and I feel that I have given it a trial."

"Yes--yes, ma'am, but summer's considerable more lively than winter here on the Cape."

"I have no desire for society. I expect to be quiet and I wish to be. Mr. Winslow, would you consider letting me occupy this house-- unfurnished, of course? I should dearly love to take it just as it is--this furniture is far more fitting for it than mine--but I cannot afford forty dollars a month. Provided you were willing to let me hire the house of you at all, not for the summer alone but for all the year, what rent do you think you should charge?"

Jed's embarra.s.sment increased. "Well, now, ma'am," he faltered, "I--I hope you won't mind my sayin' it, but--but I don't know's I want to let this house at all. I--I've had consider'ble many chances to rent it, but--but--"

He could not seem to find a satisfactory ending to the sentence and so left it unfinished. Mrs. Armstrong was evidently much disappointed, but she did not give up completely.

"I see," she said. "Well, in a way I think I understand. You prefer the privacy. I think I could promise you that Barbara and I would disturb you very little. As to the rent, that would be paid promptly."

"Sartin, ma'am, sartin; I know 'twould, but--"

"Won't you think it over? We might even live here for a month, with your furniture undisturbed and at the regular rental. You could call it a trial month, if you liked. You could see how you liked us, you know. At the end of that time," with a smile, "you might tell us we wouldn't do at all, or, perhaps, then you might consider making a more permanent arrangement. Barbara would like it here, wouldn't you, dear?"

Barbara, who had been listening, nodded excitedly from the big rocker. "Ever and ever so much," she declared; "and Petunia would just adore it."

Poor Jed was greatly perturbed. "Don't talk so, Mrs. Armstrong,"

he blurted. "Please don't. I--I don't want you to. You--you make me feel bad."

"Do I? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say anything to hurt your feelings. I beg your pardon."

"No, you don't. I--I mean you hadn't ought to. You don't hurt my feelin's; I mean you make me feel bad--wicked--cussed mean--all that and some more. I know I ought to let you have this house.

Any common, decent man with common decent feelin's and sense would let you have it. But, you see, I ain't that kind. I--I'm selfish and--and wicked and--" He waved a big hand in desperation.

She laughed. "Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "Besides, it isn't so desperate as all that. You certainly are not obliged to rent the house unless you want to."

"But I do want to; that is, I don't, but I know I'd ought to want to. And if I was goin' to let anybody have it I'd rather 'twould be you--honest, I would. And it's the right thing for me to do, I know that. That's what bothers me; the trouble's with ME. I don't want to do the right thing." He broke off, seemed to reflect and then asked suddenly:

"Ma'am, do you want to go to heaven when you die?"

The lady was naturally somewhat surprised at the question. "Why, yes," she replied, "I-- Why, of course I do."

"There, that's it! Any decent, sensible person would. But I don't."

Barbara, startled into forgetting that children should be seen and not heard, uttered a shocked "Oh!"

Jed waved his hand. "You see," he said, "even that child's morals are upset by me. I know I ought to want to go to heaven. But when I see the crowd that KNOW they're goin' there, are sartin of it, the ones from this town, a good many of 'em anyhow; when I hear how they talk in prayer-meetin' and then see how they act outside of it, I-- Well," with a deep sigh, "I want to go where they ain't, that's all." He paused, and then drawled solemnly, but with a suspicion of the twinkle in his eye: "The general opinion seems to be that that's where I'll go, so's I don't know's I need to worry."

Mrs. Armstrong made no comment on this confession. He did not seem to expect any.

"Ma'am," he continued, "you see what I mean. The trouble's with me, I ain't made right. I ought to let that house; Sam Hunniwell told me so this mornin'. But I--I don't want to. Nothin' personal to you, you understand; but . . . Eh? Who's that?"

A step sounded on the walk outside and voices were heard. Jed turned to the door.

"Customers, I cal'late," he said. "Make yourselves right to home, ma'am, you and the little girl. I'll be right back."

He went out through the dining-room into the little hall. Barbara, in the big rocker, looked up over Petunia's head at her mother.

"Isn't he a funny man, Mamma?" she said.

Mrs. Armstrong nodded. "Yes, he certainly is," she admitted.

"Yes," the child nodded reflectively. "But I don't believe he's wicked at all. I believe he's real nice, don't you?"

"I'm sure he is, dear."

"Yes. Petunia and I like him. I think he's what you said our Bridget was, a rough damson."

"Not damson; diamond, dear."

"Oh, yes. It was damson preserve Mrs. Smalley had for supper last night. I forgot. Petunia told me to say damson; she makes so many mistakes."

They heard the "rough diamond" returning. He seemed to be in a hurry. When he re-entered the little sitting-room he looked very much frightened.

"What is the matter?" demanded Mrs. Armstrong.

Jed gulped.