Pamela studied the reservation pad with wrinkled-brow intentness. “I don’t recognize any of these names, Hitty.”
“They said they were new, told who the folks was who’d recommended them, but I couldn’t be bothered taking that down. My, isn’t it warm for this time of year? Folks is sayin’ that the rooms are taken at the Inn from now till clear through October.”
A shadow fell across her busy hands. She looked up. “Eddie Pike, what you stealing up like that for? Might’s well kill a body as scare her to death.”
The loose jointed man in a rope-belted army overcoat, with barnyard mud on his boots, a stubby young beard sprouting from his round face, surveyed her with big, vacant, light blue eyes. In the drive an aged white horse hitched to a top-buggy drooped in harness. He drawled:
“Terry asked me to come up an’ kill them chickens fer him. I couldn’t come tomorrer ’cause I have to pump water for Kelley-the-miser. He’s apt to take a bath round the end of the week.”
Pamela consulted the reservation pad. “The squabs for Saturday. Six. All right, Eddie, come out to the poultry house and I will show you where to find them.”
Pike rubbed his hand up and down his unshaven cheek. The sound resembled nothing so much as an able-bodied young buzz-saw in operation. His loose mouth twitched.
“Squabs! You mean pigeons? I couldn’t kill a dove, Miss Pamela.”
Knife in one hand, oyster shell in the other, Mehitable Betts stared at him. “Eddie Pike! How long since you’ve got so sensitive? You trap and hunt and fish all the year round, open season or not open season, and now you —”
“They are chickens, not pigeons, Eddie.” Pamela stemmed the caustic torrent of words. “Squabs is a term applied to small chickens. Come on.”
He shuffled along beside her, a burlap bag in his hand. She led the way to the poultry house. Long rows of buildings with tidy yards only a few of them inhabited, were enclosed by a galvanized wire fence. A great white Leghorn rooster, wattles and comb like coral carvings, flew at the netting in a vain attempt to attack. Pike shrank away.
“Gee, that fella’s a fighter.”
“Yes. He’s a terror, he flies at anyone who comes near him. Terry has named him the White Hope. Here are the chickens to be dressed.” As a dozen or more plump, small, yellow feathered cockerels flew and fluttered in the coop in the expectation of food, she added hastily, “Don’t take them out till I get into the house. I — I — hate this part of the poultry business.”
She was conscious of his grinning regard as she dashed away. She slammed the kitchen door to shut out the sound of frightened chirping and wildly flapping wings. “That’s that!” she sighed in relief.
Mehitable Betts sniffed. “Open that door again, Pam. Room smells like a barnyard. Folks is sayin’ Eddie Pike sleeps with the old white horse. ’Tisn’t hard to believe. That’s better. What do you know about his being so sensitive about dressing pigeons? Pity he isn’t more tender-hearted some other ways.”
“He is fond of his sister, isn’t he?”
“If you call it being fond to suspect every man who looks at Milly Pike of wanting to run off with her and lead her astray. He’s got a twist that way. There’s your father’s bell. I’d like a dollar for every time he jingles it. I wouldn’t have to work much longer.”
Pamela answered the impatient summons. Her father was in the big chair by the window, eyes on the cloudless blue sky and the shimmering sand dunes. There was a book on his knees, the stamp-laden table had been pushed aside. He looked up as his daughter entered. His face seemed rounder, his eyes clearer, his voice stronger than it had been since he came to the Cape.
“When is Mallory coming again?”
“Saturday.”
“Has he sent Cecile the money?”
“If he has, he hasn’t told me.”
“I don’t like him, he’s — he’s so unflinching.”
“Father!” Pamela disciplined her indignant voice, said more calmly: “After all he has done to help you! How ungrateful. Had he not been unflinching we might be sitting on packing boxes instead of on choice old maple chairs. We haven’t paid him a cent for the time he has given to our pesky problems.”
“He offered to help, didn’t he?”
“And did it.”
He stared out of the window again. Color crept under his waxen skin. He cleared his throat. The cords on his forehead stood out.
“I didn’t wait for him to send the money to Cecile. I got it for her myself.”
Pamela’s world whirled, steadied. He had sent Cecile money! She had lied to get it. Where had it come from? Was that the explanation of his midnight trip to the mailbox? She tried to keep her voice steady.
“I thought that Mr. Mallory had charge of all your securities?”
“I realized on an antique a — friend held for me. I — you have done so much — I wouldn’t let you mortgage your property for us.”
Pamela blinked furiously to keep back a sudden, unexpected rush of tears. He did care a little for her! What a child she still was about her father!
“Cecile wrote that if I didn’t send the money she would come here. We couldn’t have that. I told her that you had convinced me that she and I never could be happy together again.”
“Father! I never have advised you about your wife!”
“I had to say something to prevent her coming. We don’t want her, do we? My nerves wouldn’t stand the excitement of having her around.”
His nerves! Indignation dried even Pamela’s long, drenched lashes. “Don’t worry, she won’t come now that she has the eight hundred. You might have saved your precious antique. Cecile fooled you. That operation story was a try-out for money.”
The knuckles of his hands strained white as he clutched the arms of his chair.
“How do you know?” The question was sharply incredulous.
“A friend saw her at a party in New York. She danced and danced and danced. She wouldn’t do that, would she, if she were slated for the hospital?”
Harold Leigh’s face was colorless. His eyes were wide with fury, his voice hoarse.
“Fooled me, did she! I’ll make her pay for that even if she is a woman who never pays for anything, but just digs, digs, digs!” His chin quivered like a hurt child’s. “My mint block! My mint block!” The last word was a wail.
Chapter VIII
Scott Mallory laid a paper on the desk in the living room. Pamela smiled radiantly.
“I am so glad you came. You said you would not be here this week.”
His face and eyes were as noncommittal as his voice. “Wanted to get this loan through. I stood over the title-examiner with a club — figuratively speaking — to be sure he pushed ahead. Work should be started on the cottage at once or it won’t be ready to rent this season. That would mean a loss to you. Read the mortgage before you sign.”
Under the light of the lamp Pamela dutifully scanned the printed words.
“Perhaps sometime I will understand legal terms. This seems a muddle of whereas and whereupon and grantor and grantee to me. However, the gist of it is that I am placing a mortgage for four thousand dollars on thirty acres of shore land. Who is this trusting person who is willing to plunge to that extent?”
“A friend of mine. We could have borrowed from a bank but I wouldn’t take a chance at the news of the loan leaking out until the deal was consummated. Hurried it up on that account. Sign here — and here.”
He laid a note on the mortgage. She wrote her name on both. He witnessed her signatures and stamped the document with his Notary’s seal.
“I understand that this leaves the house, the cranberry bogs and the rest of the land clear. Am I right, Scott?”
“Correct. Here is your cheque. The first six months’ interest has been deducted. By the time the next comes due the cottage should be finished, rented, and an advance payment made. When you get a tenant I’ll draw the lease and make sure it is water-tight.”
“It won’t be your faul
t if I am not an efficient business woman.” Pamela looked at the pink slip of paper. “What shall I do with it? Deposit it with the money I keep for current expenses?”
“Better not. Better open an account in a Boston bank.”
She tapped the desk with the end of her pen as she looked up at the man looming above her.
“Scott, of what are you afraid?”
“What do you mean, ‘afraid’?”
“Don’t fence. You are afraid that Cecile will try to get that money, aren’t you? How could she? Why should she?”
“If it once occurred to her as a lucrative possibility, she might attempt it. You never know what the power of suggestion, combined with the tendency of the human mind to see and believe what it wants to see and believe, can accomplish.”
“I still can’t see why she should try to get money from me. Have you paid her any?”
“No. I wrote why.”
“Father sent her some.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Don’t shoot questions at me like that and please sit down.”
“Come over here on the couch.” He caught her hand, seated himself beside her. Spread her fingers on his palm. She doubled them up.
“Inky, aren’t they? I despair of ever domesticating a fountain-pen. Just as I think I have one well-trained it leaks.”
He laughed. “I’ll send you one that won’t. I’ll put a spell on it so that it always will write to me the things I want to hear. Tell me what has happened since I have been away.”
The fire snapped accompaniment as she repeated the conversation with her father. “When he said that he wouldn’t let me mortgage this property for Cecile and himself, my incurable romanticism vaulted to the saddle, I — I almost hugged him, I was so touched by his consideration. Luckily I remembered in time that he hates demonstration. Later, when he said that his ‘nerves’ wouldn’t stand having his wife about, I flung the truth at him, told him that she had been lying to get money. I thought for an instant her deception had killed him. He looked ghastly, then furious, then threatened to make her pay, crumpled and wailed:
“‘My mint block! My mint block!’
“That meant nothing to me. Do you suppose he owned a rare block print — if there is such a thing? Had he said mint-bed, it would have been within the scope of my practical ken. There is a marvelous patch in Grandmother Leigh’s herb-garden, you can smell it a mile away — almost.”
“What a good little sport you are, Pam. Your sense of humor will buoy you in the roughest water.” Head back, Mallory blew smoke rings at the ceiling, repeated thoughtfully, “‘My mint block!’ I wonder if he has more treasures up his sleeve.”
“If he has it seems frightfully unfair that Terry and I should be worried to a frazzle trying to make both ends meet. It isn’t the work I mind, but it is this everlasting counting pennies. A dime assumes the proportions of a gold piece when I consider parting with it. Shall I get so niggardly that I shall forget how to spend?”
He laid his finger lightly between her brows. “That pucker is adorable, but don’t worry about forgetting how to spend. The knack will return, you’ll be surprised. I can’t bear to see you working so hard. Who the dickens is that?” Pamela waved him aside when he would have answered the telephone.
“Probably someone to make a reservation.” She spoke into the transmitter. “Silver Moon … Right here … Mr. Carr! … Of course I am coming tomorrow. All excited about it … You have … I’m crazy to see it … I have the money! My legal adviser approves … You will! Marvelous … No, don’t come for me. Terry will drive me over … Of course, you may bring me home. Good-bye.”
Pamela returned to the couch. Her eyes shone, her cheeks were pink from excitement.
“That was my poor little rich boy. He has a cardboard model of the cottage as it will look made over. I am having supper at the Carrs’ tomorrow night.”
Arm on the mantel Mallory met her eyes. “I have not forgotten.”
“Why so solemn? You don’t disapprove of a little change of scene for me, do you?”
“No. I would pack your days full of pleasure if you would let me.”
Pamela swallowed her heart which had soared to her throat at the emotion in his voice. She steeled herself to say practically:
“You are doing something for me all the time, Scott.”
He took a step toward her. Put his hands hard in his pockets. “I am going back to town tonight. Can’t you come to the city one day next week? You really ought to deposit the cheque, and open an account personally.”
“To town! I haven’t been away from this house for a day since I came here in June. It sounds heavenly. It would have to be Thursday. I could get everything planned ahead for the week-end. I am sure of Hitty Betts that day and Terry has a light schedule. He would be here. I could buy the new machines.”
“What machines?”
“A big tricolator and an electric ice-cream freezer. We have been making coffee, four cups at a time, and freezing ice-cream in small lots. We have saved money enough to get big ones.”
“All right, Thursday. Come to my office first. I will take you to the bank, then we’ll have luncheon and go to a show. It will be a talkie, no real theatre on that afternoon. Couldn’t make it Wednesday, could you?”
“I couldn’t. Taking Thursday is a risk and we will cut out the matinee. I should lose the last train down.”
“Forget the train. I’ll drive you home. Don’t say ‘no.’ Good-night.”
He was gone before she could answer. Was he afraid that she might change her mind about going to Boston? She was not so heroic. Now that she had had a vision of what a day in the city would mean she would grab the pleasure though the heavens fell. Lucky she had the excuse of the purchase of the tricolator and freezer as a sop to fling to her New England conscience.
A sense of anticipation glowed in her heart during church the next morning. It was difficult to keep her mind on the service, keep from visualizing shops and crowded streets and luncheon with Scott. The downpour of rain dimmed her vivid imagination not at all.
At home as she changed her green crepe to a simple print in which to prepare dinner, she frowned at the sleeve. Thin on the elbow? What would she do for clothes when her present supply gave out? She and Terrence had planned to put every cent they didn’t need for living into equipment.
She was still pondering the question as she fastened her belt at the window. A dingy day. From horizon to horizon the sky was spongy with formless clouds. A pair of drenched birds snuggled close in a bend of the eaves, kept up a monotonous, Cheep! Cheep! Water rivuleted down the shingles, dripped in a platinum fringe from the roof, settled in pools which looked like fragments of a shattered mirror on the sodden lawn which showed a tinge of green in its russet. Little mists hung above the hollows. Village chimneys were darker blurs against the drab sky, the church spire was of no more importance than the cupola of the little red schoolhouse. Rain, like a gauze curtain, turned all color to a neutral gray. The smell of the sea stole into the room. An open car chugged up the drive. Cap’n Iry Crockett’s! Why was he coming? She hadn’t ordered oysters. Who was with him? Someone in yellow oilskins.
She stared incredulously as the sou’wester blew back from a blonde head. Cecile? Her father’s wife! Here!
Pamela flew down the stairs. The Babe, roused from a doze in front of the living room fire, joined her as she opened the door, his hair bristling. He dashed to the porch, stopped for an instant to regard the oilskin figure picking its way from stepping-stone to stepping-stone, then, with a growl, charged.
The woman screamed as he snapped at her yellow slicker, tore at it. For a stunned instant Pamela felt turned to stone. Cecile here! Why? Had she come for more money?
“Pamela! Pamela! How dare you set him on me!”
The scream unlocked the girl’s muscles and tongue.
“Babe! Babe!” She had the dog by the collar. With all her might twisted it. A growl gurgled in his throat as she d
ragged him back.
“Run for the house, quick, Cecile! Run!” she gasped.
The woman took a step forward, sank to the ground, panted through livid lips:
“I knew you hated me! You’ve turned your father against me! You’ll pay for this! What beastly luck that my attorney isn’t with me!”
“Cap’n Crockett! Come! Help!” Pamela called as the dog almost pulled her arms from their sockets in his attempt to reach the yellow slickered figure.
The Captain in his black rubber coat, which glistened with rain, puffed up.
“What in tarnation’s that pup raising such a row about? Ain’t he notional!”
“Never mind! Never mind! Help her into the house. Quick! I can’t hold him much longer. Come along, Babe! Come!”
Spanking, pulling, pushing, Pamela dragged the infuriated dog toward the barn. Devoutly she prayed that the collar would not give way under the strain, fervently she hoped that Cecile was safely in the house, she didn’t dare turn to look. Why, of all days in the year had one of the Academy teachers selected this one to invite Terrence to dinner? The barn at last!
At the girl’s tempestuous entrance a Jersey cow stopped chewing her cud to gaze with ruminative eyes; an old horse neighed a welcome; a hen flew down from the loft and with a frenzied cackle scurried into the rain; a mouse which had been feasting on chaff scuttled into its hole. She pushed the dog into a box stall, slammed and fastened the door. White, breathless, shaken, she leaned against it outside. She shut her eyes tight to keep back tears of relief, set her teeth into her lips to steady their nervous twitching, clenched her hands to control her shaking body.
Cap’n Crockett poked his head into the barn. “The lady’s all right, Miss Pam-ee-lia. She wasn’t so hurt as she seemed when she tumbled to the ground. Ain’t surprised she was frightened. Thought when you an’ that pup burst out of the house you was settin’ him on her. Guess she’ll wish she hadn’t pestered me to death to bring her.”
With an effort Pamela steadied her voice. “Where did you pick her up, Cap’n Iry?”
Fair Tomorrow Page 8