An Alabaster Box Part 18

"You mean people will suspect--they'll think there's something--"

She stood before him, her hands fallen at her sides, her eyes downcast.

"I confess I couldn't believe that there wasn't an ulterior motive,"

he said honestly. "That's where I was less n.o.ble than you."

She flashed a sudden strange look at him.

"There is," she breathed. "I'm going to be honest--with you. I have--an ulterior motive."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

Her lips formed the single word of denial.

He gazed at her in silence for a moment.

"I'm going to accept the post you just offered me, Miss Orr; at any salary you think I'm worth," he said gravely.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Steps and the sound of voices floated across the picket fence. The gate rasped on its rusted hinges; then slammed shut.

"If I was you, Mr. Elliot," came the penetrating accents of Mrs.

Solomon Black's voice, "I should hire a reg'lar reviv'list along in th' fall, after preservin' an' house-cleanin' time. We need an outpourin' of grace, right here in Brookville; and we can't get it no other way."

And the minister's cultured voice in reply:

"I shall give your suggestion the most careful consideration, Mrs.

Black, between now and the autumn season."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Jim Dodge; "this is no place for me! Good night, Miss Orr!"

She laid her hand in his.

"You can trust me," he said briefly, and became on the instant a flitting shadow among the lilac bushes, lightly vaulting over the fence and mingling with the darker shadows beyond.

Chapter IX

"Now, Henry," said Mrs. Daggett, as she smilingly set a plate of perfectly browned pancakes before her husband, which he proceeded to deluge with b.u.t.ter and maple syrup, "are you sure that's _so_, about the furniture? 'Cause if it is, we've got two or three o' them things right in this house: that chair you're settin' in, for one, an'

upstairs there's that ol' fas.h.i.+oned brown bureau, where I keep the sheets 'n' pillow slips. You don't s'pose she'd want that, do you?"

Mrs. Daggett sank down in a chair opposite her husband, her large pink and white face damp with moisture. Above her forehead a mist of airy curls fluttered in the warm breeze from the open window.

"My, ain't it hot!" she sighed. "I got all het up a-bakin' them cakes. Shall I fry you another griddleful, papa?"

"They cer'nly do taste kind o' moreish, Abby," conceded Mr. Daggett thickly. "You do beat the Dutch, Abby, when it comes t' pancakes.

Mebbe I could manage a few more of 'em."

Mrs. Daggett beamed sincerest satisfaction.

"Oh, I don't know," she deprecated happily. "Ann Whittle says I don't mix batter the way she does. But if _you_ like 'em, Henry--"

"Couldn't be beat, Abby," affirmed Mr. Daggett st.u.r.dily, as he reached for his third cup of coffee.

The cook stove was only a few steps away, so the sizzle of the batter as it expanded into generous disks on the smoking griddle did not interrupt the conversation. Mrs. Daggett, in her blue and white striped gingham, a pancake turner in one plump hand, smiled through the odorous blue haze like a tutelary G.o.ddess. Mr. Daggett, in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, his scant locks brushed carefully over his bald spot, gazed at her with placid satisfaction. He was thoroughly accustomed to having Abby wait upon his appet.i.te.

"I got to get down to the store kind of early this morning, Abby," he observed, frowning slightly at his empty plate.

"I'll have 'em for you in two shakes of a lamb's tail, papa," soothed Mrs. Daggett, to whom the above remark had come to signify not merely a statement of fact, but a gentle reprimand. "I know you like 'em good and hot; and cold buckwheat cakes certainly is about th' meanest vict'als.... There!"

And she transferred a neat pile of the delicate, crisp rounds from the griddle to her husband's plate with a skill born of long practice.

"About that furnitur'," remarked Mr. Daggett, gazing thoughtfully at the golden stream of sweetness, stolen from leaf and branch of the big sugar maples behind the house to supply the pewter syrup-jug he suspended above his cakes, "I guess it's a fact she wants it, all right."

"I should think she'd rather have new furniture; Henry, they do say the house is going to be handsome. But you say she wants the old stuff? Ain't that queer, for anybody with means."

"Well, that Orr girl beats me," Mr. Daggett acknowledged handsomely.

"She seems kind of soft an' easy, when you talk to her; but she's got ideas of her own; an' you can't no more talk 'em out of her--"

"Why should you try to talk 'em out of her, papa?" inquired Mrs.

Daggett mildly. "Mebbe her ideas is all right; and anyhow, s'long as she's paying out good money--"

"Oh, she'll pay! she'll pay!" said Mr. Daggett, with a large gesture.

"Ain't no doubt about her paying for what she wants."

He shoved his plate aside, and tipped back in his chair with a heavy yawn.

"She's asked me to see about the wall paper, Abby," he continued, bringing down his chair with a resounding thump of its st.u.r.dy legs.

"And she's got the most outlandish notions about it; asked me could I match up what was on the walls."

"Match it up? Why, ain't th' paper all moldered away, Henry, with the damp an' all?"

"'Course it is, Abby; but she says she wants to restore the house--fix it up just as 'twas. She says that's th' correct thing to do. 'Why, shucks!' I sez, 'the wall papers they're gettin' out now is a lot handsomer than them old style papers. You don't want no old stuff like that,' I sez. But, I swan! you can't tell that girl nothing, for all she seems so mild and meachin'. I was wonderin' if you couldn't shove some sense into her, Abby. Now, I'd like th' job of furnis.h.i.+n' up that house with new stuff. 'I don't carry a very big stock of furniture,' I sez to her; but--"

"Why, Hen-ery Daggett!" reproved his wife, "an' you a reg'lar professing member of the church! You ain't never carried no stock of furniture in the store, and you know it."

"That ain't no sign I ain't never goin' to, Abby," retorted Mr.

Daggett with spirit. "We been stuck right down in the mud here in Brookville since that dratted bank failed. n.o.body's moved, except to the graveyard. And here comes along a young woman with money ... I'd like mighty well to know just how much she's got an' where it come from. I asked the Judge, and he says, blamed if he knows.... But this 'ere young female spells op-per-tunity, Abby. We got to take advantage of the situation, Abby, same as you do in blackberrying season: pick 'em when they're ripe; if you don't, the birds and the bugs'll get 'em."

"It don't sound right to me, papa," murmured his wife, her kind face full of soft distress: "Taking advantage of a poor young thing, like her, an' all in mourning, too, fer a near friend. She told Lois so ... Dear, dear!"

Mr. Daggett had filled his morning pipe and was puffing energetically in his efforts to make it draw.

"I didn't _say_ take advantage of _her_," he objected. "That's somethin' I never done yet in my business, Abby. Th' Lord knows I don't sand my sugar nor water my vinegar, the way some storekeepers do. I'm all for 'live an' let live.' What I says was--... Now, you pay attention to me, Abby, and quit sniffling. You're a good woman; but you're about as soft as that there b.u.t.ter! ..."