Thankful's Inheritance Part 32

She'll be smooth as a smelt. I'll bet you anything she'll say that, after all, she guesses the engagement's a good thing and that Imogene's a nice girl. There's a whole lot in keepin' the feller you're fightin'

off his guard until you've got him in a corner with his hands down. Last night Hannah give me my orders to mind my own business. This mornin' she cooked me the best breakfast I've had since I shipped aboard her vessel.

And kept askin' me to have more. No, Imogene's right; Hannah'll play the game, and she'll play it quiet. As for tellin' anybody her brother's engaged, you needn't worry about that. She'll be the last one to tell."

This prophecy seemed likely to prove true. The next time Thankful met Hannah the latter greeted her like a long-lost friend. During a long conversation she mentioned the subject of her brother's engagement but once and then at the very end of the interview.

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Thankful," she said, "I do beg your pardon for carryin' on the way I did at your house t'other night. The news was pitched out at me so sudden that I was blowed right off my feet, as you might say. I acted real unlikely, I know; but, you see, Kenelm does mean so much to me that I couldn't bear to think of givin' him up to anybody else. When I come to think it over I realized 'twa'n't no more'n I had ought to have expected. I mustn't be selfish and I ain't goin' to be.

S'long's 'tain't that--that Jezebel of an Abbie Larkin I don't mind so much. I couldn't stand havin' her in the family--THAT I couldn't stand.

Oh, and if you don't mind, Mrs. Thankful, just don't say nothin' about the engagin' yet awhile. I shouldn't mind, of course, but Kenelm, he's set on keepin' it secret for a spell. There! I must run on. I've got to go up to the store and get a can of that consecrated soup for supper.

Have you tried them soups? They're awful cheap and handy. You just pour in hot water and there's more'n enough for a meal. Good-by."

Imogene, when she returned from the Fair, announced that she had had a perfectly lovely time.

"He ain't such bad company--Kenelm, I mean," she observed. "He talks a lot, but you don't have to listen unless you want to; and he enjoys himself real well, considerin' how little practice he's had."

"Did you meet anyone you knew?" asked Emily.

"No'm. We saw quite a lot of folks from East Wellmouth, but we saw 'em first, so we didn't meet 'em. One kind of funny thing happened: a man who was outside a snake tent, hollerin' for everybody to come in, saw us and he says to me: 'Girlie,' he says--he was a fresh guy like all them kind--'Girlie,' he says, 'ask your pa to take you in and see the Serpent King eat 'em alive. Only ten cents, Pop,' he says to Kenelm. 'Don't miss the chance to give your little girl a treat.' Kenelm was all frothed up at bein' took for my father, but I told him he needn't get mad--if I could stand it he could, I guessed."

Kenelm reported for work as usual on Monday morning and he worked--actually worked all day. For an accepted lover he appeared rather subdued and silent. Captain Obed, who noticed his behavior, commented upon it.

"Cal'late Kenelm's beginnin' to realize gettin' engaged don't mean all joy," he said, with a chuckle. "He's just got two bosses instead of one, that's all. He's scart to death of Hannah at home and when he's here Imogene orders him 'round the way a bucko mate used to order a roustabout. I said Hannah was in a clove hitch, didn't I? Well, she is, but Kenelm--well, Kenelm's like a young one runnin' 'tiddly' on thin ice--worse'n that, 'cause he can't stop on either side, got to keep runnin' between 'em and look out and not fall in."

Labor Day, the day upon which the Cape summer season really ends, did not, to the High Cliff House, mean the general exodus which it means to most of the Cape hotels. Some of Thankful's lodgers left, of course, but many stayed, and were planning to stay through September if the weather continued pleasant. But on the Sat.u.r.day following Labor Day it rained.

And the next day it rained harder, and on Monday began a series of cold, windy, gloomy days which threatened to last indefinitely. One after the other the sojourners from the cities pa.s.sed from grumbling at the weather to trunk-packing and leaving. A few stayed on into the next week but when, at the end of that week, a storm set in which was more severe than those preceding it, even these optimists surrendered. Before that third week was over the High Cliff House was practically deserted.

Except for Heman Daniels and John Kendrick and Miss Timpson and Caleb Hammond, Thankful and Emily and Imogene were alone in the big house.

This upsetting of her plans and hopes worried Thankful not a little.

Emily, too, was troubled concerning her cousin's business outlook. The High Cliff House had been a success during its first season, but it needed the expected September and early October income to make it a success financially. The expense had been great, much greater than Thankful had expected or planned. It is true that the boarders, almost without exception, had re-engaged rooms and board for the following summer, but summer was a long way off. There was the winter to be lived through and if, as they had hoped, additions and enlargements to the establishment were to be made in the spring, more, a good deal more money, would be needed.

"As I see it, Auntie," said Emily, when they discussed the situation, "you have splendid prospects here. Your first season has been all or more than you dared hope for, and if we had had good weather--the sort of weather everyone says the Cape usually has in the fall months--you would have come out even or better. But, even then, to make this scheme a real money-maker, you would be obliged to have more sleeping-rooms made over, and a larger dining-room. Now why don't you go and see this--what is he?--cousin of yours, Mr. Cobb, and tell him just how you stand? Tell him of your prospects and your plans, and get him to advance you another thousand dollars--more, if you can get it. Why don't you do that?"

Thankful did not answer. She had few secrets from Emily, whom she loved as dearly as a daughter, but one secret she had kept. Just why she had kept this one she might not have been able to explain satisfactorily, even to herself. She had written Emily of her visit to Solomon Cobb's "henhouse" and of the loan on mortgage which had resulted therefrom. But she had neither written nor told all of the circ.u.mstances of that visit, especially of Mr. Cobb's att.i.tude toward her and his reluctance to lend the money. She said merely that he had lent it and Emily had evidently taken it for granted that the loan was made because of the relationship and kindly feeling between the two. Thankful, even now, did not undeceive her. She felt a certain shame in doing so; a shame in admitting that a relative of hers could be so mean and disobliging.

"Why don't you go to Mr. Cobb again, Auntie?" repeated Emily. "He will lend you more, I'm sure, if you explain all the circ.u.mstances. It would be a perfectly safe investment for him, and you would pay interest, of course."

Mrs. Barnes shook her head. "I don't think I'd better, Emily," she said.

"He's got one mortgage on this place already."

"What of it? That was only for fifteen hundred and you have improved the house and grounds ever so much since then. I think he'll be glad to let you have another thousand. The mortgage he has is to run for three years, you said, didn't you?"

Again Thankful did not answer. She had not said the mortgage was for a term of three years; Emily had presumed that it was and she had not undeceived her. She hesitated, and Emily noticed her hesitation.

"It is for three years, isn't it, Auntie?" she repeated.

Mrs. Barnes tried to evade the question.

"Why, not exactly, Emily," she replied. "It ain't. You see, he thought three years was a little mite too long, and so--and so we fixed up for a shorter time. It's all right, though."

"Is it? You are sure? Aunt Thankful, tell me truly: how long a term is that mortgage?"

"Well, it's--it's only for a year, but--"

"A year? Why, then it will fall due next spring. You can't pay that mortgage next spring, can you?"

"I don't know's I can, but--but it'll be all right, anyhow. He'll renew it, if I ask him to, I presume likely."

"Of course he will. He will have to. Auntie, you must go and see him at once. If you don't I shall."

If there was one point on which Thankful was determined, it was that Emily should not meet Solomon Cobb. The money-lender had visited the High Cliff premises but once during the summer and then Miss Howes was providentially absent.

"No, no!" declared Mrs. Barnes, hastily. "You shan't do any such thing.

The idea! I guess I can 'tend to borrowin' money from my own relation without draggin' other folks into it. I'll drive over and see him pretty soon."

"You must go at once. I shan't permit you to wait another week. It is almost time for me to go back to my schoolwork, and I shan't go until I am certain that mortgage is to be renewed and that your financial affairs are all right. Do go, Auntie, please. Arrange to have the mortgage renewed and try to get another loan. Promise me you will go tomorrow."

So Thankful was obliged to promise, and the following morning she drove George Washington over the long road, now wet and soggy from the rain, to Trumet.

Mr. Solomon Cobb's "henhouse" looked quite as dingy and dirty as when she visited it before. Solomon himself was just as shabby and he pulled at his whiskers with his accustomed energy.

"h.e.l.lo!" he said, peering over his spectacles. "What do you want? . . .

Oh, it's you, is it? What's the matter?"

Thankful came forward. "Matter?" she repeated. "What in the world--what made you think anything was the matter?"

Solomon stared at her fixedly.

"What did you come here for?" he asked.

"To see you. That's worth comin' for, isn't it?"

The joke was wasted, as all jokes seemed to be upon Mr. Cobb. He did not smile.

"What made you come to see me?" he asked, still staring.

"What made me?"

"Yes. What made you? Have you found--has anybody told you--er--anything?"

"Anybody told me! My soul and body! That's what you said when I was here before. Do you say it to everybody? What on earth do you mean by it? Who would tell me anything? And what would they tell?"

Solomon pulled his whiskers. "Nothin', I guess," he said, after a moment. "Only there's so much fool talk runnin' loose I didn't know but you might have heard I was--was dead, or somethin'. I ain't."

"I can see that, I hope. And if you was I shouldn't be traipsin' ten miles just to look at your remains. Time enough for that at the funeral.

Dead! The idea!"

"Um--well, all right; I ain't dead, yet. Set down, won't ye?"

Thankful sat down. Mr. Cobb swung about in his own chair, so that his face was in the shadow.