“Won’t you ride to the house with us, Mr Wainwright? You must be tired after your walk.”
The old fellow nodded alertly. “Don’t mind if I do, madam. I was all the way to Kempster, and I’m a little tired. Saw your sister there, by the way.”
He had come through the gate, this time the one that was standing open for the car, and he was heading for the front door of the machine when Mrs Carmody managed heavily:
“My – sister?”
It was easier to nod this time. The episode of the gate was a vague unreality in her mind, becoming dimmer by the minute. She smiled her smile as the old man politely lifted his hat, watched as he climbed into the front seat beside the driver.
The car puffed along the yard road, rounded the house and drew up before the veranda. A girl in a white dress came to the screen door, and stood there very quietly staring at them.
She was a pretty, fragile thing, Mrs Carmody noted with a sharp eye to detail, slim, with yellow hair, about fifteen or sixteen, and – the woman’s mind tightened – not very friendly.
The woman smiled sweetly. “Hello, Phyllis,” she said, “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Hello,” said Phyllis; and the older woman smiled comfortably at the reluctant greeting. Because – it
The woman smiled a thin smile to herself. This simple country girl was going to learn how impossible it was to fight a friendly approach, backed by an iron purpose.
She could see the whole future smoothly fitting in with her wishes. First, to settle down; then to set about throwing Bill and Phyllis together, so that they’d consider marriage a natural and early conclusion to their relationship. And then-It was night; and she had blown out the lamp in the master bedroom before she thought again of the old man, and the astounding things he had said and done.
She lay in the darkness, nestling into the special comfort of the great bed, frowning. Finally, sleepily, she shrugged. Harmless, the driver had said. Well, he’d better stay that way, the old coot.
Mrs Carmody wakened the following morning to the sounds of movement downstairs. She dressed hurriedly with a sense of having been outmaneuvered on her first day; and that empty feeling became conviction when she saw the old man and Phyllis eating breakfast.
There were three other plates set with bowls of cereal; and Mrs Carmody sank down before one of them in a dead silence. She saw that the girl had a notebook open in front of her; and she clutched at the straw of conversation it offered.
“Doing your homework?” she asked in her friendliest voice.
“No!” said the girl, closing the notebook and getting up from the table.
Mrs Carmody sat very still, fighting the surge of dull color that crept up into her cheeks. No use getting excited, she thought. The thing was, somehow – somehow she had to make friends with this quiet girl.
And besides, there was some information she had to have – about food, about the house, about – money.
Abruptly, breakfast was a meaningless, tasteless act. She got up from her half-finished cereal; in the kitchen she found Phyllis washing the dishes.
“Let me wash,” said the woman, “you dry.”
She added: “Pretty hands like yours shouldn’t be in dish water.”
She sent a swift glance at the girl’s face, and spoke for the third time: “I’m rather ashamed of myself for getting up so late. I came here to work, not to rest.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” said the girl; and Mrs Carmody smiled her secret smile. The dangerous silence strike was over. She said:
“What about food? Is there any particular store where you buy it? Your mother didn’t mention such details in her letter. I—”
She stopped, startled in spite of herself at that mention of the letter. She stood for a moment, hands rigid in the hot water; then forced on:
“Your poor mother! It was such a tired letter she wrote. I cried when I read it.”
From under half-closed eyes she saw that the girl’s lips were trembling – and she knew her victory. She had a brief blazing exultation at the way every word, every mood of this moment was under her control. She said swiftly:
“We can talk about those details later.”
The girl said tearfully: “We have a charge account at Graham’s General Store in Agan. You can phone up. He delivers this far.”
The woman walked hurriedly into the dining room to get the dishes that were still there, and to hide the irrepressible light of triumph in her eyes. A charge account! The problem of obtaining control of the money had actually made her feel sick, the consciousness that legal steps might be necessary, the conviction that she must first establish herself in the household and in the community.
And here was her stepping-stone: a charge account! Now, if this Graham’s store would only accept her order – what was the girl saying?
“Mrs Carmody, I want to apologize for not answering your question about my notebook at breakfast. You see, the neighbors always want to know what great-grandfather says about them; so, at breakfast, when he’s strongest, I ask him questions, and take notes. I pretend to him that I’m going to write a book about his life when I grow up. I couldn’t explain all that in front of him, could I?”
“Of course not,” said the woman. She thought sharply: So the neighbors were interested in the old man’s words about them. They’d be interested and friendly with anyone who kept them supplied with the latest titbits of news. She’d have to keep her ears open, and perhaps keep a notebook herself.
She grew aware that the girl was speaking again: “I’ve been wanting to tell you, great-grandpa really has the gift of seeing. You won’t believe that yet, but—”
The girl’s eyes were bright, eager; and the woman knew better than to let such enthusiasm pass.
“Why, of course, I believe it,” she said. “I’m not one of these skeptics who won’t face facts. All through history there have been people with strange powers; and besides, didn’t I see with my own eyes Mr Wainwright step through a solid gate. I—”
Her voice faltered; her own words describing that incredible action brought a vivid return of reality, and she could only finish weakly: “Of course, I believe it.”
“What I meant, Mrs Carmody,” the girl was saying, “don’t be offended if he seems to say something unpleasant. He always thinks he’s talking about events that have already happened, and then, of course, there’s the way he talks about your sister, if you’re a woman, and your brother if you’re a man. It’s really you he means.”
The woman’s mind spun curiously; and the memory of the words stayed with her after the girl had ridden off to school, even after Graham’s accepted her order on behalf of the Wainwright farm with a simple, utterly effective: “Oh, yes, Mrs Carmody, we know about you.”
It was not until nearly noon that she went out onto the porch, where the old man was sitting, and asked the question that had been quivering in her mind:
“Mr Wainwright, yesterday you mentioned you had seen my sister in Kempster. W-what did she have to say?”
She waited with a tenseness that startled her; and there was the queer thought that she was being utterly ridiculous. The old man took his long pipe out of his mouth, thoughtfully. He said:
“She was coming out of the courthouse, and—”
“Courthouse!” said Mrs Carmody.
The old man was frowning to himself. “She didn’t speak to me, so I cannot say what she was doing there.” He finished politely: “Some little case, no doubt. We all have them.”
Kent was aware of the car slowing. The driver nodded at a two-story wooden building with a veranda, and said:
“That’s the hotel. I’ll have to leave you now and do some chores. I’ll finish that story for you some other time.
