Читать книгу The Ghost of Melody Lane - Lilian Garis - Страница 4

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“Feel better, Carol?”

“Much better, Cousin Kitty!”

The girl, her black hair now a tangle over her eyes, for she had thrown herself body as well as soul into interpreting the music she loved, swung around on the bench the strange carpenter had repaired. It creaked the least bit.

“Oh, I must be careful!” Carol murmured. “He said the glue wasn’t quite set. Funny man!”

“Yes, he was a bit odd,” admitted Mrs. Becket. “I didn’t quite like him.”

Carol didn’t say she had the same feelings. She was thinking of those strange marks back of the organ. It would be time enough later, if anything developed, to chime in her feelings with those of the dear “Cameo lady.”

“I’m so glad you feel better.” Mrs. Becket arose from the deep chair beside the organ.

“Music always makes me feel better,” said the girl. “Now I must run along home. I just came from the picture place—isn’t it strange they call them pictures when so many of them aren’t that?”

“Aren’t what?”

“Aren’t really pictures, you know. I mean—well, I suppose you could call it art.”

“Yes, it is strange. Carol, you’re in trouble, child! Tell me!” Carol seemed to shrink away from the thin, outstretched hands.

“No! Cousin Kitty. I’m all right, really.”

“You mean you aren’t in trouble or that you won’t tell me?” Mrs. Becket smiled warmly.

“I’m not in trouble—not really. You might call it a temporary embarrassment, but——”

There was a moment of silence.

“If I can help, you must be sure to let me know.” Mrs. Becket was too wise to insist.

“I shall, Cousin Kitty. And thanks, just heaps and heaps, for letting me come here to work off one of my moods.”

“Are you sure it’s only a mood, Carol, dear?”

“Quite sure, Cousin Kitty. Now I must run along. I hope——”

“You hope what?” for Carol had not finished.

“I hope I don’t meet that queer carpenter. He might—he might think I was a piece of—wood and try to glue me fast!”

“You are far from being woodeny, Carol. Your playing alone would prove that. Come soon again, dear.”

“I shall, Cousin Kitty. And, thanks again.”

Carol, at home finally, found her sister in the living room reading some sort of document.

“Cecy, what is that paper?” she demanded.

“A contract.” The blonde girl with the big glasses, which made her eyes seem extraordinarily large, waved a crackling sheet.

“A contract? What for?”

“The car. The flivver. Pet Lizzie.”

“The car?”

“Exactly. It’s going to look like new. I’ve decided on pigeon blood for the color.”

“Cecy Duncan!” Carol grasped the paper. “What are you talking about?”

“If you’ll just listen a second and cut out the dramatics, I’ll tell you, my dear.”

“But a contract—?”

“It’s for painting our family car.” Cecy’s mocking tones rang through the small room so near the kitchen where some gas burners sent out a little heat.

Carol dropped into the rocker. Her face was white. She pulled off her hat.

“Whatever ails you?” Cecy demanded. “You look like——”

“I feel a darn sight worse.” Carol was on the verge of sighing. “You little idiot!”

“Idiot nothing! I didn’t sign this contract. Dad did!”

“Where’s the car?”

“At Crawford’s, all cleaned down to the pin feathers by this time, I hope.”

“Do you mean it’s already scraped?”

“I should hope so. It’s only a flivver, and he started on it this morning. What’s all the row? Didn’t we all agree it should be done?”

“We did a week ago,” admitted Carol, in that hopeless tone. “But it’s different now.” She turned toward the window, outside of which the rocking shadows of the horse-chestnut tree seemed to be threatening her. Like the shadows of the man with the carpenter kit in his hand. “But now—now—I’ve lost my job!”

“Carol Duncan! You never!” That woke Cecy up.

“I certainly did, and I didn’t chuck it either. They merely fired me.”

“What ever will you do now?”

“Whatever will I do? Whatever will you do?”

“I!”

“Yes, you. It’s time you stopped reading library books at five cents a day extra. And movie magazines——”

“You can just mind your own business——”

“I intend to. What’s Crawford’s number? I’ve got to have that car if it looks like a Mexican Hairless. I’ve got to go over to Long Hill.”

Cecy had washed her glasses under the faucet, the better to see this awful situation.

“It’s even worse than that. A major operation, Dad said—it would have to be turned inside out to be a good job.”

“Where is Dad?”

“Over at Crawford’s, holding Lizzie’s hand. He was so tickled, he took the bus over to see how they did it. I was glad when he went out.”

“You would be.” Carol’s tone was scathing. “Poor Dad! But we can’t starve.”

“You’re right, we can’t. And that lamb stew is two days old.”

“It may have whiskers before we finish it. You don’t seem—” she stopped. After all, Cecy was not more than a child. “You just don’t seem to realize the enormity of our situation.”

“Don’t I, though. And I counted on a new coat before I freeze to death.”

“Please try to think of— What’s Crawford’s number?”

“Union, two hundred, a neat little number. But don’t go calling up, Caro. Dad might be there——”

“Yes, that’s so. But why ever did you rush it so? Couldn’t you wait until I came home?”

The two sisters, so unlike in temperament, were bound to clash under excitement. It was their way of adjusting differences; of getting to a spot where they could agree. Even Cecy, who was ever on the defensive because she had so much to defend, was now settling down to something like common sense.

“Darling,” she said to Carol, “I’ll make you a cup of tea. You certainly need it.”

“Oh, don’t bother, Sis. You see, I needed the car at once. They still run an organ in Long Hill, and the man who played it has gone or is going West. I might get it. But it won’t wait.”

“Why don’t you phone?”

“They hardly listen——”

“But they know your name. We all sang there and you played a solo at Mrs. Becket’s fest.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Carol was on her feet again, she needed to move about. “They might happen to remember.”

“Try it.” Cecy had the tea ready, poured in Carol’s favorite black and white cup, with a fruit cracker on the side. “You can be sipping this. I’ll get the number.”

A long, anxious wait. What is slower than slow telephoning? Finally Cecy had it, and had reached the manager’s office, who was not only manager, but treasurer and general boss besides.

Carol spilled her tea, but Cecy caught it up noiselessly—just a little puddle on the pretty table oilcloth. Not an extra sound, lest the conversation might be interrupted, for Carol was talking eagerly.

“Well—” Cecy asked, breathlessly. “The place isn’t taken?”

“No, and he’ll see me soon. How can I get over there?”

The problem of the stripped car was seething in Carol’s mind. How could she reach Long Hill?

“Why, Glenn will take you over!” burst out Cecy. “He’ll be tickled pink.”

“Glenn?”

“Sure, Glenn! You don’t give that boy half a chance, Carol. He’s a peach!”

“I know it.”

“And you act it—not!”

“Cecy—please! I’ve got to think this out. Dad may be in any moment now. We’ve got to do something.”

“But what are you going to do, Carol?” Cecy’s voice was just the least bit impatient.

“It’s about your turn to do something, Cecy!” Carol retorted somewhat vehemently. “Why don’t you go into the Vienna bakeshop? See if they could give you anything to do. That’s a fine place for fancy baking.”

In answer Cecy piled a mound of crumbled cheese over on a palisade of bread, with expertness akin to the movies.

“Me in a bakeshop!” she muttered.

“Why not? It’s a lot cleaner than a mouldy old organ loft and not so hard on your feet, either. My shoes are just shedding their soles. Another expense!”

“Oh, well!” sighed Cecy indecisively.

A step was heard outside.

“It’s Dad!” murmured Cecy. “Let’s not tell him—just yet.”

“It’s only putting off the evil day,” Carol sighed. “But I suppose there’s no use worrying him tonight.”

Mr. Duncan entered, and it either speaks well for the dissimulation of the girls or not so well for his observation, for he did not notice their perturbed looks. Flashed glances passed between Carol and her sister and then, as if by common consent, they began a conversation in which Mr. Duncan could join.

Muddled, worried, and uncertain, Carol did not sleep well that night. As for Cecy—well, she was just Cecy and, as she boasted, it took more than that to keep her awake. Mingled with Carol’s wakefulness were worries which seemed involved in the wailing organ and the strange carpenter’s work upon it.

It was raining hard when morning broke, and this put a most effectual damper on any plans Carol had for herself or for Cecy. They remained indoors most of the day, slipping out, still indecisively, when the rain ceased for a moment or two.

The storm continued, intermittently, for two days more, during which Carol could do nothing to advance her own plans nor those of her sister. She wondered what was happening at Oak Lodge.

It was on an evening after the long storm when a red sunset gave promise of a fair next day that Carol and Cecy were again talking in the absence of Mr. Duncan. Carol had been speaking to Glenn on the telephone. Somewhat jokingly he had asked her if she had seen or heard anything more of the ghosts in the organ.

“I never said there were ghosts in the organ, and I don’t believe anyone else did!” countered Carol. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I do—certain kinds!” chuckled Glenn. “I’ll tell you about them when I come over for you.” He had promised to run her to Long Hill in his car. Carol hung up and went back to join her sister. Mr. Duncan had gone out for a walk, he was moody and depressed, Carol thought, sadly.

“Well,” began Cecy belligerently, “I’m not going to——”

The tingling of the telephone startled them both. It might mean any one of so many important things.