Читать книгу Carolyn of the Corners - Ruth Belmore Endicott - Страница 6

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Mr. Joseph Stagg, going down to his store, past the home and carpenter shop of Jedidiah Parlow, at which he did not even look, finally came to his destination in a very brown study. So disturbed had he been by the arrival of his little niece that he forgot to question and cross-question young Chetwood Gormley regarding the possible customers that had been in the store during his absence.

“And I tell you what I think, mother,” Chet said, with his mouth full, at supper that evening. “I think her coming’s goin’ to bring about changes. Yes, ma’am!”

Mrs. Gormley was a faded little woman—a widow—who went out sewing for better-to-do people in Sunrise Cove. She naturally thought her boy Chetwood a great deal smarter than other people thought him. And—as was natural, too—Chet developed something like keenness in the sunshine of her approval.

“You know, mother,” he said, on this evening of the arrival of Carolyn May, “I never have seen any great chance to rise, workin’ for Mr. Joseph Stagg. His ain’t a business that offers an aspirin’ feller much advancement.”

“But he pays you, Chet,” his mother said anxiously.

“Yep. I know. Don’t be afraid I’ll leave him till I see something better,” he reassured her. “But I might be clerkin’ for him till the cows come home and never see more’n six or eight dollars a week. But now it’s apt to be different.”

“How different, Chet?” she asked, puzzled.

“You know Mr. Stagg’s as hard as nails—as hard as the goods he sells,” declared the gawky boy. “No brass hinge, or iron bolt, or copper rivet in his stock is any harder than he ’pears to be. Mind you, he don’t do nothin’ mean. That ain’t his way. But he don’t seem to have a mite of interest in anything but his shop. Now, it seems to me, this little niece is bound to wake him up. He calls her ‘Hannah’s Car’lyn.’”

“Hannah Stagg was his only sister,” said Mrs. Gormley softly. “I remember her.”

“And she’s just died, or something, and left this little girl,” Chet continued. “Mr. Stagg’s bound to think of something now besides business. And mebbe he’ll need me more. And I’ll get a chance to show him I’m worth something to him. So, by-and-by, he’ll put me forward in the business,” said the boy, his homely face glowing. “Who knows? Mebbe it’ll be Stagg & Gormley over the door one of these days. Stranger things have happened.”

“Wouldn’t that be fine, Chet!” agreed his mother, taking fire at last from his enthusiasm. “And you think this pretty little girl’s comin’ here is goin’ to do all that?”

Perhaps even Chetwood’s assurance would have been quenched had he just then known the thoughts in the hardware merchant’s mind. Mr. Stagg sat in his back office poring over the letter written by his brother-in-law’s lawyer friend, a part of which read:

“From the above recital of facts you will plainly see, being a man of business yourself, that Mr. Cameron’s financial affairs were in a much worse condition when he went away than he himself dreamed of.

“I immediately looked up the Stonebridge Building and Loan Association. It is even more moribund than the papers state. The fifteen hundred dollars Mr. Cameron put into it from time to time might just as well have been dropped into the sea.

“You know, he had only his salary on The Morning Beacon. They were rather decent to him, when they saw his health breaking down, to offer him the chance of going to the Mediterranean as correspondent. He was to furnish articles on ‘The Débris of a World War’—stories of the peaceful sections of Europe which have to care for the human wrecks from the battlefields.

“It rather cramped Mr. Cameron’s immediate resources for your sister to go with him, and he drew ahead on his expense and salary account. I know that Mrs. Cameron feared to allow him to go alone across the ocean. He was really in a bad way; but she proposed to come back immediately on the Dunraven if he improved on the voyage across.

“Their means really did not allow of their taking the child; the steamship company would not hear of a half-fare for her. She is a nice little girl, and my wife would have been glad to keep her longer, but in the end she would have to go to you, as, I understand, there are no other relatives.

“Of course, the flat is here, and the furniture. If you do not care to come on to attend to the matter yourself, I will do the best I can to dispose of either or both. Mr. Cameron had paid a year’s rent in advance—rather an unwise thing, I thought—and the term has still ten months to run. He did it so that his wife, on her return from abroad, might have no worry on her mind. Perhaps the flat might be sublet, furnished, to advantage. You might state your pleasure regarding this.

“You will see, by the copy of your brother-in-law’s will that I enclose, that you have been left in full and sole possession and guardianship of his property and affairs, including Carolyn May.”

And if somebody had shipped him a crocodile from the Nile, Joseph Stagg would have felt little more at a loss as to what disposal to make of the creature than he felt now regarding his little niece.

“Well—she’ll be a nuisance; an awful nuisance,” was his final comment, with a mountainous sigh.

Thus far, Aunty Rose Kennedy’s attitude towards the little stranger had been the single pleasant disappointment Mr. Stagg had experienced. Aunty Rose was an autocrat. Joseph Stagg had never been so comfortable in his life as since Mrs. Kennedy had taken up the management of his home. But he stood in great awe of her.

He put the lawyer’s letter in the safe. For once he was unable to respond to a written communication promptly. Although he wore that band of crêpe on his arm, he could not actually realise the fact that his sister Hannah was dead.

Any time these fifteen years he might have run down to New York to see her. First, she had worked in the newspaper office as a stenographer. Then she had married John Lewis Cameron, and they had gone immediately to housekeeping.

Cameron was a busy man; he held a “desk job” on the paper. Vacations had been hard to get. And, before long, Hannah had written about her baby—“Hannah’s Car’lyn.”

After the little one’s arrival there seemed less chance than before for the city family to get up to Sunrise Cove. But at any time he might have gone to them. If Joseph Stagg had shut up his store for a week and gone to New York, it would not have brought the world to an end.

Nor was it because he was stingy that he had not done this. No, he was no miser. But he was fairly buried in his business. And there was no “look up” in that dim little office in the back of the hardware store. His nose was in the big ledger all the time, and there was no better or brighter outlook for him.

Business. No other interest, social or spiritual, had Joseph Stagg. To his mind, time was wasted, used in any but the three very necessary ways—eating, sleeping, and attending to one’s business.

He kept his store open every evening. Not because there was trade enough to warrant it—that was only on Saturday nights—but what would he do if he did not come down after supper and sit in his office for a couple of hours? There he could always find work to do. Outside, he was at a loss for something with which to occupy his mind.

On this evening he closed the store later than usual, and set out for The Corners slowly. To tell the truth, Mr. Stagg rather shrank from arriving home. The strangeness of having a child in the house disturbed his tranquillity.

The kitchen only was lighted when he approached; therefore, he was reassured. He knew Hannah’s Car’lyn must have been put to bed long since.

It was dark under the trees, and only long familiarity with the walk enabled him to reach the back porch noiselessly. Then it was that something scrambled up in the dark, and the roar of a dog’s barking made Joseph Stagg leap back in fright.

“Drat that mongrel!” he ejaculated, remembering Prince.

The kitchen door opened, revealing Aunty Rose’s ample figure. Prince whined sheepishly and dropped his abbreviated tail, going to lie down again at the extreme end of his leash, and blinking his eyes at Mr. Stagg.

“The critter’s as savage as a bear!” grumbled the hardware merchant.

“He is a good watchdog; you must allow that, Joseph Stagg,” Aunty Rose said calmly.

The hardware dealer gasped again. It would be hard to say which had startled him the most—the dog or Aunty Rose’s manner.