Part 28 (1/2)

Yours truly,

E. CASPIAN.

x.x.xI

MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCeDES LANE

_Awepesha._

DEAREST:

I promised to write again soon, but there isn't yet the news I hoped to tell. Indeed, I'm a little depressed and worried, though I've nailed my flag of faith to the mast of the ”Stormy Petrel!”

You shall know just what has happened.

I think I wrote you that Peter went to New York early the morning after our night rush from Great Barrington to Long Island. I took it for granted that his business there concerned the revelation he made to me in Aunt Mary's garret; but he had no time, and perhaps no inclination, to enter into details. He just said, ”I'm off, and I hope everything will go well. I shall get back to my 'diggings,' and see you either at Awepesha or Kidd's Pines the minute I can finish up.”

Caspian hung about till Peter was safely away, and then put in as much deadly work as possible before leaving for New York. He was nice (as nice as he knows how to be) to Larry and Pat, and bucked them up about Kidd's Pines. That was the proper thing; but was it proper, or was it simply Caspian-esque, to tell Patty at such a moment that he'd bought the beautiful Stanislaws house I wrote you about, as a present for her?

Of course he mentioned the sum he was paying for it--a whacking one. He wouldn't be Caspian if he hadn't boasted!

I happened to be at Kidd's Pines when he was making this dramatic announcement. (I told you Jack and I were motoring over in the old car, but we went earlier than we expected, because just as I had finished your letter Patsey 'phoned to ask us for a ”picnic luncheon in the burnt-up house.”)

Caspian was telephoning like mad when we arrived, and only finished just as luncheon was ready, which gave him an excuse for letting his left hand, to say nothing of both feet, know what his right hand had been doing. I suppose he was afraid, if Jack and I were left to hear the news from Pat, a little of the gilt might be off the gingerbread. So he launched his own thunderbolt as we sat down at the table: Larry, Pat, Mrs. Shuster, Jack, and I.

I was so flabbergasted that I can't remember his words. But they were those of the n.o.ble, misunderstood hero of melodrama to his ungrateful sweetheart and her ruined father who have never appreciated his sterling worth. He let them jolly well know, and rubbed it in, that he would _never_ have spent such an enormous sum on anything for himself: that indeed, though he _ought_ to have received the Stanislaws house as an inheritance, he had abandoned all idea of possessing it until Pat expressed intense admiration for the place. With this incentive, the moment they were engaged he had begun negotiations. The price asked was so outrageous, however, that he was on the point of refusing when misfortune fell upon Kidd's Pines. It would now be impossible to continue living there in comfort for the present, so he (Caspian) had spent his morning in fixing up by 'phone the business of purchase. Of course he would have to go to New York, and see Mr. Strickland, who had the matter in hand. Indeed, he intended to start directly after luncheon; but he could not bear to go without relieving the family mind of its anxieties.

Poor little Pat was scarlet, and her eyes were--I was going to say like saucers, but I think they were more like large, expressive pansies. ”Oh, you _shouldn't_ have done that for me!” she exclaimed. ”Of course, I'm grateful, and it was ver-r-y good of you, but----”

”Didn't you say you would _love_ to live in that house?” Caspian cross-questioned her over a pickle. (He's disgustingly fond of pickles: makes a beast of himself on pickles!)

”Yes, I suppose I did,” Patsey admitted; and got out a ”but” again, but not a word further.

”Very well. That was enough for me. I wanted to prove that I was going to stand by you now, in every way, and I hope this is as big a proof as a man can give,” said the n.o.ble saviour of the situation. ”We must marry as soon as possible, of course. I'll get the license to-day. And then you can have your wish. You shall live in the Stanislaws house, and when your father and Mrs. Shuster get back from their honeymoon you can write them to visit us, and stay as long as they like.”

Pat, as pale as she had been red, stammered confused thanks for his thoughtfulness. How _could_ the girl, when he'd just announced the expenditure of five hundred thousand dollars for her _beaux yeux_, tell him not by any means to get the license?

I was sickeningly sorry for her. I knew exactly how she felt. As for me, I had rush of luncheon to the head, a frightful effect, considering that I'd just eaten a soft-sh.e.l.led crab. With the little I knew of affairs between them I was still instinctively sure that Pat and the Stormy Petrel had come to some sort of a vague understanding the day of rain at Bretton Woods. I thought that the rain had melted down the wall between the two, and Peter had prematurely said more than he meant to say, perhaps begging her to break off with Caspian. Evidently she had refused (for Larry's sake), but had very likely hoped that somehow Peter would step in and save her before it was too late.

Now, all of a sudden, it _was_ too late! And Peter wasn't even near. I could imagine the child's despair, with the present of a five-hundred-thousand-dollar house flung at her head--a house which would be ”no use” to her fiance if it were not to be shared with her.

Even knowing what _I_ knew, I feared that the situation might become serious, more because of Peter's absence than anything else.

As soon as we finished luncheon and Caspian was saying good-bye to Pat (decorously in the presence of Larry, from whom she refused to be detached), I asked Jack what he thought. ”If only we knew where to get at Peter in New York!” I wailed. ”I'm afraid the girl will be _married_ to that creature before Peter comes back; and then nothing will be of any use.”

”We mustn't let that happen,” said Jack. ”Not that I believe Storm has turned his back without thinking of every contingency. And he must know about the sale.”

”He didn't mention it when he told me the story,” I said. ”Not a word about the Stanislaws house!”