Rainbow Cottage

by Grace Livingston Hill

  So Buck searched every cranny, far back. But nothing came to light. Then he turned his attention to the rough ledges over the windows and doors.

  Once when Andy was first put in, when he was tossing in fever and Buck had gone to see him, he had cried out in his delirium to some imaginary presence, perhaps his wife or daughter. “It’s in that old pencil, over the door! Don’t let him get it!” Buck’s eyes had narrowed, and he had remembered.

  Now he drew himself up by his hands, chinning himself in the doorway, feeling along the ledge above the door. A great spider crawled out of its creepy nest and grimaced at him, its eyes like black, wicked stars in the candle flame, and the man yelled nervously and dropped back to the floor. There were creepy strands around his fingers that made him shudder, and he could see the spider’s eyes shine even when he shut his own.

  He stood a moment in the flickering light of the empty room and shuddered. Then he strode outside and brought in a box he had seen standing by the door. Mounting it with the candle in his hand, he glared at the ledge above the door. The spider hastened away to some far inner recess in the wood, leaving its mysterious shuddery house behind it, but close by the thick gray web there lay an old tin pencil holder such as a child carried to school.

  With a gleam of triumph in his eyes, Buck seized upon it and jumped down. The pencil case after all. Why had he not thought to search for that before?

  He set the candle on one of the shelves and tried to open the case, but it seemed to be rusted shut. The cap would not turn.

  Impatiently, Buck twisted it and broke it in two. It was not hard to do. Yes, there was a paper inside. A bit of yellowed paper, and there were tracings on it—figures and lines and a scribbled name signed. Buck studied it for a long time. A date—there was a date—and at the top, just the lower half of printed letters. He could not make them out. But it was not the paper he had come to find.

  At last impatiently, he stuffed the old tin tube with its crumpled paper back in his pocket again. It might be of some value sometime, though he could not see how. But put up this way it must have some significance. Perhaps there was another tube.

  He mounted the box again and held the candle high, but there was no other. He took a long, sharp, cruel-looking knife from his pocket and unfolded it, poking back behind the wood to see if anything had fallen down between the timbers. The spider hurried out of his hiding place and darted away into the shadows, spinning a line swinging to the floor and disappearing into the dimness, but nothing else was revealed behind the old door frame.

  Suddenly there came a sound outside the door, and Buck sprang down from his box, his candle in one hand, the other going to his pocket.

  “Who’s there?” he called and flung the door back to face a gun aimed straight at him. The gun wavered, however, as the candlelight was flung between the men.

  “Oh, it’s you!” said the intruder. “I seen a light over here, and as I knowed the place was locked, I thought I better investigate.”

  Before the speech was finished the man was facing Buck’s gun.

  “Put down that gun, Spud; I got a better one than yours, an’ I can shoot quicker—you know that.”

  “Oh sure,” said the mild defender, “but being as I seen a light, you know. What you doin’ here? Lookin’ fer gold?” And he gave an uneasy cackle of a laugh.

  “Always lookin’ for gold,” said Buck with a hard grin. “I come over tonight to get a paper fer the little girl that lived here. Somepin’ she forgot when she moved. Who cleaned up here, Spud? You?”

  “No. I never. I reckon she must have did it herself.”

  “What’s come of all her books?” Buck waved toward the bookcase. “Those shelves useta be full.”

  “Yes, they did, in her ma’s time. The school ma’am over ta Coburn left ’em to her when she died. Leastways, she left ’em to the gal.”

  “Well, where are they?” asked Buck, menace in his voice.

  “Why, she sold ’em. A few here, an’ a few there. My wife bought some. We got ’em on a shelf in our shack.”

  “Well, I wanta look in ’em,” said Buck with determination. “There’s a paper lost that might mean a lot ta the girl, and I promised her I’d find it for her. She thinks mebbe it got left in some book. Come on, let’s go to your house and look ’em over.”

  “I don’t think there’s no papers in the books we bought,” protested the man with fright in his eyes. “My wife looked ’em over careful fer that very thing. She thought there might be a letter ur sumpin’. But there wasn’t a blame thing.”

  “Come on, let’s go!” commanded Buck, and leaving the candle wavering where it was, he went out with the little man.

  For three more hours, Buck tramped on from house to house, searching out every place where Sheila had sold her precious books and bits of furniture to gather together money enough to get away somewhere. And he went through every book he found in the same thorough and disastrous manner—disastrous to the books and disturbing to their new owners.

  Always everywhere he asked if they had seen Sheila that evening and was told by each that they had not seen her since they bought the books.

  Late in the evening he stormed back to the Junction House.

  Ma Higgins had washed her mountain of dishes alone, had shaken down her fire for the night, had combed out her straggling gold-gray locks, and betaken herself to her lumpy bed. Pa Higgins was over at the cabaret playing dominoes and drinking poor whiskey.

  “That girl come in yet?” demanded Buck.

  “I ain’t seen her,” said Ma. “I was too tired ta climb up those stairs. I s’pect it’s your fault. You ben up ta some deviltry and druv her away.”

  “Where would she go? I gotta see her. It’s important.”

  “Well, I don’t know. It’s important I gotta get some sleep ef I’ve gotta git breakfast fer the early passenger train. You go on up ta the cabaret an’ fergit the gal. Mebbe’s she took ta her ma’s job, an’ is singin’ up there. Anyhow, git out. I’m sleepin’.”

  Ma Higgins shut her door with a slam and locked it, and Buck shouting uproariously, “Well, I’ll find her, if I have ta go ta hell ta do it,” whirled on his heel, and went up to the cabaret.

  Slouched in a corner under the gallery, far back from the platform where Moira’s successor would be singing the latest croon, he sat before a pint of the best they served there and glowered, trying to figure out what had become of Sheila.

  “Yes, I’ll find her ef I havta go clear back ta the hometown ta do it,” he murmured under his breath.

  Presently he got up and walked stealthily out of the place, a wicked look in his small black eyes, a look of determination on his hard, cruel mouth.

  Chapter 7

  At first when Sheila awoke that Sabbath morning she heard the rhythmic beating of the waves along the shore, and she could not tell where she was. It seemed to her the sound of the train was dimly in her ears.

  Yet the sweet air that came in at her window, the soft twitter of some little birds in the eaves, were not reminders of her long train trip; and with a growing sense of peace and rest, it presently dawned on her consciousness where she had found haven.

  When she at last opened her eyes, the world seemed made anew, and she lay there looking around on the quiet of the lovely, simple room, the blowing muslin curtain showing glimpses of that wonderful blue sea clothed in its morning mystery. A shimmer of light as if joy were dancing afar on the waves, a mist of sun and sparkle mixed at the horizon! A curtseying sail appearing and then dipping out of sight! It seemed to her like waking up in a kind of heaven.

  Then her mind went back to the evening before and the stranger who had come to the door, grown so friendly, and sailed away in the sky. How wonderful it all was. Just like a dream.

  It was all so quiet there by the sea, and all so quiet in the house, she hadn’t an idea what time it was. Perhaps they were keeping still to let her sleep. Or perhaps it was early and they were still asleep.

 
But she felt as if she had slept long enough—felt more rested than she had for years—and stealing from her bed, she slipped to the window and looked out far to the glorious blue sea, letting the breeze blow full in her face, drawing in deep, life-giving breaths of salt air, then catching a view downward of the garden in its morning dewy freshness, its maze of newly opened flowers.

  Presently she tore herself away from the window and went about her dressing, tried the lovely new bathroom again, exulted in the refreshment of the shower.

  She hesitated about the new garments, wondering whether to wear them again early in the day. But when she surveyed her old ones—even the clean things she had brought with her for changing—they were so very few and shabby, and her standards even in these few short hours had changed so radically, that she felt she could not put them on. They might make her grandmother ashamed. So, doubtfully, she arrayed herself in the butterfly dress again. It was Sunday, anyway, and people always dressed up on Sunday if they could, especially if they did not have any strenuous work to do like waiting on tables.

  When she finally ventured downstairs, there was little Janet in a new pink gingham with a lace collar around her neck. Of course. It was right. She had been expected to dress up on Sunday.

  Grandmother had not yet come down. Janet explained that she always slept late on mornings when she came down here. She thought it helped keep her young.

  Sheila offered to help Janet get breakfast, but Janet only laughed at the idea and beamed on the young guest. This lovely girl in the blue butterfly dress was an entirely different proposition from the draggled little tramp-girl in the hot, rusty blue serge of yesterday. This was Grandmother’s own flesh and blood, and Janet was ready almost to bow down and worship.

  “You run out and walk in the garden, or down on the beach and watch the little sandpipers catching crabs. It’s a real pretty sight if you ain’t seen it,” suggested Janet. “It’ll be a good half hour yet before M’s Ainslee’s down, and you might’s well enjoy it before the sun gets hot. I’ll ring the bell out the window for you when it’s time for breakfast. Run along and get an appetite. I’m having blueberry muffins for breakfast.”

  So Sheila, clothed and rested, stepped through that rose-wreathed wicket gate into which she had first entered so weary and discouraged, out onto the broad expanse of white sand, and down toward the sea. The little white sandpipers were strutting in the edge of the waves, stopping now and then to yank up a sand crab from the water. Sheila followed along the edge of the water, watching them and crying out a little trill of laughter now and then at their funny antics.

  She had walked some distance down the beach and was on her way back again when she heard a pleasant voice behind her speaking.

  “They are strange little creatures, aren’t they?”

  She turned and saw a young man standing just behind her, watching the small birds amusedly. He wore white flannels and looked so very like the young man who had called last evening and then sailed away through the sky that she thought at first it was he. Their voices were alike also, yet there was something lighter in his manner, a little look about his eyes that checked the smile with which she was about to greet him and gave her manner more constraint.

  “Oh,” she said, “why—I thought it was Mr. Galbraith.” And then was annoyed with herself that she had spoken out her thought.

  “And so it is,” said the stranger, laughing. “I’m Malcolm Galbraith from The Cliffs. But I don’t know who you are. You must have lately arrived.”

  “It is Mr. Angus Galbraith whom I have met,” said Sheila, trying to be a bit more formal. Somehow she did not quite feel at her ease with this informal stranger.

  “Oh, so you’ve met Angus, have you? He’s my cousin. We do look a little alike perhaps. Some people seem to think so. I believe the resemblance largely ceases at looks. But where in the world did you meet Angus?”

  There was something so breezy and informal about this man’s questions that it seemed impossible to stand aloof; but Sheila was ill at ease. Her mother’s training had been most strict on that one point at least. Sheila was not to have anything to do with strange men. This man hadn’t been even introduced.

  “He called at my grandmother’s last evening,” she answered gravely.

  “Oh, he did!” said the young man, studying her mischievously. “Well, and how am I to know who your grandmother is?”

  “My grandmother is Mrs. Ainslee of Rainbow Cottage,” said Sheila pleasantly with a little distancing lift of her chin, a little coolness in her voice.

  “And you are?” persisted the young man.

  “I am Miss Ainslee,” she answered simply.

  The man laughed with a twinkle in his eyes. “No first name?” he asked winningly. “I told you mine, you know.”

  “Oh,” said Sheila naively, “I have no cousin who looks like me!”

  The young man stared and then laughed again, narrowing his merry eyes and watching her.

  “No, I guess you’re right,” he said. “You haven’t a cousin that resembles you in the least, and I think I know them all.”

  Sheila was a bit disconcerted. She realized she didn’t know those cousins herself, and perhaps she was being absurdly distant. If this man was a friend of Grandmother’s and knew all her cousins, why, of course she mustn’t be too formal.

  “Oh, do you?” she said in a small voice. Then after an embarrassed pause, she said, “I must be going back. They will be looking for me.”

  The young man wheeled and fell into step with her, studying her curiously as they walked along.

  “I think I will go with you, Miss Ainslee, if you will permit it,” he said with emphasis on the “miss.” “If for nothing else than to learn your given name. We don’t use much formality in our life down here at the shore.”

  Sheila wondered if she ought to let him go, yet he did not look like a young man who could be stopped very easily if she should attempt it. She felt more ill at ease than ever, for her life in the West, while in some ways exposed her to rough conditions, had been greatly sheltered by her mother’s fears. Yet this man was a gentleman in looks at least and seemed to be a friend of the family—why should she hesitate?

  But the young man began to talk now, freely and pleasantly about the sandpipers, about the sea tide, and about the little white sails that curtseyed on the horizon. The mock merriment had disappeared from his manner. He had become grave and impersonal, and now she liked him better and began to wonder why she felt that instinctive drawing away from him.

  When they reached the cottage, he swung back the gate with what seemed like an accustomed hand and took the initiative, walking in at the door as if he felt quite at home there.

  Grandmother had just come downstairs, and Janet was tinkling the breakfast bell out of the dining-room window.

  “Splendid!” cried the caller. “I haven’t had a bite to eat yet. Won’t you invite me to breakfast, Madam Ainslee?”

  “Why of course,” said the old lady, “if you want to leave the nectar and ambrosia of your home on the cliff and accept our humble cottage fare, you are quite welcome. Janet, bring another plate and cup. The gods are going to breakfast with us this morning.”

  “Ma’am?” said Janet perplexedly.

  “Set another place!” said the mistress. Then turning to the self-invited guest, she said, “You’d better go to the telephone and call up your wife, Malcolm, or she will be wondering where you are.”

  “Not she,” laughed the young man, pulling out Grandmother’s chair for her. “She won’t be awake for another hour or two, and when she is she’ll breakfast in bed. Don’t worry about her.”

  Sheila’s face relaxed. The young man was married then. That was why he was so free and easy. Perhaps it was foolish of her to have been so standoffish.

  She sat down at the table, relieved, and let herself enjoy the pleasant chatter between the guest and her grandmother. What delightful people these Galbraiths were. How nice he was to Grandmother. How me
rrily the little twinkles came around his eyes, how crisply his hair curled away from his forehead, how blue his eyes were. Not the same blue as her own and her mother’s—not Irish blue—but a warmer Scotch blue. There had been a Scotchman out at the Junction working for a few months. Sheila remembered her mother saying his eyes were Scotch blue and that hers and her mother’s were a colder Irish blue.

  This was a golden young man like his cousin who had been with them the night before—golden-brown hair, a sunny look in his eyes, a golden look when he smiled. A bit older than his cousin Angus was he? Or no? Perhaps not. Sometimes he seemed even younger. But always that cheerful, blithe air about him.

  For some reason she felt she liked his cousin best. But how silly. Of course she liked them both. They were Grandmother’s neighbors and friends. Why shouldn’t she like them? And why think about them anyway? She wondered what this one’s wife would be like, and would she be friendly as he was? Perhaps the Angus one was married, too. Who knew? Just a nice, friendly person. Perhaps his wife would come to see them and they would have pleasant times together. Sheila had never had nice times with anybody but her mother, and a sudden stab of pain came to think that she could never again talk things over with that beloved mother and ask her what she thought of these new friends and get her reactions to everything that happened. What, for instance, would Mother have thought of her informal meeting with that young married gentleman down on the sand? What had Grandmother thought of it? Perhaps Grandmother had thought she was one of those girls who were bold enough to scrape acquaintance with strange young men. Mother had talked a great deal about that. Whatever Grandmother thought, Sheila meant to stick to her mother’s standards.