Читать книгу The Remittance Man - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 5

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Major Reay's house, familiarly known all over the river as "The Folly," was prettily situated at the head of a little sheltered cove near the river's mouth, within the bar, about two miles from the township of Ballina. It was so called because the Major, in building it, had embarked upon a temporary career of extravagance which his acquaintances had regarded as little short of lunacy.

The house was constructed of finest white marble imported at immense expense from Italy, and though not really of prodigious size, its dimensions and beauty of design, rendered contemptible by comparison every other mansion in the district. The fact was that the Major, who had been a poor man until comparatively late in years, had cherished secretly throughout his poverty a dream of one day returning to England; and repurchasing the home of his fathers—a stately old castle lost to the family by the prodigality of his ancestors. The time arrived when he found himself able, financially speaking, to gratify his wishes, but other considerations intervened; his physicians warned him that the climate of England would infallibly cut short his life. Obliged therefore, to abandon an ambition which had become a part of his being, the old gentleman strove to repair his disappointment by erecting in the land of his adoption a house which he resolved should surpass, at least in magnificence, the beloved castle of his dreams. In that he had probably succeeded, for the "Folly" was a lovely place, and its natural surroundings were incomparably beautiful; but the Major looked upon it as a pis aller, and it was long before he became reconciled to the idea of spending his last days within the marble halls.

Marion, however, who had paid a lengthy visit to Castle Reay during her sojourn in England, returned to Ballina with shuddersome memories of her ancestral home, whose air of gloom and interminable wilderness of rat-infested rooms and corridors had made the "Folly" seem doubly bright and sweet by virtue of comparison.

As she sat with her father and brother upon one of the lower balustraded balconies that faced the sea, after dinner of the evening of her arrival, she again contrasted the places in her mind, and her verdict was wholly in favor of the "Folly."

"Ah! but it is good to be home again," she declared, with a deep sigh of contentment.

"Home is where the heart is, my dear," grumbled the Major; "mine is in the old country, the dear old country, which I shall never see again."

Marion shook her head. "It is better here," she murmured. "I love England—but I love this more—the land where I was born."

"I was born in England," said the Major sadly.

"Yes, at Castle Reay, dad; but oh, dad, it is not good to dream, loved places grow superlatively fine in dreams. If you could see the castle once more you would never wish to live there—it is sombre and old, and full of mystery and mould and melancholy; one could not be happy there, it weighed me down—more than I can tell you. I was glad to leave it—and oh, I am a thousand times more glad to be here again, where all is bright and sunshining and sweet smelling."

"I guess 'you're just skiting, aren't you, to cheer us up," said Jack. "Give me England and Castle Reay every time—eh, dad?"

Marion laughed. "You have never seen either, that is why you think so, you silly boy," she cried. "Now I have been all over the world, and have never seen a place that I like one half so well as this."

"Honestly, darling?" asked the Major.

"Honestly, dad," she answered earnestly.

"Well, well," said the old gentleman, "I am glad to know it, dear; it makes one easier in mind, for to tell you the truth, I was half fearing that you would come back to us dissatisfied."

"Dad!" cried the girl indignantly, "how dared you think such a thing?"

"It would have been natural, most natural, for you to dislike the idea of resuming the old life here. Don't think I would have blamed you, my pet."

Marion stood up, her eyes bright with tears. "I shall never leave you again, dad," she said quickly, and there was much passion in her voice; "I was never really happy away from you, and now I can see that you have been miserable, too—you must have been—to have thought such things of me."

"It seems that I have been an old fool," said the Major gruffly. "Sit down, dear, and let us talk of something else."

"Lena Best was responsible," observed Jack. "Cat! Every time she came here, it was to give you a dig."

"Lena Best!" exclaimed Marion. "Why, she used to be my best friend."

"She didn't mean badly, it's just her way," said the Major hastily.

"Talk of the Dickens," muttered Jack, sotto voce, "here she comes, with Joyce Templeton; I'm off, by-bye, dad."

"A good riddance, you young imp!" growled the Major, but he followed the lad's retreating figure with indulgent eyes. "He's a good boy, Marion!" he said, smiling, "a good boy is Jack, and I'm proud of him!"

"So am I," said Marion, standing up as she spoke to receive her visitors, who were already half way up the steps.

"We had to come," cried Lena, "we simply could not keep away, we were just dying to see you, weren't we, Joyce?"

"Just dying," echoed Joyce.

Lena was a tall and slim, rather thin-featured blonde, some twenty-four years of age, whom most people considered very pretty. She had eyes of the palest blue imaginable, and elegant taper-fingered hands, of which she was unaffectedly vain. Her father was a local bank manager, a widower, and Major Reay's most intimate friend. Joyce Templeton was a stout and rather stumpy brunette, the eldest of a brood of sixteen daughters of a sugar planter, who resided at a neighboring village. She was at that time spending a holiday with Lena Best, who dominated her in all things, and whose echo and jackal she was.

"It is just sweet of you both," said Marion, and she kissed them heartily in turn.

The Major stood up and shook hands. "Did you walk?" he inquired.

"Yes, Major," answered Lena. "But father will call for us and drive us home, he wants to see you about some matter of business."

"Hum," said the Major, "I guess I'll leave you," and he stumbled off into the house.

"Sit down, dears," said Marion; "how pretty you have grown, Lena. Do you love me just the same as ever?"

Lena cast down her eyes and blushed. "Everyone says that," she simpered. "Of course I love you just the same," she added as an afterthought.

"You are no slouch yourself in looks, Marion," observed Joyce. "Is she, Lena?"

Miss Best eyed Marion doubtfully. "Distinctly stylish," she commented, smoothing out her own dress in order to display her hands. "Did you bring home many frocks like that, Marion?"

"I brought out a lot of gowns," returned Marion smiling; "but this is only a wrapper—a tea gown."

Lena looked shocked. "Is that real lace?" she demanded, pointing to the fringe of under-skirt peeping from under Marion's flounces.

"Only Maltese," said Marion apologetically.

"Only Maltese," repeated Lena severely. "My dear Marion, you'll have all the girls down on you in no time, if you sport your money like that. The most we can run to here is Torchon or imitation Valenciennes, and only then on our summer Sunday-go-to-meeting's. Only Maltese, indeed! why"—(she bent forward suddenly in order to more closely examine the offending apparel). "Good heavens!" she cried, "it's silk! silk!"

"Silk!" echoed Joyce. "Good heavens, and on an underskirt!"

"The whole underskirt is silk, too," exclaimed Lena, sitting back and gasping.

"Are you expecting company to-night?" demanded Joyce, with a suspicious sniff.

Marion was bewildered, and she felt too surprised to conceal her feelings. "Surely I may wear what pleases me," she said, not without indignation.

"Oh, certainly," said Lena stiffly.

"Certainly," echoed Joyce.

"I hope that you will excuse my remark," went on Lena. "If I have presumed, it was only in consideration of our old friendship. Of course, if you do not wish to resume that relationship—I——"

Marion frowned, then smiled.

"Don't be a goose, Lena," she interjected brightly. "I am not a changeable girl—as you ought to know besides, but—but after what you have said—perhaps——" she paused dramatically.

"Perhaps what?" demanded Lena.

Marion's eyes twinkled. "Apropos of lace," she answered. "You seem to think that it is wrong to wear it—and—you see, when I was leaving England, I wanted to make you a present, and I—I—was silly enough to think you'd like some lace. I brought you out a lot—whole rolls."

Lena started up in her chair, like one galvanised. "You darling!" she cried. "What sort?"

"Two cards of Maltese—deep, and, let me see——"

"Yes? Yes?"

"Valenciennes—and——"

"Real?"

Marion nodded. "Some Minorca—scarves, two sets of Brussels collars and gauntlets, and some old Irish fichus."

Miss Best gasped for breath, and, for a moment seemed unable to speak.

"All that for me!" she muttered at last.

"Some Bruges insertion, too," said Marion.

"How utterly lovely!" sighed Joyce.

"Is—is it—have you got it unpacked?" stammered Lena.

"No," answered Marion. "My boxes are not all up from the wharf yet."

"It's too good to be true," cried Lena.

"I feel so disappointed about it," murmured Marion. "I acted for the best, really, Lena. I made sure you would like it."

"But, Marion, I do." Lena was trembling between excitement and apprehension.

"But the girls would be down on you in no time, if you wore it—wouldn't they?" asked Marion innocently.

"Let them try," said Lena. "Do you think I care a fig for them, now I know you love me. You darling," she cried, "to think of me when you were so far away. I just adore you for it. My word! won't the other girls be jealous!"

Marion submitted to the embrace without remark, then turned to Joyce. "I have a silver purse for you, Joyce," she said quietly. "I brought out something for every one of my old friends."

"You angel!" cried Joyce. "A silver purse—hurrah! Oh, you darling, I must kiss you, Marion."

Lena looked on with a discontented frown.

"I'm offended," she declared after Joyce sat down again. "I thought it was only me, I hate being one of a crowd."

"I brought you the most," said Marion sweetly; "for I never made any secret that I loved you better than the others; but I could not neglect the others entirely—could I?"

"You angel," cried Joyce again.

Lena permitted herself to be mollified. "Of course, if you put it in that way, I forgive you," she said magnanimously.

"Now let's have a nice chat," said Marion. "I want you to tell me all the news of Ballina, everything about everybody. Dad says nothing whatever has happened since I went away, but of course there has."

Lena and Joyce at ones drew up their chairs, and sat as close as possible to their hostess.

"Dad is an old silly," said Lena. "Lots has happened, hasn't it, Joyce?"

"Lots!" echoed Joyce—"lots and lots."

"Then tell me."

"Such fun," began Lena—with a conscious smile and demurely downcast eyes; "you remember Jack Mappin?"

"Yes, the teller in your father's bank."

"No, the accountant—you know, the one with the brown moustache. You must remember him?"

"Sandy," corrected Joyce.

"Brown," retorted Lena; "you are color blind, Joyce."

"I'm not," said Joyce rebelliously.

"What of him?" asked Marion quickly.

"I refused him," said Lena, "and he married May Streeton a fortnight afterwards out of revenge."

"And she had twins last month," cried Joyce, bursting into a laugh.

"Isn't it perfectly awful," said Lena. "But doesn't it serve him right?"

"He was rather a nice boy," said Marion; "I hope that he is happy."

"Happy!" sneered Lena. "I guess not, he never looks at me now—he is ashamed, I expect."

"But what has he done to be ashamed of, Lena?" asked Marion.

"Twins!"

Joyce laughed loudly, but Marion did not smile.

"Does Mr. Keeling still live at Ballina?" she asked.

"Horace Keeling. Oh, yes," Lena's face changed expression suddenly. It seemed to stiffen.

"And he is still single?"

Lena was silent, but Joyce guffawed. "He and Lena were engaged for a bit," she explained, "but he caught her flirting with Will Taylor, and they haven't spoken since."

"Ah!" said Marion, "and Will Taylor, how is he?"

"He is doing splendidly. He is sub-manager at the big mill now."

"Fat fool!" muttered Lena.

"He is courting Mamie Sinclair," murmured Joyce, giving Marion a meaning glance.

Marion suppressed a smile.

"Are there any new people?" she asked.

"Was George Griffen here before you left?" demanded Lena.

"No."

"Then he is new," Lena brightened up at once, and preened her ruffled feathers like a bird in the sunshine.

"What is he, and what is he like?" inquired Marion.

"He is second analyst at the mill, with a real good screw—salary, I mean. I could have him by raising my little finger."

"Is he nice?"

"Not bad. Awfully good-looking, and very dark, with a perfect duck of a moustache. He makes love beautifully."

"You ought to know," said Joyce; "what about the Masonic ball?"

Lena giggled and scrouged up her shoulders. "Don't be silly, Joyce," she simpered.

"Alan Laing is new," said Joyce suddenly.

"A nice name," commented Marion.

"All the girls are after him," said Joyce; "but he is not taking any."

"Not all the girls," corrected Lena, with a frown. "I never could stand him, a proud, elderly, stuck-up toad—that's my opinion of him."

"Oh, Lena!" cried Joyce—"he is not a day over forty, and I can't allow you to call him a toad."

"Just because he rowed you home from Shell Island in the rain, and paid you a duty call afterwards," she turned to Marion with curling lip; "Joyce's head is very easily turned," she sneered.

"He saved my life," protested Joyce; "I was caught by the tide, and in another half hour I should have been washed away and drowned."

"A romance!" cried Marion, her eyes sparkling, "a real romance! how lovely! tell me all about it, Joyce."

"There is nothing to tell," answered Joyce.

"But it will not end there!"

"It will; we are good friends, but that is all."

"Is he—nice?"

"Yes—and whatever Lena may say, he is a gentleman; his manners are princely."

Lena sniffed. "I quite agree with you about his manners," she sneered; "by all accounts, most princes are condescending prigs, that just describes him; he thinks no end of himself, I can tell you; why, would you believe it, Marion, he has never attended one of our dances; he considers us beneath him, I suppose, the snob!"

"What does he do for a living?" asked Marion.

"I think he writes," said Joyce in awe-stricken tones, "they say he is an author; he is living here for his health's sake, he is consumptive, I think; but he must be well off, for he has the 'Bungalow,' and he keeps three servants."

"A bachelor?"

"I dare swear not," said Lena, spitefully. "He is bald, and he looks as if his hair had been pulled out by the roots."

Marion laughed outright. "Poor fellow," she cried, "he is to be pitied since he is bald, and has Lena for an enemy. But let us drop him for the present. Who else new is there, Joyce?"

"No one that I remember, except married ones, and they're not worth mentioning."

"No one—surely you are mistaken—think!"

"There's no one else," sighed Lena, shaking her head, "I wish there was."

Marion looked thoughtful. "'That's strange," she murmured, "I saw a gentleman standing beside father on the wharf this morning, when the boat came in, and his face was strange to me; can I have been mistaken?"

"You must have been dreaming," said Lena. "We were with your father, and there was certainly no gentleman with us except Jack."

"It was not Jack."

Lena shook her head. "I saw no one—did you, Joyce?"

"Not a soul," said Joyce.

"I saw him distinctly," said Marion, "and I intended to ask dad who he is, but I forgot."

"That's curious," said Lena, frowning. "But if you saw him so distinctly, you should be able to describe him. What was he like?"

Marion half closed her eyes. "Tall, thin, strong-looking, very manly," she answered musingly.

"You must have second sight!" cried Lena.

"Oh, my!" gasped Joyce, "not that, it's bad luck."

"Nonsense!" said Marion abruptly. "I don't believe in such absurdities at all. Besides, I assure you that I saw him quite distinctly, and he was not a bit unreal."

"Lena!" cried Joyce of a sudden. "I know," she began to giggle furiously, as though she was being tickled.

"What?" demanded Lena, much vexed. "Don't giggle, you—ninny—tell us—if you know."

But Joyce could not stop herself. "Oh,—my!" she gasped, "gentleman!—oh, my!"

"You—you," said Lena, her pale eyes flashing fire. "I hate the giggler."

"G-g-gentleman," stuttered Joyce, laughing like mad. "She m-m-means Jan!"

It took Lena some seconds to grasp the idea conveyed, but when she did, she also dissolved in mirth.

"Jan Digby!" she cried—then "never," and her laughter rippled seaward in a sudden silver peal.

Marion felt a little irritated. "I should be glad to have amused you," she said coldly.

Lena stopped at once. "Forgive me, dear, it was very rude of me. I know," she said contritely, "but when you know you will laugh, too."

"Indeed," said Marion.

"It's about the—er, the gentleman you saw," explained Lena, tittering as she spoke. "Was he clean-shaved—and rather dark?"

"Yes."

"And were his clothes shabby?"

"I did not examine his clothes," answered Marion.

"It was Jan Digby!" said Lena. "You confused us by calling him a gentleman. If you had not said that, we'd have known at once whom you meant."

"What, then, is Mr. Jan Digby?"

"A remittance man. He hasn't sixpence in the world, beyond a pittance he receives quarterly, through my father's bank from England—about £10, I think. His relatives allow him that to keep him away from home."

"Oh!" said Marion.

"He is a rank loafer," pursued Lena. "He keeps body and soul together by fishing, and he lives in that awful little shanty on the beach—that which old mad Karl built out of kerosene tins years ago; you remember it, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember the place; but where does the joke come in, Lena?"

"You can't have much of a sense of humor, my dear," replied Lena, with a patronising smile. "The joke is that you took him for a gentleman."

"Are you sure that he is not?" asked Marion quietly.

Lena pursed up her lips. "Not any of the nice people in Ballina speak to him," she declared, her manner imparting to the words an air of absolute finality.

Joyce, however, protested against the implied decree. "Oh, come, Lena," she said quickly, "you know we saw him walking with Mr. Laing yesterday."

"Birds of a feather," retorted Lena. "I said not any of the nice people, with an accent on the nice."

Joyce turned scarlet, but Marion hastened to avert the storm.

"Is he a drunkard?" she inquired.

"No, indeed!" cried Joyce, looking defiantly at Lena, stung at last into open revolt by the slur cast upon her. "He is nothing of the kind, and I'm sure he is a gentleman by birth."

"He looks it," said Marion. "Has be been here long?"

"About two months," replied Joyce. "And as for no one speaking to him," she went on with increased warmth, "that may be nearly true now, but when he first came all the fellows were glad enough to win his money at cards, and eat his dinners and drink his wine at the hotel. He stayed at the Royal, too," she concluded breathlessly.

Lena curled her lip. "Bah!" she said with frank contempt. "Jan Digby has a champion at last."

"He is better than a lot of those who speak against him," said Joyce, very hotly, her face crimson.

"I've heard you run him down yourself," retorted Lena.

Marion looked from one to the other, a puzzled frown upon her face.

"You laughed first, Joyce, when I described him as a gentleman," she observed.

"So she did," cried Lena, with, an air of triumph, which made her rebellious satellite long to slap her face.

But instead of doing that, Joyce, driven thus into a corner, lowered her flag, yet with poor grace. "Well, and if I did," she returned, "what then? I'm not defending him. He may be all Lena thinks—but what I say is this—no one knows anything really nasty against him, and I've always said it was mean of the fellows to cut him just because he lost his money and had to leave the hotel."

"He had to sell his last stitch to pay his bill," sneered Lena.

Marion experienced a sudden sense of shame to have invited the revelation of such sordid details. "Let us change the subject," she said gravely, and with entire frankness. "I am sorry to have brought it up. Mr. Digby may be a rascal, or he may be a gentleman, but in either case we have no right to discuss him to such a point. I feel really mean in knowing what you have told me."

"All Ballina knows it," protested Lena. "You might as well as the rest."

"That is the penalty of living in so small a place," said Marion disgustedly. "Gossip, gossip! gossip! It was just the same before I went away. No one had a shred of reputation except on sufferance, and nothing was too sacred to be sneered at except the art of gossiping."

Lena and Joyce exchanged meaning glances, but Marion, deep in her subject, did not perceive them.

"Do you know, girls," she went on, "I have an idea. What do you say if we form a society to fight the spirit of gossip. I don't suppose we will do much good, but we can't do any harm. This much is certain—while the evil is permitted to flourish unchecked, it will never die of its own accord; and if we set our faces publicly against it we shall at least make the gossips ashamed of their ways, and reduce them to the necessity of confining their operations to a narrow field. What do you say?"

Lena gave a superior smile. "You were always a dreamer, Marion," she began. "I admire your idea tremendously, but do you know what would be the upshot if you put it into practice?"

"What do you think?"

"Your society would be immediately swamped by all the most notorious gossips in the neighborhood—that means to say, by the entire female population. They would have to join in order to save their characters. Well, the result would be that instead of an art, gossip would presently become a religion."

Marion frowned, then laughed. "I'm afraid you are right, Lena," she admitted ruefully. "But how cynical you have become, dear."

"I have had a good deal of experience," explained Lena. "I have been President of the Ballina Woman's Club for twelve months now. But that reminds me, Marion—you'll want to be a member, of course, won't you? Shall I put you up?"

Marion looked thoughtful. "Do you think I had better?" she asked.

"You'll be out of everything if you don't," returned Lena decidedly. "Besides, I want you to join."

"Very well, then," said Marion. "You may propose me, if you wish. Ah, there goes the gong. Come in, dears, and take some refreshment, won't you?"

All arose, but as they moved towards the open door of the house, Lena caught Marion's arm and pulled her aside. "Is it true, dear," she whispered, "that you have come back heart-whole? Your father told my father so—but I simply dared not believe it."

"It is true," said Marion.

"How marvellous," sighed Lena. "And yet they say the ocean boats are perfect marriage shops. One other thing, darling, your father is going to give a big ball to honor your return, isn't he?"

"Yes dear."

"Then I want you to let me help you write the invitations—will you sweetest?"

Marion looked hard at her friend. "Why dear?" she asked.

Lena smiled engagingly, and slipped an arm round Marion's waist.

"It will prove to all the others that you love me best," she pleaded; "you do, don't you, darling?"

"Yes," said Marion.

"Then you will, won't you, pet?"

"I don't think so, dear," answered Marion, and she turned abruptly to Joyce. "Forgive me for whispering before you, Joyce, my dear," she said kindly, "but Lena and I were always chums; you remember that, don't you?"

"That's all right," replied Joyce, with a good-humored laugh. "Don't worry about me, I don't mind."