Читать книгу The Figurehead of the "Folly" - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 4

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I’VE never felt so lonely in all my life as I was that first night at Miss McKeever’s. It had been such a delightful, exciting graduation day. Mother had come down from Bar Harbor the night before and stayed overnight in the hotel right near the school, and had of course been at all the graduating exercises. I had, quite unexpectedly to us both, won the English and French prizes and stood next to the highest in the class, and naturally Mother was very proud of me. I tried all the while to put out of my mind the thought that she had to take the train back to Bar Harbor that night, after taking me to Miss McKeever’s. The other girls all had such lovely plans for the summer, and Betty was so hurt because I wouldn’t—or couldn’t—come to her, as she’d planned, and it all made things more difficult for me. But I’d made my decision long before, and I wasn’t going back on it.

We reached Miss McKeever’s in the late afternoon, and then Mother had to rush away. I had no time for many good-byes, and perhaps it was just as well, as that would have been too hard on us both. Her taxi drove out of sight half an hour after she had landed me there, and I was left alone, in a perfectly strange place, among perfectly strange people. And I was pretty glad Mother couldn’t know how utterly forlorn I felt.

But Miss McKeever was an absolute dear! A little, gray-haired, brown-eyed woman, with a face full of worried wrinkles, but with the most charming manners, and somehow a very understanding way about her. She put her arm around my shoulder, after the taxi was out of sight, and said:

“I know exactly how you feel, my dear—just too lonesome for words, in this strange place. But let’s get acquainted right away. First place, I was your mother’s best friend in college. We were like sisters—and always have been. I want you to call me ‘Aunt Elsie.’ No ‘Miss McKeever’ from this minute on! And I’m going to be like a real aunt to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Oh, Miss McKeever—I mean—Aunt Elsie, I’ll be so glad!” I sobbed and stuttered. “I do miss Mother horribly. I’ve never spent a summer away from her before. But you understand, I guess!”

“Certainly I do!” she cried. “And now let’s pretend we’ve always known each other. I’ll take you right up to your room and let you get settled, and then you shall see Mary Lou. I think you’re going to like each other. She’s crazy to meet you. I’m having rather a mixed-up time here in the house today, but you won’t mind if things are slightly upheaved, will you? Mrs. Rowland is on the rampage again, and dear old Mr. Doane has been having one of his spells, and that wretched little Fraser boy tried to climb down the rose trellis from a second-story window this morning and fell and broke his collar bone! The whole thing has made me more or less rattled today! Well, here we are!”

I didn’t in the least know what she was talking about, just then—but I was to find out soon enough! She led me to a little room on the third floor of the big house and told me it was to be mine, and that Mary Lou’s room was next door. Then she excused herself, saying it was nearly dinner time and she must hurry down to see that everything was all right, and that she would be back a little later, introduce me to her niece, and so on. And then I was left really alone.

It was a nice little room, tiny but very comfortable and prettily furnished. I took off my hat, sat down in the one big comfortable armchair and—I’ll have to confess it—had a good cry! I guess Miss McKeever, or I mean “Aunt Elsie,” had known it was coming and left me alone to get it over. Afterward I somehow felt better, washed my face and bathed my swollen eyes, and set about unpacking. And presently she came back. She was good enough not to remark about my face, which certainly showed I’d been crying, but suggested that we go right in to see Mary Lou.

Of all the dears I ever did see, Mary Lou is the sweetest! I’ll never forget that first sight of her, sitting forward in her wheel chair, her pale but beautiful little face framed in lovely curly dark hair, her enormous blue eyes fairly flaming with excitement.

“Oh, I think it was sweet of you to come to me!” she cried, giving me a shy, thin little hand. “I know we’re going to like each other, Joan!” It was easy to see we were. I could feel it from the first moment. After her aunt had chatted a bit with us both, she left us together, saying that for this evening we could both have our dinner together up in Mary Lou’s room and get better acquainted. I felt, too, that kind Aunt Elsie was planning in this way to spare me the agonies of a first meeting with all those new faces in the general dining room. And as a crowning kindness she presently sent—who but Karen herself! up with the big tray. I just fell on her neck and hugged her as if she’d been a long-lost sister! After seeing her, in this strange house, I felt so much less lonely and forsaken by all my own folks.

“My! but I’m glad you’re going to be with me now,” chuckled Mary Lou, as we began our dinner, “instead of that old Miss Crosley. I couldn’t bear her—so starchy—and fussy—and prim! Most trained nurses are nice, but she’s just tiresome. She’d have gone for good today, only Boots Fraser broke his collar bone and his mother begged her to stay a few days and help with him. He’s a terrible child!”

“Won’t you tell me a little about the people in this house?” I asked her. “You see, I’m completely strange here, and it would help a lot if I could get some idea beforehand of the folks in the place.”

“Of course I will!” cried Mary Lou delightedly. “I haven’t been here so very long myself, but I know all about them already. Some of them are awfully nice—and some awfully queer—and one is both!”

“What do you mean by that—‘one is both’?” I demanded, laughing at the odd expression.

“Well, it’s true!” she said, giggling a little. “I mean old Mr. Gilbert Doane. He’s Aunt Elsie’s ‘star boarder’—been with her years and years. He has the great big room over the living room. He’s both nice and queer! But mostly nice.”

“Oh, he’s the one your aunt Elsie told me was having ‘one of his spells’ today!” I interrupted.

“Yes, it’s awfully strange.” Mary Lou’s voice sank to an excited whisper. “He has them every once in a while. He isn’t ill, but it just seems as if something scares him—somehow! It always happens when he gets a letter—a certain letter! Do you know, I think there’s some mystery about him! I’m terribly interested in it. I love mysteries. He got one of those letters this morning at the breakfast table. Aunt Elsie said he never even opened it, but got up, sort of tottery, and went upstairs to his room and hasn’t left it since. Asked if he could have just a cup of tea and some toast for the rest of his meals today. Auntie worries a great deal about him when he gets like that. He’s such a dear old thing too—he looks like some character out of Dickens. And he’s so old. Aunt Elsie says he’s eighty-nine at least. You ought to see his room!—it’s filled with old books and ship models and one great big ship’s figurehead fastened on the wall over the mantel.”

I saw, right here, that May Lou was getting so excited and talking so much that she wasn’t eating any dinner, so I said:

“That’s terribly interesting, but suppose we finish our salad and dessert” (I recognized some of Karen’s delicious Danish pastry!) “and then we can go on about all these people when we’re through.”

“Now you sound like Miss Crosley!” chuckled Mary Lou, but she took the hint and finished the meal, and then I asked:

“What about the others? You’ve told me a little about old Mr. Doane. I think I’m going to like him!”

“Sure you will!” said Mary Lou. “But you won’t like Mrs. Rowland. She’s an old pest!”

“Is she the one your aunt said was ‘on the rampage’ today?” I queried.

“And what a rampage!” grinned Mary Lou. “She makes me think of a wasp—stinging and buzzing and making things generally disagreeable every once in a while. This morning she started by complaining about the toast at breakfast. That’s always a bad sign! Then, later, she rushed downstairs to say the plumbing was out of order in her bathroom, and made a terrible fuss. Auntie sent for a plumber and found it was only because Mrs. Rowland had let a lot of hair and matches and things go down the pipes, but that didn’t stop the old wasp scolding about it! She’s been at it ever since—one thing after another—till it’s nearly driven Auntie crazy.”

“But why does your aunt stand for it?” I demanded.

“Because Mrs. R. has one of the best rooms and pays quite a lot—and Auntie just can’t afford to have her leave. We call her the ‘Wasp,’ Auntie and I!”

“Don’t think I’m going to like that particular person!” I chuckled. “But I’ll try to keep out of her way. Who else is there here?”

“Well, there are Mr. and Mrs. Fraser—and that terrible child of theirs—‘Boots.’ I think his real name is ‘Clarence’—but nobody calls him that. His father and mother are nice, but he is certainly a nuisance. He’s into everything—every minute of the day. They’re only staying here for a while. Their house here in town burned down a couple of months ago, and they’re staying here till they’ve finished building another. Auntie won’t be sorry when they go. She says a padded cell is the only safe place for that boy!”

“I hear he had an accident today,” I remarked.

“It scared us all to death!” chuckled Mary Lou. “He tried to climb out of his bedroom window down the rose trellis. It broke, and he fell into the flower beds and howled as if he’d been murdered. But the doctor said it was only a collar bone. I guess that’ll keep him quiet for a while!”

“Well, is that the end of the list?” I wanted to know.

“Only two more,” went on Mary Lou. “One is Miss Melissa Markham. She’s a sort of middle-aged lady—very musical—and keeps to herself a lot. She has a grand piano up in her room and practices on it a good deal. Sometimes she plays for us all in the evening, on Auntie’s piano, downstairs. She plays beautifully. I love to hear her. I wish I could play the piano myself, but my legs won’t work the pedals. Miss Markham is very nice. We all like her. Then the only other one is a Mr. Conroy. He just came lately and says he is only staying for the summer. He’s a queer, dark, sort of sinister-looking man. Hardly says anything to anyone. He’s away all day in New York and only comes back at night. Auntie and I don’t like him much, and we don’t just know why. He always looks as if he were plotting something—sort of desperate—or underhand—if you know what I mean! And the funny thing is, old Mr. Doane simply hates him—won’t speak to him at all! But he never says why or makes any complaint about him. Auntie’s rather puzzled about it. She says she’s glad Mr. Conroy isn’t going to be here long, or Mr. Doane might get dissatisfied. Now, that’s absolutely all about the people here. Tell me all about yourself, won’t you, Joan? That’s what I’m most interested to hear!”

We spent the rest of the time talking about Mother and myself, and my school and graduation. Mary Lou was thrilled to hear that I was planning to study writing and journalism in college, and perhaps be an author later on. She said she wished the house were an interesting sort of place, so that I might have something to practice writing about, but guessed I’d find it all pretty dull there. We little dreamed, either of us, what wild excitement it was going to provide us with later, or that I should make it the subject of my first try at a story!

Then Aunt Elsie came up and said it was time to get Mary Lou to bed and showed me how to give her an alcohol rub and make her comfortable for the night. When she was all tucked in we went off to my room and sat there talking a long while and getting better acquainted. I told her that Mary Lou had given me a detailed account of all the boarders, and she laughed, and said:

“There isn’t a thing escapes that child! She’s as bright as a button. And I know she’s just going to love you and your companionship. You’re just the right one to be with her.”

“Well, I love her—already!” I declared. “And after I get over this first lonesomeness, I’m going to enjoy it a lot.”

“You’re dead tired—that’s what’s the matter with you. And I want you to crawl right into bed.” Aunt Elsie announced. “Good-night, my dear. You’re going to be a blessing to both Mary Lou and myself.”

But after I was in bed, I couldn’t sleep for a long, long while. I didn’t dare think of Mother, speeding farther and farther away from me through the darkness, so I tried to concentrate on the curious people that were sleeping in this same house. Somewhere I heard a piano being played very softly—a Chopin waltz, I thought—and tried to picture Miss Markham, practicing away in her lonely room. But mostly I kept thinking of strange old Mr. Doane, who looked like a character out of Dickens, and had ship models and a figurehead decorating his room. Why he haunted my thoughts, I don’t know. But I fell asleep at last, wondering what was the mystery of his having a “spell” every time he received a certain unexplained letter.