Читать книгу The Figurehead of the "Folly" - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 5

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I HAD been a week at “McKeever’s” (as everyone seemed to call it) before anything unusual happened. During that time I’d had a chance to get fairly well acquainted with everybody—that is, everyone except Mr. Conroy, with whom no one seemed well acquainted, or wanted to be, apparently. He always disappeared to his room right after dinner at night, and had an early breakfast before he left for the city in the morning, and never said three words at the table.

I found old Mrs. Rowland quite detestable, as Mary Lou had warned. When she wasn’t complaining about something, she was busily asking questions and trying to pry into one’s affairs, and her sharp, piggy little eyes seemed to fairly bore into you behind your back. I avoided her as much as I could. Anyway, Mary Lou and I led a life pretty much to ourselves, so we didn’t have to come in contact with her very often.

Miss Markham was sweet, though rather distant in manner, and so absorbed in her music, away by herself, that we didn’t see much of her either. The Frasers were nice people—he rather jolly and sociable, and she kind and pleasant, but very much occupied over the rebuilding of their home, and they had to be out quite a bit. But their young son, Boots, aged twelve, was certainly a handful! The nurse refused to stay with him after the first two days. Said he was too much for her—and anyway he was getting on so well that he didn’t need a nurse. If his mother could keep him quiet he’d do very well. And she went off, starchily important, to another case. But the trouble was that his mother, who’s sweet but rather ineffectual, couldn’t do a thing with him. And presently he was wandering around the house making life miserable for everyone. He was the kind of child who is forever breaking things or having accidents to himself or getting in trouble of some kind. A good-natured, jolly little wretch, with rumpled sandy hair, light blue eyes with nearly white eyelashes, and a simply impish expression. You couldn’t help but like him, even when he made you furious with his mischief. When he found I was reading aloud to Mary Lou he got to drifting in and hunching himself up on the floor to listen. And that was the only thing which kept him quiet.

But the one who interested me most of all, next to Mary Lou, was dear old Mr. Doane, whom I found just as Dickensy and delightful as Mary Lou had described him. In fact, he looked just exactly as if he had stepped out of the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit or Bleak House, and I’ve never been able to decide which of Dickens’s characters he reminded me of most. He was slender and rather stooped, with long white hair falling in a sort of wave to his coat-collar. He always wore rather old-fashioned clothes too, with a high collar that stood up in points under his chin, and an out-of-date bow-tie. But he had the loveliest, most kindly smile, and bright, twinkling eyes, and he was sweet to me from the first moment I met him, the morning after I arrived. He seemed to have gotten over his “spell” by that time.

The first thing he said to me was that Aunt Elsie had told him my home was right by the sea, and that interested him very much, as he’d always loved it himself and had many connections with it. And that same day, when we were taking Mary Lou downstairs in her wheel chair for an airing outdoors, which I found could only be done with the help of Osgood, the colored man-of-all-work, Mr. Doane stopped us on the second floor and asked if we wouldn’t like to come in and see his ship models. Which I, for one, was very glad to do, after the description I’d had from Mary Lou of his unusual quarters.

I wish I could describe that room in detail, but I’m afraid I cannot. It was the most unusual one I’ve ever seen. You got, first, the general impression of fairly low bookshelves all around the walls, crammed with the most fascinating volumes. On top of these bookshelves were ship models most beautifully and perfectly made, most of them of the older types of sailing vessels, square-rigged clippers, he called them, and complete down to the last detail. A sort of alcove at one side of the room was fitted up exactly like a ship officer’s cabin, with a mahogany bunk fastened to the wall, and this, he said, was where he slept. Over the bunk he had had a regular porthole of brass put in.

“I wish this looked out on the sea!” he sighed, as he showed it to us. “But only the trees and the streets of this town are visible, as you see.”

“I should think you would like to live right by the ocean,” I ventured, “since you love it and ships so much.”

“I dearly would,” he added, “but I am troubled in my old age by an unfortunate asthmatic condition, and the sea air aggravates it very much. So my only safety is to live inland and try to pretend the sea is not far away. But come and look at my two chief treasures!”

He led us over to the mantel, and there, jutting out into the room, above the fireplace, was the quaintest ship’s figurehead I have ever seen. It was the perfect figure of a woman, from about the waist up, dressed like a jester, with a gilded cap and bells on her head, and a fool’s or jester’s wand in her hand, tipped with little gilded bells. Her drapery was blue, a lovely pale shade, and her laughing face was beautifully carved. Mr. Doane told us that those were all the original colorings, that he had never had it touched up.

“They knew how to do those things well, in bygone days,” he said rather wistfully. “It was the figurehead of my father’s clipper ship—appropriately named the Folly—and it is my chief treasure, apart from this.” He led us over to a pedestal in a corner of the room, on which stood a wonderful ship model, all by itself.

“That must be the Folly, isn’t it?” I cried. For there was a tiny replica of the same figurehead on the prow of the vessel.

“Yes, that is the Folly!” he said. “And my figurehead is all that remains of her. Do you wonder I’m proud of it? She was a beautiful clipper—one of the most beautiful ever built.”

“What happened to her?” I ventured to ask. And most surprisingly he answered:

“I do not know!”

“But—but—” I stammered—“then how do you come to have the original figurehead?”

“That is a long story, my dear. Perhaps I shall tell it some day, perhaps never!” he muttered. “But I mustn’t keep you too long. I know little Miss Mary Lou must get outdoors while the sun is bright. Come in and see me again-any time. I have many books here that you might be interested in,” he ended. Something warned me that I’d made a mistake in asking him about the ship, and I felt rather embarrassed. So I called in Osgood, who had been waiting out in the hall, bade Mr. Doane good-bye and thanked him, and we got Mary Lou out into the garden.

“What did I tell you?” demanded Mary Lou in wild excitement, when we were at last alone under the trees. “I knew there was some mystery about him—and this makes it deeper than ever. He doesn’t know what became of the ship—and yet he has the figurehead! I don’t believe he ever told that before—not even to Auntie.”

We talked and speculated about it for quite a while. I was nearly as excited as Mary Lou. It seemed so strange—not only the fact, but his manner of telling it. Then we quieted down and I began to read David Copperfield aloud.

It was a peaceful, lovely June afternoon, and we were enjoying ourselves immensely, when Mary Lou gave a sudden sigh of disgust.

“Oh, here comes that old Mrs. Rowland!” she muttered. “She’s been sitting on the veranda and must have spied us out here. Good-bye to our nice afternoon!” And sure enough, she came trotting over the lawn and plumped herself down, with her eternal knitting, in the one extra chair that was out there! We had to be polite to her, and after saying a few words, I started to go on with the reading, hoping she’d take the hint and keep quiet. But that, very evidently, was not what she’d come out for.

“Does it strike you that that Miss Markham practices entirely too much—and too late at night?” she interrupted. “I declare, I think I must have been awake till after midnight last night, listening to that clatter. She’s right next door to me, you know.” Her complaining made us both quite indignant, for when Miss Markham practices at night, she does so very softly, and what one does hear is so delightful that you wish she’d go on forever.

“I hadn’t noticed it,” I replied shortly. “Anyway, she can’t play too much to suit me! I love her music.”

“So do I!” chimed in Mary Lou. “I could listen to her all night.” Mrs. Rowland evidently found she wasn’t making much progress along this line, so presently she tried another tack.

“What do you make of that Mr. Conroy?” she next inquired of me. “He’s a queer specimen—and I don’t like the way he acts. Do you know, I heard a sound in the hall, very late the other night, it was past two, I remember—and I got up and looked out of my door, and if he wasn’t out there, in his pajamas and bathrobe, walking up and down and smoking a cigarette! He muttered something about it being hot in his room and he couldn’t sleep. But I didn’t wait to hear an explanation—I just slammed my door shut—and I hope he took the hint. The idea!”

“I haven’t met Mr. Conroy yet,” I remarked, as icily as I could, “since I got here only yesterday. But I can’t see why he shouldn’t get some fresh air out in the hall if he can’t sleep in his room.” Mary Lou said nothing, and Mrs. Rowland sort of snorted, in disapproval of my attitude, I suppose. I tried reading aloud again, but she only began afresh after a few moments:

“Where have you been attending school, Miss Joan? I ask it because—” But suddenly, Mary Lou could stand it no longer.

“Could you wheel me around on the street, a bit, Joan?” she demanded. “My back gets so tired sitting still here all the time.”

It was a good excuse to get away, and I didn’t waste a minute in excusing myself to Mrs. Rowland and rushing Mary Lou out through the garden and onto the sidewalks of the shady road.

“We’re going to have our troubles with her,” predicted Mary Lou, darkly, and I could easily see she wasn’t wide of the mark!

Two days later I had my first encounter with Boots Fraser, who had, up to that point, been confined to his room. But his nurse had left that morning, and Mrs. Fraser had gone downtown to do some shopping, leaving her son to amuse himself in his room. He was up and about, with only his left arm in a sling to relieve the strain on the broken collar bone. I was coming downstairs with Mary Lou’s breakfast tray and had reached the second-story hall, which in this house is a rather large open space like a room, with a big window, in front of which are a couch, a table, and two or three odd chairs. Sort of an upstairs sitting room. And there, if you please, was our Boots, leaning far out of the window, with no regard for his collar bone, holding in his right hand a fishing rod and dangling the line and hook down below!

“Whatever are you doing?” I gasped, for at the angle he was leaning out he would certainly land on his head on the ground below, if he went an inch farther. At that he jerked in his head and stared at me with some surprise.

“Hello! I say, who are you anyway?” he retorted. I explained, and again demanded if he were trying to break his neck.

“No, just fishing!” he grinned impishly. “Grand clothesline full of duds down there. I just nearly caught a blue shirt when you bawled me out!” The outrageous little wretch! I thought, and then suddenly realized how desperately he must be put to it for amusement if he had to take to that!

“Well, you’d better call it a day!” I remarked. “And if you’ve nothing better to do, come up to Mary Lou’s room in about five minutes. I’m going to begin reading a book aloud to her—Treasure Island—and you can come and listen, if you’ll keep quiet.”

“Hot dog!—I’ll be there with bells on!” he shouted, and half an hour later he was crouched cross-legged on the floor, eyes popping with excitement and interest, listening to a story he had evidently never heard of before. And from that moment, Boots Fraser became our devoted slave!

So the first week passed for me, at McKeever’s, and I gradually became acquainted with the entire household and was growing to love dear little Mary Lou more with every passing day. She was always so sweet and good-tempered, in spite of her ailments and handicaps. Often she suffered real pain and discomfort, but she never complained or was difficult to manage. And she was always so grateful for anything I could do for her, and above all, was so intelligent and companionable herself.

It was my eighth night in the house, when a very singular thing happened—the beginning, in fact, of all the queer things that came later.

It had been a very hot, sultry afternoon and evening, with heavy thunderclouds gathering in the west. After dinner, as it was terribly oppressive in Mary Lou’s room, I got Osgood to take her in her chair, down to the second-story hall, where there was a little breeze coming in the big window which faced south, and we sat there reading and talking a while. Presently Mr. Doane came upstairs on the way to his room, and, seeing us there, he invited us to come into his room, which got even more of a breeze, for a while. So I wheeled Mary Lou in.

He seemed delighted to have company and showed us all his ship models again, and for the first time I learned their names, and that they were replicas of those famous clippers, Flying Cloud, Red Jacket, Rainbow, Montezuma—and all the others. And he also told us a little of their interesting and exciting histories. But he did not, this time, mention anything in connection with the Folly, and I did not ask him anything about her either, remembering our former experience and how I’d “put my foot in it” at that time. The hot evening passed very quickly and delightfully, and at last a heavy thunderstorm broke. We watched it from the big bay window in his room, which had a nice cushioned seat all the way round it. (And in the center, I noticed that he had a big desk, which I mention here because it figured largely in our mystery afterward.) Then, after the storm was over, Osgood helped us upstairs again, and I got Mary Lou to bed.

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night. The thunderstorm, far from cooling things off, seemed to have made matters worse. My room was small and happened not to have any breeze, and I finally turned on my bed light and started writing a letter to Mother. But it was so sultry that even writing seemed impossible, so instead I read a book till I got drowsy, switched off the light, and fell asleep toward one o’clock.

It must have been about half an hour later that I awoke, hearing some sort of commotion somewhere in the house. I got up, put on my mules and a bathrobe, and opened my door to peek outside. There seemed to be talking and scurrying around and some sort of excited doings on the floor below. Fearing someone might have been taken ill, I tiptoed downstairs, and in the hall below came upon the queerest sight!

It seemed as if everyone in the house was milling around outside the door of old Mr. Doane’s room, all in hastily donned bathrobes, or clothes slipped on in a hurry. Mrs. Rowland looked too funny, with her gray hair in tightly wound crimpers and a huge woolly bathrobe huddled about her!

“What’s the matter?” I demanded of Miss Markham, who was standing on the outskirts, in a lovely pale lavender negligee.

“I’m not quite sure,” she murmured, “but I think Mr. Doane waked up Miss McKeever and informed her that he’d lost something. Someone had entered his room while he was out of it—and now they’re hunting around to see if it can be found. I just heard the disturbance and came out a moment ago, so I’m not too certain what has happened.” But if she wasn’t quite sure of the facts, Mrs. Rowland had them all down pat, as you might expect, for she came bustling up to us right then and announced in a stage whisper:

“He says he’s lost an important document! Seems he had it on his desk, looking it over, and suddenly wanted a book he had been reading this evening and left down in the living room. He went down to get it, and was a while finding it, because someone had slipped it into the bookcase. When he got back, his room was just as usual in every other way—but the document was gone! He woke up Miss McKeever—and they’re both hunting for it now. He won’t let anyone else in the room! If you ask me, I think he’s not right in the head, poor old man!” Nobody had asked her—nor thought anything of the kind! Miss Markham and I quietly removed ourselves from her vicinity just as Mr. Conroy emerged from his room, his bathrobe grabbed tightly around him with one hand, rubbing his sleepy eyes with the other, and his black hair rumpled and hanging down over his forehead.

“What’s all the rumpus?” he demanded in a hoarse, sleepy voice.