Читать книгу The Curious Affair at Heron Shoals - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 3

MARTY left the school-bus the next afternoon and fairly raced home along the sandy road that led to the Coast-Guard Station. Her home was at a considerable distance from her school, which was in a large town across the Bay. There was a long bridge across the Bay, connecting the little, eight-mile-long Heron Shoals Island with the mainland. On the northern end of this otherwise uninhabited island, there had sprung up within comparatively recent years, the little town of summer cottages called Surf Crest. But beyond the southern limits of this town, the concrete road ended abruptly, and below it stretched only the rolling dunes and beach on the east of the narrow strip, and on the west, the thickly wooded growths of cedar, holly, and pines. Except for the town, two Coast-Guard Stations, the home of Captain Cy and Marty’s own abode constituted almost the only other human habitations on the entire island. As the school-bus did not go below the limits of the town, Marty had about a mile of almost impossible road to negotiate before she reached her own home. She had been very inattentive at school all day, her mind absorbed with the new conditions that were about to take place in her home.

“I’m going to hate him!” she told herself fiercely as she hurried along. “He’ll probably be a little, stuck-up brat!” She had met that sort in her school—children who could do something special—sing or dance or play the piano, always thinking too well of themselves, always coddled and made much of, generally ‘teacher’s pet.’ This one was so much more talented that he’d probably be even worse. “How are we going to stand it—six weeks of it?” she asked herself in despair.

Presently she neared the Coast-Guard Station and hesitated. Should she turn to the right and go straight home through the lane, high-walled with cedars and tall huckleberry bushes, or stop in first at her Uncle Cy’s house? Now that it came to the point, she really dreaded going straight to the house to meet these strangers. Suddenly, strange sounds from the big, white old Station, and the sight of Gwen with her face pressed close to one of its windows, decided her. She turned to her left and approached her red-haired and freckled little cousin, demanding:

“What’s going on, Gwen?” Her nine-year-old cousin simply pointed through the window and said, “Look at that, will you!” Marty looked—and almost collapsed with sudden laughter.

A little, elderly man with wavy, bushy white hair that stood up around his head like a halo, was rushing back and forth between the two grand pianos that now stood side by side in the center of the big empty mess-room, their tops completely off, and looking very dismantled. The man had a tuning implement in his hand and was alternately striking notes and chords on one piano, then on the other, then darting back to tighten some strings on one, then on the other, and muttering all the while to himself in some unintelligible language. Every so often he would lay down the tuning implement and run his hands through his already wildly rumpled hair with a curious motion as if he were trying to tear it out or lift himself up by it.

“He’s tuning the two pianos,” Gwen informed Marty. “He’s having an awful time with them—says they’re in terrible condition. He’s the boy’s music-teacher.”

“How do you know?” demanded Marty.

“Because I went in and asked him. His name is Mr. O-Bear—or something like that. He speaks awful poor English—but he’s very nice! I stayed in there a while, watching him, but then he chased me out—said I asked too many questions, but that I could look in from outside.”

“Where’s the boy?” inquired Marty, almost dreading to be told. She suddenly remembered that she didn’t even know his name.

“He’s out on the beach with his father,” answered Gwen indifferently. “Look at O-Bear now!—he’s tearing his hair again!”

But Marty had temporarily lost interest in the curious little man. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the boy, so she turned away and strolled over the dune toward the wide beach. She hoped she could catch sight of him before being seen herself, so that she might have a chance to study him. “He’ll probably be strutting around,” she thought, “acting as if he owned the whole beach!” But when she reached the top of the dune, there was no one in sight except a tall man clad in fishing togs and high rubber boots, casting a long line into the surf. There was not another soul in sight. Thinking the boy might be wandering around back of the dunes somewhere, she ventured farther toward the surf, coming abreast of an old piece of wreckage that had lain there ever since she could remember. Sometimes, steady high west winds covered it so completely with sand that it was all but invisible. Then a huge northeaster would tear the sand away, leaving it revealed in all its stark, wrecked nakedness—a heavy wooden deck on which several rusty iron capstans still stood like sentinels. It was in this condition at the present moment.

As she was skirting one end, she suddenly stopped short in her tracks. A young boy, invisible till that moment, was sitting with his back against one of the capstans, a pad supported on his knees, a pencil in his hand. He had not heard her approach, and in a swift, appraising glance, she was able to take stock of him before herself being seen.

He was a slender-looking boy of twelve or thereabouts. He had a mat of thick, short, curly black hair. The color of his eyes she could not see for the moment, as he had them bent over his work, but she later discovered them to be an intense, deep blue, accentuated by long, dark lashes. But it was his pale, thin face that interested her most, for it was a very beautiful face and its expression was wistful, “sad,” as Marty herself called it. So different was his whole appearance from what she had imagined that she experienced a shock of keen surprise. In the instant that she stood motionless and unobserved, she could not make up her mind whether to go forward and greet him or retreat unnoticed back home and wait for his coming there.

But suddenly he seemed to sense her presence and looked up from his work. In another instant he had scrambled to his feet, dropping his pad and pencil. As she involuntarily came toward him, he held out his hand shyly and said,

“How do you do? I guess you’re Marty Greene, aren’t you? I’m Ted Burnett.”

“Why—why—how did you know my name?” stammered Marty, taking his hand. She noticed that his hand, though thin and fragile-looking, had a surprisingly muscular grip. His face lit up with a little smile as he answered:

“Professor Sedgwick has told us all about you—and all about the place here. I feel as if I knew you already quite well!”

Marty was rather stunned. This was something quite different from what she had expected. Far from being the self-important young musical “prodigy” she had expected, he was just a shy young boy trying to be polite. Casting about for some suitable reply, her eye lit on the pad and pencil he had dropped, and he followed her questioning glance.

“I was just working out a little counterpoint,” he informed her. “I got tired walking on the beach and Dad thought I’d better sit here and rest, so I thought I’d work on that counterpoint Monsieur gave me to do. But I didn’t get much done. I’d rather watch the sea and the gulls and the teeter-snipe.”

Marty hadn’t the least idea what “counterpoint” was, but she glanced down at the pad and saw that it was lined with rows and rows of musical staves, on which he had been placing notes and chords.

“Who is Monsieur?” she inquired curiously.

“Oh, I thought you knew!” he said quickly. “He’s Monsieur Aubert, my music-professor. He’s up there at the Station now, having an awful time with the two pianos. He says the moving them down here put them in terrible condition.” Suddenly he changed the subject, commenting shyly, “I like your parrot—Methuselah! I’ve never been near a real, live parrot before—except in the zoo. This one talks so well—and he nearly bit my finger off at lunch time when I tried to give him a cracker. Monsieur tried talking French to him and Methuselah acted very queerly. Didn’t squawk at him at all but just sat staring at him as if he somehow were trying to understand! He’s a queer bird, isn’t he?”

This information rather astonished Marty, who had always sensed that there was something curious about Methuselah and particularly about her grandmother’s reluctance to talk about his origin. Odd that this boy should have hit on the same idea almost at once! She was about to reply that Thusy certainly was queer, when she happened to glance toward the fisherman off at the edge of the surf.

“Look!” she cried. “Your father’s just caught a big fish—I think it’s a striped-bass! Let’s go down and look at it!” And they both hurried off to join Mr. Burnett who had that moment landed his prize—a seven-pounder, and was busy disengaging the hook. Looking up, he saw the pair and called out:

“This is Marty, I know. How do you do? I feel as if I knew you very well already from Professor Sedgwick’s talks about you.” Then he dropped the fish on the sand, wiped his hands on the towel or cloth that all surf-fishermen seemed to have draped on them for that purpose, and held out his hand to Marty.

“Isn’t he a beauty?” he cried, pointing to the bass, whose jewel-like sides glittered in the afternoon sun. “Must be more than six pounds if he weighs an ounce—and he certainly gave me a bit of a battle! I promised Mrs. Greene I’d bring her back a fish for supper, but I guess she didn’t think I’d have ‘beginner’s luck,’ for she said she’d have something else anyway, in case they weren’t biting. We can all make a meal out of this fellow!” The remark about her grandmother suddenly recalled to Marty the fact that she was expected back at home directly on her return from school, so she said something to that effect and offered to carry the fish back with her, that it need not get stale lying on the sand.

But Mr. Burnett laughingly replied, “Indeed I shan’t burden you with this big fellow! A fisherman as proud as I am of his catch always wants to carry it himself. In any case, it’s getting late and the sun is well down and it’s growing a bit chilly. Ted ought to go in, too, so we’ll all go back together.”

While he reeled in his line, and strung a piece of cord through the big fish’s gills, in order to carry it more easily, Marty had a chance to take stock of this new-comer also. She decided that he was a very handsome man, big and stalwart, with a shock of arresting gray hair and clear, penetrating gray eyes. His manner was friendly and wholly natural, and she knew she was going to like him. And as they trudged back across the wide beach to the Station, she was inwardly marveling that, so far, not a word had been said about the talents of the young musical prodigy-no reference at all to his playing. Nor was there the slightest suggestion of “high-hatting anybody” (as she privately called it) or the assuming of any supercilious airs. “Maybe I was mistaken,” she thought. “Maybe it isn’t going to be like that at all!”

As they were crossing the high dunes by the path a short distance from the Station, Professor Aubert came to the door and beckoned and called to Ted to come in for a few moments to try the pianos with him.

“Run along, Ted!” said Mr. Burnett. “You can come back later with Monsieur. But don’t let him keep you too long. We don’t want to keep supper waiting!” The boy left them, and Marty and Mr. Burnett pursued their way together. As they approached the long, winding lane that led to the old house, Mr. Burnett, who had been chatting with Marty about her school activities, suddenly switched the subject and began:

“Now that Ted isn’t with us and we can be alone for a few moments, I want to have a bit of a talk with you, Marty, about that little fellow.”

“Here it comes!” thought Marty. “Now he’s going to tell me what a talented child he is!” She quite regretted that thought later.

“You see,” went on Mr. Burnett, “I feel that I know you very well, through the many fine things I’ve heard about you from Professor Sedgwick. And as the circumstances about Ted are worrying me a great deal, I feel as if I could safely confide in your good judgment. Ted is a rather peculiar little fellow. He has a great musical gift, so I’m told—I know very little about music myself—and he has inherited it directly from his mother, who was a very great and successful musician in the years before I married her. She gave up her musical career when she married me, but when she found that her little son had also inherited her gift, she devoted her time to training him in it, beginning almost from the time he could toddle. And since he seemed to be making such marvelous strides, she was planning to have him give a public recital in New York this year, when he would be twelve.”

They were midway through the lane, at this point, and Marty suddenly glanced up at his face, for he had stopped talking abruptly, and stood staring up at the tops of the close-crowding, pointed cedars burnished with the descending sun. His fine face had taken on some grim lines, but his voice was as steady as ever when he continued:

“But we had a very great loss—Ted and I—something less than a year ago. She was taken from us suddenly—a fatal automobile accident—and life will not be quite the same for either of us, ever again. It has been particularly hard on Ted. He’s an extremely sensitive child, and he adored her. After the first shock of it was over, I thought perhaps he would abandon the music, as being too painful a memory, and I planned to put him in a good boys’ school. I’ll admit that I privately hoped he would forget his music and some day fit himself for a business career; perhaps step into my own place later on, when he was ready for it. But I guess that’s not to be. He begged me not to send him away to school but let him stay at home and go on with his music. His one thought seems to be not only a real love of it, but also a desire to fulfil his mother’s ambition for him. He seemed so unhappy about my plan that I finally gave it up and engaged his mother’s former teacher, this Professor Aubert, to take up the task of his musical instruction, which he was delighted to do. Ted also has another tutor at home, to give him instruction in other studies, for I do not want his general education neglected. But he is very fond of ‘Monsieur,’ as we all call him, and so we brought him along on this little vacation. Also, Monsieur does not want Ted to fall behind with his practising, as he is to give this recital later in the fall. So that explains the two pianos.”

Marty had been very quiet all through this account, but her expressive face showed that she appreciated keenly the sorrow that had come into the lives of these people still almost unknown to her. She could find no words to express it, but Mr. Burnett must have understood, for he went on:

“This has been a long story, Marty, but I had to tell it to you that you might understand fully the situation. The point of the whole matter is this. Ted’s health hasn’t been too good lately. He never was an athletic boy, as so many are, never very fond of outdoor sports and that sort of thing, but he always has been normally well and strong. Of late months, though, he doesn’t sleep well, his appetite has failed and, though he says nothing, we know he is brooding deeply over the loss of his mother. We have tried everything—taken him to new places, tried to give him new experiences—everything—but nothing has worked. It was Professor Sedgwick who finally suggested bringing him down here to try a few weeks of an utterly different kind of life, a life of roughing it on this wild beach, with just enough of his piano practice to keep him from falling back there, but mainly to be out in the wind and the sun and the salt air, and the privilege of having the companionship of yourself and your little cousin over at Captain Cy’s. If that doesn’t take him out of himself, I don’t know what will.”

“I’m afraid he won’t like the house,” ventured Marty. “It’s so big—and old—and it hasn’t any conveniences—not even a bathtub! We couldn’t ever afford to put any in.”

“He’ll get used to it and come to love it!” prophesied Mr. Burnett. “That’s all part of the change. You don’t realize how we city dwellers enjoy getting away from that kind of life, and being down here on this wild, magnificent beach of yours. We don’t miss the lack of city conveniences. It’s all part of the fun! But before we leave this conversation, there’s one more thing I want to say. My main purpose in this stay here is that Ted may have something to divert his mind from past unhappiness. If you can think of any way you can help about that, any special things that might get his mind running in other channels, I’ll be eternally grateful to you—and you won’t be sorry you took the trouble. It may not come all at once. You don’t know him well enough yet. But if, in your further acquaintance with him, you can discover anything, outside his music, that seems to strike his interest, will you be good enough to encourage him in it?”

“I surely will!” promised Marty earnestly, though how it was to be brought about, she hadn’t the faintest idea at that moment.

“Thank you!” said Mr. Burnett simply. “And now I think we had better be getting on to the house. I must clean this fish before I can ask Mrs. Greene to cook it—not a very savory job!”

After Marty had snuggled down in bed that night, her mind too excited with the day’s events to allow her to sleep, she began to consider the problem with which Mr. Burnett had faced her. She was not in her own room, and not entirely comfortable, which fact also served to keep her awake. At her grandmother’s suggestion, she had given up her room to the boy, because it was warmer and more comfortable than most of those in the big old house at this season of the year, being directly over the kitchen and getting some of the kitchen’s heat through a little register set in the floor. She had rather resented this change up till now—hating to give up her own cozy nook that she had filled with her personal belongings and inexpensive decorations. Now she was glad she had done so, even though the room she was in was not too well furnished and had been long unused.

After all, what did it matter? she thought, trying to find a comfortable spot in the hard, lumpy old mattress. She had given her word to try to help this interesting boy, and that was the only thing that counted. What an evening they had had, all gathered at supper about the kitchen-table! Her grandmother hadn’t liked that very much, at first. She had begun setting places for the new-comers in the long-unused dining-room, trying to heat it as well as she could with a little oil-stove, for the evening had turned chilly. But when Mr. Burnett had seen it, he demanded that they all eat together in the cozy, big, old kitchen. Said they’d love it and it would be so much less trouble than setting a separate table. Mrs. Greene had agreed somewhat reluctantly, considering that it didn’t quite fit in with the proprieties.

Marty had never remembered a more interesting meal. The willing but clattering Hettie Boscom had gone home just before the supper was served, and Marty herself waited on the table when it was necessary. The conversation had been as natural and cheerful as if they had all known each other a long time. Often it was dominated by the lively little old French professor.

“How polite he is!” thought Marty. “He bowed over my hand when he was introduced as if I were a great lady—instead of just Marty Greene! And he insists on calling me ‘Mam’selle Marty’! And how he loves that little boy! He watches every expression of his face—almost every mouthful he eats!”

During the meal, Mr. Burnett had explained how he had come to be allowed to house the two pianos in the Coast-Guard Station—a most unusual proceeding according to all precedent.

“I had a pretty complicated time about that,” he had remarked laughingly. “Had to pull every wire I was able to. Fortunately I had some acquaintance with the Commander in New York, who got me in touch with some of the officials in Washington. As this particular station has been closed and all the crew sent elsewhere, as they have done with a number along this coast, I had thought the matter would be simple. It was anything but that! Official ‘red tape’ was all against it. I finally had to promise that should the slightest Government need for the station arise, while the pianos were there, I would move them out at an instant’s notice, even if I had to leave them in the sand!” They had all giggled at the vision of the two stately grand pianos reposing on a sand-dune!

And how badly Methuselah had behaved at the beginning of the meal! He had squawked and screeched and demanded a cracker with such an ear-splitting racket that Mrs. Greene had finally removed him, perch and all, to the darkness of the dining-room, where he immediately became silent. Marty noticed that Ted had been watching him with interested eyes and a distinct smile. But when he was gone, the boy’s face fell into its usual serious expression.

There had been one curious little occurrence after the meal was over. When the dishes were removed and Marty was washing them, all the new-comers had insisted on helping to dry and put them away, much to Mrs. Greene’s disapproval. But they had made it a rather hilarious occasion, even Ted joining the affair, and were laughing and joking like old comrades before the task was finished. Then, at Ted’s request, Marty brought the parrot in once more and let Ted give him his supper of rice and sliced banana. While he was eating it, Mr. Burnett had remarked:

“This parrot interests me very much, Mrs. Greene. And, by the way, he isn’t a true parrot. He is of the parrot family, but is really a macaw. His brilliant blue and yellow plumage is quite different from that of the common green parrot. This type comes from central Brazil and is uncommonly intelligent and usually very long-lived. Sometimes they are said to live as long as seventy-five or eighty years. And they have wonderful memories, too, I understand. This Methuselah’s name is very appropriate for I think he is quite an old bird. How long have you had him, Mrs. Greene?”

It had seemed such a simple question—one to which an ordinary answer might have been simply returned. But to the surprise of every one but Marty, Mrs. Greene’s wrinkled countenance had flushed, and she had answered hesitantly and a bit grudgingly, “Oh, about twenty-five years or so, I guess!” And before any further queries could be put, she had hurried out of the kitchen mumbling something to the effect that she must “see to some things upstairs.” Mr. Burnett had then turned to Marty herself and remarked,

“Your grandmother doesn’t seem to care to talk much about Thusy’s past, does she! I hope I haven’t offended her by asking too many questions.”

“Oh, Nana’s always been like that about Thusy!” she had replied. “There must be some secret about that bird that she doesn’t want to talk about. She won’t even to me, when I’ve asked questions.”

“Well, then, we mustn’t annoy her by asking any more of them,” Mr. Burnett had said, considerately. Marty noticed that Ted had been listening wide-eyed to this exchange of remarks, but the boy offered no comment and turned to the Professor who was standing in front of Thusy, chattering softly to the parrot in French. And Thusy was listening with bright unwinking gaze, and head cocked to one side, as if the little Frenchman’s remarks interested him tremendously.

“Zis bird, he understand zee French, I know he do!” declared the Professor, running his hands excitedly through his white hair. “He leesten like he has heard eet before, many, many time, but long ago. Now see! I try to expereement, I try to make heem say somesing after me!”

He placed himself squarely in front of the parrot’s perch, looking the bird straight in the eye and began slowly and distinctly:

“Bon jour, Thusy! Bon jour, bon jour, bon jour!” The parrot looked at him intently with his bright eyes unwinking, as if trying hard to understand. Then he began a low mumbling, as if to himself, and the sound he made certainly resembled something like “bum-bum-bum-bum.” They all listened in a breathless silence, till the Professor whispered:

“Wait!—I theenk he ees getting eet. He perhaps say somesing!” And Methuselah did. After a long moment of silence, he suddenly stood erect on his perch, flapped his wings and screeched at the Professor:

“Go fly a kite!” Then he turned his back insultingly, tucked his head under his wing and prepared to go to sleep for the night.

A peal of laughter from Ted greeted this unexpected reply—the first time Marty had heard him really laugh, and they all joined in, even the discomfited Professor Aubert.

“That was dreadful!” cried Marty. “Somebody must have taught him that. He says it every once in a while—and always where it comes in just right. But it did sound awful—and after all the trouble you took, Professor!” The Professor did look rather crestfallen, but continued to insist that he was right and would prove it later. But Mr. Burnett said,

“No more of this now! I hear Mrs. Greene coming downstairs.” And the subject was dropped for the night.

Marty thought it all over, lying on her lumpy bed and suddenly an idea popped into her mind. So startling was it that she sat straight up in bed muttering, “The very thing!—Why didn’t I think of it before?—Ted’s interested in that parrot, not only because he’s an unusual bird but because there’s some mystery about him. That settles it! I’m going to get Ted even more interested in Thusy and the mystery and perhaps we can both solve it together. I always did want to know what it was all about, anyway. And perhaps it’ll help Ted to—forget for a while!”

She lay down again in a pleasant sort of content and tried to plan how she would go about it. And presently she fell asleep.