Читать книгу Mirthful Haven - Booth Tarkington - Страница 9

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Edna had been away from Mirthful Haven for six months before Captain Embury came to Pelter’s again, this time upon a somewhat belated prompting to pay what his manner suggested was a call of condolence. “Know how you must miss that grand young lady of yours,” he said to Long Harry, as they sat together upon the rear verandah above the clear waters of the incoming tide. “Miss her myself, especially since school began again. Never saw anybody with a face of a color pleasanter to look at; most of ’em get a good deal like putty, this time o’ year, teachers and all. What I mean, it must be lonesome for you without her and livin’ all by yourself like this.”

“Think so?” Pelter said, and laughed. “Live all alone yourself, don’t you, Cap’n?”

“That’s different. I’m used to it and didn’t have a child growin’ up in the house and startin’ in to blossom out to be a comfort and a pleasure just to look at, the way it’s been with you. Might say I lent my help to deprive you of her, if you happen to look at it in that light; but I couldn’t help believin’ her step-grandmother’s arguments were sound.”

“Yes; guess they was.”

“Nevertheless,” the Captain added, “I certainly feel sympathy for you and admire the way you haven’t let anybody see that this trial is wearin’ on you.”

“On me?” Long Harry said, mildly surprised. “I git along all right. A good dog’s always been comp’ny enough fer me, ’most any time. Evenin’s, old man Wye drops in on me, likely, and he’s a right sociable talker, old man Wye is.” (In Captain Embury’s presence, Mirthful Haven had learned to be tactful in the matter of courtesy titles; without loud reproof to the speaker, he never allowed that of “Captain” to be misapplied, even with the second syllable carefully omitted.) “Old man Wye’s good comp’ny, Cap’n; so’s Prince, here, and I got plenty to read when I’m a-mind to. Any extra time I git from fishin’, lobsterin’ and so on, I’m buildin’ a motor-boat that might make a dolluh off o’ the summer people, takin’ ’em fishin’ or pleasure-partyin’—if they don’t git to boycottin’ me too hard.”

“Boycottin’ you too hard? Who’s—”

“Yep; they been tryin’ it. Passed around the word so’t a good many of ’em wouldn’t buy any fish or lobsters off o’ me this season, or hire my old sloop or any rowboats from me.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Want to make me sell ’em Pelter’s fer nothin’, Cap’n; but I wouldn’t sell it to ’em no matter what they’d give me. Wouldn’t have no other place to live and wouldn’t live nowheres else if I did! They had engineers take soundin’s, and this water-front stretch o’ mine here is ’bout the only place along River Road where there’s bottom enough under the soft mud to drive pilin’. Want to put a yacht club here so’t they wun’t have to git to their boats in summer from that old rotted gov’ment wharf down by the breakwater. Corning got ’em stirred up; thinks Pelter’s hurts the view from that new ’dition he’s built to his house up atop the Point. Been after me a good while, Corning has.”

“Has he?” The Captain frowned. “Don’t ever let him weaken you, Harry. I was sorry when the first summer boarders began to come, long ago; yet in a way I guess they’ve been a godsend to a good many of our people that didn’t hardly have any other way to make a livin’. As it is, nine-tenths o’ the young folks leave the village and go to the cities the minute they’re of an age to shift for themselves, and those that are left have had to depend more and more on what they could skimp along on out of what all these strangers paid ’em. Hasn’t anybody in Mirthful Haven got very well off at that, I guess! Maybe Munsons.”

“Yep. Munsons try to be hand-and-glove with ’em.”

“Guess so,” the Captain assented. “Won’t get very far with the best o’ the summer people, though, probably, because there are some mighty fine people among ’em, you know, Harry.”

“Yes; guess there might be—here and there and now and then.”

“Most of ’em, though,” the Captain added, reflectively, “I wouldn’t let come in my house. They’re great hands to try and get in, too, to see my collections and look at my furniture. Make up all kinds of excuses to get in. Party of ’em last summer had a dressy, big, loudspoken woman in the front of ’em said her own brother-in-law’s name was Embury, same as mine, so she was sure we were related and she wanted to bring her friends in and tell me all about these New York Emburys. ‘Never been any in New York,’ I told her. ‘Never been any Emburys that far west.’ Said I guessed she must have mistaken the name and excused myself for shuttin’ the door and lockin’ it. Corning brought his wife and some visitors, first summer they came here, and I let ’em in because the village was all talkin’ about what a good thing it was to have such an important man here. Hardly got inside the house before Mrs. Corning began hintin’ how she’d like to own the big oil paintin’ in the front hall, the one o’ the Embury that was province governor in Old Colony times. Walked right on down the hall and into the dinin’-room, they all did, and began to talk in whispers, excited like, among themselves; then Mrs. Corning began to smile and make a fuss over me. ‘When you decide you’d like to have a splendid new sideboard in place of that old one, Captain,’ she said, ‘I hope you’ll give me your promise to let me be the only person you consult about it.’ I told her my great-grandfather had buried that sideboard to keep it from the British in the War of Eighteen-twelve, and she said, ‘Well, remember! You’ve promised to let me know the minute you decide to part with it!’ That’s what happens, once a person lets such people get into his house!” The Captain coughed, and cleared his frowning brow. “Well, that’s neither here nor there, just at the present time. I suppose you write to your daughter regularly? Guess she certainly hoped you would, Harry.”

Pelter looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, I never was no great hand at letter-writin’. Postal cards mainly and not too many of ’em, I’m afraid.”

“You ought to do better by her; I know she counted on it. Hear from her pretty regularly, do you?”

“Yes; pretty. Letter from her yestaday. Like to see it, Cap’n?”

“I would so,” the Captain said heartily, and Long Harry, bestirring himself, went into the house, closely accompanied by his dog. He seemed to have some trouble in finding what he sought; but, after a time, returned with the letter in his hand and gave it to the Captain. “Couldn’t remember what’d ’come of it,” he said apologetically, and, resuming his seat, stroked the dog and smoked his pipe while Captain Embury read Edna’s letter.

I guess I am sort of getting used to it. Some things about it don’t bother me as much as they did at first anyhow. One thing I never will get used to though is everybody thinking my name is Edna Shellpool. Grandmother is very strict about that because she says there might be some girl in the school that might happen to visit Mirthful Haven in summer perhaps and might ask about me there and bring talk here to the school. I will never forget that my true name is Edna Pelter of the Pelters of Mirthful Haven but while I am with Grandmother I suppose I must bear it. She is very nice and so is Miss Branch’s school as I have so often written to you. I would like to have some letters back when you can find time though I was so glad to get the post cards but it is almost a month since the last one. If you could find time I would like to have a letter very much. Miss Branch is perfectly lovely and all the teachers are interesting women and very kind. They are very thorough in their methods but the studies seem almost easy after the way Grandmother worked at me night and day during the four months before the school opened most of the time to get my manners and pronunciation correct and at home she still keeps on. At first I hardly spoke to the other girls at all but it is easy enough to talk the way they do though they still think I am very quiet. I have got a great deal better acquainted with them since winning the swimming championship in the pool and some of them are the nicest girls I have ever seen. One named Mildred Kerr and I are best friends. My studies are all very interesting. It was a little hard at first to wear new clothes and have to think about them and to have Grandmother worry when my feet would get wet which was very funny to me. I would like to know how you are. Every night I wonder how you are and I wonder what you are doing. I hope nothing happened about that. You know what I mean. Corning. I hope it is all right. When you write to me please tell me how you are and how Prince is and everything. I do not like to bother you or to put any burden upon your time but indeed I would be so glad if you would make the next a letter instead of a post card—though don’t make this request an excuse to forget the post card! Grandmother asks me to have you remember her to Capt. Embury and I wish you would tell him that I am sorry if I was rude to him that day when he was just helping Grandmother to do what she thought was right. Will you write to me pretty soon and in writing to you I will not sign myself Shellpool but

Your affectionate daughter

Edna Pelter.

“Writes a nice letter, don’t she?” Pelter said, as the Captain, concluding, returned his eye-glasses to a waistcoat pocket and the letter to its envelope.

“Finest letter I ever saw from a young lady o’ that age!” the Captain said, beamingly. “Apologizin’ to me the way she does, it shows politeness. Wasn’t any need for it, because I understood how she felt that day; but that makes it all the better. Anybody can be polite when they got to; but to show politeness when there isn’t any call for it, that’s the mark of a true lady.”

“Might be,” Pelter assented absently. “There’s one thing I think she hardly hadn’t ought to been willin’ to do, though.”

“You’re wrong,” Captain Embury said promptly, comprehending without the need of further explanation. “If you were only fifteen or sixteen years old yourself, and the person that had charge of you told you your name’d have to be Shellpool for a while, instead of Pelter, you wouldn’t know what to do except just be obedient. You shouldn’t hold that up against her, Harry.”

“Maybe not. Shouldn’t thought she’d ’a’ done it, though.”

“Now, now!” the Captain remonstrated. “She’ll change it to Pelter again when she comes back here some day.”

“Will she? Don’t know if she will or she wun’t. Matter o’ that, don’t know if she’ll ever come back ’t all.”

“You do, too, know! She’s got too much old Mirthful Haven blood in her not to feel the draw. Once anybody gets the draw o’ Mirthful Haven into them they can’t help feelin’ it the rest o’ their lives, no matter where they go, and if they haven’t got their liberty to come back to settle down in the old home again they anyhow come back as often as they can to look at it. Take you or me; suppose somebody offered us ten million dollars to go live somewhere else—”

“Yes, I know; but if she was willin’ to drop the name o’ Pelter, why—”

“Nonsense!” the Captain cried, and, laughing loudly, slapped Long Harry’s knee; then rose to go. “She’ll come back to Mirthful Haven and she’ll come back to the name o’ Pelter, too. Even an unlearned old sailorman could see how that little girl’s heartstrings are all wrapped around her daddy, and you oughtn’t to let her get so lonesome for letters, Harry. I went cabin-boy on the ‘Star of the East’ when I was eleven years old, and didn’t see home again for four years; it was a long time between ports, too, and I know how ’tis to be months without any news o’ Mirthful Haven. Before I go you got to promise me to spend a few evenin’s writin’ to her, now and then, instead o’ puttin’ in the time scratchin’ your dog’s back or listenin’ to old man Wye. I want your word you’ll do it.”

Long Harry laughed and readily gave the assurance required of him. His intentions were sincere, moreover; he sat down that evening with a pen in his hand and some sheets of blue-ruled paper before him, and, after a period of meditation, began to write. “Well I would not thought you would change your Name from Pelter Edna but be that as it may—” At this point, his pen abruptly stopped writing, and for reasons unknown to him he found himself unable to force it to proceed. He sat long, staring at the unfinished sentence and at the curiously rebellious pen; then he decided that there was nothing for it but to substitute another postal card. This he did, though not until some weeks later, for he was an easily forgetful man, and his daughter had already begun to seem to him remote.