Читать книгу Commodore Junk - Fenn George Manville - Страница 2

“What’s she a-doing of now?”

“Blubbering.”

“Why, that’s what you said yesterday. She ar’n’t been a-blubbering ever since?”

“Yes, she have, Bart; and the day afore, and the day afore that. She’s done nothing else.”

“I hates to see a woman cry,” said the first speaker in a low, surly growl, as he wrinkled his forehead all over and seated himself on the edge of a three-legged table in the low-ceiled cottage of old Dell, the smuggler, a roughly-built place at the head of one of the lonely coves on the South Devon coast. The place was rough, for it had been built at different times, of wreckwood which had come ashore; but the dwelling was picturesque outside, and quaint, nautical, and deliriously clean within, where Abel Dell, Mary’s twin brother, a short, dark young fellow, singularly like his sister, sat upon an old sea-chest forming a netting-needle with a big clasp-knife, and his brow was also covered with the lines of trouble.

He was a good-looking, sun-browned little fellow; and as he sat there in his big fisher-boots thrust down nearly to the ankle, and a scarlet worsted cap upon his black, crisp curls, his canvas petticoat and blue shirt made him a study of which a modern artist would have been glad; but I the early days of King George the First gentlemen of the palette and brush did not set up white umbrellas in sheltered coves and turn the inhabitants into models, so Abel Dell had not been transferred to canvas, and went on carving his hardwood needle without looking up at the man he called Bart.

There was not much lost, for Bartholomew Wrigley, at the age of thirty – wrecker, smuggler, fisherman, sea-dog, anything by turn – was about as ugly an athletic specimen of humanity as ever stepped. Nature and his ancestors had been very unkind to him in the way of features, and accidents by flood and fight had marred what required no disfigurement, a fall of a spar having knocked his nose sidewise and broken the bridge, while a chop from a sword in a smuggling affray had given him a divided upper lip. In addition he always wore the appearance of being ashamed of his height, and went about with a slouch that was by no means an attraction to the fisher-girls of the place.

“Ay! If the old man had been alive – ”

“’Stead o’ drowned off Plymouth Hoo,” growled Bart.

“In the big storm,” continued Abel, “Polly would have had to swab them eyes of hern.”

“Ay! And if the old man had been alive, that snapper dandy captain, with his boots and sword, would have had to sheer off, Abel, lad.”

“’Stead o’ coming jerry-sneaking about her when we was at sea, eh, Bart?”

“Them’s true words,” growled the big, ugly fellow.

Then, after a pause —

“I hate to see a woman cry.”

“So do I, mate. Makes the place dull.”

There was a pause, during which Abel carved away diligently, and Bart watched him intently, with his hands deep in his pockets.

“It’s all off, ar’n’t it, mate?” said Bart at last.

“Ay, it’s all off,” said Abel; and there was another pause.

“Think there’d be any chance for a man now?”

Abel looked up at his visitor, who took off the rough, flat, fur cap he wore, as if to show himself to better advantage; and after breathing on one rough, gnarled hand, he drew it down over his hair, smoothing it across his brow; but the result was not happy, and he seemed to feel it as the wood-carver shook his head and went on with his work.

“S’pose not,” said the looker-on with a sigh. “You see, I’m such a hugly one, Abel, lad.”

“You are, Bart. There’s no denying of it, mate; you are.”

“Ay! A reg’lar right-down hugly one. But I thought as p’r’aps now as her heart were soft and sore, she might feel a little torst a man whose heart also was very soft and sore.”

“Try her, then, mate. I’ll go and tell her you’re here.”

“Nay, nay, don’t do that, man,” whispered the big fellow, hoarsely. “I durstent ask her again. It’ll have to come from her this time.”

“Not it. Ask her, Bart. She likes you.”

“Ay, she likes me, bless her, and she’s allus got a kind word for a fellow as wishes a’most as he was her dog.”

“What’s the good o’ that, lad? Better be her man.”

“Ay, of course; but if you can’t be her man, why not be her dog. She would pat your head and pull your ears; but I allus feels as she’ll never pat my head or pull my ears, Abel, lad; you see, I’m such a hugly one. Blubbering, eh?”

“Does nothing else. She don’t let me see it; but I know. She don’t sleep of a night, and she looks wild and queer, as Sanderson’s lass did who drowned herself.”

“Then he has behaved very bad to her, Abel?”

“Ay, lad. I wish I had hold of him. I’d like to break his neck.”

Bart put on his cap quickly, glanced toward the inner room, where there was a sound as of someone singing mournfully, and then in a quick, low whisper —

“Why not, lad?” said he; “why not?”

“Break his neck, Bart?”

The big fellow nodded.

“Will you join in and risk it?”

“Won’t I?”

“Then we will,” said Abel. “Curse him, he’s most broke her heart.”

“’Cause she loves him,” growled Bart, thoughtfully.

“Yes, a silly soft thing. She might have known.”

“Then we mustn’t break his neck, Abel, lad,” said Bart shaking his head. Then, as if a bright thought had suddenly flashed across his brain —

“Look here. We’ll wait for him, and then – I ar’n’t afeard of his sword – we’ll make him marry her.”

“You don’t want him to marry her,” said Abel, staring, and utilising the time by stropping his knife on his boot.

“Nay, I can do what she wants, I will as long as I live.”

“Ah! you always was fond of her, Bart,” said Abel, slowly.

“Ay, I always was, and always shall be, my lad. But look here,” whispered Bart, leaning towards his companion; “if he says he won’t marry her – ”

“Ah! suppose he says he won’t!” said Abel to fill up a pause, for Bart stood staring at him.

“If he says he won’t, and goes and marries that fine madam – will you do it?”

“I’ll do anything you’ll do, mate,” said Abel in a low voice.

“Then we’ll make him, my lad.”

“Hist!” whispered Abel, as the inner door opened, and Mary entered the room, looking haggard and wild, to gaze sharply from one to the other, as if she suspected that they had been making her the subject of their conversation.

“How do, Mary?” said Bart, in a consciously awkward fashion.

“Ah, Bart!” she said, coldly, as she gazed full in his eyes till he dropped his own and moved toward the door.

“I’m just going to have a look at my boat, Abel, lad,” he said. “Coming down the shore?”

Abel nodded, and Bart shuffled out of the doorway, uttering a sigh of relief as soon as he was in the open air; and taking off his flat fur cap, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his brow.

“She’s too much for me, somehow,” he muttered, as he sauntered down towards the shore. “I allus thought as being in love with a gell would be very nice, but it ar’n’t. She’s too much for me.”

“What were you and Bart Wrigley talking about?” said Mary Dell, as soon as she was alone with her brother.

“You,” said Abel, going on scraping his netting-needle.

“What about me?”

“All sorts o’ things.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Why, you know. About your being a fool – about the fine captain and his new sweetheart. Why, you might ha’ knowed, Mary.”

“Look here, Abel,” cried Mary, catching him by the wrist, and dragging at it so that he started to his feet and they stood face to face, the stunted brother and the well-grown girl wonderfully equal in size, and extremely alike in physique and air; “if you dare to talk to me again like that, we shall quarrel.”

“Well, let’s quarrel, then.”

“What?” cried Mary, staring, for this was a new phase in her brother’s character.

“I say, let’s quarrel, then,” cried Abel, folding his arms. “Do you think I’ve been blind? Do you think I haven’t seen what’s been going on, and how that man has served you? Why, it has nearly broken poor old Bart’s heart.”

“Abel!”

“I don’t care, Polly, I will speak now. You don’t like Bart.”

“I do. He is a good true fellow as ever stepped, but – ”

“Yes, I know. It ar’n’t nat’ral or you to like him as he likes you; but you’ve been a fool, Polly, to listen to that fine jack-a-dandy; and – curse him! I’ll half-kill him next time we meet!”

Mary tried to speak, but her emotion choked her.

“You – you don’t know what you are saying,” she panted at last.

“Perhaps not,” he said, in a low, muttering way; “but I know what I’m going to do!”

“Do!” she cried, recovering herself, and making an effort to regain her old ascendency over her brother. “I forbid you to do anything. You shall not interfere.”

“Very well,” said the young man, with a smile; and as his sister persisted he seemed to be subdued.

“Nothing, I say. Any quarrel I may have with Captain Armstrong is my affair, and I can fight my own battle. Do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Abel, going toward the door.

“You understand! I forbid it. You shall not even speak to him.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Abel, tucking the netting-needle into his pocket, and thrusting his knife into its sheath; and then, before Mary could call up sufficient energy to speak again, the young man passed out of the cottage and hurried after Bart.

Mary went to the little casement and stood gazing after him thoughtfully for a few minutes, till he passed out of her sight among the rocks on his way to where the boat lay.

“No,” she said, softly; “he would not dare!”

Then turning and taking the seat her brother had vacated, a desolate look of misery came over her handsome face, which drooped slowly into her hands, and she sat there weeping silently as she thought of the wedding that was to take place the next day.