Читать книгу Rose O'Paradise - Grace Miller White - Страница 13

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Virginia took the direction leading to the station. Many a time she had watched the trains rush by on their way to New York, but never in those multitudinous yesterdays had it entered her mind that some day she would go over that same way, to be gone possibly forever. The wind was blowing at such a terrific rate that Jinnie could scarcely walk. There was no fear in her heart, only deep solemnity and a sense of awe at the magnificence of a storm. She had left the farmhouse so suddenly that the loneliness of parting had not then been forced upon her as it was now; the realization was settling slowly upon the clouded young mind.

She was a mere puppet in the hands of an inexorable fate, which had shown her little mercy or benevolence.

Out of sight of the Merriweather homestead, she kept to the path along the highway, now and then shifting the pail from one hand to the other, and clasping the beloved fiddle to her breast. Once she looked down to find Milly Ann peeping above the rim of the pail. Jinnie could see the glint of her greenish eyes. She stopped and, with a tenderly spoken admonition, covered her more closely with the roller towel. When the lighted station-house glimmered through the falling snow, Jinnie sighed with relief.

“I couldn’t ’ve carried you and the fiddle much farther, Milly Ann,” she murmured. 43

At that moment a tall figure, herculean in size, loomed out of the night and advanced hastily. The man’s head was bent forward against the storm. Virginia caught a glimpse of his face as he passed in the streak of light thrown out from the station.

He sprang to the platform and disappeared in the doorway. Jinnie saw him plainly when she, too, entered, and her eyes followed him as he went out.

She had never seen him before. Like the man in the Merriweather kitchen, he bore the stamp of the city upon him.

Virginia bought her ticket as her father had directed, and while the pail was still on the floor, she bent to examine Milly Ann and the kittens. The latter were asleep, but the mother-cat lazily opened her eyes to greet, with a purr, the soft touch of Jinnie’s fingers. The girl waited inside the room until the shriek of the engine’s whistle told her of its approach; then, with the fiddle and the pail, she walked to the platform.

The long, snakelike train was edging the hill, its headlight bearing down the track in one straight, glittering line.

For the first time in her life, Jinnie felt really afraid. In other days, with beating heart, she had hugged close to the roadside as the monster slipped either into the station and stopped, or rushed around the curve. Tonight she was going aboard, over into a strange land among strange people.

She tilted the pail lovingly and hugged a little more tightly the fiddle in her arm. Whatever happened, she had Milly, her little family, and the comforting music. Jinnie could never be quite alone with these. As the train slowed up, the conductor jumped down.

It seemed to Virginia like a dream as she walked toward 44 the steps at the end of the car. As she was about to lift her foot to climb up, she heard a voice say:

“Let me help you, child. Here, I’ll take the pail.”

Virginia looked upward into the face of a man—the same face she had seen in the station a few moments before—and around the handsome mouth was a smile of reassuring kindliness.

She surrendered the pail with a burning blush, and felt, with a strange new thrill, a firm hand upon her arm. The next thing she knew she was in a seat, with the pail on the floor and the fiddle lying beside her.

She gazed around wonderingly. There was no one in sight but the tall man who, across the aisle, was arranging his overcoat on the back of the seat. Jinnie looked at him with interest—he had been so kind to her—and noted his thick, blond hair, which had been cropped close to a massive head. She admired him, too. Suddenly he looked up, and the girl felt a clutch at her heart. Just why that happened she could not tell. Again came the charming smile, the parted lips showing a set of dazzling white teeth.

Jinnie smiled back, responsively. The man came over.

“May I sit beside you?” he asked.

Jinnie moved the fiddle invitingly and huddled herself into the corner. When the man started to move the pail, Jinnie stayed him.

“Oh, don’t, please,” she protested. “It’s only Milly and––”

“Milly and what?” quizzically came the question.

“Her kitties—see?”

She drew aside the towel and exposed the sleeping family.

A broad smile lit up the man’s face.

“Oh, cats! I see! Where’re you taking them?”

“To Bellaire.” 45

“Ah, Bellaire; that’s where I’m going. We’ll have a nice ride together, almost two hours.”

“I’m glad.” Jinnie leaned back, sighing contentedly.

In those few minutes she had grown to have great faith in this stranger, the third of the puzzling trio that had come into her life that night. First her father, then the man with Molly the Merry, and now this brilliant new friend, who quite took away her breath as she peeped up at him. His smile seemed to be ever ready. It warmed her and made her glow with friendliness. She liked, too, the deep tones in his voice and the sight of his strong hands as they gestured during his speeches.

“Where are you going in Bellaire?” he questioned.

Virginia cogitated for a moment. She couldn’t tell the story her father had told her, yet she must answer his kindly question.

At length, “The cats and I are going to live with my uncle,” said she.

“He lives in Bellaire?”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen him. I’ll find him, though, when I get there.”

It didn’t occur to the man to ask the name of her relatives, and Jinnie was glad he did not.

“Perhaps I shall see you some time in the city,” he responded to her statement. Jinnie hoped so; oh, how she hoped she might see him again!

“Mebbe,” was all she said.

“You see I live there with my mother,” continued the man. “Our home is called Kinglaire. My name is King.”

Virginia lifted her head with a queer little start.

“I’ve read about your people,” she said. “I’ve got a book in our garret that tells all about Kings.”

“That’s very nice,” answered Mr. King. “I won’t have to explain anything about us, then.” 46

“No, I know,” said Jinnie in satisfaction.

At least she thought she knew. Hadn’t she read over and over, when seated in the garret, the story of the old and new kings, how they sat on their thrones, and ruled their people sometimes with a rod of iron? Jinnie brought to mind some of the vivid pictures, and shyly lifted a pair of violet eyes to scan the face above her. Surely this King was handsomer than any in the book. She tried to imagine him on his throne, and wondered if he were always smiling as now.

“You’re quite different from your relations,” she observed presently.

Theodore King laughed aloud. The sound startled the girl into a straighter posture. It rang out so merrily that she laughed too after making up her mind that he was not ridiculing her.

“Really you are!” she exclaimed. “I mean it. You know the picture of the King with a red suit on—he doesn’t look like you. His nose went sort of down over his mouth—I mean, well, yours don’t.”

She stumbled through the last few words, intuitively realizing that she had been too personal.

“You like to read, I gather,” stated Mr. King.

“Yes, but I like to fiddle better,” said Jinnie.

“Oh, you play, do you?”

Jinnie’s eyes fell upon the instrument standing in the corner of the opposite seat, wrapped in an old jacket. She nodded.

“I play some. I love my fiddle almost as much as I do Milly Ann and her kitties.”

“Won’t you play for me?” asked Mr. King, gravely putting forth his hand.

Jinnie paused a moment. Then without further hesitancy she took up the violin and unfastened it. 47

“I’ll be glad to fiddle for a king,” she said naïvely.

She did not speak as she turned and twisted the small white keys.

Outside the storm was still roaring over the hills, sweeping the lake into monstrous waves. The shriek of the wind mingled with the snap of the taut strings under the agile fingers of the hill girl. Then Jinnie began to play. Never in all his life had Theodore King seen a picture such as the girl before him made. The wondrous beauty of her, the marvelous fingers traveling over the strings, together with the moaning of the night wind, made an impression upon him he would never forget. Sometimes as her fingers sped on, her eyes were penetrating; sometimes they darkened almost to melancholy. When the last wailing note had finally died away, Jinnie dropped the instrument to her side.

“It’s lonely on nights like this when the ghosts howl about,” she observed. “They love the fiddle, ghosts do.”

Theodore King came back to himself at the girl’s words. He drew a long breath.

“Child,” he ejaculated, “whoever taught you to play like that?”

“Why, I taught myself,” answered Jinnie.

“Please play again,” entreated Mr. King, and once more he sat enthralled with the wonder of the girl’s melodies. The last few soulful notes Mr. King likened to a sudden prayer, sent out with a sobbing breath.

“It’s wonderful,” he murmured slowly. “What is the piece you’ve just played?”

“It hasn’t any name yet,” replied the girl. “You see I only know pieces that’re in my head.”

Then all the misery of the past few hours swept over her, and Jinnie began to cry. A burden of doubt had clouded the usually clear young mind. What if the man 48 to whom she was going would not let her and the cats live with him? He might turn them away.

Mr. King spoke softly to her.

“Don’t cry,” said he. “You won’t be lonely when you get to your uncle’s.”

But she met his smiling glance with a feeling of constraint. He did not know the cause of her tears; she could not tell him. If she only knew—if she only had one little inkling of the reception she would receive at the painter’s home. However, she did cheer up a little when Mr. King, in evident desire to be of some service, began to tell her of the city to which she was going.

In a short time he saw the dark head nodding, and he drew Jinnie down against his arm, whispering:

“Sleep a while, child; I’ll wake you up at Bellaire.”

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