Читать книгу The Girl at Bullet Lake - H. A. Cody - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe Visitor
About the middle of the forenoon Silas Acres was enjoying a cup of tea, and a slice of bread with a little cheese. This had been his custom for years. He was in a most thoughtful mood, and his forehead often knitted in perplexity.
When he had drained his cup and gathered up the last crumbs of bread and cheese, he placed his hand upon his filled pipe lying upon the table. Slowly he lifted it to his mouth and struck a match. As the smoke encircled his head he glanced towards the kitchen door.
"Rachel," he called. "Come here."
At once a woman of middle age and of medium height entered the room.
"Did you call, sir?" she asked.
"I did. Where are the boys?"
"Working at the line fence."
"H'm! Working! They're asleep, most likely, under a tree. Lazy rascals! Rachel."
"Yes, sir."
"Any news?"
"Nothing of special importance except that you were out unusually late last night. You should be more careful. The night air is not good for you."
"Ah, so you heard I was out late! Who told you?"
"No one, sir. But I heard you come in. And, besides, I found the lantern on the floor this morning, and your coat covered with dust. And look at your knees. You must have been kneeling upon the road. What in the world were you doing?"
"Ah, Rachel, you are very observing. Yes, I was out late, hunting for something I dropped upon the road yesterday."
"Did you find it?"
"No."
"Was it money, sir?"
"It was. And something else I can never find."
He sighed and looked across the room at the model of a fine full-rigged clipper ship upon the wall over the mantel. There was a wistfulness in his eyes, and he allowed his pipe to go out.
"Rachel."
"Yes, sir."
"How is Mrs. Nairn getting along?"
"Why do you ask me? I very seldom see her."
"But you hear what the neighbors say about her."
"Sometimes."
"I thought so. They gossip a great deal about what goes on at the rectory."
"Yes, sir."
"Especially about Mrs. Nairn."
"I suppose they do."
"They say she is giddy and independent."
"They do, sir."
"Yes, yes, I knew it. Do you think they are right?"
"It is not for me to say. I try to attend to my own business."
"And I wish to God others would do the same. How can they understand a woman like Mrs. Nairn? She has the blood of a great seafaring race in her veins, and that makes the difference. You may go now, Rachel."
The housekeeper was about to return to the kitchen, when glancing out of the window she saw a man walking towards the house.
"A stranger is coming from the road, sir," she announced.
"A stranger, eh, Rachel? What does he look like?"
"He is a young man, and walking fast."
"An agent, no doubt, who wants to sell me some farm machinery. But I have all I need. There he is at the front door. What impudence! He should have gone to the back door. Don't let him in. Send him away."
Rachel left the room, and returned a few minutes later.
"He is not an agent, sir. He wants to rent Bullet House."
"Ah, that's good. Bring him in at once. I am always ready for business like that."
He re-filled and lighted his pipe while awaiting his visitor. He was naturally pleased, as so far this season no applications had been received for the use of the lake and house. He had begun to fear that his increase of the rent might keep people away. But here was a man who wanted the place, so that was encouraging.
As Robert Rutledge entered the room, Mr. Acres rose to meet him, and held out his hand.
"I am pleased to see you, sir. Sit down. You don't mind, I hope, if I continue my smoking?"
"Not at all. I am glad you enjoy a pipe. I shall light up, too."
"That's right. Try some of my tobacco. I think you will find it extra good. It's none of your common stuff, but the best English brand."
"Thanks. Judging by the delicious aroma it certainly must be excellent. Someone said that 'The smoke of glory is not worth the smoke of a pipe.'"
"Ho, ho, very good, very good. And you will need the best tobacco to cheer your loneliness out in the woods. If you like my brand I can supply you with all you need at a reasonable price. I always keep some on hand for my friends."
"Do you sell much, sir?"
Mr. Acres glanced quickly at the young man. His eyes narrowed a little, and his face became grave. He then smiled.
"No, I sell very little. I have no friends here."
"Why do you make an exception of me, then?"
"Because you wish to rent my house at Bullet Lake. Is that so?"
"It is, sir, and I hope we can agree upon the terms."
"Oh, they are quite moderate. Only five dollars a week for the use of the lake, where there is good fishing, the boat, and the house with everything in it. And there is the wonderful scenery included. Do you not call five dollars cheap?"
"It is quite satisfactory to me, and I shall take the place for a month. You wish payment to be made in advance, I suppose?"
"Yes, I generally request that. But if you prefer to wait for a while it will be all right."
"I shall pay you now, Mr. Acres, and have it off my mind. I may not have any money left when holiday is over."
"Do you intend to live alone, young man? You will find it rather lonely out there, especially at night."
"Oh, I shall stay at the lake during the day, but my sister insists that I shall sleep at the rectory."
"At the rectory, you say?"
"Yes. Mrs. Nairn is my sister."
Slowly Mr. Acres removed the pipe from his mouth, and looked keenly at his visitor.
"So you are a Rutledge, then?"
"I am. Robert Rutledge is my name. I should have told you before."
"And Captain John Rutledge was your grandfather?"
"Yes."
"And are you interested in ships, too?"
"I am. I dream of ships, and write about them. The spirit of the sea is in my blood, and yet I have to spend my days in an office."
"So you are an author, eh? What do you write?"
"Not much; just a little prose and verse."
"About the sea?"
"Mostly. I like to write about the sea, especially in verse. I can best express myself that way."
"Quite true, quite true, Mr. Rutledge. There is nothing like the sea to stir the imagination. Can you remember any of your verses? I know Kipling, Masefield, and Newbolt. They are grand, and I have their books on the shelf over there. You know Masefield's Ship Fever, of course,
I must down to the sea again,
To the lonely sea and sky.
"Yes, I know it well. It is great. But I cannot come anywhere near such a masterpiece as that. The great sea poets are in a class by themselves, so I only admire at a distance."
"Don't worry about that. What have you written? Give me a sample, I am hungry for something new about the sea. Anything about captains? They were great men, even though they were hard-driving devils at times."
Mr. Acres leaned eagerly forward, and Robert was touched by the longing expression in his eyes. He could not understand why the neighbors were afraid of such an agreeable man. People must surely misunderstand him. How surprised Nell and Andrew would be when he told them of this pleasant conversation.
"I have a poem, sir, named Bluenose Captains, which you might like, although I am somewhat diffident about reciting it to one who has fed so long upon the masters."
"Don't let that trouble you, young man. Let me hear what you can do, and then I shall judge."
"Very well," Robert smilingly replied. "If you can endure the agony, here it is:
Captains were they in olden days,
And Captains they are still,
Though some lie deep where the great waves sweep,
And some lie under the hill;
But under the wave or under the sod,
Their deeds and fame abide,
For they made a name in the great sea game
When the clippers rode the tide.
They all went down to the sea in ships
With a rollicking devil-may-care,
And they quested long and they quested far
In seasons stormy and fair;
But fair or foul was the same to them,
And dangers they never did shirk,
For the gales might blow and the mainsails go,
It was all in the full day's work.
Captains were they in olden days,
Masters of ships and men,
Whelps of a hardy Bluenose breed,
Parker and Forbes and Wren.
Honor to them, bold Captains all!
Their deeds are their country's pride,
For they won high fame as they played the game
When the clippers rode the tide.
Mr. Acres sat for a while lost in thought, with his pipe clutched hard in his right hand. Robert longed to know what he was thinking about. He was soon to learn. Slowly Mr. Acres rose from his chair, walked across the room, and taking down a book from the shelf, came back to the table.
"Young man," he began, "when I come across sea verses which satisfy me, I always read Dana again. Any poem that can send me to such a masterpiece as Two Years Before the Mast is worth while. Your verses have done so, and that is the best compliment I can pay you. Dana is wonderful. What descriptions you find there, of gales, with ships scudding under bare poles. Who has ever described the rounding of the Horn like Dana? He knew what he was writing about, for he had the actual experience. And so did I. What would I not give for one more trip in a grand clipper ship! And the captains were great men, even though they were hard drivers. But they had to be so. Yes, they had to be so, for they had to deal with hard men. And your grandfather was one of the best skippers I ever knew."
"What! did you know my grandfather?" Robert asked. "Did you sail with him?"
A strange startled look came into Mr. Acres' eyes, and he glanced nervously around. He laid the book upon the table and straightened himself up to his full height of six feet. For the first time Robert realised how large he was. In an instant his whole appearance had changed, and he was now the man his neighbors knew, fierce and defiant. Robert was astonished at this sudden transformation. And it had come about through the simple question he had asked. It seemed as if Mr. Acres had been caught off guard, that he had said too much, and was angry with himself.
Rising to his feet, Robert picked up his hat.
"I must go now, sir. My sister is waiting for me. Is your house at the lake locked?"
"It is. Here are the keys to the front and back doors. Keep them locked when you leave the house. One can never tell who may be prowling around the place."
"I shall be careful, sir. But I hope there will be no ghosts to trouble me. One cannot lock them out, you know. Bullet House is rather a gruesome and suggestive name. Do you know why it is called that?"
"Why do you want to know?" Mr. Acres fiercely asked. "Have you any special reason?"
"I have. It is such a peculiar name that I am curious to know if there is any thrilling story back of it."
"That you might write about it, eh?"
"Perhaps so, if I can get any worth-while material."
"You cannot, Mr. Rutledge, and I advise you not to try. Confine your writing to the sea and leave that old house alone. If you are wise you will heed what I say. Come, I shall show you to the door."
