Читать книгу The Mystery of the Sandalwood Boxes - Harriet Pyne Grove - Страница 4

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ROAST COW AND POTATOES.

Modestly Audrey went into the dining-room, where Cousin Serena was just being seated and Cousin George was pulling out his chair. Durga seated Audrey, to whom Cousin Serena nodded. “I heard you coming downstairs, Audrey,” she said, “so we did not wait.”

Cousin George was adjusting his glasses over a somewhat prominent nose. But Cousin George had a good face, even if he were a little more dignified at home than occasion required. He looked at Audrey over his glasses, while they waited for Durga to bring the soup, and asked her how the work at school had gone. He always asked her that.

Audrey spread her linen napkin properly as she replied: “Very well, Cousin George. Miss Snow assigned a wretchedly long lesson in history for tomorrow, but the Latin teacher is sick and we have only fifteen lines in advance. There is a theme for next Monday. What would you write about, Cousin George?”

Durga set an old-fashioned china soup-plate before Miss Serena.

“I should think that they would give you topics,” said Cousin George.

“There is a list in the textbook that we may use if we like, ‘The haunted house, a storm and what it did, my most thrilling experience, a birthday experience,’—that is all right, Durga, never mind.” Audrey broke off to say the last in a low voice to Durga, who had splashed the soup a little as he placed it before Audrey. Durga seemed nervous for a few days, if one dared to call it that.

Cousin Serena never paid any attention to any accident at the table, though servants might look for reproof afterward. But dinner was a formal rite, and very pleasantly did such a meal in her home usually move off, though Audrey rather dreaded it sometimes, or its formality, on the few occasions when they entertained company.

“Write about India. Travel and history are good for girls to know. I suppose that your themes are read in class.”

“Some of them, Cousin George.”

But Cousin Serena had heard enough of school and themes. “What is the news in the city today, George?” she inquired, accepting a wafer from the plate passed by Durga.

Audrey finished her soup without any further part in the conversation. “Is this real?” she asked herself. She saw Cousin George, dignified, a little heavy, though he was not a large man, deftly carving the roast with hands that did no harder work than a department in the bank might require. But his hazel eyes looked a little tired tonight. His face, never very expressive, was without animation.

Cousin Serena was taller than her brother and heavier, in more ways than one, for as Audrey sometimes almost guiltily thought in her heart, Cousin Serena was dull! How could anybody be like that, with all that there was in the world to think about, or do, if you had the chance? She really was not very much interested in what her brother told her about the bank and affairs in Wall Street, though Audrey herself could make little out of that.

Cousin Serena’s placid face looked across at her brother just as it did every night and Audrey knew that her thoughts were more on how the roast was cooked and whether dessert would turn out as it should than on what Cousin George related in his dry way. Cousin Serena was older than he, with gray hair, light blue eyes, a round face surmounted by one of the coiffeurs of the ninety’s. But if Cousin Serena’s face and name were placid, she could be critical and fretful enough upon occasion. And on those occasions Audrey had to remember how good it was of her to have Audrey there at all. At least Audrey thought so. She did not know that her way was well paid, that the Averys had the services of both Moti and Durga without expense, and that had it not been for her arrival the brother and sister would have had to curtail expenses and reduce their style of living because of certain losses.

But it was a home, a well-established one, and for all of Miss Avery’s notions a very safe one for Audrey, if not immediately inspiring. The table with its fine china in excellent taste, the heavy chandelier above, the high ceiling, the walls with the rich paper that had been cleaned but not renewed for years, the high, marble-topped sideboard, old-fashioned, but massive and elegant, the heavy chairs and table, of dark walnut, the thick rug of mixed colors,—of all these Audrey was conscious, but with a feeling that she did not belong to it all, or that none of this was hers.

Audrey, however, was a little morbid tonight. By the time she had eaten her roast meat and potatoes with the rest, which happened to include a particularly good salad and her favorite dessert, she felt more content. Then Cousin George laid a friendly hand on her shoulder as they went from the dining-room into the hall, Cousin George who always concealed his feelings, if he had any, and said, “You are growing up into a pretty girl, Audrey, yes, a very pretty girl. Write about India, Audrey. Give them a thriller, if you know any. I always wanted to go to India myself.”

If Audrey had not been too shy she would have hugged him on the spot and Cousin George would probably have liked it very much, though it would have been embarrassing. Poor Cousin George, perhaps he hated it, too, always doing the same thing day after day, with Cousin Serena to tell him what to do. But then Cousin George did not always stay at home, either.

More Victorian furniture was in the parlor. But if it was not as graceful as that of some other periods, it was of excellent material all through and not of a veneer only. And the big chairs were very comfortable, the Persian rug of handsome colors. Audrey sat down under a hideous painting of Cousin George as a little boy of three and wondered, as she had often wondered before, how they could like their uninteresting life, as it seemed to her. She sat quietly, with folded hands, waiting politely for anything further that Cousin Serena might have to say to her. This was the invariable evening custom. Audrey knew that she could soon escape upstairs to her room and her studies.

Cousin George finished his evening paper. Cousin Serena, on the other side of a small table, laid down the embroidery that she had picked up. She had refrained from talking, not to disturb her brother. “Going out this evening, George?” she asked, for her brother had risen, adjusting his tie a little and making other preliminary moves.

“Yes, Serena. There is a meeting, a committee meeting. I shall not be home till late. Goodnight, Audrey. I should write on India if I were you.” With great dignity Cousin George left the room. Audrey heard him talking to Durga in the hall. Durga was probably helping Cousin George into his top coat and handing him his hat.

“I have some hard lessons, Cousin Serena. Don’t you think that I’d better get to work?” asked Audrey.

“Yes, Audrey.”

“Is there something that I can do for you, Cousin Serena, first?”

“Thank you, no. I shall work a little on this linen, read a little and probably retire early. My nerves have been a little upset today. I will send Moti to you at about half-past nine, as usual.”

Audrey went out into the hall and found Durga apparently arranging some things there. When he saw her, he came toward her. “Did you intend, Miss Sahiba, to remind me that your birthday is almost here?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if I did, Durga, but just for fun.” Audrey’s eyes sparkled and she laughed quietly as she looked into the dark eyes of the Hindu servant.

“I was startled and my hand shook a little, but I can not tell you why. Sometimes there is a little danger when gifts of value are sent, and if any one should offer you a present when I am not here, do not take it, do—not—take—it.”

“Do you mean on the street, or some one at the door here? I am not allowed to answer the bell.”

“Anywhere.”

“Why is it, Durga, that the queer birthday gift always comes through you—since I came to America? I wish that you would tell me who sends these gifts. Sometimes I think that I ought not to take them. Why do you always bring them?”

“I can not tell you. I am sorry.”

“Well,” urged Audrey, who had never been so boldly frank with Durga before. “Well, does the person who wants to give you the presents send them to you, or give them to you himself—or herself?”

“Sends them. I can tell you that.”

“Is the person still in India, or is he in this country now?”

“Are you sure that it was some one in India who gave you the first presents?”

“No. But I thought so, and the sandalwood boxes, you know, and then the things are of my India!”

“So they are. But I can not tell you, either what I know or what I think. It is convenient, since I am here, for him who chooses to send you gifts to send them through me. He does not want it known, so I do not disturb the secret. The mem-Sahib,—she does not know?”

“No. I took your advice, Durga, the other time that you talked to me. There is no use in bothering Cousin Serena or Cousin George. Uncle always sends me something, too, so if I wear anything different or show her some thing and say it is from India, she thinks that Uncle sent it. I am so sure, someway, that everything comes, first, at least, from India, that I have not worried about telling anything that was not true. But what has upset you, Durga about this?”

Durga put his finger to his lips and looked toward the parlor door. They heard Miss Serena drop something. She might be rising to leave the parlor. With a smile at Durga, Audrey started toward the stairs and went on to her room, while Durga left the hall by way of the dining-room.

Never did Audrey feel less like studying. The mysterious Durga! Sometimes she felt sure that he belonged in some way to her old life in India. Then again, she was not sure. Durga had not come with them. She was sure that Moti was telling the truth when she said that she had never seen him before. Yet Audrey herself imagined a certain familiarity about his regular and really fine features.

How could a high-caste Hindu like Durga take this place in the household? He had arrived without any explanation from her cousins, shortly after she and Moti had become settled in the home. But she overheard Cousin George telling Cousin Serena that he “hired him for almost nothing.” “I thought since we had one Hindu in the house we might as well have another. I liked his looks and since Craig insists on sending enough to pay me for keeping a man, considerably more than this man costs, we shall be quite comfortable again.”

Cousin Serena at this suggested that the man might be a “Thug” and murder them all, but as Cousin George laughed at that and the idea of thrift appealed particularly to Cousin Serena, Durga was retained.

Audrey was a little afraid of Durga at first, not because of his race, to which she was accustomed, but because of his expression and manner, like that of royalty deposed. He evinced no interest in her or in Moti, but he was perfect as a servant and Audrey thought that this quiet, uncommunicative household suited Durga. She wondered a little about her Uncle’s paying for Durga’s services, also, why a man like Durga should serve for “almost nothing,” but she never thought then of asking him any questions. Not even in India would she have done that, much less here in this correct household.

Durga appeared to be entirely indifferent to Audrey and to everything except his duties, which he performed with such dignity and despatch. On the occasion of her first birthday in America he had knocked at the door of her room after she had begun her evening study and handed her a package. “I was directed,” said he, “to give this to the young Miss Sahib, without the knowledge of any one else.”

Audrey never forgot the serious look of Durga’s deep eyes. She took the package and thanked Durga. Then, as he hesitated, she added, “It is not necessary for any one else to know, except Moti.” With a bow Durga departed.

Twice more the same performance was repeated, and the last time Durga had stopped to say that he hoped the manner of receiving the present was still not known to any one. He looked uneasy, Audrey thought. Soberly she assured him that her cousins were not curious about India or anything that she had from there. “My uncle always sends me a package,” she added.

This statement seemed to give Durga relief, though, to be sure, he knew about the package from her uncle, which was left in her room for her. Neither remembrance was sure to arrive exactly upon her natal day, but the mysterious one could be counted on within a few days, usually before her birthday.

Audrey took off her silk dress and made herself comfortable in her loose negligee, which Moti had laid upon the bed, ready for her. She opened her history and began to read, but it was very stupid right at this point. What did Durga mean about there being danger sometimes? Could he mean anything more than danger of valuable things being stolen? And was this next gift to be valuable? and if so, how did Durga know? And why was she not to accept anything except through Durga? Strange things happened in India sometimes. Could there be an enemy? If so, whose enemy? Once Durga was gone for several days. He had had an accident, he said. Oh, for pity’s sake, why couldn’t she get her lesson! This horrible history? Well, she would get her math first. She could keep her mind on that because she had to.

She wished that no one but her uncle would send her anything. No, that was not true. She did like this lovely mystery of not being sure that anything beside her uncle’s gift would come, and of wondering what it would be, and who sent it, and why it was sent. Even if it were so stupid here, with nobody but Cam, way off, to whom she could pour out her heart, somebody thought that she was worth remembering!