Читать книгу Her Sailor - Marshall Saunders - Страница 5

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While the sailor and the young girl were having their conversation in the garden, two people who were intensely interested in their movements were taking their breakfast in one of the back rooms of the plain, old-fashioned house.

One of them was a fat, testy man, with large and prominent watery gray eyes, who was irritably chipping the top from an egg, and varying this occupation by casting frequent and semi-displeased glances through the open window. Mr. Israel Danvers was master of this house, owner of the principal store in the village across the meadows, and husband of the woman with the large, cool, comfortable face, who sat opposite him pouring his coffee.

“I wonder what that Fordyce is up to now?” he muttered, with a whole volley of glances outside.

“I don’t know,” responded Mrs. Danvers, tranquilly, “but I imagine it’s something important. Otherwise he’d wait for lamplight.”

“What do you mean by important?”

“I mean marriage.”

Mr. Danvers fretfully scattered his egg-shell on the table-cloth. “Nina is too young to marry.”

“She is eighteen.”

“She is too young, I say. She is nothing but a butterfly.”

“She is certainly frivolous,” said Mrs. Danvers, with a judicial air.

“Would you have her a suspicious old woman?” retorted her husband. “She’s got the b-best heart and the s-sweetest disposition—she’s a fine girl,” he concluded, lamely. He could not be eloquent, but he felt deeply, and his prominent eyes watered in a sincere and affectionate manner as he went on with his breakfast.

“Where’s my coffee?” he asked, presently.

Mrs. Danvers started slightly, and passed him the forgotten cup.

“You’ve half filled it with sugar,” he said, “I guess you were dreaming when you poured it.”

Again she said nothing, and quietly poured him another cup; but he persisted, “What was you thinking of, Melinda?”

“I was pondering on the mysteries of the law of mutual selection, if you must know,” she said, calmly.

He surveyed her suspiciously. She had been a school-teacher before she married him, and her education had been greatly superior to his own. Comprehending his state of mind, she went on, kindly: “With regard to Fordyce and Nina. He lands in a state where there are one hundred and fifty thousand more women than men. The most of those women have good eyes, ears, noses, fine heads of hair, yet he comes rushing over the border into New Hampshire.”

“I’ll venture to say there isn’t another Nina in Massachusetts,” said the fat man.

“I agree with you there. She is unique.”

“Do you think she likes Fordyce well enough to marry him?” he asked, anxiously.

Mrs. Danvers became thoughtful, until an impatient movement from her husband forced an opinion from her. “I don’t know, Israel. I guess she likes him better than she pretends to, and you’ve no occasion to worry about her marrying him. Wild horses wouldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do; but I don’t know all her mind about Fordyce. She understands me better than I understand her.”

Surprised at this unlooked-for admission, he said, agreeably, “She’s a clever little coot.”

“Clever—she’s the smartest girl I ever saw. She’s too smart. I’m afraid Fordyce will have trouble with her.”

“Clever, how clever?” interposed Mr. Danvers, up in arms for his favourite. “You don’t mean to say she’s sneaky?”

“No, not sneaky,” said Mrs. Danvers, in deep thought; “not sneaky, but shy and nervous, and pretending she’s got plenty of coolness when she hasn’t, and more one for getting her way secretly than openly. And she’s full of tricks and moods and quirks of all kinds. You don’t understand her, Israel.”

Mr. Danvers did not know whether to be gratified or annoyed by his wife’s expansive state of mind. She had never before spoken just so freely of their adopted daughter. “I don’t try to understand her,” he said, doubtfully. “I just take her as she is.”

“Fordyce don’t. He wants to know every thought in her mind,” proceeded Mrs. Danvers, “and thinks he knows them, too, but sometimes he’s too sure.”

“He’s too short with her, too short,” observed Mr. Danvers, pettishly. “He ought to take into account that she’s got a will of her own.”

“He’s a primitive man; he’d kill any one that took her away from him. You see he’s got nothing but her.”

Mr. Danvers was silent. He did not know what she meant by a primitive man.

“He could step right out into the woods and live with savages,” explained Mrs. Danvers; “and if he wanted a woman he’d knock her down with his club and carry her off to his cave with the best of them.”

Mr. Danvers treated her to an exhibition of open-mouthed astonishment and disapproval. “Melinda, are you crazy to talk of such goings-on?”

“Men don’t do such things nowadays,” she said, soothingly, “but there’s a heap of wild nature in a good many of us. I guess you’d like to turn Fordyce out this very minute.”

“You bet your life I would,” said the fat man, with energy, and without premeditation. “I’d send him flying down that road. He’s too old for Nina. Let her marry one of the boys around here.”

“Do you know what she calls the Rubicon Meadows boys?” asked Mrs. Danvers, dryly.

“No, but I know she don’t mean a third of what she says.”

“Giggling colts, Israel. Colts, just think of it. You see Fordyce has a kind of manner of knowing everything, and he’s out in the world. Then he comes stealing in her life like a mystery, and she likes that. I guess we’ve got to let him have her. We couldn’t stop him, anyway. He’ll tame her and she’ll do him good. I expect he’s mortal blue at times.”

Mr. Danvers relapsed into sullenness, tinged with vindictiveness. He understood his wife well enough to know that the burden of her talk was the duty of resignation. “You’ve always been hard on that girl,” he said, irascibly.

“Hard on her, Israel! Seventeen years I’ve had her, and there isn’t a soul in Rubicon Meadows besides you that guesses she isn’t our own child. How’s that for being hard on her?”

Melinda’s eyes were sparkling. She looked ten years younger than she had before their conversation began, and he abruptly drifted into memories of bygone days. So far back did he go that it was some time before he murmured, absently: “Howsomever, you’ve been well paid for it.”

“Paid for it,” she repeated, with asperity, “there are some things money can’t pay for.”

This was a statement he could not deny, yet in some indefinable and inexplicable way he felt that she had been slightly lacking in her duty to the lovable butterfly outside. Melinda did not admire the pretty creature as he did; and at this very instant her unusual outspokenness and animation arose from her acute suspicion that their vivacious charge was about spreading her wings for flight.

She was a good woman, though, this wife of his, and she was only a trifle queer. However, everybody seemed queer but himself, and he sank into bitter and resigned reflection, and muttered, almost inaudibly, “After all said and done, we’ve got to take folks after the pattern they’re made, and not as we’d make ’em over.”

Mrs. Danvers saw that the tide was turning. “Israel,” she said, solemnly shaking her head at him, “no one will ever know what I’ve gone through with that child. When she was laid in my arms a little, motherless babe, and her tiny fingers curled around mine, my heart went out to her. She’s got it yet, but she’s been greatly provoking, and you’ve made too much of her, Israel, you know you have.”

“I’ll not deny I’ve favoured her some,” he said, gruffly.

“I’ve never spoken about it before,” she replied, nervously, “and I’ll never say it again; but I’ve been jealous of that girl, Israel, real jealous; and yet, with it all, you’ll not miss her as much when she goes as I will. A man gets over things. A woman broods.”

Mr. Danvers weakly toyed with a morsel of bread.

“I’ve got some of the mother spirit,” his wife went on, with tears in her eyes. “Enough of it, thank the Lord, to make me sorry to have her go. We’ve got to be lonely, Israel, real lonely, after she leaves, and I’m glad to have this talk first.”

Mr. Danvers was embarrassed, exceedingly embarrassed; and for the first time in his life was willing to acknowledge that possibly he might have done wrong, possibly he might have indulged too much the pink and white gipsy in the muslin frock outside. However, it was not befitting his position as head of the household to eat too large a piece of humble pie at one time, so he said, protestingly, “As for jealousy, how you women run on. You’re just like wildfire. Now I’ve liked that little girl just as if she was my own, but not like you, Melinda. A man’s wife is different. I wonder you speak of such a thing, and I a deacon in the church.”

“I wasn’t speaking of anything but your acting like a foolish father,” she said, indignantly. “Of course you’d never think of comparing Nina to me. She’s only a baby, and whatever happens, Israel Danvers, I hope you’ll remember I am your wedded wife. I know I’m getting old—”

She broke down, and tears finished the sentence.

Mr. Danvers was aghast. He had not seen her cry for twenty years—not since her mother died. Getting up with difficulty, he waddled to her end of the table, and, gingerly tapping her shoulder, ejaculated, “So, so, there—so, so.”

Mrs. Danvers wiped her eyes and gave him a slight push. “I’m not a cow, Israel, and go back to your seat. There’s some one coming.”

Nina was quietly slipping in through the window. Approaching the foot of the table, she took Mr. Danvers’s bald head in her embrace and kissed him sweetly and fervently. Then, nearing the head of the table, she pecked at Mrs. Danvers’s cheek in an affectionate but perfunctory manner.

“Here’s your mush,” said Mrs. Danvers, uncovering a small bowl. “Israel, pass the cream; where’s Captain Fordyce, Nina?”

“I left him on the bridge. I think he must be waiting for the moon,” she said, seriously.

Her lips were pale, and there was a nervous expression about her eyes, and Mrs. Danvers said to herself, “They’ve had a quarrel.”

“Ever see him by daylight before, pussy?” asked Mr. Danvers.

“No, daddy.”

“Must look kind of queer.”

“He looks older,” said the girl, with her spoon poised over her mush. She had fallen into a reverie and was gazing fixedly out the window. After a time she roused herself and said: “He had a faint turn on the bridge.”

“He—faint?” said Mrs. Danvers, incredulously.

“Yes,” said Nina, with a queer look, and dropping her eyes. “He has been working hard and not eating much, and the sun shone on his head and made him dizzy. I thought, mamma, you might give him some medicine.”

“I’ll give him some if he’ll take it,” said Mrs. Danvers, grimly, “but he’s not one to be coddled. What is he coming in the daytime for? Does he want anything particular?”

Nina turned quickly and gave her an owlish stare—a stare so sudden that Mrs. Danvers had not time to avert her own gray eyes shining with so glad a light.

“Would you let him marry me right away, mamma, if he wanted to?”

“Well,” hesitated Mrs. Danvers, “your case isn’t like others. Of course your engagement has been standing a good while.”

“Does he want to marry you right off?” asked Mr. Danvers, sharply.

“Yes, dear daddy,” said the girl, softly, “but you won’t let me go, will you?”

Mr. Danvers tried to speak, but only uttered a low, confused rumble like that of a helpless animal. He could do nothing, and the girl turned to her adopted mother. Her curiously expectant glance was not met. Mrs. Danvers’s head was bent over her plate. There was no protest there. The marriage must take place.

Nina, having fully satisfied herself on this point, reached out her hand for the sugar-bowl; and, carefully dusting her oatmeal, poured cream on it, and proceeded to take her breakfast in silence and composure.

“Why, there’s Captain Fordyce,” said Mrs. Danvers, suddenly. “Come in, come in,” she went on, addressing the sailor, who stood by the low, open window. “You must want some breakfast.”

They were all staring at him, but he looked his usual self, and, with a brief salutation to his host and hostess, he entered the room and seated himself at the table.

“Have some hot drink,” said Mrs. Danvers, passing him a cup. “It will make you feel better.”

His gaze went suspiciously to Nina, and the faintest and most evanescent of blushes passed over his dark face. “I had no dinner yesterday,” he said, gruffly, “and the racket on the wharf was deafening.”

“Did you have a prosperous voyage from England?” asked Mrs. Danvers, amiably.

“Yes.”

“And an agreeable company of passengers?”

“Fair—I didn’t see much of them.”

“Were there any nice, nice girls on board?” lisped Nina, in her infantine fashion.

“Plenty,” he said unexpectedly, fixing her with an indulgent stare.

She did not address him again during the meal, although she listened attentively to every one of the curt sentences with which he favoured her parents. He was always grave, almost severe with them. Why was he not with them, with the rest of the world, as he was with her? Why at her slightest word did he lose his air of command, soften his tone, and adjust himself to any mood she happened to be in? Was it only because he loved her, or was there some other reason? It was certainly very puzzling, and the man across the table, who was intently following her meditations, smiled to himself, as he heard the perturbed little sigh with which she always concluded them.

Mr. Danvers scarcely spoke, and the others rarely addressed him; for they plainly felt that the atmosphere about him was somewhat electrical.

“Poor old fatty,” soliloquised Captain Fordyce, “he’s blue to think of losing his little playmate. I’m sorry for him,” and he gazed approvingly at the stout man. “Madam there loves Nina because she is a dressed-up doll, representing duty and dollars;” and he favoured his hostess with a sardonic glance. “Schoolma’am and wife, but never a mother. Time my little wench was out of this.”

Mr. Danvers finished his breakfast, then rose in sulky silence. While Nina ran to get his hat and cane, he addressed Captain Fordyce:

“So you want to steal our child?”

“I do.”

The fat man choked back some emotion. “Is she willing to go?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Danvers brought his plump fist down on the table with noiseless emphasis, and threw a defiant glance at his wife. “Well, mark this, she’s always got a home here if anything befalls you. And don’t ever force the truth on her. I wouldn’t for a thousand dollars have her know she isn’t our child.”

“And I wouldn’t for a thousand more,” said Captain Fordyce, coolly.

“Would not this be a good time to inform her of the true state of affairs?” interposed Mrs. Danvers. “Is not truth always better than error?”

Captain Fordyce frowned at her, Mr. Danvers ejaculated, “Hold your tongue, Melinda;” but nothing further could be said, for at that instant Nina came gliding back.

“Here is your hat, daddy dear,” then, tucking her hand under his arm, she left the room with him.

Mrs. Danvers followed the two with a peculiar glance, and Captain Fordyce, seeing it, smiled.

“Are her traps in order for travelling?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, laconically.

“I will take her away to-morrow.”

She looked slightly ashamed, and fell into a silence that lasted until Nina returned, when she wandered away into the kitchen.

The girl had been standing a long time at the gate watching the sorrowful lines of the substantial figure plodding across the meadows. Her face was flushed and disturbed; and, scarcely knowing what she did, she seated herself at the table and made a blind onslaught on a loaf of bread.

“Here, give me that knife, you will cut yourself,” said Captain Fordyce. He laid a thin slice on her plate, then, in a state of utter beatification, for he had had his own way in every particular during a short conversation they had had on the bridge, he sat watching her eat it.

“Three days from now you will be having your breakfast on the Merrimac,” he said, softly.

Nina made a wry face and tried to bury her face in her coffee-cup. He laughed, and, having finished his breakfast, got up and strolled about the room, looking at the pictures hung on the walls.

A quarter of an hour later Nina was alone in the hall with him. He had exchanged a calm good-bye with Mrs. Danvers, after having promised to return to dinner. His leave-taking with his fiancée promised to be more lengthy.

“Oh, do make haste,” she said, inhospitably handing him his hat. “I have my canaries to do, and the dog and cat to feed, and ever so many things beside.”

“Tell me again that you are sorry for being naughty,” he said, gently, “for throwing your cap in the water, and hiding in the rushes.”

“I’m sorry I was sorry,” she said, stoutly; but at the same time, lest she should hurt his feelings, she gave his fingers a gentle, a very gentle pressure.

“You angel,” he said, not rapturously nor passionately, but rather as if he were stating a very commonplace and threadbare fact.

She dropped his fingers as suddenly as if they had turned to red-hot metal in her grasp, and turned her head very far away from him.

“And you will find time among your multitudinous occupations to help your mamma pack,” he went on.

“I don’t think I will go,” she said, feebly. “I think I am going to change my mind again.”

“All right,” he said, taking out his watch. “I will give you a minute. Shall I go or stay? You must make up your mind decidedly before to-morrow. There must be no fooling with sacred things.”

She roguishly bent her face over the watch.

“Time’s up,” he said; “good-bye.”

With a wilful shrug of her shoulders she took the watch in her hand. “Let me put it back.”

He stood patiently while she restored it to its place, and insinuated her thumb and finger in another pocket. “What’s this?” she observed, drawing out a slip of newspaper.

“Give it to me,” he said, trying to take it from her.

But she was too quick for him, and darting to the staircase read aloud the headings of the slip she held in her hand. “Boston Dustman Refused Seventeen Times by His Lady-love, Who Was a Rag-picker. Upon the Occasion of His Eighteenth Refusal Slapped Her in the Face, Whereupon She Promptly Accepted Him.”

“Horrid man! I would have slapped back!” exclaimed Nina, indignantly.

Captain Fordyce was grinning broadly. “Here—give me that,” and he restored it to his pocket. “It brought me luck.”

“Luck with me?” she cried.

“Yes, birdie.”

She was about to dart away, but he held her gently by the arm, and, stroking his moustache in a meditative way, said: “One day, years ago, I remember seeing you dragged out of bed at midnight—a rosy, tumbled heap—to say ‘How d’ye do’ to a rough young sailor, whom you kissed and were not at all afraid of. That was our first merry meeting, and every one since has been flavoured, seasoned, sanctified, what you will, by the same charming salute. You are not going to cut me off this time as you did this morning?” and he brought his black, teasing eyes close to her face.

“I made up for it on the bridge,” she said, hastily. “Let me go, you—you Spaniard.”

This was her choicest word of abuse, but it did not take effect now. “No, you didn’t,” he said, obstinately. “Now, Nina!”

The faint, the very faint tone of command in his voice warned her that this was one of the occasions on which she must not refuse him. But she drew her hand across her lips afterward, and murmured something about salt to her eyeballs.

He looked down at the orbs in question. “Those are bright, happy eyes, child. You don’t mean one-half you say;” and with this impeachment on her veracity he took his leave, and hurried away in the direction of the village.