Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The Steeles lived next door to the Garrisons in an ugly high-stoop, four-story brick mansion, which threw a dark shadow on one side of the little garden, necessitating Garrison to move his flower-beds away.

Martin was five years older than Floyd and twenty years more experienced. He loved Floyd in his way, but love was not an element of his nature. Floyd looked up to him, as a little boy would to an elder one who condescended to be his friend; he was sorry for Martin because Mrs. Steele was only his stepmother, that was what was wrong with him—he never had a “real” mother. Mrs. Steele was born Dolly Winthrop of Boston; she was very tall, very thin, very straight, with small transparent ears lying flat against her head. The only large thing about her was her flow of language—that was tremendous. Mrs. Steele’s “family tree” reposed on the parlor table in a red velvet album—“reposed” is a very inappropriate word, for she never gave the poor thing any rest. She was constantly turning over its pages, adding, multiplying, never subtracting, until it fell quite to pieces, but she convinced the old New Yorkers of her right to be one of them.

The “exclusives” of Massachusetts never forgave Dolly Winthrop’s marriage with “that Steele man” who was fat, florid, wordless, and a widower with a child. There were still spots in the Union where pedigree and culture were of more value than “money”; but Dolly Winthrop had made her calculation and it turned out a good bargain. Her husband and his father devoted all their time to business; they accumulated great wealth, and were not perceptible in her richly woven society tapestry. There was one she couldn’t wipe out—that terrible boy Martin. She tried honestly to make something of him, but he was not to be moulded. She took him to her summer home in Nantucket. The Winthrop Homestead had ship-lamps, a model of the Mayflower, clocks that struck “bells”—numbered hours were disdained; there were also stuffed seagulls which Martin set up as skittles, and a tottering old sailor who took care of the garden and gave the necessary atmosphere. Aunt Priscilla, Mrs. Steele’s maiden sister, lived there all the year. In Nantucket, Martin’s capacity of hatred found fertile soil for expansion; he hated the ocean; its unceasing roar fretted him; he thought of a big sea monster in chains, writhing, howling, foaming at the mouth. He hated Aunt Priscilla, who was Calvinist, Puritan, Patriot, anti-everything else. She took unusual pains to enlighten the “little savage” about the distinguished pedigree of his stepmother’s family. One day she read to him for three hours, in her correct English “twang,” the history of those good old Colonial times, when her direct ancestor was a Judge in Salem. The boy’s eyes took on a glitter which meant mischief.

“I’d like to be a Judge in them times.”

“You mean, you’d like to have been a Judge in those times,” corrected Aunt Priscilla.

“Have been,” mumbled the boy.

Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul.

“Now tell me, dear, what would you have done if you had been a Judge in Salem.”

“I’d burn you.”