Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 7

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One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martin’s fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream and cake. “Julie Gonzola was coming.” There was plenty to eat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the best things piled before her. She let Martin pile them, but she didn’t touch them—she couldn’t, in a strange house.

Toward evening the maid came to take her home. The two boys stood at the window as she went past enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out firmly, her head erect.

Martin’s eyes snapped.

“I’m going to marry Julie.”

“Not if I know it.”

Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold disdain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he remembered that look, years after. He said nothing, but turned to go.

Martin stopped him.

“Stay with me; I’m lonesome.”

There was a touch of pathos in his voice.

“Come, I’ll show you some family relics.”

He led the way to the garret, four stories high; it was filled with old furniture, spinning wheels, oil paintings—some wretchedly bad, others fairly good, all with heavy gold frames; every piece was ticketed with a name and date, in the different generations of the family.

Then Martin became confidential.

“I’ll tell you something, but don’t mention it to my mother. These things are all fakes; she haunts the auction sales, she’s a good judge—she knows what fits in, she’s got a whole lot more in storage. We’re going to move away from here.”

Floyd got a chill.

“What! You were born here! You will never leave your home?”

Martin’s mocking laugh rang out.

“Oh, you’re too sentimental. She’s not going to sell the house; that wouldn’t look well. She’s going to fill it with our ‘family’ antiques, and donate it to the city as an ‘Art Museum.’”

Floyd was struck silent as usual by Martin’s terrible lack of heart.

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“Somebody singing.”

Martin looked troubled.

“Nonsense, there’s nobody up here. Let’s go down.”

He drew Floyd into the hall; there was a door opposite.

It was somebody singing—a man’s voice, broken, harsh, rising, and falling in a strange inflection.

Martin, with a look of fear mingled with shame, tried to draw Floyd downstairs. A heavy fist on the door pushed it open. A man of gigantic stature rushed out. At first glance, Floyd saw only a pair of wonderful mocking eyes—Martin’s eyes; there was a strange light in them. The man was mad. Martin sprang at him, tried to push him back into the room. He was too strong for the boy. Then Martin coaxed him. Was that Martin’s voice, so loving, so sweet? He spoke in a foreign tongue, strange to Floyd. The old man looked curiously at Floyd, then said “Grutsie” and bowed respectfully. He learnt afterwards “Grutsie” was Swiss dialect for “I greet you.”

The man had huge hands, knotty, sun-dried; the open flannel shirt revealed a chest covered with thick hair. He had an enormous head, and a thick white mane falling over his eyes. He wore corduroy trousers to the knees and a pair of high deerskin boots with heavy nails in the soles. He paced unceasingly. The floor was covered with indentures. Martin shut the door carefully, took down a harness with bells which hung on the wall, threw it over the old man’s head, cracking a heavy whip, yelling at the top of his voice, lashing him with sharp quick blows. The old man growled like a beaten beast; the whip hurt him; the young devil was strong; in the sensual intoxication of brute force, they forgot the horrified boy looking on.

The door was flung open. Mrs. Steele stood there, deathly pale.

“Stop that noise, you’ll rouse the neighbors; how dare you bring Floyd up here?” She grasped Martin’s hand, pushing him toward the door.

The old man slunk into a corner; he was evidently afraid of her.

“Let me go!” roared Martin.

“I won’t. You’ll be punished for this.” Then a struggle followed; Floyd never forgot it. She held him with her small strong hands; he bit them. She struck him across the mouth; he kicked her. She cried out with pain, but she held him fast. Floyd, with a terrified cry, rushed down the stairs and out of the house.