Читать книгу Carried by Storm - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 15

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he story they tell is one that won't wash," says Frank Livingston. "I appeal to you, Geoff. The notion of meeting a wild girl in the woods, and being half scalped when Dan Sleaford finds her! Then, when they have her safely housed and asleep, of that same wild creature coming down the chimney——"

"Down the chimney?" exclaims Geoffrey Lamar, amazed.

"Oh! well, something very like it, and going at her again with uplifted dagger. It's a fishy sort of yarn as they tell it. But," adds Frank, reflectively, "it is a peculiarity of Dan Sleaford's stories that they all have a piscatorial flavor."

The two young gentlemen are pacing arm in arm under the horse chestnuts surrounding Ventnor Villa. They form a contrast as they slowly saunter there—young Livingston two years the elder, tall, slender, very handsome, quick, volatile, restless; young Lamar shorter, stouter, with a face that even at fifteen has a look of thought and power—a mouth with that square cut at the corners that betokens sweetness as well as strength, steady gray eyes, close-cut dark hair, and the careless, high-bred air of one born to the purple.

"It does sound rather oddly," he remarks; "but what motive have they for telling an untruth? And something has frightened her, that is patent enough. Poor little Olga!"

"They're a queer lot, these Sleafords," says Frank, reflectively—"a most uncommonly queer lot. And there's a mystery of some sort hanging over the head of the house. You don't mean to say, old fellow, that, living in Brightbrook so long, you don't know any of them—eh?"

"Well, in point of fact, you see, I do not live in Brightbrook much. I spend Christmas and New Year weeks down here, and either the July or August of every long—but that is all. One month I give to yachting, and then, of course, all the rest of the year is spent at college. You are here a good deal more than I am, and Abbott Wood is so out of the way. As it happens, I have never even heard of these people until to-day."

Frank stares at him, then straight ahead, and whistles.

"Well, that is—— I say—you don't mind my asking, do you? have you never heard your governor speak of them?"

"Never."

"Because Black Giles seems to know him most remarkably well. Says he used to be a pal of his, long ago, out in San Francisco."

"What?"

"Yes, I know it's a queer statement. And up the village they say——"

He pauses. A deep line graves itself between Geoffrey Lamar's eyebrows. His step-father is a sensitive subject with him.

"Well," he says, rather coldly, "they say—what?"

"I wouldn't mention this sort of thing if you were Mr. Abbott's son," goes on Frank, magnanimously, "but it is different you know. Giles Sleaford, when half seas over, has a way of talking—nasty, swearing sort of way that makes a fellow long to pitch him out of the window—of your governor. Red Jack Abbott—so the disrespectful old bloke calls him—used to be out there in San Francisco the Damon to his Pythias. But never mind," says Frank, pulling himself up, "you don't like the subject; beg pardon for introducing it, but I am such a fellow to say whatever comes uppermost. All these returned Californians have a shady sidewalk in their past pathway, if we only knew it, I dare say."

Geoffrey Lamar does not seem to derive the cheerful consolation Frank intends from this philosophical remark. A frown contracts his forehead, and there is a pause.

"You know those people very well," he says, after that full stop.

"Oh! uncommon. I'm l'ami de la maison—I have the run of the whole house, like the family cat. It's uncommonly jolly. I'll fetch you some evening, if you like. We have musical and danceable reunions. Jud plays the fiddle, Dan the flute, Lora the banjo, and they all can sing. Lora gives me lessons on the banjo!" Here Frank tries to look grave, but suddenly explodes into a great laugh. "And we play euchre and seven-up, and I lose all my loose cash regularly. It's the best fun going. George Blake comes, and lots more. I would have asked you long ago, only you are such a solemn old duffer, and of too aristocratic a stomach to digest such vulgar doings. But if you'll come I'll present you. They'll kow-tow before you, for are you not, oh, potent young seigneur, the lord of the land, and you shall have a good time. Not just at once, of course; must wait until the princess, poor little ducky, is on her little pins again before I go anywhere."

It will be observed that Mr. Frank's style of conversation is exceedingly degagé—quite free and easy, and of the slang a trifle slangy. The prince of wild Joanna's imagination has a most unprincely way of expressing himself.

"Say you'll come. Get rid of that owl-like face, and stop trying to look like your own grandfather. What a fellow you are, Lamar! I would mope myself into the horrors if I lived as you do. Say you'll come to the very next Sleaford swarry. We have clam-bakes after the concert and the valse à deux-temps; codfish chowder, barbecued rabbit, and sich—everything highly genteel and en regle. And you can wash it down with whisky ad libitum, or you can join the ladies in cider-cup and bottled lager, if you prefer such effeminate tipple. You will come?"

"Yes, I will come," Geoffrey answers, laughing. "These are attractions not to be declined. I say! stop a moment, Livingston—whom have we here?"

A brilliant, black-eyed, buxom brunette, dressed in the loudest possible style, pink, and purple, and yellow all swearing at each other in her costume, advances toward them, a green parasol shading her already over-ripe charms from the too ardent glances of the sun.

"What!" cries Frank, falling back and striking an attitude. "Do these eyes deceive me? That form—that smile—that green umbrella! 'Tis she! Lora! light of my eyes, beloved of my soul, whither away in such haste with the thermometer up in the nineties. What! still silent! Speak, loveliest of thy sex—speak, ere I perish! Whither goest thou in such haste?"

Miss Lora Sleaford furls her green parasol, not at all discomposed by this impassioned address, and administers a gentle rebuke with the nozzle across Frank's shapely nose.

"Don't be a donkey," is her retort. "I suppose, considering I lost a night's sleep with that little girl, and had a sight of trouble with her every way, I have a right to walk up and ask how she gets along. Why weren't you there last night?"

"Pressing business engagements, over which I had no control, my dearest Lora; but I see those beauteous orbs are riveted on the manly countenance of my friend. He is perishing for an introduction—was begging me with tears in his eyes, just before you came up, to obtain him the entree to Sleaford's, and the acquaintance of Sleaford's two lovely daughters. Come here, Geoff, a moment, will you. Miss Lora Sleaford, allow me to present to you my young friend, Geoffrey Valandigham Lamar."

Miss Sleaford bows gracefully, really gracefully, smiles radiantly—black eyes, red cheeks, coral lips, dazzling white teeth, all a-sparkle together. She evidently takes Frank's chaff as a thing of course, and is perfectly well used to that style of address. Geoffrey laughs, but reddens a little, with some of that becoming boyish bashfulness that Frank Livingston has never known.

"Blush not, my Geoffrey!" says that young man of the world, with an encouraging slap on the back, "Miss Lora's charms floor us all at first, but we get used to 'em after a time. So will you. Don't be ashamed of yourself—speak to her prettily—she's not half so dignified, bless you, nor unapproachable, as she looks. So you're going to the house, are you, Lora? That is a very pretty attention on your part. The little one is asleep now. Doctor says she'll pull through. But what a queer go it all is, this cock-and-bull story Dan tells, about a wild girl, and the rest of it!"

"It is true enough. I guess it was our Joanna," replies Lora, complacently adjusting a pair of flat gilt bracelets.

"You don't say so! Joanna! What a little devil's doll she is, to be sure. Shall we see you home, my friend and I, after your call, my Lora? Nothing would give us greater rapture, you know."

But Miss Sleaford declines, with a toss of her white feathers. She is not going home, she is en route for Brightbrook—Dan and the trap are waiting outside the gate. And so, with a parting bow and smile, intended to do deadly execution on young Lamar, Lora trips away to the hall door.

Mrs. Ventnor, looking pale and anxious, receives her, and thanks her in very fervent words, and a handsome present of jewelry, for her kindness to her child. She has summed up Miss Sleaford at a glance, and sees she is the type to whom breastpin and bracelets are always acceptable. There is another lady in the room, a lady who looks like a queen in a picture, Lora thinks, so grand, so stately, so beautiful is she. She awes even Miss Sleaford, who is not easily awed. It is Mrs. Abbott, she knows; she has seen her more than once; the mother of that dull, plain-looking young fellow outside. And yet, though one is beautiful and the other almost devoid of beauty, there is a resemblance between the two faces, in the firm mouth and proudly-curved chin, in the level, rather chill glance of the full dark eye, in the haughty poise of the head and shoulders. For you need not look twice at young Geoffrey Lamar to know that although he has not fallen heir to his mother's beauty, he has to her pride.

This grand dame goes up to Lora, and holds out one long, slim white hand.

"We are all your debtors," she says, in a slow, sweet, trained voice. "In saving our dear little Olga you have served us all. If you will accept this, as a little token of my great regard——"

She slips from her finger a circlet of rubies, and the quick blood comes into Lora Sleaford's face.

"Thank you, ma'am," she says, almost bashfully. With some trouble she gets the rich hoop on one of her fat fingers, and makes her courtesy and departs, enchanted with her visit and its results.

But little Olga is really very ill, and lies tossing through the warm July days, fever-flushed, wild-eyed, thirsty, wandering.

Over and over again the wild girl of the woods is bending above her, her hands in her hair, her deadly weapon poised, and Olga's shrieks ring through the room, and they have to hold her in her bed by force. All the long lovely locks are cut off close, cruelly close to the poor little burning head, and there are days when neither doctor nor nurse can tell how that fierce struggle is to end.

Lora Sleaford comes often to inquire, and Joanna, crouching like a toad in her corner, hears the story of the severed golden hair. A moment after she has slipped from her place, and gone out into the night. She throws herself down on the dark, dewy grass, and buries her face in her folded arms. She has got the desire of her heart, and she is not glad; a vague sort of remorse and unrest fills her. She did not want to kill this little heiress, only to frighten her; to cut off her hair, not to give her a brain fever. If she dies, will they hang her—Joanna? She knows Lora knows, and has told others. Well, let them hang her if they like; she did not mean to do it, and hanging cannot hurt much worse than horsewhipping. She does not care; she is past care, past hope, past help. It does not matter—nothing matters. Better to be dead at once, and done with it. But she hopes this little girl will not die. And presently—perhaps it is because she is all aching and half sick to-night, great tears well up, and fill and fall from her eyes, that burn generally with so baleful a light.

She has been beaten by Giles Sleaford, she has had her ears boxed by Dan, she has been scolded by Liz, she has worked like a slave since early morning, she is sore, and hungry, and hopeless, and sick.

"I wish I was dead," she sobs, her face hidden in the sweet wet grass. "I wish I had never been born!"

But little Olga does not die. She is a delicate child, and it requires the best of medical skill and ceaseless care to bring her through. There comes what is called the crisis—there is a night when no one at Ventnor Villa nor Abbott Wood thinks of sleep—a night when Frank Livingston paces the wet grass, under the summer stars, until day-dawn, filled with fear and remorse for his share in the tragedy—a night when Colonel Ventnor walks the halls and passages, pale as no one has ever seen him pale before—a night when Mrs. Abbott sits through the long mute hours clasping the hand of the sick child's mother in her own, and with bated breath watching for that dread change. It comes, it passes, and burning heat changes to profound slumber, and tossing delirium to gentle perspiration, and little Olga is saved!

The news flies—it visits many homes, and sometime that day reaches Sleaford's, where Lora relates it to the family assembled at supper.

"So you see, little monkey," she winds up, addressing Joanna, "you ain't a murderer after all, and won't be hanged this time. But you had better look out, and not try that sort of thing again. You mayn't get off so easy another time."

"It's only a question of a year or two—eh, Jo?" says Jud Sleaford, tweaking the girl's ear. "You're bound to come to it some day. Of all the little limbs of Old Nick I ever met, you top the lot."

"I am what you all have made me," the child flashes out, with sudden fire, jerking herself free. "I only wonder I haven't killed somebody long ago—some of you, I mean. I will yet, if you don't let me alone."

A growl from Giles silences her, but in her poor, darkened, heathenish little soul that night there is a wordless thanksgiving for the news she has heard.

"I don't know what got into me," she thinks, with a feeling akin to compunction; "she never did nothin' to me when all's said and done. I'm sorry I scared her; I'm sorry, yes, I am, that she's had to lose all her pretty hair."

The other members of the Sleaford family circle are relieved also, but for a different reason.

"I'm sure I'm glad of it," Liz says, in a querulous tone; "the place has been like a grave-yard ever since that night; not a soul's been near the house, except once, George Blake. Can't we have a dance, Dan, some night next week?"

"And tell Frank Livingston, Dan, to fetch young Lamar," suggests Lora. "I am dying for a dance. I saw two or three of the girls down at the Corners yesterday, and they were asking when we meant to have another spree."

"Dad means to go to the city next Tuesday," suggests Jud, "and as he ain't particularly useful or ornamental on an occasion like that, I vote we have the high jinks while he's gone."

This resolution is unanimously carried by the house, and next Tuesday is fixed for the Sleaford fête. The young ladies at once set to work to prepare their costumes and decorate the house. Dan issues the invitations verbally, and all are accepted, including that extended to Master Geoffrey Lamar. Frank goes without saying. With a load off his conscience now that Olga is recovering, Frank is in wild high spirits and ready for anything. He is generating a great deal of steam in these days of Olga's convalescence, and requires a safety-valve of some sort. He spends considerable of his precious time in the sick-room, and it is found does Olga more good by his lively presence than all the doctor's stimulants. Geoffrey Lamar and little Leo Abbott, too, are there a great deal—their conversation and company excite the child a little, but the good results counterbalance the evil. Still, four or five days of this sort of thing—this state of unnatural goodness—has a depressing effect on Frank, and the Sleaford "swarry" is hailed with rejoicing.

"We always present some little delicate offering to the young ladies on these occasions," he remarks to Geoffrey, "not bouquets or floral litter of that sort; but something sensible and solid. On various festive seasons of this nature, I myself have contributed a ham, a plum cake, a turkey, some port wine, and other graceful trifles of that sort. The present being a special festival, it is my intention to appear in company with two imperial quarts of champagne. You, young sir, being a lily of the field, and this your début, will be exempt from taxation. The honor of your presence is sufficient in itself."

"It rather reminds one of Mrs. Nickleby and the love-stricken old gentleman in small-clothes, who threw the vegetable marrows," says Geoffrey, laughing. "I wonder, Frank, you care to mingle with such a lot. You really seem to like it."

"And I really do, my aristocratic young friend. Human nature in all its varieties interests me in the abstract; human nature, as represented by Miss Lora Sleaford, interests me consumedly in particular. A romp with that girl is equal to a boxing-match any day to put a fellow in condition. Leave all your fastidious notions at Abbott Wood, with your evening dress; put on a shooting-jacket, and come and be happy."

They are the latest guests. The old red farm-house is all alight when they draw near, the scraping of Jud's violin is their greeting as they enter. Some half-dozen young ladies in gay muslin dresses, gilt brooches and chains, and rainbow ribbons are there, and represent the Sleaford "set" in Brightbrook. The young men are generally of a better stamp, and muster stronger; the lower rooms look filled to overflowing as the two late guests arrive. A momentary hush of awe greets Geoffrey Lamar, but it does not last; the festive group here assembled are not awed easily or long.

"For Heaven's sake do not introduce me to anybody!" whispers Geoffrey, nervously, afraid of a torrent of Frank's "chaff." "Just let me alone, and I'll drift into port myself."

There is one face present that he recognizes, that of George Blake, and he seeks refuge by his side. Blake is a bright young fellow, poor, but of good connections; his mother, a widow, teaches music in the village; George, an only son, is at present beginning life in the office of the Brightbrook News. He is about eighteen or nineteen—indeed, none of the gentleman are on the aged side of twenty.

But Mr. Blake is destined for higher duty than playing protector—Miss Liz Sleaford sails up, resplendent in crimson ribbons and cheap jewelry, and claims him as her own. They are all in the parlor—Jud, the musician, is perched on a sort of pedestal in a corner to be out of the way, as there is not an inch of spare room for the coming engagement. The dance is a waltz. Frank is spinning round with Lora, as a matter of course, Mr. Blake is blessed with Liz, five other couples revolve and bump against each other with much force, and great good-humor.

Geoffrey has seen a great many waltzes, but the energy, the vim, the "go" of this one he has never seen equaled. And it is a night in early August. The full harvest moon is pouring its pale splendor over the warm, sweet world without; the faces of the waltzers are redder in ten minutes than the moon was when it rose. The living whirlwind flashing past him so confuses Geoffrey that he gets up at last, and with some difficulty makes his way into the kitchen. This apartment has but two occupants—Dan Sleaford, and a small, scantily-dressed damsel of twelve, who appears to be assistant cook. Dan is the chef. At an early age he developed one talent, a talent for clam chowder; many years of cultivation, and that talent has soared to the heights of positive genius. No "swarry" at the Sleaford's would be considered perfect without a chowder; it is indeed the piéce de resistance of the feast, and is generally the only dish contributed by the feast givers. So Dan, in a state threatening spontaneous combustion, bends over the steaming caldron, from which odors as of Araby the Blest are wafted out into the silent night. The youthful person with him, in a sulky and slipshod manner, is emptying numerous baskets, and arranging their contents on the two deal tables, covered, at present, with very white cloths, and set out with the blue delf, two-pronged forks, and a miscellaneous collection of knives. It requires some skill on Mr. Sleaford's part to keep one eye on the chowder, and bring it to the pitch of perfection for which he is so justly celebrated, and keep the other fixed sternly on his small assistant, to see that she purloins none of the provisions. On the present occasion the spread is something gorgeous. There is, first of all, the champagne—two silver-throated beauties contributed by Frank. Then a basket of able-bodied little mutton pies, the delicate attentions of Mr. George Blake, who has a weakness that way. Then a plum cake, with sugar coating an inch thick, the luscious offering of the young Brightbrook baker. Then a leg of lamb "with fixins," anglicé, peas and mint sauce. A bottle of mixed pickles, a wedge of cheese, a can of sweet biscuits and sundries, the tribute by the representative of the grocery. In addition, a great earthenware pot of tea is steeping for the ladies, while the whisky and other spirituous fluids, together with a box of cigars, adorn a shelf of the cupboard. These delicacies, with the chowder—always with the chowder—comprise a supper fit for Brillat Savarin or the Olympian gods.

Geoffrey takes a seat on the sill of one of the open windows, trying to catch a breath of cool air, and amused in spite of himself by the novelty of all this. Dan Sleaford politely essays conversation, but, distracted between the chowder and his handmaid, the attempts are not brilliant. In spite of his Argus eyes, Joanna manages to filch a mutton pie, a handful of mixed biscuits, and a piece of cheese, and secretes this victual somewhere about her garments. Geoffrey watches the elfish child with curiosity; she is of a type he has never seen before. He has a chivalrous veneration for all things feminine, engendered by his beautiful and stately mother; but this changeling—it is difficult to imagine her belonging to the same order of beings as his sister Leo, or Olga Ventnor. This evening her best frock, such as it is, has been donned; she wears shoes and stockings, and an effort has been made to brush down the thick shock of darkly-reddish hair. He sees the pale, pinched features—features not homely in themselves, but spoiled by an expression of settled sullenness and gloom. She looks uncanny, and most pathetically unchildlike. When Dan Sleaford girds at her, she shrinks as if she expected a blow. Her hard life is written in every line of her downcast and smileless face.

Inside, the fun waxes fast and furious; peals of laughter ring out, the house quivers with the tread of the dancers. Jud's fiddle never falters nor fails. A schottische follows the waltz, then a quadrille, then a polka; then George Blake performs a solo, the Highland Fling—a dance which has more genuine fling about it, as executed by Mr. Blake, than any of the company has ever before beheld. Then there is a contre dance. Then Dan Sleaford, crimson of visage, presents himself at the parlor door, and in stentorian accents announces the chowder and accompaniments, and tersely commands them to "come on!"

"What, Geoff, old boy! taking lessons in cooking?" cries Frank, wiping his hot face. "Phew! what a blazer of a night!—and, by Jove! what a girl Lora Sleaford is to spin! There's more go in her than in any human being I ever met. She has been dancing every time, and hasn't turned a hair, while I—I give you my word, old fellow, I'm fit to drop."

But a bumper of foamy iced lager restores the exhausted one, and the company sit down to supper. A very noisy company it is, a very hungry company too, and despite the height of the thermometer, boiling chowder, steaming tea, roast lamb, and mutton pies disappear with a celerity that speaks well for the faith the consumers have in their own powerful digestions. Every one helps himself and his partner to whatever chances to be handiest; cheese and pickles vanish in company, lamb and pound-cake, mutton pies and peas. The gentlemen slake their thirst with flagons of lager beer, or the more potent whisky; while the ladies genteelly partake of hot tea and iced champagne, one after the other, and with perfect equanimity.

It is all a wonderful experience to Geoffrey Lamar. For Frank—he and George Blake—they are the choice spirits of the board. He is amused, a trifle disgusted also, it may be, but the hilarity carries him away, and he finds himself laughing almost as noisily as the rest. Once or twice he glances about for the attendant sprite, but she is no longer in waiting; every one helps himself. She is in a corner of the fire-place, as though she felt the heat no more than a salamander, munching her pilfered dainties, and staring, with bright, watchful eyes, at the people before her. No one notices her, or thinks of offering her anything to eat or drink. The dogs get an occasional morsel thrown them—she gets nothing.

Supper over, dancing is resumed with ardor and vigor. There is singing, too, spirited songs with ringing choruses, in which the strength and lungs of the "swarry" is thrown. Miss Lora gives them—to a banjo accompaniment—"Sing, oh! for a brave and gallant bark, a brisk and lively breeze,"—which, having a fine resounding chorus, goes near to lift the roof off. Liz does the sentimental, and warbles "Thou hast learned to love another, thou hast broken every vow." Frank Livingston trolls forth, in a very nice tenor, "Sarah's Young Man," and the Messieurs Sleaford uplift their voices in a nautical duet. The remains of the plum cake, and some cool lemonade are passed around among the fair sex. The gentlemen adjourn at intervals to the kitchen cupboard for a "modest quencher," a quiet cigar, and Geoffrey Lamar, growing rather bored, keeps his seat on the window-sill, and wishes it were time to get out of all this noise and heat, and go.

His interest in Joanna does not flag. She is a curious study, and he watches her. After supper she clears off the things, washes the dishes, puts them away, sweeps up the floor, all in profound silence, and with deft, swift hands. Then, instead of going to bed, although it is past midnight, she produces a tattered book, and resumes her corner to read. With hands over her ears, eyes riveted to the page, she is seemingly lost to all the tumult around her. He watches her in silence for awhile, then he speaks.

"What are you reading?"

He has to touch her to make her hear—then she looks up. How changed her look! the sullen moodiness has passed away, her eyes are eager, her face bright with the interest of her book. But in that instant the old look of dark, frowning distrust returns. She points to the page without a word.

"'Monte Cristo,'" he reads. "Do you like it?"

She nods.

"But the first and last seems to be torn out—that must spoil the interest, I should think. Do you read much?"

She purses up her mouth and shakes her head.

"Why?"

"No books—no time."

"You are fond of stories?"

"Oh! ain't I!—just!"

"Would you like me to bring you a book the next time I come?"

She looks at him, wondering, distrustful. He is a young gentleman, and he is taking notice of her—he is speaking to her kindly. No one does that. He is offering her a book—no one ever gives her anything. Her sullen look comes back; she does not know what to make of it.

"I will bring you some books," he says, "and I will ask your sisters to let you read them. Books that will suit you better than 'Monte Cristo.'"

"Sisters!" she repeats. "I ain't got no sisters. But if you ain't foolin'——" distrustfully. "You are foolin', ain't you, mister?"

He assures her of his sincerity.

"Well, then, don't you go and bring no books here. 'Cause I wouldn't be let to have 'em; old Giles would burn 'em up. But I know what you could do——" with a cunning look.

"Well—what?"

"Do you know Black's Dam, and the old mill down there in the woods?"

"Yes, I know them."

"Then—if you ain't foolin'—fetch 'em there, and leave 'em in the mill. I'll find them; no one else ever goes there. But I know you won't."

"You will see. You will find one there to-morrow night. What's your name?"

"Sleaford's Joanna," she says, with a shrill laugh, "or Wild Joanna—'tain't no odds which. I'm both."

"What is your other name?"

"Got no other name. Got no father, no mother, no friends, no nothin'. I'm only Sleaford's Joanna."

She goes back to her book, and when, hours after, the soirée breaks up, she is bending over Dumas' extravaganza still. Geoffrey bids her good-night—the only one of the party who has addressed her the whole evening.

And that brief conversation is the mustard-seed, so small as to be hardly visible, from which all the dark record of the future is to grow. There are many memorable nights in Geoffrey Lamar's life, but none that stands out more ominously vivid than this.