Last Pages. Oscar Mandel

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      “Sir,” said Aimée to the Judge, “will you introduce us to this most sympathique gentleman?” This was soon done, Nicholas declaring that he was honored, and Aimée hinted that she sympathized with his anger.

      “And so do I,” said Weamish. “Nothing is being withheld here, Mr. Mayhew. What is confiscated in New York, or intercepted on the way, I cannot tell. My orbit is limited to these few islands. Come, sir, sit down with us. I predict that you shall have your letters before the week is over. Let me propose something a fillip stronger than warm chocolate.”

      Opening the door of a sideboard, Weamish produced a flask of rum and several tumblers. Nicholas took a chair, saying, “Judge Weamish, if I’m not mistaken, this is a product of contraband.”

      Weamish laughed. “Justice is blindfolded.”

      “A little concession to the good life, eh?” said Aimée.

      “Ah, how else can a gentleman survive? Nothing but sperm oil, tar, pitch …”

      “All the same,” said Nicholas, “your worthy ancestor made a pretty thing out of your despised sperm oil. Manufactured sperm candles,” he added, turning to the ladies, and then, in a mock aside: “A fortune!”

      The Judge gave his mouth a deprecatory bend. “To be sure, he said, we colonials must be content to derive from trade and industry.”

      “Don’t apologize, sir,” said Aimée, “I have lived on your continent long enough to value the spirit of commerce.”

      “This is true elevation of mind! Ah, how I feel the absence of my mother. She is worthy of your acquaintance, Marquise.”

      “Let us drink to her prompt return, shall we? Shall we, Mr. Mayhew?”

      “With pleasure.”

      The glasses clinked, the Barbados was drunk or, in Madeleine’s case, tasted.

      “Thank you,” said Weamish, adding—rather shrewdly—“and now, I propose a toast to His Excellency, Governor Gage. Will you join us, Mr. Mayhew, in spite of your cousin?”

      “Of course I will. Let it be noted that the sympathies of Mayhew & Mayhew are universal, for it is trade that makes us what we are. May Tom Gage live to be a hundred!”

      “As Frenchwomen,” said Aimée, lifting her glass, “our good-will can hardly fly towards the English, who are now occupying our beloved Canada. But in the interest of peace—I have it! Madeleine, you shall not toast, but half of us will, in the interest of universal love. To Tom Gage!”

      “And to his brilliant victory at Bunker Hill!” added Weamish.

      Nicholas frowned.

      “What brilliant victory?” he asked, setting down his glass.

      “He doesn’t know!” cried Weamish. “Come, come, you’re jesting, sir.”

      “No, I protest. No jest intended. At Charlestown you mean?”

      “I do mean at Charlestown, Mr. Mayhew, on Saturday, three days ago. Nonsense! You do know! Wait. Jenny! Jenny!”

      Jenny came to the door; Weamish ordered her upstairs to his library—his “chambers”—to fetch the Gazette and Post-Boy lying on his desk. When she returned with the paper, Weamish opened it for Nicholas to read. The young man did so, half aloud, half mumbling.

      “So that’s the battle, is it?” said Nicholas in conclusion. “Upon my word, the engagement is so differently described in The Spy that I become confused.”

      Whereupon he produced a gazette of his own that stood out from one of his pockets.

      “Rubbish!” cried Weamish. “The Spy! A well-deserved name. How came you by it, Mr. Mayhew?”

      “I found it crumpled on the floor of the Custom Collector’s office.”

      Aimée could say with perfect sincerity, “You pique my curiosity, Mr. Mayhew. Tell us more. What really happened at Charlestown?”

      “Perhaps this Rebel sheet is lying, Marquise, but it reports that over a thousand Redcoats were killed or maimed.”

      “How dreadful!” cried out Madeleine, her hand rising to her mouth. A quick thought came and went in Nicholas’ head as he glanced at the girl. “A lovely loving lass!” But Weamish was saying, “Stuff and nonsense! The Rebels were driven from the peninsula!”

      “The writer,” said Nicholas, pointing with his finger at the article in question, “manfully confesses it: an admission which throws some flickers of likelihood upon the rest of his account. And if the rest be true, the British are broken at Boston.”

      “Pah! Your gazette cannot impose on a rational observer. Trust me, my kindhearted mademoiselle, the rabble is not born that can slaughter the king’s army in fair battle. But do I detect a note of glee in your voice, Mr. Mayhew?”

      “Nothing of the sort. Long live King George, third of the name, and long may he rule over England.”

      Another opportunity for Aimée.

      “I perceive,” she said, “that my daughter and I must keep our opinions to ourselves while residing at Sherburne. Before you came in, Mr. Mayhew, and before I knew, indeed, where the Judge’s allegiance lay, I spoke rather too freely in favor of liberty.”

      “They being French, you see,” Weamish thought it wise to add. “But oh, had ever England a sweeter enemy?”

      “You are a charmer, sir. I am beginning to feel quite at home in Nantucket.”

      “You will all remain for dinner, I hope. I shall give Jenny orders at once.”

      “Not I, thank you,” said Nicholas. “I’ve accounts to settle with Obed Coffin—that’s our cooper, Marquise, if I may use the low word.”

      “And we had better unpack and dine quietly in our rooms today, which we have barely glimpsed. Another time, Judge.”

      They were all rising from their chairs, when Jenny broke in again. It was decidedly a lucky day for Aimée, who was pondering, amidst all the niceties, the best way or ways of meeting and befriending her major prey; and there he was, being announced, and entering the room with a bow and a handshake with Nicholas. That he and the latter were related was immediately clear: a firm jaw, the straight shape of a nose, in both men, were sufficient to establish the resemblance. Introductions were made. Mayhew expressed the hope that the ladies would spend the summer on the island. “Not so,” said Aimée; “as soon as my Madeleine is restored to full health—she’s a delicate child, unlike her mother, who’s as sturdy as a jailer’s wife—we move to our place in Montreal and the good fight for our French liberties under the heavy-handed British yoke. But pardon my outburst. I am sure, Colonel, that you came on business.”

      “I did indeed. First, to have a word with the Judge about another wearisome dispute concerning a sack of forbidden tea, and second, to take Young Nick home, to pore over our bills of lading.”

      “Upstairs, СКАЧАТЬ