Ramshackle House. Footner Hulbert

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СКАЧАТЬ old schooner with a deckload of cord wood. Down at the left the octagonal lighthouse on its spindly legs was just within range of their vision.

      “My camp is down there,” said Don. “On the other side of the old wharf. The curve in the beach hides it.”

      They sat down with their feet hanging over the edge. Pen’s conscience was protesting more faintly now. She had recovered from her surprise attack and had her forces pretty well in hand. She found she was all right if she avoided looking at him. There was something leaping out of his eyes that simply confounded her. They talked about anything and nothing. He wanted to make her talk, whereas she desired to hear him. So they fenced. The little undertones of bitterness, of self-mockery, in Pen’s laughter struck powerfully on the man’s imagination. It appeared that this girl most decidedly had a flavor of her own.

      He was reluctant to talk about himself and Pen could not ask questions. Consequently her hungry ears were obliged to pounce on the implications of his talk for information. He was of the great world it appeared. He knew everybody. He was not a mere philistine. He knew books, pictures, music; all that Pen thirsted for; and the people who made such things were among his friends. “Though I’m only a common stockbroker,” he put in with a laugh. This pleased Pen. She thought: “I wouldn’t want an artist for a lover”—and blushed for the thought. He was exactly what she wished him to be. It seemed to her magical that such a one should have been brought into her life if only for an hour or two. Only for an hour or two! She kept telling herself that firmly. “He’ll be gone to-morrow and I wishing he had never come!” That was the explanation of the bitterness.

      She did ask him one question. “How on earth did you come to stray down here?”

      He said: “I read somewhere, years ago, what a lovely and little known country there was on the western shore of Chesapeake Bay… I keep a canoe and a little tent handy in a club-house in New York. Whenever the world is too much with me I just paddle off for a few days.”

      Pen’s few minutes lengthened out into an hour and she had simply not the strength to send him away. In the end her father was seen approaching, his discolored straw hat placed just so, a jute bag over his arm.

      “I’m going over to the Island to get the mail,” he said to Counsell in an offhand tone. “Like to come along? It’s considered very picturesque.”

      Counsell looked at Pen in indecision. He most assuredly did not want to go, but perhaps the best way to make headway with the girl was to be agreeable to the old man. You couldn’t always tell.

      “Won’t you come too?” he asked.

      Pen shook her head. “I’ve a hundred things to do.”

      “Couldn’t I help?” he asked eagerly.

      Pen laughed clearly. “Heavens! what do you know about turkey chicks? Or making butter and cleaning house?”

      He still hesitated.

      Pen arose briskly. “Run along,” she commanded. “When you come back perhaps you’ll stay to supper.” She had not intended to ask him. It was surprised out of her. It surprised her father too. “Was that necessary?” his elevated eyebrows asked. He did not like this young man as well as he had in the beginning.

      Counsell blushed red with pleasure. “That is kind,” he said.

      “Then mind you’re back in time,” said Pen, leaving them. “You never can tell about the engine in our boat.”

      She flew about her work. The butter got itself made, and the eggs collected. Sundry small chicks were treated for the gaps, and the far wandering turkeys rounded up. Preparations were set on foot for a real Southern Maryland supper; soft crabs, fried chicken, hot biscuits, strawberry shortcake. If Pen had had her way she would have stuffed her young man like a Strasbourg goose.

      All afternoon she was filled with an excitement that was neither wholly pleasurable nor painful. Her heart would keep rising in her throat, and stern discipline was required to put it down. Finally she red up the house. She lingered in the guest-room her hand caressing the white spread, while she debated whether she might ask him to spend the night. She foresaw her father’s look of disapproval but that did not influence her much. But she decided against it with a firm shake of the head. “Only prolong the agony,” she said to herself, with her little smile of self-mockery.

      In the midst of her activities she often found time to run out on the porch where she could observe the progress of the Pee Bee, that slab-sided little marine monster that ploughed through the water so fiercely at the rate of five miles an hour. It would take them fifty minutes to go and come if they did not loiter, but her father would be sure to want to show Counsell the Island, and incidentally show off Counsell to the Islanders; he would get into talk with men at the store. Sure enough it was four o’clock before they started home. Half way over the Pee Bee suddenly stopped. Pen could see her father crouching over the engine in the way she knew so well. Counsell was perched up on the bow looking towards Broome Point. So much the better for him if he knew nothing about engines. Time passed and they did not budge. “How bored he must be!” Pen thought anxiously. “It will sicken him of us!”

      At last the Pee Bee began to move ahead by fits and starts, Pendleton darting to and fro between wheel and engine. How familiar Pen was with the little comedy that was taking place on board! Pendleton would never let anybody else steer! When the Pee Bee finally passed under the bank Pen could still follow her progress by the noise she made. She arranged matters so that supper should come on the table at the moment the disgruntled men crossed the porch.

      She had put on the black net evening dress that had been made over three times. A red peony in her corsage freshened it up a good deal, but in the end Pen threw it away. “Too coquettish!” she said, jeering at her reflection in the mirror. She had no idea how lovely she looked with her perfect neck and arms, her fine capable hands a little roughened by work, her eyes big with feeling yet determinedly reticent, and those soft, red, bitter lips.

      Her heart sank fathoms deep when Pendleton came in alone.

      “Where’s Mr. Counsell?” she asked very offhand.

      “Stopped in his tent to tidy up a bit,” said Pendleton… “Was it necessary…” he began reprovingly.

      “You’d better do the same,” said Pen coolly.

      Pendleton dropped the bag of mail in the hall and went upstairs registering disapproval in every step. Pen rushed the supper out into the oven again. Her heart was singing.

      Though it was still bright out-of-doors the dining-table was lighted by a red-shaded swinging lamp. To be sure the shade was only of paper, but it made none the less a cheerful glow. When Counsell came into the room his good manners failed him; he stopped short and stared at Pen in silence. Pen could not look at him. She said to herself: “He’s amused at my silliness; dressing up in these old rags!”

      At the table they gave Pendleton full sway and it improved his humor. Counsell had discovered that it pleased Pen best to have him encourage her father. Counsell’s conversation with her was limited to compliments on the wonderful eats. Pen received it with her little twisted smile. That was the way she was. She knew he meant it, but it hurt—how it hurt! Because it signified nothing. Nothing would come of it. A long course of self-discipline had taught Pen never to build on the prospect of happiness, that thereby she might be saved a crushing disappointment when happiness failed to materialize.

      At the conclusion of the meal Counsell got СКАЧАТЬ