Produced by David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) HER SAILOR A Love Story BY MARSHALL SAUNDERS AUTHOR OF âBEAUTIFUL JOE,â âROSE Ã CHARLITTE,â âDEFICIENT SAINTS,â ETC. âNow if you love the southern sea And pleasant summer weather; Come, let us mount this gallant ship, And sail away together.â [Illustration] New York International Association of Newspapers and Authors 1901 _Copyright, 1899_ BY L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED) George M. Hill Company Printers and Binders Chicago, Ill. I DEDICATE THIS MY FIRST STORY TO MY MOST INDULGENT CRITIC, THE ONE WHO WILL HAVE MOST PATIENCE WITH ITS IMPERFECTIONS,--MY BELOVED MOTHER, Maria Kisborough Freeman Saunders OF HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA. PUBLISHERSâ NOTE. Miss Marshall Saundersâs first published work was issued in England in 1889, under the title, âMy Spanish Sailor.â In the present volume, while not materially altering the plot or action, Miss Saunders has added a number of new incidents, and, as indicated by the change in title, has made some minor changes in the time and scene of the original story. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. âTIS THE UNEXPECTED THAT OCCURS 11 II. SCHOOLMAâAM AND WIFE, BUT NEVER A MOTHER 27 III. SHE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY 45 IV. RUBICON MEADOWS ARE LEFT BEHIND 55 V. FELLOW SHIPS ON THE SEA OF LIFE 70 VI. LET US MAKE A NEW BEGINNING 86 VII. WE ARE PROGRESSING 101 VIII. BEWARE THE FURY OF A PATIENT MAID 117 IX. SINCE YOU REFUSE, I THREATEN 127 X. A GIRLâS WILL IS THE WINDâS WILL 135 XI. A REBUFF FOR ADONIS 147 XII. AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW 163 XIII. A LITTLE IDLE WORD 179 XIV. WHAT ARE YOUR WISHES? 194 XV. WHAT IS LOVE? 203 XVI. PERNICIOUS WORDS IMPREGNED WITH REASON 225 XVII. âMUCH HAVE I BORNE, SINCE DAWN OF MORNâ 239 XVIII. DISTRESS AND SWEET SUBMISSION 257 XIX. IN PLEASANT SUMMER WEATHER 263 XX. THE SECRET OF HER LIFE 285 XXI. âALONE ON A WIDE, WIDE SEAâ 304 XXII. I LOVE YOU 313 HER SAILOR. CHAPTER I. âTIS THE UNEXPECTED THAT OCCURS. âI must wear a willow garland, For my love is on the sea; Heâs a gay and gallant rover, And I âspect heâs false to me.â The particular weeping willow from which this garland was to be gathered was one of the most pliant and flexible in Rubicon Meadows, and it needed to be so; for many years it had been used as a rocking-horse by the slender, graceful girl swinging on one of its drooping branches. Up and down she went, seated comfortably on one of the lower limbs. The time was seven oâclock in the morning, the season early July,--the period of greatest greenness, freshness, and delicacy in the New England summer. The girl was putting in the hour that must elapse before her parents should see fit to descend from their chamber and partake of breakfast; and while she swung, her gaze wandered far out over the meadows toward the distant village twinkling and sparkling in the early morning sun. It was one of the loveliest spots in New Hampshire, but the river and the meadows and the village were an old story to the swinging girl. At present her thoughts were far from her home and her immediate surroundings; and, closing her eyes, she sang more vivaciously than ever: ââHeâs a gay and gallant rover, And I âspect heâs false to me.ââ âNo, he isnât,â said a voice, so deep and so sudden that she almost lost her balance, and her hazel eyes flew open with unwonted rapidity. âAh!â she said, drawing a long breath, and clinging closer to her shaggy green steed. While she had been singing the man had come down the dusty road to the old-fashioned house on the meadows,--a man of medium size, possessing a strongly built, powerful frame, a dark face burnt almost black from the sun, and a peculiar gravity of manner that proclaimed even more loudly than his swarthy complexion some foreign admixture of blood. The girl in the tree knew who he was. This was the lover of whom she had been singing. He was the offspring of an adventurous Spanish maiden, of Valencia, who had run away from home to marry a love-stricken British sailor; and the girl was American, or considered herself so, and her lover was considerably older than herself. When he removed his hat her eyes went unerringly to his one defect, the unmistakable bald spot in the centre of his thick crop of black hair. He delighted in startling her. He had crept softly through the gate and under the tree where she was singing; and gazing demurely down at him as he stood with his head a few inches from her face, she remarked, mischievously, âMr. Owl, do you see the sun? Why did you not wait for the moon?â He reached up one hand and seized the trembling branch, then with the other gently attempted to draw the light head from its nest of green leaves. It would not come. What an exquisite, waggish, obstinate and altogether adorable little head it was. Yet it would not lie on his shoulder. âCome down, chickadee,â he said, longingly. âCome up, Mr. Owl,â she replied, teasingly. She was daring him. Both his powerful arms went up to her perch; and, lifting her down, he seated himself on the rustic bench underneath, and smoothed back the fluffy auburn hair from her white forehead. She sat on his knee with her red lips firmly pressed together. She would not open them. She was obdurate to his appeals for a word, a smile, a caress. âGo back, then, you obstinate parrot,â he said; and, irritably restoring her to her former position, he stretched himself against the back of the seat, and propped his head on his hand. She drew aside one of the willowâs pendant arms. âThis--at seven oâclock in the morning! I am shocked.â âI have been up all night,â he replied, sleepily. âAll night,--then you were after no good.â âNo, no good,â he said, uncovering an eye to look at her. âI was drawing out a new will, arranging papers, etc., preparatory to--â âSuicide?â she asked, in an interested way. âNo, not suicide, matrimony. To-morrow morning at six of the clock I shall cease to be a free man.â The girl looked him all over; she observed curiously the effect of the little flecks of light playing from his dusty walking shoes up to his dark, smooth face with its heavy black moustache. Then she said, hastily, âI shall not marry you to-morrow, Mr. Owl.â âI did not ask you to, Miss Parrot,â he said, disagreeably. The girl resumed her swinging, her eyes this time fixed on the green meadows and the pretty village. For a long time she ignored the presence of her lover as completely as she did that of the huge black watch-dog loitering about the trunk of the tree in expectation of her descent and preparation of his breakfast. However, she was singing of him, although she did not address him, and as she sang the manâs gloomy expression changed to one of complacence, for he was again her theme. ââI remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free, And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea.ââ He knew what she was thinking of. Her busy young brain was occupied with its favourite problem, namely, himself. Ever since childhood she had been told that some mysterious link bound her to him; that every particle of food she ate, every scrap of clothing she wore, came from him; that, in short, she belonged to him, and, according to some secret and to her unknown arrangement, her marriage to him was a predetermined, foreordained thing; that if she refused to submit, she might fall victim to some threatening evil, some shadowy calamity. And now he knew that he had puzzled her, for in the face of all this past instruction he had just made her think he was about to marry some other woman. âWhat are you crying about, birdie?â he asked, suddenly. Big tear-drops were quietly rolling down her cheeks and over her white dress; but, without making any effort to wipe them away, she was singing more unconcernedly than ever. This time, however, a different tune and different words. ââHe sighed her to death with his sighs so deep, He drugged her asleep with his bad black eyes, He tangled her up in his stories steep, And made her think of him marriagewise.ââ âThe dickens! What are you reciting, you little recluse?â he inquired, with pardonable brusqueness. âSomething I made up after reading in a book about a deceitful man who inveigled a poor woman into marriage with him,â she replied, not meeting his eyes, and keeping her own fixed on a distant church steeple. âWhat are you crying about, birdie?â he repeated again, this time in the softest and gentlest of tones. âAm I crying?â she asked, innocently brushing a hand over her cheek. âIt must be for that poor creature who has to be your wife.â âHas to be,--she has promised me fifty times over;â and, forgetting his fatigue, he sprang up, and once more laid a hand on the swinging limb. The girl tried to start it. It would not move, and she exclaimed, imperiously, âPlease take your hand off my horseâs bridle.â The horse was still detained, and, refusing to meet the steady glance of his eyes, she gazed away out over the meadows, and sang, waggishly: ââIâll not marry you, kind sir, she said, sir, she said, sir, she said, Iâll not marry you, kind sir, she said, Because you are too lordly.ââ âLordly,â he muttered, âI am your slave. Look here,â and he cautiously lifted a damp curl from her forehead. âYou are bathed in perspiration. So much for being a woman, for jumping at conclusions, and landing in a paroxysm of jealousy.â The girl was forced to call in her wandering gaze. He would stand there until doomsday if she did not; and, with a provoking uplift of her light brows, she looked down into the two black penetrating eyes that pierced her face like lances. âIt was jealousy,â he said, with satisfaction. âYou thought for an instant that I was speaking of some other woman.â âI was not jealous. I was glad.â âYes, you were,â he said, doggedly, âand I am glad you were--and listen. Circumstances have arisen that make it necessary for me to give you the protection of my name. You trust me fully--â âNot that far!â she exclaimed, measuring off an inch on one of her pink fingers. He laughed, seized the finger, and carried it to his lips. âI cannot explain, but we must be married at once. It will only be an empty ceremony. You are not ready yet to bow your wilful young neck under the yoke of matrimony.â âI shall not have a phantom marriage,â she said, indignantly. âGo away, you bad sea-dog.â âThen let it be a real one,â he said, eagerly. âGive up your will to me. Stop being a wilful spoiled child of a _fiancÃ©e_, and become a loving, sensible little wife. You can if you want to. There is nothing but the frail barrier of your will between us. Sometimes I think I would like to break it, but--â suddenly pausing. âWhat a fool I am! One might as well rhapsodise to a marble statue as to you, icy, passionless child that you are. Perhaps when you get away from your present dead-and-alive surroundings--â âPerhaps what?â she inquired, and her beautiful eyebrows again went into the air. âYou will live with me, make a home for me, act sane instead of insane,â he said, shortly. âWhat do you mean by getting away from my dead-and-alive surroundings?â she inquired. âIt means that after that ceremony to-morrow, which will make you feel neither maid, wife, nor widow, I want to take you away from here. You would like to travel?â âTo travel,--to see new places, new people? I, who have not even been allowed to go to Boston?â and she stretched out the flowing white sleeves of her gown, like wings. âWhat a question to ask me!â âYou could not travel,â he said, gloomily. âThere were reasons.â âI wonât believe there were reasons till I know them,â she said, obstinately. âYou have kept me shut up here. You,--not poor papa and mamma,--until I am so tired of everything, so sick of the same old roads, the same old people, the same girls and boys, even the same sticks and stones. I began to think I was never to leave it. I was to stay here till I died, died, died.â âWell, now is your chance.â âI donât wish any chance this way. I wish to go alone.â He released the branch and threw himself down again on the seat. âYou are going with me.â âAm I going to England?â âYes.â âAm I going on the _Merrimac_? Am I really to have a voyage?â âYes and yes. Do you think I would let you sail under any other manâs orders?â She made no reply for a time, and seemed to be fully occupied in following the windings of the serpent-like Rubicon. âYou need not pose as my wife,--that is, you need not occupy yourself with me. Every man in command of a ship is accustomed to have solitary young persons travelling in his charge. I shall not impose my society upon you--not unless you request it,â he added, slowly. She had traced the Rubicon until it blended with the horizon, and now she looked into his resolved face. âWhat do you propose to do with me when we reach England?â âI propose to follow your wishes to the last degree,â he said, with weary gallantry. âIf you wish to stay in England I will find some suitable place for you; if you wish to come back with me--â a short satisfied laugh finished the sentence. âYou think I will come back with you,â she said, uneasily. âI know you will,â he replied, with a conceit so marked that her quick temper was aroused in a flash. âI shall not go one step with you,â she cried, petulantly. âWhy not?â he asked, coolly. âBecause you will make me--make me--â She choked and stammered, and could not proceed. âMake you what?â he said, gravely. âI shall not force you to be my wife, if that is what you mean. I hope--I want you to consent to live with me sometime; but I give you my word that, if you do not come willingly, you come not at all.â âIt isnât that,â she cried, trying to stamp her foot, but only agitating it violently in the unresisting air. âI know I will give in, I know I will go, I know you will make me mind you--you will make me glad to do it. Oh, I am so angry!â She was indeed angry, and the pink fingers were now raging among the willow leaves, and stripping them from their twigs. âAnd you donât love me,â she went on, furiously, âyou only love having your own detestable way.â âSo you think I donât love you,â he said, meditatively. âOf course you donât. You never blush when you see me, you never stammer when you talk. You take everything for granted. Other men donât act like that.â âWhat do I want to blush for? I have done nothing to be ashamed of,â he said, doggedly, âand why should I stammer? I have got a straight tongue in my head, and how do you know what other men do?â âDonât I read books,--donât I see them? Thereâs one boy in Rubicon Meadows turns perfectly purple when he sees me. I donât like having known you ever since I was a baby. I wish you would go away and let me alone,â and she sulkily executed a movement on the branch by which her back was turned on him. âAll right; I have dangled about you long enough. Now I will give place to the Rubicon Meadows boys. You have played fast and loose with me about our engagement, and I donât believe you ever intend to marry me. If you donât call me back before I get to that second row of gooseberry-bushes you will never see me again.â âYou donât mean ânever,ââ said the girl, hotly, over her shoulder; âyouâre tired and cross, and youâve lost your last remnant of temper. Youâre in a pretty state of mind to come proposing to a girl.â âGood-bye, Nina,â he continued, calmly. âTell your next admirer that I said you were a nice little girl, but you have a d-- a dragon of a temper.â âGood-bye, monster,â she called after him, as he took up his hat and strode away. âYouâre a nice man, but youâre getting stout and middle-aged, and youâre a great deal older than I am, and the bald spot in the middle of your head is increasing, and I just hate you--I hate you.â Wincing under the dainty brutality of her personal allusions, the man clapped his hat on his head and quickened his steps. His gravity of manner was all gone. No one in the world had power to stir him as this slip of a girl had. She watched him going, dashing the tears from her eyes as she watched. He had passed the rose-bush, the ugly rose-bush that never bore anything but worm-eaten roses. She wished that a tempest would come and tear it from its roots. He had stumbled over the big mossy stone by the well, the miserable stone on which every one tripped. She wished he would fall down and break a limb. He had passed the first row of gooseberry-bushes. Why did they not stretch out their thorny arms and tear his clothes? Now he had reached the second row of gooseberries. âPirate!â she shrieked, wrathfully, after him. He would not reply to her. He was fumbling with the fastening of the gate,--the old-fashioned fastening that her father was always forgetting to have mended. She hoped that he might be detained there an hour. No, a gate would not stop him. He had placed a hand on it, and had vaulted over. Now he had disappeared. She would run to the gate to see the last of him, and she slipped down the tree-trunk like a lithe little cat. âThat stupid fastening!â and she furiously rattled the gate. Then she climbed over. She would follow him just for fun--not with the idea of appeasing him. For some seconds she trotted silently after him down the dusty road. Then she called gently, âEsteban!â He did not turn. He had said the second row of gooseberry-bushes, and now he was crossing the Rubicon. And he always kept his word. âEsteban,â she called, wildly, âcome back! You have dropped your pocketbook.â Again he did not look around, but she saw his hand go up to his side. He must have heard her. She tried again. âEsteban, I wish to tell you something--something important.â He would not turn. He did not turn until he heard a heavy splash in the river. âThat tiresome girl,â--and, choking an exclamation, he strode back to the bridge. She had jumped into the river to annoy him. No, she had not gone herself, she had sent the big black dog who was swimming composedly about. The fool--he would do anything she told him. She was in hiding herself,--he could see her brown head under one of the seats of the bridge. The tired man flung himself down on the opposite seat, and fixed his eyes on the head. How brown, nay, how yellow it looked. He got up and peered down at it. It was not his little sweetheart curled up there. He was gazing at a bunch of yellow flowers. He turned hastily to the river. There was her cap floating on the water. He became sick and faint. There had been only one splash, yet where was she? Every tender memory of his life, every ambition for the future, clustered around that brown head. He would go and get her. He would search in the grass of the river bank, he would--his head fell on his arm, and a strange, delicious forgetfulness crept over him. He was going to faint for the first time in his life. He struggled against it, first violently, then feebly, then his head fell on his breast and he knew no more. CHAPTER II. SCHOOLMAâAM AND WIFE, BUT NEVER A MOTHER. While the sailor and the young girl were having their conversation in the garden, two people who were intensely interested in their movements were taking their breakfast in one of the back rooms of the plain, old-fashioned house. One of them was a fat, testy man, with large and prominent watery gray eyes, who was irritably chipping the top from an egg, and varying this occupation by casting frequent and semi-displeased glances through the open window. Mr. Israel Danvers was master of this house, owner of the principal store in the village across the meadows, and husband of the woman with the large, cool, comfortable face, who sat opposite him pouring his coffee. âI wonder what that Fordyce is up to now?â he muttered, with a whole volley of glances outside. âI donât know,â responded Mrs. Danvers, tranquilly, âbut I imagine itâs something important. Otherwise heâd wait for lamplight.â âWhat do you mean by important?â âI mean marriage.â Mr. Danvers fretfully scattered his egg-shell on the table-cloth. âNina is too young to marry.â âShe is eighteen.â âShe is too young, I say. She is nothing but a butterfly.â âShe is certainly frivolous,â said Mrs. Danvers, with a judicial air. âWould you have her a suspicious old woman?â retorted her husband. âSheâs got the b-best heart and the s-sweetest disposition,--sheâs a fine girl,â he concluded, lamely. He could not be eloquent, but he felt deeply, and his prominent eyes watered in a sincere and affectionate manner as he went on with his breakfast. âWhereâs my coffee?â he asked, presently. Mrs. Danvers started slightly, and passed him the forgotten cup. âYouâve half filled it with sugar,â he said, âI guess you were dreaming when you poured it.â Again she said nothing, and quietly poured him another cup; but he persisted, âWhat was you thinking of, Melinda?â âI was pondering on the mysteries of the law of mutual selection, if you must know,â she said, calmly. He surveyed her suspiciously. She had been a school-teacher before she married him, and her education had been greatly superior to his own. Comprehending his state of mind, she went on, kindly: âWith regard to Fordyce and Nina. He lands in a state where there are one hundred and fifty thousand more women than men. The most of those women have good eyes, ears, noses, fine heads of hair, yet he comes rushing over the border into New Hampshire.â âIâll venture to say there isnât another Nina in Massachusetts,â said the fat man. âI agree with you there. She is unique.â âDo you think she likes Fordyce well enough to marry him?â he asked, anxiously. Mrs. Danvers became thoughtful, until an impatient movement from her husband forced an opinion from her. âI donât know, Israel. I guess she likes him better than she pretends to, and youâve no occasion to worry about her marrying him. Wild horses wouldnât make her do anything she didnât want to do; but I donât know all her mind about Fordyce. She understands me better than I understand her.â Surprised at this unlooked-for admission, he said, agreeably, âSheâs a clever little coot.â âClever,--sheâs the smartest girl I ever saw. Sheâs too smart. Iâm afraid Fordyce will have trouble with her.â âClever, how clever?â interposed Mr. Danvers, up in arms for his favourite. âYou donât mean to say sheâs sneaky?â âNo, not sneaky,â said Mrs. Danvers, in deep thought; ânot sneaky, but shy and nervous, and pretending sheâs got plenty of coolness when she hasnât, and more one for getting her way secretly than openly. And sheâs full of tricks and moods and quirks of all kinds. You donât understand her, Israel.â Mr. Danvers did not know whether to be gratified or annoyed by his wifeâs expansive state of mind. She had never before spoken just so freely of their adopted daughter. âI donât try to understand her,â he said, doubtfully. âI just take her as she is.â âFordyce donât. He wants to know every thought in her mind,â proceeded Mrs. Danvers, âand thinks he knows them, too, but sometimes heâs too sure.â âHeâs too short with her, too short,â observed Mr. Danvers, pettishly. âHe ought to take into account that sheâs got a will of her own.â âHeâs a primitive man; heâd kill any one that took her away from him. You see heâs got nothing but her.â Mr. Danvers was silent. He did not know what she meant by a primitive man. âHe could step right out into the woods and live with savages,â explained Mrs. Danvers; âand if he wanted a woman heâd knock her down with his club and carry her off to his cave with the best of them.â Mr. Danvers treated her to an exhibition of open-mouthed astonishment and disapproval. âMelinda, are you crazy to talk of such goings-on?â âMen donât do such things nowadays,â she said, soothingly, âbut thereâs a heap of wild nature in a good many of us. I guess youâd like to turn Fordyce out this very minute.â âYou bet your life I would,â said the fat man, with energy, and without premeditation. âIâd send him flying down that road. Heâs too old for Nina. Let her marry one of the boys around here.â âDo you know what she calls the Rubicon Meadows boys?â asked Mrs. Danvers, dryly. âNo, but I know she donât mean a third of what she says.â âGiggling colts, Israel. Colts, just think of it. You see Fordyce has a kind of manner of knowing everything, and heâs out in the world. Then he comes stealing in her life like a mystery, and she likes that. I guess weâve got to let him have her. We couldnât stop him, anyway. Heâll tame her and sheâll do him good. I expect heâs mortal blue at times.â Mr. Danvers relapsed into sullenness, tinged with vindictiveness. He understood his wife well enough to know that the burden of her talk was the duty of resignation. âYouâve always been hard on that girl,â he said, irascibly. âHard on her, Israel! Seventeen years Iâve had her, and there isnât a soul in Rubicon Meadows besides you that guesses she isnât our own child. Howâs that for being hard on her?â Melindaâs eyes were sparkling. She looked ten years younger than she had before their conversation began, and he abruptly drifted into memories of bygone days. So far back did he go that it was some time before he murmured, absently: âHowsomever, youâve been well paid for it.â âPaid for it,â she repeated, with asperity, âthere are some things money canât pay for.â This was a statement he could not deny, yet in some indefinable and inexplicable way he felt that she had been slightly lacking in her duty to the lovable butterfly outside. Melinda did not admire the pretty creature as he did; and at this very instant her unusual outspokenness and animation arose from her acute suspicion that their vivacious charge was about spreading her wings for flight. She was a good woman, though, this wife of his, and she was only a trifle queer. However, everybody seemed queer but himself, and he sank into bitter and resigned reflection, and muttered, almost inaudibly, âAfter all said and done, weâve got to take folks after the pattern theyâre made, and not as weâd make âem over.â Mrs. Danvers saw that the tide was turning. âIsrael,â she said, solemnly shaking her head at him, âno one will ever know what Iâve gone through with that child. When she was laid in my arms a little, motherless babe, and her tiny fingers curled around mine, my heart went out to her. Sheâs got it yet, but sheâs been greatly provoking, and youâve made too much of her, Israel, you know you have.â âIâll not deny Iâve favoured her some,â he said, gruffly. âIâve never spoken about it before,â she replied, nervously, âand Iâll never say it again; but Iâve been jealous of that girl, Israel, real jealous; and yet, with it all, youâll not miss her as much when she goes as I will. A man gets over things. A woman broods.â Mr. Danvers weakly toyed with a morsel of bread. âIâve got some of the mother spirit,â his wife went on, with tears in her eyes. âEnough of it, thank the Lord, to make me sorry to have her go. Weâve got to be lonely, Israel, real lonely, after she leaves, and Iâm glad to have this talk first.â Mr. Danvers was embarrassed, exceedingly embarrassed; and for the first time in his life was willing to acknowledge that possibly he might have done wrong, possibly he might have indulged too much the pink and white gipsy in the muslin frock outside. However, it was not befitting his position as head of the household to eat too large a piece of humble pie at one time, so he said, protestingly, âAs for jealousy, how you women run on. Youâre just like wildfire. Now Iâve liked that little girl just as if she was my own, but not like you, Melinda. A manâs wife is different. I wonder you speak of such a thing, and I a deacon in the church.â âI wasnât speaking of anything but your acting like a foolish father,â she said, indignantly. âOf course youâd never think of comparing Nina to me. Sheâs only a baby, and whatever happens, Israel Danvers, I hope youâll remember I am your wedded wife. I know Iâm getting old--â She broke down, and tears finished the sentence. Mr. Danvers was aghast. He had not seen her cry for twenty years,--not since her mother died. Getting up with difficulty, he waddled to her end of the table, and, gingerly tapping her shoulder, ejaculated, âSo, so, there,--so, so.â Mrs. Danvers wiped her eyes and gave him a slight push. âIâm not a cow, Israel, and go back to your seat. Thereâs some one coming.â Nina was quietly slipping in through the window. Approaching the foot of the table, she took Mr. Danversâs bald head in her embrace and kissed him sweetly and fervently. Then, nearing the head of the table, she pecked at Mrs. Danversâs cheek in an affectionate but perfunctory manner. âHereâs your mush,â said Mrs. Danvers, uncovering a small bowl. âIsrael, pass the cream; whereâs Captain Fordyce, Nina?â âI left him on the bridge. I think he must be waiting for the moon,â she said, seriously. Her lips were pale, and there was a nervous expression about her eyes, and Mrs. Danvers said to herself, âTheyâve had a quarrel.â âEver see him by daylight before, pussy?â asked Mr. Danvers. âNo, daddy.â âMust look kind of queer.â âHe looks older,â said the girl, with her spoon poised over her mush. She had fallen into a reverie and was gazing fixedly out the window. After a time she roused herself and said: âHe had a faint turn on the bridge.â âHe--faint?â said Mrs. Danvers, incredulously. âYes,â said Nina, with a queer look, and dropping her eyes. âHe has been working hard and not eating much, and the sun shone on his head and made him dizzy. I thought, mamma, you might give him some medicine.â âIâll give him some if heâll take it,â said Mrs. Danvers, grimly, âbut heâs not one to be coddled. What is he coming in the daytime for? Does he want anything particular?â Nina turned quickly and gave her an owlish stare,--a stare so sudden that Mrs. Danvers had not time to avert her own gray eyes shining with so glad a light. âWould you let him marry me right away, mamma, if he wanted to?â âWell,â hesitated Mrs. Danvers, âyour case isnât like others. Of course your engagement has been standing a good while.â âDoes he want to marry you right off?â asked Mr. Danvers, sharply. âYes, dear daddy,â said the girl, softly, âbut you wonât let me go, will you?â Mr. Danvers tried to speak, but only uttered a low, confused rumble like that of a helpless animal. He could do nothing, and the girl turned to her adopted mother. Her curiously expectant glance was not met. Mrs. Danversâs head was bent over her plate. There was no protest there. The marriage must take place. Nina, having fully satisfied herself on this point, reached out her hand for the sugar-bowl; and, carefully dusting her oatmeal, poured cream on it, and proceeded to take her breakfast in silence and composure. âWhy, thereâs Captain Fordyce,â said Mrs. Danvers, suddenly. âCome in, come in,â she went on, addressing the sailor, who stood by the low, open window. âYou must want some breakfast.â They were all staring at him, but he looked his usual self, and, with a brief salutation to his host and hostess, he entered the room and seated himself at the table. âHave some hot drink,â said Mrs. Danvers, passing him a cup. âIt will make you feel better.â His gaze went suspiciously to Nina, and the faintest and most evanescent of blushes passed over his dark face. âI had no dinner yesterday,â he said, gruffly, âand the racket on the wharf was deafening.â âDid you have a prosperous voyage from England?â asked Mrs. Danvers, amiably. âYes.â âAnd an agreeable company of passengers?â âFair,--I didnât see much of them.â âWere there any nice, nice girls on board?â lisped Nina, in her infantine fashion. âPlenty,â he said unexpectedly, fixing her with an indulgent stare. She did not address him again during the meal, although she listened attentively to every one of the curt sentences with which he favoured her parents. He was always grave, almost severe with them. Why was he not with them, with the rest of the world, as he was with her? Why at her slightest word did he lose his air of command, soften his tone, and adjust himself to any mood she happened to be in? Was it only because he loved her, or was there some other reason? It was certainly very puzzling, and the man across the table, who was intently following her meditations, smiled to himself, as he heard the perturbed little sigh with which she always concluded them. Mr. Danvers scarcely spoke, and the others rarely addressed him; for they plainly felt that the atmosphere about him was somewhat electrical. âPoor old fatty,â soliloquised Captain Fordyce, âheâs blue to think of losing his little playmate. Iâm sorry for him,â and he gazed approvingly at the stout man. âMadam there loves Nina because she is a dressed-up doll, representing duty and dollars;â and he favoured his hostess with a sardonic glance. âSchoolmaâam and wife, but never a mother. Time my little wench was out of this.â Mr. Danvers finished his breakfast, then rose in sulky silence. While Nina ran to get his hat and cane, he addressed Captain Fordyce: âSo you want to steal our child?â âI do.â The fat man choked back some emotion. âIs she willing to go?â âYes.â Mr. Danvers brought his plump fist down on the table with noiseless emphasis, and threw a defiant glance at his wife. âWell, mark this, sheâs always got a home here if anything befalls you. And donât ever force the truth on her. I wouldnât for a thousand dollars have her know she isnât our child.â âAnd I wouldnât for a thousand more,â said Captain Fordyce, coolly. âWould not this be a good time to inform her of the true state of affairs?â interposed Mrs. Danvers. âIs not truth always better than error?â Captain Fordyce frowned at her, Mr. Danvers ejaculated, âHold your tongue, Melinda;â but nothing further could be said, for at that instant Nina came gliding back. âHere is your hat, daddy dear,â then, tucking her hand under his arm, she left the room with him. Mrs. Danvers followed the two with a peculiar glance, and Captain Fordyce, seeing it, smiled. âAre her traps in order for travelling?â he asked. âYes,â she replied, laconically. âI will take her away to-morrow.â She looked slightly ashamed, and fell into a silence that lasted until Nina returned, when she wandered away into the kitchen. The girl had been standing a long time at the gate watching the sorrowful lines of the substantial figure plodding across the meadows. Her face was flushed and disturbed; and, scarcely knowing what she did, she seated herself at the table and made a blind onslaught on a loaf of bread. âHere, give me that knife, you will cut yourself,â said Captain Fordyce. He laid a thin slice on her plate, then, in a state of utter beatification, for he had had his own way in every particular during a short conversation they had had on the bridge, he sat watching her eat it. âThree days from now you will be having your breakfast on the _Merrimac_,â he said, softly. Nina made a wry face and tried to bury her face in her coffee-cup. He laughed, and, having finished his breakfast, got up and strolled about the room, looking at the pictures hung on the walls. A quarter of an hour later Nina was alone in the hall with him. He had exchanged a calm good-bye with Mrs. Danvers, after having promised to return to dinner. His leave-taking with his _fiancÃ©e_ promised to be more lengthy. âOh, do make haste,â she said, inhospitably handing him his hat. âI have my canaries to do, and the dog and cat to feed, and ever so many things beside.â âTell me again that you are sorry for being naughty,â he said, gently, âfor throwing your cap in the water, and hiding in the rushes.â âIâm sorry I was sorry,â she said, stoutly; but at the same time, lest she should hurt his feelings, she gave his fingers a gentle, a very gentle pressure. âYou angel,â he said, not rapturously nor passionately, but rather as if he were stating a very commonplace and threadbare fact. She dropped his fingers as suddenly as if they had turned to red-hot metal in her grasp, and turned her head very far away from him. âAnd you will find time among your multitudinous occupations to help your mamma pack,â he went on. âI donât think I will go,â she said, feebly. âI think I am going to change my mind again.â âAll right,â he said, taking out his watch. âI will give you a minute. Shall I go or stay? You must make up your mind decidedly before to-morrow. There must be no fooling with sacred things.â She roguishly bent her face over the watch. âTimeâs up,â he said; âgood-bye.â With a wilful shrug of her shoulders she took the watch in her hand. âLet me put it back.â He stood patiently while she restored it to its place, and insinuated her thumb and finger in another pocket. âWhatâs this?â she observed, drawing out a slip of newspaper. âGive it to me,â he said, trying to take it from her. But she was too quick for him, and darting to the staircase read aloud the headings of the slip she held in her hand. âBoston Dustman Refused Seventeen Times by His Lady-love, Who Was a Rag-picker. Upon the Occasion of His Eighteenth Refusal Slapped Her in the Face, Whereupon She Promptly Accepted Him.â âHorrid man! I would have slapped back!â exclaimed Nina, indignantly. Captain Fordyce was grinning broadly. âHere,--give me that,â and he restored it to his pocket. âIt brought me luck.â âLuck with me?â she cried. âYes, birdie.â She was about to dart away, but he held her gently by the arm, and, stroking his moustache in a meditative way, said: âOne day, years ago, I remember seeing you dragged out of bed at midnight--a rosy, tumbled heap--to say âHow dâye doâ to a rough young sailor, whom you kissed and were not at all afraid of. That was our first merry meeting, and every one since has been flavoured, seasoned, sanctified, what you will, by the same charming salute. You are not going to cut me off this time as you did this morning?â and he brought his black, teasing eyes close to her face. âI made up for it on the bridge,â she said, hastily. âLet me go, you--you Spaniard.â This was her choicest word of abuse, but it did not take effect now. âNo, you didnât,â he said, obstinately. âNow, Nina!â The faint, the very faint tone of command in his voice warned her that this was one of the occasions on which she must not refuse him. But she drew her hand across her lips afterward, and murmured something about salt to her eyeballs. He looked down at the orbs in question. âThose are bright, happy eyes, child. You donât mean one-half you say;â and with this impeachment on her veracity he took his leave, and hurried away in the direction of the village. CHAPTER III. SHE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY. At the foot of the Danvers garden was a grassy field, and through the field ran a laughing, purling brook hurrying to join the sinuous Rubicon winding through the meadow beyond. The brook was a favourite resort of Ninaâs; but now, at eleven oâclock at night, she was supposed to be in bed; and, deprived of the cheering light of her presence, her lover rambled alone on the grassy bank. No, not her lover,--her new-made husband. There had been a slight change in his plans. Thanks to his business activity and habits of despatch, he had so hurried these slow country people that he had been able to have his marriage ceremony performed on the afternoon of his day of arrival, instead of postponing it until the following morning. Now as he walked to and fro smoking and talking to himself, he chuckled delightedly. âThat old white-haired magistrate looked scared. He will not get over his fright for a week. However, Nina wonât have to get up so early in the morning. We can take a later train to the city. Poor little thing,--what the dickens am I pitying her for?â and he paused, impatiently. âSheâs safely married and provided for. Sheâs glad to get out of this--never in the world would have settled down here attached to one of these lumbering youths. Good enough fellows,â he went on, thoughtfully, âbetter than I am; but sheâs too fine for them, too high-strung. No material for a farmerâs wife there. Now weâll see her character unfold. I must be patient with her.â He stopped short and stared up at the sky. He had one instant of an exquisite and sympathetic comprehension of the faults and beauties in the character of a fellow creature. Then his exalted expression faded, and he shook himself, impatiently. âPshaw! what a black expanse! A jetty pincushion stuck full of pins. Darkest night this month. So I am married,â and he resumed his walk. âWhere are my complex emotions? I am only glad Iâve got her to have and to hold and to win for my wife. Curious little fox, pretending to be frightened, and giving me the cold shoulder all day. She will come around in time, and make a home for me. Sheâs the cutest thing in the world, as these Americans say. She will keep me amused,â and he laughed aloud, and waved his cigar like a small red torch in the darkness. âI must sell some of that railway stock,â he went on, presently, âour expenses will increase now; for once out of her nest my bird will want new feathers,â and his mind wandered off to practical and financial affairs. In the midst of his hurry through the day, he had found time to take a nap, and his sleepiness and faintness of the morning had passed away. Occasionally he glanced in the direction of the little black village gone sound asleep, where was his inn for the night; but he was not ready to go to it yet. The soft evening air allured him, and, with the luxurious appreciation of an alternate seafarer and dweller in cities, he revelled in the seldom enjoyed pleasure of a country night with its subdued and muffled noises. âJove! I like those land smells,â he muttered, âearthy and sweet they are and unlike the sea, though for all time give me the dash of briny. And the noises--let me count them,â and he paused again and elevated one ear more than the other. âDistant dogs barking--when do the brutes sleep? Cow bawling--her calf has been taken away; owl tooting like a fog-horn. Brats of birds stirring in their nests, one fellow crowding the other--just heard them swear in twitter,â and he gazed into the sombre mass of an elm above him. âEngine shrieking--fast train for Boston. Footsteps pattering--hello! from Danversâs house, too. Naughty Bridget--didnât Nina say the grocer had a weakness for her fried cakes? But surely they donât walk and talk as late as this from that exemplary household. However, Iâll not spoil her fun,â and he moved back in the shelter of the tree. A minute later he resumed his place by the stepping-stones. Dark as it was, he knew that slender, white figure emerging from the embrace of night. âNina!â he ejaculated, in a fond and foolish tone, âmy little girl--coming for me!â She gave a guilty start and drew back. âWhat are you carrying?â he went on; and, approaching her, he took a small black bag from her hand. âMy--my things for the night,â she stammered. âAre you walking in your sleep?â he asked, in a curious tone. âN-no; I am going to spend the night with a friend,--a girl I know. I am very fond of her. She lives across the meadows.â âIndeed; shall I see you there before I go to the village?â and he politely threw away his cigar. Nina hesitated. This was not quite what she wished, and he went on: âPerhaps you do not care for me to see where you are going?â âNo, I donât,â she said, in a low voice. âI suppose you are planning to come back in the morning and take the train with me?â he asked, in a livelier way. âPerhaps I had better not,â she said, evasively. âBy Jove! I believe sheâs running away,â he inwardly exclaimed. Outwardly he was cool. âDid you tell Mrs. Danvers about your ardent wish to see this friend?â âNo,â she murmured. âYou must think a heap of her to be rambling off this time of night to see her,â he went on. âPray do not let me detain you.â The girl swung her foot to and fro as if feeling for the first stepping-stone; and yet she probably knew perfectly well where it was. Then she said, with a queer catch in her voice, âIt looks blacker over there.â She had been brought up in the country. She was no more afraid of the darkness than he was, but he said, agreeably, âYou want me to go with you?â âN-not all the way. I donât want you to see where I go.â There was something peculiar in her voice, something peculiar in her manner, and the puzzled man knit his brows. There had not been quite enough consternation when she discovered him. She was acting, but acting badly. He would edge up on the stage a bit, and he went nearer and peered at her downcast head. What he saw decided and enlightened him; for he suddenly choked back a laugh, and retreated into the deeper gloom of the tree, from whence a voice presently issued in pretended severity: âNina, why did you marry me to-day?â Now the girl was happy. She left the stepping-stone on which she had placed both her small feet and resumed her footing on dry ground. âI married you because I promised to do so. You have been very good to me ever since I was a little child. I am grateful to you, and if there is any profit to you in my marriage, I am willing for you to have it.â âProfit,â he muttered to himself. âGood heavens, Miss Parrot, what do you mean? This is something you have learned by rote.â However, he kept his wonder to himself, and said aloud and still
{'title': 'Her Sailor: A Love Story by Marshall Saunders', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}