Part 29 (1/2)

The wife heaved a sigh. ”But poor Lucilla!” she said. ”It is dreadful that she should be forced to grow up here.”

”Lucilla?” asked d.i.c.kory.

”Yes, sir,” she said, ”my eldest daughter. But she is not here now.”

d.i.c.kory thought that it was somewhat odd that he should be again informed of a fact which he knew very well, but he made no remarks upon the subject.

Still wearing his c.o.c.ked hat--for he had nothing else with which to s.h.i.+eld his head from the sun--and with his uniform coat on, for he had not yet an opportunity of ripping from it the letter he carried, and this he would not part from--d.i.c.kory roamed about the little settlement.

Mander was an industrious and thrifty man. His garden, his buildings, and his surroundings showed that.

Walking past a clump of low bushes, d.i.c.kory was startled by a laugh--a hearty laugh--the laugh of a girl. Looking quickly around, he saw, peering above the tops of the bushes, the face of the girl who had laughed.

”It is too funny!” she said, as his eyes fell upon her. ”I never saw anything so funny in all my life. A man in regimentals in this weather and upon a desert island. You look as if you had marched faster than your army, and that you had lost it in the forest.”

d.i.c.kory smiled. ”You ought not to laugh at me,” he said, ”for these clothes are really a great misfortune. If I could change them for something cool I should be more than delighted.”

”You might take off your heavy coat,” said she; ”you need not be on parade here. And instead of that awful hat, I can make you one of long gra.s.s. Do you see the one I have on? Isn't that a good hat? I have one nearly finished which I am making for my father; you may have that.”

d.i.c.kory would most gladly have taken off his coat if, without observation, he could have transferred his sacred letter to some other part of his clothes, but he must wait for that. He accepted instantly, however, the offer of the hat.

”You seem to know all about me,” he said; ”did you hear me tell my story?”

”Every word of it,” said she, ”and it is the queerest story I ever heard. Think of a pirate carrying a man away to marry him to his daughter!”

”But why don't you come from behind that bush and talk to me?”

”I can't do it,” said she, ”I am dressed funnier than you are. Now I am going to make your hat.” And in an instant she had departed.

d.i.c.kory now strolled on, and when he returned he seated himself in the shade near the house. The letter of Captain Vince was taken from his coat-lining and secured in one of his breeches pockets; his heavy coat and waistcoat lay upon the ground beside him, with the c.o.c.ked hat placed upon them. As he leaned back against the tree and inhaled the fragrant breeze which came to him from the forest, d.i.c.kory was a more cheerful young man than he had been for many, many days. He thought of this himself, and wondered how a man, carrying with him his sentence of lifelong misery, could lean against a tree and take pleasure in anything, be it a hospitable welcome, a sense of freedom from danger, a fragrant breeze, or the face of a pretty girl behind a bush. But these things did please him; he could not help it. And when presently came Mrs. Mander, bringing him a light gra.s.s hat fresh from the manufacturer's hands, he took it and put it on with more evident pleasure than the occasion seemed to demand.

”Your daughter is truly an artist,” said d.i.c.kory.

”She does many things well,” said the mother, ”because necessity compels her and all of us to learn to work in various ways.”

”Can I not thank her?” said d.i.c.kory.

”No,” the mother answered, ”she is not here now.”

d.i.c.kory had begun to hate that self-evident statement.

”She's looking out for s.h.i.+ps; her pride is a little touched that she missed Blackbeard's vessel yesterday.”

”Perhaps,” said d.i.c.kory, with a movement as if he would like to make a step in the direction of some tall tree upon a hill.

”No,” said Mrs. Mander, ”I cannot ask you to join my daughter. I am compelled to state that her dress is not a suitable one in which to appear before a stranger.”

”Excuse me,” said d.i.c.kory; ”and I beg, madam, that you will convey to her my thanks for making me such an excellent hat.”

A little later Mander joined d.i.c.kory. ”I am sorry, sir,” said he, ”that I am not able to present you to my daughter Lucilla. It is a great grief to us that her attire compels her to deny herself other company than that of her family. I really believe, sir, that it is Lucilla's deprivations on this island which form at present my princ.i.p.al discontent with my situation. But we all enjoy good health, we have enough to eat, and shelter over us, and should not complain.”