5
The village of Brookport, Long Island, is a summer place. Itlives, like the mosquitoes that infest it, entirely on its summervisitors. At the time of the death of Mr Ira Nutcombe, the onlyall-the-year-round inhabitants were the butcher, the grocer, thechemist, the other customary fauna of villages, and Miss ElizabethBoyd, who rented the ramshackle farm known locally as Flack's andeked out a precarious livelihood by keeping bees.
If you take down your _Encyclopaedia Britannica_, Volume III,AUS to BIS, you will find that bees are a 'large and naturalfamily of the zoological order Hymenoptera, characterized by theplumose form of many of their hairs, by the large size of thebasal segment of the foot ... and by the development of a "tongue"for sucking liquid food,' the last of which peculiarities, it isinteresting to note, they shared with Claude Nutcombe Boyd,Elizabeth's brother, who for quite a long time--till his money ranout--had made liquid food almost his sole means of sustenance.These things, however, are by the way. We are not such snobs as tothink better or worse of a bee because it can claim kinship withthe _Hymenoptera_ family, nor so ill-bred as to chaff it forhaving large feet. The really interesting passage in the articleoccurs later, where it says: 'The bee industry prospers greatly inAmerica.'
This is one of those broad statements that invite challenge.Elizabeth Boyd would have challenged it. She had not prosperedgreatly. With considerable trouble she contrived to pay her way,and that was all.
Again referring to the 'Encyclopaedia,' we find the words: 'Beforeundertaking the management of a modern apiary, the beekeepershould possess a certain amount of aptitude for the pursuit.' Thiswas possibly the trouble with Elizabeth's venture, considered froma commercial point of view. She loved bees, but she was not anexpert on them. She had started her apiary with a small capital, abook of practical hints, and a second-hand queen, principallybecause she was in need of some occupation that would enable herto live in the country. It was the unfortunate condition of ClaudeNutcombe which made life in the country a necessity. At that timehe was spending the remains of the money left him by his aunt, andElizabeth had hardly settled down at Brookport and got her ventureunder way when she found herself obliged to provide for Nutty acombination of home and sanatorium. It had been the poor lad'smistaken view that he could drink up all the alcoholic liquor inAmerica.
It is a curious law of Nature that the most undeserving brothersalways have the best sisters. Thrifty, plodding young men, who getup early, and do it now, and catch the employer's eye, and savehalf their salaries, have sisters who never speak civilly to themexcept when they want to borrow money. To the Claude Nutcombes ofthe world are vouchsafed the Elizabeths.
The great aim of Elizabeth's life was to make a new man of Nutty.It was her hope that the quiet life and soothing air of Brookport,with--unless you counted the money-in-the-slot musical box at thestore--its absence of the fiercer excitements, might in time pullhim together and unscramble his disordered nervous system. Sheliked to listen of a morning to the sound of Nutty busy in thenext room with a broom and a dustpan, for in the simple lexicon ofFlack's there was no such word as 'help'. The privy purse wouldnot run to a maid. Elizabeth did the cooking and Claude Nutcombethe housework.
Several days after Claire Fenwick and Lord Dawlish, by differentroutes, had sailed from England, Elizabeth Boyd sat up in bed andshook her mane of hair from her eyes, yawning. Outside her windowthe birds were singing, and a shaft of sunlight intruded itselfbeneath the blind. But what definitely convinced her that it wastime to get up was the plaintive note of James, the cat,patrolling the roof of the porch. An animal of regular habits,James always called for breakfast at eight-thirty sharp.
Elizabeth got out of bed, wrapped her small body in a pink kimono,thrust her small feet into a pair of blue slippers, yawned again,and went downstairs. Having taken last night's milk from the ice-box,she went to the back door, and, having filled James's saucer,stood on the grass beside it, sniffing the morning air.
Elizabeth Boyd was twenty-one, but standing there with her hairtumbling about her shoulders she might have been taken by anot-too-close observer for a child. It was only when you saw her eyesand the resolute tilt of the chin that you realized that she was ayoung woman very well able to take care of herself in a difficultworld. Her hair was very fair, her eyes brown and very bright, andthe contrast was extraordinarily piquant. They were valiant eyes,full of spirit; eyes, also, that saw the humour of things. And hermouth was the mouth of one who laughs easily. Her chin, small likethe rest of her, was strong; and in the way she held herself therewas a boyish jauntiness. She looked--and was--a capable littleperson.
She stood besides James like a sentinel, watching over him as hebreakfasted. There was a puppy belonging to one of the neighbourswho sometimes lumbered over and stole James's milk, disposing ofit in greedy gulps while its rightful proprietor looked on withpiteous helplessness. Elizabeth was fond of the puppy, but hersense of justice was keen and she was there to check thisbrigandage.
It was a perfect day, cloudless and still. There was peace in theair. James, having finished his milk, began to wash himself. Asquirrel climbed cautiously down from a linden tree. From theorchard came the murmur of many bees.
Aesthetically Elizabeth was fond of still, cloudless days, butexperience had taught her to suspect them. As was the custom inthat locality, the water supply depended on a rickety windwheel.It was with a dark foreboding that she returned to the kitchen andturned on one of the taps. For perhaps three seconds a stream ofthe dimension of a darning-needle emerged, then with a sad gurglethe tap relapsed into a stolid inaction. There is no stolidity soutter as that of a waterless tap.
'Confound it!' said Elizabeth.
She passed through the dining-room to the foot of the stairs.
'Nutty!'
There was no reply.
'Nutty, my precious lamb!'
Upstairs in the room next to her own a long, spare form began touncurl itself in bed; a face with a receding chin and a smallforehead raised itself reluctantly from the pillow, and ClaudeNutcombe Boyd signalized the fact that he was awake by scowling atthe morning sun and uttering an aggrieved groan.
Alas, poor Nutty! This was he whom but yesterday Broadway hadknown as the Speed Kid, on whom head-waiters had smiled and lesserwaiters fawned; whose snake-like form had nestled in so many afront-row orchestra stall.
Where were his lobster Newburgs now, his cold quarts that werewont to set the table in a roar?
Nutty Boyd conformed as nearly as a human being may to Euclid'sdefinition of a straight line. He was length without breadth. Fromboyhood's early day he had sprouted like a weed, till now in themiddle twenties he gave startled strangers the conviction that itonly required a sharp gust of wind to snap him in half. Lying inbed, he looked more like a length of hose-pipe than anything else.While he was unwinding himself the door opened and Elizabeth cameinto the room.
'Good morning, Nutty!'
'What's the time?' asked her brother, hollowly.
'Getting on towards nine. It's a lovely day. The birds aresinging, the bees are buzzing, summer's in the air. It's one ofthose beautiful, shiny, heavenly, gorgeous days.'
A look of suspicion came into Nutty's eyes. Elizabeth was notoften as lyrical as this.
'There's a catch somewhere,' he said.
'Well, as a matter of fact,' said Elizabeth, carelessly, 'thewater's off again.'
'Confound it!'
'I said that. I'm afraid we aren't a very original family.'
'What a ghastly place this is! Why can't you see old Flack andmake him mend that infernal wheel?'
'I'm going to pounce on him and have another try directly I seehim. Meanwhile, darling Nutty, will you get some clothes on and goround to the Smiths and ask them to lend us a pailful?'
'Oh, gosh, it's over a mile!'
'No, no, not more than three-quarters.'
'Lugging a pail that weighs a ton! The last time I went theretheir dog bit me.'
'I expect that was because you slunk i
n all doubled up, and he gotsuspicious. You should hold your head up and throw your chest outand stride up as if you were a military friend of the family.'
Self-pity lent Nutty eloquence.
'For Heaven's sake! You drag me out of bed at some awful hour ofthe morning when a rational person would just be turning in; yousend me across country to fetch pailfuls of water when I'm feelinglike a corpse; and on top of that you expect me to behave like adrum-major!'
'Dearest, you can wriggle on your tummy, if you like, so long asyou get the fluid. We must have water. I can't fetch it. I'm adelicately-nurtured female.'
'We ought to have a man to do these ghastly jobs.'
'But we can't afford one. Just at present all I ask is to be ableto pay expenses. And, as a matter of fact, you ought to be verythankful that you have got--'
'A roof over my head? I know. You needn't keep rubbing it in.'
Elizabeth flushed.
'I wasn't going to say that at all. What a pig you are sometimes,Nutty. As if I wasn't only too glad to have you here. What I wasgoing to say was that you ought to be very thankful that you havegot to draw water and hew wood--'
A look of absolute alarm came into Nutty's pallid face.
'You don't mean to say that you want some wood chopped?'
'I was speaking figuratively. I meant hustle about and work in theopen air. The sort of life you are leading now is what millionairespay hundreds of dollars for at these physical-culture places. Ithas been the making of you.'
'I don't feel made.'
'Your nerves are ever so much better.'
'They aren't.'
Elizabeth looked at him in alarm.
'Oh, Nutty, you haven't been--seeing anything again, have you?'
'Not seeing, dreaming. I've been dreaming about monkeys. Whyshould I dream about monkeys if my nerves were all right?'
'I often dream about all sorts of queer things.'
'Have you ever dreamed that you were being chased up Broadway by achimpanzee in evening dress?'
'Never mind, dear, you'll be quite all right again when you havebeen living this life down here a little longer.'
Nutty glared balefully at the ceiling.
'What's that darned thing up there on the ceiling? It looks like ahornet. How on earth do these things get into the house?'
'We ought to have nettings. I am going to pounce on Mr Flack aboutthat too.'
'Thank goodness this isn't going to last much longer. It's nearlytwo weeks since Uncle Ira died. We ought to be hearing from thelawyers any day now. There might be a letter this morning.'
'Do you think he has left us his money?'
'Do I? Why, what else could he do with it? We are his onlysurviving relatives, aren't we? I've had to go through life with aghastly name like Nutcombe as a compliment to him, haven't I? Iwrote to him regularly at Christmas and on his birthday, didn't I?Well, then! I have a feeling there will be a letter from thelawyers to-day. I wish you would get dressed and go down to thepost-office while I'm fetching that infernal water. I can't thinkwhy the fools haven't cabled. You would have supposed they wouldhave thought of that.'
Elizabeth returned to her room to dress. She was conscious of afeeling that nothing was quite perfect in this world. It would benice to have a great deal of money, for she had a scheme in hermind which called for a large capital; but she was sorry that itcould come to her only through the death of her uncle, of whom,despite his somewhat forbidding personality, she had always beenfond. She was also sorry that a large sum of money was coming toNutty at that particular point in his career, just when thereseemed the hope that the simple life might pull him together. Sheknew Nutty too well not to be able to forecast his probablebehaviour under the influence of a sudden restoration of wealth.
While these thoughts were passing through her mind she happened toglance out of the window. Nutty was shambling through the gardenwith his pail, a bowed, shuffling pillar of gloom. As Elizabethwatched, he dropped the pail and lashed the air violently for awhile. From her knowledge of bees ('It is needful to remember thatbees resent outside interference and will resolutely defendthemselves,' _Encyc. Brit._, Vol. III, AUS to BIS) Elizabethdeduced that one of her little pets was annoying him. This episodeconcluded, Nutty resumed his pail and the journey, and at thismoment there appeared over the hedge the face of Mr John Prescott,a neighbour. Mr Prescott, who had dismounted from a bicycle,called to Nutty and waved something in the air. To a stranger theperformance would have been obscure, but Elizabeth understood it.Mr Prescott was intimating that he had been down to the post-officefor his own letters and, as was his neighbourly custom on theseoccasions, had brought back also letters for Flack's.
Nutty foregathered with Mr Prescott and took the letters from him.Mr Prescott disappeared. Nutty selected one of the letters andopened it. Then, having stood perfectly still for some moments, hesuddenly turned and began to run towards the house.
The mere fact that her brother, whose usual mode of progressionwas a languid saunter, should be actually running, was enough totell Elizabeth that the letter which Nutty had read was from theLondon lawyers. No other communication could have galvanized himinto such energy. Whether the contents of the letter were good orbad it was impossible at that distance to say. But when shereached the open air, just as Nutty charged up, she saw by hisface that it was anguish not joy that had spurred him on. He wasgasping and he bubbled unintelligible words. His little eyesgleamed wildly.
'Nutty, darling, what is it?' cried Elizabeth, every maternalinstinct in her aroused.
He was thrusting a sheet of paper at her, a sheet of paper thatbore the superscription of Nichols, Nichols, Nichols, and Nichols,with a London address.
'Uncle Ira--' Nutty choked. 'Twenty pounds! He's left me twentypounds, and all the rest to a--to a man named Dawlish!'
In silence Elizabeth took the letter. It was even as he had said.A few moments before Elizabeth had been regretting the imminentdescent of wealth upon her brother. Now she was inconsistentenough to boil with rage at the shattering blow which had befallenhim. That she, too, had lost her inheritance hardly occurred toher. Her thoughts were all for Nutty. It did not need the sight ofhim, gasping and gurgling before her, to tell her how overwhelmingwas his disappointment.
It was useless to be angry with the deceased Mr Nutcombe. He wastoo shadowy a mark. Besides, he was dead. The whole current of herwrath turned upon the supplanter, this Lord Dawlish. She picturedhim as a crafty adventurer, a wretched fortune-hunter. For somereason or other she imagined him a sinister person with a blackmoustache, a face thin and hawk-like, and unpleasant eyes. Thatwas the sort of man who would be likely to fasten his talons intopoor Uncle Ira.
She had never hated any one in her life before, but as she stoodthere at that moment she felt that she loathed and detestedWilliam Lord Dawlish--unhappy, well-meaning Bill, who only a fewhours back had set foot on American soil in his desire to noseround and see if something couldn't be arranged.
Nutty fetched the water. Life is like that. There is nothingclean-cut about it, no sense of form. Instead of being permittedto concentrate his attention on his tragedy Nutty had to trudgethree-quarters of a mile, conciliate a bull-terrier, and trudgeback again carrying a heavy pail. It was as if one of the heroesof Greek drama, in the middle of his big scene, had been asked torun round the corner to a provision store.
The exercise did not act as a restorative. The blow had been toosudden, too overwhelming. Nutty's reason--such as it was--totteredon its throne. Who was Lord Dawlish? What had he done toingratiate himself with Uncle Ira? By what insidious means, withwhat devilish cunning, had he wormed his way into the old man'sfavour? These were the questions that vexed Nutty's mind when hewas able to think at all coherently.
Back at the farm Elizabeth cooked breakfast and awaited herbrother's return with a sinking heart. She was a soft-heartedgirl, easily distressed by the sight of suffering; and she wasaware that Nutty was scarcely of the type that masks its woesbehind a brave and cheerful smile.
Her heart bled for Nutty.
There was a weary step outside. Nutty entered, slopping water. Oneglance at his face was enough to tell Elizabeth that she hadformed a too conservative estimate of his probable gloom. Withouta word he coiled his long form in a chair. There was silence inthe stricken house.
'What's the time?'
Elizabeth glanced at her watch.
'Half-past nine.'
'About now,' said Nutty, sepulchrally, 'the blighter is ringingfor his man to prepare his bally bath and lay out his gold-leafunderwear. After that he will drive down to the bank and draw someof our money.'
The day passed wearily for Elizabeth. Nutty having the air of onewho is still engaged in picking up the pieces, she had not theheart to ask him to play his customary part in the householdduties, so she washed the dishes and made the beds herself. Afterthat she attended to the bees. After that she cooked lunch.
Nutty was not chatty at lunch. Having observed 'About now theblighter is cursing the waiter for bringing the wrong brand ofchampagne,' he relapsed into a silence which he did not againbreak.
Elizabeth was busy again in the afternoon. At four o'clock,feeling tired out, she went to her room to lie down until the nextof her cycle of domestic duties should come round.
It was late when she came downstairs, for she had fallen asleep.The sun had gone down. Bees were winging their way heavily back tothe hives with their honey. She went out into the grounds to tryto find Nutty. There had been no signs of him in the house. Therewere no signs of him about the grounds. It was not like him tohave taken a walk, but it seemed the only possibility. She wentback to the house to wait. Eight o'clock came, and nine, and itwas then the truth dawned upon her--Nutty had escaped. He hadslipped away and gone up to New York.