CHAPTERXII.
I always disliked the trombone.
Fidette remained in the same ecstatic, absent-minded condition until we separated—I to pass a most wretched and unhappy night.
Alone with my thoughts, I marveled at the complete possession that this pretty Sargasson girl had obtained of my heart, and realized that I must decide promptly whether I meant to continue the contest for her affection or surrender to an unknown and unseen rival. This latter proposition was too repugnant to be considered.
Evidently this Portuguese, this Fernandez, was unworthy of Fidette. By every token he ought to have been dead. If his vessel had been scuttled, as Fidette believed it had been, it was his duty to have gone down with the ship. If he were a brave man and worthy of a good girl’s love, he would be dead; the very fact that he was still alive, and playing the infernal instrument, was proof positive that he was a cowardly fellow, unworthy of any woman’s love.
This logic suited me down to the ocean’s bed, for I had developed a violent aversion to this man, although I never had known of his existence prior to that night.
The serious problem with me, however, was—Did Fidette really love him?
A young girl manifests her affection for a man in such an unmistakable manner that even a child can read her thoughts and look into her heart. One does not have to go to the Sargasso Sea to understand what Imean. In all ranks of society the maidenly heart is very much alike, prior to the time that its possessor has learned the art of dissembling.
Fidette had been in love before and was ingenuous enough to confess and to confirm it by unfeigned exhibition of joy. Had she been an American city girl, she probably might have affected an indifference upon the return to life of her former admirer—but she was simply a natural woman. Too natural!
Ah, but her heart was au naturel? What a comfort was that thought!
Tossing out a sleepless night, I was on deck at the first appearance of dawn, and scanned the horizon to the westward in search of the ship upon which the mysterious trombone player had taken refuge. Not a vessel was in sight! I reasoned with myself that perhaps we had been deceived by our imaginations—that we had not heard the music. Assuming that the man existed, that the trombone had been played, we might have been the victims of an echo, because there was no vessel to the westward!
My duties about the ship employed every moment of my time until early afternoon. I then ventured to call upon Fidette. She received me coldly. Her entire manner indicated that she was indifferent to any further attentions from me.
Stunned by her reception, I had the audacity to taunt her about her lover. I showed her the ill logic of his being alive—developing the thought far more fully than had been done above. In vehement words I abused the fellow for being alive at all, declaring that it was his bounden duty never to have reappeared in Fidette’s path.
“If he be not a spook, or a Flying Dutchman, but a man of flesh and blood who cares for you and respects you, he would have boarded your father’s vessel before this time, in order that you might enjoy the pleasure of seeing him again,” I said jibingly.
“He would have done nothing of the sort,” was Fidette’sfirm reply. “What do you know about our social customs? We are on the eve of the ‘Week of Silence’—our great festival of the year. Fernandez and I must not meet until after the expiration of that gala period. Our minds would not be properly prepared for its joyous solemnities. But don’t you worry; Fernandez shall dance the Bamboola with me at the end of the week.”
Ah! but I did worry.