minute many people are reading books by that man; I will tell you how to identify them. They own a furtive brow, men and women alike; they bend their slight shoulders, they tug their lips and fret. Mr. Becket, do you find yourself improved for your new understanding of human darkness?”
I adjusted my own shoulders. I had a new admiration for Royal Davies, that he could be a match for her. “Few things have managedto improve me, Celia,” I admitted, “although a day or two of your company might.”
Then she laughed, which was the youngest thing about her; Royal took her hand with an expression of delight, and I was released from that table.
6
I think often of Celia Davies. She could squeeze a conversation to its rind, leap it east to west, or change its axis wholly. Her wits were as supple as her fingers were rigid. I don’t know her story, for she was an adept evader of questions, but her life would be a giddy crossword, working down from some clues and across from others.
By dusk I felt in the home of friends. I had ceased to dread my forthcoming interrogation, and Royal suggested with some pride that I go down to his dock and enjoy a little evening on the river.
People who live on riverbanks understand one another. If you can’t be on a boat, a dock will do. Royal Davies’s dock was wide with a bench on the end where you might sit in contentment with the ponderous Kaw slipping under you, and beside the bench Royal had bolted an iron post on which you could hang flowers or a kerosene lantern.
“What are you writing, Mr. Becket?”
It was the granddaughter, Emma, holding a slip of paper and her copy of
Bligh
.
“A letter to my wife.” Though a poor one, awkwardly composed.
She blushed brightly at this and said, “Is it a love letter?”
“Yes,” I replied, which renewed the blush. She had an ungainly gallantry—I found myself thinking of Redstart, who would’ve ignored her even as he stood on his hands to catch her eye.
“Is Mr. Davies coming down?” I asked, for she seemed out of words.
“No, he is rubbing Grandma Celia’s hands. He has a balm he uses every night.”
“They’re going to miss you when you move to California,” I said.
“Oh, no!” she replied, dismissing the notion.
I scratched away at my letter in the dying light.
“Mr. Becket?”
“Yes?”
“Did you love writing
Martin Bligh
?”
“I did, yes.”
“I wanted to show you my bookshelf, but Grandpa said not to trouble you,” she said, then with disarming practicality, “I like you better than Spearman, but not so well as Alcott. Here.”
She had taken the time to copy down the titles of all her books, some two dozen of them, and she handed me this inventory; thus I was given a peep into her life, which was a rich one, for there was
Lorna Doone
, and
The White Company
, and
Last of the Mohicans
, and
Life on the Mississippi
, and
Kidnapped
. Of course there were also lesser titles, such as
Her Prairie Knight
and
Nevada Juliette
.
“It’s a winsome collection, Emma,” I said, squinting down the list. And it was—a most gaudy parade, and she loved it all. I said, “Have you a favorite character among all these?”
Without delay she answered. “Alan Breck, who kills his enemies in the roundhouse and writes a song about it before the bodies cool.”
It is a recurring sorrow to me never to have raised a daughter.
She said, “Will you read to me from your book?”
“It’ll be getting dark,” I observed, and she fled in her skirt for the lantern.
There is a scene where Martin is being pursued by Chiricahuas—his horse has run itself to death and Martin has strapped the mailbags to his own back and is running full claw through a mesquite thicket. Probably such a thing is not possible—I’d never seen a mesquite thicket to know. Martin anyway dives and scuttles and is a clever jackrabbit, but these are the scheming Apaches so you would have to say the outlook is bad. It’s a tense scene, if I say so,
I adjusted my own shoulders. I had a new admiration for Royal Davies, that he could be a match for her. “Few things have managedto improve me, Celia,” I admitted, “although a day or two of your company might.”
Then she laughed, which was the youngest thing about her; Royal took her hand with an expression of delight, and I was released from that table.
6
I think often of Celia Davies. She could squeeze a conversation to its rind, leap it east to west, or change its axis wholly. Her wits were as supple as her fingers were rigid. I don’t know her story, for she was an adept evader of questions, but her life would be a giddy crossword, working down from some clues and across from others.
By dusk I felt in the home of friends. I had ceased to dread my forthcoming interrogation, and Royal suggested with some pride that I go down to his dock and enjoy a little evening on the river.
People who live on riverbanks understand one another. If you can’t be on a boat, a dock will do. Royal Davies’s dock was wide with a bench on the end where you might sit in contentment with the ponderous Kaw slipping under you, and beside the bench Royal had bolted an iron post on which you could hang flowers or a kerosene lantern.
“What are you writing, Mr. Becket?”
It was the granddaughter, Emma, holding a slip of paper and her copy of
Bligh
.
“A letter to my wife.” Though a poor one, awkwardly composed.
She blushed brightly at this and said, “Is it a love letter?”
“Yes,” I replied, which renewed the blush. She had an ungainly gallantry—I found myself thinking of Redstart, who would’ve ignored her even as he stood on his hands to catch her eye.
“Is Mr. Davies coming down?” I asked, for she seemed out of words.
“No, he is rubbing Grandma Celia’s hands. He has a balm he uses every night.”
“They’re going to miss you when you move to California,” I said.
“Oh, no!” she replied, dismissing the notion.
I scratched away at my letter in the dying light.
“Mr. Becket?”
“Yes?”
“Did you love writing
Martin Bligh
?”
“I did, yes.”
“I wanted to show you my bookshelf, but Grandpa said not to trouble you,” she said, then with disarming practicality, “I like you better than Spearman, but not so well as Alcott. Here.”
She had taken the time to copy down the titles of all her books, some two dozen of them, and she handed me this inventory; thus I was given a peep into her life, which was a rich one, for there was
Lorna Doone
, and
The White Company
, and
Last of the Mohicans
, and
Life on the Mississippi
, and
Kidnapped
. Of course there were also lesser titles, such as
Her Prairie Knight
and
Nevada Juliette
.
“It’s a winsome collection, Emma,” I said, squinting down the list. And it was—a most gaudy parade, and she loved it all. I said, “Have you a favorite character among all these?”
Without delay she answered. “Alan Breck, who kills his enemies in the roundhouse and writes a song about it before the bodies cool.”
It is a recurring sorrow to me never to have raised a daughter.
She said, “Will you read to me from your book?”
“It’ll be getting dark,” I observed, and she fled in her skirt for the lantern.
There is a scene where Martin is being pursued by Chiricahuas—his horse has run itself to death and Martin has strapped the mailbags to his own back and is running full claw through a mesquite thicket. Probably such a thing is not possible—I’d never seen a mesquite thicket to know. Martin anyway dives and scuttles and is a clever jackrabbit, but these are the scheming Apaches so you would have to say the outlook is bad. It’s a tense scene, if I say so,
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