Queen of Sheba & My Cousin the Colonel

Bailey Aldrich Thomas

Description

Though best remembered as a poet and as an influential editor at several august publications, including New York Illustrated News and Atlantic Monthly, author Thomas Bailey Aldrich also wrote a number of elegant, understated and witty novels, and later turned to subjects that hewed more closely to the conventions of the action-adventure genre. Fans of intelligent, finely wrought fiction will appreciate this volume that brings together some of Aldrich's most popular tales.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775459293
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE QUEEN OF SHEBA & MY COUSIN THE COLONEL
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THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
 
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The Queen of Sheba & My Cousin the Colonel First published in 1907 ISBN 978-1-77545-929-3 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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THE QUEEN OF SHEBA I - Mary II - In Which there is a Family Jar III - In Which Mary Takes a New Departure IV - The Odd Adventure Which Befell Young Lynde in the Hill Country V - Cinderella's Slipper VI - Beyond the Sea VII - The Denhams VIII - From Geneva to Chamouni IX - Montanvert X - In the Shadow of Mont Blanc XI - From Chamouni to Geneva MY COUSIN THE COLONEL I II III IV V "FOR BRAVERY ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE" I II
THE QUEEN OF SHEBA
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I - Mary
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In the month of June, 1872, Mr. Edward Lynde, the assistant cashier andbookkeeper of the Nautilus Bank at Rivermouth, found himself in aposition to execute a plan which he had long meditated in secret.
A statement like this at the present time, when integrity in a place oftrust has become almost an anomaly, immediately suggests a defalcation;but Mr. Lynde's plan involved nothing more criminal than a horsebackexcursion through the northern part of the State of New Hampshire. Aleave of absence of three weeks, which had been accorded him inrecognition of several years' conscientious service, offered youngLynde the opportunity he had desired. These three weeks, as alreadyhinted, fell in the month of June, when Nature in New Hampshire is inher most ravishing toilet; she has put away her winter ermine, whichsometimes serves her quite into spring; she has thrown a green mantleover her brown shoulders, and is not above the coquetry of wearing agreat variety of wild flowers on her bosom. With her sassafras and hersweet-brier she is in her best mood, as a woman in a fresh and becomingcostume is apt to be, and almost any one might mistake her laugh forthe music of falling water, and the agreeable rustle of her garmentsfor the wind blowing through the pine forests.
As Edward Lynde rode out of Rivermouth one morning, an hour or twobefore anybody worth mention was moving, he was very well contentedwith this world, though he had his grievances, too, if he had chosen tothink of them.
Masses of dark cloud still crowded the zenith, but along the easternhorizon, against the increasing blue, lay a city of golden spires andmosques and minarets—an Oriental city, indeed, such as is inhabited bypoets and dreamers and other speculative persons fond of investingtheir small capital in such unreal estate. Young Lynde, in spite of hisprosaic profession of bookkeeper, had an opulent though as yet unworkedvein of romance running through his composition, and he said to himselfas he gave a slight twitch to the reins, "I'll put up there to-night atthe sign of the Golden Fleece, or may be I'll quarter myself on one ofthose rich old merchants who used to do business with the bank in thecolonial days." Before he had finished speaking the city was destroyedby a general conflagration; the round red sun rose slowly above thepearl-gray ruins, and it was morning.
In his three years' residence at Rivermouth, Edward Lynde had neverchanced to see the town at so early an hour. The cobble-paved streetthrough which he was riding was a commercial street; but now the shopshad their wooden eyelids shut tight, and were snoozing away ascomfortably and innocently as if they were not at all alive to a sharpstroke of business in their wakeful hours. There was a charm to Lyndein this novel phase of a thoroughfare so familiar to him, and then themorning was perfect. The street ran parallel with the river, theglittering harebell-blue of which could be seen across a vacant lothere and there, or now and then at the end of a narrow lane running upfrom the wharves. The atmosphere had that indescribable sparkle andbloom which last only an hour or so after daybreak, and was chargedwith fine sea-flavors and the delicate breath of dewy meadow-land.Everything appeared to exhale a fragrance; even the weather-beaten signof "J. Tibbets & Son, West India Goods & Groceries," it seemed toLynde, emitted an elusive spicy odor.
Edward Lynde soon passed beyond the limits of the town, and wasascending a steep hill, on the crest of which he proposed to take afarewell survey of the picturesque port throwing off its gauzycounterpane of sea-fog. The wind blew blithely on this hilltop; itfilled his lungs and exhilarated him like champagne; he set spur to thegaunt, bony mare, and, with a flourish of his hand to the peaked roofof the Nautilus Bank, dashed off at a speed of not less than four milesan hour—for it was anything but an Arabian courser which Lynde hadhired of honest Deacon Twombly. She was not a handsome animaleither—yellow in tint and of the texture of an ancestral hair-trunk,with a plebeian head, and mysterious developments of muscle on the hindlegs. She was not a horse for fancy riding; but she had her goodpoints—she had a great many points of one kind and another—amongwhich was her perfect adaptability to rough country roads and the sortof work now required of her.
"Mary ain't what you'd call a racer," Deacon Twombly had remarked whilethe negotiations were pending; "I don't say she is, but she's easy onthe back."
This statement was speedily verified. At the end of two miles Marystopped short and began backing, deliberately and systematically, as ifto slow music in a circus. Recovering from the surprise of the halt,which had taken him wholly unawares, Lynde gathered the slackened reinsfirmly in his hand and pressed his spurs to the mare's flanks, with noother effect than slightly to accelerate the backward movement.
Perhaps nothing gives you so acute a sense of helplessness as to have ahorse back with you, under the saddle or between shafts. The reins lielimp in your hands, as if detached from the animal; it is impossible tocheck him or force him forward; to turn him around is to confessyourself conquered; to descend and take him by the head is an act ofpusillanimity. Of course there is only one thing to be done; but if youknow what that is you possess a singular advantage over yourfellow-creatures.
Finding spur and whip of no avail, Lynde tried the effect of moralsuasion: he stroked Mary on the neck, and addressed her in terms thatwould have melted the heart of almost any other Mary; but she continuedto back, slowly and with a certain grace that could have come only ofconfirmed habit. Now Lynde had no desire to return to Rivermouth, aboveall to back into it in that mortifying fashion and make himself aspectacle for the townsfolk; but if this thing went on forty or fiftyminutes longer, that would be the result.
"If I cannot stop her," he reflected, "I'll desert the brute justbefore we get to the toll-gate. I can't think what possessed Twombly tolet me have such a ridiculous animal!"
Mary showed no sign that she was conscious of anything unconventionalor unlooked for in her conduct.
"Mary, my dear," said Lynde at last, with dangerous calmness, "youwould be all right, or, at least, your proceeding would not be quite soflagrant a breach of promise, if you were only aimed in the oppositedirection."
With this he gave a vigorous jerk at the left-hand rein, which causedthe mare to wheel about and face Rivermouth. She hesitated an instant,and then resumed backing.
"Now, Mary," said the young man dryly, "I will let you have your head,so to speak, as long as you go the way I want you to."
This manoeuvre on the side of Lynde proved that he possessed qualitieswhich, if skilfully developed, would have assured him success in thehigher regions of domestic diplomacy. The ability to secure your ownway and impress others with the idea that they are having THEIR own wayis rare among men; among women it is as common as eyebrows.
"I wonder how long she will keep this up," mused Lynde, fixing his eyespeculatively on Mary's pull-back ears. "If it is to be a permanentarrangement I shall have to reverse the saddle. Certainly, the creatureis a lusus naturae—her head is on the wrong end! Easy on the back," headded, with a hollow laugh, recalling Deacon Twombly's recommendation."I should say she was! I never saw an easier."
Presently Mary ceased her retrograde movement, righted herself of herown accord, and trotted off with as much submissiveness as could bedemanded of her. Lynde subsequently learned that this propensity toback was an unaccountable whim which seized Mary at odd intervals andlasted from five to fifteen minutes. The peculiarity once understoodnot only ceased to be an annoyance to him, but became an agreeablebreak in the ride. Whenever her mood approached, he turned the mareround and let her back to her soul's content. He also ascertained thatthe maximum of Mary's speed was five miles an hour.
"I didn't want a fast horse, anyway," said Lynde philosophically. "As Iam not going anywhere in particular, I need be in no hurry to getthere."
The most delightful feature of Lynde's plan was that it was not a plan.He had simply ridden off into the rosy June weather, with no settleddestination, no care for to-morrow, and as independent as a bird of thetourist's ordinary requirements. At the crupper of his saddle—an oldcavalry saddle that had seen service in long-forgottentraining-days—was attached a cylindrical valise of cowhide, containinga change of linen, a few toilet articles, a vulcanized cloth cape forrainy days, and the first volume of The Earthly Paradise. The t