It was shortly after the events related in the last chapter that we came
to a final decision against the various business openings we had been
investigating in St. Augustine, and concluded to go on to Jacksonville.
We disposed of the few things we had bought for our little cottage, and
when we again found ourselves on the train with our household goods, I
gave us both a fit of merriment by quoting the words of poor little Joe
in "Bleak House,"--
"Wisht I may die if I ain't a-movin' on."
It was by this time mid-season, and Jacksonville was full of tourists.
It was then very popular as a winter resort, Southern Florida was not
much known; so we had some difficulty in finding a place to live.
We decided to get just one room somewhere, and board at a restaurant
till the city emptied so we could secure a cottage.
The first room we found that would do, was too far from the business
part of town; so we took it for only a month, and kept on looking. We
heard of one, at last, which seemed close to everything. It proved to be
large, lofty, and pleasant, with a glimpse of the river from its front
windows.
The house was well recommended to us by the few business acquaintances
Julius had made, though they all confessed that such places were
constantly changing hands and inmates and that it was hard to keep up
with them. Time pressed, and nothing better offered; so we moved in. It
was entirely bare; so we bought some furniture, and, as it was rather a
long room for its breadth, we managed, with a screen or two, to make it
seem like three rooms.
When all was in place, it was really quite inviting. I had a small lamp
stove, so we need only go out for dinners. We began to feel more settled
than for a long time, especially, as Julius had in the meantime found a
business opening which was entirely satisfactory. We saw nothing at all
of the other lodgers; but this did not disturb us, as we were in no
hurry to make acquaintances. We felt that it was best to be circumspect
in a city of this size and make-up.
Our evenings were our pleasantest times, sitting on either side of the
reading-lamp, with Bruno stretched at our feet; so I was inclined to
object one evening, when Julius announced at dinner that he had promised
to give a few hours to helping a young friend of his to straighten out
his accounts. He had promised, though; so I had to yield. He set off
betimes, so as to be home earlier. I locked the door after him, as I
always did, and began to make myself as comfortable as possible for a
quiet hour or two, with a new magazine.
Before I had finished cutting the leaves, I was struck with surprise at
Bruno's actions. He crept in a very stealthy manner to the door, and
stood there in an attitude of listening, with every nerve and muscle
tense.
I watched him a minute, and then asked,--
"What is it, Boonie?"
He did not look around; he waved his tail once or twice, then resumed
his tense pose. Thoroughly surprised, I went softly to him, and stood
also listening. I could hear nothing but a faint rustling, a suppressed
whispering, and the soft click of a latch. I touched Bruno's head; he
looked up at me, and I saw he was holding his lip between his
side-teeth, as he had a way of doing when he was very much puzzled or
excited.
I tried to coax him away from the door, but he refused to come. I made
sure the bolt was shot, and then sat down at a little distance to watch
him. There was a door in the middle of one side of the room, which, when
we took possession, we had found to be nailed up. We utilized the recess
with the aid of some draperies, as a place to hang clothing. Bruno went
to this door, thrusting his head in among the clothes.
He listened there for a long time, probably ten minutes; he returned
again to the other door; then he gave a low growl, followed by several
half-suppressed barks, and lay down against it.
I forgot all about my book, and sat watching to see what he would do
next. The evening seemed endless. At last I heard Julius below in the
hall; Bruno sprang up when I opened the door, and went clattering down
the stairs to escort him up. It was not late, only about ten. I at once
told Julius of the queer evening we had spent, and had the satisfaction
of seeing him as thoroughly puzzled as I had been. We sat until a late
hour discussing it, then gave it up as something quite beyond us.
About three o'clock in the morning we were awakened by an alarm of
fire. The room was full of light, and when we looked out of the window
we found that it was close by--only about two squares away. It was a big
blaze and, as it was on the opposite side of the street, we had a fine
view of it. I was terribly frightened. My uneasiness earlier in the
evening had unnerved me, and this terrible fire so near us upset me
completely. A fire fills me with horror, especially if it breaks out in
the night: it always reminds me of the burning of a big steamer that
happened one awful night in my tenth year.
I watched the flames, fascinated by their lurid splendor;--imagining
that the three white pigeons which had been awakened by the light and
were circling around the tower of smoke--now hidden by it, and now
silhouetted against it--were the souls of those who had perished in the
flames. Overcome by horror, I finally exclaimed:--
"Suppose it had been this big building that had caught fire!"
"But it wasn't," said Julius.
"No: but it might have been. I don't like this at all. I want to be in a
little house by ourselves, close to the ground."
"Yes, it would be better," said Julius, who saw by the light of the
flames how pale I had become, and noted how I was trembling. "It will
not do to have you so terrified: we'll make a change at once. But it
will be difficult to find a house until the tourists begin to scatter."
We thoroughly discussed the situation, and by breakfast-time had reached
a decision.
I was to return to Lemonville for a stay of a week or two, and while
there to see to the packing and shipping of a piano we had left in
storage. Julius meanwhile was to find a cottage, and have our belongings
transferred to it. We did not like the arrangement very well, but it
seemed to be the only thing we could do.
Thus ended our experience as lodgers.
I was gone two weeks. It was pleasant to meet old friends, after a
separation long enough to have plenty of news to exchange, without
having had time to lose interest in each other's affairs, but my heart
was back in Jacksonville.
Julius and I wrote to each other every day, but the mails were so
tedious and uncertain that we usually got each other's letters by threes
or fours, with days full of anxiety and heart-ache between.
I still have the package of letters received then. I have just been
reading them over again. Bruno pervades them all. It is--
"Took Bruno with me to the office to-day, he begged so hard when I
started to leave him; it's lonely for him, poor fellow!"
And--
"While I ate breakfast, I had the waiter put up a good lunch for Boonie;
he's getting tired of biscuit, and I don't like to give him raw bones."
On Sunday,--
"I took Bruno a long walk in the suburbs to-day. It did him a lot of
good."
A letter written just before I returned says,--
"Bruno seems down-hearted to-night; I think he misses somebody."
I returned as soon as Julius wrote that he had procured a house. The
welcome I received told me that Bruno was not the only one who had
missed "somebody."