AGONY OF A JEALOUS HEART.
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 I mean. 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’s firm 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.