THE SEA GIRL
[Illustration: “IF I CAN’T BE A BOY AND GO TO SEA, THE NEXT CHOICE
WOULD BE A TERN OR A GREAT GRAY GULL.”]
THE SEA GIRL
A Tale of Nantucket in the Clipper Ship Days
BY
MARGUERITE ASPINWALL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
RALPH D. DUNKELBERGER
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK LONDON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SEA GIRL
Copyright, 1928, by
Harper & Brothers
Printed in the U. S. A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
ALICE LOW SAND
who first taught me to know
and love Nantucket.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Illustrations
“IF I CAN’T BE A BOY AND GO TO SEA, THE NEXT CHOICE WOULD BE A
TERN OR A GREAT GRAY GULL.”
STILL SINGING, THEY WALKED AND DROVE INTO TOWN
“THERE’S THAT NICE YOUNG MAN THE CAPTAIN SENT ASHORE LAST NIGHT TO
TELL ME WHAT TIME TO BE AT THE WHARF”
“BELAY THERE, YOUNG WOMAN, AND LET US BOTH GET OUR BREATH BACK”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SEA GIRL
CHAPTER I
Erica Folger sat cross-legged on the flat, railed platform known to
Nantucketers as “the walk,” which perched astride the sloping roof of
her aunt’s shabby, well-weathered gray house on Orange Street,
overlooking the blue waters of the harbor. The water was very blue on
that late October day, and the sunshine very clear and golden on the
distant commons of the unromantically named “Pest-house Shore” across
the harbor, where the brilliant coloring of autumn was already flaming
in a riot of orange sedge, and the red and gold and rose of turning
huckleberry.
The air was full of the clean tang of sea salt and of sweet-fern and
bayberry, mixed in a most aromatic fragrance. Erica, busy as she was
about a highly reprehensible matter of vast importance to herself,
sniffed it appreciatively. Vaguely, half her attention otherwise
occupied, she decided, as she always decided each year at this time,
that October was the best month of the whole twelve. She loved the snap
and vigor of the crisp, sweet air, and the _alive_, ambitious feeling it
put into fingers and toes. October smelled of so many interesting things
on Nantucket.
Thinking of interesting things, Erica reflected that her present
occupation, though undoubtedly interesting to herself, would not in the
least interest Aunt Charity. She was sorry that Aunt Charity’s point of
view so often ran counter to her niece’s, but Erica, turning to stare
critically at her own reflection in the small, square mirror she had
propped up on a box before her, felt no regrets as to her recent act of
vandalism—which is what Aunt Charity would term it the minute she knew.
Though Erica Folger sat on the high walk above her home and stared at
her reflection in the mirror more than eighty years ago—at that time
even the Civil War would not be fought for a matter of nearly twenty
years yet—she had just achieved, with no known precedent to guide her, a
thoroughly modern “bob.” On the floor of the walk, beside her, lay Aunt
Charity’s biggest cutting shears, and two thick braids of curly dark red
hair, tied at the ends with demure black bows.
Following the shearing process, Erica had shampooed her shorn locks in a
pail of warm water she had carried up the ladder when Aunt Charity was
otherwise occupied, and now she sat there letting the bright October
sunshine dry the new bob. (But Erica, years ahead of her generation
though she was, did not know that it would one day be called a bob. She
called it giving herself a sensible hair-cut, that should not require
the half hour of tiresome brushing Aunt Charity insisted on each
evening.)
The hair was almost dry now, and the mirror showed Erica a tumble of
short red curls against either rosy cheek on a line with the just-hidden
ears. Above the curls and the flushed cheeks were two widely opened eyes
of the exact shade of the blue harbor-water below, a straight little
nose well supplied with a powdering of faint golden freckles, and below
that, again, a rather wide mouth that was made for courage and
light-hearted laughter even in the face of discouragement.
Erica shook her head experimentally, and sighed with delight at the
free, untrammeled feeling that had replaced the drag of her heavy
braids.
“Aunt Charity’ll hate it,” she murmured, but without regret. “And Lis
and Tommy’ll laugh. Oh, well, let’s get it over with.”
She rose to her feet, picked up her discarded braids, the mirror, and
the pail of water, and carefully negotiated the ladder down to the floor
below. It was unfortunate that Miss Charity Folger should have come out
into the upper hall just then, and, discovering her always-unaccountable
niece halfway down the ladder with a heavy pail of water, stopped
aghast.
”_Erica!_” she said. “For the land’s sake! What were you doing up on the
walk with that pail?”
It was too dark in the hall for her to notice Erica’s guilty little
head, but at the sound of the unexpected voice below her the girl
jumped, and one of the heavy red braids slipped through her clutching
fingers. Miss Charity gave a stifled shriek as the long, sinuous object
fell limply at her feet. Perhaps she thought it was a snake; but of a
certainty her wildest imaginings never reached within a far cry of the
truth. She gathered her full skirts higher about her ankles and, after a
perceptible hesitation, bent over the puzzling object on the floor.
Then, though she was not at all the kind of woman who screams easily,
she uttered something that was very much like another little shriek.
“Erica,” she asked, in a much severer voice, “just _what_ have you been
doing this time?”
Erica, having by now arrived at the foot of the ladder, plunged eagerly
to her own defense.
“I don’t see why only boys should be comfortable, Aunt Charity. I really
don’t,” she said, vehemently. “My hair was heavy and hot. I got so I
simply couldn’t bear it any longer. And all that brushing and _brushing_
every night of my life! It’s such a waste of time. And—and so I cut it
off. It’ll grow again, of course—probably thicker than——”
She stopped, her voice, for all its eager conviction, trailing off
limply into silence at the expression on her aunt’s face.
“I—I’m sorry if you really feel badly about it, Aunt Charity,” she
offered at last.
“I never know what you’ll do next, Erica Folger,” Miss Charity
complained, despairingly. “You had nice hair, and I’ve always tried to
see that you kept it in good condition. Her hair’s a woman’s crowning
glory, so the Bible says. But of course, if you want to make yourself
look a fright. Well, it’s done now and there’s no more to be said about
it. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
Erica put her hands up protestingly to her head. She had thought it
looked rather—rather _pretty_, even if she had never seen a girl wear
her hair short before. But now, under Miss Charity’s scathing words, her
own enthusiasm fell suddenly flat, like a pricked toy balloon. Perhaps
she had just been silly and impulsive again.
“Take that pail of water downstairs, and be careful you don’t spill it
all over everything,” Miss Folger ordered, shortly. She had said her say
on the other subject, and Erica knew by experience that she would not be
apt to refer to it again. That was one of the nice things about Aunt
Charity—she never nagged. Perhaps, though, Erica further reflected,
uncomfortably, that made it all the worse when she did these
unconsidered, impetuous things Aunt Charity worried over.
She went downstairs very soberly. The day had lost some of its early
glamour already, but within another hour it was destined to become for
Erica a very gray day indeed. Shortly before noon she heard a familiar
whistling of an old sea tune from the garden that adjoined the house of
her Folger cousins, next door. She went quickly through the dining-room
door, out onto the sunny side porch, and whistled vigorously in
response.
A tall, long-legged boy of fifteen swung himself easily over the low
dividing fence, and was followed by a second long-legged boy, so exactly
like him that a stranger might well have been excused for believing his
own eyesight was playing him tricks. The only difference between them,
which even a keen observer would have noticed at first glance, was that
the fair hair of the boy first over the fence had an unruly kink in it
that made it stand wildly on end at the slightest provocation, while the
equally fair hair of his twin—for they could have been nothing else—was
as straight and smooth and tractable as hair could be.
They came up the bricked path side by side, and then, at sight of Erica
on the steps, stopped, stared incredulously, and went off into wild
whoops of uproarious laughter.
Erica, one hand consciously touching her short locks, waited with
obvious impatience until the two saw fit to come to order.
“Yes, I cut it off,” she said, hotly. “You would, too, long ago, if
you’d had to drag those everlasting braids about everywhere. It’s
comfortable, anyway.”
“Well, it looks queer,” the straight-haired twin said, bluntly. “But I
guess it likely does feel more comfortable.”
“And there’s no good talking, as long as it’s cut,” the curly-haired
twin added, good-naturedly. “Besides, Rick, we came over to talk about
something much more important.”
Both boys’ faces sobered instantly, making them look, somehow, a good
deal older. They sat down on the lowest step of the porch and looked up
at the girl standing above them.
“We’ve settled the big question at last, Rick,” the one who had spoken
last announced. “We spun a coin for it, and Lis stays home with mother
and _I_ go to sea as cabin boy in the _Flying Spray_, sailing out of
Boston next week, bound for Macao, Canton, and Cochin-China. Hurrah!
Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
Some of the bright color faded from Erica’s face. She glanced at the
straight-haired boy in swift interrogation. He nodded, his own face
clouded.
“Yes, Rick, Tommy gets all the luck and adventure, this trip,” he said,
ruefully. “Mother can’t be left alone while she’s so poorly, so we
agreed to let the toss of a coin settle which was to go and which to
stay. No sense in both of us being tied on Nantucket; and this chance
came up unexpectedly through Captain Bartlet of the _Spray_ being here
for a few days with his sister—Mrs. Macy, you know, over on Pearl
Street. He wants a boy for his next trip.”
“It was only decided last night,” Tommy added. “Mother and Captain
Bartlet talked it over and agreed one of us should have the chance. They
left it to us to say which one.”
“I don’t think an important thing like that ought to be decided by
tossing a coin,” Erica objected, weakly. “It’s—well, it’s too much like
gambling.”
“Oh, there’s Bible authority for casting lots—same thing exactly,” Tommy
retorted. “Anyhow, it’s like your hair, too late to do anything about it
now but groan.”
He grinned, and Erica bit her lip, flushing angrily. But the flush died
as quickly as it had arisen. With the near prospect of losing one of the
cousins who had been her inseparable companions from babyhood, she could
not find it in her heart to resent anything teasing Tommy might say.
“I wish I were a boy,” she sighed a moment later. “Then I’d be on
father’s ship right now bound home from China.” Her expression became
less woe-begone. “La! I do envy you, Tommy! But why didn’t you wait for
the _Sea Gull_? Father always promised one of you two a berth when the
time came.”
“Yes, I know, but he won’t be back for months yet, probably,” Tommy
replied. “And here was the chance to go right off, next week. Besides, I
think it’s better not to sail with your family. Going with Captain
Bartlet, I’ll stand on my own merits.” He couldn’t help an unconscious
strut of importance, and both Erica and Lister laughed.
“You needn’t be so proud,” the former teased, “I came home from Canton
on a clipper myself, before I was a year old; and had a Chinese nurse,
too, that Sun Li sent home with me.”
For Erica Folger’s young mother had insisted on sailing with her captain
on his voyages after their marriage, and on their second trip to China
Erica had been born at sea, and her mother had died just two days from
Canton.
“Maybe I’ll meet that mysterious godfather of yours, Rick,” Tommy
suggested, out of the little silence that had fallen suddenly over the
three. “Funny Uncle Eric won’t ever tell you anything definite about
him.”
“Oh, but I do know lots,” Erica said, quickly. “He’s a very rich and
powerful merchant in Canton—or at least, I _think_ he’s a merchant,” she
added, less certainly. “I know father met him years ago through carrying
a cargo for him. And Sun Li had a little son born the same day I was,
only his baby died and he’s never had any other children. So as he and
father were friends, anyhow, that made him take a very special interest
in me. He sent his little dead son’s nurse to take care of me on the
voyage home, and every time the _Sea Gull_ touches at Canton he sends me
back a lovely present by father.”
The twins nodded, impressed as always by the story and the hint of
mystery surrounding it. Also they had seen the “presents” in question,
beautifully carved jade of deep, clear green, lengths of rich silks,
ivory fans, and cunning teakwood boxes with trick drawers and detachable
bottoms; things, as Aunt Charity pointed out disapprovingly, that were
far too fine for a simple little Nantucket girl in her early ‘teens.
“Tommy, listen to me,” Erica cried, suddenly, her sea-blue eyes very
bright with the new, exciting idea that had come to her. “It’s just
possible that you _will_ meet Sun Li if the _Spray_ goes to Canton.
Anyway, I’m going to give you something that will introduce you to him
as my cousin if you do.” It was Erica whose voice held an important note
now, but both her listeners were too absorbed to smile. “Wait here for
me,” she added, eagerly. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran into the house, slamming the porch door behind her in the
headlong tomboy fashion nothing that Miss Charity could say had
succeeded in moderating. The twins heard her flying feet on the steep,
carpeted stairs, and a moment later heard her come racing down them
again.
She held a small ebony box very carefully in one hand, and, opening it,
drew out a heavy gold ring set with a green jade seal. There were
strange Chinese characters cut in the stone, and the ring itself formed
a conventional dragon’s head, which held the seal in its wide-open
mouth.
“Remember this?” she asked, breathlessly, holding it out to Tommy. “He
sent it to me two years ago. Father said I was always to take great care
of it, because it was Sun Li’s private seal, and the ring would have
belonged to his son if he had lived. I’m going to give it to you, Tommy.
When you’re in Canton, you can try to find out whose seal it is, and go
to see Sun Li.”
“But he may not like that, Rick,” Lister interposed, his tone troubled.
“If Uncle Eric hasn’t told us much about him, perhaps its because he’s
been asked not to. Sun Li may not care to have visitors from across the
ocean.”
“I don’t see why not,” Erica objected. “Anyhow, Tommy can use his
judgment. He can inquire round a bit first, if you think he’d better——”
“Tommy’s judgment is just about as much to be relied on as your own,”
Lister said. But his smile was gentle for her, as always. Lister felt
himself years older, most of the time, than his twin and Erica.
Tommy took the ring and tried to slip it on his fourth finger. But it
proved too small for that one, and too large for his little finger. He
stared at it, frowningly, his face full of ingenuous disappointment.
“Never mind. You can wear it round your neck, like a sort of talisman,”
Erica giggled. “I’ve got just the very cord for that—it’s Chinese, too.
It came round the last box Sun Li sent me.”
She dashed upstairs a second time, and returned carrying a dark-blue
cotton cord of a curious weave, knotted at intervals. Taking the ring
from Tommy, she slipped it over one end of the cord, adding still
another knot to the collection, which secured both ends firmly together.
Then, with the air of a queen bestowing the accolade of knighthood on a
subject, she flung the cord itself over Tommy’s fair, ruffled head, and
tucked the ring down inside his collar.
“It’s safer to wear it out of sight, anyhow,” she advised him. “There
are always rough men in those clipper crews, and you might have the ring
stolen, if they knew you had it.”
She sat down, still breathless after her run upstairs, on the step
between her two cousins and slipped an arm through an arm of each of
them. Another little silence fell. In the midst of their banter and
laughing plans the realization seemed to have seized on all three at
once, that there were only a few more days left of the old, happy
companionship.
Characteristically enough, it was Tommy who spoke first.
“Oh, well,” he observed, philosophically. “I won’t be gone more than a
year. Probably not so much. The _Spray’s_ one of the fast clippers, you
know. Rick’ll just have time to let that silly hair-cut grow out long
enough to wear the ivory comb I’ll bring her back from Canton or
Cochin-China, in exchange for Sun Li’s ring.”
“All right,” Erica flashed back, her eyes bubbling over with fun again.
“I’ll put it with all the rest of the Chinese presents Aunt Charity
won’t let me use yet. But I’m not going to let my hair grow,” she added
with firmness. “It’s much too comfortable this way.” Which again, had
Erica only known it, was a remark that a good many other girls were
destined to repeat, in the same tone of conviction, eighty years later.