Marsena, and Other Stories of the Wartime — John Shaqi
Marsena, and Other Stories of the WartimeFrederic, Harold
History
Marsena, and Other Stories of the Wartime
Frederic, Harold
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
As Homer Sage remarked that evening on the stoop of the Excelsior
Hotel, this event made the departure of Battery G seem by comparison
very small potatoes indeed.
It was impossible for the twain not to realize that everybody was
looking at them, as they made their way up the shady side of the main
street. But there is another language of the hands than that taught
in deaf-mute schools, and Julia's hand seemed to tell Marsena's arm
distinctly that she didn't care a bit. As for him, after that first
nervous minute or two, the experience was all joy—joy so profound
and overwhelming that he could only ponder it in dazzled silence. It
is true that Julia was talking—rattling on with sprightly volubility
about all sorts of things—but to Marsena her remarks no more invited
answers than does so much enthralling music. When she stopped for a
breath he did not remember what she had been saying. He only knew how
he felt.
"I wish you'd come straight to the gallery with me," he said; "I'd like
first-rate to make a real picture of you—by yourself."
"Well, I swow!" remarked Mr. Newton Shull, along in the later
afternoon; "I didn't expect we'd make our salt to-day, with Marsena
away pretty near the whole forenoon, and all the folks down to the
depot, and here it turns out way the best day we've had yet. Actually
had to send people away!"
"Guess that didn't worry him much," commented the boy, from where he
sat on the work-bench swinging his legs in idleness.
Mr. Shull nodded his head suggestively. "No, I dare say not," he said.
"I kind o' begrudge not bein' an operator myself, when such setters
as that come in. She must have been up there, a full two hours—them
two all by themselves—and the countrymen loafin' around out in the
reception-room there, stompin' their feet and grindin' their teeth,
jest tired to death o' waitin'. It went agin my grain to tell them last
two lots they'd have to come some other day; but—I dunno—perhaps
it's jest as well. They'll go and tell it around that we've got more'n
we can do—and that's good for business. But, all the same, it seemed
to me as if he took considerable more time than was really needful. He
can turn out four farmers in fifteen minutes, if he puts on a spurt;
and here he was a full two hours, and only five pictures of her to show
for it."
"Six," said the boy.
"Yes, so it was—countin' the one with her hair let down," Mr. Shull
admitted. "I dunno whether that one oughtn't to be a little extry. I
thought o' tellin' her that it would be, on account of so much hair
consumin' more chemicals; but—I dunno'—somehow—she sort o' looked
as if she knew better. Did you ever notice them eyes o' hern, how they
look as if they could see straight through you, and out on the other
side?"
The boy shook his head. "I don't bother my head about women," he said.
"Got somethin' better to do."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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