“Good, comfortable, tight little island,” resumed Mrs. Clover, pleased, it seemed, with the sound of her own voice; “you’ll like it when you come to get acquainted. Just the very place for a girl with your trouble.”
“My trouble? What do you know about that?”
“Your pa told me, of course. Nervous prostration’s what he called it—says as you need a rest with quiet and nothing to disturb you—plenty of good food and sea air—”
“Oh stop!” Eleanor begged frantically.
“Land!” said the woman in a kindly tone—“I might ’ve known I’d get on your poor nerves, talking all the time. But I can’t seem to help it, living here all alone like I do with nobody but Eph most of the time.... There!” she added with satisfaction, spearing the last rasher of bacon from the frying-pan and dropping it on a plate—“now your breakfast’s ready. Draw up a chair and eat hearty.”
She put the plate on the red table-cloth, flanked it with dishes containing soft-boiled eggs, bread and butter and a pot of coffee of delicious savour, and waved one muscular arm over it all with the gesture of a benevolent sorceress. “Set to while it’s hot, my dear, and don’t you be afraid; good food never hurt nobody.”
Momentarily, Eleanor entertained the thought of mutinous refusal to eat, by way of lending emphasis to her indignation; but hunger overcame the attractions of this dubious expedient; and besides, if she were to accomplish anything toward regaining her freedom, if it were no more than to register a violent protest, she would need strength; and already she was weak for want of food.
So she took her place and ate—ate ravenously, enjoying every mouthful—even though her mind was obsessed with doubts and fears and burning anger.
“You are the caretaker here?” she asked as soon as her hunger was a little satisfied.
“Reckon you might call us that, me and Eph; we’ve lived here for five years now, taking care of the island—ever since your pa bought it.”