“Oh, if you are going to talk poetry,” said Jill, “I’ll leave you. Anyhow, I ought to be getting below and putting my things together. Subject for a historical picture,—The Belle of Brookport collecting a few simple necessaries before entering upon the conquest of America.”
§ 2.
If Jill’s vision of Brookport as a wintery Southend was not entirely fulfilled, neither was Uncle Chris’ picture of it as an earthly paradise. At the right time of the year, like most of the summer resorts on the south shore of Long Island, it is not without its attractions; but January is not the month which most people would choose for living in it. It presented itself to Jill on first acquaintance in the aspect of a wind-swept railroad station, dumped down far away from human habitation in the middle of a stretch of flat and ragged country that reminded her a little of parts of Surrey. The station was just a shed on a foundation of planks which lay flush with the rails. From this shed, as the train clanked in, there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. He had a clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at Jill with small eyes. Something in his expression reminded Jill of her father, as a bad caricature of a public man will recall the original, she introduced herself.
“If you’re Uncle Elmer,” she said, “I’m Jill.”
The man held out a long hand. He did not smile. He was as bleak as the east wind that swept the platform.
“Glad to meet you again,” he said in a melancholy voice. It was news to Jill that they had met before. She wondered where. Her uncle supplied the information. “Last time I saw you, you were a kiddy in short frocks, running around and shouting to beat the band.” He looked up and down the platform. “I never heard a child make so much noise!”
“I’m quite quiet now,” said Jill encouragingly. The recollection of her infant revelry seemed to her to be distressing her relative.
It appeared, however, that it was not only this that was on his mind.
“If you want to drive home,” he said, “we’ll have to phone to the Durham House for a hack.” He brooded awhile, Jill remaining silent at his side, loath to break in upon whatever secret sorrow he was wrestling with. “That would be a dollar,” he went on. “They’re robbers in these parts! A dollar! And it’s not over a mile and a half. Are you fond of walking?”
Jill was a bright girl, and could take a hint.