Читать книгу In the Beginning - Alan Sullivan - Страница 5

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By eleven the house was very quiet. Burden and Sylvester had taken the late train to town, and were sitting opposite each other, involved in silent calculations that were remarkably alike. Jean, in her room, was trying to weave the patchwork of her mind into some reasonable sequence, and Caxton, in his study, had reverted to the close examination of books and charts. He was filled with a sort of elation, but it was mingled with poignant memories of Withers.

Glued to a map of Patagonia, he became aware of a slow, regular step on the gravel walk outside. It sounded like a policeman on his beat. Peering through the glass door, he noted the figure of Harrop pacing very deliberately along the edge of the lawn. Now, Harrop's cottage was three hundred yards away, just inside the main gates, and the man usually got to bed before nine o'clock.

Caxton opened the door, and beckoned.

"What's the matter out there?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. I felt sort of restless and couldn't sleep, so walked round the house and saw you looking at them maps. That made me worse."

"Well, you'll have an opportunity to quiet down soon. Miss Jean and I are leaving shortly, for some months."

Harrop twisted his cap, scraped the ground with his blunt foot, and sent his master an extraordinary look, in which nervousness mingled with a wild hope.

"I talk Gaucho, sir, if that's any use."

Caxton blinked.

"Gaucho? When were you in Patagonia?"

"Matter of fifteen years ago, sir, but the lingo has sort of stuck to me."

"You never told me that before."

"Never asked me, sir. Heaps of things I ain't told you yet."

Caxton laughed; then he snapped out sharply:

"Why did you tell me you spoke Gaucho?"

Harrop's discomfort became extreme, and the cap lost all semblance to an article of human use. The blood rose to his face in a dull flush.

"Gawd forgive me, sir, but I've been eavesdropping. It was that letter that started me off—the Chili one. Minute I got hold of it, I knew something was going to happen. I've sort of felt that coming for the last few months, so I watched you reading that letter—Gawd help me! Then I knew. I went back to the forcing-house, and looked at the blinking orchids, and tried to be interested, but I couldn't. I sort of saw them growing wild—you know the kind of place, sir, where there ain't nothing but orchids for perhaps an acre, and the parakeets chattering overhead as if they was drunk.

"Then at dinner—and I reckon you'll fire me for this, sir, but I won't go, with all respect, sir—I got into the pantry when Simmons cleared out. There's a kind of harbour, sir, south of San Sebastian, and a bit of a river coming in. Can't see it for a sort of swamp along shore. I put in there on a whaler, storm-bound.

"After that, I knocked round southern Pat for most of four years. Simmons came back, sir, while you were reading the letter, but I told him I'd twist his neck if he didn't get out. That's another reason to fire me, and I say it now, because he'll tell you himself to-morrow. And, sir, if you don't take me, I'll walk. Them Gauchos are full of tricks, and will knife you as soon as eat. You want a man like me along, and that's Gawd's truth, sir."

Harrop, whose face was now purple, concluded this exordium with a loud gulp, and stood almost timidly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, alive to the tips of his fingers with exactly the same lust for the unknown as had always animated his master.

"There's one other thing, sir," he added. "It might be useful to have someone to look after Miss Jean when you were busy."

A shrewd thrust, and Caxton knew it. Harrop must know what was going on, and—yes, he might be more than useful. Who could tell?

"The first thing I have to say is that you're an infernal rascal. A man who will listen behind a door is not fit to be trusted."

"Yes, sir, that's right. I ain't fit, but I sort of suggested that myself."

"Well, you were right. Secondly, did you hear me bind these gentlemen to secrecy?"

"I did, sir. No mistaking what you said, either."

"Then what's the good of that if you know?"

"None at all, sir, and that's a fact—if I was the kind to peach."

"Then assuming that you stay here and look after the—the orchids, can I feel safe that you will say nothing whatever about this?"

Harrop's face contorted and his chest heaved.

"I'd say nothing this side of the grave, but you wouldn't——"

"Can you tell me exactly why you want to go?"

"That's hard to say, sir," he began in a rumble, "and if I may make so bold, you don't need to be told. But things here is too complete and, if I ain't taking a liberty, too regular for the likes of me. I get to thinking at night of places and sights and sounds and smells—funny it's the smells you remember best, though you can't describe 'em—and they come back to you so you look round at anything neat and tidylike and curse the whole outfit. Not that yours ain't the best place round Crowborough, sir, but this nor any of 'em ain't more than a sort of rest-house between trips, and, begging your pardon, sir, there's a lot you and I ain't done, and time's moving on. So when I eavesdropped on that letter, I says to myself, 'I'm for it, make or break.' Am I fired, sir?"

"Yes," said Caxton with a chuckle; "but you needn't leave yet. Come in and show me that harbour you spoke of."