Читать книгу Q's Mystery Stories - Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch - Страница 8

Table of Contents

The road ran through a cutting, sunless, cooled by many small springs of water trickling down the rock-face, green with draperies of the hart’s-tongue and common polypody ferns; and emerged again into warmth upon a curve of the hillside facing southward down the coombe, and almost close under the second span of the viaduct, where the tall trestles plunged down among the tree-tops like gigantic stilts, and the railway left earth and spun itself across the chasm like a line of gossamer, its criss-crossed timber so delicately pencilled against the blue that the whole structure seemed to swing there in the morning breeze. Above it, in heights yet more giddy, the larks were chiming; and Mr. Molesworth’s heart went up to those clear heights with a sudden lift.

In all the many times he had crossed the viaduct he had never once guessed—he could not have imagined—how beautiful it looked from below. He stood and gazed, and drew a long breath. Was it the escape from dreadful peril, with its blessed revulsion of feeling, that so quickened all his senses dulled by years of habit? He could not tell. He gave himself up to the strange and innocent excitement.

Why had he never till now—and now only by accident—obeyed the impulse to descend this road and explore? He was rich: he had not even the excuse of children to be provided for: the Bank might surely have waited for one day. He did not want much money. His tastes were simple. Was not the happiness at this moment thrilling him a proof that his tastes were simple as a child’s? Lo, too, his eyes were looking on the world as freshly as a child’s! Why had he so long denied them a holiday? Why do men chain themselves in prisons of their own making?

What had the station-master said? It might be an hour—certainly not less than forty minutes—before the train could be restarted. Mr. Molesworth looked at his watch. Forty minutes to explore the road: forty minutes’ holiday! He laughed, pocketed the watch again, and took the road briskly, humming a song.

Suppose he missed his train? Why, then, the Bank must do without him to-day, as it would have to do without him one of these days when he was dead. He thought of his fellow-directors’ faces, and laughed again. He felt morally certain of missing that train. What kind of world would it be if money grew in birds’ nests, or if leaves were currency and withered in autumn? Would it include truant-schools for bankers? ...

He that is down needs fear no fall,

He that is low, no pride;

He that is humble ever shall

Have God to be his guide.

Fulness to such a burden is

That go on pilgrimage——

Mr. Molesworth did not actually sing these words. The tune he hummed was a wordless one, and, for that matter, not even much of a tune. But he afterwards declared very positively that he sang the sense of them, being challenged by the birds calling in contention louder and louder as the road dipped towards the stream, and by the music of lapping water which now began to possess his ear. For some five or six furlongs the road descended under beech-boughs, between slopes carpeted with last year’s leaves: but by and by the beeches gave place to an oak coppice with a matted undergrowth of the whortleberry; and where these in turn broke off, and a plantation of green young larches climbed the hill, the wild hyacinths ran down to the stream in sheet upon sheet of blue.

Mr. Molesworth rested his creel on the low hedge above one of these sheets of blue, and with the music of the stream in his ears began to unpack Sir Warwick Moyle’s fishing-rod. For a moment he paused, bethinking himself, with another short laugh, that, without flies, neither rod nor line would catch him a fish. But decidedly fortune was kind to him to-day: for, opening the creel, he found Sir Warwick’s fly-book within it, bulging with hooks and flies by the score—nay, by the hundred. He unbuckled the strap and was turning the leaves to make his choice, when his ear caught the sound of footsteps, and he lifted his eyes to see Sir John Crang coming down the road.

‘Hallo!’ hailed Sir John. ‘I saw you slip out of the station and took a fancy that I’d follow. Pretty little out-of-the-way spot, this. Eh? Why, where on earth did you pick up those angling traps?’

‘I stole them,’ answered Mr. Molesworth deliberately, choosing a fly. He did not in the least desire Sir John’s company, but somehow found himself too full of good-nature to resent it actively.

‘Stole ’em?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, they belong to a friend of mine. They were lying ready to hand in the station, and I borrowed them without leave. He won’t mind.’

‘You’re a cool one, I must say.’ It may be that the recent agitation of his feelings had shaken Sir John’s native vulgarity to the surface. Certainly he spoke now with a commonness of idiom and accent he was usually at pains to conceal. ‘You must have a fair nerve altogether, for all you’re such a quiet-looking chap. Hadn’t even the curiosity—had you?—to find out what had gone wrong; but just picked up a handy fishing-rod and strolled off to fill up the time till damages were repaired. Look here. Do you know, or don’t you, that ’twasn’t by more than a hair’s-breadth we missed going over that viaduct?’

‘I knew we must have had a narrow escape.’

‘And you can be tying the fly there on to that gut as steady as a doctor picking up an artery! Well, I envy you. Look at that!’ Sir John held out a brown, hairy, shaking hand. ‘And I don’t reckon myself a coward, either.’

Mr. Molesworth knew that the man’s record had established at any rate his reputation for courage. He had, in fact, been a famous hunter-out of Dacoity.

‘I didn’t know you went in for that sort of thing,’ pursued Sir John, watching Mr. Molesworth, who, with a penknife, was trimming the ends of gut. ‘Don’t mind my watching your first cast or two, I hope? I won’t talk. Anglers don’t like being interrupted, I know.’

‘I shall be glad of your company: and please talk as much as you choose. To tell the truth, I haven’t handled a rod for years, and I’m making this little experiment to see if I’ve quite lost the knack, rather than with any hope of catching fish.’

It appeared, however, that he had not lost the knack and after the first cast or two, in the pleasure of recovered skill, his senses abandoned themselves entirely to the sport. Sir John had lit a cigar and seated himself amid the bracken a short distance back from the brink, to watch: but whether he conversed or not Mr. Molesworth could not tell. He remembered afterwards that at the end of twenty minutes or so—probably when his cigar was finished—Sir John rose and announced his intention of strolling some way farther down the valley—‘to soothe his nerves a bit,’ as he said, adding: ‘So long! I see you’re going to miss that train, to a certainty.’

Yes, it was certain enough that Mr. Molesworth would miss his train. He fished down the stream slowly, the song and dazzle of the water filling his ears, his vision; his whole being soothed and lulled less by the actual scene than by a hundred memories it awakened or set stirring. He was young again—a youth of twenty with romance in his heart. The plants and grasses he trod were the asphodels, sundew, water-mint his feet had crushed—crushed into fragrance—five-and-twenty years ago....

So deeply preoccupied was he that, coming to a bend where the coombe suddenly widened, and the stream without warning cast its green fringe of alders like a slough and slipped down a beach of flat pebbles to the head waters of a tidal creek, Mr. Molesworth rubbed his eyes with a start. Had the stream been a Naiad she could not have given him the go-by more coquettishly.

He rubbed his eyes, and then with a short gasp of wonder—almost of terror—involuntarily looked around for Sir John. Here before him was a shore, with a church beside it, and at the far end a whitewashed cottage—surely the very shore, church, cottage, of Sir John’s dream! Yes, there was the stone cross before the porch; and here the grid-fashioned church stile; and yonder under the string-course the scaffold-hole with the grass growing out of it!

If Mr. Molesworth’s hands had been steady when he tied on his May-fly, they trembled enough now as he hurriedly put up his tackle and disjointed his rod: and still, and again while he hastened across to the cottage above the rocky spit—the cottage with the larch plantation above and in the garden a laburnum aslant and in bloom—his eyes sought the beach for Sir John.

The cottage was a large one, as Sir John had described. It was, in fact, a waterside inn, with its name, ‘The Saracen’s Head,’ painted in black letters along its whitewashed front and under a swinging signboard. Looking up at the board Mr. Molesworth discerned, beneath its dark varnish, the shoulders, scimitar, and grinning face of a turbaned Saracen, and laughed aloud between incredulity and a sense of terror absurdly relieved. This, then, was Sir John’s black man!

But almost at the same moment another face looked over the low hedge—the face of a young girl in a blue sun-bonnet: and Mr. Molesworth put out a hand to the gate to steady himself.

The girl—she had heard his laugh, perhaps—gazed down at him with a frank curiosity. Her eyes were honest, clear, untroubled: they were also extremely beautiful eyes: and they were more. As Mr. Molesworth to his last day was prepared to take oath, here were the very eyes, as here was the very face and here the very form, of the Margaret whom he had suffered for, and suffered to be lost to him, twenty-five years ago. It was Margaret, and she had not aged one day.

In Margaret’s voice, too, seeing that he made no motion to enter, she spoke down to him across the hedge.

‘Are you a friend, sir, of the gentleman that was here just now?’

‘Sir John Crang?’ Mr. Molesworth just managed to command his voice.

‘I don’t know his name, sir. But he left his cigar-case behind. I found it on the settle five minutes after he had gone, and ran out to search for him....’

Mr. Molesworth opened the gate and held out a hand for the case. Yes: he recognized it. It bore Sir John’s monogram in silver.

‘I will give it to him,’ he said. Without exactly knowing why, he followed her into the inn-kitchen. Yes, he would take a pint of her ale. ‘The home-brewed?’ Yes, certainly, the home-brewed.

She brought it in a pewter tankard, exquisitely polished. The polish of it caught and cast back the sunlight in prismatic circles on the scoured deal cable. The girl—Margaret—stood for a moment in the fuller sunlight by the window, lingering there to pick a dead leaf from a geranium on the ledge.

‘Which way did Sir John go?’

‘I thought he took the turning along the shore; but I didn’t notice particularly which way he went. He said he had come down the valley, and I took it for granted he would be going on.’

Mr. Molesworth drank his beer and stood up. ‘There are only two ways, then, out of this valley?’

‘Thank you, sir——’ As he paid her she dropped a small curtsey—‘Yes, only two ways—up the valley or along the shore. The road up the valley leads to the railway station.’

‘By the way, there was an accident at the station this morning?’

‘Indeed, sir?’ Her beautiful eyes grew round. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘It might have been a very nasty one indeed,’ said Mr. Molesworth, and paused. ‘I think I’ll take a look along the shore before returning. I don’t want to miss my friend, if I can help it.’

‘You can see right along it from the rock beyond the garden,’ said the girl, and Mr. Molesworth went out.

As he reached the spit of rock, the sunlight playing down the waters of the creek dazzled him for a moment. Rubbing his eyes, he saw, about two hundred yards along the foreshore, a boat grounded, and two figures beside it on the beach: and either his sight was playing him a trick or these two were struggling together.

He ran towards them. Almost as he started, in one of the figures he recognized Sir John. The other had him by the shoulders, and seemed to be dragging him by main force towards the boat. Mr. Molesworth shouted as he rushed up to the fray. The assailant turned—turned with a loud hissing sound—and, releasing Sir John, swung up a hand with something in it that flashed in the sun as he struck at the new-comer: and as Mr. Molesworth fell, he saw a fierce brown face and a cage of white, gleaming teeth bared in a savage grin....

He picked himself up, the blood running warm over his eyes, and, as he stood erect for a moment, down over his white waistcoat. But the dusky face of his antagonist had vanished, and, with it, the whole scene. In place of the foreshore with its flat grey stones, his eye travelled down a steep green slope. The hissing sound continued in his ears, louder than ever, but it came with violent jets of steam from a locomotive, grotesquely overturned some twenty yards below him. Fainting, he saw and sank across the body of Sir John Crang, which lay with face upturned among the June grasses, staring at the sky.