Читать книгу Boundless Water - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 3

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Francis Ribblestone rode slowly over Eashing bridge; the placid waters of the Wey, edged with heavy sedges, tangled grass and willow stumps, reflected the peaceful blue and faint white clouds of a mild October day, and swirled in little eddies round the thick ancient brick supports of the bridge arches; to the right towards the mill and the village, a boy stood low in the reeds, fishing; to the left, the trees of Ockfordwood closed over the river and shut out the rich low-lying landscape.

He gazed at the prospect, which he had known all his life, with an expression of deep satisfaction in the opulent beauty of it, of pride in his country, of pride in his own youth and strength that had directed this lavish ordering of nature's riches, pride in the long descent of gentle blood that had made him master of all this land he looked upon.

Half unconscious, these thoughts were so much a portion of his being that his whole bearing and the cast of his features revealed the radiant joy in life. The intense vitality, the vast belief in himself and all his rank and name stood for, found expression in a glowing pride of thought and action, in no way lessened by being united with a very winning personal modesty. This expression, which gave the character to his face and carriage, was often obscured in common intercourse and the interests of every day, but now, as he rode slowly with slackened rein along the silent highway, his thought flew free; his eyes widened, his firm set lips quivered, and the bared look of dreaming passionate pride and love of life in his lifted countenance would, in its unconscious intensity, have startled any who had chanced to meet the solitary rider.

He came through the changing beauties of rich landscape to Milford, asleep in the now strengthening afternoon sun, rode up Mousehill and Rodborough Hill, the ample spaces of Mousehill Down and Bagmoor Common to his right, Witley Common and Mare Hill with its grove of dark pines to his left. The road became rough and broken; glimpses of distant farm-houses ceased. Pasture land, meadow, hayfield, and cornfield merged in stretches of curling heather, in low-lying purple heath. As he passed Hammer Pond he saw the glossy cows knee-deep in the water, with a silent man to attend their drinking, and behind them an open space of clear sky flushed with the hazy gold of half-formed clouds.

A sigh that curved his lips to a smile in passing broke from him; he touched his horse up lightly and the beautiful beast broke into a canter.

At Thursley he saw the labourers coming home across the fields, straggling brown figures with their shadows lengthening before them; outside the inn was a group of sailors, brown and ragged, who touched their hats to his fine horse and his broadcloth before the lounging native gave them his quality.

The smile was still on the lips of Francis Ribblestone as he came through Cosford Ho, and so out into the narrow road that led straight through the heart of the wild and dangerous heath now bloom in dusty gold and purple heather bells.

The road twisted and wound abruptly; the London coach had left deep ruts now full of white dust: rough stones and dried cracks showed it was a dangerous highway in rough weather, difficult for vehicles and impossible for foot-passengers, apart from the terrors of its loneliness and ill-repute.

To the left it sloped raggedly, yet steeply, into "The Devil's Punch Bowl," a great hollow of gorse and furze, beyond which the heath swept away in inaccessible wildness until it reached the enclosing hills; to the right, a high chalky bank rose abruptly from the road and shut out all prospect with a crown of bent bushes and scanty trees.

Even in the soft light of an October sun the view was sad, unfriendly and awesome; there was no human habitation in sight, no animal nor person; but the dense heather seemed to conceal a lurking and evil life, and the chalky bluff to rise with a menace, like the frontier of some unexplored and dreary land.

But Francis Ribblestone gave the cold moorland the same straight look of pride he had turned on the opulent countryside. No images of loneliness, violent deeds, or horror darkened his clear vision of a heath beautiful to him in its free sweep beneath the open sky.

The bank to his left continued to rise until it sprang up into a sudden commanding peak; to this Francis Ribblestone lifted his eyes as his horse took the corner.

A rough path led from the road to the summit, on which rose the stiff outlines of a gallows and gibbet—the remains of a nameless murderer, who had suffered for vile and sordid crimes when Francis Ribblestone was a child.

There was an old woman not far away, gathering the last of the whortleberries that grew beneath the heather; she stood erect as he passed and looked after him without any greeting.

Francis Ribblestone was vaguely surprised to see her so far from a village, for the gibbet stood on the edge of what was called, from its great extent and loneliness, Boundless Copse.

The sandy, ill-kept road wandered across the heath to the Hindhead, where a few poor huts clustered round a small inn; here Francis Ribblestone left the high road, and turned down the wild lane that led to Haslemere.

Blackberries hung among fading leaves in the hedgerows, the red flags of the sorrel and the last flowers of the wild geranium showed through the border of tangled foliage either side the road; the moorland swept in to little groves of oak and fir, pleasant valleys replaced the empty heath; by Critchmere were the hayfields and cornfields again, the farm-houses and cottages.

Francis Ribblestone turned by the church and took the Chichester road into the market square of Haslemere.

His way lay past it towards Valewood Ho, but he checked his horse from the homeward way and crossed the wide square that was the heart of the town.

The red-brick Town Hall, prim and small, shut off the road, so completing the square; on either side were straight-fronted houses set back on a high pavement, their long windows gleaming in the sun and the white paint of their wooden porticoes; to the right was The Swan, to the left The White Horse, both more pretentious buildings than the others, with mounting-blocks in front, open gates leading into quiet courtyards at the side, and late roses climbing over the old brick.

Beyond the houses, of different shapes, sizes and make, but all of this one soft colour of red, climbed up the slightly hilly street; here and there a fine chestnut broke the space of sunshine, and where the road turned a giant yew shaded the whole space.

A languid peace, a low breathing serenity rested over the little town; there was no one abroad; the shops had the shutters up to protect them from the sun, and the beadle was asleep in the shadowed doorway of the Town Hall; yet many curious eyes peeped from behind the long panes of thick glass as Francis Ribblestone rode, all unconscious of them, towards the great yew.

There he took a turning between two quiet houses, rode across a field, and came out on the road again just below the chapel of Saint Bartholomew.

Francis Ribblestone dismounted and flung the reins round the staple of the gate, and stepped softly into the churchyard.

Yew, cypress and pine filled the air with sad dark foliage; a few late flowers cast bright petals on the brick graves and the thick grass between.

Francis Ribblestone took off his black beaver and passed into the interior.

A thick lustrous light poured through the painted glass on the oak-lined walls, the high curtained pews, the hooded pulpit, the shaded altar, the tombs and monuments of Ribblestones with their arms carved and painted in the marble and the wood.

At all times magnificent (since this great family of the neighbourhood made it their care and monument), to-day the chapel had an added air of lavish richness; next Sunday was the harvest festival, and the decorations of fruit, flowers and vegetables were already arranged in the niches of the windows, on the pulpit steps, round the pillars, and beneath the pedestals of the tombs.

Before the altar lay wheaten bread, a shock of corn, a basket of grapes, and apples like pale gold, all flushed to the tint and glow of jewels by the warm stained light.

Francis Ribblestone stood within the door looking down the short aisle; he also was touched into harmony by the beams of crimson light from the window behind him, beams that, resting in his dusky hair a quivering space, passed him and fell aslant on his father's name and his:

Francis Ribblestone

Aetat 30

Anno Domini 1708.

The young man did not look at this; anything that spoke of death was to him but a painted fancy; he was gazing at a slight and noiseless figure in black that moved by the pulpit, fixing up trails of fiery coloured creeper to the dark polished wood.

He had not heard the door open and close, but after a while looking round he saw, with pleased surprise, a tall figure, waiting silently, come forward with a gesture of welcome.

He had a stately manner, heightened by his Clerical dress and white hair; he dropped his hand lightly on Francis Ribblestone's arm and drew him outside into the fading sunlight.

"Well! Sir Francis!"

The sun was blushing to its setting; through the dark boughs of the funereal trees the sky showed in vivid gold; a little below them the road lay confused in shadow; beyond that the gorgeous prospect of forest, field and hill.

The two men walked slowly down the paved path and seated themselves on a square brick grave that stood free of the shade of yew or cypress.

"Thank you, Sir Francis," said the clergyman, "for the fruit and flowers you sent; it is more than we can use."

Francis Ribblestone gave him a brilliant smile and sat silent, bending his riding-stock across his knee and gazing across the fair landscape. The elder man gazed on him with eyes of affection, with pleasure and admiration.

The person of Francis Ribblestone was worthy of his high birth and fine soul; he was rich in personal graces.

Strength and dignity were in the tall shapeliness of his figure, in his careless bearing, and the delicate contour of his head. Breed showed in his slender feet, his long hands, and his face; now, in his May of life, he was the epitome of noble pride and youthful fire.

His features were thin and hawk-like, the brow low, the nose high-arched and haughty, his eyes, hazel under thin sweeping brows, large and of an extraordinary expression of intense brilliancy, his lips curved lightly together, yet seeming as if his teeth were locked behind them, his jaw was slightly underset and of a clean line of power.

His complexion was dark, his hair heavy, of a dull brown and rolled into correct curls and tied severely in the nape of his neck; he wore a plain coat of a russet colour and a cravat of rich embroidery; his gauntlets and boots were stained with wear, but his spurs were silver and the butt of his whip was carved gold.

"Mr. Bargrave," he said suddenly, "you must think me very dull to-night."

And as he spoke he turned with that smiling look of exalted pride. The smile of youth, the pride of life, that always half-abashed the clergyman.

"What did you come to see me for, Sir Francis?" he asked. "Have you any news?"

"Two kinds of news, sir: firstly, Mrs. Muschamp hath refused me."

"Refused—?"

"My fortune—my name, my heart!" Francis Ribblestone smiled. "Well, she would not have been the wife for me, I doubt—an ambitious lady, an independent, a spirited. By God's grave, sir, a charming creature, but one that hath been her own mistress too long to take kindly to a master—I think her brief marriage—not too happy—and he was easy."

"Yet I am sorry," said Mr. Bargrave.

"You think of the lands?" asked Sir Francis. "I confess that hath hit me; you know how glad I should have been to see her estates wedded to mine, half Surrey then, sir, no less, and the border of Sussex; well, it is not to be."

"I did not only consider the lands; Mrs. Mus-champ is an admirable woman—I do not think she married her cousin for the lands."

Francis Ribblestone looked at him gravely.

"I do not think so either—if she had said 'yes' today I would never have thought of another woman. I could be patient to her temper for the sake of the spirit in her—but—I was not made for regrets."

Mr. Bargrave sighed.

"So now it will be Margaret Cowley," he said quietly.

"You make me heartless—it hath a sound of calculation put in that fashion. Must a man's marriage be such a cold affair? You are displeased with me and I make words! Well, then, say it will be Margaret Cowley."

He switched at the lush grass growing by his feet, and smiled at Mr. Bargrave, who was strangely disappointed that, of the two ladies whom Francis Ribblestone had been delicately dallying between since he touched manhood, the richer rather and more exquisite should have refused him. Margaret Cowley had youth, grace and breed, a large dowry and a proud name; but Bernardine Muschamp was a widow heiress, sole mistress of lands nearly as wide as the estates of Ribblestone, and was besides a lady of character, wit and tenderness, a fit mate for Francis Ribblestone, and as a flashing diamond to clear, colourless glass compared with Margaret Cowley.

"Have you been to Muschamp Hall to-day?"

"Just ridden from there, sir—she dismissed me smiling!—a woman like that must have a Court, not a husband—it did not hurt me to say good-bye—I am her servant always, but Margaret Cowley will make the sweeter wife—unless she, too, giveth no."

There was no fear of a second refusal from the Cowleys, and both he and Mr. Bargrave knew it; he might have had the gentle Margaret a year ago if he had not been a willing follower of the fascination of Mrs. Muschamp, and now he was free of those lures Mr. Bargrave had no doubt the little chapel would see bridal in the spring.

He glanced affectionately at the superb face that had taken on the look of musing, and asked gently: "What is your other news, Sir Francis?"

The young man flashed into his glorious animation.

"I have had a letter from London—from Wyndham;" he lightly touched his breast. "He hath been so encouraged by the defeat of the excise Bill that he is to attempt the repeal of the Septennial Act; he saith there must be an election in the spring and he wisheth me to stand, he would find a place for me—all my ambition is that way, and I shall, as he saith."

He spoke rapidly, with fire and feeling, as he brushed with his speech the great passion and object of his life, ambition and politics, and desire for the wide scope, the place of power.

To Stephen Bargrave, who had known and watched every one of his twenty-eight years of life, he seemed of irresistible charm and power, force and magnetism, the very incarnation in pleasant flesh and blood of the spirit of dauntless manhood on the threshold of achievement.

"You have been straining to be at politics all your life, Sir Francis."

Francis Ribblestone rose and held out his hand.

"What else is there that meaneth power? But I disturb you, and I must ride back and write to Wyndham; perhaps I shall go to London. When are you coming to the Manor?"

Mr. Bargrave smiled.

"When you command me."

Sir Francis pressed his hand affectionately.

"To-morrow then; I have no other confidant, you know, and I am writing a pamphlet on the Septennial Act; will you hear it? You are too indulgent, sir—good-bye."

He passed through the wooden gate, mounted, and galloped away across the misty evening fields.

Mr. Bargrave stood in the darkening churchyard looking after him and picturing that parting between Mrs. Muschamp and her suitor.

He could well imagine the clash of proud natures meeting, the challenge in her refusal, the answer in his haughty acceptance of that refusal, the interchange of stately courtesies, the stimulant of the rebuff to the quick spirit of Francis Ribblestone; his swift rebound to the quiet image of Margaret Cowley, his half-relief in certainty after years of dallying with indecision, his sense of pleasure in being set free from the insistent bonds of wilful charm; all of which had roused his mood to this exaltation in himself and in the sudden vent to his ambition offered by Sir William Wyndham, chief of the Opposition.

Mr. Bargrave gave a little sigh to a vanished hope—that of seeing united Francis Ribblestone and Bernardine Muschamp—and turned again into the church.

Meanwhile the object of his tender thoughts was passing between the two houses into the High Street of Haslemere.

The one to his left was two-storied, of red brick, completely shaded by the yew whose flat boughs touched the window-panes, and giving it a sombre, secretive look.

The first keen dusk had fallen, and there was a glowing little wind; an upper casement opened in the house behind the yew, a twist of white paper fluttered through the twilight and drifted across Francis Ribblestone's saddle. He caught it and glanced up, but the window had sharply closed and he did not check his horse.

As he crossed the market-place he smoothed out the paper on his palm; it was still light enough for him to read the large writing.

"When are you coming to see us again? I am very dull.

"Serena Fowkes."

He smiled, thrust the paper into his pocket, and in five minutes had forgotten it, and the writer, though she was what were neither of the two ladies who had occupied his lighter thoughts of late, a beauty beyond dispute or disdain.