Читать книгу The Coldstone - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 3

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Sir Jervis Colstone lay in his bed propped up with pillows and looked across the room and out of the window. He was close upon a hundred years old, and the world was slipping away from him. He looked out of the window, and who can say what he saw? What other eyes might have seen was a green picture of tilted fields running slantwise up a hill. The June grass stood high in the fields, and high above the June grass of the midmost field two tall grey stones stood pointing up to the blue June sky. Perhaps Sir Jervis saw more than just two stones. Perhaps he saw a great full circle, and in the midst of the circle a stone of ancient sacrifice. Perhaps he saw a pillar of fire and smoke that went up into a midnight sky. Perhaps he saw other things.

He stirred, shifted his right hand in a groping fashion, and said,

“Susan——”

The old woman who sat at the bed foot leaned forward and put her hand on his. She was older than he by three months. Her black eyes were indomitably alive and courageous. She wore a decent black gown, a black silk cap, and a little black apron with pockets. A handkerchief lay in her lap; but she had not wept, nor would she weep. She touched his hand and said,

“Jervis——”

He said, “Safe——” and then, with a sudden energy, “You’ll not tell him.”

Old Mrs. Bowyer patted the big bony hand. All the Colstones ran to bone—big men, hard to move.

“You’ll not tell him,” he repeated, stumbling a little over the words.

Old Mrs. Bowyer’s look deepened.

“And what am I not to tell him, my dear?”

“Not—anything.”

“He’s your own flesh and blood—he’ll be Colstone when you’re gone. There’ve been a plenty of Anthonys afore him, haven’t there?”

He gave an impatient groan.

“Don’t—trust—anyone. Don’t—tell—anything.” A pause, and then, “Promise.”

Susan Bowyer patted his hand again.

“Don’t you fret, my dear.”

She felt the hand twitch. The wraith of the old passionate frown darkened his face.

“Promise.”

Perhaps he saw her shake her head. Perhaps he only saw the picture which filled his mind. Perhaps he saw the tilted fields and the two grey, watching stones.

The door opened and Nurse Collins came in, very bright and neat.

“He’s been talking all the time, I suppose—never stops, and not a word of sense. It’s a pity you troubled to come, really. There—just listen to him!”

The frown had deepened. A rapid mutter came from the pale parted lips—words, sentences, but all in confusion, as if the thread on which they were strung had snapped and left them split abroad.

“No use your staying.” Nurse Collins was brisk and patronizing. “The daughters will be back in a minute, though there’s nothing they can do. He won’t know them any more than he knows you.”

Old Mrs. Bowyer’s black eyes rested on her with an odd sparkle somewhere deep down in them.

“What some folks knows is worth knowing,” she said.