Читать книгу The Coldstone - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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Anthony went back to Stonegate across the remaining field and in at a door which took him through a brick wall into the vegetable garden. He did not, therefore, see Mrs. Bowyer’s grand-daughter come down the village street and enter the cottage immediately opposite his own front gate. It was the oldest house in the village, and old Susan Bowyer was the oldest inhabitant.

The front door opened straight into the living-room. It was empty. The girl in the blue dress went to a door on the far side and opened it, calling “Gran!”

When there was no answer, she went through the kitchen, which was spotlessly clean and neat, and passed out into the garden. There was a border with bright flowers, and a strip of orchard with plums and apples ripening. All along the fence there were bee-hives. Mrs. Bowyer was bent over the nearest hive.

The girl called “Gran!” again, and she turned and came in, walking briskly, just a little bent, in a black dress with a small alpaca apron and a white net cap with lappets. She was small, and her face was covered with multitudes of tiny lines. A little fluffy white hair showed under the cap. Her dark eyes were full of an amazing dancing vigour.

“What were you doing, Gran?”

“Doing?” she said. She gave a little pleased laugh. “I were telling the bees—that’s what I were doing. Now I suppose you’ll say you never heard tell of that.”

Young Susan put her arm about old Susan’s waist.

“What were you telling them? Mind the step, Gran!”

Mrs. Bowyer freed herself.

“Look you here, Susan! I’ve lived in this here house a hundred years come Christmas. Did I ever tell you as I was a Christmas child? They don’t fear hail, nor snow, nor winter blow. Did you ever hear that? And, as I were saying, if I don’t know there’s a step there by now, I’ll never know it.”

“What were you telling the bees, Gran?”

Mrs. Bowyer passed into the living-room and sat down in the oak rocking-chair by the right-hand window. The windows were set on either side of the door. They had latticed panes, behind which bloomed the finest geraniums in Ford St. Mary.

“What should I ha’ been telling the bees?” said Mrs. Bowyer. Her voice had lost its ring, but it was still full of energy. “Colstone is master here, and when Colstone comes to Stonegate, that’s the master coming home. And when the master comes home, you’re bound to tell the bees. If you don’t, they’ll turn cross on you. Bees has got to be told when things happen to their folks, and if you don’t tell ’em, they goes contrary. And that’s why all these new-fangle folk make such a muck of bee-keeping.”

Susan stood by the hearth. There was no fire there. The wide black chimney made a background for the pale blue of her dress. She said,

“I’ve seen him.”

Mrs. Bowyer’s dancing eyes looked at her with eager interest.

“What? Colstone? You’ve seen him?”

“Yes, up in the fields.”

“And what were you doing up in the fields?”

“I went up to see the Coldstone Ring.”

“You never!”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

A very curious expression came over Mrs. Bowyer’s face.

“And you met him there—Mr. Anthony Colstone? Oh Lord, ’tis funny to say it! Anthony Colstone! Son of Ralph—son of James—son of Ambrose——” She stopped with a quiver of laughter. “Sir Jervis’ uncle he was—I can remember him. I was a little maid of six when he quarrelled with his father and went away. Jervis and I were playing in the garden—there wasn’t any Sir about him then—three months younger than me, and a limb. We were playing, and we were quarrelling, and Mr. Ambrose come out to us looking like a bit of blued linen, and he says, ‘It’s a pity to quarrel, children. My father’s quarrelled with me.’ And he kissed us and said good-bye, and nobody never saw him any more—and that’s more than ninety years ago.” She began to rock herself slowly. “Ninety-four years ago come Christmas—no, ’twas in the summer, for we were making daisy chains.” She rocked again, her hands folded on the black alpaca apron, then asked suddenly, “What’s he like? Mr. Ambrose wasn’t nothing to look at, but Mr. James, his brother that was Jervis’ father, he was a fine-looking man, six foot and a bit over. What’s the lad like?”

“Oh, he’s big enough.”

“Don’t you go and tell me he’s one of they long weeds!”

Susan laughed softly.

“Oh, he’s wide enough,” she said.

“Well, what’s wrong with the lad?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with him. He’s a very nice, discreet, polite young man, and quite as good-looking as is good for him.”

“H’m——” said Mrs. Bowyer. “I like ’em bold meself, but not to say outrageous bold. What colour’s his eyes, deary?”

“Oh, just no colour at all.”

Mrs. Bowyer sat up straight and stopped rocking.

“Are you telling me you’re the kind of maid that don’t notice what coloured eyes a lad has got?”

Susan tilted her chin. The corners of her mouth took an upward quirk, a dimple showed in the curve of her cheek.

“Of course, Gran. I’m very, very modest.” She broke into a laugh at Mrs. Bowyer’s expression. “Now, Gran, don’t you look like that! Personally I think no-coloured eyes are quite good business. They make a sort of weather gauge, because if he’s in love with you they’ll be blue, and when he’s angry they’ll go grey, and when he starts thinking about somebody else they’ll be hazel. Hazel eyes are the fickle eyes, aren’t they, Gran? And black——” She broke off and shivered.

“You’d best keep clear of the black, my girl. And Anthony Colstone—have you seen his eyes look blue or grey? For if you have, it’s early days. He didn’t talk bold to you, Susan?” Her voice sharpened.

“Not a bit of it—he was shy. I could see him wondering how he could get rid of me without hurting my feelings. I told you he was a discreet young man.”

She took off her sun-bonnet and swung it by the strings. The bare head was beautifully shaped and beautifully held. The shingled hair was very dark and very soft; it curled a little where it was long enough to curl.

“And you think the worse of him for it?”

“I don’t.”

“Maids are all alike! If he’d ha’ kissed you, you’d ha’ thought him a fine fellow.”

Susan’s lip lifted a little.

“People don’t kiss me unless I want them to, Gran.” The soft voice was a little haughty.

Mrs. Bowyer rocked with inward laughter. She made no sound at all; she quivered and put a little wrinkled hand to her side. After a moment Susan laughed too.

“Gran, you’re a fiend! I wish you’d been there. I did it beautifully. I copied Mary Ann Smithers—you know the way she holds her hands and sort of gives at the knees. And I made him a perfectly lovely bob, and I said ‘sir’ at least once in every sentence.”

Mrs. Bowyer stopped laughing with great suddenness.

“The Coldstone Ring’s no place for a lad to meet with a lass,” she said; and then, very sharply, “What took him there?”

“How should I know? What’s the matter with the Stones, Gran? Why won’t anyone go near them?”

Mrs. Bowyer gazed abstractedly at her geraniums.

“Gran, you might tell me!”

“There’s those that’s best not talked of.”

Susan knelt down by the rocking-chair and coaxed.

“In a whisper, Gran!”

“What’s a whisper to Them?” Susan felt a tingle of excitement.

“Gran—you might tell me! You told me about the passage.”

Old Susan Bowyer turned on her sharply.

“And you promised sure and certain you’d never name it to living soul.”

“Yes, I did, Gran—and I won’t.”

She was holding one of the work-worn hands. Her own were brown, and smooth, and beautifully shaped. Mrs. Bowyer put her other hand down on them. It pressed them, trembling.

“You promised sure and certain before I told you. And I wouldn’t ha’ told you, only there’s no one left of all the Bowyers but you. Thomas’ girl I don’t count—she’s Bowyer by name, but she’s Dickson by nature, and a Dickson is what I never could abide, not from the days when Cis Dickson that was her mother’s grandmother made her great sheep’s eyes at my William. No—Jenny’s a Dickson through and through, if she was Thomas’ daughter ten times over.”

“All right, Gran, next time she comes to see you, you just call her Jenny Dickson and see what happens.”

“You’re a wicked maid!” said Mrs. Bowyer enjoyably. “I don’t count Jenny, and I don’t count Robert’s grandchildren, if so be he’s got any, because they be all ’Mericans, and it stands to reason I can’t tell what’s got to be told to ’Mericans on the other side of the world. So there’s only you, my dear. And I told you because Bowyers ha’ lived in this house just so long as Colstones ha’ lived at Stonegate, and there’s bound to be a Bowyer that knows the secret—and if I don’t count Jenny and all they ’Mericans, there’s only you, my dear.”

“Then tell me about the Coldstone Ring,” said Susan in a whisper.

Mrs. Bowyer became remote. She took her hand away from Susan’s. Her voice was brisk and matter of fact.

“Least said, soonest mended,” she said.