Читать книгу The Watersplash - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 11

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The sewing-party at the Vicarage was breaking up. It had been started rather humbly and tentatively by Mrs. Ball, who was interested in the Save the Children movement, but it had proved quite a success. Friday evening found most of the available women in the neighbourhood plying a charitable needle in the Vicarage drawing-room. It was a magnificent opportunity for the exchange of news and views, and every woman nourished the hope that to her, and to her alone, there would some day be imparted the secret of the really delicious cake which always made its appearance at half-past nine. The hope was a vain one. Unassuming and obliging as Mrs. Ball had proved herself, neither hints, compliments, nor the offer of a fair exchange had achieved anything but a smiling shake of the head and a perfectly amiable, “Oh, I wish I could, but it is a family secret, and I had to promise not to tell before my Aunt Annabel would let me have it.” Mrs. Pomfret, whose husband farmed his own land to the east of Greenings, had offered the real eighteenth-century recipe for frumenty, Miss Sims had tried to drive a bargain against an infallible way of keeping potatoes new until Christmas time, Miss Blake had put forward her great-grandmother’s crême brulée, said to be superior to the famous Oxford variety, but without result. After each overture Mrs. Ball would at some time during the following evening heave a deep sigh and inform the Vicar that she really did feel terribly mean—“Only she did make me promise, John, and she said she would haunt me if I let it go out of the family.” At which Mr. Ball had the barbarity to laugh and say from what he had heard about her aunt, he would prefer not to have her as a permanent guest.

Just before ten o’clock everyone was getting ready to go. Mrs. Alexander was heard to catch herself up in the middle of her good-nights and say,

“If I didn’t nearly forget! That poor Annie Jackson was in early in the afternoon and she’s wanting work, so I said I’d mention it. Seems her husband has lost his job, and there won’t be anything coming in.”

Miss Blake sniffed.

“Well, she would marry him, and look what has come of it! I said to her at the time, ‘You’ll only regret it once, Annie, and that will be for the rest of your life.’ I’d known her all the years with Lucy Wayne, and I wasn’t going to hold my tongue. And what do you think she said? ‘We’ve all got our lives to lead, and this is mine.’ And look where it’s brought her! I never did like William Jackson—I don’t know anyone who does! And he’s been going steadily downhill ever since he got his hands on Annie’s savings!”

Mrs. Ball said,

“It must be very hard for her.”

Mildred Blake tossed her head.

“Oh, she’s brought it on herself! If people won’t be warned they must put up with the consequences! Well, good-night, Mrs. Ball. I can hear Arnold Random practising in the church, so I’ll just step over and have a word with him about Sunday week, because if I’m to play I must have plenty of notice. He can’t expect me just to sit down and rattle off two chants, three hymns and a couple of voluntaries as if I was in the way of doing it every day.”

Mrs. Ball was glad to get away from the subject of poor Mrs. Jackson. She said,

“Oh, yes, he was going up to London for the week-end—wasn’t he?”

The Vicarage stood next to the church. There was no need for Miss Blake to go out on the road and in by the lych gate. She took the short cut through the small side gate into the churchyard and followed it to the door beneath that lighted window. It was, as she had known it would be, ajar. Thirty years before, she had often slipped in to listen to Arnold Random’s playing and walked back with him when he had finished. Those thirty years had not softened her heart or sweetened her temper. They certainly had not left her with any indulgence for Arnold Random.

As she skirted the church she became aware that he had stopped playing. The sound of the organ had not, in fact, been noticeable since she left the Vicarage, yet she had certainly heard it whilst they were talking about Annie Jackson. Arnold could not have gone, or he would have locked the door behind him. He must be putting away the music. Well, so much the better—she certainly didn’t want to have to sit and listen to his playing now. Music was like a lot of other things, the interest went out of it. Her fingers could still control the keys, but her mind had lost the overtones.

She pushed open the door and went in. The door led directly into the church. The organ, with a curtain to screen the organist, lay to the left. The light which had made that faint glow came from behind the curtain. Miss Mildred switched off the torch which she had used to guide herself through the churchyard, took a single step forward, and was aware of voices. Arnold Random’s voice, high and cold, saying something about “nonsense”. And someone answering him with a country accent which seemed to be a little slurred with drink. She came forward, moving without any sound, and heard William Jackson say,

“And suppose it isn’t nonsense; Mr. Arnold? Suppose ‘tis gospel truth as I’m telling you?”

Arnold Random said sharply,

“You’re drunk!”

From where she stood she could see a part of William Jackson’s arm from the shoulder to the elbow. The curtain had been drawn back, and he stood next to the gap with his rough coat-sleeve showing. Now he took a lurching step to the left, and she could see the back of his head with the reddish hair sticking up and catching the light. The head was being vigorously shaken.

“Not drunk. That’s where you’re wrong, sir. I didn’t ought to have had that last pint, but I’m not drunk. Not so steady on my legs as I might be, but I’m clear enough in my head. And yesterday was a twelvemonth Mr. James Random called me into the study—me and Billy Stokes—and told us we was wanted to witness his will. Yesterday was a twelvemonth.”

Arnold Random said,

“And what if it was?”

“That’s what I’ve come here to have a word about. Mr. Random he took a turn and was dead before the week was out. Supposed to be getting well he was, and the nurse going to leave and all, but he took a turn and he died. And Billy he went in the Navy, and got washed overboard. And never come home. So that leaves only me as could swear to Mr. Random signing of that will.”

“Jackson, you are drunk! Naturally Mr. Random made a will, and it has been proved and all the business finished with. Now clear out and go home! I’m locking up.”

She could see William swaying a little from one foot to the other.

“Not so fast, sir,” he said. “If I can’t say what I want—to you—there’s others that’ll be glad enough to listen. There’s Mr. Edward for one.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what I’m wanting to tell you. Mr. Edward—three years ago there wasn’t anyone but believed he was dead. Mr. Random, he believed it. Lawyer came out from Embank, and he altered his will. Maybe I wasn’t going past the study window when the signing was going on—maybe I haven’t got eyes in my head. Maybe I couldn’t look through the window and see what kind of a paper Mr. Random was putting his name to. A great big stiff white piece of foolscap with typing on it, and Mr. Random leaning over to sign his name, with the lawyer and his clerk, and the lady that was staying in the house—what was her name—Mrs. Peabody—a-watching of him. Witnesses, I reckon they was, her and lawyer’s clerk. And she went away next day—back to Australia or something.”

“Jackson, you are drunk.” The tone was steady but without life.

William laughed. The sound shocked Mildred Blake.

“I’m drunk—because I could look in through the study window and see Mr. Random a-signing his will? And a twelvemonth ago yesterday I seen him sign another will—blue paper instead of white, and his own hand instead of all that typewriting stuff, and me and Billy Stokes for witnesses instead of lawyer’s clerk and Mrs. Peabody. A pint too much at the Lamb don’t make you as drunk as all that comes to, Mr. Arnold, and I’ll say the same when I’m stonecold sober. And so be you don’t believe me, there’s others as will. There’s Mr. Edward for one. Suppose I was to go to him and tell him what I seen and what I heard? Billy he’d gone out by the window, and Mr. Random he was setting there with his head in his hand, staring down at that blue paper in front of him. I said, ‘Will I go now, sir?’ and he looks up at me and he says very solemn, ‘You and Mr. Edward was boys together. I saw him last night in a dream as plain as what I see you now, and he said, ‘I’m not dead, you know, and I’ll be coming back.’ That’s why you’ve been asked to witness this new will. He mustn’t come home and find there’s nothing left for him. I’d like you to remember that, William,’ he says. ‘And I’d like you to tell him when he comes home.’”

He stopped. A time went by. Arnold Random spoke into the silence.

“And why didn’t you tell him?”

William Jackson shuffled with his feet.

“I thought I’d wait—I thought he’d be coming. I heard tell as he was coming. It wasn’t a thing I wanted to put on paper. I didn’t want to make trouble for myself, but seeing you’ve took and given me my notice——”

“You thought you’d trump up a story like this!”

Miss Blake saw William Jackson shake his head.

“There’s no trumping, Mr. Arnold, nor no making up. It’s gospel truth Mr. Random made that will, and I’d take my Bible oath I saw him put his name to it, and Billy and me, we put ours, and he told me Mr. Edward had spoke to him in a dream and told him he wasn’t dead. Not that I’m wishful to make trouble, Mr. Arnold, and if you was to take back that notice and maybe give me a bit of a rise——”

Arnold Random had received a numbing shock. Under its impact all he could do was to repeat that William Jackson was drunk. It was the only weapon to his hand, the only measure of defence he had, and even as he used it he felt it weaken. If William was drunk to-day, he would be sober to-morrow. The drink had put words in his mouth, or it had loosened his tongue until he could bring himself to speak them aloud. But having said them, could he, or would he, unsay them again when the drink was out of him? He might. For a consideration he would. If he was given his job again and a rise, he would hold his tongue—for this time. Until he was short of cash—until the appetite for blackmail grew in him.

In the silence that was between them now the thought came clear—he was being blackmailed. Give way once, make one payment, and the chain is on your limbs for life. Whose life? The chain will not loosen till one of you is dead—and William was by more than thirty years the younger man. Rage flooded up in him, sweeping everything before it. He broke into a fury of words.

“You damned blackmailer!”

That was only the beginning. Mildred Blake put her hands to her ears, but the shouting voice came through. Such language! And in church! Several of the words were entirely new to her. How disgraceful! How unseemly! Quite sacrilegious!

She hurried out through the small side door and stood on the gravel path, hearing the angry voices rise and fall. She was shocked of course—really quite terribly shocked. But her mind was working. She had not the slightest doubt that William Jackson was speaking the truth. There had been a later will than the one under which Arnold benefited. In the last week of his life James Random had received what he believed to be an intimation that his nephew Edward was alive, and he had made another will. There could be no doubt at all of what the terms of that will must have been. If Arnold Random had destroyed it, he faced disgrace and imprisonment. If he heard of it now for the first time, he must submit to blackmail or lose his inheritance.

Mildred Blake was one of the few people who guessed what the possession of the Hall meant to him. Thirty years ago they had come near enough to read each other’s minds. There had been a brief, a very brief, space when all was clear between them. What Arnold Random saw had startled him into retreat. What Mildred Blake saw she had not forgotten. It was with her now.

The voices were louder in the church. There was a sound of footsteps. Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness now. Without waiting to put on her torch she turned and ran down the yew tunnel to the lych gate.