Читать книгу Yonder - E. H. Young - Страница 4

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Alexander quietly opened the bedroom door and tiptoed to the bedside.

"I'm awake," said Edward Webb, blinking rapidly.

"I thought you never would be. It's four o'clock."

"Four o'clock!"

"Ay. And I didn't want you to wake up yet a bit." He spoke quickly. "I think I'd better tell you. I've been reading those books of yours. They fell out of your pockets, and I simply couldn't help it, but I've had to do it in the barn for fear my father should see. I'm taking care of them. Will you let me keep them till I've read a bit more? Just an hour or two? Well, I'll let you have the Milton back—I've had him at school—if I can have the Keats. I'll have finished by the time you've had your tea."

Here was someone who knew what he wanted! "If you will give me my clothes I will certainly lend you Keats."

"I'm much obliged to you. And would you mind not mentioning it to my father?" He went to the door. "I'll tell my mother you're awake, and I should think she'll let you have your clothes. They've been dry this long while. Did you lose your hat?"

"Isn't it there?"

"No, there's everything but that."

"Dear me! Well, I'm fortunate to have lost nothing else."

Alexander drew nearer. "You said you saw figures in the mist up yonder. What like were they?"

"Did I say that? I was very nervous, very much dazed; you mustn't believe all I said. What else did I say?"

"You wanted milk, that's all. Oh, and you seemed to like the smell of bacon."

"Ah, I remember—yes, it was a pleasant, homely smell. And I am very grateful to you all. Will you kindly give my thanks to your parents, and ask if I may be allowed to have my clothes, and thank them myself? I was a stranger, and ye took me in."

"Mother wouldn't turn away a dog," said Alexander simply.

Clara Rutherford, entering the room with her swift, firm step, felt her visitor's pulse, laid her hand on his forehead, looked searchingly into his eyes, and said he might get up.

"The stairs are just in front of you," she told him, "and the kitchen's at their foot. You'll find us there when you're ready."

When he went downstairs, he saw that rain was slanting across the open doorway leading to the yard, where it fell with a splatter on the paving-stones. He caught a glimpse of a copse of larch-trees on the hillside and heard the crying of their blown branches. Against the door-post, with a cold pipe in his mouth, Rutherford was lounging, and his wife sat on the fender with the light of the fire brightening her hair. Edward Webb stood for an instant before they saw him, and made him welcome.

"Why, the stairs didn't creak!" said Clara. "That was what I was listening for. You can never miss that board when you want to. When I go late to bed and creep upstairs I always tread on it, and then I hear Alexander turning in his bed. He wakes if a mouse cheeps. Tea's ready."

She went to the door and whistled, and presently Alexander came through the rain.

"Where've you been?" his father demanded.

"In the barn." He looked at Edward Webb, who ate his bread-and-butter without so much as an upward glance.

"I can't think what you want to go there for, when we've chairs to sit on."

"Janet gave me a truss of hay, and it's softer than a bed."

"Janet would do better to keep her hay. She'll be short of fodder before the winter's out."

"That's what I told her."

"These eggs are excellent," said Edward Webb.

"You shall have a duck's egg for breakfast. My ducks——"

"But I must be getting back to-night."

"Indeed you mustn't. It's ten miles to the station, and it's raining, and you're not fit. We haven't a trap, either, but we could borrow a cart for you to-morrow."

"You're very kind, but—but I feel I ought to go. Imposing on you like this!"

"Not at all. We're glad to have you," said Rutherford. "And you can't get away if my wife means you to stop."

"I was beginning to suspect that," said Webb, with a half-rueful lift of the brows.

"And I do mean you to stop, so that's settled. Pass your father's cup, Alexander."

The rain came down faster and stronger, invading the kitchen, and the mists, as they swept past the window, hid the larch-trees, but still through the noise of the falling water their louder murmuring was heard. The dog came in, shook himself and, whining, lay down near the door. The room was darkened, but the fire glowed the more brightly, and Clara put candles on the table.

"Are you warm enough?" she asked of Edward. "Jim can't sit in a room with the door shut, but we can close the window."

"No, no, please don't. We mustn't shut out these sounds."

Across the candlelight Alexander sharply eyed the man who uttered his own thoughts. Books of poetry and a love of the wind—these were good things to have, but love of the wind was best, and a greater bond than a whole library. He liked this man, he decided, and he would be sorry when he went away.

When the meal was over, and Edward Webb was sitting again in the red-cushioned chair, while Clara washed the tea-things and her husband fetched more coal for the fire, Alexander approached, and gave him a furtive touch on the shoulder.

"Here's the book," he said, "and thank you."

"You've read it all?"

"Twice."

"What's your other name?"

"Rutherford, we're called."

Edward Webb took a pen from his waistcoat pocket and opened the book. "It is yours if you will have it," he said, and wrote the boy's name above his own. "I should like you to have it." He was deprecatingly courteous. "You have been very good to me, and I hope the book will be as good a friend to you."

"I cannot thank you," said Alexander hesitatingly, twisting the book. He was blushing deeply and biting his lips, but the rush of his next words would not be stayed. "But I'll never forget you," he cried. "A thing like this hasn't happened to me before," and with that he sank to the fender and sat there, keeping his watchful dark gaze on Edward Webb's face.

They fell into conversation after a time.

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes; over the hills to Browick. It's a good step. The Grammar School. There's nothing here but the Church School. I went there till I could walk to Browick, and glad I was to go."

"Oh? What was the matter?"

"Why," he cried, "he roared at us! He was that kind of man. He's there yet, but he's getting old."

"Perhaps he doesn't roar so loudly now."

"Oh yes, he does. I've heard him at it; but they tell me he's not quite so handy with the stick. It wasn't the stick I minded, though he had a strong arm. I'll tell you how it was. When he shouted at us, 'William the Conqueror, 1066,' or 'An island is a piece of land'—you know, anything—I felt it wasn't true, else why did he expect to be contradicted? It was a long time before I would believe my dates, but the island was simpler—I'd seen them."

"You had no confidence in him, in fact."

"That was it."

"Things are different now, I suppose. But it's a rough walk in winter-time, isn't it?"

"Yes."

He was not ready to tell anyone of his joy in that daily walk, in summer and in winter, when hailstones pounded him in the face, when he was drenched with rain or scorched with sun. Moreover, reserve was not his only reason for silence. It seemed that always his father tried to thwart him, and if he knew how much he loved the hills and the mists and the sunshine, the rare birds and the smell of peat, the getting of knowledge from men who were not afraid of questions and did not roar, then, perhaps, with the perverseness that baffled and angered his son, he would take him from the school. So never a word of pleasure had Alexander let fall, for fear his happiness should be taken from him, and never a word of discontent, because he did not care to lie; but his passion for the hills grew stronger, and his analysis of his father's character became acute.

"He's like a cat with a pet bird," he thought once. "He's watching it all the time, and hoping the cage-door will open. He knows he oughtn't to kill it—he's been told he mustn't—but he can't stop himself wanting to. That's him all through. He can't stop himself."

That lack of self-control and its unpleasant results on himself inspired the boy to practice the virtue with all his might. To exercise it, he would go without food when he was hungry, deliberately sniffing at his mother's hot pastry, and refusing to eat of it.

"If you don't have that, you shall have nothing else. You're getting fussy," his father had said once. His eyes were stormy under brooding brows, but Alexander knew he had the advantage, and he wore his impish look.

"I'm not, then. I'm learning self-control," he said slowly, and saw his father flinch.

His appetite was left uncriticized after that, but the relations of cat and bird continued and Alexander saw to it that the cage-door was not opened, developing an annoying habit of always being in the right, or managing to appear so.

"Don't worry your father, Alec," his mother said.

"Worry him!" The anger which he found harder to subdue than any hunger showed in his face, and brought more resemblance to his father than either would have cared to see. "How else am I going to live? I've seen wild things in the woods, and they all have weapons, one way or the other. The daft ones just die."

For a moment her courage seemed to faint, but she straightened her back and spoke with her infectious hopefulness, her determination that all was, or should be, well.

"He's impatient, I know, but you're a bit of a mule, Alexander. And you're both mine, and I won't let my belongings disagree. You've just got to put up with it."

"And am I not putting up with it?" he flamed out.

"Alec, I'll tell you something. Will you understand? It's this way with some women, as perhaps you'll see for yourself some day, when you've a woman of your own. I feel sometimes that you two are both my sons, and I've got to deal fairly by you both, and see that you do fairly by each other. Now you've a bigger will than he has—you've found that out already, and there's no harm in saying it—and it's for you to help, not hinder, him. But mind, he's a better man than you are—yet. It's just that he's weak in some ways. There's no need for you to despise him on that account. Wait till you are tempted or—or see trouble. You're just a baby, you know nothing, and you see fit to judge, when your real business is to be a good son to him, never you mind what he is to you. Call him your brother, and you'll find it easier. Not that I want to make your way easier." She paused. "But I'd strew roses for him. Have you got the geese in?" she added sharply.

Edward Webb's talk with Alexander was interrupted by Clara's command that the lamp be lighted, and Rutherford's entrance with the coal.

"We shall have a lot of rain yet," he said.

"Steep Water's getting fuller every minute," said Alexander. "D'you hear her? She runs underground just behind the house, and out again by the inn. She's roaring."

"We shall have a fine night of shaking windows, and howling wind, and creaking trees," said Clara, coming from the scullery. "This old house will blow down some day."

"No, no; it's rooted well."

Rutherford went to the doorway and stood there and Clara took her sewing to the table, where Alexander already sat under the lamplight.

"Have you done your lessons?" she asked him.

"To-morrow'll do."

"To-night, my son. There might be an earthquake to-morrow, and it would be a pity to leave anything unfinished."

Edward Webb gave a little chuckle. Great drops of rain hissed on the fire, and Rutherford, beyond the circle of light, began to pace the floor.

"Jim, I'll play chess with you."

"I think I'll have to get a breath of air."

"Not to-night. I shouldn't go out to-night."

He made no answer, but went to the door again and stood there. Edward Webb could hear him shifting from one foot to another, and he felt in the air a disturbance he could not name. Outside, the wind was shrieking, dashing itself against trees, walls, and counter-winds. It played with the rain, and tried to outcry the steady roaring of the streams. Within there was firelight, Clara sewing, Alexander at his books, and a man growing drowsy in the armchair; but peace was not there, for desire was trying to break through its prison-house, and its struggles could be felt.

Rutherford cleared his throat and again marched to and fro in the gloom. "Well, I think I'll get on my boots," he said, and gave out another cough.

Clara stitched on, Alexander did not look up, and Edward Webb became aware of more than that striving, imprisoned thing. He felt the contest of human wills. He was afraid to move, lest he should throw the balance to one side or the other, but he could see Clara's face, and he watched it. He thought he saw decision and indecision chasing each other there before she laid her work in her lap and spoke to Rutherford.

"I wish you'd go to Janet's for me, Jim."

"Is it important? I wasn't thinking of going that way."

She hesitated before she answered. "Yes; I'd like you to go."

"All right, I will if I have time."

Alexander looked up swiftly, but dropped his chin into his hands again and his eyes to his book.

"Let me have your pen, Alec." She wrote a note while Rutherford pulled on his boots. "Here, keep it in your pocket." She held out his overcoat, and when he had put it on she laid her hands on his shoulders for an instant. "Come back soon," Edward Webb heard her say softly, and then there was the sound of Rutherford's boots in the yard.

"Did you see to the geese, Alec?" It was her nightly question.

"No. I'll do it now."

"Better take your coat."

He paused in his passage to the door. "But—oh ay, very well," he said.

To the pleasant accompaniment of Clara's needle going through the cloth, the storm without, and the crackling of the fire, Edward Webb fell into one of those dozes when the head, after a few warning shakes, falls like lead to the breast, and the sleeper is helplessly conscious of his plight. He could hear the noises still, but now they mingled with his dreams. The small ones were like little voices speaking to him, and the great ones were the very stuff of which adventures could be made. He was chased by a bear with an open mouth and panting breath—but he knew the wind was answerable for that, and he was not afraid—and then a horde of animals was let loose on him—and that was only Alexander getting the fowls in for the night. He could hear his diligent threats and persuasions, and the clatter of his wooden clogs, sudden, alarmed clackings, and the fluttering of wings.

He sat up, blinked, and smiled at Clara in what he thought was a wakeful manner, but before his lips had straightened themselves his head was down again. Something blotted out the glow of the fire on his face, and he knew it was Clara putting on the kettle. He heard the splutter of the drops that clung to it as they touched the flames. There was a murmuring of voices next, and the sound of it was very soothing now that the fire shone on him again. He heard the words, "He didn't go to Janet's," and Clara's quick answering "Hush!"

"I'm not asleep," he said, and his voice seemed very small and far away.

"But you've been asleep," said Clara.

"Have I? I—I beg your pardon. It was rude of me, but the fire and the comfort and—and last night——"

"Sleep again if you want to," she said. Her voice had the note women use to tired children, and he understood that he must seem as helpless to her as he sat there, half asleep, in the chair that was so much bigger than himself.

"No, oh no; I would rather not. I—I have never thanked you properly, nor have I explained anything about myself. You don't know who I am. I have been taken on trust—entirely on trust. You must believe me grateful. My name——"

"Alexander saw that in your books, Mr. Webb. You haven't left them in the wet, Alec?"

"No; he returned them, thank you, quite dry again. I must own that I was anxious about them in the night. It's strange how little things like that can worry one. Not that I think it a small thing to care for books, but in the face of—of danger it became trivial."

"You were in danger?"

"Less than I thought. I could see nothing. I had not been in such a position before, and I am afraid I am a nervous man, more easily alarmed than one should be. Perhaps, with a little more determination——" He stopped and stared into the fire. The dancing flames of it reminded him of Theresa's hair. He went on with difficulty. "I am a traveller. I mean, a commercial traveller." He seemed to expect reproof.

Clara encouraged him. "Yes?"

"I thought I would spend my Saturday and Sunday among the hills, and here I am, but at this time last night I thought I should never see home again."

"There are people who would miss you, I expect."

"Yes; my wife, two little girls." His face brightened. "It was Theresa, the younger, who really sent me on this expedition. She wanted an adventure, she told me, and so I had to get it for her."

"How old is she?" This was from Alexander.

"Ten. Ten."

"Oh!" That was a stupid age, he thought.

"Grace is twelve. Dear me! I ought to send a letter. Is it too late for the post?"

"There's not another till Monday morning."

"Ah, then it will be best to send one to-morrow from the station. Thank you. We live at Radstowe—a long way, you see."

"Radstowe? That's a port, isn't it?" Alexander asked.

"Yes, rather an unsatisfactory port, but it makes a beautiful city. I live there for two weeks in each month, and travel for the other two, and every other month I come this way."

"Then," said Alexander, "you can come and stay with us again."

"Yes; we shall expect you."

"You are very kind. You—you could not have treated me better if you had known me all your lives. I find it—a little strange."

He thought of Monday, and dreaded meeting cold faces and hard, staring eyes. There was a certain shop he never entered without a tremor, because there was a girl there whom he had once seen winking at another as he passed between the counters. She was a tall girl, with a high colour and a great deal of hair. She made a joke of him—they all did, no doubt—and as he approached the portals of that shop he had to take a deep, sustaining breath before he could brave the merciless glances and tolerantly twisted lips of the young women there. He knew how he looked, how nervousness showed up all his disadvantages, and added to them. He had seen himself in the great mirrors of the place—a small man, bowed before his time, with thin hair growing grey, and anxious eyebrows. They would naturally think him a funny little man, yet Nancy, who had a sense of humour, did not laugh at him. He felt a new richness of gratitude towards her. Ah! she was loyal, and it was a wonderful thing to love, to be loved.

Clara was speaking. "We have to help each other, up here; there are so few of us. There's no doctor to run to, no chemist, no nurse to be had, not even a general shop—that's three miles off. We nurse each other, use each other's medicines, send each other's children scurrying on errands, and we go to each other's doors and say, 'Can I have two ounces of tea, please? and mother will let you have it back when the cart comes round.' They're shy folks, close-tongued, but they're willing. It's just a habit."

"I wish it were a common one. We are afraid to help; afraid of intruding. There are barriers everywhere. It makes our friends more precious to us, perhaps."

"It's all for the best, anyway," said Clara. "Let's have supper."

The wind had lessened; it came no longer with bursts of anger, but, as though craving pardon for its fury, it wailed and moaned about the house. For once Clara forgot her optimism.

"I cannot bear the wind like this," she said, when the meal was done, the dishes washed, and they sat by the fire again. She had laid aside her work and sat in a low chair, clasping and unclasping her hands. They were large, firm hands, and Edward Webb guessed that when they were not busy they were generally still. "It's like people who can't find their way."

"Janet says it's sins coming back on us."

"Janet's full of tales."

"She is that," said Alexander with satisfaction.

"Alec, let's have the door shut. I feel as if something will get through before we know it."

"That's worse than Janet," he said, as he kicked away the large stone which had held back the door.

At ten o'clock he was bidden to bed.

"I'll go if you do."

"No, I shall stay up."

"Then I will."

"You mustn't, Alec."

"But you're frightened of the wind. I'll not leave you."

"No, no." She shook her head. "It doesn't do, Alec; you know that."

"You'll let me stay with you, please," Edward Webb said timidly.

"You cannot let him do it, mother!" There was almost anguish in Alexander's voice.

"He must go to bed, too. Why, I've sat here alone on many a winter night."

"But I am not sleepy," Edward protested solemnly.

"Oh, very well, very well. You shall stay for a little while—only a little while. You promise to go when I tell you? Good-night, Alec."

"I shall read in bed," he said sullenly.

"Don't set yourself alight, then."

"Oh, mother——" She always said that to him.

The kitchen was filled with a brooding silence when he had gone; it hung heavily about the man and woman who tried to talk as though they had no thought beyond the words which came so slowly until Edward Webb gave way to his wish to talk about his children. Experience and Nancy's promptings had taught him that no subject brought people to yawns more quickly and, indeed, it was too sacred to be dragged before indifference, but he felt hopeful of Clara for the warmth and breadth of motherliness were plain in her. Moreover, it was necessary that something should be said, and she was silent. He could hear the rubbing of her hands against each other.

"May I tell you about my little girls?" he said.

"Will you?" Her smile was not the perfunctory one which had disheartened him sometimes. "I should like to have had a daughter," she added.

His shyness fell from him as he talked. He told her of Grace's beauty and her skill in dancing, he told her of Theresa's cleverness.

"Is she pretty, too?"

"No. No, I suppose you wouldn't call her pretty, but it doesn't seem to matter. Why, I hadn't even thought of it before. Theresa is not like other children."

This was what Clara had thought, but never said, of her own son.

"I have great hopes of her, but she is very young. One cannot tell yet how she will develop. But she shows signs of——"

"Hush!" Clara interrupted him on the verge of his precious revelation. They heard footsteps. Was it the dark night and the rough road that caused their loud unevenness?

"I think you'd better go to bed now," she said quietly. "Good-night."

"Good-night," he said, and went up the unlighted stairs. As he reached the landing a bedroom door was opened, and Alexander showed himself in his nightshirt.

"Is he back?" he asked.

"He has just come. I think," he whispered—"I think your mother wished us to be quiet."

"Hush!" said Alexander, "he'll hear nothing," and he banged his door.

Downstairs a key was turned in a lock, and the ashes were raked together in the grate. A few indistinguishable words floated up, and after a long pause there came the violent creaking of the stairs. It was a long time before Edward Webb could sleep.