Читать книгу Lycanthrope: The Mystery of Sir William Wolf - Eden Phillpotts - Страница 8

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The practical spirit of his friend supported Sir William under the demands that life had put upon him, and those of his immediate circle also helped the good work. His aunt cared for him and was always understanding and sympathetic; the vicar abounded in cheerful common sense; Alma fell in with his petition and gladly helped him at the self-imposed task of the library. The building that housed this mass of books was another excrescence on the manor. It jutted from the western wing, was lighted from above and contained some fifty or sixty thousand volumes, most of which had not been opened for at least a hundred years.

William was no bookman in the sense that his ancestor had been. The contents of any work was all that interested him and its extrinsic worth gave no pleasure. Telford Wolf on the contrary rejoiced in the ancient volumes for themselves alone, their value and their beauty. His cousin presented him with dozens which he bore away to his own workroom and studio. Thus William industriously proceeded with a heavy task that promised to occupy many months; while Alma helped him, and from time to time a secondhand bookseller descended upon Stormbury with expert knowledge and bore away venerable material, for which neither Mr. Boyd, nor anybody else found a use.

Sometimes the student grew tired of his library and would abandon it during a week or more for active, open-air life; sometimes he came across a book full of matter and concerned with his own favourite subjects; and then he would desert the rest and dwell with his find until he had learned all that it could teach him. Alma soon noted the direction of his taste and instinctively opposed it, for she felt the young man's predilections unlikely to bring him happiness.

"I hate witches and warlocks and necromancy and all the weird nonsense you gloat over, Bill," she said to him once. "Why can't you stick to your beautiful, sane Greeks and their sunshine and not wallow in this rubbish from the Dark Ages?"

But he shook his head.

"You mustn't feel like that," he said. "The Greeks had their mysteries too, and pretty awful some of them were. There is nothing more attractive to me, Alma, than to peer and peep into those hidden regions where man has lifted the veil of matter and stood face to face with the life that moves and operates for our good and evil, behind those dark curtains."

But the girl persisted in decrying this attitude, and the more resolutely because, with the wane of the year and the companionship that he had put upon her, there was growing in her heart something new and unrestful concerning him; and if the old brother and sister relation began to change, William himself shared the responsibility. With a sense of contrition he presently realized how much of Alma's time was claimed by him and the extent of her patience. Next he perceived that his hours with her were among the happiest that he knew; and then he began to share something of her own secret emotion. He regarded marriage as a duty, but since he did not yet love Alma, thought at first upon her as a fitting helpmate and little more. So viewed, William was able to debate the possibility with a level mind; yet presently, when his virgin senses quickened and he guessed that he was going to love her, nature asserted itself; he grew anxious and reflected on the problem from her angle of vision rather than his own. His desires waned under native pessimism and he told himself that all he had to offer of any worth were transparent advantages that could make no appeal to her. Stripped of accidental additions he was a poor thing indeed—so feared William—and unlikely to awaken honest affection in anybody—least of all Alma Boyd. He began to fret over the matter presently, and then came light upon it from an unexpected quarter.

Sitting in Telford's studio one morning and watching him at work on enamels, his cousin chaffed William about the vicar's daughter.

"Johnny tells me you are getting as thick as thieves with her," he said, "and for that matter I've marked it myself. You ought to watch out, old man, because, though Alma's only a common feature of the countryside to you, you are a pretty big noise to her. Malfroy thinks—"

But William cut him short and rose to go. He was aware that John Malfroy and Telford had become very good friends, for the former's realism appealed to the artist, who, like many artists, possessed a somewhat flinty heart for any interests other than his own; and he knew that, though art meant nothing to Johnny, other aspects of Telford's character and his caustic humour attracted him; but it came as an unpleasant surprise that his friend should have spoken on such a subject to anybody but himself.

"I've no wish to hear what Malfroy thinks, or you either," declared William, "and I'll ask you, as I shall ask him, to mind your own business in future, old chap."

Telford whistled.

"Don't get up in the air, and don't go for half a minute, Bill," he said. "You've got this all wrong. My fault no doubt; but you mustn't blame Johnny, and I hope you won't blame me. God knows if any man ever had a pal worth having, you are the fortunate man. It's like this: I spoke to Malfroy; he never mentioned it to me—the last thing he'd have done; but when I alluded to Alma, he confessed that he had noticed it. He wasn't troubled about you, because you can do no wrong in his eyes, but he did feel your kindness and attention meant a lot to Alma, and he said that anybody could see she was devilish fond of you—not because you're what you are, but for yourself. Johnny was thinking of her, not you. He isn't in love with her or anything like that, but he's a humane sort of beggar and feels rather sorry for the woman because he's so tremendously attached to you himself."

William listened and was moved, for what he had heard pleased him.

"That alters the case," he said, "and I'm glad you told me—for more reasons than one."

"Don't mention it to Johnny, then. He'll only think I've been chattering like a washer-woman behind his back if you do," answered Telford, and his cousin, promising to be silent, departed.

But later on the same day, Telford, when speaking to his stepmother, told her all that had passed and interested her considerably.

"One rather expected he'd have married class, if ever he did marry at all," summed up the young man, "but he'll have a jolly sensible, wholesome wife in Alma, poor, dear chap. I believe she'll do him good."

Daphne Wolf reflected before making any reply.

"Our precious Bill is not a very profound student of human nature," she said at length, "but he knows enough to understand that class has nothing to do with a happy marriage. Success depends on deeper foundations, just as failure does. William's matrimonial prospects present attractive problems for the county, and I get numerous questions as to whom he may seem to favour, both from fathers and mothers of course."

"He'd never go into society; he hates it as much as I do," said Telford.

"He won't, and no girl who loves society could possibly attract him I think. All I tell friends is that, so far as I know, Bill is still heart-whole and much too busy to think about a wife. I can always add the exciting promise, however, that he intends to marry some day."

"He reckons it's his duty to the race," declared her stepson, "and since nobody on earth ever heard of him failing in what he believed to be his duty, he's sure to come to it sooner or later."

"And he might do a great deal worse than Alma. I never thought of her and I'm sure his father didn't. But she's a fine girl in body and mind. I always felt she took the place of a sister to William. But she might easily do more. One cannot see any great disabilities. She wouldn't marry a man whom she didn't love, and the position of Bill's wife wouldn't make the least appeal to her if he didn't himself, so we're quite safe there."

So spoke Mrs. Wolf, and Telford agreed with her.

"We can only wait their pleasure, stepmother," he said. "Alma's the strong-minded sort and may have the natural affection they often feel for a man with less character than themselves."

Daphne was doubtful.

"True enough," she answered, "but one hopes that, when it comes, he'll find marriage a pleasure as well as a duty. So far I can't imagine the girl who is going to make him fall in love; but he's so courteous and kind to every woman that he might easily raise false hopes in one who sees very much of him."

"That's why I dared to whisper what Malfroy had noticed. As you say, it's hard to picture Bill in love, or the girl he'd be likely to fall for; but if such a woman exists and he finds her, she'll be fortunate."

"She will indeed, my dear."

Meantime the object of their regard had experienced emotions of a pleasant nature and approached to a state of unusual cheerfulness. That John Malfroy had been sufficiently subtle to make this discovery surprised him, for it was unlike his forthright friend to note the delicate nuances of a feminine mind. To think thus for Alma's feelings showed Johnny in a gentle light and moved William agreeably; but if what Malfroy suspected were true, then the other felt immense overpowering interest at the fact. He could hardly believe it and assured himself that John must be mistaken, but he longed to believe it and the possibility quickened his growing affection for Alma, since the knowledge that one is greatly esteemed by a fellow-creature must influence our mental attitude.

There followed a medley of sentiments for William, and next time Alma came to help him, she was puzzled at his altered mood. He was glum and silent and she did not know that his secret knowledge made him so. He would attend to the books, but began vague sentences and dropped them again before they had reached their point. He seemed shy of her—an attitude that amused Alma, but made her shy of him also. In truth the young man had made up his mind at last and fully intended to propose; but his defeatist soul still trembled at the possibility of rejection and a little longer he postponed the ordeal, telling himself that Alma evinced none of the alleged signs of interest, or tenderness, others had imagined.

Then came the annual audit dinner at 'The Wolf Arms' in Stormbury. It was an ancient house dedicated to the ruling race and over the great granite entrance, for a sign, there hung Sir William's coat:—two wolves trotting one above the other with formidable teeth and gilt claws on a field of weathered green. William took the chair and listened to old tenants saying kindly things about his father and hoping kindly things for himself. He returned their friendship with cordial assurances of his own, and it was left to Malfroy to talk business, indicate the grave nature of state exactions on the death of Sir Porteus and outline the need for patience and provenance from all under the strain of the times.

William had little guessed that this event would be the prologue to the happiest hour of his life, yet so it was, and when he left his people at their smoking concert and passed under his swinging wolves on the signboard at three of that afternoon, all he remembered was the advice of a homely old farmer, whose speech had won general applause. The veteran chose to be personal and expressed a hope that Sir William would soon take a wife. "And us all wants for you to fetch home a proper partner, Sir William," he had said, "—one of the good, old, trustable sort, same as Lady Wolf, your fine mother; and I much hope you'll turn your mind to it before I'm called away, because I'd feel a lot more easy if I knew the family was established for generations to come and the breed carrying on."

These sentiments persisted subconsciously in William's mind as he went to the vicarage, and they came to his tongue at a later moment. He had promised to drink tea with her father and see Alma's chrysanthemums after the audit dinner, but the evening came in early and dark, and Miss Boyd declared the flowers needed sunshine.

"You've missed their prime in any case," she said. "You haven't been here for an age."

"Why don't I like flowers better?" he asked. "Father and mother both cared for them as much as you do; but I can't get up much excitement about them."

"You're like Telford: you care much more for art than nature," she said.

"I suppose I do. But flowers are only nature's fireworks—here to-day and gone to-morrow—leaving a mess behind them—rather sad in a way."

Alma sighed.

"You turn everything into sadness, or weirdness, Bill. It's horrid of you."

"I've just come from a crowd of happy people, or so they seemed to be. They are decent and hide their hearts anyway—a lesson to a selfish, egotistic pig like me."

"You're not selfish. That's the last thing you could be—but—but——Oh, who am I to lecture you? It's like this: some people say 'Yea' to life, as father and Mr. Malfroy and I do; and others are built always to say 'Nay' to life—as you do. But why do you? I often wonder. You have such a subtle sense of beauty, but you only seem to see and feel the sad side of beautiful things, never their glad, joyous side."

William always knew that when he did offer marriage, it would not be with deliberation, but upon some sudden impulse provided by accident of opportunity, or chance. To have planned the time, place and words had been impossible; but now he made a dash for it under the inspiration of Alma's last words and in half a minute found himself offering heart and hand.

"Don't think you haven't taught me that already—taught me by example—the surest way to teach," he answered. "A thousand thousand times I've seen you react to beautiful things, and be the more beautiful for them yourself if that was possible. And countless things have become more beautiful to me because they were beautiful to you. I often wondered, and now I know why. Happiness is an aura round you. You're the happiest being in my life, and I've come to feel and see the wisdom of such content as belongs to you; I've begun to understand in my thickheaded way what it has meant to have your patient and forgiving friendship all these years, and the rare, precious privilege I took so selfishly for granted. It's true: there's bitterness in all happiness for me—the bitterness of myself intruding into that alien atmosphere—but there was always that in you to banish the bitterness. Bitter things can't live in the air you breathe."

"Dear Bill, to make you happier would be a real joy to me," she answered.

"You can," he assured her. "You can this moment, Alma. And if you can't this moment, at any rate you won't keep me long in suspense. Will you marry me and carry on the good work and make me happy for evermore? There's not much to offer—only material for you to work on: I know that jolly well. None too promising material either; but it's all I've got to give in exchange for your glorious self. An obstinate, ugly, old-fashioned devil of a chap, not worthy of a second thought and quite prepared to hear you tell him so. But I love you; I want you. Donne opened my eyes and told me how terribly much I do want you. Donne's my favourite poet—about the only one I ever read. Plenty of beauty and plenty of bitterness and plenty of stark, staring truth in him. He tells a lover things that every lover must have felt but only one in a thousand known to put a name to. He says,

"Love's mysteries in souls do grow,

But yet the body is her book:

You can't get away from that. Love's got to face it."

He fell silent and Alma did not reply immediately, but he saw her answer in her eyes, put his arms round her and kissed her.

"Oh, Bill, when did it begin?" she asked. "When did we change and start loving each other?"

"As long as we never stop loving each other, that doesn't matter," he told her. "I shall be a whole-time job as they say. Do you really feel equal to it?"

"No, I don't feel in the least equal to it, but I dearly love the thought of trying," she promised.

They took their joy in the light-hearted modern manner, but it was real enough and their great adventure shone out of their eyes.

"Until to-day," said William, "chrysanthemums have bored me. Henceforth the Japanese will not hold them so sacred as I do."

Then appeared an impatient vicar shouting for his tea.