Читать книгу The Perfect World - Ella M. Scrymsour - Страница 3

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An English summer! The birds sang merrily, and the trees bowed their heads, keeping time with the melody. The breeze whispered its accompaniment, and all the glades and woods were happy.

Marshfielden was, perhaps, one of the prettiest villages in Derbyshire. Nestling among the peaks of that lovely county, its surroundings were most picturesque. Its straggling street, for it had but one, was unspoiled by tripper or tourist, for its charms were unknown to the outside world. The road was cobbled, and boasted of no pavement, and long gardens, shining with marigolds and nasturtiums, reached down to each side of it, forming frames to the pretty, irregular little cottages with their gables and latticed windows.

The little church at the top of the street finished the picture. It was very tiny, holding only about one hundred and fifty people; but with its ivy-covered towers, and picturesque little graveyard, the vicar was a lucky man to have charge of such a place. Unmarried and friendless he had come to Marshfielden forty years before, and had lodged with Mrs. Skeet, the cobbler’s wife. Still he remained, having grown old in the service of his people.

It was a well-known fact, that “our vicar” as Mr. Winthrop was called, had during all that time never left the precincts of the parish. Children had grown up and gone away married; old people had died; but still Mr. Winthrop went on in his kind, fatherly manner, advising those who sought the benefit of his wisdom, helping those who needed his aid, and still living in the little rooms he had rented when first he came to Marshfielden, a stranger.

Marshfielden was about seven miles off the main road. As they would have to reach it by narrow lanes and rutted roads, motorists never came its way, and it retained its old-world simplicity.

Two miles to the south was a coal mine, in which most of the villagers toiled. It was quite an unimportant one, and not very deep, but it gave employment to all the natives who needed work. Strange as it seems, however, by an unwritten law, not one of the villagers entered Marshfielden in his collier dirt or collier garb. Every one of the men changed his clothes at “Grimland” as the mine district was called, and washed away the coal dust and dirt; so in the evening, when they made their way in a body to their homes, they returned as fresh and clean as they had left them in the morning.

It was, therefore, an ideal place to live in and as old Mr. Winthrop walked down the uneven street, his eyes dimmed and his thoughts were tender as he acknowledged first one, then another of his flock.

He stopped at the gate of a pretty, white cottage with a well kept garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, and greeted the woman who stood at the gate.

She was quite young and pretty, and maternal love and pride glowed in her face as she gently crooned over the sleeping babe at her breast.

“And how’s Jimmy, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Very well indeed, sir, thank you.”

“And you—how are you feeling?”

“Quite all right again, now, sir.”

“That’s right. And your husband?”

“Yes, sir, he’s had a rise at the mine.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled and was about to pass on, when he noticed an underlying current of excitement in the woman’s manner. He looked at her curiously.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Have you heard the news, sir?”

“No. What news?”

“I be agoin’ to have lodgers.”

“Really?”

“Well I heard only last night, sir. Bill—he came home and said as ’ow Mr. Dickson, the manager at the mine, had heard from Sir John Forsyth—”

“The new owner of Grimland?” queried Mr. Winthrop.

“Yes, sir. Well, he said as ’ow Sir John wanted both his nephews to go to the mine and learn the practical working of it—and Mr. Dickson was to find them rooms near by.”

“Well?”

“Well, Mr. Dickson knows as ’ow my ’ome is clean—” and Mrs. Slater looked around her little cottage with an air of pride.

“And ’e asks Bill if I would take them.”

“And so you are going to?”

The woman looked round her fearfully. “I’ve a spare bedroom, sir, which I’ve cleaned up, and they can have my parlour. But fancy, sir, two strangers in Marshfielden!”

“It will liven things up,” remarked the vicar “we’ve never had strangers to live here since I came—now over forty years ago.”

“No, sir, nor before that,” went on the woman in a low tone. “My grandmother used to speak of two ladies who came to Marshfielden when she was a little girl. Artists they were, and strangers. The clergyman’s wife put them up—and—and—”

“Yes?” urged Mr. Winthrop gently.

“Well, sir, they were both found dead one day, stiff and cold, sir, outside the ruins of the Priory. They had been painting, and their easels were left standing—but they were dead.”

“What has that to do with the case?” asked the vicar with a little smile.

“Don’t you see, sir,” she went on quickly, the same half-scared look coming into her eyes, “that was the ‘Curse’ that caused those mishaps, and I am afraid the ‘Curse’ will be on the two young gentlemen, too.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Winthrop, “You don’t really believe that the ‘Marshfielden Curse’ as you people call it, had anything to do with the deaths of those two lady artists that occurred over fifty years ago?”

“Indeed I do, sir,” averred the woman. “Why ever since the Priory was dismantled by Henry the Eighth, the ‘Curse’ has been on this place. That wasn’t the only case, sir. There are records of many others—but that was the last.”

“Let me see,” began the vicar, “It’s so long since I even heard it mentioned, that I’ve forgotten what it was.”

The woman’s face contracted as if she was afraid of something, she knew not what, but of something mystic, intangible, uncanny—and she repeated slowly:

When the eighth Henry fair Marshfielden’s monastery took,

Its priory as a palace, its vast income to his privy purse,—

The outcast prior solemnly, by candle, bell and book

Upon this place for ever laid this interdict and curse:

From now until the end of time,

Whene’er a stranger come

Unto Marshfielden’s pleasaunces,

To make therein his home,

Troubles—disease—misfortunes—death—

Upon the spot shall fall.

So—an’ Marshfielden folks ye’d swell

With fair prosperity, and safely dwell,

All strangers from your gates expel,

And live cut off from all.

The vicar laughed. “Yes, it’s a pretty legend, Mrs. Slater, but remember this is the twentieth century, and nothing is likely to happen to Marshfielden, its inhabitants or its visitors, because of that. Why, I was a stranger when I came, yet nothing very terrible has happened to me during these last forty years.”

“Ah, sir, you don’t count. I mean, sir, you belong to the Priory; you are our priest. You wouldn’t come under the ‘Curse’ sir.”

“And neither will any one else, Mrs. Slater. It’s a stupid legend.—Have no fear.”

“But,” began Mrs. Slater. “How do you account for the case of—” But Mr. Winthrop lifted up a deprecatory hand.

“I cannot listen to any more, Mrs. Slater.” And a note of authority came into his voice. “Why, all this is against the religion I preach to you—never listen to tales of superstition. Have no fear, do the best you can for the two young gentlemen, and I think I can promise you that no harm will come to them or you.”

The woman shook her head, and disbelief shone in her eyes. The vicar saw it, and smiled again.

“Well, well! It remains to be proved that I am right,” said he.

“It remains to be proved, which of us is right, sir.”

“Very well, we’ll leave it at that. When do they arrive?”

“About six this evening, sir; the usual time when the men come home.”

“I will call in this evening then, and welcome them. Good-bye, Mrs. Slater, and don’t go listening to or spreading idle gossip!” And the kindly old man went away down the street.

That evening, when the bell rang to denote the return of the men-folk, every door was occupied by an eager face, anxious not only to catch sight of the two strangers, but also to take another look at the woman who had dared to defy the “Marshfielden Curse.”

For in this little village the “Curse” was a real, poignant fact, and was spoken of in the twilight with hushed tones and furtive glances. Children were quieted and terrified by it, and the fear imbibed by them in their childhood grew with them till their death. Not one of them but Mary Slater would have risked its anger by allowing a stranger to sleep beneath her roof; and even Mary, although outwardly calm, was inwardly terrified lest her action might be the means of bringing disaster and misery, not only on her two lodgers, but on the whole little community.

Dan Murlock, the husband of the little woman at the corner house, was the first to arrive. He came along at a swinging pace, and waved his cap jauntily as he saw his wife’s trim little figure at the doorway.

“Hullo, Moll,” he cried, when he was within speaking distance “an’ how’s yersel’?”

“I’m all right,” she replied, while their three year old, curly haired boy and only child peeped from behind his mother’s skirts and cried “Boo” to his dad. The man looked at them both, with awe as well as pride in his glance. Even now he was often heard to remark, that he could not make out why a clumsy brute like him should be allowed to own such an angelic wife and child.

“Where’s the strangers?” asked Moll eagerly.

“Comin’ along, lass. Why?”

“Oh, the ‘Curse,’ Dan!”

“Never mind the ‘Curse,’ lass; that’s done with long ago! Is supper ready yet?”

“Yes, Dan. It’s ready.” But his wife made no effort to re-enter their little home, and serve the meal her husband wanted.

“Woman, what are you staring at?” he cried. “Why do’ant ’ee come in? I’m hungry.”

“In a moment, Dan. I—I—”

“What’s thee lookin’ at, lass?”

“The strangers, Dan. Think the ‘Curse’—” But Dan only laughed good-humouredly. “Thou’rt a fule, lass. Come in and do’ant bother yer head about it,” and he good-naturedly put his arm through hers, and dragged the unwilling woman into the house.

Most of the women outside, however, were still waiting, waiting for the strangers. Then suddenly came a buzz of excitement as the news was passed from mouth to mouth. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The two young men, Alan and Desmond Forsyth, were entirely unconscious of all the attention and interest showered on them. Of the “Curse” they knew nothing, and had they done so, would have cared less.

They were cousins, and on very affectionate and intimate terms, and one day would share equally in the Grimland Colliery, of which their uncle was now owner. Alan, moreover, would succeed to his uncle’s title. The future looked very rosy for these two young men.

Sir John was determined that when they left Cambridge, they should thoroughly learn the workings of the mine. The instructions he gave Dickson, his manager, were that he was to “make them work like ordinary colliers until they were competent to take charge.”

They had travelled on the Continent for six months after coming down from the ’Varsity, and this was their first day of real, hard work. It had left them both eager to begin another day, for they were anxious to learn more of the wonderful workings of the mine below the surface of the earth. They had walked cheerily toward Marshfielden, eager to reach their apartments and have a good meal. They liked Slater, and felt that they would be comfortable and happy in his home.

“How do you feel, young gentlemen?” he asked them.

“I’m dead tired,” answered Alan, the elder, a man of some twenty-five years, while his cousin, Desmond, a year younger, yawned lustily, as he asked, “How much further is that adorable little home of yours, Slater?”

“We’re nigh there, sir. There’s my Mary at the gate.”

“What, the little cottage at the bend?” asked Alan.

“Yes, sir. She’s a good lass, is my missus. She’ll treat you well, and make you comfortable and happy.”

The rest of the short way was trodden in silence, and at length the two young men stepped across the threshold of Sweet William Cottage, as the Slaters’ home was called.

The room they were ushered into was old-world and sweet. The lattice windows were open wide, letting in the soft, fresh air of summer. The ceiling was low and beamed, and the furniture was of old dark oak; while the bright chintz hangings took away all hint of sombreness. The table was laid, and within a few minutes of their arrival they were sitting down to an appetizing repast.

Neither of them spoke for some time, and then Desmond laid down his knife and fork with a sigh.

“I’m done” said he.

“I should just think you were” laughed his cousin “You’ve been stuffing incessantly for over half an hour” Alan rang the bell for the table to be cleared and then they lit their pipes.

“How do you feel?” asked Desmond.

“Very tired—very sore—and very bruised”

“So am I. I think I shall like the life of a miner, though”

“Rather! What a ripping set of chaps they are!”

So they chattered on until it was time for them to retire. At peace with each other, at peace with the world, they slept until a knock at their bedroom door awakened them.

“Yes” sleepily answered Desmond.

“It’s four o’clock, young gentlemen, you’d better get up”

Alan woke up lazily to hear Desmond cry out in amazement.

“Surely not yet, Slater?”

“Yes, sir. You must be at the mine by five fifteen. Early shift to-day, you know”

“All right, Slater” cried Alan, who was now wide awake “we’ll be down in twenty minutes”

In a very short space of time they had had their breakfast, and were walking across the Grimland fields to the mine, to begin once more a day’s arduous duty.

It passed quickly enough, but they were thankful when the bell sounded for them to knock off work, and they were taken up to daylight again by the cage.

When they reached Sweet William Cottage, they found Mr. Winthrop awaiting them, with profuse apologies for his absence the night before.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Slater omitted to give us any message from you” said Alan “In fact we didn’t even know you had called”

“I am the vicar of Marshfielden” said the kindly old man “and I should have liked to give you a personal welcome. You see the ‘Curse’ has made your position here somewhat strained”

The two boys stared at each other in perplexity. The vicar laughed. “None of the women have been frightening you with their child’s stories yet?”

“No!” said both boys together, “what is it?”

“Oh, there’s a legend connected with this place, that any strangers in Marshfielden will bring disaster on themselves and perhaps on the place, if they take up their abode here”

“Why?”

“A curse was laid on the place by a monk in Henry the Eighth’s time, when the Priory here was dismantled”

“Oh, is that all?” said Alan lightly “We are not afraid of old wives’ tales like that!”

But Molly Murlock, who was in the kitchen with Mary Slater, heard the words, and her brow clouded. Drawing her child closer, she muttered as she said good night to Mary—

“‘Curse’ or no ‘Curse,’ I’d rather be dead, than live to see strangers come here”