Читать книгу A Man Under Authority - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 11

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It was on that particular afternoon that Bill Quentin went up the hill to call upon his new parishioners at Beech Mount, and had it not been for Mrs. Winch he must have met Mrs. Rivers walking down. But she waylaid him at her own gate and practically compelled him to enter and listen to a heart-rending account of how that dreadful Jim Ward had been drunk again and given his poor wife such a shocking black eye though of course she wouldn’t admit that it was her husband’s doing, and didn’t he think that something really ought to be done as it was the third time within the past four months?

Bill listened patiently, agreed that something ought to be done, suggested going round with a horse-whip and withdrew the suggestion in face of his adjutant’s pained expostulation.

It took him some time to extricate himself, but he did so at last, by the exercise of considerable firmness, and went on up the hill with the accelerated speed of suppressed exasperation.

He reached Beech Mount and turned up the winding drive of budding beech-trees that led to the house. It was, as Sammy had said, a foreign-looking place, since it had been the fancy of its late owner to make it so. It was a long, rambling, white-plastered building, no longer thatched, with white shutters to every window; and it looked out towards Rickaby Cove with its dazzling white cliffs and blue water. Where the beech avenue ended were two tall fir-trees, standing sentinel as it were before the house, and on the south front some bent and stunted yews shaded a walk to what was termed “the hanging garden.” It was here on a broad sheltered terrace above the bay that the Italian garden had been laid out, so carefully shielded by wall, bank and hedge of yew from gales and cold that it was in actual fact more like a garden of the sunny South than of England. The formation of the cliff had largely contributed to make this possible, and every advantage had been taken of the fact. Paths and flights of steps—bounded by some balustrades—led hither and thither to sunny or sheltered nooks, ending finally in a hidden way, that wound down to the shore. Here was a boat-house and bathing-hut on a sandy shelf out of reach of the tide, and a deep rock-pool a little further round the cliff with a diving-board above it.

Bill knew the place well, had indeed bathed in it more than once during the years that Beech Mount had stood empty. For no one had occupied it till now during all the time that he had been at Rickaby. It had passed to a distant relative of old Admiral Thesiger and had been for sale almost ever since, so that the advent of the new owner had been quite an event for the village.

Yet people had been slow to call, for, as Mrs. Winch said, no one knew anything at all about the new-comers, and there was a certain foreign atmosphere about them which she did not altogether like. And since Mrs. Winch was more or less the accepted oracle of Rickaby, caution supplanted curiosity at her behest.

But the Vicar, as he walked up the drive was asking himself with some compunction why he had not ignored the oracle and called before. It was true that Mrs. Rivers had not attended any service at the village church during the few weeks that had elapsed since her arrival at Beech Mount, but that was by no means a reason for prejudice in his opinion, and from what he had seen of her during their brief interview in his garden three days before he was inclined to think that she might be of those to whom forms and ceremonies were of small account. She was to his mind essentially a woman with a beautiful spirit; so far as Rickaby was concerned a being from an entirely different sphere,—an infinitely higher one, he was prepared to believe.

Her boy? Ah, well, her boy was going through a phase by no means uncommon to high-strung and imaginative youth. And she had brought him here for his health, perhaps both spiritual and bodily. It might well be a place for either, he reflected, as he passed the two sentinel trees and came out before the white house in the dazzling May sunshine.

The front-door was shut, contrary to Rickaby custom, and some seconds elapsed before his ring for admittance brought any response. Then he heard a step, the door opened about a foot, and a dark face with a narrow, upturned moustache peered out at him.

Molly Morton’s description of the manservant flashed into his mind. So this was Benedict!

He asked for Mrs. Rivers and read the answer in the black, unfriendly eyes before it came.

“Madame is not at home,” said the man, and began to close the door on the intruder.

But Bill Quentin was not to be expelled thus. He put out a restraining hand. “Wait a minute!” he said. “I have come to see Madame’s son also—at his own desire. Where shall I find him? In the garden?”

A gleam of indignation showed in the watchful eyes for a second. “Madame’s son is also not at home,” the man declared inflexibly.

Somehow, instinctively, Bill knew it was a lie. He took his hand from the door. “I will give you my card,” he said.

But ere he could produce it, the door was once more closing upon him. “Madame does not desire visitors,” said Benedict.

The click of the latch followed the announcement, and Bill turned on his heel. After all, why discuss the matter with a servant and a foreign one at that? The man probably had his orders, and it was not for him to dispute them. Perhaps Mrs. Rivers had already repented of her graciousness of three days before, while as to the boy—he had probably never intended his invitation to be taken seriously, so there was no more to be said.

He began to retrace his steps towards the beech avenue, pausing as he reached the fir-trees to light a cigarette. “And now I suppose I had better go and tackle Jim Ward,” he said with a grimace.

He entered the avenue, walked a few paces, and suddenly stopped. Someone had called. He stood still, listening intently, uncertain whence the sound had come. But immediately it came again—an urgent, piercing cry, and in a moment Bill was racing at full speed across the garden to the yew-walk that led to the shore.

He went like the wind, for something in that cry warned him there was not a moment to be lost, down the little winding path, leaping the flight of six steps at the end, through the Italian garden with its cut yews and fantastic dwarf hedges, down another flight of steps, and so to the moist and slippery way that led steeply downwards with twists and turns to the shore. He made short work of the corners, springing and sliding between the stunted trees down the sheer face of the cliff. And so he came at last to the final steep slope that ended on the white stones of the cove. From there to the edge of the bathing-pool it was but a few yards over the rocks. The tide was coming in, and the pool must be nearly full. Bill took that last stage in a series of bounds from rock to rock, landing at length on the flat top of the low stone wall that enclosed the pool.

There for the first time he paused long enough to fling away his coat, then with his hands above his head he plunged down into the deep clear water. For out in the middle of the pool young Rivers was struggling with futile, spasmodic efforts to swim.

As he came up again, Bill shouted to him across the intervening stretch of water. “All right! Keep up! I’m coming!”

And then, without further waste of breath, he put forth all his strength, literally hurling himself along at a speed which he had never achieved before; for that one glimpse of the boy’s desperate fight for life had warned him that immediate action was imperative.

The rush of water from the incoming tide was against him, but he was a strong swimmer and his whole being was concentrated against the opposing force. The power that comes with the need was his during those desperate seconds. Looking back upon the episode later, he was astonished at himself.

Reaching the centre of the pool, he trod water and looked about him, certain that he must be near his mark though he had ceased to see any splashing to guide him. A horrible misgiving went through him as he did so, for the surface of the pool was empty. Gaspard had disappeared.

Then, suddenly, a few feet from him he rose with a terrible gurgling and a look as of death-agony on his convulsed face. He saw Bill and flung out a clutching hand.

He was out of reach and went down again, but Bill, still reinforced with that supreme strength of emergency, went down also, and caught him as he sank.

He thought the boy’s weight would drag him to the bottom, but he hung on doggedly, and at the end of a few moments that seemed like eternity they began to rise. Up again they came, up into the blessed May sunshine that smote with a blinding brightness upon them, and Bill drew a great breath of air into lungs that felt like bursting and thanked God.

Then he was conscious of Gaspard’s arms winding snake-like round his neck as he trod water, supporting them both, and realized that the boy was still in possession of his senses though nearly crazed with fear.

He collected his own wits. It was no moment for slacking.

“Let go of me and get on your back!” he commanded. “You’ll drown us both at this rate.”

But the strength to let go was not in Gaspard at that moment. He clung with frenzied insistence.

It came to Bill that the danger then was greater than it had been throughout the struggle. He knew himself to be powerless if that awful grip continued.

“Look here!” he said. “Gaspard! Listen! Are you listening? I’ll save you—before God, I’ll save you, if you’ll do as I tell you. But if you don’t, I can’t. We’re both—done for. Do you hear what I say? Let go of me! Let—go!”

He wrenched at the hands that grasped him, and, somewhat to his surprise, they parted. Gaspard uttered a despairing cry.

But Bill grabbed him, holding him up. “Don’t be a fool! Keep your hands down! I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I tell you. Get your head back! That’s the way! Now—trust me! See? Trust me! I shan’t let you drown.”

Somehow he prevailed. Somehow the strength that was in Bill Quentin sufficed for Gaspard also. From that moment he gave himself utterly into Bill’s keeping.

And Bill saved him, not easily, sometimes with stupendous effort, and then with intervals of rest which seemed even harder to endure; but in the end he saved him. He was near the limit of his own strength when at length he reached the rough wall of the pool, but the flowing tide helped him. The water was less than two feet from the top, and the wall sloped out towards him. He made his last colossal effort and hoisted Gaspard towards it. The boy clung; he could do no more. And Bill, freed from his weight, climbed up himself and then dragged his companion after him. The thing was done, the emergency passed. His special strength fell from him like a garment. He dropped face downwards on the rock and lay prone.