Читать книгу Moreton Bay - F. W. Mole - Страница 4

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Anne Worthington, Mary's mother, was born and reared in an atmosphere of romance and adventure. She was the daughter of Thomas Shepherd, a coastguard, and was a native of Polperro, in Cornwall, a village that was made rich on smuggled goods. Her father, after serving ten years in the Navy, was appointed to the coastguard service and was sent on duty to Youghal, in the County of Cork.

The coastguard service was then under the jurisdiction of the Customs, and not, as now, under the control of the navy. It was the settled policy of the service that English men were transferred for duty to Ireland, and Irishmen to England; but disliking his banishment to Ireland and yearning for his homeland of Cornwall, Thomas Shepherd threw up the coastguard service and returned to England with his wife, Harriet, and his only daughter, Anne, and opened a ship chandlery business in Polperro. There, profiting by his experience as a coastguard in Youghal, he discovered a smuggler's hoard beneath a movable duck pond on a farm near by. Brought up among the preventive men, Anne lived in a region of romance and story. Blood-curdling tales of pirates who had their headquarters on Lundy, of cruel Coppinger and Harry Page of Poole, daring Englishmen who had plundered the French and Spanish, were told on the long winter evenings when terrific storms ravaged the rock-bound coasts of Devon and Cornwall. And Anne was a most interested listener to all these tales of murder and daring. It was not surprising, therefore, that among such surroundings she grew up to be a fearless and intrepid daughter of England, and as brave and as beautiful as the fairest daughter of Lyonesse.

As the Worthington holding of Pentecost in Devon was not far from Cornwall it seemed inevitable that young Stephen Worthington, the son of Richard Worthington, the Squire of Pentecost, and Anne Shepherd, should one day meet, as meet they did under a sudden and strange circumstance. Anne was never happier than when traversing alone along that most wonderful of all tracks—the coastguard's path, a trail blazed round the shores of England, the path of white stones. It is never out of sight of the sea, although on occasion it may thread the jungle of an overgrown boulder-strewn under-cliff, where tall fir and bramble almost blot out the light of day. Within such a shelter, a natural hut beside a rock sometimes formed the meeting place of two adjoining patrols, so that he who got there first could await the coming of his comrade. It is open to all the changes of weather, the fierce wind, the driving rain, and the dense sea-fog.

Stephen Worthington, when training for wrestling matches with the sturdy miners of Cornwall, also made use of the coastguard's path on his long walks and gentle runs. Returning home from one of these long walks, he was overtaken by a sudden gale which forced him to pick his way carefully over the crest of a bold headland. Suddenly he saw a girl standing with difficulty on the storm-swept headland looking out to sea. Apparently heedless of the driving rain she stood watching a French lugger making with difficulty for a sheltered cove beneath the headland wherein to land its contraband.

Stephen Worthington came upon her unawares. Taking him for an exciseman and not an exerciseman, she pointed to the lugger and informed him of what she suspected. He stated that he was not a preventive man, but a farmer of Devon, training for a wrestling match with Cornish Jack, of Truro.

"Oh, I know Cornish Jack," Anne Shepherd said, smiling, "but surely, sir, you would not venture to try a wrestling bout with such a doughty opponent?"

Stephen Worthington saw that the girl before him was beautiful, and he replied, "If you would favour me with a gage of battle I would wrestle with the devil himself."

"But, sir," Anne said, demurely, "you but flatter me. To wrestle with the gale were better for the present. Help me along the edge of this cliff to safety and I shall be much beholden to you indeed."

It was not that Anne needed any assistance, for she was young and lithe and as surefooted as a chamois; but she in turn appraised the youth and strength of her chance companion, and made him believe that she was in need of his strong hand along the coastguard's path.

Then together they made all haste to the coastguard station, where Anne, rain-soaked and throbbing with excitement, told the preventive men of what she had seen from the cliffs over towards Countisbury. As a result, before the lugger had reached the cove for which it was making, the officers of the law were there awaiting it.

From this chance meeting a romance was born which was consummated in the marriage of the young Squire Worthington with the beautiful Anne Shepherd.

Inheriting by marriage a part of the demesne of Grassmere, Anne lived up to the proud tradition of the Worthingtons, a tradition probably as old and as conservative as that of the Belrivens of Grassmere which ran back, some averred, even to the days of Hengist and Horsa.

As the years rolled by the Worthingtons under the aegis of Lord Montague Belriven, the old Earl, became prosperous and independent. They were of the race that, with the encircling seas, had made England great. This sturdy independence and love of freedom nurtured by tradition, was inherited by their children; but in Mary all the pride and grace and beauty of the Worthingtons reached their greatest perfection. The allurement of her presence was like some wonderful flower, exquisite in its fragrance, stealing upon the senses and enslaving them. It was unfortunate that she had arrested the attention of Lord Richard Belriven, the young earl who succeeded to Grassmere on the recent death of his noble father. He had met her one day when riding along the Dartmoor road. She was riding Lucifer and the young earl had not believed that a girl with such delightful harmony of curve and poise existed in Devon. He reined in his horse as she approached.

"Madam," he said, smiling, doffing his hat and bowing low, "count me your obedient humble servant."

Lucifer snorted and reared. Instinctively Mary Worthington knew that she was face to face with an enemy. Lucifer's instinct was uncanny.

"Good afternoon, my lord," Mary made reply, raising her head, her agate brown eyes sweeping him with well bred indifference.

"Then you know who I am? We have not met before."

His eyes, sinister and forbidding, never left Mary's face, and to him it was a wondrously beautiful face. Something in its expression thrilled him and impelled him to feast his cunning eyes upon it and to take in all of its beauty.

"Yes," Mary replied, "you are, sir, the new Earl." Then she added demurely, "Everyone loved and respected your late noble and illustrious father. You were at the Plymouth Horse Fair. My father pointed you out to me."

"And pray, fair maid, who may your father be? Surely I must know him if he be the sire of such a graceful filly."

"Sir!" And Mary, her dignity ruffled, unconsciously straightened herself.

"I crave your pardon—a sporting expression merely; but I should prodigiously like your better acquaintance. I'm vastly intrigued."

"You know my father, my lord. He is one of your tenant farmers—Squire Worthington of Pentecost, and I am his eldest daughter, Mary."

"Gad, then that accounts for your riding such a fine horse. Your father's stud is famous. But he looks a vicious brute."

"Who, my lord, my father or my horse?" questioned Mary mischievously.

"Damme, the colt you're riding. None else."

"He is very docile, my lord, but he does not take to strangers." Mary felt inclined to say to persons of ill repute, but forbore.

"If I'm a judge of a good horse I should say he has some pace."

"There are few who can out-run him, my lord. His sire was a Derby winner, and his dam was illustriously bred."

"Then he must be mine. He's just the colt I'm looking for. Ask your father to name his price, fair maid."

"He does not belong to my father, my lord. He belongs to me, and Lucifer is not for sale," and, as she spoke, Richard Belriven saw in her eyes as she looked at him, a sudden glint of defiance. It seemed to him almost a challenge.

"Lucifer you call him! Then if he's a bigger devil than I am we shall be well matched. I believe I'd give my soul to own both you and your horse."

"Sir, you're becoming offensive." The blood rushed unbidden to Mary Worthington's face and she felt its sudden flame hot upon her cheeks. Then as it ebbed to a deathly whiteness, she rode on without more ado, saying: "I give you good-day, my lord."

The young earl Belriven had a suspicion that she had got the better of the interview, but all the same his veins were running liquid fire.

"What a girl to hold and to tame!" he muttered to himself as he looked after her.

With tingling blood, and his brain awhirl with the desire of her, he too rode away, but in the opposite direction.

"Who knows!" he said to himself, and his thoughts as he said it, were evil.