Читать книгу Moreton Bay - F. W. Mole - Страница 7

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It was but rarely that Earl Belriven visited his tenant farmers. He knew that they existed and contributed to his income, but that was about all. His business with them was transacted by his steward. But having seen Mary Worthington, he desired to see more of her. He could not get the girl out of his mind. Her fresh young beauty, her incomparable grace, and her proud spirit, were to him irresistible. From his exalted position as Earl Belriven, to desire was to command, and he desired Mary Worthington more than he had ever desired anything on earth. He also longed to possess, in a lesser degree, her magnificent horse.

Under cover of his covetousness for her horse, he set out to interview personally his tenant farmer, Stephen Worthington, and to make him an offer for the animal. In reality he wanted to see Mary Worthington in the setting of her home at Pentecost farm.

So he fared forth gaily caparisoned, and as he rode he mused, and musing, schemed. His way to Pentecost led him by the flowing Dart, a river endowed by the ancients with a sentient personality. Even now some regarded it with superstitious awe, and talked of it as a living being. To "hear the Broadstones crying," is said to be a sign of rain. These stories of folklore were part of the early education of the lord of Grassmere, who, as with most men of evil propensities, was eminently superstitious. As he heard the peculiar wailing sound caused by the wind blowing down the valley he was filled with awe. The river was swollen by the rains of winter and the cry that its waters made was interpreted by him as a demand for sacrifice. What sacrifice could he make to ensure him Mary Worthington? She was the burden of his thoughts, and with the vision of her intoxicating his brain as he last saw her on Tavistock green, in all the sublimity of her outraged maidenhood, he arrived at his destination.

Pentecost farm lay in a sheltered spot high up the combe side. Behind was a rise of fields, and beyond, a sweep of down. It was situated in true Devon country, hills, hollows, lanes dipping down into the earth, and little streams gurgling and meandering wherever there was a hollow between the hills. It was harvest time, and the crops in the fields looked their richest. The apples were ripening, and the country seemed to sleep in the sun. The farmhouse was a long white building of brick and timber with three levels of tiled roof shading from red to green, with little outhouses of colour washed plaster crowned with thatch. Being the country home of an old and famous family, it preserved the arrangement of an old manor house.

When Earl Belriven dismounted and hitched his horse to a gate post, Mary Worthington was sitting on a rustic loggia that opened into the orchard. Her sleeves were rolled up showing the round fairness of her plump arms. She was sorting apples for cider.

The barking of dogs announced a visitor, and Mary Worthington looked up and saw the Earl walking towards her. Rising and rolling down her sleeves, she looked perplexed and troubled. She had never known the Earl to visit Pentecost farm before.

"Madame, my visit seems to surprise you."

"I am surprised at the honour, my lord," replied Mary with elegant courtesy. "What does your visit portend?"

"I am come to bargain with your father and—to see you."

"You do me great honour my lord, an honour of which I am most unworthy."

"Nay, as to that, I am the better judge, Madame. The vision of you on Tavistock Green has never left me."

"You came to see my father, my lord. He is over at the stables looking over the horses. I will lead the way."

"My God, madame, don't you understand? I came to see you." He caught hold of her arm as if to detain her. There was passion in his gaze as he took in the glorious curves of her, but she said:

"Father, Earl Belriven is desirous of converse with you."

Then she turned and walked back to the house, perturbed, but paying no further heed to his lordship.

"I've a fancy to look over your stud, Worthington," said the Earl. "There may be a prospective Derby winner among your yearlings!"

Squire Worthington, who was busy with his grooms, tipped his forehead to his Lordship and replied:

"I'm at your service, my lord," and ordered the grooms to lead the young thoroughbreds from their stalls into the exercise yard. They constituted a fine string, but none suited his lordship. The horse he had seen Mary Worthington riding was not among them.

"No, Worthington. I don't fancy any of that string. Where's the colt that your daughter rides?"

"He's out in the clover paddock, my lord. But if you're thinking of buying him, I must refer you to my daughter, Mary. Lucifer and she are inseparable."

"Bring him in and let me have a look at him, then."

The Earl's persistency nettled Stephen Worthington. His gray eyes narrowed in thought as he hesitated to carry out his lordship's request. But there was nothing mean or small about Squire Worthington, and he ordered one of the grooms to bring the colt into the exercise yard.

When Lucifer was brought in, the Earl was loud in his praises. "God, Worthington, that's something like a horse. Put your price on him."

"He's not for sale, my lord. I've already told you that he belongs to my daughter. Money won't buy him."

The Earl went over to the colt to stroke him.

"Take care, my lord. He does not take kindly to strangers. He's a bad tempered brute."

As the earl approached, Lucifer snorted and showed the whites of his eyes in a most unfriendly fashion.

There was stubbornness and grim determination in the constitution of Earl Belriven. The motto of his house, "What I take I hold" was exemplified in him to a superlative degree. Here at once were two forces that were opposed to him—the colt and the girl. He desired both, notwithstanding their undisguised enmity. Both, moreover, were beautiful, and the beautiful appealed to his aesthetic nature in a remarkable degree. Aestheticism and unbridled passion and cruelty in the nature of an individual were a contradiction. One attribute might be regarded as the negative of the other, but in the millions of antecedents who had contributed their quota in the moulding of the character of the present earl, there were many good and bad among them, and though at times he had visions of beauty and appreciated that which appealed to his finer instincts, the attribute of brutality far outweighed any finer feelings that he possessed. This brutality in him urged him to possess and to tame both the colt and the maid.

"Have the brute saddled, Worthington, I have a fancy to see him gallop. I'll warrant he possesses a fine turn of speed."

It was unction to the soul of Stephen Worthington to have any one of his colts admired, and he ordered one of his grooms to saddle Lucifer and to gallop him over the pasture at the back of the orchard.

There was no finer judge of a horse in England than Earl Belriven, unless it was Mary Worthington, and he watched with the enthusiasm of a trainer the movements of the colt as he seemed to spurn the ground beneath his magnificent strides. When the horse was ridden back to the exercise yard, sweating, with heaving flanks and distended nostrils, his lordship remarked that he would like to ride him himself, just to make friends with the brute.

He was no mean horseman, and he looked trim and smart in his riding coat, buckskin breeches, top boots, and silver spurs.

"If you've a mind to try his power yourself, my lord, why, do so by all means," said Stephen Worthington, "but I beg of you don't use crop or spur on him. He's not used to rough handling. A girl with gentle hands and voice has trained him." As the Earl attempted to mount, the colt lashed out with his hoofs as if resenting further handling.

"Have a care, my lord. There's no affinity between you and the colt."

The horse's evident repugnance incensed his lordship, who was now the more determined to ride him. Holding the reins tightly with his left hand and with his right hand placed lightly on the saddle to balance him, his lordship, with an easy spring, placed himself neatly in the saddle. The colt snorted and made a sudden bound forward. The Earl, almost unseated, lost his temper. He lashed the horse savagely across the flank with his hunting crop. Then as he drove his spurs home with vicious jabs of his heels, the maddened animal plunged, turned suddenly, reared and struck out with its front legs at the angry and startled grooms, who instantly jumped aside out of harm's way. But Stephen Worthington, who was not so nimble, was struck on the head by the colt's fore hoof and the iron shoe fractured his skull.