Читать книгу Moreton Bay - F. W. Mole - Страница 9

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Earl Belriven was more than fortunate in that he had in John Gatcombe, trustee and steward combined, a man of unyielding integrity and unbending honesty. But to say that his lordship appreciated the sterling worth of his steward would be to admit something that was quite foreign to the nature of the noble earl. He never recognised (or if he did he never appreciated it) worth in any one save in his own noble self. The rugged honesty and downright directness of his steward was anathema to the earl inasmuch as he was a legal check to his ambitious villainies. That John Gatcombe was responsible, in spite of the extravagances of his noble master, for the splendid upkeep of the Manor of Grassmere and its magnificent estate, was quite overlooked by the impossible earl, who knew neither justice nor mercy in his hatred of his steward.

It was, therefore, with a certain amount of devilish satisfaction that Earl Belriven, who had a genius for wickedness and was rotten to the core, commanded his steward to ride over to Pentecost farm and claim for heriot, the magnificent hunter of Mary Worthington.

"I would remind your lordship that the horse belongs to the maid of Pentecost and forms no part of her late father's personal estate."

The Earl looked at his steward with the steady eyes of a snake ready to strike; but John Gatcombe, who loathed his master and measured him at his true worth, gave him look for look, for he was unafraid.

"You villain, I'll have either the horse or the maid, or both, for my pleasure. I've ordered you what to do. See that you do it."

"It would be more fitting if your lordship chose some other messenger more akin to your desires. I warn you, no good will come to you of this mad obstinacy."

"No good will come to the maid or to Mistress Worthington if my request be not granted, you fool. It is because you are friendly disposed towards them that I order you to put the matter clearly before them and to point out what will happen if I am denied."

"And what will happen, your lordship?"

"To tell you would expose my hand."

John Gatcombe divined what would happen. He knew the ruthlessness of "The Falcon," and he considered it prudent that it were best for him, in his consideration for the Worthingtons, to make his lordship's wishes known to them. It was, therefore, with a heart full of foreboding that he rode over to Pentecost to make known his master's demands. As spring approaches summer with timid steps, so John Gatcombe approached the farm-house of Pentecost to ask for something that he knew would not be granted. Pentecost had its traditions as well as Grassmere, and among those traditions were the sanctity of the home and the inviolableness of its womenhood.

A heriot had not been claimed from Pentecost since the days of Queen Elizabeth. In the reign of John Plantagenet, according to tradition, an Earl Belriven had claimed for heriot, Eleanor, the beautiful and only daughter of Geoffrey Worthington, ranking her in the same category as a beast of the field, a chattel to be used according to his desires. But the high spirited maiden took her life rather than submit to the lust of her suzerain. The present Earl Belriven had, therefore, a terrible precedent to back him up should he carry out his threat to claim Mary Worthington for heriot and no one knew better than John Gatcombe what daring his lordship was capable of when thwarted.

When John Gatcombe rode up to the homestead of Pentecost, the place still seemed to be mourning for its dead master. The rich red earth of the clustered fields told of the slow taming and bringing into subjection of the virgin soil, of generation after generation living and toiling on the land they had now, loving it with a love born of life-long endeavour. Human life succeeds human life, yet the fields which are the background of a country's stability, remain untouched save by the passing of seasons, and by those little changes which serve as landmarks in their history. There is no wonder that the Worthingtons loved Pentecost with a love nurtured by tradition. To be removed from their holding, or to be forced by oppression to leave a tenancy that had been theirs and their forefathers from time immemorial, would be a tragedy as bad almost as leaving life itself.

Hitching his horse to a gate post, John Gatcombe walked up the flagged pathway that led to the farm-house entrance. As he stood expectant under a pergola entwined with a wealth of crimson roses, he heard the neighing of horses and the distant ring of scythe on whetstone, but no sound of human voice. Stepping inside the porch, he knocked and there came to him Anne Worthington, dressed in mourning for her dead husband. John Gatcombe was impressed by her quiet, simple dignity. She was still in the prime of life and her serene sad face, still beautiful and expressive, was unmarked by the cobwebs of time. Her soft brown hair, parted austerely in the centre of her head, waved in ripples below the ears and was gathered in a knot low down on her firm white neck. Looking at John Gatcombe with her sad brown eyes, she bade him welcome and bade him be seated in the large living room with its red tiled floor. In John Gatcombe's face she read an expression of concern. There was no light cordiality in his greeting of her and a vague fear stole over her. He was not the genial John Gatcombe of her previous meetings with him.

"You—you have something unpleasant to impart to me, Mr. John Gatcombe," she said haltingly, with grave but dignified apprehension.

"I have, Mistress Worthington. My lord of Grassmere is in a bad mood. He claims your daughter Mary's horse—Lucifer—for heriot and will not be denied."

"And you—you have come to tell me this, John Gatcombe?" replied Mrs. Worthington, placing her hand heavily on the table and almost collapsing into a chair.

"I was loth to do so, Mistress Worthington. It were better that I should bear his lordship's demand than some one less friendly disposed towards you."

"I—I'm sorry, John. But you know what it means. Mary will never part with Lucifer. Though the horse killed her father it was not the animal's fault. He was given to her by her dear father, and though he killed Stephen, Mary does not blame Lucifer for that, but his lordship."

"Yes, I know, Mistress Worthington. But as I have said, his lordship is in an ugly mood and you know his vileness—the worst peer in England."

"Know his vileness—yes! No decent, attractive girl in Devon or elsewhere is safe from the talons of 'The Falcon.' Oh, I fear for Mary, John Gatcombe."

"Be assured, Mistress Worthington, if any harm happen to Mary at the hands of his lordship, she'll be the last girl he'll live to interfere with," replied John Gatcombe prophetically.

At this juncture, Mary Worthington, hearing a strange horse whinnying, came up to the house from the stables and entered. Seeing the look of concern on the face of her mother, she, bowing courteously to John Gatcombe, went and stood by her, placing her arm around her shoulders.

"Mary, Gatcombe has come from his lordship to demand Lucifer as a heriot," said Mrs. Worthington to her daughter without preamble.

"But mother, he would not dare. Lucifer belongs to me and has nothing to do with dear father's estate!"

"His lordship would dare anything, Mary. He is prodigiously self willed."

"But if I were to explain the matter to him, surely——"

"It has been explained to his lordship by me, madame," interrupted John Gatcombe, "but opposition makes him all the more determined. With him might is right."

"It would be better to let him have the horse, Mary, to avoid trouble," pleaded her mother.

"Never!" exclaimed Mary vehemently, the light of battle flashing from, her eyes. "Why I'll appeal to my Lord Tenterden. You can tell his 'baseness' that from me, Mr. Gatcombe."

"It is very painful for me to be the bearer of his lordship's message, Mary, but knowing what is in his mind, I agree with your mother. Let him have the horse, lest he demand more."

"What more could he demand?" asked Mary.

"Yes, what more?" echoed her mother.

"It is incumbent upon me to put you on your guard, Mistress Worthington," replied John Gatcombe seriously. "You ask what more does he want? Well to be forewarned is to be forearmed. He wants Miss Mary here. I have been told that at the farrier's his lordship was heard to remark with an oath that he would sell his soul to the devil for all eternity, to have Miss Mary in his keeping. He will claim her for a heriot and forgo the horse."

"Then we have fallen on evil times indeed, John Gatcombe. But the England of to-day is not the England of John Plantagenet," said Mrs. Worthington with quivering lips and trembling hands. "Still, I have a presentiment of evil, a consciousness that our tenure of Pentecost is drawing to its close. But, oh! John Gatcombe, by the friendship that you had for my dead husband, by your friendship for Mary and me, I would entreat you that whatever happens you will stand by us as you love your God. Good-bye."

"There are others beside myself who would defend Miss Mary with their lives," replied John Gatcombe. "Therefore, be of good cheer."

Mary Worthington knew to whom John Gatcombe alluded in particular, and she flushed crimson. When John Gatcombe had ridden away, she knelt down at her mother's knees, buried her face in her lap, and told her the story of Nigel Lording and of her love for him.