Читать книгу The Star-Gazers - Fenn George Manville - Страница 4

Sir John and his brother had just reached an opening in Brackley Wood, a fine old pheasant preserve, when the former became aware of the fact that his child and the lady whom she had of late made her companion and friend, were seated in the shade cast by a venerable oak, Glynne painting in front of her easel, upon which were the skilful beginnings of an oil picture representing a rough looking gipsy seated upon a tree stump, in the act of carving the knob of a stick with his long Spanish knife, while Lucy Alleyne, the friend, was reading from a book resting upon her knees.

The group formed a pretty enough natural picture, upon which a silvery rain of sunshine was poured through the dense foliage of the overhanging boughs, for, without being classically beautiful, Glynne Day was as fair a specimen of a young English lady as a country visitor would be likely to see in one twenty-four hours. Her’s was the kind of face with its sweet, calm, placid repose that asked for a second look and then for a third: and when this was complete, he who gazed, old or young, wanted to look again, and so on, in never tiring mood. It was not that her soft, abundant brown hair was so remarkable, nor that her face was so perfect an oval, nor her nose so true an aquiline, nor her eyes so dark a grey; but it was the completeness of the whole countenance, the elasticity of the step that bore onward so tall and graceful a figure, while the sweet repose of the face would have warranted anyone in taking the major’s side when he declared that no pulse in her frame had ever yet been quickened by the thought of love.

Glynne’s companion, Lucy Alleyne, also possessed her share of attractions; but they were cast in a very different mould, for she was dark, large-eyed, little and piquante, with an arch expression about her bow-like mouth that told of suppressed merriment, and a readiness to join in anything that promised laughter, or, as she would have called it, a bit of fun.

The other figure in the group – the model, whose counterfeit presentment was being transferred to canvas, first heard the steps; and he looked up sharply, in a wild, danger-fearing way, as a weasel might, and seemed about to spring to his feet and start off; but a peculiar leer crossed his face, and he half closed his eyes and sat firm as the brothers came up, both glancing at him sourly, the major taking a tighter grip of his stick.

“Ah, my dears!” said Sir John, gruffly, “’most done, Glynne?”

“Yes, papa, quite, for to-day,” said the lady addressed, opening her purse and taking out half-a-crown, the sight of which made the model’s eyes open a little wider as it was held out to him, while an unpleasant animal look was darted at Glynne as she spoke. “That will do for to day. I will send word by the policeman when I want you again.”

“Thankye kindly, my lady,” said the young man, wincing at the name of the messenger; and he now touched his hat to Sir John humbly, and then to his brother.

“You’re back again, then, Caleb Kent,” growled Sir John.

“Yes, sir, I’ve come back,” whined the man.

“Then, just see if you can’t lead a decent life, sir, for I warn you, that if you are brought up again for poaching, it will go pretty hard with you.”

“Yes, sir; I know, sir, but I’m going to reform, sir, and turn keeper, and – ”

“That’ll do. Be off. Let’s have deeds, not words.”

“Yes, sir, I will, sir. I’m a-goin’ to try, sir.”

“I said that will do.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, humbly; and, touching his cap all round, he slouched off, with an ill-used look, and gave two or three loud sniffs.

“Oh, papa, dear,” cried Glynne, “how can you speak so harshly to the poor fellow. He did wrong once, and he has been punished.”

“Did wrong once. Bah! He did wrong in being born, and has done wrong ever since. The fellow’s a regular gaol-bird, and I don’t like to see him near you. For goodness’ sake, my dear, if you must paint, paint something decent, not a scoundrel like that.”

“Your father’s quite right, my dear,” said the major, grimly. “That’s not the sort of fellow to paint. Whitewashing is what he wants.”

Sir John chuckled, and his child looked at him, wonderingly.

“But he is so picturesque, papa, dear, and when I get the canvas finished – ”

“Oh, you don’t want to finish canvases, pet. Let that go. Plenty else to think of now, eh, Miss Alleyne? Why, my dear, you have a colour like a peach.”

“Have I, Sir John?” said the girl, demurely. “How shockingly vulgar! Then I must wear a veil.”

“For goodness’ sake, don’t, my dear child,” cried the baronet, hastily. “Pray, don’t insult poor nature by refusing to look healthy and well.”

“I join in my brother’s prayer,” said the major, as he shook hands in a quiet, old-fashioned, chivalrous way.

“And so do I,” said Glynne, smiling in a calm, strangely placid manner. “Do you know, Lucy, I’ve been enjoying your colour as I painted.”

“James, old fellow,” said the baronet, laughing, “let’s be in the fashion. How handsome you do look this morning. How your hair curls.”

“Uncle always looks handsome,” said Glynne, seriously, and she sent a thrill of pleasure through the old man, by quietly taking his arm and leaning towards him in a gentle, affectionate way.

“And I’m nobody, Miss Alleyne,” said Sir John with mock annoyance.

“You would not think so, if you heard all that Glynne says about you when we are alone, Sir John.”

“Oh, come, that’s better,” cried the baronet, nodding and brightening up. “Well, I must go. I suppose you will walk back with uncle, eh, Glynne?”

“Yes, papa,” said Glynne, smiling on him tenderly.

“Then, once more, here goes to see my pigs. You don’t care to come, ladies?”

“No, papa, dear,” said Glynne, with the same gentle smile. “We were going home almost directly.”

“Go along, then,” said Sir John. “I shall be back before lunch. Morning, Miss Alleyne,” and he strode away. “Hope he won’t upset Glynne,” he muttered. “No, I don’t suppose he will say a word. Can’t, as Lucy Alleyne is there. Nice little girl that, by the way.”

Sir John was wrong, for his brother did say something to Glynne – a good deal, in fact. Indeed, no sooner had the baronet gone than Lucy Alleyne exclaimed, —

“And now, dear, if you won’t mind, as you have your uncle with you, I should like to run home.”

“Oh, no,” cried Glynne, “you’ll come and have lunch.”

“Not to-day, dear. Mamma will be anxious to see me back.”

“Indeed!” said Glynne, raising her eyebrows slightly.

“Yes, dear; she is a little anxious, too, about Moray; he has been working so hard lately.”

“Has he?” said Glynne, half-wonderingly, as if it seemed strange to her, in her placid existence, that people should ever work hard.

“New discovery?” said the major. “Star-gazing?”

“I think so,” replied Lucy; “but he is so quiet and reserved, and he does not like to speak until he is sure. If you would not mind coming round our way, I could leave you at the end of the lane.”

“Mind? No,” cried the major; “but are you sure you will not come home with us to lunch?”

“Quite sure, please,” said Lucy.

“Then, we’ll see you right to your door,” said the major, as he shouldered the little easel; “eh, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, of course, uncle,” replied Glynne; and they continued along the side path for about a quarter of a mile, before crossing a fir wood, whose trunks rose up like so many ruddy, grey-bronze columns, while the ground was made slippery by the thick coating of pine needles beneath their feet.

“Oh, here’s one of your favourites, Major Day,” cried Lucy, eagerly, as she ran on and picked a curious grey-looking fungus, with a rough efflorescence on the top. “No, no, don’t tell me: I want to see if I recollect what it is.”

“She doesn’t know, Glynne. Tell her, my dear.”

“I, uncle?” said Glynne, smiling up at him. “You know I never recollect the names.”

“I know you won’t rouse up that brain of yours to take an interest in anything,” said the major in a tone of good-tempered reproof. “It’s a great shame, when you are naturally so clever.”

“I! Clever! Oh, uncle!” said Glynne, laughing.

“I know – I remember,” cried Lucy, eagerly – “stop a moment, I have it.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the major, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure, and he seemed sufficiently animated to set a stranger wondering at an old soldier taking up with enthusiasm so strange a pursuit as that in which he engaged. “There, you don’t know, my dear, but I applaud your brave effort to remember. Someone here would not even try.”

“No, uncle, it is of no use,” said Glynne, quietly, though she evidently took an interest in her companion’s enthusiastic ways.

“I do know,” said Lucy, “and I won’t be told.”

“You don’t,” said the major, banteringly.

“I do,” cried Lucy. “Yes, I have it. It’s an Amanita.”

“Bravo!”

“Amanita Rubescens,” cried Lucy triumphantly; “and if you break it the flesh turns red – there!”

“And she has broken the mushroom in half, and it has not turned red,” said the major, “because she is wrong.”

“Oh, Major Day!” cried Lucy, “don’t say that. I am right, am I not?”

“No, my dear, not quite,” said the major, “but very nearly. That is Amanita Pantkerinus, a very near relative of the one I showed you yesterday.”

“But I have been trying,” cried Lucy.

“I know you have,” said the major, smiling, “and I’m sure you can tell me what these are,” he continued, pointing to a cluster of flat, greeny-grey buttons, with dimly marked orange rings upon their surface.

“Oh yes, I know them,” cried Lucy, eagerly picking two or three from the patch of grass in an opening amongst the Scotch firs. “Agaricus Deliciosus; and, oh, it is getting so late. I must make haste back. I can run home now. Good-bye, Glynne; good-bye, Major Day.”

“Good-bye, little pupil,” he replied, “and you shall have your marks although you were not right.”

“We’ll stop and watch you till you are safely home,” said Glynne. “Good-bye – good-bye.”