Читать книгу The Story of Antony Grace - Fenn George Manville - Страница 1

Mr Rowle came the day after the funeral, walking straight in, and, nodding to cook, who opened the door, hung up his shabby hat in the hall. Then, to my surprise, he took it down again, and after gazing into it as Mr Blakeford used to do in his when he came over to our church, he turned it round, made an offer as if about to put it on wrong way first, reconsidered the matter, put it on in the regular way, and as it seemed to me drew his sword.

But it was not his sword, only a very long clay pipe which he had been carrying up his left sleeve, with the bowl in his hand. Then, thrusting the said hand into his tail-pocket, he brought out a little roll of tobacco, upon which was printed, as I afterwards saw, a small woodcut, and the conundrum, “When is a door not a door?”

“Ho!” said cook; “I suppose you’re the – ”

“That’s just what I am, my dear,” said the stranger, interrupting her; “and my name’s Rowle. Introduced by Mr Blakeford; and just fetch me a light.”

“Which you’d best fetch this gentleman a light, Master Antony,” said cook; “for I ain’t going to bemean myself.”

As she spoke she made a sort of whirlwind in the hall, and whisked herself out of the place, slamming the door at the end quite loudly.

“Waxey!” said Mr Rowle, looking hard at me, and shutting one eye in a peculiar way. “Got a light, young un?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling sorry that cook should have been so rude to the visitor; and as I hurried into the study to get a match out of the little bronze stand, and lit the curled-up wax taper that my father used to seal his particular letters, I found that Mr Rowle had followed me, tucking little bits of tobacco in the pipe-bowl as he came.

He then proceeded to look about, stooped down and punched the big leather-covered chair, uttered a grunt, took the taper, lit his pipe, and began to smoke.

“Now then, squire,” he said, “suppose you and I have a look round.”

There was such a calm at-homeness about him that the thought struck me that he must somehow belong to the place now; and I gazed at him with a feeling akin to awe.

He was a little man in a loose coat, and his face put me greatly in mind of the cover of a new spelling-book. He was dressed in black, and his tail-coat had an enormously high collar, which seemed to act as a screen to the back of his half-bald head when he sat down, as he did frequently, to try the different chairs or sofas. It never struck me that the coat might have been made for another man, but that he had had it shaped to come down to the tips of his fingers, and so keep him warm. When he had taken off his hat I had noticed that his hair lay in streaks across the top of his head, and the idea occurred to me that his name might be Jacob, because he was in other respects so smooth.

I followed Mr Rowle as he proceeded to have what he called “a look round,” and this consisted in going from room to room, in every one of which he kept his hat on, and stood smoking as he gradually turned his eyes on everything it contained, ending with a grunt as of satisfaction at what he saw.

Every room was taken in turn, even to the kitchen, where our entry caused a sudden cessation of the conversation round the tea-table, and the servants turned away their heads with a look of contempt.

“That’ll do,” said Mr Rowle quietly; then, “Mary, my dear, you can bring me my tea in the study.”

No one answered, and as we went back I remember thinking that if Mr Rowle was to be the new master at Cedar Hill he would soon send our old servants away. He walked back, smoking all the time, and seated himself in my father’s chair, staring hard at me the while.

“Shut the door, young un,” he said at last, and when I had obeyed, “sit down, and make your miserable life happy.”

My face began to work, and I had to battle hard to keep back the tears, as for a few minutes I could not speak, but sat there feeling sure Mr Rowle must think me sulky and strange; and it troubled me, for the old man seemed disposed to be kind.

“Poor boy!” he said all at once, and his voice seemed to me to come out of a cloud of smoke; “so you’ve lost both your father and your mother?”

“Yes, sir!” I said piteously.

“Hah! so have I,” said Mr Rowle, and he went on smoking.

I was thinking as I tried to stare at him through the smoke, that this must have been a very long time ago, when he quite startled me by seeming to read my thoughts, as he said suddenly:

“Yes; that’s a long time ago.”

“Yes, sir; I thought it must be,” I ventured to say; and then there was a long silence, during which I sat there wanting to go away, but not daring to stir, lest Mr Rowle should think me rude, and still he smoked on.

“I say, young un,” he exclaimed, making me start out of a reverie, in which I was thinking how vexed mamma would have been to see Mr Rowle smoking in all the bedrooms, “s’pose you’d just come here to stop, which room should you sleep in?”

“The blue room’s the biggest and the best, sir,” I said, “but I like the little pink room the most.”

“Hah! then the pink room it must be,” he said, sending out such a long puff of smoke that I wondered how his mouth could have held it all. “I say, young un, ain’t it time Mary brought up my tea?”

“It’s past tea-time ever so much,” I said, “and her name’s Jane.”

He took hold of an old brass key hanging at the end of a thin steel chain, and dragged out a very big old silver watch, looked at it, shook it, and held it to his ear, and then lowered it down once more into its particular pocket.

“Then Mary – Jane won’t bring it,” said Mr Rowle.

As he spoke the door opened, and Jane, our housemaid, exclaimed sharply, “Now, Master Antony, I want you;” and I rose and followed her into the dining-room, where my solitary tea was spread out for me. I stood gazing at it when she left me in a miserable dejected way, for I felt as if I could not eat, and as if the tea when I poured it out would be bitter and salt as my tears; and then I began to think about Mr Rowle, and stole to the door, opened it, and stood listening to the laughing and talking in the kitchen.

“I wonder whether they will take Mr Rowle his tea,” I thought; and I leaned against the door, listening still, but there was no sign of any preparation. The strong smoke crept out into the hall, and in imagination I could see the little yellow man sitting back and smoking in the chair always used by my father.

At last I summoned up my courage and went to the study door, opened it, and asked Mr Rowle if he would come and have some tea.

“I will that!” he said with alacrity; “I never despise my beer, but a cup o’ tea’s my reglar drink.”

He followed me into the dining-room, and we sat down, I feeling very awkward, especially as Mr Rowle leaned across, lifted the pot, and gave me his peculiar wink.

“Silver?” he said.

“Yes, sir; and the coffee-pot and basin and jug too,” I replied.

“Hah! yes.”

It was very awkward, for there was only one teacup and saucer, and I did not like to ring for another; so I filled that and passed it to Mr Rowle, who sat smoking all the while.

“Thankye!” he said, nodding, and he was about to pour it into the saucer when he stopped short. “Hallo!” he said, “where’s your’n?”

“I – I have not got another cup,” I stammered.

“Worse disasters at sea!” he said. “Never mind; look ye here, I’ll have the saucer and you have the cup,” and pouring out the tea, he passed me back the cup, and the meal went on.

For the first time since his arrival Mr Rowle laid down his pipe, and after hewing off a great piece of bread, he proceeded to cut it up in little cubes, all six sides of which he buttered before he ate them, while I contented myself with a modest slice or two, for my appetite was gone.

It was a doleful meal, but he seemed to enjoy it, and after partaking of five or six saucerfuls he nodded at me again, took up and refilled his pipe, and then walked back to the study, where he sat smoking till ten o’clock, when he went up to bed.

I’m afraid that I was a very ignorant boy. Perhaps not so in the ordinary sense of the word ignorant, for I had been fairly educated, and besides being pretty forward with my Latin, I could have written a letter or carried on a decent conversation in French; but, living in a secluded part of the country, I was very ignorant about the matters of ordinary every-day life, and I found it hard to understand how it was that Mr Blakeford, the lawyer, should be allowed to do just as he pleased in our old house.

The terrible misfortunes that had come, one after the other, had seemed to stun me and take away my breath. One day we seemed to be all so happy together, and I was sitting reading to my invalid mother in the pleasant old room opening on to the lawn. And the next day I was holding my throbbing head in my bedroom, after crying till it ached as if about to split, while I tried again and again to believe that it was all some dreadful dream, that my father had been carried home dead, killed in an instant by a fall from his horse, and that my mother lay beside him in the darkened room, silent too in death, for the shock had been too great for her delicate frame.

All that followed seemed to me dreamlike and strange – the darkened house and the rustling sounds of the black dresses that were made for the servants; my own new black things and stiff black hat; the terrible stillness of the place, and the awe with which I used to gaze at the closed room upstairs; and lastly that dreadful darkest day when I was the companion of Mr Blakeford and an old uncle in the mourning coach which followed the hearse with its nodding plumes to the grave.

I wanted to be alone and sit and think, but those about me seemed to consider that it was their duty to try and comfort and cheer me in my affliction, when all they did was to worry me and make me more wretched than before. It troubled me, too, terribly, that people should think me callous and indifferent to my loss, when all the time my heart was throbbing, and I felt a sensation of desolation and misery that I tried my best to conceal.

I remember going on tiptoe towards the dining-room on the day of the funeral, dreading lest my new boots should make a noise, when, as I reached the mat at the door, I stopped short, for my uncle was saying roughly —

“Don’t seem to trouble him much.”

“No, of course not,” Mr Blakeford replied. “What can you expect? I dare say he’s thinking more of his new black clothes.”

I had to clench my hands and bite my lips to keep from bursting out into a passionate fit of weeping, and I stood there for some minutes, unable to move, as I heard all that was said.

“Well, it’s no business of mine,” said my uncle. “It was his own money.”

“Yes,” said Mr Blakeford, with a sigh. “I was his legal adviser, but he would not be advised.”

“Never would,” said my uncle. “All he thought of was catching butterflies and drying weeds in blotting-paper.”

“But he was a good man,” said Mr Blakeford.

“Bah! good? What, to plunge into speculation and ruin himself?”

“We are none of us perfect,” said Mr Blakeford.

“Who wants to be?” said my uncle. “Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You know where I am if you want me. He was never like a brother to me. I will do as you said.”

“Yes,” said Mr Blakeford, “of course. You may trust me, Mr Grace.”

“I don’t trust anybody,” said my uncle, just as one of the servants, coming along the passage, said kindly —

“Why don’t you go in, Master Tony?”

There was a sudden movement of a chair, and I saw Mr Blakeford come forward and look at me curiously as I entered in a shamefaced way. Then he exchanged glances with my uncle, and my heart sank as I felt that they both suspected me of having been listening on the mat.

It was only at nights when I was alone in my own room that I could cry as a half heart-broken boy of eleven can cry in the desolation of his heart. My uncle had gone away the day after the funeral, telling me shortly that I must be a man now, and mind what Mr Blakeford said; and Mr Blakeford had looked at me in his peculiar way, tightening his thin lips, and smiling strangely, but saying nothing.

I knew that some arrangements had been made about my future, but though I was the person most concerned, every one seemed to consider that I was only a boy, and no explanation was vouchsafed. So it was, then, that I rambled about the house and grounds almost alone, growing more and more thoughtful and wretched as the change oppressed me like a weight of lead.

As the days went on, though, and the first passionate feelings of grief gave way to a strange sense of despair, I began to take notice of what was passing around me. It seemed as if the servants in their new black dresses looked upon the change as a holiday. They had frequent visitors; there seemed to be always a kind of lunch in progress, and as I sat alone of an evening I could often hear laughter from the kitchen; and at last, unable to bear the solitude, I used to go into the study and sit down and stare at Mr Rowle.

It was not cheerful, even there, for Mr Rowle used to sit and stare at me. We rarely spoke. Still, it was company, and the old man did sometimes give me a nod, and say, in allusion to a burst of mirth from the kitchen —

“They’re keeping the game alive, young un?”