Читать книгу The Story of Antony Grace - Fenn George Manville - Страница 3

The morning of the sale arrived, and still no one took any notice of me. I had stood by in a melancholy fashion, and seen little tickets pasted or tied upon the various articles of furniture; the stair rods done up in bundles and the carpets in rolls. The chimney ornaments seemed to be holding a meeting in a corner of the sideboard recess, presided over by a bronze Neptune; and apparently deceived by the reflection of the sunshine, the steel fender had settled itself calmly on a table before the tall pier-glass as if it were a fire; the pictures looked down in the most melancholy way from the walls at the doleful chaos of furniture, all except one of her Majesty the Queen, and that seemed to follow me in a sorrowful, pitying fashion that made me gaze up at it again and again.

Wearied with wandering from room to room – all dust and confusion now – I turned to go upstairs. As I did so I passed the study, whose door was wide open, with Mr Rowle in the easy-chair smoking away, his hat on, and the wretchedness of the place with its piled-up bundles of books seeming to have no effect upon him whatever.

Upstairs matters appeared even worse, though it struck me that the rooms were not so dusty. After the “view” on the previous day the auctioneer’s men had arranged the things so that they would be handy for taking downstairs, and the grotesque positions they were now in suggested endless ideas. Pairs of sheets and blankets hung from pegs like so many culprits; towel-horses stood upon their heads, while chairs did acrobatic tricks, one at the bottom sustaining four or five piled up in a state of equilibrium; the tooth-brush trays all seemed to have been frightened into taking refuge in the ewers; while the bedsteads and toilet-tables appeared to think the place so dirty and untidy that they were holding up their trailing garments to keep them from being soiled.

On the previous day I had taken refuge in my favourite haunt, the summer-house, till the strangers had gone, and now, hearing the auctioneer’s men below, I was hurriedly taking a farewell glance round before once more making my retreat.

I had heard footsteps on the stairs, and supposed it to be one of the owners of the carpet-caps and aprons that lay tucked in a corner, when suddenly passing out of one of the bedrooms into the passage I came face to face with Mr Blakeford.

“Oh! you’re there, are you?” he said, in quite an ill-used tone, as if he had been hunting for me for days. “Why, where have you been hiding yourself?”

“Please, sir, I’ve been here all the time.”

“It’s false, sir. How dare you tell me such a lie! I was hunting for you all day yesterday and you were not here. I supposed you had run away.”

“If you please, sir,” I said, “I was in the summer-house – indeed!”

“Then how dare you tell me, sir, that you were here! Now look here, Master Antony Grace; don’t you try to trifle with me, for I’m not the man to be played with. You’ve been allowed to grow up in sloth, ignorance, and idleness; and now that out of pure charity I am going to take you into my office, you had better try to make yourself of some use, unless you want to be turned adrift and starved;” and he bent down and shook his finger in my face.

“Come to your office, sir?” I cried, wondering.

“Come to my office, sir, yes,” he snarled. “What else were you going to do? Did you think you were going to spend your life sticking pins through butterflies and running about picking buttercups and daisies, as you did with your defrauding scoundrel of a father?”

“How dare you say that!” I cried, as a fierce burst of passion swept over me at hearing him speak thus of my poor dead father.

I have some recollection of rushing at him with clenched fists, and being caught roughly by a strong hand, of being shaken, my ears sharply boxed, and of being then thrown panting, sobbing, and half heart-broken upon the floor, as Mr Blakeford stood over me.

“That’s your temper, is it, you young dog?” he cried; “but I’ll soon tame that down. What, am I to lose thousands of pounds by your cheating scoundrel of a father, and then, when to save his wretched brat from starvation I have arranged to give him a home, I am to have him turn and rend me? But I’ll soon cure all that, my fine fellow. You’ve got the wrong man to deal with, and it was quite time your career of spoiled child was over.”

He turned and left the room, and after crouching there sobbing for a few minutes, I got up in a stunned, hopeless way, brushed the dust off my clothes, and as I turned I caught a glimpse of my hot red face and wet eyes in the glass.

I was hastily removing the traces of the childish tears when I smelt the pungent odour of tobacco, and my first impulse was to run away and hide; but there was no way of escape, and I had to turn round and face Mr Rowle, who stood smoking in the doorway.

“What’s he been leathering you for?” he said, without removing his pipe.

“I – I struck him!” I panted out, trembling with shame and indignation.

“You? You hit Lawyer Blakeford?” he said, with a broad grin overspreading his face. “Come, I like that. I didn’t think there was so much stuff in you.”

“He – he – said false things about my poor dead father,” I faltered.

“And you tried to punch his head for it, young ’un; and serve him right, that’s what I say. Never mind: cheer up, young un; you’ll grow a man some day, see if you don’t. But, I say, look here, where are you going to stay? The house’ll be full of people directly.”

“I’m – I’m to go to Mr Blakeford – to his office, he says.”

“Whee-ew!” whistled Mr Rowle. “That’s it, is it? Your guv’nor owed him money, eh, and he’s going to take it out of you? I say, young un, you’re in for it.”

“Am I, sir?” I said, in a dull, despairing way, for I understood by his words that my future was not to be a very pleasant one, but just then I heard Mr Blakeford’s voice below, and Mr Rowle gave me a friendly nod and turned away, while I stood listening, expecting to be called.

I can recall those feelings that came over me to this day – shame, mortification, wounded pride, misery, and despair. What was to become of me? How could I ever live with a man who spoke so cruelly of one who had always been so firm and yet so gentle with me? No mother, no father, no one to say one kind and encouraging word to me but that poor rough man in possession, towards whom in those hours of misery my young heart went out with all its passion of childlike affection.

I was half stunned. Had I been so idle and spoiled a boy? I did not know, only that I had been very happy – that every lesson had been a pleasure, and those summer-day entomological and botanical rambles with my father times of joy and delight. It was all a puzzle, too, about my father and Mr Blakeford and their money matters, and of course I was too young to comprehend the legal instruments which empowered the solicitor to take possession of everything of which my father died possessed.

The entry of one of the porters made me creep hurriedly away, and going downstairs, I found room after room filling with the people coming to the sale, with the result that I crept into the garden and down the old laurel walk to the little summer-house at the bottom, where I shut myself in to lean my head against my arm and try to check the miserable tears that would come.

It was very weak and girlish, but I was only eleven, and during the past few days there had been so much to give me pain. I was heartily ashamed of my weakness, feeling all the time a kind of instinct that I ought to be more manly, and trying hard to become so, though now I can smile at the thought of the little, slight boy of eleven battling with his natural emotions, and striving to school them to his will.

It was very quiet and lonely down there, and in a few minutes I felt calmer and better, seating myself and wondering whether I ought not to go up and look for Mr Blakeford, as I watched the robin – an old friend of mine – hopping about amongst the twigs.

Perhaps it was a foolish idea. But it seemed to me then as if that bird, as it gazed at me with its large round eyes, could feel for my sorrow, and I felt a kind of envy of the little thing’s freedom from pain and care.

While I sat there thinking in my despondent way, the low humming of voices up at the house came to me, and now and then I could hear steps on the gravel paths, but that leading up to the summer-house was of short turf, so that I was suddenly surprised by hearing a fresh young voice exclaim:

“Oh, look here, mamma! What a nice summer-house!”

“Yes, my dear,” said some one, in cold, harsh tones. “The Graces knew pretty well how to take care of themselves. I haven’t patience with such ways.”

I jumped up angrily to go away, but I was too late, for the door opened suddenly, and I was face to face with a young girl of about my own age, and a tall thin lady, with a careworn, ill-used expression of countenance; and as she seemed to know who I was, she caught the girl’s arm and gave her a snatch, exclaiming:

“Come away, Hetty; it’s young Grace.”

The girl took her eyes unwillingly from mine, and as she accompanied the lady away, she turned round once, and I fancied I read in her looks sorrow for my position, and a desire to come and lay her little hand in mine.

I sat all through that dreary day alone, and getting faint and hungry – though my memories of my encounter with Mr Blakeford kept me from thinking much about the latter, and it must have been nearly five o’clock when the door once more opened, and Mr Rowle stood there, holding a bundle tied up in a red handkerchief in one hand; his pipe in the other.

“Why, here you are then, young ’un,” he said. “I thought old Blakeford had carried you off. Lookye here! you’re just right. I’m going to have a bit of wittles down here in peace, and you’ll join in.”

As he unfastened the bundle handkerchief and displayed a pork pie and a small loaf, he took a couple of table-knives from his tail-pocket.

“Borrowed,” he said, holding them up. “They’re a part of lot hundred and forty-seven. Stop a moment, let’s make sure.”

One hand dived into the breast-pocket of his old coat to bring out a dirty catalogue, leaf after leaf of which he turned over, and then, running a dirty thumb down one page he read out:

“Lot hundred and forty-seven: sixteen black – No, that ain’t it. Here it is, young ’un. Lot hundred and fifty-seven: two dozen and seven ivory balance-handle knives. Them’s them, and they won’t be none the worse for my using on ’em.”

Mr Rowle’s intentions were most friendly, but I could hardly eat a mouthful, and I was sitting watching him making heavy onslaughts upon the loaf when I heard Mr Blakeford’s voice calling me, and I started up, feeling as if I must run away.

“What are you up to?” said Mr Rowle, with his mouth full.

“Let me go,” I cried excitedly. “Let me run somewhere.”

“Gammon! Why, what for? You go out like a man and meet him, and if he gives it to you again, why, there, if I was you I’d take it like a man, that I would.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then took my rough friend’s advice by going out into the garden, where I found Mr Blakeford with a black bag in his hand.

“Take that,” he said harshly, and threw the bag towards me.

I was taken by surprise, caught at and dropped the bag, which burst open, and a number of papers tied with red tape fell out.

“Bah! you clumsy oaf,” he exclaimed angrily. “There, pick them up.”

I hastily stooped, gathered them together, and tremblingly replaced the packets in the bag, and as soon as it was closed followed my new master towards the gate, through which he passed to where a man was holding a thin pony attached to a shabby four-wheeled chaise.

“Jump up behind,” he said; and I climbed into the back seat, while he took the reins, got into the front, and fumbled in one pocket. “Here, catch!” he cried to the man, as he gave the reins a shake. The pony started off, and we had not gone a dozen yards before something hard hit me in the back, and turning sharply, I saw one of the big old-fashioned penny-pieces fall into the road, while the man who had thrown it after us was making a derisive gesture at Mr Blakeford, by which I concluded that he was dissatisfied with the amount that had been given him.

“Sold badly, very badly,” Mr Blakeford kept muttering, and at every word he gave the reins a jerk which made the pony throw up its head; and so he kept on muttering during our four-miles ride into the town, when he drove into a little yard where a rough-looking man was waiting, threw him the reins, and then turned to me.

“Jump down, and bring that bag.”

I jumped down, and as I did so leaped aside, for a large dog rushed out to the full extent of his chain and stood baying at me, till Mr Blakeford gave him a kick, and he disappeared into a kennel that had once been green. I followed the lawyer through a side door and into a blank-looking office cut in two by a wooden partition topped with little rails, over which hung old and new posting-bills, many of which papered the wall, so that look which way I would my eye rested on, “To be sold by auction,” “Estate,” or “Property,” in big black letters.

On one side of the partition were a high double desk and a couple of tall stools; on the other some cocoa-nut matting, a table covered with papers, a number of shelves on which stood black-japanned boxes, each of which had upon it somebody’s name or only initials in white letters, with perhaps the word “Exors.” after them; while on the chimney-piece were a letter-weigher, two or three large ink-bottles, and a bundle of quill pens.

It was growing dusk, and Mr Blakeford struck a match and lit a gas-jet over the fireplace, just in front of a yellow-looking almanack; and now I could see that the place was one litter of papers, parchments, and dust, save at the end, which was occupied by a bookcase full of great volumes all bound in leather about the colour of Mr Rowle’s skin.

“Sit down there,” he said shortly, and he pointed to one of the tall stools by the great desk; and as I climbed upon it he picked up the bag I had placed upon the desk, threw it upon the table, and walked out of the place.

“Like a man – take it like a man,” I said to myself as I recalled Mr Rowle’s words; and, pressing my teeth tightly and clenching my fists, I sat there fighting down the depressing feelings that came upon me in a flood, and wondering what I should have to do.

My musings were interrupted by the loud entry at the end of about half an hour of a cross-looking servant-girl, who banged a small tray containing a mug and a plate of bread and butter down before me.

“There’s your tea,” she said roughly; “and look here, I’m not going to wait on you. Bring the mug to the kitchen when you’ve done, and you’ll have to fetch it in future.”

I looked up at her very wistfully as she scowled at me, but I did not speak.

“Sulky, eh?” she said. “You’ll soon get that taken out of you here, I can tell you.”

With these words she whisked herself out of the office, the swing-door creaked dismally and banged behind her, and I was left to enjoy my meal.

At first I felt that I could not touch it, but I was faint and hungry, and after a few mouthfuls a boy’s young healthy appetite asserted itself, and I drank all the mean thin tea and finished the bread and butter.

Then I remembered that I was to take the things back to the kitchen. Where was the kitchen, and dare I leave that stool without Mr Blakeford’s orders?

I felt that I dare not, and therefore sat there patiently gazing about the room, my eyes resting longest on those bills which told of sales of furniture, as I wondered whether those who had belonged to the furniture had died and left a son alone in the world, as I seemed to be just then.

There was a clock, I found, in one corner – an old Dutch clock – that ticked away in a very silent, reserved fashion, giving further every hour a curious running-down noise, as if it were about to strike; but though I watched it patiently as the minute-hand passed on, it never fulfilled the expectations given, but confined itself to its soft subdued tick, tick, tick, tick, hour after hour.

Seven, eight, nine, ten had been marked off by that clock, and still I sat there, waiting, and wondering whether I was to sleep there as well as to have my meals; and then I heard a door bang, the sound of a footstep, and with a great tin candlestick in his hand Mr Blakeford entered the room.