Читать книгу The Lonely Church - Fergus Hume - Страница 4

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There are few sadder spectacles than a deserted house. Not in the sense of having lost one tenant, and waiting for another, but roofless, windowless, with a cold hearthstone, and a grass-grown threshold. And if instead of one house there are many, the sight is sufficiently pathetic to chill the warmest heart. Eric Baker had chanced upon such ruinous habitations. These were collected round a tumble-down church, and the whole was not far removed from the waters of a sluggish river. Seen in the red light of the sunset, the deserted hamlet looked dreary, even sinister.

During the earlier part of the day, Eric had tramped through a comfortable country. Passing over admirable roads, between flowering hedges, along the foot-paths of cultivated fields, which surrounded trim farm-houses, he had later come to a desolate moor, where Nature resumed her unchecked sway. And on the fringe of this dreary expanse he found a marshy fenland, flat, reedy, damp and dismal, through which flowed a broad sullen river. Beside its muddy banks stood the ruined church with its cluster of deserted cottages. His road led directly through this uninhabited village, and he paused by the ancient stone cross which marked its centre, to survey its desolation. The sight, the hour, and perhaps the fatigue of a long walk, made him reflective, melancholy, even poetical.

Yet the young man was matter-of-fact, and little given to day-dreaming. His profession of civil engineer did not encourage the cultivation of the spiritual faculties. But there was something about that roofless shrine which inspired him with sad thoughts. He sucked melancholy therefrom as Jacques did out of a song. How many generations had knelt at that desecrated altar, how many simple souls had sought God within those ivy-covered walls. Now, the sound of psalm and hymn, the voice of holy exhortation were silent: the wind moaned through the chancel, bramble-bushes barred the doors, owl and bat nested in the belfry. And the headstones of the forgotten dead were almost buried amongst a luxuriant herbage. Darnels, docks, thistles, nettles, hemlock and briar: these flourished like a jungle in the graveyard. The desolation was complete.

Not less mournful was the village green. The well was choked with rubbish; one arm of the Saxon cross was broken; between the cobble-stones grew rank grass, and the whole space was a waste wilderness. The cottages around were absolute ruins. Some were roofless, others had no doors, many exhibited broken windows, and the chimneys of a few had fallen into the roadway. Eric could not hear a human voice; not even the bark of a dog broke the stillness. Only the wind moaned through the arches of the lonely church, the ruddy sunlight tinted the ruined houses, and over all brooded the nun-like quiet of the evening. He might have been standing in one of those accursed cities of Arabian tale, so absolutely removed was the place from all feelings of humanity.

But the sun was sinking, the shadows were falling, and if Eric desired to reach his destination before the darkness closed down, it behoved him to put his best foot foremost. The quiet melancholy of the place detained him for a few moments longer, and then he resumed his way. At the end of ten miles, his best friend awaited him, also an excellent dinner, and as the traveller was hungry both for food and friendship, and inspiriting conversation, he walked on briskly. And behind him the shadows of night fell darkling on the lonely church.

But the spot was fitted for an adventure, and he was not to leave without one. Hardly had he reached the crooked street which led out of the village green, when he came face to face with a strange old woman. She might have been one of the weird sisters, so unexpectedly did she appear, so uncanny were her looks. Here was a witch indeed, a mediaeval bond-slave of Satan on her way to some ghastly Sabbath in the desecrated church. She had a nut-cracker face, seamed with many wrinkles, snow-white hair, hanging loosely over her bent shoulders, and hobbled towards him with the aid of a quaintly carved stick, upon which she doubtless took her midnight rides. Over her torn gown, which was of no colour whatsoever; she wore an ample scarlet cloak faded by exposure to sun and rain. With a small basket on her arm, she moved slowly along muttering to herself, and looked up, only when she heard the brisk footsteps of the young man. Then she revealed a pair of fiery black eyes undimmed by age, and with a distinctly malignant expression in their glittering depths. She was like a crone in a fairy tale.

Her looks and her sudden appearance in that dismal spot shook Eric’s nerves for the moment. He started back with an ejaculation. Being a Romanist, he hastily made the sign of the cross. The hag heard his exclamation, saw the protecting sign, and guessed the meaning of both. Stopping short she laughed long and shrilly. Her unpleasant merriment sounded eerie, but somehow matched the lamentable surroundings. Baker felt the horrors of nightmare.

“You’re afraid of an old woman, are you?” said the beldame in a wonderfully refined voice, and as softly as she might have spoken in any drawing-room.

“Afraid!” echoed the young man recovering from his panic. “No! why should I be afraid? I own that your sudden appearance startled me.”

“And my strange appearance,” she sneered, brushing aside her loose locks to see him the more clearly. “Did you take me for one of Macbeth’s witches?”

“I tell you what I don’t take you for,” replied Eric rather nettled, “and that is a native of these parts.”

“Why not? I am old and ugly enough.”

“You speak with a cultivated accent; you quote Shakespeare; you—”

The old creature interrupted him with an imperious tapping of her staff.

“There! there, that’s enough. I am what I am. Call me Mother Mandarin if you like. I am known by that name hereabouts.”

“And by what name were you known in London?” asked Eric shrewdly.

Mother Mandarin’s face flushed a deep red, and her eyes glittered ominously.

“The past is past and the dead are dead,” she said enigmatically; “never talk of London to me.”

Baker surveyed her with interest. She replied evasively. Yet he was certain that she was a woman well-born and well-bred. In her time she had glittered in society. There was an air of refinement about her, which showed she had occupied a certain position. Also by her speech and her reference to Shakespeare, he judged that she was educated. But her looks were wild, her garb was ragged, and she seemed a fit dweller in this howling wilderness. Eric thought of the demoniac who dwelt amongst tombs, and wondered if this woman—but she saw his thought in his eyes, and answered it directly.

“I am not mad, Mr. Eric Baker,” she snapped out, and looked at him with a malicious smile. The young man started back, genuinely astonished.

“You know my name!” he said, lost in wonderment. “Who are you?”

“I am a woman who has fled from the corruption of the world into the desert like the hermits of the Thebaid,” said she fixing her eyes on him steadily. “In one of those cottages I live, and I earn my bread by gathering herbs which I sell to the chemists of Moncaster. When not otherwise employed I weave baskets, and when religiously inclined I worship with the owls in yonder church. Is there anything else you wish to know, Mr. Baker?”

“My name. How do you come to be acquainted with it? I never saw you before, I am a stranger in these parts. Are you a witch?”

“And are you a matter-of-fact engineer to ask so silly a question.”

Eric was more and more amazed. “My profession also!”

“Ah!” said Mother Mandarin, smacking her withered lips; “more people know Tom Fool, than Tom Fool knows. Good evening.”

“No.” He sprang forward and caught her by the arm. “You shall not go until you tell me how you came to know my name and profession.”

Her face became quite expressionless. She stood as still as any stone and closed her lips firmly. Eric asked her the question again and again. In his eagerness and anger at her silence, he even shook her. But Mother Mandarin kept to her dour attitude, without a word, without a look, without a movement. His will against hers was like a wave beating against a granite rock. In sheer despair he released his hold, and fell back a pace to survey this mule of a woman. Immediately Mother Mandarin resumed speech and motion, and seized his hand. In the vivid red light she peered at the lines thereon, and, too astonished to speak or move, the young man let her have her way.

“A long life,” croaked the old woman intent on his palm, “and a happy one after a year’s troubles. Here are death and doom, and marriage-rings. But aid no woman: heed her not when she cries. With the crying will come love, and with the love sorrow, till all be accomplished. Go from here at once, for the way is open, but wait no longer, else the way will close up.”

“What do you mean by this jargon?” cried Eric, snatching his hand from her claws. “Do you think I’m a fool to—”

“You are not a fool now, but you will be—you will be. Remember, when a woman cries for aid, make no speed to save her.”

For a moment she looked at him maliciously, then took her leave in quite a graceful lady-like way. “Au revoir sans adieu, Mr. Baker,” said Mother Mandarin, and disappeared round the corner before Eric could detain her. Bewilderment deprived him of motion for a few seconds, then he sprang after her. The lane up which he looked was bare. Apparently she had vanished into one of the ruined cottages, and as there were some twenty or thirty of these it was useless to seek her therein with any hope of success. However he remembered her last speech, and rested satisfied that he would meet her again. Then he hoped to learn who she was, what she meant, and how she came to know his name and profession. It was the strangest of adventures, and Baker did not profess to explain its meaning or its reason.

“Is this the twentieth century?” Eric asked himself, as he shifted his knapsack. “Am I a sensible man or a dreaming idiot?” He paused—pondered, and then burst out into a boyish laugh. It was echoed with sinister merriment from a near cottage.

Doubtless the strange woman was close at hand, but Eric, much as he wished to see her, decided not to give chase. The night was coming on and he had far to go. Once more he turned his face towards Moncaster, where his friend waited for him, and, if Eric knew anything of Hal Ferris, waited with great impatience. But his adventures were not yet ended. That connected with the old beldame was apparently concluded, but a new one connected with her reading of his hand had yet to take place. The cry for help against which he had been warned struck his ear just as he started on his way.

It was a woman’s voice that called for aid, but not the voice cracked and shrill of the old hag. Besides, it came from the direction of the river. With the memory of that warning Baker stood still for a moment, debating whether it was worth his while to respond, and risk the promised love and sorrow. Then his common sense came to his aid, and with a laugh of scorn at his folly, he dashed down the lane which led to the river. If all the devils which the hag held in control barred his way, Baker felt that he must rescue the woman who cried for help.

The river flowed red as blood under the angry sunset, and its low muddy banks gleamed in the light. The lane led directly on to a kind of rude wharf, and beside this lay a squat heavy-looking barge.

On the deck a man and woman were struggling, and their figures bulked sharp and black against the clear sky. The man held the woman by the hair, and was beating her with his fist. She shrieked for aid, and the scared birds swept across the brilliant sky.

Eric Baker was young, chivalrous and active. Enraged by the sight he raced down the lane like a blood horse nearing the goal, and leaped on board the barge. The next moment one well-directed blow stretched the man on the deck, and he held the sobbing woman in his arms.

The situation seemed to demand a few oaths, and Eric delivered them with a vigour worthy of a Texan mule-driver.

“You—” shouted Eric with well-chosen adjectives. “How dare you strike a woman.”

“If I ain’t to whop my own daughter who am I to hammer,” growled the man gathering himself up. “And who are you—you—” his vocabulary exceeded Baker’s in richness if not in volubility. And still condemning the young man to the infernal pit, the bargee came on.

But he was no scientific boxer, and Eric was. The bargee relied on his brute strength, and had he got in a blow, Eric might have been knocked senseless. But Baker had dealt with recalcitrant navvies before now in the great waste lands, and knew how to drop his man. Bargee hurled himself forward with his huge arms working like flails. Eric planted one under his jaw, another smashing blow in his eye, and the Hercules reeled back against the gunwale of the craft. It was low, and the bargee was tall. He hit against it, toppled and fell splash into the river. It was a very pretty exhibition of Nemesis.

“We’ll have no more trouble with him,” said Eric, as he saw the man floundering about in the muddy waters like a gigantic frog, “a cold bath will cool his blood.”

“Oh, he’ll drown—he’ll drown,” cried the girl, for she was little more than nineteen years of age. “Father! father!”

“It’s the best thing he could do,” said Baker, rather disgusted at beauty proving thus ungrateful; “but if you think his life’s worth saving, see here—” and Eric threw a rope to the floundering man.

With a gasp and an oath, he seized it, and Eric, aided by the girl, drew him on board. Covered with mud, dripping with water, the man sat down on the deck and swore freely, spitting weeds out of his jaws. After a glance at him, to see that he meant no mischief, Eric turned his attention to the girl.

She was a remarkably handsome brunette, slender and tall, with a gipsy cast of countenance. Her garb was as tattered and picturesque as that of Mother Mandarin’s, and as she busied herself in coiling up a tress of jetty black hair which had fallen during the struggle, Eric thought she was as pretty and wicked-looking a piece of flesh as he had ever set eyes on. The old woman’s warning recurred to him, and he inwardly laughed it to scorn. There was no danger of his falling in love with this gipsy Cleopatra, and without love—according to the prophecy—sorrow could not come.

By this time the girl was perfectly composed, and looked at her knight with a roguish eye. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “But there was no need for you to interfere, I can manage father myself.”

Eric thought this speech both ungrateful and untrue. “Father seemed to be managing you when I came,” he said dryly.

The man who had been swearing in undertones, now spoke freely. But there is no need to reproduce his jewels of wit. “I’ve been hit in the eye,” said the man huskily, “and on my own barge. I’ve been chucked from my own barge too, and I’ve drunk more water than I’ve swallered since I was a bloomin’ kid, and that’s fifty years agone.”

“You look as though whiskey was more in your line,” said Eric carelessly.

“Oh, poor father,” said the girl going to him, and looking something like Titinia caressing Bottom the Weaver, “does your eye hurt you?”

“My fist hurts me,” said Baker looking at his swollen knuckles, for the bargee’s head was not soft, “but no one seems to care.”

“You’d better go,” said the girl tossing her head.

“Thanks. And if ever I save you from a beating again—”

“She deserved it. Didn’t you, Pansey?” said the man.

Here Pansey showed another side of her character. “No I didn’t, and you’re a brute; you always were. I did deliver the letter.”

“Then why ain’t he here?”

“You’d better ask him when he comes.”

This mysterious conversation did not interest Eric, and he turned to go. But just to punish the girl, and to show her that he did not care for her rank ingratitude, he took half-a-crown from his pocket and bestowed it on his late antagonist. “There you are my man,” he said cheerily, “beat her again when she wants it.”

“Oh,” cried Pansey, “and you call yourself a gentleman.”

“No I don’t, my dear. I call myself a fool. If you thank everyone who helps you as you have thanked—”

“I did thank you,” said Pansey sullenly.

“Not with a kiss as I should have liked.”

She reddened, and retreated as though she thought Baker would really take what he claimed. The young man laughed. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, “you can keep it for the next fool.”

Meanwhile the bargee was biting the silver, and finding it good currency rose to express his thanks. “You’re a gentleman,” he declared, “and I’m an honest cove I am. Luke’s my name. Luke Tyler, and if you want anything down in the sly way—”

“Hold your tongue, father,” broke in Pansey anxiously.

“Shut up,” roared her father again doubling his mighty fist, but with a side glance at Eric, “you’ve lost me money. He ain’t here?”

“He’ll come to the church I tell you.”

“He,” snorted Luke, “who’s the fool now. Giving away the show.”

Eric laughed. “I’m quite in the dark,” said he lightly, “keep your sly secrets, I go.” Here he leaped on to the shore. “By the way who is Mother Mandarin?”

The effect of his words astonished him. Pansey shrieked and dived below. Her father produced a revolver. “Hands up,” he cried. Then with an oath, “Bail up, Cornstalk!”