Читать книгу The Lonely Church - Fergus Hume - Страница 6

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If Rip Van Winkle had lain him down in Moncaster, he would have found little change when he awakened from his famous nap. It was a delightfully sleepy old cathedral town, inhabited by dignitaries of the church, by retired Anglo-Indians, civilian and military, and by many elderly sluggards who loved ease, retirement and simple provincial pleasures. Most of those who dwelt in this little Goshen were moderately endowed with money and over blessed with children. Their incomes were small, but their families were large. As a rule the sons entered the army and navy, or crammed for the I.C.S. So it came about that letters arrived from all parts of the world signed Tom, Dick or Harry. The daughters were usually pretty and well-connected, so that rich relations often disposed of them in the annual Belgravian matrimonial mart. In these ways were the youth of Moncaster settled in life, but those who had begotten and reared them, clung to the ancient nest, pleased that Minnie was a countess and Johnny a colonel. And the quaint city was sufficiently gay at times. The rising generation indulged in golf, in tennis, in cricket and in rowing on the placid river which flowed under the city walls. There were frequent dances; occasionally an excellent theatrical company at the tiny theatre in Nun Street, and once a year the famous Hunt Ball, where many hearts were captured, and many proposals were made. The elderly folk who were—so to speak—on the shelf, had their whist parties, and clubs, and tea-meetings, and the pleasure of the daily service in the gray cathedral, raised by the bishop Edwin in the twelfth century. And the service was a pleasure. The noble Anglican liturgy was read and sung to perfection in St Wulf’s Minster, and the sermons were the best of their kind, less theological than practical. Those who preached were staunch to the Thirty-nine Articles, and instead of splitting straws on arguable points, contented themselves in pointing out how sincere, cheerful, practical, Christian life could be designed and carried out on the admonitions of the New Testament.

It was Mr. Halbert Ferris who had brought the choir to its present point of musical perfection. He was a delicate, slim, good-looking man, with a cheerful face, and an unfailing fund of good spirits. At one time he had studied for grand opera, having a pleasing tenor. But his voice, sweet as it was, proved unequal to the demands of Wagnerian music-drama, and Ferris had taken to the concert platform. Also he had supplemented his income by giving lessons in voice-production. The daughter of the Bishop of Moncaster, who was one of his pupils, offered him, through the influence of her father, the mastership of the choir, and Ferris preferring a settled income to a precarious substance in Town, accepted the post with avidity. Thus it came about that he was ensconced in a snug little house in the right-hand corner of the Close, and lived here in great contentment with his old housekeeper, and Polly her niece. Ferris was something of an epicure, and Mrs. Bedwin, the housekeeper aforesaid, gave him the dishes he loved, so he was very happy.

In addition to his duties in the Cathedral, Ferris taught singing to the musical youth of Moncaster, and made a good income, which he carefully saved. He was always haunted by the thought of poverty, for the little man had passed through many hard years in his time and did not wish to repeat the experience. He wished to have a secure income, not dependent on his voice or work, and wished also to marry.

As yet he was single, as he had seen no one likely to render him happy and comfortable. But report said that he cast favourable eyes on Miss Matty Dame, the daughter of a minor canon. She was a comely, merry girl without great pretensions to good looks, and without money. Hal Ferris—as he was usually called, certainly admired her, and Matty was not averse to becoming his wife, but Hal did not propose, whereat she wondered.

It was astrology which prevented his making Matty happy. Hal was a firm believer in the influence of the stars, and corresponded with a certain sage in London who sent him monthly reports as to what was to befall. That these predictions were extremely general, and that many of them were not fulfilled, did not shake Hal’s faith in the least. He believed the good prophecies, and trembled at the bad, and regularly sent to know about his future. For the last year the stars had prophesied trouble through a woman, so Hal did not marry lest Matty should be the woman in question. In spite of his good spirits and thankful disposition Ferris was discomposed at times by these ominous predictions, and his superstition gave him many a bad half hour. Every fortune-teller, and crystal-gazer, and card-reader who came to Moncaster always reaped a rich harvest from Ferris.

At the present moment he was disquieted about Eric. The young man had not arrived, and, as Hal knew he was walking to the old cathedral city, he immediately conjured up visions of Baker lying dead on some lonely moor. Eric should have been at dinner on the previous night, but at nine o’clock, Hal had given up hope, and after an unsatisfactory meal, had retired, expecting to hear of his friend’s death the next morning. But his gloomy prognostications were not destined to be realized on this occasion, for while Ferris was at breakfast, the expected guest walked in cheerful and hungry.

“My dear Eric,” cried the little man springing to his feet, and grasping both hands of his visitor, “I thought you were dead.”

“That’s like you,” rejoined Eric with a hearty laugh, “which of your witches of Endor told you that?”

“There was a woman here last month,” said Ferris mysteriously, “she saw a man lying bound in a church. I thought it might be you.”

“In a church, and bound,” muttered Eric recalling his late experience. “Hump! that’s queer.”

“What’s queer?” asked Ferris eagerly, and scenting a confirmation of the prediction.

“Nothing particular. Give me some breakfast, I’m horribly hungry.”

“Ah,” said Hal placing a chair for his guest. “I had such a dinner for you last night. Why did you not come?”

“I was indulging in adventures,” replied Baker casting a critical eye over the well-furnished table. “Kidneys, eggs and bacon. Pâté de foi gras—a sybarite as usual. Is your coffee as good as it used to be, Hal? Give me a cup.”

“I always make it myself,” said Ferris solemnly. “But this adventure?”

“It will keep. I’m too hungry to talk. Gad, these kidneys are good.”

Ferris had a great opinion of Eric, and well he might have, as that gentleman had played the part of a good Samaritan to him many years before. It was months before Ferris obtained any position, and having been turned out of his one poor room by a virago of a landlady, he had tramped about on a bitter winter’s night until he dropped from sheer exhaustion. Eric found the poor creature lying on the doorstep of his rooms in Bloomsbury, and had taken him within. He gave Ferris a meal and a bed, assisted him with money, and with such influence as he could command; and in every way had behaved as a man should to his less fortunate brother. From that time dated the prosperity of Ferris, and from that date he had looked upon Eric as the noblest of created beings. It is not too much to say that Hal would have laid down his life for Baker, although the little man was terribly afraid of death. Ferris did not talk much of gratitude as Eric hated such demonstrations, but in his heart of hearts, he keenly felt the kindness of his friend. And Eric reciprocated the friendship. He knew that Ferris was a true man and could be trusted, and never came to England on one of his periodical visits without passing a week with him. Hal was a self-indulgent, superstitious little man, but he was staunch and true, and every fibre of his slender body was penetrated with gratitude towards his benefactor.

“This is the first time you have been here!” said Ferris, when his friend had finished, and was smoking with a contented look.

“Yes. I have been eighteen months away this trip. You were in London lodgings when last I saw you. How do you like this?”

“Immensely! My health is better and my money is sure.”

“You’ll be getting married soon,” said Baker, drawing his chair to the fire, for the morning was chilly.

Ferris laughed and fingered a cigarette. “I suppose so, in fact,” he added coyly, “there is a lady—”

“Oh ho. Have you proposed?”

“No. But I think she’ll have me. But I don’t want to marry yet. I wished to have a settled income independent of my profession, before I give hostages to fortune, and I am saving my money.”

“Sensible man. Who is the lady?”

“Miss Matty Dame. She is a daughter of a Minor Canon.”

“Quite a domesticated girl. And I want a domestic wife.”

“Oh I know you are fond of your creature comforts. Have you Mrs. Benwin with you, Hal?”

“Yes. She came with Polly.”

“Quite the London ménage. Well,” Eric looked round the comfortable room, “you have not done badly. What a lucky man you are to have such a nest. Not like me, a homeless wanderer.”

“All that I have is yours,” said Ferris emphatically.

Baker looked at him kindly. “I know it old boy. But I fear there is too much of the Prodigal Son about me to settle in this dull Eden. I must be off to the wilds again in three months.”

“How many of them will you give me, Eric?”

“One. You’ll have had enough of me in four weeks!”

“You know better than that, Eric.”

“Perhaps I do. But you are so confoundedly grateful for the little I did for you that I must suppress your demonstrations.”

“Little,” repeated Ferris, recalling that bitter winter night, and the kind hand that fed him, “you know what I feel!”

Baker patted the little man’s shoulder. “I know! I know, and I appreciate your feelings. Let us talk of something else.”

“Of yourself?”

“Not interesting enough. What a jolly room. As old as the hills and as respectable I should think.”

It was indeed a beautiful old room, panelled in brown oak, and with a painted ceiling. Ferris had collected many quaint things to match the antiquity of his abode, and, as he had an eye for colour and arranging, the effect of the whole was charming. Everything was subdued and mellow by time, from the Sherriton furniture to the faded hues of the Persian praying mats. But what took Baker’s fancy especially was a delightful window seat cushioned in old brocade, and set round the quaintest of windows, through which could be seen the noble cathedral, with its twin towers soaring into the blue. The Close was empty, and white pigeons pecked on the lawn, while rooks and jackdaws fluttered round the walls. To right and left were the gray old cloisters, in front of which stood noble elms, already budding with the delicate green of spring. An air of Sunday peace pervaded the place, and Eric, accustomed to the bustle and excitement of life in wild lands, felt the sobering influence of this haunt of peace.”

“A man could be very happy here,” he said with a half sigh.

“And a man is this man,” said Ferris, who was standing by his friend and had his arm school-boy fashion flung over the other’s shoulder. “You should marry and settle here, Eric.”

“I am afraid no one will accept my small income and roving habits.”

“There are fifty girls hereabouts would accept your good looks.”

Baker laughed. “If my face is my fortune, it will be a mighty small income I’ll get from it,” said he pulling at his meerschaum.

Yet if any man had a right to be conceited about his looks, Eric was that man, although he was too sensible to indulge in so nauseous a form of vanity. He had a well-knit figure as erect as that of a guardsman, and was almost as tall. With his fair hair, his merry blue eyes, and well-cut features, he was a most presentable man. His moustache showed almost white against the deep tan of his face, and a firm chin indicated his decision of character. Plainly dressed in tweeds with a Norfolk jacket and brown leather leggings, Baker looked smart and business-like, ready to make love to a lady or to lead a forlorn hope. Added to his undeniable good looks he had a personality, and that was his greatest charm. Ferris wondered how it was, so attractive a man had not been captured.

“Have you never been engaged?” he asked wonderingly.

Eric turned from the window with a gay smile. “No,” he said sauntering to the fireplace. “I have made no proposals likely to turn a woman into a grass-widow.”

“What do you mean by that, Baker?”

“Can’t you see. I am a bird of passage—always on the wing. I have only three hundred a year independent of my profession, and two cannot live comfortably on that without practising an economy which is not inviting. Therefore to earn money I must follow my trade,—follow it into the land at the back of beyond. Could I take a wife into such wild parts, or would she be happy if I could take her? No, Hal. When I am rich—when I find a gold mine, or build a railway which will bring me in a competency, then perhaps—” he sighed.

“You have seen someone?” said Ferris quickly.

“How do you know?”

“The expression in your eyes. You have fallen in love.”

“Can one fall in love with a face without knowing the disposition of its owner.”

“Romeo did,” said Hal stoutly.

“You can’t give that as an example. If Mr. and Mrs. Montague had lived, their love might have worn threadbare. But they died in the early days of their romance, before the glamour had worn off. I do not model myself on that love affair, and yet—” Here Eric laughed. “I admit that in one way I have followed Romeo. There was a girl that I saw in the Park—”

“Was she pretty?” asked Hal.

“An angel for beauty, but she looked as though she had a temper.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark—naturally since I am fair. Don’t you know people always love the opposite to themselves. But this girl looked masterful. I am masterful, and if I had followed up the affair, and had married her, our wills would have clashed. She passed like a dream. All the same—” Eric looked smilingly at his friend as though about to say something, but on second thoughts held his tongue.

“You mean that she didn’t pass like a dream,” said Hal shrewdly.

“My friend, her face haunted me. Luckily I knew a man who was with me, and who told me something about her.”

“Her name?”

“No. His knowledge did not extend that far. But he knew that she came from Moncaster. He met her at a garden party, and his hostess told him so much. I think she said the name also, but my friend had forgotten it—which was just like a friend.”

“Does she live here then?”

Eric shrugged his shoulders, and relighted his pipe which had gone out while he talked. “Who knows, I think so. At all events when I heard that you were in Moncaster, it seemed as though the finger of God pointed her out as my wife.”

“Was it this year you saw her?”

“Two years ago. You were then in London, and I had never heard of this place. When I received your invitation I remembered that my unknown divinity came from Moncaster. It was the chance of seeing her as much as the pleasure of your company that brought me here.”

Ferris looked thoughtful. “I wonder who she can be. Tall and dark?”

Eric nodded. “What you would call a Junoesque woman. Who are the folk hereabouts?”

“Their name is legion. There’s Lady Dame, who is Matty’s mother, and a funny old creature. Miss Carr, the Bishop’s daughter, who got me my place as choirmaster, and Mrs. Bellona.”

“An Italian. It sounds like an Italian name.”

“No. She is an English woman. Her husband was of foreign birth, I believe, but not entirely. He is dead, and she lives here with her daughter, Judith.”

“That is a queenly name. Judith Bellona—the kind of name Minerva might have assumed to masquerade amongst mortals. What sort of person is your Mrs. Bellona?”

“Tall and dark and—by the way,” broke off Hal quickly, “it is not improbable that your beauty may be Judith. I know she has friends in London and often goes up there. She is exactly what you describe your unknown to be—a Junoesque goddess.”

Eric’s face lighted up. “The deuce she is,” he said eagerly. “What luck if it is so. I never expected to come across her again, and I fancied I was coming here, only on a wild goose chase. I wonder if you are right.”

Hal jumped up and crossed the room to a small table on which were many photographs in silver frames. One of these he brought to Eric. “Miss Bellona gave me this a month ago,” he explained, “she learns singing from me, and we are great friends.”

“Yes,” said Eric vivaciously, “it’s the lady in question—the one I saw in the Park—to whom I lost my heart—whom I have never been able to forget even when working hard in South America this trip. I came back to England, and down here to find her. She is a beauty.”

“And as good as she is beautiful. But she is not for you.”

Eric’s face fell. “Do you mean to say she is engaged?” he asked.

“Yes. She has been engaged six months to Julian Harding.”

“What do you say?—Harding?”

“Yes. Do you know him, Eric. Why do you look so surprised?”

Baker did not answer for the moment. He was thinking of his adventure and the rough remarks of Tyler relative to the “Harding cove” rang in his ears. Harding was the man Tyler and the unknown proposed to kidnap, and Harding was the man who was engaged to Judith Bellona.

“Have you heard the name?” asked Ferris restoring the photograph to the table.

“I have heard the name,” said Eric slowly.

“Where?”

“That’s a long story. I had an adventure last night.”

“Was that why you didn’t turn up?” asked Hal.

“It was. I passed the night in a church.”

“In a church.” Ferris stared.

“To be precise, in Old Dexleigh Church.”

“What the dickens were you doing there?”

“Ah,” said Eric meditatively, “that’s the story. Tell me, Hal, has this Mr. Harding any enemies?”

“No. He’s a most popular man.”

“And what kind of man. A fool,—overmuch popularity sounds like a fool. Tell me about him.”

“He’s not what you’d call clever,” replied Ferris, “and rather wild, but he is not a fool.”

“Has he money?”

“Enough to live on, but is not overburdened with cash. He does nothing but generally loafs round with a fellow called Merston.”

Eric started again. Merston was the name mentioned by Tyler on the barge. It was all rather mysterious. Pansey knew Merston. Luke proposed to kidnap Harding, and Harding was engaged to Miss Bellona. Here were the elements of a romance. “My adventure’s not finished yet,” said Eric half to himself.