Читать книгу The Lonely Church - Fergus Hume - Страница 9

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Mrs. Bellona expressed herself only too pleased to see any friend of Mr. Ferris at her party; so to The Nun’s House went Eric, and his Fidus Achates. This mansion was built on a lawn which sloped down to the river, and according to the Moncaster Guide-book, was all that remained of a convent, famous in pre-Reformation times. The church attached to it, the refectory, and the ancient cloisters where the holy sisters had formerly walked, were in ruins, but the habitable portion of the mansion was in excellent repair. In fact, much of it had been patched up with stones from the chapel. The church was as ruinous as that of Old Dexleigh, and overgrown with ivy. What with the velvety lawns, the picturesque ruins, and the aged oaks, elms, sycamores and beeches, Nun’s House was an ideal place for a garden-party. The day also was warm and sunny, so Mrs. Bellona had every reason to be satisfied.

Hal was daintily dressed, in the smartest of frockcoats, the most shiny of tall hats, and wore a flower in his button-hole. He should have been put under a glass shade as something too precious for ordinary use. So Miss Mattie told him, and gazed at her musician while paying him the compliment with adoring eyes. She took possession of the little man immediately he had presented Eric to his hostess, and swept him off to a gay coterie of ladies who made much of him. Undoubtedly Hal Ferris was extremely popular in Moncaster.

Mrs. Bellona was tall and dark, stately and cold, and resembled her daughter in appearance. Her black hair, however, was threaded with silver, and she had an anxious expression on her face which was wanting on the more placid countenance of Judith. Richly dressed in black silk, with a sable cloak, and armed with a lorgnette, she received Eric politely, and apparently without much interest. But Mr. Baker was observant, and he noted that her colour rose, and her fingers involuntarily clenched themselves on the tortoise-shell holder of the lorgnette when he was presented. It struck him that Mrs. Bellona knew something about him. This thought taken in conjunction with the extraordinary speech of Judith in the porch, led him to believe that his hostess did not altogether approve of him. However, she was extremely civil, and after exhibiting that one sign of emotion at the outset, she relapsed into her own cold, self-contained manner, which chilled the gayest person.

“You are stopping with Mr. Ferris, I hear,” said Mrs. Bellona, sweeping the lawn with her lorgnette, and averting her eyes from the face of her guest, purposely, as he thought.

“I have come down to pay him a visit.”

“Do you stay here long?”

It might have been Baker’s fancy, but he thought, there was a shade of anxiety in her manner. Keeping his eyes steadily on her averted face, Eric nodded. Surprised at not hearing his reply, and not seeing the sign of affirmation, Mrs. Bellona was forced to look round, which was just what Eric intended she should do. “I beg your pardon,” he said blandly, having achieved his object, “I stay for three or four weeks, as the fancy takes me.”

“And afterwards?”

Eric shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly, and wondered why she was so inquisitive.

“I go to South America.”

“To South America!” echoed Mrs. Bellona, with another access of colour. “To—to—” she hesitated, then spoke with a rush, “to Lima?”

Eric laughed, but wondered why she had mentioned that particular city.

“No such luck, Mrs. Bellona. I have to camp out on the pampas.

“You are an engineer?” she asked calmly.

“I am. The Government of Tarapaca has engaged me to build a railway from the capital to an inland country. To carry grain, I believe. I understand that Tarapaca is to be the granary of the Old World.”

“Is it a dangerous country?”

“Well, no, not if a man keeps his eyes open, and is a clean shot. I have been in more dangerous places in my time.”

“How dull this life must be for you here. I wonder you don’t get back to the wilds as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, there’s nothing like change,” replied Eric easily. “The delight of life lies in contrast. Besides, everything amuses me.”

Mrs. Bellona looked at his trim figure, at his keen blue eyes, and general air of alertness, with interest.

“You look as though you enjoyed life,” she said, with a half sigh.

“I do,” assented Eric, heartily. “A man who is prepared for anything, both for good and bad fortune, and is prepared to take either in a philosophic manner, usually does enjoy life.”

“Do you think it likely you will meet with bad fortune?”

Eric shrugged.

“One never knows. Adventure and danger are to be met with in the most unlikely places.”

“Such as—?” inquired Mrs. Bellona, smiling with her lips, but anxious as regarded the expression in her eyes.

Baker bowed, with a compliment, and declined to give her the information he saw she wanted.

“Such as here, Mrs. Bellona. I shall lose my heart in Moncaster. The girls are so pretty.”

“Ah! you are young—young,” rejoined the lady, indulgently. “Well, Mr. Baker, I hope I shall see something of you while you are here.”

“Delighted,” answered the young man, and was forthwith introduced to a faded lady who had been a belle in her day, and who still had sufficient confidence in her attractions to make agreeable love to Eric. He replied politely to her sallies, but his thoughts were with his stately hostess, now attending to other guests.

It seemed to Eric that Mrs. Bellona wanted him to leave Moncaster, and her enquiry as to the danger of the places he had been in would almost indicate that she would be pleased to see him in difficulties. Yet he had never seen Mrs. Bellona before, and he saw no reason why she should wish him ill. Suddenly he espied a tall thin man in a priest’s gown, and he recognised him at once. Hal’s remark about the disappointment of his uncle and of Father Prue when he returned from his earlier expeditions occurred to his mind, and he wondered if there was anything in it. The fact that Father Prue was here, and that Mrs. Bellona wished him away, and that Judith had warned him to leave the city, seemed all of a piece. Eric was quite mystified. He knew that his hostess would not speak, and his acquaintance with Father Prue assured him that there was nothing to be learned in that quarter, but Judith—he looked round for Judith.

“I don’t see Miss Bellona here?” he remarked to his giddy companion.

Mrs. Arthur giggled as she usually did when about to say something foolish. “Ah, Mr. Harding is here, you see. I forgot you don’t know Mr. Harding. He is engaged to marry Miss Bellona, and naturally—” Mrs. Arthur sighed and shot a glance at Eric, “you understand, Mr. Baker.”

“And you also,” he replied, unable to resist a dig at her vanity. “We have been young ourselves, Mrs. Arthur.”

The lady drew herself up haughtily. She was about to make a snappish answer, for the subject of her age was a delicate one. But on glancing at Baker’s handsome face, and remembering that he had coupled himself with her in the remark, she softened. “Quite a hundred years ago, Mr. Baker. Heigh-ho! As a woman I find the thirties trying.”

“You mean the twenties,” said Eric, forced by her eager manner to pay the compliment, although Mrs. Arthur would never see forty again.

She was quite delighted, and swallowed the flattery with a sweet smile. “How you men find us out,” said Mrs. Arthur, tapping him with a useless fan, which she carried because it looked Spanish. “Oh, here is that horrid priest. What a sly face—don’t you think so. I do believe he’s a Jesuit like the Wandering Jew—you know Eugene Sue, Mr. Baker.”

“I never met him,” replied Eric gravely.

“Oh, you know what I mean quite well—the book. But how Mrs. Bellona can have such a man as her confessor—fancy having a confessor. It does sound like the Tower of London, and all that sort of thing.”

“Has Father Prue been here long?”

“Oh, you know his name. Really how odd. No, he hasn’t been here more than two months. He came with a stout man with a red face, and such a dislike for us—I mean for our sex,” Mrs. Arthur giggled.

“Was he a Mr. Blundel?” asked Eric wondering why his uncle had visited Moncaster.

Mrs. Arthur nodded with a trill of rather shrill laughter. “The very monster in question. Do you know him—really?” Then, without waiting for a reply: “If you do just tell him I think he’s a horrid crocodile.”

“I hope I am not a horrid crocodile, Mrs. Arthur.”

“Ah, now you’re fishing,” said the lady playfully. “Why, here’s Freddy. How do, Freddy. How glum you look.”

Freddy was a tall officer just over twenty—the kind of ass who would love a woman twice his age. Evidently he had a fancy for Mrs. Arthur’s mutton-dressed-as-lamb. He scowled on Eric, who looked at him with the calmest of blue eyes, and willingly surrendered his fair companion, whom he found a great bore. “Oh, you horrid Freddy,” he heard her say, as she fluttered away on the idiot’s arm, “how can you be so stupid. I really can’t help if the men will—etc., etc.”

“Lord,” thought Eric cynically, “what fools there are in this world. Wonder where the padre is. H’m! I’d like to find out how he and the uncle came to know Mrs. Bellona. She was an unknown quantity when I saw them last.”

A quick survey showed him that Father Prue was standing alone by the river looking at the placid tide. With his sombre dress, and grave manner, and pronounced isolation he looked singularly out of place in that gay assemblage. The lawn was like a tulip-garden with the bright dresses of the ladies, for in spite of the early spring, all who attended had put on new costumes. Luckily the clerk of the weather was kind, and the day was warm, else their gauze and ribbons, and thin shoes would have looked out of place, and severe chills would have caused many to remember Mrs. Bellona’s function.

“Good-day, father,” said Eric, approaching the solemn man. “I did not expect to find you here.”

“Nor I you,” rejoined the priest shaking hands coldly. “What brings you to Moncaster, Eric?”

“I came to enjoy the society of a friend. And my uncle?”

“He is as well as can be expected considering his habits,” said Father Prue, with a keen glance. “Why did you not call at the Hall?”

“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I don’t think my uncle would make me welcome,” replied Eric calmly.

“That is untrue,” rejoined the priest, “your uncle was always kind to you. He is not a demonstrative man.”

“He was not actively unkind, but he took absolutely no notice of me—no more than he would have taken of a dog.”

“He has his faults, Eric. But you might have come to see me.”

“Would you have been pleased to see me?” asked Eric bluntly.

Father Prue thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said looking at the tall self-possessed young man. “Our natures clash, but I think I should have been pleased to see you. I am pleased now.” Then to obviate the danger of an answer, he added. “You are looking well.”

“I can’t say the same of you, Father,” answered Baker, with a critical look, “you seem older.”

“It is two years since we met. Naturally I seem older.”

The priest’s face was deeply pitted with small-pox: he wore a pair of blue glasses for his weak eyes, and he was almost bald. Yet about him lingered the remains of good looks. With his oval face, his thin high-arched nose and noble forehead, Eric could imagine that at one time he had been a presentable man. His manner was cold and calm with an authoritative air, which came from long domination of Wilfred Blundel. He habitually kept his eyes downcast, and spoke in so low a voice that it was hardly audible. What passed in his mind it was impossible to say as his face was absolutely expressionless. Yet as he looked at Eric a faint colour flushed his cheeks, and he drew a quick breath pressing his hand to his side as though he felt there a cruel pain.

“What is the matter?” asked Baker quickly.

“Nothing; a stitch in the side; I’ll see you later. “I am glad to see that you are looking so well,” and Father Prue, resuming his usual icy demeanour, walked away with his hands behind his back. Wherever he went he seemed to chill those he approached. Laughter ceased and voices dropped, and faces lost their smiles when he came on the scene.”

Eric found it difficult to analyse his sensations regarding Father Prue. The man had always behaved coldly to him, yet at times had shown him kindness only to be succeeded by the most distant demeanour. Also at times he would look at the young man with almost an expression of pain, and when observed would frown as though the sight of him was distasteful. Baker could not say whether Father Prue liked or disliked him, and on his part he could not make up his own mind. One time he was drawn to the man by the glimpse of a kindly nature, at another he was repelled by the scarcely concealed repulsion with which the priest appeared to regard him. To Eric the man was a problem.

“I wish I had asked him how he came to know Mrs. Bellona,” mused the young man staring at the glittering waters of the river. “I expect my uncle made her acquaintance while I was away this trip. Yet it is not like Uncle Wilfred to go into society, much less lend his confessor to a lady. He is such a woman hater.”

Thus musing he turned towards the lawn, thinking his isolation would look rude. As he stepped round the bole of an ancient beech he came face to face with Miss Bellona. She was alone, and looked particularly handsome in a dress of primrose with hat and gloves to match. The faint colour suited her dark beauty, and as the costume was made perfectly plain, the majesty of her gait was enhanced. Eric—a rare thing for him—flushed at the sight of her lovely face, and took off his tall hat with a profound bow.

“I must introduce myself,” he said, smiling, “if there is any need of an introduction.”

Judith Bellona was perfectly composed, and surveyed him calmly. “I do not think there is,” she answered. “Father Prue, to whom I saw you talking has often spoken of you.”

“Kindly, I trust, Miss Bellona.”

“Very kindly,” she answered emphatically, then seeing his look of surprise. “Did you expect him to abuse you?”

“Not quite, but I never thought he liked me.”

Miss Bellona shrugged her shapely shoulders. “He likes no one, he admires no one,” she said, “I think he is a piece of ice, a cold man without a human feeling. He is charitable, kindly in some ways, and is truly good, but as for getting him to express any human feeling—” she shrugged again, “that is impossible.”

“You met my uncle I believe.”

This time Judith smiled. “He did me the honour to say that he hated women,” she said, “and I replied that women returned the compliment.” She paused, then looked up frankly. “I don’t like your uncle, Mr. Baker. He is—well—perhaps I should not say.”

“An old rip,” suggested Eric. “Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings. We are the worst of friends. What was he doing here?”

“He came to The Wells,” mentioning a place fifteen miles away, “for his gout: My mother met him there, and asked him over.”

“Did she know him?”

“I think not. But she knew Father Prue. She is of the religion.”

Eric nodded. “So my friend Ferris told me.”

“Then you must have been surprised at seeing me in the cathedral,” said Judith with a laugh. “I am of my father’s faith. But my mother is a staunch Romanist. Father Prue was attached to the church she visited in London. I think indeed she confessed to him. When she met him at The Wells, she was pleased, and asked him over along with Mr. Blundel. Your uncle went away last week, but Father Prue finding this place is good for his health intends to remain for a month.”

“It’s very good of you to tell me all this,” said Baker, wondering why she was so friendly.

“Does that mean that I am a chatterbox,” she answered smiling. “I am not as a rule. But you see I have heard a great deal about you.”

“From my well-wisher the good Father.”

“Ah, do not sneer, Mr. Baker,” she said earnestly, “I assure you he praises you very much. He has told me of your exploits in America, and of the many brave deeds you have done.”

The colour deepened in Eric’s sunburnt cheek. “It is good of him to praise the absent who are generally wrong,” he said. “But you must not believe all those idle tales. They were told by a fellow, for whom I did some slight service.”

“Do you call saving life a slight service. I heard how you rescued the man—I forget his name but Father Prue told me—from the river. And then there is Mr. Ferris.”

“What about him?”

“You were a good Samaritan to Mr. Ferris.

Eric was half annoyed, half amused. “Confound him,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bellona, but he told me he had said nothing.”

“He’s afraid of you,” she rejoined laughing, “and swore me to secrecy also, when he told me. But I said I would speak to you whenever I saw you. Don’t let your light be hid under a bushel, Mr. Baker.”

“You will make me vain, Miss Bellona.” Eric paused, then looked at her inquiringly. “Do you know, we have met before.”

“You can hardly call it meeting, Mr. Baker. We exchanged one glance in the Park two years ago.”

Baker was delighted. “You remember?”

“Yes. The fact is you looked so unlike the men around, so sunburnt and so—what shall I say to spare your blushes—so bold, that I asked my companion who you were. He did not know, but he asked a friend who did. Then I heard it was Mr. Eric Baker of whose ascent of Chimborazo everyone was talking. You published a book.”

“More fool I,” said Eric, good-temperedly. “I assure you, Miss Bellona, that I only did so to make money.”

“And they made you a lion.”

“A penny lion with a squeak. I soon left off roaring in my London jungle, and scampered back to South America. But I am glad that you remember me.”

“Ah, I don’t say that I entirely remember you.”

“But you said—”

“I know. I have changed my mind. It is our privilege you know. I recalled your face when your uncle and Father Prue talked about you. Then Miss Dame found an old illustrated paper with your portrait. It is very like you.”

“Was that why you were able to recognise me the other day?”

“Yes. You don’t think I remembered you these two years from a single glance. I am not so clever as that. Your fame, your portrait—”

“And your warning,” finished Eric meaningly, “what did it mean?”

“Hush,” she answered, and at that moment a gentleman came to her side. Judith turned to him. “Mr. Baker, Mr. Harding,” she introduced.

Eric beheld almost the double of himself.