Читать книгу Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One - George Manville Fenn - Страница 8

An autumn morning in a lane. A very prosaic beginning. But there are lanes and lanes; so let not the reader imagine a dreary, clayey way between two low-cropped hedges running right across the flat landscape with mathematical severity, and no more exciting object in view than a heap of broken stones ready for repairs. Our lane is a very different affair, for it is a Cornish lane.

Do you know what a Cornish lane is like—a lane in a valley? Perhaps not; so we will describe the winding road, where, basket in hand, Tiny and Fin Rea, walking home, were seeking ferns.

In this land of granite, a clear field is an exception—the great bare bones of earth peer out in all directions; and however severe the taste of the first maker of a beaten track, unless he were ready with engineering tools and blasting appliances, instead of making his way straight forward, he would have to go round and dodge about, to avoid the masses of stone. Hence, then, many of the lanes wind and double between piled-up heaps of granite, through steep gorges, and rise and fall in the most eccentric way; while—Nature having apparently scoured the hill-tops, and swept the fertile soil into the vales along these dell-like lanes—the verdure is thick and dense; trees interlace overhead till you walk in a pale green twilight flecked with golden rays; damp dripping stones are covered with velvet moss; a tiny spring trickles here, and forms crystal pools, mirroring delicate fronds of fern; gnarled oaks twist tortuous trunks in the great banks, and throw distorted arms across the road; half hidden from sight—here five, there fifty feet below the toad—a rapid stream goes musically onward towards the sea, singing silvery songs to the little speckly trout which hide beneath the granite shelves in their crystal homes. Verdure rich and bright on every side, and above all ferns—ferns of the tiniest, and ferns tall and towering, spreading luxuriant fronds, and sending up spikes of flowers, while lesser neighbours form patches of wondrous beauty—tropic palm forests in miniature.

“Now, then, who’s going to take my picture?” cried Fin Rea, plumping herself down on a mossy stone, and snatching off her hat. “Should I do now, Tiny?”

Undoubtedly: for her lithe, slight form, in its grey muslin, stood out from the ashy brown of the oak trunk that formed the background, while a wondrous beauty of light and shade fell through the leafy network above.

“Oh, isn’t it heavenly to be back? I couldn’t live in London. I liked the theatres, and going to the race, and seeing pictures, but I should soon be tired of it all. It makes you so cross. I believe the blacks get into your temper. I say, Tiny, I wonder what Aunt Matty would be like if she lived in London?”

“Don’t make fun of poor Aunt Matty,” said her sister. “She has had a good deal of trouble in her life.”

“And made it,” said Fin, jumping up. “Oh, I say, look down there,” she cried, pointing through the ferns at her feet to a cool, dark pool, twenty feet below; “there’s a place. Oh, Tiny, if I thought I should ever grow into such a screwy, cross old maid as Aunt Matty, I think I should jump down there and let the fishes eat.”

“Fin, that little tongue of yours goes too fast,” said her sister.

“Let it,” was the laconic reply. “Tongues were made to talk with. Let’s go on; I’m tired of digging up ferns. Wasn’t it funny, seeing Humphrey Lloyd at that race? And I wonder who those gentlemen were.”

“Do you mean the people who stared at us so through the race-glass?”

“No, I don’t, Miss Forgetful. I mean the big, dark man, and the funny, little fierce fellow with his hair brushed into points. You don’t remember, I suppose?”

“Oh yes,” said Tiny, quietly. “I remember, for I was very much frightened.”

“Ah, I hope the knight-errant wasn’t hurt; and, oh, do look, Tiny,” Fin cried, putting down her basket. “What’s that growing in that tree?”

As she spoke, she climbed from stone to stone up the steep bank, till she was stopped short by her dress being caught by a bramble.

“Oh, Tiny, come and unloose me, do. I’m caught.”

There was nothing for it but that her sister should clamber up the bank, and unhook the dress, which she did, when Fin gave her a hand, and drew her up to her side.

“What a tomboy you do keep, Fin,” said Tiny, panting; “see how my dress is torn.”

“Never mind, I’ll sew it up for you. What’s the good of living in the country if you can’t be free as the birds? Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, you beauty!” she cried, as a goldfinch sounded his merry lay. “Tiny, shouldn’t you like to be a bird?”

“No,” was the quiet reply. “I would rather be what I am.”

“I should like to be a bird,” said Fin, placing one foot on an excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold of a low bough.

“But not now,” cried Tiny. “What are you going to do?”

“Going to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.

“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”

“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.

“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.

“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.

“But what are you trying to do?”

“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”

“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny—“yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip,—and stretching out the other—“Tableau—young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”

“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”

“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll—”

“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.

“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.

“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”

“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree—they can’t see us—till I shout ‘Hallo!’”

But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.

The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.

“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”

Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.

The steps came nearer, and the stepper’s eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him.

“‘I love the merry, merry sunshine,’” he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; “and—Hallo, what the dickens have we here?” he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. “Lady’s basket and ferns dug up—yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be—Hallo, I spy, hi!”

For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak.

The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered—

“Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won’t see me.”

“Hallo! whispers in the wind,” cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. “Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I’d a gun. No: poachers—trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!”