Читать книгу The Girl at Bullet Lake - H. A. Cody - Страница 6

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With his stout blackthorn stick beating the ground Silas Acres strode along the road. It was a bright warm morning with only a faint breath of wind astir. Birds darted here and there, and butterflies zig-zagged in front of him. The air was richly laden with the scent from fields of clover and nearby gardens. There was much to charm the senses along this country road which skirted the shore of the noble river in the Parish of Glengrow. But Silas Acres seemed oblivious to such attractions as he pressed steadily forward. He was a large towering man, unbent by the fourscore years that had passed over his head. His clothes were rough, his boots coarse and heavy, and his slouch hat worn and faded. His face was bearded, and beneath his craggy brow challenging eyes looked out over the crest of a strong prominent nose. He resembled a patriarch who had suddenly stepped out of the past, and was not at all pleased with his surroundings. He walked with a haughty dignity with his eyes straight before him, unheeding the curious glances that were cast upon him from houses and fields along the way. He knew that he was being watched, and that his appearance upon the road this morning would be discussed by his neighbors for several days. This thought gave him considerable satisfaction, and caused him to thump the ground harder than ever. He liked to arouse people's curiosity. He had been doing it for years, and he wished to do so as long as he lived.

Peter Pendle saw him, and stayed his hand in the act of raising the brush to the window-frame he was painting. An expression of concern came into his faded gray eyes as he laid down his brush and stepped to the kitchen door.

"Come quick, Sarah," he called. "Si Acres is on the road this mornin'. What d'ye s'pose he's after?"

"Trouble, no doubt," his wife replied, as she left her washing and came to the door. "He never leaves home for anything else."

"I guess yer right, Sarah. But who's to be the victim this time, I wonder. We were the last ones when our cows broke into his meadow. Hello! he's turnin' into the rectory. Now, what in time is he after there!"

"Religion, maybe. He was at church last night, remember. Perhaps he has repented and is going to the parson for advice."

"H'm, when Si Acres repents then there'll be hope for the devil. It's trouble the old cuss is after an' not religion. I've a good mind to go over an' help the Nairns in case Si becomes too fractious. An', besides, I'm curious to know what he's after."

The bang that Mr. Acres gave with his stick upon the front door of the rectory did not sound like that of a humble and repentant man. It was the blow of one impatient to be admitted, and who would brook no delay. He had not long to wait, for the door was soon opened by Hettie Rushton, the maid, who shrank back when she beheld the towering form standing before her.

"Is your master in?" the visitor demanded.

"Yes, sir, but he's at breakfast and can't be disturbed."

"Breakfast! Breakfast! You mean dinner, girl."

"Indeed I don't," Hettie retorted, stamping her foot. Her fear had vanished and she was ready for fight. "We have meals here at genteel hours, let me tell you that."

Mr. Acres glared at the girl, and was about to speak again when the dining room door opened and Mrs. Nairn appeared. If surprised at Hettie's flushed and angry face, and the presence of the visitor, she showed no outward sign as she stepped forward and held out her hand.

"Come right in, Mr. Acres," she invited. "We are at breakfast, so you are just in time for a cup of coffee with us."

Astonished and somewhat subdued by this gracious greeting, Mr. Acres followed Mrs. Nairn into the room. Hettie, still bristling with fight, made a face at him, and then returned to the kitchen. She was very curious, however, to know what he wanted, so she kept her ears keenly alert as she hovered near the partly-opened door leading into the dining room.

The sight that met Mr. Acres' eyes caused him to hesitate a little, while a peculiar sensation came into his rebellious heart. He paused just inside the door and stared around the room. To him it was an unusual scene of peace and cosiness, a striking contrast to the stern and bare dining room of his own house. Through the open window on his right the fresh flower-scented air was drifting softly into the room. Above, a canary was enjoying its morning bath, and rejoicing in the sun which fell full upon its cage. The visitor noted all this at a glance. Then his eyes rested upon the breakfast table with its snowy linen, and thought of his own table with its cheap red covering. He saw especially the two little ones seated there looking at him with big wondering eyes. A feeling of resentment came into his heart. This was a new world to him, and he felt like an intruder into a holy place. He was out of harmony with his surroundings. Why should these people have such peace and comfort while he himself was restless and unhappy? And they could have breakfast long after their neighbors had begun their day's work. What a life of ease they must lead.

This feeling of resentment was not lessened when Mr. Nairn rose from the table, came forward and held out his hand.

"This is the second unusual pleasure you have given me in a short time, Mr. Acres," he accosted. "The other was last night when you were at church."

Had Andrew Nairn known his visitor better he would have said nothing about his attendance at church. He realised his mistake, however, as soon as he had uttered the words. Mr. Acres straightened quickly up, his right hand gripped hard upon his stick, and into his narrowed eyes came a fighting gleam. He was very calm, and when he spoke his voice was cold and cynical.

"Yes, I was at church last night, Mr. Nairn, fool that I was. And that is why I am here. You spoke about the heathen, and the importance of sending missionaries to save their souls. But what about the heathen at home? And they are right here in this parish, too. People call me a heathen, and perhaps they are right. But no one would give money to convert me. I am scorned by all, and looked upon as a heathen because I seldom go to church. I went last night for the first time in years, and people stared at me, grinned and nudged one another. Oh, I saw what they did. And I put a fifty-cent piece upon the plate when it was passed around. I made a mistake in giving that money, so want it back. A heathen should not give, but receive."

Mr. and Mrs. Nairn could hardly believe that they had heard aright. The former's face flushed with anger, and he was about to make an impetuous reply when a warning glance from his wife checked him. With an effort he controlled himself and looked his visitor full in the eyes.

"Do you mean what you say, sir? Or are you only joking?"

"Joking! Do I look like a man who makes jokes? Oh, no. I am in dead earnest and want my money back. I am a heathen to your way of thinking, and wish to remain so."

"Very well, then, here is your money," the clergyman replied, handing him a fifty-cent piece he had brought from his pocket. "It is not the same one you gave last night, but I suppose that does not matter."

"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Acres growled as he took the coin. "One piece is as good as another."

A feeling of deep disgust for this man swept upon Andrew Nairn. Should he allow him to leave the house unrebuked? Was it not his duty as a minister to call him sharply to account?

As he thus reasoned with himself, little Betty stepped forward and stood before the visitor. There was a shyness in her manner, and the eyes which looked up at the face of the man towering above her contained an expression of wonder and awe.

"Are you a heathen?" she simply asked. "I never saw one before."

Mr. Acres looked quickly down at the child, and his brow knitted in perplexity. He did not know what to reply to this dainty maid. He could talk and argue with a man, but what could he say to this child? He had not talked to children for years, as they had always fled from him in fear. But he had to say something now, for Betty was expectantly waiting for him to speak.

"Do you think I am a heathen?" he at length asked.

"I hope you are, for I always wanted to see one, oh, so much."

A queer gurgle sounded in Mr. Acres' throat as he struggled with a peculiar sensation that had come upon him.

"Yes, I suppose I am a heathen," he confessed with a somewhat unsteady voice. "Are you satisfied now, my child?"

"Oh, I am so glad," Betty eagerly cried, "for I can give you this," and she held up a bright twenty-five cent piece. "This is for the heathen. I was going to put it in my Mission box, but I want you to take it now."

"I can't take it, child. Put it in your box. I must go."

"No, no, you must take it," Betty urged. "Please do."

A deep silence now ensued. As Mr. and Mrs. Nairn anxiously watched, they saw their visitor undergoing a hard struggle. They were wise enough not to interfere in this little drama. Which would win they could not tell. It was a battle of gentle, trustful simplicity against an overbearing, cantankerous nature. Presently, however, Mr. Acres moved his right hand, his fingers opened as if compelled by some unseen power, and taking the coin he dropped it into a pocket of his coat. The tension was relieved, and Mr. and Mrs. Nairn breathed more freely. Betty had won, and she clapped her hands with delight.

"My money will make you a good man," she cried. "I will give you some more when you come again."

For a few seconds Mr. Acres stared at the child, and then stepped back. He was about to leave the room when Mrs. Nairn stopped him.

"Let me make you a cup of coffee," she urged.

"I don't want any," was the curt reply. Mr. Acres was recovering himself, and the old defiant expression had returned to his eyes. "I must get home."

He tried to meet the clear friendly eyes of the woman standing before him. She was very attractive in face and form, and her manner was so charming that he felt uncomfortable. If she had been cold and haughty, or had spoken disdainful words it would have been a great relief. But her friendliness unnerved him and made him feel contemptible. He determined to leave the room and never enter the place again. His visit was altogether different from what he had anticipated. He had expected an excited scene when he demanded the money. That would have given him much satisfaction, and he would have gloated over it for days. But this——.

He lifted his head and looked around the room. Why, he did not know, except that he wished to evade those eyes which were gazing so steadily upon him. As he did so, he gave a sudden start, and an expression of surprise overspread his face. Swiftly he strode across the room until he stood before a picture upon the wall of a full-rigged clipper ship. Eagerly he drank in the details, entranced by her marvellous beauty.

"Ah, Dana alone could describe her," he muttered. "'Sharp upon the wind, cutting through the head seas like a knife, with her raking masts and her sharp bows running up like the head of a greyhound.' Yes, yes, Dana knew, all right."

He turned impetuously to the curious and interested watchers near the table.

"Where did that picture come from?"

"It was my grandfather's," Mrs. Nairn explained. "It was his ship."

"What! Captain John Rutledge? Was he your grandfather?"

"He was, and that ship, the Ida Rutledge, was named after my grandmother."

Mr. Acres swung around, stepped forward, and with piercing eyes, studied keenly the fair face upturned to his. His lips moved as if he wished to speak, to ask a question. But no word came. Instead, he cast another glance at the picture, strode across the room, passed out into the hallway, and left the house, closing the front door after him with a bang.

Hurrying to the window, Mr. and Mrs. Nairn watched him as he walked rapidly to the main road. Along this he moved for a short distance when he suddenly stopped. He fumbled in his pocket, and bringing forth something, he threw it upon the ground and stamped it furiously into the dust at his feet.

"Oh, it must be Betty's money he has thrown away!" Mrs. Nairn exclaimed. "He seems to be very angry. What a strange man."

"He is a savage heathen, all right," the clergyman replied. "He acts like one, anyway."

"Did he throw my money away?" Betty anxiously asked as she came close to the window and looked out.

"He did, dear," her mother replied. "But, never mind, we shall get it when he has gone."

"No, we shall leave it there," Mr. Nairn firmly declared. "He has tainted it with his touch. I wouldn't lay hand upon it, for it is an unholy thing now."

Mrs. Nairn looked quizzically at her husband.

"You should refuse much of the money that is given to the church, then, Andrew. It, too, is tainted."

"Nell! I am surprised to hear you say that."

"But it is true, nevertheless, and you ought to know it. Didn't Sam Crofter boast how he patched up a spavined horse and sold it as thoroughly sound? And didn't Ben Skipson tell how he always put big apples on the top of the barrel and poor little ones at the bottom? I have heard, too, about the tricks of others, and they are all givers to the church."

The distressed look that came into Andrew Nairn's eyes caused his wife to smile. She caught him affectionately by the arm.

"There, there, dear, don't worry about what I have said. We can't help what people do. I only wanted to remind you that Mr. Acres is not the only heathen in this parish. And to tell you the truth, I like him."

"Like him! Like that man! You surely are not in earnest."

"Yes, I am very much in earnest. I like him because he is real. He did not want to give that money and he had the courage to come and say so. Most of the people who give money to the church would like to get it back. But they are too cowardly."

"Nell! Nell! I am astonished at you. What has come over you?"

"I suppose you are astonished, and annoyed, too, Andrew," and Mrs. Nairn gave a deep sigh. "But what I have said is true. Most of the people here are hypocrites. They don't want to give, and only do it for appearance. They are afraid of what their neighbors might say. But Mr. Acres has the courage of his convictions, and that is what I like about him. I wonder, though, why he took such an interest in that picture. Did you notice how he looked at me when I told him that the ship was named after my grandmother?"

Andrew Nairn laughed, and placed his arm lovingly about his wife.

"He considered you a curiosity, no doubt, my dear. It is something, remember, to be the granddaughter of such a man as John Rutledge, the once famous captain and shipbuilder. Not likely he ever saw such a notable person as you before."

"You may be right, Andrew, although I have the feeling that there is some other reason for his strange behaviour."

"Perhaps he saw something of the rebel in you, Nell. You know what I mean."

"I do, and I am not ashamed of my rebel spirit, if you persist in calling it that. I do get impatient at times with the smug, conventional, and self-satisfied way of living, and long to break away and be natural. I am tired of the swaddling-bands of society. I was never cut out for a clergyman's wife, anyway."

"You will find it harder, Nell, should I become Rector of St. Alban's."

"I know it. But I shall do the best I can for your sake. We are not there yet, remember. In the meantime I want to learn more about Mr. Acres, and why he was so greatly interested in my grandfather's ship."