Читать книгу The Wilderness Mine - Harold Bindloss - Страница 15

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The sun was low, the wind had dropped, and it was very hot. The moor shone red and purple, and the long, straight road reflected dazzling light. In the distance, rugged fells cut, faint and blue, against the serene sky. There were no walls and the dust that trailed behind Geoffrey Lisle's throbbing bicycle streaked the parched grass and heather. Geoffrey drove fast, because a tire was slack and he wanted to reach Nethercleugh before it collapsed; besides, he had traveled far and was hot and tired. He was alone, and the side-car carried his thick nailed boots, a Burberry jacket, and a few other things he needed for a climbing holiday. One could reach the high rocks from Nethercleugh and climbing was the only relaxation in which he indulged.

Geoffrey was practical and had concentrated on fitting himself for his occupation. His father and mother were dead, and the small inheritance by which he had lived while he worked off his apprenticeship to a house of mining engineers was nearly exhausted. In order to gain further experience, he had stayed another year for very small pay, but in a month or two he must look for a post and he knew well-paid mining posts were not given to beginners. Although he was not clever he was tenacious and honest and his employers trusted him. Geoffrey wondered whether they meant to offer him an engagement, and thought he would like to stay. So far, however, they had said nothing about their plans.

When he got a holiday he went to Nethercleugh. For one thing nobody bothered him there; he could start at daybreak for the fells and come back when he liked. It was characteristic that when Geoffrey took a climbing holiday he meant to climb and not to loaf and talk. For all that, in the evening, when he was tired, he got some satisfaction from his uncle's society. Stayward did not talk much, but his remarks were shrewd and generally touched by ironical humor. Geoffrey did not know what Stayward thought about him. The old fellow was reserved, but so long as they agreed while he was at Nethercleugh, Geoffrey was satisfied.

By and by the bicycle crossed the top of a hill and Geoffrey saw a girl some distance in front. There was nobody else on the wide sweep of moor and because she broke its loneliness he gave her a careless glance. She carried a violin case and walked on the short grass by the road. She was tall and although the grass was rough, he thought she moved with an athletic grace. It was curious, because the particular grace rather marked mountaineers and running men than girls. Yet she was going slowly, and, if she were tired, he could not see her object for keeping the broken and boggy edge of the moor.

For a few moments her figure was outlined against the sky, and then was lost in the purple heath as the bicycle sped down into a hollow where the road crossed a noisy beck. When he climbed the hill on the other side Geoffrey saw her sitting in the dusty grass, and stopped the engine. The bicycle rolled on for a few yards and when he pulled up in front of the girl he wondered, half embarrassed, whether he ought to have done so.

Now the draught that had whipped his skin had gone, it was very hot; the girl's face was rather white, and she looked tired. Turning her head quietly, she gave him a level glance and he noted that her gray eyes were calm. There was something dignified about her. He thought she was too proud to hint at her surprise.

"I saw you in front," he said. "Then I missed you and when I saw you sitting down I wondered whether you were faint. The hill's pretty steep and the sun's scorching."

"I am not at all faint," she replied and added with a twinkle: "It's a nail in my boot."

"That's awkward," Geoffrey remarked feelingly. "I know something about it. Last time I was in the neighborhood and went over Rough Screes, a sharp clamp-nail worked through. Anyhow, it's not a day to walk and carry a load, even if your foot were all right. How far are you going?"

Ruth studied him, for she saw where his question led. He looked frank and sympathetic, and she was satisfied he had stopped because he thought she needed help. Besides, she had been a student and for the most part her musical friends laughed at conventions.

"I am going up the dale a short distance from Newlands village," she replied.

"That's three or four miles," said Geoffrey. "Since the car's not occupied, wouldn't it be ridiculous if you walked. All the same, I'd better warn you a tire's getting flat; but if it does go down before we get to Newlands, you'll be some way farther on."

Ruth got into the car, Geoffrey started the engine, and the bicycle ran, rather jerkily, down the hill. When they climbed the next rise the jolting was marked. The extra weight had told upon the leaky tire and Geoffrey pulled up.

"I'm sorry; afraid we'll have to stop," he said. "It's too far to run to Newlands on the rim, but I'll get the tube out in a few minutes."

He removed the double-ended tube while Ruth found a seat on the roadside bank. When he joined her, carrying the tube, he frowned.

"The hole is pretty big; thought I felt the thing stick to the cover and I expect it's torn," he said. "I hope you don't mind waiting."

Ruth did not mind. Her foot hurt worse since she had rested and she doubted if she could walk to the village. Moreover, she was amused by Geoffrey's honest frown. It was obvious he did not want to stop. When he had smeared the tube and a large patch with a smelling solution he remarked:

"You can't make a good job in a hurry and perhaps we had better wait until the stuff is properly set. I don't want the tire to let us down again, and I must make an early start in the morning. I want to climb Scarp Fell and cross the Pinnacle ridge."

"Do you know the Pinnacle?" Ruth asked with some interest, for she was a mountaineer.

"I have been up. I went by Black-ghyll, but had some trouble at the chock-stone and think I'll try the buttress to-morrow."

"Were you alone?"

Geoffrey said he was and Ruth gave him a keen glance. She saw he was not boasting; it looked as if he did not know his getting over the chock-stone was something of an exploit.

"The gully is generally climbed by two or three people who use a rope," she said. "When they come to the stone, the second man lifts the leader, who afterwards pulls him up."

"It is rather an awkward spot," Geoffrey agreed, and Ruth studied him while he examined the tube.

He looked strong and one got a hint of resolution. His glance was frank; she thought him sincere and perhaps unsophisticated but not dull. On the whole, she approved him. Then she smiled and thought about something else. They would resume the journey in a few minutes and after he put her down at Newlands they would not meet again.

"I'm afraid the solution's not ready yet. Perhaps the heat stops it hardening," he remarked apologetically. "Sorry to keep you! Have you walked far?"

"From Carnthwaite."

"Oh, yes," said Geoffrey, glancing at the violin case. "They had a charity entertainment at the hall. I saw something about it in a newspaper. Tableaux and music on the lawn! No doubt, you were playing; but why——"

He stopped and Ruth understood his touch of embarrassment; he was going to ask why they had not driven her home. Indeed, she had felt rather hurt about this. The Latimers of Carnthwaite were her mother's friends and Ruth had hesitated when, using some tact, they had offered her a fee for playing. She needed money and conquered her fastidiousness, but she had noted a subtle difference in her hosts' manner and had left Carnthwaite, feeling sore and angry. Although she told herself it was foolish, their neglect hurt.

"Music is my occupation, you see," she said. "Then the cars were occupied."

Geoffrey's glance was sympathetic and she wondered whether she had weakly indulged her bitterness. All the same, she had seen one car roll away with a load of girls who had not far to go, and another start with two or three fat country gentlemen, for whom she thought a little exercise would be good.

"Anyhow, it was too far to let you walk in the sun," Geoffrey declared. "It's curious, but some people think when you earn a fee you oughtn't to get tired. I'm sorry you went."

"A professional player cannot refuse an engagement."

"I expect that is so," Geoffrey agreed. "I'm an engineer and must look for an engagement soon. The trouble is, engagements one would like don't seem numerous. I suppose most of us must be satisfied with the other kind."

Ruth smiled, for she approved his naive philosophy, and he picked up the tube.

"Not hard yet! I mixed the stuff myself and I thought the tube was bad," he resumed. "Looks as if economy doesn't always pay. However, the solution will get hard and you are in the shade."

A thorn tree threw a shadow across the road and Ruth was satisfied to rest. A little beck bubbled in the grass and, leaping out, splashed in sparkling threads down the bank. The noise it made was soothing and in the distance the rugged fells cut against the sky. Ruth looked up at a sweep of broken crags.

"Since you have come to climb, I suppose you like the fells."

"Of course. If you want space and freedom and to try your strength, I don't think England has anything grander. One must own the North is often bleak and dark, but sometimes it does not rain, and if you stand on the high crags when the sun shines through the mist, you get glimpses of a beauty you can hardly grasp. However, since you live in the neighborhood, I expect you know how the wet rocks shine and the moving beams light up the green of the mossy belts, though they don't pierce the wonderful blue at the bottom of the dales."

"I do know," Ruth said quietly, for, when one loved the fells, his enthusiasm was not extravagant. "Perhaps," she added, "its charm is its elusiveness. Outline and color change and melt. Nothing is harshly distinct."

Geoffrey nodded. "The beauty's dazzling; you feel it ought to be veiled. Sometimes the veil's half lifted, and then the mist rolls down again and all is dark. But you don't mind; you remember the glimpse you got and are satisfied. Well, I expect great music moves you like that?"

"Yes," said Ruth, thoughtfully, "when a master plays! Even then, you feel the strange elusiveness—!" She paused and resumed: "I think your notion about the veil is good. Sometimes it's thin, but it is not lifted altogether. One's imagination reaches out to seize what lies behind. Still one can never reach far enough."

Then she smiled. "Well, you are going to climb the Pinnacle to-morrow by the buttress line. If you go alone, be careful when you come to the smooth slab on the traverse. The fine weather will hold, I think. How long have you got?"

"Three days. Then I must go back and draw mining pumps, reckon the cost of pit-props, and occupy myself with things like that. No doubt, they're useful things, but they're sometimes dreary."

"Useful things are dreary now and then," Ruth agreed. "However, I expect the solution is getting dry."

Geoffrey picked up the tube and stuck on the patch. Then he stood upon it and afterwards put a big stone on the spot.

"We must give it another minute or two," he remarked. "Perhaps I've bored you, but one does not meet many people who know the fells. People who look up at the rocks from the tourists' paths don't know them at all. For all that, it's not my habit to philosophize——"

Ruth imagined he meant to apologize for his extravagance and not to hint that she had made him talk; he was not subtle enough for this. She wondered why some men hated to be thought romantic when the romance was good. All the same, she knew she had made him talk and did not see her object for doing so. Perhaps it was because they were strangers with a common hobby and would not meet again. There was something melancholy about this.

He put back the tube and she noted that he had strong hands and a workman's firm touch. Then he helped her into the car, the engine rattled, and a cool wind whipped their faces as the bicycle climbed the hill. When they ran down from the moor ragged hedges streamed back, pastures and small, bent trees rolled by, and presently the bicycle sped through a white village where a beck flowed between the houses and the road. Geoffrey stopped at a guide-post that marked a corner.

"If you like, I'll drive you to your house," he said.

Ruth hesitated for a moment. Her foot hurt, but her arrival in the side-car would excite Mrs. Creighton's curiosity. She did not know her helper and her mother was conventional. Mrs. Creighton would, no doubt, sooner have stayed on the moor all night than allow a stranger to bring her home.

"No," she said, "thank you. I have not far to go."

She got down and, moved by some impulse, gave Geoffrey her hand.

"You have been very kind. I hope you will have a good holiday!"

Geoffrey drove on to Nethercleugh and after the frugal evening meal was over sat in the slate porch, lazily smoking and talking to Stayward. He thought his uncle looked old and worn, for since Creighton left him Stayward had made a desperate up-hill struggle. Running daunting risks, he had somehow carried on his business, but he was making progress and hoped he had conquered the worst of his difficulties. He did not talk about them and, for the most part, listened to his nephew, whom he was glad to see. As a rule, Geoffrey and Stayward agreed. In some respects, their temperaments were alike, and when they differed each, so to speak, tolerated the other's idiosyncrasies.

The evening was calm and the bent ash trees round the house were still. The long fields that rolled down hill looked cold and darkly green, and the smoke of the furnaces by the coast floated in long gray smears across the pale-red sky. The porch was getting cool and there was something that braced one in the air. Geoffrey liked Nethercleugh. He had inherited a vein of the Stayward austerity and the bleak sternness of the old house rather appealed to him.

"Do you know a music-teacher in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"I do not," said Stayward. "Man or woman?"

"A girl, and rather young."

"Pretty?" Stayward suggested. "Where d'you meet her?"

"On the moor. I don't know if she was pretty or not," Geoffrey replied thoughtfully and mused.

Although the girl's eyes were good and he liked the warm glow in her hair, he did not think her charm was physical. Yet she had charm and he admitted that he would like to meet her again. There was something about her manner; frankness tempered by a hint of dignity and pride. One felt she was proud, but she looked tired and had let him help. Geoffrey was curious and pitiful.

"I really don't know if she was a teacher; she said music was her occupation," he resumed. "She had been playing at Carnthwaite and they let her walk back. Her boot hurt and I picked her up. That's all."

"Oh, well," said Stayward. "It's something to be young, but if you're a canny lad, you will leave musicteachers alone and think about your job. Your apprenticeship runs out soon, doesn't it?"

Geoffrey said it did and Stayward pondered. "I doubt if I'd have much use for you at the ovens yet."

"I don't know if I'd like to come," Geoffrey rejoined, smiling. "We're both obstinate, and somehow one obeys orders easier when they're not given by a relation."

Stayward nodded. "You're as stubborn as the rest of us; one can see you're Margaret's son. We'll let it go, but if your masters do not offer you a post, you can talk to me again."

"Thanks!" said Geoffrey. "You hinted that the ovens might soon be busier."

"It's possible. Looks as if the trade in the new dye might be a big thing. Cost me much, altering plant, to give my customers the stuff they wanted, but I'm getting it right."

"I suppose you make the dye by Creighton's process?"

"Not altogether. Creighton's patent helped, but it did not take me far enough. I mind when we once talked about trying the new stuff, he said it could not be made. Tom was a clever chemist, but he did not see where his invention led. His kind are easy satisfied and stop too soon. When you feel you're on the right road, you need to trust your luck and gan forrad."

Geoffrey nodded. To push forward was the Stayward plan.

"Where is Creighton now?" he asked.

"He went abroad. It's all I ken," Stayward replied. "Tom was soft and shiftless; his foolish wife ruined him."

Something in Stayward's voice indicated that there was no more to be said, but Geoffrey pondered. He had heard it hinted that Stayward had dealt unjustly with his partner, and although he doubted this, he sometimes wondered why Stayward did not deny the tale. All the same, Geoffrey thought he liked his stern reserve. He began to talk about something else and when he had smoked out his pipe they went into the house.