Читать книгу Blencarrow - Isabel Mackay - Страница 7

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Euan puzzled over the peculiarities of Kathrine and the complexity of girls in general for exactly two minutes. Then his thoughts freed themselves and turned with relief to Garry. If he went down Clarges Street and Garry came up Randall Avenue, they might meet at the corner. There would not be time to go anywhere, as dinner, though much later on Sunday, was not a moveable feast. But they might arrange for a walk down by Miller’s Pond after Sunday-School.

At the corner he was met by disappointment. Randall Avenue, always a quiet street, was deserted save for two figures a couple of blocks away. Neither of the two looked at all like Garry. And both appeared to be behaving very strangely. The larger figure was veering and tacking like a sailboat in a contrary wind. The smaller figure performed various movements of a flanking character. Euan felt an immediate stir of interest. A drunken man, not an unusual sight on Saturday night, was a real sensation on Sunday. It wasn’t done. Yet undoubtedly this man was drunk or ill, or something. And the boy, who was, as it were, acting convoy, was now easily distinguished as Conway de Beck, otherwise ‘Con-of-the-Woods.’ Also it was apparent that Con was having his own time.

Euan forgot all about Garry and quickened his pace to a run, realizing as he did so that the larger figure was no other than Gilbert Fenwell—strange how the Fenwell family seemed suddenly all over the place!

‘You head him off on that side and I’ll head him off on this!’ called Euan to Con as soon as he could be heard. He waved his arms frantically as he had seen men do in turning back a bolting horse.

‘Quit it!’ warned Con ungratefully. ‘Stop dancing around like that, you loon! Come along behind here and be quiet. Can’t you see he’s got the willies!’

‘How do you know what he’s got?’ asked Euan belligerently.

‘Maybe I don’t know the willies when I see them?’ suggested Con with scorn. ‘Maybe I don’t know how to round up a wildcat, either.’

As he spoke, he cleverly intercepted a half-formed intention on the part of Mr. Fenwell to drape himself over a water hydrant.

‘If we can get him turned into Ash Street,’ he confided, ‘we can get home before he begins to yell.’

‘Will he begin to yell?’ asked Euan, edified.

Con said that Euan could bet his life he’d begin to yell. ‘He’s seen snakes already,’ he added—‘yellar with green spots. But it’s black cats he sees mostly.’

All boys are properly envious of knowledge such as this. Euan observed Con with admiration.

‘They say spiders is worse,’ he offered as a worthy contribution. Con nodded generously, but was too busy finessing the approaching corner to answer. Euan’s curiosity took another turn.

‘What are you doing it for?’ he wanted to know. ‘Where’s old Jones? Can’t he take him home?’ Old Jones, otherwise Archibald J. Jones, was Blencarrow’s Chief of Police. He was the entire police force also, if you except James Duffy, night watchman. ‘I’ll get him for you,’ offered Euan helpfully.

‘No, you won’t,’ Con’s tone was truculent. ‘Do you suppose she wants old Jones waltzing around and hauling him up to the Police Court?’

‘Who—she?’ asked Euan in surprise.

‘Never you mind! You just walk along there on the other side of him, kind of quiet. Like you didn’t know he was there.’

Con had no intention of explaining to Euan, who was one whole year younger than himself, that the convoying of Gilbert Fenwell home was in the nature of service to a lady. Yet such was the high truth of the matter. Two years before, Con had heard Lucia Fenwell sing at a church concert. It was his first experience of a cultivated voice and there had been magic in it. Until then the boy had dumbly wondered why human beings tried to sing. Weren’t there the birds to listen to? But Lucia’s remnant of a voice which had once hoped to sing in grand opera had been a revelation. Con had worshipped at long distance ever since.

But Euan could not be expected to divine this; or to understand if he had divined, for Euan had not yet reached the stage of domnei or worship-your-lady. He decided to let the introduction of the unusual pronoun ‘she’ pass. Con was queer. Had he not a ‘de’ in his name? And had not his father and grandfather been fur-traders, living for months on end in the far North Woods? It was a nice queerness, of course. Some day Con would go himself into that strange country. The love of wild places was his by right. Of all the Blencarrow boys he was the only one who knew his way about in the Big Swamp. It was rumoured that he could go from end to end of it, dryshod. It was rumoured that he knew of berry patches, far within, where a picker could fill a quart pail without moving from one spot. It was rumoured that he could tame any animal that lived. It was rumoured that he had lived alone in the Big Swamp for a week—that he had a cabin hidden there and a bit of cleared ground. It was rumoured—but to retail the rumours about Con-of-the-Woods would be to exhaust the wonderful. One thing was absolutely certain. He had a coonskin cap and he had killed the coon himself.

‘You run on and stand on the edge of the sidewalk at the corner,’ directed Con. ‘Just stand there like you’d taken root. He’ll either jump on you or sheer off and, if he sheers off, we’ll have him into Ash Street before he knows it, see?’

‘Yes,’ said Euan. He would have liked to inquire what would happen in the event of Gilbert’s not sheering off. But Con might have thought this fussy. One has to risk being jumped on occasionally—or run the risk of being misunderstood. Euan drew himself up and tried to look as much like a lamp-post as possible. And the result was all that could be desired. The quarry was hustled gently into his own home street.

‘Whew!’ said Con, wiping a wet forehead. ‘Now, we’ll get him inside his gate and then vamoose!’

But he spoke too soon. Gilbert, abruptly and definitely, sat down. The boys looked at each other in consternation. Con was a resourceful boy, tall for his age and wiry. Euan’s muscles were his chief pride. But neither of them could have moved the sodden bulk of Gilbert Fenwell, even without the will of Gilbert to the contrary. At the same time, to leave a patently intoxicated man sitting upon the sidewalks of Blencarrow on Sabbath Day was not to be thought of. Some one would be sure to tell old Jones.

‘And, oh, I say, here comes Kathy!’ said Euan, terribly embarrassed. ‘Let’s both stand on this side and p’r’aps she won’t see him.’

‘Why not?’ asked Con, surprised. ‘She’s his own kid, isn’t she? Guess she sees him like this about once a day.’

It was true, of course, only Euan hadn’t realized it. He gave a miserable glance at the small figure coming demurely toward them. Kathy, that kid—and this! He was just twelve years old, and yesterday, or thereabouts, he would have taken such a happening quite impersonally. To-day it was different. He was aware of a confused feeling of something wrong somewhere.

Kathrine came up to them slowly. She was not flurried and her voice was interested only.

‘What are you doing, Con?’ she asked. She did not speak to Euan, but her glance, he thought, seemed to defy him ... just as if it was his fault ... barging in?

‘Trying to get your dad home,’ said Con cheerfully. He also seemed quite at ease, ‘And now he’s gone and sat down on us.’

Kathrine surveyed her seated parent with a dispassionate eye.

‘Shake him,’ she directed, still addressing Con. ‘Maybe he’ll come if he sees me.’

Con shook him vigorously. Kathrine, her small face a mask, stood where the fuddled man could see her—if he saw anything.

‘He’s blinking. Shake him some more.’

Con shook him some more.

‘He sees me now,’ said Kathrine calmly.

Gilbert had given vent to a snorting sound. Also he made a futile clutch in the general direction of his daughter. She moved away. He stumbled up, clutching vaguely as he did so. Again the child, with dexterous gravity, eluded him. She increased the distance between them. He followed.

‘That’s the ticket,’ said Con encouragingly. ‘Keep it up, Kathy, you’ve got him going!’

The bizarre chase continued down the tree-lined street ...

Euan watched it: he had the same feeling as when forced to take sulphur and molasses. He turned away and went slowly home ...

He was late for dinner.

A word as to his recent activities would have brought absolution. But he did not speak it. In answer to the inevitable questioning, he said briefly that he had been looking for Garry.

‘You might have brought him to the house with you,’ said Janet hospitably. ‘ ’Twould do the lad no harm to eat a decent meal once in a way.’

‘I didn’t see him,’ confessed Euan.

‘But you said—’

‘I said I was looking for him. But it was Con I saw.’ To admit Con was, plainly, the least of several evils. His mother disapproved strongly of Con and the necessity of voicing this sentiment might save further questioning. It did.

‘Andrew, did you hear that?’ asked Mrs. Cameron ominously.

Andrew had not heard. His blue eyes came back from far places.

‘Were you speaking, Janet?’

‘I was; I was telling you that Euan has been colloguing again with Conway de Beck. Will you forbid him or no?’

‘Have you forbid him yourself, Janet?’

‘I have not.’

Andrew stirred his tea. ‘Was such your intention?’ he asked mildly.

‘Intention or not—the same is a matter for his father to decide.’

Both father and son were used to this formula. They knew that in Mrs. Cameron’s orderly mind certain things were set apart for the head of the house to decide. What these things were they did not know and their ignorance lent a fillip to domestic politics. Euan drew a long breath on realizing that Con was to come under his father’s jurisdiction. It would be a real tragedy to have to give up Con.

The rules of the game, however, allowed Janet to state her case as strongly as possible. She considered a moment. To say that Con was a ‘wild one’; that he never wiped his feet; that he carried tame mice in his pockets; that he took Euan ‘traipsing’ in the swamp, and that his dog was as bad as he was, would have had no effect on Andrew Cameron. But:

‘The lad’s aunt is a free-thinker,’ said Janet at last. Her air was that of one stating a finality.

‘A Theosophist,’ amended Andrew. The word, strange in Blencarrow, had an ominous sound.

‘And what else is that?’ demanded Janet. ‘Maybe it’s worse, forby.’

‘What’s a Theosophist?’ asked Euan innocently.

It was a shrewd move. Janet could not be sure whether Euan knew what a Theosophist was or not. If he didn’t know, to tell him would be to put ideas into his head. Janet deeply distrusted ideas, especially as applied to the heads of boys. Besides, she did not know herself exactly what a Theosophist was.

‘Perhaps Con and Euan have not discussed religion,’ suggested Andrew. ‘Have you, Euan?’

The round and innocent ‘No’ which had leapt to Euan’s lips fell back again as he felt his father’s eye upon him.

‘Y-es,’ said Euan.

His father looked surprised.

‘How would that be?’ he asked.

Euan was in for it now.

‘Well—it was when Mrs. Brown’s baby died. One of the boys said it couldn’t go to heaven because the minister didn’t get there in time to christen it, and Con said that if the folks in heaven were as mean as that he’d rather go to—go to where the Browns’ baby was.’

‘There!’ declared Janet, triumphing. ‘I knew that lad could use bad language if put to it. And what did you say, Euan?’

‘I said I’d go with Con,’ stoutly.

Janet’s knife and fork came down with a clatter.

‘Well, Andrew Cameron, if after that—your own son criticizing the Almighty! As for Elizabeth Brown, the woman was warned. Dr. Springer told her—’

‘Whist, Janet!’ Andrew’s hand went up. ‘Elizabeth Brown’s child did not die without due Baptism. Under God and in the absence of Mr. McKenzie, it was my duty to baptize the infant—the which I did.’

‘Land sakes! And you never to tell me a word!’ said Janet. Her tone was more injured than relieved.

But Euan was conscious of comfort. He remembered that for almost an hour he had been considerably worried about the Brown baby. Having no call to quarrel with theology as such, the abstract possibility of infant damnation left him cold. But when he, as it were, knew the party—well, he was glad that the Brown baby was all right: he would tell Con.

‘Anything more, Euan?’

‘Only—about dogs.’

‘Dogs?’

‘Yes, “without are dogs and sorcerers”—you know.’

‘And what did Con say about that?’

‘He said he was glad it was in the Bible because it proved that there were dogs around somewhere—that they weren’t just dead—and if Gruff was “without,” he would mighty soon think up a way to get him in.’

Janet Cameron lifted her hands in horror. But, to Euan’s relief, his father smiled.

‘Gruff has a good master,’ he said, ‘and if Con’s theology confines itself to the interpretation of Revelation, I don’t think we need worry, Janet.’

‘It is your responsibility,’ austerely. ‘I’m not saying what Mr. McKenzie might think of it. As for me—I’ll not have that young infidel inside my house until he learns to wipe his feet. Nor his dog either.’

The net result of this battle of orthodoxy was that Con’s society became invested with a new charm, while Euan’s opinion as to the relative reasonableness of his parents (always see-sawing) tipped decidedly toward the paternal side.

But this, as usual, was temporary, for, before he slept that night, it swerved again in the opposite direction. We have already noted that Andrew Cameron was absent-minded at dinner. During the afternoon he sat as one rapt, and at the evening service it had been necessary to prod him on the rising for the psalms. Had it not been for wifely vigilance, he would have left his hat in the pew and wandered down the aisle, his hatless hands behind him. There were other symptoms, too—symptoms which on a week-day could have betokened only one thing. But on the Sabbath!

Janet hurried Euan to his bed in the back bedroom, leaving her husband, still rapt, in the seclusion of the parlour. But while she was yet in the kitchen, and just as Euan had finished saying his prayers, slow steps were heard along the hall and Andrew stood in the doorway, his blue eyes dazed as if bewildered by a too quick return to ordinary things.

‘Janet!’ Euan heard him say in a tense whisper.

‘Aye, Andrew.’

‘Janet! ... mind you, I’m no sure ... I’m no just certain ... but my mind misdoubts me ... woman, I’m terrible feart I’ve invented a plough upon the Sabbath!’