Читать книгу Nutbrown Roger and I, A Romance of the Highway - J. H. Yoxall - Страница 11

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“This is young Harry Solway, Hepzibah,” said the doctor to his old housekeeper as we entered the big red house. “Go and wash, Harry, while I feed my Paregoric. You knew his grandfather well—Harry’s, not Paregoric’s, I mean—didn’t you, Hepzibah?”

“Yes, truly, sir,” said the wizened dame, dropping a curtsy. “Bless your heart, young sir, th’ master and Mr. Hugh was like brothers born,” she added, when the doctor had left us. “Ay, sure, I was still-room maid at the Grange for many a year. A fine man was Mr. Hugh. But you don’t much feature him, I’m thinking, sir.”

“But, Mrs. Hepzibah, Mr. Hugh was not my grandfather,” I said. “My mother always told me my grandfather’s name was Harry. I was named after him, and after my grand-uncle Hugh too.”

“Oh, no, sir, begging your pardon,” the old lady insisted. “Mr. Harry’s son never was wed. He ran away from th’ old squire an’ got drownded at sea. It was Mrs. Hugh as must have had a son in furrin parts. Mr. Hugh’s son must ha’ bin your father.”

Hepzibah seemed so sure of what she was saying that I let the matter pass. I knew I was right; but I thought it did not much matter. And yet on that point depended all my fortunes.

An hour later, after a substantial meal, the kind old doctor passed into his surgery, and I was left in the big dusky dining-room alone. Neglecting the books which the doctor had chosen for me, to occupy the time I went to the window and looked out. Half a dozen lads were cricketing on the Green; I longed to be out with them and free.

Tawny hues were in the sky behind the little church. As I gazed into the deeps of that splendid sunset my longing for freedom grew intense. Something in the sky seemed to beckon me out of doors, to invite me to flee and wander. The prospect of returning to my uncle on the morrow was not to be borne. I felt, as lonely I stood there, like a lark with the cage-door open. “And why should I stay?” thought I. “Good-bye, kind old man,” I whispered, turning towards the surgery door. “Good-bye; you are kind, but I must go.”

Stealthily I stepped into the hall; my hat, my stick, and my wee bundle lay on a table; the house door stood ajar. I took up my poor belongings and fled. Stooping, I passed under the surgery window, and three minutes later I was running down the hill towards the road to Brassingham.

At the foot of the winding hill I passed the turnpike cottage. The gateman scowled at me as I passed, and stood with his hand above his eyes to watch me as I went towards the sunset. And lest he should suspect me I dropped into a walk, and steadily footed it forward along the road to Brassingham.

The road to Brassingham runs between fields and farmsteads, a long straight stretch of white highway, fringed with luxuriant hedges. It runs with a gentle ascent for more than a mile before it takes a bend. Idly and leisurely I strolled along it, planning my schemes for the future. I would foot it to Brassingham, the big busy town a baker’s dozen of miles away. At Brassingham I would find work of some sort, and there I would stay until I had earned money to carry me to London or some other port. And from the port I would sail in a man-o’-war as cabin-boy, to fight the French and return as admiral. Then, in a coach-and-six, with flags above it, I—Admiral Solway—would return to Beolea and strike my uncle and Nathan dumb with awe!

Thus dreaming, on I went, and the night shadows deepened around me. The sun lost its last clutch on the far-off hills, and sank behind them; the moon came up, a plate of silver; the evening breeze blew cool. I came to Echo Corner, and I paused. The corner was a triangle of grass at the parting of the ways. Two roads lay before me there; which was the road to Brassingham?

I leant against a milestone and considered the matter. There was no finger-post to guide my choice. Well, I would wait for some passer-by to advise me.

The corner was well named. The patch of grass there was a perfect nest of echoes. At that turfy spot each neighbouring sound was repeated. Twice over I heard each bay of the hounds at the nearest farmstead; the babble of the little stream hard by was doubled to my ear; and doubled was each bleat of the sheep in the fields around me.

But as I leant there, dreamily listening for the echo of some wayfarer’s footfall, my ear was caught by quite another sound; it was the sound of wheels and of horsemen coming along the road from Redwych.

To the runaway that noise seemed full of alarm. It might be merely the wheels and hoofs of farmers’ gigs or roadsters homeward bound from the “Fox-and-Goose”. But then it might be the doctor driving in pursuit of me! I ran back to the bend and stared down the straight white road.

There, less than half a mile away, I saw a pony and gig and a brace of horsemen coming quickly on. At once I knew that the pony was Paregoric, and that the gig contained the doctor; but who were the horsemen riding at his side? The Bow Street runners, of course, thought I; the doctor in his anxiety was setting the thief-takers on my track. Oh, shame and terror! “Let me hide, let me hide!” was my cry.

I turned and ran round the corner, looking about me for some place of hiding. But I saw none, and the noise of my pursuers echoed near and more near. Gripping my stick and bundle tightly, I began to run. But as I crossed the turfy triangle I was on a sudden aware of a strange horseman in my path. He seemed to have sprung up from the highway in a moment and silently, like a ghost. But it was no phantom; in an instant I knew him for the Nutbrown Highwayman.

Brown he was from head to heel; brown from the lace of his flat tricornered hat to the spurs in his boots of undyed leather. Brown, a rich chestnut brown, was the beautiful creature he was riding. Brown, a russet brown, was the surtout, brown the long, embroidered vest, and brown the buckskin breeches that he wore. Brown were the hands; brown the curling hair; brown, too, below the brown velvet mask, was the face, brown as the face of the “Nutbrown Maid” in the ballad.

Yes, it was he, the marvel of the country-side, the Nutbrown Highwayman; but as to that, or how so noiselessly he had approached that resonant haunt of echoes, I wasted no time in wondering. The brown eyes smiled kindly through the mask, the pleasant lips were smiling. I laid my trembling hand on the pommel of the saddle, and “Oh, sir!” I cried—for I felt myself to be his hunted companion in danger—”Oh, sir!” cried I, “the runners are out after us! You can hear them close at hand.”

Even as I spoke I heard a “Kee-e-up, Paregoric!” and round the bend came the doctor, whip in hand, with the runners riding near him. “Hum, hum! Must look like a rogue on the way to jail!” I heard him mutter ere he saw me.

The moon shone full; there was no concealment. “Seize the young dog!” roared the doctor.

“Surrender, rogue!” yelled the runners to the highwayman.

“Jump!” cried the Nutbrown, offering me his hand and foot.

I grasped the hand, pressed the foot with my own, sprang, and in a trice was seated in front of him.

“Bess!” cried he, and at the word the beautiful brown mare under us rose at the hedge like a bird.

It was all the work of an instant. A cry of concern from the doctor, an oath from the runners; they spur forward, their pistols are out, and just as the doctor screams “Hold!” they fire.

As the report of the pistols rang in my ears I felt a dull blow on my forehead. “Shot! shot!” I cried, and then I knew no more.