Читать книгу The White Gipsy - J. Monk Foster - Страница 8

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Morning had just broken in the east, and the skies were still dyed with roseate pigments. The birds were piping merrily in the branches of the russet-leaved trees; the barking of dogs, the cackling of hens, and crowing of cocks were to be heard in the farmyard over the meadows; among the cornfields the reapers were hard at work.

Asleep among the rank grass which grew by the hedgerow a tramp lay, and that he was no ordinary vagrant any reasonable being could see at a glance. His garments were fashionably cut, well made, and of the best materials, and although they were dusty and otherwise travel-stained, it was easy to see that the man who wore them was no wandering knight of the footpath.

But if his clothes impressed one favourably, his face did so more powerfully still. It was the face of a man between twenty-two and twenty-six; a handsome, finely-cut face, highly intelligent—even distinguished in appearance. Whoever the wayfarer might be, it was evident that he had sunk down there dead beat and glad to find repose anywhere. His features were pale now, he looked ill, and he seemed to experience great difficulty in breathing.

Fifty yards away stood a little white-washed cottage. In front of the dwelling was a patch of ground filled with flowers of different sorts; over the trellis work at the porch ivy clustered; and trained alongside the diamond-paved windows was a fruitful white rose tree, which in the course of years had spread over half the wall and roof. Behind the cottage there was a kitchen garden well stocked with vegetables, and beyond the cultivated patch miles of forest and moorland.

Out of the cottage a lass of something under twenty came tripping, a light tin pail in her hand and a powerful dog of the mastiff kind walking at her side.

Neither the girl herself nor her attire seemed typical of the country. Her brightly coloured skirt and the silken kerchief bound about her head had a foreign look, and her dark, handsome face reminded one of warmer climes. She appeared as much out of harmony with that quiet corner of English rural life as the fine clothes on the back of the sleeping wayfarer.

The lass was making her way to the well quite unconscious of the contiguity of the tramp, whom she was just then passing, when the dog sprang suddenly from her side and darted upon the sleeper, thrusting his wet, cold muzzle into his face. Then she saw him, and fearing the dog might use his teeth she cried—

"Come away, Leo!"

She had scarcely spoken ere Sydney Carsland—for it was he—struggled to a sitting position, and seeing her there exclaimed in a voice that was both weak and hoarse through privation and exposure—

"Where am I? Give me a drink, for God's sake! I am choking—dying!"

She ran to the well with her pail, and in a minute was back at his side holding to his lips the vessel, from which he drank greedily. Then he thanked her, tried to struggle to his feet, but fell sprawling on the grass, and lay therein a state of semi-consciousness.

With a little cry of alarm she bent over him and essayed to lift his head. But she saw that he was really ill, saw that his hair was matted with blood, and the red stains on his collar and neck and his colourless face frightened her.

Bidding the dog remain at the tramp's side, she darted homeward, disappeared in the cottage, and reappeared a few moments later, accompanied by an old yet still powerful and foreign-looking man, who was evidently the girl's father.

Reaching Sydney's side, the cottager examined the prostrate man for a moment, spoke to him, but received no response; then he carried him in his arms to the cottage.

The adventures of Sydney Carsland since the night he had been knocked down in Hough Wood and robbed of his ill-gotten treasure by the poachers may be related in a few words.

When he recovered from the senseless state into which Hullick's heavy stick had knocked him, the short autumn night was passing away and the day was breaking. When he recalled the incidents of the past night, and found the handbag confining the jewels missing and his pockets rifled, it was easy for him to realise the whole of the affair.

The men who had frightened him must have been poachers as their cries of "a lob" testified, and they had appropriated the treasure he had been at such pains to annex.

Soon as he had pulled himself together and tidied himself up a bit, he struck out northward, selecting the quietest and least-frequented paths. Fear of the law and his relations' fury was then strong within him, and he felt that there was no feeling of security for him until he had placed miles and miles between himself and Carsland Hall.

All through the fine autumn morning he strode along the country lanes, avoiding the hamlets when possible, and scurrying through the villages when he could find no other way, without a word or a glance at the rustics he encountered. Noonday had seen him still hurrying on, and when night came he was twenty miles from Thorrell Moor—was footsore and famished, and at war with the world and all God's creatures.

In the rank grass under the hedge not far from the pretty hamlet of Marlcombe, on the confines of Yorkshire, he had thrown himself with tired body and troubled mind, and there on the following morning the handsome and picturesque cottage girl and her dog had found him.

When Sydney Carsland next came to his senses be found himself lying in a comfortable bed, with abundant evidences of neatness and comfort around him, although the chamber was low-roofed and small—such as respectable working people inhabit.

He was almost too weak to move, and while he was wondering where he was, and how he had drifted thither, he caught the sound of a light foot, and the next moment a vision of enthralling beauty appeared in the doorway. Where had he seen those great masses of jet black hair, those large flashing black eyes, red lips, perfectly moulded features, and rich, warmly dark complexion before?

Then he suddenly remembered the dog that had aroused him as he lay under the hedge, and its handsome mistress, who had given him a drink of cool refreshing water. In a voice whose strangeness surprised himself he cried,

"Where am I? How long have I been here?"

"This is my father's house, sir," she replied in English, which seemed strangely at variance with her dark, foreign-looking face. Then she added, as she walked demurely into the chamber, "You have been here since yesterday morning. Do you not remember? I gave you a drink, and then you fainted, and my father carried you into the cottage."

"Have I been ill?"

"Very ill indeed!" she answered, her black eyes fixed upon him, with warmest sympathy burning in their depths. "The doctor said it was brain fever—you were delirious for a long time. But I am glad to see that you are better now. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"I am thirsty—I should like a drink."

She gave him a glassful of some cooling drink, and then turned to leave the room.

"Stay. Do not go yet. I have much to say—to ask you."

She seated herself and he went on.

"What an ungrateful hound you must think me, Miss——" he paused, and his silence was pointed as a question.

"Velazo," she said quietly. "My father's name is Pedro Velazo; mine is Salome."

"You are not English then?"

"No. Spanish, sir."

"Well, I think it was exceedingly kind of you and your father to take in and tend a poor broken down fellow like me, and I thank you very much. Some day—who knows what may happen—I may be able to repay your goodness with something more substantial than empty words. Where is your father, Miss Velazo?"

"In the woods. He will return about noon and then he will come to you."

"What is the name of the village over there?"

"Marlcombe."

"Is there a town near here?"

"Clitheroe is the nearest town, and it is five miles away."

"Who was the doctor who attended me?"

"Dr. Frith. He was passing in his dog-cart and my father called him in."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said you were very seriously ill and would require great care."

"I mean did he say anything about me—not my illness."

"He said that you were evidently a gentleman, and he wondered a good deal as to whom you were and where you came from. I heard them talking," she added, as if to make an excuse for her knowledge.

"I suppose Dr. Frith would wonder also what I was doing under a hedge!" he cried a trifle bitterly. "I will explain all that to your father when I see him—if he cares to know anything about me."

"I will go now, sir," the girl said as she arose and made towards the door. "If you want anything I can hear you call."

"A moment, Miss Velazo. I had forgotten for the moment that I am still unknown to you. My name is Sydney Barringham."

"Thank you, Mr. Barringham," and with a smile she was gone.

The father of the dusky maiden put in an appearance at noonday; and hearing from the girl that their uninvited guest was better he went to him forthwith. The old man seemed to be as kindly natured as a child, and in his peculiar English, marked still by a strong foreign accent, he expressed his delight on finding that Sydney was greatly improved.

They chatted for a time and Sydney put a few questions to his host, similar in almost every respect to those he had addressed to Salome Velazo. He half expected that the brawny and dark son of Spain would put some awkward inquiries to him, but in this he was mistaken. Pedro Velazo was a reticent man, who seldom spoke, and he seemed content to leave his guest to speak of himself or be silent.

Sydney preferred to say little of himself at that moment, and all the information pertaining to himself that he vouchsafed was that he had been benighted, and that his name was Sydney Barringham.

Dr. Frith looked in during the afternoon, and from him the ailing man learned that he might expect to be out of bed and about again in a week or so—if no relapse took place. Sydney told his medical man no more than he had told Pedro and Salome Velazo respecting himself. He knew from the doctor's manner and words that his position there was a matter of wonderment, but he was not fool enough to take him into his confidence.

There is no occasion to tell in detail the story of Sydney's recovery. Each day saw him grow stronger, and soon he was able to quit his bed, sit in the cottage, or walk about the small garden.

During his illness and the early days of his convalescence, he and handsome Salome Velazo were often thrown together. The girl had ever attended to his needs and wishes with a tenderness and eagerness that had surprised the patient as much as they had delighted him; and seeing how deeply interested she was in him, his own interest in and admiration of Salome soon ripened into passionate affection.

That his love was returned Sydney felt certain, and one morning, when Pedro Velazo was away in the adjoining woods, he took the unresisting damsel in his arms, poured his tale of passion into her ears, and received sweet assurance of her own love for him.

After going so far he knew that more would be expected of him. Of himself and his history and connection his host and sweetheart knew nothing, save the vague hints and the name it had pleased him to call himself by.

Sydney loved Salome sufficiently to desire to possess her, and that was only to be accomplished by marriage. And would the old Spaniard consent to his daughter's union with one of whom he knew nothing.

The outcast resolved to concoct some story that would account for the plight in which he was found that morning now nearly a fortnight ago. If he left the cottage where was he to direct his feet? How was he to live? He dared not face his father and brother—had no desire to leave Salome Velazo's side. If he meant to redeem himself—to work out his redemption, where could he find a better place than this quiet corner of Yorkshire in which to commence the work. He must speak to his host.

That evening Pedro Velazo and Sydney found themselves together in the garden. On a rustic seat beneath a great-branched, leafy elm they were seated, smoking their pipes and engaged in a conversation which as yet had turned on casual matters. All along Sydney had desired to speak on a subject with which his mind was filled, and suddenly he led up to it by remarking—

"I daresay, Velazo, that you have often wondered who and what I am, and how I came to be under the hedge in the lane there."

The old man nodded in reply.

"Well, I have made up my mind to tell you. I had thought of going away and saying nothing more than I have already told you; but that would have seemed so strange, so unthankful and graceless after your great kindness to me."

"Do not speak now, sir," the old man said, speaking slowly, and with the manner of one who had a difficulty in finding his words, "unless you wish to speak."

"I do wish to tell you, and I will. I come of a good family, one that is both honourable and wealthy. All my life I have been a wild fellow, fond of knocking about and seeing the world. My parents were very religious, and my ways did not suit them. They had pampered me all my life, and let me have my own way in everything; and when they wanted me to turn a new leaf over, settle down, and marry an old woman I detested, I kicked against it and left home. You understand me?"

"I understand you."

"And I swore never to go back home until I was sent for. Rather than go back and marry that hateful woman I would work my fingers to the bone—die in the workhouse. If I could only get work of some kind I would settle down here and attempt to repay you and your daughter for your kindness."

"What kind of work?" Velazo asked, with a grim smile on his bearded face.

"Any sort—at least any sort that a—a respectable man might do."

"I heard that his lordship wanted an under-keeper. Lord Marlcombe I mean. Would you take that place?"

"Gladly."

"Then I will speak to Symons, the head keeper, about it."

There was a silence of some moments' length, and then Sydney said—

"I thought of speaking to you about Salome."

"What of her?"

"I love her—she returns my love—if I were to settle down I might repay you for all you have done for me."

"You love—would marry Salome?" Pedro Velazo exclaimed, and his long, lean, brown fingers tugged nervously at his beard.

"If I had the chance—if you think me good enough—under present circumstances—for her."

"If Salome wishes it, I have nothing to say against it."

"Then it is agreed. I shall do my best for you and her. Some day, when I and my family are reconciled, you will perhaps be proud of the man your daughter's goodness and beauty and your own generosity have won."

"I am satisfied," was Velazo's sole rejoinder.

On the following morning the lovers were seated on the bench under the elm, and were whispering soft words to each other. They were engaged now and the wedding-day was fixed. After a little breach in their conversation Sydney said,

"It appears such a strange thing, Salome, that you and your father, who are pure Spaniards, should be settled down here in a quiet humdrum English country place. Tell me how it came about, dear."

"Has father never told you?"

"Not a syllable—in fact I did not care to ask him and he never is very talkative, you know."

"It is a rather uncommon story," Salome returned as she leant back and nestled against her lover's shoulder, "and if you wish to hear it there is no reason why I should not tell it to you. I, of course, never saw Spain. I was born in the cottage there and consider myself in every way an English woman."

"Never an Englishwoman possessed such eyes and hair and cheeks as yours," he cried with a fond caress. "But go on."

"Well, to tell the truth, my father was one of a gipsy band who knocked about the country between Valladolid and Madrid. He has told me the story of his own life many times, and I shall never forget it. In the course of his wanderings he met my mother, who was a peasant in the village of Olmedo, and fell in love with her. They met frequently while my father's people were in the neighbourhood of Olmedo; avowed their love of each other, and when circumstances parted them, swore to be faithful to each other unto death.

"When my father next appeared in the village, nearly a year later, he found that his sweetheart had disappeared—had gone to far away England."

"To England?"

"Yes. It seems an Englishman and his wife—Lord Marlcombe and the Countess were spending their honeymoon in Spain. While passing through the village the lady was thrown from her horse and severely injured. For lack of a better place she was carried to the nearest cottage, which chanced to be that my mother's parents lived in. For many days the lady had to remain in the cottage, for her injuries were of such a nature as to render her removal dangerous; and during her illness my mother waited upon the Countess, who became very fond of her.

"When she recovered she urged my mother to accompany her to England, offering her high wages and other things which the poor peasant girl was unable to resist."

"So she went to England—came here to Marlcombe," he broke in, "and left your father disconsolate."

"Not quite," she replied, with a little musical ripple of laughter. "She left a few words behind saying that she loved him still, would return soon—had in fact only gone away in order to save money which would enable them to marry and begin married life in comfort."

"And your father was not satisfied with those promises, Salome? He followed her to England?"

"Yes, and found his love at Marlcombe Hall, over there among the trees, acting as the Countess's maid. He went boldly to the house, and demanded to see his sweetheart. Then my mother had to explain, and in the end my father was also taken into his lordship's service. Afterwards they married, and came to live here. My mother died when I was only a child,—and since then my father and I have lived alone."

"Quite a romance," he said, as she finished.

"Not more romantic," she answered, "than our own love story. What could be stranger than our meeting? Only fancy me finding you that morning by the road side, your illness afterwards and being carried here!"

"Yes, it is all very strange," he responded gravely, his thoughts flying across country to Carsland Hall. "Life," he added, as he stroked her raven hair, "is full of strange things. Some time, dear Salome, something stranger still may happen to us. Who knows?" He loved her very much then, and he was thinking of the joy she and her father would experience when they learned that his father was Sir Nicholas Carsland, the wealthy owner of coal mines in Lancashire. Some day he would be able to reveal the whole truth to the trusting father and loving girl.

A week later the man who called himself Sydney Barringham started work on Lord Marlcombe's estate as a sort of under-keeper; and two or three weeks after that the handsome Englishman and the beautiful Spanish girl were married. Pedro Velazo insisted that the cottage was large enough for them all, and there the newly-wedded lovers settled down to their new life.

The autumn had worn itself away and winter was now come. In the woods the trees stood out in the frosty air ragged and bleak, and under foot the dried leaves lay thick. In three weeks more Christmas would arrive, and already the rustics of Marlcombe were making preparation for the coming of that festive season.

Sydney Barringham felt happier and better in every way than he had done for years. His beautiful wife adored him, his life was pleasant enough, and all the old vicious cravings had died down. He was at last working out his redemption in a quiet and manly fashion.

Since his coming to Marlcombe, Sydney had never failed to read the newspapers with a careful eye, expecting—fearing at first—to see therein some reference to his own disappearance and the theft of the jewels.

But that which he sought so diligently never met his gaze; and as the weeks sped by he was forced to conclude that his father and brother—although they had hidden his crime in the depths of their breasts—and cast him off for ever as one who had sinned and fallen beyond redemption.

One evening a great surprise—a terrible shock—came to him. He was having a glass of beer in the tavern further up the lane when his gaze happened to fall on that day's paper, which lay on the table. Taking it up indifferently, he cast his eye over the columns and suddenly saw something which caused his heart to fly to his mouth.

There in big, staring headlines, he read: