Читать книгу The Watchman of Orsden Moss - J. Monk Foster - Страница 3

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When the tram rumbled slowly into the little station of Orsden Green the only passenger that alighted was a stranger to the pompous, red-faced, thick-girthed little Stationmaster, standing on the platform, and the poor-looking, attenuated porter who was hovering about the white gate leading from the platform, to collect tickets if any were forthcoming.

As he stepped out of the carriage the solitary passenger glanced around him with the air of one unaccustomed to the place, stared at the new red-brick station-house in a quietly curious way, regarded the pursy, uniformed official as if he were half-inclined to venture some enquiries, and then seeing the waiting, would-be collector of tickets and the open gate, walked slowly towards them, drawing his voucher from his waistcoat as he went forward.

"How far is the village of Orsden Green from here?" the man queried, as he handed his railway ticket to the porter.

"About a mile, sir," the long-legged, anaemic-looking railway servant answered readily. "When you get to the highroad turn to the left and you can't miss it if you go right on. You are a stranger about these 'ere parts, sir?"

"You are right, my man, I'm a stranger," the traveller returned, with the ghost of a repressed smile flickering for an instant about the corners of his eyes. "I suppose now there will be no place in the village where one could put up for a day or two?"

"There's only the Black Boar, sir; but both the landlord and his wife are nice folk, an' I daresay they'd make you comfortable. Anyway, if you was thinkin' of stoppin' you might see, sir."

"Thank you, I will. Very warm, isn't it? Here's a drink. Good afternoon, my man."

"Thanks. Good day, Sir; turn to the left, mind."

Passing through the open gate the stranger went along the downward slope of smooth cinders, and in a few moments was standing in the country lane over which the railway ran. Without pausing the man set out at a rapid pace to the left, went beneath the stone archway, and passing a newly whitewashed farmstead, gave a hearty "Fine afternoon, Mr. Brodrick," to a burly, grey-bearded farmer he met coming out of the farmyard.

The farmer stared hard at the stranger, grunted back some indistinct response, and then turned to follow the other with his eyes. But the man who had come by train to the small station at Orsden Green trudged on in stolid unconcern, drawing an old briar from his vest pocket, ramming down the dust and tobacco with a thick, brown finger, and soon big puffs of pungent smoke-wreaths were rising from his lips to eddy and melt away on the summer air.

The stolid wayfarer was a common enough looking individual. He seemed to be about five-and-fifty years of age, was of medium height and goodish build, with blunt, intelligent features, whitish hair, and iron-grey beard. He had fine eyes of greyish-blue, and they were keen and clear as those of a man in his twenties; and his garments and general bearing were such as one might expect to find in a respectable member of the working classes.

Still smoking stolidly, and trudging measuredly, the pedestrian came to the summit of a gentle brow up which he had been pacing. Here he paused, drew out a red cotton handkerchief removed his soft felt hat, and mopped his perspiring countenance.

Then his eyes swept the whole of the surrounding countryside, and the altered look in the depths of those grey-blue eyes betokened some regret and much quiet enjoyment. He appeared at that moment as a man might be expected to look when at length, after years of dreaming, the Land of Promise lay before his eyes.

The view upon which the stranger was gazing was a somewhat fair one to find in the heart of Lancashire, within a score of miles of the greatest seaport in the world, and about a similar distance from the Capital of Cotton.

Before the man, as he paused there, pleased and perspiring, the white dusty highway stretched away in a gentle declivity, between tall, straggling, blossom-laden hedgerows, behind which were pleasant expanses of cultivated fields. A quarter of a mile away, where the road vanished from his sight, knots of scattered houses marked the centre of the village of Orsden Green, and the square tower of grey-brown stone, rising high above the tallest chimneys in the place, denoted the whereabouts of the sacred ground wherein "the rude forefathers of the hamlet" slept in peace.

To the east of the village the green lands swept upward for half a mile or more, slowly at first, then sharply, till the crest of the Bispham Hills was reached. Almost on the top of the green ridge a white farmhouse stood out clearly, and the great sails of the slowly revolving windmill were vividly silhouetted against the blue of the summer skies, and could be seen in Coleclough, the nearest town, which was just five miles away.

On the highest point of the undulating sweep of green upland a low, roughly constructed pile of unhewn stones indicated the site of the old Bispham Beacon, whereon, in days long fled, watch-fires had flared forth when danger had threatened the land.

The whole of the countryside lying on the western side of Orsden Green was flat, and only commonly interesting. There were many fields and a few farmhouses, a green lane or two, and paths across the wheat-fields and grass lands, and here and there a clump of trees.

Orsden Moss and Orsden Hall were close by the village. The former was a barren stretch of turfy moor upon which nothing grew save rushes, marsh marigolds, and a hundred other vagabond plants useless to the husbandman. Now and again, in past years, ineffectual attempts at cultivation had been made, and in times more remote still the moss had supplied the villagers with peat for their cottage fires.

Orsden Hall was situated on the edge of the moss, where the ground rose somewhat and the soil was better. It was a tumble-down affair now, but had been a residence of some pretensions and consequence when a few of the Orsden Green folks were lads and lasses. There were clumps of trees about the house, a big, rambling old orchard behind it, a neglected lawn and flower patches in front, and the whole was surrounded by a tall, ragged, untrimmed hedge of hawthorn and hazel, over and about which the fragrant, yellow-blossomed honeysuckle and the white-chaliced bindweed clambered still and flourished in their seasons.

Standing there on the summit of the high-road the upper windows of the Hall were just visible to the resting and reconnoitring wayfarer, and as his keen grey eyes swept over them for an instant a most forbidding scowl blackened his countenance. Then his gaze was hurriedly withdrawn, and flashing eastward to the foot of the green shelving upland rested upon the only really black spot in that wide expanse of summery greenness.

This was the Orsden Green Colliery; but one might have peered about in vain for the towering head-gear of heavy baulks of timber that usually guards the entrance to a mine. The colliery was worked by means of a tunnel, or "day-eye," driven under the range of hills, and for twenty or thirty years had furnished more or less—generally less—employment to the male portion of the villagers.

The wayfarer's eyes rested on the engine-house, office, heaps of coal and dirt, the tram-line running northward to the railway siding, with a look of recognition in them. It was evident he knew the old-fashioned, antiquated colliery, and it was evident also that the recollection revived no bad memories such as those the sight of the Hall had recalled.

"Just the same old spot that I have carried with me all these years," the man murmured to himself as he pursued his way villagewards. "Not a single thing seems to have changed. There's not a new house added to those I recollect—not one of them missing. But what of the folk who lived in the cottages when I went away? Are they unchanged too? And is that miserable-natured, flinty-souled old scoundrel still alive and at the Hall? Well, well, I shall learn soon enough now. And the others? What has become of them—Matthew, Luke, and poor Judith?"

The man's voice trembled just a little as those names fell slowly one after the other from his tongue, and a generous moisture gathered in his sharp eyes. The sight of the peaceful-looking village had sent his thoughts back with a rush to the incidents and happenings of many years before—the little delights and petty annoyances which then made up the sum of his life, and the one foolish adventure which had driven him outlawed and outcast abroad.

And now he was back again in the green, sleepy village wherein he first drew the breath of life, and the ban which had been placed on him in early manhood hung over him still, now that he had topped the hill of life and was slowly and gracefully sliding towards the black gulf of men named Death.

But thoughts of the ban gave our friend no deep concern. If the face of the land had changed imperceptibly, he knew that he might expect changes in those who had known him in his youthful days. Of all those whom he had left behind, and remembered still, how many were in the land of the living now? Not many, he felt assured; and, if a few remained, would they be able to recall his name even, much less recognise him?

Thinking of these things, the man went down the falling high road, and when the first cottage was at hand he came face to face with the first of the villagers. He knew that cottage well, and paused a score of yards away to take stock of it again. It was a low house of stone, and stood by itself, with a strip of garden surrounded by a closely trimmed hedge of privet, in which was set a small white wicket. Then he noticed a tall, girlish figure at the little gate, and he resumed his walk.

The girl was at the wicket still when he approached. Somehow the pedestrian was minded to speak to the village maiden, and when he was opposite her he drew up, and with a clumsy attempt at civility half-raised his hat, saying—

"You must excuse me, my girl, but isn't this Orsden Green?"

"It is, Sir," the girl said, readily.

"And where is the Black Boar?"

"Just a few strides further on. You can't miss it, for there's a big drinking-trough for the horses before the door."

"Thank you very much!" He lifted one foot to take himself away when another thought stayed his progress. "You'll excuse me," he said, awkwardly, "but perhaps you can tell me if any one of the name of Shelvocke lives in the village?"

"Shelvocke!" she cried, and her eyes sparkled, her lips parted with a smile. "Yes, Sir; there are several in the village. I myself am one of them!"

"You?"

His eyes lit up with a new, a sudden interest, and he regarded the budding specimen of womanhood critically. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and olive-skinned, had good features, and a tall, graceful, well-developed figure for one of seventeen. In a few years she would be a beauty of the dark, imperious type. While he regarded her he was speaking.

"The Shelvocke I had in my mind, miss," he said slowly, "was a man of the name of Aaron—Aaron Shelvocke. Perhaps you wouldn't know him. He was a mate of my own once, but that was some twenty-five or thirty years since."

"Oh, he's been dead ever so long," Miss Shelvocke answered lightly, as she ran a brown lissom hand along the sheaf of dusky tresses hanging down her back.

"Dead! Well, well! I thought I'd look him up as I was passing this way, miss. Surely he wasn't related to you in any way, was he?"

"I believe he was, Sir," she replied. "Of course I never knew him, but I have heard my father talk about him. Uncle Aaron was a bit wild, as you must know, if he was a friend of yours; and when he went away to Australia or New Zealand they never heard from him afterwards."

"But how did they get to know that Aaron was dead?"

"Somebody brought the news of his death. He was killed, I believe, by somebody at the gold-diggings."

"Poor old Aaron! Poor old Aaron!" the man said sympathetically. "To think that I should only think of looking you up after all these years to find you dead—dead and buried in a foreign country. And so he was killed at the gold-diggings? Well, well; Aaron always was a wild roving sort of chap. But I was fond of him for all that. Your Uncle Aaron wasn't a bad sort, my girl!"

"Perhaps not, but he got a bad name, didn't he?"

"Nothing worse than poaching! Nothing worse than that!" the stranger exclaimed warmly. "And so your father was one of my old friend's brothers, was he? Now, which of them, miss, for I believe there were two or three brothers?"

"My father's name is Luke Shelvocke," the girl answered, not without some pride; "and he is, or was, the Underlooker, and Manager as well, of the Orsden Green Colliery over there."

"I don't remember him; but I'm glad to hear that one of poor Aaron's relatives is alive. And so, Miss Shelvocke, I understand that your father isn't the Manager of the old colliery now?"

"No, Sir!" And a faint frown flickered across the girl's strong and darkly handsome face.

"Retired, I dare, say, through age?"

"Oh, no! The colliery is stopped for good, and folks are saying it will never be reopened again."

"Indeed! How's that?"

"The people who owned it—the Vanshaws—have all gone to wreck and ruin, and the whole of the place is to be sold up. That is the reason, Sir; and I believe the sale is to take place on Monday next."

"How sad! How sad, to be sure!" the man muttered commiseratingly, and the girl, whose eyes were on the speaker, wondered how it was that the look on his face was entirely out of accord with the tones in which he spoke. "That will be a bad job for all the villagers, I suppose?" he said.

"It will, Sir; but I for one shall be glad to get away from this dull place!"

"Is your father thinking of moving, then?"

"He hasn't said so yet, but I hope he will! Why should he stay here when there is no further work for him!"

"Just so. I dare say he is in the house now."

"Oh, no; he is at the colliery, where they are paying off all the work-people for the last time. I must be off now to get his dinner ready or I shall catch it. Good afternoon, Sir." She half-turned from the gate.

"One moment, my girl," he cried. "Tell your father, will you, that an old friend of his brother's was enquiring about Aaron. I may see him before I go away, as I intend to stay in the village for a day or two. I shall put up at the Black Boar, don't you call it?—if I can get no other place."

"Shall I give him your name?" she queried, with her fine black eyes fixed full on his own grey ones.

"Of course—I'd quite forgot. Say Mr. Brown—Mr. Israel Brown, of Preston—was asking about his brother Aaron."

She nodded her bare, dusky head quickly, he nodded more gravely, and then they parted; she made her way to household affairs, he went thoughtfully towards the village inn.

"A bonny wench that, and a smart one, too," he murmured to himself as he went along. "And so Luke is alive and kicking yet. I wonder if he is as miserly and religious as he used to be? And those other Shelvockes the wench spoke of? Who are they? Very likely some of the children of Matthew and Judith. Well, well!"