Читать книгу The Watchman of Orsden Moss - J. Monk Foster - Страница 4

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The man who had called himself "Mr. Israel Brown," and given his address as Preston, had made his way to the Black Boar, and, as the obliging porter had suggested, had succeeded in obtaining apartments there for such time as he might require them.

The inn was of the low, roomy, rambling character so often encountered in village hostelries of an antique date, for the Black Boar had been a fully-licensed house when stage coaches were common and railways were just being talked of. It stood by itself, and back from the highway a score or more of yards, the space in front being paved with the slippery round-topped cobbles to be met with now in country places only.

Behind the house was a great expanse of greensward, kept carefully and set apart for the lovers of the gentle art of bowling; and the "green" was much frequented not only by the villagers, but by driving parties from Coleclough. Beyond the bowling green was a pleasant orchard, and pretty stretches of cultivated land; and as the green itself was surrounded on three sides by a tall hedgerow, white with blossom, the place looked attractive enough when, some hours after his arrival, Mr. Israel Brown, of Preston, sauntered out of his quarters for a smoke in the open air.

Sauntering round the green our friend came upon a bench set under a low, thickly-foliaged sycamore. Here he seated himself and proceeded to fill his pipe, and, that object accomplished, he lit it and puffed away placidly, his eyes following the movements of the "trundlers of the woods," whose cheery voices raised in play floated to him on the soft summer air.

Mr. Israel Brown had been sitting there for perhaps a dozen minutes when his glance, straying around the wide square of green turf, chanced to fall upon the figure of a new-comer, a man, who was standing at that end of the green nearest to the public-house.

Instantly Mr. Israel Brown became very excited in his quiet way, and deeply interested. His keen, greyish-blue eyes were riveted upon that tall, gaunt, stooping, one-armed figure, with its ragged beard of whity-red tint, and its general air of indigent age. His pipe was withdrawn from his lips, and allowed to expire, the air of placid contentment had flown from his face and left it almost pallid, and his whole demeanour bespoke one who had been surprised greatly and considerably alarmed.

Almost as quickly as he had lost his spirits Mr. Brown regained them. With a low laugh at his own discomposure he put his fears away, struck a match, relit his pipe, and smoked away stolidly as before. But his eyes were still bent upon that gaunt, dilapidated-looking figure; and even as he dropped the glowing match he was aware that the man who had attracted his notice was coming his way.

He waited wondering, but no longer fearful, and nearer and nearer the man drew on the narrow path of gravel which ran alongside the bowling green. Then he was near at hand, was standing with a servile, apologetic bearing near the wooden bench upon which Mr. Brown was still smoking.

"I beg yore pardin, Sir," the one-armed man began, "but may I ax if you might be Mester Brown?"

"I might be, my man," said the man addressed merrily, "and may I ask who you may be?"

"Owd Dan Coxall, at yore sarvice, sir!"

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Dan Coxall?"

"Well, sir," the older man replied, as he seated himself on the vacant end of the bench with the slow stiffness of a rheumatic subject, "Mester Challis, th' landlord, were tellin' me that you was askin' a lot of questions abeawt O'sden Green, sir!"

"So I was; and the landlord was good enough to suggest to you, Mr. Dan Coxall, that you were the very man to tell me all I wanted to know about the place and its folks?"

"That's jus' it, sir."

"Well, I shall be much obliged if you will. But suppose we have a drink first?"

"Thanky, sir! Mahne's a pahnt o' ale—here, Betsy, wench!"

The servant came at Coxall's call, took their orders, supplied the refreshments, and then, when the liquid had been sampled, and each other's health toasted, Israel Brown remarked,

"And now, Dan, let me begin my questioning by asking how long you have lived at Orsden Green?"

"A' my life. I were int' village nigh on sixty-nine 'ears, an' I never was eawt on't."

"You must have known a few of the Vanshaws then—the Squires of Orsden Green, as they were called?"

"I should think I did know some on 'em! Why, sir, I were gamekeeper for Squire Vanshaw ten 'ears afore I lost this 'ere arm in his sarvice; but it's more nor fahve an' twenty 'ear sin' neaw! Th' fust Squire Vanshaw I knowed were Mester Drake Vanshaw, him as nearly ruint th' estate wi' racin' an' gamblin'. Then there were his brother, as was cawd Miser Vanshaw, and when he deed" (died) "soon after I lost this 'ere limb"—here the speaker held up the remnant of the stump—"his son, y'ung Mansford Vanshaw, came on, and he were a rare plucked un he were."

"What was there remarkable about this Mansford Vanshaw, Dan?" Brown asked, as the old gamekeeper paused and buried his face in the mouth of his pint pot.

"Well, sir," Dan resumed, as he wiped his lips with his knotted brown knuckles, "it were lahke this 'ere. The Miser Squire was a reg'lar stric' soart, an' he made his son Mansford to toe th' mark jus' lahke a pore ev'ryday Christian. The y'ung felly stood it gradely weel, too, till his fayther popped off, an' then begun to shake a loose leg, an' no mistake abeawt it. He took after his uncle, Drake Vanshaw; an', bit by bit, ev'rythin' owd Miser Vanshaw left behint him his son has made ducks an' drakes on! The last bit or two will be getten shut on nex' Monday afternoon. But there's not much neaw, Sir. Once, I've heerd mi fayther say, that the Vanshaws ownt ev'rythin' for two miles on every sahde o' O'sden. An' neaw——"

"And now," the other broke in with an oath, "the whole cursed race of them is wiped out of the country. Well, let them go. Why should you and I grumble, Dan? They were no good to anybody. Even you, who, you say, lost a limb in their service, are left now to live upon your old friends or die in the workhouse."

"Oh, th' owd Squire didn't trate me so badly," Coxall returned with a wag of his head. "When I lost mi arm he fo'nd me a job up at th' ha', an' when Ben Rufford cocked up his toes I geet his place as watchman at th' colliery, which I kept till to-day."

"And now that the colliery is stopped you are thrown out of work, I suppose, Dan?"

"That's so, mester; but if some'dy buys th' place I dersey I may get my owd shop back again."

"I hope so, Dan! Are you empty? Well, tell your friend, Betsy, to repeat our dose."

A little later, Mr. Israel Brown returned to the attack he was making on Dan Coxall's stores of village lore.

"And this Mansford Vanshaw, Dan—what has become of him? Is he dead, or alive still?"

"He's kickin' yet, they say, somewheer in Lunnun; but he went to smash a few months sin', an' those as he was owin' money to has bin' carryin' th' place on. They're tired on't it seems; an' th' whole job lot will swap honds nex' Monday."

"Well, if the place is sold, I hope the colliery will be restarted, and that you are put back in your old shop as night-watchman."

"Thanky, Sir! Yore good health."

"I suppose, Dan," after a pause, the man resumed, "that you wouldn't remember a family of the name of Melvocke—no, Shelvocke, I am sure it was—that once lived in the village some twenty or thirty years ago?"

"I should think I do!" was the emphatic rejoinder. "Why, Mester Brown, it was one o' that theer very fam'ly that caused me to looas this arm."

"Indeed!"

"It were so. That was a rare plucked 'un, and they ca'ed him Aaron—big A, little a r o n. He weren't a'together a bad soart, wasn't Aaron, but he geet mixed up wi' a bad lot o' pooachers, had a row wi owd Miser Vanshaw, was sacked fro' the colliery, an' went to the devil afore he flew his kite."

"And was this same Aaron Shelvocke, as you call him, really responsible for the loss of your arm, Dan? How did it happen?"

"Oh, easy enough. Aaron an' a gang o' his mates were after conies, an' me an' a lot o' lobs were after them. We dropt across 'em, an' there was a row. One o' th' pooachers were kilt, an Aaron smashed my arm a' to smithers wi' a stake. But they a' geet away excep' th' deeud un, an' noan on e'm were seen again."

"And what became of Aaron Shelvocke?"

"He went to th' goold diggin's an' deed theer."

"And the other Shelvockes?"

"Th' livin' or deeud uns?"

"Those who are still living at Orsden Green!"

"Oh, there's four on 'em. Owd Luke an' his dowter, an' two y'ung fellays—Mat and Levi Blackshaw."

"Levi Blackshaw! He is not a Shelvocke?"

"He is Judith Shelvocke's son!"

"Oh! I see, Dan. And these young chaps? Do they live in the village still?"

"They done!"

"And what do they do?"

"Y'ung Mat is a coaler, an' he were workin' at the O'sden Green Colliery afore it stopped. He's a rayther wild card, an' he takes after his uncle Aaron, but he's a gradely dacent lad for a' that. Yo'll lahke him when you see him, he's such a pratty brown lad, wild, hot-tempered, an' devil-may-care. Jus' lahke his Uncle Aaron. Mat pays for me mony a gill o' ale, he does!"

"And this Levi Blackshaw. What is he like, Dan?"

"Oh, he's a lot too good for O'sden Green folk. Levi takes after another uncle—owd Luke Shelvocke; and he's jus' as mealy-mouthed, as miserly, and as personified as his mother's brother. I don't care much for Mester Levi; he never gied me a penny in his lafhe."

"Is Levi a collier also?"

"Nowe, he isn't; he does summat in a office in Coleclough. He's quahte a gent in his way, is Mr. Levi; with a shute o' black on Sundays, an' a collar an' tie ev'ry day."

For some time silence was permitted to rest unbroken between the two men. Dan had "bottomed" his second jug of ale, and was vaguely wondering if another pint would be bestowed upon him, while his companion was wrapped in thoughts engendered by the conversation. Meanwhile, the lovers of the wooden spheres were disporting themselves and displaying their skill on the sward, filling the pleasant air with ejaculations, and the July sun was sinking in the west.

"I've enjoyed our conversation very much, Dan," the younger of the two men remarked presently as he lifted his eyes and looked straight at his companion. "When one talks about old times it seems to bring them back again, doesn't it?"

"It does that, Sir?"

"Well, here's something for your trouble, Dan. I shall be glad if you will drink my health once out of it."

"Of course I will. But—why, Mester Brown, it's a sov'reign!" and the old man gazed with sparkling eyes at the gold coin lying in his crooked palm.

"Yes, I know. If it is more than you expected drink Aaron Shelvocke's health also. He wasn't a bad sort, if he caused you to lose that arm, Dan, and thought he had killed you."

Coxall made no immediate rejoinder. For some moments he stared quietly at the coin he held. Then he turned suddenly to his companion and surveyed him critically from head to foot.

"You will know me again, Dan, when we meet?"

"I think so, mester. I were bothered a bit at fust, but I con see it a' neaw."

"See what?"

"Who yo' are, an' why yo' are ere! Gi'e me thy hond, Aaron Shelvocke! I forgi'e thee, lad! If I hadna seen that little finger on thy left hond which is missing, I couldn't ha towd thee!"

They shook hands heartily, and each laughed a little. Then the younger man said meaningly, as his alert eyes rested on the other—

"If you will forget for a week or so who I am, Dan, I shall have another sovereign to spare next Saturday."

"Thanky, Sir! Thanky?"