Читать книгу Caught in a Trap - John C. Hutcheson - Страница 9

“Het-wood!” shouted the guard vehemently, as the train in which Tom Hartshorne and Markworth had left London drew up at a little wayside station, closely adjoining Hartwood village, the spire of whose church could be seen near at hand, amidst a group of lofty elm trees which surrounded it—and “Het-wood! Het-wood! Het-wood!” burst a tribe of porters and railway men, after that official, chorusing in full cry to a musical accompaniment of door-slammings and steam-escapements.

“Here we are at last,” ejaculated Tom, poking his head out of the window of one of the carriages as soon as they fairly stopped.

“Are we? Then the Lord be praised! Beastly long journey. More than two hours for only sixty or seventy miles!” responded his companion, stepping on to the platform, where they and their luggage were quickly deposited—the only arrivals for the little village—while the iron horse again grunted and puffed on its toilsome way with its string of cattle pens behind it.

“Good day, sir,” said the station-master, touching his hat respectfully to Tom; “do you want a trap, sir?”

“No, thanks, we’ll walk over; but will you send up our things for us, Murphy?”

“Certainly, sir; one of the men shall go at once with them. Here, Peter! shoulder them there bags, and follow Mister Hartshorne up t’ouse.”

“It’s much jollier to walk, Markworth,” remarked Tom, as they left the station, and he led the way over a stile into a little bypath across a field; “it’s a lovely afternoon, and we’ll get there in half the time we should if we drove by the road.”

“All right, my boy, I’m agreeable,” answered Markworth.

So they sauntered on, walking in a narrow foot-wide track, through acres of gleaming green fields of oats and wheat, with their wavy motion, like the sea, and their rustling tops, one of the railway porters following closely behind them, weighed down apparently by two heavy travelling-bags he carried, although, probably, he thought them but a trifle.

A pleasant walk it was on a fine summer day.

Presently Markworth could see a gaunt, grim stone wall in front of them, with a mass of tall, melancholy-looking, waving poplar trees behind it, all in a clump together.

“There’s the place,” said Tom. “We’ll be there in no time. We can go through that side-door,” pointing to a small gateway cut through the wall. “You must not mind, old chap, what my mother says, you know, at first. I told you she was a queer fellow, you know, and she will seem rough to you at first.”

“I sha’n’t mind, bless you, Tom—I oughtn’t to be afraid of any woman at my time of life, my hearty.”

In another minute they had arrived at the small door they had been making for, and Tom rang the bell with a sonorous peal.

After waiting about a quarter of an hour, and ringing some three times, the gate was at length opened by George, the Dowager’s “man of all work,” an honest, tall, beaming-looking countryman, who stood at the entrance with a broad grin of pleasure on his rustic face.

“Whoy! Lor sakes, measter Tummus! It beant you, be it? Well, to be sure!”

“Yes, it’s me, sure enough, George. How are the rheumatics?”

“Och! they be foine, sur?”

“Nice day, George, ain’t it? Good for the crops, eh?”

“Yees, surely! it’s a foine day when the soon shoines! that it be, sur! Ho! ho! ho.” And George laughed a heavy, earthy sort of laugh, which partook of the nature of the clay in which he delved—it was so warm, and yet lumpish, and seemed to stick in his throat and be unable to come out, although his mouth was certainly opened wide enough to permit of its exit. It may be mentioned that this was one of George’s time-honoured jokes about the sun and the weather, indeed the only one he ever knew of; and he would repeat it some twenty times a day, if anyone gave him the cue, each time being as much amused with it, and struck with its novelty and wit as if that were the first time he propounded it.

A sharp, querulous voice, which belonged to somebody evidently not far distant, here suddenly interposed—

“What are you standing jabbering and grinning there like a baboon for, man? Begone to your work man! Do you think I keep your idle carcass and pay your wages for you to be kicking your heels in the air all day and doing nothing? Begone to your work, man, and let my son in; if I ever catch you jabbering away like this again, out you go bag and baggage!”

Here it must be noted that the speaker did not pause a second in the delivery of this harangue—not a stop, such as have been put here for the sake of legibility, occurred between the words—the whole sentence rattled out as one word—a word fiery, hot, strong, and by no means sweet.

“Lor sakes! here’s the missus!” ejaculated George, in sudden terror; and clutching his spade, which he had put down to open the gate, he disappeared amidst the shrubbery much sooner and with a quicker movement than he had evidently acted the part of Janitor.

The Dowager it was, without a doubt—for her presence had quickly followed her words, and she now stood before the pair in all her imposing appearance with an irritated face, and her piercing eyes fixed on them enquiringly.

She was the first to break the short silence that ensued.

“Well, and so you have come at last, Thomas! There, shake hands! that will do. I wonder you have been able to tear yourself away from all your jackanape companions—a lot of reckless spendthrifts and conceited puppies, every one of them—to come and see your ugly old mother at last. I am so old, and, having no airs and graces to receive you like other people—all lies to be sure—that I wonder you do come at all! I suppose it is only because you want money—money, money, money, like the whole tribe of them—bloodsuckers all. But who’s this fellow with you?” she said, abruptly, turning round on Markworth as if she were going to snap him up. “Who is he, and what does he want, shoving himself in?”

Tom hastened to introduce him, saying that he was an old friend, Mr Allynne Markworth, who had been very kind to him, and whom he had ventured to invite down according to the express stipulation of his mother.

“Humph!” she muttered, “oh! that’s it, is it; why did you not say so before instead of letting him stand staring there like an idiot? But you never had a head, Thomas, and never will as long as you live! You are only fit to be a lazy soldier to flaunt about all day in a patchwork uniform and do nothing. The only sense you ever have shown was in selecting your profession! So this is Mr Markworth, is it? Humph! I daresay he’s like the rest of them—all calf’s head and shrimp sauce! How do you do, Mr Markworth?” She now spoke without the former asperity, and curtseyed low in an old-fashioned manner. “Any friend of my son is welcome to my house, poor as it is! Please go on and lead the way, Thomas, with your friend, you will find a room ready prepared for him, and you know your own. We dine at the regular hour, five o’clock, and it only wants half-an-hour to that, so don’t be late. I don’t want any dressing or fal-lalling!” The old lady then turned into the shrubbery, evidently after the recreant George, and she muttered to herself as she ambled along, “He’s taller than Thomas, and a handsome puppy; but I don’t like him—he’s a rogue, or I’ll eat my boots.”

There was no need for such an unusual repast on the part of the Dowager; she might have been wider from the mark in her casual conjecture.

Punctually at five o’clock the tones of some huge clanging old bell clanked through the house, proclaiming the hour; and Tom tapping at Markworth’s door, told him that dinner was ready. The latter at once appeared outside as elaborately dressed as if he were going to attend a Lord Mayor’s banquet.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Tom, turning his companion round and gazing upon him with eyes of wonder; “why, what on earth led you to get yourself up so fearfully?” as he led the way to the dining-parlour—a long, low, dismal room on the ground floor.

“I always mind little things,” replied the other; “I never sacrifice appearances:” in truth he never did.

Tom, on the way down in the train, had explained all about his sister’s infirmity—that she was “Not quite right here, you know,” tapping his forehead significantly; so Markworth was not surprised to see a tall, pale, slim-looking girl seated at the table with her eyes bent down on her plate. She looked up in a sort of painful wonder when they entered, which changed into a pleased, unmeaning smile when she recognised Tom, and immediately again dropped her eyes.

She was dressed in a scarlet dress, made of some stuffy material. Her one weakness—if weakness it were—was for bright colours; she had often told Tom that they made her “feel warm and happy.” Poor child! So she always wore scarlet or light-blue, or orange—the former hue was her favourite one, and she had evidently put on that dress to-day in honour of Tom, to show that she was glad and happy to see him.

Susan Hartshorne looked older perhaps than she really was; she had beautiful features, but her face was without expression, save that Markworth could perceive—for he had been intently watching her—an occasional careworn or agonised look pass across it whenever her mother spoke, which she did every now and then in sharp accents to the old woman servant who waited on them at table. The Dowager had taken no notice of Markworth in a conversational sense, although she eyed him frequently, except to mutter “coxcomb!” in an underbreath (which he however distinctly heard), when he first entered the room, and once to ask him to be helped to some dish before her.

The meal was a good one. The old lady received a portion of her rents “in kind,” and was never at a loss for fresh poultry, fish, or vegetable, not to speak of game; but it was soon over, for the presiding genius evidently looked upon it in the light of a serious business which was not to be trifled with. When the last dish had been brought in and removed, the dowager got up from her seat and stalked majestically out of the room, followed silently by her daughter, who seemed to glide rather than move.

“Rum old party, ain’t she? But she’s good, though, and I like her in my way, you know, the same as she does me,” observed Tom.

“Yes,” said Markworth, neither affirmatively nor in a questioning tone of voice, but with a mixture of both inflections. “Where, however, is that governess you were talking about to me?”

“Oh! Miss Kingscott! ’Pon my soul I don’t know. Let’s go and hunt her up; I have not seen her yet.”

Just then they heard the melancholy notes of an organ in the distance, as they turned into the passage.

“That’s Susan,” observed her brother. “I daresay Miss Kingscott is with her.”

They followed the strains, which grew louder as they penetrated into the back and apparently deserted quarters of the house.

“Here we are,” said Tom, as he opened the door of the room from whence the music proceeded.

A dark, haughty, ladylike girl, clad in rustling black silk, stood up and faced the door as they entered.

“Miss Kingscott, I presume?” Tom asked, bowing politely with his usual frankness.

“Whew! By jingo!” ejaculated Markworth, between his teeth. “I’m blessed if it isn’t Clara!”