Читать книгу Captures - John Galsworthy - Страница 6

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In parishes with scattered farms and no real village, gossip has not quite its proper wings; and the first intimation Steer had that his niece was being slighted came from Bowden himself. Steer was wont to drive the seven miles to market in a small spring cart filled with produce on the journey in, and with groceries on the journey out, holding his east-wind face, fixing his eyes on the ears of his mare. His niece sometimes sat beside him—one of those girls whose china is a little too thin for farm life. She was educated, and played the piano. Steer was proud of her in spite of his low opinion of her father, who had died of consumption and left Steer’s sister in poor circumstances. Molly Winch’s face, indeed, had refinement; it coloured easily a faint rose pink, was pointed in the chin, had a slightly tip-tilted nose, and pretty truthful eyes—a nice face.

Steer’s mare usually did the seven miles in just under forty minutes, and he was proud of her, especially when she overhauled Bowden’s mare. The two spring carts travelled abreast of each other just long enough for these words to be exchanged:

“Mornin’, Bowden!”

“Mornin’! Mornin’, Miss Molly, ’aven’t seen yu lately; thought yu were visitin’!”

“No, Mr. Bowden.”

“Glad to see yu lukin’ up s’well. Reckon Ned’s tu busy elsewhere just now.”

It was then that Steer’s mare drew well ahead.

‘My old mare’s worth two of his,’ he thought.

Bowden’s cart was distant dust before he turned to his niece and said:

“What’s the matter with Ned Bowden. When did you see him last?”

His shrewd light eyes noted her lips quivering, and the stain on her cheeks.

“It’s—it’s a month now.”

“Is it—is it?” was all Steer said. But he flicked the mare sharply with his whip, thinking: ‘What’s this? Didn’t like that fellow’s face—was he makin’ game of us?’

Steer was an abstemious man; a tot of sloe gin before he embarked for home was the extent of his usual potations at ‘The Drake.’ But that day he took two tots because of the grin on the face of Bowden, who would sit an hour and more after he had gone, absorbing gin and cider. Was that grin meant for him and for his niece?

A discreet man, too, he let a fortnight pass while he watched out. Ned Bowden did not come to church, nor was he seen at Steer’s. Molly looked pale and peaky. And something deep stirred in Steer. ‘If he don’t mean to keep his word to her,’ he thought, ‘I’ll have the law of him, young pup!’

People talked no more freely to Steer than he to them; and another week had passed before he had fresh evidence. It came after a parish meeting from the schoolmistress, a grey-haired, single lady, much respected.

“I don’t like Molly looking so pale and daverdy, Mr. Steer. I’m grieved about Ned Bowden, I thought he was a steady boy.”

“What about him?”

“That girl at Bowden’s.”

Steer flopped into the depths of consciousness. So everybody round had known, maybe for weeks, that his niece was being jilted for that cross-bred slut; known, and been grinning up their sleeves, had they? And that evening he announced:

“I’m goin’ round to Bowden’s, Molly.”

She coloured, then went pale.

“They shan’t put it up on you,” he said, “I’ll see to that. Give me that ring of his—I may want it.”

Molly Winch silently slipped off her amethyst engagement ring, and gave it him.

Steer put on his best hat, breeches and gaiters, took a thin stick, and set out.

Corn harvest was coming near, and he crossed a field of his own wheat into a field of Bowden’s oats. Steer was the only farmer round about who grew wheat. Wheat! In Bowden’s view it was all his politics! But Steer was thinking: ‘My wheat’s lookin’ well—don’t think much of these oats' (another of his ‘foreign expressions’; oats were ‘corn’ to Bowden). ‘He’ll have no straw.’

He had not been in Bowden’s yard since the day he executed the yellow whippet dog, and his calf twitched—the brute had given it a shrewd nip.

The girl Pansy opened the door to him. And, seeing the flush rise into her pale cheeks, he thought: ‘If I were to lay my stick across your back you’d know it, my girl.’

Bowden had just finished his supper of bacon, beans and cider, and was smoking his pipe before the embers of a wood fire. He did not get up, and there seemed to Steer something studied and insulting in the way he nodded to a chair. He sat down with his stick across his knees, while the girl went quickly out.

“Butiful evenin’,” said Bowden. “Fine weather for the corn. Drink o’ cider?”

Steer shook his head. The cautious man was making sure of his surroundings before he opened fire. Old Mrs. Bowden sat in her chair by the hearth with her little old back turned to the room. Bowden’s white-headed bobtail was stretched out with his chin on his paws; a yellow cat crouched, still as the Sphinx, with half-closed eyes; nothing else was alive, except the slow-ticking clock.

Steer held up the amethyst ring.

“See this?”

Undisturbed by meaning or emotion, Bowden’s face was turned slowly towards the ring.

“Ah! What about it?”

“’Twas given to my niece for a purpose. Is that purpose goin’ to be fulfilled?”

“Tidden for me to say. Ask Ned.”

Steer closed his hand, slightly covered with reddish hairs.

“I’ve heard tales,” he said. “And if he don’ mean to keep his word I’ll have the law of him. I’ve always thought my niece a sight too good for him; but if he thinks he can put a slight on her he’s reckonin’ without the cost—that’s all.”

Bowden blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Ned’s a man grown.”

“Do you abet him?”

Bowden turned his head lazily.

“Don’t you come here bullyin’ me.” And again he puffed out a cloud of smoke. Its scent increased the resentment in Steer, who was no smoker.

“Like father, like son,” he said. “We know what your father was like.”

Bowden took his pipe from his mouth with a fist the size of a beefsteak.

“With the old lady settin’ there! Get out o’ my house!”

A wave of exasperated blood flooded Steer’s thin cheeks.

“You know right well that she hears naught.”

Bowden replaced his pipe. “’Tes no yuse tachin’ yu manners,” he muttered.

Something twitched in Steer’s lean throat, where the reddish-grey hair covered his Adam’s apple.

“I’ll give your son a week; and then look out.”

A chuckle pursued him to the door.

‘All right!’ he thought, ‘we’ll see who’ll laugh last.’