Читать книгу Over the Hills - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 9
ОглавлениеWHICH TELLS OF A PROPHECY
Having got me out of the village I turned aside into the fields and, so soon as I had lost sight of the highroad, began to run my hardest, nor bated my speed until I had reached the woods. And where now should I bend my course but towards the village of East Bourne with some fond hope that I might, perchance, meet again with my wonderful young gentleman. Fired with this purpose then, I kept to the woods whose leafy boskages were pretty familiar to me (as hath been said) with intent to come out opposite Firle village which lies nestling under the Beacon.
Hidden thus amid the green solitudes my fears of immediate pursuit abated, and I went at my ease, pausing ever and anon to look about me glad-eyed, rejoicing in my new-won freedom. It was as I went beside a little brook a-wind between ferny banks that I was arrested by sound of a voice at no great distance.
"Who creepeth yonder? If ye be evil go your ways and strive to do good. If ye be good come that an old one may bless ye."
"Pen," cried I, and, pushing through the dense underbrush, came forth into a little clearing and beheld the speaker—this tall, strange, solitary old woman whom all seemed to fear, save only me. She was crouched before the crumbling ruin of a little cottage, hands crossed upon her staff, bony chin on bony knuckles, and what with her great black eyes, wrinkled face and snow-white hair a very witch-like figure she made, and yet to me the dearest in all the world; so ran I to clasp that bowed form, to kiss her wrinkled cheek while she, setting her long arms about me, held me close.
"My lamb!" sighed she, "My babe—my bonny boy! And is it running away ye are at last?"
"Yes, yes!" I answered, and sinking before her on my knees I told her all that had befallen since my first meeting with the fugitive in the wood, while she sat watching me with her wise, old eyes and no word spoken until I'd done.
"So 'twas you—aha, 'twas you tricked they red-coats? 'Twas bravely done! And you've run off at last, my Adam? And locked up the man Bragg—why this was likewise brave."
"Nay, but 'twas fear made me do it, Pen, quaking fear. See how I tremble yet when I do think on him!" and I held out my shaking hands. "O, I'm a very coward Pen!" said I, miserably.
"Ay, wi' red hair!" says she, laying gentle hand upon my bowed head, "And Master Bragg a-roaring in his own cupboard!" Here she laughed suddenly, "Aha, there be some cowards dangerous to meddle wi', Adam! The coward as overcomes his own fear may overcome all else—so comfort ye, lad!"
"But, indeed, Pen, my fear is so great it choketh me at times, and makes me weaker even than Nature hath already, and moreover—O, Pen, am I indeed nought but a whipper-snapper?" At this she chuckled, then taking my hand she kissed it, and opening the clenched fingers, peered down at the deep-lined palm.
"Hearkee, dear boy," she murmured, "these old eyes may see, sometimes, that which is not yet; many a hand have I read and many destinies foretold, yet none like to thine. Mark now! Here is a hand shall grasp much and what it graspeth, hold. Here be journeyings by land and sea. Here be dangers and perils a-many! Here is love and hate and bloodshed! Here shame and grief and great joy! Fear shall go with thee belike, yet in thee is that shall be mightier than fear——"
"Ah, Pen, Pen," cried I, "would all this might be so! But I am no hero—alas, shameful outcast, rather—a nameless creature that none regard and all despise—so puny and small that I never stood up to any village lad but to be knocked down—a pitiful, friendless soul, a poor lad in threadbare homespun, and yet you would make me a very paladin, like King Arthur's knights—O, Pen, would thy spells might so transform me!"
"Content ye, sweet lad," said she, setting her two hands upon my head, much as if she would have blessed me, "O content ye, lad o' my love, for now will I give thee a sign for truth o' what I foretell. Now, heed me! Ere long thy homespun shall be changed for laces and velvets, and thy young eyes behold hate and grief, love and death, ay—ere the moon change!"
Now, as I hearkened to her solemn voice and looked up into her strange, bright eyes, she seemed no more the gentle, kindly creature I had loved and pitied, but rather as one remote and all unknown, transfigured far above my poor understanding so that there grew within me an awe of her akin to fear. And then she sighed and, smiling, bent to kiss my brow, and in this moment became again as she had ever been, the patient consoler of my childish ills and boyish sorrows.
"But, Pen," said I, after some while, "what do you here? Tis an evil place, and this old cottage haunted, they say."
"Haunted," she nodded, "it well may be, or it will be, like enough, for here must I bide since 'tis all I have to shelter my old bones—mayhap none shall dare trouble me here by reason o' the ghosts."
"Why, Zachary told me how Master Bragg had made thee homeless, and so I—I brought thee this!" And, drawing the money bag from my pocket I loosed the string and poured the guineas into her lap.
"O Lordy—Lord!" she whispered, clasping her hands and staring down at the money in an ecstasy, "O, lad—sweet lad, here be a fortune sure-ly!"
"No, 'tis fifty guineas, Pen."
"O, Adam," says she, touching the coins with one bony forefinger almost fearfully, "I never see such vasty sum in all my days! Fifty golden——" she gasped suddenly, and looked up at me with eyes greatly troubled, "Adam," she whispered, "O, child, as I love—ye didn't—ye didn't——"
"Steal it, Pen? No, no, my dear. I took it from Master Bragg, 'tis the legacy left me by my lady Masterton and now 'tis thine."
"Mine?" she whispered, and now I saw her eyes full of tears.
"Every guinea!" said I. "Shalt never starve whiles I live, my dear old Pen."
"Ah no—ah no!" she cried. "I couldna' take it, Adam."
"Ay, but you must and shall," said I rising.
"But—O, my dearie lad, I cannot tak' all ye have—nay, I will not!"
"And so, good-bye, dear Penelope! Someday, if my fortune prove true, I will bring thee more."
"But, Adam—O, my dear, my loved boy——"
"Dear Pen, thou wert always so good to me, so tender and kind all my lonely days—and I haven't known much o' kindness hitherto. So would I thank thee if I could, old Pen. But in good fortune or ill, I shall never forget thee—no, never!"
Then, stooping suddenly, I kissed her silver hair, her wrinkled brow, and hastened away, while she stared after me through her falling tears.
