Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 11

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It was evening and George on his homeward way, when he beheld a fine horse approaching, led by a hatless man, dusty and bedraggled, who limped; he also bore one arm in a sling.

As George came up, this person saluted him, saying in matter-of-fact tone:

“Sir, do you happen to want a horse? If so, this four-legged demon is yours at a price or no price at all. Though it is but fair to warn you the brute has bolted with me twice, thrown me once, looks gentle as a lamb, is fierce as a tiger and guileful as the very devil. Consequently, sir, the horse, though a noble animal, is my present abomination, especially this one! So, if you desire such a horse—say the word.”

During this speech George’s quick glance had noted these several particulars: a face deeply bronzed, lit by well-opened brown eyes, and made the more attractive by a shapely, sensitive mouth that just now had a humorous twist; a person this whose dusty garments were of expensive material and very excellent cut, who bore himself like a soldier and spoke like a man of breeding and refinement. Therefore George saluted him as such, saying with a laugh:

“Tomorrow, sir, your horse may prove more tractable and yourself of different mind.”

“Sir, my offer stands—this lamb-like devil is yours now or when you will. And in justice to him I must inform you my injured arm is none of his doing; ’tis small hurt I received at sea on my way here from America—or rather those United States, alas—which by a little statesmanlike concession would most surely have been preserved to us! But—no more of this depressing topic! My present need is a good inn; if you can direct me I shall be grateful.”

“I can with pleasure!” replied George. “In the village yonder is the Raven, kept by Ned Marples, and no better inn or man anywhere. I can introduce you to both, for my way lies beyond.”

“Pray do, sir, and make me doubly grateful. And my name is Mallory, sir—Charles Mallory at your service.”

“And I am George Bell, sir, happy to be of service,” said George as they went on together. “Pray, Mr. Mallory, have you been long in America? I mean—do you know it well?”

“I have and I do, sir. It is a grand and noble country, rich in all that pertains to man’s innumerable wants, its resources and natural wealth equalled only by its vast size! Ha—devil take it, but for our cross, bungling government, England and America together might have ruled the whole world!”

“A glorious thought, Mr. Mallory! But—I am no politician—but is it not the fact that this late rebellion was caused by the irreconcilable Irish element?”

“Partly, sir; but it was we, or rather our damned government, gave the opportunity by using force instead of suasion.”

“The tea-tax, sir?”

“Mr. Bell, this was but a side issue; there were many worse oppressions.”

“But, sir, did not England spend much money, ay, and blood, in driving out the Dutch and French and later in warring against those savage Indians to protect the colony?”

“We did, sir, and the colonists were grateful and loyal until we began interfering with their internal economy, their trade and shipping, laying an embargo on their ports and heaping tax on tax! And no gentleman more loyal than George Washington himself! He was a captain in my regiment and as English as you or I! But alas, our worse than stupidity made him an American, our enemy and their first President.”

“Did you know him?”

“My father did. During one campaign against the French they shared the same tent.”

“Did he then show sign of his later greatness?”

“Yes and no. He was a very thoughtful man and so reticent that by many he was deemed unsociable—but deep down he was extremely sensitive, and thus, though warm-hearted and kindly, his friends were few, and thus fewer ever knew the best of him.”

“And pray, sir, what of those wild Indians, those ferocious savages——?” Mr. Mallory frowned and shook his hatless, dark head, saying:

“They are a much maligned and ill-used people. I, like my late father, knew them well, travelled with and lived among many of the tribes—Huron, Iroquois and Delaware especially—and found them courteous, hospitable and scorners of lying and duplicity; in fine, sir, gentlemen.”

“Yet, sir, in England are frequent reports of their treachery, tales of brutal murders of lonely settlers, the massacre of solitary townships——”

“And, Mr. Bell, such reports are nearly always greatly exaggerated! Indeed such evils usually tend the other way! Indian lances and bows and arrows are small avail against musket, rifle and bayonet. I have seen the ghastly work of such weapons in Indian villages, squaws and papooses, yes, sir. Indian women and children slaughtered like cattle! The white man is forever stealing more and more of their country—driving them farther into the badlands! So, with arrow, spear and tomahawk the Red man leaps to its defence—only to go down before musket and bayonet, as he always will.”

“So, Mr. Mallory, you side with the Indians?”

“Say rather I grieve with them for the wrongs and injustices inflicted upon them....”

Thus talking, they reached the village and the spacious yard of this goodly inn of the Raven. Here the horse that was a lamb, tiger, serpent, demon, having been duly tended, George led the way indoors, where Ned Marples hastened to welcome them. Mr. Mallory glanced at Ned’s honest face, at the solid comfort around them, and nodded, saying:

“Landlord, Mr. Bell assures me there is no better inn or landlord than here, and my eyes confirm his judgment. Consequently my first need is a hot bath, my second and third a sitting-room with a fire, then dinner with a bottle of your best.”

“Sir,” answered Ned, bowing, “at your service and—with pleasure.” And away he went.

“I am hoping you will dine with me, Mr. Bell.”

“Thank you, but I am expected, sir, and already rather late.”

“Some other time then. And by the way,” said he as they shook hands, “what about your horse?”

“My horse, sir?”

“Certainly—down in the stables yonder.”

“Oh, but, Mr. Mallory, I say, you know I—I couldn’t accept such a splendid animal—as a gift. And I’m pretty sure I can’t afford——”

“However, he will be there waiting for you to claim him whenever you will. Meanwhile I’m hoping we may meet again soon.”

“Why then,” replied George, heartily, “I’ll take care we do! And so for the present, goodbye, sir.”

Reaching home, George found his aunt snipping roses and doing it as if she loved them (which indeed she did).

“My dear,” said he, slipping his long arm about her, “I want my family’s close attention; is she listening with both auriculars?”

“George, what on earth——”

“Family, be hushed and hearken! I have just met a gentleman from—America!”

“Not,” she exclaimed with sudden interest, “not the wanted heir?”

“No, that would be too much to expect—and yet—by Jupiter, he might be! Such odd chances do happen—and he looked about the right age!”

“How old would that be, George?”

“About forty-five.”

“Two years my senior. Is he one of those nasty American rebels?”

“Oh, no, he is English as you or I. He is also a soldier, or has been, and knew and greatly esteemed George Washington——”

“Then of course he is a rebel!”

“No again, my dear, for it seems Washington was loyal once and actually wore the King’s uniform.”

“And was a hateful wretch—with his Bunker Hills and Yorktowns!”

“However, I liked this Mr. Mallory so much that I felt greatly inclined to ask if he had ever heard tell of our Earl Philip.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, the possibility that he had seemed so absurdly remote.”

“No matter, you should have asked the question! Suppose he himself is the heir! Good gracious me! Describe him; what is he like, tall or short, dark or fair?”

“Tall and dark——”

“Ha! Then if he is a Wynter he is a bad Wynter! There used to be a foolish saying: ‘As cruel as a “black winter”.’ Now his face—is he handsome?”

“Yes, in a hawkish sort of way.”

“Ah well, Wynter or no, hawks are cruel birds, and I dislike hooked noses.”

“But,” said George, copying Mr. Shrig, “his nose, or as you might say beezer, snout or conk, m’lady, ain’t hooked. No, it’s quite a goodish beak, Aunt, better than mine though nothing like so beautiful as that which adorns the phiz of Mistress Isabel Standish, of course. Anyhow, I like him so well that I intend seeing him again, and should he prove up to expectation I shall, with your permission, ask him to tea here soon or late.”

“Yes, do, George. For, judging by your very inadequate description, he might possibly be a Wynter ... and besides, what should bring him to our quiet little village; what, George, what?”

“My dear,” said he, leading her slowly cottagewards, “this is a question to which Jasper Shrig would certainly reply: ‘M’lady, “Echo alone responds!” ’ And now, dear family, let us to supper.”