Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 12

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A slumberous, lovely place was this little village of Ravenhurst, whose calm was seldom troubled by any harsher sound than murmur of soft-voiced Rusticity, clank of well-chain or drowsy rumble of leisured wagon-wheel; here Tranquillity brooded—an all-pervading peace won so lately amid the smoke and bloody mire of Waterloo and upon the shot-riven decks of Nelson’s ships at Trafalgar; thus, for a while, the “Pax Brittanica” was to bless humanity.

So thought George as, having topped the hill, he paused to look down upon this small part of his so loved England, until, roused by the slow plodding of horsehoofs, he glanced round and thus beheld sturdy, red-faced farmer Tulliver approaching astride a stout and glossy cob.

“Good evening, Abel,” said he, as Mr. Tulliver reined up to shake hands. “How are things with you, old friend?”

“Naun so well as they should ought for to be, Master George.”

“Nothing wrong with the farm or stock, I hope, Abel?”

“Nay, farm and all be well enough and so will be ever-so long as our men take pride in their labour, pitchfork and scythe, thatching a rick, laying a hedge, driving a straight furrow—ah, so long as we do love the good land and treat it kindly, we can snap fingers at they French and dangall foreigners! No, my trouble be my darter Joan. Arl my days I’ve been Abel b’ name and thought I were ‘able’ b’ natur’; but today I be nowise able to cope wi’ our lass Joan! And what d’ye say to that, Mr. George?”

“I say, and beg you to remember, she is no longer a child but a fine and very lovely girl——”

“That she be—ah, and too well her do know it! Ye see, Mr. George, her mother, being re-fined b’ natur’, were ever wishful as our maid should grow up even more so, and sends her to a re-fining school in Brighthelmston, as they calls a ‘ladies’ semi-nary’, which were no place for daughter o’ we! And now, ecod, they’ve edu-cated so much re-finement into her that, damme, she’s rose above cows and is too fine for dairy-work! Reads books instead, which is bad enough, but po’try besides, wrote by some chap called Byron, which is worse! I read some on it t’other day—all about a maid in Athens as had stole his heart—such damn nonsense!”

“Easy now!” said George, laying white, though powerful hand on the farmer’s brawny knee. “Don’t be hard with her, Abel; let her read, ay—give her money to buy all the books she wants, and you’ll soon find she——”

“Not me, Mr. George—no! There’s her mother aiding and abetting her even now—and both agin me—such a dish o’ tongues as has never happed afore wi’ us.”

“All the more reason for gentleness, Abel—a light hand on the reins, no curb, and for God’s sake, man, no spurs!”

“Thankee, Mr. George, friend! I’m a patient man, as ee do know, but our maid being darter o’ mine, is no fine lady nor ever can be, and the sooner her knows it the better for all on us at Burnt Ash Farm! And as for spurs, Mr. George, I know just how and when to use ’em!” So saying, he spurred his cob to snorting astonishment and galloped away and downhill in a cloud of dust. Leaning against a convenient stile to wait until this dust had subsided, George nodded his head, thinking of Farmer Tulliver’s so beautiful and troublesome daughter whom he had seen grow from child to splendid womanhood; and, because he had a sincere affection for her parents, he was not a little troubled by his old friend Abel’s unwonted show of anger and wondering if he might possibly do anything to smooth and ease the situation, when he was roused by a loud hail:

“Aha, George; well met, my son, well met!”

Glancing up, he beheld Parson Aeneas Tomlyn striding towards him across the meadow, this famous scholar and truly reverend though extraordinary cleric who seemed two in one, for he showed as lean and unutterably sad gentleman by reason of haggard brow, long, melancholy nose and mournful-drooping lips—yet beneath this care-wrung brow the merriest, kindliest eyes danced and sparkled, while from these woeful-seeming lips issued the blithest of voices:

“What ho there, thou poor, pensively procrastinating pilgrim! Why droopest thou, wherefore despond? And this glory of God’s sunshine all about thee?” And forthwith George answered:

“Most reverend sir and my dear Aeneas, you come at the precisely right moment, for I must tell you there are certain of your large flock need their shepherd’s care and guidance. Abel Tulliver has just galloped off in a fury because of his daughter Joan....” And forthwith George recounted the farmer’s trouble ... “which,” he ended, “makes me wonder and question if education is a blessing or curse!”

“Here’s fool of a question, George! Education will be humanity’s ultimate salvation.”

“Ultimate—maybe, reverend sir. But today Joan is educated above her station—as Abel said: ‘She’s rose above cows and dairy work’.”

“Because her education is not yet complete! However, let us be rid of Ignorance at all costs, for with it will go most of the harms and evils of this troublous world. Meanwhile, if you are going my way, villagewards, let us go!”

So down the hill they went, arm in arm, like the life-long friends they were. And presently the reverend gentleman, looking as though about to weep, began to whistle, “Come lasses and lads”, merrily as any lark; but after only a bar or so paused to remark:

“By the way, George, this morning I had a visit from your acquaintance, Mr. Shrig of Bow Street, who desired to consult the church register.”

“And what did you think of him, sir?”

“As an extremely well-informed and most unexpected person. For instance, he knew I had been your tutor and congratulated me on making ‘sich a werry good job’ of you.”

“But how on earth did he know that?”

“He said it was ‘from information received’. He also told me Jackman had taken you into partnership, my son, wherefore I congratulate you right heartily.”

“Thanks, Aeneas. But any success I may achieve I owe, first to Aunt Isabel, bless her—and then to you, of course!”

“Indeed,” sighed the reverend gentleman, “she is a grand and truly noble woman!”

“She is,” nodded George. “She was and always will be! And considering her looks, my wonder is no one ever married her.”

“Yes—it is—a great wonder!” said the Reverend Aeneas with another sigh. “But talking of your Mr. Shrig, he was quite horribly informative concerning that skeleton, which he protests to be that of the seventh Earl, poor young Philip who died so cruelly with his lips upon the portrait of his young wife! And this reminds me that yesterday I paid my first visit to the present Earl.”

“Aha!” exclaimed George. “And pray how did he impress you?”

“Oddly, George, oddly! Though to be sure he was extremely courteous and very kindly promised a handsome sum for the much needed repair of the church-tower.”

“But did you like him, sir, personally?”

“My son, I like and try to love all God’s creatures.”

“Did you manage to love the Earl, Aeneas?”

“As a shepherd of souls, yes; as a mere man, hardly.”

“And the Lady Clytie Moor, did you meet her also?”

“I did! She made me gracious welcome, she waited on me hand and foot, kept my cup abrim to overflowing—even the Earl drinks tea——”

“Then, Aeneas, you liked this lady?”

“Indeed! And who would not? So very beautiful of form and feature, so gentle of look, so sweetly soft of voice, George, there is angelic music in it, as you will agree if you are so blest as to hear it.”

“Sir, I have on two occasions and—well—I did not think of—angels.”

“My son, you are young, and this lady so amazingly beautiful she may sweep any man off his feet——”

“Aeneas ... ha, sir,” laughed George, “you’ve hit it, for ... she very nearly did!” And he continued to laugh so infectiously that the Reverend Aeneas smiled, saying:

“George, you relieve me vastly, for no young man in love could laugh so gaily!”

“And you’re right again, sir! For I’m not in love, not I, or ever possibly could be with this, let’s say, proud young beauty—quite the reverse, in fact, quite!” Here the Reverend Aeneas, rubbing his melancholy nose, viewed George so dubiously that he laughed again, saying:

“Now, Aeneas, d’you doubt me, sir?”

“No, my son, I never have and hope I never shall—though, as Mr. Pope has it, ‘Beauty draws us with a single hair’—and methinks my young man doth protest over much?”

“Ay, I do!” replied George, with a fervour almost fierce. “I do protest with all my strength.”

“Dear me! Why this passion of denial, my son?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. I can only tell you it is absolutely sincere.”

“Ah, well—now tell me why you gave Tom Ferris a black eye the other day.”

“How d’you know I did, sir?”

“My son, there are few happenings in my parish that I don’t hear about sooner or later. So, George, why?”

“Well, passon,” answered George, in the vernacular, “ ’twere arl along-on-account-on Mistress Hagah as were bein’ ’ard done by ... no question. Boys and dogs and that theer Tom Ferris.”

“The poor old soul! And I understand you stopped him with a straight left and grassed him, very properly, with your right, my son?”

“As you first taught me, Aeneas and dear sir, in between woeful spells at mathematics and furious bouts with Caesar or Virgil: ‘Arma et vir, canbat.’ Lord, what a grand tutor you were, Aeneas! Dactyl and spondee, fist and footwork! You taught me the true value of a straight left and how and when to use my right——”

“Ah, but, George, my dear boy,” sighed the reverend gentleman somewhat reproachfully, “I taught you far better things than sparring or even the classics, I hope?”

“Aeneas, dear old sir, all that I am and hope to be I owe to Aunt Isabel and you, and—to both my gratitude is beyond expressing.”

“Your Aunt Isabel, yes indeed! Present my humble regards to her and say I shall come begging tea one afternoon.”

“Why not now, sir?”

“Son, tempt me not, for I must to divers of my flock, and first of all the Tullivers. So, fare thee well, George!” And away strode this zealous shepherd of souls, vigorous and jaunty of bearing, yet doleful of visage as ever. Then home went George, to find his aunt and her Betty making strawberry jam and the cottage full of its sweet savour; wherefore he stripped off coat and, armed with necessary tools, set about the construction of a rustical bower wherein Mistress Isabel might sit and read or sew or, with him, drink her beloved tea.