Читать книгу The Way Beyond - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 22

It was high noon when Sir Peter drew rein to gaze up at a certain inn-sign whereon was painted the lively representation of a bull,—a truly heroic animal, for though time had dimmed him, though stress of weather had somewhat blurred and faded him, yet there he was—as glaring of eye, as astonishingly curly of horn and stiff of tail as ever.

Sir Peter drooped in his saddle a little wearily, for the way had been long and dusty; but as he gazed up at this truly indomitable animal, he forgot weariness and squared his shoulders, for Time rolled backward and there rushed upon him the wistful memory of other days.... The tap-tapping of the Ancient's stick, the light footsteps of sweet-eyed Prudence; of Charmian vivid with youth, standing amid the leaves in a glamour of moonlight; of storm and strife; of lurking peril and joyous adventure,—days of such passionate living... Sir Peter sighed.

And then, borne to him on the warm, drowsy air, came the thud and ring of hammer and anvil. Sir Peter started, his austere mouth grew young with quick smile, his sombre eyes brightened as they glanced round about him upon this well-remembered, too seldom visited scene.... This broad highway, white and dusty, that stretched away between gardens abloom with flowers and backed by thatched cottages shaded by tall and aged trees beyond which peeped the gable of barn or pointed roof of oast-house.

Sir Peter walked his horse along this white road to the smithy and stooping, peered in at the low-arched doorway.

And there all alone at his anvil stood Black George, a very son of Anak in his bare-armed might, plying his ponderous hand-hammer lightly as of old, but he sang no more and amid the crisp curls of his Saxon-yellow hair, Peter espied broad streaks of silver, also his comely face, somewhat sooty from the fire, showed marks set there by more than the hand of Old Father Time.

Thus Sir Peter, dusty with travel yet slim and elegant astride his tall horse, gazed upon sooty George—this man he had fought with, loved and honoured, heeding those marks of care and sorrow, silvered hair and furrowed brow with eyes very wistful and kindly.... And then Black George looked up, in the very middle of a stroke, and stood, heavy hammer poised, while their eyes, the dark and the blue, gazed deep each into each.

And they spoke no word, these two, only the hammer thudded to earth from George's loosened grasp and Sir Peter, swinging lightly from saddle, strode into the smoky dimness of the smithy and then hands met and wrung each other across that bright, much used anvil.... And it was Black George first found voice:

"A bit grimy I be, Sir Peter!"

"Clean, honest grime, George. And don't call me 'sir'! The old place ... looks just the same."

"Ar ... pretty much, Peter. Though I fitted a noo 'andle to the sledge ... 'bout three weeks ago. And—see up theer, agin the beam,—your own old hammer, Peter. Hung it theer, I did, arter you went away and nobody's took it down since. Dusty and rusty it be, but there it be agoin' to 'ang until,—well till I be done wi' smithing for good. And now let's stable your hoss, Peter, a rare fine un 'e be! And then set down yonder in the sun and talk."

And presently, the good horse having been duly cared for, down they sat together in the old porch before the inn door, to gaze upon each other with beaming eyes, to pledge each other silently in tankards of foaming ale, and drink together in voiceless communion like the old friends they were.

"Simon do ha' druv over to Cranbrook, the miller's, but he'll be back again purty soon."

"How is he, George?"

"Hearty, Peter, stout an' hearty. Though 'e be gettin' on, seventy-two last birthday 'e were. Eh, but 'tis goodish time since you was Sissin'hurst way, Peter."

"Too long, George, yes, it has been much too long. But the old village seems just the same."

"Why theer aren't much to change 'ereabouts, Peter. Nobody aren't died since my sweet Prue were took 'leven year ago."

"I remember, George."

"Ay, been a-layin' theer in Cranbrook churchyard 'leven mortal year, she 'ave, Peter.... The longest, weariest 'leven years in all my life." Here George, pint pot on knee, stared away down the broad, white road and shaking his comely head, spoke in strange, hushed voice: "'Here lays Prudence, beloved wife of George Ford of Sissin'hurst ... until the morning breaks'.... Peter, it were black night for me when she died ... and the morning aren't broke yet." After this they sat silent somewhile, the afternoon's drowsy stillness brooding over them; but presently upon this solemn hush broke the rhythmic tap-tapping of a stick, so sudden and unexpected that Peter sat up and, looking thitherward, beheld a bowed, old figure, smock-frocked and top-hatted, hobbling afar down the road.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, softly.

"What now, Peter?"

"See yonder! I thought ... George, I fancied for a moment it was the Ancient, God bless him, come back through the vanished years to greet me."

"Yon be old James Button. You'll mind 'e, Peter?"

"Very well! He once accused me of bewitching his pigs, I remember."

"Ay, I mind," nodded George. "Folks used to think as you 'ad the evil eye, Peter. And, to be sure your eyes was oncommon sharp, ah an' so they be now.... The years ha' been kind to 'e, Peter, you look hearty and straight as a gun-barrel. And your lady be well,—eh, Peter?"

"She is, thank God!"

"And your son,—he be likewise well,—eh Peter?"

"Yes, and thank God again!"

"Ay, the Lord hath dealt kindly by ee, Peter ... kinder than wi' ... others."

"You remember my son, Richard, of course?"

"Ay for sure! Don't I mind him being born, Peter, just six months arter Prue give me my Rosemary. Didn't I watch him grow to a lad ... whiles you lived hereabouts in Kent."

"Have you seen him lately, George?"

"Ar! Leastways 'bout a year ago. Comes a-riding over, 'e did ... and a fine, comely young gen'leman 'e be ... summat like you, Peter, but mighty like his mother."

"I'm glad you think so, George, because ... well ... d'you see ... he wants to marry your daughter Rosemary."

George's tankard fell with a clatter, spilling what remained of its contents, and he stared down at it beneath slow-knitting brows, while Peter viewed him somewhat askance.

"Marry ... my daughter?" quoth George, and stooping suddenly picked up his tankard, turning it over and over in his great fist and staring at it very blankly. "Marry ... my Rosemary ... your son?" he repeated slowly.

"Yes, George old fellow. It seems they love each other very dearly, very truly, and have done so for a great while."

"Oh have they, Peter?"

"So Richard affirms. Under which circumstances his mother and I can urge no objection. I may tell you that in a year's time Richard will inherit a very large fortune, until when, of course, I shall see the young people properly established."

"Properly ... established!" nodded George, still frowning at the tankard he was turning this way and that.

"So, George, I am here to ask your blessing on this marriage."

Very deliberately George set his tankard in a corner of the settle and turning upon his companion, spoke in his slow, thoughtful manner:

"No, Peter! I don't nowise give my consent, not yet my blessing. What I says is—no!"

Sir Peter started and seemed for a moment positively dumb-struck, his black brows drew together in a haughty frown, up went his stately head and he stared into the calm, blue eyes that stared as directly back at him.

"George," said he, at last, "you amaze me!"

"Peter," said George, "you amaze me more, ah—a sight more!" And now for a moment they fronted each other in silence again, stately arrogance against sturdy pride.

"Then ... you refuse?"

"Ay, I do."

"May I ask why?"

"Ay, for sure, Peter. And for sure I'll try to tell ee, though you'd ought to know wi'out, hows'ever it be this: You are my friend, Peter. And I'm George. But you'm likewise a gen'leman baronet. And I'm a blacksmith. And there y'are. And enough too!"

"But, George man, I was also a blacksmith once."

"Ah—once, Peter! But then though once a blacksmith you was ever and allus a gen'leman. And me a smith, ever and allus a smith."

"But, confound it, man,—Rosemary is a lady and——"

"No, Peter! She be, ever and allus, a blacksmith's lass!"

"She has been splendidly educated."

"Ah, so she has, Peter, a sight too well. Eddication be good so long as it aren't over done, nor go too fur."

"But, my dear George——"

"Lookee, Peter! I be a smith, like my feyther afore me, and theer aren't no smith can ekal me when I be at my best, so I be proud o' being a good smith, proud as any gen'leman can be of his lands or titles, ah—prouder I think, because what I eats I wins by my labour, Peter, and what I'll be remembered by, p'raps, when I'm dead and gone, is the work o' these two hands,—like th' owd church-screen as you helped me to finish, years ago, Peter."

"Well, George, this is a good, manly pride and altogether admirable, but it should not come between your daughter and my son, the happiness of our children."

"Ay but, Peter, I be proud o' my Rosemary, prouder o' her than ought i' this world ... her sweet looks and ways.... She be wonderful like her sweet mother sometimes, Peter, though a bit bigger made,—and, well I be too mortal proud of her to let her be married by any gen'leman, no—not even your son. So, Peter, let's say no more about it."

"But, great heavens, George—you cannot dismiss such an affair so lightly, or in such confoundedly high-handed fashion."

"Oh? Why not, Peter?"

"Because it is altogether too serious."

"Well, but—I be mortal serious, ah—serious as death!"

"But why on earth are you opposed to such a match?"

"Because my Rosemary be too much my daughter to wed out of her class."

"You are unreasonable, George, utterly unreasonable, and I think very unwise."

"I be what the Lord and my troubles ha' made me, Peter. And I do the best I can."

"But, George, old fellow, the Wheel of Life must turn, do what we will to check it. Better then to turn with it, trusting to the Beneficent Power that first set it agoing."

"Peter, I don't 'ardly get the sense o' that theer."

"Well, George, when we beget children we liberate forces beyond our conception,—we may school them, educate them, set rules and impose laws, but our careful love can guide them only a very little part of the way,—beyond that they must and will, choose their own path."

"You mean up, or down,—to heaven or hell, Peter?"

"No, I mean to heaven, George, for I believe all paths, though they lead through blackest hell, must climb back to God and salvation ... at last."

"Well now," said George, thoughtfully, "this be a comforting thought, old friend, ay a turble comforting thought it be ... myself being, well—no better than I be and my sweet Prue now one o' God's angels and consequently so fur away from me.... And to think as I shall reach her again ... someday ... even through hell. Lord love ee, Peter, 'tis turble heartsome thought if ever I should get took again wi' tearin's an' rages, as I be sometimes still, and more shame to me! So, Peter, I be mighty grateful to ee for this thought. But now ... what's all o'this to do wi' my Rosemary?"

"She's young, George, like my son, and they love each other with a passion that I believe is very deep and pure because it is true. But, George, such love denied, being one of the greatest forces of our nature, may work incalculable evil, and instead of blessing, prove a blasting curse."

"Peter, are ye so turble anxious as your gen'leman son shall wed my blacksmith's lass to save 'em from makin' fools o' themselves—or worse?"

Sir Peter leaned back, staring down at his dusty boots and pinching his somewhat prominent chin as was his wont when at all perplexed; at last:

"George," says he, facing round upon his friend, "George, my dear fellow, I have a confession to make.... When Dick first told me of this matter I must admit that I, well—I was as much opposed to this marriage as you are. But when I listened to his wise mother's words and realised this was no boyish infatuation but a man's reverent love, strong and steadfast, why then I knew his choice must be mine also.... And now, George, when I see you so much the man you were, though better, of course, and gentled by the years,—here am I, and perhaps a little to my own wonder, very humbly pleading the cause of our children to you and with all my heart ... for their sakes, and yours, and ... mine."

"How and why for ... yourn, Peter?"

"Because to call Black George's child my daughter will be my joy and my honour."

Once more Black George picked up his empty tankard, looked at it and put it down again.

"'Honour?' says you. 'Honour! My daughter' ... your daughter! Oh, Peter ... you've said it! For ... d'ye see, in honouring my Rosemary you honour the blessed woman as bore her, ah ... you honour my sweet Prue ... 'until the morning breaks'.... And ... I can't say no more, Peter ... except ... yes!" Black George choked, but scorning to hide such emotion from Friendship's eyes, he lifted great head and looking on Peter through his tears, reached forth his two hands.

"And now, Peter," said he, after some while, "come along in, you shall sit in my Prue's own chair and presently we'll drink tea, though I don't much care for the stuff,—but she were powerful fond o' tea ... deck-ho she used to call it."