Читать книгу The 'Piping Times' - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 17

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THE place was the “Red Lion,” Truro; the time of day two of the clock, the scene a private sitting-room, with table spread for luncheon.

“Well now,” said Tom, pushing aside empty plate and filling his favourite, bulldog pipe, a grim-looking, short-stemmed briar, “the word now is ‘tools’! So Mark, old lad, I’m off to see what Truro can do in the matter.”

“A trifle previous aren’t you, Tom?”

“Not so, Mark, my buck, I merely grasp Old Man Time by his jolly old forelock.”

“But you haven’t even glimpsed Trevore yet to judge what materials you will require.”

“Mark, old horse, a ruin is a ruin, Trevore is a ruin, and therefore in need of repair. From this I argue, therefore, new doors, window-frames, flooring, chimney-pots and so on, hence timber, saws, chisels, hammers, also trowels and what not, which can be ordered beforehand. Quod erat demonstrandum! So I’m off to do it forthwith and eftsoons. What about you?”

“Letters, Tom.”

“Always and ever a confounded bore, I think—what? However, if you happen to be penning an epistle to The Noble Sire, write the best you can of me. I suppose I must drop him a line or so, but not till I’ve had a look at his poor old ruin—Trevore. You ordered a trap for after tea?”

“Yes, we shall reach Trevore about sunset.”

“Good! Well, so long!” Saying which, Tom clapped on his “deerstalker” and, with pipe in full blast, sallied forth. Now being alone, Mark took from his pocket a letter which had been waiting his arrival for some days, and opening it, read as follows:

“Orrington House,

“London.

“June 8, 18——.

“My dear Marcus,

“Your three letters, despatched on your very rambling journey, have caused me a growing and pleasurable surprise. The more so, as I have such implicit confidence in your cool and discriminating judgement of men and affairs generally. Hence I am the more impressed by the quite unusual warmth of your expressions concerning Justin. It is strange if, by and through you, my old friend, I am to become better acquainted with my own son! If, as you rather more than hint, I have completely missed the joys of fatherhood, my life, as you are fully aware, and must own, Marcus, has been almost entirely devoted to the service of my country, and I am happy to believe, not without some mede of success. Whether or no such can make up to a man for the corresponding loss of a close and intimate family life, more especially in such unhappy case as my own, is beside the question. As it is, I can but congratulate myself on having so lately placed Justin in the wise care of such tried and able diplomat and shrewd man of the world as yourself, who throughout the cares, responsibilities and dangers shared together in a busy and sometimes hazardous life, have never failed me. Now in regard to my desire for Justin’s marriage, which I discussed with you when last in London. Lady Helena Samantha Dudeney, Marchioness of Dorincourt, the lady in question, arrived in England three weeks ago, just after your and Justin’s departure, and is now in residence with her aunt and now legal guardian, Lady Oxted. To the eye Lady Helena is a truly beautiful creature, handsomer even than her photograph warranted; to the ear, however, she is quite preposterously American, her conversation being frequently interlarded with breath-taking idioms of her Wild Western upbringing, many of which are entirely beyond the powers of an English person to comprehend. Nevertheless, having due regard to her very pronounced beauty of form and feature, her birth and fortune, I am perfectly convinced I could make no better choice for my future daughter-in-law. Her mother, who died at her birth, was, I believe, the daughter of a Texas Ranger or Rancher, but her late father was George Dudeney who, you will remember, rowed Number Three the year we beat Cambridge so handsomely. George, I need hardly remind you, was the Earl of Dorincourt’s son and heir, who, after a violent family quarrel, emigrated to America in ’69 as George Dudeney. And poor George’s motherless daughter, reared, it seemed, among so many hard-riding, quick-shooting, wild-living men, inherits much of his fiery, headstrong spirit. For indeed, Marcus, she appears a madcap rebel, with no least respect for our English aristocracy or dignity of her own new title and estate as Marchioness Dorincourt, proclaiming herself an American citizen, and preferring to be known merely as Miss Samantha Dudeney. This extraordinary behaviour I now propose using to her own and my son Justin’s future happiness. To which estimable purpose, therefore, the young Marchioness Helena, to be known, by her own desire, as Miss Samantha Dudeney, accompanied by Lady Oxted, Miss Sholes, her American nurse, and maids, will arrive in Cornwall this week, to pass the summer at Penruan House, near Merrion, which I have leased and had duly furnished for the purpose. Miss Samantha and Justin, brought thus together and in such lonely countryside, I entertain a reasonable hope that the desired result may eventuate.

“In which hope, my dear Marcus,

“I remain as ever

“Your assured, sincere friend

“Gawain

“Merivale-Orrington.

“PS. I am heartily glad you floored him. That ‘thunderbolt right’ of yours seems potent and unerring as when it floored his father. Ah, Marcus, dear fellow, those were the days!”

Having read this characteristic letter with peculiar care, Mark’s grave features were lighted by a smile that often recurred as he sat with busy pen writing an answer ...

Meanwhile Tom, having purchased a carpenter’s bench with every tool he thought might possibly be wanted, from sets of saws to mason’s trowels, wandered hither and yon until, the clocks striking three and finding nothing of particular interest, he strolled into the “Red Lion’s” roomy stable yard and was lounging there, pipe in mouth, when he was roused from peaceful thoughts of sawdust and shavings, screws, bolts and nails, by a sudden, shrill scream of pain, wailing outcries and the sound of blows. Guided by this dire clamour, Tom came to one of the many stables, and there beheld a tall, powerfully built man, very ornate as to person, thrashing an extremely small groom with the butt-end of a whip.

“Easy on there!” said Tom, over and round his pipe-stem. The man turned a handsome, coldly-vicious face to eye Tom beneath thick, black brows.

“Damned young dude!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Pack off and mind your own cursed business.”

“The question is,” said Tom, removing the glowing embers from his cherished pipe and slipping it into his pocket, “the burning question is,—do you loose the infant or do I wipe my shoes on your carcase?”

The answer was prompt as painful, being a vicious blow from the whip which sent Tom’s “deerstalker” flying and himself reeling till he brought up sharply against a wall. For a moment he leant there, tow-head a-droop and long arms dangling,—but beneath their pale brows his grey eyes were a menace ... Then he leapt ... and so was conflict....

And after some while Tom stood away, and looked down at his now recumbent aggressor, and seeing he made no least attempt to rise, turned to be gone, found a modish hat in his path, kicked it forth into the yard, and following it, beheld a small group of ostlers and other horsy persons who grinned and nodded, whereat Tom grinned also, and made his way back into the inn, only to learn that Mark was out. So upstairs went Tom, and having splashed the painful lump on his head with cold water, and combed his yellow curls, he descended to the coffee-room, empty at this hour, and, seating himself in corner whence he might see the street, lighted his pipe to wait for Mark. But the afternoon was hot and drowsy ... Tom’s straw-coloured lashes drooped ... his eyes closed ... he slumbered.

“Oh—hif you please, sir!” Tom stirred. “Ho, Guvnor!”

Tom sighed, and waking to a touch, opened unwilling eyes to behold the very small groom, very smart and upright, cockaded hat in one hand, Tom’s deerstalker cap in the other.

“Oh, so it’s you again!” sighed Tom.

“Yessir, ’smee, and wiv your ’at as I’ve dusted careful and yere it is!”

“Chuck it on the table and my thanks with——”

“And my thanks t’yerself, sir, for pokin’ S’Arry so proper and pretty. My eye, but didn’t you just! Coo, luv a duck, I never see nuffink sweeter! So there’s S’Arry gorn off an’ left me, ar, and swearin’ ’evins ’ard, ’ere’s you sleepin’ and dossin’ so peaceful, ’ere’s me, wiv your ’at, come to offer meself along of it, sir, if you please.”

“Eh? What?”

“Meself, sir, for your groom, Guvnor. You’ll never find none better’n me, wot I don’t know about ’osses—ain’t! Oh I’m a one-er wiv ’osses, I am.”

“But I have no horses, at least, not in Cornwall.”

“Then buy some, sir, and I’ll show ye ’ow smart I ’andles ’em.”

“Lord!” exclaimed Tom, fumbling for his pipe.

“ ’Ere y’are, sir!” cried the little groom, diving head-foremost beneath his chair. “You drops it, sir, when you drops yourself off into the balmy.” So saying, the little “tiger” having retrieved the fallen pipe, wiped it carefully on the sleeve of his smart jacket and presented it with a queer, little, ducking bow.

“Boy,” said Tom, taking his errant pipe, but looking at this small, keenly-intelligent face. “Boy, who are you,—what’s your name?”

“Why, sir, until you knocks ’im for six, I were ‘tiger’ to S’Arry Winby, wot calls ’isself Mr. Barclay down ’ere, or, ever since we went into Cornwall, becos ’e’s a-chasin’ anuvver skirt.”

“Oh?” enquired Tom.

“Ar,—anuvver young she-male as I ’eard S’Arry tell ’is friend, Mr. Fox, was a nairess wiv lots o’ tin an’ a goddiss into the bargin!”

“Did he though! And what’s your name?”

“Oh, I ain’t got no reg’lar nime, sir, me ’aving been found on a doorstep by old Jacky Fry, as being a lonely sort o’ feller on account of ’im ’avin sich a ugly old mug an’ only one peeper, but wiv that one he can see more than most can wiv two. Jacky couldn’t abear to part wiv’ me, me being so little, no bigger’n a tuppenny rabbit, so ’e says. So ’e takes me in, names me Golia, as was a giant in the Bible, becos I ain’t, and brings me up like I wos ’is son, only ’e don’t beat nor yet kick me like fathers allers gen’rally does.”

“Ah?” murmured Tom, lighting his pipe. “And who is Jacky Fry?”

“A cobbler, sir, a snob, mends boots and shoes, ar, an’ ’e can make ’em, too, an’ lots o’ ovver fings, little carvin’s in wood an’ ships,—an’ ’e can rig ’em, too.”

“He sounds a jolly sort of chap.”

“Well, ’e is and ’e ain’t, sir, ’count of him being took on and off by the weezies.”

“What are they?”

“ ’Is breff, sir,—comes too short it do, and sometimes don’t come at all. The ’orspital says as ’ow all ’e needs is country hair, but there ain’t none in London, so that’s why I’m workin’ so precious ’ard, as I must ’ave a job so as I can pay to bring Jacky into the country along o’ me. So ’ow about it, sir?”

“About what?”

“Why, sir, seein’ as I’m hout of work all along o’ you crackin’ my Guvnor so proper, don’t you fink as you might give me a try and take me on.”

“But what could I do with you?”

“Well, sir, if you hain’t got no ’osses and don’t intend to get none, why then I tell you wot,—take me on and lemme be your faxstotum.”

“Eh? My what?”

“Faxstotum, sir, black y’r boots, answer y’r bell, look arter ye gen’rally, and all for—ten bob a week, sir! And cheap at the money. Take me or leave me, sir, I can’t go no cheaper, becos o’ Jacky, so ... will ye, please?”

“By Jingo, it’s a go! Goliath, you’re engaged!”

“Then Gawd luv ye, Guv, you ain’t never goin’ to regret it.”

“Just how old are you, Goly?”

“Well, Guvnor, me an’ Jacky ain’t rightly sure, but we puts me down for somewheres about sixteen.”

“Yes, I guessed as much.”

“Then you’re pretty sharp, sir, I’m mostly took for a kid, specially by shemales, becos o’ me size. And now, Guvnor, now as I’m y’r man, wot’s first?”

“Well ... first,” answered Tom, viewing his new, small factotum with growing interest, “first ... that livery, of course.”

“Pretty smart, eh, Guv?”

“Yes, Goly, that’s why it won’t do for me. It must be returned to your late employer at once, or he may have you taken for a thief.”

“Crikey, sir, I never thought o’ that! Cor blimey, you’re right, that’s just wot ’e would do, the perisher! What’ll I do, sir?”

“Where is your late master staying ... what’s his name again?”

“S’Arry Winby, an’ ’e’s putting up at the ‘Royal’ in Leming Street, sir.”

“Then, Goly, you must get that livery back to Sir Harry Winby at once.”

“Yessir, but—I can’t ’ardly go about in nuffink!”

“Hardly. You must buy yourself some ordinary clothes, a darkish suit, with shirts, socks and what not. Take this fiver, and if it isn’t enough, pop back for more.”

“Enough, sir—a fiver! Cor, strike me perishin’ pink, Guvnor, it’s oceans too much!”

“However, you’d better take it.”

“Blimey, Guv! Are you trustin’ me wiv all this ’ere oof?”

“Of course. Fork it into your pocket.”

“But ... Oh, luv a duck—s’pose I cut off and don’t never come back?”

“Then I shall lose five pounds and you will have to find a new master, so——”

At this juncture the door opened and Mark entered, saying:

“I’ve ordered tea, and the dogcart will—why, what the dickens—?”

“My new faxstotum, Mark.”

The boy saluted smartly, saying:

“Ow do, sir. Yes, I’ve just been took on, sir, to look arter this ’ere gent, and ’opes as I’ll prove as faithful and true and up to me job as wot I intends to be. And now, Guvnor, by y’r leave I’ll cut along arter them noo duds.” Having said which the boy favoured them with his odd little bow and went out, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

“Tom, you old ass,” said Mark, shaking grave head, though his eyes twinkled, “what have you been up to?”

“Old lad,” Tom replied, “I have—ah, here’s tea! While you pour out the tea I’ll pour forth my news, hearkee: ...”

“Ah,” sighed Mark, when the tale was told, “pity I missed it! Used your ‘right’ properly this time, eh, Tom?”

“And in the proper place, and exactly proper time, old horse, I’m happy to say. The fellow richly deserved and needed it.”

“Evidently! And what did the boy tell you his name was?”

“Sir Harry Winby.”

“Not a very common name, Tom. And staying at the ‘Royal’?”

“Yes. And my faxstotum also informs me the fellow is using a false name, Barclay, because he is ‘chasing a young she-male’.”

“Ah!” sighed Mark. “I am glad you are blessed with such a punishing ‘right’, Tom.”

“Which failed completely and ignominiously in your case, confound you!”

“Merely because I made you mistime me, old fellow. But what now of this precocious urchin, this saucy Cockney sparrow? What shall you do with him, suppose he ever comes back?”

“Use him on The Job, old horse, teach him the joy of tools and dignity of labour.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, could you but do that ... preach this gospel up and down the land, how work and craft of tools do truly dignify a man.”

“But,” said Tom, “I was meaning individual work, and in the open air or one’s own shop, not—no, God forbid,—not in crowded factories.”

“Yet, Tom, in factories are giants called machines, and it is by and on machinery that England has become mightiest power on earth.”

“And by heavens, Mark, it is this same dam’ machinery that is stripping our good countryside, crowding our towns and cities to breed slums and disease and slowly but surely stamping out true Craftsmanship. F’instance, take shoes and watches,—at one time a true craftsman chose his leather and with his awls and what not, created a shoe, a perfect piece of work, and took pride in it; another johnny constructed the marvel of a watch, every spring, screw and wheel! To-day your dam’ machinery turns ’em out wholesale,—like sausages!”

“But surely, Tom, a machinist can be a craftsman?”

“Up to a point—perhaps! Ah, but the true joy of constructing some what-not by his own ... his individual effort and skill is gone and forever lost.”

“Tom, thou art a reactionary!”

“Mark, I am an individualist!”

“But, Tom, old fellow, I tell you——”

“And, Mark, my dear old chump, I tell you ...”

They were still at it hammer and tongs, puffing smoke and arguments at one another, when the door swung open to disclose that which struck them dumb; a small, sorry object, hatless, dusty and torn, whose little, pallid face was streaked with blood, and, what was much worse, with tears.

“Goly!” exclaimed Tom, very nearly dropping his pipe again.

“Oh, Guvnor,” sobbed the boy, “will ye take a ... squint at me! I’ve ’ad a fair doin’, I ’ave,—not arf I ’aven’t! Thought I’d never git back wiv y’r money ... y’r change ... I takes back them duds, but ’e copped me, ’e did, and luv a duck—did ’e lay into me?”

“Goly, I do believe you’re crying!”

“Yessir! But only ... a bit ... an’ not becos o’ wot ’e done to me, but ... Oh, Guv, look wot ’appened to me noo togs!”

“Goly, my hearty,” said Tom, leaning near to lay his arm across the boy’s thin, drooping shoulders, “your clothes have lost their awful, horrid newness, and are now, just as I wanted ’em,—nice and dusty, with a bit of a tear here and there, as if you’d been working with me for months. So, cheer up! Did he hit you very hard?”

“Oh, blimey, Guvnor, didn’t ’e! But I gets in a kick or two at ’is perishin’ shins—not arf.”

“Good effort, Goly! Now go and wash off the stains of battle, order yourself tea, and report to me in the yard at exactly five o’clock.”

Hereupon, marvellously heartened to forget past woes, Golia grinned, made his little bow and vanished.

“Tom, I begin to like your little cock-sparrow. But why call the poor little chap ‘Goly’?”

“Short for Golia, which is short again for Goliath, and so named because one was a giant in the Bible and the other isn’t.”

At precisely five o’clock, as a smartish dogcart appeared in the yard so did The Factotum, washed, brushed and combed to such effect that his new master exclaimed:

“By Jove, Goly, you look remarkably trim.”

“Yes, Guv, a woman done it, one o’ them there chambermaids in a cap an’ doodahs,—only she goes an’ spiles it all by wantin’ to kiss me, thinkin’ I was only a kid, same as they all do,—so I ’as to curse and blind a bit till she screeches an’ runs. So ’ere I am, sir,—shall I take the ribbons?”

“No, thanks, Goly, I’ll drive. And, by the way, I think I’ll call you Go.”

“Very good, sir, and all ready be’ind.” So saying, the boy clambered nimbly to his place; and thus, with Mark beside him and his new factotum behind, Tom set off at a rattling pace. But what with tortuous roads and lack of sign-posts they went astray so often that the sun had set when they arrived at their destination.

Thus shadows were lengthening when Tom had his first sight of Trevore,—a grey shape rising ghostly amid a tangled wilderness shut in by great trees starkly outlined against an opalescent sea that held a waning glory.

A house of hewn stone was Trevore, larger than expected, and shaped like a great E; a strong place, built long ago to defy time and the elements, and therefore glooming now in sullen, slow decay, its silent doorways and blinded windows blocked by warped timbers and rotting shutters.

Thus, dying, stood Trevore as the sun went down on yet another of its many days, slowly perishing with neglect yet undaunted amid this riotous wilderness that had once been lawns and gardens.

Tom gazed speechlessly, and for so long that Mark, seated nearby upon the broken column of a sundial, questioned him at last:

“A ghostly place, eh, Tom? No wonder the country folk never venture hereabout, and especially after sunset! What do you think of it?”

“Grand!” murmured Tom. “And grandly pitiful. It’s pathetic and calls me,—it’s grim and commands me.”

“Your birthplace, Tom.”

“The home of my unknown mother! Her feet trod this earth, her eyes gazed on that old sundial, her voice echoed from these old walls ... Yes, Trevore is haunted for me already ... I believe Trevore has been calling me all these years ... well, here I am at last ... Can you tell me about how old it is, Mark? Elizabethan, of course, but parts of it seem older, but how much?”

“Well, according to ancient deeds and county records it is set down in Thirteen Hundred odd as Trevorth, and before that as Trevorthen, and before that again as Trevorthannack.”

“So very ancient?” said Tom, his gaze still intent. “So very old, and yet, in spite of abuse and neglect, here it stands firm rooted still ... part of Old England! So here, Mark, here I shall camp.”

“Oh?” enquired Mark.

“Ar!” replied Tom, “which means, ‘yes’, my hearty. To-morrow I shall buy a tent and what not.”

“Meaning you will live here?”

“I shall! And labour from dawn to dusk, like a horse, old horse.”

“And what of me, Tom?”

“Ah,—that is the burning question! To be sure, the weather is glorious, the place salubrious, no lack of water, salt or fresh, and yet, as surely, I cannot ask or expect such as you to muck in and rough it with such as Tom Wade, who naturally enjoys mucking and messing about and roughing it. Moreover, and to boot, you can return to the August Sire and Anxious Parent to assure him his errant Heir has gone safely to earth, and is on The Job to stick on till it’s completed.”

“M—yes!” said Mark, thoughtfully. “And yet ... you may as well buy a tent large enough for two, with a shovel and pick or so, for while you muck about with hammer and saw, I’ll mess around chopping and digging.”

“Cheers!” exclaimed Tom, throwing up his now somewhat travel-worn ‘deerstalker.’ “Spoken like a trump, a Trojan and a brick, old pippin! For, ’pon my soul, Mark, you’ve become so large a feature in my life’s landscape that ... well ... I should miss you quite damnably. So now let’s back to our inn, foaming beakers and supper, eh, old fellow?”

“With a will. For, Tom, I’ve found more joy in these last few weeks than in ... twenty long years. But where the dickens is our small giant?”

“Why—there!” quoth Tom, as towards them, driven with great dash and speed, came horse and dogcart, to be reined up before them very dexterously, and with graceful flourish of whip.

“Now, gen’lemen,” cried Golia, “if ye’ll please take your places I’ll show ye a real bit o’ drivin’—though this ’ere four-legged screw can’t ’ardly do me justice.”