Читать книгу My Lord of Wrybourne - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 9
ОглавлениеDESCRIBES THE MAKING OF "A TOOL"
And so presently, with Jane beside him, bearing that somewhat battered yet still favourite doll Batilda, away went Sam, hand in hand, saying as they set out across the sunny park:
"But, my dear, where's our Esau dog?"
"Oh, he's very busy," she replied, "'cause he's taking baby and Auntie Meda for a walk."
"Oh? Ah—I see!"
"Yes, but you aren't seeing how nice I've made myself for you, Uncle Sam."
"Because you're always so very nice, sweetheart."
"But today I've put on my very bestest bonnet for you and——"
"Why, Jane—so you have! And very smart it looks,—my word!"
"And look! I'm wearing the lovely necklace what my Auntie Meda gave me for my last birfday!"
"Ay—b'George!" murmured Sam, eyeing this precious thing somewhat askance. "Does your Grannyanne know?"
"Well—not quite. I did it while she was too busy and I wanted to make me very nice for you to take out, Uncle Sam dear, 'stead of my lessons what I don't like 'cause they never seem to 'gree with me. Did you like sums and jogafree an' histree an' pothooks an' hangers when you were a child, did you?"
"No, Jane, I did not!"
"I'm glad! An' that's what makes me love you such lots!"
"Do you, my Jane? But then, d'ye see, we all have to do our lessons the best we can, some time or other."
"Yes, I know, an' that's what makes the sunshine so hard to bear when it watches me doing sums, and the wind in the trees calling 'hush' an' whispering pomes to me like it was doing today just before you came and took me this lovely walk."
"What sort of poems, sweetheart, tell me."
"Well, I was doing sub-straction, what I don't like, and trying to take seven from four, which you can't, and then the wind in the rose-bush outside the open window began to whisper to me."
"What did it say, Jane?"
"It whispered quite plain, like this:
'Four from seven, Jane, don't you know
Won't ever, never, ever go.
So listen to the tale I sing
'Bout fairies in a fairy ring
What you can't ever see 'cause they
Only in the moonlight play
What you can't ever see, you know,
'Cause, Jane, at night to sleep you go
And bofe your eyes so tight are shut
How can you 'spect to see——'
It didn't sing any more 'cause I s'pose that word 'shut' got in the way."
"And no wonder!" quoth Sam, stooping to kiss her. By this time they had reached the Home Farm where my lord was supplied with hone and scythe, and with this last borne safely upon his shoulder, on they went to the five-acre meadow that swept up in gentle slope to a dense and shady woodland.
Here, while Jane (and Batilda) sat to watch, Sam removed coat, waistcoat and ruffled shirt, set an edge to scythe-blade, thumbed it, nodded, and began to mow with wide, smooth sweeps of the long, keen blade.
How long he had wrought thus joying in his labour, he never knew, when—all of a sudden—he was roused and startled by a wail, a shrill scream of frantic terror from the wood. Down went scythe and thither he leapt—to behold Jane struggling feebly in the grasp of a powerful-looking man.
"Loose her!" snarled Sam. The man obeyed, dropping the necklace also that he might better defend himself against the oncoming fury.... Fist to fist they met, while Jane, catching up her beloved trinket, cowered away, watching with wide, horrified eyes such dreadful sight as no child should ever see—brutality out-brutalized. For this man, stung repeatedly by merciless blows, was so misguided as to try the murderous tactics of butting head, of fists that became claws to gouge, rend and tear,—feet, knees and elbows, weapons to maim and crush.
"S-o-o-o!" hissed Sam, and laughed, setting himself to out-match savagery with a brutality more experienced and far better skilled. Thus he now fought, using such ghastly methods (and quite joyously) until this child-aggressor roared in agony, whimpered with futility and whined for mercy—all quite vainly until Jane screamed again:
"Oh ... Uncle Sam ... don't ... don't!"
Smitten by the note of horror in this so loved childish voice, Sam hurled his now helpless victim to earth, made to kick him, checked the impulse and panted instead:
"Crawl ... beast! Creep ... y'scum! Don't get afoot or ... I'll ... do for ye...!"
And when this half-murdered brute had writhed away into the undergrowth, Sam turned with arms outstretched, saying:
"Did he hurt you, my Jane?"
"No ... no, he only frightened me, but ... Oh, Uncle Sam, you ... you hurted me ... awful!"
"Hurt you, my precious? I did? How?"
"'Cause you looked so frightflee awful ... you hurted me inside me——"
"Oh, my dear!" he exclaimed penitently. "Come then and let me kiss you."
"Ah no—not yet! Not till I've wiped your poor face an' made it nice again. Please kneel down an' let me."
So before her upon the trampled grass he knelt obediently while little Jane, inspired by that sweet spirit of motherhood which glorifies all creatures feminine, proceeded, and very tenderly, to dab the ugly stains from his face with her small, and somewhat grimy handkerchief, saying as she thus ministered:
"The man kicked you, too!"
"No, sweetheart, he only tried. Now, have you made me quite 'nice' again?"
"Yes!" she answered, and kissing, clung to him, saying rather weepily, "Now will you take me safe home, UncleSamdear?"
"Ay, 'home' is the word!" said he, cheerily. "I've lost my taste for mowing, at least for today."
"That ... that man," said Jane with a catch in her voice, "tried to take my necklace, but he didn't; here it is! So will you please put it on me again, Uncle Sam."
"I can't, sweetheart; the clasp is broken, d'ye see,—but never mind, we'll soon have it mended. Just for the present I'll put it in my pocket for you. And now let's go home." So when he had put the scythe out of harm's way and donned his garments, he swung Jane up to his shoulder, and thus together home they went.
Meanwhile, the man in question, having wormed himself to safe distance, contrived to get afoot and, groaning with pain, staggered on until he reached a little clearing in the wood where stood a miserable, ill-used pony harnessed to a rickety cart; here, stumbling to a halt, he sank upon the grass and lay there whimpering like the beaten, pain-racked animal he was, until, hearing a soft laugh, he glanced up, smearing blood from his eyes the better to see.... Two persons were gazing down at him, the one blond and slim, who lolled against a tree and smiled,—the other tall, dark and masterful, who scowled, grasping a whip in his left hand, his right hidden in the breast of his close-fitting, silver-buttoned coat; now instantly aware that these were gentlemen of the Quality, the man cowered before them and groaned.
"Pah!" exclaimed the dark man, spitting disgustedly. "Come away, Twily, the fellow's a sickening object!"
"He is indeed," murmured the Viscount. "Yes, a perfect horror, Bob, and therefore may become useful—another tool, eh, my Robert? Ha—you!" said he, addressing this grovelling "horror" who instantly writhed and whimpered. "Tell me, Mr. Blood and Grief, do you know who gave you so much more than you expected, eh—do you know who he was?"
"Yessir, 'twere a labouring man, a reaper——"
"Oh no, my poor, bleeding fool! The man who has left his mark on you, yes, a good many in fact, the man who has turned you into a crawling misery, is the Earl of Wrybourne."
"Eh!" gasped the man, cowering again. "Were it the Earl as savaged me?"
"It was. And he savaged you with quite remarkable dexterity! You were never a beauty, of course, but now you are a crouching nightmare! And you are suffering, I see! The Earl has indeed made you a very painful mess! You are in pain,—eh?" Once again the man smeared his gory visage, writhed his agonized body and groaned.
"Quite so!" nodded the Viscount.
"Come!" growled Sir Robert, impatiently. "What the devil——"
"Patience, dear Bob, and perpend! Tell me, Mr. Bloody Bones, as the Earl has made that foul body of yours so very cursedly painful, you would probably enjoy the chance, a safe chance of course, to make him suffer more, eh?"
"Ar!" snarled the man, with look and gesture so murderous that his questioner nodded and smiled again. "Sir ... sir," panted the man struggling up to his knees. "Gimme ... only gimme ... the chance!"
"You see, my dear Bob, you apprehend—a tool! Well, Mr. Gory Ghastliness, what is your name?"
"'Tis no matter, sir, but on the roads I'm called Mumping Jim."
"Aha, Jim, now I see your nose and mouth are torn, dear me,—and as I watched the Earl at work on you I thought his gouging thumbs would have burst your eyes out."
"Ar——!" cried Mumping Jim, wincing at the recollection. "That's wot I thought! That's why I give in——"
"And, given the chance, James, you would enjoy doing the same to him."
"Ar, by blood—I'd love it! Only gimme the chance—try me! Ay, I'd put 'is lights out—for good an' all, I would!"
"You hear, Robert? Tell us, Jim,—how do you live, what do you do?"
"Anythink, sir, but tinkerin' mostly."
"Ah, well, Mumping Jim, I think we might find you other and more profitable work—one of these fine days.... Easier work and, as I say, far better paid! Where could you be found?"
"Why, sir, at any o' the 'ouses o' call, inns and taverns, sir, on the road twixt 'ere and Guildford, that's me beat, and all the true padding-coves can get word of me or to me. And, sir, I ain't never a chap as frisks his chaffer,—mum's the word for me, sir, mum!"
"However you'll know the Earl of Wrybourne again—if ever you should chance to see him——"
"Ar!" snarled Mumping Jim, with another wildly-threatening gesture. "Ar—I'll know 'im!"
"Yes, I'm sure you will! Meanwhile, here's a trifle to help you cherish his memory until—yes, until you are fit to earn more."
So saying, the Viscount tossed a coin at this vengeful "horror" and, nodding, sauntered away after Sir Robert who was waiting impatiently beside their tethered horses.
