Читать книгу The Glad Summer - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 3

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In those now loftily disparaged “early Victorian days”, when England stood in the forefront of the nations, her prestige so high and assured that none dared challenge it, and her folk so simple-hearted as actually to believe in the efficacy of prayer; in those happier, less tumultuous times when the roads of England—though dusty in dry weather and miry in wet—knew no greater peril than horse-drawn vehicle, that is to say, before Death in the shape of petrol-driven monsters had usurped the peaceful highways—on such a day one, Nicholas Harbourne, was trudging wearily southward.

The day was hot, the road dusty (of course), and himself direly athirst; thus with blissful visions of tankards abrim with cool nutty ale, his eyes, beneath brows hoary with dust, were keenly alert for sight of some alehouse or hedge-tavern where he might find this so needed refreshment. Thus presently, at a place where three roads met, he beheld a dusty fingerpost that announced in faded lettering: “To Tetbury. To Bowey St. Mary. To Harbourne”. Here he paused, but, seeing no sign of any inn and thus having no choice of direction, he sat down, with dusty back against dusty fingerpost, to wait for some wayfarer to direct him.

And after some while, borne to him on the warm, somnolent air, came a sound of slow-plodding hoofs with the creak and rumble of heavy wheels, and, glancing thitherwards, he beheld, drawn by two powerful horses very shaggy as to manes and fetlocks, a great wain or farm-wagon painted sky-blue and mounted on the pinkest wheels he had ever seen. Nicholas sat up to blink at this garish vehicle and hail the driver:

“Ahoy, Bill! Bring to and tell me, like the honest Bill you are, where is the nearest inn, tavern or alehouse? Speak, Bill, speak!”

The driver reined up his team with a jerk to stare down as his questioner round-eyed, took off his old straw hat to scratch his shock of towlike hair and, thus scratching and staring, exclaimed:

“Love me precious innards! ’Ow du ee know as I be Bill, for Bill I be sure-ly—and, this so being, ’ow should ee know as sich be so?”

“Because Bill is writ large all over you, so Bill the word is—ale! Lead me to it and let us drink to the Bill that you are and the me that I am. What say you, Bill?”

“Sir, I says ar, very fervent and ’earty. So ef ee’ll mount up along o’ me I’ll drive ee to Joe Todgers’ Peck o’ Malt.”

With a certain (seaman’s) lithe nimbleness Nicholas swung up to driving-seat, Bill chirruped to his horses, and on rumbled the four great pink wheels; remembering which, Nicholas remarked:

“Your master certainly likes bright colours.”

“Sir, my master ain’t a him, she’s a her, being a lady. Mistus Joanne Marsden as farms Fallowdene like her folks afore her, and she had me and Jarge paint this here old wagin bright-like, ’oping mebbe ’twould so fetch a extry pound or so at the sale.”

“What sale, Bill?”

“Why, her sale, sir. She’ve got to sell up and go along o’ this yere noo landlord, Sir Nicholas, ’aving rose the rents and ruinated her—ar and others, too, dang ’im! So Mistus Joanne has gotter go.”

“Where to, Bill?”

“Well, she’ve got a bit of a cottage wi’ three or four acres as was left to her by her dear mother.”

“When is the sale?”

“In about six weeks, sir, and a sad day ’twill be for arl on us at Fallerdene—sure-ly!”

“Your mistress is a middle-aged lady, rather bony and with grey hair, eh, Bill?”

“Well, ’ardly that, sir, seein’ as ’ow she be just turned twenty-five and ’er ’air being red—leastways sometimes, when the sun ketches it right. And as for bones——”

“Well, what about ’em, Bill?”

“Sir, there be so much soft white prettiness about ’em as you wouldn’ know she ’ad a bone about ’er.”

“And, being a farmer, hayrakes, pitchforks, and so on, I suppose she’s fairly hard and muscular?”

“Ay, ’er can toss a sheaf wi’ the best.”

“And in wet weather up to her eyes in mud, Bill?”

“Ay, ’er don’t mind a bit o’ mud—nor dung neither—and yon’s the Peck o’ Malt.”

Before this small, sequestered alehouse Bill reined up, roaring as he did so:

“Oho, Joe—house! Oho! Ale, Joe, ale! Wheer be ee, I wonder.”

“Why, here for sure,” and out from the lattice a face scowled up at them.

“Well, two pints, Joe.”

“Three,” said Nicholas, “for you’ll pray join us.” The scowl vanished, the head nodded, vanished also; and when they entered the small cool taproom they found Joe with three foaming tankards awaiting them. So, having nodded and pledged each other, these three tankards were slowly elevated, emptied, and sighed over blissfully.

Nicholas ordered their replenishment. Thus presently again the three heads nodded, the tankards were raised—then suddenly arrested, as from the road came sound of trampling horse-hoofs and therewith a voice, richly sweet but commanding, cried:

“Bill, come you here!”

“My mistus!” He gasped and, gulping the last of his ale, stepped out, followed by Nicholas, who beheld a feminine shapeliness in riding-habit (dusty, of course); a young woman this, whose brows were too black, whose ruddy, full-lipped mouth was too wide, and whose chin, just now set aggressively, was quite too masculine.

Raising dusty hat, Nicholas bowed, saying:

“Madam, the fault is entirely mine——”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, frowning more angrily. “And pray who may you be?”

“I,” said Nicholas, moved by sudden impulse, “am your very humble servant—Anthony Anson.”

“And, Mistus, ’e were choked wi’ dust and fair perishing o’ thirst——”

“Indeed, he looks very unpleasantly dusty, Bill.”

“Miss Marsden, I am so compact of and disguised in dust that, when less so, I shall venture to present myself for your better appraisal, for, devoid of dust, I show so much better than at present. I shall hope to afford you a pleasant surprise.”

“Sir, your overwhelming self-confidence indeed surprises me, and——”

“Miss Marsden, I am a surprising person and shall hope to amaze, astound and astonish you sometime when we are better acquainted.”

“Mr. Anson, I have no least desire for your acquaintance.”

“Miss Marsden, I am bold to think such desire will grow upon you until it becomes an obsession.”

“What nonsense!” She laughed. “Or should I frown at your presumption?”

“Either,” he answered gravely. “I venture to prophesy the end will be the same.”

“What end, pray?”

“The future—and we can neither of us evade our destiny.”

“Mr. Anson, you become mysterious and I detest riddles, so I will leave you to guzzle your ale. You, Bill, get going before this—this talkative gentleman makes you quite drunk.” So saying, she gave her horse its head and cantered away through the sunshine.

“Yes,” said Nicholas, watching the lithe grace of her as she rode, “you were right, Bill.”

“ ’Ow so, sir?”

“About her hair—it is coppery when the sun catches it right.”