Читать книгу The Glad Summer - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 8

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A week had elapsed, and today every village on the Harbourne estate was in a ferment by reason of a certain notice printed in extremely bold type, easy to decipher, and which, being read, stirred all readers and hearers to deep and varying emotions, first of disbelief, changing to doubt, to awed wonder, to hope, and finally to rapturous joy. Women laughed, men cheered. While in a certain spacious kitchen, where Miss Jemima Marsden, with Ann, the first housemaid, was making and baking bread, with other goodly things, Joanne, dimpled elbows on table and head in hands, sat gazing down at another of these notices, staring at each bold-printed word beneath brows knit in troubled perplexity.

“No!” she repeated. “No, Aunt Jemima! I cannot, I will not, I—dare not believe it. Such wonders don’t happen, and this is so—so unnatural and too good to be true!”

Busied with rolling-pin, Aunt Jemima, this ever serene, gentle-eyed lady, answered placidly:

“However, my dearest, should this marvel be true indeed, which I dare to believe, we shall not be compelled to leave this dear old house, this beloved home of ours.”

“If it be true,” repeated Joanne wistfully, “oh, if it really and truly is true, then Sir Nicholas Harbourne must be a—masculine angel!”

“He is certainly magnanimous, my dear, a very noble gentleman!”

“And old, of course, Aunt! He must be very, very old and kind! No young man could ever possibly be so unselfish.”

In at the open lattice came Bill’s towlike head to say in awed tones:

“Mistus Joanne, this yere be a merricle! To raise our rents be nat’ral, to lower ’em ain’t! So me and Jarge and Joe, ar, and all on us, do reckon as ’tis a merricle, sure-ly, no question! You don’t ’ave to sell up and leave this old place now, eh, Miss Jo?”

“Not now, Bill, thank God!”

“Ar! And Sir Nicholas ’Arbourne likewise! Lord love ’is old white head.”

“Oh, then he is old, is he, Bill?”

“Ma’am, ’e must be! Only a old chap as be past wishin’ for wine, women and song would give back s’ much money to the good land and the likes o’ we——”

“Good morning!” said a cheerful voice, and in beside Bill’s shaggy poll came the sleek, dark head of Nicholas. “Bill has just been telling me the news.”

“Ar, so I ’ave, mistur, ’bout this yere meracklous merricle.”

“Which,” said she, turning towards Nicholas, “I hardly dare believe even yet, because it seems too wonderful, too nobly generous for belief! But if it is true—oh, then he must be an old darling, a grandly noble old gentleman.”

“Who, pray?”

“Why, Sir Nicholas Harbourne, of course! I should love to kiss his dear, wrinkled old face!”

“Should you indeed, Miss Joanne?”

“Yes, indeed I should, his dear old silvery head, yes and every wrinkle of his angel face—because if this is true, as I am beginning to believe, he is the grandest, kindest, most unselfish landlord that ever was or could be!”

“And so,” said Nicholas, dwelling on the word, “you would like to—kiss—him?”

“Yes, repeatedly!”

“He would be glad to know it.”

“Well, he never will, of course.”

“You might perhaps write and tell him so.”

“Goodness gracious, as if I’d dare! I haven’t your cool audacity! Oh, Aunt Jemima, this is my trespasser who hurled his hat at me, as I told you. Mr. Anson, my aunt, Miss Marsden.”

Aunt Jemima, viewing him with those gentle though keenly appraising eyes of hers, curtsied above and over her floury rolling-pin, saying:

“May all trespassers be as welcome!”

Nicholas bowed above and over the window-sill, answering and with grave sincerity:

“Miss Marsden, I am truly grateful——”

“So are we,” sighed Joanne, “Aunt and I, to Sir Nicholas Harbourne, blessings on his grand old white head, because he has saved this dear old place to us. There will be no sale now.”

“Good!” said Nicholas. “Then perhaps you can find room about the place for the clean, respectable, highly intelligent handyman I proffer for your acceptance.”

“Meaning Mr. Anson, Mr. Anson?”

“That same, madam.”

“But would Mr. Anson mind Mr. Anson having to perform such rough work as I might ask Mr. Anson to do?”

“Miss Joanne, Mr. Anson, being Mr. Anson, would perform as only Mr. Anson could, can and would.”

“Then if Mr. Anson will be content with the miserable pittance of ten shillings a week, all I dare offer at present, Mr. Anson may consider himself engaged as our man-of-all-work.”

“To which offer, mistress, Mr. Anson replies: ‘Done!’ So now, pray what is your first order?”

“They pigsties!” said Bill. “Us can’t nowise raise pigs till they’m repaired, and pigs pays right proper they do, mistus!”

“I know,” she sighed, “but we can’t afford pigs yet, Bill.”

“No, ’m! ’Ows’ever, the old tithe barn wants its door mended, bad.”

“It needs a new door, Bill, but we daren’t afford that either.”

“Mistress Joanne, your handyman shall do his best with what remains of the old one.”

“Sir, that bit of old door be beyond repairin’, purty nigh, no question.”

“Yes,” said Joanne, with another sigh, “I’m afraid it is; yes, even beyond the power of such handyman as Mr. Anson, Mr. Anson.”

“Nevertheless, mistress mine, he shall have a go at it. Come, Bill, show me where.”

“Ay, sir, but there bean’t much for to show ee.” And away they strode together.

“ ‘Mistress mine’!” repeated Joanne and in such tone that her aunt’s gentle though remarkably shrewd eyes twinkled as she murmured:

“Very poetically quaint, my dear!”

“Quaint? Poetical!” repeated Joanne indignantly. “Aunt, what do you think of him?”

“My dear, if you mean your Mr. Anson, I like him.”

“He is not ‘my’ Mr. Anson, Aunt—the idea! And I’m not sure that I like him one bit! He is quite too pertinaciously familiar—and, besides, there is some mystery about him, something almost—furtive——”

“Goodness, child! Are you suggesting he is a malefactor, a run-away jail-bird, an escaped convict, a——”

“Aunt Jemima! What an atrociously abominable idea! All I meant was that he is so—so unexpected, so utterly different to any other man I ever met.”

“Well, they say originality is divine. Where did you meet him?”

“Outside Joe Todger’s nasty little alehouse with a tankard in his hand.”

“Ah, you mean he is a wine and ale bibber, a drunkard——”

“No—I—do—not! I didn’t see him drink——”

“Ah,” sighed Aunt Jemima, smiling down at her busy rolling-pin, “a secret drinker, which is worse—though I didn’t think he looked a criminal type.”

“Of course he isn’t!” said Joanne, glancing indignantly at the back of Aunt Jemima’s carefully averted head.

“Then, my dear, why this nonsense about his being furtive and mysterious?”

“Because he is. When first I saw him he was——”

“Guzzling ale, you say.”

“No! I said there was a tankard——”

“From which he guzzled!”

“Nothing of the kind, Aunt—though Bill said he was perishing with thirst. No, what struck me was his appearance. He looked so hot and tired and fearfully dusty that I knew he must have travelled a long way and evidently on foot——”

“But, my dear, he does not look a common tramp.”

“Certainly not, Aunt! Yet why should he trudge afoot in such heat and dust?”

“Perhaps he is poor, a needy gentleman who has seen better days. For a gentleman he is, Joanne!”

“So I think, Aunt. But why tramp the roads? And why to our village? And why lodge at Will Lawler’s Soaring Lark? And why work for me for mere pittance?”

“Why don’t you ask him, my dear?”

“I mean to—when I know him better—perhaps.”

Meanwhile Nicholas, in shirt-sleeves and armed with the necessary tools, was surveying all that remained of the ancient barn’s massive door, whereat Bill shook solemn head, saying:

“A praper old ruination it be, sir, sure-ly!”

“Yet what there is of it is good old English oak, Bill, and pretty sound. A brace of stout battens with three or four planks should make it do for the time being.”

The timber being produced, Nicholas got to work with saw and adze, chisel and hammer, and, thus busied, was whistling blithely, when he became aware of a supremely elegant horseman approaching, a handsome, youthful-seeming person, who, on closer inspection, proved older than was at first apparent; an arrogant, bold-eyed person, who, reining in his spirited horse, cried in the tone of one used to implicit and instant obedience:

“Hi, you there, drop that hammer and come and hold my horse!”

“Certainly, sir, if you’ll drop your horse and hold my hammer.”

“Eh—what—what?” exclaimed the person, with threatening gesture of his hunting-crop. “Now, damme, but I believe you are trying to be insolent.”

“And be damned to you, sir, if I’m not succeeding!” The person wheeled his trampling horse and raised the hunting-crop. Nicholas stepped forward, twirling his heavy hammer. Then was flutter of petticoats and Joanne was between them.

“Whatever are you doing?” she demanded.

“This—this fellow——” stuttered the person.

“Is my—is a Mr. Anson,” she said rather breathlessly. “Mr. Anson, this—this is Charles, Lord Wolverton.”

“This impudent fellow actually affronted me, Joanne!”

“This very lordly fellow actually bellowed at me, marm. He would also actually have interfered with my work and since that work is for Mistress Joanne, no lord alive is going to let or stay me, actually.”

“Then, Charles—my lord, I will not allow you, or anyone else, to interfere with my—my—workpeople.”

Beneath scowling brow my lord inserted an eyeglass the better to glare on Anthony, saying:

“Joanne, I merely asked your labourer fellow to hold my horse!”

“He is far better occupied, Charles! Which makes me wonder why your horse is here?”

“I rode over, for one thing, to discuss Harbourne’s amazing conduct—this lowering of rents, this——”

“Yes,” she sighed, “it is indeed amazing, and——”

“It’s infinitely worse, Joanne! It’s betrayal of his class, of us! It’s a direct incitement to revolt! The whole rural community will be dissatisfied with their lot——”

“No, with their little, Charles, and no wonder! I have often thought they are shamefully underpaid.”

“But damme, Jo, don’t you see——”

“Do—not—swear, my lord!”

“No—forgive me! But don’t you see the danger this fool Harbourne is causing?”

“No! I see and hear around me lately only happiness, smiling faces and glad voices instead of gloom and misery.”

“And I’m telling you, Joanne, Harbourne’s madness is a direct incitement to revolution, rebellion, and probably civil war! The fellow is an accursed menace.”

“No, Charles, he is such a public blessing that I should like to go on my knees to him.”

“Eh? Should you, b’gad?”

“I should indeed, but, since I cannot, I pray God’s blessing on him instead!”

“On this—this fellow?”

“On this noble-hearted gentleman!”

“Oh, well, no more of him, because I desire to see you on a—more important matter, m’dear.”

“I am—not your dear nor ever shall be.”

“Are you so sure of this?”

“Perfectly sure—and certain!”

“I wonder! Because, m’dear, I desire a word or two with you—business and so on——”

“Oh ... business?” she repeated distressfully and with such hopeless, weary gesture that Nicholas, about to use his hammer, rubbed his shaven chin with it instead and knit his brow in angry perplexity.

“So shall we go indoors, m’dear?”

“Oh, if you must. But Aunt Jemima shall hear you as well.”

“As you please. Though you are mistress here——”

“Yes, but for how long?”

“This all depends on you, m’dearest; you have only to say——”

“I never shall, Charles, never——”

“Circumstances may compel you to——”

“I shall defy them and—oh, come to the house and Aunt Jemima.”

Having watched them out of sight, Nicholas scowled at his hammer, shook his head at it and fell to work again, but presently to him came Bill with his two fellow labourers, a rather self-conscious Bill, who, touching his hat, said:

“Mist’ Anson, sir, since now you be one o’ we and b’long like, I rackon as how ee should ought to know these yere chaps as ’ave b’longed at Fallowdenes’ many years.”

“Good for them!” said Nicholas heartily. “I should like to shake their hands.”

“So ee shall, sir, but first lemme do things praper. This,” said he, clapping the broad shoulder of a stalwart shy-grinning fellow, “this be Jarge as won ploughin’-match last year. And this old un be Joe, the cowman, as should ought to be dead and buried years ago but do choose to be alive and work for Mistus Joanne. So now, sir, us as was but three is four, so let’s shake ’ands all round, sir, if you please.” The which Nicholas did forthwith.

All the afternoon he laboured until the fragment of door, though somewhat of a patchwork, was at least a serviceable door again. He was surveying his handiwork rather dubiously, when a soft voice, unexpectedly near, enquired timidly:

“Oh, please, who are you?” Glancing round, he beheld a small, extremely demure feminine person, very prim, from pink sunbonnet to little sandalled feet, who, looking up at him with large dark eyes, made him a curtsy, slim finger crooked beneath dimpled chin, saying as she did so:

“Please, who are you, I wonder? I’m named Priscilla, though sometimes I’m called ‘Pris’, and I don’t like it because it’s so hissy. So please what’s your name?”

“Priscilla is a very pretty name,” said he, smiling, “and you may call me Anthony.”

“Well, Anthony’s a pretty name, too, like the call of a bird.”

“A bird, sweetheart?”

“Yes, in a wood when it calls good night—like this: An—too—nee. Have you been mending this poor old door?”

“Yes, what do you think of it, Priscilla?”

“You must be a fright-flee clever sort of Anthony to make it so nice and strong again, only it wants to be painted.”

“It does, my dear, and it shall be.”

“Nice darky-green, Anthony, like trees look at evening. I love trees, don’t you?”

“So much, sweetheart, that I hate to see them cut down!”

“So do I, ’cause it takes them such a long time and so much trouble to grow themselves nice and big, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, my dear, and such a short time to fell them. And yet we must have wood to build our houses and ships and things.”

“And I like ships, too, with their lovely white sails.”

“Yes, a ship is a wonderful and beautiful thing, Priscilla.”

“Frogs are lovely, too, Anthony, when they’re little. I have one here in the pocket of my pinafore what looks at me with golden eyes. I’ll show you.” Here, after some groping, she extracted the frog, holding it out on small, pink palm, which little creature seemed to regard them and the universe in general with eyes like jewels.

“There, Anthony, isn’t he lov——” Here, with sudden tremendous leap, this small frog vanished in the grass which grew thickly nearby.

“Oh well,” sighed Priscilla, “perhaps he’s better where he b’longs. So now, if you like, I’ll give you first bite of my apple,” and from that same pocket she drew the fruit in question, saying: “One side’s a bit green, so you’d better try the pinky part.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” said he very tenderly, “but I don’t feel apple-ish just at present.”

“And I don’t, too,” said she, dropping it back into her pocket. “But I do like the way you call me ‘sweetheart’! Does it mean that you love me?”

“It certainly does, Priscilla!”

“Oh, but that’s a bit quicky soon, isn’t it? ’Cause our Ann what’s going to marry our George told Polly our dairymaid as how she didn’t allow him to call her ‘sweetheart’ till they’d walked out a month.”

At this moment Lord Wolverton approached at leisured trot and his youthful-seeming face showed grim, also he reined his horse to a walk the better to scowl down on Nicholas, seemed about to speak, but, meeting the child’s wide gaze, spurred his horse viciously, and rode away at a gallop.

“That,” said little Priscilla, gazing after him, “was a lord and very rich, but I don’t like him; do you?”

“The place is lovelier without him, sweetheart.”

“Yes, it is—lots! But he often comes riding here ’cause our Nancy says he wants to take my Auntie Joanne in wedlock’s holy bonds; and sometimes after he’s gone, she—I mean Auntie Jo—sheds tears, weeps, you know, and Aunt Jemima looks as if she would, too.”

“Does she, my dear?”

“Yes, and I can’t think why, unless it’s the way he looks at her with his eyeglass that glitters so twinkly.... Oh, there’s Ann ringing the tea bell, so come along!”

“Oh, but, dear heart,” said he, “I’m not expected or invited—and, besides, I’m not fit to sit down at any lady’s dainty tea-table.”

“Yes, you are a rather grubby Anthony, but you can dust yourself and wash your hands at the pump over there. I’ll wag the handle for you.... Oh, there’s Auntie now to take me in to tea! Auntie Jo!” she called in her sweet young voice. “I’ve told Anthony to wash his hands and come in to tea, but he’s being disobedient to me.”

“So, miss, you call him ‘Anthony’, do you——”

“Yes, because, Auntie, he calls me ‘sweetheart’ and says he loves me, and so do I.”

“Good gracious, child, what are you saying?”

“The truth, Miss Joanne, the sweet and simple truth, for who wouldn’t love her?”

“So please, Auntie Jo, tell him to wash his hands and come in to tea.”

“Oh, but, Priscilla,” Nicholas demurred, “indeed, Miss Joanne, I——”

“Had better obey your imperious sweetheart, sir; so wash your hands instantly and come to tea. And let me thank you, Mr. Anson, for the barn door; it should last now for years. You are indeed a handyman and, with my admiring gratitude, have earned your tea.”

Thus presently, in spacious panelled chamber, its great beams carved richly as the wide over-mantel, and with wide lattices open to the fragrant garden, down they sat to well-laden table, with Aunt Jemima to preside at the teapot, a large cameo brooch in the lace at her throat, a belaced cap upon her grey hair, gentle-eyed and serene. So cups and saucers chinked (sweet homely sound); Joanne talked rather perfunctorily of cows, sheep, and her hopes for the coming harvest, sipped her tea, and, eating nothing, sighed instead, at which times Nicholas glanced at her in vague and puzzled anxiety, while Aunt Jemima, serene yet keen of eye, watched them both, until Priscilla, setting down her cup with a clatter, announced:

“Anthony doesn’t like Lord Wolverton like we don’t, but he does like frogs, so I like him lots and lots, because I’m his sweetheart; and so, Anthony, after tea will you please help me with my homework, three nasty, long sums, and I hate ’rithmetick, so will you please, Anthony?”

“No,” said Joanne, roused from some troubled thought, “you must not trouble Mr. Anson with your sums; I will help you.”

“No thank you, Auntie Jo; last time you got one wrong. So will you, Anthony?”

“You should say Mr. Anthony, child, or Mr. Anson would be more polite!”

“Please, no!” said Nicholas. “Priscilla and I don’t have to bother with politeness.”

“Pray,” said Aunt Jemima, as she refilled his cup, “pray, Mr. Anson, do you happen to know Lord Wolverton.”

“No, ma’m, I do not!”

“Yet you do not like him.”

“He is a gentleman I prefer—at a distance.”

“May I know the reason for your dislike?”

“Miss Jemima, I can only answer by quoting that aged rhyme: