Читать книгу The Glad Summer - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 9

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“Do you know if he is acquainted with our dearly beloved benefactor, Sir Nicholas Harbourne?”

“Miss Jemima, I—cannot say. Why do you ask?”

“Because Lord Wolverton, who is often in London and seems to know everyone of any consequence, assures us that Sir Nicholas is a young man.”

“Which,” declared Joanne, cup at ruddy lip, “I shall never believe, especially on the word of Charles! No! I am quite convinced our dear Sir Nicholas is an aged gentleman tottering gravewards—upon his last legs and a stick or probably crutches, who, knowing he cannot live much longer, has given all this money to his tenants rather than leave it to some detested relative or public institution. This perfectly explains his conduct. And just because he is so stricken in years, and therefore wise enough to be so nobly generous, I love him and always shall!”

“And what say you, Mr. Anson?”

“Miss Jemima, I am wondering if Miss Joanne could and would love this gentleman should he prove to be indeed a young man?”

“Well, Joanne?”

“Aunt, the question does not arise, because I am quite certain the dear old gentleman is on the very brink of his grave. Ah, but his noble deed will endure long after him, to bless his people and keep his dear memory forever green and living.”

The meal ending, Nicholas rose to bow and say fervently:

“Ladies, for your so kind hospitality to a lonely fellow I am profoundly grateful——”

“And to me, too, Anthony?” Priscilla enquired wistfully.

“To you, my dear one,” he answered, setting his arm about her small form, “ever and always.”

“Then now will you help me with my nasty ’rithmetick?”

“Of course, if your aunt will allow.”

This permission accorded, down sat Nicholas, with Priscilla beside him, and together the three sums were worked out.

Thereafter, as evening fell, Priscilla, unwilling but obedient, kissed them all three and sped lightly upstairs to bed....

Now it happened that as Anthony strolled homewards through a fragrant twilight he was accosted by old Mrs. Mills, who, grasping his sleeve in one labour-gnarled hand, fumbled a crumpled paper from the pocket of her apron with the other, a paper printed in extremely bold characters, saying:

“Young man, will ee please to read me this yere, for I bean’t much of a scholard and there be words as I don’t nowise understand, and them as I do seems too wunnerful for me to b’lieve.”

So, taking this paper, Nicholas read aloud:

“ ‘To Mrs. Rebecca Mills. Madam, On and after June Sixth proximo, the messuage known as Mills Cot, together with the land adjacent thereto, being three acres and one rod, becomes your sole property to have and to hold in perpetuity. By order.’ ”

“Oh merciful Lord!” she whispered, then, giving a fierce tug at the sleeve she clutched, demanded: “That word ‘per-pit-tooity’—what do it mean?”

“That your cottage is really yours, for ever and ever, Mrs. Mills.”

“Mine?” she whispered. “For ever and ever! To ’ave and to ’old! ’Twas like as parson said when my dear Tom wed me s’long ago! To ’ave and to ’old for ever and ever! And I d’ hear tell as ’tis arl by order o’ Sir Nich’las ’Arbourne ... to have and hold t’ the end o’ my days....”

The harsh old face became wonderfully transfigured, the fierce old eyes were softened by slow-gathering tears, and, in voice altered as her look, she murmured:

“Oh, please gimme that precious paper; thankee kindly! I be agoing to keep it in my old Bible where my Tom writ the names and birthdays of our three dear sons. Ah, and I be agoing to pray again for to thank the dear Lord God for such mercy and His blessing on Sir Nich’las ’Arbourne.”

Then, with the paper folded reverently between her work-roughened hands, Mrs. Mills bowed her white head and, with a great sob of rapturous gladness, hobbled away.