Читать книгу Another Day - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 6

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Though the shadows of evening were all about him yet his own particular shadow of stark horror and bitter remorse had left him—for the time being, since in his mind, just now, was no thought of self, for Dallas was dreaming of better things:

Not of her deep, grave eyes; nor her freckled nose that, being neither Greek nor Roman, was yet of shape the exact perfection or (as he phrased it) absolutely “It”; nor of her ruddy lips whose habitual wistful droop seemed but to enhance the wonder of her smile. He had duly noted each and all of these, to be sure, but just now he was pondering her hands—those slim, brave, capable hands scarred by ceaseless labour and “getting frightfully horny!” ... He had known other hands but how vastly different—smooth, soft, white, pink of palm and finger-tip, with nails like coral, daintily polished, hands to be fondled, kissed and forgotten. But those other hands, despite scars and broken finger-nails, glorified by work, might surely be some man’s comfort, raise him perhaps to nobler living and lift him at last as high as heaven.

... A beam of yellow light falling athwart his way roused him and, glancing up, he saw a small, lonely inn, or rather tavern, shaped like the letter L and set back from the lane upon a small, raised green.

So thither turned he, and thus saw two doors, one directly before him, whence came the growl and mutter of voices, the other upon his right, from whose glass panels the warm light beamed, and upon this he knocked.

After some delay this door opened and he beheld a placid, smiling, comfortable woman.

“Good evening, sir,” said she in placid yet kindly greeting. “You’ll be the gen’l’man as Sairey telled me of, I rackon?”

“Yes, Mrs. Weldon,” he answered, taking off the shabby hat.

“Then if ye’ll please to step upstairs, sir, I’ll show the room.” Candle in hand she led the way aloft to a small bed-chamber exquisitely clean, its walls adorned with sundry pictures one of which, an aged German lithograph framed and glassed against possible injury, was entitled “The Festive Cake,” and portrayed two stiff and extremely pallid kittens, with three whiskers apiece and legs and tails like well-stuffed sausages, coquetting heavily with something between an over-ripe stilton cheese and the distant aspect of a blotched and mildewed hay-rick.

“This is certainly a home from home!” sighed Dallas, his gaze riveted on the picture. “And I sure like those dingoes.”

“Dingoes, sir?” repeated Mrs. Weldon, glancing about in placid surprise. “Oh, them? Them’s kittens, sir, I bleeve. Yes, sir, I’ve took them for kittens this forty year an’ more.”

“Well, anyway, I like ’em, Mrs. Weldon.”

“Why yes, sir,” she answered with a passionless complacency, “there’s others has admired ’em afore now.”

“And no wonder, mam, those cats are the cutest creatures in a frame or out. And this room was just made for me. I’ll take it right now.”

“Well, sir, if you eats out it’ll be seven an’ six a week, if you eats in I can do it for twenty-five.”

“Anything you say, Mrs. Weldon, I mean——”

Dallas paused as from the nether regions swelled a sudden clamour of harsh voices, rising to an angry uproar.

“’Tis only that Ben Lomax again,” sighed Mrs. Weldon, shaking her placid head.

“Aha?” murmured Dallas. “Ben seems rather a sore-head. I guess I’ll just step downstairs.”

“Well, sir,” murmured Mrs. Weldon, gently cautionary, “I don’t think I should if I were you.”

“But then, very fortunately for yourself, mam, you aren’t me, and so, being myself I’ll just have a look-see.”

Accordingly Dallas descended forthwith and, guided by the angry clamour, stepped into the tap-room.

A smallish, dim-lit room, misty with tobacco smoke and furnished with a penny-in-the-slot piano just now happily dumb, and one table, large and wide, flanked by two benches, long and unpleasantly narrow set against each opposite wall; upon the table were mugs and glasses, and upon the benches eight or nine men in noisy disputation and loudest of all—Ben Lomax, whose brow lowered and whose brawny fist flourished:

“Shurrup, will ye!” he was roaring.

“No, I wunt!” piped old Jesse Blee. “Shut up ye’self for I tell ye—tech that dog o’ mine an’ I’ll lay my gulley-knife t’ your wicked ’eart, so I will!”

“That’s enough, Shepherd!” cried Ben, head viciously out-thrust. “Get out o ’this—clear out quick! No man ain’t goin’ to threaten my life and drink beer in the same room wi’ me—out ye go!”

But old Jesse Blee, pale to the quivering lips, shook grizzled head and sat back in his corner defiantly resolute.

“No!” he piped valiantly. “I beant a-goin’ to leave me beer undrank for nobody and no man, pugglist or no—not me! And I beant feared o’ no Lonnon Cockney, I be Sussex-barn, I be!”

“Get out o’ this!” roared Ben, rising.

“Easy now, easy!” cried a rosy-faced, good-humoured looking fellow in corduroy and gaiters. “Jesse be a old un—shame on ’ee, Ben!”

“What?” snarled Lomax, turning on the speaker. “You shut your trap, John, or you’ll be the next! Now old ’un—out ye go!” and he shot forth a powerful hand towards the old shepherd—but—a long arm interposed and Ben’s clutching hand was seized and shaken heartily by another hand which, if less sun-burned, seemed quite as powerful as his own.

“Howdy, Ben!” said a cheery voice, and Ben, his hand still gripped in those strong, white fingers, found himself staring into Dallas’s smiling face.

Ben growled and wrenched at his hand; Dallas, still smiling, gripped the tighter.

“Say, Grouchy,” he inquired, “what’s eating you?”

Ben, struggling, cursed him savagely, whereupon Dallas, laughing, threw his hand away so violently that the ex-pugilist staggered. Steadying himself instantly Ben clenched fist to smite—but something in the other’s pose, the sudden glare in those long-lashed, sleepy-seeming eyes gave him pause:

“So it’s you again is it, Yank?” he demanded.

“Surest thing ye know, Ben,” answered that other in the same cheery tone, “and I’m here in a spirit of friendship, good-fellowship and what not. So cut out the beefing, Ben, and sit down like a regular lad.... Mr. Blee and everybody how-do—landlord, fill up the glasses, the drinks are on me.” But:

“You blarsted American!” snarled Ben, unbuttoning his coat.

“You doggone sore-head!” retorted Dallas, unbuttoning his.

“I’m a-going,” quoth Ben, putting off coat and waistcoat, “to rub your blarsted face in the grass outside, and I’m a-going to rub it till you squeals!”

“You sure can’t think all that?” inquired Dallas, also putting off coat and waistcoat.

“Ah, but I do!” growled Ben, rolling up shirtsleeves.

“Well then, I’ll tell you what,” nodded Dallas, folding his garments with extremest care, “take a deep breath, swallow hard and think again.”

“Outside!” growled Ben. “Bring a couple o’ lanterns somebody, I want to see where to ’it ’im.”

“Yankee-American or no, I’m for ’ee, sir!” piped old Jesse. “And if ye can only manage to give un jest one good un, or say a couple, afore Ben finishes of ’ee I’ll be right j’yful—ah, so I will, sure-ly. A murdersome raskell be Ben!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Dallas cheerily, “Ben’s all right, I guess—he only needs a hammering.”

“Ah, does ’e?” sneered Ben.

“Sure!” nodded Dallas. “That’s why I’ll do my damndest to lick you, Ben, I reckon you’re worth while.”

“Come on an’ do it!” quoth Ben.

And so, without more ado, forth went they one and all out into the cool, fragrant dusk, and there upon the little green, lighted by the flickering beam of the lanterns and ringed about by pale, tense faces, the combatants fronted each other.

For a moment they feinted and dodged warily, then, spying an opening, in leapt fiery Ben, brawny arms aswing, eager for close action, was stopped by a jabbing left, rocked by a stinging right, and ducked out of danger, hard-breathing and more ferocious than ever, while Dallas shook admonishing head:

“Shucks, Ben!” said he with contemptuous grin, “I guess you kinda forgot I’ve a couple of fists, the way you ran into ’em.”

“Blarsted ammytoor!” snapped Ben, and was in again and fighting like a whirlwind, landed a glancing left, missed with his right and reeled back from a heavy cross-counter—back and back until he was stayed by the house wall and leaned there a breathing space what time Dallas, reading the psychology of his man, taunted him anew:

“You’re too hot-tempered for a sure-enough champ, Ben! Get a hold on yourself or this fight’ll be through with before it’s really begun.”

Ben spake not; his great chest heaved, down went his bull head and, laughing, Dallas poised himself to meet the expected rush.... And now the flickering lanterns swung to and fro in nervous hands; the watchers surged and swayed while the combatants smote, clenched, reeled and broke away only to close again with the thud and smack of rapid blows, the quick trampling of feet, the hiss and gasp of labouring breath as, to and fro, up and down, the fight raged close and ever fiercer; for now, scornful and heedless of punishment, Ben Lomax bored in. Night had fallen, and in its gloom these desperate fighters seemed no more than writhing shadows until the uncertain lantern-rays lit by chance upon a vicious fist, whirling arms, the flash of swift-moving faces; showed Dallas wide-eyed, fierce and grimly determined, showed Ben snarling and savage, blood-spattered, smitten three to one—shaken, staggering but dauntless as ever striving to fight through Dallas’s guard.... A whirl of arms, a stamp of feet, the sound of a heavy blow and, Dallas reeled back, to fall and lie gasping; then, as he struggled to rise, came old Jesse Blee’s shrill voice upraised in piping ecstasy:

“Look ... Oh, look at Ben! Oho—bless ’ee, young sir, Yankee or no, blessin’s on ’ee fur a rare plucked ’un! ’Ere be I to lend ’ee an ’elping ’and!”

“Lorrim ... be!” groaned Ben.

“Le’me ... alone!” gasped Dallas, and scrambled awkwardly to his knees and, rising thence slowly to unsteady feet, turned to front the rush that was to end him—but, ducking a terrible right swing, he clenched and held on desperately while lanterns and faces blurred and wavered on his reeling senses ... fists battered him, his head, his back, his labouring ribs ... but the cool night air was sweet and heartening ... the wobbling lanterns steadied. And now he was away, with Ben hard after him, but a Ben who gasped painfully and lumbered heavily as he reeled in to end the fight; perceiving which, Dallas laughed, a hoarse croak, dropped his guard and, as Ben struck, eluded the blow and in that same moment drove in his right with arm and shoulder behind it and—smitten upon the jaw, Ben spun round and fell inert.

A moment’s breathless hush and then, feeling arms that squeezed and hugged, Dallas turned weary head to find old Jesse Blee propping him.

“Lordy—Lord!” cried the old shepherd, his voice cracking with jubilation. “You beat un, lad—you beat Ben Lomax—licked un proper! B’the pyx you’ve knocked Ben out! Oh glory be—I could kiss ee!”

With the old shepherd’s long arm still about him, Dallas came where he might look down on his fallen adversary, and saw him asprawl upon the trampled grass, his livid face smeared hideously with blood. Now, beholding this dreadful stain, Dallas covered his face with bruised hands, and recoiled so violently that old Jesse cried out in wonder—back shrank Dallas, and back to the wall, and leaned there as though suddenly faint and sick—for just so had he seen another man lie, livid, blood-bedabbled but horribly dead....

Against this wall stood a weatherworn bench and sinking upon this, Dallas crouched, chin on labouring breast, and watched them bear Ben’s inanimate form into the ale-house while the balmy night about him seemed foul with horror, his own bruised, aching body became a thing detestable, and he writhed in a very agony of remorse.... A man-slayer, a guilty creature outlawed and beyond forgiveness. He was a man-slayer!

But presently, as he cowered there in the misery of self-hatred, he became aware of a voice hard-by:

“Chum!” said the voice, “Old cock! ... Sir? Why—lumme you ain’t hurted so bad, are ye?”

Then, looking up, he saw the bruised and battered visage of Ben Lomax bent above him in the light of the open doorway.

“No, Ben ... not hurt ... no!” he answered in his nervous, halting manner. “Only I thought ... it seemed ... you looked like—like ...”

“Like a dead un, eh?” inquired Ben with gruff, short laugh. “Well, b’cripes I felt like it, chum. That was a—no, it was the most perishin’ wallop as ever I took!”

“I didn’t mean to strike so hard, Ben, but——”

“Sir, you couldn’t help it—no man could. You measured me off and timed it very beautiful—ah—pretty as ever was. And as for ’ard ’itting, well I fancy I got in one or two benders, eh?”

“You sure had me going, Ben.”

“Why then, sir—wot abaht it?”

“I ... I don’t quite get you....”

“Sir, you’re abaht the only man in Sussex as could get me and put me to sleep so sound. So wot I says is—wot abaht it?”

“Well, but what, Ben?”

“Well, sir, I ain’t finished me ale and I thought p’raps—seein’ as ’ow——?” He paused and Dallas lifted heavy head suddenly.

“Say now, friend, just what do you mean?” he inquired. Ben’s swollen features expanded in a slow, somewhat sheepish smile and in shy, hesitating fashion he held forth his hand, much as if it were an object of which he was deeply ashamed.

“Just that, sir—‘friend’ says you and friend it is says I if so be you—feel as ’ow——?”

Dallas was on his feet, and even as he grasped this outstretched hand the heaviness was lifted from him, horror fled awhile, his eye brightened, his lips curved in their pleasant, boyish smile:

“Why, Ben,” said he, “sure thing, old sport! And the drinks are on me!”

Then, side by side, they entered the inn and, having washed off the grime of battle, side by side they sat down upon narrow and discomfortable bench while the company stared, nodded, chuckled and finally fell a-singing of old Sussex songs for pure good-fellowship.

So time sped cheerily until, the yellow-faced clock above the mantel chiming ten, the company arose and each man, more or less diffidently, offered Dallas his hand and so away.

Then bidding his beaming host and placid landlady a cheery good-night, Dallas lighted his candle and betook himself (a trifle stiffly, to be sure) upstairs to his cosy chamber; and here in company with “The Festive Cake,” the livid kittens and divers grim photographs that stared on him from the walls, he undressed, thus discovering certain bruises that bore witness to the power of Ben Lomax, his knuckles.

The clock downstairs was striking the half-hour (and making no small to-do about it) as, sighing gratefully, he slid between the cool sheets.

“Half-past ten!” he murmured drowsily. “Now in little, old N’York it is just about half-past five in the afternoon and the Dad will be ringing for Sanders ... the old Dad....” Moved by sudden impulse he got out of bed, opened his knapsack, took thence notepaper and fountain pen and indited the following letter.

“Dear Sir (and of them all the dearest)

“Since I accept your fiat and am no longer son of yours, neither can I accept your bounty. Henceforth being fatherless, I will subsist by my own exertions. For your past generosity and care I am now and always shall be sincerely grateful. I could write more, so much more indeed that, under the circumstances, it were best to end. So then, here is the end of all relations between us, for never will I return to trouble you again unless, by some miracle, I may do so as

“Your son,

“Keith.”