Читать книгу The Doomington Wanderer - Louis Golding - Страница 15

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Tom Molyneux came up out of the meadows behind the churchyard. He came rolling forward past the church itself, past the lychgate, and drew up against the village green. It was a large green, with an old cross and a stocks at the end and a duck-pond in the middle. The houses were assembled round the edges of the green, like a lot of old women mumbling under their thatch bonnets.

In one of these, in one of these, Sailor Mason’s darling sat knitting, or stood peeling potatoes behind the scullery sink, perhaps. Her eyes were heavy with longing for the lover who all these years dared send her no word of greeting, for the thing he had done and had had no intention to do.

Tom Molyneux’s imagination was sluggish, if anything. But as he stood on the edge of the green there he was startled by the vividness with which the image of Mary Jane Spender presented itself to him. She was a little thing, pale, with pale brown hair. Her hands fluttered piteously all the time. He breathed his secret, marvellous news to her.

“It’s all right, missy, it’s all right. Ah’ll look after you till we gets dere. Now, now, missy, don’t cry! Tek my handkercher, will yuh, missy? Dere now, dere!”

Tom Molyneux looked round and wondered which of these houses would it be? Which one? There was an inn on the opposite corner of the green. He strode up to the inn as though she might dwindle and die if he wasted more time finding out where she lived.

He thrust open the door of the bar-room. There was practically no one but old folks about. The younger people were all gone off to Crowleigh, doubtless, to the boxing-booth of the two black men.

“Good evening, all!” proclaimed Tom Molyneux.

“Good evening!” answered the landlord, a little nervously.

“Good evening! Good evening!” soughed the old men in their beards.

“Dis heah’s de village of Winfold, isn’t it?”

“It be!” agreed the landlord.

“Does a lady by de name of Mary Jane Spender live in dis place?”

“She do!” hesitated the landlord.

“Where does she live?”

“Er—er——” the landlord started. “That is——” he temporised. He looked anxiously at his guests. They looked anxiously back at him. What right had one to tell a heathen blackamoor where a Christian body lived, and that one a female? Let him find out for himself, if he wanted to!

“Where does she live?” roared Tom Molyneux, striding forward and bringing his fist down heavily on the counter.

“There, there!” hastily quivered the landlord. “Just come this way. I’ll show you!” The negro followed him to the door. “That house there, do you see, with the big snowball tree in the garden?”

“Ah see!” said Tom Molyneux, and thrust himself out through the doorway.

“You won’t have a drink?” the landlord called after him.

Tom Molyneux shook his head. He strode forward like a machine, solid, full of purpose. In a minute he reached the garden with the snowball tree. The gate squealed on its hinges as he pushed it before him. He knocked at the door.

A young man opened it. The young man looked very surprised indeed to see what visitor this was.

“Is Mary Jane Spender in?” asked Tom Molyneux.

It will not be objected against Harry Spender—that was the young man’s name—that, without thinking twice, he lied.

“No!” he said. “What do you want her for?”

“Ah’ve a message for her!”

“Aren’t you Tom Molyneux? Wasn’t it you I saw last night over at Crowleigh?”

“Yes, ah’m Tom Molyneux. When will she be in? Is she yo’ sister?”

“Look here, Mr. Molyneux, I don’t understand this at all. If you have a message to give my sister——”

Tom Molyneux’s protruding lower lip protruded an inch or two more. He lifted his hand, outstretched his fingers, and made as if to push Harry Spender’s skull down into his neck.

Then a voice cried out, musical as running water. “Harry, Harry, who’s that?” A moment later there was a pattering down stairs. A moment later a young woman stood at the door, the loveliest of all women that that poor negro had seen in all his days till now.

“Hello?” she cried. “Hello?” She peeked her pretty head interrogatively, like a plump robin. Her brown eyes rolled enchantingly. “Harry, did I hear you say the name of Mr. Molyneux? Surely you are Mr. Molyneux? I saw you fighting last night. It was you, wasn’t it?”

A noise made itself in Molyneux’s throat, but it stayed there. Harry Spender made gestures indicating that the sooner his sister went back into the house the better.

“What have you come for, Mr. Molyneux? Have you come to fight the Butcher? He lives next door. I believe I saw him going to Crowleigh half an hour ago. You must have missed him. Oh, you’ll beat him, of course you will! I was with Harry last night at Crowleigh! I saw you, too! You were lovely!”

“Mary Jane!” her brother broke in angrily. “Get in at once! Do you hear?”

Mary Jane looked up with mock pathos into the negro’s eyes. “Did you ever hear of a brother so unmannerly? And Ben—that’s my other brother—he’s worse!”

“What have you come for, Mr. Molyneux?” asked Harry curtly.

The negro did not reply. He did not remove his eyes from the girl’s eyes. His heart was pounding, pounding, up against his ribs, more violently than ever it had pounded when he and Tom Cribb had met for the championship. The sky lay in pieces at his feet. The world jigged up and down.

He had never seen a creature like this before; there was no other creature like this in all this cold land ... full bosomed, wide hipped, she was like the rich ripe maidens of his native South. She was like a plum bursting with juices. Under the southern peonies of her cheeks spread the white northern lilies.

“Ah’ve come wid a message, miss!” he brought out, each syllable harder to eject from his dry throat than the one before it. “From America!” he added.

“I know! I know!” cried Mary Jane Spender. “From Joe Mason! Isn’t it? Tell me at once! Isn’t it?”

Tom Molyneux could utter not even a single syllable now. He nodded his bushy head.

“He’s dead!” she shrieked. “You’ve come to tell me he’s dead! Is he dead, Mr. Molyneux?”

Once more Tom Molyneux nodded his bushy head ... frail Tom Molyneux, not only black of skin, but black of heart, too ... Black Tom Molyneux who betrayed his friend.

Then Mary Jane Spender flung herself against the negro’s bosom. She threw her arms about him as far as they would reach, and there sobbed and sobbed.

It was like a circlet of sweet fire about his ribs. The scent of her hair struck up into his nostrils like strong wine.

He had anticipated that she might need his comfort. In very truth he comforted her, and in the very words he had chosen for her comfort.

“It’s all right, missy, it’s all right. Ah’ll look after yuh. Now, now, missy, don’t cry! Tek my handkercher, will yuh, missy? Dere now, dere!”

As for the brother, Harry Spender, he might have been away up in Scotland for all the notice those two took of him—Mary Jane, his sister, and the sore-smitten negro, Tom Molyneux of America.