Читать книгу The Doomington Wanderer - Louis Golding - Страница 18

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Now followed a strange courting.

Most of the day Tom Molyneux sat in the window of his bedroom, looking out—doing no more than looking out—beyond the children playing under the elms, beyond the pond where the ducks quacked, over the green to the garden with the snowball tree, to the home of his lady. He was quite content to be looking out, humbly worshipping the thatch that roofed her, the windows that let light in upon her.

It was almost more joy than he could bear to see her coming to the door in the early morning to take in the milk-can. When, later, she crossed the green to the stores, the bag swinging from her wrist, he felt his heart must stop beating.

The first two days he did no more than that, excepting to eat or drink. On the third day he sallied forth. He had commanded his landlady to make up a huge bouquet for him, the brightest, richest flowers that were blooming. He went across to the stores and asked them to cram a basket with dainties—fruits and crystallised ginger and every sweetmeat they had.

In one hand the bouquet, in the other his basket, unaware, or indifferent to, the Winfold windows that were all agog with eyes, he marched across to his love’s house. He knocked at the door, once, and once again. He knocked a third time so loudly that those within must have judged it wise to open to him.

The two brothers Spender stood at the door, their faces livid with rage.

“What do you want?” they said.

“Yo’ please take dese things with ma good wishes to yo’ sister!” said Tom.

“Thank you, but our sister is well enough for flowers with the flowers in our own garden. And as for that basket there——”

“Yo’ listen to me!” said Tom Molyneux quietly. “Yo’ take dose things wid ma good wishes to yo’ sister. If yo’ don’ hand dem over fair an’ honest——” He paused. The nostrils widened dreadfully. The face was slit with a white flare of teeth.

“Of course, Mr. Molyneux,” the brothers whispered. “Why should we not?” They went into the house and came out again. “Our sister says to thank you,” they whispered. Their faces were rigid with the strain of their self-control.

“Thank yuh!” said Tom Molyneux, and returned to his orisons behind the window of his room.

The ponderous enginery of his heart did not, during three more days, quicken its revolutions. But when he presented himself on the fourth day, he insisted that Mary Jane herself should come from within and with her own hands take her gifts from him.

The brothers uttered no syllable of protest, despite the murder in their hearts. “Mary Jane!” they called out. “Will you come?”

She came out, so speedily, in fact, that it was clear she was waiting in the room just a few feet along the passage.

“What is it?” she asked innocently. “Oh, it is you, Mr. Molyneux?” She curtsied. “Oh, what lovely flowers! Really you should not! And what are these here? Gingerbreads? I don’t know where to turn, indeed I don’t!” She stood ogling him for a moment, then bade her brothers relieve him of his burdens; then she curtsied again, and returned to the inner room, carrying with her her sweet odours.

Then at last, on a certain evening, he did not go away after the brothers had taken his offerings from him. “Miss Spender, ah’ve been meanin’ to ask yuh for some time,” he began. He stood there, hooking his fingers and rolling his eyes with embarrassment.

“Yes?” she encouraged him.

“Will yo’ come for a li’l walk wid me dis evening?” he stammered fearfully.

“Not this evening!” she stipulated coyly. “To-morrow evening!”

The next evening they took the air together—not for long; just half an hour or so—along the high road and back again, once round the green, then back to her house. There was a grotesque formality about it, like a town councillor and his lady taking a turn in the Regent’s Park.

A smile of infantine bliss was spread all across his face as he turned from the gate. He went back, as always, to the Golden Lion, but this time he did not go straight upstairs to his own room. He sat down in the bar-room among the other villagers.

“Drinks all round!” he beamed.

“Yes, surely!” said the landlord.

“Good health, Mr. Ben!” Tom Molyneux called, lifting his tankard towards the elder brother. “An’ yo’s, too, Mr. Harry!”

“Good health!” replied the brothers, lifting their tankards to their lips. They felt the stuff must choke them.