Читать книгу Little Hearts - Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall - Страница 7

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Mr. Sampson was breakfasting in seclusion in the small arbour. His table was an empty box upturned, and he consoled himself with his book. He had some need of consolation, in that his breakfast consisted of the heel of a loaf, a bowl of thin chocolate, and a sallet of small herbs in a silver dish. There was also an inkpot before him. Sometimes he dipped his quill into the inkpot, sometimes into the chocolate, and decided that Malachi had been lamentably careless with the soot. There was an unusual flush upon his face; his hair—the sun showed it to be very bright and comely—was powdered with the seeds of grass. He had indeed been sleeping in the loft the last nights, and Malachi had not yet appeared to tie his master’s queue.

Mr. Sampson liked the loft very well, though somewhat shaken by spiders in the small hours. Malachi had, as in duty bound, offered his pallet. Which offer, after inspection, Mr. Sampson had delicately refused. Malachi thought it just as well, and said so; someone was needed in the stable to scare away the rats, or the mare would have but broken nights of it.

“It may be considered,” wrote Mr. Sampson earnestly, “that the truly Poor are by their Poverty denied the highest spiritual Happiness, which is thought by the Holy of Heart to consist in Sacrifice. How, it may be inquired, shall they who do possess Nothing deny themselves Anything, either for the Profit of their Fellows or of their own Souls? But he who would earnestly seek an Answer shall find one to his Mind. For the very Poor do possess that strange crown, the Denial of Denial, the Sacrifice of Sacrifice. There may well be a richer Gift than even the Widow’s Mite in that superfluous Treasury, coming from a quite empty Hand, but not unregarded of God. Yea, it is to be also Questioned if God Himself, when that He was a Jew, did not many Times, with bitter Longings, desire to give Himself an Offering for His Beloved, when it would have most readily served them and Himself. But that also was denied Him until the Hour beyond Remedy. And then He went empty save of a Heart broke by His World. Nor could He of His Poverty offer anything even to that dear Robber of His but a Promise; in that Sweat and Agony, He might not give His Companions so much as a cup of cold Water, nor so Little as He had refused of the Roman pity. He might only offer them a Word; but for one that Word was the Enfranchisement of Paradise.”

Mr. Sampson laid a sprig of sorrel upon his bread and lifted it to his mouth: but paused, discerning a little slug. He removed both leaf and slug, yet with mercy. “For that little slug,” he considered, “is seeking his meat from God no less than if he had been a lion.” The implied conceit was pleasant and he lingered on it, to the immediate detriment of his content. It lay in the word “meat.” He was well used to riding his appetite upon a curb. But for the last few days he had been conscious of a yearning that defied philosophy and made a mock of the consolations of religion. When he would lock his door and read shyly in his Bible, the great book had of late opened as by habit at the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel according to Saint Matthew:

“And they did all eat, and were filled.”

But Michael Sampson was very hungry.

His guest ate everything.

He had lain these four days, unknown still and nameless, in the bed in Mr. Sampson’s room; waking only to eat, like a ravenous baby, from Malachi’s hand. He was no more than the husk, the animal envelope, of a man; and Mr. Sampson, stealing in a dozen times a day to gaze at the dark head helpless on his best linen pillow-case, wondered when and in what fashion the soul would return. He asked of Malachi, but the old man shook his head; he couldn’t tell. Maybe hours, maybe days. But at the end of it, when he’d slep’ his fill, he’d shake hisself like a dog and be well again... He knew that kind.

So he lay in his dead drowse—caused, as they guessed, less by the fall than by some heavy strain preceding it—and with a wisdom out of their time they let him lie. They dared not call a physician, so he was neither bled nor posseted. They did no more than set a balsam of peachwort upon his head, where at least it did no harm. Sometimes his eyes—they were of a clear light grey, curious in so dark a face—rested on them, but without knowledge or inquiry; all his movements, all his rare words, came wavering from the very pit of sleep: were like birds blown into momentary light ashore from the darkness of the sea. Once he remarked on a smell of rosemary; once that the broth was too thin; once he flung out a hand and said clearly: “Belle.” .. Mr. Sampson, touched to a tingling of the eyes, rushed out to the stable and called the mare by that name, being much dashed when she did not answer to it. Otherwise he slept, and Malachi fed him. Which explains why Michael Sampson, in the interests of hospitality, went hungry.

“There is this also to be observed about the common Sacrifices of our souls,” continued Mr. Sampson, removing his pen from the chocolate, “that, owing to the Shame of our Nature, we do earnestly Desire to make and keep them in Privacy. This is a Weakness, that yet to the Gentle must ever appear Respectable. Even that Sacrifice of a Cross on a Hill was, as I think, scarcely gazed at by the veiled Eyes of Heaven, but rather by the curious Vulgar of the City. And we, whose daily Denials be too little for any Dignity, would at least never have them Publick. A great crop of little Crosses, both of Thorn and Rosemary, may be nourished up in our spiritual Gardens; but only One besides ourselves hath the Key to these walled Plots. There is a decency to be Encouraged in Things spiritual no less than in Things fleshly; and the Skeleton in many a man’s Closet may be no more and no less than a gaunt Cross of the very Pattern of Calvary.”

“And how,” asked Mr. Sampson suddenly of nobody in particular, “how, in God’s name, am I to keep it from him when he’s about? Plague on it. Malachi had better bleed him and keep him abed.”

The misguided white pigeon minced in at the door on rose-red feet, seeking crumbs. “Here, at least,” thought Mr. Sampson, “I am not too poor for denial,” and he gave liberally from the soft of the loaf. Malachi, coming in with the tray, caught him in the act, yet tempered judgment with a new indulgence.

“A loose hand,” said Malachi quite kindly, “makes a light purse. And he’s finished everything but the stale rabbit pasty.”

He set the tray, which bore yellowed damask and chipped porcelain, on the box between them. “And, Master Michael——”

“Well?”

“He’s a-coming to his right mind.”

“Hey?”

“I say, he’s a-coming to his right mind. His sleep’s over... I set the tray at the bedside, and went to shut the casement. When I turned he was a-leaning on his elbow, and a-fingering of the chaney. His eyes was fixed on me very sharp, and was clear and bright as—as bright water.”

“Go on, man.”

“ ‘Where may I be now?’ he asks, and I tells him. ‘Do you mind me at all, sir?’ I says. And he says yes, he minds me well enough, running about like the devil in a gale of wind, but was too tired like to heed at the time... A real one, he is... ‘And well you may be, sir,’ I says, and wished I’d thought to put a white ribbon in my buttonhole just to hearten him a bit, though it’s little enough I care who’s king in England as long as I don’t have to go on the roads when I be old. And with that he gave me a glance like a gimblet, but I met it straight and he looked away again. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘many’s the thing I’ve seen in a dream... And who’s he,’ he says, ‘with the face of a gentleman and the hands——’ ”

“Well?”

“That was all he said, Master Michael. And I gave him your name. And then he wants to know how he come in the gentleman’s house. And——”

“Yes, Malachi?”

“I told him that.”

“And he said?”

“Nought to the point. He was still a bit, and then said we had healed him of his hurts and he would rise later, but if you’d add to his debt and go speak with him first, he’d be glad. Them was his words, Master Michael.”

Mr. Sampson leaned his head on his hands and looked down the valley of his humiliation—a far view—while the white pigeon fluttered at his feet.

“And after all,” said Malachi suddenly, as if his master had spoken, “we don’t know him for so much as an honest man.”

Mr. Sampson looked up, with a thought of the Ensign. “We know him,” he said, “for a very gay and gallant gentleman,” and laughed aloud, a laugh that was very young. But in a moment his head went down in his hands again and the laughter caught in his throat.

“Malachi.” His voice came muffled as from a distance.

“What be you about now, Master Michael?”

“Malachi, he mustn’t get up—not yet.”

“And how to prevent it, sir?”

“Take his clothes away,” said Mr. Sampson, with an energy that shocked himself when he had time to think of it.

“Ye-e-es.” Malachi was doubtful. “That might do it——”

“Why, devil take the idiot,” roared Mr. Sampson indignantly, “he can’t get up without his clothes, can he? And he’ll not find any of mine, will he?—and me wearing all I have but my one spare shirt, which is on his back at this very moment.”

“Yes, ‘tis all very fine, Master Michael, but it don’t go far enough. You don’t know that kind. If he wanted to get up and you had took his clothes, sir——”

“Well?”

“He’d come without ‘em, master.”

“Preposterous, Malachi. Don’t tell me.”

Malachi smiled grimly and let it pass. “And, for a fact, he can’t get his clothes without me, for I have ‘em all in the coach-house for to brush and mend.”

“Then keep them there.”

“Yes. That’s very well, master, but it won’t hold, not for long. He’s bound to come down, bound to see——”

“Be silent,” said Mr. Sampson with a sudden thunder, “and govern your tongue, fellow. Do you fancy,” he went on after a moment, rather piteously, “that I have no thought of what he’ll see? Why, look you, Malachi, he steps out of my door, and the rot of the old carpet trips him. He goes down the stairs, and there is no balustrade; we burned it in the hard winter. He opens the door of the withdrawing-room and it’s empty but for one rag of tapestry on the walls—Paris carrying Helen to the ships, and the moths have eaten her gold hair, and his hungry arms are fouled with damps... He opens the door of the library, and he sees the grey marks of shelves and the sleek bust of some immortal most villainously carven in Carrara——” (“And with the nose broke off where you threw your bootjack at it in a spasm of philosophy,” put in Malachi.) “He says, ‘What kennel am I come to?’ and tries another door. ‘Tis the little parlour looking on the herb garden, and ‘tis modishly furnished with a broken chair and a stringless harp... ‘I feel chilled after my weakness,’ says he to you, ‘and would be glad of a fire of evenings.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ you answer, ‘but there’s no fuel used in this house save on Mondays, when I do my bit of cooking with a French recipe-book.’ ‘And what’s for dinner?’ ‘Cabbage soup and hard bread, and little enough of it...’ And—for oh, he’s a gentleman, Malachi, I don’t doubt he’s a gentleman!—‘Have I been living on these poor wretches a week of seven full days?’ says he to himself. ‘I must contrive to repay them with more than thanks,’ and he’ll finger his gold, Malachi, and wonder how he’s to do it—under this roof. And he’ll try it, oh, so delicately, as a gift to you... And if you take it, Malachi,” finished Mr. Sampson, with a blind movement of his hands, “I shall probably murder you and bury you under the muck-heap.” He essayed a laugh, but it broke, and he hid his face again.

“Meanwhile, Master Michael,” suggested Malachi, with a curious mildness, “here’s the stale pasty.”

Mr. Sampson looked up drearily. “What of it?”

“You may so well have it. ‘Twill be bad come morning.”

Mr. Sampson looked, and felt sick with emptiness. He looked also at his servant, and said: “Indeed, I do not care for it. I have breakfasted so recently... You take it.”

“Don’t you be a liar, sir,” returned Malachi almost with tenderness; “you take and eat it, or—or I’ll toss it on the garden for the hedge birds.”

Mr. Sampson pulled out his knife. “I will take half, Malachi, and you will take half. And we will eat together.”

He strove to eat his half lingeringly, with a delicate appreciation of a flavour full indeed, but not yet too superlative. But nature was too strong for him, and they made a sort of race of it, Malachi being handicapped by no manners, but a lack of teeth. Only on the last mouthful Mr. Sampson contrived to pause, and give philosophy, as it were, an innings.

“It is interesting and not irreverent to suppose,” said Mr. Sampson, “how a perfect faith might reasonably assist us at this present pass. By this I am not to be considered as meaning the invocation of Deity to the furnishing of our houses or the setting of our boards. But human hospitality hath ever been esteemed so sacred a thing that angels have not disdained to partake in it. And if an Hebrew encampment in the desert might be led of God, might feed on the food of angels and pluck quail as plenty as—as blackbeetles in our bake-oven, might not we, Malachi (if our faith were but perfect), ask and receive far less of Him? When made holy by human need, is a cask of small beer or a fresh rabbit pasty less worthy of heaven—?”

He stopped, for Malachi had suddenly clapped the remaining crumbs into his mouth as if it had been a box, and risen to his feet. A shadow fell on him. He turned with a little sick jump of the heart.

His guest stood just behind him.

He leaned rather weakly in the doorway, his back being to the light, and Mr. Sampson not fitted at the moment to see clearly; he was apparently stockingless, and wearing the coverlet as a cloak. But the light that failed to reveal him shone with an aching clarity on the upturned box, the heel of the loaf on Mr. Sampson’s plate, the remnant of the pasty in his hand, and the crumbs on Malachi’s chin. It was that damning bit of pie-crust in his hand that seemed to focus the sun like a burning-glass until he was scorched to the heart. It shrivelled to rags all his shifts and subterfuges, and left him bared in his sordid and shuddering poverty. He tried to stand and speak, but could not for the hot shaking of his heart.

“I became impatient for my clothes—heard voices—followed.”

The words had been spoken, so the stranger must have spoken them. Mr. Sampson tried to put some sort of face upon it, but that fatal crust ridged with healthy teeth-marks was too much for him. His tongue spoke independently of anything but his misery.

“Then you are like to have both heard—and seen—enough——”

“Yes.”

“We—we are not—misers, sir.”

“Could I suppose it?”

Mr. Sampson waited—for the apologetic withdrawal, the shamefaced sympathy that should leave him writhing.

He had neither.

“I do not know what I have ever done to have gained so much honour.”

The voice shook a little. Michael Sampson looked up with a gasp into the eyes “bright like bright water”—the eyes of his first friend.

He did not see very clearly for a moment. Then their hands, which had met nearly as swiftly as their eyes, fell apart. The stranger took a long breath, a keen glance around, drew away till he had the wall at his back, and said: “Sir, why did you do it?”

Mr. Sampson did not ask him to what he referred, but answered confusedly something about violets.

“You had never seen me—had not so much as my name——”

Mr. Sampson held up his hand. “I do not seek it, sir. If there were—any inquiry——It would be even better not to give it to me.”

“Anthony Oakshott,” said the other quickly: if there had been any hesitation, it was imperceptible. Mr. Sampson got upon his legs—they were steadier by now—and bowed gravely. He in the coverlet also bowed. They looked at each other.

“Sir...”

“Sir...”

“I have held no keen political views,” Mr. Sampson was cautious and a little ashamed of his confession, a little on the defensive. “If, while heroic deeds were being done, I have lived more in the republic of Plato than the troubled kingdom of our England, blame my circumstance for it rather than myself. You have seen... Sir, I will say no more. But at the least I am not robbed of my taste for brave deeds and splendid losses.” He kindled, and felt unconsciously for his quill. “Mr. Oakshott, I thank you for your trust, which you shall not regret. You will doubtless be advised to take ship for France... Till then, this sad house is yours for just so long——”

“Yes?”

“—as it is safe for you,” finished Mr. Sampson gravely.

They looked at each other, Michael Sampson on the edge of a flushed smile, the other with an intent, bright stare which held a long time. At last he moved forward and leaned above the box whereon lay the remains of the loaf and the sallet of small herbs.

He looked up, smiling into the older man’s face.

“This air makes one hungry, and that fleecy old devil of yours hath taken my tray... Cut me a slice of that bread, and give me leave to sit here and eat it with you.”

They sat and ate gravely, and to one at least that stale loaf was the food of sacrament. Afterwards he had time to wonder if gratitude had ever been so delicately shown.