Читать книгу Joan of the Pilchard - Mary Gaunt - Страница 6

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'The grave is mine house; I have made my bed in the darkness.'

Joan, left behind, stood watching the lantern bobbing down the steep path in the direction of Looe. The wind, carrying great spurts of rain, was still coming up in sighing gusts, but a star or two peeped out from among the flying clouds. Whenever the wind died down in a momentary lull she could hear the rain falling on the sodden dead leaves that lay round the porch door. A long trail of ivy had been torn away. It swayed up and down in the wind, thrashing against the wall. Already it was battered—crushed.

All her life she remembered that night. The scent of wet autumn leaves pressed into the earth and decaying, the acrid odour of ivy, torn and broken, always spelled to her hopeless despair.

Nowadays, when a woman has some standing, at least in the British Empire, it is somewhat difficult for us to realize the position of a girl of the labouring classes in the end of the eighteenth century. She counted for absolutely nothing in the cosmogony. Had she beauty—beauty that attracted—she might possibly have some standing in her own little circle as long as it lasted; but if she had none she was of no importance at all save to those who loved her.

No one saw Joan's beauty, and she was aware that no one loved her. Her mother had insisted on bringing her away from the comfort—nay the luxury—of her Spanish home: for love she said.

That was six long years ago. If she had loved her then that love had long since died.

She was alone in the world. The wind that stormed round the church mournfully wailed it. The cold rain pattering on the brown leaves drove the fact home. No one wanted her, no one cared for her. Daniel Reynell was willing to use her simply because he could get no one else. He only wanted some one to take a message. She could not deceive herself. The most worthless little scamp of a boy hanging round the boats on the lookout for odd jobs would have been more to his mind.

Well, she would show him that she could do better for him than most, better than pretty Loveday Corthew, who would love any man who was good to her.

Joan, though she did not even know it herself, was extremely capable. She had an orderly mind. Given a fair chance—no, less than a fair chance, given some little opportunity, she would certainly make the most of it.

As she stood watching the departing lantern, she might mourn, but she was arranging things in her own mind, deciding what she should do. She could not bear to think that Daniel Reynell should go right out of her life—three years in the South Seas was certainly a life-time to the girl not yet nineteen. If she saved him he would certainly marry Loveday Corthew—but—if she, Joan, could save him—the glory of it—Joan the despised drudge of the Pilchard!

And she would! Her mind refused to go any further. She would.

It is wise to take short views. If we give our minds wholly to the thing we have in hand it is generally the best policy. There are the far-seeing, of course, but often those peering for possibilities in the future are apt to neglect the means for good that lie ready to their hand.

Joan crossed the churchyard; made her way through the wild parsonage garden and, emerged close to Penrhyn's farm. She decided definitely she would not appeal to the Corthews or to Polperro. She could manage this thing alone.

For her own glory she chose. She did not realize—she was not to realize for many a long day—that she was altering the lives of four people. Only one of them gave her a passing thought. For Reynell she was a means to an end, and a very inadequate means at that.

At Penrhyn's farm she paused at the broken gate that led into a muddy yard in the middle of which was a great midden. Penrhyn was a hopeless farmer, untidy, drunken. His whole interests lay in the free traders, and the tiny woodland that attached to the farm gave him a bit of shooting occasionally. He cheerfully broke the law with regard to smuggling, and, like many of his betters, upheld it with regard to poaching. The only difference was that he was so active a free trader that when he came into Looe to seek the help of the law, because he had evidence his pheasants and rabbits were in danger, and he wanted to take the culprits red-handed, the coast-guard indulged in ribald merriment and declared they might sleep peacefully in their beds that night at least.

His only really valuable possession was the bay mare. It was an open secret that Kitty was on the forlorn farm because she was useful when there was a cargo to be run. She was a well known horse in the countryside was Kitty Penrhyn. She was quiet too. Joan knew she could manage her. The only question was would Penrhyn lend. She thought he would, because Reynell stood high in his esteem, but there were times when he was abominably surly.

If he would not, there would still be time to make her way either to Raphiel Farm or to Polperro. There she would find those who would make it their business to reach the Alert before it was too late.

But she wanted to go herself.

She ran splashing across the yard and beat against the door.

Rap! Rap! Rap! No sound but the wind in the eaves and the rain beating against the walls. Rap! Rap! Rap! Joan was painfully conscious of the passing of time. It was ages since she had watched the lantern go down the steep hillside; Daniel Reynell must be half way to Looe by now. He would think she had forgotten.

She must get a message through before dawn. Oh God! Where was Dick Penrhyn? It would be cruel if she had to walk to Raphiel Farm and then drop out of the picture.

Why didn't Dick Penrhyn answer? There was no cargo to be run to-night. She could hear the mare moving uneasily in her ramshackle stable. She knew where the key was kept. It would be the simplest thing in the world to do as Reynell had told her to do—just take the mare. Horse stealing had been rife round Polperro of late, in spite of the fact that the penalty was death. Still, Looe once reached, not only would it be all right but she would be covered with glory.

'Mr. Penrhyn! Mr. Penrhyn!'

There came over her that eerie feeling that does come over us if we raise our voice alone in the night and no one answers. For the first time this evening she was terrified. She pulled herself together. Mrs. Penrhyn might easily have gone to her sister's, and quite likely her husband was dead drunk, lost to the world. She leaned against the door. It gave.

She went inside, and found herself in the dark kitchen with the last embers of the fire glowing red on the hearth. Her dire need gave her courage. She felt about for some wood, and stirred the glowing coals into a blaze.

No one here.

She found a candle; lighted it and held it above her head.

No sign of the farmer. His boots were not there. No sign of Mrs. Penrhyn. Should she go upstairs in search of them?

But the need of haste kept pressing on her.

She found the key of the stable in its accustomed place. It would be quite simple to return the mare when she had found Parson Trevenick. Penrhyn would never go to the stable again to-night. She would have loads of time to do the job she had on hand and be back before daybreak. In that case the farmer need never know—or if he must—oh, glorious thought, Daniel Reynell would stand by her side, knowing he owed his freedom to her pluck and promptitude.

That settled it. Guarding the candle, she went to the stable. To her dismay there was neither saddle nor bridle. It struck her as curious.

Looking round she found the bridle of the old plough horse, and slipped that over the mare's head. The plough horse was not there. Penrhyn was a careless man; he must have forgotten poor old Dobbin, and left him in the field.

She looked about carefully. Not a sign of a saddle.

These little hitches worried her, and made her hot over. The Alert would not sail before dawn. Dawn was late in December, but she knew well enough the Alert would not lose a moment. Even when she found the parson he had to be got on board.

A saddle——Well she must manage without a saddle. She threw a sack across the mare and mounted, gathering her petticoats about her and sitting astride.

The stars were peeping fitfully now and then between the storm clouds. She found the gate again, and got into the wet road that dipped down between the hawthorn hedges.

Kitty picked her way strangely soberly for Kitty. But Joan could only be thankful for that. Her seat was precarious, and the rain had worn this side road into ruts and holes. She would be able to go more quickly once she reached the high road.

She was desperately impatient, but her sound common sense told her that any accident to herself or the mare would wreck her project. She tried to calculate what time she had. It seemed like years and years since she had seen Reynell struggling with the press-gang outside the Pilchard, but it could not yet be midnight.

Her eyes were accustomed to the gloom by the time she reached the turning into the high road. She could see the wet road and the dripping hedges quite plainly.

She expected an empty road at this time of the night, but to her surprise there were two men riding towards her. She was suddenly conscious of her petticoats huddled round her waist for convenience. She drew rein instinctively, and, as if divining her discomfort, the rain came down again heavily. Joan sighed a sigh of relief. She could see the two riders as dark masses on the roadway. If they had not moved they would have been indistinguishable from the hedges on either hand. She could not make up her mind whether to call to them for help or whether to wait where she was.

After all she could manage by herself.

She drew a little into the hedge. For a moment it seemed they would pass her. The rain stopped again, and just as they drew abreast the mare moved uneasily. One of the passing horses whinnied loudly. Both the men came to a full stop.

Kitty replied.

Concealment was useless now. Time pressed. She dug her heels into the mare's flank.

'Kitty!' An oath! It was Penrhyn's voice, 'The devil! Stolen by Gom! Out in the wet! It'll be the death o' she! Ater un Clayton!'

The two men wheeled.

Before Joan, slow of speech, could make up her mind what she was to say they were one on each side of her. She felt the fiery fumes of the farmer's breath.

'Mr. Penrhyn! Mr. Penrhyn! 'Tis Joan of the Pilchard! You know I.' She had wit enough to know she must make her excuses as quickly as possible. 'The press gang ha' taken the Polperro men—Daniel Reynell, and I mun ride to Parson Trevenick at Looe!'

'It'll be the death o' thiccy mare,' roared the farmer. 'Her'n had a narrer squeak of it. We's gotten this un red-handed. Grab un, Clayton.'

Clayton, being evidently a man slow at the uptake, he himself lugged Joan so roughly from the mare's back she fell on her face in the muddy roadway. Her long black hair came down and was dabbled in the mud and water.

She scrambled up, the one thought uppermost that she must not be stopped.

'Mr. Penrhyn! Mr. Penrhyn!' she begged wildly, 'if 'ee' wunnot let I go, go 'ee 'ee'self. The press gang got 'em, an' they be off to the South Seas 'less Parson Trevenick be there to speak for un. Oh, Mr. Penrhyn! A'm Joan of the Pilchard!'

'A' niver heerd no good o' the Pilchard,' said the other man with portentous solemnity. Joan began to realize that these two were far gone in liquor, but not drunk enough, unluckily, to be helpless; yet seeing they were two strapping big Cornish-men in the pride of their manhood quite drunk enough to stupidly hinder her. They paid no attention to her prayer.

Penrhyn shook her again and again, pouring out a torrent of angry words, which ended on a triumphant note.

She gathered that the mare had been sick; that accounted for her sluggishness. Mrs. Penrhyn was away, and Penrhyn had ridden the old plough horse to fetch his neighbour, Clayton, who was skilled in all things veterinary, to help him. Now they had taken a horse thief red-handed. Clayton could swear to it. Not for a moment did they listen to Joan's wild prayers.

'Be 'est goin' to give she in charge, varmer?' asked Clayton, putting his great hand on her shoulder.

'Dom'd if I ain't. It's a bit of good luck you's along o' I. Fair caught red-handed!'

'Oh, Mr. Penrhyn,' prayed Joan, 'for God's sake,' and then she did what she had never thought to do. 'If so be 'ee won't let I go, send word to Raphiel Farm. 'Tis for Skipper Daniel Reynell.'

'I'll Raphiel Farm 'ee,' roared the farmer. 'An' maybe thiccy mare done to death, eh, Clayton?'

'Likely as not from what you'm tellin',' said Clayton sombrely.

At the thought of his worst fears being confirmed, the farmer waxed more wrath. Letting go Dobbin he laid both hands on Joan.

'Ee'll just come along o' we, ee' limb o' Satan,' he said. 'Ee'll hang for this.'

Not yet did fear for herself come to Joan. The only thing that she could think of was that she was failing Daniel Reynell. If they would not let her ride then she must get to Polperro and let someone else save him. There was time enough yet if she could get quit of these men. She must not fail him.

With that thought uppermost she fought—fought with all her strength. She kicked, she bit, she cursed, she used her hands; she was just such a wild termagant as any sensible man would have expected to come out of the little low pot-house.

There were two angry men before three minutes had passed.

In another three minutes they had her down; had tied her hands, and were cursing her for a wild cat. They made her walk back to the farm.

Once there, paying no heed to her passionate pleading, they tied her up to the great four poster in an alcove in the kitchen and, lighting a lantern, they both went out to attend to the mare.

That night stretched itself into years.

She was firmly tied. She had no more chance of escaping than Reynell himself. Less, for he had right on his side when all was said and done, while, look at it what way she would, she had to admit, with the sound common sense that was at the back of all Joan did that she was in the wrong. If the farmer were not inclined to mercy, she might very easily be very much in the wrong.

Yet her intentions were so good she could not bring herself to believe that either he or Ted Clayton would really think she had intended to steal the mare.

They came in and out; mixed what seemed to her messes in saucepans; warmed them at the fire; burnt them and cursed. Each time the farmer came in he was an angrier man. For things were going badly with the mare.

Joan was cramped, sick, wet, heartbroken and hopeless. She was so young. And she had failed in the only great thing that it had ever come her way to do. She tried again and again to put the case to the men as they came in. They paid no heed. Their minds were concentrated on the fact that she had stolen the sick mare; she had taken her out of her warm stable; she had actually ridden her. They would not listen to what she said. They told her, angrily, what they would do to her if the mare died.

They came in at last, stamping, and shaking the rain from their clothes. Threatening her with their fists, they said the mare was dead. She should swing for the night's work. They steamed in the warmth. They refreshed themselves from the great barrel that stood in the corner. When it was finished they were only a little more muddled.

The dawn broke sullen and grey.

Joan knew the Alert must be sailing from Looe. Her heart sank. But not for herself. She did not mind being cursed. She was accustomed to discomfort and misery of all sorts, and the blazing fire made the room warm.

Her real grief was that she had failed. The thought that Daniel Reynell would go away cursing her crushed the very heart out of her. There was nothing to live for—nothing. He would hate her—hate her. Her utter misery was greater than she could bear, even death could bring her no comfort. And she had to live on, live a life in which she could see not a ray of light breaking through the darkness.