Читать книгу The Golden Arrow - Mary Webb - Страница 14

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Eli had passed a very irksome and busy day; for he managed to get a great deal of work out of Lil, feckless as she was. He had been obliged to strain the milk, light the fire and get his own breakfast. He had forgotten to feed the young turkeys, and three of them had passionately and poetically died—to spite him, as he said. The cow Lily always milked had kicked him, objecting to his hard hands. He had cut himself while peeling potatoes. Altogether he emerged from his single-handed contest with inanimate matter and what he called ‘brute beasteses’ somewhat battered. Also he had been again troubled with a curious sense of admiration for Lily, realizing that if she had spirit enough to behave as she did last night, she could do most things that she chose.

‘She could make a darned sight better butter nor what she does,’ he grumbled, ‘if she could shoot her feyther.’

He had felt rather startled on coming down in the morning to see the long golden locks on the floor.

‘I’ve bin a fool,’ he said. ‘When’ll she cotch a husband now as she’s nothing to take the eye?’

Altogether it appeared to him that it would be a forgiving and dignified thing to go and fetch her back again.

‘The prodigal daughter!’ he thought, with a wry smile. ‘Well, she wunna get much but husks at John’s. Poor as a winter feldefar! No yead for business. Keeps that great strapping girl of his eating her head off at whome and doing nought. Work ’em and marry ’em, I says. Keep ’em hard at it and they unna kick.’

He suddenly remembered that Lily had kicked, and was displeased.

‘Gerrup!’ he shouted at old Speedwell, his brown pony, now sprinkled with white. She moved away slowly, and he threw a stone after her.

‘Worth twenty women, that hoss is,’ he murmured—apparently to the Almighty, to whom he spoke frequently and familiarly.

‘Never say die, her won’t.’

He threw another stone. He could not throw at the Almighty or Lily, and he had a need to throw. Yet he was fond of Speedwell in his knotty and sapless way.

He put on his old, round felt hat, very high and pointed in the crown and broad in the brim, and set out. He felt that he was under an obligation to Mrs. Arden for Lily’s board and lodging for the night. This hurt his pride. ‘And me with all that money!’ he said. A present was the thing: but what present? He did not intend to give anything for which he had, or might have, any use, nor anything for which he could possibly get any money. It was very awkward: everything he saw was of use, or might be. The gooseberries were over-ripe; but Lily could make a pie—the Ardens should not have them. There were some chickens with the gapes; but he could, no doubt, cure them. No: he would keep the chickens. But he must take something. He looked round the parlour. His eye fell on the MS. volume of imprecatory psalms—copied out by Lily on Sundays during her childhood under Eli’s tight-mouthed supervision. Yes, he would take that. He came out, and tumbled over the prostrate bodies of the three dead turkeys. He would take them too.

‘May as well be handsome while you’re at it,’ he said. ‘They can make a pie. It won’t be no worse than young rook pie, and that great gawk Joe ’ull be glad of summat to fill his belly.’

So he set out with the psalms under his arm and the turkeys bunched in his hand.

‘Summat for you, missis!’ he said grandly, as Patty came to the door. ‘Take ’em! A free gift they be—free as the Lord’s pardon. And I want that darter of mine. The prodigal darter, she is; and her loving father’s come all the way to fetch her. Say she’s to look sharp.’

It was late, and supper was laid. Joe and his father had just come in, and were washing in the back kitchen. Lily was in Deborah’s room, reading an old fashion paper. She sprang up when she heard her father’s voice, looking wildly round for a way of escape. Mrs. Arden called her. Lily put on Deborah’s sun-bonnet—a blue one that suited her; looked in the glass; decided that she was not attractive enough for her object, and turned in the collar and a little of the front of her dress to show her white throat. Then she very softly climbed out of the low window, and dropped on the turf.

‘Joe!’ she whispered through the back door, when John had gone to speak to Eli.

‘Aye?’

‘Don’t let him take me, Joe—not to-night!’

‘Right you are.’

‘And, Joe — ’

‘Aye?’

‘Will you come out along the hill a bit when he’s gone?’

‘I will that!’ said Joe.

‘When be she coming?’ asked Eli from the door. ‘Supper? No. I wunna take any victuals off you, poor things!’

Mrs. Arden sniffed.

‘Say she’s to come this instant minute,’ said Eli.

Joe loomed over him.

‘A word with you, Eli,’ he said.

‘Hark at our Joe calling him Eli!’ said Mrs. Arden to Deborah. ‘Did you ever hear the like? It’s always been “Mr. Huntbatch” afore.’

‘What is it now?’ asked Eli crustily, moving off with Joe.

‘She’s not coming to-night.’

‘Well, of all the imperence! She’s got to come.’

‘Not to-night.’

‘And what good’ll she be in the market when she’s bided two nights along of you?’ snarled Eli.

Joe’s hand was heavy on his collar.

‘None of that, Eli!’ he said.

‘Loose me be! And what’ll she please to do after to-night?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Will she come whome to her loving feyther?’

‘I shouldna think so.’

‘What, then?’

‘Mayhappen she’ll marry me—if she’ll take me.’

‘Oho! And what’ll you give me to make up for the loss of my dairymaid?’

‘I’ve nought to give.’

‘Oh, yes, you have—you’ve got bone and muscle, and you can ride. If I give my loving consent to this here ’oly estate, will you give your written word to round up my sheep when I ask you?’

‘Maybe that’d be every night,’ said Joe drily.

‘Only now and agen,’ Eli reassured him; ‘and a bit of help at sheep shearing.’

‘Well, I dunna mind that; but nought in writing. And I don’t know if she’ll take me yet.’

‘Ho! Listen what I’m going to tell you. She’ll drop into yer arms like a blighted apple. Anything to get away from her devoted parent.’

‘But all as I do for you is done on one condition,’ said Joe; ‘you say nought about last night.’

‘Well, I dunno as I want to.’

‘On your word of honour?’ continued Joe. ‘No, that’s no good—on your credit as a moneyed man.’

‘I swear!’ said Eli solemnly.