Читать книгу Seven for a Secret - Mary Webb - Страница 7

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When you came towards Dysgwlfas Farm from the sheep fields, it looked larger than it was, because the house was long and narrow, and the loft, with the granary and the room where the roots were kept, had been built in one with the farm. Beneath the granary was the high, square archway, called the Drifthouse, that led into the foldyard. In front of the house was the garden, where the dovecote stood, and a stony path, lichened at the sides, led up to the house from the double wicket with its arch of privet.

The pattering feet of Robert’s flock passed this gate and went on to the foldyard. Gillian, following in the leisurely and dreamy manner she had acquired lately, pushed open the wicket and went across the crisp grass to the parlour window. Looking in, she saw by the light of the well-trimmed lamp and the leaping flames that her father had come home. He was a person who could not come home without everybody knowing it. He had, as his sister—Mrs. Fanteague—said, a presence. The house re-echoed with his voice, his step. When he sat in his arm-chair by the fire it became a throne, and the parlour became an audience chamber. If anyone came in, he said ‘Ha!’ and they felt found out. In his buying and selling of sheep, this ‘Ha!’ did more for him than any amount of money. He said it so loudly, so knowingly and so judicially that every flaw in the goods offered leapt into fearful prominence, and the seller, however case-hardened, could see nothing else, could feel nothing else but a desire to go away with his detected enormity, and hide. Very often Mr. Lovekin had not seen half of the things his interjection implied, but that did not matter. The legend of his acumen was about him like the protecting leaves of winter broccoli. Nothing but the best was ever offered to him, and he procured the best at reasonable prices. Hence he was becoming rich, although he had inherited a derelict farm and a debt. His father had possessed neither a presence nor a voice nor a ‘Ha!’ He had not stood six foot six with shoulders to match, nor weighed eighteen stone, nor had a patriarchal beard that flowed to his waist. He had been a much more industrious man than his son; known more about sheep; deserved success. He had failed lamentably. His son, riding about the country on his cob, penetrating the remote, precipitous hillsides where fat sheep were to be had for little money, had become a personality and a power. His lightest word was received with respect; a seat near the fire was kept for him on winter afternoons in the inn parlours; auctioneers had been known to wait to begin a sale until his large figure was seen looming in the assembly.

Whatever may be the ideas of civilization, in wild places physical perfection still dominates, as in the days of Saul. It may be that, as the fight with natural forces is more imminent in the country, it is more obvious that the biggest man is likely to last longest, and staying-power is greatly admired by country people. It may also be the instinct for hero-worship, the desire to have something big set up as a sign, something large enough for legends to accumulate round.

How much Isaiah Lovekin guessed of his own incipient godhead did not appear. He never commented upon it. He never spoke much. Perhaps if he had done so the spell would have been broken. He simply profited by it, accepted it, grew fat on it. Sometimes there might seem to be a roguish twinkle in that dark eye of his, but it was difficult to find out what it meant. Usually his monumental reserve was unbroken even by a twinkle, and, like some stately promontory, he accepted all that the sea of life brought to his feet. Nobody ever questioned his position, nor doubted his ability to live up to it. Only in his daughter’s eyes sometimes there was a fleeting look of something half-way between mockery and motherhood. It had been there even when she looked up at him from her cradle, when she had been nothing but a bundle and a grey glance, lying so low at the feet of an immense, overwhelming being. Everybody had seen the look, compounded of pity and laughter. Isaiah had turned to his wife, as if for protection. Mrs. Fanteague had said: ‘That’s no Christian child! She’s a changeling. She’ll never live.’ Mrs. Makepeace was sure it was only a tooth coming. Certainly Gillian had managed to live, changeling or not. It was Mrs. Lovekin who died, finding it too difficult to be the wife of a Deity.

Gillian, having watched her father sitting before the fire splendid, happy and idle, until her high nose—flattened against the window-pane—was very cold, suddenly hooted like an owl and drew back.

No! He did not jump. If only she could have made him jump! She kicked off her clogs, went into the kitchen, and startled the sleeping Simon instead. Mrs. Makepeace had gone, and the kitchen—shining, tidy, smelling of wet soap—was inhabited only by Simon and by the gentle, hesitating ‘tick-tack’ of the clock.

‘Quiet!’ said Gillian. ‘Oh, dear sakes, I can hear the leaves a-falling on my grave! I’ll even be glad to see A’nt Fanteague, Simon, for she do make a stir, O!’

She washed her face and hands at the pump, and tidied her hair at a little glass on the wall. Then she went into the parlour, singing in her high and delicious voice:

‘Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret—’

‘Ha!’ said Isaiah, and she became silent, wondering in a kind of hypnotized way what she had done.

‘So you’ve raught back, father?’

‘Ah.’

‘Bin far?’

‘Over the border.’

‘Whiteladies or Weeping Cross?’

‘Weeping Cross.’

‘Bought anything?’

‘A tuthree.’

‘Seen anybody?’

‘Who should I see?’

‘I mean, anybody fresh?’

‘How you do raven after some new thing, Gillian!’

‘But wasna there anybody but the old ancient people as you always see?’

‘There was a dealer from beyond the mountains.’

She clapped her hands.

‘I wish I’d been there! Was he young?’

‘Middling young.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Elmer.’

‘Could he ride without a saddle?’

‘I didna inquire.’

‘Oh, I wish I’d been there!’

Isaiah smoked in silence.

‘If I’d been there d’you know what I’d ha’ done?’

‘Not even the Almighty knows that.’

‘I’d ha’ come walking up to him in my new frock that is to be, slate-coloured blue like the slatey drake, and my hair done up, and beads in it—’

‘Beads?’

‘Glass ones, shiny like diamonds.’

‘Oh!’

‘And I’d ha’ bowed like parson’s wife at the Keep. “Pleased to know you, but no liberties allowed.” And I’d ha’ dared him to ride full gallop without a saddle.’

‘Oh, you would, would ye?’

‘And if he was thrown and killed, I’d say: “One fool the less!” But if he did it proper, I’d jump up in front and I’d say: “Kind sir! Take me out in the world and learn me to sing, and I’ll be yours for ever, beads and slatey frock and all!” And if he beat me, I’d say nought: but if he couldna ride, I’d laugh.’

‘Just as well I didna take you.’

‘Take me next time, father! Do!’

‘Decked like a popinjay, and being gallus with the fellers? No! Here you stop, my girl.’

‘Father!’

‘Eh?’

‘When I’ve learnt to sing proper, I can go out into the world, canna I?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘You mun bide, and see to the house.’

‘But Mrs. Makepeace could do that. And if you’ll let me go, I’ll come back when you’re aged and old, with the palsy and the tic doloreux, hobbling on two sticks and tears in your eyes and nobody to love ye! I’ll come in a carriage, with silver shoes and a purse of money, and maybe a husband and maybe not, and I’ll walk in with a sighing of silk and pour out money on the table, and bring you oranges and candied peel and sparkly wine and a fur coat and summat for the tic doloreux!’

‘Thank you kindly.’

‘So you’ll take me next time?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, I’ll ask A’nt Fanteague to take me. So now!’

‘Best make the toast, and see if fire’s alight in the guest-chamber, and look to the oven, for I smell burning.’

Gillian collapsed, departing almost in tears to the kitchen that was so quiet, and the guest-chamber that was quieter still. She drew up the sullen fire in the grate, which was damp from disuse, and in its fugitive light she surveyed the large white bed with its Marcella quilt, the chill dressing-table, the clean, cold curtains, the polished oilcloth icily gleaming. There were no sounds except the crackling of the fire, and the wind soughing a little in the chimney. For the first time in her life Gillian was glad her aunt was coming. Aunt Fanteague lived in the great world, at Silverton itself. There would be plenty of pianos and singing masters there, and young men who could ride without saddle or bridle and accomplish feats of daring and danger at her command. Having drawn the fire up to a roaring blaze, she ran downstairs to make the toast. Turning a hot red cheek to her father, she said:

‘I wish she’d come!’

‘You do? Ha!’

‘I’m feared it’s happened at long last.’

‘What?’

‘Why—Jonathan.’

‘Oh, Jonathan’ll turn up all right, peart as a robin. Accidents he may have, but that’s all. And your A’ntie’s along of him, you mind.’

‘Yes, A’ntie’s along of him. Maybe she’ll bring me a present.’

‘Maybe you’ve burnt the toast.’

‘Hark! The wicket’s clicked.’

Gillian was out of the room and the house in a twinkling. She submerged her aunt in kisses, while Jonathan trundled off to the yard humming, ‘Safe home, safe home in port.’

‘What you want, Juliana,’ said Aunt Fanteague, ‘is control.’

She entered.

‘Well, Isaiah!’ she said.

She always said this on entering her brother’s house. It expressed, among other things, her exasperated disappointment that the place was no better kept than it had been last time she came.

‘Ha!’ said her brother. But instead of feeling found out, Mrs. Fanteague behaved as if she had found him out.

‘I see the big white stone by the wicket has not been put in place yet, Isaiah,’ she said. ‘Twelve months ago come Christmas Jonathan knocked it out bringing me home—and I thank my Redeemer it was no worse! Twelve months, Isaiah! Fifty-two weeks! Three hundred and sixty-five days! How many hours, Juliana?’

‘Oh, A’ntie!’

‘Where’s your book-learning, child?’

Mrs. Fanteague sat down in the large chair opposite Isaiah—the chair that had been so well brushed and polished—and Gillian standing between them was like the young sickle-moon between two of the vast immemorial yew trees on the moor.

‘You’re late, sister!’ said Isaiah.

‘And well may you say it! And well may I be late! What Jonathan wants is two guardian angels for ever beside him, and he on a leash, with nothing else to do but walk along quiet under the shadow of their wings. It was into the hedge this side, and into the hedge that! Never a stone but we were on to it—and into the hedge agen! Then my box fell off, and how it kept on so long only the Redeemer knows—for Jonathan tied it. When we got well on to the moor, what must the man do but drive into the quaking slough, and there we were!’

Isaiah smiled into his beard. After all, they had arrived. People always did—in the long run—when Jonathan drove them.

‘Is it froze over?’

‘It is not, Isaiah. Look at my boots! Out I had to get. He trod on my umberella. Then I dropped my reticule and he trod on that. The mare wouldn’t stir. So I said the Nunc Dimittis’ (Aunt Fanteague was High Church) ‘and took the butt-end of the whip to her, so after a bit we got to the road agen, and I didn’t mind the other things near so much. But, seeing as you won’t leave this God-’elp place, what you want is to let young Rideout drive. Now, there’s a man! Nothing said, but the thing gets done. If you’d send Rideout, your sister’s bonnet wouldn’t be torn to pieces with hedges and the whip—for when Jonathan thinks he’s slashing the mare, it’s your sister he’s slashing, Isaiah, every time!’

Isaiah looked at the fire. A twinkle seemed to tenant his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he was thinking that if he sent Rideout there would be nothing to discourage Mrs. Fanteague from coming very often.

‘And how’s poor Emily?’ he said.

‘Poor Emily’s as usual, Isaiah.’

Emily was, for the time, dismissed. Mrs. Fanteague was untying her bonnet-strings. She was large, though not so large as Isaiah. When her bonnet, which seemed to have been built with bricks and mortar, not merely sewn, was off and lay in her lap, the likeness to Isaiah became more obvious. She had the same fine head, massive but low brow, and solid features. Her hair was built up just as her bonnet was, and looked like sculptured hair. In it she wore massive combs and five large yellow tortoise-shell pins. Her dress had the look of being held together only by the ferocious tenacity of its buttons, which were made of jet. Not that she was fat, but she was large of bone and well developed, and her dresses were always tight-fitting, after the style of a riding-habit. Pinning her collar together was a big square brooch of wedgwood china depicting a cross, a young woman and a dove. The symbolism of this had never been explained to Gillian, though she had often inquired. It remained, like Isaiah, mysterious, capable of many constructions. Cuffs, knitted by Emily and trimmed with beads, finished her sleeves, and a well-gathered skirt came down to within an inch of the ground. She gave the impression, as she sat there, of being invulnerable, morally and physically.

‘Would you like to wash you and change your boots, A’ntie? There’s a good fire in the guest-chamber.’

‘There is, is there? Well, you’re tempting Providence, for coal’s coal and it gets no cheaper. But I don’t say it isn’t pleasant.’

‘And I filled the boiler, so there’s hot water to wash you.’

‘Juliana, you’re improving!’

Praise from her was infrequent. If she had known the reason of the improvement, perhaps she would have withheld it.

‘Dunna forget the cooling tea and a man that’s sharpset for his’n,’ said Isaiah.

They departed in a whirl of black skirts, coloured skirts, reticules, bags and bonnets.

Isaiah smiled at the fire. He knew very well why Gillian bestowed such affectionate care on her aunt.

But as Aunt Fanteague did not know, and as she had, like many rocky natures, a great, though concealed, craving for affection, she was touched. She was glad she had brought Gillian a present.

‘When I unpack,’ she said, as she instinctively moved the dressing-table to look for dust underneath, running her finger over the polished surfaces, ‘there might be something for a good girl.’

Gillian flushed, partly with pleasure, but mostly with annoyance at being treated in so babyish a way. Was she not Miss Juliana Lovekin, of Dysgwlfas? But it was not politic to show her annoyance. As the most practical way of getting nearer to the desired fairing, she began to uncord the box, which had been carried up the backstairs by Robert. It was the same yellow tin box in which Mrs. Fanteague’s bridal raiment had been packed when she had left the farm on that long-ago summer day with the man of her choice.

This phrase was literally true, for Mr. Fanteague had had no choice in the matter. The box still looked wonderfully new, considering that Jonathan had fetched it once or twice every year across the moor. It had lost much less of its early freshness than Mrs. Fanteague had. Gillian’s firm, pointed fingers undid the knots, and at last the lid, painted blue inside, was lifted to reveal tissue-paper, the black silk Sunday dress, best bonnet, gloves, and braided cape which Aunt Emily’s nervous fingers had folded. Underneath lay a small packet.

‘I must tell you, my dear, it isn’t new,’ said Aunt Fanteague. ‘But it’s jewellery. And I know the vanity of your heart, Juliana.’

‘Jewellery! Oh, A’ntie!’

‘You can undo it, if you’ve a mind.’

Gillian most certainly had a mind. She undid it. And there lay a small cornelian heart with a golden clasp through which a ribbon was to be slipped. It was wonderful—a fairy gift. It had colour, which she loved, and romance, and it was her first ornament.

‘A’ntie! When you’re ancient and old, when there’s none to comfort ye, I’ll mind this locket! And howsoever far away I am, I’ll come to ye! I will that! And I’ll try to keep my nails clean, too, because you say they werrit ye. See! Dunna it look nice agen my frock? Have you got ever a piece of ribbon I could tie it on with?’

Aunt Fanteague found a bit of black velvet, took up the candle, and said it was time to go down.

‘And now,’ said Isaiah, ‘let me hear the news of poor Emily. She’s well, you say?’

‘I say that poor Emily’s as well as can be expected in her peculiar situation.’

‘Does she eat and sleep?’

‘She eats but poorly, and dreams.’

‘Dreams, A’ntie? Oh, I wish I could dream! What does she dream?’

‘She dreams of angels.’

‘Ha!’

Isaiah had a great idea of looking after his women-folk. He always asked particularly after their physical well-being. If that was satisfactory, nothing else mattered.

‘Ha! If she dreamt of a babby, it ’ud be better! That’s the dream for Emily! Always was!’

He gave his rare, tremendous laugh—the laugh which, as legend said, had once frightened Dosset’s bull so much that it had omitted to toss Isaiah.

Mrs. Fanteague rose.

‘Toast there may be, and cooling tea, and a welcome of sorts inside, and a cold wind drawing over the moor, but out I go, Isaiah, if you speak indecent. Before the child, too!’

‘I amna a child, A’ntie! And I like to hear about—A’nt Emily.’

‘Sit down, sister. I’m mum.’

Mrs. Fanteague, after suitable hesitation, sat down.

‘How old is Emily?’ asked Isaiah, who was not good at dates.

‘Emily’s forty-one.’

‘Well, it’s not past praying for, then. You mind when Bob Rideout was born, Abigail was forty-three. And you couldna find a stronger, lustier—’

Mrs. Fanteague arose again.

‘Oh, sit down, sister! I’m dumb as a corpse!’

‘Is poor A’nt Emily still in love, A’ntie?’

This romance of Emily’s was a perennial source of interest to Gillian.

‘Yes, my dear.’

‘And does Mr. Gentle still call?’

‘Regular as clockwork. More regular than any new-fangled clock.’

‘But they inna going to get married?’

‘I don’t know, my dear.’

‘What does A’nt Emily think?’

‘She wouldn’t consider it ladylike to think anything till Mr. Gentle spoke.’

‘And dunna he?’

‘No, my dear. Not like that. He says it’s blowing up for rain, or there’s a peck of March dust, or what a sight of apple-blow, or as it was a pleasant sermon. And he reads. We’re doing Crabbe now. And once he said he liked lilac, when Aunt Emily had a lilac dress on. But that’s all.’

‘Ha!’ said Isaiah, and buried his face in his cup.

‘Oh, A’ntie, how awful!’

‘No, my dear, it’s very pleasant.’

‘Awful for poor A’nt Emily! Coddling about year after year! I’d want Mr. Gentle to fall down on his knee-bones—’

‘He’s a little bit rheumatic, Juliana.’

‘He should ha’ done it when he could. To fall down on his knees and say: “I love ye!” And get up quick and kiss me till I couldna breathe.’

Mrs. Fanteague looked at her brother accusingly.

‘Like father, like child!’ she said.

‘And then for him to say: “Fix the day! Fix it! Fix it!” And me all in a fluster, like the ducks when I catch ’em. And away to church. And into the trap. And off to the station! And him saying: “You be mine for ever and ever.” Only I dunna think Mr. Gentle would do. Can he drive and ride without a saddle? Durst he walk along the top of a wagon o’ hay when it’s going quick, like Robert does?’

Mrs. Fanteague smiled. It was not easy for her to smile, because her face had set in other lines.

‘Juliana,’ she said, ‘if ever you see Mr. Gentle, you’ll understand. No words of mine can make you. Mr. Gentle’s one that never has a speck on him, and never loses his dignity; he’s a real polished gentleman.’

‘Oh, dear sores! I shouldna like him. He’d kiss so soft.’

Isaiah came to life.

‘What d’ye know about kisses, my girl? Has Robert been playing the fool? I’ll give him the best—’

‘You wouldna find it so easy! Robert’s strong. But he hanna kissed me nor wanted to. I never thought of it afore you said.’

She began to look dreamy.

‘I’d like it to be said as Gillian Lovekin married young and had a very sweet nature, like they said about Great-Aunt Amy Lovekin.’

‘Did you take them pastries out of oven?’ inquired Isaiah.

‘Oh, dearie, dearie me!’

She fled to the kitchen, returning slowly.

‘Spoilt, I suppose?’

She nodded.

‘Fetch ’em!’

They came. Twenty-four cheese-cakes and some pastry ‘fingers,’ all of ebony-black.

‘How much stuff went to ’em?’

‘Pound o’ flour, half dripping, three oranges, sugar, two eggs—’

‘What ’ud that cost, sister?’

‘Well, as you’ve got your own fowl, maybe about a shilling.’

‘Fetch a shilling, Gillian.’

‘Oh, father! Not a coney shilling?’

‘Ah.’

‘But that’s a music lesson, father!’

‘Fetch it. It’ll learn you not to get dreamy and moithered like poor Emily. You be glad I’m too lazy to leather ye.’

Gillian retired to the kitchen in tears. Her aunt, coming out to ‘dry’ while she washed-up, was prepared to comfort the weeping penitent.

But instead of a penitent she saw, when she entered, two pillows placed in chairs at the table. One was dressed in Isaiah’s best coat and hat, the other in Gillian’s summer frock, a lace curtain for a veil, and the cornelian heart.

‘It’s A’nt Emily’s wedding breakfast!’ said Gillian. ‘Mr. Gentle’s spoken at long last!’