Читать книгу The Silent Woman - Rita - Страница 10

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It seemed hours to Rufus Myrthe before his senses steadied themselves; before that weird visitor departed, even as it had come. With the closing of the window, he moved from his place of concealment, and hurried back to his own room. Arrived there, he locked the door and tried to calm his shaken nerves.

Who or what was it that had paid that strange visit to the death-room? Someone who had loved or mourned the dead woman, for grief had been plainly evident. The sad cry, the haunting moan, still wailed through the very nerve-centres of his brain. He tried to reason, to convince himself his fancy had played some trick, but the memory of that cry, the sight of that grotesque, mis-shapen creature, were things too vivid to have been the product of even an over-excited imagination.

He felt that the mysteries of the mysterious Inn were becoming more and more profound. The chance which had led him here seemed bent on proving itself the handmaid of that fate which weaves the web of human destiny from apparently insignificant threads.

Sleep was impossible. The weird, uncanny atmosphere of the place had mastered his usual contempt for everything bearing the name of mystery. Try as he might he could not rid himself of the impression that crime darkened its repute, that some evil memory enshrouded it. No mere whim, or bodily ailment, had sealed the lips and taxed the endurance of that dead woman. Some awful shock must have been the cause of her affliction. The desire to know its nature was taking slow but sure possession of him.

He paced the floor restlessly, feeling that sleep had fled for this night. He wondered if Dick had returned? If Moll slept? Where old Luke spent his nights? He went to his window and threw it open. Rain was falling heavily. A grey and starless sky lowered over peak, and moor, and valley. Not a light showed itself anywhere, and he thought to himself that it would be no easy matter for the master of the Inn to find his way, supposing he had chosen to return. He was about to close the window when something caught his eye. It was a faint moving light that played in a zig-zag line over the track leading to the old mine. Now lost; now faint as a glow-worm's spark; now broadening into a long streak of brightness. He followed its will-o'-the-wisp fantasies for a considerable time. Then it suddenly disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness of that desolate region where the old shaft lifted its melancholy signal to the melancholy landscape.

He closed the window and threw himself upon the bed, tired out with emotions, yet mentally alert.

The face of Dick Udale haunted him with its surly ruffianism; the taunts of Dick Udale rang again in his ears—"Lawful heritage."

It had seemed to him the easiest thing in the world to cross the seas and descend upon possessions to which he had a claim. But the obstacles that now confronted him bristled with all sorts of difficulty. In this remote and desolate region, where one man slipped into another man's shoes apparently unquestioned, where names held little significance, where even murder might so cloak itself that no one thought of questioning a mystery, or a disappearance, it would be a hard and wearisome task to upset a long-unopposed tenure. For aught he knew, Dick o' th' Inn, as they called him, might be one of his grandmother's family. Even Moll herself might——

He caught his breath, and sat up, thrilled with a sudden hope. Oh! If only she might be a relative, even of remote cousinship. If he could own to himself a right in her future welfare and wrest her from this ruffian who called himself her father!

But what a task. Prudence, caution, patience—the virtues that impetuous youth disdains—all would be necessary. He saw an imaginary chain, whose every link had yet to be forged from the first fragile one which lay in a dead woman's hand. And even if patience and skill were the workmen to add to its links, would the result be worth the labour?

That he could not answer. Restless and fevered, and widely wakeful, so he tossed from side to side, watching for the first sign of dawn through his little, square window.

The house remained quite silent as the night waned. Evidently Dick had not returned. He thought of the girl in the kitchen below, keeping that melancholy vigil. Death above, and age beside her. What a life for youth and beauty such as hers. "Well, I guess we're pretty well matched in ill-luck; we ought to meet on common ground so far," he reflected. . . "What wonderful hair! I wonder what it looks like unfastened?"

That wonder lasted long enough to induce the despaired-of sleep. It merged into a dream. A dream in which an Aphrodite rose, not from the sea, but from a wide, dark space of bog-land, and as she rose billows upon billows of golden light fell from her lifted head and trailed upon the dank, wet ground. As he gazed, wondering and half-awed at the amazing sight the golden locks formed themselves into a ladder, which the goddess held towards him, smiling the while with mocking lips. He felt himself spring forward to seize it, but even as hand clasped and foot touched those silken strands it fell, and he with it. He awoke at the shock of the fall. Day was come at last. Thankful to welcome it, he rose and made his toilet and then, taking his boots in his hand, so as not to awaken the sleepers in the kitchen, he let himself out of the house.

The old sheep-dog in the yard lifted his head and yawned a sleepy greeting. He heard the lowing of the cow and the noisy cackling of the poultry. The moorland air blew sweet and soft from the surrounding heights, and peak after peak stretched eagerly upwards, as if anxious to grasp that golden radiance and bathe in its liquid light. Under that blue tent of sky even the barren moorland took something of beauty showing gradations of colour, violet glints of heather, deep pools lying mirror-like among the cut spaces of dug-out turf.

Rufus Myrthe's eyes took in the scene with something of wonder at the transforming effect of sunshine. He traversed the moor to its highest point within the Inn boundary, and then tried to discern the possible extent of what had once been the Marth Farm. From thence he could see the few fields that offered mute apologies for bad farming. The grazing land where the sheep were turned out, the narrow grass track leading to the old coal mine, and farther yet—over the dreary miles of bog and moor—to where a road crept like a tawny snake towards the hamlet of Distly-in-the-Dale. The clear light served as a magnifying glass, and he saw where he had lost himself in the mist two nights before. At this point his eyes dropped nearer present surroundings, and the bleat of the sheep caught his ear. Old Luke Froggart was opening the pen and letting them forth. He, too, seemed cheered by the lovely light and warmth of the September morning, and gave vent to contentment in a flickering quaver of unlifted voice, that held all the intention of song, though lacking absolute intelligibility to the listener.

Rufus left his vantage point and crossed to where the queer old figure advanced or retired according to the disposition of the scanty flock. He gave brief but active assistance, and soon the foolish creatures were headed off in the desired direction. Old Luke's thanks took the form of a monologue, in which he described sheep as "no wiser nor wimmin for strayin' off th' straight line, an' no better reason for 't than that it were straight."

Rufus agreed with this piece of wisdom, to lessen any prolonged argument, and then tried to get the old labourer back on that track of information which concerned himself and his interests here. But Luke was garrulous to-day, and his communications displayed the vagaries of a winding intellect, as obstinately bent on straying from the straight road as the foolish ewes he had been satirising.

"I be goin' to ha' my breakfast," he said suddenly. "Time was whin th' farm wench 'ud get it ready; steamin' hot porridge an' sup o' milk or ale, which 'un liked, an' a hunch o' home-baked, thick as my arm. But now I mum do all for mysel'. An' 'tis pore fare I gits often as not, for Dick, he's that miserly wi' th' brass as tho' th' workhouse door stood open afore him."

"I'll get your breakfast if you'll show me where the stores are," said Rufus. "Many's the time I've had to do it at home, and little comes amiss to one who's had to hunt and kill his food before he can cook it."

"Ah, thee's had stirrin' times, I'll warrant. An' so young o' years, tew. Wonderful 'tis how travel an' strange countries do sharpen th' wits o' a man."

He nodded his old head wearily, as if to confirm his own opinion, and then led the way to a sort of outer kitchen in the yard, where he appeared to reside. It had a small, open fireplace, where the raked-up turf of the night before smouldered dully. A rusty iron pot swung over it, suspended by a hook and chain. A wooden bench, a tin bowl, and a heap of straw and old rugs in the corner, formed all the furnishing of the dwelling.

Rufus Myrthe glanced round, but made no comment.

The old man went to a cupboard in the wall and produced a bowl of coarse oatmeal.

"Whin you've na' bin used to do wi' much, it's wonderful easy to do wi'out it," he observed, "I ha' na' had time ta milk th' cow this mornin', but gin ye'll make th' porridge I'll soon settle wi' Sue out i' th' shed yonder."

He took up a pail and went out. Rufus Myrthe threw off his coat and set to work on the fire, and fetched in water and put it on to boil, in the matter of fact manner of one used to be his own servant.

The porridge was ready almost as soon as the old labourer returned with a pail filled with milk. Rufus had found two delpht bowls, and poured the contents of the pot into them. They ladled out the milk from the pail with a tin cup as they needed it.

"It's rare and good," observed Luke, after a few mouthfuls, shovelled in with a horn spoon.

"I mostly gets it smoked. Thee's a rare young feller to come anigh. I doubt if I cud teech 'ee more than thee knaw'st."

"So do I," laughed Rufus. "All the same I wish you'd give me some information about the coal mine. Does anyone live thereabouts?"

The old man put down his spoon and looked keenly at the inquirer. "Live do 'ee say? I dunno' 'bout livin'. They dew say as how the ill-begotten divil they calls Dwarf Japes hereabouts has ta'en to hidin' hissel i' some part o' th' ould pit."

Rufus Myrthe, in turn, put down the spoon. Relief and excitement shone in his eager eyes. "A dwarf? Can you describe it? What is it like?"

"A skeerie creetur, eno'. Twisted o' limb, an' ugly as th' sire they sez av' begotten 'un. Canna walk, but hops same as frogs dew hop, an' gets ower th' ground wi' speed o' horse. Dinna try an' see 't an' ye can help yersel'. 'Tis bad luck. Wimmin-folk an' childer are as feart o' Japes as 'twer the evil un' hissel."

"Then that accounts for it!" exclaimed Rufus, eagerly, pleased at being able to put aside the claims of his last night's visitor to anything superhuman. "It must have been the dwarf I saw."

"Thee should ha' gotten on th' knees an' said a 'Glory Be,' or summit," recommended old Luke, gravely. "Only onst I seed th' dwarf, an' I nearly lost all sivin senses in th' terror o' 't. 'Twar arter sunset, I mind, an' dark an' misty I war crossin' th' moor by th' ould pit, an' summat cum a leppin' an' a flappin' right afore me; a main an' gashly sight it war! My heart it seemed shrinkin' wi'in me, an' my knees they shook as 'twer my last hour, an' judgment awaitin'. I fell right down wi' th' sense o' fearfulness upon me, an' I said th' one text I cud call to mind ower an' ower like a earnest prayer, keepin' my eyes shut. I knaw'd I was a lost man if th' ungodly creetur should touch me. But whin I opened my eyes there war nought to be seen, so I got on to my feet an' made what haste I cud, not lookin' ta right or left, but straight afore, till a' got ta Gorse Stone Gate. I war tremblin' greatly by then, an' feered o' my life, as th' gashly thing wer' followin' an' I mind, tew, how my ould fingers shook as tho' thy'd nivir find th' latch. An' what a bang I give th' gate! O! 'twar a terrible experience for an ancient man o' my years, an' whin I heerd the bark o' ould Slack theer, an' seed un a runnin' to meet me, 'twar the joy'filest sight I can call to mind."

He took a few rapid spoonfuls of the cooling porridge and left his hearer to follow out his own line of conjecture.

"But how does this creature exist?" asked Rufus presently. "He must have food and fire, and shelter. Where does he get them?"

"From his own kin, o' course. 'Divil's spawn ha' divil's care,' as they say. Naw one knaws more than I've told 'ee."

He placed the spoon in the empty bowl and signified breakfast was over.

"I mun get ta wark now," he observed. "Maister Dick 'ull surely be comin' back tha morn. M'appen he'll ha' th' berryin' to-morrow, an' mak' another Sunday o't. If ye'll tak th' can o' milk wi'in 'twill lighten my labour, an' do 'ee na hurt. Ay, but ye're well-grown an' strong for a lad. What might yer age be, traveller?"

Rufus Myrthe laughed. "A long way off four-score, my friend," he said.

"Scarce two, I warrint. Well, well; ye'll reach my years an' ye live long eno'."