Читать книгу The Silent Woman - Rita - Страница 11

Table of Contents

It was midday before the master of the Inn returned and brought with him an undertaker, who was accompanied, in turn, by a melancholy, red-eyed youth as assistant. These individuals stayed on, and appeared to make all necessary arrangements for the ceremony.

Rufus kept out of the way as much as possible from a sense of delicacy, which, had he known it, was quite lost upon his host. He made no comment on finding the young fellow had stayed on, but absented himself from meals, as if no way desirous of his company. With nightfall Rufus wondered how the Inn was to accommodate such an addition to its usual inmates. He begged Moll to take his room for herself, but she refused. In the end the undertaker, Samuel Sowkes by name, was accommodated with a shake-down in the inn-keeper's own room; the melancholy assistant was relegated to the hospitality of old Luke; and Dame Dottery and Moll once more shared the kitchen.

That night Rufus slept well and soundly, awakening only when the sun was fully risen and the Inn astir. He ate his frugal meal at a corner of the table, and, that finished, offered his services as one of the bearers.

A strange and melancholy procession filed forth from the desolate place.

The coffin was borne by the four men, and old Luke and Moll walked behind. The churchyard for which they were bound lay miles distant. Their way branched off from the main road into a deep ravine, or "clough," its rocky sides laden with holly and furze bushes. Through this hollow a small stream ran, first babbling by the footway, then widening and deepening till it burst into a mimic cataract and went tumbling and foaming into the valley below. This valley sprang like an oasis from the breast of the rugged slopes that shut it in on three sides. It consisted of some dozen stone houses, a few small farms, and, set in the midst of all, an ancient church with a square tower, green and grey, and moss-grown with the contributions of centuries.

The bearers halted at the opening of the vale, and waited the arrival of the other mourners. Rufus Myrthe seated himself on a block of stone and looked through the mouth of the dell into the lovely circle of green and blue beyond. It was a surprise to him to find such a gem of fertility and beauty amidst the barren wastes that had hitherto represented scenery.

"Is that Distly?" he asked of the red-eyed youth, who was mopping his damp face with a chequered handkerchief, conveying a discreet hint of half-mourning by its pattern.

"That? Oh, no, sir," he answered, in a mincing accent that seemed to have lost its Derbyshire quaintness without gaining the educated distinction of the southern counties. "Distly lies further south. It is a market town, and has a considerable population. The valley yonder is called Endcliff Vale. That old church is almost tumbling down with age. The roof leaks, and the tower is half a ruin. They do say it ought to be restored, but no one hereabouts can find the money. Mostly, the people of Endcliff goes to chapel, but the parson keeps on the church for buryings, and christenings, and weddings. There bean't—isn't I mean—more'n fifty all told living hereabouts. These three farms take up all the ground that's any good, and except sowing and harvest times, there's nothing much going on."

A reminder from surly Dick that "time were oop," stopped further conversation; and once again Rufus aided the carrying of that melancholy burden to the little weed-grown churchyard where it was to lie at rest.

The sexton held open the gate as the bearers passed in. The white-gowned figure of the clergyman, an old weather-beaten individual, his scanty grey locks covered with a velvet cap, led the way, murmuring huskily the opening formula of the solemn burial service.

It struck Rufus Myrthe as strange that this was the first time in his life he had stood by a grave and participated in the melancholy offices pertaining to death. Again he wondered whether there had been a special purpose in that visit to the melancholy Inn. Again he recalled the stranger experiences resulting from that visit.

Then his eyes fell on Moll, as she stood opposite in a dark stuff dress, a black kerchief, lent by Dame Dottery, covering her rich-hued hair. Her face was very pale; at times he saw her lip quiver; but she gave no other sign of emotion, even when the coffin was lowered, and the earth from the sexton's spade fell heavily and dull on its lid. The ceremony was soon over. The old clergyman closed his book, and then glanced at the faces of the mourners. They were parishioners of his, but had never troubled his church with attendance, or himself for spiritual advice. The man had a bad name; the girl he knew by repute as "Moll o' th' Inn," a wild, feckless lass, with the manners of a lout, and the habits of a ploughboy.

It surprised him to see how beautiful the girl was, and how quiet in manner and appearance. He approached and said a few kindly words to her, as she stood, half-dazed, looking down into the clayey hollow where all she had known of motherhood was lying now.

She started slightly as he spoke, but made no response.

The old parson then turned to the ill-looking, taciturn widower. "Dick Udale," he said, "it has pleased Providence to take your wife into His own care and keeping. I have heard of you and her. I cannot tell how much is true or false. But I should like to ask what you mean to do with your daughter? She is no longer a child. Soon she will be a woman. You don't send her to school. You suffer her to work like a farm lad; tending sheep, harvesting, even following the plough, so I've been told. Now that she has no mother her life will be worse. It is your duty to atone for previous neglect. I hope you mean to do so."

Surly Dick lifted his eyes for a moment, to the gentle, placid face of the speaker.

"I doan't see as it's ony concern of yourn," he answered, rudely. "I doan't come a meddlin' wi' your family; and you'd best dew the same 'long o' mine. I dunna come to church, for I canna stummack th' doctrine; you parsons be for givin' all folks to the devil an' hell fire, if they doan't think as yew think, an' dew as yew tells them. Yew've done your bizness tha' morn, an' I'll pay ye for't. But I doan't want yer advice. Whin I does, I'll ax ye for't. I mind ye tellin' folks as how I was a blas-phe-mous ould heathen, an' if that's Christian charity, thee'rt welcome to keep it to theysel'. I winna go ta tha church, an' I'll do wi' my lass yonder jist what I sees fit to dew."

The astonished clergyman got very red and hot, and gave a response more indignant than Christian. Then, as if remembering the occasion and the recently performed ceremony, he turned hastily away, pausing a moment beside Moll to bid her come to the vicarage if ever she needed help or counsel.

Then the group broke up, the undertaker and his assistant going by a nearer route to their own place of abode at Distly, and Dick and Moll and the ancient follower forming a straggling line homewards.

Rufus Myrthe lingered behind. He wished to examine the old tombstones, and also to inquire of the clergyman as to the family traditions of the Marth Farm. Surely, here would be records of births or deaths. There must be a register of such deaths in the vestry, and he determined to see it. He loitered through the dismal churchyard, pushing aside the long grass that hid the gravestones, reading names and epitaphs with eager interest. But he found nothing to reward his search. As he came round the old tower once more he saw that the sexton was at work filling up the newly-made grave.

He strolled up, intent on questioning him as to the matter he had at heart. Learning that the old man had been bell-ringer, grave-digger, and "clerk o' th' keys an' vestry," and had also seen three "passons" in and out of office during his life Rufus Myrthe commenced laying diplomatic siege to his memory. It served much the same purpose as his questioning Luke Froggart. A rambling narrative, a curious mixture of fact, hearsay, and deductions therefrom, the fixing of dates by parochial events, or domestic trails largely connected with the official calling of the narrator.

The task grew more hopeless as the said narrator grew more garrulous. Rufus Myrthe shrugged his shoulders at each vain attempt to connect what he had collected. A suggestion of the vestry brought information that the keys were at "th' passon's house," and might, or might not, be given to the applicant.

"But if it's t' ould books 'ee wants to see," continued the sexton, "I dunno wheer they be presint moment. They war allus kept in th' cupboard o' th' vestry till Parson Slack, him as I tould 'ee niver couldna abide Christmas times, he had thim tuk to th' vicarage, as th' lock warn't considered safe. The new man, him as ye see to-day, he said he cudna find only th' new one as war bought a matter o' ten or twelve year back. But maybe they're in the passonage somewhere. 'Tis a mighty ould house nigh on two hundred or more year. An' full o' corners an' cupboards, an' dark places. M'appen th' passon 'ull look un oop if it be a weighty matter o' birth or burial-tracing, as 'ee say."

Rufus decided to seek the clergyman without further delay, and having presented his informant with half a crown, he left him to complete his task.

He found the old cleric at home, and was ushered into a dark, mouldy-looking room, the walls lined with books, and the table covered with papers. A fire was burning in the grate, and the clergyman himself sat before it in an old leather armchair. He recognised the young man at once as a member of that strange funeral party of the morning. His greeting, perhaps owing to that circumstance, was of a less cordial description than might have been expected. Rufus took a seat and explained his errand in a direct, breezy fashion peculiar to himself.

The Reverend David Blore listened, glancing from time to time at the young fellow's handsome, eager face. When he ceased speaking he removed the glasses from his eyes, laid them down with the slow, deliberate movements of one to whom haste is unnecessary, and with equal deliberation observed that the young American's request was somewhat unorthodox.

"We do not permit strangers to peruse our registers, unless under very special circumstances," he said. "If you can give the names of the parties in whom you are interested, and dates as to the birth or interment of any of them, I would do my best to trace them, but without such information I can do nothing. Besides, I am in grave doubt as to the existence of the old parish registers. My predecessor seemed somewhat careless in these matters. I found comparatively new ones, with entries of some half-dozen years only. The sexton informed me that the old ones had been removed from the vestry owing to the cupboard lock proving unsafe. The whole church is in a lamentable condition," he went on. "Shameful neglect on the part of the lords of the manor. And the parish is so scattered that I have never had anything worth calling a congregation."

"But these books," persisted Rufus; "surely they must be somewhere in the house."

"No doubt," said Mr. Blore, oracularly.

"No doubt. But, as I have told you, my young sir, I should require proof of your bona fides. Your right to the family name and family history. Fifty years, half a century of absence, leaves space for unjust, as well as just claims. In the first place, your name is not the same."

"No," said Rufus. "It got changed in America. I guess Marth easily twists into Myrthe; it all depends on how you pronounce it. And folks out West have their own notions of spelling and pronouncing. That's easily accounted for."

"You believe your grandmother originally owned this farm on which the Inn stands now?"

"The Inn always stood there. It was the old farmhouse. All this man did was to rig up a bar and hang up an old sign he'd bought somewhere."

"These facts, of course, are deduced from country gossip?"

"Naturally. What else can I get hold of?"

"Is your pecuniary position such that you could afford legal research into the matter?" asked the old rector.

"I've just enough to live on at the present time," laughed the young man. "I had such an almighty opinion of this country, and its liberty and justice, and all that, you know, that I thought I'd only to come right away to the place where my people lived and died, and say, 'Look here, I'm the only legal descendant of such and such a family, and there's a will, leaving the property to me,' and then I could step right in and take possession, or sell up, or do what I liked."

The old cleric gave him an indulgent smile.

"How primitive, and how—if you will excuse the phrase—how very American! You have been taught diligently the uses of free speech and free action, the shams of monarchy and nobility, the senselessness of legal obligations, in a land where judge and jury are bought and sold by the highest bidder! You come over here thinking to move so ponderous and weighty a machine as the English Law by your unaided efforts. I do not think you will succeed, my young friend. With all deference to your country and your own enthusiastic youth, I do—not—believe—you will succeed."

Rufus sprang to his feet. A just and natural indignation fired his blood and flashed in his eye.

"I reckon we'll see about that, sir!" he exclaimed. "I had hoped to find you ready to assist me in what may prove a difficult task, but it seems more in your line to put obstacles in the way than help to clear them. Why, I don't know; unless it's sheer perversity of the clerical nature. I'll not trouble you any more. When I've got what I want, as I mean to get it, I'll show you if the American system is to be despised, as you appear to think!"

He took up his hat and left the room in a white heat of indignation.