Читать книгу The Silent Woman - Rita - Страница 4

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Rain poured in a soft grey stream over a dreary stretch of moorland in one of the dreariest spots in the Peak country. Some of the heights were capped by low-drooping clouds, others showed a sharp and sudden outline against the prey sky. The whole aspect was dreary in the extreme. A wide treeless space of grey and brown; mile upon mile of uncultured land, with no sign of human habitation. A world-forgotten nook in a spot that spelt desolation.

A traveller who had climbed one height only to find it meant climbing another, who had perseveringly faced rain and mist in the hopes of finding some reward for such perseverance, stood now in the heart of a small valley and gave vent to his feelings in a prolonged groan.

"If it would only end; if it would only lead to somewhere!" he cried, despairingly, as the mist swooped down once more from cloud-capped heights.

As if in answer to the exclamation came the low, piteous bleating of a sheep. He started and looked round, but there was no sign of the animal. Still it gave notice of some living creature besides himself, and meant human ownership, even of a straying piece of foolishness. Following the direction of the sound he came upon a shivering group huddled into a corner of broken rocks. They regarded him with forlorn eyes, and his friendly greeting only occasioned alarm. He wondered if they were lost, like himself, and whether a possible owner would be coming in search of them?

The hour was near to sunset; the prospect of spending a night in such a spot was anything but inviting.

His clothes were soaked; his boots proclaimed diversions in mire and bog. His felt hat hung limp and shapeless over a face tanned and healthy and young. A face expressive of endurance and good looks, and inclined to laughter even under such disadvantages as the present moment afforded. He perched himself on a fragment of the broken rocks and summed up the situation in a few words.

"Well! To cross the Atlantic in search of a lost heritage and find oneself astray in a Derbyshire valley! Rufus Myrthe, you're no better than these stupid bleaters. Suppose you follow their tracks for a bit. Maybe there's a farm hereabouts, bad as the land looks."

His eyes, grey and keenly bright, swept the landscape carefully. Then he rose and, with hands hollowed trumpet fashion, gave vent to a loud "Hullo-o-o!" The sheep, startled at the sound, scampered wildly from their shelter, and burst into a chorus of bleats. As answering response to their frantic cries there sounded from afar the barking of a dog.

"Ah, that's done the trick, has it? All right, sonny, you come along this way and show us what jackasses we've been."

He whistled loud and clear until the dog came in sight, and watched him collect and head the sheep with cheerful encouragement. Then he followed in their wake, putting fatigue aside as a matter for future consideration. A long and heavy tramp still lay before him. There was no road; nothing but a narrow, zig-zag track scarcely discernible in the autumn mist. They left the valley, and ascended another of those steep peaks that shut it in on every side. A brief gleam of sunshine struggled through the mists, and for a moment lit up the desolate scene. It showed a low stone building some distance ahead. It was sheltered by a hill sparsely-clad with larch and firs; a few fields of grazing land surrounded it on either side. Some outbuildings, grey-roofed and grey-stone like the house, stood near it. Very dreary, very lonely, very ugly it looked. Yet to Rufus Myrthe it was welcome as spring sunshine, for it told of rest and food at last. His steps quickened involuntarily, and soon he was near enough to observe the building more closely. He saw then that it was no farmhouse, as he had supposed, but an Inn. An old weather-beaten sign swung before the stone porch which was built out in a square from the wooden doorway. Tired and hungry as he was, the young man took a survey of the queer old sign before entering the little hostelry. A strange enough sign it was. Rudely painted on the swinging board was the figure of a Headless Woman.

Notice as to license and refreshment had long since been obliterated by wind and weather. There was nothing now to indicate the name of the Inn or the name of its owner. It stood alone on that lonely height. No other cottage or farm was in sight as far as eye might travel.

A weird, uncanny place, with a weird, uncanny sign. So it breasted the great sweep of barren moorland, and faced the loneliness of the towering peaks.

The sharp barking of the dog had brought out someone from the house; a girl, who stood in the stone porch and gazed curiously at the absorbed stranger who was studying the sign.

He became aware of her presence at last and advanced. "I've lost my way," he explained, going straight to the point in the direct fashion he had acquired 'out West.' "I'm glad to find an Inn in such an unlikely spot. I guess I can have a room here, and some food. I'm nigh on starved. It's all of ten hours since I've had a meal, and if it hadn't been for your dog I reckon 'twould have been twenty. But what's the matter? You don't seem in an amazing hurry to welcome a customer. This is an Inn, I s'pose?"

"It ha' used to be," said the girl slowly. "It ha' gotten a bad name late years. No one comes nigh us nowadays."

"That so?" queried the young man briskly. "Happen I'll wake you up then, my lass. Can I have a bed and supper, as I said before?"

She left the porch, and came out. He saw she was very young, scarce past girlhood, but of a beauty brilliant and redundant beyond her apparent years. Tall, full-figured, supple, she stood before him, the faint sunlight lingering on her red gold hair, lighting up the vivid tints of cream and white and rose that made a complexion and skin for a goddess.

Silently he regarded her; wonder and admiration in his eyes as they met and lost themselves in the blue depth of hers. She returned the gaze calmly and indifferently. Men were unimportant factors in her life as yet; though a man like this stranger was worthy of some interest and attention.

"I dunno," she said slowly, answering his question at last. "Beds there's none and vittals scarce eno'. Still he can't send 'ee away, surely."

She spoke in the soft, sleepy tongue of the Peak, and, to the stranger, used to Transatlantic drawl and nasal twang, both voice and accent seemed charming.

"He—who's he?" he asked, quickly.

"Feyther," she replied. "Best you go in and ask for a drop to wet your throttle. M'appen he'll let you bide then. It's few eno' customers as comes this way e'en summer time."

"So I'd imagine," laughed the young fellow cheerfully. "Sort of lost continent I'd call it. I wish you'd come in and introduce me though. Perhaps you could soften matters a bit, since your father doesn't seem quite so set on hospitality as most of his class."

She looked inquiringly at his laughing face, not half comprehending his words, then shook her head and moved away.

"I mun see to th' sheep," she said. "They've strayed to-day, like the foolish things they be. Get ye' in, as I told 'ee."

Rufus Myrthe followed her advice and entered the porch. It led straight into the bar, but no one was there. Neither were there any signs of such specialities as usually attend on that institution. The young man knocked two or three times before receiving any notice of his presence. Then a surly voice demanded his business. He replied soothingly; he had no desire to travel further that night.

As he finished speaking, a figure advanced from a room beyond, and the young man found himself confronting as ill-favoured a visage as had ever been his lot to behold. Coarseness and surliness were its distinguishing traits. He surveyed the stranger with ill-tempered curiosity.

"Lost yersel'," he repeated. "What brings ye to these parts then?"

"Business," answered the young traveller. "I'm searching for a family history, lost somewhere in these Derbyshire wilds. But to the point, friend. No man's likely to enter a place like this unless he wants something. I want a bed for the night, and some food. I'll pay you well. Say—is it done?"

"We've no beds."

"All right. Floor and a blanket'll suit. I'm used to roughing it."

"We don't take in travellers, I tell 'ee."

"What's your sign for, then? Why the—Statue of Washington—do you call this an Inn if it's not to serve the purpose of an Inn? Anyhow, I'm going to stay, so make your mind easy. And first I'll take a drop of whisky neat, for I'm wet to the skin."

"S'pose I ha' no mind to sell?"

"Shucks," exclaimed the traveller, sharply. "You don't look like too much of a millionaire anyway. Here!"

He tossed some silver down on the counter, as the argument he had found most useful in dealing with men and things in general. It answered on this occasion. The inn-keeper took out a bottle from a cupboard behind the bar, and set it down before his customer.

"Ah! I guess we're coming to business. What about a glass, though?"

The man handed him an old pewter measure, and without more ado the young fellow half-filled it with the spirit and drank it off.

"There!" he said, as he set down the measure with a bang. "I guess that ought to keep out rheumatism right enough. Now about accommodation, friend. Surely, you can give me a shake-down for the night. There seems room and to spare here. You're not over-burdened with customers, eh! business slack, isn't that about the way of it?"

"Bain't none hereabouts," said the surly man.

"So I should confidently surmise. The question in my mind is why stay in such a God-forsaken hole?"

"I han't got no choice. I've allays lived here. Bide there till I can see what I can do for 'ee."

He retired to the room from whence he had issued, and the young man heard him calling for someone in his deep, surly tones.

"Moll," rang the cry. "Moll——"

"What is't?" came back the answer.

The voices joined, and sank to murmurings, and presently the man returned.

"Th' lass says she can fix ye up summat," he announced. "Meanwhile ye can step into th' kitchen and warm yersel'."

The young fellow needed no second invitation to do that. He was wet and tired and footsore, and the thought of food and fire was very welcome.

He followed his surly host and found himself in a small but clean kitchen, where a bright fire of peat and wood was burning on the open hearth. It threw its warm glow over wooden table and chairs, on delft and pewter, and also on an old oak settle, set sideways by the deep stone fireplace.

A woman sat there, stiff and erect; her hands clasped on her lap, her white hair covered with a white cap, her eyes fixed on the fire. The young man took off his soaked hat and wished her good evening. She remained in the same attitude. Neither look nor movement betrayed that she had heard him.

"Dunn' thee trouble thysel' about her," observed his host. "Deaf she be as ony log; and stiff o' the jints wi' rheumitiz. Tak' a chair and warm thysel' till Moll can get 'ee a bit o' supper."

He threw on some furze. The peat turned up brightly. There was no other light in the place. Then he went away, and Rufus Myrthe took the ricketty old chair and sat down by the welcome blaze.

From time to time he gazed curiously at the silent figure on the settle. Had it been carved out of wood or stone it could not have been more silent, more motionless. The white face, the white hair, the white cap, threw up into stronger contrast the black dress and the stiff erect figure. The young man looked and looked and looked again, watching for some sign of life, some notice of his presence. None came. The woman might have been dumb as well as deaf, blind as well as speechless, for any sign of consciousness she gave.

As the blaze died into a dull red glow, and the outer darkness curtained the one small window, there seemed something uncanny in the surroundings of this place.

Nerves and fear were things unknown to Rufus Myrthe, but he had to confess to a feeling of uncomfortableness as the moments passed, ticked out by an old grandfather's clock in a corner near the door. The silence grew ominous. To sit there beside a piece of human still life was an ordeal to one so full of vitality and energy as himself. He coughed and fidgeted in vain. Not even the flicker of an eyelid betrayed that the woman was aware of his presence. The steam from his damp clothes spread like a mist through the space between them. It made the figure indistinct and ghostly; it seemed to fill the place with eerie shadows and intensify such slight sounds as emphasised the stillness. The moments seemed like hours, as he sat on waiting for some sign from that motionless form, or some sound from the other inmates of this strange Inn. He thought how very strange it was in situation, in ownership, in name.

Name? He started suddenly. The swinging signboard flashed before his wondering eyes.

The significance of the odd title was manifested as abruptly as the thought that had given it birth. Outside—exposed to the mercy of the mist and rain and moorland storm, swung that strange figure of the Silent Woman. Here, within, seated by the hearth, that to her conveyed no warmth, no glow of human life, was its human counterpart. If the one had no head, the other had no tongue; both alike seemed dumb, blind, lifeless.

He started to his feet, and, bending down, stirred the glowing embers to a fitful blaze. He felt as if the place had grown impossible. What mystery surrounded it? What tragic fate had condemned their weird creature to such a life—to such a home? He strode to her side and laid a hand upon her shoulder and shook her roughly.

"For 'eaven's sake, if you can't speak, look at me! Give me some sign you're alive!" he exclaimed impulsively.

She raised her eyes to his face then, and as she did so his hand fell, and he recoiled a step.

So wild, so sad, so haunting, was that glance, that it seemed to him all the anguish of sorrow, of terror, the secret horror of a poisoned soul, spoke out for one brief moment.

Then the lids fell again. The white face resumed its marble composure; the folded hands lay without tremor on the black stiff gown.

She was once again the Silent Woman.