Читать книгу The Silent Woman - Rita - Страница 6

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The sun was shining brightly through the small square window of his room when Rufus Myrthe awoke. He looked round the unfamiliar place with a drowsy bewilderment. His dreams had been strange; a troubled memory mingled with his waking thoughts.

He rose and made a hasty toilet, and then went down the steep, ladder-like stairs to the kitchen. It was tenantless, but a clean cloth was laid on one end of the table, and a cup and earthenware teapot, and a coarse loaf, were placed on it. He wondered if he was to make his own tea. To be sure of the fact he went to the door and looked out. It opened on a paved cobble-stone yard, where the sheep-dog lay basking in the sun. Further on some poultry were scattered about, or perched on the stone fence surrounding the alternate grass, moor, and bog-land that made up the inn-keeper's property. Even in the bright sunlight it looked scarcely less desolate than on the previous night. He saw the sheep grazing on the brown, level wastes, and marvelled what they could find to eat. A cow was tethered in a field beyond, and an antiquated horse kept it company. There was no sign of Moll or her father.

He was returning to the house, when a shambling step, crossing the yard, attracted his attention. He looked round and saw an old, bent, queerly-attired figure going towards one of the outhouses.

He called out and the man turned and surveyed him with evident curiosity. Then he came forward, with the shambling walk of age and labour. A ragged hat covered his scant grey locks with a generosity of size that might have been comfortable, but was certainly not becoming.

"Did 'ee call?" he inquired, and his wrinkled old visage spread into an active map of lines and creases.

"Yes, I did," he answered. "I couldn't see anyone about, and I want my breakfast. Where's the—the young woman who lives here?"

The ancient personage, whose years might have been anything from four score to a hundred, peered up at the stalwart figure of the young giant, and then seemed to lose himself in speculations, as to how much flesh and blood, and bone and muscle, went to the making up of so admirable a piece of manhood.

"Young 'ooman," he repeated huskily. "Do 'ee mean Moll?"

"Moll is her name, I reckon."

"Ay. A good wench, and can do a power o' wark. Dick's feyther to her. Dick o' th' Inn yonder."

"Yes, I know that. But I asked you where she was, not who. I want my breakfast."

"Canna ye git yer vittals yerself? It's main and helpless ye mun be, far all yer broad shoulders and yer hulkini' frame."

"Of course I can," said the young man, ignoring the frankness of the compliment. "But I wanted to know if I was expected to do it. I couldn't see a kettle anywhere about."

The old man gave vent to a rusty cackle, and shambled into the kitchen.

"What's theer?" he demanded, pointing to a pot swinging by a hook over the peat fire. "Water eno' to wet th' tea, seems to me. Not that I iver drink stuff o' that sort. Wimmin's lap, I calls it."

Rufus would have liked to explain that the water was not boiling, nor likely to do so, swinging there above the dull, red turf. But he wisely deemed that explanations would be useless, and piled on some loose furze and brushwood to make a flame. The old man cast a look round and, seeing no one, took a chair and watched the crackling blaze with evident satisfaction.

"Missus bain't down yet," he observed, presently, with a glance at the settee opposite. "A queer, silent female. Hears naught, they say; speaks naught, I knaw. She'll kim round same as she went. Kind er shock made a poor fule of her. But I mind her a bright and bonny lass eno' whin Dick o' the Inn brought her here."

Rufus Myrthe lifted off the pot and made his tea. Then sat down and cut substantial slices of bread, on which he spread the salt, home-made butter left beside the loaf.

"Been long in these parts?" he asked, presently.

"Ivir since I rimimber," announced the old man. "Farm lad, hay-trussin', sheep-herdin', ploughin', quarryin', what not. There's most nothin' 'ee can tell o' that old Luke Froggart can't turn his hand to. Times I've got a bit tired o' th' lonesome life and th' barren moorside, but a wholesome love o' dumb creatures kept me to 't. It dew seem wonderful how they gits to knaw one, and how one gits to knaw they. And 'tis a pleasant eno' life summer times."

"I can hardly believe that," said the young man, swallowing his second cup of tea at a gulp, and setting the cup down with regret at its limited holding capacity. "I never saw so dreary a place. Moor and bog and peak; peak and bog and moor! What induced any sane person to build an Inn in such a God-forsaken spot! And how anyone owning such a property as it represents can expect to make a living out of it puts the cap on the whole business. How does Dick, as you call him, make this pay? Darn me if I can see a red cent profit either in the Inn or the farm—if you call it a farm."

"I dunno nought 'bout profit," answered the old labourer. "Th' missus she brought a tidy sum wi' her, so I've heerd, and this place wasn't allus a Inn. 'Twas a farm till they tuk to diggin' for coal. Yo' can see th' ould shaft and th' old truck lines still. A power o' money was made on't while it lasted, so I heerd. I was away down to Castleton those times at wark i' th' big mine theer. Whin I come back th' old house had a sign swung afront o' it. Oncanny and ugly it war, but th' colliers and quarrymen for miles around 'ud come here o' Saturdays whin they'd got wages to spind. Thin, one day, something strange and gashly-like happint, and th' place got a bad name, and not a livin' soul 'ud come nigh it. But Dick, he kep it on; and I've never heerd o' his wantin' money."

"What was it that happened?" asked the young man curiously.

"I bain't agoin' to tell 'ee. I've had my orders, and I gits my livin' by 'beying thim. Dunna ye think more on't, young man. M'appen you're as well wi'out the knowledge. 'Tis a gory and blood-curdlin' tale, and they dew say as——"

"What be ye doin' here; idlin' yer time wi' gossip, Luke Froggart?" exclaimed a voice sharply.

At sound of it the old man rose to his feet and with a muttered "beg pardin" shambled off to the back premises.

Rufus Myrthe saw Moll standing in the doorway that led to the inner side of the house. On her arm leant the woman whose personality had so attracted him. The young man rose quickly and gave them greeting. He noted that the strange creature looked long and earnestly at him, but she made no sign of acknowledgment. The girl led her to her seat on the old oak settle, placed a stool stuffed with straw for her feet, and then approached the table.

"You see, I've helped myself to all I wanted," said the young man cheerily, "and now I am going to look round the place a bit. I've got to make inquiries all round the country, so I stop wherever I can get a bed for the night, and tramp all day, except Sundays, when I have a rest."

"It's nigh on Sunday," said the girl slowly.

"True. I never thought of that."

He glanced at her, and then at the silent figure by the fire. "I wonder if I might stop over to-morrow," he said hesitatingly. "Would your father object, do you think?"

"Like as not he'd niver notice, now you've once bided wi' un."

"Shall I risk it, then? I want to find out about that old coal mine. I know something about mines, and perhaps this one——"

He stopped speaking. A strange sound, half moan, half cry, struck across his words. He turned quickly. The girl sprang forward, uttering an exclamation of terror.

The woman was on her feet, swaying to and fro, her arms outstretched as if to ward off some threatened assault.

"Why, mother; what's come to 'ee!" cried Moll in alarm. She caught the falling figure in her strong young arms, and Rufus Myrthe, hastening to give assistance, helped to reseat her in the accustomed place.

Her face was livid, her brow and hands damp with sweat. She trembled from head to foot.

"Mother—mother! what's come to 'ee?" repeated the terrified girl, as she wiped the damp brow, and supported the helpless head against her warm young breast.

"I think she's fainting," exclaimed Rufus. "Where can I get water?"

"There's some in th' pitcher yonder," answered Moll, regarding the white face and the closed eyes with alarm.

He hastened to fetch the water, and sprinkled the face of the now unconscious woman and tried to force a little between the closed teeth.

Presently she drew a long, deep breath, and her eyes opened.

"Ah; she's coming round, I guess," said the young fellow cheerfully. "Wonder what made her go off like that?"

The expression of the uplifted eyes affected him uncomfortably. Their dumb agony was like the agony of a wounded animal; their beseeching prayer a wordless torture. It seemed as if her whole soul longed to pour itself out; to break the physical charm that held it bound to silence. So great, so terrible, was the longing, that suddenly her lips parted in a shriek—a shriek unlike any earthly sound it had been his lot to hear. Then came a babble of incoherent words; words that fell in pell-mell haste from a tripping tongue.

"Don't thee go!" she reiterated frantically. "Don't thee, don't thee, don't thee go to the mine!"

Moll recoiled in sheer fright at what seemed to her a miracle. That the long-sealed lips should open, the bound tongue find release, were facts terrifying and inexplicable.

"Dear Lord o' Heaven!" she muttered under her breath. "What do it mean? Her speech ha' come back!"