Читать книгу The Silent Woman - Rita - Страница 7

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Rufus Myrthe felt instinctively that he looked upon death, as he supported that stricken figure.

Its dread seal was set upon marble brow and pulseless heart.

The girl's terrified entreaties received no answer. She appealed to him. "What shall we do? 'Tis another stroke, bain't it?"

"Better carry her up to her own room," suggested Rufus.

Moll led the way, half-supporting the lower limbs up the stairs. They laid her on the bed. Then the young man bade her loosen her mother's dress and chafe her hands, while he went to search for the owner of the Inn.

His loud shout won no response. Its repetition, however, brought into view the figure of old Luke Froggart.

Rufus Myrthe explained what had occurred, but learnt that there was no such thing as a doctor within limits of a two hours' drive, nor any woman in farm or household likely to render assistance save "th' old herb woman," as Luke called her.

"Could I have the horse and go and fetch her?" demanded Rufus.

"M'appen ye might, m'appen the maister 'ud rage at me for lettin' o' it out. Ye can plase yersel'. An' trap's lost a wheel sin last market day," he added, cheerfully.

"Never mind the trap. I'll ride the animal, if you'll put me in the way. What's the woman's name?"

"Dame Dottery we names her—ah, what's that a-callin' ye? Th' lass, sure as life."

Moll had appeared at the door, white and trembling.

"She don't speak nor move. She's stone cold. Oh, do 'ee come in and see! I'm that fearful!"

Her voice broke into the piteous sobbing of a child. The young man hastened up the stairs to where that stricken form lay stiffening in its last sleep.

"I fear she's gone, child," he said, softly, as he looked at the rigid form and face.

"Gone!" echoed the girl. "Gone—where? How can she be gone whin she's lyin' there same as 'twas sleepin'."

He knew not what to say, and he dreaded feminine grief. "I'll go and fetch old Dame Dottery," he said at last, turning away from that stiff, set face with a thrill of awe. "You'd best find your father, my lass. I couldn't make him hear when I called just now."

"He's gone to Distly i' th' Dale," said the girl slowly. "I canna get to him. It's good of 'ee to fetch th' ould herb-woman. Moybe she can do summat. I've seed mother ill, but niver same as this."

He left the room without further word, and finding the old horse bridled and waiting, sprang on his back regardless of saddle, and rode away in the direction given by old Luke Froggart.

The animal moved at the pace of an average donkey, despite blows and persuasions, but at last Rufus Myrthe came in sight of the stone cottage in a hollow of the moor to which he had been directed.

A few cocks and hens scratched about near the doorway. Huge boulders of rock and gritstone lay about like remains of some feudal castle. A solitary ash tree, laden with scarlet berries, was the one thing that lent any colour or beauty to the surrounding dreariness. The door was closed, but a vigorous knocking with the stick he had used as a riding-whip brought an ancient crone to answer his summons.

"Are you Dame Dottery?" he asked, surveying a face and head that brought to mind the grey moss and lichen of an old apple tree, to which the gnarled and bent figure lent further resemblance.

"A' believe a' be," she made answer.

"You know the Inn yonder?" he went on, eagerly, "I'm staying there. This morning the woman—wife of the landlord, you know—was taken with a sort of fit. I'm afraid it's a stroke, or worse. I've come to fetch you. The girl's all alone and frightened. Will you come?"

He looked doubtfully at the shrunk, queer old figure, and marvelled how she was to traverse the miles of rough, uneven ground that lay between the hovel and the Inn.

"A'll come ower," she said, nodding her head with an emphasis that threatened dislocation between it and the withered, claw-like neck, at present it's only support. "Bide ye theer. M'appen ye cud strap a piller on th' hoss, an' lead un o'er the rough places wi' me a-top? 'Twould hasten things in a manner."

Rufus looked doubtful over the suggestion. Had the matter at issue not been so grave he could not have restrained his mirth, thinking how queer a burden would be perched on the back of the animal. However he bade the old dame bring him the "piller," and he would see what could be done. She appeared presently, having transformed herself into a bundle that seemed to have no beginning and no end. She handed him a pillow and a piece of rope as contributions to a side-saddle. Then he led the animal to one of the scattered boulders and helped this extraordinary female to mount. She accomplished the feat with an agility that spoke of custom, and amazed the young man no less than her own appearance had done.

On the journey over the moorside she informed him that she had been used to being fetched in this or other equally unorthodox fashion for sickness, "layings-in," or "layings-out," some two-score years. He tried to lead her to speak of the mistress of the Inn, but her stock of anecdotes and experiences invariably interfered with a direct narrative. This weakness, added to a catch of the breath at every jerk of the animal she bestrode, prevented her guide from gaining much information as to the mysterious dumb creature that had so aroused his curiosity. Vainly he had tried to keep the old crone's thoughts and memory on one line. Amidst the vagaries of dialect, and the rumblings of her brain, he gleaned little that he desired, and much that was strictly irrelevant. He gave up the task in despair at last, and contented himself with leading the stumbling animal and its burden as carefully as might be, so as to lessen any danger of her falling off—a danger to which she lent plentiful possibilities on every occasion that offered excuse. It was with a sigh of relief that Rufus, at last, beheld the Inn and piloted his charge into the yard.

Two hours had passed since he left, and he found the girl watching for them, pale and awe-struck.

He lifted the ancient equestrienne from her improvised saddle. Moll led her into the house. He waited below, after leading the horse to its stable. There was no sign of old Luke, or of the man he only knew as Dick o' th' Inn. Restless and uneasy, the young man roamed from without to within, and back again. The silence affected his nerve, and the suspense began to irritate a nature by no means patient. He stood at the foot of the ladder-like stairs and listened. A low murmur of voices reached his ear, but he could distinguish nothing clearly. Unable to control his impatience, he at last ventured up and knocked softly.

Moll opened the door. Her dry, bright eyes looked vaguely at his sympathising face.

"How—how is she?" he asked, knowing as he framed the words that they were empty of sense or meaning.

"Dead," said the girl, in a stiff, strange voice. "There's nought to be done—Dead!"

* * * * * * * *

Rufus Myrthe went slowly down the stairs and out once more into the yard. He found his acquaintance, Luke Froggart, astride of an old wooden stool, munching a slice of bread, to which a layer of fat bacon lent the semblance of a sandwich.

"Your mistress is dead," said the young fellow, abruptly.

"Eh, be that so?" He conveyed his interrupted meal to the palm of his hand, and took a survey of the surrounding landscape. "Dead!" he repeated. "Lord, di 'ee iver hear the like! A young woman, so to say. Seems but a matter o' weeks, lookin' back on't, since she came to th' ould place. A bonny creatur' too; well-favoured, as wimmin go hereabouts. 'Tis a bad affliction for the master and th' lass yonder. Not that th' puir soul was any manner o' use, so t' say. But 'tis better or worse wi' matrimony, and a man canna' go back o' that when he's made choice o' one wench out o' thim as offers."

He shook his head, philosophically and resumed his lunch.

"How long has she lived here?" asked Rufus.

"How long? If ye ban't particular in a matter o' months, I'd put it as twinty year come Candlemas. I mind I'd been turnip hoein' an harvistin' that year, and, then tuk up wi' shepherdin' afore lambin' time. A bad year it were, and th' ewes tuk it hard, an' we scarce saved a lamb i' six. Yes; she were a bonny eno' lass then, and nought amiss save a trifle o' wilfulness, and a bit tuk up wi' her pretty face, as was no wonder, whin ye saw the ugly mawthers o' gals as lived hereabouts."

"And what," asked Rufus, between another mouthful of refreshment. "What made her lose the power of speech like that?"

"O', that's more'n I can tell 'ee, lad. Suddin-like was the happerin' o't. None ivir got th' rights o' the story. There was a lad here 'long o' I, and a wumman to wark i' th' Inn, and Moll just a toddlin' bairn. We could na' hear the wharfor' o't. Doctor, he came from Distly i' th' Dale, twelve miles off, but he could do nawthing. Kind o' shock, he called it. Her husband, he didna' seem to tak on much about it. Went tew wark same as ivir; tended fair an' wakes, an' horse shows th' country round. Seemed as if money was allus to be gotten, spite o' bad land and worse trade. For few folk ivir come nigh th' Inn, and he didna' seem to want 'em."

"It was a farmhouse once, I heard."

"'Twas so; and whin maister hung up th' gashly ould sign o' that headless feymale, we thorht 'twas mad he war. But there 'tis. Th' Headless Woman wi'out, and th' Silent Woman wi'in, and no 'un wud give a brass farden for th' place now, save 'twas some strayed wayfarin' man, same as 'ee."

Silence again followed this information. The young fellow's eyes turned from point to point of the surrounding country before he put the question that he had put so often and so vainly.

"Do you happen to know of any farm hereabouts that went by the name of Myrthe or Marth? I'm searching for it, and haven't come across a trace as yet."

The old labourer finished his last mouthful and gave his customary deliberate "chaw" to the delicacy. Then he rose slowly and rustily, like a gate whose hinges need oiling.

"Dew I knaw the Marth Farm," he answered. "There bain't none o' it left. 'Twere dug up for coal a matter o' twinty year agone or more. Tunnelled an' dug up, an' messed about by a passel o' fools as called thesselves a Syndergate or summat. Ruined thesselves. 'Twas all wot come o't."

Rufus Myrthe stared. "But it wasn't their property. They had no right——"

"Reet or wrang, 'twas what they did. And arter two or three year they found 'twudn't wark. Yo' can see th' ould shaft and mouth o' pit yonder. Four mile, as the crow dew fly."

Rufus looked in the direction of the pointing finger. A natural indignation surged within his breast.

"Why, it was robbery! Rank robbery! How dared they. The property belonged to my grandmother. And she left it to me."

The old man's mouth took a curious twist. "Do 'ee say so? Well, now. If so be 'tis like that, ye'll ha' to reckon wi' th' maister. An' he be a rough 'un to handle, he be."

"Rough or not," burst out the young man, indignantly. "I reckon he'll find I'm not afraid of him! There's such a thing as law and justice in the land, and I'll teach him to meddle with other folk's property, as sure as my name's Rufus Myrthe."

"If it happen to be nought o' th' sort, what then?" demanded a surly voice just beside them.

The young fellow started. The master of the Inn was standing there; his teeth showing between his grizzled beard like those of a snarling dog.

Rufus swung round on him, his face aflame. "Oh, it's you, is it? You heard my story last night. You knew you had been the means of robbing me and supplanting me. Yet you held your tongue. You knew this land was mine—this house."

"Neyther one nor other be yours, young man. Call on law and justice as ye will, ye canna prove ony lawful right o' heritage. D'ye hear? Lawful right o' heritage. Try it, an ye will."