Читать книгу The Challenge of Love (Musaicum Romance Classics) - Victorian Romance Novel - Страница 8

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On Tarling Moor the gorse was still in bloom, though the full glory of gold had deserted it for the waving branches of the broom. Great white clouds sailed over Beacon Hill, and the slanting sunlight smoothed the slopes of the moor, burnishing them into sleek colour masses of green, purple, and bronze. Tarling Moor was a rare galloping ground for a man whose blood had been over-heated. Beacon Hill lifted a calm and unfretful forehead against the sky, and the shadows of wind-driven clouds raced with the sunlight over the hills.

John Wolfe came riding back from the direction of Herongate, where he had been called to see a shepherd who was ill. The climb out of that rotten, worm-eaten old town towards the wide spaciousness of the moor had cleared Wolfe’s brain and steadied his heart. Only a few hours had passed since Jasper Turrell had tried to bully him in Virgin’s Court, and that one incident seemed likely to make of Navestock a battleground or a tilting-yard.

Wolfe had felt a desire to be alone, to thrash things out in his own mind, to climb up above the little dust storms of the moment and gain a broad view of his own horizon. The ride over Tarling Moor had given him the calmness of outlook that he needed. Wolfe knew that he had been warned off that morning, and that Jasper Turrell had thrown a stick at him, as he would have thrown a stick at a dog that had shown an inclination to trespass under his garden gate. And Jasper Turrell’s attitude was likely to be the attitude of Navestock. The incident of that absurd quarrel had opened Wolfe’s eyes. The little people would not only twist their mouths at him and gibber maliciously; they would gather like apes and try to pelt him out of the town. Turrell had bellowed a warning. The people who owned Navestock would tolerate no man who attempted to tell them unpleasant truths.

Now Wolfe was a born fighter, one of those men whose chin and fists go up even in the face of a crowd. He had glimpses of what might happen in Navestock, the anger and malice he might arouse, the abuse he would receive, the influence that would be exerted against him. It takes a man of great courage to stamp the faces of his fellows with the seal of hate. Few of us find pleasure in offending those who dwell about us. Our amiability is apt to make us cowards. But Wolfe had that touch of fanaticism that compels a man to utter what he knows to be the truth.

Across the sterner gloom of his thoughts rose the sun-splashed spires of the Moor Farm cypresses. Wolfe saw the red house with its holly hedges spreading along the ridge below him as he descended the moor. An impulse stirred in him, bidding him turn aside towards Moor Farm. More than once since his first visit he had passed across the paddock and up the stone-paved path. These people of the moor did him good when he was lonely. There was a charm about the old house, and Wolfe had seen the orchard in bloom, and the daffodils nodding their heads over the rich green grass. The comely, smiling good-will of the mother contrasted with the wind-blown hair and sparkling frankness of wild-eyed Jess. These were people who filled the heart when it felt empty, and made a man’s sad thoughts grow mischievous and young.

As Wolfe neared the white gate he saw a short, brown-smocked figure come running across the paddock. The figure waved an arm and shouted. It was Bob, the carter’s boy, who had bumped in and out of Navestock on the back of the brown pony.

“Mr. Wolfe, sir, you be wanted.”

He ran up and opened the white gate.

“I was just a-coming for you, sir.”

Wolfe rode in.

“Somebody ill, Bob?”

“The missus, sir. That there thasthma.”

“I take your word for it, Bob. You are an excellent diagnostician.”

The boy grinned.

“Thank yer, sir. I be’unt much of a chap at words.”

Bob ran at Wolfe’s side, and took his horse when he dismounted at the end of the holly hedge. The geese had followed them, gaggling in line, with the old one-eyed gander at their head. They made a cheerful noise; and the humming of the wind in the cypresses was like the humming of some great happy spirit watching the sunlight race over the grass.

Wolfe had reached the porch, when a black cat came whisking out, followed by a flying figure with a round basket set helmet-wise upon its head. The flying figure saved itself within six inches of Wolfe’s waistcoat, and fell back with a flush of colour and a glimmer of mischievous confusion.

“Oh—Mr. Wolfe!”

The black cat had fled terror-stricken into the summer-house. Wolfe’s eyes were full of laughter.

“Is this the latest fashion in bonnets?”

Jess tossed the thing off into a corner of the porch.

“Don’t be silly. I was only frightening old Thomas. It’s the egg basket.”

“Oh, the egg basket?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

She looked at him with a moment’s gravity and then fell into a glorious laughter, the free, bubbling laughter of a healthy child. The sound thrilled through Wolfe like the joy of a perfect morning. He laughed, too, quiet, deep-chested laughter that sang second to her ringing treble.

“Ha, ha, ha!”

“Oh, you are silly.”

“Why, indeed?”

“What is there to laugh at?”

“Ask Thomas and the basket, and——”

“And what?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“And yourself.”

She shook her hair, as though shaking her laughter off like spray. Her eyes became serious.

“You are a nice doctor, to stand laughing here——”

“Oh, come, now. It was lucky that Bob caught me. I’ve been up Herongate way. Your mother—is it——”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go up at once.”

“Please do. It’s Flemyng’s Cross to-night. Mother won’t be able to go. She says I must.”

“What is Flemyng’s Cross? An out-of-door service for bad-tempered people? If so, your mother certainly needn’t be there. I forbid it.”

“What nonsense you talk!”

She was climbing the old oak stairs, and turning back to look at him. A stream of sunlight from a window splashed the panelling behind her, so that Wolfe saw her hair black against a background of glimmering light.

“It’s one of the Manor Courts, and the steward of the Lord of the Manor has held it for hundreds and hundreds of years. All the tenants have to take their dues, and no one must speak above a whisper.”

“And Mrs. Mascall is going to send—you?”

“I can whisper. I’ll show you.”

“Do.”

“Not now. You’ve got to be serious.”

In the sunny south bedroom Wolfe found Jess’s mother sitting in an arm-chair by the open window. There was a bowl full of bluebells on a table beside her, and she had been trying to write a letter, for a writing pad still lay upon her knees.

Her eyes welcomed Wolfe, though she was in too great distress to talk much.

“You’re a good angel, doctor.”

“They caught me as I was passing.”

“I ought to be at the Manor Court at Flemyng’s——”

“But you’ll not go. Miss Jess has been explaining.”

He stood and looked down at her in that grave penetrating way that made women and children trust him.

“Jess must go. I’ve been trying to write to Lawyer Fyson, Lord Blackwater’s steward.”

“Now don’t worry about all this. It bothers you to talk. I’ll sit down and plan things out for you. Stop me if you have anything to suggest.”

He sat down at the table, reached for the writing pad, and began to write.

“Here’s a certificate for Mr. Fyson. That settles that gentleman. Let’s see; Miss Jess will have to act for you, and she’ll drive down in the gig. Master Bob goes off to Navestock at once for medicine, and with a message to say I’m detained. That’s it. I stay here, ride to Flemyng’s Cross with Miss Jess, deliver my certificate to Mr. Fyson, see your daughter through the ordeal, and then ride home to Navestock. That sounds very practical.”

Mrs. Mascall’s eyes brightened.

“How you do think of things! I’ve been putting Jess through her paces; old Fyson’s a kind sort of man. Three dozen fresh eggs, that’s what the tenant of Moor Farm has to give the Lord of the Manor. You all have to whisper. They call it the Whispering Court.”

“So Jess told me.”

“Call the girl, doctor. Oh Jess, child, you’re there? Dr. Wolfe’s going to Flemyng’s Cross with you. It’s a weight off my chest. He’ll stay and take tea. And Jess—the eggs?”

Jess had one of her solemn moments.

“I haven’t got them yet, mother.”

“Good gracious, child, go out and get them.”

Wolfe had been writing a prescription.

“And Bob had better take this. I see no reason why I shouldn’t go egg hunting.”

“You! Oh, come along; what fun! I bet I’ll find more eggs than you will. And Sally can get tea.”

They left Mary Mascall smiling in her chair. She was one of those women who could enjoy the playfulness of life, even in the midst of an attack of asthma. Jess might rush out on one of her escapades, and her mother would laugh over it and share in the girl’s spirit. Mrs. Mascall had no particular liking for your Goody Two-Shoes child, who darned stockings, was fussily and piously sentimental, and played the sweet angel with bleatings of “dearest mamma.”

In the porch Wolfe picked up the egg basket.

“Yes, you can carry it,” said Jess.

He made her a grave bow.

“Madam, your very humble servant.”

Bob was sent to the stable with Wolfe’s horse, and told to saddle the fat pony and take the prescription and the note that Wolfe had written to Dr. Threadgold at Navestock. The serious man of eight-and-twenty and the tall girl of sixteen plunged in among the out-buildings and stacks of Moor Farm that were jumbled together with the picturesque complexity that belongs to old towns. Great black doors let one into huge, cool interiors where sunlight crept in through chinks in the walls, and sparrows fluttered about the beams. There was the red-brick granary, where you might wade knee-deep in golden grain or be weighed on the sack-weighing machine in the corner. There was the wagon shed, where the swallows built; the cakehouse, a queer, dark, fragrant place with its cake breaker ready to reduce the brown slabs to fragments. Cattle sheds abounded, clean, white-washed loggias with sunlit yards yellow with straw.

Jess made for the largest of the cattle sheds.

“Come along.”

She did not unlatch the byre gate, but was over it with the flick of the skirt. Mrs. Mascall had abetted Jess in a wild revolt against crinolines. No girl walking in a species of tent could have trampled like Jess Mascall over the yellow straw. As for climbing gates! Wolfe blessed mere Nature, and vaulted after her.

“You ought to be handicapped.”

“And you call yourself a man!”

She made for the long manger, the recess below it being a favourite haunt of matronly-minded hens. Wolfe made a rush. A brown bird fled in absurd terror, flustered round Wolfe’s legs, and flew cackling over the gate.

“Here—one, two, three——”

“I say, wait a moment, let me have a chance!”

“Well, look then, don’t stand and——”

“I was feeling sorry for that hen.”

“Four, five——”

Wolfe made a dash for the far corner, and pounced on an egg lying amid the straw.

“I’ve got one, anyhow.”

She came up, laughing in his face.

“It’s a chalk one!”

“Oh, confound it!”

“And I’ve got six in my skirt. Where’s the basket? You’ll have to be very careful.”

“I’ll walk like an old maid. Just like this—see!”

“Oh, you great silly! We mustn’t waste time.”

They adventured into all manner of dim interiors, dark and musty corners, and narrow ways between the stacks. Jess knew the idiosyncrasies of all the Manor Farm hens. There was one that persisted in laying her eggs on an old sheepskin that had been thrown into the tool loft in the wagon shed. Wolfe was made to scramble, using a cart wheel as a ladder.

“Done, by George! Dusty knees—and no egg!”

“Poor Doctor Wolfe!”

He looked down at her from above.

“Why poor?”

“I didn’t mean you were poor. Only——”

“Just a touch of sympathy, eh? You are a sweet young woman, Miss Jess.”

She laughed, and flushed momentarily with a touch of sudden self-consciousness.

“Am I? It’s nice of you to say that. We’ve got three dozen and a half. And there’s the tea bell.”

They walked back to the farm-house very sedately.

The Whispering Court at Flemyng’s Cross was held at nine o’clock, and at eight Joe Munday, the carter, dressed in a black coat for the occasion, came round from the stable with the red-wheeled gig. The farm labourers had gathered under the great cypresses in front of the house, each man carrying a lighted lantern, and a pitchfork, crook, or pole. Jess had gone to her mother’s room to dress, and Wolfe went out into the garden and joined the white-smocked group under the cypresses.

“A fine night.”

“It be.”

There was a sort of grumbling acquiescence, but the men did not appear interested in Wolfe or his opinions. As a body they stood and stared at the house, like boors in a strolling theatre, waiting for the curtain to go up. Wolfe had a feeling that he made these men uncomfortable. He could see a light in Mrs. Mascall’s room. Presently a shadow came across the blind, and there was a tapping at the window.

“Listen to’t.”

“She be comin’.”

The labourers ranged themselves on either side of the stone-paved path. Wolfe stood back from them a little, and nearer the gate. He saw the porch door open, and Sally, the maid, standing there, holding her skirts back proudly to let her lady pass. Jess came out, wearing a red cloak with the hood turned up, a green skirt, and green stockings. Resting against her bosom she carried the basket of eggs, decorated with red and green ribbons and with flowers.

The men held up their lanterns, and louted to her with quaint gravity.

“God keep thee, good Mistress.”

“May the beasts be fat in your fields, and the bins packed full o’ corn.”

“God’s blessing on thee—and the merry month o’ May.”

They were old-world phrases that had passed from generation to generation, and had been spoken by the forebears of the men gathered before Moor Farm. Wolfe stood and watched Jess Mascall as she came slowly down the path. The girl seemed to have grown taller and older of a sudden. She carried herself with a grave and simple stateliness, looking at each man in turn and saying: “Thank you, Joe—thank you, Barnaby.” She passed under the cypresses, and her eyes met Wolfe’s. He was standing bare-headed, a man touched and charmed by many suggestive memories. He bowed to Jess, and she gave him a grave curtsy, holding her head high, and looking him in the eyes.

The moon was ten days old, and the night clear and fine, and as the Moor Farm company crossed the moor, Wolfe, who was riding beside the gig, saw many other lanterns moving in the distance. They glimmered here and there, faint points of yellow light coming and going like the lights of boats on a rolling sea. Flemyng’s Cross lay westwards of Beacon Hill on a low ridge where the old coach road topped the moor. An ancient inn stood on the hill-top, with its sign of “The Rising Sun” swinging on a post before the door. It was in a little paddock behind the inn that the Lord of the Manor’s Whispering Court was held.

The lanterns came jogging over the moor, some of them following mere sheep-tracks, others moving along the roads. As they neared Flemyng’s Cross the Navestock road began to fill with silent, shadowy, striding figures, all moving towards the hill-top. The lanterns that were carried gave rise to curious illusions. In a dark cutting under the shade of a clump of firs Wolfe saw a pair of white-gaitered legs moving as though they had no body belonging to them. Nothing but the white legs and the lantern were visible, and the effect was so quaint that Wolfe pointed it out to Jess.

“Look there, somebody’s legs have walked off on their own—and left the rest behind.”

She laughed.

“Aren’t they just sweet! They’ll get lonely presently, wandering about all by themselves.”

A man on a big grey horse blundered out from somewhere, and nearly rode Wolfe down. The surgeon drew closer to the gig.

“Hallo, sir, look out——”

The gig lamps gave him a momentary glimpse of a powerfully built young man, in smartly cut clothes, who glared at Wolfe as though he had no intention of apologising for having nearly ridden over him. The young man took off his hat to Jess, but she did not seem to notice him. They left him behind them somewhere in the darkness.

“You didn’t see your friend.”

“Oh, yes, I did.”

“Who was it?”

“Hector Turrell. He’s a beast. I don’t like him.”

“Turrell the brewer’s son?”

“Yes. He’s always riding along the road when I come back from Miss Plimley’s at Navestock. He’s an awful bully; always knocking someone about.”

“That’s rather a dangerous game.”

“People are afraid of him, or of his father, I suppose. What do you say, Joe?” This to the driver at her side.

Joe Munday was terse and laconic.

“The chap learned of a swell prize fighter in Lunnon, so I’ve heard tell. Besides—he’s Turrell’s son. ’Tain’t worth no chap’s while to get old Turrell’s spite on him.”

And Wolfe supposed not.

The Lord of the Manor’s Court at Flemyng’s Cross proved to be a quaint affair, picturesquely staged. Lawyer Fyson, the steward, stood by the white post in the paddock, a brazier full of burning coal beside him, and a staff of office in his hand. Behind him were ranged his bellman, stave bearers, and foresters, while the tenants of the Court gathered in dead silence about the white post, their heads uncovered, their lanterns glimmering in a great circle. The only bold and blatant voice was the voice of the big hand-bell. The steward read the roll in a whisper, his officers proclaimed in whispers, the court-tenants swore to their pledges in whispers.

When Jess Mascall carried her basket of eggs towards the white post and the red brazier, Wolfe followed her, and thrust the certificate he had written into old Fyson’s hand. The bell gave three sharp clangs, and Wolfe found himself taken by the shoulders and marched back over a furrow cut in the turf. The ground about the white post appeared to be privileged ground, sacred to the feet of those who were tenants of the Court. In the old days Wolfe would have been whipped with furze branches over the moor, instead of being marched gravely beyond the formal furrow.

He laughed good-humouredly, and, turning to where the Moor Farm labourers were grouped with their lanterns, mounted his nag and watched the procedure of the Court. The whispering voices, the queer solemnity, the glimmering lanterns were part of the mystery of Tarling Moor. It was when Jess had played her part, and was being escorted back by the two staff-bearers towards her supporters and her gig, that Wolfe again caught sight of Mr. Hector Turrell. He saw the man moving his horse round the circle of figures as though to meet Jess as she came through the crowd.

It was something more than an impulse that made Wolfe forestall Hector Turrell. If he had made an enemy of the father, his enmity might just as well include the son. Jess went to the gig with her hand resting on John Wolfe’s arm.

At the Moor Farm gate she would have had him come in, and join the farm hands at the state supper in the kitchen.

“Just for half an hour.”

“I may be wanted down at Navestock. I have let Dr. Threadgold in for the surgery work, as it is.”

“It won’t hurt him.”

“No, I must go—Jess.”

She gave him a quick look and said no more, but she watched him ride across the paddock.

Wolfe felt that the black mass of Tarling Moor was behind him, and he saw the lights of Navestock shining in the valley. These lights had a quick and powerful effect upon him, blinking their message up out of the darkness, and recalling grimmer moments of responsibility and effort. For so many hours Wolfe had been a great, playful child, half-boy, half-man. Jess had called to him with the voice of her youth. Her infinite freshness and her laughter had made him laugh with her, and forget. He had felt the sunlight upon the open moor, and those queer moments of solemnity that had turned the eyes of a child into the eyes of a woman.