Читать книгу The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping - Warwick Deeping - Страница 16
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ОглавлениеRosamunda came to the farm of her own free will that morning. Trevanion was asleep in his ‘guest’s hole,’ and to wake him Catarina had to let the bucket clatter against the well wall.
“Hallo, signor!”
“Who’s there?”
“A visitor, signor.”
Catarina went off smiling, with her bucket of water.
Trevanion’s face was very close to Rosamunda’s when he reached the top of the rope, and he hung there a moment like a lover at a window. She stretched out her hands to him with an impulsive welcome that had the sweetness of a caress, and Trevanion caught one of her hands and kissed it.
“Why are you here, Rosamunda? Has anything happened?”
“No; but I was troubled, and I could not sleep last night!”
“And why?”
“Because I was thinking of you here, and of your danger.”
“Dear heart, I was never happier in my life, and safe here in Sandro’s farm. Have you any news for me from the Villa Lunetta?”
“None; but that father cannot rest or eat. He wanders all day, talking to himself. He has the same strange wish that I should go down to the pool to-morrow at midnight.”
“And you will go?”
“Yes, to please him. What harm can it do to satisfy a mad whim? I have spoken to Maria, and she will come.”
Trevanion had swung himself on to the wall. She was so dear to him now that even the thought of touching her seemed very wonderful. She made him think of some soft, trustful bird, but her eyes were the eyes of a woman.
“You must not come to the farm again, Rosamunda, unless you are in trouble.”
“Then I shall not see you.”
“Yes, you will see me, for I do not think that I could live now without seeing you. When the full moon is past, we shall begin our fairy story.”
“Always the full moon! I am beginning to hate the full moon!”
“Cara mia,” he said to her, “trust me for two more days. That is all I ask of you.”
It was Sandro who kept watch that night, lying under the arbutus trees near the Satyr’s Pool with an old musket for company. He saw nothing but Cæsare wandering like a sleep-walker and staring at the moon; nor did he hear any sounds of the pipes in the woods across the valley. Sandro was back at the farm well before daybreak. Trevanion had to be roused so that he could reach the woods before dawn and get to his post.
Sandro slid down the well rope.
“Signor.”
“Hallo! Any news, Sandro?”
“I saw nothing but old Cæsare, moonstruck and solemn. Nor did I hear any of that devil’s music.”
“Good. I will follow you up. Catarina has filled my knapsack with food. You will not see me again, Sandro, till we have finished with the full moon.”
Trevanion was in the woods well before daybreak and safely posted in the fork of his oak tree. The spread of the old trunk was like a flat basket, and he could curl up in it and lie hidden with the dome of leaves screening him above. The hollow chestnut tree was visible through a gap in the foliage. Trevanion had fastened a spray of oak leaves over his hat, so that he could look out over the edge of his eyrie and keep the whiteness of his face from betraying him to any bird of prey who might perch in that tree over yonder.
The day passed at last, with the setting sun sending long rays of light into every woodland eyelet-hole and window. The cool of the evening was in comradeship with Trevanion’s quickened suspense.
And then he stiffened and raised his head like a startled dog.
A moment later he saw the thing that he had heard, a strange, hairy thing that trotted on goat’s legs, and whose throat, arms and shoulders were white like a man’s. It was the figure of Pan, Pan himself, old Cæsare’s woodland god, and Trevanion saw it lift itself up into the chestnut tree and disappear.
