Kitabı oku: «The Star-Gazers», sayfa 15

“My good girl,” cried the chivalrous major eagerly.

Before he could say more, the woman’s head was raised, so that in the glance he obtained he saw that she was young, dark and handsome, in spite of her red and swollen eyes, dishevelled, dark hair, and countenance generally disfigured by a passionate burst of crying.

For a moment the girl seemed about to bound up and run; but she checked the impulse, clasped her knees once more, and hid her face upon them.

“Why, I ought to know your face,” said the major. “Mr Rolph’s keeper’s daughter, if I am not mistaken?”

There was no reply, only a closer hiding of the face, and a shiver.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the major kindly. “Is anything the matter?”

“No. Go away!” cried the girl in low, muffled tones.

“But you are in trouble.”

“Go away!” cried the girl fiercely; and this she reiterated so bitterly that the major shrugged his shoulders and moved off a step or two.

“Are you sure I cannot assist you?” said the major, hesitating about leaving the girl in her trouble.

“Go away, I tell you.”

“Well then, will you tell me where to find the Lindham road?”

For answer she averted her head from him and pointed in one direction. This he followed, found the road and the open common, coming out close to a cottage to which he directed his steps in search of a cup of water.

The door was half open, and as soon as his steps approached, an old woman’s sharp voice exclaimed, —

“Ah, you’ve come back then, you hussy! Who was that came and called you out, eh?”

“You are making a mistake,” said the major quietly. “I came to ask if I could have a glass of water?”

“Oh yes, come in, whoever you are, if you ar’n’t afraid to see an ugly old woman lying in bed. I thought it was my grandchild. Who are you?”

“I come from Brackley,” said the major, smiling down at the crotchety old thing in the bed.

“Do you? oh, then I know you. Your one of old Sir John Day’s boys. Be you the one who went sojering?”

“Yes, I’m the one,” said the major, smiling.

“Ah, you’ve growed since then. My master pointed you out to me one day on your pony. Yes, to be sure, you was curly-headed then. There, you can take some water; it’s in the brown pitcher, and yonder’s a mug. It was fresh from the well two hours ago. That gal had just fetched it when some one throwed a stone at the door, and she went out to see who threw it, she said. Ah, she don’t cheat me, a hussy. She knowed, and I mean to know. It was some chap, that’s who it was, some chap – Caleb Kent maybe – and I’m not going to have her come pretending to do for me, and be running after gipsy chaps.”

“No, you must take care of the young folks,” said the major. “What beautiful water!”

“Yes, my master dug that well himself, down to the stone, and it’s beautiful water. Have another mug? That’s right. You needn’t give me anything for it without you like; but a shilling comes in very useful to get a bit o’ tea. I often wish we could grow tea in one’s own garden.”

“It would be handy,” said the major. “There’s half-a-crown for you, old lady. It’s a shame that you should not have your bit of tea. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye to you, and thank you kindly,” cried the old woman; “and if you see that slut of a girl just you send her on to me.”

“I will,” he said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” shrieked the old woman; and as the major passed out of the gate, the shrill voice came after him, “Mind you send her on if you see her.”

The words reached a second pair of ears, those of Judith, who flushed up hot and angry as she found herself once more in the presence of the major.

“You’ve been telling her about me,” she cried fiercely. “It’s cowardly; it’s cruel.”

She stood up before him so flushed and handsome that the major felt as it were the whole of her little story.

“No,” he said quietly, “I have not told your grandmother about you; she has been telling me.”

With an angry, indignant look the girl swept by him and entered the cottage.

“Poor lass, she is very handsome,” said the major to himself, “and it seems as if her bit of life romance is not going so smoothly as it should. Hah! that was a capital drop of water; it gives one life. Crying in the woods, eh – after a signal that the old lady heard. Gipsy lad, eh? Bad sign – bad sign. Ah, well,” he added, with a sigh, “I’m getting too old a man to think of love affairs; but, somehow, I often wonder now that I did not marry.”

That thought came to him several times as he walked homeward over the boggy common, and rose again more strongly as he came in sight of The Firs and the grim, black mansion on the hillock. Fort Science, as he had jestingly called it, looked at times bright and sunny, and then dull, repulsive and cold.

The major reached home after his very long walk rather out of spirits; and his valet, unasked, fetched him a cup of tea.

Volume Two – Chapter Ten.
Lucy Examines the Examiner

“I wish you would be more open with me, Moray,” said Lucy to her brother.

He was gazing through one of his glasses intently upon some celestial object, for the night was falling fast, and first one and then another star came twinkling out in the cold grey of the north-east.

Alleyne raised his head slowly and looked at his sister’s pretty enquiring face for a few moments, and then resumed his task.

“Don’t understand you,” he said quietly.

“Now, Moray, you must,” cried Lucy, pettishly; “you have only one sister, and you ought to tell her everything.”

As she spoke, in a playful, childish way, she began tying knots in her brother’s long beard, and made an attempt to join a couple of threads behind his head, but without result, the crisp curly hairs being about half-an-inch too short.

Alleyne paid no heed to her playful tricks for a time, and she went on, —

“If I were a man – which, thank goodness, I am not – I’d try to be learned, and wise, and clever, but I’d be manly as well, and strong and active, and able to follow all out-door pursuits.”

“Like Captain Rolph,” said Alleyne, with a smile, half reproach, half satire.

“No,” cried Lucy, emphatically; “he is all animalism. He has all the strength that I like to see, and nothing more. No, the man I should like to be, would combine all that energy with the wisdom of one who thinks, and uses his brains. Captain Rolph, indeed!”

What was meant for a withering, burning look of scorn appeared on Lucy’s lips; but it was only pretty and provocative; it would not have scorched a child.

“No, dear, the man I should like to be would be something very different from him. There, I don’t care what you say to the contrary, you love Glynne, and I shall tell her so.”

“You love your brother too well ever to degrade him in the eyes of your friend, Lucy,” said Alleyne, drawing her to him, and stroking her hair. “Even if – if – ”

“There, do say it out, Moray. If you did or do love her. I do wish you wouldn’t be so girlish and weak.”

“Am I girlish and weak?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes, and dreamy and strange, when you, who are such a big fine-looking fellow, might be all that a woman could love.”

“All that a woman could love?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes; instead of which you neglect yourself and go shabby and rough, and let your hair grow long. Oh, if I only could make you do what I liked. Come now, confess; you are very fond of Glynne?”

He looked at her dreamily for a while, but did not reply. It was as though his thoughts were busy upon something she had said before, and it was not until Lucy was about to speak that he checked her.

“Yes,” he said, “you are right; I have given up everything to my studies. I have neglected myself, my mother, you, Lucy. What would you say if I were to change?”

“Oh, Moray!” she cried, catching his hands; “and will you? – for Glynne’s sake.”

“Hush!” he cried sternly; and his brows knit, as he looked down angrily in her face. “Lucy, you wish me to be strong; if I am to be, you must never speak like that again. I have been weak, and in my weakness I have listened to your girlish prattle about your friend. Have you forgotten that she is to be – Captain Rolph’s wife?”

“No,” cried Lucy impetuously, “I have not forgotten; I never can forget it; but if she ever is his wife, she will bitterly repent it to the end.”

“Hush!” he exclaimed again, and his eyes grew more stern, and there was a quiver of his lip. “Let there be an end of this.”

“But do you not see that he is unworthy of her – that his tastes are low and contemptible; that he cannot appreciate her in the least, and – and besides, dear, he – he – is not honest and faithful.”

“How do you know this?” cried Alleyne sternly.

Lucy flushed crimson.

“I know it by his ways – by his words,” she said, recovering herself, and speaking with spirit, “I like Glynne; I love her, dear, and it pains me more than I can say, to see her drifting towards such a fate. Why, Moray, see how she has changed of late – see how she has taken to your studies, how she hangs upon every word you say, how – oh, Moray!”

She stopped in affright, for he clutched her arm with a violence that caused her intense pain. His brow was rugged, and an angry glare shot from his eyes, while when he spoke, it was in a low husky voice.

“Lucy,” he said, “once for all, never use such words as these to me again. There, there, little bird, I’m not very angry; but listen to me,” and he drew her to his side in a tender caressing way. “Is this just – is this right? You ask me to be more manly and less of the dreaming student that I have been so long, and you ask me to start upon my new career with a dishonourable act – to try and presume upon the interest your friend has taken in my pursuit to tempt her from her duties to the man who is to be her husband. There, let this be forgotten; but I will do what you wish.”

“You will, Moray?” cried Lucy, who was now sobbing.

“Yes,” he cried, as he hid from himself the motive power that was energising his life. “Yes, I will now be a man. I will show you – the world – that one can be a great student and thinker, and at the same time a man of that world – a gentleman of this present day. The man who calculates the distance of one of the glorious orbs I have made my study, rarely is as others are in manners and discourse – educated in the ordinary pursuits of life – without making himself ridiculous if he mounts a horse – absurd if he has to stand in competition with his peers. Yes, you are right, Lucy, I have been a dreaming recluse; now the dreams shall be put away, and I will awaken into this new life.”

Lucy clapped her hands, and, flinging her arms round her brother kissed him affectionately, and then drew her face back to gaze in his.

“Why, Moray,” she cried proudly, “there isn’t such a man for miles as you would be, if you did as others do.”

He laughed as he kissed her, and then gently put her away.

“There,” he said, “go now. I have something here – a calculation I must finish.”

“And now you are going back to your figures again?” she cried pettishly.

“Yes, for a time,” he replied; “but I will not forget my promise.”

“You will not?” she cried.

“I give you my word,” he said, and kissing him affectionately once again, Lucy left the observatory.

“He has forbidden me to speak,” she said to herself, with a glow of triumph in her eyes, “but it will come about all the same. He loves Glynne with all his heart, and the love of such a man as he is cannot change. Glynne is beginning, too; and when she quite finds it out, she will never go and swear faith to that miserable Rolph. I am going to wait and let things arrange themselves, as I’m sure they will.”

The object of her thoughts was not going on with the astronomical calculation, but pacing the observatory to and fro, with his brow knit, and a feverish energy burning in his brain.

Volume Two – Chapter Eleven.
The Doctor Brings Alleyne down

About an hour later Oldroyd called; and, as the bell jangled at the gate and Eliza went slowly down, Lucy’s face turned crimson, and she ran to the window and listened, to hear the enquiry, – “Is your mistress in?”

That was enough. The whole scene of that particular morning walk came back with a repetition of the agony of mind. She saw Rolph in his ludicrous undress, striding along the sandy road; she heard again his maundering civilities, and she saw, too, the figure of Oldroyd seated upon the miller’s pony, passing them, and afterwards blocking the way.

It was he, now, seated upon the same pony; and, without waiting to hear Eliza’s answer, Lucy fled to her bedroom and locked herself in, to begin sobbing and crying in the most ridiculous manner.

“No, sir,” said Eliza, with a bob; “she’ve gone to town shopping, but Miss Lucy’s in the drawing-room.”

Eliza smiled to herself as she said this, giving herself the credit of having managed a splendid little bit of diplomacy, for, according to her code, young gents ought to have opportunities to talk to young ladies whenever there was a chance. She was, however, terribly taken aback by the young doctor’s words.

“Thank you, yes, but I don’t want to see her,” – words which, had she heard them, would have made Lucy’s sobs come more quickly. “Is Mr Alleyne in?”

“Yes, sir, he’s in the observatory.”

“I’ll come in then,” said Oldroyd; and he dismounted, and threw the rein over the ring hook in the yard wall.

“If you please, sir,” said the maid, who did not like to lose an opportunity now that a medical man was in the house, “I don’t think I’m very well.”

“Eh, not well?” said Oldroyd, pausing in the hall, “why you appear as rosy and bonny as a girl can look.”

“Thankye, sir,” said the girl, with a bob; “but I’m dreadful poorly, all the same.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

For answer Eliza put her hands behind her, and seemed as if she were indulging in the school-girl trick of what is called “making a face” at the doctor, for she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, wrinkled her brow, and put out a very long red tongue, which quivered and curled up at the point.

“That’ll do,” said Oldroyd, hiding a smile; and the tongue shot back, Eliza’s eyes opened, her mouth closed, and the wrinkles disappeared from her face.

“Will that do, sir?”

“Yes; your tongue’s beautifully healthy, your eyes are bright, and your skin moist and cool. Why, what’s the matter?”

“Please sir, I’m quite well of a night,” said Eliza, with another bob, “but I do have such dreadful dreams.”

“Oh!” said Oldroyd, drawing in a long breath, “I see. Did you have a bad dream last night?”

“Oh yes, sir, please. I dreamed as a poacher were going to murder me, and I couldn’t run away.”

“Let me see; you had supper last night at half-past nine, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bread and Dutch cheese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, you want a little medicine,” said Oldroyd quietly. “I’ll send you some.”

“And please, sir, how am I to take it?”

“Oh, you’ll find that on the bottle, and mind this: you are not to eat any more cheese for supper, but you may have as much butter as you like, and stale bread.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you go in, sir?”

“Yes, I’ll go up,” said Oldroyd, and then to himself, “What humbugs we doctors are; but we are obliged to be. If I told the girl only to leave off eating cheese she would think she was ill-used, and as likely as not she would get a holiday on purpose to go over to the town and see another man.”

He tapped sharply on the door with the handle of his whip, and in response to the loud “Come in,” entered, to find Alleyne standing amongst his instruments.

“Ah, Oldroyd,” he said, holding out his hand, which the other took, “glad to see you.”

“And I’m glad to see you – looking so much better,” said Oldroyd. “Why, man, your brain has been working in a new direction; your eyes don’t look so dreamy, and the balance is getting right. Come, confess, don’t you feel more energetic than you did?”

“Ten times,” said Alleyne frankly.

“Then you’ll end by being a firm believer in my system – cure without drugs, eh?”

“Indeed I shall,” said Alleyne, smiling.

“And to show how consistent I am,” said Oldroyd, “I’ve just promised to send your maid a bottle of medicine. But come, sir, I’m just off among the hills to see a patient. It’s a lovely day; only about six miles. Come with me, and I’ll leave the pony and walk.”

Alleyne shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I should be very poor company for you, Oldroyd – yes, I will go,” he cried, recollecting himself. “Wait a minute and I’ll be back.”

“All right,” replied the doctor, who amused himself peeping among the various glasses till Alleyne came back in a closely-fitting shooting jacket, for which he had changed the long, loose dressing-gown he had worn.

“That’s better,” cried Oldroyd, approvingly; “why, Alleyne, you will be worth two of the patients I saw a few months ago if you go on like this.”

Alleyne smiled sadly, and took a soft felt hat from its peg; and as he did so, he sent his hand again to his long, wild hair, and thought of his sister’s words, the colour coming into his cheeks, as he said in an assumed easy-going manner, —

“It’s time I had my hair cut.”

“Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, Alleyne, it really is. I like short hair, it is so comfortable on a windy day.”

The colour stayed in Alleyne’s cheeks, for, in spite of himself, he felt a little nettled that his companion should have noticed this portion of his personal appearance; but he said nothing, and they went out into the yard, where, unfastening the pony, Oldroyd threw the rein over the docile little creature’s neck and then tied it to a loop in the saddle, after which the pony followed them like a dog, till they reached its stable, where it was left.

“Now,” cried Oldroyd, “what do you say to a good tonic?”

“Do I need one?” said Alleyne, looking at him wistfully.

“Badly. I don’t mean physic, man,” laughed Oldroyd, “but a strong dose of fresh air off the hills.”

Alleyne laughed, and they started off across the boggy heath, avoiding the soft places, and, wherever the ground was firm, striding along at a good brisk pace over the elastic turf, which seemed to communicate its springiness to their limbs, while the sweet breeze sent a fresh light into their eyes.

Over the common and up the hilly lanes, where, as they went more slowly, Oldroyd told the history of his patient up at the common, the result of which was an animated discussion upon the game, laws, and Oldroyd began wondering at the change that had come over his companion. He had taken in a new accession of nervous force, which lent animation to his remarks, and, as he noted all this, Oldroyd began wondering, for he frankly told himself that there must have been other influences at work to make this change.

“Isn’t that Captain Rolph?” he said suddenly, as they turned into a long lane that ran through one of the pine woods on the slope of a hill.

“Rolph?” said Alleyne quietly, as he glanced in the direction of a distant horseman, coming towards them. “Yes – no – I cannot say.”

“I should say – yes, from his military seat in the saddle,” said Oldroyd. “Well, if it be or no, he doesn’t mean to meet us. He has gone through the wood.”

For, as he spoke, the coming horseman drew rein turned his horse’s head, leaped a ditch, and disappeared amongst the pines.

“What does he want up here?” said Oldroyd to himself, and then aloud, “Been having a good ‘breather’ round the hills,” he continued. “Sort of thing you ought to cultivate, Alleyne. Nothing like horse exercise.”

“Horses are costly, and the money I should spend upon a horse would be valuable to me for some optical instrument,” said Alleyne, speaking cheerfully, though all the while he was slightly excited by the sight of the horseman they had supposed to be Rolph; but this wore off in a few minutes, and they soon came in sight of the cottages, while before them a tall figure, graceful in appearance, in spite of the homely dress, had suddenly crossed a stile, hurried in the same direction, and turned in at the cottage gate.

“Mademoiselle Judith,” said Oldroyd; “a very pretty girl with a very ugly name. Hallo! We are in trouble.”

“I don’t know what’s come to you. Here’s your poor father so bad he can’t lift hand or foot, and you always running off to Mother Wattley’s or picking flowers. Flowers indeed! Better stop and mind your father.”

This in very much strident tones from the cottage whose gate they were entering; and then a sudden softening as Oldroyd and Alleyne darkened the doorway, and the nurse dropped a curtsey.

“Didn’t know you was so close, sir. I was only saying a word to Judith – oh, she’s gone.”

“How is Hayle to-day?” said Oldroyd, as the girl stepped out at the back door.

“Well, sir, thank you kindly, I think he’s better; he talks stronger like, and he took a basin of hare soup to-day, well, that he did, and it was nice and strong.”

“Hare soup, eh?” said Oldroyd, with a queer look at Alleyne.

“Yes, sir, hare soup; he said as how he was sick o’ rabbits, and Caleb Kent kindly brought in a fine hare for him, and – ”

She stopped short, looking guiltily at the young doctor, and two red spots came in her yellow sunken cheeks.

“You’re letting the cat – I mean the hare – out of the bag,” said Oldroyd drily. “One of Sir John Day’s hares?”

“Oh, sir!” faltered the woman, “it’s nothing to him; and I’m only the nurse.”

“There, I don’t want to know,” said Oldroyd. “Can I go up?”

“Oh yes, sir, please,” cried the woman, who was only too glad to change the conversation after her lapse, “you’ll find him nice and tidy.”

“Care to come and see my patient, Alleyne?” said Oldroyd.

“Thanks, yes, I may as well,” and he followed the doctor up into the low room, where the truth of the woman’s assertions were plainly to be seen. The wounded man, lying upon coarse linen that was exquisitely clean, while the partially covered boards were as white as constant scrubbing could make them.

“Well, Hayle, how are you going on? I’ve brought a friend of mine to see you.”

The man whose eyes and cheeks were terribly sunken, and who looked worn out with his late journey to the very gates of death, from which he was slowly struggling back, raised one big gnarled hand heavily to his forelock, and let it fall again upon the bed.

“Steady, sir, steady. Glad to see you, sir, glad to see him, sir. He’s welcome like. Sit you down, sir; sit you down.”

Alleyne took the stool that was nearest and sat down watching the man curiously, as Oldroyd examined his bandages, and then asked a few questions.

“You’re going on right enough,” he said at last. “Capitally.”

“But I’m so weak, sir,” said the great helpless fellow, piteously. “I’m feeble as a child. I can hardly just hold my hand to my head.”

“Well, what can you expect?” said Oldroyd. “You lost nearly every drop of blood in your body, and it will take time to build you up again – to fill you up again,” he added, smiling.

“Yes sir, of course, sir; but can’t you give me a bottle or two of nothing as will set me to rights? We’ll pay you, you know, sir, don’t you be afraid o’ that.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of that,” said Oldroyd, smiling, “but I can give you nothing better than I am giving you. The best medicine you can have now is plenty of strong soup, the same as you had this morning.”

“Did she tell you I had soup this morning, sir?”

“Yes – hare soup,” said Oldroyd meaningly.

“Did that woman say hare soup, sir?”

“Yes, and that you were tired of rabbits. I say, Hayle, I ought to tell Sir John’s keepers.”

“Eh, but you won’t, sir,” said the man quietly.

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re too much of a gen’leman, sir, and so would your friend be, or else you wouldn’t have brought him. She needn’t have let out about it, though. I’m lying helpless-like here, and they talk and do just as they like. Was my Judith downstairs, sir?”

“Yes,” said Oldroyd.

“That’s a comfort,” said the man, with a sigh of content. “Young, sir, and very pretty,” he added apologetically, to Alleyne; “makes me a bit anxious about her, don’t you see, being laid-by like. You’ll come and see me again soon, doctor?”

“Yes, and I must soon have a bottle or two of port wine for you. I can’t ask Sir John Day, can I?”

“No, sir, don’t ask he,” said the man, with a faint smile. “Let’s play as fair as we can. If you say I’m to have some wine, we’ll get it; but I’d a deal rayther have a drop of beer.”

“I daresay you would, my friend,” cried Oldroyd, smiling; “but no beer for a long time to come. Alleyne, would you mind going down now, and sending me up the nurse?”

Alleyne rose, and, going down, sent up the woman to find himself alone with the girl of whom they had been speaking.

Student though he was, the study of woman was one that had never come beneath Alleyne’s ken, and he found himself – for perhaps the first time in his life – interested, and wondering how it was that so handsome and attractive a girl could be leading so humble a cottage life as hers.

Judith, too, seemed attracted towards him, and once or twice she opened her lips and was about to speak, but a step overhead, or the movement of a chair, made her shrink away and begin busying herself in arranging chairs or the ornaments upon the chimney-piece, which she dusted and wiped.

“So you’ve been flower-gathering,” said Alleyne, to break a rather awkward silence.

“Yes, sir, and – ” but just then Oldroyd was heard speaking at the top of the stairs, and Judith seemed to shrink within herself as he came down.

“Ah, Miss Judith, you there? Well, your father is getting on splendidly. Take care of him. Ready, Alleyne?”

His companion rose, said good-morning to Judith, and stepped out, while Oldroyd obeyed a sign made by the girl, and stayed behind.

“Well,” he said, looking at her curiously.

“I’m so anxious about father, sir,” she said, in a low voice. “Now that he is getting better, will there be any trouble? I mean about the keepers, and – and” – she faltered – “the police.”

“No,” said Oldroyd, looking fixedly at the girl, till she coloured warmly beneath his stern gaze, “everything seems to have settled down, and I don’t think there is anything to fear for him. Let me speak plainly, my dear. Lookers on see most of the game.”

“I – I don’t understand you, sir,” she said, colouring.

“Then try to. It seems to me that, to use a strong expression, some one has been squared. There are friends at court. Now, take my advice: as soon as father is quite well, take him into your confidence, and persuade him to go quite away. I’m sure it would be better for you both. Good-day.”

The doctor nodded and went off after Alleyne, while Judith sat down to bury her face in her hands and sob as if her heart would break.