Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, at Mrs Laker’s elbow, “she put you down a pint of milk.”

      “That was most thoughtful, Mrs Wood,” said Mr Franklin. “And it’s Mrs … Laker, isn’t it? Ladies, you’re very kind. I guess when I get squared away I’ll discover what my requirements are.”

      “Ooh,” whispered Mrs Wood, impressed. “Squared away – I never!”

      “Well, my dear chap, I can see you’re in good hands,” said Thornhill. “What we would do without Mrs Laker, I can’t think … I wonder, Mrs Laker, if I could trouble you for some paraffin.” He glanced apologetically at Mr Franklin. “It’s no use – I must have a shot at Matthew tonight – shan’t sleep otherwise. No, no, my dear fellow, you get some rest – I’ll look along some time, or if you’ve a moment, you know where I’ll be, at the church. Mrs Laker, you are a ministering angel.” He accepted his paraffin gratefully, and wondered if he would have got it so readily if this imposing American in his long black coat and astonishing hat had not been present, dazzling the senses of the good wives of Castle Lancing.

      And not only the good wives, it appeared. As Mr Franklin was preparing to take his leave, a small boy, who in common with his associates, had been observing Mr Franklin from a distance, was heard to exclaim that the Yankee hadn’t got a six-shooter, so there. Mrs Wood squeaked indignantly, and Mrs Laker exclaimed: “Sauce! You get out home, Tommy Marsh, or I’ll get your mother! The idea!”

      “Well ’e ’asn’t!” cried the impudent urchin, while his friends giggled in the shadows by the shop’s light, and Mr Franklin half-turned in their direction.

      “I never carry it at night, Tommy. I do all my shooting in the daytime. Except for Indians and cattle rustlers, of course.”

      At which Mrs Wood and Mrs Laker exclaimed with astonishment, Mr Franklin bade them good-night with another touch of his hat, thanked Thornhill warmly for his welcome, and turned as another voice said: “Goodnight, Mr Franklin, sir.” It was Prior, with his cronies from the Apple Tree – and why, wondered Mr Franklin, as he strode down his homeward road, was it such a good thing that he had been able to recall Prior’s Christian name, and respond with “Goodnight, Jack; good-night all”? It pleased him – and suddenly, as he paused outside the manor’s rusty gates, he felt an overwhelming, warm content; a great happiness of fulfilment, of a kind that he could remember only rarely – after the Sunday School prize, at Omaha, when he’d been all of six years old, and his father had led him away afterwards by the hand, smiling down at him; outside the Homesteaders’ Bank in Carson City, when he had made the big deposit, and walked across to the Star and Garter saloon for a beer – and yes, just last night, lying joyously content with Pip’s breast in his hand, blowing playfully at the blonde tendrils of hair across his face. Such different kinds of placid happiness – and now he was feeling it again, as he walked up the drive, brushing his feet through the grass and weeds, feeling for his key – and checking only momentarily as a dim figure rose from one of the stone seats and hailed him in a beer-roughened croak.

      “I foun’ the stop-cock, sir – down yonder by the path. All growed over like anythin’ – but I got the key on her all right. So water’ll be runnin’ right enough, whenever you turn the tap. If I coulda gotten in, I’d ’a lit the boiler like, to warm ’er up.” He sniffed complacently. “But I couldn’t get in. All locked up.”

      “Why, Jake, that was very considerate.” Mr Franklin felt in his waistcoat pocket, and found a guinea. “I’m much obliged to you.”

      “A’right, now,” said Jake. “Say, though, there’s some weeds aroun’, tough, ain’t there? Like an old swamp, I reckon?”

      “Think you could get rid of them?” wondered Mr Franklin, and fingered the guinea aside in his pocket, searching out two half-crowns instead. Despite his euphoria, caution told him that if he overpaid Jake the first time he would regret it. Jake assured him volubly that he would tackle the weeds first thing, and make a right proper job of them.

      “Well, not too early; I’d like to sleep a long time tonight,” said Mr Franklin, and when Jake had expressed rapture over his five shillings and hopped away into the dark, promising prodigies of service, the new owner of Lancing Manor let himself into the dim, empty hall.

      He stood in the darkness, looking round at the half-seen shadows, feeling the tiredness wash over him. He ignored his trunks, but unbuckled his valise, drew out his blanket, and made a bed by simply spreading it before the empty fireplace. He folded his clothes on the settle, made his valise into a pillow, and stretched out, rolling the blanket round him. For a few moments he lay, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, while he thought of the worn stone up in the churchyard, and of his father, and of dim figures that he could not recognize, although he knew they had once existed.

      “Well,” said Mr Franklin aloud. “We’re back.” Then he was fast asleep, in Castle Lancing.

       6

      Mr Franklin’s arrival at the Manor was something of a nine-day wonder in the neighbourhood. Not only was he foreign, and slightly exotic with his sunbrowned complexion and lanky striding gait, he was also a mystery, and Castle Lancing enjoyed a mystery as much as the next village. Speculation had a field day: as a result of his playful answer to Tommy Marsh it was quickly understood that he had killed a man in the bush, and was in hiding with a price on his head; there followed the rumour that he was the bastard offspring of a Duke, come home to claim his inheritance (this, doubtless, sprang from a chance remark of Thornhill’s anent the American genealogy); finally, the obvious deduction was made that he was extremely rich, and that he intended to buy half Norfolk and reverse the country’s agricultural decline with go-ahead Yankee schemes; this was a popular theory because it was at least comforting in an area which was watching with anxiety the absorption of small holdings into larger farms, and where landlord-hatred was an article of faith.

      So interest ran high at the activity observed round the Manor; gangs of workmen arrived from as far away as Norwich to re-gravel the drive, point and sand the stonework, paint the timber, repair the plumbing, and carry out internal improvements to the decoration; local labourers, mysteriously recruited by Jake, who lost no opportunity of establishing his unofficial stewardship and special relationship with the owner, cleared acres of weed and rubbish from the grounds, relaid the flower-bed and repaired the borders; there was a coming and going of pantechnicons and drays with furniture from Norwich – and on two sensational occasions, from London itself – with men in aprons heaving in beds, chairs, sofas, curtains, and mysterious packing-cases whose contents could only be guessed at; for one full day a magnificent new bath, with gleaming taps and a shower attachment of strange pipes and faucets, lay on the gravel before the house, and in Mr Franklin’s absence the entire population of the district came to marvel, and to be kept at a respectful distance by the ubiquitous Jake. All was bustle and concern, great quantities of ale were drunk by the toilers – for Mr Franklin had been prodigal in his provision for the refreshment of his helpers, and the Apple Tree was threatened by drought as the result of its traffic down the Manor road – and it was agreed that the Yankee must have a power of money. The young men spat and exclaimed in respectful envy; the young women and wives were unstinting in their admiration; the gaffers agreed that no good would come of it; and Jake, ensconced on his stool at the inn, cackled knowingly and implied that they had seen nothing yet; let them wait until the Yankee squire – the title dropped into place inevitably with ownership of the Manor House – really went to work (with Jake’s guidance, be it understood). Then they’d see.

      Yet Mr Franklin was a disappointment, after the first excitement of his arrival had died down. He kept very much to the Manor, СКАЧАТЬ