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- Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
- Kategoria: Kryminał
- Język: polski
„The Mystery Road” an antique book written by E Phillips Oppenheim follows the heroine on her journey to true love and independence from family pressures. An orphan French girl, Myrtile, who is living with her stepfather horrifies at the prospect to marry to a local barkeep and runs away from the farm. Struck by Myrtile’s desperation and beauty, two Englishmen rescue her and bring her to Monaco with them, buy her new clothes, and try to find her a respectable position. One of them Christopher falls in love with her. The emergence of her true nature, and the evolution of their relationships forms the basis of the plot. It’s all great fun and Oppenheim keeps the action moving along swiftly, as he always did. Wonderful entertainment and highly entertaining.
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Liczba stron: 371
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Contents
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
MYRTILE stood upon the crazy verandah, her eyes shaded by her hand, gazing down the straight, narrow footpath, a sundering line across the freshly-ploughed field, which led to the village in the hollow below. The mouldering white stone cottage from which she had issued was set in a cleft of the pine-covered hills; it seemed to struggle against its inborn ugliness and to succeed only because of the beauty of its setting,–in the foreground the brown earth, with its neatly-trained vines and its quarter of an acre of fragrant violets; the orchard, pink and white with masses of cherry blossom; beyond, a level stretch of freshly-turned brown earth, soon to become a delicate carpet of tender green, and, by the time the vines should sprout, a sea of deep gold. It was the typical homestead of the small French peasant proprietor. Even the goat was not absent, the goat which came at that moment with clanking chain to rub its nose against the girl’s knee.
Myrtile’s hand dropped to her side. The three figures were plainly visible now. She remained quiescent, watching them with a mute tragedy in her face which, to anyone ignorant of the inner significance of this approaching procession, must have seemed a little puzzling. For there was nothing tragic about Jean Sargot–middle-aged, a typical peasant of the district, with coarsened face and weather-beaten skin–or about the companion who hung on his arm,–a plump, dark woman, with black hair and eyes, vociferous and fluent of gesture, with a high-pitched voice and apparently much to say. The third person, who walked in the rear, seemed even less likely to incite apprehension. He was more corpulent than his neighbour Jean Sargot, and he wore clothes of a holiday type, ill-suited to this quiet country promenade. His coat was black and long, a garment, it appeared, of earlier years, for it left a very broad gap to display a fancy waistcoat adorned by a heavy gold chain. He wore a silk hat which had done duty at every christening, marriage and funeral in the neighbourhood for the last twenty years, and his whole appearance was one of discomfort. Yet the girl’s eyes, as they rested upon him, were filled with terror.
They were near enough now for speech, and her stepfather, waving his hand, called out to her:
“It is the Widow Dumay, little one, and our friend and neighbour, Pierre Leschamps, who come to drink a glass of wine with us. Hurry with the table and some chairs, and bring one–two bottles of last year’s vintage. It is not so bad, that wine, neighbour Pierre, I can promise you.”
“Any wine will be good after such a walk,” the widow declared, panting. “Either the village lies too low, friend Jean, or your house too high. It will be good to rest.”
They sank into the chairs which Myrtile had already placed upon the verandah, Pierre Leschamps laying his hat upon a handkerchief in a safe corner. There were beads of perspiration upon his forehead, for, unlike his friend and host, he was unused to exercise. He kept the little café in the village, and the strip of land which went with it he let to others. His pale cheeks and flabby limbs told their own story. Jean Sargot looked about him with the pride of the proprietor.
“Not so bad, this little dwelling, eh?” he exclaimed. “Four rooms, all well-furnished, a bed such as one seldom sees, and a wardrobe made by my own grandfather, Jacques Sargot, the carpenter. It pleases thee, Marie?”
The widow looked around her with a little sniff.
“It might be worse,” she conceded, “but there are the children.”
“Three only,” Sargot replied, “and in a year or so they will all be in the fields. Think what that may mean. We can sell the timber from the strip behind and plant more vines. Children arc not so bad when they are strong.”
“The little ones are well enough,” Madame Dumay admitted, “but thy eldest–Myrtile–she has not the air of health.”
They all looked up at the girl, who was approaching them at this moment with wine and glasses. She was of medium height and slim. Her complexion was creamily pale; even the skin about her neck and arms had little of the peasant’s brown. Her neatly-braided hair was of the darkest shade of brown, with here and there some glints of a lighter colour. Her eyes, silkily fringed, were of a wonderful shade of deep blue, her mouth tremulous and beautiful. There was something a little exotic about her appearance, although no actual indication of ill health. The widow looked at her critically; Pierre, the innkeeper, with unpleasant things in his black, beady eyes.
“Pooh! she is well enough,” her stepfather declared. “Never a doctor has crossed this threshold since her mother died many years ago.”
Myrtile welcomed her father’s guests pleasantly but timidly. Then, after she had filled the glasses, she would have slipped back into the house but Jean Sargot grasped her by the arm.
“To-night, my child,” he insisted, “you must leave your books alone. You must drink a glass of wine with us. It is an occasion, this.”
Myrtile looked from one to the other of the two visitors. She had for a moment the air of a trapped animal. Madame Dumay made a little grimace, but Pierre only laughed. She was a flower, this Myrtile, not like other girls, Even the young men complained of her aloofness. He knew well how to deal with such modesty.
“Behold,” her stepfather continued, “our two best friends! Here is good Madame Dumay. A nice little income she makes at the shop, and a tidy sum in her stocking.”
“Oh, la, la!” the widow interrupted. “What has that to do with thee, my friend?”
“And also,” Jean Sargot went on, without taking heed of the interruption, “the brave Pierre Leschamps. Oh, a gay dog, that Leschamps! A man of property, mark you, child. And listen! Why do you think these friends of mine are here?”
“I cannot tell,” Myrtile faltered.
“Madame Dumay will become my wife. It is what we need here, And Pierre Leschamps–hear this, little one–he seeks a wife. He has chosen you. I have given my consent.”
Leschamps had risen to his feet. Myrtile shrank back against the wall. The terror had leaped now into life.
“I will not marry Monsieur Leschamps,” she declared. “The other–is your affair. But as for me, I will not marry!”
Jean Sargot leaned back in his chair and drank his wine. His two guests followed his example.
“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Come, that is good! You were always a shy child, Myrtile. Pierre shall woo you into a different humour.”
“Ay, indeed!” the innkeeper assented, leering across at the girl with covetous eyes. “We shall understand one another presently, little one. You need have no fear. Marriage is a pleasant thing. You will find it so like all the others.”
“It is an institution to be toasted,” Jean Sargot declared, filling the glasses and glancing amorously towards the widow. “Trouble not about Myrtile, my friend Pierre. She is thine. We shall drink this glass of wine to Marriage. It will be a festival, that, eh, Marie?”
Myrtile slipped through the open doorway. Her prospective husband looked after her for a moment and half rose. Then he looked back at the wine, flowing into his glass. Myrtile would keep,–wine by the side of Jean Sargot, never! He resumed his seat. In a minute or two he would follow her,–as soon as the second bottle was empty.
Across the stone-flagged floor, out through the little garden and along the cypress avenue to the road, Myrtile fled. She was like a terrified young fawn in the half-light, her hair flying behind her, her large eyes filled with fear. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the grass-grown track. She fled as one who leaves behind evil things. Only once she looked over her shoulder. No one was stirring, no one seemed to have thought of pursuit. She reached the gate which led out on to the road and clung to it for a moment, as though for protection. On the other side was freedom. Her eyes filled with passionate desire. If only she knew how to gain it!
They were singing now down at the cottage. She heard Jean Sargot’s strident voice in some country song of harvest and vintage and what they called love. As she stood there in the quiet of the evening, there seemed suddenly to leap into life a very furnace of revolt. She was weary of her monotonous tasks,–the abuse of her stepfather, generally at night the worse for sour wine and fiery brandy; the care of those motherless children, not of her own stock yet dependent upon her; the grey tedium of a life unbeautiful and hopeless. And now this fresh terror! Her fingers tore at the rough splinters of the gate. Her eyes travelled hungrily along that great stretch of road, passing here and there through the forests, rising in the far distance to the top of the brown hillside, and disappearing in mystery. At the other end of the road one might find happiness!
CHAPTER II
THE two young men adopted characteristic attitudes when confronted with the slight misadventure of a burst tyre and a delay of half an hour. Christopher Bent deliberately filled and lit a pipe, and, seating himself on the top of a low, grey, stone wall, gave himself up to the joy of a wonderful view and the pleasure of unusual surroundings. His companion, Gerald Dombey, stood peevishly in the middle of the road, with his hands in his pockets, cursing the flint-strewn road, the rottenness of all motor tyres, and the evil chance which led to this mishap in the last lap of their journey.
“We’ll be on the road again in twenty minutes, your lordship,” the chauffeur promised, as he paused for a moment to wipe the perspiration from hie forehead. “It’s been cruel going all the way from Brignolles, and you’ve kept her at well past the forty, all the time.”
His master nodded with some signs of returning equanimity.
“Don’t distress yourself, John,” he said. “There’s no real hurry so long as we get into Monte Carlo before dark. Come on, Christopher,” he added, turning to his companion. “Get off that wall and let us explore.”
The two young men strolled off together. On their right was a thickly planted forest, of pine frees, fragrantly aromatic after the warm sunshine of the April day. On their left was a stretch of very wonderful country, a country of vineyards and pastures, of wooded knolls and fruitful valleys. And in the background, the sombre outline of the mountains. Gerald paused to point to the little, discoloured house of Jean Sargot.
“Are they real people who live in these quaint cottages?” he speculated. “That place, for instance, looks like a toy farm, with its patch of violets, its tiny vineyard, its belt of ploughed land and this little grove of cypresses. It is just as though some child had taken them all from his play-box and laid them out there.”
Christopher withdrew the pipe from his mouth for a moment. He was looking at the opening in the little grove of cypresses.
“And there,” he murmured, “must be the child to whom they all belong. I think you are right, Gerald. There is something unreal about the place.”
Gerald, too, was suddenly conscious of the girl who stood clutching the top of the wooden gate, her face turned a little away from them, absorbed in the contemplation of that distant spot where the road vanished in a faint haze of blue mist.
“We will talk to her,” he declared. “You shall practise your French upon this little rustic, Chris. She probably won’t be able to understand a word you say.”
At the sound of their voices, Myrtile turned her head, and, at the things which they saw in her face, there was no longer any thought of frivolous conversation on the part of the two young men. They stood for a moment indeed, speechless, Christopher spellbound, Gerald, of quicker sensibility, carried for a moment into the world from which she seemed to have fallen. Then his old habits asserted themselves. She was as beautiful as an angel, but her feet were on the ground, and she was obviously in distress.
“Are you alive, mademoiselle?” he asked, raising his cap.
“But certainly, monsieur,” she answered gravely. “I am alive but very unhappy.”
“You can tell us, perhaps, the way to Cannes?” Christopher enquired.
She pointed to where the thin ribbon of road in the distance seemed to melt into the bosom of the clouds.
“Cannes is over there, monsieur,” she said, “and there is no other road save this one.”
“You go there often, perhaps?” Christopher ventured.
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