Mr. American Read online

  But their relations, though cordial, did not blossom into friendship. Thornhill visited the Manor once or twice, and received al fresco refreshment; he gave Mr Franklin a bachelor supper at his own cosy, deplorably untidy cottage, amidst a litter of books and papers, but although the Burgundy was excellent, and the American was enthusiastic over Thornhill's researches, they discovered, once the topic of the ancient Franklins had been exhausted, that they had no especial common interest. Mr Franklin was prepared to talk, within limits, about the United States; Thornhill was prepared to talk, without limits, about everything, but he did it with only half his mind, the other half being firmly rooted in that exciting misty area between the accession of Edward III and the Reformation. The truth was that, unless his interest was aroused on his own subject, as it had briefly been in Mr Franklin's case, Thornhill's garrulity was a nervous habit; he really preferred talking to himself, which he frequently did, thus provoking cries of 'Loony!' from the coarser young spirits of the village.

  So they remained amiable acquaintances, meeting occasionally in Mrs Laker's or the street, Thornhill pouring out a torrent of smalltalk, and Mr Franklin nodding gravely and occasionally observing 'Just so'. And gradually Castle Lancing's interest dwindled, as such interests do; Mr Franklin remained an object of remark, slightly mysterious - but a mystery has to manifest itself mysteriously if it is to claim much attention, and Mr Franklin remained undeniably normal; a minor sensation in September, he was old news by October - and that suited him very well, apparently. He was content, it seemed, to merge into the background of Castle Lancing, far from the great world, and to forget about it, at least for a season. But, although he did not suspect it as he went about placidly improving and perfecting his house, watching the apples wrinkle and wither in his orchard, and the leaves fall to carpet his garden in brown and gold - although he was

  far from suspecting it in his sought-our rustic solitude, the great world was not prepared to forget him.

  It was on a raw October day that Mr Franklin unstabled the hack hired from a farrier in Thetford, hitched it expertly to his small trap, and set out on the fifteen-mile journey to the village of West Walsham. He had seen an advertisement in the local paper offering for sale seventy-five feet of Japanese oak panelling, and since his own hall had struck him as being in need of lightening, he had decided to drive over to the country house where the panelling was on view. It was, he admitted to himself, a fairly thin excuse for the journey; he had no real notion of what Japanese oak looked like, but he had not been abroad for a fortnight, and the prospect of a ramble along the back-roads of Norfolk was attractive. Thornhill had recommended a drive by Wayland Wood - the very wood, he assured an amused Mr Franklin, where the Babes of the famous legend had been abandoned by their wicked uncle, whose house at Griston was still to be seen. So the trap carried a large and well-filled picnic hamper, and Mr Franklin bowled off not caring a great deal whether he reached his destination or not.

  He ambled very much at random, roughly in what he believed was the West Walsham direction, guiding himself by the orange ball of the sun which shone dimly through the autumn mist, content to admire the golden woods and the pale green meadows on his way. There was an invigorating nip in the air, a damp cosiness about the countryside with its heavy brown earth and dripping hedges, which he found strangely pleasant; in the far distance he caught once or twice the sound of many dogs barking, and wondered what so large a pack could be doing. It was all very peaceful and English, he told himself, and he was enjoying it - was he turning into a Limey, he wondered, smiling at the thought. Even after a few weeks he was aware that his appearance had probably changed a little; the trim tweeds he was wearing, the shooting-hat and gaiters, were all right in the Norfolk character; he laughed aloud and said 'Squire!', shaking his head - how the roughnecks at Tonopah or the barkeeps at the Bella Union would have laughed at that. He didn't care; it suited him.

  He came out of his pleasant daydream to the realisation that he had no idea where he was, and that it must be getting close to noon. He chucked the reins, the hack roused itself to a gentle trot, and they came over a rise and down a gentle slope to a bridge among the thickets where, on a clear space by the roadside, a large Mercedes motor-car was parked. It was an imposing machine, with five passengers that he could see: a lady and gentleman seated on camp-chairs by the roadside, having lunch, with another woman in the car, what looked like a servant attending to the tiny camp-table before the diners, and an undoubted chauffeur busying himself at the back of the car. It occurred to Mr Franklin that where there was a chauffeur there would certainly be a map; he slowed to a halt beside the car and raised his hat.

  'Good day,' he said. 'I wonder if you could tell me if I'm on the right road for West Walsham?'

  The gentleman appeared not to have heard him; at least, he did not take his attention from the heaped plate on his lap. He was a stout, elderly man, clad in a heavy caped coat and plaid trousers, with a cap pulled down over his brows, and he appeared to be enjoying his lunch immensely. Mr Franklin glanced at the lady, and immediately forgot all about the male half of the dining party; she had looked up in surprise at his question, and he found himself looking into a face that was quite breath-takingly beautiful. Bright green eyes and auburn hair were a startling enough combination, with that perfect complexion, but there was a liveliness about her expression, and in the sudden brilliant smile which she bestowed on him, that prompted Mr Franklin to bow in his seat as he repeated his question.

  'West Walsham?'

  The lady glanced at her companion, who carefully wiped his grizzled beard on a napkin before shaking his head.

  'Couldn't say, I'm afraid. Don't know where we are, for that matter.' And he gave a deep, hearty chuckle.

  'Perhaps Stamper knows,' said the lady, and turned to repeat the question to the chauffeur, who consulted a map. He seemed to be having some difficulty, and the lady presently rose to help him; the long heavy motoring-coat could not conceal the grace of her movements, and Mr Franklin was charmed as he watched the lovely face intent on the map which the chauffeur spread on the motor's bonnet, and the tiny gloved hand tracing on it. The stout old gentleman, having reluctantly surrendered his empty plate to the servant, was now contemplating an unlit cigar; no one else was saying a word, and Mr Franklin politely removed his attention from the beautiful map-reader and remarked that it was a fine day for a picnic.

  The old gentleman seemed surprised at this. The grizzled beard and heavy moustache were turned on Mr Franklin; small bright eyes regarded him for several seconds, taking in his clothing, his horse and trap, his person, and (Mr Franklin felt) his standing and moral character. The old gentleman spoke.

  'Yes,' he said, and placed the cigar in his mouth. The servant lighted it, and the old gentleman puffed irritably for a few seconds, and then turned to address the lady and chauffeur. 'Can't you find it?'

  The lady laughed, intent on the map. 'That can't be it, Stamper - that's miles away.' She raised her head. 'Stamper's found a North Walsham, but it's at the other end of the county.'

  The old gentleman considered, puffing thoughtfully. 'Then look at this end,' he said. 'Towards the west. That's where it'll be - wouldn't you say?' he added to Mr Franklin.

  'Please,' said Mr Franklin, 'I'm putting you to a great deal of trouble, and -'

  'It's no trouble,' said the lady, 'we shall find it in a moment. Come along, Stamper - you take that side and I'll take this ...'

  The old gentleman sighed, and Mr Franklin sat through an uncomfortable minute, wishing he had passed by without inquiry, while the lady and chauffeur were joined by the second lady from the car; they continued the search, murmuring over the map, but West Walsham proved as elusive as ever, and Mr Franklin was on the point of asking them to desist when the old gentleman said suddenly:

  'Had lunch?'

  'I beg your pardon - no, no thank you,' said Mr Franklin hurriedly. 'Thank you very much, but I'm ... ah, lunching farther on.'

&n
bsp; The old gentleman grunted, smoked busily, and then said:

  'Have a glass of wine, anyway, while you're waiting.' And before he could protest, Mr Franklin found himself being presented with a glass by the ever-ready servant. He raised it to the old gentleman, searching for the right words.

  'Why, thank you, sir. Your very good health, and - ' he bowed towards the group round the map ' - and your daughter's, too.'

  Why he assumed that the beautiful lady was the old gentleman's daughter he could not have said; they could hardly be man and wife, and the relationship seemed a reasonable supposition. That he was wrong, offensively wrong, was evident immediately; at his words the murmur of voices over the map stopped dead, and the old gentleman stared at him with his face going crimson. Surprise and anger showed in the little bright eyes staring at Mr Franklin; then the eyes closed as their owner began to wheeze loudly - to his relief Mr Franklin realized that the old gentleman was laughing, and laughing with abandon, heaving precariously on his camp-chair, and finally going into a coughing-fit which brought the beautiful lady to his side. She bent over him, an arm about his heavy shoulders, as the coughing fit subsided and the old gentleman found his voice again.

  'Don't fuss at me!' he said. 'There, that's better - that's better.' He would have resumed his cigar, but the lady gave him a reproachful look, and with a sigh he tossed it away. 'Well - have you found the place yet?'

  'I'm afraid not.' The lady gave Mr Franklin an apologetic look. 'Really, we are hopeless navigators.'

  'Well, I hope Stamper can at least find the way to Oxton,' said the old gentleman. He cleared his throat heavily and addressed Mr Franklin. 'And that you find your West wherever-it-is, Mr ...?'

  'Franklin,' said the American, and the old gentleman reached for his own wine-glass and drained it, his gesture inviting Franklin to accompany him.

  'You're an American, aren't you?' said the old gentleman; now that he had got over his coughing, he had a surprisingly deep, gruff voice, pronouncing his Ys' with heavy deliberation. 'Yes -I told you he was, when we saw him driving down, didn't I? Always tell an American with horses. Well, good day to you sir,' and the old gentleman nodded to Mr Franklin as the servant helped him to rise, the lady taking his arm. She smiled pleasantly as Mr Franklin got down to put his empty glass on the table.

  'I do wish we could have helped you,' she said.

  'I'm just sorry for putting you to so much trouble,' said Mr Franklin. 'You've been very kind. And I thank you for a glass of excellent wine, Mr ... ?'

  'Eh?' The old gentleman squared his broad shoulders and the little eyes met Mr Franklin's again. 'Oh ... Lancaster. Glad to have seen you, Mr Franklin.'

  He stumped off towards the car, the lady moving gracefully beside him. Mr Franklin mounted his trap again, shook the reins, and set off; he glanced back once, and saw that the old gentleman was being settled into his seat by the chauffeur, who was wrapping a rug round his legs. The lady waved gaily to Mr Franklin, and then he was over the bridge and out of sight, puzzling over the unpredictable behaviour of the English gentry: there had been a moment there when the old fellow had looked ready to burst, but he seemed a decent enough sort. And what a green-eyed beauty she had been; Mr Franklin wondered if Englishwomen were really more handsome than any others, or if there was something in the English air that was making him more susceptible.

  A mile or two farther on he stopped for his own picnic on a slight rise from which he had a good view of the misty country round, except to his right, where a high hedge obscured a stretch of ploughed land. He unpacked from the hamper some cold cuts and salad and cheese, as well as a bottle of Bernkastler, a wine for which he had conceived a loyalty, if not perhaps a liking exactly, on the voyage from New York; it was, in fact, the first wine he had ever tasted. He spread his old slicker on the damp grass at the roadside, and fell to, munching contentedly and taking in the scenery.

  From somewhere across the ploughed land the sound of the barking dogs came again, closer than before, and this time the distant sound of human voices, sharply interrupted by the unmistakeable note of a horn. Mr Franklin stopped eating to listen; the distant voices were shouting, and there was that dull drumming sound which he knew so well, of galloping horses; the baying of the dogs rose clamorously - they must be in the ploughed field beyond the hedge by now, and Mr Franklin was just rising to have a look when something small and frantic burst suddenly through the hedge, there was a reddish blur streaking across the road, swerving to avoid the startled Mr Franklin, then leaping an astonishing height and actually striking the side of the trap with a slight thud. It happened in the twinkling of an eye; the small creature tumbled over the side of the trap in a flurry of bushy tail, fell into the picnic basket - and the lid which Mr Franklin had carelessly left open, fell abruptly, the patent catch clicked shut, and the invader was trapped. The basket jerked and shook, to an accompaniment of squeaks within; Mr Franklin stood astonished, a drumstick in one hand and a glass in the other - and then over and through the hedge came what seemed to be a torrent of dogs, brown and white brutes with long tails and floppy ears, baying and squealing and surging round the trap, threatening to overturn it in their eagerness to get at the basket. The din was deafening, the trap shuddered under the impact of canine bodies struggling against its sides, and the hack, which Mr Franklin had fortunately turned loose to graze, neighed wildly and clattered off down the road.

  Mr Franklin considered the situation; it was new to him, but he was not a man given to acting without thinking, except in truly mortal situations; dealing with a swarming pack of excited dogs was outside his scope, and he was relieved at the abrupt appearance of a wiry little man who looked like a jockey in a large red coat, and who fell on the dogs with a long-lashed whip and a tongue to match. There was shouting and cheering from the hedge; riders were trying to find a way through, and now from gates some distance down the road on either side they came clattering on to the road - men in red or black, with top hats, caps, and crops, converging on the trap, where the wiry little man was thrashing at the squealing dogs, swearing shrilly in a jargon which Mr Franklin did not recognise. But the appearance of the new arrivals was at least familiar from prints in books and on saloon walls; this, he concluded, was a fox-hunt.

  'What the blazes is happening, Jarvie?' 'What is it?' 'Where away, then?' 'I say, Jarvie, what's happened?' The riders were reining in round the trap, the frustrated pack, the belabouring huntsman, and the innocent Mr Franklin, with a clamour of inquiry; a burly young man with a heavy moustache was to the fore, flourishing a heavy riding crop.

  'Good God, Jarvie, what are the hounds doing?' he demanded, and the sweating little man, having beaten a way through the yelping mass, was springing nimbly into the trap and surveying the jerking picnic basket with astonishment.

  'I ... I dunno, milord. Why, bloody 'ell - I think it's gone to ground in this 'ere basket!'

  Cries of astonishment and laughter; Mr Franklin noted that a couple of ladies were among the hunters who were pressing forward to see. One horse stamped perilously close to him, and he had to step back, catching at the hedge to prevent his falling.

  'What's that? In the basket? Good God!' exclaimed the burly young man. 'Well, I'm damned! Heave it out then, Jarvie - sling it on to the road, man!'

  'I think it's locked, milord,' said Jarvie, eyeing the basket.

  'Then break the dam' thing open, can't you? Throw it down!'

  Mr Franklin was conscious of a slight irritation. It was not only the brutality of the burly young man's tone, proclaiming as it did an obvious disregard for anyone and anything that got in his way; nor was it the threatened destruction of his property. What ruffled Mr Franklin's spirit was the fact that no one, especially the burly young man, had even noticed him or apparently given a thought to who the owner of the trap and basket might be. On the contrary, he had been forced into the hedge, and was still in some danger of being trampled as the riders pressed their horses forward round the trap, chattering excitedly.r />
  'In the basket?' 'Good lord, it can't be!' 'Open it up, then, Jarvie.' 'Come on, man!' Jarvie stood perplexed, and was just stooping to the basket when Mr Franklin succeeded in forcing himself between the hedge and the nearest rider, and approached the trap.

  'Just a moment,' he said, and the chattering subsided slightly. The riders regarded him with some surprise, and the young man demanded:

  'Who are you?'

  It was said impatiently, and Mr Franklin found himself disliking the young man. His face was beefy, his moustache was aggressive, and his eyes were staring with that unpleasant arrogant hostility which Mr Franklin had already noted in a certain type of Englishman. He hadn't put a name to it, but it was the look of a nature that would rather be rude than not, and took satisfaction in displaying contempt for outsiders, and putting them in their place.

  'I'm the owner of the basket. And the trap. And the horse - wherever it is,' said Mr Franklin quietly, and a lady laughed among the hunters. The young man stared at Mr Franklin blankly, and then directed his attention to Jarvie again.