"gp46w10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parker Gilbert)

there."

He had dropped again into the new form of master and man. His voice was
cadenced, gentlemanly. Jacques pointed to his own saddle-bag.

"No, no, they are not the things needed. I want the evening-dress which
cost that cool hundred dollars in New York."

Still Jacques was silent. He did not know whether, in his new position,
he was expected to suggest. Belward understood, and it pleased him.

"If we had lost the track of a buck moose, or were nosing a cache of
furs, you'd find a way, Brillon."

"Voila," said Jacques; "then, why not wear the buckskin vest, the red-
silk sash, and the boots like these?"--tapping his own leathers. "You
look a grand seigneur so."

"But I am here to look an English gentleman, not a grand seigneur, nor a
company's trader on a break. Never mind, the thing will wait till we
stand in my ancestral halls," he added, with a dry laugh.

They neared the Court. The village church was close by the Court-wall.
It drew Belward's attention. One by one lights were springing up in it.
It was a Friday evening, and the choir were come to practise. They saw
buxom village girls stroll in, followed by the organist, one or two young
men and a handful of boys. Presently the horsemen were seen, and a
staring group gathered at the church door. An idea came to Belward.

"Kings used to make pilgrimages before they took their crowns, why
shouldn't I?" he said half-jestingly. Most men placed similarly would
have been so engaged with the main event that they had never thought of
this other. But Belward was not excited. He was moving deliberately,
prepared for every situation. He had a great game in hand, and he had no
fear of his ability to play it. He suddenly stopped his horse, and threw
the bridle to Jacques, saying:

"I'll be back directly, Brillon."

He entered the churchyard, and passed to the door. As he came the group
under the crumbling arch fell back, and at the call of the organist went
to the chancel. Belward came slowly up the aisle, and paused about the
middle. Something in the scene gave him a new sensation. The church was
old, dilapidated; but the timbered roof, the Norman and Early English
arches incongruously side by side, with patches of ancient distemper and
paintings, and, more than all, the marble figures on the tombs, with
hands folded so foolishly,--yet impressively too, brought him up with a
quick throb of the heart. It was his first real contact with England;
for he had not seen London, save at Euston Station and in the north-west
district. But here he was in touch with his heritage. He rested his