Читать книгу The Honourable Jim - Baroness Emmuska Orczy - Страница 14

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It was when Squire Brent’s excitement was at its height that old Jennings, his butler, announced that Mister James Fiennes had just arrived at the Manor, having ridden over from Broughton Castle.

“Show him in, Jennings,” the old man exclaimed. “Show him in! Nothing could please me better than to see Master Jim’s crestfallen mien to-day!”

Then, when Jennings had gone, he went on talking to Barbara:

“I often told that rascally Saye and Sele and his precious sons that they would live to rue all their tall talk. See what a terrible position the whole family is in at the present moment! The King will not accept their submission quite so easily as they imagine, and they will have to eat a deal of humble pie—enough to give them mighty indigestion I reckon. They tell me that Master Nathaniel and his brother John are well versed in the science of arms and that their precious father has raised a regiment in Oxfordshire. Well! they might all of them earn their pardon by placing that regiment at the service of the King, but my advice to His Majesty would be: Do not trust those whilom traitors. They talked and they blustered once. Now when they see that Your Majesty is in grim earnest they try to lick the royal boots hoping that the past may be forgotten, but—”

At this point of his tirade the old Squire was once more interrupted by the entry of Jennings, who ushered in Master James Fiennes.

Squire Brent came to a halt in front of the monumental hearth, with his stout old legs set well apart, his hands clasped behind his back. His white moustache and pointed beard seemed to bristle with triumph, not unmixed with scorn, as he eyed the young man who at first had advanced rapidly into the room, then halted, irresolute for a moment, glancing hesitantly first on his wife, then almost defiantly on the Squire. He was dressed very plainly and his clothes looked travel-stained, his kerseymere breeches of a drab colour, and his leather jerkin with plain lawn collar appeared in strange contrast to the Squire’s rich suit of purple satin, with the delicate frill and cuffs of fine organdie and lace, whilst Jim’s closely cropped chestnut hair seemed to mock the flowing grey locks of the older man.

He no longer looked at Barbara now and she was able to study him and his appearance at leisure. He was tall, though not above the average, and appeared endowed with a wiry rather than a powerful physique. Barbara in her mind agreed with those who said that James Fiennes looked wilful and obstinate. Something about him at this hour brought back before her mental vision the picture of her wedding morn and of Jim sitting by the edge of the lake and shaking the wet out of his shoes, with his face all swollen, and obstinately closing his ears and heart against her kindness and pity. She remembered how hard and unkind he had been about poor little Dina, who even now was crouching against her skirts, as if she too had unpleasant recollections of her rescuer. Instinctively Barbara, remembering that fateful morning, gave a glance down at the little dog, then up once more at Jim. He caught her look and his face suddenly lighted up with a whimsical smile which, for the moment, obliterated the hard lines of self-will and obstinacy.

“Well, young man!” the Squire began after a while. “And what pray hath brought you here to-day? You are amazingly tongue-tied, I see, but at this I do not marvel. What I do marvel at is how such as you have the impudence to sue for pardon, now when you feel that your precious necks are in danger.”

Then as Jim made no reply, appeared tongue-tied indeed, the Squire went on more testily:

“I suppose you have come to ask me to use my influence with His Majesty and obtain some measure of indulgence for you. But I’ll not do it,” he went on resolutely. “I’ll not do it. As you have made your treacherous beds, you and the whole brood of you, and your father who should have known better—he a peer of this realm and at one time my friend—so shall ye lie in it, without help from me to get ye out. France or some other such God-forsaken, immoral country is a more fitting place for such as ye to dwell in after ye’ve polluted this fine air of England with your pestiferous treason.”

He was lashing himself into greater and greater fury whilst Jim Fiennes remained silent. In fact it was the young man’s silence that exasperated his elder.

“Damn it, sir!” the latter exclaimed with tempestuous violence. “Why don’t you speak?”

The ghost of a whimsical smile appeared once more on Jim’s face, once more chasing away for a while the look of hard obstinacy which had gradually crept back into it under the torrent of the old man’s insults.

“Your honour has not as yet given me leave to put in a word edgewise,” he said simply.

“Well! I give it you now, sir,” Squire Brent retorted. “And damn your impudence. Say on! But I warn you! expect no indulgence from me.”

“Alas. I’ve long since given up all hope of that, sir, and fear indeed that I shall forever forfeit your good graces, when you’ve heard what I have come to say.”

“You are going away?” the old man broke in with a bitter tone of contempt. “You and your family will go and hide your diminished heads till the storm is past, and ye can return pretending loyalty and hoping that the past may be forgotten? Marry, ’tis wise, if not heroic! Where do you go? France?”

“To camp, sir, to join the army,” Jim replied.

The old man frowned, slightly puzzled.

“To join the army?” he murmured slowly. “Then His Majesty has forgiven you?”

“To join the army, sir,” the young man reiterated. “My Lord Essex hath entrusted each of my brothers with a commission. It were not fitting that I should remain at home.”

Again Squire Brent frowned. He did not quite grasp for the moment what Jim’s statement actually implied; he looked at first with a kind of amazement on the young man, who appeared to have again lapsed into his habitual manner of lazy indifference.

“My Lord Essex—” Squire Brent murmured, still uncomprehending.

Jim smiled, a quaint, self-deprecating smile.

“My brother Nathaniel is taking the lead in all this. He assures me that I am too big a fool to be entrusted with a commission—but that, on the other hand, they want plenty of fighting men.”

At first mention of the Parliamentary general, Barbara had uttered an involuntary cry. Then she clapped her hand to her mouth. She had understood quickly enough what Jim’s statement meant. The old Squire’s mind worked more slowly. He kept reiterating the three words: “My Lord Essex?” in a dull, uncomprehending way.

Then all at once the truth dawned upon him. James Fiennes, Barbara’s husband, the husband of the child he loved best in all the world, was taking up arms against the King’s most sacred Majesty! For the space of a second or two the old man remained quite still—a silence, akin to that which nature assumes one instant before a mighty crack of thunder, seemed to fall upon the ancient Manor House, whilst its master stood with eyes flashing, lips quivering and cheeks the colour of lead. Then suddenly a hoarse shout broke from him.

“Traitor!” he cried, and without any warning he seized with both hands one of the massive oak chairs that stood beside him and with amazing vigour brandished it aloft.

The next moment he would have felled the young man to the ground, for Jim, not expecting the blow, had not moved an inch and Squire Brent was, despite his years, quite powerful enough to have brought the whole weight of the chair down with a terrific crash on the young man’s head. But quick as a flash Barbara was already by the side of the Squire, between him and Jim. The latter she thrust, with a jerk, rapidly out of the way, and then she threw her strong young arms around the old Squire’s body. Her quick action had warded off a blow which would without doubt have proved fatal. Many a time after this day did old Squire Brent reproach his daughter for her interference. Much of the misery and sorrows of after years would, he argued, have been averted if that black-hearted traitor, James Fiennes, had died then and there by a righteous hand. As it was, the old man remained rigid for another second or two—rigid as a veritable statue of wrathful vengeance with weapon poised aloft; then gradually the tension of his arms relaxed, and with slow, deliberate movement he lowered the chair and set it quietly beside him; then, very gently, he thrust Barbara away from him, and once more faced the man who had so deeply outraged him.

With outstretched hand he pointed to the door.

“Out of my house!” he murmured hoarsely, for pent-up fury had left him exhausted and breathless.

At first it seemed as if Jim would obey without a word, then he said as if reluctantly:

“I would desire to say a few words to my wife.”

“Out of my house!” Squire Brent reiterated more firmly.

“She is my wife,” Jim protested, with a note of passionate pleading in his voice, strangely out of keeping with the habitual indifference of his mien. “And I may never come back.”

“Pray God you never may!” the old man ejaculated firmly. “For, I swear it by Heaven! You shall never speak with her again until you have made your peace with your King and your God!

“Out of my house!” he reiterated once more, and his whole body now was again shaken with fury, “or I’ll have you thrown out by my lacqueys!”

After which Jim went away without speaking another word.

Barbara had not bestowed another glance on him. After the excitement of the past few moments the old Squire had collapsed, half fainting, into the nearest chair. Barbara had much ado to soothe and comfort him. He was trembling from head to foot, beads of sweat stood out on the roots of his hair; his hot, quivering hands clung helplessly to hers.

“Promise me, Babs,” he murmured, “swear to me that you will never be his wife save in name—and as soon as we can obtain a divorce you’ll leave him—swear it, Babs,” he insisted, “swear it—!”

Barbara had been gazing down anxiously on the old man; now something—a movement, a sigh?—caused her to look up. The door leading out onto the landing was still open and Jim had remained standing at the top of the stairs, looking straight into the room. He must have heard every word that the Squire had spoken. When Barbara raised her eyes she saw him framed in by the doorway, with his cropped hair and plain, dark clothes, his shoulders squared, his head slightly bent as if he were about to speak and his left arm hanging by his side.

It was a picture she was not like to forget again in the years that were to come.

“Swear it, Babs!” the old Squire babbled on, almost incoherently. “Swear it!”

And Barbara, looking straight into Jim’s eyes, replied firmly: “I swear!”