Читать книгу Boundless Water - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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Francis Ribblestone rode home from Bleachley Hall in his usual proud light spirits; unattended as usual despite the evil repute of the heaths about Haslemere.

To-night his thoughts were full of tenderness for Margaret and busy with his future life when she would always shine, serene and gentle, through his labours, his successes, his triumphs; those triumphs whose glow warmed him even in prospect.

As his horse clattered into the wide street of Haslemere he glanced up at the moonlit roof showing the yew tree.

Both Miss Fowkes and Miss Coventry had disappeared early from the ball and he was surprised to see a light still burning in that 'upper window from which the letter had once been tossed on to his saddle; two women were simultaneously in his mind, Bernardine associated with a sense of vexation, Serena with a purely friendly feeling; he was grateful to Margaret for not even suggesting what Bernardine had made so plain, and compunctious toward Serena for the mere thought he had harboured for an instant; he recalled the poor old man she lived with and resolved to subscribe generously towards the volume he was ever poring over; dog-Latin he doubted not, but he was pitiful to any laborious endeavour.

The moon was sinking but the light held, though fainter as he turned by the little Town Hall in the direction of Valewood Ho; he had met no one nor passed any lit window save that of Serena Fowkes' behind the yew.

His equable spirit was at ease in the solitude as it had been in the ball-room; his reflections too were pleasant company, and he began to hum a little song as, having again left the high road for the heath, he approached Boundless Water, a small sombre-looking lake, lying flat with only the worn heather and trailing brambles about its bank and two thin firs rising stark above it. On a dark night its unguarded danger caused the traveller to keep to the high road, but Francis Ribblestone had passed it many times when there had been no moon to guide him, so instinctively did he know his way; now high above the first and high among the stars glowed a trailing mass of yellow fire, and Francis Ribblestone suddenly noticed it, and checked his horse, almost unconsciously, to gaze. In the absolutely still surface of Boundless Water this fiery orb was reflected far brighter than any ordinary star.

"A comet," murmured Francis; "a portent" he would have said, but that it hung just above his own home; and latent superstition sprang to life and silenced him.

The stillness of rolling heath, of dark water, of immense sky, suddenly forced itself on his senses; he touched his horse's neck and was glad to feel the warm live flesh, even though he smiled at himself for a sensation of loneliness on the moor he knew and loved so well.

As he continued his way he could not take his eyes from this great star, or comet; he marvelled that he had not seen it before, but reflected that the last nights had been cloudy.

Avoiding the lodge and the main gates, he put his horse to the low wall surrounding his park, cleared it easily, struck into the avenue, and rode briskly up to the terrace and entrance of the Manor House.

The door was opened instantly and a man came out; Sir Francis gave him the reins; the servant hesitated, stared into his face and seemed to wish to speak, but his master did not notice him and passed up the few steps into the wide hall.

One only of his household had been bidden wait up for him; the place was silent; a solitary hanging lamp depended from the ceiling showed the plain but beautiful stairway, the rich newel-post, the polished panels of the hall and the architraves above the door.

Francis Ribblestone stopped to loosen his mantle and, as he did so, his eyes fell on an object that caused him to pause astonished.

An enormous negro was seated on the lowest step of the stairs surveying him with intelligent but immovable eyes, and Francis marked, with an extraordinary surprise, that this stranger wore his own liveries, the deep crimson frogged with black, with a silver shoulder-knot: there was no coloured man in his employ and the livery was too new and magnificent to be cast-off clothing.

"What are you, fellow?" he asked sharply.

The negro shook his head and pointed to his mouth, then rose and bowed.

The light was so dim and flickering that Francis half believed fancy deceived him and stepped up to the man thinking he might vanish at his approach.

But the negro was solid and real; Francis marked on his arm the baronially gorged and chained black dragon that was his own crest.

"Can you not speak?" he demanded. The negro bowed again and pointed up the stairs.

Sir Francis did not move; he saw a gentleman's costly valise and vails standing in the hall and a dressing-case that wore his own arms emblazoned with the crescent of the second son.

At that instant the servant returned from the stables.

Sir Francis turned breathlessly.

"What is this? Who is here?"

The man looked pale and distressed.

"Sir Francis, I did not know what to do—"

He was an old and familiar servant, but his master spoke harshly.

"Who is here?" he interrupted.

The servant hesitated a second, then said:

"Mr. Phoebus, sir."

"Well?" said Sir Francis sternly. "Need you speak as if that were a disaster?" but he was colourless himself. "Is this his servant?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he?"

"I showed him into the library, Sir Francis."

"And his chamber?"

"I was waiting for your orders to tell me where to put him, Sir Francis."

The baronet frowned.

"My father's room," he said after a moment. "Sir William Wyndham slept there not so long ago; you must rouse some of the others and prepare it—in the library, you said?"

"Yes, Sir Francis."

With his gloved hand on the newel-post Francis Ribblestone hesitated.

"Is the black dumb?" he asked.

The servant eyed the negro with the dislike it seemed he would have expressed towards his master.

"It appears so, Sir Francis."

Without an answer Francis Ribblestone ascended the fine shallow stairs; he felt a dull anger against his brother for this unannounced and wholly unexpected appearance, an uneasiness as to what manner of person he would see in this near relation, who was yet an alien.

Outside the heavy door of the library he paused, half fearing what to open it might disclose; he remembered vaguely a sickly child...Phoebus could be now only twenty-three, he reflected, a boy it seemed to him, from the added weight of five years; yet a boy or man potent to disturb his peace.

Reluctantly, he opened the door and entered looking across the firelit room with narrowed eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that the branched red copper candlestick that had stood on the mantelpiece since his father's time had been moved and placed on the centre of the table; this detail angered him; he looked swiftly at the person who sat in the light of these wax candles, reading a book.

He saw a gentleman wearing a vivid turquoise-blue velvet riding cloak, leaning forward in one of the old deep-seated chairs; his beautiful hand, showing a confusion of lace and a black satin cuff at the wrist, rested on the table; beside it lay a gold-mounted whip and a pair of white gloves.

His black hair flowed over the blue cloak in very long curls, fastened in his neck with a clasp of diamonds; as he looked over his shoulder he showed a langorous face with large shadowed eyes, a huge patch on his cheek, and a mouth composed to lines of weariness; his expression held no emotion whatever: such was the first instant impression Francis formed of his brother, who seemed much older than his years and utterly different from the youth he had expected.

This put him at a loss. Phoebus Ribblestone, rising gracefully, was the first to speak.

"You have been a very long while, Francis," he said. "And your servants seemed to dare dispense hospitality before your arrival."

But Francis Ribblestone was above the subterfuge of courtliness; he drew off his right glove and held out his hand.

"Phoebus," he said simply, "take with this all Ribblestone can give—"

The younger brother laid cold, smooth fingers in his grasp.

"Yet you must be more surprised than rejoiced to see me," he answered.

Something in the low voice, in the unfamiliar figure against the familiar background brought Francis a memory of his dead father as poignant as that which had stayed his hand in sending that harsh letter, written in this very room but a few days ago; he moved aside to the fire, his mantle falling back from the clasps, showing his light satins and the jewels he wore.

"You at Ribblestone!" he smiled. "Yet I know not why I did not think of it before—"

"It was only natural," returned Phoebus, "that I should wish to see the place again, was it not?"

Something in his tone sharply reminded Francis that his brother was his heir-at-law; so slight was the difference between their ages, so certain had he always been of his own ultimate marriage, that he had never given a thought to Phoebus as master of Ribblestone. The idea now was instantly dismissed.

"Have you dined?" he asked.

"At Guildford—yes."

"Marston is preparing a chamber for you—our father's—"

Phoebus smiled; he stood leaning against the table, the candles in the branched red copper stick behind him; his vivid mantle was lined with rich fox's fur, otherwise he was dressed entirely in black satin.

Francis noted with a half-pride, half-reluctance, that this foreign Ribblestone was perfect in demeanour, in appearance, in clothes, even in his pure correct English.

He spoke on the impulse of this thought.

"You have not forgotten your native tongue, Phoebus."

"English is very fashionable in Paris just now," was the reply. "Are you not going to ask me why I am here?"

Francis looked at him with a gentle steadiness. "Why should I? You can come to Ribblestone unquestioned—as if our father was alive."

Phoebus put his hand to his breast.

"You do a good deal for the sake of that memory, do you not, Sir Francis?" He drew from his waistcoat pocket a white leather pocket-book on which his initials flashed in diamonds, opened and took from it a folded bill. "This reached me the day I took the packet. You did your duty very decently, Sir Francis—I can relieve you of this obligation; I do not need the money."

Francis inwardly winced to see his own draft held out to him.

"Was it ungraciously given?" he asked.

"Dieu de Dieu!" returned Phoebus, placing it on the mantelpiece, "I should not have concerned myself about that if I had needed the money—but a relation of my mother, a fermier général, died and left me his little fortune—"

"Yet you will please me by keeping this."

"And myself by returning it." The black brows rose with meaning. "After all, you landed gentry must have expenses we acreless beggars cannot understand."

This had been so much his own thought when he had sent the money that Francis was silent.

Phoebus continued in the same quiet, expressionless voice.

"I have thrown up my commission—you see, that little fortune was my ruin—half Versailles was filled with my creditors—"

Francis interrupted briefly.

"I suppose you paid them?"

Phoebus laughed, and it transformed his handsome face to charm.

"It is quite plain that you have been living on the land all your life. I am here because I did not pay them."

Francis flushed.

"You left the army and the country because of that?"

"Certainly. The money would have been nothing divided among them—it was everything to me; besides, I was tired of Versailles. And having to leave France, naturally I thought of England, and having resolved on England, naturally I thought of you and Ribblestone."

Francis took off his cloak and rang the bell on the table.

"Your affairs," he said gravely, "are beyond my control or knowledge. Of course, I repeat, you are at liberty to make Ribblestone your home."

"For a little while, if you will be so generous," answered Phoebus, in those graceful tones that were slightly unpleasant.

Francis looked at him sharply, as if he had detected him in laughing at the situation; but Phoebus was not even smiling, and the old servant entered upon them.

Sir Francis asked for wine.

"And what of your negro, Phoebus?"

"I always have him to lie in my chamber."

Sir Francis spoke again.

"Let Mr. Ribblestone's servant and vails be taken to his chamber, Marston."

The door closed again on the servant and Francis made a slight movement, as if he shook off oppression.

"What do you mean to do in England?"

"Mon Dieu, I can do nothing at all. I am a Romanist."

"A pity. That meaneth all employment closed to you."

Phoebus crossed to the window.

"I am not thirsting for employment, mon cher. I wish merely to know England and my native Surrey a little better."

Sir Francis watched him unlatch the latticed window of painted glass.

"Do you find it warm, Phoebus?"

"No—but I wished to see if I recalled the view aright—"

He set the casement wide and leant out, the line of his shoulders and head showing against the fading moonlight; beyond him blazed the yellow star Sir Francis had marked over Boundless Water.

Francis stood erect, observing him; he was profoundly moved by this appearance that he had never even contemplated, bewildered, startled that Phoebus should suddenly abandon France, which was his home, the army, which was his life, and come to Ribblestone, where he was not even assured of a welcome. Francis accepted the explanation given him, not as wholly truthful nor convincing, but as the only one Phoebus would offer; and having on his own lofty impulse assured his half-brother that an unquestioning reception was his right at Ribblestone, he could neither probe into motive nor question action.

Yet he was the master and Phoebus could be no more than his guest, and that only till his marriage; it was impossible he could wish to stay here—yet what was open to him, a French Catholic, in England?

Sir Francis was not pleased; the hawk face flushed and the prideful lips became touched with hardness; his impetuous haughtiness of honour, his austere passion for the brilliantly, perhaps coldly, lofty code of morality he followed himself, left him no sympathy for the usual follies of pleasure-seeking youth; he despised any man who had not ambition. Phoebus had broken his career at the outset and could give no better reason than fear of his creditors; Francis could not help it that he scorned him.

The wine was brought in, and the heavy cut glasses with a jewel of red concealed in the base of the bowl; Phoebus came negligently from the window, which he left open behind him so that a stream of weak moonlight fell across the dark floor.

Francis gave him wine in silence and looked at him with eyes of judgment.

He admitted that he might scorn Phoebus, but that never again would he be able to ignore him; the personality of the younger man was finished, complete, subtly potent, wholly charming, and unmistakably strong, though his mobile features, with their sunny colour, had a feminine grace and his liquid eyes an expression of disinterest.

This expression, which was apparent also in his speech, further irritated Sir Francis; his keen pulses were fiercely angered by indifferency, or the pose of it.

"You must have left Paris quickly," he said. "You have some one to look after your affairs?"

"I have friends," said Phoebus—"one, a lawyer," he smiled. "These glasses are curious, Francis, like your house, decently old-fashioned."

"Yes," answered Francis with a curling lip. "You will find us old-fashioned here."

Phoebus drank his wine slowly.

"I suppose," he remarked, "nothing hath been altered here since our father's time."

"Nothing at all."

"Ah!" Phoebus set his glass down and Francis regarded him with that intense look of proud vitality revealed in his dark face.

"What of these debts?" he asked bluntly. "Do you wish me to pay them?"

"Not at all," answered Phoebus calmly. "They are not debts of honour, you understand, only bills among the canaille."

"Nevertheless," said Francis sternly, "if they should be taken up—"

"They are my affair," said Phoebus with unmistakable unfriendliness.

"Your name is my affair, I think," flashed Sir Francis. "Understand me—I have neither the time nor the desire to play Providence to your fancies and follies—we are not likely, I think, to have very much in common, and I have told you that you are free of Ribblestone as if our father lived; yet I must tell you this, I must have you regulate your actions here also as if—our father lived."

He spoke soberly and with force, though, if the words were harsh, the voice was not unkind. Phoebus looked at him with inscrutable eyes.

"I think," continued Sir Francis, "that you have done an ill-considered thing in leaving France—tangled your life already, but you will remind me that it is no matter of mine—well, perhaps—but you understand me."

Phoebus laughed, then yawned.

"I am on my good behaviour here, eh? Dieu de Dieu, do you think I came to Surrey to riot with the Devil?" He yawned again. "It is nearly morning, is it not, and I am confoundedly tired."

Sir Francis rang the bell.

"Marston will show you your room; ask him for anything you want...good night, Phoebus."

"Good night, Sir Francis." He picked up his book, gloves, and whip.

Marston entered; there was the sound of other servants moving without.

Phoebus crossed to the door; he gave the servant a quick glance.

"Were you here in my father's time?"

"Yes, Mr. Phoebus."

"Mon Dieu!" remarked Mr. Ribblestone, "we are back in the reign of Queen Anne."

He passed out on to the stairs where his candles waited, and Sir Francis heard him laughing up the stairs.

A cloudless dawn was gathering in the sky; the pallid glow that fell through the open window made the candles look red in their quivering flames; Francis Ribblestone looked round the room as if it had changed in the last few hours; he was conscious of an elusive sense of discomfort, of trouble, rare indeed to his serene gaiety of spirits; in the fading heavens the baleful star still showed, and he looked at it with defiant eyes, while the rubies round his cravat heaved with the contraction of his throat.

His lids widened over the large clear eyes and, for the first time in his life, the look that crossed them was that of confusion and sadness.