Читать книгу The Interloper - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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The momentous day had arrived. Lord Henry was standing upon the hearthrug in the library at Chatfield Castle. Eustace was staring moodily out of the great curved window across the park. Lady Susan, very comfortable in her easy-chair, was busy knitting.

"I wish you wouldn't be so damned industrious, Susan," her husband complained irritably. "It gets on my nerves to see you working away there as though nothing had happened or was likely to happen."

She smiled.

"Better accustom yourself to it, Henry. I may be doing it for a living next week."

"Rubbish!" he scoffed.

"The fellow can't be such a cur as to leave us alone altogether," Eustace declared, turning away from the window. "He is certain to make us suitable allowances."

Lord Henry grunted.

"Suitable allowances!" he repeated. "What can the son of an Italian farmer's daughter, who has spent the last three years in a monastery, know of suitable allowances to people in our position?"

"He is also the son of your brother Francis," Lady Susan reminded him.

"Francis was a crazy nincompoop or we shouldn't have been in this mess," her husband grumbled.

"I can't think what the fellow's got his knife into us all for," Eustace observed.

"Are you sure that he has, my dear?" his mother asked.

"Well, if not, what does old Dobelle mean by saying in his letter to Dad this morning that we must be prepared to find him somewhat bitter?"

"We couldn't help Francis keeping his marriage a secret," Lord Henry pointed out peevishly.

"No one seems to have even known that there was a son," Eustace remarked.

"And no one would have known," his father sighed, "if we hadn't taken old Dobelle with us on that accursed motor tour through Italy."

"Even then, if he hadn't gone ferreting around, nothing need have happened," Eustace groaned. "This fellow would have stayed in the monastery all his life and no one would ever have heard of him."

"Sir Stephen did what I suppose he thought was his duty," Lady Susan observed, knitting steadily.

"Duty!" her son exclaimed. "Meddlesome old ass! What about his duty to us? He's our family lawyer, isn't he? Look at the plight he's brought us to! And then he writes that we must be prepared to find him somewhat bitter! Seems to me we're the people who ought to feel bitter."

"It's easy to be conscientious when it's the other chap who suffers," Lord Henry declared. "All the same, I don't think we ought to blame Dobelle."

"I suppose not," Eustace assented. "In any case we shall have to keep friends with him. He'll have more influence with this interloper than any one, I should think."

"After all, you know, he isn't an interloper," Lady Susan remarked, holding up her work to the light. "We're the interlopers."

"My dear Susan!" her husband protested.

"Haven't we been living in his houses and spending his income for the last fifteen years?"

"His income!" Lord Henry repeated.

"His houses!" Eustace muttered.

"God bless my soul, Susan!" the former expostulated irritably. "I never heard such nonsense in my life."

"Well, it's the truth," she rejoined equably. "And I should say that if you wanted to drive me to my little shop in Bond Street, you'll continue to ignore it as you are doing now. Do you suppose this young man won't resent all these years he's spent as a pauper, when he might have been Duke of Chatfield with eighty thousand a year?"

"To hear you talk, Mother," Eustace grumbled, "one would imagine that you sympathised with him."

"So I do, up to a certain point," Lady Susan agreed. "Anyhow, he's Francis's son, properly married and vouched for."

"And Duke of Chatfield, damn him!" Eustace exclaimed. "He'll probably turn this place into a monastery, wear parson's kit and make a laughingstock of us all."

The door was opened. They all looked quickly up. Monica entered, in her country riding habit, still a little breathless.

"Any news of his Grace?" she demanded.

"Should be here any moment now," Eustace replied, turning back to the window. "If you gallop that bay so hard, you'll come a 'purler' some day, Monica. This side of the park is full of rabbit holes.—No sign of him yet."

"They were stopping the express at the junction," Lord Henry announced, glancing at his watch. "If the train's punctual he should be here in ten minutes."

Monica threw her whip on to the couch, established herself in an easy-chair and lit a cigarette.

"Genial reception he'll have, from the look of you all!" she observed.

"I trust we shall receive him with dignity," her father rejoined coldly. "On the other hand, any affectation of pleasure would be ridiculous."

Eustace suddenly became very much in earnest.

"I call Monica's attitude in this matter simply callous," he declared. "You don't seem to realise what it means, Cis. Do you know that we haven't a house between us?"

"Not a roof to sleep under," Lord Henry pointed out impressively.

"And every shilling the estate produces is in entail," Eustace continued. "There are a few silly titles, but not a bob for any other member of the family except the titular head."

"Not only that," Lord Henry went on, "but strictly speaking we owe this fellow about a million for money spent during the last fifteen years."

Monica knocked the ash from her cigarette.

"It does seem rather a mess," she acknowledged. "I think I shall have to put things straight for you by marrying him."

There was a moment's rather curious silence. Her mother, for the first time, ceased to knit. Her father seemed engrossed in agreeable contemplation. Eustace scratched his chin and looked at his sister thoughtfully.

"No harm in being civil to the fellow anyhow, Monica," he suggested. "You're a damned good-looking girl. He might do a lot worse."

"What a courtier this brother of mine is becoming," Monica observed ironically.

"There is a little romance in the background already, isn't there?" her father enquired.

"Rather!" Monica assented. "He drove off a couple of fierce-looking thieves who tried to rob me on the ramparts of Pellini."

"The night I deserted," Eustace remarked.

Monica nodded.

"I am afraid, though," she confessed, "that he didn't show the least desire to improve upon the occasion. I got quite worked up trying to make a natural human being of him. He certainly looked at me once with an odd sort of glitter in his eyes," she went on ruminatively. "I sang him a little song about roses and passion in the midst of his prayers."

"I expect," Lady Susan sighed, still knitting very fast, "that we shall find him a confirmed celibate."

"That's right, Mummie. Keep cheerful!" Monica enjoined. "Don't mind my shattered hopes!"

"Well, here's the car, anyhow," Eustace announced, turning away from the window. "We shall soon know what's in store for us. Buck up, everybody!"

Monica rose to her feet and strolled across the room to an old-fashioned mirror.

"The question is," she propounded, gazing at her reflection steadfastly, "whether, in the interests of the family, do I look my best in a habit, or do you think that I should make a greater impression in one of those fluffy negligée things with plenty of silk stockings showing. I've got one of the most improper creations you ever saw upstairs—all creation and no material."

"I'm for the habit," Eustace declared. "You can treat him to the other sort of thing at dinner time. You look ripping as you are and besides, you haven't time to change. We need your moral support."

"It is perhaps as well," Lord Henry said solemnly, "that every member of the family should be present when this young man arrives."

They heard the car stop and the sound of footsteps in the hall. It was a moment full of peculiar significance to every one of them.

"Perfectly damnable situation this!" Eustace exclaimed, walking restlessly back and forth.

"Hideous!" his father agreed.

"It will be all over in a few minutes," Lady Susan reminded them soothingly.

"So like a dentist's antechamber," Monica murmured, retreating a little into the shadows.

In due course the door was opened, and Johnson, the sixty-four-year-old butler, made his dread announcement with all the solemnity the occasion warranted.

"Sir Stephen Dobelle—The Duke of Chatfield, your lordship."

"Damn the fellow!" the ex-Duke muttered.

"Filthy taste!" Eustace echoed.

They all stood with their eyes fixed upon the door. Sir Stephen came bustling in, his deportment more volatile even than usual. Behind him came a tall, white-faced young man, with high forehead, deep-set eyes, and fine, firmly set mouth. He was ill-dressed in a dark suit of foreign cut. He showed no signs of nervousness, interest, or courtesy.

"Here we are, you see," Sir Stephen exclaimed. "A few minutes late. Nothing to speak of. My fault entirely, the announcement," he added, looking behind to be sure that Johnson had left the room. "Thought it best to get it over and done with. Chatfield, this is your uncle, Lord Henry Wobury, and your aunt, Lady Susan, and your cousins Monica and Eustace."

With the exception of Monica, they all advanced a step or two towards him. Francis, without change of countenance, bowed very slightly to each. He seemed not to notice the outstretched hands.

"We cannot pretend—er"—Lord Henry began—"er—that we are unfeignedly glad to see you, Francis, but at the same time as a relative and the eldest member of our House, I see no reason why we should not shake hands."

The newcomer made no movement in response. There was an amazing aloofness about his bearing and his expression.

"You will forgive me, all of you," he begged calmly. "My life for the last few years has been one of complete isolation. In the monastery we did not shake hands. I have not yet acquired the habit."

Monica came deliberately from the more secluded portion of the room. She held out her hand tentatively. Her lips parted in a faint smile. Her eyes looked into his.

"You won't refuse me, will you, Cousin Francis? We are old friends and I have seen you use your hands in my service."

He remained unmoved, frigid, almost discourteously unresponsive.

"You will forgive me for the present," he apologised stiffly. "Lay customs will no doubt come more easily to me in time."

Monica indulged in a little grimace but she did not flinch.

"If I had had my way," she reminded him, "you would have become accustomed to them by this time. I did my best to keep you out of the monastery. You remember?"

Her voice had softened. To the others it seemed a magnificent piece of acting. Eustace, for instance, had never admired his sister more. There was not, however, even a flicker of change in the expression of the young man on whom she smiled.

"I remember now that you talked to me on the ramparts on my probationary night," he admitted. "As soon as I had passed through the gates it was my duty to forget—and I forgot."

"Even me?" Monica asked, with a ravishing note of appeal in her tone and a faint uplifting of the eyebrows.

"Even you," he answered deliberately.

Monica remained where she stood for a moment, without speech or movement. Francis had the air of one waiting patiently in case she might have more to say. With a little shrug of the shoulders she abandoned the duel and, turning away, sank into an easy-chair. She had the feeling that she had offered herself as champion for the family and been worsted.

"This dear cousin of ours has not come back to pay us compliments," she remarked, with some bitterness. "I think I liked you better, Francis, on the ramparts of Pellini."

Sir Stephen found it time to intervene.

"Every allowance should be made, my dear Lady Monica," he insisted, "by all of you, for any slight peculiarity of outlook on the part of your cousin. You must remember that for the last few years he has been an absolute recluse. I was amazed when on my last visit to the monastery the daily routine was explained to me."

Johnson made his noiseless reappearance, followed by a footman carrying a tea equipage. Even so obvious an interruption was a relief to every one.

"You suffered many privations, I fear," Lord Henry remarked courteously.

"Beastly grind that getting up at daybreak must have been," Eustace sympathised.

"I can't think who did your mending," his mother reflected.

"And washing," Monica added softly.

"The life, I am sure, would not have appealed to any of you," Francis admitted in a tone which sounded almost harsh. "It was one, however, which I deliberately chose, and which I was for many reasons loath to abandon."

Sir Stephen nodded.

"Extraordinary how hard I found it to persuade him," he confided.

There was a brief pause. The tea was set out. Johnson and his satellite left the room.

"Won't you come and sit by me, Francis?" Lady Susan invited, making room by her side.

He accepted the vacant seat with a slight bow.

"I'm very proud of my tea," Lady Susan babbled on. "Orange Pekoe, selected leaves. I carry a small chest of it with me whenever I go on the continent nowadays. I remember quite well that at Pellini it was very much worse than at any other place. Terribly wishy-washy stuff I expect they gave you at the monastery."

"We learnt there, I think, to forget our palates," he replied. "Whilst we are upon the subject, may I make a general request," he added, after a moment's pause. "You none of you, not even Sir Stephen, understand the conditions of life imposed upon and enjoyed by us in the place from which I have come. May I beg that in our future conversations it be not alluded to."

"A very reasonable request," Lord Henry acquiesced. "It shall be as you wish."

"Just as you like, of course, Francis," his aunt agreed. "But I am sure that it was wishy-washy."

"What a martinet you are," Monica sighed. "I was looking forward to hearing all sorts of thrilling details."

"I can assure you that you would have been disappointed," Francis replied. "My life at St. Joseph's was very simple and very rigorous. There could be nothing about its routine of interest to the general public."

"So that's that," Monica whispered, with a little yawn, to her brother who was leaning over her chair.

"Swallowed a ramrod," he murmured. "Let me take your cup."

Lord Henry still pursued the path of duty. Francis had evidently no intention of originating any conversation.

"It is early days, I suppose, Francis, to ask you what you think of England?"

"I am going to live in it," was the quiet rejoinder.

"You found London, no doubt, rather—er—depressing?"

"Dead out of season, you must remember," Eustace put in. "Nothing doing after Goodwood. Flat as ditch water!"

"I saw very little of London," Francis said patiently. "We arrived there late last night and it rained this morning."

"But this place?" Monica asked. "Surely you must love this place?"

"It seems very beautiful," he admitted.

"The parts which you have not seen are more beautiful still," she told him. "I love the park, of course, and the trees are wonderful, but people come from all over England to see the castle. The keep is quite historical, and then there is the banqueting hall, the terraces on the south side and the sunken gardens. Really, I almost wish I were you, Francis," she went on reflectively. "You are going to see all these things for the first time and know that they belong to you. You couldn't appear a little more interested, could you?"

Again her eyes challenged his smile. He looked across at her gravely.

"If my attitude seems disappointing," he said, "I can only ask you to remember that I come from a life where emotion of any sort was a rare visitant."

"Just so, just so!" Sir Stephen intervened. "You'll get over that. You'll relax a lot presently."

"Rather!" Eustace exclaimed. "By Jove, I'd give something to be you, Cousin Francis! It's a pretty good world, you know, for a young fellow of your age with eighty thousand a year. What a lot you have to look forward to."

"I may find the collection of new interests a matter of some difficulty," Francis remarked.

"Not you," his uncle declared cheerfully. "That'll come all right. My dear," he added, turning to his wife, "if we have all finished, the servants might remove your tea equipage. I shall venture to ring the bell. It will be a great relief to us all to have our—business conversation with—er—Francis."

Lady Susan laid down her knitting and rose to her feet.

"While they are taking these things away, Francis," she said, "I must show you the view from the window here. We are very proud of the park—or rather we have been. There are no finer oaks in the kingdom than the Chatfield oaks."

She walked to the window, and for the first time Francis unbent a little as he leaned to her side. Lord Henry buttonholed the lawyer.

"Seems a trifle unapproachable, eh?" he remarked nervously.

"Inscrutable," Sir Stephen confessed.

"Have you been able to form any idea at all as to his intentions?"

"None whatever. He has all the figures. I saw him studying them on the way down. He is a very difficult person to get to talk when he doesn't want to."

"I am afraid we are going to find him a very difficult person, anyhow," Lord Henry sighed.

The servants had left the room. Lord Henry cleared his throat. His wife, who recognised the signal, turned away from the window. Francis followed her lead. The long-expected moment had arrived.