Читать книгу The Star-Gazers - Fenn George Manville - Страница 3

“And what does Glynne say?”

“Well, Sir John, she don’t say much; it isn’t her way to say a deal.”

“Humph! No; you’re quite right. But I should have thought that she would have said a good deal upon an occasion like this.”

“Yes, I thought she would have roused up a little more; but she has been very quiet ever since I went into training for the event.”

“Hang it all, Rolph, don’t talk about marriage as if it were a bit of athletic sport.”

“No, of course not. It was a slip.”

“Well, tell me what she did say.”

“That I was to talk to you.”

“Humph! Well, you have talked to me, and I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, sir, and then the event’s fixed.”

“Exactly, my dear boy, but I might say yes, and repent.”

“Oh no, you won’t, sir, I’m precious fond of her; I am, indeed. Have been since a boy.”

“No one could know my daughter without being fond of her,” said Sir John stiffly.

“Of course not; and that’s why I want to make sure.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Sir John. “You’ve a good income, my boy, and you’re a fine, sound fellow; but I don’t much like the idea of my little Glynne marrying into the army.”

“Oh, but I shall only stay in till I get my commission as major; and then I mean to retire and become a country squire.”

“Humph! yes; and go in more for athleticism, I suppose.”

“Well, I think an English country gentleman ought to foster the sports and pastimes of his native land – the hunt, the race meetings, and that sort of thing.”

“Humph! Do you? Well, I think, my boy, that we ought to take to agriculture and the improvement of stock. But there, I daresay you’ll tone down.”

“Then you have no objection, Sir John?”

“Who? – I? None at all, my boy; I liked your father, and I hope you’ll make her a good husband – as good a husband as I did my poor wife; though, as the common folk say, I say it as shouldn’t say it. Now then, have you any more questions to ask?”

“No, I don’t think I have. Of course I’m very happy and that sort of thing. A fellow is sure to be at such a time, you know.”

“Yes, yes, of course. To be sure. Then that’s all is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t want to ask questions about settlements, eh?”

“No, I don’t want to ask any questions. I want Glynne, and you say I may have her; so that’s all.”

“Come along then, and see my pigs.”

Captain Robert Rolph looked a little chagrined at the suggestion respecting pigs; but he concealed his annoyance and walked briskly on beside his companion, Sir John Day, Bart of Brackley Hall, Surrey, a grey, florid, stoutly-built gentleman, whose aspect betokened much of his time being spent in the open air. He was an intent, bright, bustling-looking man, with grey, mutton-chop whiskers; and his drab-cord trousers, brown velveteen coat and low-crowned, grey hat, gave quite a country squire, country-town-bench turn to his appearance.

“I’ve great faith in these pigs,” he said, sharply. “Been at a deal of trouble to get hold of the breed, and if I don’t take a cup at the Agricultural Show this year, I shall be down upon some of those judges – in the Times.”

“Ah, ’tis disappointing when you’ve set your mind upon a cup and don’t get it,” said the captain. “How many have you won, Sir John?”

“What, cups? Thirty-four, my boy, thirty-four.”

“Ah, I’ve got fifty,” said the captain, with a touch of pride in his tone. “When I go in training for anything, I always say to myself, I shall put it off, and I pretty generally do.”

“Humph! yes,” said Sir John, shortly; “so I suppose. Oh, by the way though, Rolph, you’d oblige me very much by going back to the house. I’ll show you the pigs another day.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the young man with alacrity.

“You see there’s my brother. He thinks a great deal of Glynne, and I never like to take any important step in life without consulting him. Do you understand?”

“Well – er, not exactly.”

“Oh, I mean, just go back and see him, and say what you did to me just now.”

“What! Do you mean I must ask his consent, Sir John?” cried the young man, aghast.

“No, no, no! of course not, my dear boy. Tell him I’ve given mine, and that it’s all settled, and that you hope he approves, and – you know what to say. He’ll like it. Be right, you see. Captain to senior officer, eh? There, be off, and get it over. I must go on and see the pigs.”

“Confound the major!” said Captain Rolph, as he stopped, looking after the brisk retreating figure of the baronet. “He’ll want me to ask the housekeeper next. Hang it all! it’s almost worth more than the stakes. I did think I’d got it over. The old major’s as peppery as a curry. He’ll want to order me under arrest if he doesn’t like the engagement. Well, here goes to get it over. Let’s see; just a mile to the park gates. Pity to waste it.”

He glanced round to see if there was anyone near, but he was quite alone on the hard, sandy, retired road; so, buttoning his well-cut morning coat tightly across his chest, he tucked up his cuffs and the bottoms of his trousers, selected two smooth pebbles about as large as kidneys from a stone heap, clasped one firmly in each hand, and then thrust one in his pocket for a moment while he referred to a stop watch, replaced it, took hold of the stone once more, and then, throwing himself into position, the gentlemanly officer seemed to subside into the low-type professional walking or running man.

For a few moments he remained motionless in a statuesque attitude, his brow all in wrinkles, his teeth set, lips tight, and his chest expanded and thrown forward as if he were waiting the order to start. Then he cried, “Off!” and bounded away at a rapid rate, running hard till he reached the park gates at Brackley, where he stopped short, threw away the stones, referred to his watch, and nodded and smiled as he drew himself up – the stiff, military officer once more.

“Not bad,” he said, “and as fresh as a daisy. I could have done it in half a minute less. Now, I’ll go and see the old man.”

Captain Rolph did not “see the old man” then, for when he reached the house, the old man – that is to say, Major Day, formerly of a lancer regiment that took part in several engagements in the Sikh war, but who had long since hung up his sabre in his bedroom at Brackley – was out for a morning walk, following a pursuit in which he took great delight – to wit, gathering fungi, a family of plants that he made his study, and he was coming back with a small, bright trowel in one hand, his stout stick in the other, and a large salmon creel slung from his shoulder, when he encountered his brother, the baronet, striding away to his model farm.

Major Day was a fierce-looking, smart, officer-like man of sixty, with curly grey hair that stood out from his well-shaped head, piercing eyes, heavy dark brows, and a massive, zebra-patterned moustache, the rest of his face being closely shaven.

Perhaps “zebra-patterned” is an unusual term to give to a cavalry moustache; but this was regularly striped in black and silver grey, giving a peculiar aspect to the keen, upright, military man.

“Halt!” shouted the major. “Hallo, Jack, going to see the pigs?”

“Yes. Thought you were at home. Just sent Rolph to speak to you.”

“To speak to me? What about?”

“Oh, I thought it best, you see, being my brother, and – er – as you like Glynne, and – er – ”

“What in the name of fortune are you stammering about, Jack?” said the major, sharply. “Why, you don’t mean – ”

“That he has proposed for Glynne.”

“Damn his impudence!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Jem,” said the baronet, testily. “He has proposed, and I have given my consent.”

“But I always thought he was to marry that second cousin, Marjorie Emlin.”

“Doesn’t look like it. Never seemed very warm when they dined here.”

“But – but it’s so unexpected, so sudden. And Glynne?” cried the major, flushing, and bringing his heavy brows down over his eyes; “she hasn’t accepted him?”

“Why, of course she has. Don’t be a fool, Jem,” cried the baronet, angrily.

“Fool! It’s enough to make any man a fool. What does that fellow want with a wife – to take gate-money at some meeting?”

“I do wish you wouldn’t be so prejudiced, Jem.”

“To hold the tape when he’s coming in after a footrace?”

“Hang it all, Jem, do be sensible.”

“To feed him with raw steaks when he is in training?” continued the major, ironically. “To keep time, and polish his cups, and mind that he does not break the rules of his trainer? Good heavens! Jack, why, both you and Glynne must be mad.”

“Indeed!” said the baronet, hotly. “I don’t see any madness in giving my consent to my child’s accepting the son of an old neighbour, a confoundedly fine fellow, of good birth, and with four thousand a year.”

“I don’t care if he were better of birth, and had twenty thousand a year. He wouldn’t be a fit husband for our Glynne.”

“Well, no,” said the baronet, proudly. “No man would be sufficiently good for her.”

“Who’s talking nonsense now?” cried the major. “There are lots of good fellows in the world if she wants a husband, but I don’t believe she does.”

“But she has accepted him.”

“Silly girl. Bit taken with the fine-looking fellow, that’s all. Don’t know her own mind yet. This is springing a mine.”

“Ah well, the thing’s settled, so you may just as well retreat from your position, Jem.”

“But I shall not retreat, sir. I shall hold my position as long as I can, and when I am driven back, I shall do my duty as one in command of a light cavalry regiment should: I shall harass the enemy’s flanks and rear. He’ll get no rest from me.”

“Hang it all, Jem, don’t do that – don’t be rude to the young fellow,” cried the baronet in dismay.

“I – I don’t approve of it at all, Jack. I don’t really.”

“But the thing’s done, man – the thing’s done.”

“Then why do you send the fellow to me?”

“Well, I thought it would be a bit civil to you, Jem, and respectful, and – ”

“It is not either,” cried the major. “I look upon it, knowing as you do how I am attached to Glynne, as a regular insult.”

“Now, what nonsense, Jem.”

“It is not nonsense, Jack. The fellow is a mere machine – a good-looking, well-built machine, with not a thought above low-class footraces, and training, and rowing, and football, and cricket.”

“And not bad things either,” said the baronet, hotly.

“No, sir,” replied the major, drawing himself up, “not bad things, but good things if a young man takes to them as amusements to keep his nature in subjection, and to bring it to its finest state of development, that he may have a sound brain in a sound body.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Sir John.

“But bad, rotten, and blackguardly things when a man gives the whole of his mind to them, and has no more ambition than leads him to be the winner of a cup in a walking match.”

“Oh, rubbish!” cried the baronet, warmly. “Rolph’s a gentleman.”

“Then he’s a confoundedly bad specimen of the class, Jack.”

“You’re as prejudiced as an old woman, Jem,” cried the baronet, angrily.

“Perhaps I am,” replied his brother: “but it isn’t prejudice to see that this fellow can’t talk to a girl on any subject but athletics. I haven’t patience with him. I always hated to see him here.”

“And I haven’t patience with you, Jem; ’pon my honour, I haven’t. Why, what next? Here, out of respect to you as my brother, I sent my daughter’s future husband to you, and you tell me to my face that you will insult him. I won’t have it, sir; I say I won’t have it. You’re intolerable. You’re getting beyond bearing, and – and – confound it all, I will not have it! Pretty thing, indeed, when a man mayn’t choose a husband for his own child.”

The baronet took a few strides this way and that way, grew scarlet as he spoke, and ended by taking off his grey hat and dabbing his shining forehead.

“I’ve too much love for Glynne, and too much respect for her mother’s memory to stand by silently and see such a miserable bargain concluded; and I enter my protest against what must turn out an unhappy match,” said the major.

“It will turn out nothing of the sort, sir,” cried the baronet, hotly; “and, look here, Jem, it’s time we came to an understanding. I will not have your dictatorial mess-room manners brought into my establishment; and I tell you once for all, if you can’t conform to the simple home life of a country squire’s house, the sooner you go, sir, the better.”

The major stuck his stick into the turf with a furious stab, as if he had a feud with mother earth; then, dragging round the creel he banged the bright trowel with which he had been gesticulating into the basket, and giving the wicker a swing back, caught up his stick and strode away without a word.

“Confound his insolence!” cried Sir John furiously, “I won’t have it. My own brother: my junior by two hours! A man who has been petted and pampered too, because – because he is my brother – because he has been in the wars – because – because – because he is – my brother – because – hang it all!” he roared, stamping heavily on the turf. “What an abominably hasty temper I have got. He’ll pack up and go, and – here! – hi! – Jem! – Jem!”

The baronet was stout, but it was the active, muscular stoutness of a man constantly in the open air: he did not suffer from the abnormal size of that which Punch’s fashionable tailor called his middle-aged customer’s chest, so that it required little effort on his part to set off at a trot after his brother, who heard his shouts and his pursuing steps, but paid no heed to each summons; for, with head erect, and his stick carried as a military man bears his sabre on the route, he marched steadily on with the regular swinging pace of a well-drilled soldier.

“Jem! Hold hard! Jem, old fellow,” cried the baronet, overtaking him; but the major kept on without turning his head.

“Jem! Here, I beg your pardon. I lost my temper. I’m a passionate old fool.”

Still there was no response, and the major passed on; but his brother now took tight hold of his arm.

“Jem! Come, I say. Don’t you hear me? I beg your pardon, I say. Hang it all, old boy, do you want me to go down upon my knees.”

“No, Jack,” cried the major, stopping short and facing him, “I don’t; but you told me I’d better go.”

“Yes: in a passion; but you know I don’t mean what I say. Here, shake hands, old boy. I say, though, what a peppery old fire-eater you are!”

“Am I, Jack?” said the major, with a grim smile.

“No, no; I mean I am. Look here, old chap, I’m sure there’s a membrane, or a strap, or a nerve, or something of that sort, given way inside me. It lets my temper out, and then I say things I don’t mean.”

“It must have given way a great many years ago, Jack,” said the major, drily.

“Oh, come, Jem! Hang it all, old fellow, I’ve begged your pardon. I’ve humbled myself to you. Don’t jump on a man when he’s down. ’Tisn’t chivalrous; it isn’t indeed.”

“Then you don’t want me to go?”

“Go? Now look here, Jem, do try and be reasonable. What should I do without you?”

“Well then, I’ll stop this time; but really, Jack, if ever you insult me again like that, I can have my old chambers in St James’s, close to the club, and I shall go back to town.”

“Go along with you!” cried Sir John. “Don’t talk nonsense. We’re getting old boys now, Jem, and you’ll stop along with me to the end.”

“Yes, we’re getting old, Jack, very fast indeed,” said the major, as his brother laid a hand affectionately upon his shoulder just as he used in old school-boy days; “time gallops away now.”

“Ay, it does; and that’s why I can’t help feeling a bit anxious about seeing Glynne happily settled in life.”

“And it ought to make you the more particular about – ”

“Hush!” cried the baronet, interrupting him sharply, “the girls! Oh, hang it! how can Glynne be so absurd.”