Читать книгу The Councillors Of Falconhoe - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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In a fold of the hills not far from Plymouth and overlooking the famous Sound stood the main seat of his grace the Duke of Fairbourne. There the race had been cradled since the days of Warwick the Kingmaker, and there they might have flourished prosperous and undisturbed for many more centuries had it not been for the ambition of a monarch who mistook his vocation and realised too late that every man who rules a great kingdom and has a weakness for playing at soldiers is not necessarily a Napoleon.

All the same, he had a sort of left-handed revenge upon the titular rulers of the country which he hated most and which brought his pride tumbling in the dust. The ravages of the Great War hit them almost as much as they had bankrupted his beloved junkers, and nobody had felt it more than the Duke of Fairbourne.

It is, of course, a very pleasant and soothing thing to have an income of 100,000 pounds a year and half a dozen palaces in various parts of the country, but when the aforesaid income is reduced to about a third by a crushing income tax, plus land burdens in a like proportion, then the palaces may become a source of loss and anxiety instead of a thing of pride and joy. And no member of the House of Peers had suffered more in this respect than the duke in question.

For the moment, at any rate, he was making the most of his time at Fairbourne Castle. He had had a series of interviews with his trustees, and Lady Peggy had not been very far wrong when she told Jelicorse that her father had not more than five thousand a year to call his own. Some of the other houses had been let, and no doubt, before long, the same fate would overtake Fairbourne. It was impossible, of course, to deal with any of the magnificent family treasures, because those were heirlooms, and could not be disposed of. Perhaps in the course of time things would right themselves, but for a good many years to come the head of the noble clan would be hard put to it to keep his head above water. Unless his only son, who, however, does not come into the story, married a rich American, or the daughter of some gilt-edged profiteer, he would be likely to share the general blight. And when Lady Peggy informed Jelicorse that she and her sister Joan were faced with the necessity for getting their own livings, she had not been very far from the truth.

Meanwhile, Fairbourne lay sleeping in the sunshine, a long, low, rambling house, partly of mediaeval structure and partly Georgian, fronted by a noble stone terrace and below that the gardens, and then again the sweeping expanse of park almost overlooking the sea. It was the sort of place that required an army of retainers, gardeners, and the like to preserve it in anything like dignity, or even ordinary neatness. There was nothing about it, at any rate at present, to suggest the canker that was eating into the bud of this beautiful flower.

A couple of deck chairs at the bottom of the stops leading to the rose garden were occupied by Lady Peggy and Lady Joan, who were more or less busy discussing their future prospects. There certainly had been something alluring in the possibilities of the scheme which Jelicorse had foreshadowed in the course of the meeting in the dining room of the Agincourt. He had only hinted very vaguely at what might happen, but he had certainly suggested secrecy and danger, and to two girls who had seen and endured so much during the Great War this had been almost entrancing.

"Oh, anything is better than a life like this," Lady Peggy was saying. "Of course, if it hadn't been for that wretched war I should have been only too glad to get back to the old order. And what a grim joke it all is. Fancy meeting Niel Nelson with his family and record getting a bare living as a waiter in a restaurant. And yet that is better than hanging about borrowing money off your friends. My dear Joan, what are you going to do about that unfortunate young man of yours?"

"I don't know," Lady Joan sighed. "Oh, you can laugh if you like, but there isn't much comedy about it. So far as I am concerned, there never was anybody like Niel."

"Oh, we all say that. But what became of all his mother's money? Of course, he told us that he had had to let his own place to save it from being sold; but she was a rich woman. I know she wasn't a royal Russian princess, but she was a princess, and her jewels were magnificent. Wasn't she in Russia at the time the revolution broke out?"

"I never liked to ask," Lady Joan said sadly. "Indeed, there wasn't anybody I could ask. We don't discuss these sort of questions. How many of our Russian friends perished miserably in those dreadful days, or have disappeared, never to be heard of again? The tragedy of the Czar and his family was not the only one. If Niel's mother could have got away in time and brought all her treasures with her, there would be no occasion for poor dear Niel to be getting his living by accepting tips in a London restaurant. I daresay it will come right in time, but I very much doubt it. We shall have to look to you to restore the family glories. I suppose when it comes to the pinch you really will marry the Duke of Lombaso."

Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

"I suppose I shall," she said. "He is quite a nice boy, and the fact that he was educated at Eton and Christ Church makes all the difference. He is a thorough sportsman, Joan, and, if it is worth mentioning, his mother is a Spanish royal princess. They are immensely rich, of course, and, oh, dear. It's all very distressing. If one could only forget—"

"Ah, you are thinking of Tony Vickers now," Lady Joan said with a certain boyish sympathy. "Poor old Tony, I often wonder what became of him. It was very strange how he vanished that way. Just he and a handful of men coming back from a successful raid across No Man's Land, and never to be seen or heard of again. Of course, I know it is a horribly sordid idea, but the last time I saw Tony alive he told me that he had made a will leaving everything to you in case he died."

"Oh, don't talk about it," Lady Peggy murmured.

"But, my dear, I must. I have had it on my mind for years. What became of that will? Of course, I know that everything went back to his mother again, poor dear soul, and I shouldn't wonder if she makes you her heiress. I know it is very horrible, but one has to think of those sort of things."

Lady Peggy rose abruptly and walked in the direction of the house. Lady Joan had touched a tender chord. It was not often that the name of Tony Vickers was uttered between the sisters after this lapse of time, and Joan was bitterly regretting that she had mentioned it. But the Duke of Lombaso was expected at the castle that afternoon, and though the subject had never been mentioned between Fairbourne and his family, it was tacitly expected that something would come of this visit. Indeed, it was a prospect that most girls in Lady Peggy's position would have reached eagerly for with both hands. And yet, just then, she wanted to be alone with the memory of her dead soldier.

It was later in the afternoon that a big car drove up to the main entrance of the Castle, and a young man alighted. Except for his dark eyes and black hair, he might have been the typical English aristocrat who lives the clean open-air life and devotes himself entirely to sport. He came forward eagerly with outstretched hand as his host advanced to greet him.

"Ah, here we are," he cried in perfect English, "I have managed to get away from London at last, you see. So I hastened down here to pay my respects to you all, and give you my mother's kindest regards. She was very particular about that."

"Ah, she would be," Fairbourne said. "Bless my soul, it must be four years since I saw her last."

There was nothing of the conventional duke about the head of the house of Pevensey. He might have been a prosperous farmer in his shabby sports suit and brown gaiters, a rather stout, rosy-cheeked man, with old-fashioned side-whiskers and hair which was beginning to go grey over the temples.

"But come in, come in," he said. "You are just in time for tea. Had a good journey, I hope."

"Oh, I came down in my car," Lombaso said. "And I had company as far as Saltash. Count Ardra Barrados was with me. He said he had some sort of business there, so I gave him a lift from town. I wonder if you would mind asking him to come over here and dine and sleep. He has done one or two little things for me lately, and I feel rather under an obligation."

"Oh, certainly, if you wish it," Fairbourne said. "But I have met the man before, and I cannot say that I like him. Of course, you don't know it, but Barrados was one of that gang of German junkers who infested places like Saltash and Plymouth and disappeared a few days before war broke out. Still, I suppose we mustn't keep that spirit for ever, and if you like to ask Barrados over here for a night, I have no objection. He won't mind coming at your invitation without getting a line from me."

And so it came about three days later that Count Andra Barrados found himself for the first time for nearly eight years under the roof of an English gentleman again. There was nothing particularly attractive about the man with the hard, rather brutal face and insolent moustache, brushed up after the fashion affected by his late master, but he went out of his way to make himself agreeable, so that Fairbourne was satisfied. Not that he liked the man, not that anybody would have liked the man who had any knowledge of the world, which, apparently the young Duke of Lombaso lacked. At any rate, the dinner passed off pleasantly enough without any allusions to the past, or any conversation which might become controversial.

"You used to spend a lot of time in England, Count?" Fairbourne said when the coffee had been handed round and the footmen had gone. "Is it your intention to stay long? Would you like to settle down here altogether? England is no Paradise at present, but on the whole, about the best country in Europe to live in in these times. We are normal, at any rate."

"Are you quite sure of that?" asked the Count with a faint suggestion of a sneer. "Is England quite the well-ordered nation your Press pretends it is?"

The Duke flushed slightly; as the typical Englishman of the upper class, he resented criticism of this kind.

"Quite sure," he said shortly. "Of course we have had our anxious times, especially with the working classes. Those enormous war wages, you know. But that is all passing away. We are setting an excellent example to Europe, which must be followed by the other nations—even Russia is beginning to see the light. And now that war is a thing of the past—"

Count Barrados smiled rather evilly, and passed his hand across his moustache to hide the bitter lines that trembled about the corners of his mouth.

"Are you quite sure of that?" he asked. "What do you know about Russia? What does anybody know about Russia? Oh, yes, I am aware that your people have penetrated as far as Moscow and Petrograd, and, of course, those kind gentlemen who are feeding the starving children there have gone even farther. But Russia, as a whole, is as much a sealed book to civilisation under Lenin and Trotsky as is the city of Mecca to the Christian world. For all you know to the contrary, those people may have a couple of million men ready to spring at the throat of Europe at any moment. Why, the Red Army does consist of two millions of men, and Trotsky makes no secret of the fact. Let us suppose no has got two millions more hidden away, trained men, mind you, all of whom took some part in the Great War, and behind them are scores of secret munition factories working night and day. Say Trotsky gives the signal, tell me where you are then."

"But the thing is a nightmare," the Duke protested. "All Europe would rise like one man, we should mobilise our fleet and a blockade would do the rest. Don't forget, my dear Count, that your own country is in terror lest the Bolsheviks should break out afresh and infect the whole of Germany with the disease which is eating out the heart of Russia. Your present rulers have said so."

"Ah, rulers indeed," Barrados said with a bitter sneer. "The sweepings of the country. Idle scum calling itself Socialist. Ah, I tell you the time will come—"

He broke off abruptly, shaking from head to foot with a rage that held him in a fierce grip. He would have liked to have said much more, but he checked himself and proceeded more slowly.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "But when I think of what is and what was, I cannot contain myself. But mark you this, Duke, there is very little difference between the present rulers of Germany and the scoundrels who have Russia by the throat. Suppose they make common accord? Suppose there is a treaty signed between Germany and Russia? In ten years' time we shall put Russia on her legs again, we shall dominate that country, yes, and practically rule her. It will mean the richest population in the world, and two hundred millions of people thinking as one. Then, supposing that our class grasp the reins of office once again. Ah, my dear Duke, there is more than one way of taking what the French used to call la revanche. Who could stand up against us?"

"It's a dream," the Duke said.

"Very likely," Barrados sneered. "But such dreams very often come true. What do you think, Lombaso?"

"Oh, don't drag me into it," the young Spaniard laughed. "You see, I am supposed to be a neutral, though I could tell you a story or two if I liked. At any rate, I sincerely hope not. It would mean the end of civilisation. It would mean the disappearance of our class entirely. I want to forget all that sort of thing—I came over here because I love the English, and because I am a sportsman above everything."

"That is all very well," Barrados replied. "But you can't stop war. My dear Lombaso, your ancestors and mine, and the Duke's here, lived on war. It was our recognised profession. We could not join the peasants in their archery and bear-baiting, but we could fight, and, incidentally, made what you call a jolly good thing out of it. It's in our blood, I tell you, hereditary instinct, and, despite the lesson of the last eight years, we shall be at it at intervals so long as the world lasts. You are talking absolute nonsense when you tell me that there will be no more wars. We may have another in the next five years."

"Hoping it, perhaps," Fairbourne flung out curtly.

Barrados looked at him with a sinister smile. Before he could reply a footman entered with a card.

"Mr. Jelicorse to see you, your grace. Shall I ask him in?"

"By all means," Fairbourne said. "In here, Waters. And you might bring a wine-glass or two as well."