Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 5

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From earliest childhood George, like other village boys, had known of “my lord the Earl” who once had lived in “the Castle up yon ’pon the hill”, had heard vague though awesome tales of his vast power and wealth. So that, although never seen, the Earl had become as dominating in fancy as his great house with its grim old tower was in reality.

Thus George’s grey eyes widened in amazement, bordering on disbelief, to behold this noble person, this most potent gentleman, for—a shambling creature whose silvery head was bowed between the one hand that clutched and bore so heavily upon ebony stick, and the other that clasped the round, silk-mittened arm of the most beautiful woman George had ever seen: a handsome face, though arrogant and unlovely (thought George), with something fierce and untamed in its expression; a shapely body from plumed bonnet to sandalled foot, instinct with grace and a passionate vitality in which was something of the animal. George, thus intent, was thinking of panthers and tigers, when:

“Jackman, who is this—young man?”

The voice uttering this demand, though soft to feebleness, was yet so compelling that George started and beheld the Earl regarding him, beneath pent of brow and droop of silvery hair, with eyes that were compelling as his tone, in so much that George flushed hotly, while Mr. Jackman, bowing, hastened to answer:

“My lord, permit me to introduce my new partner, Mr. Bell. Henceforth, my lord, the firm is Jackman, Son, and Bell and shall be as zealous to serve and protect your lordship’s many interests as in the long past.”

“I hope so, Jackman, I hope so!” sighed his lordship, sinking into the proffered armchair. “Yes, I trust so, Jackman, for all our sakes, though I detest change—and your Mr. Bell appears over young for position of such onerous responsibility; I repeat—over young, Jackman!”

“That, my lord,” George retorted, stung more by the lady’s glance of open disparagement than his lordship’s tone, “that time will remedy, sir.”

“Ah,” sighed the Earl, sinking back in his chair, the better, as it seemed, to survey George from his close-cut auburn curls, that no amount of brushing would reduce, to the toes of his dusty boots, and up again—a keenly, searching glance that paused at last upon the crooked little finger of his left hand, noting which, George hid it in his pocket.

“Indeed, Mr. Bell,” the Earl murmured, “time may remedy many things, but—it destroys all things, soon or late! Ah well, you may be seated, gentlemen—nay, first I take joy to present my beloved ward, the Lady Clytie Moor——”

“Oh, but dearest,” said she, in softly rich, caressing voice, “I am acquainted with Mr. Jackman, of course. As for these other—gentlemen?” Again George flushed, while the Earl, with a gentle smile, glanced from him to Mr. Shrig, saying:

“Jackman, I presume this is the law officer mentioned in your letter?” And forthwith Mr. Shrig replied:

“That i-denticle, my lord, name of Shrig, baptismal, Jarsper, at your sarvice.”

“Now,” sighed the Earl, with feeble though commanding gesture, “pray be seated. You here beside me, Clytie.” Gracefully she sank upon the chair indicated, leaning to slip her hand within his arm as he continued:

“You behold me here, Jackman, in answer to your letter informing me of this amazing and perfectly shocking discovery at the Castle.”

“Shocking indeed, my lord,” sighed the lawyer, “and I fear I must grieve and shock you even more deeply! For, since my letter, Mr. Shrig has made such further discoveries that I—we, my partner and I, have grave reason to believe these sad remains are those of your lordship’s cousin Philip, seventh——”

“Horrible!” exclaimed the Earl. “A horrible suggestion, Jackman, and quite impossible! My unfortunate cousin Philip died long ago in America, killed with many others in a battle or massacred by the Indians! But you should know all this, of course—as a matter of business.”

“All this I did know, my lord, knew and believed until some half-hour ago. But now—I will ask your lordship to examine these silver buttons, particularly this one which Mr. Shrig has cleaned for our inspection, this and its fellows he found upon, or rather—with the—um—skeleton, and which, as you will see, bears the monogram of your cousin, Lord Philip, to wit, the letters P V W, if your lordship will trouble to look.”

His lordship troubled himself so far as to examine this mute witness, with and without the large magnifying-glass Mr. Jackman proffered, turning this button this way and that in the long, white fingers of hands George thought looked remarkably powerful for a man so old and feeble. Having surveyed this button from all angles, the Earl passed it to Lady Clytie, saying tranquilly:

“A perfect work of art, Jackman, but no least use as evidence of Cousin Philip, for these three letters may be read in six or seven different ways. So, my good sir, your perspicacious law officer must afford better evidence ere I tolerate such very preposterous suggestion. Indeed I demand and must have proof absolute and incontrovertible!”

“In-contro——” Mr. Shrig sighed and shook his head, saying despondently, “Here, m’lud, is a vord as con-flummerates me complete! And proof is a ab-straction, a skittish article werry hard to come by at the best o’ times. But since y’r ludship demands same so determinated, I’ll do my best as in dooty bound. And so, my lord, gentlemen and lady, I must ax you to try to see all as I saw laying amidst the dust and cobwebs o’ forty-odd years—rags and bones as had once been a man, and a man struck from life to death werry sudden-like! Ar—but this were a man of natur’ so powerful determined that—as he lays there helpless, bleeding his precious life out with every beat of his failing heart—or, as you might say, his dewoted throbber—he yet finds strength to take and—kiss a object as he thinks werry precious indeed. For, my lord, gentlemen and lady, among the bones of his right hand, laying close agin his lipless teeth, I found—a small, gold locket, same containing a picture, vich I now pro-dooce in evidence!”

“Eh—a picture?” exclaimed Mr. Jackman, starting forward in his chair. “A miniature portrait, Shrig?”

“That i-denticle, sir! This here unfortu’ate gen’leman had died kissing the portrait of his lady vife, the mother of his child——”

“Child?” The repetition was a whisper so hushed and vague that George could never be sure whence it came, more especially as just then all his attention was centred upon the gold locket or pendant Mr. Shrig had taken from that waistcoat pocket of his and now opened, saying as he did so:

“On the right side o’ this is portrait o’ lady, young and golden hair; on the left—these here vords wrote werry plain though small.” And in quite dispassionate, official voice he read aloud these expressive words penned so long ago:

“ ‘To Philip, my ever beloved lord and husband on this the first birthday of our little son Philip George, someday eighth Earl of Ravenhurst. New York, seventeen hundred and sixty.’ ”

“A—son!” gasped the lawyer, starting afoot. “An—heir!”

“Vich,” quoth Mr. Shrig, nodding at this mute though most eloquent witness, “vich is rayther inclined to upset the applecart!”

“Give me—that thing!” said the Earl, reaching out an imperious hand, whereat Mr. Shrig merely beamed—and shook his head, saying:

“M’lud, though villing to o-bleege, can’t be done! This here locket being sich important evidence is therefor, and for the time being must remain, in possession of the law.”

That so masterful hand drooped, suddenly feeble, and sank to die upon cushioned chair-arm, seeming thus so pitifully helpless that the Lady Clytie clasped and raised it to the cherishing comfort of her ruddy lips while her great dark eyes seemed to glare upon Mr. Shrig, who merely blinked, as she murmured, and very tenderly:

“Dearest, never trouble for this odious, top-booted wretch; leave him to the Devil and damnation.”

Mr. Shrig blinked again, the lawyer stared, George held his breath, the Earl smiled in gentle resignation as he murmured:

“Hush, Clytie my love, the poor man means very well, and the law, if an ass, is still the law and must be respected. And so”—here he raised silvery head to look up at Mr. Shrig like the very plaintive, ancient gentleman he now seemed, saying in tone of ironic humility—“most zealous of officers, a person stricken alike in years and health, even myself, begs you will permit him to glance at that so evidential trinket.” Upon the table, even as the words were uttered, Mr. Shrig placed the open locket, above which silvery head and plumed bonnet were bowed together; and now for a while was silence, an odd stillness, a hush so profound that George could hear the tick of Mr. Jackman’s watch in its fob, and the rustle and twitter of birds nesting in the eaves above the open lattice. At last the Earl sighed and spoke:

“Alas, poor Cousin Philip! I am convinced at last—or very nearly. I am also painfully confounded, not to say utterly dismayed! For it would seem that I and my son, Viscount Hurst, are usurpers and are like to be outcasts—if—Cousin Philip’s son is alive and can be found. Look you at this, Jackman; study it and favour me with your legal opinion.” And with elaboration of care he passed the locket to Mr. Jackman, who gazed at it in wide-eyed dismay, shook his head at it and answered:

“My lord, I am compelled to inform you that, if alive and if found, this young man, Philip George, being undoubted heir, must naturally succeed to the title and estates——”

“Precisely, Jackman, if he is alive and if found! Here are two ‘ifs’—small words and yet how infinitely potent! Meantime I shall, of course, remain in possession, while you, I presume, will institute search for the—rightful heir?”

“I can do no other, my lord.”

“Certainly, my dear man, certainly! Your natural probity and honourable profession demand that you leave no—eh—stone unturned.”

“And,” said the Lady Clytie with vicious snap of sharp, white teeth, “under stones one sometimes may find loathsome, slimy horrors!”

“I opine, Jackman, you will employ this very zealous officer for this somewhat hopeless quest?”

“ ’Tis so I propose, my lord.”

“Well, well,” he sighed, reaching feebly for his ebony crutch-stick, “ ’twould seem there is no more to say—except that I propose residing at Ravenhurst, though I detest the great place. However, we shall remain for the summer. Your letter informed me the damage was quite negligible. The house is fairly habitable, I trust?”

“Oh, quite, my lord; I have seen to that. And there have been caretakers, of course, worthy folk of my own choosing.”

“Very well, Jackman. I trust also the—those mournful remains have been removed?”

“Ar!” said Mr. Shrig. “They have, m’lud; every westige, every rag and every bone.”

“Very right! Very proper!” sighed the Earl. “They shall, in due season, be honourably interred in the family vault—if there is room. And now, gentlemen, I bid you good afternoon. Clytie, your arm, my love.”

Gracefully, blooming Youth bent to help stricken Age; then, with large white hand once again clasping her round, mittened arm, the Earl struggled to his feet and, meeting George’s glance, smiled up at him wistfully, saying:

“Ah, Mr. Bell, there was a time when I was tall and, I think, strong as yourself ... but time and sickness have together made of me the poor wreck you see. Be grateful, sir, for youth and strength. Oh, be grateful!”

George bowed and opened the door, then, at gesture from Mr. Jackman, followed their visitors to the waiting carriage. With the aid of two stalwart footmen the Earl contrived to mount into this spacious vehicle; but scarcely was he seated than he leaned suddenly forward to say:

“Mr. Bell, your hand—that little finger—an old hurt, I presume? Ah, yes—I see! Jackman, when you favour me with your presence at the Castle—bring your young partner with you.”

Then, signalling to bewigged footman, who signalled to stately coachman, the great carriage rolled away, leaving George once again flushed of cheek and wide of eye, staring after it, and Mr. Jackman staring at him.

“A-mazing!” exclaimed the lawyer.

“What is, sir?”

“That the Earl should have observed that odd little finger of yours, George.”

“Ar—but,” quoth Mr. Shrig, as they re-entered the house, “our lord is a werry sharp lord indeed; gimblets, swords, stiletters nor yet razors and needles can’t be no sharper! Vich makes me o-pine as somebody someday is like to get cut or stabbed——”

“Eh?” demanded Mr. Jackman, pinch of snuff suddenly arrested beneath his short, pugnacious nose. “Cut? Stabbed? Shrig, what on earth d’ye mean?”

But, shaking his head, Mr. Shrig replied:

“Mr. Jackman, sir and partner, ekker alone responds.”