Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 6

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Mistress Isabel Standish, tall, dignified and handsome despite crumpled sun-bonnet and the dab of earth upon her shapely, high-bridged nose, was busied in the spacious garden of her cottage, known from time immemorial as Sparklebrook because of the rill that ran sparkling through a bowery corner of the garden.

A place of beauty this—with its three gables, steep-thatched eaves, bright lattices and massive walls mellowed by the gentle hand of time. Too large for an ordinary cottage, too small for a farmstead, it was cosy as the one, roomy as the other (or almost), and, besides, was blest by that Magic Feminine which can transmute brick and mortar, wood and stone into that best and loveliest of all earthly places—home.

Just at present this Essential Feminine, this Presiding Genius, was kneeling (in stately fashion), performing with a trowel where flowers bloomed in fragrant riot, while in the herb-and-vegetable garden nearby an aged man laboured, more or less diligently, with a hoe—that is to say, whenever the trowel was at work the hoe was idle, serving its user as a prop, but the instant busy trowel paused or stately head turned hoe-wards that implement was as instantly at work.

“Jabez!” said Mistress Isabel, sitting back on her heels (though with dignity). “Jabez!”

“Ay, marm?” replied the sturdy aged one, dabbing at perfectly cool brow with vivid bandanna handkerchief. “Ay ay, Miss Belle?”

“Saint Mark, Jabez, has just struck the half after four. So you in and bid Betty set on the kettle for tea.”

“Ay ay, Miss Belle!” said he, saluting with the hoe as if it had been a boarding-pike, like the old man-o’-war’s man he was, then, taking three paces cottagewards, he set hand to mouth and bellowed:

“Oho, Bet—Betty ahoy! Set on kettle f’ tay. Miss Belle’s orders, so jump to it, lass.”

“Drat the man!” exclaimed Miss Isabel, rising (with grace) to shake her trowel at him (with superb gesture). “I could have done that myself.”

“Done wot, marm?”

“Shouted, man, shouted.”

“No, marm, not you, Miss Belle; being only a lady-ooman ee could ha’ done no more than squeal like——”

“Squeal?” she repeated indignantly. “I couldn’t, I shouldn’t, and wouldn’t.”

“Ay, but ee would, I tell ee, accordin to natur, marm, you bein’ only femmy-nine, Miss Belle. And sich bein’ so, so it be and——”

“Oh, get back to your hoeing! And finish that patch or no tea, not a drop!”

“Lordy, Miss Belle, and me that old, and on-common dry, a’ the day so perishin’ ’ot——”

“And yourself so comfortably cool, Jabez! So put away that dreadful bandanna thing and hoe, Jabez, hoe!”

“With a-yo-heave-ho and a rumbelow and a heave, my mariners all O!” cried a joyful voice, and over the wicket-gate leapt George. He tossed his hat at old Jabez (who caught it with a sailorman’s dexterity), and, clasping Miss Isabel in those powerful arms of his, whirled her lightly aloft—transforming this stately and somewhat formidable lady into mere feminine creature, pleading for release. So, as lightly, George set her down, saying to old Jabez:

“Toss me my dicer, old Heartofoak!” The chuckling aged one obeyed. George caught the hat, put it on that he might take it off with prodigious flourish to salute his aunt with ceremonious bow and the words:

“Dear Aunt Isabel, who so truly is a belle, you behold in me a youngish gent whose foot is now firmly planted on the metaphorical ladder! For, madam, Mr. George Bell of the very old and greatly respected firm of Attorneys at Law, namely and to wit, Messrs. Jackman, Son, and Bell, humbly and gratefully makes you his acknowledgments of all your past care and inspiring faith in him and——”

“George!” she cried, forgetting (almost) to be dignified. “Oh, George ... my dear ... do you mean ... can it be ... what do you mean?”

“That Mr. Jackman, bless his heart, has this very day made me his partner and, as such, has introduced me to one of our wealthiest and most important clients, the Earl of Ravenhurst, no less! And all this I owe to you and your constant faith in me and belief in my success. So, Aunt Isabel ... you are my mother, father, sister and brother, my one and only family—come and be kissed!” And kissed she was until her sun-bonnet, more rumpled than ever, fell back and her handsome, usually austere features aglow and gentled by love and radiant happiness. And now out from kitchen window came Betty’s mob-capped head to enquire:

“Will ee have tea inside or out, Miss Belle?”

“Inside, of course!” laughed George. “But outside and here, Bet, under old Tom,” and he gestured towards a certain gnarled old pear tree whose wide branches made a pleasant shade. “Hold hard, Bet, and I’ll bear a hand with the tray and out through the casement with it. Aha, plenty of bread and butter, I see—good!”

Thus presently down they sat, aunt and nephew, at rustic table and on rustic chairs made by George’s capable hands. And, now performing with the teapot, aunt demanded of nephew:

“Now, George, tell me about everything—especially the Earl.”

“The Earl?” repeated George, forgetting to eat. “The Earl is an anomaly, Aunt, an absolute self-contradiction ... all outward feebleness and inward strength! Hair white as snow but an eye of fire! Face unnaturally pale, smooth and unwrinkled and of serenity that is rather awful because it never seems to change except when he smiles—faintly and when least expected! A tottery form bowed and feeble—yet with the shoulders, arms and hands of a Hercules! A voice pitiably weak to sue or plead or softly deep to suddenly command. Ay, by Jupiter, he is the most powerfully feeble, compellingly young-old man imaginable! And, Aunt—he does not like me.”

“Oh, and why not, pray?”

“Probably because he sensed my instant dislike of him; he’s so confoundingly quick and sharp.”

“And why did you dislike him so instantly?”

“Yes, I’m wondering at this myself, for I have no idea. Ah, and this reminds me—the last thing he did was to peer up at me with those surprisingly keen eyes of his and remark upon this crooked finger of mine. Then, and before I could reply, he nodded, smiled, and said: ‘Ah yes, I see.’ ”

“Now that,” said Miss Isabel, setting down her cup with unwonted clatter, “that was—extremely odd.”

“So I thought, Aunt, but then, as I tell you, he is an extremely odd person.... And now I must tell you about the skeleton!” This George did so vividly and with such detail that his aunt quite forgot to drink her tea.

“A dreadful story!” she sighed, when the relation was ended. “Very harrowing and quite heart-breaking.... To think of that poor, dying man kissing his young wife’s portrait with his last strength! Ah well, his agony ended long since and he is reunited with his beloved these many years, I pray God!”

“Amen!” said George reverently.

After this they were silent some while until, as Miss Isabel refilled his cup, George said:

“By the way, the Earl informed us that he intends residing at Ravenhurst at least for the summer though he also said he detested the place. I wonder why?”

“Perhaps because our village is such a very quiet, drowsy place.”

“And that’s why I love it, my dear.”

“So do I, George, and always shall.”

“I have always thought the house such a splendid place, especially the old part with its battlements and tower, though pretty grim, of course.”

“Yes, George, that is the horrid part; a frightful place, a—perfect nightmare—full of dark corners and grim passages that echo, and dungeons! Yes, and one dreadful place called an oubliette with neither door nor window—only a hole above through which miserable prisoners were dropped to die in the dark and be forgotten; that’s why those nasty French name such horrors oubliettes! I was shown over the place when I was a girl and dreamed of it for weeks after.”

“Oubliette!” George repeated. “Oublier—to forget, out of mind and recollection ... a place of darkness to die in and be forgotten. It sounds most infernally unpleasant.”

“Yes, George, ghastly. But that sort of fiendish cruelty ended long ago, thank God!”

“And yet there are fools who talk of the ‘good old times’! Well, they can have ’em! These are the times for me—to sit and drink tea in such lovely garden with an aunt lovely as her flowers—and, ’pon my life, you are uncommon handsome, Aunt Belle!”

“George, don’t be silly!”

“The wonder is you have never married. I know you refused my good old Jackman, and there were others, the Reverend Aeneas, and——”

“George, do not be a fool! Pray hold your tongue or change the subject.”

“Handsomest of aunts, I hear and obey, thus. At about three o’clock this very afternoon I beheld the most beautiful and most unlovely creature I have ever seen!”

“Ho!” exclaimed Miss Isabel, cup arrested at shapely mouth. “That of course, means a lady.”

“Who scowls like a thundercloud and curses like any tarry sailor man or pipeclayed dragoon!”

“Then, just as ‘of course’ she is no lady!”

“And her ridiculous name is Clytie Moor.”

“I consider that a pretty name, George.”

“And she looked down her beautiful nose at me quite frequently with the utmost scorn, not to say contempt!”

“And you at her with the eyes of an adoring sheep, eh, George?”

“No how!” he answered in the Sussex idiom. “No wise nor no when, m’dear. Mislikes she I did, dracky-minute and no question. ’Er be no wench for the loikes of I, none whatever, no! In a word, Aunt Belle, she revolted me.”

“And no wonder—if she really swears.”

“And curse, quite trippingly, Aunt, as to the manner born, though in accents soft and lusciously sweet!” said George, frowning at the tea in his cup.

“Moor?” his aunt repeated, pondering the name. “I have no recollection of the name.”

“But you knew the Earl quite well, didn’t you, Aunt?”

“Years and years ago when I was a child.”

“Dear Aunt Methuselah!” laughed George. “What was he like in those dim, distant times?”

“Very different from the poor invalid you describe, my dear!”

“How so, Aunt Belle?”

“He was very handsome, black-haired, immensely strong and the gayest of companions. Your grandfather and he were intimate friends—they used to ride and hunt together, and what horsemen they were!”

“He sounds a grand sort of fellow, Aunt!”

“And he was indeed; a splendid man, George. Your dear mother and I simply adored him for the truly noble man he was, by nature as by birth.”

“Yes,” George nodded, “he must have been the right sort or Grandfather Standish would never have suffered his friendship.”

“But today,” sighed Miss Isabel, “according to your description, the years have sadly changed him!”

“They have indeed, Aunt.”

“I suppose, since the Earl intends to reside here, you will renew your friendship with his son, the young Viscount. You knew each other at Cambridge, didn’t you?”

“More or less, my dear, but he, being progeny of an earl, blue blood and what not, moved in a sphere remote from mine, coaching and wine parties, hunting, cards, and so on. Besides, I was usually pretty hard at work—like the almost too virtuous soul I am. And so I——”

“Contrived to find time to have your nice Greek nose broken; such a very nice, straight nose, George.”

“However,” said he, feeling this feature thoughtfully, “now, instead of Greek it’s slightly Roman, thanks to Jessamy Todd——”

“The brutal wretch! Who is he?”

“Aunt!” exclaimed George, in shocked accents. “Jessamy is the champion of all England and never beaten!”

“Then he ought to be—soundly, of course!”

“And, my dear, Jessamy is my friend.”

“And as a mark of friendship—spoils your nose!”

“My own fault entirely. I had just stopped and, yes, by Jupiter—staggered him beautifully with a perfectly lovely left, so in I went for a finisher and, e’gad, I got it—took his right counter fair and square on the trumpet!”

“Trumpet, George?”

“Nose, my blessed innocent, my beak, breezer or claret-jug! Those are some of the synonyms, but also we have snitch——”

“Cease, George! You become odiously vulgar! Tell me, instead, what the highly respected firm of Jackman, Son—and Bell propose doing in the interests of the unknown legal heir.”

“Writing instructions to our agents in America, New York and Boston, to search all church registers—births, marriages and deaths——” Here Miss Isabel shivered so violently that George exclaimed in sudden anxiety: “Good lord! Aunt, and what’s the matter? My dear, are you cold—and chill? And the sun so warm! Have you a chill?”

“No—yes!” she answered, glancing, almost fearfully, over her shoulder. “It was as though ... a ghostly hand ... touched my heart! I ... I am haunted by the thought of ... poor, young Earl Philip ... dying ... with his lips upon his wife’s portrait! And ... that poor wife, the mother with her baby, her little son and heir! What of them, I wonder?”

“Ay, what indeed?” repeated George gloomily. “This is for us to discover, though I doubt if we ever shall. Mr. Jackman has engaged the man Shrig, but what can he do—after this lapse of time? Little enough. And I am deputed to act with him, but what can I do? Even less. Oh, a confoundingly confounded, hopeless task it will be!”

“However, George, I shall pray God’s blessing on your efforts for the sake of that little helpless baby.”

“Who by this time, Aunt, will be a man of thirty years old, or thereabout—if he is yet alive. But enough of this!” said he, rising to proffer his arm with elaborate bow. “Come, madam, my Belle Aunt, pray take a stroll with Mr. Bell of Jackman, Son—and—Bell! Let us ramble amid the onions, yes, and see if perchance the beans we planted are showing ever a bean yet.”

Smiling, Miss Isabel rose, and, slipping that very capable hand of hers within his arm, away they paced together through this sunny, fragrant garden, talking and laughing now, as was their happy wont; for how should they know of those strange and terrible events that were to beset them ere the year was out, troubles and perils engendered—of rags and bones and a small, gold locket?

Surely it is a wise and gentle Providence whose beneficent fiat is: “sufficient unto the day ...” O children of Earth, be happy while ye may; make faith and hope your companions upon life’s toilsome journey, for these are the Angels of God.