Читать книгу The Way Beyond - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 20

For some time after his son had departed, the Earl sat staring blankly down at the remains of his shattered wine glass; indeed these glittering fragments seemed to fascinate him, for with his gaze still fixed there, he groped for the silver table-bell and rang it; nor did he so much as glance up when the door opened but merely bade the bowing footman:

"Send Clipsby to me."

And presently the door opened again, closed softly, soft footsteps crossed the floor and a voice murmured:

"Yes, my lord?" Then the Earl raised large head with a jerk, sat back in his chair and surveyed that which stood before him; a lank shape neither tall nor short, nor dark nor fair and with form and features so altogether nondescript and unremarkable, a creature so superlatively negative from head to foot as to be almost a nonentity garbed in sober black.

"You may sit down, Clipsby." Pale eyes flickered and a chair became occupied.

"Wine, Clipsby,—help yourself." The decanter tilted wine into a glass, and the glass was lifted to a pale, thin-lipped mouth.

"Now in regard to this girl, Clipsby. Tell me again. You saw her with young Vibart, you heard her agree to elope with him—hey?"

"On Thursday next, my lord."

"Well, Thursday shan't serve, Thursday's not soon enough. Iford, the crass fool, means to cut in before-hand and marry her himself, and if he does, young Vibart will probably shoot him. Well, such a marriage won't serve me, Clipsby, and—damn him,—I don't want him shot for the same reason. So this fool marriage must not and shall not be, d'ya hear?"

"If your lordship so says then it probably won't be."

"Ha, damme, it shan't be! We must take a hand in this precious game, Clipsby. I must play Providence and rearrange these your lives.... Two puppies snarling over luscious tit-bit,—along comes the old dog ... snap! And away with the dainty morsel,—ha!"

"Your lordship's metaphor is apt."

"Well now, see here, Clipsby—draw closer! This same tempting piece o' womanhood, this coy Prudery must be tamed, her prideful virtue humbled, ah, so humbled that she must hide herself from eyes censorious, more especially the doating sheep's-eyes of her two adoring swains young Vibart and Iford, damn him! She, thus disposed of, these two fool lads having duly mourned their fallen and vanished divinity, shall presently become amenable to their several fathers' wills, especially my damned fool Iford, hey, Clipsby?"

"Having regard to Miss Bellenden's very considerable fortune, my lord?"

"Precisely. And the scheme promises, we must act at once, you and I. You will therefore——"

"I, my lord? You ... mean...?"

"Exactly! We must use the Abbey again for a night or so."

A gasping murmur:

"Not that, my lord ... no—no!" And now a babble of sibilant, horrified whispering: "Ah, not again! Never again! Your lordship promised me! No no, I cannot! I will not!"

"Silence, ya fool! This is business! And, what's more——"

"No, no—I will not ... I cannot!"

"Ah, but ya will! And with the same secrecy and whole-hearted devotion as before, eh Clipsby?"

"You promised, Abbeymere. You swore an oath ... and ... I ... cannot."

"Well, ya know the alternative? I see ya do. Death is always unpleasant, Clipsby, but more especially when—it is made a public function, ha?" Two thin tremulous hands clasped and wrung each other, a whispering voice spoke:

"Years and years of agonized remorse ... years and years of faithful service ... acts committed that are shame to recall! These should earn respite ... even for me."

"They shall, Clipsby, they shall! This once more and, though I shall grieve ya loss, you shall go, ay and with a noble competence."

"The same answer ... always ... always the same!"

"That little chamber in the Abbey ruins beside the mere, egad, we haven't used it for years! How long since that last happy occasion?" The whispering voice gasped:

"Six!"

"So long, hey! Well, to-morrow early, or, better, to-night, make it habitable as possible."

"Oh, my lord Abbeymere, show mercy! She is ... so different."

"Tush, ye fool! She shall come to no real harm. But to-morrow she must disappear, vanish,—until she elect to fly away on the wings o' shame—yet harmed only in her mock-modest self-esteem and proud virtue. Well now, another glass o' wine? No? Then help me to bed."