Читать книгу The Way Beyond - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 6

And thus it was that Mr. Mordaunt, warned by gentle rap on the door, hastily covered up "The Epic Amoroso" and rose to bow as "she who walked in beauty" walked into the room.

"Oh, Charles," she whispered, slim finger on roguish-smiling lip, "I observe Sir Peter so very busy that I dare to think he will not need you for a little while so—fly, Charles, fly!"

And when Mr. Mordaunt had sighed, bowed and gone, Charmian proceeded to twist her sleeping husband's dark hair into conical spikes (what she called "wig-wams") until he stirred, sighed, opened his eyes and sitting up, very hastily, looked at her rather guiltily.

"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "Amazing! I believe I almost dozed——"

"Slumbered, Peter, slept like a great, big, beautiful innocent baby." Sir Peter, becoming aware of the "wigwams," smoothed them out, frowned, laughed and, drawing her upon his knee, kissed her:

"What a child you are!" said he. "And good Lord—woman, how I love you!"

"Which is only to be expected," she laughed, yet looking at him very tenderly, "and quite as it should be seeing I am your wife and very wedded spouse.... But come now, walk me out into the garden, I love sunshine!"

"With all my heart!" he answered, reaching her his hand. So forth they went strolling together along broad terrace and down the steps, by trim and winding walks, across smooth lawns, beneath the shade of great old trees, on and on until they reached a bowery arbour.

"I have sometimes wondered," said Sir Peter as they sat down together, "indeed I have pondered frequently upon that very inexplicable assault on me in Paris."

"Paris?" repeated my lady, looking at him beneath lifted brows. "Why that was ages since."

"Not quite twelve months," he answered, taking himself by the chin. "God bless us, how time flits!"

"It flies, Peter! It rushes, gallops—oh, hatefully!"

"But what so greatly puzzles me," he continued, "is to determine the reason why I was seized and carried off in such a very——"

"Undignified manner, Peter?"

"No, I was about to say—such a highly mysterious fashion, my dear."

"Why, Paris swarms with thieves and robbers."

"Yet these rascals stole nothing, not even my fob-seals."

"Mm—yes," murmured Charmian, viewing him askance, "that was a mistake——"

"A ... mistake?" exclaimed Sir Peter, turning to look his surprise, "A mis——"

"Why, of course, Peter, that robbers should not rob is so very surprising,—and this reminds me! What were you saying to Richard this morning, out there on the terrace?"

"But, Charmian I——"

"Indeed, you looked so preternaturally parental and poor Richard so miserably self-conscious that I am naturally curious to know why."

"Well, my dear," answered Sir Peter, a little ponderously, "I took occasion to touch upon my wishes for his future, that he should think seriously of settling down and——"

"Not marrying?" she enquired. "Of course, you never mentioned the word 'marriage'?"

"Certainly. I said that I hoped he would marry thus early because——"

"Oh, Peter! But you didn't, ah you didn't say who——"

"'Whom', my dear soul, the pronoun being in the objective——"

"Oh, drat your grammar! However, you have probably quite ruined all our plans and spoilt things——"

"Spoilt things?" repeated Sir Peter, amazed and a little shocked. "Now, my dear, is it likely?"

"Very! You are sometimes so exactly like a bull in a china shop."

"A ... bull?" exclaimed Sir Peter.

"Yes!" she nodded. "A bull! A very stately bull, but a bull! For instance, you didn't tell the dear boy that I had made up my mind—I mean that we were determined he should be married early next year?"

"Certainly not!"

"And you didn't so much as hint who—no, whom I—we—had chosen for him?"

"Why ... to be sure ... now you mention it," answered Sir Peter, taking up a book and putting it carefully down again, "I did, and I think very naturally, mention——"

"Not Rosamond? Oh, gracious, merciful heavens! Not Rosamond Beverley?"

"Why, yes," answered Sir Peter, eyeing his lady very much askance, "I did, my dear. To be sure I did. And pray why the expletive?" Now at this, Charmian folded her shapely hands, sighed deeply, shook her head and surveyed Sir Peter beneath wrinkled brows and yet more in resigned sorrow than petulant anger; meeting which look, Sir Peter stirred, rather uneasily, and began to rub at his clean-shaven chin.

"And so," she murmured at last, "our poor, dear bull in his stately bullishness has positively wrecked all the china!"

"But ... my dear...."

"As I say, Peter, you have jeopardised our scheme, yes, beyond all hope. Can you remember exactly what you said?"

"Well, I told him——"

"Your exact words, Peterdear."

"Then, so far as I remember, they were these: 'Richard,' said I, 'may I suggest that as regards beauty, rank and disposition you could do no better than pay your addresses to my old friend Beverley's daughter Rosamond——'"

"Yes, my poor Peter. And what said our Richard?"

"To be frank I hardly noticed."

"Of course, you continued to expatiate on poor Rosamond's many attractions?"

"Yes, to be sure I did——"

"And with every word you uttered, my dear blind, blundering wretch, you damned Rosamond's chances fatally, hopelessly——"

"Eh? Damned? Dear me, Charmian—damned, do you say? Tut, tut."

"It's no use tutting at me, Peter. You have played the ponderous parent so effectively that you have quite, oh quite ruined any chance of this marriage."

"But how?" demanded Sir Peter, starting up from his chair. "Charmian, in the blessed name of Reason,—how?"

"Well, for one thing," she sighed, "I understand this son of ours so well——"

"Yes, but so do I. Heavens alive, Charmian, so do I!"

"Of course, Peterdear, but—only as a father, and no mere father can ever possibly know a son so surely as his mother can. Now had you not meddled——"

"Meddled? Good heavens."

"Meddled, Peter, I would have had them married almost before they knew it. Yes, Richard should have wooed the sweet child to please himself, or imagined so, and not in obedience to any stern parental mandate. As it is——" Charmian sighed and shook her head at him.

"But ... confound it all——"

"Yes, indeed, Peter, you have confounded all beyond recovery. Richard will never marry Rosamond Beverley now."

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Sir Peter, a little wildly. "Did we not agree that Rosamond is altogether suited,—an unexceptional match? Didn't we?"

"We did, Peter, but Richard didn't and—won't!"

"And why not, pray?"

"Because he is our son——"

"Exactly! And shall therefore obey us. There is such a virtue as filial piety, a son's duty to his parents and I,—I am his father——"

"Oh, dear heart," sighed Charmian dolefully, "that's what troubles me——"

"Eh? Troubles you?" Sir Peter nearly gasped.

"Yes, Peter. Because, you see, Richard is so dreadfully like—both of us. And you were always so frightfully dogged, so serenely unshakable, so sedately determined and politely—unreasonable. And I, though tenderly mild, Peter, and so very sweetly meek and gentle, am not altogether destitute of a quite ferocious will——" Here Sir Peter chuckled, laughed and clasped long arm about the lovely speaker.

"You?" he laughed. "On my soul, you are as meek as a thunderstorm and ferocious as a dove—as gentle as a tiger——"

"But resolute as you are, Peter. So it is only to be expected our Richard must be determined as you and wilful as I am, to choose his own course and pursue it fearless of consequences."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Peter, frowning. "However, he shall not thwart our wishes——"

"Oh, he won't, my dear, he won't," said Charmian, "you see I have changed my mind."

"Eh? Changed your mind? How ... what——" said Sir Peter in bewilderment.

"Oh, about Rosamond Beverley. I am sure she is not the wife for Richard ... entirely unsuited in every way, Peter."

"Not the wife ... unsuited——"

"Perfectly, Peter."

"But ... but, good Heaven, it was you suggested——"

"Well, I've changed my mind."

"Astounding!" he exclaimed. "Amazing!"

"But true, Peterdear. And, as for Richard, soon he will be of age and must inherit all Sir Richard Anstruther's money ... he will be a rich man, in one little year, Peter!"

"None the less, Charmian, so long as I am his father——" Sir Peter arose and, becoming his stateliest self, held forth at some length and in what Charmian called his "ponderously paternal manner"; whereat she instantly yawned behind a finger; and then towards them came a rhythmic jingle faintly suggestive of spurs, rattling sabres and clinking mail, which martial sound heralded the approach of Miss Janet herself, striding martially upright, being armed with large scissors and a basket abrim with fresh-cut flowers; to her my lady now signalled, and of course wholly unperceived by Sir Peter, who stopped short in the middle of a rolling (and very paternal) period as into the arbour marched Miss Janet jingling like a heavy dragoon by reason of the large, silver chatelaine belted about her frame.

"What and are ye here?" she demanded. "Now what I'll ask the baith o' ye is——"

She stopped suddenly. Charmian clenched her white fingers upon her husband's arm, for upon the warm, still air was clatter of approaching horse-hoofs.

"Peter, who comes, I wonder?"

"Some visitor or messenger. But why that look, dear soul?"

"Don't you remember the last time we walked here and a messenger came galloping? Let us meet—whoever it is."

Stepping out into the broad avenue they beheld a horseman in smart livery who, touching hat to them, drew rein and tendered Sir Peter a letter.

"From my lord the Earl of Abbeymere, sir,—and no answer," said the messenger, and touching his hat again, rode away.

"Now I wonder," quoth Sir Peter, scowling at the letter, "I wonder what Abbeymere can be writing about?"

"Probably something unneighbourly," sighed Charmian; "that hateful right of way, or the poacher you refused to prosecute."

Sir Peter nodded:

"Tom Lethbridge,—the likeable rascal!"

"But he has a very bad name, Peter, and he is a poacher, isn't he?"

"Undoubtedly! But then so were we, once upon a time. At least we used to eat the lady Sophia Sefton's rabbits, you and I, my dear."

"Those dear, wonderful days!" sighed Charmian. "Our little cottage in the Hollow, Peter!"

"Ay," snorted Miss Janet, "you there making love tae your Peterman and I in London breakin' my puir heart and fair crazed wi' anxiety."

"But I didn't make love to my Peterman, Janet. Or at least if I did he was quite too deaf and blind and never saw or heard until he had to."

"Had to?" enquired Sir Peter, rubbing his chin. "I fear I don't apprehend."

"Well then, Peter, until your love for me and Black George's cudgel drove you nearly mad, my poor dear, and then of course I had to flaunt my love in your face and—marry you."

"And upon my soul," sighed Sir Peter, "that was a pretty grim fight, a truly desperate encounter! ... A splendid man was George ... poor old fellow ... so lonely these days!"

"And you wrote so beautifully of me!" sighed Charmian. "So beautifully, and some of it very nearly true."

"It was all true, Charmian, if you allude to the Broad Highway. I wrote with a youthful pen and from a full heart, and with the utmost sincerity. Yes,—it was all true."

"Oh but, Peter! I was never such a sugary prude as you described me, I mean when you lay bleeding in my arms almost battered to death after your fight with Black George. Why, I kissed you back to life, Peter, and told you I loved you. And yet when you wrote of it you made me such hateful wretch that I always yearn to tear out that page whenever I read it, oh you make me quite a loathsome creature!"

"Surely not, my dear."

"But you do, sir. Pray have you deigned to read my novel since you wrote it ... just before we were married, have you?"

"Only once, a great while ago."

"Well, when you lay there between life and death, first—according to you—my eyes 'scorched you with virgin shame' (how frightful!) then you make me say: 'And I thought Mr. Vibart was a man of honour, like a knight of old-time romances, high and chivalrous!'—such dithering nonsense, Peter, and you only just kissed back to life!"

"I only wrote as I remembered, Charmian dear."

"Then your memory was entirely wrong. But no wonder, for that awful blow on the head quite deranged you for a time, you were ill and strange for a long while."

"However, my Charmian, you did bring me back to life, a greater and better life than I had ever dreamed."

"For that, of course, I must kiss you!" she laughed yet with a glory in her eyes, and did so forthwith. "And anyway I love the book for your sake, Peter. Besides it describes me very perfectly on all the other pages, indeed it's a lovely novel, isn't it, Janet?"

"Aweel," answered Miss Janet, jingling, "though it mebbe no juist pairfect, I like it vera weel ... here and there."

"Someday, Peter, I want you to write me another book about our Richard and you and me, of course, and Janet."

"Heaven forbid!" he answered, fervently.

"Though first you must re-write those pages of the Broad Highway that were mislaid, the part telling exactly how Black George escaped and about the Beverleys."

"I might do that," sighed Sir Peter, "could I but find that prancing pen of my youth.... And, good Lord, here I am with Abbeymere's letter still unopened."

"Oh then read the thing and tear it up! Let us sit in the shade yonder." And presently Sir Peter unfolded the letter, read it once and scowled, read it again and actually swore, whereat Miss Janet jingled instant reproof and Charmian looked inquiry.

"I say damn the fellow!"

"Certainly, Peterdear, but why?"

Sir Peter crumpled the letter in scornful hand, smoothed it contemptuously and read this:

"'MY DEAR VIBART. It may interest you to learn that your son Richard is concerned in a (probably vulgar) intrigue with one of my sister Lady Bedingham's domestics. Alas, these young bloods! And yet the lad has judgement, for the she in question is a young, prime piece, a rarely handsome creature to stir the pulses of any male. You may surprise them of a Monday afternoon or Saturday evening in Fallowdean Copse.

Yours in reasonable amity,

ABBEYMERE.'"

Now in this very instant while Sir Peter scowled blackly at this screed, Charmian glanced swiftly askance at Miss Janet who returned the look and in the eyes of each something very like dismay.

"Man's a liar, of course!" quoth Sir Peter, thrusting the letter into his pocket.

"An odious wretch!" nodded Charmian.

"And to-day," mused Sir Peter, gazing down at his immaculately shod feet, "to-day is Monday——"

"Oh, but Peter—my dear," said my lady, glancing at his grim visage almost apprehensively, "you would never stoop to spy upon your own son,—you!"

"God forbid! But where is Richard?"

"Well, it's just possible he rode over to see the Beverleys, eh, Janet?"

"Ou ay, it's juist possible."

"Or the Vane-Temperleys. However, tear up that vile letter and forget about it, my dear heart."

"Why, yes," said Sir Peter, kissing her suddenly and rising with a certain very youthful alacrity, "I shall certainly go and destroy it at once."

"Go?" repeated Charmian. "Go where? Now, Peter, what do you mean?"

"That Abbeymere shall watch me do it," answered Sir Peter, in voice grim as his look. Then away he strode light of foot and with head blithely aloft and yet with such stern resolution in every line of his stately figure that Charmian, rising to follow, sat down again and opening her lips to call him back, sighed instead.

"Oh, Janet, these men of mine! These wayward boys!"

"Ay!" nodded Miss Janet, with a snap of her scissors. "Men are nae mair than grown-up bairns and unco wilfu'."

"Mine are, Janet, and always in mischief, it seems. For ever after something to win and conquer, something with strife and danger in it. I suppose it's their nature ... and mine to worry and scheme for their safety ... weave counter-plots.... Well this is better than gaping over a novel or yawning over a tambour-frame. But now, Janet, this hateful letter, my Richard ... what do you think?"

Miss Janet merely jingled.

"A vulgar intrigue, Janet! The suggestion is odious as the detestable writer."

"Ay, it is that."

"And ... oh Janet ... a domestic!"

"But ... vera beautiful, forby!"

"No, my dear, the hateful words were something about a prime piece, a handsome creature ... the phrasing stamps the Earl for the vile wretch scandal paints him."

"Umph-humph!" quoth Miss Janet, jingling accord: after which they sat awhile in silent, troubled revery.

"My dear," said Charmian at last suddenly, "what are you thinking?"

"That Richard is vera young, vera high-spirited——"

"But you don't,—you never can think this vile slander true? Remember he is my boy, he is Peter's son."

"Ay! And ye're neither o' ye icicles, m'dear!"

"Then,—oh you do believe——"

"No harm of the dear laddie, Charmian. Na, na, I'm juist wonderin'."

"What, Janet dear, what?"

"Aweel, whaur he gangs riding every Monday afternoon and Saturday evening,—where? And why?"

"Yes, my dear," nodded Charmian, setting dimpled chin. "I'm wondering this so much that he shall tell me—to-night."