Читать книгу The 'Piping Times' - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 5

Table of Contents

“TOM.”

Having perused this missive heedfully, and added a comma here and there, Justin (known henceforth as Tom) folded, enveloped, superscribed it, and went to be rid of it.

Across a wide and lofty hall against whose aged walls ancient weapons gleamed, with knightly figures ranked below in burnished, glittering splendour; along a broad, arched passage, arras-hung and deep-carpeted, and so to a certain door. Here Tom paused, for this was the door of his father’s study, sanctum sanctorum, which from earliest boyhood had inspired trepidation and awed discomfort. So Tom paused, then opening this door, found himself looking into the deep-set, quizzical eyes of one whose sombre though well-cut garments moulded a lithely powerful form as he rose from the great desk where he had been writing.

“Oh,” said Tom, hesitating on the threshold, “how do? You are Mr. Timkins, of course, the Governor’s man of affairs and so on—what?”

“His private secretary, my lord. Were you looking for the Earl?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, no. I rather thought he was away.”

“He returned late last night, my lord.”

“Did he though, b’George! Then I suppose he’ll be hovering in the vicinity,—knocking about in the immediate neighbourhood?”

“In the library, my lord. Shall I inform him you desire to see him?”

“Thanks—no! Oh no, rather not! What I mean to say is, absolutely no! The August Sire and myself are not exactly at one just at present, we don’t see precisely eye to eye, and so forth. Therefore, calling to mind the jolly old maxim ‘least said’ and what not, I have performed with the pen—this letter, which pray be good enough to deliver to His High Nobility in—say half an hour.”

“Certainly, my lord. You are home for good, I believe?”

“Yes. But this great place, garrisoned with hosts of servants and what-nots, most of ’em strange faces, is scarcely a nest of cosy, heart-warming domesticity, too dashed ancestral and so forth, loads too much of what doesn’t matter and nothing of what does, if you know what I mean?”

“My lord, of course I do.”

“Oh?” enquired Tom, struck by the speaker’s change of tone and look. “Do you? I wonder!”

“Shall I tell your lordship?”

“If you can.”

“You have never had—a home, my lord.”

“Ex—actly!” quoth Tom, fervently. “By Jingo, that’s the fact! Timkins, you become such an understanding sort of bloke I wish we’d known each other better. For though I’ve seen you about, off and on, since I was a somewhat scaly urchin, we’ve never got together, you were always such a bird of passage, hither and yon,—here to-day and gone to-morrow.”

“Yes, my lord. I have always been much occupied——”

“Like my Right Honourable, Lordly Sire!” said Tom, almost bitterly. “While I grew up the best I might, into what I am. Oh well——”

“Quite well!” murmured his hearer. “You won the Inter-University Boxing Championship.”

“Just about,—though I took a bit of a hammering,” sighed Tom, feeling ear and nose reminiscently. “I have at least acquired a pretty straight left, and in my right a perfectly good punch—when it lands. Well, now, I’ll be toddling, leaving this epistle to be handed to The Lordly One in half an hour—no, we’d better make it three-quarters.”

“Is your lordship going out?”

“Somewhat. A stroll or spin on my newest bicycle,—sixty-two inch, ball instead of roller bearings, nine-inch cranks, and marvellous sprung saddle—all built to my own designs.”

“I wish you an enjoyable ride.”

“Thanks, and ta-ta!”

So saying, away strode Tom, back across echoing hall, up vast, wide stairway and so to his own many-windowed room, here to prepare for the road.

Thus presently, Justin, Viscount Merivale, stood equipped, and in the then prevailing mode; that is to say he wore a cap peaked fore and aft, with ear-flaps tied in a bow across the crown, a belted Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, stockings, highland gaiters of box-cloth, and brown, sharp-toed shoes.

Thus attired, he descended the great stairway with a certain nimble stealth—only to see his father in the act of reading his letter.

Gawain Wade-Orrington, Earl of Abbey-Merivale, contrived to look all that Imagination could possibly expect,—tall, of commanding presence and immaculately correct from satin four-in-hand cravat to gleaming patent-leathers; a morning coat (cutaway) fitted his slenderness with scarcely a wrinkle, his ‘inexpressibles’ of chastely minute shepherd’s plaid, cut fashionably narrow, gave restrained expression to ‘limbs’ sufficiently muscular, while his leanly-handsome face, monocled and moustached, was of a placid, plain serenity that betrayed no expression whatever.

“Oh now confound it!” murmured Tom.

The Earl glanced at his son beneath slightly-cocked eyebrow and, beckoning with slim finger, led him into the library, a stately chamber as austere and correct as himself.

“Merivale,” said he, in voice pleasantly modulated, “you may close the door and be seated.”

“Why, sir, as a matter of fact I’d rather not, if you know what I mean. I had hoped to avoid all or any explanations and what not.”

“Nor is there the least need, my dear Merivale; your letter is sufficiently eloquent, quite remarkably so. I would merely ask a few questions excusable under the circumstances, I dare to think. As, for instance—just how do you propose to—ah—‘front Destiny unaided and alone’?”

“As best I may, sir.”

“Then you will probably starve.”

“Rather that, sir, than remain a pampered do-nothing, a dutiful slave and what not, subservient to a father’s arrogant will.”

“An admirable sentiment, Merivale, quite heroic! Consequently I am happy to accord you my permission to starve yourself into a do-something, if possible. For indeed you have never achieved anything hitherto, either scholastically or in the field of sport. How do you explain this?”

“I don’t, sir, except perhaps by the handicap of a father whose achievements in both—overwhelm me.”

The Earl’s slender brows twitched, he made a slight, though deprecating, gesture with one slender hand.

“A quite unworthy excuse!” he murmured.

“Oh quite, sir!” Tom agreed. “But I could think of none better.”

“Which argues a singular barrenness of invention, Merivale.”

“Sir, it grieves me to admit to such gifted parent that I am not clever.”

“Nor do your looks favour you, Merivale.”

“Alas, no, sir! But if anyone is to blame for my tow-coloured hair and eyelashes and too craggy person, it is my begetter, surely. However, my twenty-odd years have made me quite familiar with my too-evident paucity of charm—which must naturally strike you very forcibly since you have noticed me so seldom, being my father, that we are scarcely acquainted.”

“Which, my dear Merivale, sounds quite preposterous, and yet has a measure of truth. For indeed, what with your schools, college and university and my own very many duties, we certainly know less of each other than our relationship presupposes, though, even as a child, you manifested no least filial affection towards me—your father.”

“Perhaps, sir, because I had no mother to teach——” Tom checked, and opened his pale lashes wider than usual—for the Earl, placid no longer, was afoot, had crossed to the nearest window and was leaning there to gaze out at the sunny prospect of wide, richly-timbered park, though Tom noticed that his hands were clenched as in some painful spasm; yet when he spoke, his voice sounded much as usual:

“Now as regards your effusion—this!” and he flicked the open letter in his fingers, “I gather from it that your chief reason for such—not altogether respectful screed, is my desire for your engagement to the Lady Helena.”

“Sir, she is the final and ultimate straw.”

“A young lady you have never seen!”

“And shall never desire to, sir.”

“Though I have informed you she is a beauty and an heiress.”

Here, smiling impishly at his father’s stately back and nerving himself to the occasion, Tom exclaimed in shocked, reproachful accents:

“Oh, dad!”

The Earl spun round to gaze upon his son in such absolute astonishment that his eyeglass fell to dangle on its broad ribbon all unheeded, while Tom, leaning back in his chair, shook his grave head, murmuring:

“Oh, father, father! Would you afflict this poor heiress, this innocent, golden beauty with such poor thing as your own son, this sorry offspring of yours who lacks both intelligence and looks?”

The Earl’s reaction was sudden as unexpected, for back he came, and, seated at book-strewn table, handsome head on white hand, surveyed his son with new vision.

“Justin,” said he, in tone altered as his look, “now upon my soul you begin to interest me!”

“Sir,” answered Tom, “upon my life, you become almost fatherly!”

The Earl’s dark-featured gravity was brightened by a dawning smile.

“Son,” said he, gently, “talk now to your father as a son should.”

“Why then, father, permit me, first, to destroy that ... rather unfilial letter.”

“Oh dear no, Justin, this I shall keep to temper my natural pride, an antidote to vanity. Now, my son, tell me precisely what is your grievance?”

“Sir, in a word—myself.”

“Quite so, Justin, and yet—how so?”

“It is I that am the mistake!”

“In what way precisely, my son?”

“In every way! Ah, sir, I am not the son for such father! I’m nothing I should be, and everything I shouldn’t. I’m wrongly cast for the part you and Nature would have me play. Instead of lord and future earl I should be a tarry sailor, a common fo’c’sle jack, or fisherman sailing my own smack. Instead of crowded drawing-rooms, state functions and a seat in the Lords, give me freedom of the seas and open air....”

“Certainly!” said the Earl, “you shall have the yacht, she is in commission, take her, Justin, and sail her where you will.”

“Thanks frightfully, sir, but—no! She is a floating palace, and aboard her I should be your son, with everyone at my beck and call, from good old Captain Felton down. No, your grand Thespis shall never do. Look at these hands, sir, shaped and knotted like a navvy’s or a sailorman’s—what they want isn’t kid-gloved idleness, but hard work! Look at my body, so different to your own, not an elegant line anywhere! What it needs, instead of dainty linen and so forth, is to rough it in homespun or corduroy. Indeed, sir, now that you are troubling at last to talk and listen to me like a father, I do confess, and humbly, that though I have none of your aristocratic graces of person, quickness of wit or powerful mentality, I’m strong as a horse, and with a gift for making things—hammer, chisel and what not, I’m a fairly efficient carpenter. Then, of course, I know horses, and can manage ’em, I can sail a boat with anyone—and build it, too, and prefer rough sea-fishing to all your fine, niminy-piminy dry and wet fly business. In a word, sir, I am Demos, absolutely—yes, one of the lower order.”

“So!” murmured the Earl. “A jack tar, a carpenter, a fisherman and a groom! Your aspirations are certainly not high. Indeed, Justin, the more I see and hear of you, the greater is my wonder that you can be son of mine.... And yet, God help me, you are my heir, and must someday take my place!”

“But not for a very long time, I hope, sir. You are an extremely young father, and amazingly well preserved ... you can’t be more than forty-ish.”

“I am fifty-two, Justin.”

“And young for your age even so, sir. While I look every day and year of my twenty-two, and, being of such ripe age, am perfectly determined.”

“On what, pray?”

“Some active career, sir, no matter how rough. Instead of rolling on here in the lap of luxury, or kicking awkward heels in London Society as the lordly son of famous sire, I am determined to be just what I am,—an ordinary cove.”

The Earl winced slightly.

“ ‘Cove’?” he enquired.

“Meaning chap, sir, or bloke,—a fellow who must live by his own labour.”

“If it is employment you desire, Justin, there are many posts I can find for—my son.”

“Thanks, father, but he means to find one for himself.”

The Earl’s monocle was glistening beneath smooth, black eyebrow again, and with its resumption he became his usual, coldly remote self.

“Merivale,” said he, in his most austere manner, “you have, so far, proved to be my complete disappointment. Your past achievements are nil——”

“I box a bit, sir, and——”

Glittering monocle and upraised hand silenced Tom, and his father continued, gently:

“Your attainments are negligible, and your tastes distressingly low.”

“Humbly suggest—democratic, sir.”

“And may I also suggest that you refrain from interrupting. I repeat, Justin, your natural tendencies, despite birth, breeding and education, appear so inexplicably primitive that I can only regard you as a ‘throw-back,’ through a long and proud lineage, to some rude, primordial ancestor.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Tom, heartily. “By George, sir, you’ve hit it, as usual! I cast back, through eons of time, nobility, blue-blood and what not, to some jolly old woad-smeared ancestor with a stone axe, a paleolithic person pigging it in a cave or grubbing for pignuts, perfectly content and happy as a lark. Yes, sir, you are right, as ever, I’m a primordial primitive, and what’s bred in the bone, comes out in the flesh!”

“And youth,” added his father, a little grimly, “being blind as a puppy, is usually supremely selfish! As to yourself,—do you start out on your primitive career soon?”

“To-day, sir.”

“Am I permitted to know how and where?”

“Chance shall decide this, sir.”

“Might I then venture to suggest Cornwall?”

“Certainly, sir. But why Cornwall?”

“For one reason because it is quite pleasantly remote from the ‘mistake’ that is your father, and for another, because I happen to own a small, miserable property there,—a desolate place close by the sea and not far from a fishing village called Merrion. The house is a ruin, I believe, and left quite solitary because it was, or is, reputed to be haunted.”

“This,” said Tom, squaring his broad shoulders, “this sounds the very place for me, sir! A haunted ruin ... and by the sea, by Jove!”

“You could, at least, fish and carpenter, and rough it to your heart’s content.”

“Admirable!” exclaimed Tom.

“Horrible!” sighed his father.

“How may I find this place, sir?”

“Make for Falmouth or Truro, the property lies in the country between ... it is called ... Trevore.”

“And the place is quite derelict, sir?”

“Yes,” answered the Earl, speaking with an odd slowness, “the place ... is a ... desolation ... dead and ... done with.”

“Good!” nodded Tom. “Someday it shall live again, and blossom like the rose.”

“No,” said the Earl, his dark gaze down-bent, “that is impossible ... never again. Life is ... too short.”

“Why, then,” said Tom, rising, “the sooner I begin the better.”

“Ah,” murmured his father, glancing up at him with flash of monocle, “you will go to this ... desolation ... Trevore?”

“Not only go there, sir, but stay there, live there, and have a go at repair work ... if you don’t mind my pulling the old place about a bit?”

“Oh no. Shall you depart immediately?”

“That was the idea, sir.”

“By the midnight express from London?”

“No, sir, being in no least hurry, I shall ride my bicycle ... or walk—yes, that will be properest. I’ll turn tramp and trudge afoot ... by the Great West Road, the old Pilgrim Way to Glastonbury.”

“The ... Pilgrim Road, Justin, yes ... I knew it very well ... once. You have sufficient money, I presume?”

“More than enough, sir, thanks.”

“Why, then, since you choose to go—off with you, Justin ... But ... when you are tired of fooling about, come back to shoulder life’s responsibilities like a man ... and to your duty as—my son.”

Then, looking in each other’s eyes like father and son, they shook hands like strangers, and away strode Justin (called Tom) leaving the Earl gazing at the closed door with eyes now very wistful.