Читать книгу Our Admirable Betty - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 11

The Major's study, opening out of the library, was a smallish chamber, very like himself in that its appointments were simple and plain to austerity. Its furniture comprised a desk, a couple of chairs and a settee, its adornments consisted of the portrait of a gentleman in armour who scowled, a Sèvres vase full of roses set there by Mrs. Agatha, a pair of silver-mounted small-swords above the carved mantel but within easy reach, flanked by a couple of brace of handsomely mounted pistols.

Just now, table, chairs and settee had been pushed into a corner and the chamber rang with the clash and grind of vicious-darting steel where the Major and Sergeant Zebedee in stockinged-feet and shirt-sleeves, thrust and parried and lunged, bright eyes wide and watchful, lips grim-set, supple of wrist and apparently tireless of arm, the Major all lissom, graceful ease despite his limp, the Sergeant a trifle stiff but grimly business-like and deadly; a sudden fierce rally, a thrust, a lightning riposte and the Major stepped back.

"Touché!" he exclaimed, lowering his point. "'Tis a wicked thrust of yours—that in tierce, Zebedee!"

"'Twas you as taught it me, sir," answered the Sergeant, whipping his foil to the salute, "same as you taught me my letters, consequently I am bold to fight or read any man as ever drawed breath."

"You do credit to my method, Sergeant Zeb—especially that trick o' the wrist—'tis mine own and I think unique. Come again, we have another ten minutes."

Hereupon they gravely saluted each other, came to the engage and once more the place echoed to rasping steel and quick-thudding feet. It was a particularly fierce and brilliant bout, in the middle of which and quite unobserved by the combatants, the door opened and a young gentleman appeared. He was altogether a remarkable young gentleman being remarkably young, languid and gorgeous. A pale mauve coat, gold of button and rich of braid, its skirts sufficiently full and ample, seemed moulded upon his slender figure, his legs were encased in long, brown riding-boots of excellent cut and finish, furnished with jingling silver spurs, his face exactly modish of pallor, high-nosed and delicately featured, was set off by a great periwig whose glossy curls had that just and nicely-ordered disorder fashion required; in his right hand he held his hat, a looped and belaced affair, two fingers of his left were posed elegantly upon the silver hilt of his sword the brown leathern scabbard of which cocked its silver lip beneath his coat at precisely the right angle; thus, as he stood regarding the fencing bout he seemed indeed the very "glass of fashion and mould of form" and unutterably serene.

"Ha!" exclaimed the Sergeant suddenly, "clean through the gizzard, sir!" and lowering his point in turn he shook his head, "'twould ha' done my business for good an' all, sir." And it was to be noted that despite their exertions neither he nor the Major breathed overfast or seemed unduly over-heated; remarking which the young gentleman animadverted gently as follows:

"Gad, nunky mine, Gad save my poor perishing sawl how d'ye do it—ye don't blow and ye ain't sweating——"

The Major started and turned:

"What—nephew!" hastening forward to greet his visitor, "What, Pancras lad, when did you arrive?"

"Ten minutes since, sir. I strolled up from the 'George and Dragon' and left my fellows to come on with the horses and baggage. Begad, sir, 'tis a cursed fine property this, a noble heritage! Give you joy of it! Here's a change from your trooping and fighting! You grow warm, nunky, warm, eh?"

"'Tis a great change, nephew, and most unexpected. But speaking of change, Pancras, you have grown out of recognition since last I saw you."

"Gad prasper me, sir, I hope so—'tis five long years agone and I'm my own man since my father had the grace to break his neck a-hunting, though 'tis a pity he contrived to break my mother's heart first, sweet, patient soul. Ha, sir, d'ye mind the day you pitched him out o' the gun-room window?"

"He's dead, Pancras!" said the Major, flushing.

"Which is very well, sir, since you're alive and I'm alive and so's the Sergeant here. How goes it Zeb—good old Zeb. How goes it, Sergeant Zeb?" and the Viscount's white, be-ringed hand met the Sergeant's hairy one in a hearty grip.

"Look at him, nunky, look at him a Gad's name—same old square face, not changed a hair since he used to come a-marching back with you from some campaign or other, rat me! D'ye mind, Zeb, d'ye mind how you used to make me wooden swords and teach me how to bear my point—eh?"

"Aye, I mind, sir," nodded the Sergeant, grim lips smiling, "'tis not so long since."

"Talking of fence, sir, give me leave to say—as one somewhat proficient in the art—that your style is a little antiquated!"

"Is't so, nephew?"

"Rat me if it isn't, sir! It lacketh that niceness of finish, that gracious poise o' the bady, that 'je ne sais quoi' which is all the mode."

"So, nephew, you fence—

"Of course, nunky, we all do—'tis the fashion. I fence a bout or so every day with the great Mancini, sir."

"So he's great these days?"

"How, d'ye know him, uncle?"

"Years ago I fenced with him in Flanders."

"Well, sir?"

"I thought him too flamboyant——"

"O, Gad requite me, sir! Had you but felt his celebrated attack—that stoccata! Let me show you!" So saying, the Viscount tossed his hat into a corner, took the Sergeant's foil and fell into a graceful fencing posture.

"Come, nunky, on guard!" he cried. Smiling, the Major saluted. "Here he is, see you, the point bearing so, and before you can blink——"

"Your coat, sir!" said the Sergeant, proffering to take it.

"Let be, Zeb, let be," sighed the Viscount, "it takes my fellow to get me into 't, and my two fellows to get me out on't, so let be. Come, nunky mine." Smiling, the Major fell to his guard and the blades rang together. "Here he is, see you, his point bearing so, and, ere you can blink he comes out of tierce and——

"I pink you—so!" said the Major.

"Gad's me life!" exclaimed his nephew, staring. "What the—how—come again, sir!"

Once more the blades clinked and instantly the Viscount lunged; the Major stepped back, his blade whirled and the Viscount's weapon spun from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

"Gad save me poor perishing sawl!" he exclaimed, staring gloomily at his fallen weapon, "how did ye do 't, sir? Sergeant Zeb, damme you're laughing at me!"

"Sir," answered the Sergeant, picking up the foil, "I were!"

"Very curst of you! And how did he manage Mancini?"

"Much the same as he managed you, sir, only——"

"Only?"

"Not so—so prompt, sir!"

"The devil he did! But Mancini's esteemed one of the best——"

"So were his honour, sir!"

"O!" said the Viscount, "and he didn't puff and he ain't sweating—my sawl!"

"'Tis use, nephew."

"And country air, sir! Look at you—young as you were five years since—nay, younger, I vow. Now look at me, a pasitive bunch of fiddle-strings—appetite bad, stomach worse, nerves—O love me! A pasitive wreck, Gad prasper me!"

The Major's sharp eyes noted the youthful, upright figure, the alert glance, the resolute set of mouth and chin, and he smiled.

"To be sure you are in a—er—a low, weak state of health, I understand?"

"O sir, most curst."

"Poor Pancras!" said the Major.

"No, no, sir, a Gad's name don't call me so, 'tis a curst name, 'twas my father's name, beside 'tis a name to hang a dog. Call me Tam, Tam's short and to the point—all my friends call me Tam, so call me Tam!"

"So be it, Tom. So you come into the country for your health?"

"Aye, sir, I do. Nothing like the country, sir, balmy air—mighty invigorating, look at the ploughmen they eat and drink and sleep and—er——"

"Plough!" suggested the Major, gravely.

"Begad, sir, so they do. And besides, I do love the country—brooks and beehives, nunky; cabbages, y'know, cows d'ye see and clods and things——"

"And cuckoos, Tom."

"Aye, and cuckoos!" said the Viscount serenely.

"Indeed, the country hath a beauty all its own, sir, so am I come to——"

"Be near her, nephew!"

"Eh? O! Begad!" saying which Viscount Merivale took out a highly ornate gold snuff-box, looked at it, tapped it and put it away again. "Nunky," he murmured, "since you're so curst wide-awake I'm free to confess that for the last six months I've worshipped at the shrine of the Admirable Betty—de-votedly, sir!"

"There be others also, I think!" said the Major, handing his foil to the Sergeant.

"Gad love me, sir, 'tis true enough! The whole town is run mad for her pasitively, and 'tis small wonder! She's a blooming peach, nunky, a pearl of price—let me perish! A goddess, a veritable——"

"Woman!" said the Major.

"And, sir, this glory of her sex blooms and blossoms—next door. Ha' ye seen her yet?"

"Once or twice, Tom."

"Now I protest, sir—ain't she the most glorious creature—a peerless piece—a paragon? By heaven, 'tis the sweetest, perversest witch and so do my hopes soar."

"Doth she prove so kind, nephew?"

"O sir, she doth flout me consistently."

"Flout you?"

"Constantly, thank Vanus! 'Tis when she's kind I fall i' the dumps."

"God bless me!" exclaimed the Major.

"Look'ee sir, there's Tripp, for instance, dear old bottlenose Ben, she smiles on him and suffers him to bear her fan, misfortunate dog! There's Alton, she permits him to attend her regularly and hand her from chair or coach, poor devil! There's West and Marchdale, I've known her talk with them in corners, unhappy wights! There's Dalroyd——"

"The 'die-away' gentleman?" said the Major.

"O he's death and the devil for her, he is—a sleepy, smouldering flame, rat me! And she is scarce so kind to him I could wish. But as for me, nunky, me she scorns, flouts, contemns and quarrels with, so doth hope sing within me!"

"Hum!" said the Major, clapping on his wig.

"So I am here in the fervent hope that ere the year is out she may be my Viscountess and—O my stricken sawl!"

"What is't, nephew?"

"Aye, sir, that's the question—what? Faith, it might be anything."

"You mean my wig, Tom?" enquired the Major, laughing, yet flushing a little.

"Wig?" murmured the Viscount, "after all, sir, there is a resemblance—though faint. Sure you never venture abroad in the thing?

"Why not?"

"'Twould be pasitively indecent, sir!"

Here the Major laughed, but the Sergeant, setting the furniture in place, scowled fixedly at the chair he chanced to be grasping.

"Perhaps 'tis time I got me a new one," said the Major, slipping into his coat.

"One!" exclaimed the Viscount. "O pink me, sir—a man of your standing and position needs a dozen. A wig, sir, is as capricious as a woman—it can make a gentleman a dowdy, a fool look wise and a wise man an ass, 'tis therefore a—what the——"

The Viscount rose and putting up his glass peered at his uncle in pained astonishment:

"Sir—sir," he faltered, "'tis a perfectly curst object that—may I venture to enquire——"

"What, my coat, Tom?"

"Coat—coat—O let me perish!" And the Viscount sank limply into a chair and drooped there in dejection. "Calls it a coat!" he murmured.

"'Tis past its first bloom, I'll allow——"

"Bloom—O stap me!" whispered the Viscount.

"But 'twas a very good coat once——"

"Nay sir, nay, I protest," cried the Viscount, "upon a far, far distant day it may have been a something to keep a man warm, but 'twas never, O never a coat——"

"Indeed, Tom?"

"Indeed, sir, in its halcyon days 'twas an ill dream, now—'tis a pasitive nightmare. Have you any other garment a trifle less gruesome, sir?"

"I have two other suits I think, Sergeant?"

"Three, your honour, there's your d'Oyley stuff suit" (the Viscount groaned), "there's your blue and silver and the black velvet garnished with——"

"Sounds curst funereal, Zeb! O my poor nunky! Go fetch 'em, Sergeant, and let me see 'em—'twill distress and pain me I know but—go fetch 'em!"

Here, at a nod from the Major, Sergeant Zebedee departed.

"I—er—live very retired, Tom," began the Major.

"We'll change all that, sir——"

"The devil, you say!"

"O nunky, nunky, 'tis time I took you in hand. D'ye ever hunt now?"

"Why no!"

"Visit your neighbours?"

"Not as yet, Tom."

"Go among your tenantry?"

"Very seldom——"

"O fie, sir, fie! Here's you pasitively wasting all your natural advantages,—shape, stature, habit o' bady all thrown away—I always admired your curst, high, stand-and-deliver air—even as a child, and here's you living and clothing yourself like——"

He paused as the Sergeant re-entered, who, spreading out the three suits upon the table with a flourish, stood at attention.

"I knew it—I feared so!" murmured the Viscount, turning over the garments. He sighed over them, he groaned, he nearly wept. "Take 'em away—away, Zeb," he faltered at last, "hide 'em from the eye o' day, lose 'em, a Gad's name, Zeb—burn 'em!"

"Burn 'em, sir?" repeated the Sergeant, folding up the despised garments with painful care, "axing your pardon, m'lord, same being his honour's I'd rather——"

"Next week, nunky, you shall ride to town with me and acquire some real clothes."

The Major stroked his chin and surveyed the Sergeant's wooden expression!

"Egad, Tom," said he, "I think I will!"

Glancing from the window, the Major beheld a train of heavily-laden pack-horses approaching, up the drive.

"Why, what's all this?" he exclaimed.

"That?" answered the Viscount yawning, "merely a few of my clothes, sir, and trifling oddments——"

"God bless my soul!"

"Sir," said the Sergeant, tucking the garments under his arm beneath the Viscount's horrified gaze, "with your permission will proceed to warn grooms and stable-boys of approaching cavalry squadron!" and he marched out forthwith.