Читать книгу Our Admirable Betty - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 16
ОглавлениеTHE VISCOUNT DISCOURSES ON SARTORIAL ART
Viscount Merivale sighed ecstatic.
"Beautiful!" he murmured. "O beautiful, nunky! Here we have perfection of fit, excellence of style, harmony of colour and graciousness of line!"
"Colour," reflected the Major, "is't not a little fevered, Tom, a little—hectic as 'twere?"
"Hectic—O impiety! You are a sentient rhapsody, a breathing poem, sir, blister me!"
The Major regarded his reflection in the mirror dubious and askance; his plum-coloured, gold-braided coat, his gorgeous embroidered waistcoat, his clocked stockings and elegant French shoes; his critical glance roved from flowing new periwig to flashing diamond shoe-buckles and he blinked.
"I find myself something too dazzling, Tom!"
"Entirely à la mode, sir, let me perish!"
"A little too—exotic, Tom!"
"Rat me sir—no, not a particle."
"And I feel uncomfortably stiff in 'em——"
"But, sir, reflect on the joy you confer on the beholder!"
"True, I had forgot that!" said the Major smiling.
"You are a joy to the eye nunky, an inspiration, you are, I vow you are. If your breeches cramp you, suffer 'em, if your coat gall you, endure it for the sake o' the world in general—be unselfish, sir. Look at me—on state occasions my garments pinch me infernally, cause me pasitive torture, sir, but I endure for the sake of others, sir."
"You are a martyr, Tom."
"Gad love me, sir, 'tis so, a man of fashion must be. So there you stand as gay a young spark as ever ruffled it——"
"These shoe-buckles, now," mused the Major, "here was an egregious folly and waste of money——"
"Nay, you could afford 'em, sir, and there's nothing can show your true man of taste like an elegant foot."
"Still, considering my age, Tom—
"A man is as old as he looks, sir, and you look no older than thirty-one."
The Major shook his head.
"I could ha' wished myself a little more sombre-clad——"
"Sambre sir—O Gad support me, sambre? Permit me to say, sir, with the greatest deference in the world—tush t'you, sir! Why must ye pine to be sambre? You ain't a parson nor a Quaker, nor yet a funeral! With all due respect, sir—pish! You are as sober clad as any self-respecting gentleman could desire."
"D'ye think so, Tom?"
"Sure of it, sir, 'pon my honour!"
"Hum!" said the Major still a little dubious and reaching for his gold-laced hat, was in the act of setting it on his head when a cry from the Viscount arrested him.
"Gad love me, sir, what are you about with your hat?"
"I am about to put it on, sure, nephew."
"O Lard, sir, never do so, I beg!"
"In heaven's name why not?"
"Because 'tis never done sir. Fie, 'tis a curst barbarian act never committed by the 'ton'!"
"But damme, Tom, what are hats for?"
"To show off one's hand sir, to fan one's self gracefully, to be borne negligently 'neath the arm, to point a remark or lend force to an epigram, to woo and make love with, to offend and insult with, 'tis for a thousand and one things, sir, but never O never to put on one's head—'tis a practice unmodish, reprehensible and altogether damnable!"
"Tom," said the Major, looking a little dazed, "now look'ee, Tom, I'm no town gallant nor ever shall be, to me a hat is a hat, and as such I shall use it——"
"But reflect sir, consider how it will discommode your peruke."
"Tom, well-nigh all my days I have worn a uniform and consequently any other garments feel strange on me—these cursedly so. But since I've bought 'em, I'll wear 'em my own way. And now, since 'tis a fine evening, I'll walk abroad and try to get a little used to 'em."
Saying which the Major clapped on his hat a little defiantly and strode out of the room.
In the wide hall he met Mrs. Agatha and conscious of her glance of surprised approval, felt himself flushing as he acknowledged her curtsey; thereafter on his way out he stepped aside almost stealthily to avoid one of the neat housemaids; even when out in the air he still felt himself a mark for eyes that peeped unseen and hastened his steps accordingly.
And now, as luck would have it, he came upon the Sergeant busied at one of the yew hedges with a pair of shears; checking a momentary impulse to dodge out of sight, the Major advanced and touched him with his gold-mounted cane. The Sergeant turned, stared, opened his mouth, shut it again and came to attention.
"Well, Sergeant?" he enquired. Sergeant Zebedee blinked and coughed. "Sergeant, I—ah—er—O damme, Zeb, what d'ye think of 'em?"
"Sir, being by natur' a man o' few words all I can say is—Zounds!"
"D'ye—d'ye like 'em Zeb?"
"Sir," answered the Sergeant, sloping the shears across his arm and standing at ease, "I've a seen you in scarlet and jacks, I've a seen you in cuirass and buff but—I ain't never a seen you look younger, no, nor better, and that's God's truth amen, your honour."
"I'm glad o' that, Zeb, very!" and the Major glanced full-skirted coat and silk stockings with a kindlier eye. "To speak truth, Zeb, I found 'em a little—er—overpowering at first, as 'twere."
"So they are, sir, as overpowering as ever was!"
"Eh?" said the Major, starting.
"Like the old regiment at Malplaquet, sir, they ain't to be took lightly, nor yet withstood, sir."
"Hum!" said the Major, his eyes travelling up to a patch of fleecy cloud. "And now as regards yourself, Sergeant. Since you refuse to accept more pay——"
"Not a groat, sir! Which ain't to be wondered at when you consider as you've rose me twice since you dropped in for this here fortun'—not a stiver, sir!"
"Just so, Zeb, just so! Therefore I propose to advance you an extra ten guineas a year as—er—a clothes-bounty, as 'twere."
"Clo'es, sir! And me wi' two soots as refuses to be wore out not to mention this here. Take these breeches, for example, they've done dooty noble and true for three years and no sign o' weakness front or rear——"
"Still, 'tis time they were retired from the active list, Zeb. So at the first opportunity you will proceed to fit yourself out anew—from head to foot. See to it, Sergeant Tring!"
"Very good, sir. Orders is orders."
"And the sooner the better, Zebedee." And the Major nodded and went his way.
"Nom d'un chien!" exclaimed the Sergeant looking after his master's tall, elegant figure. "All I says is—Lord—Lord bless his eyes and limbs!"
Reaching the highway the Major turned aside from the village and mounting a stile with due heed to his dainty apparel, followed a footpath that led over a sloping upland, crossed a murmurous rill and led on beside a wood from whose green depths came leafy stirrings and the evening song of thrush and blackbird. As he progressed, the leaping rill grew to a gurgling brook, widened to a splashing stream, hurrying over pebbly bed until it deepened to a slumberous pool spanned by a rustic bridge.
Evening was at hand and the westering sun cast long shadows making of these drowsy waters a pool of sombre mystery. Being upon the bridge the Major paused to look down into these stilly depths and, leaning well over the handrail, to survey himself in this watery mirror—the graceful fall of his lace steenkirk, the flowing curls of his glossy peruke, the cock of his laced hat; all of which he observed with a profound and grave attention. So lost and absorbed was he that he leaned there quite unconscious of one that had halted just within the wood, crouching furtively amid the leaves. A tall, burly, gipsy-looking fellow this, who caressed a knotty bludgeon in hairy fingers and whose narrowed eyes roved over the indolent, lolling figure on the bridge from gemmed cravat to glittering shoe-buckles; once he took a stealthy forward step, the knobby club a-swing in eager hand but, heeding the wide spread of these plum-coloured shoulders, the vigorous length of these resplendent limbs, scowled and crouched back among the leaves again. Presently, the Major, having settled his hat more to his liking, went on across the bridge and along a path that led over a wide sweep of green meadow and so to another stile flanked by high hedges. Here he paused again to watch a skylark hovering against the blue and to catch the faint, sweet ripple of song. And leaning there with gaze aloft, he fell to deep thought, turning over in his mind a problem that had vexed him much of late, a problem he had pondered by day and thought over by night, to wit:—
Could a feminine being blessed by a bounteous Nature in all the outward attributes most desirable in womanhood, a face beyond compare and goddess-shape, but one who had wantonly exposed that shape to public regard clad in the baser garb of masculinity—could such a one be worthy of a man's humble respect and reverent homage? Would his mother (God rest her sweet soul) have thought her virginal? Would his aunt Clarissa have endured her for a moment?
He sighed heavily and like an echo, came a sob and then another. He started, and guided by these sounds, discovered a very small damsel who wept bitterly, a huddled, woeful little figure in the grassy ditch beneath the hedge.
"Why, child," said he, "what's your sorrow?"
At this she glanced up in sudden fear but, like his voice, the Major's grey eyes were gentle and very kindly; perceiving which she rose, the better to bob him a curtsey, and sobbed forth her woe:
"O sir, 'tis all along of another grand gentleman like you as took away my letter."
Forgetting fine clothes and dignity together, the Major sat down in the ditch, drew the small, woebegone figure beside him and patted her tear-stained cheek.
"Tell me all about it, you very small maid," said he. The little girl hesitated, viewing him with the quick, intuitive eyes of childhood then, checking her sobs, nestled within his velvet-clad arm.
"'Twas a letter, sir, as was gave me by a dirty man as did meet me by the old mill, sir."
"You mean the ruined mill beyond the park wall, child?"
"Yes, please sir."
"And a dirty fellow, was he?"
"Yes sir, only with a clean voice—soft, like yours. And he give me a groat and says I must take the letter to the Lady Carlyon as lives at Densmere Court——"
"Lady Carlyon!" exclaimed the Major staring. "Good Lord! 'Tis strange, very strange. Sure that was the name, child?"
"Sure, sir—the man did say it over and over and how I must give it to only her. So I went 'long the road, sir, but a grand gentleman came up behind me—so fine he was and grand and asked to see the letter and took it and says as how he will give it to my lady and bid me run away and that's all, sir."
"Well, never grieve, my small maid. You've done no harm—come let me dry those pretty cheeks," which the Major with belaced handkerchief did forthwith. "What's your name, child?" he enquired, lifting her to her feet.
"Charity Bent, sir."
"'Tis a pretty name. Many brothers and sisters?"
"No, sir. I do be all father's got to take care o' him."
"So you take care of him, do you, child?"
"When he be at home, sir, he do work at the great house."
"Which is that?"
"The Manor, sir. And now I must go an' cook his supper, he'll be along home soon."
"Eh—cook?" said the Major, staring at the small speaker. "Child, how old are you?"
"Nine, please sir."
"Lord!" exclaimed the Major, and lifting her up he kissed her rosy cheek and, taking off his hat, stood to watch the small figure flit away down the grassy way beyond.
Hat in hand he leaned there once again, revolving in his mind the old problem under a new aspect, thus:
Question: Which is the more worthy, a humble village child of nine who cooks her father's supper or a proud and idle young goddess who wears——
The Major sighed and put on his hat.
