Читать книгу My Lord of Wrybourne - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 7

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It was as they walked their animals up a steep grassy ascent that Jane, a demurely quaint little figure in plumed cap and flowing habit, looked up at the Earl to shake her small head much as her stately "Granny" might have done and say:

"Uncle Sam, last time what I took my Auntie Ciss'ly for a walk to visit Mrs. Jennings she looked like she'd been crying."

"Who, Mrs. Jennings?"

"No, Auntie Ciss'ly."

"Did she, my dear?"

"Yes, an' then we met a gentleman what I don't like, no—not a bit."

"Why not, my Jane?"

"'Cause he des-gusted me an' frightened me too!"

"Eh,—what did he do?"

"Well, when he took my auntie's hand she couldn't get it away from him, he kept on kissing it so—like he was biting it."

"Ah, did he so, my dear?"

"Yes, he did, till I thought he was eating it."

"Who was he, what was this—gentleman like?"

"Oh, very nice-looking, Uncle Sam, in a lovely green coat with silvery buttons on to it and shining boots like yours, wiv spurs what jingled."

"Did you hear his name?"

"Yes, an' I forget it, and auntie asked him to leave us, only he wouldn't, so we turned an' went to her house an' he followed us all the way there, talking and talking how lovely and beautiful she was, till we came right up to the door."

"And where was Lord Ralph, her husband?"

"Oh, he'd gone to bed 'cause auntie said he wasn't feeling very well."

"Ha!" murmured Sam, scowling at his horse's ears.

"Now please why do you frown so an' say 'Ha,' Uncle Sam dear?"

"Thoughts, my Jane, only thoughts,—so away with 'em and let's smile and talk of other things,—no, first tell me what became of the gentleman."

"Oh, Auntie Ciss'ly said he must go, an' so he did at last, an' she wouldn't even say 'Goodbye' to him though he took off his nice hat to her an' bowed ever so p'litely."

"And, my dear, can't you remember his name?"

"No, Uncle Sam, I'm afraid I can't."

"Oh well, never mind. Tell me, have you seen Mrs. Jennings lately, my Jane?"

"Yes, I paid her a visit with Auntie Ciss'ly an' she played for us, Mrs. Jennings did, first on her big piano-fortey and then on the harp till she began to cry, so then auntie kissed her an' so did I till she was comfortable an' smiled again, though her smiles are always rather weepy ones, Uncle Sam, don't you think?"

"Yes, Jane, I'm afraid they are."

"Yes," nodded Jane, "because she had a lovely clever son what could make beautiful music an' got drownded quite dead in that nasty old mill-pool what tried to drown me too when I was a child, only Auntie Meda what you married came down to me in the water so dark as night and brought me up into the light."

"My word, Jane, you're making rhymes."

"Yes, I know, I'm making a pome all about it and my Granny has 'llowed me to write it in pen an' ink, 'stead of my slate, and says I ought to 'cite it to you, so I will now if you like."

"I should indeed, so let's hear it, my Jane."

"Very well, only I haven't quite finished it yet, 'cause I can't find any word what'll rhyme with 'baby.'"

"Eh—'baby?'" repeated Sam, turning to glance down very lovingly at the demure, little speaker. "Ay, to be sure, 'baby' is a very difficult word, sweetheart. However, please let me hear and I shall do it better if we stop, so let's pull up." Upon this green and sunny upland they paused and, thus seated gracefully upon her glossy-coated dapple-gray pony, Jane recited in sweet, clear voice, this, her first attempt at verse:

"'When that old mill-pool tried to drownd me

My fairy aunt came down and found me

My lovely aunt what's An-dro-meda

So now I always love an' need her.

But now she's married Uncle Sam

Sometimes I'm lonely, yes I am

'Cause now she's been an' got a baby

Instead of me——'

"And that," sighed Jane, rather mournfully, "that's all I can do 'cause of the baby."

"Ah ... yes," Sam replied, averting his head lest his quite uncontrollable smile should wound this youthful poetess, "I see——"

"Oh—Uncle Sam," she wailed, "I b'lieve you're laughing at me!"

With thick brows close-knit, big jaw squared and lips tight-drawn, Sam turned to face her scrutiny.

"Laughing?" he demanded. "Am I?"

"Well—no," she admitted, gazing up at him searchingly with her clear eyes wide. "But why are you looking at me so frightflee fierce?"

"No, no," said he, laughing now as he reached down to cuddle her.

"Then, please, do you like my pome—lots an' lots, do you?"

"Yes," he answered, as they rode on again, "I like it so very, very much that I'm hoping, yes, my Jane, I want you to recite it for me to the dear folks at Willowmead."

"Oh, but I made it for only you and Auntie Meda—so how can I?"

"Ah well, sweetheart, here we are at top of the hill at last! Look, away down there is Willowmead Farm, behind those trees!"

"Ooh yes! An' there in the lane is Granny's old cottage where we lived when I was a child 'til you took us to be with you at the Great House."

"And I hope that you're happy there, my Jane?"

"Yes, very Uncle Sam, an' so's my Granny too, 'cause she never says she's a lone widow's body any more, 'cause she's too busy with all the servants an' me."

Being come within hailing distance of this cosy farmstead, Sam rose in his stirrups, hand to mouth, and saluted the house (as usual) with his seamanly roar:

"Willowmead ahoy! Oho, Ned,—coming aboard, stand by!" And from spicy rick-yard came an answering bellow:

"Heave ahead, shipmate! Back y'r tops'ls, stand in and let go!" Even as these commands were issued, Sam and his small companion clattered into the sunny farmyard there to be greeted by Captain Edward Harlow, this erstwhile redoubtable seaman now turned farmer, and his handsome Kate who came hurrying to welcome them right joyfully and presently led Jane into the house, leaving these two old shipmates together. And each today, especially, was the other's opposite,—my lord an imposing figure in his modish riding-coat with its crested, gold buttons, his skin-tight buckskins and gleaming boots,—the Captain, bare-armed, gaitered, rough-shod, yet apparently as happily suited here among his fragrant ricks and clucking hens as on the shot-riven deck of the Fortune privateer whose daring exploits under his able command and dashing leadership had brought fame and fortune indeed to all on board.

And Sam, now thinking of those desperate ventures, contrasting the smoke and uproar of close action with the peace and sweet, homely sounds of this sunny farmyard, enquired:

"Ned, are you as perfectly content as you look?" And glancing up and around him and lastly at the homestead itself, Captain Ned answered heartily:

"Yes! Yes, I am indeed, Sam. Are you?"

"Ay, that I am!" replied Sam, as heartily. "No man could possibly be any happier—though, d'ye see, there's so little ever happens to go amiss at Wrybourne; all things are so continually right, and as they should be, that sometimes I almost wish they weren't. Andromeda says we are too happy, and, b'George, she's perfectly right, as usual!"

"Sam, can anyone ever be too happy?"

"'Twould seem so, Ned."

"Shipmate," retorted the Captain, "old shipmate and right noble lord, what you need is—work!"

"But, damme, Ned, I'm never idle, or very seldom. I'm for ever planning and scheming how to better my estates and folk, if not here at Wrybourne, then t'other properties, d'ye see, and what with bailiffs, agents, surveyors and what not I'm pretty well occupied."

"Ay, perched upon your stern, shipmate, giving your orders, throned in cushioned chair,—what I mean is manual labour."

"That's an idea!" Sam agreed. "I might have another go with the scythe...."

"Tell me," said the Captain, as they strolled arm in arm towards the shady orchard, "have you completed the purchase of Wrexford Mill?"

"Not yet, but there's no particular hurry. Why do you ask?"

"Because, from what I hear, Sam, you've every cause for hurry."

"Oh?" he murmured. "Ah! Why?"

"For the good reason, shipmate, that there is 'another Richmond in the field.'"

"Eh? You mean another purchaser? Who else could possibly want such dam' place—who?"

"I have no idea, but, according to old Toop, there's a stranger after it, some 'fine London gentleman,' according to him. It seems that old Gaffer, musing over his customary pint outside the 'Wrybourne Arms,' saw and heard your cousin, Lord Ralph, with this stranger, agree to sell——"

"Eh—Ralph did? But, damn the fellow, he knows I want it and why!"

"But old Toop says Lord Ralph was pretty far shot, half seas over, or, as Gaffer put it—'right fuddly-muddlesome 'e were.'"

"Ay, he would be,—poor, miserable devil!"

"Sam, wherefore the sympathy?"

"Because he's a Scrope, d'ye see, and the curse is on him."

"Curse be damned, Sam! I don't believe in such fool ideas, nor do you really."

"I'm none too sure o' that, Ned, for what's bred in the bone, d'ye see, comes out in the flesh——"

"And," quoth the Captain grimly, "should be fought down by the spirit."

"True enough, Ned, except the spirit be too weak to struggle or predisposed to evil. Ralph can never save himself from this—this curse of Scrope; 'twill all depend on that right splendid wife o' his—Cecily. A grand, strong soul, Ned! 'Twill be a fight to the death 'twixt the angel in her and the Scrope-devil in him."

"But the hell of a life for any woman, Sam!"

"Too true, Ned! But—what a crowning glory if she win—as I believe she may! For, d'ye see, there's good in the fellow; 'tis devilish hard to find, but there it certainly is."

"Ye-e-s," replied the Captain, dubiously, "I must confess I've found him a likely-seeming fellow, on the few occasions we've met."

"Likely, ay!" nodded Sam, with a sigh. "Cecily liked him well enough to marry him, God love her! The question is—will it be well for her in the end? She'll either die of him or—become the angel of his deliverance,—one or t'other, Ned. And this troubles me because, but for me, she could never have wed him, con-found him!"

By this time they had reached the orchard where leaves rustled, birds piped and butterflies hovered. Here, seated together on that rustic bench fashioned some years ago by Sam's capable hands, they filled and lighted their pipes to puff awhile in companionly silence like the old and tried friends they were; at last Sam enquired:

"Ned, how's your baby?"

And, emitting gush of smoke, Ned answered, eyes aglow:

"Grand, Sam, grand! How's yours?"

"Prime, Ned, prime!" Then, after a musing puff or so, "such arms and legs to him, messmate! B'George and James, he's all a baby ever was or possibly could be,—perfect from trucks to keelson!"

"So is mine, Sam! He's everything he should be—alow and aloft!" Here ensued more puffing until, suddenly removing his pipe, Sam exclaimed:

"B'gad, I was forgetting to tell you,—my little fellow now tips the beam at twelve pounds,—d'ye hear? Twelve pounds and one ounce!"

"Aha!" cried the Captain. "Then mine's got yours by two!"

"Eh? Damme! Two what?"

"Ounces, Sam!"

"Ha—well, time'll show, Ned. However, they're as grand a brace of babies as ever howled, bless 'em!"

"Amen!" quoth the Captain, fervently. After this was another smokily thoughtful silence, broken at last by the Captain, who enquired:

"Sam, what have you been up to in London? What's all this I hear of you running foul of the House of Lords and upsetting the dignity of your fellow peers?"

"Just what did you hear and where, Ned?"

"Everywhere, but, to be precise, at Lewes market yesterday. It seemed the chief topic of conversation."

"What was said?"

"Well, folks were talking—against you, Sam."

"Oh?" he murmured. "Ah? Called me a republican and revolutionary perhaps?"

"They did, shipmate, and—more besides."

"Ha, they named me a rebel and traitor, maybe?"

"Which I made bold to deny, Sam, and pretty forcibly, you may be sure."

"These accusers would be some of the gentry, eh, Ned, and well-to-do farmers?"

"Precisely, old fellow."

"What surprises me," said Sam, running fingers through his short-cut hair, "is how rapidly this business has got around, it's as-tounding! Such dam' fuss and most of it false!"

"Yes," nodded the Captain, frowning rather anxiously, "it might suggest you had enemies at work."

"Likely enough, Ned. But I'm wondering who and—why?"

"Have you no idea, shipmate?"

"Why, d'ye see, old fellow, I ran athwart so many folk of all sorts in London and may have given offence all unknowing."

"But your duel, Sam, the fellow you out-fought, what was his name?"

"Chalmers," replied Sam, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe.

"Ah, yes, of course," sighed the Captain, "and a notorious killer! Well, what of him, shipmate? He is not likely to forgive your ruining him socially and as a duelist, not to mention hacking off that right hand of his! You were always the devil with a cutlass, Sam! What of this Chalmers?"

"He's not exactly a forgiving sort of customer, Ned—no! A vain, arrogant fellow who made terror his glory—he'll never forgive me, it stands to reason, d'ye see."

"But where is he, Sam; what became of him?"

"He vanished—Lord knows where."

"However, I'll lay any odds he's after you, Sam,—a hidden enemy biding his time."

"Ay, maybe—though it seems that speech o' mine has stirred things up in Town,—Vanity Fair and what not, quite surprisingly."

"But, Sam, why in heaven's name make such a speech, villifying the Government, our laws, politics, institutions and Lord knows what?"

"You read it in the Gazette, I suppose?"

"I did—and was taken all aback, Sam."

"And no wonder! For d'ye see, my actual words were nothing like so brutally radical. To be sure I did attack the Government and the injustice of things generally, and demanded a full reform, especially of our penal laws,—eh, you don't agree?"

"Certainly—not, Sam. I stand by and for the laws of England as they are!"

"But I stood up for them as they should and ought to be, Ned."

"How would you have them, shipmate?"

"No privileges for wealth, Ned. Fairer treatment of the under dog. No rich fool should buy himself into Parliament. No poor wretch should ever starve, or be prisoned for debt, or hanged for theft. Reform is England's bitterest need, and reform I stand for. And what d'ye say to that, old messmate?"

The Captain puffed hard at his pipe, shook his always trim and comely head, sighed and answered:

"Sam, when you were a sailorman you loved a fight with fist or steel, and now that you are an aristocrat and one of our richest noblemen, it seems you have an equal passion for factious strife and trouble——"

"Not so, Ned, lord—no! When I had to fight as seaman, I made joy of it for fear I might do t'otherwise. And now as an Earl with so many dam' responsibilities I take 'em all seriously and try to be a goodish sort of Earl."

"That I believe, Sam, and so you are, but——"

"Ay, 'but' it is, Ned! For d'ye see, my idea of how a good Earl should act seems quite the reverse of how most other Earls and noble what nots actually do act and think, and that's the devil of it! Now the question is, how soon shall I bear away for London to face 'em all or leave 'em to it—whether or no?"

"'No' is my advice, Sam. Steer full and by, shipmate, and keep trouble well in your lee—far astern of you—so long as may be."

"To be sure," replied Sam, musingly, "this would be the easy course, Ned. But, d'ye see, here in my own place, among my own good folk, life, as I said afore, is almost too easy."

"Then," retorted the Captain, "let's hope you don't make it too hard—for all our sakes and especially—your lady's."

"Ay," nodded Sam, "there's always Andromeda to be considered."

"Aha!" exclaimed the Captain, tapping out his pipe. "And yonder my Kate is hailing us,—tea, shipmate, tea!"

"With a will!" quoth Sam, rising.