Читать книгу Charmian, Lady Vibart - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 3

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“Twenty-two years!” exclaimed Charmian, Lady Vibart, beating petulant white fingers on the window-pane, “twenty-two years—it’s preposterous!”

“Eh?” enquired Sir Peter, raising his dark head from the book that engaged him. “I beg your pardon, my dear, but what is preposterous, pray?”

“Everything!” she answered, flashing an angry look at him over rounded shoulder, “you ... me ... us! And to-morrow is my birthday!”

“To be sure,” he murmured, turning a page, “I have not forgotten, indeed I——”

“And Peter, I shall be forty ... forty-two ... !”

“Three!” he corrected, “forty-three, to be exact—though I can hardly believe it, you—wear so well ... amazing!” Here his gaze went back to his book while Charmian, frowning at wide, sunny garden and tree-shaded park beyond, rapped quicker and louder than ever, until Sir Peter sighed, stirred and glanced up again.

“My dearest,” he murmured, gently reproachful, “if you could contrive to ... tap a little more softly——”

“My love,” she answered, turning to frown at him, “no! Not until you are so extremely obliging to favour me with your attention,—oh, put your hateful book down, Peter—do!”

Sir Peter Vibart laid by the offending tome and surveyed his handsome lady with brow serene as usual but eyes faintly apprehensive:

“Dear soul,” said he in murmurous reproof, “though we are in my library and this my customary hour for study, still I am ever ready to break my rule for you as——”

“Rules?” cried Charmian, in sudden blaze of anger, “there it is—custom, rote and rule,—rule, rote and custom! At such an hour we must do this, at such an hour we must do that, but never, oh never anything worth while!”

“My dear,” said Sir Peter, a little dazed, “my dear——”

“Tush!” cried Charmian and stamped at him, “you ride to the markets—like a farmer! You gape at cattle-shows—like a drover! You tramp your fields—like a plough-boy! You read your books like a—oh, like a Peter Vibart! And you vegetate like a—hateful cabbage!”

“God bless my soul!” gasped Sir Peter, drooping in his chair.

“And as for me, Peter, I’m—breaking my heart, losing my spirit, pining away—fading, Peter! But you, so perfectly content, are blind in your serene self-complacency, and never see it,—cannot, will not see it——”

“Good Gad!” he exclaimed, and was out of his chair and had his arm about her shapeliness, all in a moment; then, lifting her unwilling head, he looked deep into her unwilling eyes.

“Pining, are you, my Charmian?” he questioned, tenderly. “Fading away? Then I vow you do it very gracefully——”

“But I am forty-three, Peter—of course I am!” sighed she.

“And I think more beautiful than ever.” At this, she condescended to look at him.

“Perhaps you only think so, Peter, because I happen to be yours, and you are so self-assured that any and everything belonging to Sir Peter Vibart is and must be of the very best according to Sir Peter Vibart, seeing Sir Peter Vibart is altogether such a very superlative creature,—such a very grave, sedate, highly-respected—gentlemanly personage!”

“I wonder?” said he, beginning to frown.

“Undoubtedly!” she nodded. “And our lives are—wasting away, the years flitting by so dreadfully fast, and what ... what have you achieved?”

“Yourself!” he answered, smiling. “Our son, Richard. Then, too, our tenants are prosperous and happy, every farm——”

“Indeed,” sighed she, “you grow bovine as the prize cattle you take such a ridiculous pride in! Where are your youthful ambitions? All gone! To-day you are too ineffably content for exertion or anything but a very clod-like country gentleman. Oh, do you wonder I am breaking my poor heart here among all this smug rusticity ... these miles of well-tilled fields ... and barns ... and hay-ricks—do you?”

“I’m wondering, Charmian, if it would break more comfortably in London among crowded streets and reeking chimney-pots?” And now it was Sir Peter who stared so wistfully out into the peaceful, sunny garden and drummed upon the window-pane. “Perhaps,” said he at last, his tone wistful as his look, “yes, perhaps we ... I ... have been too happy. You have made me almost too content, Charmian. I’ve wanted nothing since our boy came ... our son Richard.”

“I wanted him named Peter, Peter.”

“But agreed he should be called after our dear Sir Richard Anstruther.... And, well dear—Richard is and has been my ambition, all my hopes have been centred in him.”

“And yet, Peter, you send him on the Tour with a—a dreamy, small mule of a man, you permit him to wander about the Continent with a book-worm ... a fool——”

“A fool?” repeated Sir Peter in shocked accents. “You cannot mean poor Chantrey?”

“I do mean poor Chantrey; the creature’s a worm, always in a book, a dotard, a——”

“My dear, Tobias Chantrey is an eminent scholar, a wrangler, a senior prize-man——”

“And helpless as a baby!”

“Well, but Richard is a manly fellow and——”

“Only just nineteen, Peter!”

“Precisely! But then Richard is—my son——”

“Your son, sir, oh yes, but he is mine also, if my memory serves.” Now at this, Peter laughed and, drawing her close, kissed her; but breaking free, she rubbed off the kiss with dainty handkerchief and fronted him sullen-eyed:

“Indeed, Sir Peter, he is your son; but despite this inestimable privilege he is not infallible or immune from the harms and dangers that beset less fortunate youths—simply because he is so blessed as to be sired by—Sir Peter Vibart.”

Now at this Peter scowled, then he laughed and, sitting on a corner of his littered and book-strewn desk, surveyed his beautiful wife with darkly-bright, questioning eyes.

“Charmian,” said he in soft, reverent voice, “we have been married twenty-two years and, God be thanked, you have proved all and more than I dreamed you. You are so various you might stand for Womanhood’s epitome. God made you beautiful, but, behind the wonder of your eyes, placed an intellect that makes your carnal beauty divine—almost, for, my dear, you needed mastery. Then, my Charmian, He glorified you with Motherhood and I became so humble, my dear, so awed by the very wonder of you and the ever-growing marvel of our child, that I no longer played the master but gave my mind to lesser things and suffered you to rule until—to-day, it seems ... why, Charmian ... dear heart....” Here his arm swept about her again, for she was sobbing:

“Oh Peter ... my dear ...” she murmured, lovely head snugged against his breast, “I ... never thought ... never dreamed you had such thoughts of me ... nowadays ... such holy, reverent thoughts ... after all these years. My dear, you make me hate myself. ... I feel unworthy such a love,—because I am not ... oh, I never was half so good, so wonderful as your sweet dream of me—though Richard is, of course ... some day Rick will be a man like you—honourable and gentle, my Peter, and brave enough to think the best of ... of life and ... everybody. But, ah, my dear—hold me tight, Peter—there is a demon in me ... there always was ... a demon of discontent urging me to do ... oh, wild things ... and sometimes, Peter, I—do them....”

“Of course!” he murmured, kissing her glossy hair. “Though you never did gallop your horse up the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, twenty-two years ago!”

“No!” said she, nestling closer, “no! But then I ... loved to play with fire ... and ... oh, you remember, I ... ran away with your Cousin Maurice because he was a—a devil, though—I ran away from him, Peter.”

“Yes—to me, dear—thank God! And, having married me, have lived fairly content with me all these years, which I esteem very marvellous considering you once called me ... ‘a lamb!’ Do you remember?”

“Yes ... yes!” she answered, in voice between sob and laugh. “And you so mightily indignant, Peter! Yes, I called you a lamb ... though you had just driven off a wolf ... a demon! So, my Peter, be strong again, tame me! Drive away my own particular demon that torments me with these wild fits of restless discontent.”

“Dear heart,” he murmured, fondling a wayward curl at her temple, “what is it troubles you? Are you grieving for our Richard,—worrying about him?”

“No ... yes ... I don’t know,” sighed she, a little breathlessly, “I feel ... I think I’m what our Janet would call ‘fey’ ... a feeling of impending evil.”

“I know!” said Peter, and kissed her. “And yet Richard’s last letter was very cheerful. But dear, I’ll recall him at once if——”

“No, Peter, no—it would be foolish of me to cut short his pleasures for a ... a whim.”

“Then we’ll go to Town, the house in St. James’ Square is——”

“Yes, Peter dear, but it is such a vast barracks of a place for just—us two! So many servants everywhere ... and London will be a howling desolation until the season opens——”

“Hum!” quoth Peter, somewhat hipped. “Well, supposing we run over to Paris for a week or so, the Beverleys are there and——”

“That would be perfectly delightful, dearest—except for the hateful sea-passage.”

“But you never mind the sea, Charmian.”

“I should—this time, Peter.”

“Oh! Then what——”

“Oh, Peter—can’t you ... guess?”

“No, upon my life!” Now at this, Charmian frowned at him, sighed, flushed and, vivid mouth close to his ear, whispered.

“Eh? The old cottage?” he exclaimed. Charmian nodded.

“But, my dear,” said he, glancing rather furtively round about upon the book-lined walls and luxurious comforts of this spacious chamber, “won’t it be rather—damp?”

“Damp?” cried she in choking voice, and would have broken from him, but Peter’s long arms held her fast.

“And so, Charmian ... sweetheart, we’ll go whenever you will.”

“No!” she cried, struggling passionately. “Not now.”

“Yes,” said Peter, squeezing her into submission, “this very day.”

“And it is not damp, Peter! You know I’ve had it preserved ... cared for, just because it is the dearest old cottage that ever was.”

“And the holiest!” he added, fervently. “So there we’ll go. How good it sounds. Sissinghurst, you and I!”

“Ah, but do you wish to go—truly?” she enquired very wistfully.

“I’ll order the horses at once,” he answered, “no, we’ll order them together—come!” So, hand in hand, forth went they into the sunshine and, looking into each other’s eyes, the years rolled backward.... Charmian’s lashes drooped, her lips curved to such a tender smile that he caught his breath:

“Oh, Charmian,” he murmured, “how entirely lovely you can be.”

“Dear Peter,” she sighed, “I am ... forty-three!”

Walking slowly and very close together they crossed smooth lawns and followed trim paths towards the Home Farm with its wide range of splendidly-appointed stable-buildings that were the pride (among other things) of Sir Peter’s heart.

“Dear old Sissinghurst!” murmured Charmian happily. “And the country round about will be looking glorious.”

“Yes,” he answered. “And yet Sussex,—this home of ours is lovelier, I think. Look around you, dear,—the old Manor there, our Holm Dene as Saxon as its name, its foundations rooted deep in South Sex here long before the Conquest, itself growing with succeeding generations. See over there—away to the dim line of woods and blue Downland beyond,—now across to the sea,—ours, my Charmian, all ours and a fair heritage for our Richard.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “oh yes! But then the cottage ... our cottage, Peter, is in Kent and so I love——” But here he kissed her.

“Horseback, Peter, bridle-paths! We should be there by six o’clock, old Mrs. Westly shall make tea for us in the village.”

“But Janet is no horsewoman, dear.”

“Janet?” repeated my lady, opening her beautiful eyes at him.

“Janet, of course. However, the barouche will hold us all and——”

“Who are ‘all’ pray?”

“You and Janet, young Mordaunt and myself——”

“But I’m not taking Janet. And what on earth do you want with a private secretary in our cottage?”

“Not in the cottage, dear heart, he will put up at ‘The Bull’ and——”

“He will—not, Peter! He will remain here, and so will Janet.”

“But my dear——”

“We are going—alone, Peter! Just you and I!”

“But, Charmian, it so happens I am much pressed with affairs just at present and——”

“No matter.”

“But, my dear soul, it does matter. There are the new buildings at South Dene and Westover and any improvements at Fitworth. And then Abbeymere is making trouble about that pestilent right of way, confound him!”

“And so I am going to take you away from it all, Peter dear. We are going to elope ... run off with each other!”

“But Charm——”

“So, it’s all settled!” she nodded. “And I shall ride my Marchioness, she’s speedier than your Marquis as I’ll prove.” Sir Peter had paused to regard her lovely (though resolute) face and to rub his chin very hard (a habit with him when at any loss), when rose the sound of quick, light footsteps and a young gentleman came hasting to them, a slim-legged, ox-eyed young gentleman who bowed, his large eyes glancing wistfully at my lady’s vivid and stately beauty.

“What is it, Mordaunt?” enquired Sir Peter.

“Your agent, sir, Mr. Berry, has just ridden in and is urgent to see you.”

“Did he say what about, Charles?”

“Nothing to matter, of course!” sighed Charmian. “There never is. Tell him you are busy, Peter.”

“Your ladyship’s pardon,” sighed Mr. Mordaunt, his large eyes eloquent of tender apology. “But Mr. Berry said it was important. He also mentioned something of a warning from the Earl of Abbeymere——”

“That odious creature!” exclaimed Charmian.

“Is Berry at the house?” enquired Sir Peter, glancing thitherwards.

“Yes, sir. He says you made an appointment to——”

“Then, Charles,” spake my lady’s smooth though compelling voice, “you may tell Mr. Berry, Sir Peter and I are going away for—oh, here comes the persistent wretch!”

... Heavy boots, jingling spurs, and John Berry, a square, red-faced, hearty man, came striding dusty from the road and himself full of bustle and business.

“Morning, sir, and your ladyship!” said he, heartily gruff. “Sorry to disturb, but—Sir Peter, to-day is Tuesday!”

“Well, Berry, and what then?”

“Sir, you engaged to ride with me to Westover, the new cottages.”

“Why, so I did! Those cottages of course ... to decide whether they shall be roofed with thatch or tile.”

“That’s the point, sir,—tile or thatch.”

“I’m inclined to tile them, Berry.”

“Tile’s more expensive, sir.”

“Though to be sure thatch would be less remarkable, all the village is thatched, I believe?”

“Every cottage, sir.”

“On the other hand, Berry, tile is more enduring.”

“Then,” sighed my lady, stifling a very apparent yawn, “roof them with both. And now let us go.”

“Begging y’r pardon, my lady,” quoth John Berry with clump and rattle of boots and spurs. “But, Sir Peter, I’m here mainly to say the tenders are in for the new hall you’re building at Boscombe, estimates and plans all ready, sir.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Sir Peter. “I’ll look over them at once. You have them here?”

“No, sir, seeing we ride to Westover I left ’em there with the other papers.”

“Come, Peter, shall we go?”

“Go where, my dear?”

“To the stables, sir. To order our horses. To ride away together.”

“Hum!” quoth Sir Peter, rubbing his chin harder than ever. “Suppose we postpone it until to-morrow? Yes, to-morrow! We will start very early——”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” quoth John Berry, boots and spurs in evidence again, “to-morrow is Wednesday!”

“I’m aware of this, John.”

“Well, on Wednesday—to-morrow, sir, you’ve promised to take a look at the new road you’re building, and then you’ve arranged to ride with Sir Peregrine Beverley to look over Squire Golightly’s new Highland cattle.”

“By George, so I did!” admitted Sir Peter, glancing at his wife’s averted face a little uneasily, “you see how it is, my dear?”

“Oh, perfectly!” she murmured. “And, my lord and master, I would most humbly crave word with you—in the arbour yonder.”

Now here Sir Peter became slightly apprehensive as he noted the angle of her stately head.

“Wait for me at the stables, Berry,” said he.

“Very good, Sir Peter. Shall I tell Adam to have you a horse saddled?”

“Yes, say I’ll ride the Marquis.... Now, my dear,” said he, drawing Charmian’s hand within his arm. But when they were seated side by side in the bowery arbour, she was silent so long that he questioned her at last:

“Well, dear heart, what is it?”

“Everything!” she sighed. “You, Peter, your house, your cottages, your tiles and thatch and cattle ... our life.”

“Why then, Charmian, tell me all about it.”

“Tell you?” she repeated, with weary gesture. “That is just the hopelessness of it all,—that I should have to tell you,—that you cannot or will not see for yourself.”

“See what, my dear, in heaven’s name—what?”

“That you are nothing more than a glorified farmer and hatefully content ... with no thought or ambition above your crops and cattle and cottages and things!”

“My dear, surely you are a little unjust to me?”

“You are out all day ... and every day!”

“Of late ... well, perhaps I have been ... these many new ideas and improvements ... and an estate such as this needs a great deal of care and management——”

“You employ John Berry and others to do this for you.”

“Yes, dear, but——”

“You love it, Peter! You only live now for Holm Dene and the estate ... it has swallowed you up!”

“Good Gad!” he exclaimed. “All this because I have put off our trip to Sissinghurst!”

“No, not Sissinghurst—not Sissinghurst!” cried she a little wildly. “To the cottage ... our cottage! Ah, but you don’t or won’t understand! Peter ... Peter ... how blind you are! How hatefully, odiously prosaic you have become! And how very ... detestably Peter Vibartish!”

“I fear I do not apprehend,” he answered, rather stiffly.

“No, of course you don’t!” she sighed. “You don’t understand yourself ... and me not in the least, and poor Richard scarcely at all. No, you are not very wise, Peter, and are becoming even less so.”

“Still,” he retorted, “I venture to hope and think I am not an absolute fool——”

“Only perhaps in one or two instances,” she sighed.

“Indeed? May I know of them?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, sweetly gentle, “I will tell you with pleasure. You are at your most absolute-foolishest in your treatment of our Richard.”

“Of Richard ... my treatment ... ?” Sir Peter actually gaped.

“Certainly, Peter! You are almost a stranger to him since he grew up.”

“Charmian, now what, under heaven, do you mean?”

“Just this, my poor dear:—that as our son has grown in years, you have grown in parental dignity,—so stately and aloof, so lofty and austere, indeed such a remote, Peter Vibartly, Roman father that, although the poor boy is overawed of course, you have risen so far beyond him that now he hardly knows you, does not understand you and consequently cannot possibly love you as he should and ... as I could wish.”

“Well ... God ... bless ... my soul!” exclaimed Sir Peter, and sat staring at the lovely speaker in the most profound astonishment while she, sighing plaintively, gazed wistfully across the sunny park.

“You paint a ... a deplorable picture of my fatherhood, Charmian!” said he, at last.

“I paint you the Vibart parent—male—as I see him and Richard experiences him!” she retorted. “I could also paint you the Vibart spouse-male ... who will very soon be riding the sunny lanes—not with his wife, alas,—but with a servant on business that servant is paid to do and can probably do a great deal better, but—this is the Vibart way!”

Sir Peter’s dark eyes sparkled beneath frowning brows, his lean chin (always somewhat doggedly aggressive) seemed more prominent than usual as, starting to his feet, he seemed about to speak but choked back the words and bowed instead; while she, looking up at him, serenely wistful, smiled faintly:

“Oh, say it, Peter, say it!” she murmured. “Forget your cold austerity and Vibartly dignity and swear at me if you will, I am your meek listener.”

“Charmian,” said he, in accents gentle as her own, “it is only those we truly love and revere can hurt us most. As for Richard, our son, you know his life is more to me infinitely than my own, that his future is my, well—everything! That my abiding hope and most cherished dream is to see him worthy his heritage and ... a greater, better man than I.... How cruel, how unjust you are to me your own true heart will tell you ... and ... ah, well, this storm-in-a-teacup will soon pass as they all do ... but such waste of life and sentiment! Meanwhile, since a landlord’s first thought should be for his tenantry’s welfare, I’ll about my business.” And with a bow altogether too ceremonious, Sir Peter turned and went.

Charmian sat there, dimpled chin on dimpled fist, staring at vacancy until, roused by footsteps, she glanced up to behold young Mr. Mordaunt looking down at her with his great, soulful eyes.

“Sir Peter has gone, Charles?” she enquired. “And left a message for me, of course?”

“Yes, madam, he bid me tell you he might be detained.”

“He would!” she nodded. “Pray ask Miss Janet to meet me in the pleached walk.”

When Mr. Mordaunt had departed, Charmian arose, stepped from the arbour and sighed very distressfully, but there was fire in her eye, resolution in her step and indomitable purpose in every curve of her shapely body.