Читать книгу Ferriby - Marjorie Bown - Страница 9

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Mr. Robert Gisberne had made John Ferriby's acquaintance by renting one of his cottages at Droitlet. He was needing rest and change after some years roughing it in the States, where he had at last struck oil after some unnamed fashion, and made, presumably, a little money.

Devil Ferriby had no mind to increase his circle of friends; he was self-centred and disliked the amenities of life. His few intimates, men and women, were among his inferiors, but Gisberne had an ingratiating manner and assumed no airs. Also he gave a bank reference and produced a solicitor's credentials. Ferriby let him the cottage, and found himself insensibly attracted to Gisberne's company.

The fellow could do what Ferriby could: ride, handle a gun, manoeuvre a sailing craft, and by some degrees not so skilfully—enough, however, for congeniality. He was remarkably taciturn, with the gift of drawing speech from others. When he did speak it was to the point, and conveyed the idea forcibly that he meant his words. He played cards a little too well. That, however, was not in evidence at sight. At sight it was apparent that his hands and teeth were nice, his dress good, and his whole appearance—with nothing distinctive to mark it, boyishly smooth brown hair, clean-shaven lip and chin, and very ordinary eyes-was, all the same, singularly pleasant.

Pleasant was the word for Gisberne, and about him an easy detachment that, taken with his silence, produced the effect of some unconscious reminiscence in him of finer things than these around him now.

But Daphne Estorel, who had a sense for it as some people have for colours, did not take Gisberne for all he seemed.

He rode his horse well, yet not quite as Ferriby did. As the party came near, Ferriby flung his hand up to his hat at sight of her in the porch; Gisberne raised his from his head. But John's way was one thing, Gisberne's another—the difference was integral, unconscious; it lay in breed.

Not that Daphne weighed that now. Her hand had dropped from Paul's arm as Irene's chestnut rounded the elms, but she did not move from her place, nor did Paul.

Irene, with a light motion of the head to them, drew rein at the gate, and Ferriby dismounted her. Gisberne got lightly and easily to the ground. Daphne moved to give greeting, and Paul, suddenly rousing, followed her. He threw off his slouch for these few steps. He couldn't alter his shirt-sleeves and bare neck, but, drawing himself up, every inch of his height and breadth had play. He dwarfed Gisberne, and put Devil Ferriby into the second place. Having given no greeting to anyone, it was the more evident that his sudden movement meant something, and the air was charged with it. Yet Ferriby seemed not to see his cousin. Daphne felt a sudden elation spite of underlying fear. Her words, after all, had been an inspiration...

'You don't ride. Miss Estorel,' said Gisberne, opening the wicket for Irene. 'I'll take my horse, Mr. Ferriby. I guess you're short-handed these days.' That Gisberne gave way to speech was plain sign he had noticed something and was good-humouredly giving cover.

Devil Ferriby turned with a little laugh for Gisberne and a look straight at Paul.

Even Irene caught her breath. Into the minds of the four sprang that day when they all first met, when Devil Ferriby had bidden his penniless cousin bed down his horse—would he try it now with the fellow who took his wages? No.

The two kept their eyes on one another a few seconds with an understanding of hate plainly to be seen, but Ferriby attempted no advantage of inequality. The matter was put aside for adjustment another time as between two men upon a level.

'I shall find someone in the yard,' he said. 'Go into the house, Mr. Gisberne.'

Daphne turned, quivering with the triumph of it. Paul was not hers, would never be: he was doomed; that look just now was open war, and Paul must go or the terror of bloodshed settle down. Yet for all that might be, that must be, this moment now was sweet. The slavish fear of being driven out of sight of Irene had not weighed—at last—against her inspiration! As Daphne turned, not able for the joy of it to look at Paul or gather what he did, she heard Irene laugh delicately behind her.

'You know my cousin Paul, Mr. Gisberne?' she said; and Daphne, glancing round, caught the dart of malice in the lovely eyes. 'So you've been meddling, have you?' they said. 'See how you are rewarded.'

'Mr. Paul and I know something of each other,' answered Gisberne in his pleasant, sparing, yet all comprehensive way.

Irene, gathering up her holland skirt, slipped her hand under Paul's arm.

'We're two Ferribys to whom the Grange does not belong,' she said charmingly, 'and so we're the better friends. It's nice of you, Paul, to leave the fields for once—I see nothing of you in summer weather;' and she led him gently ahead, a slave to her touch, and passed into the house.

There come to all of us moments when we feel strongly that life is ending a chapter. There is to be a pause of days, hours, or seconds while the book is smoothed open afresh and another page turned. This was such a pause for Daphne. She moved on after Irene in a strange blank of feeling.

Gisberne, in deference to the occasion, had ridden up in plain dress, but the road from Droitlet was treeless and dry as chalk. He laid down whip and hat on the oak settle in the entry. 'Now, if you had such a thing as a whisk. Miss Estorel?' he said, glancing himself down.

Daphne opened the door of a small chamber built out by Cornelius Ferriby for the benefit of merry roysterers too far gone to face the pitch-black night ride home, and who from hence should slip out at the break of day unobserved and unwist of by the women. It was fitted now in simple fashion for Ferriby's rare visitors of the male kind. Gisberne entered—he was to know this little chamber.

Daphne herself stepped on into the living-room. Irene, in the centre of it, resting her arms upon Paul's crossed ones, leant against him and looked up into his dark, passionate face.

'You must, Paul,' she was saying; 'you shall. You are a Ferriby.'

'I will not eat his bread, nor sit at his table.' Paul did not see that Daphne entered: he only saw Irene's upturned face. Irene did not move; she knew who was there.

'Oh, you proud baby!' She caught his face down and kissed him on the cheek. 'But I will not have you a labourer, my cousin. Paul—to please me...'

He put her away from him roughly, turned dizzily and swung away and out of the room. It was plain he was half-blinded, driven beyond himself by the touch of her lips.

'How ridiculous these men are,' said Irene, to anyone who chose to hear. She turned nonchalantly towards the door upstairs.

'Oh, by-the-by. Miss Estorel,' she said, as if only then aware of Daphne, 'I have just told Paul he must sit down with us this evening. It is absurd he should give the impression he is not a member of the family. A place had better be left for him. He's not small enough to fit in anywhere.'

There was a cool laugh. The burnished latch of the door rose and fell like a little snap of mockery—Irene was gone.

So, she had snatched the triumph; she was so sure of Paul she could proclaim that he would do her bidding without even the shadow of a consent from him. If Paul sat down with them it would be because Irene bade him.

Gisberne through the half-open door saw Daphne bending over the table, and, though by no means an adept at observation except in one direction, where it was keen as a bloodhound is all scent, he could judge she bore her share in the family breach—and the breach concerned Irene. That he had gathered already.

Now, on whose side was this fair, still lady enlisted? He pushed open the door gently, and Daphne glancing up, their eyes met. Daphne had said she did not think Gisberne was smitten with Irene—there had certainly been no love at sight, no headlong submission; and now she saw in the pleasant, commonplace eyes unmistakable admiration of herself. But Gisberne said nothing. He was far from shy. He was not embarrassed. His air of unnoticing unconcern might very well convey that he was too used to the surroundings of ancient gentry to notice them. Yet Daphne felt magnetically he was impressed and taken aback. He made no remark on the fine room, the wonderful length of window, the queer piece of carving let into the panels over the mantel, treasure-trove from a Spanish galleon three hundred years ago; he remained seemingly unaware of the silver pieces on the table, the uncommon napery, and egg-shell china. It was a detachment too complete. Either it was assumed to cover ignorance, or it was the natural effect of soullessness. So might a dog or panther come into the living-room of Ferriby Grange.

It was proof of the new-comer's power of drawing attention to himself that Daphne should think about him and this aspect of him even now. At length Gisberne commented on the piano, and sat down to it.

'I imagine Miss Garth will take no exception to my trying it right away,' he said. He played very softly, and with a peculiar precision and tinkle in the touch-tricky, not that of any trained musician, but with expert skill, remarkably at home with the keys.

'What is that piece, Mr. Gisberne?' asked Daphne, and she left the table where she was silently directing Sophy, and moved to the dais as if drawn there.

'Give it a name,' said Gisberne, smiling at her. 'I don't know one.'

'Is it your own, then?'

'Why, yes.'

'You are improvising?' Daphne's tone was eager. Over her music of any sort had influence.

'I do nothing else.'

'You play written music as well?'

'Not a note! I'll do this for you on any instrument you like to give me—on a teacup, with a spoon.' Gisberne laughed pleasantly. 'I'm fine, too, on the violin.'

'It is wonderful—to me,' sighed Daphne softly; 'most wonderful.'

Gisberne played a moment in silence, she watching him absorbed. It was like rain pattering on leaves and a bird's drowsy notes and—

'Do me a favour. Miss Estorel,' said Gisberne, looking up. 'Say nothing about the teacup and the spoon—'

'You mean—'

'I do, just that. A secret. I play a few things by ear, from memory. There I begin, there I end.'

'Isn't that selfish, Mr. Gisberne?'

'It is.'

Daphne could not resist the pleasant look in these pleasant, everyday eyes. She smiled. 'I'm not to say you improvise?'

'If you please.'

'Very well. On one condition.'

'I know it—that I play upon the teacup with the spoon for you. I will, when we're alone. That's a bargain. Miss Estorel.'

Daphne laughed—a little low, bright note rarely heard. She was like an instrument strained to breaking-pitch suddenly unstrung enough to save the snap.

It was gratification to her, too, soothing every fibre, that Irene, stepping into the room again that moment, should have heard her laugh.

Daphne Estorel's still brightness, her pale glory of colouring, her slow movements and steady glance, stood for saintliness to many, for coldness, incapacity of passion. Sophy, for all her shrewd discrimination, placed her in a niche, like the stone figures she had seen above church doors, who lived for ever in a mantle. Devil Ferriby had much the same idea. Paul—but Paul's thoughts of Daphne were a sense, uncatalogued, of so wide a sweep they encircled his mad passions, even as the winds and sunlight encircled him.

Jane Skidfell knew something of Daphne's heart; Irene probed for it so far vainly. Scarcely to Daphne herself was it plain how great or strong her share of fierce emotion, anger, jealousy, revenge, and hate. But she was glad Irene should hear her laugh. If Irene guessed her secret, if the warfare were to be open now instead of hidden, she was glad Irene should have found her close to Gisberne—should have heard her laugh and seen him smile at her.

For Irene was attracted by Gisberne, and he, not yet by her and Daphne, knew it, and she was glad, verily very glad, to deal Irene out one smart.