Читать книгу Young Renny - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 7

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A renewed furbishing of the house took place on the eve of the coming of the relations from England. Eliza, in starched print dress and flawless white apron, went about with brush and duster seeking imaginary dust in the corners of the drawing-room. Philip’s entrance into the house filled her with conflicting emotions—horror of the mud he would almost certainly bring with him, pleasure at the sight of his stalwart figure and good-humoured face. Eliza was a fussy, irritable, energetic woman, yet, with all her being, she admired these opposite qualities of the master of the house. Indeed she gloried in his untidiness and would stalk down the stairs to the basement kitchen with the ashes he had knocked from his pipe to the floor or the burrs he had pulled from his dog’s tail and hidden under his chair, proudly displayed on her dustpan for the shocking of the cook and the kitchen-maid.

Beatrice, the kitchen-maid, usually called Beet by Renny, most appropriately because of her purplish complexion, was now polishing the walnut newel post which was carved in a design of grapes and their leaves and never passed without a caress from Adeline Whiteoak.

She was immensely interested in the preparations, for she was full of pent up vitality which her ageing body could not relieve. She had that year begun to carry a stick for the first time and its aggressive thud could be heard through the house at all hours when she was neither eating, playing backgammon nor taking a nap.

She pooh-poohed all the fuss that was being made, yet she wanted the house to look its best, not so much for her daughter and her husband as for Malahide Court whom she had never seen. He was a cousin, several times removed, of a branch of her family which she had always hated because of a feud long before her day. She had a prideful desire to impress him with the elegance of her surroundings, for she knew that her family had looked on her as buried in this colony. She was also greatly curious about the man himself. All the Courts were interesting. Devils they might be, but never dull or without distinction.

She stroked the polished grapes of the newel post and looked up at her husband’s sword, hung in its scabbard on the wall.

“Ha,” she said, panting a little, for she had just ascended the basement stairs after an inspection of the preparations down there. “You’ve a good polish on the old newel, Beattie, a very good polish. Nothing like elbow-grease. Beats all the stuff advertised in the papers.”

“Yes ’m,” returned Beattie, polishing harder than ever.

Old Adeline stood staring at the newel post, fresh and upright as the day it was planted there at the foot of the stairs. She could see her husband, straight and strong, descending them.

But it was another Philip who came into the hall, put his arm round her and said—“How’s the old girl? Pretty fit, eh?” He kissed her cheek on which a few strong hairs grew.

She returned the kiss with a loud smack. “Yes, yes, nothing to complain of. Appetite good. But fussed up a little with all this to-do over the Buckleys and that Court fellow. Why must Molly always want things so spotless?”

“Now, Mamma, you enjoy seeing the old place look trig just as much as anyone.”

She faced him with her under lip protruding. “Of course, I do! But I can’t agree that the Buckleys are important. What is he? A third baronet! How did his grandfather get the title? For discovering something about mosquitoes in Brazil. Mosquitoes! Bugs! I call it a lousy title, I do!” She grinned at him triumphantly, feeling that she had obliterated Sir Edwin’s claims to nobility. She had liked him well enough when he had married Augusta. A nice little man with ash blond side-whiskers and an upper lip that nibbled like a rabbit’s at his words. He had taken her daughter out of her way and he had always been deferential to her, laughed moderately at her ribald jokes, even when they were directed at himself. But he showed himself snappy when she jeered at Augusta. He and Augusta had taken their unexpected inheritance of the title and a manor house in Devon modestly, but Adeline could not forgive her daughter for becoming her social superior. She resented the title, never acknowledging that she remembered it, invariably speaking of Augusta as “My daughter, Lady Bilgeley, Lady Bunkum” or some such name.

Her interest in Malahide Court became even more fervent, as the hour for the arrival drew near. She racked her brain to recall the history of his branch of the family, alternately stressing its disgracefulness and the impregnable grandeur of the main stock. Long before the guests were due to arrive, she was dressed for their reception in a mulberry coloured cashmere, trimmed with innumerable puffings and bands of velvet. She wore an enormous brooch, and rubies and diamonds glittered on her handsome old hands. Her cap was a creation of lace and mulberry coloured ribbons. She presented an impressive picture of a bygone day—formidable, rich-hued, full of a vitality that had something fine in its unquestioning assurance.

The pair of bays flashed along the drive, their hooves scattering the patterned gravel. Now, through a space in the freshly unfolded leaves, a muscular shoulder was visible for a brief moment or a flank groomed to satin brightness. Hodge, the ruddy coachman, brought up the pair before the door with a flourish. It was high noon. A cool fresh wind blew the branches about, so that the intense shadows on the lawn changed their shape without ceasing.

Nicholas, Ernest, and Philip stood together on the steps of the porch. Hodge jumped down from his seat and went to the horses’ heads. Nicholas opened the carriage door. Augusta, holding up her skirt, descended the steps and was thrice clasped in brotherly arms. Sir Edwin followed and genially shook hands. Then Cousin Malahide gathered up an incredibly long, thin body from a corner of the carriage, and advanced, with a sombre smile to meet his hosts. Nicholas’ strong eyebrows rose toward his crest of greying hair. He tugged at his moustache. Ernest answered the smile with a wry movement of his sensitive lips. Philip grasped the hand extended languidly to him.

“Welcome to Jalna,” he said.

“I am sorry to hear,” added Ernest, also shaking hands, “that you have had a rough voyage.”

“A filthy voyage,” replied Malahide Court. His voice was unexpectedly full and deep. His disparaging gaze took in the house, the flowerbeds with their geraniums just set out, the faces of the three brothers.

“How charming!” he said, addressing Sir Edwin.

“Yes, yes,” Sir Edwin agreed nervously. “I’ve always loved this place. Shall we go in, Philip? Augusta and I are anxious to see her mother.”

“And Mamma will be eager to see us,” answered Augusta, in her contralto tones.

They mounted the steps, Philip and Sir Edwin coming last.

“Well,” asked Sir Edwin, “what do you think of him?”

Philip answered deliberately—“I can’t make him out. I’m wondering what we shall do with such an exotic at Jalna.”

Sir Edwin looked worried. “Well, well, do you really think him so odd? But he has a very good mind. He knows a great deal about ancient Greek sculpture. He and I have had some interesting talks.”

“How did you happen to bring him with you?”

“Really, I don’t quite know. He was paying us a visit and the time went on and—he just came with us.”

“You mean you couldn’t shake him?”

“Just that!”

“But why should he have wanted to come here?”

“I can’t quite make out. I think that things were rather uncomfortable for him in Ireland. An allowance he had from his mother is temporarily cut off, so he cannot live in Paris where he usually goes when out of Ireland.”

“Well, well, we must make the best of him,” said Philip, philosophically. “Perhaps he will amuse Mamma.”

Mamma was receiving him as they entered, a puzzled grin fixed on her face as she peered searchingly into his.

He was all in black. If her ebony stick with its ivory handle had suddenly betaken itself from her hand, and bowed over her rings, it might have made some such figure as Malahide Court. His face had the sallowness of old ivory. His eyes were heavy-lidded and glistening, his chin pointed. His nose, strongly arched, jutted from his narrow face, with a flourish of long, widely-flanged nostrils.

“Now, and this is a surprise,” said Adeline. “I’m glad to see you and I’ll be glad to hear news of the family at first hand.” She looked him over and added—“Are you in mourning?”

“Yes.” He laid a hand, from which he had removed the black glove, on his cravat and passed it down over his waist-coat—“for my lost youth.” The hand might have been used as a model for the hands in portraits by the old masters.

Adeline chose to consider this a joke. She gave a sudden bark of laughter. The noise roused her parrot, Boney, half asleep on his perch behind a fire-screen. He rose on his toes, peered over the screen, and broke into a torrent of Hindoo curses.

“Shaitan! Shaitan ka bata! Shaitan ka butcka! Piakyr! Piakur! Jab kutr!“

He followed this tirade with loud cackling laughter.

“That’s my parrot,” said Adeline, proudly. “I taught him myself. I’ll wager you didn’t understand a word he said.”

Malahide Court not only understood but threw back at the bird other Hindoo curses that made Adeline stare admiringly.

The parrot was in a paroxysm of rage. Screaming furiously he flapped his wings and would have flown into the new-comer’s face but that he was restrained by the slender chain on his leg.

Lady Buckley thought the scene was disgraceful and told her favourite brother, Ernest, so. They stood together, arm in arm, happy in their reunion. At that moment Meg appearedin the doorway, eager to greet the arrivals.

Ernest asked of his sister—“How do you think Mamma looks? You have not seen her for two years.”

“Splendid,” returned Augusta. “I only hope I shall be as exuberant at her age.”

“Then you must soon begin,” returned Ernest, “for you certainly are not now and I don’t know that I should like it. It would not at all suit your style.” He looked at her admiringly.

In truth Augusta had never been so attractive in her life as she now was. Middle age became her. Her Queen Alexandra fringe, of a rich, possibly questionable, brown, accentuated the tranquil dignity of her features. She wore too many chains, bracelets, and brooches, but always appeared aloof from fashion rather than over-dressed.

Meg could scarcely restrain her mirth at the sight of Malahide Court, bending with arched back over her hand. This the fascinating Irish cousin who, in moments of dreaming, she had sometimes pictured as capable of making Maurice a little jealous!

“Meggie’s not used to hand-kissing,” said her grandmother. “She’s a simple country girl.”

“Then this will seem more natural.” And he kissed Meg’s round cheek.

Meg drew back, repelled by the touch of his face against hers, and, to cover this, Augusta exclaimed:

“We must see the others! Mary and her children. And where is Renny?”

“He’s never about when he’s wanted,” said Philip. “I don’t know what he does with himself. Ah, here come Mary and the babe!”

She hesitated, tall and fair in the doorway, her child in her arms. He clutched her neck in his small embrace, his pink cheek pressed against hers.

Augusta kissed Mary all the more warmly because she knew that Adeline disliked her. She cooed to the infant on a deep, enticing note. He grasped a handful of the jet that trimmed the front of her dress.

“He is the image of Philip!” she declared.

“He is far more like his grandfather,” said Adeline. “He’s got my husband’s very look and his flat back. Did you ever see such a back on a twenty-months’ child? Turn him around, Molly, so they can see his back.”

Mary turned round and all eyes were fixed on the plump back and downy head. Malahide Court was forgotten.

Augusta asked—“Where is Eden?” The little boy was a favourite with her.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Mary’s face. “I can’t imagine. He was dressed and had promised to wait for me on the landing but he disappeared. I dare say he is off somewhere with Renny.”

“Drat the boy!” said his grandmother. “Why doesn’t he come? Wait till you see him, Malahide! You’ll say you’ve never seen such a Court. Red hair and all.”

Malahide Court poked at the baby with a long forefinger. “The perfect age!” he said. “The perambulator age; the carried-in-arms age; the nipple, diaper, and talcum age! Why did I ever live to outgrow it!”

They were staring at him, trying to picture him as a baby when Renny, with Eden clinging to his hand, came into the room. They were greeted by reprimands from the family, with the exception of their grandmother who raised her voice above the others. “Come now, Renny, and show yourself to my Cousin Malahide. There’s a fine lad, Malahide. You must see him on a horse. He’ll make you think of my father, old Renny Court.”

The two shook hands eyeing each other, the one without enthusiasm, the other with astonishment, dislike, and a touch of hilarity.

Eden looked into the strange face bent above him with an intent, rather unchildlike stare, then he raised his eyes to his mother’s and smiled.

“A very unusual smile,” said Cousin Malahide, still holding the little hand, “there’s a shadow of pain in it which shows that he already is conscious that true mirth does not exist.”

“No wonder he looks pained,” muttered Renny to Meg. “This fellow is making me sick. Do you mean to say we’ve got to have him about for weeks?”

“Even months,” answered Meg. “Isn’t he awful? His clothes—his waist! I believe he wears corsets! Look at father’s face!”

Philip’s face was indeed a study as his eyes followed the figure of Cousin Malahide who had left the group and was moving about the room examining the Chippendale pieces with the intentness of a connoisseur.

Later when the one o’clock lunch was announced, and Adeline led the way leaning on Malahide’s arm, followed by Aunt Augusta with Eden by the hand, and Mary with Sir Edwin, Renny elongated his body, drew back his diaphragm to nothingness, assumed a sneering simper, and offered his arm to Meg. She, producing as well as she could on her round girlish face, the arch grin of the old lady, clung to it and urged him toward the laden table. The three brothers, bringing up the rear, observed the caricature with tolerance, even with malicious amusement. Philip said:

“I pity that gentleman if those two young rascals choose to make his life miserable. Lord, what a waist he has! Do you suppose he can put a solid meal out of sight?”

But Cousin Malahide, though his eyebrows all but disappeared, when he saw the meal before him, displayed an unexpectedly good appetite. He vied with Adeline in second helpings, praised the sherry, and after a few glasses became so amusing that they wondered if, after all, they might not find him good company.