Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 9

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At five o’clock that afternoon the sun had lost so much of its triumphant height in the sky that it looked to be nearing the point when it would suddenly drop behind the jagged edge of the western hills. The air had become cool. The trade wind from the east was stirring the leaves in the overhanging trees and even causing the branches to twist and toss and to fill the air with the half rustle, half song which the natives sometimes called the “sonther.” Mrs. Balcombe, seated at a table containing the remains of a substantial tea, was glad she had her cashmere shawl over her shoulders. It was a beautiful thing of many colors. All her husband had told her about it was that “it had come on a deal.” It was doubtful if even Napoleon’s first wife, the slightly tragic Josephine, or his second mate, the daughter of the illustrious house of Hapsburg, had possessed its peer.

She sat between her husband and the Rev. Godefroi Eustace Stodgkin, who had dropped in for tea and a parochial talk. William Balcombe had groaned when he arrived home from town and found this guest ensconced at the round deal table under a clump of sheltering trees. He had no liking for the new curate.

The visitor was tall and bony, with a prominent Adam’s apple and such a degree of shortsightedness that his eyeglasses were as thick as the pebbles which boys skim on water. Also he was a bachelor. He had remarked once that he was waiting for the Balcombe sisters to grow up and would then decide which one he would marry. When this reached Betsy’s ears she had said to herself: “I don’t know how Jane feels. But it won’t be me!”

As usual the visitor had been doing all the talking and what he had to say seemed to begin invariably with some such phrase as, “I am against it!” “I cannot accept such reasoning,” “I refuse to believe,” or “Never, never!”

Mrs. Balcombe’s mind was not on his discourse and she was the first to see that a party of horsemen had come to a stop on the shore road below their entrance.

“They’re turning in,” she said, in an anxious tone. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Stodgkin, I will run and see if anything needs to be done.” She rose from her chair, spilling a ball of wool out of her knitting bag.

“Who are turning in?” asked the shortsighted clergyman.

“I think it is Napoleon Bonaparte and his escort,” replied Mr. Balcombe. He had indulged in a bath since his return from town, keeping the curate waiting while he did so, and was now wearing a fresh suit of clothes and a new cravat. He felt ready for any emergency.

The jaw of the young clergyman shot out at a belligerent angle. “I do not condone war,” he declared. “I have nothing but contempt for great military leaders. I shall refuse to make the acquaintance of General Bonaparte. If you don’t mind, Mr. Balcombe, I shall leave by the side road and pay a call on that woman over there. I can’t be polite enough to name her by name because I don’t know what her name is. I can only follow the lead of others and speak of her as the Veiled Lady.” He paused and then added in a decided tone, “I am going to be very firm with her!”

Mr. Balcombe sighed audibly. It was becoming difficult to be polite to this man of unqualified prejudices. He glanced briefly to the south where a rise in the rocky structure of the island, somewhat similar to that which made the Briars so pleasant, allowed the smallest glimpse of a gable window in a cluster of trees. He was in the habit of glancing at it frequently because he shared the interest of all island inhabitants in the mysterious lady who lived there, and who was never seen even at the small gable window.

“You are going to be firm with her, did you say?” he asked. “What has the poor woman been doing?”

The new curate untangled his sharp knees and got to his feet. “Mr. Balcombe,” he said, sniffling from the head cold which never seemed to desert him, “I do not condone such unusual happenings as the arrival of a woman in a veil who proceeds to rent—through a lawyer, mind you, who never sees behind the veil and who refuses to state her name—a house on this island.”

“The lawyer in question,” interjected William Balcombe, “gave a favorable report on her in all other respects. He said she spoke in a cultured voice. He knows her name but is under instructions not to divulge it. The bank did not need to question her when she called there. Advices had already reached them from England which satisfied them about her. In a financial sense at least. It is no secret that she receives remittances quarterly.”

“Such considerations do not weigh with me,” declared the curate. “She refuses to see me—”

“She refuses to see anyone, Mr. Stodgkin.”

“But”—emphatically—“I represent the church. She must see me. Do you realize that she has never once set foot in the church? Why? It—it is intolerable not to know, so we can be of aid and comfort to her. That, Mr. Balcombe, is our duty.”

“She never sees anyone but also she is never seen. It’s clear she has good reasons for wanting to be left alone.”

“I have called three times. Each time that maidservant, who does not speak English with any degree of intelligibility, has said no to me. That is why I say the time has come for the utmost firmness on my part.”

“Don’t be too hard on her,” urged Mr. Balcombe. “I’m sure she’s an unfortunate woman who has had a tragedy in her life.”

“I do not condone—” began the curate again, but before he could define what exactly it was he had set his mind against, he saw that the mounted party was already halfway up the drive and that a man in a distinctive three-cornered hat rode in the front. He hurried away by a side path.

At the same moment a figure in brown and yellow emerged through the trees and came to the table in a breathless state.

“You see, Papa, I was right,” said Betsy. “I knew he intended to come in on his way back. Papa, was that the Rev. Something Something Stodgkin I saw skittering around behind the house? What a trial he must have been to you!”

“I don’t mind telling you, Betsy, that I am beginning to find him intolerable.”

The girl bent over and picked up the ball of wool. “I wish Mother would be more careful with her knitting. Now I’ll have to follow this all the way through the house until I catch up with her. And I’m in such a hurry!”

“Why, my dear, are you in such a hurry? It won’t be necessary for you to put in an appearance.”

Betsy smiled confidently. “You think not, Papa? Let me point out that you had a French nurse for me for quite a few years and that I learned to speak pretty good French. Do any of the rest of you speak it at all? I’m sure I’ll be needed to act as interpreter. And I think I should look my best.”

The two sisters shared a bedroom, a pleasant corner of the house with two windows and a southeastern exposure. When Betsy burst in to change her dress, Jane was standing before a long mirror on one wall; a rather cheap one which had been acquired to take the place of the valuable Georgian gesso glass which had been broken into a hundred pieces on the ship. The afternoon in town had been fruitful. She had a length of the dusky muslin draped over her shoulders and was studying the effect.

“Jane,” said Betsy, wriggling out of her dress and letting it fall on the floor. “Are you ready for company? Great company?”

“I think so,” said the older sister calmly.

Betsy had run to a tall walnut chest-on-chest (which had been very much damaged also) and was rummaging furiously for what she would need. She had stepped out of her pantalettes, revealing the fact that they were a mere sham, covering her only from knee to ankle, and her first care was to select a fresh pair. It is always premature to speak of the figure of a girl of fourteen, as so many things can happen in the process of further growth. But the trimness of Betsy Balcombe cannot be passed over without notice. Her legs were slender and they were softly and beautifully feminine. They had, in fact, none of the awkward chubbiness of that age.

When sufficiently clothed to risk showing herself at a window, she went to the front of the room and looked down at what was going on below.

“Jane!” she said in a muted tone. “Come and look. Here he is, outside our house. Napoleon Bonaparte. He’s riding a beautiful black, and my how dignified he looks. Admiral Cockburn is on foot beside him and all the others are walking too—dukes and princes and generals, I suppose. Jane, this is what old Tuddelbury back at school used to speak of as an historic moment!”

Jane, looking over her shoulder, seemed dismayed. “Oh, oh!” she whispered. “Will we be expected to go down? Betsy, I’m afraid! Aren’t you?”

“No. I don’t think there’s anything to be afraid of.”

“But will we have to curtsy to him? Will it be necessary to go right down on one knee?”

Betsy was not at all concerned. “I don’t know, I’m sure.”

Sarah Timms came into the room in a flouncing haste. “Bose you wanted. Down’stahs,” she announced. “Miss Jane I see’s you ready. Miss Betsy, I mus’ look you ovah.” She patted and pulled at Betsy’s dress and then, taking a comb, worked carefully over her abundant blond locks. “Theah!” she said, finally. “Now I’se satumfied. But Miss Betsy, doan you go talking lot down theah.”

“Sarah, do you know what an interpreter is?” asked the younger daughter.

“No’m. I doan know ’bout terpriters.”

The girl began to laugh. “Well, Sarah, that’s what I’m going to be downstairs. That means I’ll do most of the talking.”