Читать книгу Apples of Gold - Warwick Deeping - Страница 6

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Thomas Nando walked up and down the fencing-room, rubbing his hands. He loved every corner of this big, bare room, the smell of it, even the cobwebs which collected about the tall windows, but to-day there were no cobwebs and the place smelt like a garden. The floor had been scoured as white as a ship's deck or a hollywood platter.

"Great," said Tom Nando, "great!"

He climbed up into the gallery, where the balustrade was hung with swags of flowers, and the benches covered with red cloth. He looked down into the great room; he smiled, he took snuff, he sneezed triumphantly, and brushed a little powder from the front of his new red coat. He was a sea captain on the quarter-deck of his ship, and she was a stout ship with sails set and bunting flying.

"God forgive me," said he, "but this is a great day."

He sat down in the gallery. Below him were the white boards of the floor, and between him and them he saw loops of roses, roses from Mrs. Mary's garden.

"Bless me—she—has been busy."

His wife and Meg had been up at dawn, with three other women to help them, and as he sat there Nando could hear a chirruping, a murmuring of women busy in the house. "Here's another basket of lemons, mum." "Be careful of the syllabub, Jenny." "Shall I warm the wine, mum?" "Meg, where is Mr. Nando?"

"Bless her," said Nando, getting up and descending the stairs just as his wife came into the room. She stood off, looking at him with critical kindness, quite forgetting her own new green-and-blue-flowered gown, her cap, and black lace mittens, in the splendour of her man.

"Mercy, Tom, you do look fine! That new wig——"

"Well, come and kiss me, you pretty thing," said he.

She ran to him and was kissed.

"Tom, I'm five-and-forty!"

"I'm ten years better than that. You look thirty-five, my dear."

She laughed, and holding on to his arm trailed him round the room.

"I hope there are enough benches, Tom."

"We can seat two hundred."

"Do you think they will come?"

"Sure of it."

She pulled up and swung him round to look at a piece of paper pinned upon the wall, the copy of a leaflet which had been distributed to half the fashionable houses within a mile of Charing Cross. It made announcement to the effect that Thomas Nando begged to inform his patrons that he had arranged an assault-at-arms at his fencing academy on Wednesday, the 7th of June, at three in the afternoon, to introduce to all the aforesaid noble patrons his adopted son, Mr. Jordan March, as a new master of the art of self-defence. Mr. Nando respectfully besought the polite world to honour him with its presence. He had arranged with Mr. Galworthy—the famous sword-master—and Monsieur Legrand, of Paris, to fight bouts with the court-sword and back-sword with Mr. Jordan March and Monsieur Bertrand, his assistant. Also, he proposed to give an exhibition bout in the old rapier-and-dagger style between himself and Mr. Jordan. All gentlemen of quality would be very welcome; also any ladies who deigned to honour Nando's on the afternoon of the 7th of June.

At this moment Jordan came into the fencing-room, aged twenty-one years and standing six feet two. He wore a white wig, a white vest, breeches and stockings, and plain silver buckles on his black shoes.

"Bless us!" said Mrs. Mary, hovering like a bird round a dish of fruit.

Nando looked him over with grave and careful eyes.

"Yes, you'll do. You have filled out a lot the last year."

Jordan smiled at them both. He knew them to be happy, and he wished them to be happier before the day was out.

"What's your weight, my dear?"

"Fourteen stone ten, mother."

Nando nodded and took snuff.

"Feeling stage-shy, Dan? You don't look it."

"I don't feel it."

He picked up Mrs. Mary and kissed her.

"You great big thing," she laughed, "you'll be breaking the hearts of the ladies."

"Let him," said Nando, "so long as they don't break his."

It was two o'clock, and in a little while the great world—or part of it—began to arrive. The high room filled with colour, red, blue, green and black, with silks and satins and velvets, the stateliness of bewigged heads, with pretty ladies in panniers who smelt of lilac, lavender and musk. Nando was bowing everywhere, a dignified yet happy Nando. "Your grace, this is a great honour." "My lord, your servant takes this most kindly." "Madam, a chair." "Your ladyship, I most respectfully thank you." When that very great gentleman the Marquis of Queensmarry walked in with his lady on his arm old Nando went pink, for this was the greatest honour of them all.

"Sir, to see you here, and her ladyship with you, gives your humble servant more pleasure——"

"Mr. Nando," said the marquis, "I count you an old friend. You have taught many men to use the sword, and you have taught them to use it like gentlemen."

He touched Nando on the shoulder.

"Good luck to your boy."

"Sir," said Nando, "that is the noblest luck that ever was wished him."

Following the Queensmarrys came a tall, pale man with swift, ironical eyes. He had a very notable lady with him, dressed all in gold and with a head of the same colour.

"Your servant, my lord," said Nando, bowing rather stiffly.

The lady glanced at him with her green eyes.

"You have found us a prodigy, I hear, Mr. Nando."

"I will leave your ladyship to judge," said he, with sudden inscrutable politeness.

Most of the ladies went into the gallery, the gentlemen taking the benches round the walls. In one corner near the door there was a little group of the Nandos' friends, and among them a tallish, handsome, rather sneering young man with dissipated eyes, and a pale girl with red hair. Nobody paid any attention to these people, for Mrs. Nando and her women were busy with trays of wine and syllabub and cakes, and Nando had gone to speak with Mr. Galworthy and Monsieur Legrand, who had arrived a moment ago in a hackney coach. Jordan and Bertrand were by the table where the foils, swords and gloves had been laid out. Jordan was testing the foils. The eyes of most of the women watched him with interest.

The room was full, and Tom Nando stood in the middle of it and made a little speech. He thanked his patrons, and introduced to them each of the gentlemen of the sword.

"Mr. Galworthy, Monsieur Legrand, Monsieur Bertrand, Mr. Jordan March."

They bowed to the gallery and paired off against each other, as had been arranged. Galworthy and Legrand wore black, Bertrand and Jordan white. They began with the foils, the buttons of which were blackened and whitened so that the hits might show on the opposing colour. Jordan and the Frenchman opened the game.

They were great contrasts. Legrand, a little, sallow man, immensely serious, with compressed lips and glittering eyes, fenced with a kind of cold ferocity. He was very quick, with an iron wrist and a lunge that was like a flash of light. He attacked, and for the moment he made Jordan look big and slow. Nando, a little anxious, took snuff, and watched Jordan's white vest for the feared black mark which did not come. Jordan smiled. He smiled all the time, and that smile made the women wish him to win. He was very cool and as quick as Legrand, though his bigness made him seem slower.

"Gad, a handsome lad!" said someone in the gallery.

"And graceful, for a big fellow—damned graceful. Hallo, he has hit the Frenchman!"

He had. Monsieur Legrand uttered a little exclamation, smiled grimly, and prepared to resume the game. Nando's face was one big smile. Mrs. Mary and sentimental Meg were holding hands.

The second hit was also Jordan's. Then Legrand touched him twice in quick succession, and Nando took more snuff. They played for quite a long while without further honours, but Jordan destroyed the balance of the play by hitting the Frenchman full and hard upon the chest, a blow that would have killed had the game been real.

Legrand was a little gentleman. He saluted Jordan, and stepping up to him kissed him on the cheek. The ladies fluttered their fans; the gentlemen thumped the boards with their canes. Old Nando, radiant, with a hand on the shoulder of each man, addressed the gallery.

"Ladies, gentlemen—your servant. This great little man has touched my heart. Very gallant! Who says nay to it?"

Someone threw a rose from the gallery, and Jordan picked it up and tucked it into the Frenchman's vest. The room applauded the act, all save the sneering young man with the dissipated eyes, who whispered something to his red-haired sister.

"He thinks himself a fine fellow, Mr. Jordan. That's all stage play."

"But he won," said the girl.

"Of course. He was meant to win. They arrange these things beforehand. That little fellow could have spitted him like a lark."

A bout followed between Mr. Galworthy and Bertrand, in which Galworthy had rather the better of the play. Then when Mr. Galworthy had rested for five minutes and drunk a glass of wine, which Mrs. Nando brought him, he and Jordan faced each other. Galworthy was an old master, very cool and cunning, but the younger man was a little too good for him, and the honours were with Jordan.

They shook hands at the finish, Galworthy looking quizzically into Tom Nando's face.

"The lad is too strong in the arm. He must be as good a man as you, Tom."

"He's better," said Nando; "God bless him!"

The afternoon was a triumph for Tom Nando, and when he and Jordan had given their display of old-time rapier-and-dagger work, more glasses were brought in by Mrs. Mary and her women. Nando, with a full glass in his hand, bowed to the gallery.

"Ladies, gentlemen, with your good consent I will drink the health of two good swordsmen, and also to the luck of Nando's and my lad here."

The Marquis of Queensmarry was standing in the gallery, and he raised a hand.

"Mr. Nando, if your good lady will bring me a glass I will join you in that toast."

"You will drink it for all of us, sir," said a woman's voice.

"Madam, with pleasure."

The business was over, and the gallery began to empty itself into the space below, and here, before the great folk went to their chairs and coaches, Jordan was presented to many of the gentlemen and to some of the ladies. Queensmarry came and spoke to him, looking straight into Jordan's eyes, while Jordan looked at him with his smiling, quiet candour.

"Mr. March, you are a fortunate fellow. Thomas Nando has a hand that is as clean as his sword. No doubt you know it as well as I do."

"I do know it, sir. He has taught me more than the handling of a sword."

Queensmarry's eyes smiled at him.

"Lad," they said, "I like you, you and your big brave smile."

Jordan was talking to a young gentleman who had newly honoured him with the post of his fencing-master, when Nando bustled up.

"Pardon me, sir."

"Certainly, Tom, certainly," said the young buck.

Nando took Jordan by the elbow and led him across the room to where the golden lady with the green eyes was sitting in a chair. "Lady Marigold Bacchus, Dan, has asked me to present you to her." Jordan smiled. He was aware of the tall man with the pale face and ironical eyes standing beside the lady's chair and watching him with enigmatic amusement. He bowed rather stiffly to Lady Bacchus, but not so stiffly as old Nando.

"Your ladyship, Mr. March is greatly honoured——"

She looked Jordan full in the face. She had a queer, lissom, curling mouth that was almost as red as Nando's coat, and when she smiled her smile seemed to show more on one side of her face than on the other. Her arched nostrils held little curved shadows. She had a beautiful neck, but thin arms and shoulders. Her hands were restless, and her flickering fan was never still.

"Thank you, Mr. Nando; so this is the prodigy! If his tongue is as quick as his sword——"

"Your ladyship, he has had less practice with it."

"The women will remedy that," said the tall gentleman.

"That's as it may be, sir," quoth Nando.

He left Jordan to the lady and walked aside with the tall man, Lord George Sfex, Baron Sfex of Sfex, in Gloucestershire, but he contrived to keep his eyes on March and Lady Bacchus. Jordan was looking down at her with that watchful and alert look, as though she were a swordsman and he were meeting a strange weapon. The lady flirted with her fan, but for all her vivacity she was as composed as a cat.

"I see that Mr. Nando is very proud of you, young man."

"I hope he is, your ladyship."

"He has a right to be."

"I owe it to him, your ladyship."

She smiled with gracious impatience.

"Your sentiments are excellent, Mr. Jordan. Cherish them. It is possible that you are going to be a very successful young man."

"I hope so, madam."

She made a gesture with her fan, as though thrusting at him.

"Hope is a poor word. Dare—is a better. But to be really successful, sir, I think that you will have to learn one lesson."

"Perhaps your ladyship will deign to teach it me," he said with all innocence.

She laughed; her green eyes glimmered; she snapped the sticks of her fan. She realized his innocence, and it amused her.

"Do you hope, or do you dare? La—my dear—I see that Mr. Nando has brought you up very properly. That—would require some cogitation! We shall see."

She rose. He was looking at her with puzzled deference, and a seriousness which stood contemplating the fence which she had dared him to jump. He was not quite aware of the fence or of her challenge, for he had not yet realized his attractiveness to women.

"I hope your ladyship did not misconstrue my meaning."

"Misconstrue! What a big word!"

Her eyes were mischievous. She tapped his arm with her fan.

"Attend to all Mr. Nando's good advice, and he will make you an excellent young man—but a——"

She smiled, and her broken sentence and her smile left him groping, while she took the arm of Baron Sfex, and with a little backward glance and a sweeping of her golden petticoats she went towards the door.

In Spaniards Court, on their way to their coach, these two stately creatures gave each other a look full of meaning.

"Would the pup be of any use to us?" asked the man.

"He might be," she answered; "the calf may be made to grow into a bull."

Sfex laughed softly.

"But remember, my dear, I—have a personal prejudice against being presented with a pair of horns!"

"You present them to others," said she; "but a wise lover does not boast."