My Cousin Rachel 13 страница

She might be in the library, or passing through the hall upon some business, or waiting in the drawing room for her callers, and she would smile at me and say in some surprise, "Philip, what brings you home at such an hour?" causing me to think up some invention. As to the gardens, I who had yawned and kicked my heels in the old days when Ambrose had tried to interest me, I now made a point of being present whenever there should be a consultation on the plantation or upon the terrace walk, and again after dinner, in the evenings, we would look through her Italian books together, compare the engravings and debate with much argument what could best be copied. I think if she had suggested we should build a replica of the Roman Forum itself, above the Barton acres, I would have agreed with her. I said yes, and no, and very fine indeed, and shook my head, but I never really listened. It was watching her interest in the business that gave me pleasure, watching her consider thoughtfully between one picture and another, her brows knit, a pen in her hand to mark the page, and then to watch the hands themselves that turned from one volume to another.

We did not always sit below in the library. Sometimes she would ask me to go with her upstairs, to Aunt Phoebe's boudoir, and we would spread out the books and plans of gardens upon the floor. I was host in the library down below, but here in her boudoir she was hostess. I am not sure I did not like it better. We lost formality. Seecombe did not bother us — by some great measure of tact she had got him to dispense with the solemnity of the silver tea tray — and she would brew tisana for us both instead, which she said was a continental custom and much better for the eyes and skin.

These after-dinner hours passed all too swiftly, and I would hope that she would forget to ask the time, but the wretched clock in the belfry, far too close to our heads to strike ten o'clock and not be noticed, always shattered the peace.

"I had no idea it was so late," she used to say, rising to her feet and closing up the books, and I knew this was the signal for dismissal. Even the trick of lingering by the door in conversation did not pass with her. Ten o'clock had struck, and I must go. Sometimes she gave me her hand to kiss. Sometimes she offered me a cheek. Sometimes she patted me upon the shoulder as she might have done a puppy. Never again did she come close to me or take my face between her hands as she had done that evening when she lay in bed. I did not look for it, I did not hope for it; but when I had said good night and gone back along the corridor to my own room, opened up my shut>-ters and stared out at the silent garden, and heard the distant murmur of the sea breaking in the little bay beneath the woods, I would feel oddly lonely, as a child does when holiday is done.

The evening, which had built itself up hour by hour throughout the day in fevered fancy, was over now. It would seem long before it came again. And neither my mind nor my body was ready for repose. In the old days, before she had come to the house, I used to doze before the fire in winter after dining, and then, stretching and yawning, clump my way upstairs, happy to roll into my bed and sleep till seven. Now it was otherwise. I could have walked all night. I could have talked till dawn. To do the first was foolish. To do the second, an impossibility. Therefore, I flung myself down in a chair before the open window, and smoked, and stared out across the lawn; and sometimes it was one or two in the morning before I undressed and went to bed, and all I had done was to sit there brooding in my chair, thinking of nothing, wasting the silent hours.

In December the first frosts came with the full moon, and then my nights of vigil held a quality harder to bear. There was a sort of beauty to them, cold and clear, that caught at the heart and made me stare in wonder. From my windows the long lawns dipped to the meadows, and the meadows to the sea, and all of them were white with frost, and white too under the moon. The trees that fringed the lawns were black and still. Rabbits came out, and pricked about the grass, then scattered to their burrows; and suddenly, from the hush and stillness, I heard that high sharp bark of a vixen, with the little sob that follows it, eerie, unmistakable, unlike any other call that comes by night, and out of the woods I saw the lean low body creep and run out upon the lawn and hide again where the trees would cover it. Later I heard the call again, away in the distance, in the open park, and now the full moon topped the trees and held the sky, and nothing stirred on the lawns beneath my window. I wondered if Rachel slept, in the blue bedroom; or if, like me, she left her curtains wide. The clock that had driven me to bed at ten struck one, struck two, and I thought that here about me was a wealth of beauty that we might have shared.

People who mattered not could take the humdrum world. But this was not the world, it was enchantment; and all of it was mine. I did not want it for myself alone. So like a weatherglass I swung, from moods of exultation and excitement to a low level sometimes of dullness and depression, when, remembering her promise to remain with me for a brief time only, I wondered how much longer she would stay. If, after Christmas, she would turn to me and say, "Well, Philip, next week I go to London." The spell of hard weather put a stop to all the planting, and little more could be done now till the spring. The terrace might be completed, for this was better done when dry, but with the plan to follow the men could work without her very well. Any day she might decide to go, and I would not be able to think of an excuse to hold her back.

In old days, at Christmas, when Ambrose had been home, he had given dinner to the tenants on Christmas Eve. I had let it lapse the last winters of his absence, because when he had returned from travelling he held the dinner on Midsummer Day. Now I decided to give the dinner once again, as of long custom, if only for the reason that Rachel would be there.

When I was a child it had been the highlight of my Christmas. The men used to bring in a tall fir tree about a week before Christmas Eve and put it in the long room over the coach houses, where we held the dinner. I was not supposed to know that it was there. But when no one was about, generally at midday, when the servants would be eating, I used to go round by the back and climb up the steps to the side door leading into the long room, and there I would see the great tree standing in its tub at the far end, and stacked against the wall, ready to place in rows, were the long trestle tables for the dinner. I never helped to decorate until my first holiday from Harrow.

The promotion was tremendous. I had never felt so proud. As a little lad I had sat beside Ambrose at the top table, but on my promotion I headed a table of my own.

Now, once again, I gave my orders to the woodmen; in fact, I went out myself into the woods to choose the tree. Rachel was all delight. No celebration could have pleased her better. She held earnest consultation with Seecombe and the cook; she visited the larders and the storage chambers and the game house; she even prevailed upon my male household to allow two girls from the Barton to come up and make French pastry under her supervision. All was excitement, and mystery too, because I would have it that she should not see the tree, and she insisted that I must know nothing of what would be put before us for the dinner.

Packages arrived for her and were whisked away upstairs. When I knocked upon her boudoir door I would hear crackling of paper and then, an age afterwards, it seemed, her voice would answer me, "Come in." And she would be kneeling on the floor, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, with a covering flung over several objects strewn about the carpet, and she would tell me not to look.

I was back to childhood once again, back to the old fever of standing tiptoe on the stairs in my nightshirt, hearing the murmur of voices from below, and Ambrose coming suddenly from the library and laughing at me. "Go up to bed, you rascal, I'll flay the hide off you."

One thing gave me anxiety. What could I give Rachel for a present? I took a day in Truro, browsing in the bookshops for a book on gardens, but could find nothing. And what was more, the books from Italy she had brought with her were finer than any I could give her. I had no idea what present pleased a woman. My godfather used to buy stuff to make a gown when he gave anything to Louise, but Rachel wore mourning only. I could not give her that. Once, I remember, Louise had been much delighted with a locket that he had brought from London. She used to wear it of an evening, when she ate Sunday dinner with us. And then the solution came to me.

There must be something amongst the jewels belonging; to my family that I could give to Rachel. They were not kept at home in the safe with the Ashley documents and papers, but at the bank. Ambrose had thought it best, in case of fire. I had no knowledge what was there. I had a hazy recollection of going to the bank one day with Ambrose when I was very young, and of his picking up some necklace and telling me, smiling, that it had belonged to our grandmother, and that my mother had worn it on her wedding day, but for the day only, as a loan, my father not being in the direct line of succession, and that one day, if I behaved myself well, Ambrose would permit me to give it to my wife. I realised now that whatever there was in the bank belonged to me. Or would, in three months' time; but that was quibbling.

My godfather would know, of course, what jewels there were, but he had gone up to Exeter on business and would not be home until Christmas Eve, when he and Louise were invited to the dinner. I determined to go to the bank myself and demand to see the jewels.

Mr. Couch received me with his usual courtesy, and taking me into his private room, facing the harbour, he listened to my request.

"I take it Mr. Kendall would have no objection?" he asked.

"Of course not," I said impatiently, "the matter is quite understood." Which was untruthful, but at twenty-four, within a few months of my birthday, to have to ask my godfather for permission to do every little thing was quite ridiculous. And it riled me.

Mr. Couch sent to the vaults for the jewels. They came up in sealed boxes. He broke the seal and, placing a cloth on the desk in front of him, laid the jewels out upon it one by one.

I had no idea the collection was so fine. There were rings, bracelets, earrings, brooches; and many of the pieces went together, such as a ruby headpiece for the hair and ruby earrings to go with it, likewise a sapphire bracelet and pendant and ring. Yet as I looked at them, not liking to touch them even with my finger, I remembered with disappointment that Rachel was in mourning and wore no coloured stones. If I presented her with these it would be useless; she would have no use for them.

Then Mr. Couch opened the last box and drew from it a collar of pearls. There were four strands. They fastened round the neck like a band, with a single diamond clasp. I recognised it instantly. It was the necklace that Ambrose had shown me as a child.

"I like this," I said; "this is the finest thing in the whole collection. I remember my cousin Ambrose showing it to me."

"Why, there might be a difference of opinion," said Mr. Couch; "for my part, I would price the rubies highest. But there is family feeling about the pearl collar. Your grandmother, Mrs. Ambrose Ashley, wore it first as a bride, at the Court of St. James. Then your aunt, Mrs. Philip, had it given to her, as a matter of course, when the estate passed down to your uncle. Various members of the family have worn it on their wedding day. Your own mother was amongst them; in point of fact, I think she was the last to do so. Your cousin, Mr. Ambrose Ashley, would never permit it to go out of the county when there were weddings elsewhere." He held the collar in his hand, and the light from the window fell upon the smooth round pearls.

"Yes," he said, "it is a beautiful thing. And no woman has put it on for six-and-twenty years. I attended your mother's wedding. She was a pretty creature. It became her well."

I put out my hand and took the collar from him.

"Well, I want to keep it now," I said, and I placed the collar with its wrappings in the box. He looked a little taken aback.

"I do not know if that is wise, Mr. Ashley," he said. "If this should be lost or mislaid it would be a terrible thing."

"It won't be lost," I answered briefly.

He did not seem happy, and I made haste to go, lest he should produce some argument more forceful.

"If you are worried what my guardian will say," I told him, "please rest assured. I will make it right with him when he returns from Exeter."

"I hope so," said Mr. Couch, "but I had preferred it had he been present. Of course in April, when you come into the property legally, it would not matter if you took the whole collection and did as you wished with them. I should not advise such a step, but it would be strictly le-

gal."

I held out my hand to him and wished him a pleasant Christmas and rode home, much elated. If I had searched the whole country I could not have found a better present for her. Thank heaven pearls were white. And it made a bond to think that the last woman to wear them had been my mother. I would tell her that. Now I could face the prospect of Christmas Eve with a lighter heart.

Two days to wait... The weather was fine, the frost was light, and there was all the promise of a clear dry evening for the dinner. The servants were much excited, and on the morning of Christmas Eve, when the trestle tables and the benches had been set down the room, and the knives and forks and platters all laid ready, with evergreen hanging from the beams, I asked Seecombe and the lads to come with me and decorate the tree. Seecombe made himself master of the ceremony. He stood a little apart from the rest of us, to give himself a longer view, and as we turned the tree this way and that and lifted one branch and then another to balance the frosty fir cones on it and the holly berries, he waved his hands at us, looking for all the world like the conductor of a string

sextet.

"The angle does not please me, Mr. Philip," he said; "the tree would appear to better advantage if moved a trifle to the left. Ah! Too far... Yes, that is better. John, the fourth branch on the right is bent. Raise it somewhat. Tch, tch — your touch is heavy. Spread' out the branches, Arthur, spread them. The tree must seem to be standing as nature placed it. Don't stamp upon the berries, Jim. Mr. Philip, let it stay now as it is. One further movement, and the whole is wrecked."

I had never thought him to possess such a sense of artistry.

He stood back, his hands under his coattails, his eyes near closed. "Mr. Philip," he said to me, "we have attained perfection." I saw young John nudge Arthur in the ribs and turn away.

Dinner was set to start at five. The Kendalls and the Pascoes would be the only "carriage folk," as the expression had it. The rest would come by wagonette or trap, or even on their own feet, those who lived nearby. I had written out all the names on pieces of paper and placed them on the appropriate platters. Those who had difficulty in reading or who could not read at all had neighbours who could do so. There were three tables. I was to head one, with Rachel at the further end. The second was headed by Billy Rowe from the Barton, and the third by Peter Johns from Coombe.

The custom was for all the company to be assembled in the long room, ready seated, soon after five; and when everyone was in place we would walk into the room. When dinner was over, Ambrose and I used to give the people their presents from the tree, always money for the men, new shawls for the women, and hampers of food for all of them. The presents never varied. Any change of routine would have shocked them, every one. This Christmas, though, I had asked Rachel to give out the presents with me.

Before dressing for dinner I had sent along to Rachel's room the collar of pearls. I had left it in its wrappings but had placed a note inside. On the note I had written these words, "My mother wore this last. Now it belongs to you. I want you to wear it tonight, and always. Philip."

I had my bath and dressed and was ready before a quarter to five.

The Kendalls and the Pascoes would not call for us at the house; the custom was for them to go straight to the long room, where they chatted with the tenants and helped to break the ice. Ambrose had always considered this a sound idea. The servants would be in the long room also, and Ambrose and I used to walk through the stone passages at the back of the house, and across the court, and out and up the flight of steps to the long room above the coach houses. Tonight Rachel and I would walk the passages alone.

I came downstairs and waited in the drawing room. I felt some trepidation as I stood there, for never in my life had I given a present to a woman. It might be that it was breach of etiquette, that flowers only were acceptable, or books, or pictures. What if she should be angry, as she had been over that business of the quarterly allowance, and should imagine, in some queer fashion, that I did this to insult her? It was a desperate thought. The passing minutes were slow torture. At last I heard her footstep on the stairs. No dogs preceded her tonight. They had all been locked early in their kennels.

She came slowly; the familiar rustle of her gown drew near. The door was open, and she came into the room and stood before me. She wore deep black, as I had expected, but I had not seen the gown before. It stood out, away from her, clinging only about the bodice and the waist, and the stuff had a sheen to it as though the light were upon it. Her shoulders were bare. She had dressed her hair higher than usual; the roll of it was looped up and drawn back, showing her ears. Around her neck was the collar of pearls. It was the only piece of jewellery upon her person. It glowed soft and white against her skin. I had never seen her look so radiant or so happy., Louise and the Pascoes had been right after all. Rachel was beautiful.

She stood there a moment watching me, and then she put out her hands to me and said, "Philip." I walked towards her. I stood in front of her. She put her arms about me and held me to her. There were tears in her eyes, but tonight I did not mind. She took her arms from my shoulders and raised them to the back of my head and touched my hair.

Then she kissed me. Not as she had done before. And as I stood there holding her, I thought to myself, "It was not yearning for home, nor sickness of the blood, nor fever of the brain — but for this — that Ambrose died."

I kissed her in return. In the belfry the clock struck five. She said nothing to me, nor I to her. She gave me her hand. We went down the dark kitchen passages together, across the court, and so to the long room above the coach house, where the windows were brightly lit. To the laughing surge of voices and the bright expectant faces.

CHAPTER XVII

The whole company stood up as we came into the room. The tables were pushed back, there was shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices hushed; the heads of one and all turned round to look at us. Rachel paused a moment on the threshold; I think she had not expected such a sea of faces. Then she saw the Christmas tree at the far end and gave a cry of pleasure. The pause was broken, and a murmur of sympathy and gladness at her surprise arose from everyone.

We took our places at our respective ends of the top table, and Rachel sat down. The rest of us did the same, and at once a clamour of chat and talk began, with clattering of knives and moving of platters and each man jostling his neighbour in laughter and apology. I had for partner on my right Mrs. Bill Rowe from the Barton, sprigged out to beat all comers in her muslins, and I noticed that Mrs. Johns of Coombe, Upon my left, looked at her in disfavour. I had forgotten, in my desire for protocol, that neither of them ""spoke" to the other. Some rift, dating back to a misunderstanding about eggs on market day, had lasted fifteen years. No matter, I would be gallant to the pair of them and cover all distress. Flagons of cider would come to my assistance, and seizing the nearest jug, I helped them, and myself, most liberally, then turned to the bill of fare. The kitchens had done us well. Never in my long memories of Christmas dinners had we been offered plenty such as this. Roast goose, roast turkey, sides of beef and mutton, great smoked hams decorated with a frill, pastries and pies of all shapes and sizes, puddings bulging with dried fruits; and between the heavier fare were platters of that delicate fragile pastry, airy as thistledown, that Rachel had concocted with the Barton maids.

Smiles of anticipation and of greed wreathed the faces of the hungry guests, my own amongst them, and already great gusts of laughter came from the other tables, where, undaunted by the immediate presence of the "master," the broader-tongued among my tenants let themselves go with loosening of belts and collars. I heard Jack Libby, of bucolic eye, utter hoarsely to his neighbour — I think he had already had a glass or two of cider on the road — "By Gor — after this lot they could feed us to the crows and we wouldn't feel et." Little thin-lipped Mrs. Johns upon my left pricked at her wing of goose with a fork poised between her fingers like a quill, and the fellow whispered to her, with a wink in my direction, "Go to it, m'dear, with thumb and finger. Tear 'un asunder."

It was then I noticed that each one of us had a small package put beside his plate, the packages addressed in Rachel's handwriting. Everybody seemed to perceive this at the same time, and for a brief moment the food was forgotten in the excited tearing of the paper. I watched and waited before opening my own. I realised with a sudden ache in my heart what she had done. She had given every man and woman assembled there a present. She had wrapped them up herself, and enclosed with each a note. Nothing big or fine, but a little trifle that would please them well. So that was the reason for the mysterious wrappings behind the boudoir door. I understood it all.

When each of my neighbours had fallen to her food again I opened my own. I unwrapped it on my knees, beneath the table, determined that only I myself should see what had been given me. It was a gold chain for my keys, with a disk upon it bearing our initials, P.A. R.A., and the date beneath. I held it for a moment in my hands, then put it furtively into my waistcoat pocket. I looked up at her and smiled. She was watching me. I raised my glass to her; she raised hers in reply. God! I was happy.

Dinner proceeded, uproarious and gay. Greasy platters, heaped with food, were emptied, I know not how. Glasses were filled, and filled again. Someone halfway down the table began to sing, and the song was taken up and joined by those from the other tables. Boots hummed a measure on the floor, knives and forks beat time upon the platters, bodies swayed to and fro in rollicking rhythmic fashion, and thin-lipped Mrs. Johns of Coombe told me that, for a man, my lashes were far too long. I helped her to more cider.

At last, remembering how Ambrose timed his moment to perfection, I rapped long and loud upon the table. The voices died away. "Those who desire to do so," I said, "may go outside and then return again. In five minutes' time Mrs. Ashley and I will give the presents from the tree. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."

The pressure to the doors was precisely what I had expected. And with a smile on my lips I watched Seecombe, walking stiff and straight, yet treading the ground lest it should give way beneath his feet, bring up the rear. Those who remained pushed the benches and the trestles against the wall. After the presents had been given from the tree and we had departed, those who were able to do so would take their partners in a dance. High revelry would last until midnight. I used to listen to the stamping as a boy from my nursery window. Tonight I made my way over to the little group standing by the tree. The vicar was there, and Mrs. Pascoe, three daughters and a curate. Likewise my godfather and Louise. Louise looked well but a trifle pale. I shook hands with them. Mrs. Pascoe gushed at me, all teeth, "You have surpassed yourself. Never have we enjoyed ourselves so much. The girls are quite in ecstasy."

They looked it, with one curate among three of them.

"I'm glad you thought it went off well," I said, and, turning to Rachel, "Have you been happy?"

Her eyes met mine and smiled. "What do you think?" she said. "So happy I could cry."

I saluted my godfather. "Good evening to you, sir, and happy Christmas," I said. "How did you find Exeter?"

"Cold," he said shortly, "cold and drear."

His manner was abrupt. He stood with one hand behind his back; the other tugged at his white moustache. I wondered if something about the dinner had upset him. Had the cider flowed too freely for his liking? Then I saw him stare at Rachel. His eyes were fixed upon the collar of pearls around her throat. He saw me staring, and he turned away. For a moment I felt back again in the Fourth Form at Harrow, with the master discovering the crib hidden under my Latin book. Then I shrugged my shoulders. I was Philip Ashley, aged four-and-twenty years. And no one in the world, certainly not my godfather, could dictate to me to whom I should or should not give Christmas presents. I wondered if Mrs. Pascoe had already dropped some fell remark. Possibly good manners would prevent her. And anyway, she could not know the collar. My mother had been dead before Mr. Pascoe held the living. Louise had noticed it. That was already plain. I saw her blue eyes waver towards Rachel and then drop again.

The people came stumping back into the room. Laughing, murmuring, pressing together, they came nearer to the tree as Rachel and I took our stand before it. Then I bent to the presents and, reading out the names, gave the parcels to Rachel; and one by one they came to take their gifts. She stood there before the tree, flushed, and gay, and smiling. It was all I could do to read the names instead of looking at her. "Thank you, God bless you, sir," they said to me; and, passing on to her, "Thank you, ma'am. God bless you too."

It took us the better part of half an hour to give the presents and to say a word to each. When it was over and done with, the last present accepted with a curtsey, a sudden silence fell. The people, standing all together in a great group against the wall, waited for me. "A happy Christmas to you, one and all," I said. And back came the shout from the whole lot of them as one, "A happy Christmas to you, sir, and to Mrs. Ashley."

Then Billy Rowe, his one lock plastered down upon his brow for the occasion, piped up in a high reedy voice, "Three cheers, then, for the pair of "en." And the cheers that echoed through the rafters of the long room nearly shook the boards and brought us all down upon the carriages below. I glanced at Rachel. There were tears now. I shook my head at her. She smiled and blinked them back and gave her hand to me. I saw my godfather looking at us with a stiff, nipped face. I thought most unpardon-ably of that retort, passed from one schoolboy to another, to silence criticism: "If you don't like it, you can go — " The blast would be appropriate. Instead of which I smiled and, drawing Rachel's hand inside my arm, I led her back from the long room to the house.

Someone — young John, I should imagine, for Seecombe had been moving as though to a distant drum — had bolted back to the drawing room between present giving and placed cake and wine there. We were too well filled. Both remained untouched, though I saw the curate crumble a sugared bun. Perhaps he ate for three. Then Mrs. Pascoe, who was surely born into this world, heaven save her, to wreck all harmony with her blabbing tongue, turned to Rachel and said, "Mrs. Ashley, forgive me, I really must comment upon it. What a beautiful pearl collar you are wearing. I have had eyes for nothing else all evening."

Rachel smiled at her and touched the collar with her fingers. "Yes," she said, "it is a very proud possession."

"Proud indeed," said my godfather drily; "it's worth a small fortune."

I think only Rachel and myself noticed his tone of voice. She glanced at my godfather, puzzled, and from him to me, and was about to speak when I moved forward. "I think the carriages have come," I said.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14