The Way Beyond

Jeffery Farnol

Description

In this romance the author tells of the joys and tribulations of parenthood and gives an ideal picture of the perfect human partnership of Charmian and Sir Peter Vibart, the heroes also of that greatest of all romances The Broad Highway. Their son Richard's adventures are as wild as Peter's own and culminate in his being involved in a mysterious murder for which, but for Charmian's faith and courage, he might have been sentenced to death, so strongly did the web of circumstantial evidence envelop him. The story is peopled with scores of those characters which only Mr. Farnol can create.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Romance historique
• Historical
• Regency
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 16 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773231976
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Way Beyond
by Jeffery Farnol

First published in 1941
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.



















THE WAY BEYOND
by JEFFERY FARNOL










To
JOSEPH DAVID HUGHES
MY GOOD AND VERY DEAR FRIEND
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
IN
ABIDING AFFECTION
CHAPTER I
WHICH OPENS THIS NARRATIVE AND INTRODUCES OLD FRIENDS
Old Sol, throned in splendour on a cloud, like a jovial and beneficent god, smiled down upon this right pleasant land of Sussex,—shady woods and sparkling rills, wide flowery meads where somnolent cows, sightfully content, puffed fragrance: wide-sweeping downlands where cloud-shadows played across a myriad flowers and lonely shepherds sought what shade they might … a hot, stilly afternoon lulled by the drowsy hum of little unseen wings.
And nowhere did Old Sol beam more warmly than upon a certain ancient manor-house and its immediate vicinity; a very aged house this, glorified by successive generations from the simple Saxon steading it had once been, into a very thing of beauty,—mellow of brick, heavily timbered, wide of frontage and stately, its many latticed windows set wide open to the fragrant air.
On this goodly homestead most particularly Old Sol seemed to have fixed his huge, beaming orb,—a great, fiery, extremely inquisitive eye that, peeping in at each and every casement, beheld and peered at:
Number One: At Sir Peter Vibart in his book-lined library, seated at large desk littered with many papers, an open volume before him, and himself very sound sleep.
Number Two: At his secretary, young Mr. Mordaunt, seated remotely at another desk and very wide awake, his large eyes turned up in ox-like (yet soulful) contemplation to the cavern ceiling-beams, his brow furrowed in the throes of composition, a quill pen idle in his fingers, a sheet of fair paper before him whereon, beautifully inscribed, Old Sol might have read
THE EPIC AMOROSO.
She walks in beauty and all stately grace;
All Beauty throned is in her lovely face;
Where’er she be, then hallowed is that place.
I must be dumb, and ever nameless she
That in my heart must aye unuttered be
All ye that love, Oh lovers, pity me!
This which lies hid thus hidden must remain,
I may but look and, looking, sigh in vain.
Unutterable love, unutterable pain.
She is a wife, alas, and I—a slave—
Do serve her lord—
Number Three: At Mr. Jacob Mayhew, the dignified and portly butler, snoring in his pantry and therefore, just at present, not so dignified as usual but just as portly.
Number Four: At Tom, the one-legged ex-soldier, tying up posies and talking murmurously to Rose.
Number Five: At Rose, my lady’s maid, blushing like her namesake and listening to Tom.
Number Six: At young Richard Vibart in his shirt sleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair much ruffled, busied with rapid quill inditing a letter that begins,
“My own ever adored Rosemary.”
Number Seven: At Mrs. Mayhew, the housekeeper, napping demurely in her own little sitting-room.
Number Eight: At Miss Janet McFarlane, in the stillroom, girt with clashing chatelaine but just now bending (witchlike) over a seething pot with Lucy the stillroom maid.
Number Nine: At Charmian, Lady Vibart, in her boudoir, gracefully disposed upon cushioned settee and yawning sleepily over the book she has dropped three times to her own startled awakening. She, persevering, reads a headline twice, her long lashes droop, the book slips for the fourth time and lies unheeded, and she is upon the sweet borderland of sleep when she is roused by gentle rap on the door and in comes Richard’s comely, ruffled head.
“Oh, Richard,” she sighed, stretching luxuriously, “you may come in, my dear … and tell me why you have been sticking your hair into elf-locks and Indian wigwams as your father does when things put him about.” In came Richard closing the door decorously behind him, but then began to stride up and down the dainty chamber, and being in boots and spurs, he jingled.
“Indeed,” murmured Charmian, watching him fondly and askance, “you grow very like your father! But don’t ramp, my dear, stop jingling. Now come and sit beside me, and when you’re ready—tell me who and what, and how.”
“My dear,” he answered, taking her nearest hand to kiss as a matter of course, “briefly it’s the Governor.”
“You mean your father, Richard.”
“Of course, though he seems more like a governor. He seems to forget that I’m a man.”
“Are you, Richard?”
“Indeed I hope so. I shall be twenty in less than a week.”
“So soon!” she sighed. “Well, what of your father?”
“He’s been at it again, Mother … this Beverley girl; he’s trying desperately hard to ram marriage down my throat! Why—good Lord, I hardly know her!”
“This is your fault, Richard. Rosamond Beverley is an exceedingly good match.”
“But I don’t love her——”
“Don’t you, my dear?”
“No … no of course not! And never could.”
“Oh?” murmured Chairman. “But pray—why ‘of course not’?”
“Because … oh well, I … I never could … not possibly—no!”
“Ah!” murmured Charmian, sitting up suddenly, though gracefully, “you are so extremely negative that I naturally wonder and ask: who is it, dear?”
“Who is what, Mother?”
“The cause of such very positive negation. Whoever she is you will tell me she is all that is beautiful, of course, Richard,—but is she worthy? Is she—nice? Who is she? I can find out for myself as you know—I always do, but I’d rather you told me.”
Up jumped young Richard, to stride and jingle again while his lovely mother watched him a little anxiously until, meeting her wistful regard, he answered, a little incoherently:
“Mother dear, I … I worship … I adore her with all my body and soul! And of course she’s worthy … holy … much too good for me … pure as an angel and … oh beautiful … beautiful as … Venus!”
“Goodness—me!” murmured Charmian, widening her eyes at him. “But who is she, Richard—who?”
“She’s Rosemary, Mother, Rosemary Ford.”
“Gracious goodness—me!” ejaculated Charmian, rising suddenly to her feet, “Black George’s daughter——”
“Yes, Mother, yes—and I love her with——”
“So you told me.”
“And I believe … I hope … she loves me too.”
“Then you have actually—told her?”
“Dear Mother, I’ve asked her, begged, implored her to marry me next week——”
“Richard, don’t be so idiotically ridiculous! Such mad impetuosity! Such extravagant haste! Such wild precipitation! Have you dared to tell your father this? Have you?”
Richard’s proud young head drooped, he shook it despondently, he sighed dismally, avoiding his mother’s eyes.
“No, my dear, no!” he confessed miserably. “I’ve tried to speak more than once … I have indeed. But he is so … unaware, so … so confoundedly aloof and stately that I … I get dry in the mouth and quite tongue-tied … like a frightened boy, a dolt, a fool, an ass——”
“Precisely, Richard dear! And you will be all of these if you continue to think or even dream of marrying anyone so ridiculously soon. And what does Rosemary say to such mad haste and hurricane wooing, poor child?”
“That’s just it, mother—this is just where you can help me, if you only will. She refuses to give me any answer until I have broken it to you and father and won your positive consent. So——”
“A sweet girl … and very wise!” nodded Charmian. “Yes, very wise indeed! Well, so she should be, being my own god-daughter.”
“And so, Mother dear,” said Richard, rather shame-facedly but altogether supplicating. “I … I came to you with my trouble, as I always do, hoping that … perhaps … you might…. Oh, will you speak to father … tell him for me?”
“No, Richard!” said his mother, sitting down again with a certain finality. “Most certainly not, my dearest; being so very grown-up and such a man you are man enough to do this for yourself, I hope.”
“Lord love me!” groaned Richard, dolefully.
“Of course He will, my dear, and help you too, though you must do your share. And when you have told Sir Peter, I will talk too.”
“Will you, Mother! Oh, my dear, then all will be well, you can do anything with him, of course.”
“Of course, Richard.”
“Then first, will you … would you be so sweet to …to have a word with him—now? Just to sound him … see how the wind blows? Will you, dear? For … oh, Mother, she is my very life——”
“Do you love her? … truly Richard? I mean not only for her vivid beauty … do you, my son?”
Down before her on his stalwart knees thudded Richard, and looking deep into her wise, questioning eyes with eyes steadfast as her own, answered in voice sunk to note of reverence:
“Mother, I swear to God and you that I love her for what she is, more than what she seems—for her sweet gentleness, her strength, her white purity. I think I have loved her all my life … since we played together as children, yet I only found this out since I came back from Europe. Mother, indeed, indeed I love her most truly….”
Very gently Charmian drew this eager young face near, to smooth the ruffled hair, to kiss the eyes so very like her own.
“Such love should prove a blessing, my Richard,” said she, softly, “and I ask God’s blessing on it—now.” Then she arose and settling her dainty petticoats with a little, dexterous shake, looked up at her tall son with roguish eye.
“Now,” said she, “I’ll go and see just how … the wind blows.”
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH CHARMIAN MEDITATES
And thus it was that Mr. Mordaunt, warned by gentle rap on the door, hastily covered up “The Epic Amoroso” and rose to bow as “she who walked in beauty” walked into the room.
“Oh, Charles,” she whispered, slim finger on roguish-smiling lip, “I observe Sir Peter so very busy that I dare t