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71 pages

English

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Charmian, Lady Vibart is a novel dealing with many of the characters made famous by Jeffery Farnol in "The Broad Highway," and the action takes place twenty years after the final episode of that book. Charmian, now in the early forties, is still a great beauty and not afraid to gamble love and honor in a game of sinister peril. Young Richard Vibart, son of Sir Peter and Lady Charmian, receives in Paris a challenge from a famous duelist whom Richard has slapped for speaking lightly of the boy's mother. When Sir Peter hears of it he hurries to Paris, while Charmian, with a plan of her own, follows secretly.
This Farnol novel describing the joys and tribulations which parenthood has brought to the well-loved Charmian and Peter Vibart, recaptures the atmosphere of "The Broad Highway" in a fast-moving narrative which is replete with action and suspense.

Sujets

Romance historique

Historical

Regency

Romance

Fiction

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Publié par	Rare Treasure Editions
Date de parution	04 novembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781774642573
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Charmian, Lady Vibart
by Jeffery Farnol

First published in 1932
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
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.

Charmian, Lady Vibart

by JEFFERY FARNOL

CHAPTER I WHICH INTRODUCETH OUR HUSBAND AND WIFE
“ Twenty-two years!” exclaimed Charmian, LadyVibart, beating petulant white fingers on the window-pane,“twenty-two years—it’s preposterous!”
“Eh?” enquired Sir Peter, raising his dark headfrom the book that engaged him. “I beg your pardon,my dear, but what is preposterous, pray?”
“Everything!” she answered, flashing an angrylook at him over rounded shoulder, “you . . . me. . . us! And to-morrow is my birthday!”
“To be sure,” he murmured, turning a page, “Ihave not forgotten, indeed I——”
“And Peter, I shall be forty . . . forty-two . . . !”
“Three!” he corrected, “forty-three, to be exact—thoughI can hardly believe it, you—wear so well . . .amazing!” Here his gaze went back to his bookwhile Charmian, frowning at wide, sunny gardenand tree-shaded park beyond, rapped quicker andlouder than ever, until Sir Peter sighed, stirred andglanced up again.
“My dearest,” he murmured, gently reproachful,“if you could contrive to . . . tap a little moresoftly——”
“My love,” she answered, turning to frown athim, “no! Not until you are so extremely obligingto favour me with your attention,—oh, put yourhateful book down, Peter—do!”
Sir Peter Vibart laid by the offending tome andsurveyed his handsome lady with brow serene as usualbut eyes faintly apprehensive:
“Dear soul,” said he in murmurous reproof, “thoughwe are in my library and this my customary hourfor study, still I am ever ready to break my rule foryou as——”
“Rules?” cried Charmian, in sudden blaze ofanger, “there it is—custom, rote and rule,—rule, roteand custom! At such an hour we must do this, atsuch an hour we must do that, but never, oh neveranything worth while!”
“My dear,” said Sir Peter, a little dazed, “mydear——”
“Tush!” cried Charmian and stamped at him,“you ride to the markets—like a farmer! You gapeat cattle-shows—like a drover! You tramp yourfields—like a plough-boy! You read your bookslike a—oh, like a Peter Vibart! And you vegetatelike a—hateful cabbage!”
“God bless my soul!” gasped Sir Peter, droopingin his chair.
“And as for me, Peter, I’m—breaking my heart,losing my spirit, pining away—fading, Peter! Butyou, so perfectly content, are blind in your sereneself-complacency, and never see it,—cannot, will notsee it——”
“Good Gad!” he exclaimed, and was out of hischair and had his arm about her shapeliness, all ina moment; then, lifting her unwilling head, he lookeddeep into her unwilling eyes.
“Pining, are you, my Charmian?” he questioned,tenderly. “Fading away? Then I vow you do it verygracefully——”
“But I am forty-three, Peter—of course I am!”sighed she.
“And I think more beautiful than ever.” At this,she condescended to look at him.
“Perhaps you only think so, Peter, because I happento be yours, and you are so self-assured thatany and everything belonging to Sir Peter Vibartis and must be of the very best according to Sir PeterVibart, seeing Sir Peter Vibart is altogether such avery superlative creature,—such a very grave, sedate,highly-respected—gentlemanly personage!”
“I wonder?” said he, beginning to frown.
“Undoubtedly!” she nodded. “And our lives are—wastingaway, the years flitting by so dreadfullyfast, and what . . . what have you achieved?”
“Yourself!” he answered, smiling. “Our son,Richard. Then, too, our tenants are prosperous andhappy, every farm——”
“Indeed,” sighed she, “you grow bovine as theprize cattle you take such a ridiculous pride in! Whereare your youthful ambitions? All gone! To-dayyou are too ineffably content for exertion or anythingbut a very clod-like country gentleman. Oh,do you wonder I am breaking my poor heart hereamong all this smug rusticity . . . these miles of well-tilledfields . . . and barns . . . and hay-ricks—do you?”
“I’m wondering, Charmian, if it would break morecomfortably in London among crowded streets andreeking chimney-pots?” And now it was Sir Peter whostared so wistfully out into the peaceful, sunny gardenand drummed upon the window-pane. “Perhaps,” saidhe at last, his tone wistful as his look, “yes, perhapswe . . . I . . . have been too happy. You have mademe almost too content, Charmian. I’ve wanted nothingsince our boy came . . . our son Richard.”
“I wanted him named Peter, Peter.”
“But agreed he should be called after our dearSir Richard Anstruther. . . . And, well dear—Richardis and has been my ambition, all my hopes have beencentred in him.”
“And yet, Peter, you send him on the Tour witha—a dreamy, small mule of a man, you permit himto wander about the Continent with a book-worm. . . a fool——”
“A fool?” repeated Sir Peter in shocked accents.“You cannot mean poor Chantrey?”
“I do mean poor Chantrey; the creature’s a worm,always in a book, a dotard, a——”
“My dear, Tobias Chantrey is an eminent scholar,a wrangler, a senior prize-man——”
“And helpless as a baby!”
“Well, but Richard is a manly fellow and——”
“Only just nineteen, Peter!”
“Precisely! But then Richard is—my son——”
“Your son, sir, oh yes, but he is mine also, if mymemory serves.” Now at this, Peter laughed and,drawing her close, kissed her; but breaking free, sherubbed off the kiss with dainty handkerchief andfronted him sullen-eyed:
“Indeed, Sir Peter, he is your son; but despitethis inestimable privilege he is not infallible or immunefrom the harms and dangers that beset less fortunateyouths—simply because he is so blessed as to be siredby—Sir Peter Vibart.”
Now at this Peter scowled, then he laughed and,sitting on a corner of his littered and book-strewndesk, surveyed his beautiful wife with darkly-bright,questioning eyes.
“Charmian,” said he in soft, reverent voice, “wehave been married twenty-two years and, God bethanked, you have proved all and more than I dreamedyou. You are so various you might stand for Womanhood’sepitome. God made you beautiful, but, behindthe wonder of your eyes, placed an intellect thatmakes your carnal beauty divine—almost, for, mydear, you needed mastery. Then, my Charmian, Heglorified you with Motherhood and I became sohumble, my dear, so awed by the very wonder of youand the ever-growing marvel of our child, that I nolonger played the master but gave my mind to lesserthings and suffered you to rule until—to-day, it seems. . . why, Charmian . . . dear heart. . . .” Here hisarm swept about her again, for she was sobbing:
“Oh Peter . . . my dear . . .” she murmured, lovelyhead snugged against his breast, “I . . . never thought. . . never dreamed you had such thoughts of me . . .nowadays . . . such holy, reverent thoughts . . . afterall these years. My dear, you make me hate myself.. . . I feel unworthy such a love,—because I am not. . . oh, I never was half so good, so wonderful as yoursweet dream of me—though Richard is, of course . . .some day Rick will be a man like you—honourableand gentle, my Peter, and brave enough to think thebest of . . . of life and . . . everybody. But, ah, mydear—hold me tight, Peter—there is a demon in me. . . there always was . . . a demon of discontent urgingme to do . . . oh, wild things . . . and sometimes, Peter,I—do them. . . .”
“Of course!” he murmured, kissing her glossy hair.“Though you never did gallop your horse up the stepsof St. Paul’s Cathedral, twenty-two years ago!”
“No!” said she, nestling closer, “no! But thenI . . . loved to play with fire . . . and . . . oh, you remember,I . . . ran away with your Cousin Mauricebecause he was a—a devil, though—I ran away fromhim, Peter.”
“Yes—to me, dear—thank God! And, having marriedme, have lived fairly content with me all theseyears, which I esteem very marvellous considering youonce called me . . . ‘a lamb!’ Do you remember?”
“Yes . . . yes!” she answered, in voice betweensob and laugh. “And you so mightily indignant,Peter! Yes, I called you a lamb . . . though you hadjust driven off a wolf . . . a demon! So, my Peter, bestrong again, tame me! Drive away my own particulardemon that torments me with these wild fits of restlessdiscontent.”
“Dear heart,” he murmured, fondling a waywardcurl at her temple, “what is it troubles you? Are yougrieving for our Richard,—worrying about him?”
“No . . . yes . . . I don’t know,” sighed she, a littlebreathlessly, “I feel . . . I think I’m what our Janetwould call ‘fey’ . . . a feeling of impending evil.”
“I know!” said Peter, and kissed her. “And yetRichard’s last letter was very cheerful. But dear, I’llrecall him at once if——”
“No, Peter, no—it would be foolish of me to cutshort his pleasures for a . . . a whim.”
“Then we’ll go to Town, the house in St. James’Square is——”
“Yes, Peter dear, but it is such a vast barracks ofa place for just—us two! So many servants everywhere. . . and London will be a howling desolationuntil the season opens——”
“Hum!” quoth Peter, somewhat hipped. “Well,supposing we run over to Paris for a week or so, theBeverleys are there and——”
“That would be perfectly delightful, dearest—exceptfor the hateful sea-passage.”
“But you never mind the sea, Charmian.”
“I should—this time, Peter.”
“Oh! Then what——”
“Oh, Peter—can’t you . . . guess?”
“No, upon my life!” Now at this, Charmianfrowned at him, sighed, flushed and, vivid mouthclose to his ear, whispered.
“Eh? The old cottage?” he exclaimed. Charmiannodded.
“But, my dear,” said he, glancing rather furtivelyround about upon the book-lined walls and luxuriouscomforts of this spacious chamber, “won’t it berather—damp?”
“Damp?” cried she in choking voice, and wouldhav