"gp46w10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parker Gilbert)

So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by.
Here his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time
of Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been
sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his
face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson's Bay country and in the Rocky
Mountains, he had been called, "Tivi, The Man of the Other." He had been
counted the greatest of Medicine Men--one of the Race: the people of the
Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race of
men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got "the other."
No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain
of its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb,
and said half-believingly:

"Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom."

He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent, benign-
looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the strange
speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with courteous
inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was a scar.
He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon Varcoe
was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had thrown a
stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a scar.

Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him,
puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His
eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick
lifting of the shoulders, he said:

"Robert Belward!" Then added: "Impossible! But he is a Belward."

He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He
paused beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested
on it.

"That is it," he said at last. "He is like the picture of this Sir
Gaston. Strange."

He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings
with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and
affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure,
and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe
was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be
useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir,
a girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm.

"Grandfather, dear," she said, "aren't you going to the Court? You have
a standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been
there for so long."

He fondled the hand on his arm.