Читать книгу The Peer and the Woman - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Lord Bernard Clanavon was a young man who had earned for himself the reputation of extreme eccentricity. Even his father and mother, whose only and very much spoiled son he was, found themselves often force, to admit that he was odd. He had none of the vices and very few of the habits, of other young men of his class, which was all very well as far as it went; but it had its disadvantages. London life bored him, and the country, except during certain months of the year, was still less to his taste; consequently he spent a good deal of his time abroad; and, being difficult to suit in the matter of companionship, he spent most of it alone. Another of his peculiarities was that he detested having letters, and never, unless compelled, wrote them. To escape from a correspondence which, had his whereabouts been known, would have been inevitable, he made a point of never giving an address even to his own people, simply telling them the date of his return, to which he was always faithful.

A month ago he had left London for Rome, with the remark that he would return on June 15, and at four o'clock in the afternoon of that day he was strolling over Waterloo Bridge on his way westward. A little distance behind, on the opposite side of the road, followed his late travelling companion.

It was a fine afternoon, and the Strand was thronged with foot passengers and the streets with a ceaseless stream of vehicles. Lord Clanavon was evidently enjoying his walk. Head and shoulders taller than most of the crowd, he walked leisurely along, still smoking, and every now and then pausing to look in at a shop window or read the placards outside a theatre. The newsboys, who lined the gutters on the street, were making the air vibrate with their hideous news, but, partly on account of the great roar of traffic and partly owing to habitual inattention, he walked on serenely indifferent to their voluble cries. Close behind was his travelling companion, who watched him eagerly each time he passed one of the little knots of newspaper sellers, and whose face was gradually becoming savagely overcast. At last the blow fell. Close to Charing Cross Lord Clanavon paused with the evident intention of crossing the road, and as he stood on the curbstone waiting for an omnibus to pass, his eyes fell upon a placard which was thrust almost into his face by an eager newsboy, and his ears were salute at the same time by the cry which was echoing a down the Strand:

"Hawful tragedy in the West End! 'Orrible murder of the Earl of Harrowdean! Full particulars!"

For the space of fully thirty seconds Lord Clanavon stood perfectly still on the edge of the pathway as though turned into a figure of stone. Then a ghastly paleness crept into his cheeks, banishing all his ruddy manly color, and he swayed backward as though about to fall. The roar of the passing vehicles and the babel of talk and street shouts around seemed to come to him from a far-off distance, and the ground appeared to slide away from under his feet. Then came a darkness before his eyes, a sudden tightening of the brain, and at last unconsciousness. It was the first swoon of a man of iron nerves and constitution and it was not to be forgotten.

When Lord Clanavon opened his eyes and looked around him his first impressions were rather mixed ones. To begin with, he was lying upon a strange sofa in a strange room; and, more wonderful still, its only other occupant was a woman. He raised himself noiselessly upon his elbow and scrutinized his surroundings a little more carefully. The room was of moderate size, and was well and tastefully furnished, though not luxuriously. This much a hasty glance showed him, then his eyes fell upon his companion and remained there. He was an artist by temperament, keenly appreciative of beauty in any form, and he felt a subtle sense of pleasure in letting his gaze rest upon her perfect oval face, with its dark blue, almost violet, eyes and brilliant complexion and her dainty petite figure. For a moment or two he lay there watching her; then she looked up from the flowers which she was busy arranging and blushed slightly as her eyes met his.

"You are better?" she inquired softly, crossing the room and standing at his side.

"Better!" he repeated, wonderingly. "Have I been ill? Ah!"

A sudden wave of recollection came streaming in upon him, bringing with it a sickening sense of the horrible thing which had happened. Again he seemed to be in the noisy Strand, with that 'awful placard stretched out before him and the shrill cries of the eager newsboys ringing in his ears. This time, however, he withstood the shock and remained calm.

"Have you one of those papers?" he asked, rising slowly to his feet.

She put one into his outstretched hand unwillingly, and with a great compassion shining out of her luminous eyes.

"My father left one here for you," she said, softly. "He thought that it would be better for you to read all about it for yourself. I—I am so sorry."

He took it with trembling fingers, and, sinking down upon an ottoman, read it through. Then the paper fluttered down on to the floor and he covered his face with his hands for a few minutes. When he looked up again he was quite calm, but his voice was hard and his eyes dry and bright.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking around him.

"You are in my father's rooms in Craven Street," she answered. "You were taken ill and he brought you here."

"It was very good of him, very kind. Is he here?"

"He will be in a moment; you will wait and see him, won't you? I—I'm afraid you have had some very terrible news."

He pointed to the paragraph.

"Yes. He was my father."

"Your father! Oh, how dreadful! And you knew nothing about it?"

"Nothing. I came back this afternoon from abroad, and was on my way home."

The sight of his misery was awful. She turned away with a little sob and stood at the window with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. She would have liked to console him, but how was she to attempt it? A stranger, too! So she did what seemed to her the next best thing—she remained silent, asking no more questions.

After a while the necessity for action of some sort flashed in upon him. He rose suddenly and took up his hat.

"I must go now," he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort. "If your father has gone out, will you tell me his name that I may call and thank him for his kindness—and you for yours?" he added.

The words were conventional enough; the tone was a little more grateful even than the occasion seemed to demand. Perhaps she thought so, for she blushed faintly when she answered him.

"Our name is De Feurget, and—ah, that is my father's step, I think. He has returned then."

Lord Clanavon turned toward the door and saw a slight, dark figure standing upon the doorstep. Something familiar in the pale oval face and restless eyes arrested the words which he had been on the point of uttering. But it was not until Mr. de Feurget had advanced into the centre of the room that Lord Clanavon recognized his recent travelling companion. Then he held out his hand with a somewhat forced smile.

"I scarcely thought that we should meet again so soon," he said. "It was very good of you to bring me here; I don't know what would have become of me if you hadn't. I suppose I must have fainted," he added, as though rather ashamed of the fact.

"Such a shock is enough to make any man faint," the other added, gravely. "I trust that you are better now."

"Yes, I am better," Lord Clanavon answered, with a little shudder. "I was just going as you came in. Perhaps you will allow me to call again at some future time. Just now I don't feel up to much conversation, and I feel that I haven't thanked you and your daughter half enough for your kindness."

He had moved toward the open door, and from there bowed his farewell to the young lady. Certainly she was very beautiful, he thought, as he looked into her dark brilliant face and saw the soft sympathetic light flashing in her deep blue eyes. And then he felt ashamed of himself for thinking of such a thing at such an awful time, and turned away a little abruptly.

M. de Feurget followed him downstairs and opened the door for him.

"Let me fetch you a hansom," he suggested. "You look scarcely fit to walk."

Lord Clanavon shook his head.

"I think that the walk will do me good," he said. "I couldn't breathe in a cab. Good-afternoon."

Then he turned away and walked slowly down the street with bowed head and eyes fixed upon the pavement. The man from whom he had parted remained upon the doorstep watching him with a curious look upon his face. His thin, colorless lips were parted in a slight smile, which was more suggestive of a sneer than of mirth, and his dark eyes had lost for a moment their shifty, restless expression and were full of deep thought. He stood here for fully five minutes after Lord Clanavon had disappeared, motionless and absorbed. Then some trifling noise in the street seemed to change the current of his thoughts, and he abruptly re-entered the house and closed the door.