Читать книгу The Honour of his House - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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The room was faintly tinged with the fragrance of coffee. Then it seemed to Philip that Lady Edna was paying scant attention to what he was saying. She was listening, and yet not listening, to what was going on at the other end of the room. De la Croisa was speaking now, he lay back in an arm-chair, his legs crossed, his long, thin finger-tips pressed together. Once more the talk had drifted into a duel between de la Croisa and Saltburn.

"You are not altogether a fool," Saltburn said approvingly.

"Ah, I thank you," the Baron responded. "Quite so, my friend. According to this shrewd judge, I am not the fool he took me for. Behold, it is a great compliment to the poor old failure who has to take refuge in growing roses. It takes brains to grow roses. But that is a mere detail. And now, my friend Saltburn, with your permission, I will ask you a question. You say that the Tortina Islands business should be left to the financiers?"

"Only an idiot could suggest anything else," Saltburn said bluntly.

"Meaning yourself, perhaps?" the Baron asked blandly.

"With Van Troop of New York, we could settle it in a day. It's largely a question of bluff after all. These things always are. But we shall have to be trusted."

De la Croisa twinkled like a child.

"And Japan?" he asked. "The innocent Jap? Ah, you would not take advantage of those children at Tokio, and all the cards would be on the table, of course?"

De la Croisa spoke lightly, almost flippantly, yet the eyes which he turned upon Saltburn had a challenge in them. Saltburn's red face turned a shade crimson. He mopped his huge forehead.

"That is a clever shot," he said.

"No, my friend, it was no shot at all. You go soon to Tokio to see the Emperor, you will have to explain to him how it is that South America has seized this opportunity to make trouble. It is very unfortunate for us that poor El Murid is out of the way because he might have thrown a lurid light upon this complication. The Emperor will be annoyed, he will probably scent a breach of faith. It is possible that he may say that you have brought this about for your own purposes. He may remark that Santa Anna is a poor man or that he was a poor man till a comparatively recent date, in fact, there is no end to the things the Emperor may say to you. But on these things it will be possible to speak more plainly when we have seen El Murid's private papers. You made a bad debt there, Mr. Saltburn."

"Put it plainly," Saltburn said. "You might just as well accuse me openly—"

"Ah, a thousand pardons," de la Croisa said in tones of exquisite politeness. "You mistake me. I am grieved, I am desolated. Let me hasten to say that I make no accusation against anybody. I merely stated that our late friend El Murid was deeply in your debt, and that it was impossible to get to the bottom of it until his papers came to be overhauled. Then we shall see many things. I—the poor broken-down public servant with nothing but my roses and my cottage—tell you so. And there is going to be trouble in Washington. There is going to be trouble everywhere. Now, Mr. Saltburn, here is the chance to show your power. If I were a great capitalist, do you know what I should do? I should say to him—"

Saltburn was leaning eagerly forward to listen now. His wide lips were parted, there was a fine perspiration on his forehead. Then de la Croisa broke into a gay laugh.

"Well, go on," Saltburn said impatiently, "I am listening. I don't often pay anyone the compliment of doing that."

"Ah, no," de la Croisa exclaimed. "Possibly I have already said too much. But if I had those papers—"

"Ah, El Murid's, eh? I don't mind telling you I have seen to that. A friend of yours, wasn't he?"

"He was at Eton with our host and myself," de la Croisa explained. "An honest, straightforward man, and a capital sportsman. Isn't that so Sherringborne?"

But Sherringborne did not appear to be listening. There was a strangely vacant look in his eyes, his lips were twitching. De la Croisa asked the question twice before Sherringborne's eyes were turned in his direction.

"Oh, yes," he said. His voice was strained and hard, yet with a peculiar tremble in it that caused Sir James Pallisser to turn in his direction. "Oh, yes," he went on, "it was a chaffinch's nest with three eggs in it. Now, don't you think it is a singular fact that a chaffinch should build a nest in a candlestick? But you can see for yourselves there it is! A nest made of moss and horsehair, right under one of those branches."

"Good heavens! Sherringborne," Sir James exclaimed. "What's the matter? What are you talking about? Here, hold up."

But Sherringborne had fallen forward, his head hanging on his breast. All the light of life and reason seemed to have gone out of his eyes now. He was an old, old man, suddenly senile and broken.

"Can't you see it for yourself?" he asked petulantly. "It is there yonder, on the candlestick, and it is full of El Murid's papers. You must get those papers for me, Pallisser, take them out of the nest when the bird is not looking. If I don't get them I am ruined. I shall be disgraced."

He lifted his head suddenly, his eyes shining now with a new and restless fire.

"You must listen to me, my lords," he said. "I desire to crave your indulgence for a minute. For the last twenty years I have sat in your lordship's house. I have played a prominent part in the Councils of the Nation, and I must confess that this accusation has taken me entirely by surprise. Because I am not guilty my lords. For five hundred years there have been Cranwallises at Borne Abbey, and until the present moment—"

He broke off again, half-conscious of the horrified looks of those around him. They stood, one or another, as if to shield him from the eyes of his daughter. Lady Edna lay back in her chair talking quietly to Philip Saltburn, utterly unconscious of the ghastly tragedy which was being played only a few feet away.

"Pull them out, I say," Sherringborne said, querulously. "Pull the papers out of the chaffinch's nest. Do you hear, Pallisser? I shall be ruined, and the Government will be disgraced, and all because—because—El Murid's letters—the letters I wrote to him."

There was a silence, long and slow and painful. In the recess by the window Lady Edna sat chatting with Philip. The murmur of his voice reached the others, it seemed strangely inconsequent, so hideously out of place. It was as well, perhaps, that most of the lights there were shaded, that it was only possible for those close to him to see the ghastly, twitching greyness of Sherringborne's face. In the presence of a tragedy like this the little group standing round it seemed to be paralysed. Even William Saltburn had no suggestion to make, he could only regard his host with an expression of mingled pity and contempt.

"What is it?" Pallisser whispered to de la Croisa. "Do you know anything, Baron? Can you think of the cause of this dreadful business? What had we better do?"

De la Croisa shook his head. He could explain, no doubt, but in the presence of Saltburn he was silent.

"It is only conjecture, my dear Sir James," he said. "So far as I can see there is only one thing to be done, and that is to send for a doctor without delay. There is some serious brain trouble here—the result of a mental shock, I should say."

"What were we talking about?" Sherringborne went on in the same curious shrill treble. "What was the subject under discussion? I can't think of anything. Oh, yes, El Murid and those papers, and the nest—the nest."

He said no more, for suddenly the left side of his face drew up with a hideous contortion, his left hand hung limply by his side. Then, very slowly, he dropped to his knees, and lay on the carpet. He was breathing stentoriously now, the ghastly pallor on his cheeks had given place to a dull mottled redness.

"By heavens, he is dead," Featherstone cried. "What fools we are to stand gaping like this. Lady Edna!"

She had heard, for, on the spur of the moment Featherstone had called out the words with a hoarse horror; they rang from one end of the saloon to the other. Lady Edna's book slipped from her fingers, and went crashing to the floor. She came across the room now swiftly, her dress trailing behind her, her face all soft and tender and apprehensive. She took in at a glance what had happened; there was no occasion to ask any questions.

Just for the moment her brain moved half-unconsciously, for she was not used to trouble, and it had come upon her all too swiftly.

She was trying to tell herself that her father had been suddenly stricken down, and that for the first time in her life she was face to face with death. She knelt there all heedless of her dress, she raised the limp, grey head, and rested it on her knee. There were tears in her eyes now, her lips were trembling as she glanced up at the little group standing round her.

"How did it happen?" she murmured. "But why do I waste time asking questions? Sir James, will you ring the bell and ask them to send for a doctor at once; and don't you think it would be as well to lift my poor father on to a sofa? Shorland ought to be sent for, too."

"We will hope," Pallisser murmured, "we will hope, Lady Edna, that it is not so serious as all that."

"Oh, but it is. You know that it is—I can see that by the expression of your face. Please ring the bell."