Читать книгу The Honour of his House - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Lord Sherringborne had dispatched his bacon with a due regard to the traditional surrounding toast and marmalade. He had finished his coffee and, with a cigarette, was disposed to talk. For the most part, he enjoyed his week-ends more than those days when the calls of State summoned him to London. He did not see the necessity for an overworked legislature to be sitting in July, and was inclined to criticise the Premier who was mainly responsible for this condition of things.

"You had better tell Sir James Pallisser so yourself," Lady Edna smiled. "I don't see why you should choose me as medium for your criticism. But as Sir James is coming down here this evening for the week-end, can't you try and persuade him yourself of the necessity for a holiday?"

Lord Sherringborne wiped his white moustache thoughtfully. He looked just a little uneasy and disturbed, and he was not meeting his daughter's direct gaze quite so steadily as usual.

"Well—er—the fact is, things are not quite what they should be," he said. "Of course, I can't enter into details, I tell you too many Cabinet secrets as it is. But the Premier isn't coming down here at all to-day. There has been some breakdown in connection with stupid trouble in Tortina, and it looks as if America and Japan might come to loggerheads with regard to those Islands off the coast of Tortina. Nothing like a rupture, of course, but it's rather a complicated business, and I really ought to be in town looking after it. But Pallisser prefers to handle it himself, and that's why he's kept in town. But you can read his letter if you like."

"Then we shall be entirely alone this week-end," Lady Edna cried. "How jolly—I mean, how nice. I haven't had you entirely to myself since Easter."

It was a pretty enough compliment in its way, but for once Lord Sherringborne did not seem to appreciate it.

"Well, not exactly," he said with some hesitation. "You see, I have telegraphed to young Saltburn to come down. I don't think you have met Philip Saltburn."

Lady Edna partly rose from the table. The smile had died out of those glorious eyes of hers, and her face had suddenly grown hard and cold.

"Is this a joke, father?" she asked.

"Is it a Joke; my dear, why a joke? I am not given to what Shorland calls 'leg pullin.' Of course, in my peculiar position, I have—er—to make myself agreeable to many people—"

"In London," Lady Edna corrected. "Yes, but this is an entirely different matter. None of that class have ever been down here before. Besides, what possible connection can there be between us and these Saltburns? Oh, I know all about the father. I know that forty years ago he started in life selling glue or tin-tacks, or something equally revolting and necessary. I know that he is a great financier, with offices in every capital in Europe—sort of Rothschilds—Lady Marchborough says. But it is not very complimentary to the Rothschilds to mention them in the same breath. But really, my dear father, the audacity of these people is getting beyond all bearing."

"Unfortunately," Sherringborne sighed, "unfortunately, we can't do without them."

"Fortunately we can do without them here," Lady Edna said, with some austerity. "Oh, I quite recognise their power and importance. Baron de la Croisa said the other night that a handful of capitalists over a plate of filberts and a bottle of port could change the map of Europe if they liked. But with all their power none of them has yet succeeded in getting an invitation to Borne Abbey, and I am rather surprised—"

Sherringborne shuffled uneasily in his chair.

"My dear, you have no sympathy with modern thought. It is absolutely necessary for the Government to keep on the right side of Saltburn. He's got that Tortina business in the hollow of his hand, and really his son is quite a decent young fellow. Oxford and Eton, a really first-class shot, and a straight rider to hounds. I shouldn't be at all surprised if Saltburn decides to buy 'The Chantrey'—"

Lady Edna passed her hand across her face as if she were suffering from a particularly hideous form of nightmare. In a faint, small voice she asked Sherringborne if she heard him correctly. Was she to understand that 'The Chantrey' was actually in the market? She refrained from asking her father why he had dared to contemplate such a step without consulting her, but that was what her tone inferred, and the fact was not lost upon his Majesty's Minister for Foreign Affairs.

"What was the good of it?" he asked. He spread out his hands as if he were addressing a hostile gathering in the House of Lords.

"I ask you as a sensible girl what we make per annum out of 'The Chantrey'? It's a beautiful old house, and, of course, it has been the family dower-house for centuries. Look at the land there, what poor stuff it is. Nothing but gorse and heather—seven or eight thousand acres for a few sheep to starve on. If I sell the place to Saltburn we shan't even know that he's there. And I understand he is prepared to pay quite a fancy price for it."

"A fancy price," Lady Edna echoed scornfully. "My dear father, where do you pick up your expressions? It sounds like a ticket on a ready-made mantle in a Bond-street shop. If we are in need of money, which we are not—"

"Then we are exceedingly fortunate, my dear," Sherringborne said in his mildest manner. "I suppose you don't realise what an expensive luxury Shorland is?"

"I suppose Teddy is extravagant," Lady Edna admitted with the air of a sovereign asking Parliament for a grant for some pampered prince. "I shouldn't so much mind if he were a little more careful with his acquaintances. But then those society papers exaggerate so. I read a ridiculous story a few days ago about Shorland and that South American dancer. Something idiotic about a diamond necklace. By the way, I saw her this morning. Her car pulled up, and she asked me the way. A common, flaunting creature."

"Ah, there you are a little prejudiced," Sherringborne said. "I thought she was—er—I mean, believe she is quite well connected."

"And leads that sort of life?"

"Well, why not, my dear. It can be quite respectable, and it means quite a fabulous income, so far as I know. Ninon Garrados goes everywhere."

"Yes, I suppose she does. But she doesn't come here, and, of course, that story of the diamond necklace is a fable."

Sherringborne smiled a little guiltily as he lighted a fresh cigarette. It was not for him to say that he had the bill for those diamonds in his pocket at the very moment. He was almost ashamed to tell Lady Edna how frank the old family solicitor had been on the subject of Shorland's extravagance. But this was not likely to affect his daughter much, for she had regarded the Cranwallis exchequer to be as limitless as the sea. Where mere money was concerned her contempt was wholehearted, not to say picturesque.

"Does Teddy owe so much?" she asked carelessly.

"Over thirty thousand pounds," Sherringborne said. "And this is by no means the first time. Even our exchequer cannot stand it. My dear Edna, I really don't know where the money is coming from. The lawyers tell me that I can't cut down any more timber."

"You can't, you can't. Why?"

"Oh, it's all very well to talk like that, but the estate is not mine to do what I like with. I am merely what the law calls a tenant for life. And so, you see, this money must be paid. It would never do for a man in my position to have Shorland's debts thrown in my face. And that is why I have made up my mind to sell 'The Chantrey.'"

Sherringborne spoke with a resolution that he was far from feeling, and had Lady Edna been less wrapped up in her contemplation of the family dignity she would have seen how hard and grey her father's face had grown. She would see that there was something here beyond financial worries.

"Saltburn has offered me at least four times the value of the place," he went on. "Indeed, I don't understand why he wants to buy it at all. And I shall be glad, my dear, if you won't say any more about it. You will, of course, make Mr. Philip Saltburn's brief stay here as pleasant as possible."

Lady Edna inclined her head graciously. She was a loyal and dutiful daughter enough, but she was not pleased, and as the day wore on she began to be conscious of an uneasy feeling that something was going to happen, that her father was concealing material facts from her. The day slipped on decorously, as it always did at Borne Abbey, luncheon was a thing of the past, and Lady Edna was sitting down to tea quite alone in the great hall waiting for Sherringborne, who was out somewhere on the estate. She sat there in the cool brown silence, with the little flecks of light cast here and there from the armour round the walls, waiting, half-unconsciously, for the coming visitor. She had gone off into a day-dream of her own when she became aware of the fact that a footman was standing behind her with a young man by his side. He was a tall, well-knit young man with a face bronzed almost to the hue of mahogany, with the tinge of health showing beneath it like the rosy side of a winter apple. A masterful man, too, for his lips were close set and his grey eyes steadfast.

"I am Philip Saltburn," he said, respectfully enough, though his tone was easy and self-reliant. "It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Edna."

Philip Saltburn held out his hand with a frank suggestion of equality that touched Lady Edna's pride at once. Seeing that this young man was her guest, there was nothing for it but to yield her hand with what grace she could. And with it all she caught herself thinking what a firm grip Saltburn had, and what a deal of conscious power lay in those brown fingers of his.

Not a handsome man, Lady Edna decided, but his features were good and regular. He looked so wonderfully healthy and wholesome, and, strangely enough, quite like one to the manner born. Positively, there were no points in this young man's armour to pick holes in. His flannel suit was well-cut and quiet in texture, his grey silk tie was knotted with the careful carelessness that usually goes with a well-dressed man who is not even aware of the fact that he is well dressed.

With those few words he dropped into one of the great carved Cromwellian chairs and began to talk quite easily and naturally. He appeared to have travelled far and wide, he seemed to have studied most things that mattered to advantage. And though Edna had been steeping in an atmosphere of art from her childhood, her own knowledge of the great English masters around her was nothing like so wide and comprehensive as that of her guest. He put her right upon a minor point or two quite without a suggestion of superiority.

Clearly it was impossible to patronise this young man. He absolutely refused to see any line of social demarcation between himself and his beautiful hostess. He would probably have dismissed the suggestion with a smile.

"I have travelled a great deal," he said. "You see, I was born in Australia. My father emigrated there nearly fifty years ago. When I was old enough for school I divided my time between Eton and Heidelburg, finishing up at Oxford. It has been a pleasant life but I have never known what it is to have a home; still, I have had dreams of a place like this, and that is why I am so anxious to get 'The Chantrey.' I happened to see it some time ago, and fell in love with the place, and my father is buying it to please me."

Lady Edna sat there, looking thoughtfully into the flower-decked fireplace. Possibly this young man meant nothing offensive, but the time had come to show him that matters were going too far.

"I am afraid I am not concerned with that," she said haughtily. "The Earl was telling me something about it at breakfast time, but I am very much afraid, Mr. Saltburn, that I could not possibly give my consent."

"Indeed," Saltburn said with twinkling eyes. "Then I am afraid we shall have to do without it."