Читать книгу The Honour of his House - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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The brilliant primrose of the summer twilight had not yet faded in the west as Sherringborne stepped out on to the terrace and made his way along one of the trim avenues that led across the park. He looked a little older and less jaunty now, his head was bowed, and a mass of little wrinkles were netted around his eyes. He passed under those ancestral elms and beeches, he saw the deer creeping through the bracken in shadowy procession.

So far as he could see, he was suzerain of all the broad acres around him. There were farms and homesteads and cottages where every man called him overlord, and made him homage. And what reigning house in Europe could say more than that?

And yet Sherringborne looked as little like a happy man as needs be as he walked on his own soil that evening. He came presently to a little path, running between wide belts of shrubs, then he opened a wicket gate which gave upon a very beautiful and charming old world garden. It lay there secluded by the big forest trees; everywhere were well-kept grass paths between wide beds of roses. There were roses everywhere in the full panoply of their summer beauty. Up the slope stood a tiny creeper-clad cottage with latticed windows.

The place itself was a perfect embodiment of peace and quietness. One could imagine an artist or a poet living there secluded from the world and by the world forgotten. The door of the cottage stood invitingly open, and, bending over a few choice specimens of potted roses, two men appeared to be engaged in a heated argument. One of them stood up as Sherringborne approached and extended his hand.

"Now we will leave his lordship to arbitrate," he said. "Francois says this is nothing less than a Dijon rose, I contend that it is exceedingly impertinent on his part to contradict an expert so distinguished as myself."

"Francois is an impertinent scoundrel," Sherringborne smiled. "Incidentally, he is the only man I know who is not really afraid of Baron de la Croisa."

"Ah," the other said. "The hero and his valet over again. True now as ever it was."

With that the Baron threw back his head and laughed with the heartiness of a boy. He made a distinguished figure as he stood there in his plain evening dress, a little knot of ribbon striking a crimson note against the lapel of his coat. He was not a tall man, but he made the most of his inches; his thin, ascetic face might have belonged to a distinguished statesman or scholar. His shrewd brown eyes twinkled with humour, a thick thatch of white hair on his head resembled nothing so much as a doormat. In his left eye he wore a glass with a tortoise shell rim. He retained it with the manner of a man who is thoroughly accustomed to the use of the monocle.

A little old man with a ridiculously fierce grey moustache stood by—the type of man who has old soldier written on him in the plainest possible words. And Francois was a character in his way. He was cook and house keeper and eke laundress, too, to Baron de la Croisa; he worshipped his master with an almost dog-like devotion, though his criticisms of that distinguished individual never lacked anything on the score of frankness.

"Francois, you may retire," the Baron said. "The debate is adjourned for the present. Do you know, Sherringborne, that there are times when I am almost sorry Francois saved my life. He seems to think I belong to him ever since. To this day, I am sure it is a lasting wonder to Francois that my beloved Tortina once entrusted her destinies to my hands. But come in, my dear old friend, come in. You look worried and anxious. I am sure you have come here to consult me about something."

So saying, the Baron led the way into the cottage. It was a tiny affair with but one living room, and a kitchen on the other side of the door which was Francois' own private property. There were but two bedrooms and a bathroom overhead, and the sitting-room itself was furnished with almost Spartan simplicity. But there was a Persian carpet on the stone floor, the inglenook was priceless in its way, and on the bare deal table, scrubbed to a snowy whiteness, were a pair of carved branch candlesticks unmistakably the work of Cellini himself.

Along the ledge over the fireplace were china ornaments in black and gold, rare bits of the Ming Dynasty. There were pictures, too, on the whitewashed walls, a Corot, a Masonnier, and over the fireplace an exquisite Rembrandt. The Baron formed part of the picture, too, despite the correct severity of his evening dress. Anyone else would have been grotesquely out of place there, but de la Croisa struck the right note.

"Sit down," the Baron said hospitably. "Sit down and tell me all about it. Positively I have not seen a civilised being for over a week. Oh, I'm not grumbling, honestly, I am much more happy than I should be if I were back in the arena again. Providence never intended me for politics. I am too sensitive—what you call too thin-skinned. Ah, my friend, you did a great kindness to me when you placed this cottage at the disposal of a disappointed man. Perhaps I was fortunate to have escaped from Tortina with an income just sufficient for my modest wants and a few things like these to satisfy my artistic instincts."

He waved his white hand airily towards the pictures on the wall, his glance at the candlesticks was almost affectionate.

"You ought to have stayed on," Sherringborne said. "If you had remained in Tortina, Santa Anna and the present man, Altheos, would never have dared to do what they have just done. You would have beaten them, my friend, you would have beaten them, and had you done so you would have saved me a vast amount of trouble and anxiety. Because, if you were at the head of affairs there now we should never have had all this bother with Japan over those concessions." The Baron looked up swiftly.

"Ah," he cried, "There is trouble, then?"

"More than enough, my dear fellow. It's a thing I never anticipated. The whole crisis came on the Foreign Office like a bombshell. There was not a single cloud on the horizon. Those concessions of mine that I paid so much for looked like proving a gold mine. You see, though I am Foreign Minister, I thought I could handle them, for apparently Tortina was quite beyond our sphere of influence. And I am afraid I plunged rather heavily, and that I did more or less acting on William Saltburn's advice."

Again the Baron looked up suddenly.

"That man is a wolf," he said. "That man is out for himself. He thinks of nothing but money, and, mark you, it is all the same to him where it comes from. And so that long, greedy hand of his has reached as far as Tortina, has it? Well, many a hand has been burnt there, and why not Saltburn's? But go on, my friend, I interrupt you. I understand you are interested in Tortina concessions."

"Deeply interested," Sherringborne murmured. "So deeply that my financial future is in peril. And that is not the worst of it, Baron. I am a Minister of the Crown. I hold an almost sacred office and there has been no slur on the fair fame of an English Cabinet Minister since the days of Walpole. What would people say if they knew that the Foreign Minister had an interest in Tortina concessions? My enemies might say that I had used exclusive diplomatic information to put money in my pocket. And yet, three months ago, who could have blamed me for what I did? But now it is different. Japan has interfered because she claims a voice in the administration of those islands off the coast of Tortina, and Washington is alarmed. There are only two things before me. One is to cut my loss, which would mean leaving Borne Abbey, and the other to put myself in the hands of the Premier."

"Sir James Pallisser doesn't know of this?" the Baron asked.

"Not yet," Sherringborne went on. "But I must tell him. You understand, I have done nothing wrong, and even yet the trouble may be averted. There can be no question of armed strife between Japan and America, but if Washington is obstinate, then my speculation in Tortina concessions must be made public. It would be disastrous for me, Baron. I should lose practically all I have, at a moment when my boy has placed a load of debt round my neck. Disgraceful debts, some of them, which must either be paid or I must leave the Ministry."

It was a long time before the Baron replied. Then he looked into the face of his friend and his words came dropping like little bits of ice.

"And Saltburn?" he said. "Will Saltburn allow you to drop him? Remember the man you have to deal with. It is evident that he has been using you as a pawn in the game and if you come between him and his prey he will break you, Sherringborne, like a butterfly. I know that man. I knew him when I was president of the Tortina Republic, and I know that it was his money which was behind the revolution that drove me out of the country that I, a Spaniard, had practically made."

Sherringborne rose to his feet. He paced up and down the little sitting-room, his face white and wet.

"My God," he cried. "De la Croisa, I never thought of that. And here I have his son under my very roof at the present moment. And what about our old friend, El Murid? Surely he can save the situation? He remains in Tortina still, and in memory of the days when we were at Eton together he will do what he can for me. Because, you see, he knows the truth. He has the documents that would save my political reputation. Can't you get in touch with him? Can't you tell him the facts? Is it possible to persuade him to come to England? Because there is no great hurry. These negotiations may take a long time, and I may save both my fortune and my name yet."

"Then you haven't heard," the Baron said slowly, "You don't know that El Murid is dead?"

"Dead," Sherringborne cried. "El Murid dead?"

He dropped into a chair, all white and shaking, and a fine bead of moisture stood on his forehead.

"I only heard this afternoon," the Baron went on. "It came to me in an underground way, as these things often do. Our dear old friend is not only dead; it is worse than that. El Murid committed suicide two days ago."

"Ah, then, it is even worse than I feared," Sherringborne cried. "He was a brave man, always reckless of his own life, and always deficient in moral courage. He was just the same at Eton. I knew him well, Baron, we were the very best of friends. Can't you see what a terrible thing it is for me? It cuts the last prop from under my feet. Nothing can be gained now by disguising the truth. What can we do?"

"Only wait," the Baron said. "Only wait, and hope for the best. If we could get hold of El Murid's papers, then it is just possible that—I wonder—"

For a moment or two the Baron paced the floor in deep thought, while Sherringborne watched him with anxious eyes.

"Yes," the Baron said thoughtfully. "There is just a chance. But I can tell you nothing yet."

"Ruin," Sherringborne murmured. "Absolute ruin."