Читать книгу The Honour of his House - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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De La Croisa closed the door softly and lighted the candles in the great silver branches. As the crocus flames grow up one by one, so did the expression on Sherringborne's face stand out all the more white and ghastly. After all, it seemed to de la Croisa that his was the better part and the more noble portion. He had lost all, or nearly all, that men in his class value. His ambition lay buried underneath the roots of his beloved roses. Yet, all the same, his sympathy for Sherringborne was deep and sincere. His voice trembled a little as he laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder.

"This is very bad, my dear old comrade," he said. "Tell me all about it. How did it happen?"

Sherringborne spread out his hands helplessly. There was no sign of the lord of the manor here now, no suggestion of the smooth, strong man, who held, to a certain extent, the fate of England in his hands. For the nonce, he was an old man, with the red sword of a great trouble hanging over his head.

"I don't know," he replied. "It would be difficult to say. I am all misty and confused. I don't seem to be able to think coherently. I suppose it was Shorland's extravagance that started it. You see, I had paid over sixty thousand pounds for him already, and my expenses appear to be enormous. Not but what I should have had enough if it had not been for that wretched boy of mine. I began to feel alarmed. It was about the time that I first met Saltburn. In a way I rather like the man. He is so strong—so self-reliant—I never met a man who reminded me so much of Cecil Rhodes. It was he who first hinted of the possibilities of Tortina Concessions. And, after all, one must have one's money somewhere. I bought largely. I suppose I must have invested something like a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I believed all that Saltburn said. I began to see my way towards clearing half a million.

"And now?" de la Croisa asked significantly. "And now I look like losing two hundred thousand. But that isn't the worst. There is going to be a big scandal over this, Baron. One or two of the financiers will be accused of fomenting this trouble for their own benefit—"

"They won't mind that," the Baron murmured. "In the present singular condition of society a thing of that sort is regarded with a certain amount of admiration—I mean admiration of the financier, of course. But the world says hard things of public men who dabble in these kind of adventures. They will say especially hard things about a Cabinet Minister who lends himself to this class of financing. They will say—"

"Oh, I know what they will say," Sherringborne exclaimed. "They will say I have been using my position to make money. They will point out me as the only man in the English Administration who has done this disgraceful thing since the days of Walpole. And the worst of the whole thing is that it is true. If everything had gone well, no one would have been any the wiser, no one would have cared. But as it is—"

Sherringborne paused as if unable to go any further. There was no blinking facts, there was no sophistry to varnish such a terrible indiscretion. And yet it had all seemed so safe, so sure, and certain. Even a distinguished nobleman occupying a great public position must do something with his money. Sherringborne had a reputation for hard common-sense, but, as a matter of fact, in business matters he was a perfect child. He thought moodily now of another great nobleman who had been recently dragged through the mud at the heels of an unscrupulous financier, but then, the nobleman in question had kept clear of politics.

He would have to resign his position, he would have to make a clean breast of the whole transaction to Sir James Pallisser, the Premier. The Opposition Press would get hold of this thing, they would not fail to make the most of it. In his mind's eye he could see the headlines of the posters staring him in the face, he could hear the yelp of the whole Opposition pack in the House of Commons. And yet he had gone into this simply as clean business, and never dreaming for a moment that the whole thing was to be elevated so soon into an international problem.

"Can't you suggest something?" he said. The Baron shook his head sorrowfully. There was nothing to suggest. They could only sit there, discussing the matter in all its bearings, and the more the vexed question was threshed out the blacker and more repulsive it seemed.

"I must be getting back home," Sherringborne said wearily. "I'll come over again to-morrow afternoon when my head is a bit clearer. Good-night, my dear old Baron."

It was not yet quite dark as Sherringborne retraced his footsteps through the park. He could hear the wind rustling amongst the beeches, he saw the pheasants scuttling across the drive: a covey of partridges rose from under his feet and went drumming away over the bracken. A belated labourer passed him, touching his hat in humble homage. It was all his, so far as he could see, even the beasts of the field and the birds of the air seemed to come under his sway.

A great possession, no doubt, a fine possession, but just at that moment he had it in his heart to change places with the humblest hind on his estate. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being made a puppet in the great game of financial chess which Saltburn was playing, but the reflection brought no consolation to him. He could see now how foolish he had been; he could see no palliation for his conduct.

Just for one moment trees and sky and earth and air seemed blended in one whirling mist, then his brain cleared again and he crept on, trembling strangely in every limb. A nausea gripped him, a kind of physical sickness that he had never felt before.

He put all these painful thoughts away from him with an effort. There was something like a smile on his face as he walked into the drawing-room where Lady Edna and Philip Saltburn were seated. A clock somewhere was chiming the hour of eleven with the sound of silver bells. Lady Edna more or less successfully concealed a yawn beneath her hand.

"You are very late," she said. "We have been wondering what had become of you. I am quite sure that Mr. Saltburn is getting tired of my society."

"You don't really mean that," Saltburn replied. "In any case, one would be a long time before one tired of a place like Borne Abbey."

Lady Edna hesitated a minute, then she held out her hand as she said good night to Saltburn. He rose, in his turn, and asked his host to excuse him.

"Late hours do not agree with me," he said. "You won't think me rude if I go to bed, will you? No, thank you, I won't take anything. I make it a rule to touch nothing after dinner. I think you said breakfast at half-past eight."

Sherringborne murmured his regrets politely. At the same time he was relieved that there was no necessity to sit there opposite his young guest making conversation. He wanted to be alone now. He longed for the seclusion of the library where he could think matters out. There were details in connection with the lamentable suicide of El Murid which he was aching to hear. It might be possible at this late hour to get some information from London.

He walked over restlessly in the direction of the telephone, he would call up Sir James Pallisser and see if the Premier knew anything. As he stood there with his listless hand upon the receiver, the bell of the telephone purred rapidly and so startlingly and unexpectedly that Sherringborne fell back. He could hardly recognise his own voice as he asked the usual question. Then there came above the humming of the wires the soft, smooth utterance of Sir James Pallisser himself.

"Is that you, Sherringborne?" he asked. "Oh, it is. I am very glad to have got you. Are you doing anything particular to-morrow? You are not. Oh, very well. I beg your pardon. Oh, yes. Well, I want to see you pretty badly, and I should like to bring Grant and Featherstone with me. I got my secretary to send a note round to the papers saying that we are spending the week-end at Borne Abbey. I suppose you can put us all up?"

"Delighted," Sherringborne said huskily.

"Yes, I thought you wouldn't mind. After all, there is nothing significant in the fact that two or three of us are spending a week-end with you. We'll motor down early to-morrow."

"Is there anything seriously wrong?" Sherringborne asked.

"Seriously, do you say? Oh, yes, I am afraid so. I suppose you haven't heard that El Murid is dead—committed suicide, poor fellow. Oh, you know it, do you? Who told you? De la Croisa? Very strange how the Baron gets hold of everything. I suppose he didn't happen to know any of the circumstances of the case. I am afraid it is a bad business altogether. If there was one honest man connected with Tortina it was El Murid. And I am very much afraid he has been speculating deeply with public money."

"Never," Sherringborne whispered. "Never."

"Ah, well," the voice at the other end of the 'phone said. "You knew the man intimately. Far better than I did. But can't you see this is a most unpleasant business for us?"

Still Sherringborne said nothing. He might have spoken then and saved himself many a sleepless hour, but he could not unburden himself over the wire.

"I shall see you to-morrow," he said. "And then we shall be able to go into the matter, thoroughly."

"You are right there," the Premier replied.

"Between ourselves, I believe that Saltburn is at the bottom of the whole business. Oh, may I bring him with me to-morrow?"

"By all means," Sherringborne said, and hoped that his voice conveyed nothing to his listener.