Читать книгу The Scales of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Once more the listener felt the blood flowing into her face, but she could not withdraw now, and must remain where she was. She would try to forget all she heard. And yet she was prejudiced almost fanatically on the side of the accused. With all the tumultuous Highland blood in her veins, she had a fine contempt for a coward. But she did not believe that George Drummond was a coward. No man with such a voice could possibly be craven. It was illogical, no doubt, but her instinct told her she was right.

"As you say," George said, "this letter has been delayed. I underhand that Colonel Courtenay has gone up-country with a small field force. And this is what he writes:—

"'My dear old Friend and Comrade,—I have been through some trying moments in my time, and my duty compels me to do certain things that I had far rather have left alone; but never had I such a painful task as this. I am going to make the plunge, so that the pain will be the soonest healed."

"'Your boy is a coward! You would strike me if you heard me say so, but the fact remains. It was over that affair at Kooli Pass. I daresay, as a keen old soldier, you followed all the details in the papers. And when I heard that your boy was dead, and that the Swazis had buried him, I was glad, though I liked the man as my own son.

"The facts are quite plain. George lost his head and gave the order to retire, though young Ronald Cardrew tells me he could have held the position easily. You know all the mischief that followed the loss of the battalion, and for that loss George is to blame. I need not go into details. For your sake and for the sake of the house, I hope the matter will not be talked of. For I have done what I ought not to have done, and it is sorely against my conscience—I have glossed over George's conduct as much as I could. And from the bottom of my heart I hope that he is dead.

"' I am writing you this because my position here is not secure, and my time may be near at hand. Anyway, I shall not have an opportunity of communicating with you again for months. What I want to impress upon you is this—if George is not dead, if he has escaped in the marvellous way a good many of our fellows have done, he must send in his papers. Of that there can be no shadow of doubt. If he does not, then I must tell the truth.

"'God bless you, dear old comrade, and give you courage to bear the blow! I cannot say more.

"'Yours very sincerely,

"'GRANTLEY COURTENAY.'"

From end to end, slowly and in a cold, chilled voice, George Drummond read the fatal letter. Then it fluttered from his fingers to the ground. A long, painful silence followed. Sir Devereux moved at length, and tapped impatiently on the table.

"Well, sir," he said, "have you anything to say? Anything to account for your presence here to-night? Any sort of defence? But that is impossible!"

"I am utterly overcome," George responded. The words were an effort to him. "I am yet weak and low, and this has been a great shock to me. I—I was not close up with my men when the thing happened. There was a mistake somewhere. In trying to aid Ronald Cardrew—"

"Oh, George," said Sybil tearfully, "don't throw the blame on him!"

"No—I had forgotten," George went on. "It was a very painful business altogether. In any case, it would have had a serious effect on my promotion. Cardrew told his own tale when I was in the hands of the enemy. It is possible, perhaps, that I—"

"May say it was Cardrew's fault," Sir Devereux said, with a bitter sigh. "Such things have happened before. Do I understand that that it what you are going to do?"

There was a long pause before George Drummond replied. He looked from the quivering face of his uncle to the pitiful, beautiful one of his sister. She seemed so delicate and fragile, so incapable of standing anything in the way of a shock. George spoke at last.

"I say nothing for the present," he replied. "I am utterly overwhelmed by this thing. If you only knew the pleasure with which I had looked forward to this evening—and then to be called a coward. Well, sis, I am not going to defend myself."

"I am glad to hear it," Sir Devereux said. "We never had a liar in the family, and I find that you can spare us that disgrace."

"And Ronald might have suffered," Sybil murmured.

The listener felt her pulses quickening a little. If George had been her brother she would have lifted him up and poured oil into his wounds, even had he been a coward. But he was no coward. Weak and ill and broken as he was, no coward could have taken his misfortunes so quietly. Sir Devereux crossed the room and help open the door for Sybil.

"You must go back to our guests," he said. "This long absence on the part of both of us is not quite courteous. Though the wound bleeds we have yet to smile. And I have something to say to this gentleman."

Sybil departed obediently. The deeper, stronger emotions were not hers. Sir Devereux faced round slowly and sternly upon the younger man, who stood, pale and quiet, leaning on his stick.

"Now, sir," he asked, "what do you propose to do in this matter?"

"I am afraid I do not quite follow you, sir," George replied. "In the first place, the shock of the business has been a little too much for me. My head is giddy and confused. All I say is that I nearly lost my life trying to retrieve the mistake of—of another. I cannot tell you anything else. Perhaps if I was better—But I cannot stay here."

"You are quite right—you cannot. In time to come the property must be yours and the title. Your ancestors will probably turn to the wall. But, as you say you cannot stay here; I could not permit it. You will do as you like. You have your mother's small property, so that you will not starve. I presume you sent your trap away."

"Of course I did. Foolishly enough I looked for a welcome. It is a bitter night, and I am not very strong, as I told you just now. To-morrow—"

"No—to-night!" The words rang out clear and cold. "Not under my roof, if you please. Not even for a single night, cold as it is! Call me cruel—perhaps I am. But you cannot stay here. My boy, my boy, for the sake of your mother, whom I loved, I would do all I could for you, but not that, not that, because—Perhaps in the course of time—"

"Say no more!" George cried; "not another word, if you please. If you asked me to remain now I could not possibly do so. You need have no shame for me. Watson is discreet, and will keep my secret. Let me have my coat in here, and I can leave by the French window. Will you let me have my coat without delay, sir."

Sir Devereux rang the bell and Watson appeared. The old servant started as he received his order. He would have lingered, perhaps expostulated, only Sir Devereux gave him a stern, yet pitiful glance.

"Better go, Watson," George said; "and be discreet and silent; don't say I have been here. The family quarrel must not be known even to a favoured old servant like you. Get my coat, please. To-morrow I will let you know where to send my kit-bag. Goodnight, Watson."

Watson muttered something almost tearfully as he helped George on with his heavy, fur-lined coat. The latter looked round about the room, with its carved oak panels and ceiling; he glanced at the grave faces of the dead and gone Drummonds looking down on him. As the French window opened, a gust of cold air and driving snow came into the room, causing the fire to roar as the sparks streamed like hot chaff up the chimney. A ripple of laughter, almost of mockery it seemed, came from the dining-room; the soft fragrance of the hothouse flowers floated in. George gave one backward glance—Flora could see the light on his pale face now—and he was gone. Just for a moment Sir Devereux stood with humbled head and shaking shoulders—a bent and broken man.

"This is foolish," he said. "I will forget; I will not let the others see this. And may God forgive me if I have done wrong to-night!"

He crossed to the door and vanished.

As he did so, Flora Cameron came from her hiding-place. There was nothing for her to wait for. She recollected that Sybil Drummond had proclaimed the fact that Dr. Gordon had gone on his errand—the hall was empty. Flora crossed over to the big door and closed it silently behind her. The cold night air blew chill on her crimson face.

A figure stood there with the lights of the house shining on his face. Then he turned and limped painfully down the avenue. Flora following close behind. Once she saw the outcast stagger and press his hand to his chest, as if in pain. The cold outside was intense, the fine snow cut like lashes. Flora was shy and timid no longer, she saw her duty plainly.

"You are going to try to walk to Longtown?" she asked. "Five miles on a night like this? You are Captain George Drummond, and I am Flora Cameron, of the Moat House. Captain Drummond, by no fault of mine, I was compelled to hear all that passed to-night. May I be allowed to say, if it is not impertinent, how sorry I am."

"Though I am a coward," George smiled faintly. "You must see that, of course."

"I am quite sure there has been a mistake," Flora said quietly. "I used to see you when I first came here. I used to peep through the park railings and watch you and your sister playing together. I was a lonely child. But we need not go into that. You cannot walk into Longtown to-night."

"I have done worse things in South Africa, Miss Cameron," George said.

They were past the lodge gates and into the road by now. Truly a strange meeting and strange conversation, George thought. The pure sweetness of the girl's face and her touching sympathy moved him, cold as the night was. He staggered for a little way, and then looked up, dazed and confused.

"I am very sorry," he said; "I have overrated my strength. I cannot go any farther. If there is any cottage or place of that sort where I can—"

He stumbled again and fell by the roadside, his eyes half closed. Flora stopped, and chaffed his cold hands.

"Courage," she said, "courage! Make an effort. The Moat is not far off. Come!"