Читать книгу The Scales of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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George Drummond's expostulation was feeble; he was too far gone to protest much. The wind seemed to chill him to the bone, despite his fur coat. He staggered along by sheer instinct; he was back in Swaziland again for the moment—many a night there had he been compelled to drag his weary body along like this—then, just for an instant, all his faculties returned.

"It is more than kind of you," he said. "But it is absurd! Your people; are you quite sure that they will not wonder that—you understand?"

It seemed to him that Flora hesitated, that she felt rather than saw the blood in her cheeks.

"Oh, what does it matter?" she cried passionately, "Don't you see that this is a case of life or death? You cannot, you cannot go any farther! We are not like other people I know. We have our own sorrows and griefs, and they concern us alone, but this is not the ordinary course of things. Give me your arm."

There was a touch of command in the tones, softened by the slightest suggestion of the Scottish accent, and George was fain to obey. So far as he could recollect, they were nearly two miles from the nearest shelter, and these two miles would have been as a desert journey in his present condition. He yielded himself to his fate, he walked blindly on, bewildered as in a dream; everything was a blank now.

George recalled it in the after days piece by piece. He passed under a portcullis, across a courtyard, and into a hall, stone-flagged, oak-paneled, and flanked by figures in armour, with ancient needlework on the walls. It seemed as if Flora was talking to someone who expostulated with her about something. The atmosphere of the hall was by no means suggestive of a vault. Lights burned from many candles, set in silver branches.

"It was inevitable," Flora was saying. "It is Captain Drummond, of Grange Court. A family quarrel, I suppose. At any rate, Captain Drummond was literally turned out of the house. Can't you see that he is ill—dying, perhaps? What else could I do?"

A faded voice quavered something querulously, and then George seemed to fall asleep. When he recovered his senses, he was lying before a blazing fire, his coat had been removed, and a grateful sense of warmth possessed him. From a certain pungent flavour on his lips, he concluded that somebody had given him brandy.

"That is all right," Flora's voice came out of the haze. "You are better now. Shall I get you something to eat? You have not dined."

George had not dined—there had been no time. He realised now that much of his weakness was due to the want of food. Something dainty was placed by his side on a heavy salver. Then, for the first time, George looked around him.

He was in what had been the refectory of the Mont in the old days, when it had belonged to the Order of the Capuchin Friars. There were the quaint carved saints on the walls, the arched roof with the pierced window below; the whole thing modernised by a heavy Turkey carpet and some oil paintings.

The beauty of the apartment was heightened by masses of flowers grouped everywhere. George wondered where he had caught their subtle perfume before, and why it reminded him of a church and an organ, and "the voice that breathed o'er Eden." Then it came to him that most of the flowers were white blossoms.

"It is very good of you to have me here," George said; "but I ought not to have come."

"Not that we mind," a faded voice that George had noticed before said. "In the old days of the Camerons hospitality was a sacred law. The prince and the beggar and the outlaw—they all came to the sanctuary for protection. But what will he say?"

The voice was faded and tired; the speaker's velvet gown was faded, too, though its gloss and its lace spoke of richness in the past. As George looked up at the speaker, he saw that her eyes were as faded as her dress; they seemed to be colourless and expressionless; she might have been moved by unseen wires at a distance. And yet the old, old face was by no means plain or lacking in intelligence and nobility, and again the softness and luxuriance of the rich brown hair belied the haggard anxiety of the face. The speaker was tall, too, with the old-world dignity of the grande dame, while her refined tones had the faintest suggestion of the Highland about them that George had noticed in Flora.

"It cannot matter what anybody thinks," the girl said, though her upward glance was not altogether free from timidity. "Captain Drummond will not be here for many hours. By good chance, as it turns out, I overheard a quarrel between Captain Drummond and his uncle, which ended in our guest being turned out of the house."

"The same thing happened to your Uncle Ivor in my young days," the older lady said.

"Precisely. We do not seem to have learnt much since then. Captain Drummond was very ill, and so I persuaded him to come here. Could I have done less, mother?"

The elder lady nodded; she sat down in a great oak chair, and the faded eyes became vacant. So this was Flora's mother, George thought. Doubtless some deep sorrow had partially affected her reason. She was still under the spell of that grief, if not of some actual terror besides. For George could not fail to notice how she started at every little noise—the opening and shutting of a door, a step in the hall. Then her eyes went towards the door with a dumb, supplicating terror, as if pleading to an unseen tormentor.

"I hope that he will not mind," she said. "It is for so short a time."

"Only till to-morrow," Flora said. "I have sent a little note to Sir Devereux's butler to forward Captain Drummond's bag here. Only for a little time, mother."

The pathetic figure in the big arm-chair nodded and her eyes closed. Altogether a weird, strange household, with Flora the only bright and lovable thing about it. George's eyes, roaming round the room rested at length upon the mantelpiece, where a photograph or two stood in silver frames. One of them was a soldier in uniform. The features seemed familiar enough to the intruder—surely they were those of his friend and companion, Ronald Cardrew! All unconscious of what he was doing he rose and advanced to satisfy the evidence of his eyes.

"Ronald Cardrew," came from the big chair. The faded eyes were open again.

"Ay, Ronald Cardrew. You are a soldier yourself, sir; and perhaps you may be able to tell me—What was I going to say? Flora, what was I going to say? My mind is not what it was."

Flora had jumped to her feet, her face flaming. In a flash the recollection of the conversation she had overheard came back to her. Ronald Cardrew was engaged to Drummond's sister. Sybil Drummond had thought more of her lovers reputation than of her brother's. George would have asked a question, but the flaming confusion of Flora's face checked his words on his lips. The figure in the big armchair seemed to have lapsed into slumber.

"I cannot explain," Flora whispered. "Don't ask me. Some day perhaps if I ever meet you again. But, then, I shall never meet you after to-night."

Again certain words came to George's lips. He meant to meet the girl again. She had believed and trusted in him, when his own sister had turned against him. Her beauty and sweetness had touched him deeply. There might be strange and evil things going on in this house, but Flora was pure as the blooms from which she took her name.

"I am better already," George said. "It was the cold and the want of food that overcame me. That and the—the great shock which you know of. If you have a conveyance of any kind to drive me over to Longtown, I would not intrude upon your kindness any longer. But I should be sorry to think that we are not going to meet again. I do not want to dwell upon it."

"'Journey's end in lovers' meetings,'" the faded voice from the armchair said, as in a dream. "Hark!"

Somebody had commenced to sing overhead—a pure, sweet voice, clear as a bell and fresh as that of a child. With his eyes on the grandly carved roof, George could imagine that he was in some cathedral, listening to the treble of the favourite chorister. It must be a boy's voice, he thought, the voice of an artist, for the tones thrilled with feeling and passion as the glorious melody of the Message rang out. It was all so soft and soothing in that dark house of mysteries. And yet, at the first sound of the song, the faded figure sat up erect and rigid, and Flora's face grew stony and contemptuous.

"He is coming," Mrs. Cameron whispered. "What will he say, Flora?"

"I do not see that it very much matters," Flora answered, in a voice that she strove in vain to render indifferent. "The thing was inevitable, and I did it."

The clear sweet tones came closer, the pure passion of the song rang near at hand. Then the door opened, and the singer entered, with the song still upon his lips. George Drummond gave a little exclamation of surprise. He could feel rather than see that Flora was watching him, for the singer was no angel-faced boy, but a man of massive proportions—an enormous man, with great, pendulous cheeks, and a body like that of Falstaff. He was exceedingly tall, too, and well set up, his great, thick lips were clean-shaven, his grey eyes had pouches under them.

At the first glance he might have passed for a benevolent giant, but a further inspection revealed a certain line of the features and a certain suggestion of satire about the mouth. His voice was as an exceedingly pure alto, as George knew now, and once he had seen the singer it was strange that all the subtle beauty seemed to go out of the song.

The song had stopped suddenly, as the artist caught sight of the stranger.

"My uncle—Bernard Beard," Flora said. "This is Captain Drummond, uncle. I daresay you wonder why he is here when Grange Court is so close."

"But relations quarrel at times," the newcomer said. His voice was rich and oily. When he smiled, as he did now, George felt a strange sense of attraction. "Our space here is somewhat limited, but—"

George rose to his feet. The words were courteous enough, but their meaning was plain. As the big man turned to say something to the faded lady in the arm-chair, Flora caught at George's arm.

"Be patient!" she whispered. "God knows that I may have need of you. If there is any little thing that you owe me, for my sake be patient, patient and forbearing."