Читать книгу The Scales of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Ten minutes passed; a solitary pedestrian or two came along, then a waggoner whistling quite blithely to himself as he drove his team, and after him a little dark figure of a girl, whose black hair was hanging down her back. The fugitive could see her face from his shelter in the centre of the bushes—a little pinched face, lighted by a pair of dark, frightened eyes. Yet there was something good and true about the face, and the convict felt that he was being drawn by some instinct towards it.

The feeling grew upon him, so that he stepped out of the tree and confronted the girl. She gave a little gasping cry, that was instantly suppressed, then her hands went out in the direction of her companion. For the first time he saw that she was lame.

"Little girl," he said, "do not be frightened of me. I don't think that anybody would be afraid of me if they knew my story. Are you looking for anybody?"

The child nodded. If she was frightened, it was not at the darkness of the night, for she was evidently accustomed to being out after dark.

"I fancy that I am looking for you, sir," she said. "It was a message from the Moat House."

"That's right!" the man said eagerly. "I also had a message from the Moat House. I was to find my way here about this time, and somebody would meet me—somebody who going to find me shelter for an hour or so. Are you the kind little friend?"

"I hope so, sir," the child replied. "My father is out to-night; he—he had to go away and do something. And Miss Flora asked me to do this for her. There is nothing in the wide world that I would not do for Miss Flora. I was to take you to our cottage and keep you there till nearly eleven o'clock. And after that I was to show you the way to the Moat House. You could never find your way to the Moat House alone."

"I am afraid that I couldn't," the convict said. "I am sure you are a good little girl, or Miss Flora would not trust you so implicitly. If your father comes back—"

"My father will not come back," she said. "Oh, you need not be afraid of that! He knows nothing; he thinks I am in bed, if he thinks anything about me at all."

There was something pathetic about the last few words. The convict did not need to be told that here was a poor neglected child starving for love and sympathy.

"And your father, little one?" he asked. "Tell me what he does."

"My father does nothing. He was once a gentleman. But there were misfortunes before I was born, and my mother died, and—and that is all. My father goes away at night this time of the year, and Mr. Markels the keeper over at Sir Devereux Drummond's place, says he is the cleverest poacher in the county. But they have never caught him."

The convict nodded in sympathy. He was sorry for the child, who spoke of her father's shame so pitifully. He had forgotten for the moment that Sir Devereux Drummond lived so close at hand—Sir Devereux had been an old friend of his father's.

"Well, I am to rest at your cottage till my time comes," he said. "May I take your hand my dear little child? You are trusting me implicitly, and I shall not forget it some day. And so you love Miss Flora? Why?"

"Because she is so good to me. She taught me to read and write; she lent me the good books that I like so much. She told me all about Jesus, and how He cares for little ones like me. And when my father gets his black moods on, and there is nothing to eat in the house, she sends me food to keep us alive. And she is not afraid of father. He would kill anybody else who talks to him as Miss Flora does, but he only laughs and takes off his hat to her, as if she were a queen. Can you read Latin books?"

"I'm afraid that I have forgotten my Latin," the convict admitted.

"Father hasn't. He can read a lot of Latin books. He has them in his bed-room. Will you stay here whilst I go in and light the lamp?"

The strangely assorted pair had reached a tumble-down cottage at the side of a cover, with a shield of trees in front. The feeble rays of an evil-smelling oil lamp showed a poorly furnished room, with a few pots of flowers here and there, as if somebody had made a despairing effort after cleanliness and comfort. A crazy staircase led out of the sitting room, apparently to bedrooms overhead; the windows were covered by a pair of old curtains which had seen better days.

"I think we shall be comfortable now," the child said as she locked the door. "If you will sit down I will put some wood on the fire. There is not very much wood, but we can manage with what little there is. My name is Jessie."

"And my name is Wilfrid," the convict replied. "No, I don't think I will take my overcoat off. You see, your fire is not very big, and I may be liable to catch cold. I feel as if the marrow of my bones was frozen, probably due, I fancy, to the fact that I have not eaten anything for—My dear little girl, would you do me a favour? A glass of milk, a crust of bread and cheese, or something of that kind—"

"There is absolutely nothing in the house to eat," the girl said. The convict could see that her face had grown scarlet, and that the tears had risen to her eyes. "I'm dreadfully sorry. Father and me finished it all up for supper. When he goes out long nights like these, he generally comes back with his pockets full of good things. Oh, I am so sorry!"

The convict laughed it off unsteadily. He felt half faint, wolfish, for the want of food. And yet, he was sorry for the poor little girl whose hospitable instincts had been so wounded by the necessity of refusal. The child was about to say more, but the shuffle of footsteps rattled on the gravel outside, and somebody tried the door and proceeded to knock. Forgetful of his hunger, the convict was on his feet at once. The hunted animal was alert.

"Don't reply yet," he whispered. "It may—it may be somebody for me. Is there any way out at the back? The back door is not fastened, you say? And it opens into the wood? Good! I'll just stand in the kitchen till you answer the door."

The convict slipped out into the gloom of the so-called kitchen as Jessie opened the door. But no warder stood there, no bloodhound of the law on the track of the prisoner. The convict could see a man in an expensive fur-lined coat there, a man who asked in educated voice if Jim Marston was at home. The light fell upon the stranger's face.

"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "So your father will not be at home for a long time? I daresay I could give a pretty good guess what that means. And I've run all this risk—I mean to say, I have come all this way to see Marston. I must leave him a message. Do you happen to have any paper and envelopes in the house?"

Yes, there was paper and envelopes in the house, Jessie said, if the gentleman would step inside. As the stranger came in, the convict looking through the door from the kitchen gave a violent start. There was just a shade of contempt on his face.

"Ronald Cardrew, as I am alive!" he murmured. "Now, what is that good looking scamp doing here? I wonder if anything came of the attentions he was paying to George Drummond's sister, Sybil? I hope not, for the girl's sake. He's up to no good here."

The stranger, sealed up his hastily scribbled note and gave instructions that Jim Marston was to have it directly he came in. With a curt little nod to the child he closed the door behind him, and the convict came back to the room.

"I hear the clock striking eleven," he said. "I am afraid I shall have to trouble you to come out into this dreadful night with me again, Jessie. If you are afraid—"

"I am not in the least afraid, sir," Jessie replied. "Let me put out the lamp. I will take you as far as the lodge gates of the Moat House, and after that I was to come here again. Miss Flora was very particular about that. And, oh, I am so sorry that there was nothing for you in the house to eat! This is the way, please."

They came at length to their destination, and then the child stopped. A great lane of light shot across the sky, and a gun boomed sullenly out from the distance. Jessie murmured something to the effect that a convict had escaped, and that she was not afraid to go home alone. She did not appear to have any idea of the identity of her companion.

"You are a brave little girl, Jessie," the man said, with a catch in his voice. "You are brave and good, and some day you will get your reward. And now I am going to ask you to give me a kiss. It is a long time since innocent lips kissed mine."

The child stood up eagerly, and her arms were about the convict's neck. He pressed her lips to his as a child might be kissed by a fond father.

"Good-bye, little sweetheart," the man said, "and good-night! Some day you will be glad that you have done all this for a stranger."

The patter of little feet died away in the distance, the minutes crept on till the church clock struck again. The boom of the guns came no longer over the marshes. Very slowly and carefully the convict dragged himself across the lawn in front of the house and made his way to the long line of dark windows.

He came at length to the west wing of the Moat, he saw the light in the windows. It all looked so snug and warm and comfortable in there. And yet, behind those curtains what was taking place? The fugitive drew his breath fiercely as he asked himself that question. Then he opened his lips and gave an imitation of the wailing cry of the night-jar. He repeated it twice before a lighted window upstairs was gently opened and a face looked out. It was a pretty face, but it looked very white and frightened now.

"Master Gilbert?" a voice asked. "Dear Master Gilbert, is it really you? Really you at last. I had not dared to hope. I had not dared to believe that it was possible for—"

"Garcia managed it, Mary," the convict replied. "He had not forgotten the use of his lasso, as one of the warders learnt to his cost. But it cannot be for long, Mary; they must take me some time to-morrow. I came to see Miss Winifred, my little Winifred—"

"Hush, not quite so loud. I am running a great risk, because he may hear at any moment. And Miss Flora does not know that you have come yet. Big as he is, he moves like a cat, you never know when he is going to come upon you. You must wait and kill time till midnight, when I may manage to step out for a few minutes. And yet that fiend may be watching me; he may know already that it is you who has escaped. Can you manage the big window at the end of the corridor? You will see the spot I mean if you turn to the right."

"But you have not told me how Winifred is," the convict asked anxiously.

"She is about the same. Some days she is quite sensible, and others as bad as ever. And there is something going on that I can't quite get to the bottom of. Miss Flora is here but you know that already, and Miss Flora seems as helpless as the rest of us. Perhaps they also are afraid of him. If we could get away from here to the fresh, open country and see new faces I am certain that my dear mistress would recover. But he seems to have managed everything, and the trustees imagine him to be all that is desired. And yet I am sure—"

The voice broke off suddenly, the window closed, and the room was in darkness. The convict ground his teeth together impatiently. All the same he would have to possess his soul in patience till the midnight hour came. He crept across the lawn, and hid behind a laurel bush.

The thin wind was blowing nearly half a gale now, the snow cut like a knife.

The man behind the laurel bush felt that he was gradually being turned to stone. He watched the lights in the windows of the Moat House, lights that were gradually disappearing. He wondered if the hour of midnight would ever come. Then the stable clock boomed out its twelve strokes.

Almost simultaneously a light appeared in the window of the bedroom from whence the girl called Mary had addressed a few words to the fugitive. But the window did not open this time, only a shadow crossed it, the shadow of a woman who seemed to be beckoning practically to someone unseen. What did it mean?

The meaning came to the watcher in a flash of illumination. The girl was beckoning to him. She hoped that he would understand her. He was to make his way into the house. Perhaps the front door had been left open on purpose. Like one whose limbs are frozen, the watcher crept round the house, but the door was closely barred and bolted. Round the house he went again looking upwards, till at length he noticed a room with a flickering light in it; the window was just opened sufficiently to admit fresh air. Here was the great casement in the corridor, the way into the house. The shadow of the leaden casement stood out against the blind. The watcher saw his way at last.

"I'll go," he said between his teeth; "at any hazard I'll go. Very thoughtful of those people not to cut down the ivy. Unless I have lost my power of climbing, I shall be inside that room in two minutes. Here goes."

He was up at last, and in the corridor. The searchlight from the prison flared on him; he thought he could hear voices. And here was a door opened a little, a bedroom beyond filled with light; but nobody was in the room. There was a bed, which had obviously been occupied lately; a man's garments were scattered about; a kit-bag lay open on the floor. On the dressing-table candles burnt in silver branches; a great log fire roared up the chimney. The sight of it was as food to a starving man. He thrust his cold, thin hands almost against the logs, but there was no feeling in them.

Evidently a man's room, and evidently the man had just left hurriedly for some purpose or other. It seemed to the convict that he could hear footsteps outside. The man was coming back. There was no time to lose, no subtle plan to be thought out on the spur of the moment. The convict's ears were not deceiving him, and the occupant of the room was coming back again. What was to be done? It was a desperate situation crying for a desperate remedy.

The fugitive swiftly crossed the floor, and turned the key in the lock.