Читать книгу The House of Mammon - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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For centuries past the watch-towers of Laurisdale Castle had been a beacon light for the fishermen far out at sea. It was one of the family traditions that the lights should always be kept burning, and they flame to this day. The castle had figured largely in history; in every great event from the time of the Roses a Laurisdale had taken part. There had been a period when the estate extended for miles along the coast and people had spoken of its lord with bated breath and whispering humbleness. The grand old castle still stood in all its beauty and majesty of outline; here were the hanging wood and the fine old garden, the glass-houses and the park, where the deer rambled knee-deep in the bracken.

But the estate was sadly curtailed now, and the coverts were empty, for two generations of Laurisdale had been busy in an attempt to dissipate a magnificent property. The present head of the family hardly ever came there—he was too absorbed in the allurements of London and the delights of a theatre of his own. For a year or so after his marriage the tenants saw a good deal of him, but of late he had absented himself entirely, though Lady Laurisdale seemed devoted to the place. She seemed to care nothing for the London season, but, as a matter of fact, was hard to it to keep matters going. The idea of a house in town was out of the question.

Blanche Laurisdale's marriage had been a sad disappointment to her. There had been signs at one time that her husband might settle down and become a useful member of society. He was not then the effeminate creature he had since become. There was no quarrel, merely a drifting apart until the separation was more or less complete. To one of Lady Laurisdale's proud, sensitive, nature, the disappointment was very keen. Not that she showed the slightest trace of it to the outer world. She even spoke of his lordship's follies and extravagances with a smile, and then a shrug of the shoulders. Notwithstanding, it was painful to realise that the meretricious attractions of Sadie Carton counted for more than her own mental and other qualities. Perhaps to a certain extent the fault had been her own, but the result was none the less keen.

Lady Laurisdale paid no calls and received none. With all her reserve she was popular with the tenants and the smallest child on the estate was not afraid of her. When she liked to remove the mask and show her real self she could win the love of anybody and, as we have seen, to Sybil Gosway she was little less than a goddess. But then Sybil possessed the gift of sympathy, that innate feeling that conveys rather than speaks of its sincerity.

Sybil stepped lightly from the carriage and indicated to a porter who touched his hat respectfully which were her belongings. Outside the station gates Lady Laurisdale was holding a pair of greys in a firm grip. The fair, haughty face broke into a smile, and the blue eyes grew tender.

"My dear child, I am delighted to see you," she said. "I got so tired of my own company that I wrote to Phil—I mean your father—last night, and asked him to despatch you here instanter. You are not to thank me, as I see you are about to do. It was sheer selfishness on my part."

Sybil kissed her hostess affectionately.

"It was lovely of you," she whispered. "I was hoping that you would write. Only this morning when feeding the pigeons I wished you would write. It was such a lovely morning, and dad said he didn't mind me being out of the way, as he would be so busy for a fortnight. When I went to bed last night I never even dreamt of this! I was envying you the woods and the sea. I was indeed, Lady Laurisdale."

A smile flickered over Lady Laurisdale's face, but Sybil could know nothing of the bitterness that underlay it.

"We are given to that kind of thing," she said. "I wonder how many people would change places with me? And how many of them would be glad to change back again? No. I am not going to let you drive the greys—at least not till you have been here a few days. I wish I could persuade your father to let me have you altogether—at least, as long as it lasts."

The last words were spoken in a fierce whisper, but Sybil's quick ear caught them. She laid her hand on Blanche Laurisdale's arm.

"If there were no daddy, I should love it," she said, "perhaps some day you will tell me why you are so kind to me, and what is the connection between us and a good lady like the Countess of Laurisdale. Oh! you need to be stuffed up in London for months to appreciate the beauty of the country. Fancy! it is two years since I was last here."

"Is that a reproach to me?" Lady Laurisdale inquired with a smile.

"As if I should dare to! I am sure the fault was not yours. Who has been trimming the shrubbery in front of Marlton Grange? Anyway, it is a great experiment; but I thought the place has been empty since Sir George Lugard died. Has somebody bought the estate?"

Blanche Laurisdale's face grew somewhat cold and haughty.

"Some people called Sairson!" she exclaimed. "They bought the place as it stood, and I'm told they have had the good taste to leave everything as they found it. It is a point in their favor."

Sybil listened, drawing her own conclusions. Evidently the people were not friends of Lady Laurisdale.

"You don't like them, then?"

"My dear child, I really have no feeling either way. Mr. Sairson is a London business man. He is a horrid-looking creature, with a great red face and a manner that suggests the foreman of a gang of navvies. They say he makes his money in all kinds of queer ways—that he ruined poor Sir George. I am bound to say that Mrs. Sairson looks quite different. If she were not the wife of that man I should take her to be a lady. And the girls look quite presentable. I'm really sorry for Angela and Nest Sairson."

"Nest Sairson!" Sybil cried. "Lady Laurisdale, I'm absolutely certain I was at school with her at Lucerne. It is impossible that any other girl could love a man like that. Oh! I am sorry! I am sorry!"

"Sorry you were at school with her?" Lady Laurisdale asked with a laugh.

"I don't mean that," Sybil said with a flush of color in her cheek. "Sorry that you don't like them, I mean. I—I thought, perhaps you might have called."

"My dear child, such a thought never entered my head. They are impossible. If you only saw the man you would have no further doubts on the subject. I am the last person in the world to listen to evil gossip, but one can't close one's ears altogether. Of course, I can't tell you anything definite."

Sybil changed the subject. But she sat pondering the matter during the drive to the castle. Throughout the three years she had been at Lucerne, Nest Sairson had been her great friend. Afterwards they had exchanged a few letters, but gradually the correspondence had dropped. It was very strange that they should come together again in these remarkable circumstances. Sybil had rather helped Nest in the old days, but now the position was reversed. All the same, she would very much like to see Nest again, though she couldn't tell whether there was any possibility of her doing so.

There was the grand old castle at length, the great oaks along the avenue and the carved gateway with the arms of the family and the moss-grown motto beneath. It was strange how Sybil seemed to fit into the picture, to feel that she was born to this kind of thing. There were low ceilings in the dim hall where old armor hung, and dead and gone Laurisdales looked down from the tapestried walls. Dinner was served presently in the cosy, cedar-panelled morning-room, and, for dessert, a profusion of the peaches and grapes for which Laurisdale Castle was famous. By and bye Sybil retired and sank with a contented sigh into comfortable bed, where she lay dreamily wondering.

"What does all this mean?" she murmured. "Who am I, and what sort of folks were my people? Did daddy quarrel with them, or had he done anything—but no! that is impossible. Daddy wouldn't do anything wrong. I wonder if that dear old vicar is still here, and that lovely old organ! I'll go and see to-morrow."

It was very pleasant and peaceful as Sybil made her way across the park to the old Norman Church at the back of Dower House.

Lady Laurisdale had pleaded letters as an excuse for not accompanying Sybil. She had a slight headache, but would take a stroll in the park before luncheon. Indeed it looked so inviting under the trees that she hastened her departure. Very quiet and lonely she thought it, but for that trespasser who was making his way to the back of the house. There was something about him oddly familiar to Blanche Laurisdale.

"Phil!" she cried. "Phillip Gosway! What are you doing here? What has happened?"

Gosway looked round with the ghost of a smile on his lips. His mind had gone back a long way. The haunted look passed from his eyes.

"I am trying to realise what I have lost," he said. "I had to come, Blanche. There was something very serious afoot, but I fancy I have settled that. Sybil has gone to church? She was looking forward to it. In that case she need not know that I have been here—in fact, I would rather she didn't. There is a train back to London this afternoon. I thought I'd have one peep at the house. I should like to see the place where I once passed so many happy hours. If Laurisdale is here——"

"Oh, he isn't," Lady Laurisdale said scornfully. "He has superior attractions elsewhere Phil."

"You mean to say that he did not come home last night?"

Lady Laurisdale answered the question by turning away and walking in the direction of the house. Gosway followed with a strange fear at his heart. He saw the great hall dimly, the dead and gone ancestors seemed to frown at him from the walls. He came out of a kind of dream to the discussion of everyday matters.

"Everything seems just the same," he said. "I can see nothing different."

"Not outwardly, perhaps," Lady Laurisdale answered. "But it is a whited sepulchre, Phil. Nearly everything has gone—all lavished on London and the theatre. I have had to borrow money again and again because I was ashamed to look the local tradesmen in the face."

"You mean that you have been to the Jews!" Phil exclaimed.

"Why not? There was no other way. A few hundreds at first and more later. Now I owe one man over four thousand. Goodness knows how he makes it out. He was so civil at first, but it is a very different story now. Phil, you are in business in London, and understand these things. Have you ever heard of a bloodsucker called John Blaydon?"

Phillip Gosway started. It was like a luminous flash of lightning to a man on the edge of a chasm. A score of things were revealed to him in that moment. He hoped Lady Laurisdale had not noticed the expression of his face. A footman with a note on a salver came in and Blanche Laurisdale was reading it. Her eyes flashed with angry scorn.

"Oh, this is unpardonable," she cried. "Laurisdale is down here. He spent the night, it appears, talking business with that man Sairson, whose people I have carefully avoided. He asks me—commands me, I may say—to sink the social difference, and go over to lunch with these people. Me! He must be mad to suggest such a thing! The most atrocious man, Phil."

Gosway's face glowed a deep red. He was thinking rapidly in that brief space.

"I know the man by name and sight," he said. "I wish that I could speak more freely. I know, too, that Mrs. Sairson was a Belham. I can see the hand of Providence in this thing. Blanche, you once promised me that if I asked you a favor you would grant it."

"Phillip! You will not ask me to do this, to outrage all the proprieties, to be compelled to go to a house the people in which know my feelings. Oh! you wouldn't, you couldn't."

Gosway's face had grown very stern and hard. Yet he was trembling like a man laboring under some great stress of emotion. He laid his hand on Lady Laurisdale's arm.

"The time has come to ask the favor," he said. "Blanche, you will have to go."

"Phillip!" Lady Laurisdale spoke almost piteously. "Phillip, this is cruel!"

"Call it what you like," Gosway replied. "Call it what you like, my dear, for God's sake, go!"