Читать книгу The White Gipsy - J. Monk Foster - Страница 10

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"Curse my stupidity! Here, landlady, fill me another bitter beer?"

The landlady mopped up the slop he had inadvertently caused in the first shock of his surprise, and while he was waiting for his glass to be re-filled Sydney turned the paper, and, while appearing to glance over its contents, peered over the top at his companions.

None of them had noted his astonishment, and after drinking deep of his fresh supply of ale he again turned to the exciting paragraph which had startled him so much, and filled his bewildered mind with a host of burning thoughts.

He was half afraid he would not find the paragraph now—was inclined to think that the whole thing was the outcome of his disordered imagination—or that he had mistaken the names of others for those of his father and brother.

With trembling hands he turned the page, his nostrils dilated, his grey eyes aflame, breathing hard, and with his pulse throbbing at a feverish rate. When he came to think of the matter afterwards, he was compelled to admit that he had behaved in a most inhuman manner at that critical point—the turning one of his life. He had felt afraid not that his father and his brother were killed, but that the account was unfounded, or that he had misread the statement.

"There is no mistake," he whispered, hoarsely, to himself as he slowly re-read the brief account of Sir Nicholas and Frederic Carsland's sudden and terrible end. There it was before him in unmistakable print, and the details given precluded the probability of any mistake having been made by the pressman in respect to the unfortunate men's names.

In a fever of pleased unrest and strange exultation he drained his glass to the dregs, and passed out into the night. He wanted to be alone so that he could think calmly, clearly, of his future course of action.

The night was a moonless one, but the stars shone out from their inky background like remote specks of electric flame. The air bit sharply upon his skin, but he paid no heed; the rime was thick on the browned grasses and black rugged hedgerow, and the lane was silent and tenantless.

He paused a few paces from the tavern and wiped his clammy brow. Half-an-hour before he had entered that country inn a poor, an obscure man—a criminal even, who had not entirely freed his soul from all fear of the law. Now he was Sir Sydney Carsland, the owner of the richest collieries in Lancashire, the proprietor of the lordly mansion from which he had fled thief-like, and in reality a thief, only a few short months ago.

He was rich, titled, free! was young, with the love of life at full flood within him, and the power to enjoy all the world's fair and good things still unimpaired. He could make of existence a perpetual revel now, an endless chain of holidays, feasts, and pleasures. He would realise the dream that had come to him when he had stolen the jewels—would repay old friends with interest and heap the contumely of scorn on his old foes.

He was well nigh intoxicated with the delightful visions his imagination bred, and he walked along the hard roads between the tall hedges like one to whom all the blessings and gifts of the gods had come. Suddenly the swift rush of his pleasant reflections was dammed back—the delicious warmth of anticipated pleasures was chilled, and he came to a quick standstill in the middle of the road.

From the unshuttered windows of the cottage which sheltered Pedro Velazo and his handsome girl came a broad stream of light which, cutting a vivid channel for itself through the surrounding blackness and falling full upon Sydney Carsland, threw his lengthened shadow across the road and upon the hoar jewelled hedge.

Until now, since reading of his kinsmen's decease, he had completely forgotten the existence of his wife and her father, and to be brought suddenly back to a knowledge of them and all it implied gave him small satisfaction indeed.

Rigid and irresolute he stood there, his brows bent and breathing heavily as some men do when unexpectedly brought face to face with a difficulty.

Had the baronetcy and the fortune come to him some months ago when the spell of Salome's beauty was new and strong upon him the result might have been very different. Then in an access of love and gratitude he would have rushed to her side and poured the tale of his great luck into her ears.

And now? Well, he had grown just the least, little trifle tired of the simple and beautiful maiden he had married. Hers was a strong passionate nature which was constantly craving for affection and outward and visible manifestations of love; his was more of a cynical and, cold blooded kind; his passion came in gusts, he had loved too many women already, was too much of a Bohemian and a man of the world to love any one woman for long—much less for all time.

And now Salome was in actual fact Lady Carsland. The handsome daughter of the old Spanish gipsy was entitled now to take her place among the aristocratic ladies of the land. If she were to obtain her rights she would be the Mistress of Carsland Hall.

He heard a sound from the cottage, and thinking either Pedro or Salome was about to open the door, he sped onward into the sheltering darkness.

And as his form plunged into the gloom of the night his mind took the plunge which led him astray from the path of honesty and right. Immediately he began to form excuses for deserting Salome.

Why need he tell her at all? Was it really necessary to do so—just yet? If he were to introduce Salome to the world as Lady Sydney Carsland, what would the world say of him and of her when it was discovered that she was the daughter of a common gamekeeper—the child of a whilom wandering Spanish gipsy?

He would be the talk and the laughing-stock of his neighbours; and how Adelaide Woodcock would curl her proud lip and open her cold, scornful eyes when she learned to what a depth he had descended.

That chance thought of his old flame quickened his feet and drove him more rapidly along in the semi-darkness of the lane. His mind was made up now. Adelaide was free. Would the haughty lady who had played with his heart and declined his hand when he was the prodigal, poor and disreputable younger son, refuse to wed Sir Sydney Carsland supposing he gave her the chance?

He laughed a hard, low, bitter laugh and swung onward, his imagination running riot once more and Salome the gipsy almost forgotten already. Once only he came to a standstill and glanced backward. He could discern the cottage with its lighted window, and the sight stirred his heart just a little, for he knew that the woman he was so cruelly deserting loved him with all the strength of her warm nature and passionate soul.

Behind that light, which shone through the intervening blackness like a star, sat Salome waiting patiently for his home coming. He felt sorry for her, but fate had stepped in and they might never meet again.

When Sydney struck the next village, some three or four miles away, he walked into the hotel beside the small railway station; and when he ordered a glass of beer he asked the maid to oblige him with writing materials. She supplied him with a rusty pen, a penny bottle of thin ink, some flimsy note paper, and a miserable envelope. With these he contrived somehow to produce the following note:—

"Dear Salome,

"Circumstances which I could neither foresee nor control have rendered it absolutely necessary that I should go suddenly away. I cannot tell at present how long I may be away, nor can I tell you where I am going. But you know, dear, that only the most imperative necessity could take me from you. Perhaps after all I may not be away very long. I regret that I cannot take you into my confidence yet. But you will, I know, love me, and believe in me, and wait patiently for my return. I thought it better to send you a word or two in order to allay any uneasiness respecting my absence. You need give yourself no alarm. No matter how long I am away you may rest assured that I am well and safe. Before many days I shall write again. Till then good-bye, dear Salome.

"SYDNEY BARRINGHAM."

He posted the letter at once, and then made enquiries as to the next train that was bound Liverpool way. An hour afterwards he was being borne toward Thorrell Moor.