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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In "The Honour of His House," Fred M. White crafts a compelling narrative that entwines themes of honor, betrayal, and the complexities of familial loyalty. Set in the backdrop of 19th-century Britain, the novel employs a rich, descriptive style that vividly captures societal norms and class struggles. White's knack for intricate character development allows the reader to explore the inner workings of a family confronted with moral dilemmas, making the work resonate within the literary context of Victorian realism. Fred M. White, a notable figure in the early 20th century literary scene, was influenced by his own experiences within the social hierarchy of England. His background as a writer of adventure and detective fiction often intersected with deeper explorations of human emotion and ethics. This intersection is notable in "The Honour of His House," as it reflects both the author's keen observation of society and his desire to critique the rigid structures that govern personal honor. This novel is recommended for readers who appreciate character-driven stories steeped in psychological depth and ethical quandaries. White'Äôs ability to navigate the intricate relationships within his narrative invites readers to engage with the moral questions posed, making it a thought-provoking addition to any literary collection.
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The Honour of his House
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.—A LORD OF ACRES.
The mists rolled back discreetly, the pearly curtain lifted demurely, as if conscious of the splendour that it concealed, then the turrets of Borne Abbey raised their carved pinnacles into the blue of the summer morning. The long white mantle folded itself slowly backward, and the house stood in view like some perfect picture with the great sweep of its famous beech trees behind. Where a moment before there had been nothing visible but the thin grey envelope of the mist and dew, stood now a long, low house, a miracle of cunning architecture, stained to a fine red-brown by the deft hand of the passing centuries. For this you cannot buy or manufacture, for it comes only with the passage of the years, and many a storm and many a shine goes to the exquisite making of it.
And there is nothing finer or more beautiful on the English countryside than Borne Abbey. It has all the strength and weight of a cathedral, with the grace and finish given it by such masters of the art of building as Christopher Wren and Inigo Jones and Pugin. Add to this the poetry in stonework of a Grinling Gibbons, and there stands out the faint picture of what Borne Abbey is like.
Indeed, the place had an atmosphere of its own. It lay there in the sunshine, glistening in the early moisture like some mythological beauty, fresh from a bath of sea spray, the sky bent, blue and grey and opalescent, behind the wondrous carvings and the quaint beauties of the twisted chimney stacks. For a whole three hundred feet the south front stretched itself along its flank of velvet lawns where the flowers were rioting in their beds, and beyond all this, the park extended almost to the sea. It looked like what it was, a cradle of heroes and men who have left their mark upon the blood-stained pages of history.
For nearly four hundred years the Cranwallis family had lived here, lords of broad acres and suzerain of a many goodly manors. Here was a house, at least, where the modern millionaire came not, and the plutocrat gave no trouble. It would never have occurred to Egbert Cranwallis, eighth Earl of Sherringborne, that such a possibility or such a contingency might arise. He knew that certain peers of his, drifting along the tide of modern democracy, had come under the glamour of the cheque book, but then, in their cases, poor men, it was oft-times a matter of sheer necessity. So far as he was concerned he had his rent roll, he could afford to play the part of the grand seigneur, and, to do him justice, he played it exceedingly well. It was no acting on his part, it was a clear dispensation of Providence, and he would know how to give an account of his stewardship when his time came to answer the roll-call.
The Cranwallises had always been men of affairs, and the present head of the family was no exception to the rule. He had no particular affection for politics; au contraire, he rather disliked them. He would infinitely have preferred to pass his time at Borne Abbey, but he had a profound respect for his responsibilities, and that was why he found himself at fifty-five a Cabinet Minister, holding the portfolio of Foreign Affairs. As Lord Palmerston said with regard to the Garter, there was no d....d merit about it, but if Sherringborne was not brilliant, he was sound and he was safe.
For the rest, he was a widower with one son and one daughter; the latter, Lady Edna, who kept his house and reigned over the Abbey with a despotism no less despotic because the little hand was sheathed so carefully in the velvet glove.
Lady Edna had all the good looks of the Cranwallises. She was tall and slight and dark, a little too haughty, perhaps, but then, what would anyone have in a daughter of a semi-regal house like that? Perhaps it was the shortness of her upper lip, and the slight aquiline curve of her nose which endowed her features with that faint suggestion of hauteur that a good many people found repellent, not to say awe-inspiring. But these, for the most part, were strangers—there was not a man or woman or child on those broad acres who did not worship the ground that Lady Edna trod on.
It was perhaps not altogether the girl's own fault, since this sort of thing had been her native air. From the very beginning she had been taught unconsciously that the human race consisted of men and women and Cranwallises. There were just a few others, perhaps, whose names were to be found in the fascinating works of Debrett and Burke, but these were few and far between; thus Lady Edna led a comparatively secluded life, indeed. Baron Rupert de la Croisa was wont to say that there was a distinct flavour of the cloister about her. But then the Baron was a privileged individual, a licensed old friend with a terrible tongue, and his declaration that Lady Edna would some day marry entirely outside her own station was a thing that he kept to himself. We shall come to Baron de la Croisa presently.
But, after all said and done, it was a great position and a great responsibility for a girl who had barely attained her twenty-first year. But, be that as it might, Lady Edna had entertained Royalty at Borne Abbey, she was pleasantly familiar with Ambassadors, and she treated Cabinet Ministers with a serene contempt that most of them undoubtedly merited. She floated on the crest of the wave serenely, a marvel of capacity; she would cheerfully have undertaken to share the responsibilities of a kingdom, and, beyond question, she would have done it well.
She came out in the garden now, from under the shadow of the great Norman archway, with the storied device of the Cranwallises cut deep in the stone over her glossy head. She stood there, chin up, inhaling the sweetness and fragrance of the morning, filled with the joy and vigour of life, and wondering vaguely why she felt so happy and uplifted. Then she passed across the lawns by the busy gardeners and returned presently with her arms filled with blooms all wet with the dew of the morning. McKillop, the Scotch gardener, sighed impotently as he contemplated this desecration of his peculiar province. He had tried once to induce Lady Edna to a proper sense of her position, but that had been four years ago, when he had first come. He had showed fight, of course, for he came from a race that always did. The combat had been a short and decisive one, and now McKillop could only sigh and bend his head before a force that had ruthlessly trodden down all the traditions of his ancient craft. It would, perhaps, have surprised the wilful beauty of the household had she known that McKillop regarded her as a dangerous radical with designs upon the fabric of society. And now he stood and pretended to enjoy it when Lady Edna congratulated him upon his roses.
"They are very fine, McKillop," she said. "But I have seen better. The Baron's, for instance."
McKillop, being a Scotchman and an honest man, admitted the charge with an inward groan. One of the crosses he had to bear lay in the fact that Baron de la Croisa could grow better roses than his own. And this man was a mere foreigner, forsooth, a sort of Spaniard who had come into the neighbourhood from somewhere on the Spanish Main, and, when he and McKillop had first met, the upstart's knowledge of roses had been nil.
Lady Edna turned from the discomfited McKillop and made her way down the long beech avenue till she stopped at the lodge gates and exchanged a word or two with the old woman who lived there. Then for a moment, attracted by something she saw in the road, she passed beyond the big hammered-iron gates that Quentin Matays himself had forged, and stood there looking across to the sea. Early as it was, a touring car came hurling down the road and pulled up almost at Lady Edna's feet. A dark, flashing, handsome face, lighted up by a pair of mischievous eyes, looked out of the window and accosted Lady Edna in a voice that had nothing lacking in audacity about it.
"Am I on my way to Lamport?" the visitor said. "My man is not quite sure, and I am a stranger here."
Lady Edna recoiled slightly. She knew well enough who was the beautiful woman speaking to her. She had met Senora Garrados once in a London drawing-room when that light of the stage was giving a charity performance under the roof of a duchess. She had been shocked and scandalised at the abandon of the performance, but then Lady Edna made no secret of her old-fashioned views on this point though she had frozen into herself later on when this dancing creature had had the audacity to address her in tones of absolute familiarity, and, strangely enough, the duchess and her entourage had seen nothing strange in the proceeding. But Lady Edna's manner had been marked enough, and the woman in the car had not forgotten it.
The two recognised one another with that instant hostility that only women possess. Lady Edna stood there, cold and statuesque in her classic beauty, and perhaps quite misunderstanding the humorous twinkle in the dancer's eyes.
"You are on the right road," she said haughtily. "It is impossible to make a mistake."
"I think we have met before," Ninon Garrados threw herself back in her seat and said.
"I think not," Lady Edna said icily. "Indeed, I hope not. You must be mistaken."
With that the car moved on. Ninon Garrados threw herself back in her seat and laughed whole-heartedly to her companion.
"Now, what do you think of that, Coralie?" she said. "What your Tennyson calls Lady Vere de Vere. But some day she will wake up, and then, if the right man comes along, ah, well, then we shall see things. She is a great lady, but she is not born yet. I have seen them before."
"But have you met her?" the girl called Coralie asked.
"Oh, I have met her, yes. In Society, bien entend. She seems to think I am just a circus girl. But that, of course, my dear Coralie, is the fault of her bringing up. I should not wonder, some day if Lady Edna Cranwallis and myself became good friends. But she will have to be born first, oh, yes. She could not believe, of course, that Ninon Garrados, the dancing girl, could be the daughter of a Spanish grandee. Ah, she has yet much to learn. But a splendid woman, my dear Coralie, a splendid woman when the right man comes along."
"She was very rude," Coralie smiled.
The dazzling Spaniard showed her teeth in a gleam which the great world had learned to know so well.
"Not rude, mia cara," she said. "So great a lady could never be rude. I wonder what she would say if she knew that, by the raising of my little finger, I could be her sister-in-law. Is she aware, think you, that Lord Shorland, her brother, is one of my little Pomeranians? I wonder if it would be worth while. It's a great title, and Borne Abbey is a fine historic estate. I might do worse, Coralie, I might do worse. And with me to train him, Shorland has distinct possibilities. It would make quite a play, my child."
"With you for the heroine," Coralie said. "I should like to be there to see the third act."
CHAPTER II.—THE NEW ORDER.
Lord Sherringborne had dispatched his bacon with a due regard to the traditional surrounding toast and marmalade. He had finished his coffee and, with a cigarette, was disposed to talk. For the most part, he enjoyed his week-ends more than those days when the calls of State summoned him to London. He did not see the necessity for an overworked legislature to be sitting in July, and was inclined to criticise the Premier who was mainly responsible for this condition of things.
"You had better tell Sir James Pallisser so yourself," Lady Edna smiled. "I don't see why you should choose me as medium for your criticism. But as Sir James is coming down here this evening for the week-end, can't you try and persuade him yourself of the necessity for a holiday?"
Lord Sherringborne wiped his white moustache thoughtfully. He looked just a little uneasy and disturbed, and he was not meeting his daughter's direct gaze quite so steadily as usual.
"Well—er—the fact is, things are not quite what they should be," he said. "Of course, I can't enter into details, I tell you too many Cabinet secrets as it is. But the Premier isn't coming down here at all to-day. There has been some breakdown in connection with stupid trouble in Tortina, and it looks as if America and Japan might come to loggerheads with regard to those Islands off the coast of Tortina. Nothing like a rupture, of course, but it's rather a complicated business, and I really ought to be in town looking after it. But Pallisser prefers to handle it himself, and that's why he's kept in town. But you can read his letter if you like."
"Then we shall be entirely alone this week-end," Lady Edna cried. "How jolly—I mean, how nice. I haven't had you entirely to myself since Easter."
It was a pretty enough compliment in its way, but for once Lord Sherringborne did not seem to appreciate it.
"Well, not exactly," he said with some hesitation. "You see, I have telegraphed to young Saltburn to come down. I don't think you have met Philip Saltburn."
Lady Edna partly rose from the table. The smile had died out of those glorious eyes of hers, and her face had suddenly grown hard and cold.
"Is this a joke, father?" she asked.
"Is it a Joke; my dear, why a joke? I am not given to what Shorland calls 'leg pullin.' Of course, in my peculiar position, I have—er—to make myself agreeable to many people—"
"In London," Lady Edna corrected. "Yes, but this is an entirely different matter. None of that class have ever been down here before. Besides, what possible connection can there be between us and these Saltburns? Oh, I know all about the father. I know that forty years ago he started in life selling glue or tin-tacks, or something equally revolting and necessary. I know that he is a great financier, with offices in every capital in Europe—sort of Rothschilds—Lady Marchborough says. But it is not very complimentary to the Rothschilds to mention them in the same breath. But really, my dear father, the audacity of these people is getting beyond all bearing."
"Unfortunately," Sherringborne sighed, "unfortunately, we can't do without them."
"Fortunately we can do without them here," Lady Edna said, with some austerity. "Oh, I quite recognise their power and importance. Baron de la Croisa said the other night that a handful of capitalists over a plate of filberts and a bottle of port could change the map of Europe if they liked. But with all their power none of them has yet succeeded in getting an invitation to Borne Abbey, and I am rather surprised—"
Sherringborne shuffled uneasily in his chair.
"My dear, you have no sympathy with modern thought. It is absolutely necessary for the Government to keep on the right side of Saltburn. He's got that Tortina business in the hollow of his hand, and really his son is quite a decent young fellow. Oxford and Eton, a really first-class shot, and a straight rider to hounds. I shouldn't be at all surprised if Saltburn decides to buy 'The Chantrey'—"
Lady Edna passed her hand across her face as if she were suffering from a particularly hideous form of nightmare. In a faint, small voice she asked Sherringborne if she heard him correctly. Was she to understand that 'The Chantrey' was actually in the market? She refrained from asking her father why he had dared to contemplate such a step without consulting her, but that was what her tone inferred, and the fact was not lost upon his Majesty's Minister for Foreign Affairs.
"What was the good of it?" he asked. He spread out his hands as if he were addressing a hostile gathering in the House of Lords.
"I ask you as a sensible girl what we make per annum out of 'The Chantrey'? It's a beautiful old house, and, of course, it has been the family dower-house for centuries. Look at the land there, what poor stuff it is. Nothing but gorse and heather—seven or eight thousand acres for a few sheep to starve on. If I sell the place to Saltburn we shan't even know that he's there. And I understand he is prepared to pay quite a fancy price for it."
"A fancy price," Lady Edna echoed scornfully. "My dear father, where do you pick up your expressions? It sounds like a ticket on a ready-made mantle in a Bond-street shop. If we are in need of money, which we are not—"
"Then we are exceedingly fortunate, my dear," Sherringborne said in his mildest manner. "I suppose you don't realise what an expensive luxury Shorland is?"
"I suppose Teddy is extravagant," Lady Edna admitted with the air of a sovereign asking Parliament for a grant for some pampered prince. "I shouldn't so much mind if he were a little more careful with his acquaintances. But then those society papers exaggerate so. I read a ridiculous story a few days ago about Shorland and that South American dancer. Something idiotic about a diamond necklace. By the way, I saw her this morning. Her car pulled up, and she asked me the way. A common, flaunting creature."
"Ah, there you are a little prejudiced," Sherringborne said. "I thought she was—er—I mean, believe she is quite well connected."
"And leads that sort of life?"
"Well, why not, my dear. It can be quite respectable, and it means quite a fabulous income, so far as I know. Ninon Garrados goes everywhere."
"Yes, I suppose she does. But she doesn't come here, and, of course, that story of the diamond necklace is a fable."
Sherringborne smiled a little guiltily as he lighted a fresh cigarette. It was not for him to say that he had the bill for those diamonds in his pocket at the very moment. He was almost ashamed to tell Lady Edna how frank the old family solicitor had been on the subject of Shorland's extravagance. But this was not likely to affect his daughter much, for she had regarded the Cranwallis exchequer to be as limitless as the sea. Where mere money was concerned her contempt was wholehearted, not to say picturesque.
"Does Teddy owe so much?" she asked carelessly.
"Over thirty thousand pounds," Sherringborne said. "And this is by no means the first time. Even our exchequer cannot stand it. My dear Edna, I really don't know where the money is coming from. The lawyers tell me that I can't cut down any more timber."
"You can't, you can't. Why?"
"Oh, it's all very well to talk like that, but the estate is not mine to do what I like with. I am merely what the law calls a tenant for life. And so, you see, this money must be paid. It would never do for a man in my position to have Shorland's debts thrown in my face. And that is why I have made up my mind to sell 'The Chantrey.'"
Sherringborne spoke with a resolution that he was far from feeling, and had Lady Edna been less wrapped up in her contemplation of the family dignity she would have seen how hard and grey her father's face had grown. She would see that there was something here beyond financial worries.
"Saltburn has offered me at least four times the value of the place," he went on. "Indeed, I don't understand why he wants to buy it at all. And I shall be glad, my dear, if you won't say any more about it. You will, of course, make Mr. Philip Saltburn's brief stay here as pleasant as possible."
Lady Edna inclined her head graciously. She was a loyal and dutiful daughter enough, but she was not pleased, and as the day wore on she began to be conscious of an uneasy feeling that something was going to happen, that her father was concealing material facts from her. The day slipped on decorously, as it always did at Borne Abbey, luncheon was a thing of the past, and Lady Edna was sitting down to tea quite alone in the great hall waiting for Sherringborne, who was out somewhere on the estate. She sat there in the cool brown silence, with the little flecks of light cast here and there from the armour round the walls, waiting, half-unconsciously, for the coming visitor. She had gone off into a day-dream of her own when she became aware of the fact that a footman was standing behind her with a young man by his side. He was a tall, well-knit young man with a face bronzed almost to the hue of mahogany, with the tinge of health showing beneath it like the rosy side of a winter apple. A masterful man, too, for his lips were close set and his grey eyes steadfast.
"I am Philip Saltburn," he said, respectfully enough, though his tone was easy and self-reliant. "It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Edna."
Philip Saltburn held out his hand with a frank suggestion of equality that touched Lady Edna's pride at once. Seeing that this young man was her guest, there was nothing for it but to yield her hand with what grace she could. And with it all she caught herself thinking what a firm grip Saltburn had, and what a deal of conscious power lay in those brown fingers of his.
Not a handsome man, Lady Edna decided, but his features were good and regular. He looked so wonderfully healthy and wholesome, and, strangely enough, quite like one to the manner born. Positively, there were no points in this young man's armour to pick holes in. His flannel suit was well-cut and quiet in texture, his grey silk tie was knotted with the careful carelessness that usually goes with a well-dressed man who is not even aware of the fact that he is well dressed.
With those few words he dropped into one of the great carved Cromwellian chairs and began to talk quite easily and naturally. He appeared to have travelled far and wide, he seemed to have studied most things that mattered to advantage. And though Edna had been steeping in an atmosphere of art from her childhood, her own knowledge of the great English masters around her was nothing like so wide and comprehensive as that of her guest. He put her right upon a minor point or two quite without a suggestion of superiority.
Clearly it was impossible to patronise this young man. He absolutely refused to see any line of social demarcation between himself and his beautiful hostess. He would probably have dismissed the suggestion with a smile.
"I have travelled a great deal," he said. "You see, I was born in Australia. My father emigrated there nearly fifty years ago. When I was old enough for school I divided my time between Eton and Heidelburg, finishing up at Oxford. It has been a pleasant life but I have never known what it is to have a home; still, I have had dreams of a place like this, and that is why I am so anxious to get 'The Chantrey.' I happened to see it some time ago, and fell in love with the place, and my father is buying it to please me."
Lady Edna sat there, looking thoughtfully into the flower-decked fireplace. Possibly this young man meant nothing offensive, but the time had come to show him that matters were going too far.
"I am afraid I am not concerned with that," she said haughtily. "The Earl was telling me something about it at breakfast time, but I am very much afraid, Mr. Saltburn, that I could not possibly give my consent."
"Indeed," Saltburn said with twinkling eyes. "Then I am afraid we shall have to do without it."
CHAPTER III.—"THESE THINGS TO HEAR—"
There was no antagonism in Philip Saltburn's clear eyes. He lay back in his chair, crossing his legs, and smilingly contemplating the cut of his neat brown shoe. Obviously a difficult man to anger, and still more difficult to turn from his point. Lady Edna regarded him with smouldering eyes. She would not lose her temper, of course, but really this young man must be made to understand.
"I beg your pardon," she said coldly.
"And I beg yours," Saltburn said. "But, you see, the thing is as good as done. Of course, I should like to have your approval, but if you withhold it, then I can only deplore your point of view. What a charming old hall this is. There is nothing that shows pictures off so well as warm, brown old oak. And may I trouble you for another cup of this delicious tea. We are great tea drinkers in Australia, but we never get any like this. I expect that beautiful Queen Anne silver makes the difference."
Lady Edna murmured something vague in reply. She had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong in her attack, and she was uneasily conscious that she had come in contact with a force. Clearly this young man was not going to be routed by the feudal method. Perhaps he was a radical, but, in that case, he would have had no sympathy with old oak and Queen Anne silver and the works of the great English masters. Clearly it was useless to try and snub him, to open his eyes to the awful gulf that lay between a Cranwallis and a Saltburn. Perhaps it might be possible to let him down gently, to send him away with a clear impression that money was not everything, and that a Cranwallis was as far above him as the misty star is beyond the flight of the moth.
She would not, perhaps, have been so tranquil beneath the armour of her exclusiveness could she have looked into Saltburn's mind, for over the edge of his Sevres cup he was studying her with the calm critical approval of a polished man of the world.
For Saltburn was acquainted with foreign courts. As the only son of that great financial magnate, William Saltburn, he found all houses were open to him, he had basked in the smiles of royalty itself. And he was not dazzled, he was too serene and level-headed for that. He had his own ideals, he knew exactly the type of woman whom some day he hoped would rule over the dainty and refined home which he saw late at night behind the blue drift of his cigarette smoke.
And here it seemed to him that he had found the very thing that he was looking for. Phil Saltburn was no snob, it was no exhilaration, to him to find himself mixing with the great ones of the earth; his critical faculty was too keen and clear for that.
But he had never yet seen anyone who set his pulses beating and moved him to such a warm regard as Lady Edna was doing. He liked her pose, he liked the haughty stamp of her beauty, the curve of her lips, and the aquiline chiselling of her nose. She might have been one of Tennyson's heroines, and Saltburn had always had a weakness for the women of that great Victorian. As he sat there, balancing his tea cup, he was drifting to the conclusion that there was no occasion to go any farther, but there was no hurry, and, as far as he knew, there was no one in the way.
He came down to dinner in the same frame of mind, where he sat with Sherringborne and his daughter in the Rubens dining-room to a meal which was none the less elaborate because it was so exceedingly simple. Half a dozen servants in the Cranwallis livery moved noiselessly about the room; the shaded lamps under the quaint pictures picked out the exuberant flesh colourings of the great Flemish artists. Silver and glass were priceless in their way, and it seemed to Saltburn that he had never seen such peaches and grapes before. Not that he was in the least impressed. He stood in no awe even of the magnificent family butler, who, before now, had impressed a Cabinet Minister.
Lady Edna sat there, dressed almost severely in black, her arms and shoulders shining like ivory in the shaded lights. There was just one diamond flashing in her hair, an old ring or two on her slim fingers. From under her half-closed lashes she surveyed her guest. She was a little disappointed, perhaps, that she could find no flaw in his social exterior. Even the trying act of peeling and eating one of the Cranwallis peaches gave her no loophole for criticism.
"This is a wonderful old place of yours," Saltburn said. "I have been wandering about the grounds and admiring them, but what strikes me most forcibly are those amazing old yew hedges of yours."
"Yes, we pride ourselves on our hedges," Sherringborne said. "They were planted in the reign of Elizabeth, mostly by Sir Walter Raleigh, I believe. They have been useful for the purposes of defence more than once. Nothing could get through them. They are impregnable."
"It would certainly be a matter of time," Saltburn observed. "I think I could manage it if I wanted to. It would be a matter of breaking one branch after another just as John Halifax suggested when the question was put to him by Phineas Fletcher. Do you remember the incident, Lady Edna?"
Lady Edna looked up from her peach languidly.
"I recall it," she said. "But I never cared much for that class of literature. In spite of his many virtues, John Halifax was essentially a middle-class man. The story of his successful career might have appealed to Samuel Smiles, but it certainly does not to me."
"There you are wrong," Saltburn said. "It is astonishing what little interest people in your position take in the middle classes. You ought really to read more good English literature. It is clearly a duty that you owe us."
Lady Edna smiled faintly. Really, Philip Saltburn was an amusing young man. A little later on, perhaps, she would be able to show him that there was another point of view.
"I am sorry you think my education has been neglected," she said. "And you do, don't you?"
"I am perfectly certain of it," Saltburn said in a tone that had no possible suggestion of offence in it. "It is not good for anyone to lead an aloof life in these days. Of course, yours is an ideal existence here, but none of us ever knows what change time may bring. For instance, it would never have occurred to you a month ago that you would be entertaining the son of a man who started life scaring crows from an English wheatfield."
This was so true, such a thrust in the chink of her cold armour that Lady Edna rose and swept from the room as nearly on the verge of rudeness as ever she had been in her life. Saltburn watched her with a strange gleam in his eyes. Then Sherringborne rose somewhat wearily from the table.
"I will get you to excuse me for an hour or two," he said. "I have to see a friend on a little matter of business. You can finish your duel with Lady Edna meanwhile."
CHAPTER IV.—THE SILVER CANDLESTICKS.
The brilliant primrose of the summer twilight had not yet faded in the west as Sherringborne stepped out on to the terrace and made his way along one of the trim avenues that led across the park. He looked a little older and less jaunty now, his head was bowed, and a mass of little wrinkles were netted around his eyes. He passed under those ancestral elms and beeches, he saw the deer creeping through the bracken in shadowy procession.
So far as he could see, he was suzerain of all the broad acres around him. There were farms and homesteads and cottages where every man called him overlord, and made him homage. And what reigning house in Europe could say more than that?
And yet Sherringborne looked as little like a happy man as needs be as he walked on his own soil that evening. He came presently to a little path, running between wide belts of shrubs, then he opened a wicket gate which gave upon a very beautiful and charming old world garden. It lay there secluded by the big forest trees; everywhere were well-kept grass paths between wide beds of roses. There were roses everywhere in the full panoply of their summer beauty. Up the slope stood a tiny creeper-clad cottage with latticed windows.
The place itself was a perfect embodiment of peace and quietness. One could imagine an artist or a poet living there secluded from the world and by the world forgotten. The door of the cottage stood invitingly open, and, bending over a few choice specimens of potted roses, two men appeared to be engaged in a heated argument. One of them stood up as Sherringborne approached and extended his hand.
"Now we will leave his lordship to arbitrate," he said. "Francois says this is nothing less than a Dijon rose, I contend that it is exceedingly impertinent on his part to contradict an expert so distinguished as myself."
"Francois is an impertinent scoundrel," Sherringborne smiled. "Incidentally, he is the only man I know who is not really afraid of Baron de la Croisa."
"Ah," the other said. "The hero and his valet over again. True now as ever it was."
With that the Baron threw back his head and laughed with the heartiness of a boy. He made a distinguished figure as he stood there in his plain evening dress, a little knot of ribbon striking a crimson note against the lapel of his coat. He was not a tall man, but he made the most of his inches; his thin, ascetic face might have belonged to a distinguished statesman or scholar. His shrewd brown eyes twinkled with humour, a thick thatch of white hair on his head resembled nothing so much as a doormat. In his left eye he wore a glass with a tortoise shell rim. He retained it with the manner of a man who is thoroughly accustomed to the use of the monocle.
A little old man with a ridiculously fierce grey moustache stood by—the type of man who has old soldier written on him in the plainest possible words. And Francois was a character in his way. He was cook and house keeper and eke laundress, too, to Baron de la Croisa; he worshipped his master with an almost dog-like devotion, though his criticisms of that distinguished individual never lacked anything on the score of frankness.
"Francois, you may retire," the Baron said. "The debate is adjourned for the present. Do you know, Sherringborne, that there are times when I am almost sorry Francois saved my life. He seems to think I belong to him ever since. To this day, I am sure it is a lasting wonder to Francois that my beloved Tortina once entrusted her destinies to my hands. But come in, my dear old friend, come in. You look worried and anxious. I am sure you have come here to consult me about something."
So saying, the Baron led the way into the cottage. It was a tiny affair with but one living room, and a kitchen on the other side of the door which was Francois' own private property. There were but two bedrooms and a bathroom overhead, and the sitting-room itself was furnished with almost Spartan simplicity. But there was a Persian carpet on the stone floor, the inglenook was priceless in its way, and on the bare deal table, scrubbed to a snowy whiteness, were a pair of carved branch candlesticks unmistakably the work of Cellini himself.
Along the ledge over the fireplace were china ornaments in black and gold, rare bits of the Ming Dynasty. There were pictures, too, on the whitewashed walls, a Corot, a Masonnier, and over the fireplace an exquisite Rembrandt. The Baron formed part of the picture, too, despite the correct severity of his evening dress. Anyone else would have been grotesquely out of place there, but de la Croisa struck the right note.
"Sit down," the Baron said hospitably. "Sit down and tell me all about it. Positively I have not seen a civilised being for over a week. Oh, I'm not grumbling, honestly, I am much more happy than I should be if I were back in the arena again. Providence never intended me for politics. I am too sensitive—what you call too thin-skinned. Ah, my friend, you did a great kindness to me when you placed this cottage at the disposal of a disappointed man. Perhaps I was fortunate to have escaped from Tortina with an income just sufficient for my modest wants and a few things like these to satisfy my artistic instincts."
He waved his white hand airily towards the pictures on the wall, his glance at the candlesticks was almost affectionate.
"You ought to have stayed on," Sherringborne said. "If you had remained in Tortina, Santa Anna and the present man, Altheos, would never have dared to do what they have just done. You would have beaten them, my friend, you would have beaten them, and had you done so you would have saved me a vast amount of trouble and anxiety. Because, if you were at the head of affairs there now we should never have had all this bother with Japan over those concessions." The Baron looked up swiftly.
"Ah," he cried, "There is trouble, then?"
"More than enough, my dear fellow. It's a thing I never anticipated. The whole crisis came on the Foreign Office like a bombshell. There was not a single cloud on the horizon. Those concessions of mine that I paid so much for looked like proving a gold mine. You see, though I am Foreign Minister, I thought I could handle them, for apparently Tortina was quite beyond our sphere of influence. And I am afraid I plunged rather heavily, and that I did more or less acting on William Saltburn's advice."
Again the Baron looked up suddenly.
"That man is a wolf," he said. "That man is out for himself. He thinks of nothing but money, and, mark you, it is all the same to him where it comes from. And so that long, greedy hand of his has reached as far as Tortina, has it? Well, many a hand has been burnt there, and why not Saltburn's? But go on, my friend, I interrupt you. I understand you are interested in Tortina concessions."
