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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In Fred M. White's compelling novel, "The Scales of Justice," readers are drawn into a gripping tale of morality, crime, and the perseverance of justice in the face of societal failings. Set against the backdrop of an early 20th-century England rife with class disparity, White employs a blend of vivid characterizations and intricate plotting, reminiscent of contemporaneous writers like Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe. The narrative interweaves thrilling courtroom drama with profound ethical questions, challenging the reader's perceptions of right and wrong as the protagonist seeks justice amidst personal and professional turmoil. Fred M. White, a prolific author of crime fiction and adventure novels, was known for his incisive understanding of human behavior and the complexities of justice. His own experiences navigating the legal landscape of his time, coupled with a keen insight into the social issues of the Victorian era, undoubtedly influenced White's portrayal of characters grappling with moral dilemmas. His writings often reflect a seasoned perspective on the British legal system, making his works not only entertaining but socially relevant. "The Scales of Justice" is an essential read for enthusiasts of classic crime fiction and those interested in the intricate relationship between justice and morality. White'Äôs masterful storytelling will keep readers engaged while provoking thought about the ethical complexities embedded in our own modern legal landscape.
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The Scales of Justice
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.—THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST.
Outside, a thin powder of snow was falling in fitful gusts; the low moan of the wind bent the elms like the masts of a ship in a gale. A solitary poacher, out from Longtown, glared through the swaying bushes, and wondered what was wrong at Grange Court, for the windows were all ablaze, and a string of carriages flashed to and fro along the drive. It was so black and cheerless and bitter without, that the poacher sighed for his own fireside.
The poacher was puzzled. Why were these carriages coming back so soon?
From his hiding-place he could see right into the spacious portico before the front door of Grange Court; he could see the brilliantly-lighted hall beyond, with its pictures and statues and belts of feathery ferns. Beyond, in the old oak-panelled ballroom, a dazzling kaleidoscope of figures moved in agitated groups. Somebody called loudly that no more guests were to be admitted. An unsteady voice was asking for a doctor. Tragedy was in the frosty air!
Had the Longtown poacher but known it, this was to have been a great occasion at Grange Court, for Sir Devereux Drummond was giving a dinner in honour of the twenty-first birthday of his niece, Sybil Drummond.
Sir Devereux had never married—he had remained faithful to a memory; but his only brother had died comparatively young, and his children had found a home at Grange Court. Sybil was twenty-one to-day; her brother, Captain George Drummond, was some years older. He was still with his regiment in Swaziland when the back of the campaign was broken, so that the heir to the estates of Grange Court and Longtown Rise might, it was thought, reach home any day.
Nevertheless, both uncle and sister had been a little anxious about George lately. There had been rumours, of a regiment cut off—one of the usual disasters of modern warfare—and of George nothing had been heard. He might even be a prisoner of the enemy.
There was another cause for anxiety, too, for Captain Ronald Cardrew, Sybil's lover, had been attached to the ill-fated half battalion. Some papers had hinted at incompetence, and even downright cowardice; though the idea was received with contemptuous silence at Grange Court, which had been the cradle of soldiers, as the portraits in the long gallery proved. Thus it was that pretty Sybil's smile was somewhat chastened as she stood in the drawing-room to receive the congratulations of her friends.
But why had not Sir Devereux joined her? He had promised to be down quite early, and the old friend and colleague of Loch and Havelock, was ever a man of his word.
Sir Devereux's name had stood deservedly high in the annals of the Indian Army. He had been something more than a soldier and a strategist. The Drummonds had ever been fighters, but Sir Devereux was different from the rest of his race. He was a deep and earnest Christian, a philanthropist; his name was known wherever good works were done. A little hard and stern at times, his code of honour was simple and sincere. He had never regarded his men as so many fighting machines, but had treated them like members of his own family.
Sybil knew that noble creature thoroughly, and had seen with dismay that the iron had entered the old man's soul. He had said nothing as to the paltry newspaper attacks; he did not allude to George's singular silence. The War Office reported that George had escaped from the hills, but Sir Devereux vouchsafed no further information. That he had heard more Sybil felt certain, for his letters at breakfast-time had seriously disturbed him. But he would not hear of the party being put off. He would be better presently, he said.
And now the guests were arriving. Already some of them were in the hall. A vague sense of coming peril gripped Sybil as old Watson, the butler, came into the room.
"What is it?" Sybil gasped. "My dear uncle, is he ill, Watson?"
"I thought he was dying?" the old servant whispered. "It was after he had read the letters that came by the evening post. It's bad, miss—something about Master George. And I've sent for Dr. Gordon. It looks like a kind of stroke, miss."
One moment and Sybil was herself again. She thought nothing of her own disappointment, and had forgotten her new diamonds; she, too, was a Drummond.
"I can hear Dr. Gordon's voice," she said. "Thank God, he was at hand! Watson, you must send them all away. Tell them what has happened. Each carriage must be dismissed as it comes. Say how truly sorry I am. I could not possibly see anybody myself."
The butler bowed and withdrew as Sybil flew up the stairs. She noted the hush that had suddenly fallen on the guests and heard the sincere murmur of regret. There was a rush of carriages coming and returning, and command for others to be recalled. A large door at the head of the corridor closed, and Sybil was grateful for the profound silence.
There was Sir Devereux in his dressing-room. He had finished his toilette; he sat in the big arm-chair by the dressing-table, with a letter or two clenched in his hand. The fine, kindly old face was white and set, the lips were grey as ashes.
"Dear uncle," Sybil whispered, as she kissed the damp brow, "what is it?"
Sir Devereux Drummond looked up vaguely. He passed his hand across his forehead as if to collect his thoughts. Sybil noticed how the hand trembled.
"Have you sent them away?" he muttered. "I told Watson to do so. Little girl, I am very sorry. I tried to battle with it for your sake, but I am not so strong as I was. Gordon is in my bed-room. He said that I had had a kind of seizure. I must be very careful. I thought it was death at first. Indeed, I should have been glad. But if it be His will otherwise, I shall bow to it."
"Everybody has gone," Sybil said soothingly. "Uncle, what is it? You can trust me implicitly. I am sure you are in some deep trouble."
With an effort Sir Devereux struggled from his chair. Perhaps the shock had passed. Still he looked very old and bent and broken.
"Disgrace," he said—"dishonour! Mere shadowy words to me before to-day. Perhaps I have been too proud of my house and our good name. I have made too little allowance I fear. I never dreamt that anything of the sort could touch me. I was even too proud to ask a question till yesterday. Then I sent a long letter to Gilchrist at the War Office. I had his reply today, and a letter from Courtenay. I did not want you to know."
"Uncle," Sybil said, "is it anything—is it anything to do with George; and—"
"To do with George—yes. You need not speak; nothing could explain away the damning evidence that I hold in my hand. My poor child! Go and see if everybody has gone; go and talk to those friends who are staying in the house, and who will be anxious to learn what is amiss. I'll come down presently; I must."
Sybil went off immediately. She had forgotten the handful of intimate friends, and they had to be considered. Sybil made as light as she could of the matter. Dinner was ready, and the houseparty must dine. Indeed the meal was already served. Would not Lady Hellington and Mr. Norbury make the best of it? Sybil herself must look after her uncle. Oh, yes, he was better, and would be down later. There was nothing critical. There was nothing else to be done; it was too late for anybody to leave Grange Court to-night. Sybil slipped out presently, anxious to gain the hall, and there breathe the fresh air after the heated atmosphere of the drawing-room.
She shivered as the big door opened, bringing in the sting of the gale and the whirl of the snow-wreaths. Truly a bitter, night—a night not fit to turn a dog out. And inside was the scent of flowers, and the warm, sweet air of the house.
Sybil wondered why the door had been opened, for she knew that there were no more guests to come. Watson stood on the big mat, listening with forced politeness to the late caller. It was a woman, wrapped from head to foot in furs. The full flare of the electric chandelier flooded her face—a pure, slim face of ivory hue. A very noble face, Sybil told herself; clean-cut features and delicate, arched nose, a small, resolute mouth, and eyes of steadfast brown. On the whole, a pretty, refined high bred countenance, Sybil thought, touched and ennobled by a suggestion of sorrow and suffering. Sybil wondered where she had seen the girl before. She was evidently a lady, and one accustomed to the luxuries of life. Impelled by curiosity and attracted towards the stranger, Sybil went forward.
"Is there anything that I can do for you?" she asked.
The other girl turned and smiled her thanks faintly. It was only the suggestion of a smile, but it showed Sybil how beautiful the stranger was. They made a fine contrast—the one slender and graceful as a lily, the other a perfect example of the rich dark beauty of the South.
"You are very good." The reply came in a clear, low voice. "Of course, I should not have intruded to-night, only it is a question of necessity. A poor man in one of the cottages at the back of Moor Lane is down with pneumonia—or so it seems to me. I went over after dinner to take him some fruit and I was quite alarmed. Dr. Gordon's partner has been called out suddenly and I learnt that Dr. Gordon himself had been called in here an hour ago. Our butler is not fit to leave the house, so I walked over myself. I am Miss Cameron, of the Moat House."
Sybil nodded thoughtfully. The Moat House was not more than two miles away; a fine old place, dull and secluded, perhaps, but full of historic associations—the dower-house of the Drummonds, in fact. The Camerons had come there some five or six years ago, but nobody in the county know anything about them. As the newcomers had let it be seen that they wanted no society, the county left them severely alone. There were strange stories, of course, but they were inevitable in a country place.
"It is very thoughtful and kind of you," Sybil said warmly. "Never mind. Watson, I'll go and fetch Dr. Gordon; I am quite sure that he will go at once. Whoever knew the doctor to refuse an act of kindness? My uncle is far from well, and the doctor has been to see him. Watson, take Miss Cameron into the library till I come back."
Evidently the doctor took a deal of finding, or so Miss Cameron thought, as she sat in the ingle-nook by the side of the fireplace waiting. She could hear the subdued murmur of the chastened guests, and the swell of gentle laughter, and she sighed softly to herself. For hers had been a lonely life—no companions of her own age, even, nothing during girlhood but the seclusion of a convent school. Flora Cameron went nowhere, saw nobody. Yet she was a very woman still, and the joy of life flowed in her veins.
After the brisk walk in the keen, shrewd air, the glow of the wood-fire made her drowsy. She did not feel inclined to move; she wanted to listen to the rise and fall of the distant but melodious hum.
She heard a firm, measured step across the oak floor, a quiet voice asking a question as to some letters which a groom had been sent to fetch from Longtown. A more respectful voice replied that the letters were on the library table. Sir Devereux had come down to the library for something, Flora surmised.
She could hear an envelope or two ripped open impatiently; she heard the sound of a heavy sigh—a suppressed suggestion of pain. Then she caught herself wondering if Dr. Gordon had already left the house: she felt herself like an intruder, as Sir Drummond began to talk to himself aloud.
"It's impossible!" he groaned. "A nephew of mine, my brother's son, the fellow who some day will be master here! Oh! no! I can't believe it. By Heaven, it is like some hideous dream! And yet Courtenay, my old friend Courtenay, would never have written like that if—if—I—I can't see. I'm getting old; my eyes are not what they once were. And to think—"
The hard, quavering voice trailed off into an unmistakable sob. A wave of red came over the hidden listener's face—she could not disclose her presence now. She heard a quick step of somebody who seemed to tremble with excitement.
Again did the hot blood flame over Flora's forehead. Delicacy forbade the discovery of her position. She could not proclaim that she had overheard a sacred family secret. She must stay there for the present, and seek an avenue of escape as soon as possible, Then came a step in the hall, and someone entered the library.
"Well, and what's the matter now, Watson?" Sir Devereux asked. His voice was quite steady again.
"Most wonderful thing, sir!" Watson said. His tone was joyfully hysterical. "He's come back, sir—actually come back, this night of all nights in the year! Mr. George, sir—our Mr. George—standing in the hall, as I seen him with my very own eyes, Sir Devereux!"
"George!" Sir Devereux cried. His voice rose again to a kind of hoarse scream. "George—to-night! Oh, I have been too prosperous; my life has been too well ordered by providence; I have neglected the things that I ought to have done. I might have known, I might have felt that my day of trouble must come. And to fall like this—all at once!"'
"Is—is there, anything the matter, sir?" the trembling Watson asked. His master, firm and resolute, his old employer stern and commanding, he knew; but this old, old man, with the white, quivering face and palsied hands, he had never seen before. "For Heaven's sake don't look at me like that, sir."
No reply for a moment. The uneasy listener in the deep ingle-nook could see in imagination the face of the old soldier as he fought for the mastery of himself. Flora would have given much to find herself in the teeth of the snow again; but she could not move now. She heard the howl of the gale, she saw the masses of red sparks go wheeling up the wide chimney, she tried to think of other matters. She had no wish to hear the ghastly secrets of the house.
"Yes, yes; you are right, Watson!" Sir Devereux said humbly. "I—I was over-come. It was so utterly unexpected, I didn't know what to do. Where is Mr. George? Has he seen anybody else yet, or—"
"Nobody, sir. He slipped into the cloak-room in the vestibule till I could smuggle him up to dress. Looks more like bed than dancing, to my mind. He wanted to make the surprise complete and—"
"Never mind that. Say nothing further, but bring Mr. George to me here. Tell him that I want to see him in the library at once. He is to come to me alone. Now go!"
Watson crept away, closing the door behind him. What hideous tragedy was here? The listener wondered. Not that she wanted to know; she would have given anything to be outside the door. She felt hot from head to foot. And yet the strange feeling of delicacy held her there. She was not quite as other girls: she knew but little of the world and its ways. She hoped that this close family secret wasn't going to be revealed to her. Looking round, she could see a little more than half of the room; the severe simplicity of the oaken panels, the portraits in hoop and ruffle, and lace and armour, telling of the pride of race and pride of place—the proud humility of good people. With the old Scottish blood in her veins, Flora Cameron understood that feeling. In the angle of an old Florentine mirror, she could see the solitary occupant of the room now.
He was tall and bronzed and grey, the typical old soldier even in his evening dress. But the stoop of the shoulders was fearful, the kindly face pitiful in its trembling, carking emotion. A scarlet riband flamed across his shirt, and a collar of some order dangled below his tie. He turned in his agitated, unsteady walk, and the door opened and a young man entered. Flora could tell that he was a young man by his step, even before he spoke, though the step dragged a little.
"Well, uncle," the voice said, "are you not surprised to see me? A little glad, too, I hope. I heard of this grand dinner in town, so I came on without delay. My doctor says I ought to have stayed in bed, but—But what is wrong?"
A pleasant voice, Flora decided—a voice that she liked—clear, firm, and true. Yet how she wished she had proclaimed her presence. Dr. Gordon must have departed on his errand, and Miss Drummond was under the impression that her visitor had left the house also. Even now it was not too late. Flora did not lack courage; it was shyness that held her back. Perhaps, after all, there would be nothing—.
"Did anyone see you just now?" Sir Devereux asked. "Anyone, of the house-party recognise you?"
"Nobody whatever," the young man replied, taken aback at his reception. "Nobody but Watson. But, uncle, why do you ask? Your manner is so strange!"
"Strange! And well it may be. It is even strange to me that I hold myself in check so well. And yet an hour ago I would have changed places with nobody in the world. I am Sir Devereux Drummond, the head; mark you, of a family of distinguished soldiers—God-fearing, up-right, honourable. They are all about; you, here in the hall, on the stairway. And every man of them has helped to make history. Never was a Drummond yet who shamed the family honour—till you!"
The young man gasped. Flora caught a glimpse of him now in the angle of the mirror—tall, well set up, like the older man, square and soldierly. His face was very pale, he used a stick by way of support. A thrill of pity touched the listener.
"I am not quite so strong as I might be," the young man said. "I have by no means recovered from the effects of my wound, and the rough life with the rest after the affair at Kooli Pass. If you will please to be more explicit—"
"Then you are going to brazen it out? Well, I might have expected that. If you had only written and explained matters, only let me know—"
"But, uncle, it was impossible. After the Kooli Pass disaster my troops were cut up. I was desperately wounded and fell into the hands of the foe. They were as kind to me as they could be, but they were hard pressed to live themselves. Two months I spent with them, till fortune favoured me and I got down to the coast. They sent me home at once. I admit it was a bad business."
"A bad business! You merely admit that it was a bad business! Heavens, has the man no sense of shame? It was a disgraceful, a cowardly affair! If your men had stood firm you must have held the post and saved the battalion. As it was, you played the coward, you gave the order to retreat! If you had no heed for your own reputation, you might have thought of Ronald Cardrew, the man who is engaged to your sister. I tell you the affair is out, sir; it is whispered in the clubs and has got into the press. And you come back as if nothing had happened, expecting a welcome to the home of your ancestors! If you had only—"
The speaker paused as the door opened, and a rustle of silk draperies followed. Sybil Drummond fluttered into the room eagerly.
"The doctor has already gone, Miss Cameron," she said. "He did not—Why. George, George, my dearest boy—"
A little cry, half pleasure, half pain, broke from the girl's lips. She hurried forward with outstretched hands, but with a quick movement Sir Devereux stepped before her.
"No," he said, "not yet. This is the sorriest hour of my life, but I must not forget my duty to myself and to you, my dear. I would have spared you if I could. Go away, Sybil."
"But uncle," the girl protested, "after what you have already hinted to me, you must tell me everything, I could not rest till I know. And now that George has come home—"
"Ay, but not to stay." The words were deep and impressive. "Not till I am dead and gone. Perhaps it is best for you to hear the truth. I only learnt it myself within the last few hours. Here is the letter from Colonel Courtenay. Ask him if he dare to read it."
"Why not?" George exclaimed. "I will read the letter. Give it me."
The paper crackled in the dead silence of the room as George Drummond unfolded it.
"It has been delayed in transit." Sir Devereux said. "Read it aloud!"
CHAPTER II.—THE LETTER.
Once more the listener felt the blood flowing into her face, but she could not withdraw now, and must remain where she was. She would try to forget all she heard. And yet she was prejudiced almost fanatically on the side of the accused. With all the tumultuous Highland blood in her veins, she had a fine contempt for a coward. But she did not believe that George Drummond was a coward. No man with such a voice could possibly be craven. It was illogical, no doubt, but her instinct told her she was right.
"As you say," George said, "this letter has been delayed. I underhand that Colonel Courtenay has gone up-country with a small field force. And this is what he writes:—
"'My dear old Friend and Comrade,—I have been through some trying moments in my time, and my duty compels me to do certain things that I had far rather have left alone; but never had I such a painful task as this. I am going to make the plunge, so that the pain will be the soonest healed."
"'Your boy is a coward! You would strike me if you heard me say so, but the fact remains. It was over that affair at Kooli Pass. I daresay, as a keen old soldier, you followed all the details in the papers. And when I heard that your boy was dead, and that the Swazis had buried him, I was glad, though I liked the man as my own son.
"The facts are quite plain. George lost his head and gave the order to retire, though young Ronald Cardrew tells me he could have held the position easily. You know all the mischief that followed the loss of the battalion, and for that loss George is to blame. I need not go into details. For your sake and for the sake of the house, I hope the matter will not be talked of. For I have done what I ought not to have done, and it is sorely against my conscience—I have glossed over George's conduct as much as I could. And from the bottom of my heart I hope that he is dead.
"' I am writing you this because my position here is not secure, and my time may be near at hand. Anyway, I shall not have an opportunity of communicating with you again for months. What I want to impress upon you is this—if George is not dead, if he has escaped in the marvellous way a good many of our fellows have done, he must send in his papers. Of that there can be no shadow of doubt. If he does not, then I must tell the truth.
"'God bless you, dear old comrade, and give you courage to bear the blow! I cannot say more.
"'Yours very sincerely,
"'GRANTLEY COURTENAY.'"
From end to end, slowly and in a cold, chilled voice, George Drummond read the fatal letter. Then it fluttered from his fingers to the ground. A long, painful silence followed. Sir Devereux moved at length, and tapped impatiently on the table.
"Well, sir," he said, "have you anything to say? Anything to account for your presence here to-night? Any sort of defence? But that is impossible!"
"I am utterly overcome," George responded. The words were an effort to him. "I am yet weak and low, and this has been a great shock to me. I—I was not close up with my men when the thing happened. There was a mistake somewhere. In trying to aid Ronald Cardrew—"
"Oh, George," said Sybil tearfully, "don't throw the blame on him!"
"No—I had forgotten," George went on. "It was a very painful business altogether. In any case, it would have had a serious effect on my promotion. Cardrew told his own tale when I was in the hands of the enemy. It is possible, perhaps, that I—"
"May say it was Cardrew's fault," Sir Devereux said, with a bitter sigh. "Such things have happened before. Do I understand that that it what you are going to do?"
There was a long pause before George Drummond replied. He looked from the quivering face of his uncle to the pitiful, beautiful one of his sister. She seemed so delicate and fragile, so incapable of standing anything in the way of a shock. George spoke at last.
"I say nothing for the present," he replied. "I am utterly overwhelmed by this thing. If you only knew the pleasure with which I had looked forward to this evening—and then to be called a coward. Well, sis, I am not going to defend myself."
"I am glad to hear it," Sir Devereux said. "We never had a liar in the family, and I find that you can spare us that disgrace."
"And Ronald might have suffered," Sybil murmured.
The listener felt her pulses quickening a little. If George had been her brother she would have lifted him up and poured oil into his wounds, even had he been a coward. But he was no coward. Weak and ill and broken as he was, no coward could have taken his misfortunes so quietly. Sir Devereux crossed the room and help open the door for Sybil.
"You must go back to our guests," he said. "This long absence on the part of both of us is not quite courteous. Though the wound bleeds we have yet to smile. And I have something to say to this gentleman."
Sybil departed obediently. The deeper, stronger emotions were not hers. Sir Devereux faced round slowly and sternly upon the younger man, who stood, pale and quiet, leaning on his stick.
"Now, sir," he asked, "what do you propose to do in this matter?"
"I am afraid I do not quite follow you, sir," George replied. "In the first place, the shock of the business has been a little too much for me. My head is giddy and confused. All I say is that I nearly lost my life trying to retrieve the mistake of—of another. I cannot tell you anything else. Perhaps if I was better—But I cannot stay here."
"You are quite right—you cannot. In time to come the property must be yours and the title. Your ancestors will probably turn to the wall. But, as you say you cannot stay here; I could not permit it. You will do as you like. You have your mother's small property, so that you will not starve. I presume you sent your trap away."
"Of course I did. Foolishly enough I looked for a welcome. It is a bitter night, and I am not very strong, as I told you just now. To-morrow—"
"No—to-night!" The words rang out clear and cold. "Not under my roof, if you please. Not even for a single night, cold as it is! Call me cruel—perhaps I am. But you cannot stay here. My boy, my boy, for the sake of your mother, whom I loved, I would do all I could for you, but not that, not that, because—Perhaps in the course of time—"
"Say no more!" George cried; "not another word, if you please. If you asked me to remain now I could not possibly do so. You need have no shame for me. Watson is discreet, and will keep my secret. Let me have my coat in here, and I can leave by the French window. Will you let me have my coat without delay, sir."
Sir Devereux rang the bell and Watson appeared. The old servant started as he received his order. He would have lingered, perhaps expostulated, only Sir Devereux gave him a stern, yet pitiful glance.
"Better go, Watson," George said; "and be discreet and silent; don't say I have been here. The family quarrel must not be known even to a favoured old servant like you. Get my coat, please. To-morrow I will let you know where to send my kit-bag. Goodnight, Watson."
Watson muttered something almost tearfully as he helped George on with his heavy, fur-lined coat. The latter looked round about the room, with its carved oak panels and ceiling; he glanced at the grave faces of the dead and gone Drummonds looking down on him. As the French window opened, a gust of cold air and driving snow came into the room, causing the fire to roar as the sparks streamed like hot chaff up the chimney. A ripple of laughter, almost of mockery it seemed, came from the dining-room; the soft fragrance of the hothouse flowers floated in. George gave one backward glance—Flora could see the light on his pale face now—and he was gone. Just for a moment Sir Devereux stood with humbled head and shaking shoulders—a bent and broken man.
"This is foolish," he said. "I will forget; I will not let the others see this. And may God forgive me if I have done wrong to-night!"
He crossed to the door and vanished.
As he did so, Flora Cameron came from her hiding-place. There was nothing for her to wait for. She recollected that Sybil Drummond had proclaimed the fact that Dr. Gordon had gone on his errand—the hall was empty. Flora crossed over to the big door and closed it silently behind her. The cold night air blew chill on her crimson face.
A figure stood there with the lights of the house shining on his face. Then he turned and limped painfully down the avenue. Flora following close behind. Once she saw the outcast stagger and press his hand to his chest, as if in pain. The cold outside was intense, the fine snow cut like lashes. Flora was shy and timid no longer, she saw her duty plainly.
"You are going to try to walk to Longtown?" she asked. "Five miles on a night like this? You are Captain George Drummond, and I am Flora Cameron, of the Moat House. Captain Drummond, by no fault of mine, I was compelled to hear all that passed to-night. May I be allowed to say, if it is not impertinent, how sorry I am."
"Though I am a coward," George smiled faintly. "You must see that, of course."
"I am quite sure there has been a mistake," Flora said quietly. "I used to see you when I first came here. I used to peep through the park railings and watch you and your sister playing together. I was a lonely child. But we need not go into that. You cannot walk into Longtown to-night."
"I have done worse things in South Africa, Miss Cameron," George said.
They were past the lodge gates and into the road by now. Truly a strange meeting and strange conversation, George thought. The pure sweetness of the girl's face and her touching sympathy moved him, cold as the night was. He staggered for a little way, and then looked up, dazed and confused.
"I am very sorry," he said; "I have overrated my strength. I cannot go any farther. If there is any cottage or place of that sort where I can—"
He stumbled again and fell by the roadside, his eyes half closed. Flora stopped, and chaffed his cold hands.
"Courage," she said, "courage! Make an effort. The Moat is not far off. Come!"
CHAPTER III.—THE MOAT HOUSE.
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."
CHAPTER IV.—IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
George dropped back half angry and half ashamed. He had a burning desire now to be up and doing, to get away from here, even if it were into the black throat of the night. A snarling breath of wind shook the old house; there was a lash of thin snow on the windows. Exposure on a night like this meant death.
Flora seemed to divine what was passing through the mind of her guest, for she smiled faintly. The faded figure in the armchair nodded. Just for a moment her face lighted up, and then George saw what a naturally noble countenance it was. The features were vaguely familiar to him. He wondered where he had seen them before.
"You are exceedingly good to me," he faltered. "But for Miss Cameron, I hardly know what would have become of me to-night."
"It was foolish of you to quarrel with your uncle," Bernard Beard put in.
"He is a good and just man," Mrs. Cameron said. "A little hard, perhaps, but good and upright men are apt to be narrow. They do not make allowance for the follies of weaker men. In the days when we lived at Knaresfield—"
The speaker's voice grew weak again and hesitating. But George knew now where he had seen and heard of Mrs. Cameron before. The word Knaresfield recalled the past to his mind. Mrs. Cameron of Knaresfield had been a household word in the world of philanthropy. Could this faded, unhappy woman be the same grand, noble-looking being that George remembered as a boy? She had been a great friend of Sir Devereux's ten or twelve years ago; and here they had been living close together for four years, and, to all appearances, Sir Devereux was ignorant of his old friend's existence. And yet she was living on the Grange Court estate! What mystery was here, George wondered. He came out of the world of speculation with a sudden start.
"There was no quarrel with my uncle," he said. "A difference of opinion, let us say. I chose to remain silent. I could not ask a favour."
"It will be all right in God's good time," Mrs. Cameron said, suddenly. "You have much to live for."
The last words brought a strange comfort to George. They rang out like an inspiring prophecy. Indeed, he had much to live for, but, meanwhile, he was tired and worn out. The food had revived him, the grateful warmth had thawed his chilled bones, and a great desire for sleep had come over him; the room began to expand; the figures then grew hazy and indistinct. Somebody was asking a question.
"Really, I beg your pardon," George murmured. "I am not very strong yet, and I have travelled too far to-day. I will not trouble you after to-morrow. It is really good of you."
"It is exceedingly selfish of us to keep you up," Flora said. "I will show you to your room. A fire has been lighted there. When you are quite ready—"
But George was quite ready now. He bowed over the hand of the faded lady in the chair. He half hesitated in the case of Mr. Beard. But the latter seemed to be busy arranging some of the numberless white flowers, and returned the good-night with a careless nod. He seemed to be secretly amused about something.
Flora had taken up a bedroom candle, and had preceded George up the shallow oak stairs. It was a pleasant room that she came to at length, an octagonal room, with panelled walls and blazing log fire burning cheerfully on the dogs. The red curtains of the lattice windows were not yet drawn, so that there was a glimpse into the blackness of the night. The thin snow fluttered on the diamond-shaped panes.
"I think you will be comfortable here," Flora said. "Pray that you may be yourself in the morning. If you care to stay here for a day or two—"
"I could not so far trouble you," George said. He did not fail to note the strange hesitation in Flora's voice, the desire to be good and kind struggling with some hesitating fear. "You have been more than kind to me already, and, as your mother said to-night, I have much to live for. I must get back to London in the morning. I may not have a chance to speak freely to you again. Fate has placed you in possession of my story, or, rather, of a portion of it, but there is one thing I want you to believe—I am neither a coward nor a liar. Try to think that I am—"
"A good man struggling with misfortune," Flora interrupted. "I am certain of it. If I had not felt certain, do you suppose that I should have brought you here to-night? You are suffering for the sake of another who—"
"I am; and you know who that other is. That photograph of Ronald Cardrew—"
"Hush!" Flora whispered "You must ask me no questions. There are reasons why I cannot speak. If you only knew the story of this house of sorrows! If you only know why my dear mother has changed from a noble, honoured woman to a broken wreck in ten years! But I dare not think of it. I dare not! What is that?"
Across the gale came the sudden boom of a gun. The sound rolled suddenly away.
