The Scales of Justice.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8499, 31 July 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice.

CHAPTER ll.—Continued. He crossed to the door and vanished. As ho 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 em ply. 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 hous3 shining en 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 line 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 Ihe allowed "to say, if it is not impertinent, how sorry 1 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 ra:lings 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 tonight." "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. "lam very sorry," he said; "I have overrated my strength. I rannot 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 chafed his cold hands. "Courage," she said, "courage! Make an effort. The Moat is not far off. Cornel" CHAPTER" 111. 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 he 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 our own 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 tue slightest suggestion of the Scottish accent, and George was fain to obey. So far as he could recollect, they were nearly t,wo 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 after days piece by piece. He passed under a portcullis, across a courtyard, and into a hall, stone-flagged, oak-pan-nelled, 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. i! lt 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 lie 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 cincluded thnt somebody had given hiin 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 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 Moat in the old days, when it had belonged to the Order of the Capuchin Friars. There were the quaintly carved saints on the

By FUEB M. WHITS, [Published By Spemal Arranged r.s i.] [A-ll Bights Reserved.]

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 diurVh and an organ, imd "the voice iinxi breathed o'er Eden." Then it came to him that most of the iiowci\s 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 Jacking 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 oldworld 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, 1 overheard the quarrel between Captain Drummond and his uncle, which ended in cur guest being turned out of the house." "The same thing happened to your Uncle Ivor in my yo.aig days," the elder lady said. "Precisely. We do not seem lo have learnt much since then. Captain Drummond was very ill, and 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 toward 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 armchair nodded, and her eyes closed. Altogether a weird, strange household, with Flora the only bright and lovable thing about it. George's eyes, roaming around 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 lover's 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. (To be Continued.)