The Scales of Justice.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8498, 30 July 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice.

By PBEB Bjl. WHITS, [Published By Special Arrange?! en r.] [All Eights Reserved.]

CHAPTER I.—Continued. | "No," he said, "not yet. This is j the sorriest hour of my life, but 11 must not forget my duty to myseL j and to you, my dear. 1 would have spared you, if I could. Go away Sybil." . n "But uncle," the girl piotet.te(i, "after what you have already hinted to me, you must tell me I could not rest till I know. And now that George has conic home "Ay, but not to stay." The words were deep and impressive. "Not till lam dead and gone. Perhaps it is best for you to hear the truth. I only learnt it myselfwithin 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. _ _ (f "It has been delayed in transit, Sir Devereux said. "Read it—aloud!" 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 understand that Colonel Courtenay has gone r,p 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. lam going to make the plunge, so that the pain will be the soonest healed. "'Your boy is a coward! You wuold 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 thatj loss George is to biame. I need not go into details. For your sake and for the sake of the house, I hope the matter will nut be talked of. For I have done what I ought not to have done, and it is sorely against my conscience—l 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 1 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 1 the table. "Weli, sir," he said, "have you anything to say? Anything to account for your presence here tonight? Any sort of defence? But that is impossible!" "I am utterly overcome," George responded. The words were an elfort to him. "I am yet weak and low and this has been a great shock to me. I—l 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, tearfu!ly, "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 enemv. It is possible, perhaps, that 1 '» M "May say it was Cardrew's fault," Sir Devereux said with a bitter sigh. "Such things have happened before. Do I understand that that is 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 sav nothing--for the present," he replied. "1- 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, ami i that you can spare us that di.^nuv." "And Ronald i t have suffered," Sybil murri'ir.-.. n. The listener f i: ; r pulses quickening a little. ■ i 1. orge had been her brother she id have lifted him up and > i oil into his wounds, even iu i h'.- been a coward. But he was no aavaw, Weak and ill and broken a,- !« 'v.-.j, no coward could have take!: iuv ;nisiortunes so quietly. Sir IK-wvux crossed the room and heir the door for Sybil. "You must g<> i-.aeU to our guests," he said. "Tiiia k-ng absence on the part of both o;' not quite courteous. Though t.lsi- uound bleeds we have yet to smiu--. /■. nd I have something to say to lins g. ntienian." 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 a.;ked, "what do you propose to do in this matter?" "I am afraid 1 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 1 nearly lost my lite trying to retrieve the mistake of another. I cannot tell you anything else. Perhaps if 1 was better But I cannot stay here." "You are quite right—you cannot. In time to come the property must be j 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 lam not very strong as I told you just now. Tomorrow —" "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 poasibly do so. You need have no shame for me. 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 appeax*ed. The old servant started as lie 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. Good-night, 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 driying 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 diningroom ; 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!" (To be continued.)