On reaching the house, Jim bade the butler inform his master that Mr.
Standerton would like to see him. Isaac looked at him as if he were
desirous of making sure of his business before he admitted him, then he
hobbled off in the direction of his master's study, to presently return
with the message that Mr. Bursfield would see Mr. Standerton if he would
be pleased to step that way. Jim thereupon followed the old man into the
room in which he had first made Abraham Bursfield's acquaintance some
four months before. As on that memorable occasion, he found that
gentleman seated at his desk, looking very much as if he had not moved
from it in all that time.
"I wish you good evening, Mr. Standerton," he said, motioning his
visitor to a chair. "To what may I attribute the honour of this visit?"
"I have come to you on a most important errand," Jim replied. "Its
purport may surprise you, but I hope it will not disappoint you."
"May I ask that you will be good enough to tell me what that errand is,"
said the old gentleman drily. "I shall then be better able to give you
my opinion."
"To sum it up in a few words," Jim answered, "I have this afternoon
asked Miss Decie to become my wife, and she has promised to do so. I am
here to ask your approval."
Bursfield was silent for a few moments. Then he looked sharply up at the
young man.
"You are of course aware that Miss Decie is only my adopted
granddaughter, and that she has not the least shadow of a claim, either
upon me, or upon such remnants of property as I may possess."
"I am quite aware of it," Jim replied. "Miss Decie has told me of her
position, and of your goodness to her."
"The latter of which she is endeavouring to repay by leaving me to spend
the rest of my miserable existence alone. A pretty picture of gratitude,
is it not? But it is the world all over!"
"I am sure she will always entertain a feeling of profound gratitude
towards you," protested Jim. "She invariably speaks of you with the
greatest affection."
"I am indeed indebted to her for her consideration," retorted the other
with a sneer. "Unfortunately, shall I say, for you, I prefer something
more than words. No, Mr. Standerton, I cannot give my consent to your
engagement."
Jim could only stare in complete astonishment. He had never expected
this.
"You do not mean that you are going to forbid it?" he ejaculated when he
had recovered somewhat from his surprise.
"I am reluctantly compelled to admit that that _is_ my intention.
Believe me, I have the best of reasons for acting thus. Possibly my
decision may cause you pain. It is irrevocable, however. At my death
Helen will be able to do as she pleases, but until that event takes
place, she must remain with me."
He took up his pen as if to continue his writing, and so end the
interview.
"But, Mr. Bursfield, this is an unheard-of determination," cried the
young man.
"That may be," was the reply. "I believe I have the reputation for being
somewhat singular. My so-called granddaughter is a good girl, and if I
know anything of her character, she will do as I wish in this matter."
Jim rose to his feet and crossed to the door as if to leave. When he
reached it, however, he turned and faced Mr. Bursfield.
"You are quite sure that nothing I can say or do will induce you to
alter your decision?" he enquired.
"Quite," the other replied.
"Then allow me to give you fair warning that I intend to marry Miss
Decie," retorted Jim, who by this time had quite lost his temper.
"You are at liberty to do so when I am dead," Mr. Bursfield replied, and
then continued his writing as if nothing out of the common had occurred.
Without another word Jim left the room. He had arranged that he should
meet Helen in the garden afterwards. It was with a woe-begone face,
however, that he greeted her.
"While he lives he absolutely refuses to sanction our engagement," he
began. "For some reason of his own he declines to consider the matter
for a moment. He says that at his death you are at liberty to do as you
please, but until that event occurs, you are to remain with him. I
consider it an act of the greatest selfishness."
Helen heaved a heavy sigh.
"I was afraid he would not look upon it as favourably as we hoped," she
said. "I will see what I can do with him, however. I know him so well,
and sometimes I can coax him to do things he would not dream of doing
for any one else."
"Try, darling, then," said Jim, "and let us trust you will be
successful."
They bade each other good-night, and then James set off on his walk
across the Park. Dusk was falling by this time, and the landscape looked
very beautiful in the evening light. As he strode along he thought of
his position and of the injustice of Bursfield's decision. Then he fell
to picturing what his future life would be like when the old man should
have relented and Helen was his wife. He was still indulging in this
day-dream when he noticed a shabbily-dressed man standing on the path a
short distance ahead of him. Somehow the figure seemed familiar to him,
and when he drew nearer he could not suppress an exclamation of
astonishment. The individual was none other than the man he had seen
lying beside the camp fire on the banks of the Darling River, and who,
on a certain memorable evening, had caused his father so much emotion,
_Richard Murbridge_. Whatever Jim's feelings might have been, Murbridge
was at least equal to the occasion.
"Good evening, Mr. Standerton," he began, lifting his hat politely as he
spoke. "You are doubtless surprised to see me in England."
"I am more than surprised," James replied, "and I am equally astonished
at finding you on my father's premises after what he said to you in
Australia. If you will be guided by me you will make yourself scarce
without loss of time."
"You think so, do you? Then let me tell you that you have no notion of
the situation, or of the character of Richard Murbridge. Far from making
myself scarce, I am now on my way to see your father. I fear, however,
he will not kill the fatted calf in my honour; but even that omission
will not deter me. Tenacity of purpose has always been one of my chief
characteristics."
"If you attempt to see him you will discover that my father has also
some force of character," the other replied. "What is more, I refuse to
allow you to do so. I am not going to permit him to be worried by you
again."
"My young friend, you little know with whom you are dealing," Murbridge
retorted. "I have travelled from the other side of the world to see your
father, and if you think you can prevent me you are much mistaken. What
is more, let me inform you that you would be doing him a very poor
service by attempting to keep us apart. There is an excellent little inn
in the village, whose landlord and I are already upon the best of terms.
The Squire, William Standerton, late of Australia, but now of
Childerbridge, is an important personage in the neighbourhood.
Everything that is known about him is to his credit. It would be a pity
if----"
"You scoundrel!" said Jim, approaching a step nearer the other, his
fists clenched, as if ready for action, "If you dare to insinuate that
you know anything to my father's discredit, I'll thrash you to within an
inch of your life."
Then a fit of indescribable fear swept over him as he remembered the
night in Australia, when his father had shown so much agitation on
learning that the man was on his way to the station to see him. What
could be the secret between them? But no! He knew his father too well to
believe that the man before him could cast even the smallest slur upon
his character. William Standerton's name was a synonym for sterling
integrity throughout the Island Continent. It was, therefore, impossible
that Murbridge could have any hold upon him.
"You had better leave the place at once by the way you came into it,"
Jim continued, "and take very good care that we don't see any more of
you."
"You crow very loud, my young bantam," returned Murbridge, "but that
does not alter my decision. Now let me tell you this. If you knew
everything, you would just go down on your bended knees and pray to me
to forgive you for your impudence. As I said a moment ago, it's not the
least use your attempting to stop me from seeing your father, for see
him I will, if I have to sit at his gate for a year and wait for him to
come out."
"Then you'd better go and begin your watch at once, for you shall not
see him at the house," retorted Jim.
"We'll see about that," said Murbridge, and then turned on his heel, and
set off in the direction of the Park gates. James waited until he had
seen him disappear, then he in his turn resumed his walk. He had to make
up his mind before he reached the house as to whether he would tell his
father of the discovery he had made or not. On mature consideration he
came to the conclusion that it would be better for him to do so.
For this reason, when he reached the house he enquired for his father,
and was informed that he had gone to his room to dress for dinner. He
accordingly followed him thither, to discover him, brush in hand, at
work upon his silver-grey hair. That night, for some reason, the simple
appointments of that simple room struck Jim in a new and almost pathetic
light. Each article was, like its owner, strong, simple and good.
"Well, my lad, what is it?" asked Standerton. "I hope your interview
with Mr. Bursfield was satisfactory?"
"Far from it," Jim replied lugubriously; and then, to postpone the fatal
moment, he proceeded to describe to his father the interview he had had
with the old gentleman.
"Never mind, my boy, don't be down-hearted about it," said Standerton,
when he had heard his son out. "To-morrow I'll make it my business to go
and see Mr. Bursfield. It will be strange if I can't talk him into a
different way of thinking before I've done with him. But I can see from
your face that there is something else you've got to tell me. What is
it?"
Jim paused before he replied. He knew how upset his father would be at
the news he had to impart.
"Father," he said, "I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. I've been
trying to make up my mind whether I should tell you or not."
"Tell me, James," answered the other. "I'll be bound it's not so very
bad after all. You've probably been brooding over it, and have magnified
its importance."
"I sincerely hope I have. I am afraid not, however. Do you remember the
man we saw at Mudrapilla in the Five Mile Paddock, the night before we
left? His name was Murbridge."
The shock to William Standerton was every bit as severe as James had
feared it would be.
"What of him?" he cried. "You don't mean to say that he is in England?"
"I am sorry to say that he is," Jim returned. "I found him in the Park
this evening on his way up to the house."
The elder man turned and walked to the fireplace, where he stood looking
into it in silence. Then he faced his son once more.
"What did he say to you?" he enquired at last, his voice shaking with
the anxiety he could not control or hide.
"He said that he wanted to see you, and that he would do so if he had to
wait at the gates for a year."
"And he will," said Standerton bitterly; "that man will hunt me to my
grave. I have been cursed with him for thirty years, and do what I will
I cannot throw him off."
James approached his father, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"Father," he began, "why won't you let me share your trouble with you?
Surely we should be able to find some way of ridding ourselves of this
man?"
"No, there is no way," said Standerton. "He has got a hold upon me that
nothing will ever shake off."
"I will not believe, father, that he knows anything to your discredit,"
cried Jim passionately.
"And you are right, my lad," his father replied. "He knows nothing to my
discredit. I hope no one else does; but--but there--do not ask any more.
Some day I will tell you the whole miserable story. But not now. You
must not ask me. Believe me, dear lad, when I say that it would be
better not."
"Then what will you do?"
"See him, and buy him off once more, I suppose. Then I shall have peace
for a few months. Do you know where he is staying?"
"At the 'George and Dragon,'" Jim replied.
"Then I must send a note down to him and ask him to come up here," said
Standerton. "Now go and dress. Don't trouble yourself about him."
All things considered, the dinner that night could not be described as a
success. William Standerton was more silent than usual, and his son
almost equalled him. Alice tried hard to cheer them both, but finding
her efforts unsuccessful, she also lapsed into silence. A diversion,
however, was caused before the meal was at an end. The butler had
scarcely completed the circuit of the table with the port, before a
piercing scream ran through the building, followed by another, and yet
another.
"Good heavens! What's that?" cried Standerton, as he sprang to his feet,
and hurried to the door, to be followed by his son and daughter.
"It came from upstairs, sir," said the butler, and immediately hurried
up the broad oak staircase two steps at a time. His statement proved to
be correct, for, on reaching the gallery that runs round the hall, he
found a maid-servant lying on the floor in a dead faint. Jim followed
close behind him, and between them they picked the girl up, and carried
her down to the hall, where she was laid upon a settee. The housekeeper
was summoned, and the usual restoratives applied, but it was some time
before her senses returned to her. When she was able to speak, she
looked wildly about her, and asked if "_it was gone_?" When later she
was able to tell her story more coherently, it was as follows.
In the fulfilment of her usual duties she had gone along the gallery to
tidy Miss Standerton's bedroom. She had just finished her work, and was
closing the door, when she saw, standing before her, not more than
half-a-dozen paces distant, the little hump-backed ghost, of which she
had so often heard mention made in the Servants' Hall. It looked at her,
pointed its finger at her, and a second later vanished. "She knew now,"
she declared, "that it was all over with her, and that she was going to
die. Nothing could save her." Having given utterance to this alarming
prophecy, she indulged in a second fit of hysterics, on recovering from
which she was removed by the butler and housekeeper to the latter's
sitting-room, vowing as she went that she could not sleep in the house,
and that she would never know happiness again. Having seen her depart,
the others returned to the dining-room, and had just taken their places
at the table once more, when there was a ring at the front door bell,
and in due course the butler entered with the information that a person
"of the name of Murbridge" had called and would be glad to see Mr.
Standerton. James sprang to his feet.
"I told him he was not to come near the place," he said. "Let me go and
see him, father."
"No, no, my boy," said Standerton. "I wrote to him before dinner, as I
told you I should, telling him to come up to-night. Where is he,
Wilkins?"
"In the library, sir," the butler replied.
"Very well. I will see him there."
He accordingly left the room.
A quarter of an hour later James and Alice heard Murbridge's voice in
the hall.
"You dare to turn me out of your house?" he was saying, as if in a fit
of uncontrollable rage. "You forbid me to speak to your son and
daughter, do you?"
"Once and for all, I do," came Standerton's calm voice in reply. "Now
leave the house, and never let me see your face again. Wilkins, open the
door, and take care that this man is never again admitted to my house."
Murbridge must have gone down the steps, where, as Wilkins asserted
later on, he stood shaking his fist at Mr. Standerton.
"Curse you, I'll make you pay for this," he cried. "You think yourself
all-powerful because of your wealth, but whatever it costs me, I'll make
you smart for the manner in which you've treated me to-night."
Then the door was closed abruptly, and no more was seen of him.
William Standerton's usually rubicund face was very pale when he joined
his son and daughter later. It was plain that the interview he had had
with Murbridge had upset him more than he cared to admit. Alice did her
best to console him, and endeavoured to make him forget it, but her
efforts were a failure.
"Poor old dad," she said, when she bade him good-night. "It hurts me to
see you so troubled."
"You must not think about it then," was the answer. "I shall be myself
again in the morning. Good-night, my girl, and may God bless you."
"God bless you, father," the girl replied earnestly.
"I do wish you'd let me help you," said Jim, when he and his father were
alone together. "Why did you not let me interview that man?"
"It would have done no good," Standerton replied. "The fellow was
desperate, and he even went so far as to threaten me. Thereupon I lost
my temper and ordered him out of the house. I fear we shall have more
trouble with him yet."
"Is it quite impossible for you to tell me the reason of it all?" James
asked, after a moment's hesitation.
"Well, I have been thinking it over," said his father, "and I have come
to the conclusion that perhaps it would be better, much as it will pain
you, to let you know the truth. But not to-night, dear lad. Let it stand
over, and I will tell you everything to-morrow. Now good-night."
They shook hands according to custom, and then departed to their
respective rooms.
Next morning James was about early. He visited the Stables and the Home
Farm, looked in at the kennels, and was back again at the home some
three-quarters of an hour before breakfast. As he crossed the hall to
ascend the stairs, in order to go to his own room, he met Wilkins coming
down, his face white as death.
"My God, sir," he said hoarsely, "for mercy's sake come upstairs to your
father's room."
"What is the matter with him?" cried James, realising from the butler's
manner that something terrible had happened.
But Wilkins did not answer. He only led the way upstairs. Together they
proceeded along the corridor and entered the Squire's bedroom. There
they saw a sight that James will never forget as long as he lives. His
father lay stretched out upon the bed, dead. His eyes were open, and
stared horribly at the ceiling, while his hands were clenched, and on
either side of his throat were discoloured patches.
These told their own tale.
_William Standerton had been strangled._