Sir John Stratfield, of Stratfield Court, lay dying on that afternoon.
For years he had been a confirmed invalid, and in the morning the two
renowned doctors who had been telegraphed for from London had declared
his recovery impossible. The Court, a fine old pile with grey time-worn
walls half-hidden by ivy, stood in its spacious park about a mile from
Stratfield Mortimer, on the hill between that village and Burghfield.
As the rays of crimson sunset slanted in through the one unshaded window
there was a profound stillness in the sick-room. At the bedside stood
four solemn-faced men, patiently watching for the end. The spark of
life flickered on, and now and then the dying man uttered words low and
indistinct. Two of the men were doctors, the third Richard Harrison, of
the firm of Harrison and James, solicitors, of Bedford Row, and the
fourth George Stratfield, the Baronet's younger son.
The haggard man had spoken once or twice, giving certain instructions to
his solicitor, but at last there was a long silence, unbroken save by
the rustling of the stiff grey gown of the nurse, who entered for an
instant, then left again in silence.
The eccentric old man, whose reputation throughout Berkshire was that of
a tyrannical landlord, a bigoted magistrate and a miserly father, at
last opened his dull filmy eyes. The white bony fingers lying on the
coverlet twitched uneasily, as, glancing at his son, he beckoned him
forward.
Obediently the young man approached.
"Promise me one thing, George," the dying man exclaimed with an effort,
in a voice so low as to be almost indistinguishable. "Promise me that
you will never marry that woman."
"Why, father? Why are you so bitterly prejudiced against Liane?"
"I have my reasons," was the answer.
"But I love her," the young man urged. "I can marry no one else."
"Then go abroad, forget her, and remain a bachelor. Erle Brooker's
daughter shall never become a Stratfield," was the harsh reply, uttered
with considerable difficulty.
George, a tall well-built young fellow, with fair hair, a fair moustache
and blue eyes, was a typical specimen of the English gentleman, still in
his well-worn riding breeches and tweed coat, for that morning before
the arrival of the doctors he had, in order to get a prescription made
up, ridden hard into Reading. He made no reply to his father's words,
he did not wish to offend the Baronet, yet he could not give a pledge
which he intended to break.
"Will you not promise?" Sir John again demanded, a strange look
overspreading his haggard ashen features.
Again a deep silence fell.
"No," answered his son at last. "I cannot promise to give up Liane, for
I love her."
"Love! Bah. I tell you that woman shall never be your wife. If John
were here, instead of with his regiment in India, he would fully endorse
every word I say. Brooker's girl shall never enter our family."
"What do you know against her?" the son asked dismayed. "Why, you have
never set your eyes upon either father or daughter! Some confounded
eavesdropper must have been telling you of our clandestine meetings, and
this has annoyed you."
"I am aware of more than you imagine," the dying man answered. "Will
you, or will you not, promise to obey my wish?"
There was a look of firm determination in the old man's countenance; a
look which the son did not fail to notice.
"No, father," he answered. "Once for all, I decline."
"Then if such be your decision you must take the consequences. You are
an unworthy son."
"In the matter of my marriage I shall follow my own inclinations
entirely," the young man said calmly.
"Very well," the Baronet answered, and making a sign to his solicitor,
Harrison, commanded his son to leave the room.
At first George demurred; but in accordance with the suggestion of the
doctors that the wishes of their patient should be respected at that
crisis-time, he went out, and passing downstairs to the library threw
himself back in one of the roomy leather chairs.
Yes, he loved Liane. With her vivacious half-English, half-French
mannerisms, her sweet musical accent, her dark beauty and grey trusting
eyes, she was unlike any other woman he had ever beheld. They had met
by chance on Mortimer Common a few months before. One morning, while
riding towards Ufton, he had found her at the roadside endeavouring to
re-adjust her cycle, which had met with a slight accident. His
proffered services were gratefully accepted, and from that moment their
friendship had ripened into passionate and devoted love. Almost daily
they took long walks and rides together, but so secret had been their
meetings that until half-an-hour ago he had no idea that his father was
aware of the truth. He had purposely kept the matter from Sir John
because of his severe illness, yet someone, whom he knew not, must have
watched him and gone to the Baronet with some foul libellous story.
As he lay back in the chair, his gaitered legs crossed, his sun-browned
hands clasped behind his head, gazing up to the old panelled ceiling, he
reflected that in a few hours the Court would no longer be his home.
His elder brother, Major Stratfield, who for the past five years had
been in India with his regiment, the East Surrey, had been telegraphed
for, and in a few weeks would arrive and become Sir John Stratfield,
while he, dogged by the misfortune attendant on being a younger son,
would go forth from the old place with an income the extent of which he
could not know until after the will had been read.
George's life had certainly not been a happy one. Since his mother's
death a few months after his birth, his father had become a hard man,
irritable and misanthropic. He kept no company, begrudged every penny
his son cost him at college, and appeared to take a delight in obtaining
the ill-will of all his neighbours. He knew that scarcely a person in
the parish would regret his decease, and used frequently to comment with
self-satisfaction upon the unenviable reputation he had gained. This
was merely eccentricity, people said; but for George it was decidedly
unpleasant, for while he was welcomed in every house, his father was
never invited. Sometimes this fact impressed itself forcibly on the old
man's mind, but on such occasions he would only laugh contemptuously,
saying:
"Ah, the Stratfields of Stratfield can afford to treat with contempt
these mushroom merchants without breeding, and without pedigree."
At whatever George had achieved the baronet had never shown the
slightest sign of satisfaction. His career at Balliol had been
brilliant, he had eaten his dinners at Lincoln's Inn and been duly
called to the Bar, but all to no purpose, for almost as soon as he had
been "called," his father, strangely enough, refused to grant him any
further allowance unless he gave up his chambers and returned to live at
Stratfield. This he had been forced to do, although much against his
inclination, for he preferred his friends of the Common Room to the
society of his eccentric parent. However, it had after all turned out
for the best, he reflected, because a month after he had come back he
had met the grey-eyed girl whose beauty held him entranced, and whom he
intended to ask to become his wife. From the very first it had been
arranged between them that they should keep their acquaintance secret,
only Nelly Bridson being aware of it, and it was she who met George with
notes from Liane when, on rare occasions, the latter was unable to keep
her appointments. He had found both girls extremely pleasant
companions, and through the sunny months the bright, halcyon days had
passed happily.
In obedience to Liane's wish he had refrained from calling upon Captain
Brooker. Truth to tell, the refined, ingenuous girl, with her French
chic and charming manner, was ashamed of their shabby home, of her
father's frayed but well-cut clothes, of the distinct evidences of their
poverty, and feared lest her lover should discover the secret of her
father's rather ignominious past. She had told him that the Captain was
a half-pay officer, and that her mother had been French; but she had
been careful never to refer to the polyglot society in which they had
moved on the Continent, nor to the fact that she was daughter of a man
well-known in all the gaming establishments in Europe. All that was of
the past, she had assured herself. If George knew the truth, then
certainly he would forsake her. And she loved him no less than he
adored her. Hence her lover had been puzzled not a little by her
steadfast refusal to tell him anything definite regarding her earlier
life, and the equal reticence of her foster sister. Of course, he could
not fail to recognise behind this veil of mystery some family secret,
yet in his buoyant frame of mind, happy in his new-found love, it
troubled him but little. Liane, his enchantress, loved him; that was
sufficient.
For more than half-an-hour he sat in the old brown library in the same
position, plunged deep in gloomy reflection. The sunset streamed in
through the big windows of stained glass whereon were the arms of the
Stratfields with the motto, "Non vi, sed voluntate," which his ancestors
had borne through six centuries. The ancient room, lined from floor to
ceiling with the books of past generations, seemed in that calm silent
hour aglow with many colours.
The suddenness with which the storm-cloud had broken away, and the sun's
last rays again shone forth, aroused him. He glanced at his watch. It
was already seven o'clock, and Liane was awaiting him beneath the
railway bridge in Cross Lane, fully a mile away.
He made a movement to rise, but next moment, reflecting that he could
not leave the house while his father lay dying, sank back into his chair
again. Liane knew of his father's illness, and would undoubtedly wait,
as she had often waited before.
Yet why was he sitting there inactive and patient? The bitter truth
recurred to him. He had refused to give his pledge, and had therefore
been banished from his father's presence. And this because he loved
her!
He rose, and gazed out down the long shady avenue of chestnuts, that led
across the broad Park towards the village. Yes, he loved Liane, and
come what might he would marry her. Soon his father would pass away;
then he would be free to act as he chose. After all, he was pleased
that he had not given a false pledge to a dying man. At least he had
been frank.
His brother John had never been his friend, therefore he knew that soon
he must leave Stratfield. One thing he regretted to part from was the
library, that fine old room in which he now stood, where he had spent so
many long and studious days, and where he had sought refuge almost daily
from his father's ill-temper. With hands deep in his pockets, he gazed
slowly around the old place with its cosy armchairs and big
writing-table, then sighed heavily.
He was thinking of his father's angry declaration, "Erle Brooker's
daughter shall never become a Stratfield." What did he mean? Were
those words uttered because of some absurd prejudice, or was he actually
aware of something which both Liane and Nelly had carefully striven to
conceal? Again he glanced at his watch. The hour was fleeting. Soon
his well-beloved would weary of waiting and return home.
He pressed the electric button, and at once his summons was answered by
a neat maid.
"Tell Morton to saddle the bay mare and hold her ready. I may want to
ride," he said.
"Yes, sir," the girl answered, surprised at his unusual brusqueness.
The door closed, and again he was alone.
"At least I'll try and overtake her," he murmured. "I must see her
to-night at all hazards," and as the sunlight faded he paced the room
from door to window, his chin resting upon his breast.
Soon the door again slowly opened, and the old solicitor entering,
closed it after him.
"It is my painful duty to tell you, Mr George, that your father has
passed quietly away," he said, with that professionally solemn air that
lawyers can assume when occasion demands.
The young man standing with his back turned, gazing out upon the Park,
made no response.
"Before he drew his last breath I asked him three times whether he would
see you again, but he firmly declined. You caused him the most intense
displeasure by your refusal to grant his request," the solicitor
continued.
"Am I not my own master, Harrison?" the young man snapped, turning to
him sharply.
"Certainly," the other answered, raising his grey eyebrows. "I admit
that I have no right whatever to interfere with your private affairs,
but I certainly cannot regard your attitude and your father's subsequent
action without considerable regret."
"What do you mean?"
"Apart from my professional connection with the Stratfield estate I have
been, you will remember, a friend of your father's through many years,
therefore it pains me to think that in Sir John's dying moments you
should have done this."
George Stratfield glanced quickly at the white-haired lawyer. Then he
said,--
"I suppose my father has treated me badly at his death, as he did
throughout his life."
"Yes."
"Well, let me know the worst," the young man exclaimed, sighing; "Heaven
knows, I don't expect very much."
"When the will is formally read you will know everything," the other
answered drily.
"A moment ago you said you were a friend of my father's. Surely if you
are you will not keep me in suspense regarding my future."
"Suspense is entirely unnecessary," answered the lawyer, his sphinx-like
face relaxing into a cold smile.
"Why?"
"Well, unfortunately, you need not expect anything."
"Not anything?" gasped the young man, blankly. "Then am I penniless?"
The solicitor nodded, and opening a paper he had held behind him on
entering, said,--
"When you had left the room half-an-hour ago Sir John expressed a desire
to make an addition to his will, and entirely against my inclination
made me write what you see here. He signed it while still in his right
mind, the two doctors witnessing it. It is scarcely a professional
proceeding to show it to you at this early stage, nevertheless, perhaps,
as you are the son of my old friend, and it so closely concerns your
future welfare, you may as well know the truth at once. Read for
yourself."
George took the paper in his trembling fingers and read the six long
lines of writing, the ink of which was scarcely yet dry. Three times he
read them ere he could understand their exact purport. The cold formal
words crushed all joy from his heart, for he knew, alas! that the woman
he loved could never be his.
It was the death-warrant to all his hopes and aspirations. He could not
now ask Liane to be his wife.
With set teeth he sighed, flung down the will upon the table with an
angry gesture, and casting himself again into his armchair, sat staring
straight before him without uttering a word.
In addition to being cruel and unjust the codicil was certainly of a
most extraordinary character. By it there was bequeathed to "my son
George Basil Stratfield" the sum of one hundred thousand pounds on one
condition only, namely, that within two years he married Mariette,
daughter of a certain Madame Lepage, whose address was given as 89, Rue
Toullier, Paris. If, however, it was discovered that Mariette was
already married, or if she refused to accept the twenty thousand pounds
that were to be offered her on condition that she consented to marry his
son, then one-half the amount, namely, 50,000 pounds, was to be paid by
the executors to George, and the remaining 50,000 pounds, together with
the 20,000 pounds, was to revert to his elder brother.
"It certainly is a most extraordinary disposition," old Mr Harrison
reflected aloud, taking up the will again, and re-reading the words he
had written at his dead client's dictation.
"How does my father think I can marry a woman I've never seen?" cried
the son. "Why, the thing's absolutely absurd. He must have been insane
when he ordered you to write such a preposterous proposal."
"No, he was entirely in his right mind," answered the elder man, calmly.
"I must confess myself quite as surprised as you are; nevertheless, it
is certain that unless you offer marriage to this mysterious young
person you will obtain nothing."
"It is my father's vengeance," the son cried, in a tone full of
bitterness and disappointment. "I desire to marry Liane, the woman I
adore, and in order to prevent me he seeks to bind me to some unknown
Frenchwoman."
"Well, in any case, effort must be made to find her," Harrison observed.
"You surely will not let fifty thousand pounds slip through your
fingers. There is a chance that she is already married, or that she
will refuse the twenty thousand pounds which I shall be compelled to
offer her."
"But I will only marry Liane," George cried, impetuously.
"My dear young man, yours is a mere foolish fancy. You cannot, nay you
must not, render yourself a pauper merely because of this girl, who
happens to have attracted you just for the moment. In a year's time you
will regard the matter from a common-sense point of view. Your proper
course is to give up all thought of the young lady, and unite with me in
the search for this mysterious Mariette Lepage."
"I decline to abandon Liane," George answered with promptness. "If I am
a pauper, well, I must bear it. My ruin is, I suppose, the last of my
father's eccentricities. I'm the scapegoat of the family."
"It is, nevertheless, my duty to advise you," the elder man went on,
standing before the empty fireplace with his arms folded. "In any case
I shall be compelled to find this woman. Have you never heard your late
father speak of any family of the name of Lepage?"
"Never. He has not been out of England for twenty years, therefore I
suppose it's someone he knew long ago. What could have been his
object?"
"As far as I could glean it was twofold. First, he believed that the
fact of having left this sum just beyond your reach would cause you
intense chagrin; and, secondly, that if you did not marry this unknown
woman, you will still be unable to marry the girl against whom he held
such a strange deep-rooted objection."
"Why did he object to her, Harrison? Tell me confidentially what you
know," urged the young man earnestly.
"I only know what he told me a few days ago," the solicitor replied.
"He said he had ascertained that you had taken many clandestine walks
and rides with Liane Brooker, and he declared that such a woman was no
fitting wife for you."
"Did he give any further reason?" the other demanded.
"None. He merely said that if you declined to abandon all thought of
her you should not have a penny."
"And he has kept his word," observed George, gloomily.
"Unfortunately it appears so."
"He was unjust--cruelly unjust!" George protested. "I strove hard at
the Bar, and had already obtained a few briefs when he recalled me here
to be his companion. He would not allow me to follow my profession, yet
he has now cast me adrift without resources."
"You certainly have my entire sympathy," the old lawyer declared,
kindly. "But don't take the matter too much to heart. The woman may be
already married. In this case you will receive fifty thousand."
George's face relaxed into a faint smile.
"I have no desire to hear of or see the woman at all," he answered.
"Act as you think fit, but remember that I shall never offer her
marriage--never."
"She may be a pretty girl," suggested the elder man.
"And she may be some blear-eyed old hag," snapped the dead man's son.
"It is evident from the wording of the clause that my father has heard
nothing of either mother or daughter for some years."
"That's all the more in your favour; because if she is thirty or so, the
chances are that she is married. At all costs we must discover her."
"The whole thing is a confounded mystery," George observed. "Who these
people are is an enigma."
"Entirely so," the solicitor acquiesced. "There is something
exceedingly mysterious about the affair. The combined circumstances are
bewildering in the extreme. First, the lady you admire bears a French
name, next your father hates her because of some fact of which he is
aware regarding her family, and thirdly, in order to prevent you
marrying her, he endeavours by an ingenious and apparently
carefully-planned device, to induce you to wed a woman whose existence
is unknown to us all. He was not a man who acted without strong
motives, therefore I cannot help suspecting that behind all this lies
some deep mystery."
"Mystery! Of what character?"
"I have no idea. We must first find Mariette Lepage."
"My future wife," laughed George bitterly, rising wearily from his
chair.
"Yes, the woman who is to receive twenty thousand pounds for marrying
you," repeated the solicitor smiling.
"No, Harrison," declined the young man as he moved slowly across the
room with head slightly bent. "I'll never marry her, however
fascinating she may be. Liane is pure and good; I shall marry only
her."
And opening the door impatiently he snatched up his cap, strode along
the hall, and out to where his man held the bay mare in readiness.
"Ah, well!" Harrison muttered aloud when he was alone. "We shall see,
young man. We shall see. I thought myself as shrewd as most men, but
if I'm not mistaken there's a mystery, strange and inexplicable,
somewhere; a mystery which seems likely to lead to some amazing
developments. It's hard upon poor George, very hard; but if my client
was so foolish as to desire the family skeleton to be dragged from its
chest his kith and kin must of necessity bear the consequences."
With a word to Morton, most exemplary of servants, George sprang into
the saddle, and a moment later was galloping down the long straight
avenue. The brilliant afterglow had now faded, dusk had fallen, and he
feared that Liane, having kept the appointment, would have left
disappointed and returned home. Therefore he spurred the mare onward,
and was soon riding hard towards the unfrequented by-road known as Cross
Lane.
With a heavy heart he told himself that he must say good-bye to love,
good-bye to hope, good-bye to ambition, good-bye to all of life except
the dull monotonous routine of empty days, and a restless empty heart.
"I can't tell her I'm a pauper," he murmured aloud, after galloping a
long way in dogged silence. "She'll know, alas! soon enough. Then,
when the truth is out, she'll perhaps discard me; while I suppose I
shall go to the bad as so many fellows have done before me. Of what use
am I without the means to marry? To love her now is only to befool her.
Henceforth I'm sailing under false colours. Yet I love her better than
life; better than anything on earth. I'm indeed a beggar on horseback!"
And he laughed a hollow bitter laugh as he rode along beneath the oaks
where the leafy unfrequented lane dipped suddenly to pass below the
railway, the quiet lonely spot where, unobserved, he so often met his
well-beloved. So engrossed had he been in his own sad thoughts that the
stumbling of the mare alone brought him back to a consciousness of
things around. The light had paled suddenly out of the evening
atmosphere; the gloom was complete. Eagerly he looked ahead, half
expecting to catch a glimpse of her well-known neat figure, but in
disappointment he saw her not. It was too late he knew. She had
evidently waited in vain, and afterwards returned to the village when
the dusk had deepened.
Still he rode forward, the mare's hoofs sounding loudly as they
clattered beneath the archway, until suddenly, as he emerged on the
other side, a sight met his gaze which caused him to pull up quickly
with a loud cry of dismay.
In the centre of the road, hidden from view until that instant, by
reason of the sudden bend, a girl was lying flat with arms outstretched,
her face in the thick white dust, while beside her was her cycle, left
where it had fallen.
Instantly he swung himself from the saddle, dashed towards her, and
lifted her up. Her straw hat had fallen off, her fair hair was
dishevelled, and her dark skirt covered with dust. But there was yet
another thing which held him transfixed with horror. In the dim
fast-fading light he noticed that her blouse bore at the neck a small
stain of bright crimson.
It was Nelly Bridson. She was rigid in death. The pallor of her
refined, delicate face was rendered the more ghastly by the blood that
had oozed from the corners of her arched mouth. Her small gloved hands
were tightly clenched, her features haggard, convulsed and drawn by a
last paroxysm of excruciating agony.
In her soft white neck was an ugly bullet wound. She had been shot by
an unknown hand.