George and Liane, fervent in their newly-found happiness, were married
shortly afterwards in the village church of Stratfield Mortimer, the old
time-worn place where for generations his family had been christened,
married, and placed to rest, each latter event being recorded upon the
tarnished monumental brasses. By Mariette's refusal he received the sum
stipulated by his father's will, and for a year they lived high up on
Sydenham Hill, in a house which set its face towards the deep valley
wherein murky London lies ever beneath its smoke-pall, George journeying
each day to his gloomy chambers into which no ray of sunlight had ever
been known to penetrate.
By the death of his elder brother, the result of an accident while
hunting last winter, he, however, suddenly found himself the possessor
of Stratfield with its handsome income, and to-day both he and Liane
live at the Court, and are prominent figures in the county. Liane's
sweet, beautiful face, graceful bearing and vivacious _chic_, cause her
to be admired everywhere, and among the many charming young hostesses of
Berkshire no one is so popular.
Mariette, no longer known as "The Golden Hand," has married Max
Richards, and still lives in her pretty villa where the salon windows
open upon the blue Mediterranean. Each spring Liane and George spend a
few weeks with them, while they, in return, come to England in summer,
and are welcome guests at Stratfield.
Through many months it was a profound mystery how old Sir John became
aware of Mariette's existence, but this was cleared up quite
unexpectedly one day by George, who, in turning over some of his
father's papers, discovered a letter written by his unknown brother
Charles, who informed the old Baronet that he had lost a considerable
sum at cards to a certain Captain Brooker, and also stated that he was
about to marry, and gave Mariette's name and some facts concerning her.
From this letter the old gentleman would no doubt suspect her to be an
adventuress, and therefore, in his paroxysm of anger at George's refusal
to renounce Liane, he made a provision in his will that this unknown
woman should marry him, instead of the son he had discarded, and of
whose death he was unaware.
In the great oak-panelled drawing-room at Stratfield, with its quaint
diamond panes, deep-set mullioned windows and polished floor, there now
hangs Cosway's beautiful miniature of Lady Anne, and each time husband
and wife glance at it they remember how very near they once were to
eternal separation and blank despair. But devoted to one another, their
life is now one of unalloyed happiness. The clouds have lifted, and
their days are as bright and joyous as they once long ago imagined in
their day-dreams. The Captain is back in his old-fashioned ivied
cottage in the village, but dines each evening at the Court, where the
cigars are choice and the wines well-matured. Only once have George and
Liane walked together to that fateful spot beyond the railway bridge in
Cross Lane. But for both of them its sight brought back memories so
bitter that by mutual agreement they now always avoid passing that
unfrequented way.
To that estimable body of men, the Berkshire Constabulary, the motive of
the assassination of Nelly Bridson and the identity of her assassin
remain still a mystery, as they will for ever.
The End.