A STRANGE STORY
Sophy neither screamed nor fainted at this extraordinary announcement;
indeed, it appeared to her so very ridiculous that she felt more
inclined to laugh. However, she controlled her feelings, and spoke
very quietly--so quietly that the visitor was somewhat disconcerted.
"Why do you make this strange assertion?" she asked, looking again at
his card.
"Because it is true."
"What proof can you give me of its truth?"
"Three proofs, Sophy, if I may call----"
"You may not!" interrupted the girl, flushing. "I am Miss Marlow."
"For the present," assented the man, with an ironical smile. "Soon you
will be Miss Lestrange. Three proofs, then, I have. Firstly, I can
tell you the story of how I lost you; secondly, there is the
resemblance between us; and, thirdly, I have the certificate of your
birth. Oh, it is easily proved, I can assure you."
She shivered. He spoke very positively. What if his claim could be
substantiated? She looked at him; she glanced into a near mirror, and
she saw with dismay that there _was_ a strong resemblance. Like
herself, Lestrange, as he called himself, was slight in build, small
in stature. He also had dark hair and brilliant eyes; the contour of
his face, the chiseling of his features, resembled her own. Finally,
he had that Spanish look which she knew she herself possessed. So far
as outward appearances went, she might well have been the daughter of
this rakish-looking stranger. He smiled. From her furtive glance into
the mirror he guessed her thoughts.
"You see the glass proclaims the truth," said he. "Think of your
supposed father, Richard Marlow--tall, fair, blue-eyed, Saxon in
looks! Like myself, you have the Spanish look and possess all the
grace and color of Andalusia. I always thought you would grow up
beautiful. Your dear mother was the loveliest woman in Jamaica."
She did not answer, but the color ebbed from her cheeks, the courage
from her heart. It was true enough that she in no way resembled Mr.
Marlow. This man might be her father, after all. Yet he repelled her;
the glance of his glittering eyes gave her a feeling of repulsion. He
was a bad man, of that she felt certain. But her father? She fought
against her doubts, and with a courage born of despair she prepared to
defend herself until help arrived. Her thoughts flew to Alan; he was
the champion she desired.
"I expect my guardian, Mr. Thorold, in a quarter of an hour," she said
in a hard voice. "You will be good enough to relate your story to him.
I prefer to hear it when he is present."
"You don't believe me?"
"No, I do not. Mr. Marlow treated me as his daughter, and I feel
myself to be his daughter. Do you expect me to believe you, to rush
into your arms without proof?"
"I have shown you one proof."
"A chance resemblance counts for nothing. What about the certificate?"
He produced a pocketbook, and took out a piece of paper.
"This is a copy of the entry in the register of the Church of St.
Thomas at Kingston, You will find it all correct, Marie."
"Marie! What do you mean?"
"That paper will inform you," said Lestrange coolly.
Sophy read the certificate. Truly, it seemed regular enough. It stated
that on the 24th of June, 18--, was born at Kingston, in the island of
Jamaica, Marie Annette Celestine Lestrange. The names of the parents
were Achille Lestrange and Zelia, his wife. Sophy could not suppress a
start. The 24th of June was her birthday; the date of the year was
also correct. She was twenty-one years of age now. She turned to him.
"You are Achille Lestrange?"
"Your father--yes."
"I don't admit that, monsieur."
"Why do you call me 'monsieur'?"
"You are French, are you not?"
"French by descent, if you will, but I am a British subject. Also, I
am a Roman Catholic. You are of the same faith?"
"Yes, I am of the true Faith."
"I am glad of that," said Lestrange indolently; he was as indolent as
graceful, and reminded Sophy of a full-fed tiger. "I am pleased to
hear that Marlow allowed you to retain your faith since he took from
you your father and your name."
"Do you know that my father is dead?"
"Pardon me, he is alive, and sitting before you."
Sophy ignored his remark.
"Do you know that Mr. Marlow is dead?" she asked again.
"Ah! now you speak as you should. Yes, I heard something about his
death. The fact is, I have only just landed from a Royal Mail steamer
at Southampton--two days ago, in fact--so I know very little. But I
have heard of the disappearance of his body. It is town talk in
London. One cannot open a newspaper without coming across theories of
how it happened."
"And the murder of Dr. Warrender? Do you know of that also?"
"Of course. The two things go together, as I understand. Marlow's body
is lost; Warrender was stabbed. How unfortunate that two people I knew
should be out of the way when I come to claim you!"
"Did you know Dr. Warrender?" asked Sophy quickly.
"As I know myself," was the answer. "Twenty years ago, when you were a
child, a mere infant, he practised in the town of Falmouth, Jamaica.
He left after certain events which happened there, and, I believe,
practised again in New Orleans. He married there, too, it was said."
"Yes; his wife lives at Heathton."
"Ah! I shall be glad to see her. Has the man who murdered her husband
been discovered?"
"No; he cannot be found."
"Nor ever will be, I suspect," said Captain Lestrange coolly. "From
what I read, the whole criminal business was conducted in the most
skilful manner. I wonder why they stole poor Dick's body."
"Poor Dick!" retorted the girl indignantly. "Are you speaking of my
father?"
"Of the man who passed as your father--yes, Marie, I am."
"Pray don't call me Marie! I am Sophia Marlow."
"As you please. Temper again! Oh, how you remind me of Zelia!"
She was confounded at the cool assurance of the man. Nothing seemed to
ruffle his temper or banish his eternal smile. He was more hateful to
her than ever. Never would she acknowledge herself his daughter, even
should he prove his claim! She was of age, and her own mistress. The
will of Richard Marlow left the money, not to "my daughter," but to
"Sophia Marlow," so there was no possibility of the money being taken
from her. Then she thought of Alan. He would stand between her and
this man. And even as this thought came into her mind, the door
opened, and Thorold came forward eagerly to meet her; but, on
perceiving the stranger, he stopped short. Lestrange rose and bowed in
a foreign fashion.
"Oh, Alan!" cried Sophy, "I am so glad you have come! I was waiting
for you."
"And I also," remarked Lestrange.
"Who is this gentleman, Sophy?" demanded Alan.
"He calls himself Captain Lestrange. Here is his card."
"Captain in the army of the Peruvian Republic," said the man, "and
this young lady's father!"
"Confound you!--what--what----!"
"Oh yes, Alan. He says he is my father--that my true father stole me
from him. Here is the certificate of my birth, he says."
"And here"--Lestrange pointed to Sophy--"here is my second self. Can
you deny the resemblance? By the way, who are you?"
The inquiry was made with graceful insolence, and was meant to provoke
the young man into losing his temper. But in this it failed.
"I am Alan Thorold," he said quietly, "the Squire of Heathton, and I
am engaged to marry Miss Marlow----"
"Pardon--Mademoiselle Lestrange," interpolated the Captain, and
resumed his seat. "I claim this young lady as my daughter."
"Good," said Thorold coldly. "Your proofs?"
"The resemblance between us, the certificate of her birth, and the
story of how I lost my dear Marie twenty years ago."
"The resemblance I admit, but that goes for nothing. As to the
certificate, it is that of Marie Lestrange, and not of Sophy Marlow."
"Is not the birthday of Miss Marlow, as you will call her, on the 24th
of June----"
"Yes," said Sophy, before Alan could stop her. "The day and the year
are both correct. I am twenty-one, and I was born on the 24th of June,
18--."
"Very good; and at Kingston?"
"At Kingston," admitted the girl; "but, for all that, I am not your
daughter."
"I agree with Miss Marlow," said Mr. Thorold. "Let us hear your story.
That it will convince me I do not promise."
"Ah!" cried the foreigner, with an ironical smile. "None so blind as
those who won't see. What a pity that Marlow and Warrender are both
dead!"
"Oh, you know that?"
"As I had the honor of telling Miss Marlow"--Lestrange put so sneering
an accent on the name that Alan felt inclined to kick him--"I know
that. I landed in England from Jamaica only two days ago. But, as you
know, every one is talking of the mystery, and by this time I know the
case as well as you do."
Alan winced, and Sophy glanced at him apprehensively. Would her
champion fail her? Would this man prove his claim? She was in deadly
terror lest he should. But Alan had no intention of yielding.
"Go on," he said again. "Miss Marlow and I will hear your story."
"Very good. I am glad to see that you have the British instinct of
fair play. I will be as brief as possible, and you can ask me any
questions you wish. My name is Achille Lestrange, the man who is
mentioned in that certificate. I am--or, rather, I was--a Captain in
the Peruvian Army. I retired after the war between that country and
Chili. However, I have ample means to live on, and I retain my
military rank, out of sheer vanity, if you will."
"All this," said Alan, "is beside the point."
"It is necessary to explain my position. More than twenty years ago I
was married at Kingston to Zelia Durand. We had one child--a little
girl--the same who now sits beside you."
"I won't hear of it!" cried Sophy angrily.
"We shall see," he went on cheerfully. "You may change your mind when
I have got to the end of my story. I regret to say that Mrs.
Lestrange--I do not call her Madame," explained the Captain, "because
I am truly English in speech and manner--well, Mrs. Lestrange had a
bad temper. We did not get on well together. And, besides, I was
jealous"--his eyes flashed fire--"yes, I was jealous of Herbert
Beauchamp."
"Herbert Beauchamp!" Alan thought of Marlow's will and of the legacy.
How did this man come to know the name?