A STRANGE STORY--_continued_
Captain Lestrange recovered from his momentary emotion, and raised his
eyebrows at Alan's involuntary exclamation.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Thorold."
"Nothing," said the other hastily. "I fancied the name was familiar."
"Ah! You may have heard Marlow mention it."
"No. He never spoke of his past life."
"He had good reason to be reticent, as you shall hear."
But here Sophy burst out: "Be good enough to continue your story
without vilifying my father."
"Your father!" sneered the Captain.
"The story--the story!" cried Alan.
"I continue," said Lestrange, with a nod. "As I say, I was jealous of
Beauchamp, for before our marriage he had been an admirer of my
Zelia's. And, as a matter of fact, she was a singularly attractive
woman. You might guess as much," added he blandly, "seeing that her
grace and beauty are reproduced in her daughter. But to continue:
Zelia had many admirers, three of whom she distinguished above the
others--myself, Herbert Beauchamp, and my cousin, Jean Lestrange. I
was the lucky man who won her. Jean ceased to pay any attention to her
after the marriage, but Beauchamp was persistent. I remonstrated with
him--we nearly had a duel--but to no purpose; and I am sorry to say
that Zelia encouraged him."
"Proceed with your story, and leave my mother alone," cried Sophy.
Alan started, for he remembered with a pang that Sophy had told him
her mother's name was Zelia; but he kept silent, and a terrible dread
came over him that this man would prove his statements after all.
Meanwhile the narrator went on pleasantly.
"Beauchamp," he said, fingering his mustache, "was a sugar-planter--at
least, he was supposed to be one. He had a plantation some miles from
the town of Falmouth, which is on the other side of Jamaica. It was
there that Dr. Warrender practised. He was a bachelor in those days,
and he was considered rather a wild fellow. Probably for that reason
he was a bosom friend of Beauchamp's."
"Do you mean to infer that Beauchamp was wild?"
"Well, not exactly. I must be honest. He was adventuresome rather than
wild. He was fond of yachting, and had a smart sailing boat in which
he used to cruise amongst the islands. Warrender frequently went with
him. Beauchamp was a very handsome man, and extremely popular with
women. I know that to my cost," he added bitterly, "when he set his
affections on Zelia. She was my wife--she was the mother of my
child--yet she eloped with him."
"I--I--don't believe it," said Sophy in a suffocating voice.
"If it were not true, my child, you would not be sitting there under
the false name of Sophia Marlow."
"One moment," put in Alan, clasping the girl's hand, "you have yet to
prove that Miss Marlow is Marie Lestrange."
"If you would not interrupt so often, I could do so," said the man
insolently. "As I say, Zelia ran away with Beauchamp. He brought his
yacht to Kingston when I was absent, and sailed off with her. She
carried with her my child--my adorable Marie." Here Lestrange fixed an
affectionate look on Sophy. "I returned to find my home dishonored,"
he went on, "my life wrecked. Jean came to console me. He also had
heard of Beauchamp's treachery, and that the boat had sailed for
Falmouth. We followed----"
Here Lestrange broke down. Whether his emotion was genuine or not,
Alan could not say. He looked at Sophy, and she at him. Having fought
down his emotion, the Captain resumed his seat and his story:
"Jean and I arrived at Falmouth. There we heard that Zelia was very
ill, and that Beauchamp had taken her to his plantation. Dr.
Warrender, our informant said, was in attendance. The whole town knew
that she was my wife, that she had dishonored me, and that I was on my
may to settle accounts with the man who had wrecked my happiness. My
cousin and I rode out to Beauchamp's plantation, for it was within a
few miles of Falmouth, as I said. The night was dark and stormy--we
arrived in pouring rain, and by the wailing of the negroes we knew
that death was in the house. Yes"--he grew dramatic--"Zelia was dead;
torture, remorse, sorrow, had brought about her punishment!"
"You are very ready to condemn her," said Alan.
"She had dishonored me!" cried the man, waxing melodramatic. "It was
well that she should die. I rushed away to her room, where she lay
calm in death, and Jean remained to arrange matters with Beauchamp. I
challenged him to a duel. Jean was my second. But Beauchamp refused to
fight, and--he murdered Jean."
"Murdered your cousin?" queried Alan skeptically.
"Yes. I was praying beside my wife's bed. I heard cries for help, and
when I came out I found Jean dead, stabbed to the heart by Beauchamp.
The scoundrel had fled--he had taken my child with him."
"Why should he have encumbered himself with the child?"
"To wring my heart!" replied Lestrange savagely. "He knew that I loved
my little Marie. He carried her away. I would have followed, but all
my troubles and the shock of Zelia's death brought on an attack of
fever. I rose from my bed weeks later to hear that Beauchamp had
vanished. On the night he committed the double crimes of murder and
kidnapping he went on board his yacht at Falmouth, and was never heard
of again. I searched for him everywhere, but without success."
"What about his estate?" asked Alan.
"There he has been cunning. It seemed that he had long since planned
to elope with Zelia, and that some weeks before he had sold his land.
He took the money with him, and the child. Had Zelia been alive she
would have gone too. As months and years went by, I gave up hope, and
I believed that the yacht had foundered."
Suddenly Sophy got up, much agitated.
"I can listen to this no longer," she said. "You are telling lies."
"Her mother's temper," muttered Lestrange. "Zelia's masterly way of
crushing argument."
"Don't call her my mother!" cried Sophy. "I won't have it. I am not
the child that was taken away by Beauchamp. I never knew any one of
that name."
"Probably not," replied Lestrange smoothly. "There were reasons for
its being kept from you. But Mr. Thorold----"
"Mr. Thorold is waiting to hear the end of the story," said that
gentleman coolly. "I have yet to hear who Beauchamp is and how you
traced him."
"This is mere evasion." The Captain was losing his temper somewhat.
"You know who the man is as well as I do."
"I am waiting to hear how you connect the two."
"What two?" asked Miss Marlow.
But in her own heart she knew the answer. Yet, like a loyal soul, she
kept true to the memory of the dead.
Lestrange took no notice of her.
"You are either very dull or very cunning," he said addressing Alan
pointedly. "The latter, I think. How did I find Beauchamp again? In a
curious way. I saw an illustrated paper in Jamaica, which gave a
portrait of the famous South African millionaire, Richard Marlow. The
face had on its right cheek a jagged scar. Jean gave that scar to
Beauchamp with his diamond ring. No doubt it was the drawing of blood
which led to the murder."
"Then you assert that Marlow was none other than Herbert Beauchamp?"
"I do. Also that Sophia Marlow is my child whom he carried away. I
have mourned her for twenty years. By the accident of the illustrated
paper I have traced her. At Southampton I heard of Marlow's death, so
I knew that he had escaped punishment on earth. But at least I have
found my dear child Marie."
"I am not your child!" she cried. "I will never acknowledge you as my
father."
"In that case"--Lestrange rose to his feet and looked very stern--"I
must appeal to the law."
Alan laughed.
"The law can't help you," he said. "Sophy is over age and her own
mistress. Even if you can prove your case, you cannot force her to go
with you."
"Natural affection----"
"Don't talk to me about natural affection!" cried the girl. "I know
nothing about you. Nothing in the world will make me go with you!"
"But if I tell my story to the world?" cried Lestrange, hinting a
threat.
"Tell it, by all means," said Thorold, putting his arm round Sophy.
"You can hurt only the memory of the dead. Even if Marlow, as you
assert, killed your cousin, he is dead, and beyond your reach."
"Are you so sure he is dead?" sneered the man.
"Of course we are sure," cried Sophy indignantly. "Didn't I see him
dead in his coffin?"
"Well," said Lestrange, preparing to go, "it is most extraordinary to
me that he should have died so suddenly and so conveniently. His body,
too, has been stolen. That also is convenient."
"Do you mean that he is alive?"
"Yes. He feigned death to escape me."
"How could he have known that you were coming?"
"I don't know," was the answer, "but I shall find out. It shall be my
business to search for the body of Richard Marlow."
"Do," said Thorold calmly. "And when you find it you will gain the
reward of a thousand pounds."
"I shall gain more than that, Mr. Thorold. My daughter----"
"Never! Never! Leave this house, sir, and don't come near me again!"
The man moved towards the door. He had picked up the certificate and
put it in his pocket.
"You turn your own father out into the street," he said. "Very good. I
shall take my own means of punishing you for your want of filial
respect. It is to the bad influence of Mr. Thorold that I owe this
reception. Be assured, Mr. Thorold, that I shall not forget it. To
revert to the tongue of my progenitors, I shall say _Au revoir_ but
not 'Adieu.' We shall meet again."
And clapping on his hat with a jaunty air, Captain Lestrange walked
out of the room.
When the door had closed after him, Sophy turned to Alan.
"Do you think this story is true?" she asked.
"I must admit that there appears to be some truth in it," was the
reply. "The certificate is correct as to your age, your birthday, and
your birthplace, and the name of your mother also is correct."
"Then, am I that man's daughter?"
"Not necessarily. He may have assumed the name. He may--oh, I don't
know what to think! But even if he proves his case, you won't go with
him?"
"Never! never! How can we find out the truth?"
"Joe might know. I wish he would come back. I wonder if, after all,
your father can be alive--Marlow, I mean."
"How can that be? We both saw him dead. Dr. Warrender gave a
certificate of the death. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it is strange. In his will a sum of two thousand a year is left
to be paid to a man called Herbert Beauchamp, through the Occidental
Bank."
"And he says that my father was Herbert Beauchamp."
"I know. Can your father have feigned death to avoid him?"
"Impossible. He did not know Captain Lestrange was coming."
"Well," said Alan slowly, "there was that West Indian letter which
agitated him so much. It might have been a warning. However, it is no
use theorizing. I'll go to the Occidental Bank, and find out Herbert
Beauchamp."
"You won't find that he is my own father, Alan; I am sure of that. He
may be a relative. No, no! He is not a murderer! He is dead--quite
dead! I don't believe a word of the story."
Alan sighed.
"Time alone can prove its truth or falsehood, Sophy," he said.