No, answered her father. Nelly shall go. I want Liane to deliver a message for me.
Prince dAuzac bit his lip. But next instant he laughed gaily and saying: Then come along Nelly, shook hands with Liane and her father, bade them Au revoir with a well-feigned bonhomie, and lounged out of the room.
Meanwhile, Nelly wheeled out her cycle, and announcing her intention of piloting their visitor to the station, and afterwards riding over to Burghfield village to make some purchase, mounted her machine and rode slowly on besides the Prince, chatting merrily.
As soon as they had left, Liane inquired of her father what she should do; but he told her briefly that it had been merely an excuse to prevent her going to the station, as he knew she disliked Zerthos society.
Yes, father, she answered with a slight sigh, I think him simply hateful. Im convinced that hes neither your friend, nor mine.
Then glancing at the clock, she passed out of the house humming to herself as she walked slowly down the garden path, into the white dusty high road.
For a long time Brooker stood twirling his moustache, gazing aimlessly out into the crimson blaze of the dying day.
I cant think why Zertho should have taken this trouble to look me up again, he murmured to himself. I had hoped that he had cut me entirely, and believed that terrible incident was forgotten. The excuse about Liane is all very well. But I know him. He means mischief he means mischief.
And his face grew ashen pale as his eyes were lost in deep and serious contemplation.
A sudden thought had flashed across his mind. It held him petrified, for he half-feared that he had guessed the bitter, ghastly truth.
Chapter Two
A Beggar on Horseback
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 Baronets 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 Brookers 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 fathers 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. Brookers 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 mans 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.
Georges life had certainly not been a happy one. Since his mothers 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 mans 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 Lincolns 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 Lianes 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 fathers frayed but well-cut clothes, of the distinct evidences of their poverty, and feared lest her lover should discover the secret of her fathers 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 suns last rays again shone forth, aroused him. He glanced at his watch. It was already seven oclock, 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 fathers 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 fathers 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 fathers 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 fathers angry declaration, Erle Brookers 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 Ill 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 fathers 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 fathers through many years, therefore it pains me to think that in Sir Johns 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 dont 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 fathers. 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.