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 Zertho’s society.
“Yes, father,” she answered with a slight sigh, “I think him simply hateful. I’m convinced that he’s 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 can’t 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 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
