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 Lincoln’s 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 Liane’s 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 father’s frayed but well-cut clothes, of the distinct evidences of their poverty, and feared lest her lover should discover the secret of her father’s 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 sun’s last rays again shone forth, aroused him. He glanced at his watch. It was already seven o’clock, 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 father’s 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 father’s 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 father’s 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 father’s angry declaration, “Erle Brooker’s 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 I’ll 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 father’s 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 father’s through many years, therefore it pains me to think that in Sir John’s 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 don’t 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 father’s. 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
