CHAPTER III
On reaching the house, Jim bade the butler inform his master that Mr.Standerton would like to see him. Isaac looked at him as if he weredesirous of making sure of his business before he admitted him, then hehobbled off in the direction of his master's study, to presently returnwith the message that Mr. Bursfield would see Mr. Standerton if he wouldbe pleased to step that way. Jim thereupon followed the old man into theroom in which he had first made Abraham Bursfield's acquaintance somefour months before. As on that memorable occasion, he found thatgentleman seated at his desk, looking very much as if he had not movedfrom it in all that time.
"I wish you good evening, Mr. Standerton," he said, motioning hisvisitor to a chair. "To what may I attribute the honour of this visit?"
"I have come to you on a most important errand," Jim replied. "Itspurport may surprise you, but I hope it will not disappoint you."
"May I ask that you will be good enough to tell me what that errand is,"said the old gentleman drily. "I shall then be better able to give youmy opinion."
"To sum it up in a few words," Jim answered, "I have this afternoonasked Miss Decie to become my wife, and she has promised to do so. I amhere to ask your approval."
Bursfield was silent for a few moments. Then he looked sharply up at theyoung man.
"You are of course aware that Miss Decie is only my adoptedgranddaughter, and that she has not the least shadow of a claim, eitherupon me, or upon such remnants of property as I may possess."
"I am quite aware of it," Jim replied. "Miss Decie has told me of herposition, and of your goodness to her."
"The latter of which she is endeavouring to repay by leaving me to spendthe rest of my miserable existence alone. A pretty picture of gratitude,is it not? But it is the world all over!"
"I am sure she will always entertain a feeling of profound gratitudetowards you," protested Jim. "She invariably speaks of you with thegreatest affection."
"I am indeed indebted to her for her consideration," retorted the otherwith a sneer. "Unfortunately, shall I say, for you, I prefer somethingmore than words. No, Mr. Standerton, I cannot give my consent to yourengagement."
Jim could only stare in complete astonishment. He had never expectedthis.
"You do not mean that you are going to forbid it?" he ejaculated when hehad recovered somewhat from his surprise.
"I am reluctantly compelled to admit that that _is_ my intention.Believe me, I have the best of reasons for acting thus. Possibly mydecision may cause you pain. It is irrevocable, however. At my deathHelen will be able to do as she pleases, but until that event takesplace, she must remain with me."
He took up his pen as if to continue his writing, and so end theinterview.
"But, Mr. Bursfield, this is an unheard-of determination," cried theyoung man.
"That may be," was the reply. "I believe I have the reputation for beingsomewhat singular. My so-called granddaughter is a good girl, and if Iknow anything of her character, she will do as I wish in this matter."
Jim rose to his feet and crossed to the door as if to leave. When hereached it, however, he turned and faced Mr. Bursfield.
"You are quite sure that nothing I can say or do will induce you toalter your decision?" he enquired.
"Quite," the other replied.
"Then allow me to give you fair warning that I intend to marry MissDecie," retorted Jim, who by this time had quite lost his temper.
"You are at liberty to do so when I am dead," Mr. Bursfield replied, andthen continued his writing as if nothing out of the common had occurred.
Without another word Jim left the room. He had arranged that he shouldmeet Helen in the garden afterwards. It was with a woe-begone face,however, that he greeted her.
"While he lives he absolutely refuses to sanction our engagement," hebegan. "For some reason of his own he declines to consider the matterfor a moment. He says that at his death you are at liberty to do as youplease, but until that event occurs, you are to remain with him. Iconsider it an act of the greatest selfishness."
Helen heaved a heavy sigh.
"I was afraid he would not look upon it as favourably as we hoped," shesaid. "I will see what I can do with him, however. I know him so well,and sometimes I can coax him to do things he would not dream of doingfor any one else."
"Try, darling, then," said Jim, "and let us trust you will besuccessful."
They bade each other good-night, and then James set off on his walkacross the Park. Dusk was falling by this time, and the landscape lookedvery beautiful in the evening light. As he strode along he thought ofhis position and of the injustice of Bursfield's decision. Then he fellto picturing what his future life would be like when the old man shouldhave relented and Helen was his wife. He was still indulging in thisday-dream when he noticed a shabbily-dressed man standing on the path ashort distance ahead of him. Somehow the figure seemed familiar to him,and when he drew nearer he could not suppress an exclamation ofastonishment. The individual was none other than the man he had seenlying beside the camp fire on the banks of the Darling River, and who,on a certain memorable evening, had caused his father so much emotion,_Richard Murbridge_. Whatever Jim's feelings might have been, Murbridgewas at least equal to the occasion.
"Good evening, Mr. Standerton," he began, lifting his hat politely as hespoke. "You are doubtless surprised to see me in England."
"I am more than surprised," James replied, "and I am equally astonishedat finding you on my father's premises after what he said to you inAustralia. If you will be guided by me you will make yourself scarcewithout loss of time."
"You think so, do you? Then let me tell you that you have no notion ofthe situation, or of the character of Richard Murbridge. Far from makingmyself scarce, I am now on my way to see your father. I fear, however,he will not kill the fatted calf in my honour; but even that omissionwill not deter me. Tenacity of purpose has always been one of my chiefcharacteristics."
"If you attempt to see him you will discover that my father has alsosome force of character," the other replied. "What is more, I refuse toallow you to do so. I am not going to permit him to be worried by youagain."
"My young friend, you little know with whom you are dealing," Murbridgeretorted. "I have travelled from the other side of the world to see yourfather, and if you think you can prevent me you are much mistaken. Whatis more, let me inform you that you would be doing him a very poorservice by attempting to keep us apart. There is an excellent little innin the village, whose landlord and I are already upon the best of terms.The Squire, William Standerton, late of Australia, but now ofChilderbridge, is an important personage in the neighbourhood.Everything that is known about him is to his credit. It would be a pityif----"
"You scoundrel!" said Jim, approaching a step nearer the other, hisfists clenched, as if ready for action, "If you dare to insinuate thatyou know anything to my father's discredit, I'll thrash you to within aninch of your life."
Then a fit of indescribable fear swept over him as he remembered thenight in Australia, when his father had shown so much agitation onlearning that the man was on his way to the station to see him. Whatcould be the secret between them? But no! He knew his father too well tobelieve that the man before him could cast even the smallest slur uponhis character. William Standerton's name was a synonym for sterlingintegrity throughout the Island Continent. It was, therefore, impossiblethat Murbridge could have any hold upon him.
"You had better leave the place at once by the way you came into it,"Jim continued, "and take very good care that we don't see any more ofyou."
"You crow very loud, my young bantam," returned Murbridge, "but thatdoes not alter my decision. Now let me tell you this. If you kneweverything, you would just go down on your bended knees and pray to meto forgive you for your impudence. As I said a moment ago, it's not theleast use your attempting to stop me from seeing your father, for seehim I will, if I have to sit at his gate for a year and wait for him tocome out."
"Then you'd b
etter go and begin your watch at once, for you shall notsee him at the house," retorted Jim.
"We'll see about that," said Murbridge, and then turned on his heel, andset off in the direction of the Park gates. James waited until he hadseen him disappear, then he in his turn resumed his walk. He had to makeup his mind before he reached the house as to whether he would tell hisfather of the discovery he had made or not. On mature consideration hecame to the conclusion that it would be better for him to do so.
For this reason, when he reached the house he enquired for his father,and was informed that he had gone to his room to dress for dinner. Heaccordingly followed him thither, to discover him, brush in hand, atwork upon his silver-grey hair. That night, for some reason, the simpleappointments of that simple room struck Jim in a new and almost patheticlight. Each article was, like its owner, strong, simple and good.
"Well, my lad, what is it?" asked Standerton. "I hope your interviewwith Mr. Bursfield was satisfactory?"
"Far from it," Jim replied lugubriously; and then, to postpone the fatalmoment, he proceeded to describe to his father the interview he had hadwith the old gentleman.
"Never mind, my boy, don't be down-hearted about it," said Standerton,when he had heard his son out. "To-morrow I'll make it my business to goand see Mr. Bursfield. It will be strange if I can't talk him into adifferent way of thinking before I've done with him. But I can see fromyour face that there is something else you've got to tell me. What isit?"
Jim paused before he replied. He knew how upset his father would be atthe news he had to impart.
"Father," he said, "I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. I've beentrying to make up my mind whether I should tell you or not."
"Tell me, James," answered the other. "I'll be bound it's not so verybad after all. You've probably been brooding over it, and have magnifiedits importance."
"I sincerely hope I have. I am afraid not, however. Do you remember theman we saw at Mudrapilla in the Five Mile Paddock, the night before weleft? His name was Murbridge."
The shock to William Standerton was every bit as severe as James hadfeared it would be.
"What of him?" he cried. "You don't mean to say that he is in England?"
"I am sorry to say that he is," Jim returned. "I found him in the Parkthis evening on his way up to the house."
The elder man turned and walked to the fireplace, where he stood lookinginto it in silence. Then he faced his son once more.
"What did he say to you?" he enquired at last, his voice shaking withthe anxiety he could not control or hide.
"He said that he wanted to see you, and that he would do so if he had towait at the gates for a year."
"And he will," said Standerton bitterly; "that man will hunt me to mygrave. I have been cursed with him for thirty years, and do what I willI cannot throw him off."
James approached his father, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"Father," he began, "why won't you let me share your trouble with you?Surely we should be able to find some way of ridding ourselves of thisman?"
"No, there is no way," said Standerton. "He has got a hold upon me thatnothing will ever shake off."
"I will not believe, father, that he knows anything to your discredit,"cried Jim passionately.
"And you are right, my lad," his father replied. "He knows nothing to mydiscredit. I hope no one else does; but--but there--do not ask any more.Some day I will tell you the whole miserable story. But not now. Youmust not ask me. Believe me, dear lad, when I say that it would bebetter not."
"Then what will you do?"
"See him, and buy him off once more, I suppose. Then I shall have peacefor a few months. Do you know where he is staying?"
"At the 'George and Dragon,'" Jim replied.
"Then I must send a note down to him and ask him to come up here," saidStanderton. "Now go and dress. Don't trouble yourself about him."
All things considered, the dinner that night could not be described as asuccess. William Standerton was more silent than usual, and his sonalmost equalled him. Alice tried hard to cheer them both, but findingher efforts unsuccessful, she also lapsed into silence. A diversion,however, was caused before the meal was at an end. The butler hadscarcely completed the circuit of the table with the port, before apiercing scream ran through the building, followed by another, and yetanother.
"Good heavens! What's that?" cried Standerton, as he sprang to his feet,and hurried to the door, to be followed by his son and daughter.
"It came from upstairs, sir," said the butler, and immediately hurriedup the broad oak staircase two steps at a time. His statement proved tobe correct, for, on reaching the gallery that runs round the hall, hefound a maid-servant lying on the floor in a dead faint. Jim followedclose behind him, and between them they picked the girl up, and carriedher down to the hall, where she was laid upon a settee. The housekeeperwas summoned, and the usual restoratives applied, but it was some timebefore her senses returned to her. When she was able to speak, shelooked wildly about her, and asked if "_it was gone_?" When later shewas able to tell her story more coherently, it was as follows.
In the fulfilment of her usual duties she had gone along the gallery totidy Miss Standerton's bedroom. She had just finished her work, and wasclosing the door, when she saw, standing before her, not more thanhalf-a-dozen paces distant, the little hump-backed ghost, of which shehad so often heard mention made in the Servants' Hall. It looked at her,pointed its finger at her, and a second later vanished. "She knew now,"she declared, "that it was all over with her, and that she was going todie. Nothing could save her." Having given utterance to this alarmingprophecy, she indulged in a second fit of hysterics, on recovering fromwhich she was removed by the butler and housekeeper to the latter'ssitting-room, vowing as she went that she could not sleep in the house,and that she would never know happiness again. Having seen her depart,the others returned to the dining-room, and had just taken their placesat the table once more, when there was a ring at the front door bell,and in due course the butler entered with the information that a person"of the name of Murbridge" had called and would be glad to see Mr.Standerton. James sprang to his feet.
"I told him he was not to come near the place," he said. "Let me go andsee him, father."
"No, no, my boy," said Standerton. "I wrote to him before dinner, as Itold you I should, telling him to come up to-night. Where is he,Wilkins?"
"In the library, sir," the butler replied.
"Very well. I will see him there."
He accordingly left the room.
A quarter of an hour later James and Alice heard Murbridge's voice inthe hall.
"You dare to turn me out of your house?" he was saying, as if in a fitof uncontrollable rage. "You forbid me to speak to your son anddaughter, do you?"
"Once and for all, I do," came Standerton's calm voice in reply. "Nowleave the house, and never let me see your face again. Wilkins, open thedoor, and take care that this man is never again admitted to my house."
Murbridge must have gone down the steps, where, as Wilkins assertedlater on, he stood shaking his fist at Mr. Standerton.
"Curse you, I'll make you pay for this," he cried. "You think yourselfall-powerful because of your wealth, but whatever it costs me, I'll makeyou smart for the manner in which you've treated me to-night."
Then the door was closed abruptly, and no more was seen of him.
William Standerton's usually rubicund face was very pale when he joinedhis son and daughter later. It was plain that the interview he had hadwith Murbridge had upset him more than he cared to admit. Alice did herbest to console him, and endeavoured to make him forget it, but herefforts were a failure.
"Poor old dad," she said, when she bade him good-night. "It hurts me tosee you so troubled."
"You must not think about it then," was the answer. "I shall be myselfagain in the morning. Good-night, my girl, and may God bless you."
"God bless you, father," the girl replied earnestly.
&
nbsp; "I do wish you'd let me help you," said Jim, when he and his father werealone together. "Why did you not let me interview that man?"
"It would have done no good," Standerton replied. "The fellow wasdesperate, and he even went so far as to threaten me. Thereupon I lostmy temper and ordered him out of the house. I fear we shall have moretrouble with him yet."
"Is it quite impossible for you to tell me the reason of it all?" Jamesasked, after a moment's hesitation.
"Well, I have been thinking it over," said his father, "and I have cometo the conclusion that perhaps it would be better, much as it will painyou, to let you know the truth. But not to-night, dear lad. Let it standover, and I will tell you everything to-morrow. Now good-night."
They shook hands according to custom, and then departed to theirrespective rooms.
Next morning James was about early. He visited the Stables and the HomeFarm, looked in at the kennels, and was back again at the home somethree-quarters of an hour before breakfast. As he crossed the hall toascend the stairs, in order to go to his own room, he met Wilkins comingdown, his face white as death.
"My God, sir," he said hoarsely, "for mercy's sake come upstairs to yourfather's room."
"What is the matter with him?" cried James, realising from the butler'smanner that something terrible had happened.
But Wilkins did not answer. He only led the way upstairs. Together theyproceeded along the corridor and entered the Squire's bedroom. Therethey saw a sight that James will never forget as long as he lives. Hisfather lay stretched out upon the bed, dead. His eyes were open, andstared horribly at the ceiling, while his hands were clenched, and oneither side of his throat were discoloured patches.
These told their own tale.
_William Standerton had been strangled._