Read Ebook: Witness to the Deed by Fenn George Manville

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Ebook has 4123 lines and 114906 words, and 83 pages

"I know it, my boy, I know it; but no; don't press me. I couldn't bear it. I was to have been married, my dear boy. I was young, if not as handsome as you. But,"--there was a pause--"she died," he added in a whisper. "I could not bear to come."

"Mr Brettison!"

"There," cried the visitor with forced gaiety, "just what I said. No, my dear Malcolm. No, no, my boy. I'm better away."

Stratton was silent, and his neighbour went on hastily:

"I heard you packing, and knocking about, but I wouldn't disturb you, my dear boy. I'm off, too: a week's collecting in the New Forest. Write to me very soon, and my dear love to your sweet wife--an angel, Malcolm--a blessing to you, my boy. Tell her to let you gather a few of the mountain flowers to send me. Ask her to pick a few herself and I'll kiss them as coming from her."

"I'll tell her, sir."

"That's right; and, Malcolm, my boy, I'm quite alone in the world, where I should not have been now if you had not broken in my door and came and nursed me back to life, dying as I was from that deadly fever."

"My dear Mr Brettison, if ever you mention that trifle of neighbourly service again we are no longer friends," cried Stratton.

"Trifle of neighbourly service!" said the old man, laying his hands affectionately upon the other's shoulders. "You risked your life, boy, to save that of one who would fain have died. But Heaven knows best, Malcolm, and I've been a happier man since, for it has seemed to me as if I had a son. Now, one word more and I am going. I've a train to catch. Tell your dear young wife that Edward Brettison has watched your career--that the man who was poor and struggled so hard to place himself in a position to win her will never be poor again: for I have made you my heir, Malcolm, and God bless you, my boy. Good-bye; write soon."

"Mr Brettison!" cried Stratton, in amaze.

"Hush!"

The door opened, and Mrs Brade reappeared with a black reticule in one hand and a ruddy telegram envelope in the other.

"I see, wanted already," said the old man, hastily catching up hat, stick, and collecting box, and hurrying out without another word.

"Telegram, sir; and there's the change, sir."

"Eh! The notes? Thank you, Mrs Brade," said Stratton hurriedly, and taking the packet he laid them on the table and placed a bronze letter weight to keep them down. "That will do, thank you, Mrs Brade. Tell your husband to fetch my luggage, and meet me at Charing Cross. He'll take a cab, of course."

"I shall be there, too, sir, never you fear," said the porter's wife, with a smile, as she left the room, Stratton hurriedly tearing open the envelope the while, and reading as the door closed:

No bride's bouquet. What a shame! See to it at once.

Edie.

"Confound!" ejaculated Stratton; "and after all their promises. Here, Mrs Brade, quick. Gone!"

He threw open the door to call the woman back, but before he could open his lips she had returned.

"A gen--gentleman to see you, sir, on business."

"Engaged. Cannot see anyone. Look here, Mrs Brade."

"Mr Malcolm Stratton, I presume," said a heavily built man with a florid face, greyish hair, and closely cut foreign looking hair.

"My name, sir, but I am particularly engaged this morning. If you have business with me you must write."

This at the doorway, with Mrs Brade standing a little back on the stone landing.

"No time for writing," said the stranger sternly. "Business too important. Needn't wait, Mrs what's-your-name," he continued, turning upon the woman so sharply that she began to hurry down the stairs.

"I don't care how important your mission is, sir," cried Stratton; "I cannot give you an interview this morning. If you have anything to say you must write. My business--"

"I know," said the man coolly: "going to be married."

Stratton took a step back, and his visitor one forward into the room, turned, closed the outer door, and, before Stratton could recover from his surprise, the inner door, and pointed to a chair.

"Sit down," said the man, and he took another chair and sat back in it.

"Well of all the audacious--!" began Stratton, with a half laugh; but he was interrupted.

"Don't waste words, sir; no time. The lady will be waiting."

As he spoke Stratton saw the man's eyes rest for a moment on the banknotes beneath the letter weight, and an undefined sensation of uneasiness attacked him. He mastered it in an instant, ignoring the last remark.

"Now, sir; you say you have business with me. Let me hear it, since I must--at once."

"Ah, that's businesslike. We shall be able to deal."

"Say what you have to say."

"When you sit down."

Stratton let himself fall back into a chair.

"Now then. Quick!"

"You propose being married this morning."

"I do," said Stratton, with a sort of dread lest even then there should be some obstacle in the way.

"Well, then, you can't; that's all."

"What!" cried Stratton fiercely. "Who says so?"

"I do. But keep cool, young man. This is business."

"Yes; I'll be cool," said Stratton, mastering himself again, and adopting his visitor's cynical manner. "So let me ask you, sir, who you may be, and what is your object in coming?"

The man did not answer for a moment, but let his eyes rest again upon the notes.

"I say, who are you, sir?"

"I? Oh, nobody of any importance," said the man, with an insolent laugh.

Stratton sprang up, and the visitor thrust his hand behind him.

"No nonsense, Mr Malcolm. I tell you this is business. Without my consent you cannot marry Myra Barron, formerly Myra Jerrold, this morning."

"I say, who are you, sir?" cried Stratton furiously.

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