Fred M. White

Craven Fortune

Warsaw 2018

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

I. A SLAVE OF MAMMON

The well-trained servants glided about the dining-room in the noiseless fashion peculiar to their class. It was a large perfectly-appointed room, filled with priceless pictures, bronzes and old furniture, and the arrangement of the electric light was a dream. For Stephen Morrison had been wise in his day and generation. A money-maker of the new type, he had no time to become a collector. He had engaged a clever artist who was a connoisseur in such matters, and had given him a blank cheque to furnish his house at Middlesworth. When money and taste go together there is only one result possible, and this result Morrison had obtained. Men of large estate and ancient pedigree envied Morrison his house.

The man sat at the head of his table, strong, resolute, self-satisfied. He had the bulldog face and the strong blunt nose that mark his fraternity. Who he was and whence he came nobody knew or cared. He had made a million or two in South Africa about the time of the war, and that satisfied most people.

Morrison had no wife, but two daughters managed the house. They were not present to-night, for it was a man’s dinner with bridge to follow. Most of the guests were rich, with the exception of Wilfrid Bayfield, who was the son of a neighbouring baronet and a doctor practising in Middlesworth; the handsomest man in the town, so most of the women said, a fine tennis player, and a capital bat to boot. In fact, Wilfred Bayfield shone out of doors rather than by the bedside of his patients.

The dinner broke up presently and the men scattered about the room, some of them adjourning for coffee and cigarettes to the lounge hall where were the big palms and the pictures by Reynolds and others of his school. Bayfield stood contemplating an exquisite portrait by Romney. He half turned as a girl passed across the hall and smiled as he gazed at her. Though not tall, her figure was gracefully slim, but firm and athletic withal. The gleam of the electric light touched her gold bronze hair and lighted up her lovely grey eyes. It was a sweet yet strong and tender face, and Wilfrid’s features softened as he looked after the girl.

“Who’s that?” the man by his side asked. “Not one of the Morrison girls, I’ll swear. Looks like a lady.”

“So she is, Bentley,” Bayfield said, a little coldly. “I have known her for a long time.”

Bayfield spoke with some restraint. He had no liking for Horace Bentley, though he met him everywhere. Bentley was a Middlesworth solicitor, who had some time before succeeded to his father’s practice and was reputed to be rich and not over-scrupulous. He was not bad-looking in a dark effeminate kind of way, only his eyes were shifty.

“But who is she?” the lawyer persisted. “And why did she smile at you like that? How do you manage these little affairs so well, Bayfield?”

Bayfield flushed with annoyance. He had no liking for jokes at the expense of women, and the suggestion of an intrigue with a salaried member of Morrison’s household jarred on him.

“She is–as you know well enough–Miss Freda Everton,” he said, “the daughter of old Josiah Everton, who at one time was one of the richest men in these parts. Miss Everton is a companion to the Morrison girls.”

“I see,” Bentley nodded. “Old Everton went off his head after losing his money in a somewhat peculiar way. Old man always was a bit queer in the upper storey. So is his brother, Jim. Lives alone in a dilapidated cottage in Middlesworth and does for himself. They say nobody is allowed to go near him. But you know all that.”

Bayfield replied that he did. But he refrained from telling Bentley that he had known Freda Everton for years, and that in happier circumstances there might have been the sharing of a great happiness between them. He did not like the leer in Bentley’s eyes as he looked in the direction in which Freda Everton had gone. Somebody called out to Bentley presently, and he returned to the dining-room, to Wilfrid’s great relief.

The door leading to the garden was open and Wilfrid strolled out. It was a perfect spring evening and the air was soft and balmy. Wilfrid passed across the terrace and into the garden beyond. A white figure with a basket of roses fluttered towards him, and he gave a little cry of pleasure. Nobody appeared to be in sight.

“Freda,” he said softly, “I did not hope for a bit of luck like this.”

The girl held out her hands, a shy sweet smile on her face. The moonlight fell on her parted lips as Wilfrid bent and kissed her. Just for a moment he held the girl in his arms. There was nobody there and the half-darkness was full of subtle fragrance.

“Have they made you comfortable here, dearest?” Wilfrid asked.

Freda seemed rather to evade the question. She was fairly happy and contented. The Morrison girls were a little hard and exacting, but the salary was good and Freda had plenty of time to herself.

“They are not ladies, my dear old boy,” she said, “and are inclined to regard me as a superior kind of maid. But I have all my evenings to devote to my story-writing. Do you know that for the last six months I have made over thirty shillings a week by my pen! And that is the very sum I require to keep my father happy and comfortable. It seems hard to think that a man once so rich should be now so dreadfully poor.”

“The whole thing has always been a mystery to me,” Wilfrid said thoughtfully. “Your father, one of the most prosperous men in the county, hard-headed and clear-minded, goes to his London office one day in the full possession of his faculties. He comes back the same night, saying that he is utterly ruined and has been a poor, broken-down, semi-imbecile ever since. Freda, did you never suspect––”

“No, Wilfrid,” Freda said firmly, “I never suspected anybody. My father managed his own business entirely and trusted nobody. You may be certain that he was not the victim of anybody’s cunning. He worked too hard and his brain gave way. And the strange part of the whole thing is that he is now as childishly and completely generous as he used to be mean and grasping. You remember the time when you––”

“I know,” Wilfrid laughed unsteadily. “The time when I told him I wanted to marry you and he kicked me out of the house. And Heaven knows that I cared nothing for your money. Rich or poor, it was all the same to me, Freda. I love you far more now than I did then, and it is a bitter grief to me that I cannot offer you a home. People like me and I suppose I am popular in Middlesworth, but somehow they don’t think much of my professional skill.”

Freda nestled closer to her lover.

“Perhaps you are a little too fond of pleasure, darling,” she suggested timidly. “I know that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, but still––Yet it does seem hard. And you are in the wrong company, Wilfrid; these people are too wealthy for you. Don’t play bridge to-night.”

The girl’s voice was seductive and pleading; the moonlight filled her liquid grey eyes. It was very hard to resist a face like that. It was Wilfrid’s one failing that he liked to stand high in the estimation of his fellow-men.

“I am a good player,” he said. “And, besides, the thing averages out in the long run, no matter what stakes you play. But I’ll be very careful, darling.”

“Indeed, I hope you will,” Freda said timidly. “Some of the men who come here I mistrust. There is that Horace Bentley, for instance. He pretends not to know who I am and ignores me when the girls are by. And yet at other times the insolent familiarity of his manner––”

Freda paused, as if feeling she had gone too far. Wilfrid’s face darkened and his hands clenched involuntarily. He detested Bentley and there were times when it cost him an effort to conceal his feelings.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that the fellow has dared to––”

“No, no,” Freda cried. “He has said nothing whatever. Of course he knows me; was not his late father my father’s solicitor? The elder Bentley was the only man my father ever confided in. But when that man is about I feel like a bird fascinated by a snake. I feel that he is casting a net for me; it is horrible. And yet there is nothing tangible––”

The girl paused and her lovely eyes grew a little darker. She had not intended to say so much, but the softness and glamour of the evening invited confidence. Wilfrid was palpably uneasy. He would have liked to pick a quarrel with Bentley, but opportunity was lacking. Ostensibly the two men were pretty good friends, but under the surface the antagonism was keen and bitter.

“You must let me know if anything happens, darling,” Wilfrid said, as he took the slender figure to his breast. “You are too pure and beautiful to be at the mercy of a rascal like that. And it was brave of you to sacrifice so much for the sake of a father who never regarded you with the affection a parent should feel for a child. I’ll turn over a new leaf, Freda; I’ll work harder and think less of play in the future. And as soon as I can see my way to it––”

He stooped and whispered something in the girl’s ear and her pretty face flushed.

“And yet it is in my own hands,” she said. “Whilst my father is so poor his brother James is ever so rich. You know the lonely way in which he lives. Yet he has offered to provide a comfortable home for me if I will go and keep house for him–if I will abandon my father altogether. I wonder why Uncle James hates my father so.”

Wilfrid was silent. The hatred between the brothers Everton was common talk in Middlesworth. Wilfrid had heard of an old story of a woman engaged to one brother and an act of treachery on the part of the other. And the woman in the case, Wilfrid understood, was Freda’s mother. If the girl did not know, then it was a pity to tell her. Wilfrid looked sympathetic instead.

“I am the only one who is allowed in my uncle’s cottage,” Freda went on. “I have a latchkey and I go and come when I like. It is impossible to describe the confusion and discomfort there. Did ever any one hear of stranger situation than mine, Wilfrid?”

Wilfrid admitted the singularity of it all. He would have said more but for the sudden silken rustle of a dress across the lawn. The lovers had been too fondly wrapped up in themselves to notice that they were no longer alone in their paradise. A tall, handsome girl with strong well-cut features stood before them, trembling as if she had been running. There was an angry flash in her eyes and her lips were hard and resolute. Wilfrid perceived the sinister expression and wondered what it meant.

“This is very arcadian,” Grace Morrison said, trying in vain to keep the sneer out of her voice. “Really, Miss Everton, it seems a pity that you should not have something better to do. My sister has been looking for you everywhere.”

“Miss Everton and I are old friends,” Wilfrid said pleasantly, though he was far from feeling as amiable as he talked. “We have known each other for years. I strolled out here to finish my cigarette and we fell into a chat about old times. I’m sorry I detained Miss Everton.”

The speaker bowed to Freda, who turned and walked quietly towards the house. Miss Grace Morrison, in some vague way, seemed to feel that she had got the worst of the encounter. Why did Wilfrid Bayfield never look at her as he had looked at Freda? Grace Morrison would have bestowed herself and her splendid fortune on the young doctor and accounted herself the happiest of women if he had only shown her the slightest encouragement. Unasked and unsought, she had given the whole of her passionate heart to Wilfrid and was consumed with a raging jealousy. She would have stuck at nothing to get her own way. And now she had gone too far; she could see that in Wilfrid’s grave face. The humiliation should have been Freda’s, but she had made it all her own with her bitter tongue.

“The moonlight accounts for it all,” she said, with a laugh. “Perhaps I was a little jealous to find Miss Everton monopolizing our pet bachelor. I hope I did not speak very sharply to the girl.”

“Really, I don’t know,” Wilfrid said vaguely. “It was my fault at any rate, especially as I fancied I heard some one calling me from the house.”

“It was Mr. Bentley,” Grace Morrison said, glad to turn the conversation. “They are waiting for you to make up a second bridge table. I suppose we shall not see any of you gentlemen again to-night. That is why I hate this game of bridge.”

Bentley was waiting in the hall with a significant smile on his lips. He winked at Wilfrid as the two walked towards the library together.

“I saw you,” he said. “So that’s the way the wind blows. My dear chap, it seems to me––”

Wilfrid haughtily cut the speaker short. Bentley’s face darkened, but he did not pursue the subject. He led the way to the card-table.

“We cut in,” he said insolently. “Play the same baby stakes as usual, I suppose?”

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