“Wonderful indeed,” said Mr. Harcourt, replacing the letter in its envelope. “What did you tell him?”

  “I referred him to you, my dear father.”

  “Yes, indeed! On my word, you do me too much honor. Did you really think that I would listen to his proposal?”

  She looked away.

  “Don’t tell me you love him.”

  She turned her lovely face towards her father. Her tears were enough of a reply. This silent confession exasperated her father. He threw his hands in the air.

  “You love him? How dare you tell me so?”

  Renee glanced at her father and answered, “But he is a baron and the Saint Ives family is a good family.”

  “Humbug! What do you know? Why, the first St. Ives was a fishmonger, who was lucky enough to save his money to buy a boat, which was used to smuggle weapons overseas. And for these fine deeds they conferred a title on him. Has this swell baron any means of supporting himself?”

  “Certainly. He has an income of sixty thousand shilling a year.”

  “That’s no money at all! Why did he write to you secretly? Does he wish to compromise your name and so force me to accede to his proposal and break off your engagement to another?”

  “My engagement to another?”

  “What does a man of honor do, when he falls in love?”

  “Ah, daddy.”

  “He goes to his solicitor, acquaints him with his intentions and explains what his means are. The solicitor then goes to the family solicitor of the young lady and when these men of the law have found out that all is well, they inform the families and love is permitted to blossom. That’s how our class behaves around matters of matrimony. Listen, daughter, forget St. Ives as soon as you can. I’ve already chosen a husband for you. On Sunday the young man will be introduced to you. On Monday we will visit our vicar to ask him to prepare a nice church wedding for you. On Tuesday you will show yourself in public with him in order to announce your engagement. On Wednesday there will be a reading of the marriage contract. On Thursday we will have a grand dinner-party for you. On Friday we exhibit the wedding presents. On Saturday you may rest. On Sunday we publish the date of the wedding in all newspapers, locally and in London, but not in Australia and at the end of the following week the marriage will take place.”

  Miss Harcourt listened to her father’s speech with increasing horror.

  “For God’s sake, daddy,” she cried.

  Mr. Harcourt paid no attention to her tears.

  “Wait till you hear the name of the gentleman I’ve chosen as a husband for you. He’s a viscount. A real one. Viscount Philip of Swaffham.”

  Renee turned pale.

  “But I don’t know him,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t worry, daughter of mine, I know him and I got you a beauty. I’ve told you that I’d turn you into a great Dame yet. Who loves you, honey?”

  Renee’s affection for Thomas St. Ives was much deeper than she had told her father. It was even much deeper than she had dared to admit to herself. She absolutely and totally with all her heart rejected her father’s meddling in her heart’s affairs. Anyone knowing her gentle nature would have cowered at the storm brewing inside her.

  Mr. Harcourt, however, thought he knew what was good for his daughter. He had never been wrong in business and what was a marriage more than an agreement to unify two disparate entities? He never gave his daughter a moment’s peace. He argued, he insisted, he prayed, he begged and bullied her until, after three days she gave her tearful consent. Her words had hardly entered his ears, before her father ran to one of the footmen to tell him to prepare his automobile.

  “I must inform Lord Swaffham without delay,” he said, running out of the room. He came back and said, “Thank you, my little princess. You’ve made your father very happy.”

  Lord Swaffham had told him a couple of days before that he would contact him soon. No letter had as yet reached him from Swaffham Manor. The delay had suited Mr. Harcourt, because it had given him time to wring consent from his daughter. But now that he had accomplished his part of the transaction, he was desirous to know if the other party would keep to their part of the deal.

  When he reached Bourne on Trent, he saw Newton talking earnestly with Matilda, the daughter of Mrs. Jarrett. He ordered his driver to stop the car. Mr. Harcourt nodded a greeting at the both of them. He stepped out of the car, because he wished to talk to Newton. He knew Newton exercised a high degree of influence in the town and his influence even reached into Nottingham.

  “Good morning, Mr. Newton,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “Any news today?”

  Newton bowed deeply.

  “Bad news, Milord,” Newton answered. “I hear that Lord Swaffham is seriously ill.”

  “The Lord? Ill? It’s impossible!”

  “This young lady has just given me these tidings. Go on, my dear lady, tell us all you know.”

  “I was today at the Manor. There I heard that the doctors had all but given up on him.”

  “But what’s ails him?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  Mr. Harcourt stood perfectly beaten. Newton looked at him.

  “It’s always the same,” he said philosophically. “In the midst of life we find death!”

  “Mr. Newton, a good day to you,” said Harcourt. “I must find out what is going on at the Manor.”

  Breathless and with his mind filled with anxiety, he stepped back into his car and asked the driver to hurry to Swaffham Manor.

  All the servants and the farm laborers on the Swaffham estate had gathered together in a group in the courtyard. They talked hushedly to each other. As soon as Mr. Harcourt’s car stopped in front of the entrance, one of the servants disengaged himself from his peers and came towards him. It was James, the lord’s most trusted servant.

  “What is going on here?” exclaimed Mr. Harcourt.

  “Oh, sir,” answered the servant, “this is too terrible to be true. My poor master is dying.”

  “But what is the matter with him? No one seems to be able to tell me anything.”

  “It was so sudden,” said the man with tears in his eyes. “It was the day before yesterday, when the master was alone with young master Philip in the dining room. All at once we heard a great commotion. We ran into the room and saw the poor master lying senseless on the floor. It was horrible, sir. His face was purple and his body was all contorted.”

  “He must have had a fit.”

  “I don’t know. The doctor called it a rush of blood to the head. A stroke or at least, I think that is what he said. He said the only reason the master didn’t die on the spot was because as he fell he cut open his head against the fireplace and the wound bled profusely, allowing for some relief on the brain. We carried him up to his bed. He hasn’t shown any signs of life since.”

  “How is he doing now?”

  “My poor master is unconscious and the doctor says that should he come back to us, his mind will have entirely gone.”

  “Horrible! A man of such intellectual power. Horrible! I won’t ask you to let me see him, because I’m not a doctor. I can’t help him. But I would like to talk to the viscount?”

  “Please, don’t ask me to disturb him, sir.”

  “But I am his father’s very good friend. I wish to console him.”

  “Impossible!” answered James, waving his hands in the air. “Master Philip was with his father at the time of his seizure. He has given strict orders that he’s not to be disturbed on any account. I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders. Right now we’re waiting for the doctors from London.”

  “Very well, I won’t keep you from your duties, but I will send one of my men for news later today.”

  With these words, Mr. Harcourt walked to his car. He walked slowly, looking around, as if trying to ascertain any new clues as to what happened at the Manor house. The attitude and the expression on the face of the servant had struck him as strange. He had made special note of the fact that Philip was alone with his father at the time of the fit. He remembered the opposition he had met with from his own daughter and could not help but imagine that the old lord had found his son in the same rebellious state of mind. The seizure could have been brought on by a sudden surge of emotions.

  “If the old man dies or becomes senile,” he thought to himself, “there is a good chance the son will break off the marriage.”

  He could not allow that. He could not stand jeering and ridicule. There was no course left open to him except to allow his daughter to marry Viscount St. Ives. It was not a bad alliance, in spite of the things he had said to his daughter.

  Newton raised his hand, when he saw the luxury automobile, arousing him from his reflections. Harcourt ordered his driver to stop. He opened the window.

  “Was the young lady’s information correct, Count?” he asked, with a bow. “How are the lord and Viscount Philip? You surely have seen them both?”

  “Viscount Philip is too upset by the sad turn of events to allow anyone to see him.”

  “That was to be expected, of course,” replied the wily Weasel. “The seizure was terribly sudden. The lord was as healthy as an ox.”

  Philip was pacing furiously up and down the bedroom of his father. He stood still by the bedside of his dying father and looked eagerly for any sign, no matter how small, of life returning to the huge body lying still on the bed. Hours of anxiety and remorse had changed his feelings towards his father entirely. It was only when he saw his father raise the poisoned brandy to his lips that he saw the crime he was committing in all its ugly infamy. The word “murderer” rang in his ears like a trumpet call. When his father fell to the ground, he screamed for the servants to help him. When they came rushing into the dining room, he ran away and hid in the woods, followed only by Luke.

  James had noticed Philip’s flight from the house. He was trusted by both the old man and the son. As he had a place of trust in the household, the other servants trusted him with their observations around the house. He knew about the differences that had arisen recently between father and son in regards to a possible marriage. He knew what violent tempers both possessed. He had seen the young master together with the daughter of Lord Worrall. It was easily to discern that her interest in him precluded his marriage to another woman. He had seen Philip just after he had been struck by his father and knew nothing good would happen when the son had come back to the house. He had been in the courtyard, when Philip threw the glass of brandy out of the window. He had wondered about the glass of brandy and the bottle on the table in the dining room. The old lord’s face was purple, it didn’t take him long to suspect poison was in play. Carefully he poured a few drops from the bottle on the palm of his hand and tasted it cautiously. The brandy tasted as usual and he didn’t smell anything than the customary scent of alcohol. Still he hid the bottle under his coat and after making sure that he was not watched, he took the bottle to his own room and hid it. He ordered one of the other servants to stay by the side of the lord until the arrival of the doctor and then went to search for Philip.

  His first thought for a hiding place went to the top of the hill, where he had noticed Philip spent a lot of time lately. Taking the small path through the woods, suddenly he noticed a human form sitting on the grass beneath a tree. He moved cautiously towards the figure and as he came closer he recognized Philip. The faithful servant bent over his young master and shook him by the arm to arouse him from his state of stupor. At the first touch, Philip sprang to his feet with a scream of fear. James saw the strange look that shone in the young man’s eyes. He looked more like a hunted animal than a human being.

  “Don’t be afraid, Master Philip,” he said.

  “What do you want?”

  “I came to take you back with me to Swaffham Manor.”

  “Swaffham Manor?” repeated Philip, hoarsely. “Never!”

  “You must, Master Philip, because your absence will cause a terrible scandal. Your place at this difficult time is by the bedside of your father.”

  “Never!” repeated the young man.

  James grabbed him by the arm and slowly, but insistently pulled him along towards the Manor house. Led like this by the trusted servant, he crossed the courtyard and went up the staircase. At his father’s door, however, he recoiled and struggled to free himself from the iron grasp of James’s hands.

  “I won’t go in, I tell you. I won’t,” he cried.

  “You must,” answered the man firmly. “Whatever your feelings, no stain should rest on the family honor. You must go in.”

  These words broke Philip’s defenses down. He slowly stepped into his father’s room and walked towards the bed. When he saw the lifeless body of his father on the bed, he dropped on his knees and placed his forehead on his father’s hand. He burst into tears. The doctor, who was tending to his father, breathed a sigh. From his ashen face and burning eyes, the doctor believed he too had been stricken by illness. With the tears came the relief of the overburdened mind and soon he appeared to all as a mere deeply anxious son.

  “I regret to be the one to have to tell you that there is no hope for him,” said the surgeon. “There is a chance that he will pull through and live, but his mind will never be what it was. That’s the sad truth. The man you knew as your father may never come back. There is nothing I can do for him now. He needs to rest. I will come again tomorrow.”

  As the doctor left the room, Philip threw himself in a chair and clasped his hands around his head. His head was throbbing furiously and it seemed to want to burst. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a stifled cry. He remembered the bottle of brandy in which he had poured the poison and which he had left on the table in the dining room. He went down the stairs quickly and entered the dining room. He looked at the table. The bottle was not there. It was also not in its usual place in the cupboard. The unlucky young man frantically searched for it everywhere. He didn’t notice the door silently opening. James appeared on the threshold. The frantic expression on his young master’s face so scared the faithful servant that he nearly left without saying a word.

  “What are you looking for, Master Philip?” he asked in a voice trembling with emotion.

  “I’m looking for…I wasn’t looking for…I wanted…” stammered Philip.

  Where before James had his suspicions, now he knew the truth. He walked up to Philip.

  “You’re looking for the lord’s bottle of brandy, are you not?” he whispered. “It’s in a safe place. I’ve hid it in my room. I will empty it out tomorrow and wash the bottle, so there will be no proof left.”

  James spoke in such a low voice that the young man guessed rather than heard his words. Still the implication of his words seemed to echo like a thunder through the house. It seemed to Philip that all servants must have heard the terrible accusation.

  “Be quiet,” he said, laying his hand on the servant’s lips and looking around him with wild eyes.

  His actions proved the servant right. No words could have told him more than the actions of his young master.

  “Have no fear, Master Philip,” answered James. “We’re alone. And have no fear of me. I know that these are words, which should never be even whispered. I only speak, because it is my duty to warn you to be cautious.”

  Philip was filled with horror, when he understood from the trusted servant’s words that the good man believed him to be guilty of poisoning his own father.

  “James,” he cried, “you’re wrong. My father never tasted that brandy. I grabbed the glass from his hands before his lips touched the brandy. I threw it out the window into the courtyard. Search yourself! You will find the broken glass still there.”

  “Sir, I’m not sitting in judgment on you. I only wish to be of service to you and your father. Whatever you tell me I will readily accept as the truth and nothing else will ever cross my lips.”

  “James, you don’t believe me!” exclaimed the young man emotionally, “You think me guilty. I swear to you on my poor mother and by all that I hold sacred in this world that I did not poison my father.”

  The servant nodded as if he wished to move on to other more important matters.

  “Of course, of course,” he said, blandly. “Just don’t forget it’s up to the two of us to save the honor of the House of Swaffham. If ever any suspicions are aroused by anyone, please I beg of you, put all the blame on my shoulders. I will accept all guilt and make sure my words only fix the crime more firmly on me. I won’t throw away the bottle of brandy. I will keep it in my room, so it can be found and when its contents are tested, it will be the more evidence showing my guilt. It does not matters how a poor servant like me ends his last days on God’s green acres, but you, my son, no, not you.”

  Philip wrung his hands in sheer despair. The unconditional devotion of the servant only showed him how firmly he believed in his guilt. He was about to open his mouth, when a loud sound of a closing door was heard upstairs.

  “Be silent!” said the servant. “Someone is approaching. We must not be seen whispering at each other like two Shakespearean plotters. They will talk, Master Philip and gossip will soon turn into suspicions and they will become accusations. Please go upstairs and try to compose yourself. I beg you not to spoil your honor and dignity.”

  Without saying another word Philip obeyed him. His father was alone in the room apart from an old cook to whom James had delegated the task of nurse. At the sight of her young master she jumped up from her chair.

  “The doctor’s prescription has arrived,” she said. “I’ve given him a small dose and it seems to me that he seems to react to the medicine quite favorably. I have also asked Nancy to make a big pot of soup for when the master wakes up and feels hungry.”

  Philip nodded and smiled at her, but he remained silent. He moved a heavy arm-chair to the foot of the bed and sat down. He could see his father’s face. His mind was confused, but he wished to put his memory to work. It was only with the utmost difficulty that he could remember the events, which had led him like a sleepwalker to the disaster in which he found himself.