RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters."
"GOOD-BYE Mrs. Gascoyne, and good-bye, my little Marjory. It will be a lonely home without you, but your place is here—where your poor husband wished you to be by the side of his mother. Good-bye, and Heaven bless you, my girl."
Stephen Macalister wiped his eyes with a somewhat discoloured silk handkerchief, looked for one moment, at his daughter, and then, with bowed head, walked softly from the big, elaborately-furnished London drawing room.
As he closed the door and stood in the hall listening, his face changed. His eyes lit up with triumph, and his loose mouth twitched with laughter. It had all been so perfectly simple and so entirely successful. He wondered he had not thought of it before.
That morning he had seen in the paper the announcement that John Gascoyne had not returned from a prospecting tour in the interior of South America. The party had met with disaster while shooting the rapids on one of the great rivers. John had been flung out of the boat and carried rapidly down-stream. He was never seen again, and the survivors of the party had returned to the coast to report that he had been drowned.
Macalister had had financial dealings with John Gascoyne in his wild, thoughtless days—dealings in which he had lent him various sums of money on the promise to pay at some five or six hundred per cent. He had had several letters from him. Moreover, John Gascoyne had known his daughter Marjory—had made a kind of big brotherly love to her—had bought her presents in his reckless way out of the sums which the money-lender had advanced to him.
And all these things, coupled with the fact that he was now miserably poor, had given to the announcement of John Gascoyne's death a special importance in the eyes of Stephen Macalister. Immediately he had seen possibilities in the situation.
John Gascoyne was the only son of his widowed mother, a very wealthy woman, who before long must die, leaving everything to her son, had her son been alive. Now that her son was dead, the money would naturally go to his widow, supposing he had been married. That John Gascoyne had never been married did not trouble Stephen Macalister.
His cunning brain saw at once a chance of providing for his daughter, and of also providing for himself. Supposing he took Marjory to Mrs. Gascoyne and told her that her dead son had made a secret marriage with Marjory? He had letters from Gascoyne—letters in which he sent his love—to Marjory. All that was necessary was a wedding ring and a vague statement about the marriage having taken place in some lonely village in Cornwall while Gascoyne was spending a holiday at Plymouth.
He had acted at once. There had been difficulty with Marjory; but she had been accustomed to submit to his will, and he had bullied and threatened, and finally coerced her to do as he told her. The plan had been carried out with an ease which surprised him, and Marjory was now installed in that house as the widow of John Gascoyne. He made his way into the street, smiling with grim content.
AT the sound of the closing front door Marjory Macalister turned from the
window at which she had been standing, and, with the colour flaming in her
cheeks, ran to the chair in which old Mrs. Gascoyne was sitting
"Mrs. Gascoyne!" she cried, in a low voice. "While my father was here I coudn't tell you, but you must know at once. I was forced into doing this
She stopped speaking abruptly. Mrs. Gascoyne was holding out her white trembling hands to her.
"My dear, come here. Kneel down there and let me look at you."
With something like a sob, Marjory did as she was bid. Mrs. Gascoyne placed her hands upon her shoulders.
"Jack's wife!" she murmured, and her sad, kindly face was irradiated for a moment with a look of pathetic happiness. "And I thought there was nothing of him left—nothing that he had loved and cared for. Oh, my dear if you only knew what this means to me! Something of my dear boy has come back to me. Thank Heaven for that!"
Every vestige of colour drained from the girl's face. An agony of emotion lit up her glorious dark eyes. She had loved John Gascoyne—loved him in secret—and that made everything a thousand times worse. It was like treason to her love to do this thing.
"Mrs. Gascoyne," she sobbed piteously. "Don't, please. You must listen to me."
For answer, the old lady bent down and kissed her upturned face.
"My dear Jack's wife! And so sweet and so beautiful! I can forgive him for not telling me, dear, for you have come to me when my heart seemed empty and there was nothing more to live for. My Jack's wife! We will live here together, dearest, and we will talk of him, and perhaps he will be with us—with the two women he loved—his mother and his wife!"
Something seemed to snap in Marjory's brain. She had determined, as soon as her father's back was turned, to confess the whole truth about the mean and despicable plot in which she had been compelled to take part.
But now?
How could she speak? How could she tell the truth? She saw the great joy and happiness in Mrs. Gascoyne's eyes at the thought that, from the wreck of her life, her boy's wife had been so unexpectedly saved. To tell her the truth would be to torture her —to plunge her still deeper into the depths of despair when she was just clutching at happiness. How could she tell her the truth and see the light fade from that kindly face and blank despair settle down upon those dim eyes? Her resolution faltered and failed.
"Oh, Mrs. Gascoyne!" she cried, and burst into a flood of tears.
A feeble hand stroked her hair.
"You must call me mother, as he called me mother," said the old lady's voice.
"Mother!" she exclaimed brokenly, and then the room reeled about her, and for a while unconsciousness settled down upon her troubled brain.
WHEN she came to herself she was lying in a comfortable bedroom, and Mrs
Gascoyne was seated by her side, obviously happy and content to be able to
serve and tend her dead son's wife. And Marjory had to bring herself to play
the part. There were no doubts, no questionings on Mrs. Gascoyne's part. She
believed implicitly that Marjory was Jack's wife.
And as the days went by, Marjory, for the sake of Mrs. Gascoyne's happiness, had to adapt herself to the role. She was made the mistress of the house; she was given complete charge of the large establishment. The old servants, who had loved the master, transferred their affection to the beautiful, considerate girl who was supposed to be his widow.
But there was one thing Marjory refused to do. She declined to accept the large allowance that Mrs. Gascoyne pressed upon her. Her father had counted upon this; Marjory was to have transferred to him a large portion of this allowance. But she would not touch the money. Out of pity for the broken-hearted mother she was keeping up the delusion that she was Jack's wife—the big, kindly man she had loved in secret; to take the money would, she felt, make the whole business utterly mean and despicable. And so, in spite of the frantic letters she received from her father—letters she did not answer—she refused the big banking account that Mrs Gascoyne wished to place at her disposal.
SHE had been three weeks in the house, and her father's demands for money
were becoming more threatening, when the utterly unexpected happened. She had
seen that Mrs. Gascoyne was comfortably taking her afternoon rest, and was
coming downstairs, when she was brought to a halt by the sound of voices in
the hall and the sight of the old butler talking to a tall, gaunt man in a
suit that had evidently seen a good deal of hard wear.
"Don't you know me, William?" the man exclaimed, in a hollow voice.
And then she saw the butler start back and throw up his hands.
"It's Mr. John!" he cried. "Heaven be praised! It's Mr. John himself!"
Marjory felt as if her legs were giving way beneath her. She tried to move, but she was powerless.
John Gascoyne had come back from the grave!
As if the voices came from a long way off, she heard John telling his story.
He had been carried far down the river by the rushing torrent, but had managed to retain his presence of mind. He was a powerful swimmer, and managed gradually to approach the bank, where he had clutched an overhanging bough and dragged himself ashore more dead than alive.
It was a terrible experience, but worse was to follow, for the dense tropical forest covering both banks of the river defied his efforts to penetrate it for more than a short distance.
Faint with hunger and suffering intensely from the great heat, he had tried to make his way along the bank, but had had to give it up, and there seemed nothing for it but to plunge again into the river where he had so nearly perished, and end his agony as speedily as possible.
Then, when hope had nearly left him, five Indians in a large canoe came into sight from the direction of the Falls.
Springing to his feet he hailed them, and was taken off in the canoe to their village, several miles down the river, eventually reaching civilisation after enough adventures to fill a book and, as he put it, "last him a lifetime."
"It'll be a great day for the mistress and Mrs. John," the old butler cried, rubbing his hands joyfully.
As he spoke he glanced up the stairs where Marjory was standing. She had seen John start at the mention of his wife, and a puzzled look creep into his face. The moment of discovery was at hand—the moment of her disgrace!
"There she is, sir!" cried the old butler, triumphantly.
Across the intervening space John Gascoyne's and Marjory's eyes met. There was a look of pitiable entreaty in the girl's glance. For some seconds John hesitated, and then, with an odd, grim expression, he turned to the butler.
"William," he said, "go downstairs and get me something to eat. I shall be ready for it in about ten minutes."
He waited until the butler had disappeared, and then he walked stiffly up the stairs to where Marjory was standing. She stood motionless, her wonderful dark eyes staring at him wildly.
"Perhaps you will tell me what this masquerade means?" he said.
She did not answer him. Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth.
"And it's Marjory Macalister—old cent. per cent.'s daughter. And you've been living here as my widow, have you? I needn't ask you who put you up to this pretty game. I recognise Stephen Macalister's handiwork."
"It's a pity I came back, isn't it?" he said, after a pause. "Rather spoils your plans, I'm afraid: What are you going to do about it?"
And now at last she found her tongue.
"I shall go at once," she stammered.
He laid a hand upon her arm. "No, not just at once, my dear. I want to see my mother first. I'm going to her now."
The mention of his mother roused Marjory. For one moment she forgot her own pitiable situation in the thought of the old lady whom she had grown to love.
"Oh, Mr. Gascoyne, you must be careful. Your mother isn't very strong. The shock might kill her. You must let me prepare her for your arrival."
"All right," he said, "cut along. I'll follow you, and we'll have our little talk afterwards."
Hardly knowing how she did it, she made her way to Mrs. Gascoyne's room and, sank oh her knees by the old lady's side.
"Mother," she said, "I—want you to be very brave. Something wonderful has happened something none of us could have expected. You must promise to be very quiet, mother. Jack would have wished you to be quiet, you know, for your own sake. There's somebody coming to see you."
Outside in the passage they could hear the heavy tread of feet. The handle of the door turned. Mrs. Gascoyne struggled into a sitting posture and cried out, throwing her arms about Marjory. It was this picture that John Gascoyne saw when he entered the room—his mother in the arms of the girl who had passed herself off as his wife.
"Jack—oh, my darling boy!—you've come back to me—you've come back to me!" Mrs. Gascoyne cried.
In another moment he was by her side, kissing her, begging her to be calm; but for ten minutes she could do nothing else but cry and laugh alternately. Then, when she was calmer he told her his story—and all the while he noticed her arm was around the neck of the girl, who knelt with bowed head on the floor.
"And oh, my poor boy, though you never told me you were married, I've forgiven you. I don't know what I should have done without your dear wife here—so sweet, so good, so gentle she filled my empty heart for me when I thought you were dead, and I can never tell you all she has been to me."
Marjory rose hurriedly. She could bear no more. She must go—and go at once. In a mist she felt her way to the door, murmuring some excuse about seeing that Jack's room was prepared. Five minutes later, having packed a few of her things, she crept stealthily out of her bedroom with her bag in her hand. But she got no further than the threshold, for John Gascoyne was standing there barring her passage.
"Before you go I want you to tell me why you did it?" he asked.
Stammeringly she told him—how her father had conceived the plot and forced her to carry it out; how she had determined to confess to Mr. Gascoyne the whole deception when her father had gone, and then, seeing how much the supposed discovery of something belonging to her dead son—something that he loved—meant to her, how it must have broken her heart had she spoken the truth; she had kept silent.
"You can believe me or not," she cried, when she had finished, "but that is the truth. I would have died sooner than have stayed here if it hadn't been for your mother. That's the truth and now let me go."
"I know it's the truth," he answered; "but I shan't let you go."
He leant forward and caught her hands.
"Put that bag down," he demanded.
"Mr. Gascoyne!" she cried.
"You've got to stay here as my wife now. There's no other way out of it," he said, with that strange smile of his. "I'm sure It would break my mother's heart if she discovered the truth. I saw you together, and she's been talking to me about you."
Marjory coloured in pitiable confusion. It was true that he was the one man in the whole world whom she had ever loved—who had ever been kind to her; but that she should become his wife under such circumstances—oh! it was more than her pride could stand.
"Let me go!" she cried, miserably.
"I won't," he answered, and his whole face lit up suddenly. "Before I went away—in those silly, selfish days—I loved you, Marjory—and I love you a thousand times more now after all your sweetness and goodness to my mother. You've got to be the real Mrs. John Gascoyne, my dearest."
And as he spoke he took her in his arms and kissed her.
And Marjory did not leave the house, for a few days later, quite secretly, she was married to the man whose widow she had posed as—was married and was happy.
After all, Stephen Macalister did get a small allowance, to ensure his keeping his mouth shut.