Copyright, 1906
By
B. W. DODGE & COMPANY
New York

CONTENTS.

THE CORSICAN LOVERS.

CHAPTER I.

BROTHERLY LOVE.

The man looked up approvingly. “My sister, that was spoken like a true Batistelli. If you loved your father, as your words seem to indicate, I do not see how you can disobey his slightest wish.”

The girl turned upon him, that bright flash again in her eyes. “Why are you so anxious that I should marry? Why is it that you yourself do not marry?”

The man’s answer came quickly: “I have sworn, and so has your brother Julien, that we will not marry until our father’s death has been avenged.”

The girl placed both her hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and looked into her brother’s face, as she said: “And neither will I.”

She spoke with suppressed intensity.

“You knew our father,” she continued; “you loved him when he was alive and you can love him now. You have something tangible to remember; I can only love his memory. I was but a child a few days old when he fell beneath the knife of the assassin. I do love his memory, and I know if he were living he would not condemn me to a loveless marriage.”

Again that inscrutable look came upon the man’s face. He shrugged his shoulders and the dark line of eyebrows lifted perceptibly.

“I do not know what he would do; I only know what he did.”

“And what did he do?” broke in Vivienne.

The man started. The question was asked with such vehemence that for an instant his marked self-possession was overcome.

“What did he do?” he repeated, thus gaining time, for he wished to think of the most forcible way in which to present the matter to his sister. “I will tell you. I know that he talked the matter over with old Count Mont d’Oro. The Count is dead, or there would be a living witness to the compact. But a few days before our father’s death, in fact the very day you were born, even while you were in your nurse’s arms, he said to me, ‘I am glad that it is a daughter. She shall be called Vivienne, and when she grows to womanhood she shall be a countess, for I have talked the matter over with Count Mont d’Oro, and we have both agreed that the little Count Napier shall be the husband of my little Vivienne.’ Three days later I looked upon his lifeless body. The words of the dead cannot be changed.”

It was now the young girl’s turn to think before speaking. The position that her brother had taken seemed, for the moment at least, unanswerable; but woman’s wisdom, like her wit, is equal to any emergency.

“Brother Pascal,” she began, and her voice was tremulous, “when I was bereft of a father’s and a mother’s love, you took their place. It is to you I have always looked for advice—both Julien and I, for you are so much older and wiser than we are. You have taken our father’s place; his words have become your words, but you are living and can change your words and free me from this bondage, for I would rather die than become the wife of Count Napier, or any other man I cannot love.”

Pascal Batistelli set his teeth tightly together, a dark look came into his face. “Am I to understand, then, that you absolutely refuse to marry Count Mont d’Oro?”

“Not only him, but any one else,” answered the girl. “I am content as I am.”

She turned away from the table, walked to the window, and looked out upon the grounds which stretched far and wide from the castle walls. The bright sunlight fell on tree and bush and on the brightly tinted flowers. All was beauty and peace without. How could nature be so happy, and she so miserable? Suddenly she turned and approached her brother, who had not changed his position.

“When did you wish this marriage to take place?” she asked, making a vain attempt to smile.

“On your eighteenth birthday,” he said, calmly.

“Oh, I have some time, then, to wait,” and she gave a little laugh. “You may tell Count Mont d’Oro that I will see him. I will tell him how much I love him. Then——” She could say no more. With a convulsive sob she turned and fled from the room.

“When a woman says she won’t, she often will,” soliloquised Pascal, as he arose and went to the window from which Vivienne had looked. “My father left fine estates. How could a sensible man make such a foolish will?”

Pascal took a small silver key from his pocket, and turning to an old escritoire, opened a drawer and took therefrom a paper. He then reseated himself at the table. “I should not have known,” said he to himself, “what was in my father’s will if I had not bribed the notary to break the seals and make me a copy. It is well to know what the future has in store for you—and for others. My father executed a document by which I was made guardian of my brother Julien and my sister Vivienne, until they became of age, I to supply all their wants as their father would have done. By a strange coincidence, my brother Julien is exactly seven years older than my sister. In a few months he will be twenty-five and she eighteen. The will must then be opened and what I alone know—I do not count the notary, for I have paid him his price—all will know.” Then he read the document carefully:

“If my daughter Vivienne marries Count Mont d’Oro’s son Napier, on or before her eighteenth birthday, as he will be wealthy in his own right, and I wish the marriage to be one of love, my estates shall be divided equally between my two sons, Pascal and Julien, if both are living; if but one be living, then to him, and if both should die and my daughter live, all shall go to her. If she does not marry Count Mont d’Oro’s son Napier for lack of love of him, half of my estate shall become hers. As Pascal will have had the entire income of my estate for eighteen years, he will be worth much, and the other half of my estate shall go to Julien, if living; if not, all shall go to Vivienne.”

“A very unfair will,” said Pascal, as he replaced the document in the escritoire. “If the dead could come back, such injustice would probably be remedied.”

There was a tap at the door, which opened almost immediately and Adolphe, Pascal’s valet, entered.

“The Count Mont d’Oro.”

“Admit him,” said Pascal, and a moment later the young Count advanced with outstretched hand, exclaiming even before their hands met:

“What news? What news? What does she say?”

“Oh, the impatience of you young lovers!” cried Pascal. “I think the leaven of love must have been left out of my composition. I have never yet met a woman who could put such fire into my blood as there seems to be in yours, my dear Count.”

“No more about me. Let us speak of her. What does she say?”

“Do not be too impatient. Even if I could repeat her very words, I could not say them just as she did. I can but translate them into a cold, formal phrase. She will see you.”

“I thought she would,” cried the young Count, “and when I kneel and lay my love at her feet, she will accept me and make me the happiest of men.”

“Be not too confident,” said Pascal; “she is young and wilful. You know the Batistellis are a determined race. I did not try to plead your cause. I am not used to love-making, and I felt that I should injure your prospects if I spoke in your behalf. But I warn you that you must use your eloquence and not appear too confident at the first.”

The Count laughed. It was not an honest, sincere laugh. A good judge of human nature would have detected in it a hollow sound—more of mockery than of true passion.

“One can see by looking at you, Pascal, that you are not an Adonis. You are not to blame if you have not the graces of Apollo. I have not descended from the ancient gods of Greece, but I have had an experience which even they might envy. I have run the gamut of Parisian society from the ante-chamber of royalty to the gutter, and in Paris there are beauties to be found even in the gutter.”

“I would not tell Vivienne that,” suggested Pascal.

“Of course not,” said the Count; “she is young and inexperienced and would not understand.”

“She might not understand,” said Pascal, “but on the other hand she might imagine more than the truth, and that would be fatal to your prospects, for I warn you, Count, that she is a woman who will not marry a man she does not love, and she will insist that he love her and her only.”

Again the Count laughed. “Why, even the King of France cannot command so much as that. I suppose I must bury the past. She is worth it. By the way, my dear Pascal, I think you told me that in case she marries me before her eighteenth birthday, the estates go with her.”

“My father made a most foolish will,” said Pascal, guardedly.

“That is what troubles me,” said the Count. “I feel like a robber; as though I had placed a pistol at your head and said, ‘Pascal Batistelli, give me your sister and your estates or you are a dead man.’” Then he added, after a moment’s thought: “I do not think that I can do it, after all. I think I shall go back to Paris.”

“Then you do not love my sister?” queried Pascal. He did not think the Count meant what he said, but it suited his purpose to take the remark seriously.

“When I am with her, yes,” said the Count; “then your sister Vivienne is the divine She; but, as I told you, there are beautiful women in Paris.”

Pascal felt the ground slipping from under his feet. “When you are married, Count, you can go to Paris; you are not obliged to live here in this dull place.”

“Oh, yes, but they will know that I am married.” Then, with a conceit which did not seem particularly offensive on account of the manner in which it was spoken, he added: “And, you know, I am quite a catch myself.”

“Certainly,” said Pascal, “and when the estates of Mont d’Oro and Batistelli are united, I have no doubt that many a fair eye in Paris will be wet with tears.”

“Well spoken, my dear Pascal,” cried the Count, as he threw his arm about the neck of his prospective brother-in-law.

Pascal did not appreciate the caress, but the urgency of the situation prevented his refusing it. “But you will see her?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” cried the Count. “My father wished this marriage to take place; my mother does not think that I am good enough for your sister. That is one reason why I am determined to marry her. To-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow,” said Pascal; “any hour in the morning. We breakfast at eight; no earlier than that, of course.”

“Don’t worry,” said the Count, “I do not rise until nine. By half-past ten she may expect her ardent suitor.” He flourished his hat through the air, bowed low to Pascal before placing it on his head, and a moment later was gone.

Pascal walked to the window and looked again upon the far-reaching acres of the Batistelli estate. “She must marry him; then I shall have half. That precious brother of mine will be killed in some drunken brawl or die a sot, then all will be mine.”

CHAPTER II.

“A MAN MUST HAVE A WIFE.”

To equalise a quarrel, when one of the participants is angry the other should also be angry. It is unfair for one to remain cool, calm, and collected, while the other is worked up to a fury of passion. If two soldiers meet in battle, one with a sword four feet long and the other with one but half that length, the contest is unequal; the one with the long sword keeps the other contestant at a distance, though the latter makes vain attacks upon his well-protected adversary. So in a lingual battle, the one who keeps his temper, who does not allow his voice to rise above an ordinary pitch, is the soldier with the long sword.

It must not be supposed that Countess Mont d’Oro allowed these thoughts to pass through her mind. She replied promptly to her son’s sarcastic allusion to her love for him.

“Why should I love you?” she cried. “Even when a child you had an ungovernable temper, and since you have grown up—I will not say since you became a man—your extravagance, your disregard of my wishes, even the slightest of them—has driven from my heart any love that I might have had for you. I am glad that your father lived long enough to understand you. He did wisely in leaving all to me. I was to make you an allowance at my discretion. I have paid your debts—gambling debts, I suppose they were principally—until my own income is greatly impaired.”

“And why have you been so generous?” asked her son.

“To avoid scandal. I did not wish our family affairs to become a subject for Parisian gossip. I do not care for what is said here in Corsica, but such news travels fast.”

“I presume from what you have said that you intend to cut off my allowance?”

“I do, as soon as you are married to Vivienne Batistelli. You must remember that I am not yet forty—I may marry again, and I do not wish my husband to have a dowerless bride.”

The Count smiled grimly. “It is all right for me to become a pensioner on my wife’s bounty?”

“Under the circumstances, yes,” said the Countess. “She will have enough. She will have all, and it is right she should. The property has been in Pascal’s hands for the past eighteen years, and a man of his disposition has not let any of it slip through his fingers, of that you may be sure. He has enough to set up for himself, and I suppose there are plenty of women who would have him, disagreeable as he is.”

“Why not marry him yourself?” asked the Count. “You would then be placed above all possible fear of want.”

The Countess arose from her chair. She did not speak until she reached the door of the dining-room; then she turned: “It is some time since you asked your last question, but I suppose you would like an answer. Considering my experience as your mother, I have no desire to become your sister-in-law.”

As his mother closed the door Count Napier sprang to his feet and began whistling the melody of a French chanson. “I may have a bad temper, but I think I know where I got it,” he muttered, as he made his way to the stables.

His favorite saddle-horse, Apollo, was soon ready, and making a cut at the stable-boy with his whip to reward him for his tardiness, and bestowing another upon the animal to show him that a master held the reins, he dashed off towards Ajaccio.

When he returned, several hours later, the fire of his mother’s wrath, to a great extent, had burned out. She was in a more complacent mood and asked, naturally: “Where have you been, Napier?”

“Perhaps Apollo could tell you. I really cannot remember.”

He went up to his room.

The night of the same day brought little sleep to the eyes of Vivienne Batistelli. She would doze, and in the half-sleep came unpleasant dreams. A dozen times during the night she was led to the altar by Count Mont d’Oro, but just as the words were to be spoken which would have united their lives forever, he changed into the form of a dragon, or something equally frightful, and she awoke with a scream to find herself in bed, her heart beating violently, and the room filled with shadows which carried almost as much terror to her heart as the visions which she had seen in her dreams.

At last her mental torture became unbearable. She arose and dressed herself. Drawing aside the heavy curtains, she saw that the sun was nearly up. She went into the garden. The dew lay thick upon the grass. She knelt down upon the green carpet. How cool it seemed to her hands, which were burning as with fire. She walked along one of the paths and the cool morning breeze refreshed her. Hearing the sound of a spade against a rock, she turned into a side path.

“It’s early ye are in gettin’ up,” said Terence, the gardener. “Ye may belave me or not, but whin ye turned into the path I thought the sun was up for sure.”

Vivienne could not help smiling. “Ah, Terence, you are a great flatterer, like all of your countrymen. Do you say such pretty things to Snodine, your wife?”

“Well, I did before we wuz married and some time afther, but to spake the truth, I sometimes think that Snodine’s good-nature sun has set and I’m afeared it’ll never come up again.”

“Oh,” said Vivienne, “Snodine is not such a bad wife. She has a sharp tongue, to be sure.”

“Ah, ah, that she has; and if she wud only use it in the garden instid of on me, your brother would not have to buy so many spades.”

Vivienne was not disposed to continue the conversation, and after walking to the end of a long path, made her way back without again coming in contact with Terence. As she approached the house she found that her old nurse, Clarine, was up. She must have seen Vivienne, for she threw open the window of her room, on the ground floor, and gave the young girl a cheery good-morning.

“May I come in?” asked Vivienne.

Clarine ran to open the door, and as Vivienne entered she took the young girl in her arms and kissed her. “Can you come in? You know you can. Whenever you wish to see Clarine, you may always come without the asking. I served your father and your grandfather, and I will serve you as long as I live,” and the old lady made a curtsy to intensify the effect of her words.

“I want to talk with you, Clarine,” said Vivienne. “I am in great trouble.”

“Trouble!” cried Clarine. “There is enough trouble falling upon the house of Batistelli without its being visited upon your innocent head. What is the matter, darling?” and she drew the young girl towards her. “But we cannot talk here. Come to my room, and we will sit down and you can tell me all about it.”

“Why,” exclaimed Vivienne, as they entered the room, “Old Manassa is here.”

“Yes,” said Clarine, “the very minute I am dressed he insists upon coming in and sitting in that arm-chair. I suppose if I gave it to him he would not be so anxious to visit me, but I won’t do it. It belonged to your grandfather. I was taken sick once and he sent the chair to me because it was so comfortable. When I got better he gave it to me and nothing would induce me to part with it, or even let it go out of my sight. But don’t worry about him, Vivienne, for he is sound asleep.”

With her head pillowed upon the breast of her old nurse, who had been a mother to her so far as it lay in her power, Vivienne told of her interview with her brother, and how determined he was that she should marry Count Mont d’Oro.

“Oh, what shall I do, Clarine?”

The old nurse pursed her lips and shook her head wisely. “Become engaged to him. Engagements and marriages are two different things, Vivienne.”

“Oh, I could not do that, Clarine. I could not make a promise that I did not intend to keep.”

“I would not ask you to,” said Clarine. “You can intend to keep it, but circumstances may prevent you.”

Then Vivienne told of the fearful dreams she had had during the night.

“Oh, I can never do it,” she cried. “I will never marry Count Mont d’Oro. They say, do they not, Clarine, that Manuel Della Coscia killed my father?”

“All Corsica believes it,” said Clarine, and she crossed herself reverently.

“Now, listen, Clarine; if the son of Manuel Della Coscia asked my hand in marriage, I would give it to him as soon as to Count Napier.”

Old Manassa had been leaning upon the head of his heavy stick. It fell from his hands to the floor with a crash.

“Why, what was that?” he cried. “Didn’t I hear somebody talking? I thought I heard the name of Manuel Della Coscia.”

“Nonsense, Manassa!” cried Clarine. “You have been at your old trick of dreaming and then waking up and thinking your dream was real. Now, go right to sleep again. You cannot have your breakfast for an hour yet.”

“I am sure he heard everything that we have said,” Vivienne whispered in Clarine’s ear.

“Oh, no, he is always like that, but even if he did hear, I will convince him that he dreamt it.”

“Come into the garden, Clarine. I do not wish to say anything that can be overheard.”

At some distance from the house they sat upon a bench beneath the drooping branches of a tree which formed a natural arbour.

“I have something to tell you, Vivienne,” said Clarine. “I had a dream, too, last night, but there is a good thing about my dreams—they always come true—and it was about you.”

“My fate must have been pleasanter than it is likely to be,” said Vivienne, “judging from your manner.”

“Listen, Vivienne,” said Clarine, “you can judge for yourself. I thought you were betrothed to a man whom you did not love and you were very unhappy; then a stranger came; he was young and handsome and your heart went out to him. He met Count Mont d’Oro and they quarrelled—they fought—the Count was killed and you married the stranger.”

“How foolish, Clarine! But you know they say dreams go by contraries.”

As they walked back to the house, Clarine said: “Take my advice, Vivienne, and tell the Count that you will marry him. You must trust in the One above. Your Heavenly Father doeth all things well—if it is to be, it will be.”

Old Manassa had not been sleeping. He had overheard what had passed between Vivienne and her nurse. Immediately after they had gone into the garden, he made his way to his master’s room. He found Pascal Batistelli alone.

“Ah, this is a sad day for the house of Batistelli,” he cried. “She is unworthy of the name.”

“Why, what has happened now?” asked Pascal.

“I heard her say it—your sister Vivienne.”

“Heard her say what?” cried Pascal. “Why don’t you speak out and not stand mumbling there?”

“I heard her say that she would as soon marry the son of Manuel Della Coscia as give her hand to Count Mont d’Oro. It is true. I heard it. I swear I did.”

Pascal took a silver coin from his purse and threw it towards Manassa.

“I see, you must be out of tobacco; but keep your eyes shut and your ears open and tell me all you hear. Is your gin bottle empty yet?”

“Not quite,” said Manassa.

“I am obliged to you for telling me what you heard,” said Pascal, “but go now; I am busy.”

The old man shambled towards the door. As he went out he muttered to himself: “She is unworthy of the name of Batistelli.”

Some hours later Vivienne was again walking in the garden. She knew that the Count was coming to see her—she knew what he was going to say—she knew what her answer was expected to be. She determined that the interview should not take place within-doors. Since talking with Clarine, she had prayed fervently for Heavenly guidance, and it seemed to her that it would come more quickly, more directly, if she were in the garden with the trees, the flowers, and the birds about her, and the blue sky overhead.

The greater part of Vivienne’s education had been drawn from nature. She had learned little from books or from contact with others. Her life had been circumscribed in many ways, and such a life makes one introspective. The dweller in a large city who has so much to attract, to interest him and take up his time, who gets but a glimpse of the sky between the house-tops, becomes superficial and does little deep thinking; but one who lives in the country, largely apart from his fellow man, who sees the wide expanse of heaven every day, feels as though he were closer to the Great Power—thinks more of the future and looks searchingly into his own heart, seeking to determine his probable fate when his good deeds and bad deeds, his sins of omission and commission, are scanned by the great Judge.

“And how is Mademoiselle Batistelli this beautiful morning?” asked Count Napier.

Vivienne, startled from her reverie, quickly decided that he should not come to the point at once. She knew his forceful manner of speech, and determined not to allow her heart to be carried by storm. She answered:

“I am not well—not sick, but worried. Julien was out all night. What will the end be?”

“Oh, he’ll get married some time and settle down.”

“And who would have him—a drunkard? I should pity her from the bottom of my heart.”

“You look at the matter too seriously,” said the Count. “Most men are drunkards—some with wine, some with women, but more with love. I was talking to your brother Pascal yesterday about our future.”

Vivienne clasped her hands and looked into his face, appealingly.

“We can have no future together, Count Mont d’Oro; I do not love you.”

“Well, as to that,” cried the Count, jauntily, “neither do I love you, but I respect and admire you.”

The appealing look left Vivienne’s face; in its place came an expression of determination.

“I wish to be loved—by my husband.”

“You must have been reading English novels,” said the Count. “In them you will find the word ‘home,’ but we have nothing like it in French. It may be that the word ‘love’ has no exact counterpart in our language. You must be content, as most Frenchwomen are, with the love of your children.”

“No, no,” cried Vivienne. “If they are not the offspring of love, they will have no love. It is too great a risk.”

“We must take risks in this life,” said the Count. “I will take you to Paris with me. You can enjoy yourself there; it is so different from this dull, sleepy place.”

He had tried the old form of temptation. By it Faust had won Marguerite; but Vivienne was made of sterner stuff.

“I care nothing for Paris or its sinful life; your mother has told me of it. I love my home—every stone in this old castle is dear to me, and my heart will always be here.”

“Ah,” said the Count, “I understand you. Your husband must be content to live here and never go to Paris.”

“If he loves me as I shall love him, he will be content to stay here with me.”

Count Napier Mont d’Oro felt sure that his mother intended to cut off his allowance when he became the husband of Vivienne; in fact, she might do so even if that event did not take place. Thrown upon his own resources, he knew his only means of existence would be the gambling-table. He was wild, ungovernable, criminal in many ways, but he did not look forward with unmixed pleasure to a sinful life. He was honest with himself in that he knew he thought more of the rich Batistelli estates than of the fair young girl who bore the name. He thoroughly believed in laissez-faire. His philosophy was very much like that of Clarine; take a step that does not exactly please you and trust that fate will so order your future that you will not be obliged to take another like it.

Apparently dropping conversation on the subject uppermost in their minds, he said: “I am going back to Paris, but for a little while only. I have some business matters there to attend to—I mean to close up. Then I am coming back to Corsica to settle down. After all, I think you are right; Parisian life is like fireworks—there is a snap and a go and a very pretty sight for a few minutes, and then it is all over. But the life of a country gentleman is solid and substantial. What more can a man ask in this world than a faithful and trusting wife and beautiful and loving children? As these pictures pass before my eyes, I know which one is the best and which is better for me, but before I go I wish to be sure of something that will overcome all temptation to stay in Paris, something to bring me back. You know, sometimes the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

“Your mother,” uttered Vivienne.

“No, yourself,” cried the Count.

“But you do not love me!”

“I have said that I did not, but I will say more—I love no one else.”

Vivienne was in a quandary. What should she do? Her own mind seemed powerless to direct her, and almost in a state of despair she recalled the advice Clarine had given.

Forcing a smile she turned towards the Count. “If I promise to marry you, Count, if before I become yours you see another whom you will love, will you come to me and tell me? No, no, I will not ask that; but if I learn that you do love some one else, it is understood and agreed that the knowledge of that fact will free me from the carrying out of my promise?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Count, “I agree to that willingly; it is but fair that I should.” He took her hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed it. “This is the bond,” he cried; “you are to be mine. I am the happiest man in Corsica.”

“Do not say that,” cried Vivienne. “You have no right to utter those words until I look into your face and say that I am the happiest woman in Corsica.”

Shortly after Vivienne had given her promise to the Count, he made his way to her brother.

“It is all right,” he cried. “It was a hard fight, but my eloquence won; she has promised to be my wife.”

“But when?” asked Pascal.

“Oh, I did not go so far as to fix the date. That is usually left to the lady, you know.”

“But it must be soon,” said Pascal. “There are weighty reasons.”

The Count thought of his mother’s reference to his allowance. “Yes, there are,” he replied. “We must use our combined eloquence to fix the marriage for an early day.”

In the afternoon, while walking in the garden, Pascal met Old Manassa.

“She has promised to marry him. Manassa, you are an old fool. You should have been in your grave long ago.”

The old man straightened up; his eyes flashed. “I shall not die until I see Manuel Della Coscia, who murdered your father, weltering in his own blood.”

CHAPTER III.

“PYLADES AND ORESTES.”

“Yes,” cried Jack, oblivious of his friend’s remark, “the whole picture comes back to me so vividly. What an idiot that fellow was to run into her boat—and then he was going to let her drown because he could not swim. He was near enough to row up and pull her into his boat when she came up the first time. Of course I had to swim for it, and dive too. I think a man who cannot steer a boat and cannot swim should stay on land.”

“Those are my sentiments—exactly,” remarked Victor.

The recalling of the event—the rescue from drowning of Miss Bertha Renville by Mr. Jack De Vinne—had such an effect upon the young man that he was in a very excitable condition.

“You might have been the one, Vic, to have saved her instead of me. To be fair about it we should have drawn lots, but, as you say, there was no time to lose. Although the affair happened a month ago, it seems as though it were but yesterday. It seemed a profanation, but we had to treat her just as though she were a man instead of a woman. You ran to get a trap and we took her to the tavern and called a doctor, then, when she was once more herself, we drove to Buckholme with her.”

“You’ve got it by heart,” said Victor. “Do you remember as well what took place at Buckholme? How delighted Clarence was and the half-hearted thanks of Mr. Glynne, Miss Renville’s guardian? What a roly-poly sort of a man he is.

“I was not taken with his outward appearance, and if I am any sort of a judge of human nature, I should say that he houses a bad heart within that portly frame.”

“I must confess, Vic, that I did not notice the man much. I was thinking of her; how close she had been to death, and how glad I was to have been the means of saving her life. I will be honest with you, Vic, and own up—I am in love with her. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and I want to ask your advice. What do you know about me, Victor?”

Victor Duquesne leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Well, Jack, I know that you are the second son of an earl—I really do not know his full title—but in England, you know, the second son of an earl is a mere nobody if his elder brother enjoys good health.”

“You have hit it just right, Victor,” said Jack. “I am really a nobody; that’s why I went into the Navy, but I hope you won’t take that remark as a personal reflection. There are a great many smart men in the Navy, and you are one of them.”

“Thanks, Jack. We are and always have been the best of friends. I hope I shall serve my king faithfully and well, and be worthy of your good opinion. But I fancy you are going to tell me something about yourself, for some reason or other known to you, but at the present time, unknown to me.”

“Well, listen,” said Jack. “I am the second son of the Earl of Noxton. My father obtained considerable reputation in a political way when he was Lord De Vinne, and although ten years have passed since he succeeded to the Earldom, he prefers, for some reason or other, to be known as Lord De Vinne. Even my mother thinks that ‘Lady De Vinne’ is a prouder title than ‘Countess Noxton.’ My father’s name is Carolus. I think he has told me at least a hundred times how one of his ancestors came over with William of Normandy, and the name Carolus has always been borne by the heir to the title.”

“I agree with your father and mother,” said Victor. “I should prefer a title which I had won or upon which I had conferred some honour, rather than one simply bequeathed to me.”

Jack continued: “My mother was a poor girl and, they say, very beautiful. She can bring forward neither of her sons, however, as evidence of that fact. Her name is Caroline. I have sometimes fancied that its similarity to Carolus had no small influence with my father. Now, to come to the point. My brother Carolus, who is five years older than I, is engaged to Lady Angeline Ashmont. He has been an invalid for some years and is now in Germany, taking the baths.”

“A temporary illness, I hope,” said Victor.

“I do not know,” said Jack. “He has been a great student, and instead of riding horseback and hunting and swimming, as I have done all my life, he stayed cooped up in his den working, I believe, on the genealogy of the family. He is as thin as a rail and as white as a ghost.”

“He has been overworking,” suggested Victor.

“Perhaps so,” said Jack; “time thrown away, I have always told him. When he inherits, which will be some years from now, for my paternal is as tough as a knot, I suppose I shall have a small allowance from him. I shall go into the Navy for a few years—maybe for life. I wish we could go on the same ship.”

“So do I,” said Victor.

The two young men were old friends; they had attended the same schools together, and together had received their naval training. Their regard for each other had been so marked that their fellows had dubbed them “Pylades and Orestes.” Neither had been called upon to suffer or die for the other, but the tie that bound them was so strong that, had it been put to the test, either would have proved himself worthy of his ancient namesake.

Jack gave a long, deep sigh.

“What’s the matter, Jack?” asked Victor. “Are you thinking of Miss Renville?”

“No, Victor, of you. What happy years we have passed together; and now our ways part. You have forged ahead of me and are now a lieutenant, while I—poor Jack—with inferior ability, have to be content with lower rank! You deserve the good fortune, Vic, but your friends must have great influence with the Admiralty.”

“I have no friends,” said Victor; “only one—you, Jack. The reason for my appointment is as inexplicable to me as it is to you. Of course I had a mother, but my father never spoke of her. I have not seen him for twelve years—since I was ten years old, when he put me to school—the one where I first met you. My expenses have been paid, but no word of any kind has come from him.”

“He is a man of mystery,” said Jack, “but nearly all mysteries are cleared up in time, and I have no doubt yours will be. By the way, what is the name of Sir Hugh’s flagship?”

“Strange, is it not, Jack, she is called the Orestes; so you see I shall have a constant reminder of our past friendship.”

“‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot,’” hummed Jack. Then he cried: “Come, Victor, we must go back to first principles; say yes or no—will you come to Buckholme with me?”

Victor hesitated. “Well—perhaps. Do you know, I have thought, Jack, that Mr. Glynne may have spoken to the Admiralty about me. You know he is in the iron and steel trade and is brought into business relations with them. Yes, I will go. I will try to find out whether he had anything to do with it. If he had, although he does remind me of a small elephant every time I look at him, I will give him a credit mark for his kindness.”

The conversation just narrated took place at Victor Duquesne’s apartments in London. As he had told Jack, his bills had been paid regularly and his allowance had not been a niggardly one. This enabled him to have a sitting-room and a chamber, and he could have afforded a valet had he been so disposed.

“You must not back out of your promise, Victor,” said Jack, as he extended his hand; “shake! That settles it. You are booked for Buckholme.”

“And you for Bertha,” said Victor, and they both laughed.

At that moment there was a light tap on the door.

“Come in,” cried the two young men together.

The door was opened for a short distance and the face of an untidy maid-of-all-work, with unkempt hair, appeared.

“Come in,” again cried Victor.

“I don’t care to,” said the slavey. “I don’t look well enough, and Mrs. Launders said if I dared go in she’d give it to me when I got back.”

“What do you want?” asked Victor, somewhat impatiently.

“I’ve got a letter for you,” said Sarah, the slavey, “and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll throw it in and you can pick it up.”

Suiting the action to the word, the letter flew high in the air and then fell to the floor. Sarah slammed the door, and her heavy boots were heard clattering upon the stairs all the way down.

Victor sprang forward and picked up the letter. He looked first at the postmark. “Ajaccio,” he cried. “It is from Corsica. I am not acquainted with any person there.” He held the sealed letter in his hand and regarded it.

“Never fool with a letter,” cried Jack. “Cut it open, tear it open, and know the best or worst as soon as possible. To me, a man who is afraid to open a letter is like a gambler who is uncertain whether to stake his last shilling or not.”

“This is my letter, Jack, and I propose to regard the outside of it as long as I choose before perusing its contents.”

Although the words had a sharpness in them, there was a look in Victor’s eye as he spoke which robbed them of any intention to offend.

“All right, old boy,” said Jack. “Don’t let me hurry you. Why not leave it on your table until you get back from Buckholme? My father is a man of wisdom. He has a large correspondence, but he never gets ready to answer his letters until they are about six months old. During that time he says half of them have been answered by the course of events, and it is too late to answer the others; so in that way he has not gained a very wide reputation as a letter-writer.”

Victor broke the seal, unfolded the sheet, and spread it carefully on the table before him. Reading it through quickly, he cried:

“Jack listen to this: