“My Dear Victor: Come to Corsica at once. When you reach Ajaccio, I will communicate with you secretly by messenger. Hear all, but say nothing. See Admiral Enright and sail with him on the Osprey.
“Your father,
“Hector Duquesne.”
Victor laid the letter upon the table, and as he brought his hand down forcibly upon it, he cried: “Now, what does that mean, Jack?”
“It’s just as plain as the nose on your face, Victor. It was your father who got the appointment for you. Tom Ratcliffe is going with Enright, who is ordered to cruise in the Mediterranean. Corsica, unless my geographical knowledge is twisted, is in the Mediterranean; so you see your father has fixed things all right.”
Victor sprang to his feet “Then I must see Enright at once. Whether I go to Buckholme or not depends upon when he sails.”
That evening Victor was at Jack’s rooms.
“I have got my transfer, Jack,” he cried as he entered the room.
“Lucky boy,” was Jack’s comment, “everything goes your way.”
“I don’t think it would have,” said Victor, “but upon one occasion when Admiral Enright visited the Naval Academy, he was accompanied by his daughter, Miss Helen. For some reason or other, probably on account of my well-known affability, I was detailed to escort her and show her the great attractions of the Academy. I could not find him to-day at the Admiralty and was obliged to go to his house. I met Miss Helen, and I am sure it was her influence that carried the day. We sail on Monday. To-day is Thursday; so you see, my dear Jack, Buckholme becomes an impossibility.”
“Then I must go alone,” said Jack. After another long sigh: “My fate lies there—I love Bertha Renville, and I know, if an opportunity offers, that I shall ask her to be my wife.”
“Do you leave early in the morning?” asked Victor.
“Yes, by the 7.30. I wish to get there early, for I shall ask her to go boating with me. There is no place like a boat for propounding momentous questions. Nobody to watch you, and only the little fishes to overhear what you say.”
“Well, Jack,” said Victor, as their hands met at parting, “you have my best wishes and my sincerest hopes for your happiness and success in life.”
“The same to you, old boy,” cried Jack.
They spoke no more, but when they stood by the open door, as though prompted by some instinct which they could not resist, they threw their arms about each other and stood for a moment in a brotherly embrace.
Victor ran swiftly down the stairs and walked homeward so fast that his fellow pedestrians looked after him, some with curiosity and others with suspicion.
Jack threw himself into an arm-chair, lighted his pipe, and smoked unremittingly for an hour.
The next morning he was not surprised to find that he had gone to bed without extinguishing the gas.
CHAPTER IV.
“BUCKHOLME.”
Jack De Vinne, with all the impatience of youth, was at the railway station half an hour before the starting time of the train which was to bear him to the woman he loved. He walked impatiently up and down the platform. Finally, he accosted a guard. “When will the Reading train be in?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” replied the man. “Sometimes it’s early, and sometimes it’s late, and sometimes it’s just on time.”
Jack thanked the man for the valuable information and resumed his walk. His next act was to buy a morning paper and tuck it beneath the straps of his valise. Never did time pass so slowly. He was sure it must be half-past seven, but upon looking at his watch he found that he had been in the station only ten minutes.
While standing uncertain, irresolute, dissatisfied, a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder, and turning quickly, he met the gaze of Victor Duquesne.
“Why, what brought you here, old boy?” he exclaimed.
“A fool’s errand, I suppose you will say, when I tell you what I came for. I was up early this morning, and the thought came to me that I had not told you to write to me if anything important occurred. Send the letter to Ajaccio, Island of Corsica. I do not know how long we shall stay at Malta, but from something I heard Helen say to her father, I think there is some reason for the Admiral’s visiting Corsica as soon as possible after his arrival in the Mediterranean. I select Ajaccio, because the letter will go direct by French post.”
“Glad you told me,” said Jack. “I write about two letters a year, and the chances are I should have addressed yours care of the Mediterranean Sea, and should have expected it to find you. I’m mighty glad to see you, too. I feel as though I had been waiting here a couple of hours,” he looked at his watch again, “but it has been only fifteen minutes. Ah, here’s the train now. Well, good-bye, old boy. Remember I am always your Pylades.”
“And I am your Orestes,” declared Victor. “Perhaps the time may come when one or both of us may be called upon to show the depth of friendship that lies in him.”
Once more the men shook hands. Then Jack grasped his luggage, which was of small compass, and made his way to a seat in a first-class carriage.
For some time after the train started, Jack sat pre-occupied with his thoughts. The word “thought” would be more correct, for he had but one, and that was of Bertha Renville. How would she receive him? Had he been deceived by the manner in which Clarence had extended the invitation? Did Mr. Thomas Glynne really wish him to come to Buckholme? He framed question after question in his mind, but to none could he supply a satisfactory answer. He pulled the morning paper from under the strap of his valise and looked listlessly at one page after another. He was not interested in the Court Calendar, for, beautiful as she was, he could not expect to find Bertha’s name there. The business and the financial columns were passed unheeded. He started to read an editorial, but after glancing at the first few lines, crumpled the paper in his hand and looked out of the window.
It was a beautiful morning and nature was in her fairest garb. As the train passed through well-known places, memories came back to him of many happy times passed there with his friend Victor. But Jack was not an ardent lover of nature, and he soon turned again to the newspaper.
A headline caught his eye: “Attempted Robbery at Brixton, Strange Death of the Burglar.” The caption was so attractive that Jack read the article through:
“A Mrs. Elizabeth Nason, widow, living on Oad Street, Brixton, was awakened early yesterday morning by the loud cackling of the fowls in her hennery, a small out-building in the rear of the house. She lives alone, her only protector being a large mastiff, which she kept within-doors at night. Upon hearing the commotion she went to the window and, peeping between the curtains, saw that a man had broken open the door of the hennery, had strangled a number of the fowls, which lay upon the turf beside him, and was endeavouring to secure others. She went quietly downstairs, called to the dog that was asleep in the kitchen, and opening the side door, led him into the garden. She bolted the door again, ran quickly upstairs, and looked out to see what would take place.
“The dog, knowing what was expected of him, ran towards the man, with jaws distended. A terrific battle between man and dog then took place, the following description of which was given to our reporter by Mrs. Nason:
“The man sprang to his feet, and Mrs. Nason saw, what she had not at first observed, that he had with him a large umbrella. As the dog sprang at him, the man grasped the umbrella by both ends and forced it, laterally, between the dog’s jaws. True to his nature, the dog shut his teeth firmly upon it. The man was of small stature, slight in build, and was thrown to the ground by the impact. That fall, undoubtedly, saved his life, for the time being, at least, for his hand came in contact with a heavy oaken bar which had been used to fasten the hennery door. While the dog was busily engaged trying to disengage his teeth from the umbrella, into which they had been firmly set, the man sprang to his feet and dealt the dog a stunning blow with the stick. The dog soon rallied, however, and the man, apparently fearing another attack, became frenzied, drew from his pocket a clasp knife with a blade fully six inches in length, and stabbed the animal viciously in both eyes. The maddened dog rose upon his hind legs, preparatory to springing upon his assailant, who improved the opportunity to stab the dog in the throat.
“Mrs. Nason could bear the scene no longer and turned from the window. Recovering her self-possession, she looked again and saw the man lying face downward, the body of the dog beneath him.
“She ran from the house to that of a neighbour, a Mr. Abraham Dowse, who, arming himself with a pitchfork, accompanied her to the scene of the conflict. He found that both man and dog were dead. The police were then called.
“The man was shabbily dressed, had no money upon his person, and the only means of identification was a letter addressed to Alberto Cordoni. The letter was postmarked Ajaccio and was more than six months old. It read as follows:
“A. C. You have been in London now for more than a year, but to no avail. If you had found any trace of Manuel Della Coscia, I would be willing to give you ten times what you have already received; but I shall send you no more money until you give me some proof that you are on his track.
“The letter itself was without date or signature. The body of the man, who was apparently an Italian or Corsican, was taken in charge by the police.”
“What a bloodthirsty set those Corsicans are,” said Jack to himself. “I wonder why Victor’s father wants him to go to that God-forsaken country. When I get back to London I will send this paper to Victor,” and he folded and replaced it beneath the straps of his valise.
The train was now approaching Windsor, the abode of royalty. Although Jack had the blood of the aristocracy in his veins, he was not interested in either castle or park. His thoughts were several miles beyond.
There was one place through which he was to pass which one cannot visit unmoved. Jack looked earnestly from the window. Yes, there it was, the village church of Stoke Pogis, and close to it the churchyard in which Gray wrote his immortal Elegy.
Jack was not a great lover of poetry, for, as he had expressed himself, “translating Greek poetry into English verse is enough to make a man sick of it for life.” But Victor had admired the elegy and had read it aloud several times to Jack, who now recalled one of the stanzas:
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
It is strange what unexpected comparisons lovers will make. He did not think of Bertha as being a gem in some ocean cave, but the thought did occur to him that it was not just the thing for so beautiful a girl to lived unnoticed in the little town of Maidenhead when the frequenters of London drawing-rooms would have gone wild over her and where she would be the belle of the season. Then the thought came to him that he did not wish her to be the belle of the season; he wished her to be his, his only, thus adding another proof to the adage that true love is selfish, which selfishness, carried to extremes, becomes the green-eyed monster, jealousy.
Jack leaned back in his seat and began wondering what his future would be. His life could not fail to be happy if Bertha promised to be his wife. Should he become a statesman, as had his father, or—but he would not think of that now.
He could see the great stone bridge which spans the Thames at Maidenhead, forming a means of communication between the County of Berkshire and that of Buckingham. Then he remembered that he had read of the old wooden bridge which spanned the river, and how the Duke of Surrey and the followers of Richard II. had at that bridge held the soldiers of Henry IV. at bay for hours, and then made a safe retreat.
They were nearing the station. Jack’s heart gave a great jump. Yes, that was the place where Miss Renville’s boat had been run down and capsized, and there she would have met her death had it not been for—yes, Fate must have willed that he should be there in time to save her.
Mr. Thomas Glynne, who, with his son, Clarence, a young man of twenty-four, formed the firm known in the city as Walmonth & Company, iron and steel merchants, was a short, thick-set man, with a round face and an expression of the utmost geniality. While business manager for Walmonth & Company he had lived, as he expressed it, “in smoky, dirty London,” but after becoming head of the firm, he made up his mind to have a country residence. He had looked North, South, East, and West before fixing upon a location, and finally decided to make his home in the little town of Maidenhead, the scenery surrounding which is picturesque and beautiful. Here he built a house of the conventional type, to which he had given the name of “Buckholme.” Had he been asked why he had thus named it, he probably would have replied: “Do you know anybody who has a house with that name?”
Some fourteen years before, when Mr. Glynne was about forty, the house of Walmonth & Company was in financial straits. Mr. Glynne, who had gone to Paris on business connected with the firm, was suddenly recalled by an urgent telegram, and on his return to London, the senior member of the house, Mr. Jonas Walmonth, informed him that the firm was unable to meet its obligations and would be forced to assign. This action was averted, however, for by some means, unknown to Mr. Jonas Walmonth and his brother Ezra, Mr. Glynne raised sufficient money to pay the outstanding liabilities and thus secured a controlling interest in the firm. The two Walmonth brothers were old bachelors, and two years after Mr. Glynne became the “Co.,” Ezra died suddenly of heart disease, while Jonas, broken in body and mind, was sent to a sanatorium from which he never emerged. No heirs came to claim the third interest belonging to the Walmonth brothers, and Mr. Glynne did not take special pains to find any. When his son Clarence became of age he was taken into the firm. He showed great aptitude for the business, and during the past year the senior partner had made few visits to the city. “What’s the use?” he said. “I have been in the traces for more than thirty years; the business runs itself, and all that Clarence has to do is to fill orders and collect bills. Besides, I see him once a week, and if he wants my advice, I am always ready to give it.”
Thomas Glynne had two passions; one was his love of flowers, and the other, the greater one, his love of money. Amply favoured as to the latter, he found great enjoyment in gratifying his love for floriculture. Visitors came from far and near to view the beautiful plants in his greenhouses and conservatory. It was a mystery to his associates in the trade as to how he had become possessed of enough money to buy out the Walmonth Brothers, build his beautiful house, and spend such extravagant sums for orchids and other rare plants.
It was no mystery to Mr. Thomas Glynne. He could have told them, had he wished, that when in Paris, at the time the urgent telegram was sent him by his employers, he had met with a most wonderful experience.
An English gentleman named Oscar Renville was engaged in the iron and steel business in Paris, and it was with him that Mr. Glynne, representing the Walmonth Brothers, transacted a very large business and with whom he was on most intimate terms of friendship. Mr. Renville was a widower, as was Mr. Glynne, for both had lost their wives a few years after marriage. Mr. Renville had one child, a beautiful little girl named Bertha.
One afternoon Mr. Glynne had gone to Mr. Renville’s office on business, and found the establishment in a state of great excitement. Mr. Renville had been stricken with apoplexy, and the clerks were debating what they should do, at the time of Mr. Glynne’s arrival. There was nothing undecided about Mr. Glynne. Mr. Renville was placed in a carriage and Mr. Glynne accompanied him home; nor did he leave his friend until he saw his body placed at rest in Père la Chaise.
Shortly before his death, Mr. Renville had made and signed a will by which Mr. Thomas Glynne was constituted the guardian of his only child and heiress, and given full control of her property until the time of her marriage.
Had Mr. Glynne’s associates in trade known this fact, it would, probably, have relieved the feeling of wonderment they entertained concerning his financial transactions.
It also evidences the fact that Mr. Glynne had no difficulty in satisfying his passion for flowers. He, however, did have some difficulty, or feared that he might have, in satisfying his love for money.
He knew that he was in undisputed possession of Bertha’s fortune, which amounted to about £40,000. But what was he to do when Bertha married and he was obliged to transfer the fortune to its rightful owner? There was one point in his favour, and a great one. Neither Bertha nor any one else knew that she had a fortune; but the fact might come out at some time or other, and Thomas Glynne, being a bad man at heart, was in wholesome fear of the law, which he knew dealt rigorously with those who betrayed a trust such as he had accepted.
He had formed three plans which would enable him to keep the money under his control. The first was to bring about a marriage between Bertha and his son Clarence. The second plan, in case the first proved impossible, was to prevent her marrying any one else. The third plan, if she persisted in forming a matrimonial alliance, was to keep possession of the property in some other way, and Mr. Glynne had not decided in his own mind just what that “other way” might be. “It would depend upon circumstances,” he said to himself.
Jack De Vinne thought Bertha Renville was beautiful, and she was, judged by the English standard. She was tall and lithe, perfect in form; with glossy hair of a golden tint; blue eyes; cheeks with a touch of pink that enhanced their whiteness, and a Cupid’s bow of a mouth, which was usually the home of a bewitching smile. Such a woman as men become heroes for; such a woman, for love of whom, men have died in misery.
When the train drew up at the little station, Jack at once caught sight of Clarence’s smiling face, and a moment later he was the recipient of a hearty greeting.
“I do not usually come down until Saturday,” said Clarence, “but as I had invited you to become our guest, I arranged matters in the City so that I can stay with you until Monday.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Jack. “I am rather bashful, you know, Mr. Glynne, and I’m afraid if you had not been here I should have felt like—like—a cat in a strange garret, you know.”
“That’s a very good simile,” remarked Clarence. “By comparing yourself to a cat, I suppose you are looking for a mouse.”
Jack smiled. What did the young man mean? Although he did not speak outright, his looks and words seemed to indicate that he thought Jack was interested in Miss Renville, and Jack had told Victor some things which led him to think that the young lady was more interested in his visit than either the young man or his father.
The night before Jack’s arrival at Buckholme, Mr. Thomas Glynne had informed his son that he wished to have a talk with him in the library after dinner.
Clarence had entered the apartment smoking a cigarette. His father was sitting at a beautifully carved and finely inlaid table.
“Throw that horrible-smelling thing away, Clarence. You know I detest cigarettes.”
“I know you do,” said Clarence, “but I like them. I never smoke during business hours and only one or two after dinner. I know it is a vice, but it is a mild one, and everybody is cognisant of it. There are men who have greater vices, but they conceal them from the public gaze. To oblige you, however, I will forego the pleasure it gives me,” and he threw it into the fireplace.
The father lost no time in bringing the subject he had in mind to his son’s attention.
“You know I am a business man, Clarence, and what I’ve got to say I say right out. I have said it before and to-night I am going to say it again. I want you to marry Bertha Renville.”
“There are only two objections to such a course,” said Clarence, coolly. “In the first place, I do not love her, and in the second place I am sure she would not have me if I did.”
“You love money, don’t you?” asked the father, sharply.
“Not for itself,” said Clarence. “I have no miserly instincts of which I am aware. I will acknowledge, however, that I love what money will buy.”
“Supposing I told you,” said the father, “that this marriage was absolutely necessary for financial reasons; that the firm was so deeply involved that it must assign unless more capital is secured at once; what would you say to that?”
Clarence smiled grimly, and there was a sarcastic turn to his lip as he replied: “Well, father, to speak honestly, I should think you had been reading some popular novel, and had learned that portion of it by heart which you have just now repeated. I am led to think this to be the case because the house of Walmonth Brothers, of which I have the honour to be the junior partner, has ten thousand pounds in the bank, with fully twenty thousand pounds in bills receivable, and no large bills payable. So you see, father, the extract from the popular novel is not applicable to our case at all.”
Thomas Glynne arose from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, a favourite position of his, and walked up and down for some time without speaking. Then he opened the door of one of the bookcases and took down a volume which showed marks of great usage. He approached his son and said, solemnly:
“Clarence, this is your mother’s Bible. I am going to tell you something, but you must swear on this book that you will keep what I am going to say to you a secret as long as I wish you to.”
“I dislike secrets,” said Clarence, “and I do not like to take an oath. I will promise not to mention what you say to me, and with me such a promise is as binding and sacred as an oath.”
Mr. Glynne laid the book on the table. “Well, I believe you, Clarence, but remember, I look upon your promise as though it had been an oath.” Then after a pause, “Did I ever tell you that my ward, Bertha Renville, is a rich woman?”
“Well, no,” said Clarence. “You have never treated her as though she was. Her allowance has been quite moderate and, to tell the truth, I have given her considerable money myself when I knew that she wished certain things, and told me that she could not afford to buy them. No, I never had any idea that she was a rich woman. I always supposed that her father was a poor man, but your friend, and that you, with your well-known kindness of heart, had provided for her out of your own bounty.”
“Well,” said Mr. Glynne, “I am glad that has been your opinion, and I mean that the rest of the world shall continue to think so. Now, I am going to tell you the truth. The money with which I bought out the firm of Walmonth Brothers—the money with which I built this house—in fact all the money I have used to satisfy my, as you know, fastidious tastes, in reality belongs to Miss Renville. By the terms of her father’s will, when she marries, I must turn over the property, with accrued interest, to her, and, of course, to her husband. Now, let me ask you the question I asked when you first came in: Will you marry her and keep this money in the family, or will you refuse to do so and lose everything—business, house——”
“Well,” said Clarence, “it seems rather a hard box to put a fellow in, but supposing she wants to marry somebody else?”
The father began to show signs of anger. The genial smile had vanished. “That’s not your business, young man. If she doesn’t marry you, she shan’t marry anybody else; I’ll look out for that.”
“Well, then,” said Clarence, “let us leave her out of the question and I will answer for myself. I am young and can work. I am sorry for you, for you are getting old and it may come hard on you; but my mind is made up. I do not love Bertha Renville, and whatever the result may be I won’t marry her.”
The usually genial Mr. Thomas Glynne became livid with rage. “We shall see about that, young man. You shall go out of the firm. I will close up the business. You are an ungrateful cub. I made life easy for you; now go out into the world and find out how hard it is to do anything for yourself.”
“That’s what I said I was willing to do,” said Clarence. “But you won’t drive me out of the firm, nor you won’t close up the business.”
The young man arose to his feet and father and son stood glaring at each other like two wild animals.
“Oh, I won’t, won’t I?” snarled Mr. Glynne. “How will you keep me from doing it?”
“Your own good sense will keep you from doing it, father,” said the young man, cooling down a little. “If you will keep still, I will do the same. There is no exigency, as I see, until there is some danger of her getting married; but if you take any steps to get me out of the firm, or to wind up the business, I shall tell Bertha.”
“But you promised you would not.”
“I know I did,” said Clarence, “but there is an old saying that a bad promise is better broken than kept. If you have told me the truth, you are entitled to invest her money and to look after it until her marriage. When that time comes you have either got to restore the property to its rightful owner or keep it yourself and become a criminal in the eyes of the law. In that case, I shall be sorry that my name is Glynne. I hope this very uncomfortable and unpleasant interview is at an end. May I be allowed to light another cigarette? My nerves are a trifle shaken by this unexpected disclosure.”
The young man suited the action to the word, blew a puff of smoke, and then said: “I suppose this is all, father. Good-night. I will keep your secret as long as you respect my rights.”
When his son had gone, Thomas Glynne clenched his fists and stamped his foot upon the library floor, but the rich Wilton was thick and gave forth no sound.
“Clarence is a fool. But she shall not marry any one else. If she dies, all will be mine. I am sorry I told him, but I trust it will bring him to terms. If he did not know it, no one would be the wiser.”
CHAPTER V.
THE EARL OF NOXTON.
Saturday morning was cloudy.
“I am so glad the sun is not shining to-day,” remarked Jack, as the little party took their seats at the breakfast table.
“Why so?” asked Bertha, and she cast an inquiring glance at the speaker.
“Because it will be so much better for fishing, and I never like to fish unless I catch something.”
“I see,” remarked Bertha, “you are a practical angler, not a political one.”
“Exactly,” said Jack. “I remember reading somewhere the definition of a person who fishes for compliments.”
“The answer to that must be a joke,” said Clarence.
Jack laughed. “Something near. I think it was this: A man who fishes for compliments is one who uses himself for bait.”
At this they laughed, Mr. Thomas Glynne the loudest of them all.
After breakfast Bertha said: “You must come with me, Mr. De Vinne, and see Guardy’s beautiful flowers. They say he has the finest greenhouses and the most beautiful conservatory in this part of England—some say, in all England.”
As they entered the conservatory, Bertha turned towards Jack and remarked: “I am sorry I cannot agree with you, Mr. De Vinne, but I wish very much that the sun was shining. Flowers never look so beautiful as when the sun falls upon them. They are always beautiful, but the sunlight makes them more so.”
They were alone and Jack grew venturesome.
“There is something else that the sun has the same effect upon,” he remarked.
“Why, what can that be?”
“A pretty girl,” answered Jack, with a laugh. “Especially if she has”—he hesitated, but decided to finish his speech—“especially if she has golden hair.”
Bertha avoided the compliment. “I have heard that it is still more effective when it falls upon a certain shade of red.”
“That may be so,” said Jack, “but my acquaintance is rather limited and I must confess I never knew a young lady with red hair.”
They walked about, Bertha extolling the beauty of the flowers and calling many of them by name.
“I do not think you love flowers as I do, Mr. De Vinne.”
“I will be honest, Miss Renville, I prefer fish. Now, could I induce you to come with me on the river this morning?”
“I am no great lover of Father Thames,” she replied. “I have been in his embrace once and it was not very pleasant.”
“They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place,” remarked Jack, “and I don’t think you are in any danger of falling overboard again. If you refuse I shall consider it as a personal reflection upon my ability as a sailor.”
“Oh, Mr. De Vinne, you must not think that I meant such a thing. It is no lack of confidence in you; it is the other fellow who doesn’t know how to manage a boat that I’m afraid of. I am a pretty good sailor myself, and I could have swum ashore that day had I not been encumbered with my dress. Women are at a great disadvantage, on account of their dress, in all sports and games.”
“Well,” said Jack, “if you object to a voyage on the briny deep, what do you say to a land trip? I have no doubt Mr. Glynne has a turnout in his stable. Do you know I am a great admirer of the poet Gray? You know he is buried at Stoke Pogis, not very far from here. I should be delighted to go there, and it will add greatly to my pleasure if you will accompany me.”
Bertha smiled archly. “I have heard that sailors make very poor landsmen and know very little about horses.”
“Oh, now, you’re joking me, Miss Renville.” A cloud passed over his face and his voice grew grave.
“Pardon me, Mr. De Vinne, I have to supply the fun for the family. Perhaps my familiarity with those whom I meet every day has led me to be wanting in the respect due to a stranger.”
“How can you call me a stranger?” cried Jack.
“Well, now,” cried Bertha, “I see that I am making a mess of it. So we had better stop just where we are. You have asked me to go to drive with you. I accept your invitation with pleasure.”
When they arrived at Stoke Pogis, Jack tied the horse to a convenient hitching-post and they went into the secluded churchyard.
As they stood by the tomb of the poet’s mother, Jack read aloud the inscription upon it.
“He must have loved his mother devotedly,” said Bertha.
“All really good men love their mothers,” said Jack. “To me my mother is the dearest creature in the world.” Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had made two unfortunate admissions. By implication he had given his hearer to understand that he was a really good man, and in the second case he had told her that he loved his mother better than any person else. “What a blundering fool I have been,” he said to himself. “The old Greek was right when he wrote that silence is the greatest of all virtues.”
He had been very brave while sitting in Victor’s room, when he had declared his fixed purpose to propose to Miss Renville at sight, but as he gazed into her beautiful face his courage left him.
Miss Renville, fortunately, changed the subject. “My mother died when I was very young, and I was but six years old when I lost my father, but Guardy has been very good to me. If my parents had lived longer, I should have felt their loss much more than I have. Is your father living, Mr. De Vinne?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jack. “He is hale and hearty. They used to say that there was no stronger, sturdier man in the House of Lords.”
“What?” cried Bertha, with astonishment. “Is your father a peer?”
“Why, didn’t you know?” asked Jack. “I imagined Clarence must have told you. My father is the Earl of Noxton. My home is at Noxton Hall in Surrey.”
Bertha turned her face away.
“Why, Miss Renville, are you sorry that I am the son of an earl? It does not amount to much in my case, for I am only a second son. My brother Carolus is the heir to the title and estates. You know there is nothing for second sons to do in England but to go into the Army or Navy or to enter the Church. I expect to be ordered on a cruise very shortly.”
“I should not like that,” said Bertha. “If I were a young man, I should look forward to a happy home life.”
“So do I, one of these days,” said Jack. “There may be a war and I may come home covered with glory, and perhaps Parliament will give me a pension.”
Then he reflected that he had made another blunder. How could he ask the beautiful being who stood beside him to become his wife when he, of his own accord, had said that such happiness could only come to him in the, perhaps, far distant future. A thought came to him suddenly that sent a cold chill through his frame. How near he had come to trespassing on his friend’s hospitality. What right had he to ask Miss Renville to become his wife until he had spoken to her guardian on the subject? No, he must drop the whole matter just where it was until he had obtained an interview with Mr. Glynne, Sr.
The opportunity came to him that evening, for his host invited him into the library to inspect the fine editions of rare books with which the shelves were filled.
While examining the flowers in the conservatory, Jack had kept his eyes fixed, most of the time, upon Miss Renville, but in the library he devoted his attention to the fine bindings and beautiful illustrations rather than to his companion.
“I suppose you smoke,” said Mr. Glynne. “I do not, and I have made it an inflexible rule not to allow smoking in this room, but when you join my son Clarence in the billiard room, you will have all the opportunity you desire to indulge in your love of tobacco.”
“All the boys at the Academy smoked,” said Jack, “and I fell into it with the rest of them.”
“The late Mrs. Glynne abhorred smoking,” said his host, “and I felt that I should be untrue to her memory if I should take up the habit now. Clarence has the most reprehensible habit of smoking cigarettes. I am not so averse to the odour of good tobacco, but I think the odour of burnt paper is positively vile.”
“I agree with you,” said Jack. “When I smoke I fill my pipe and make a business of it.”
“Well, my advice to you, Mr. De Vinne, is to give up the habit before it becomes too firmly fixed upon you. You will be getting married one of these days. Perhaps your wife may not object openly to your smoking, but secretly she will wish you did not.”
Jack felt that Mr. Glynne had broken the ice for him. “If I can get the girl I wish for my wife,” he said, “I will throw my pipe into the river and the tobacco after it.”
There was a broad smile upon Mr. Glynne’s face. “Then you have not asked her?”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, “there was a preliminary step that must come first.”
“And when will that be taken?”
“I think now is a good time,” said Jack, in a nonchalant way. “The fact is, Mr. Glynne, I have fallen deeply in love with your ward, Miss Renville.”
Mr. Glynne recoiled and would have measured his length on the floor if Jack had not sprung forward and prevented.
“I must have caught my boot-heel in the rug,” said Mr. Glynne, as he recovered his physical equilibrium; his mental equilibrium, though, was greatly out of joint. “Mr. De Vinne,” he began, “I am really surprised at what you say. Take it altogether, you have not known the young lady more than forty-eight hours. Of course, under the circumstances of your first meeting, it is but natural that you should feel an interest in her, for she is really a very beautiful girl.”
“She is an angel,” ejaculated Jack, fervently.
“You have done very wisely, Mr. De Vinne, in speaking to me about this before revealing the state of your feelings to Miss Renville, and I would advise you not to mention the subject to her until after you have spoken to your father, the Earl. You should know the truth of the matter. Miss Renville is beautiful, but she is poor; in fact, she is a dependent upon my bounty. I do not grudge it to her, for her father and I were the best of friends, and on his death-bed I promised him that I would treat her as though she were my own daughter.”
“That was noble of you,” cried Jack, and before Mr. Glynne could object the young man grasped his hand and shook it warmly.
“I do not ask any praise for my action,” said Mr. Glynne. “Bertha is the light of our household, and I shall miss her greatly when the time comes, if it ever does, for her to go from us. I will tell you a little secret, but you must not mention it to my son. I had hoped in my heart that Clarence and Bertha would fall in love with each other and in that way I should be in no danger of losing her; but some young men are as fickle as women, and my son does not seem to know his own heart.” He was going to say “what is best for him,” but changed the form of the remark just in time.
“I do not blame you for not wishing to lose her,” said Jack.
“I think Clarence must be waiting for you in the billiard room,” suggested Mr. Glynne, “but before you go, Mr. De Vinne—as I stand in the relation of a father to Miss Renville—I wish you would give me your promise not to make any direct proposal to my ward until you have talked the matter over with your father.”
When Jack joined Clarence in the billiard room, the latter exclaimed: “Where have you been, old boy?”
“I have been having a talk with your father.”
“Oh, yes,” said Clarence. “He has been showing you the beautiful pictures in his library, I suppose. Well, he hung on to you longer than he could have hung on to me.”
“Mr. Glynne,” said Jack, “I have known you but a short time, but I want to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead, old fellow. If I can’t answer it, I’ll keep still.”
“It is a serious matter,” said Jack. “You may think the inquiry is an impertinent one and refuse to answer for that reason.”
“Well,” said Clarence, “as you stand about four inches taller than I do, and weigh about forty pounds more, I don’t think I shall resort to personal violence even if my feelings are injured.”
“Well,” said Jack, “I think we understand each other, so I will ask you the question in the bluntest possible way. Are you in love with Miss Renville, or are you likely to be, and is it probable that you will ever ask her to become your wife?”
“Well,” said Clarence, with a laugh, “that’s not one question, that’s three, but fortunately I can answer all with one little word—No. Now, Mr. De Vinne, will you allow me to ask you a question?”
“Why, certainly,” said Jack, whose face showed that Clarence’s reply to his question had greatly pleased him.
“Well,” began Clarence, “Mr. Jack De Vinne, I would like to ask you if you are in love with Miss Renville, or if not, are you likely to be, and is there any probability of your ever asking her to become your wife?”
“Fortunately,” said Jack, “I can answer you with a monosyllable—Yes.”
Clarence extended his hand. “Shake, old boy! Go ahead and win.”
“I have been talking to your father,” said Jack, “and although what he told me does not lessen my love for Miss Renville in any way, it must postpone our happiness. He says his ward is very poor.”
Involuntarily, Clarence gave a loud whistle.
Jack looked astonished. “What did you do that for?” he asked.
“Oh,” said Clarence, “when the governor talks to me about his generosity I always whistle.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Glynne,” said Jack, “but cannot you add a word or two to the whistle?”
“Well,” said Clarence, “perhaps I can put in a word. A thought that usually runs through my mind when the governor is talking to me, is, don’t believe all he says. Take my advice, Mr. De Vinne, follow the course your heart dictates and I believe everything will come out right in the end. Now, I have been waiting nearly an hour for you for this little game of billiards and I must insist upon you taking your cue.”
It was late that night when Clarence parted from Jack at the door of the latter’s room. Young Mr. Glynne had smoked cigarettes incessantly while they had been playing billiards, and he felt the necessity of a walk in the open air before going to bed.
As he passed the door of the library, he was surprised to find it open, for he had supposed that his father had already retired.
“Is that you, Clarence?”
“Yes, father. I thought you had gone to bed.”
“Come in,” said the elder Mr. Glynne. “I want to talk to you.”
Clarence sauntered into the room, his hands in his pockets, wondering what was in store for him. His father shut the door and then turned upon him sharply.
“Clarence, what an infernal fool you were to bring that fellow down here.”
“On the contrary,” said Clarence, “I think it was a very gentlemanly and courteous act, under the circumstances. He saved Bertha’s life, and I think it was due to him to give him an opportunity to see her.”
“Oh, yes,” snarled his father, “it is all right for him to come and see her, but she is a silly girl. She knows how to swim and she could have gotten ashore all right that day, but she thinks she owes her life to him and, no doubt, if he asked her to marry him, she would be agreeable; not because she loved him, but out of gratitude.”
“Well,” said Clarence, “I may be the infernal fool you say I am, but I do not think Bertha is so bereft of sense that she would marry any man out of simple gratitude. If she loves Jack De Vinne, she will marry him because she loves him and not for any other reason.”
“Well,” said his father, “she shan’t marry him, and you know the reason. I shall count upon you to help me; besides, it is for your interest to do so. You remember I told you that, if she does not marry you, she shall not marry any one else. If she tries to, I shall find a way to stop it.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” asked Clarence. “This conversation is very disagreeable to me; in fact, I can’t see the point to it. If Mr. De Vinne had asked Bertha to marry him and she had consented, there would be an exigency for us both to face but, under the circumstances, I see no reason why either you or I should be deprived of our night’s rest. I’m going out for a little walk in the park. I will tell Brinkley to wait up for me until I get back. Good-night, father, and pleasant dreams.”
When Monday morning came and Jack’s visit was at an end, he had no inclination to return to London. Victor had gone to join his ship. Clarence was going to the city to attend to business, and Jack, naturally, accompanied him.
Mr. Glynne, Sr., invited him to come again, but there was no great warmth in the invitation.
Jack had hoped that he would be able to speak a few words to Bertha in private, but Mr. Glynne was omnipresent, and beyond a shake of the hand and a parting glance—friendly in its nature but nothing more—Jack’s romance came to an end, for the time, at least.
When he reached London he determined to go at once to Noxton Hall. Mr. Glynne had advised him to talk the matter over with his father and he had decided to do so.
When he reached home the dogs and the stable-boys ran out to greet him.
His father extended the fingers of a cold, clammy hand and remarked: “Glad to see you, Jack, of course. Greatly pleased that you have passed. Had hoped that it would have been with a higher standing, but I presume there were many young men of exceptional ability in your class.”
“Yes, there were,” said Jack, “and I did not belong to that class.”
The Earl sniffed. “You have had every advantage of heredity and every opportunity for preparation. I do not see any reason why you should not have ranked with the highest. Being in the Navy is the same as being in public life, and when I was in public life I always kept my eyes upon the topmost round of the ladder.”
“Yes,” said Jack, “and I am very proud of the fact that you finally put your foot upon it.”
The Earl acknowledged the compliment with a stiff bow. “I believe,” he said, “in the transmission of ability from one generation to another. I am proud to say that my ancestors were men of eminence. I cannot help feeling some regret that one of my descendants——”
Jack broke in: “But you have Carolus. All the virtues and ability of our ancestors must descend to him. I am only a second son, and it makes little difference what becomes of me.”
“That is not the right way to look at it,” said the Earl, severely. “To be sure, Carolus is heir-apparent, but in the midst of life we are in death. You know Carolus is not in good health. If anything should happen to him you become the heir, and you should be as well-fitted for the position as is my elder son.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not,” said Jack. “I think I could keep the stables up to a high standard, but as regards the rest of the estate, I’m afraid I should have to depend on the steward.”
“I am glad you have come as you have,” said the Earl, changing the subject. “Your mother received a letter this morning from the Countess of Ashmont. She’s in Paris now with her daughter, Lady Angeline, who, you know, is betrothed to your brother Carolus. They expected that Carolus would return from the baths in Germany in time to escort them back to London, but as he cannot do so, the Countess has written to know if I could possibly spare time from my estates and official duties. I really cannot do so, but I am fortunate in having a son who can perform that pleasant duty for me and for his brother. You know, in case anything should happen to Carolus, which Heaven forbid, I should expect you to——”
“To marry Lady Angeline?” asked Jack. “I really could not do that. To tell you the truth, father, since I left the Academy I have had a most surprising adventure. I rescued a beautiful young girl from drowning and have fallen, in love with her.”
“Who is she?” asked the Earl.
“She is an orphan,” said Jack. “She is the ward of Mr. Thomas Glynne, of Buckholme, in Berkshire.”
“I never heard of him. What is he?”
“He is the senior member of the firm of Walmonth and Company in London. They are in the iron and steel business, I believe. They sell a good deal to the Admiralty.”
“Has she money in her own right?”
Jack was honest; in fact, too honest for his own good. It is not always advisable to tell all the truth upon the slightest provocation.
“Her guardian says she is poor—in fact, entirely dependent upon his bounty.”
“Then,” said the Earl, “I think the sooner you go to Paris the better. After you return with the Countess and her daughter, we are all going to Scotland. Carolus will be back by that time, and I think the northern air will do him good.”
“But you say nothing about the young lady with whom I am in love,” persisted Jack.
“I do not see that there is anything to be said,” rejoined the Earl. “You have told me that the young lady is penniless; for the second son of an earl to take a penniless bride is more than foolish—it would be a crime.”
Jack went up to his mother’s room. His path of love was not strewn with rose-leaves and no sunlight fell upon it. Both guardian and father were against him. Perhaps he had been building a castle in the air, for she, too, might refuse him after all. His brother Carolus was his father’s pride, but his mother had always seemed to love him more than her elder son.
Jack felt that he must confide in her, and took the first opportunity, after family affairs had been talked over, to tell of his adventure and of the beautiful girl who had won his love.
His mother proved sympathetic. “I do not see why your father should speak as he did. I was a penniless girl, too, when he made me his bride. We have been very happy together and he has never reproached me for my lack of a fortune. Take courage, Jack; follow the course that the young man whom you call Clarence advised you to take. As he said, all may come out well in the end.”
“But father says that if Carolus should die, he would expect me to marry Lady Angeline.”
“He has no right to expect any such thing,” said his mother. “He has no right to move you about as though you were a pawn on a chess-board, and I have too high an opinion of Lady Angeline to think that she would so soon forget your brother Carolus, to whom she is most devoted. It is possible that in time she might learn to love you, but if you did not love her, why,—“and the Countess laughed,—“there is nothing more to it, Jack, than there is to the light of the firefly. It beckons us on, but it cannot be relied upon to lead us to our destination.”
“I have only one ray of hope,” said Jack. “Mr. Glynne’s son made a very strange remark, and, I nearly forgot, he gave a whistle before he spoke.”
“And what did he say?” asked his mother.
“He told me not to believe all his father said.”
“Ah!” said Lady De Vinne. “Perhaps there is a mystery there. I had a box of books come down from Mudie’s a few days ago, and I have been reading a novel in which a beautiful young girl, being left an orphan, was committed to the charge of her father’s most intimate friend. She was the rightful owner of a large fortune, but her guardian concealed that fact from her and told everybody that she was penniless. I have not finished the story yet, but I have no doubt that in the end the guardian’s duplicity will be shown and that she will regain her fortune and marry the young man whom she loves.”
“Why,” cried Jack, “that fits the case exactly.”
“Well, then,” said his mother, “do not lose hope,” and putting her arms about his neck she drew him towards her and kissed him. “You know, Jack, you have always been very dear to me and I wish you to be happy. Whenever you need advice or consolation, always come to your mother.”
“I will,” said Jack.
He went downstairs feeling much happier than he had after his interview with his father.
He made his preparations to go to Paris, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by refusing to comply with his father’s request. He was to leave for London the next afternoon.
Soon after breakfast he went to the stables. Joe Grimm, his favorite stable-boy, had saddled his horse.
“I am going to take a little gallop,” he said, as he threw a shilling to the youngster.
He came back in about an hour, looking much refreshed, with his head clear, his mind light, and a great hope, restored by his mother’s words, in his heart. As he dismounted, he saw Hodson coming towards him in great haste.
“Your father wants you at once in the library.”
“What’s the matter?” cried Jack. “Is he ill?”
“No,” said Hodson, “but something terrible has happened. I don’t know what it is. He is crying. Your mother is with him, and she is crying, too.”
As Jack entered the room he saw that what Hodson had told him was true. He did not know what to say, and stood expectantly waiting for his father or mother to speak.
His father arose and came towards him. Placing his hand on Jack’s shoulder, he said: “What I feared has come to pass. Your brother Carolus is dead, and you are the heir to the Earldom of Noxton and its estates. I hope, my son, that you will prove worthy of them both.”
CHAPTER VI.
DUAL LIVES.
“Do you see that ‘that’?”
The speaker was Mr. B. Gorham Potts, head reader for the great London publishing firm of Johnson, Johnson, Smythe & Johnson, and as he uttered the words he laid a page-proof upon the table before the young lady who sat busily engaged in writing.
Mr. Potts had been christened Benjamin Gorham, the Benjamin being in honour of a maternal uncle who had gone to South Africa, and, rumour said, had accumulated a large fortune. But when the said uncle died and no news came of an inheritance for any members of the Potts family, both father and mother agreed that a mistake had been made at the baptismal font. No change, however, had been made in young Benjamin’s name. He began work in a printing-office at the early age of fourteen and for a period of sixteen years had been called “Ben” by every one in the establishment, from the senior proprietor to the smallest errand boy.
When at the age of thirty he secured a position in the publishing house, in the composition of which there were so many Johnsons that he decided a change must and should be made.
“Maria,” he said to his wife, “I am going to work for a very large corporation. I am to hold a dignified position and for that reason I think I should bear a dignified name.”
“Yes, Benny,” said his wife, in a tone full of affection.
“That is the last time you will use that name, Maria,” he exclaimed.
The diminutive little woman was startled by his language and the sharp tone in which the words were uttered. She said nothing, but acted as though she had received a blow.
“Yes, Maria, I have decided to change my name. My old skin-flint of an Uncle Benjamin, for whom I was named, left me nothing. I have honoured his memory for thirty years, but in future I propose to be known as B. Gorham Potts and to sign my name in that way.”
The little woman took in the situation. “Yes, Gorham,” she exclaimed, timidly.
“Don’t you think that’s an improvement?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” and then with that delightful British unconsciousness of her own joke, she exclaimed: “Let it be Gorham.”
But to return to that “that.”
Mr. Potts repeated his question in a more decisive manner. “Do you see that ‘that’?”
The young lady addressed tossed her head and pouted perceptibly. She was a pretty little brunette. Proofreaders are made responsible for so many errors perpetrated by others, as well as for their own shortcomings, that they are inclined to tergiversation when matters are brought to them for correction. She shut one eye and looked closely at the offending word with the other.
At last she said: “There is one ‘that,’ but I am unable to see the second ‘that’ to which you refer.”
Mr. Potts was thin and angular. He smiled occasionally; not all at once—it might be said in sections—the smile moving from one feature to another, like sunlight on a picket fence. Mr. Potts was not a hard-hearted man and as he looked at the dainty little woman before him, the thought came to him: “What if she were my daughter and some other man stood in my place, under similar circumstances?”
“Do you not see, Miss Caswell, that that ‘that’ should be a ‘than’ instead of that ‘that’?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “it ought to be ‘than,’” and she turned over quickly some galley-slips which lay beside her.
“Well,” she said, “the author did not see it.”
“I should think, Miss Caswell, that you had been a proof-reader long enough to have learned that an author never sees anything,” said Mr. Potts, contemptuously. “They are too busy with ideas to think of such minor matters as spelling, punctuation, and grammar.”
“That’s true of Mr. Stowell,” said Miss Caswell, “and such writing, too, but his books sell.”
“We have made him,” said Mr. Potts, his chest swelling. “He was an unknown author, but we made his first book go.”
“And he has been a go ever since,” said Miss Caswell, laughing.
“Yes, and when Mr. Smythe rejected one of his books he took it to another house and they are getting the benefit of all our advertising.”
“Well, you could not expect him to throw his manuscript into the ash-heap,” remarked Miss Caswell.
“No, but he could have threatened to do it and Smythe would have taken it, but authors have no tact—they are all temper—they think publishers are their enemies instead of being their best friends.”
Miss Caswell enjoyed the conversation; it gave her a little rest from her very prosaic duties. She was well acquainted with the peculiarities of Mr. Potts and knew how to extend the conversation indefinitely.
“How about the critics?” she asked.
“Bah!” exclaimed Mr. Potts. “They are just as bad; each one likes a certain kind of story and he calls the rest rubbish.”
Miss Caswell, evidently, had a feeling for the critic. “It must be wearing to read so many books; no wonder they praise what they like.”
“I don’t believe they read them. They get an idea of the plot from some other paper; then they open the book, read a few pages here and there, and then write their review. Why, I know a critic who flouted a book because there were two ‘buts’ in the same sentence, but the joke was, both were used correctly. We had three Oxford professors decide the question.”
Miss Caswell dexterously gave another turn to the conversation: “You must get tired of reading so many stories, Mr. Potts, and in manuscript, too.”
“It’s a business with me; a day’s work is a day’s work. When it is over I have my home, my wife, my little boy Jimmy, and baby Dorcas. You ought to get married, Miss Caswell. It’s the only way to live.”
The young girl’s face flushed. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. It was time to get back to business.
“I am sorry I did not see that ‘that,’ Mr. Potts.”
Again that thin, erratic smile on Mr. Potts’ face. “You did see ‘that,’ Miss Caswell; please change it to ‘than.’ Had it gone to print it would have been bad, but, as we’ve caught it, there’s no harm done. There was never a book printed that did not have some sort of an error in it. Mr. Smythe, a few years ago, read the proofs of one himself. He boasted that it was perfect and that he would give a hundred pounds to any one who found an error in it. It turned out to be such a good joke on himself that he told it, but I don’t believe anybody got the hundred pounds.”
“Did he find the mistake himself?” Miss Caswell asked.
“Yes, he went into a book-shop, took up the book, and was going to tell the proprietor that he would give him a hundred pounds if he could find an error in it, when his eye lit on a colon that ought to have been a comma. He did not brag so much after that and has never read the proofs of another book since.”
Mr. Potts walked away and Miss Caswell resumed her work. She had before her a large pile of proofs that must be in the printer’s hands early the next morning, and it was nearly an hour beyond the appointed time for leaving when she arose from her table and made her way homeward.
“Why, where in the world have you been, Mrs. Glynne?” exclaimed Mrs. Liloquist, the landlady, as she opened the door to admit “Miss Caswell.”
“Has my husband got home?”
“Oh, yes, he has been here nearly an hour and has been downstairs at least six times to ask where you were. Now, how could he expect me to know where you were?”
“It was very unreasonable in him,” said Mrs. Glynne, laughing, “but, you know, men are all unreasonable.”
“What’s the matter, Clarence?” she cried, as she burst into the room.
Her husband, Mr. Clarence Glynne, was sitting by the window, but arose quickly and greeted his wife with an embrace and a kiss.
“Why are you here, Clarence? Of course I am delighted to see you, but you told me this morning that you would have to go to Buckholme to-night.”
“I did intend to, Jennie, but really, I did not dare to go out there until I knew what to do. I was going to tell you about it this morning, but there was no time; besides, I thought I might see my way clear as to what to do, during the day.”
“Do not keep me waiting any longer, Clarence,” said his wife, with a little stamp of her foot. “I am just dying to know what it is about, and you keep talking all around it without telling me what the trouble is.”
“Hadn’t we better have supper first?”
“No,” cried Jennie. “I cannot wait another minute.”
“Well, the fact is,” began Clarence, “you know all about Bertha; how the governor keeps asking me to propose to her. Of course he does not know that I already have a nice little wife of my own, and for that reason I excuse him.”
“Well, I do not,” said Jennie. “He has no business to tell you to marry anybody. But your father will have to know about our marriage some time. Mrs. Liloquist is very inquisitive, but she has not learned anything from me, except that we are very poor and we both have to work for a living. We are living dual lives, Clarence. How long shall we have to do so?”
“I cannot answer that question now,” said Clarence, “but what I am going to tell you is this: Bertha has had a letter from a friend in Paris—a lady who knew her father when he lived there. She has found out in some way about Bertha and wishes her to come and pay her a visit.”
“Well, I don’t see anything serious in that,” said Jennie. “When is she going?”
“The governor won’t let her go. It’s all my fault, too. I had a letter from Jack De Vinne saying that his brother was dead and that he was going to Paris to escort Lady Ashmont and her daughter home so they could go to the funeral. The big idiot that I was, I told the governor and he scented danger right off. You know I told you about Jack coming to see us. Well, he was going to propose to Bertha, but thought it was his duty to speak to his father first. Jack was only the second son of an earl then, and father frightened him a little by telling him that Bertha was a penniless orphan.”
“But isn’t she?” asked Jennie. “You have always said she was.”
“A man and his wife are one, are they not?” asked Clarence.
“Why, you goose, of course they are.”
“Well, then, Jennie, if I come into possession of a secret, no matter how, and I give my solemn promise that I will not tell, am I breaking that promise if I tell my wife?”
“Why, of course not, Clarence. You have no right to have any secrets from your wife. How can a man love, honour, and obey his wife if he keeps a secret all to himself? Now, Clarence, dear, what is the secret?”
“I will whisper it to you, Jennie. Bertha isn’t poor at all; she is worth forty thousand pounds in her own right, but my father is her guardian and, according to her father’s will, the governor has a right to hold on to the property until she marries, and, of course, he does not want her to marry any one—except me. Of course, I don’t want her, for good and sufficient reasons which are now before me.”
“Oh, I see,” cried Jennie. “Jack De Vinne is going to Paris, and your father thinks that this letter business is only a scheme to enable Bertha to go to Paris and meet Jack.”
“You have hit it exactly, Jennie. What heads you women have!”
“Does Bertha know Jack is there?”
“Of course she doesn’t. She wants to go because she is tired of Buckholme. She has been cooped up there all her life. Now she wants to see the rest of the world.”
“If she does meet Jack, it will come out all right, won’t it, Clarence? Now that he is to be Earl of Noxton one of these days, with fine estates and a big rentroll, it won’t frighten him if Bertha is poor.”
“Not a bit,” said Clarence. “But here’s the fix I’m in. Bertha never goes to father, but confides all her troubles to me. She expects me to manage it in some way so that she can go. I told her I would, and I don’t dare go to Buckholme until I can.”