“Then it’s lucky for you, Clarence, that you have a wife with a head, as you expressed it. If you will let me manage the affair, it will come out all right.”
“You can do just as you like, Jennie. How much money will you want?”
“Oh, not a great deal. Let me see. In the first place she will wish to take her wardrobe with her. Now, it won’t do for her to pack up her things at Buckholme. Mrs. Liloquist was moaning to-day because she has a vacant room next to ours. These lodging-house keepers are always in a fret and worry. Now, I will make her happy by telling her that a cousin of yours is coming to London from the country and wants a room for a week at least. Now you will have to play your part, Clarence. You must go out to Buckholme every night and be very attentive to Bertha. I won’t be jealous. Every morning when you come in fetch in some of Bertha’s wardrobe. I will do her packing for her, and when the important day arrives she must tell your father that she is coming to London to do some shopping and you must offer her your services to escort her.”
“Well, I never heard anything like it,” cried Clarence. “You ought to be a detective in Scotland Yard.”
“Well, if you had read as many detective stories as I have, you would not think I have told you much of a plot after all; however, who knows but that it may turn out to be a big one in the end?”
“Well,” said Clarence, “after her luggage is packed and she is here, what are you going to do next?”
“Why, I am going to Paris with her. I have never done anything in my life that will please me so much as to outwit your father.”
“He is a pretty shrewd one,” remarked Clarence.
“I know he is,” said Jennie, “and for that reason I am going to do something that will throw him off the track. Of course he will think that she has gone to Dover and from there to Calais and then to Paris, but we shall do nothing of the kind.”
“What are you going to do?” asked her husband.
“Well, I shan’t tell you until the very day we start. It is better that you should not know. You are one of those men who when they have anything on their mind everybody can see it and it makes them inquisitive. Now you had better be fancy-free until the morning of our departure; then I will tell you where we are going. Now, Clarence, I want you to make me a promise. No matter what happens, you must keep your mouth shut tight. Do not tell anybody which way we went nor where we have gone.”
“You’re a darling, Jennie,” he cried. “I will promise anything. Now we must go out and get our suppers, for I’m as hungry as a bear.”
CHAPTER VII.
BERTHA’S ESCAPE.
As Jennie anticipated, Mr. Thomas Glynne was very much pleased when he saw the growing intimacy between his son and ward.
“It isn’t so hard, Clarence, to come out from London every night and go back every morning as it used to be, is it?”
Clarence, with his usual lack of tact, put his foot in it again. “Well, governor, forty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at.”
“You’re right, Clarence, and I’m glad to see that you are growing sensible. I have often wondered how you could be so foolish on a certain point and yet be a son of mine.”
Clarence had to tell Bertha his secret—that he was married and that it was his inventive little wife who had thought out a plan by which her escape from Buckholme could be managed successfully.
“Oh, I shall be so pleased to meet her,” said Bertha. “You say she is a little woman.”
“Oh, yes,” said Clarence, with enthusiasm. “I can take her right in my arms and carry her about. I don’t think she weighs more than eight stone and perhaps not so much. But she wants to know what part of Paris your friend lives in. She has been there and knows the city pretty well.”
“I will let her have my new friend’s letter,” said Bertha. “It will be safer with her anyway. Here it is,” and she took it from her bosom. “You may read it.”
Clarence availed himself of her permission.
“My Dear Little Girl:
“I have just learned in a roundabout way, which I shall not take time to explain here, that the only child of one who was a very dear friend of mine years ago, Mr. Oscar Renville, is living in England and is a ward of Mr. Thomas Glynne, of Buckholme, in Berkshire. I do not remember your Christian name and for that reason have directed this letter simply to Miss Renville. I remember you when you were a little girl; that is why I began this letter as I have. When your father used to bring you to see me, he called you by some pet name which might or might not have been your own, but which, as I said before, I have forgotten. I have not forgotten you, however. I am a widow with one son, nearly twenty-two. I was married when quite young and am not yet forty; so you see I am not yet an old woman and shall not be such bad company, after all, for a young girl of eighteen. I shall be delighted to have you come to Paris and stay with me as long as your guardian will allow. On the outside it is a beautiful city; under the crust there is a great deal of wickedness, but we shall keep away from that and look for the goodness which I know, too, is here. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Glynne, and tell him that I shall be pleased to have him as my guest, for I presume he will accompany you to Paris. I live at Number 22, Rue St. Francis. Every cab-driver in Paris knows where it is and there are many people in this city who know your loving friend,
“Marie, Countess Mont d’Oro.”
The transportation of Bertha’s wardrobe from Buckholme to Clarence’s lodgings was carried on without causing any suspicion in the mind of the elder Mr. Glynne and a day was fixed for her departure.
Jennie suggested that Mr. De Vinne should know that Bertha was going to Paris.
“He may be there now,” said her husband. “I have seen no notice in the paper of his brother’s funeral. I will send him a wire; that’s the best way.”
Clarence’s message was short and to the point; it contained but five words: “Are you there? Something important.”
The return message was equally concise. “Funeral day after to-morrow. Write me.”
“Quite a coincidence,” said Jennie. “Mr. De Vinne’s brother is to be buried on the day we have fixed for our departure. I do not think it is best for him to meet Bertha while she is with us. She had to know our secret, but it is not necessary that any more should be acquainted with it just at present. You write to him to-day that we are going, and he will probably lose no time in taking the most direct course by way of Dover and Calais.”
“Yes,” said Clarence, “but how are you going?”
“We shall leave London day after to-morrow by a very early train. I’ve got it all figured out. Bertha is coming to the city to-morrow. Of course your father will fume and fret and wonder why you two do not return home, but knowing that she is with you will relieve his anxiety to a great extent.”
“If he thought I had eloped with her, he would be perfectly satisfied,” said Clarence.
“No doubt, but will he be so well satisfied when he learns that she has eloped with your wife? But you must not tell him. Give me your solemn promise that you will not. To-morrow night I will tell you the route which I have laid out for our flight.”
Clarence’s conversation with his wife had taken place in the afternoon and he returned to Buckholme that evening. He was more attentive than ever to Bertha. The senior Mr. Glynne sought the seclusion of his library. With his hands clasped behind him, he walked briskly up and down the long apartment, smiling to himself and repeating in an undertone: “That boy of mine is no fool after all; he knows on which side his bread is buttered.”
The next morning Clarence said: “Governor, things are moving along faster than I expected. I have not proposed yet. I think it is best not to hurry the matter; but I would like to have Bertha go to London with me, as I saw a beautiful locket in a jeweller’s window in Regent Street. I am going to take her to look at it and if she is delighted with it, as I know she will be, I am going to buy it for her. You know there is nothing pleases a woman as much as——” He came near saying “having her own way,” but he bethought himself in time and finished with, “having a nice present from a young man.”
The senior Mr. Glynne rubbed his hands together gleefully, and patted his son approvingly on the shoulder. His next move was to take out his pocket-book, from which he extracted a ten-pound note which he passed to Clarence, saying: “Get something pretty nice.”
The evening of that day found Bertha an occupant of the room which had remained so long empty in Mrs. Liloquist’s lodging-house. She had been introduced as Miss Mary Barker, a cousin of Mr. Glynne’s, who was on the way to see her brother who lived in Berwick-on-Tweed, near the Scottish border.
“It’s a long journey,” said Mrs. Glynne, “and I am going with her. I told Mr. Potts—he is the head man at the place where I work—that I was about tired out and needed a little vacation. So you see, as the old proverb says, I am going to kill two birds with one stone.”
Mrs. Liloquist always subdued her curiosity if she was confided in. It was the safest way to deal with her, for if subjected to a severe cross-examination, which was quite possible, she might tell more than was wished, or than was desirable under the circumstances.
When Jennie and her husband were alone in their own room, Jennie remarked: “I think I have satisfied Mrs. Liloquist. I don’t think she will ask you any questions.”
“But you have not satisfied my curiosity,” said Clarence. “Now is the accepted time; where are you going—I mean, which way are you going to Paris?”
“Well, sit down,” said Jennie, “and I will tell you the whole story. It is quite a romance. I was born, as you know, in the little coast town of Pagham in Sussex. The people make their living by fishing, and my father was a fisherman. You know, both my father and mother are dead. If I had not been left an orphan, I should not have come to London. I am glad I did so, for if I had not I should never have met you; but that’s not to the point. I have been down to Pagham. There are a good many living there now who knew my father. One of his best friends was Captain Jacob Carder, who now owns one of the best fishing vessels in the town. Now, perhaps, you guess my plan.
“Instead of taking Bertha to Paris by way of Dover and Calais, we shall go down to Pagham and Captain Carder will take us over to France in his schooner. He says he will land us at a place where it will be easy for us to get a train for Paris. Your father, of course, will ask you where Bertha is. You must say you don’t know. In such cases, white lies are allowable. I cannot tell you what to say to your father, because, if I do, I know you will get it all mixed up. Whatever you say you must invent on the spur of the moment and then stick to it.”
By half-past six the next morning Mrs. Glynne and Bertha were on their way to Pagham. Clarence did not accompany them to the station.
“You had better not,” said Jennie. “Your father will put detectives on your track, and one of them will be sure to be at the station and recognise you. I am not so well known and for that reason will be able to escape observation. I shouldn’t wonder if your father came to London by the first train from Buckholme.”
Clarence arrived at his office an hour earlier than usual. His wife’s surmise had been correct—his father was there before him.
“Are you married, Clarence?” was the first question.
“Why, no,” said the son, taken aback by the question.
“Well, then, where’s Bertha? What do you mean by bringing her to the city in such a manner? Where is she, I say?”
The crucial moment had come. Clarence had thought of a dozen different explanations to give, but the one he did offer was, as his wife had advised, the inspiration of the moment.
“I could not help it,” he said. “It was all over in a minute. It must have been prearranged between them.”
“Who are you talking about?” his father thundered.
“Why, Jack De Vinne and Bertha,” said Clarence. “We drove down to Regent Street in a four-wheeler. She was delighted with the locket and I bought it for her. I took your ten pounds for the chain. As we came out of the store, who should I see standing on the sidewalk but Jack De Vinne. Bertha got into the carriage and I was on the point of following her, when she exclaimed that she had left her parasol on the showcase. I went back for it, but when I came out of the store the carriage was gone.”
“What an infernal fool you were, Clarence.”
“Why, governor, how could I help it? I had no idea that Jack De Vinne was in London. I should have as soon expected to see the man in the moon. I supposed that he was at Noxton Hall. I understood his brother was to be buried yesterday. The paper said so.”
Mr. Glynne, Sr., seemed staggered by the information. “You never do anything, Clarence, that you don’t make a mess of it. When you get married I have no doubt you will make a mistake and get the wrong woman.”
“I may be a big fool, as you say, but I don’t think I shall make that mistake.”
“Where do you think they have gone?” asked Mr. Glynne.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Clarence.
“Well, I have,” said his father.
“Where?” asked Clarence.
“I shall confide my suspicions to the detectives. I do not think you are a safe person for confidences. I think you had better stay in London, Clarence, until I go back to Buckholme. I will let you know when I do so.”
“Well, that’s over,” said Clarence to himself after his father had left the room. “I have told more lies in the last fifteen minutes than I ever told before in all my life; but Jennie said it was all right, and she knows. I shall have to go up to the house this noon. Bertha had so many things that she could not take with her, and Jennie made me promise to pack them up and send them after her.”
It was a huge package when complete and much too heavy for Clarence to carry under his arm. He discovered this fact after he had walked a short distance from his lodgings, and calling a cab, told the driver to take him to the railway parcel office.
Twenty minutes later, a round-faced, smoothly shaven man applied the knocker so vigorously that Mrs. Liloquist’s face was rosy-red when she opened the door.
“Why, sir, you must be in a great hurry to make such a racket. Now, what do you want, sir?”
“Is there a young man living here named Glynne?”
“Why, yes, sir,” said Mrs. Liloquist. “He just went out. He had a big bundle, and I told him it was too heavy for him to carry.”
“How soon is he coming back?”
“Well, really, I don’t know. He usually comes home about six o’clock, but his wife’s gone away with a friend and perhaps he’ll stay out later. Men usually do when their wives are away.”
“Did you say his wife had gone away? I don’t think he can be the one I want to find. I am his uncle. I have been in South Africa and have just got back to London. The young man I want to find is named Clarence Glynne.”
“Well, that’s his name,” said Mrs. Liloquist, “and his wife’s name is Jennie. They have been living here with me nearly two years.”
“And you say that she has gone away with a friend?”
“Yes, a young lady named Mary Barker, who lives in Devonshire. Miss Barker’s brother lives in Berwick-on-Tweed and Mrs. Glynne has gone there with her.”
“What sort of a looking person is this Miss Barker?”
“Oh, she’s just the beautifullest girl I ever saw. I have read in books about young ladies with blue eyes and golden hair, but she’s the first one I ever saw that matched the story book.”
“Well,” said the gentleman, “I will come around again about six o’clock. Much obliged to you, ma’am, for your information. I hope my nephew has got a good wife.”
“Oh, she’s a fine woman,” said Mrs. Liloquist, “and very clever. She works every day at something or other. She’s the kind of a wife for a poor man, and I judge from what your nephew says that they would have hard work getting along if she didn’t do something to help.”
Clarence was surprised late that afternoon to have another visit from his father. Mr. Glynne, Sr., was accompanied by a stalwart gentleman with a marked professional aspect.
“So you’ve got back again, father,” said Clarence, not suspecting the turn which affairs had taken. “Have you found any clue?”
“Plenty of them,” said his father, sternly. “I know the whole business. Come into the private office with me, and you, Mr. Lake,” he said, turning to his companion, “sit down and wait for us.”
When they were alone together the expression on Mr. Thomas Glynne’s face changed from one of assumed serenity to one of the deepest malignity.
“Clarence Glynne,” said his father, “I told you this morning that you were an infernal fool; now I know that you are an infernal liar. You have been deceiving me for years. You are a married man, and that is the reason why you have refused to marry my ward.”
Clarence sank into a chair. Oh, if Jennie were only there to help him!
“I am going to make short work of this. Do you know who that man is in the other room?”
Clarence shook his head.
“He is an officer from Scotland Yard. I have lodged a complaint against you for kidnapping my ward. Although you are my son, I shall proceed against you as though you were an utter stranger.”
A rat will turn when it is cornered, and Clarence felt that he must do something, or within an hour he would be behind the bars.
“Do you mean to have me arrested, father?”
“Certainly, I do, and if the case goes against you, you won’t see that wife of yours for years to come.”
The words stung Clarence. Separated from Jennie! No, he could not stand that.
“Father, under the circumstances, I consider myself absolved from the promise I made you to keep silent about Bertha’s property. If I am taken to court I shall tell the whole story.”
“I had supposed that you would,” said his father. “Your landlady said that Bertha, or Miss Barker, as she called her, had gone up North, but I know better. She is gone to Paris to meet Jack De Vinne. You can get ready to go with the officer. We will be back for you in five minutes.”
Clarence did not know what to do. He had lost his hold over his father. His threat to tell the truth about Bertha’s fortune had failed to produce any effect upon him.
During the five minutes which had been allowed him, Clarence did nothing but think in an aimless sort of a way of a dozen impossible courses of action.
The door of the private office opened and his father entered with Mr. Lake.
“I have decided,” said his father, “not to give you into custody until to-morrow morning. I wish you to accompany me to Buckholme. Mr. Lake will go with us and keep you under surveillance.”
Clarence did not wish to sit and look at the stern face of his father, nor the enigmatical one of Mr. Lake; nor did he wish to feel that their eyes were fastened upon him, reading, perhaps, his inmost thoughts. He sank into a corner of the carriage and closed his eyes, to all appearances in a state of apathetic indifference. But his mind was busy. What was his father about to do? Would he throw him out of the business? Well, if he did, he made up his mind that he could make a living some way. To be sure, he had been provided with everything that he needed at Buckholme, but his personal share of the profits of the firm of Walmonth & Company had been very small. It was for that reason that his wife had obtained employment. As to his arrest for kidnapping, he cared but little.
Before they reached Maidenhead the tumult of his feelings had subsided, and when they entered the house the servants could not have told from his appearance that anything had happened.
His father shut himself in the library. Clarence went to the billiard room to play a game of pool solitaire, but when he found that he was closely followed by Mr. Lake, he invited him to join in the game and found him no mean antagonist. But while he played, outwardly calm, his thoughts were busy, and during the evening he asked himself a hundred times: “Have they reached Paris in safety?”
CHAPTER VIII.
A SORROW AND A SOLACE.
The next morning after breakfast, during which not a word was spoken by either of the three gentlemen, Clarence was commanded by his father to follow him into the library. He saw by the look on his parent’s face that he was implacable. He would, naturally, have objected to the mandatory tone used by his father, but decided that it was useless to quarrel about trifles when there were such important matters to be settled.
Mr. Glynne, Sr., sat at the library table and Clarence sank into a chair a few feet distant.
“Turn your face around so that the light may fall upon it,” said his father. “I propose to ask you a few questions and I expect you to tell me the truth. If you lie to me, I think the light will help me to ascertain that fact.”
Clarence did as he was bidden.
“Now, who is your wife and what is she?”
“Is that material?” asked Clarence.
“Do not bandy words; the sooner we get at the point of the matter the better. As to its being material, I think it is; very much so.”
“She is an orphan. She was the daughter of a fisherman, but when she lost her parents she came to London and went to work to support herself. She worked in our office for a while, but left because a better position was offered her.”
“Very good,” said his father. “You surely looked for high game and got it.”
“If you make any more such comments about my wife,” said Clarence, “I will refuse to answer another question,” and there was a ring in his voice which told the father that the son meant what he said.
“Where did she come from?”
“She was born at Pagham, a little village in Sussex on the English Channel.”
“And she is gone with Bertha as her companion?” He had intended to say “your accomplice.”
“Yes.”
“Where have they gone?”
“They are on their way to Paris. Bertha wished to visit her friend and I thought it was all right for her to go.”
“Then that story you told me about her going away in a carriage with Jack De Vinne was a lie?”
Clarence could not help smiling as he replied: “Well, I must confess it was not a very close approach to the truth.”
“I judged not,” said his father. “I did not believe it when you told me. You said Bertha was going to stay with a friend in Paris. What is her name and where does she live?”
“She is the Countess Mont d’Oro, and she lives at 22, Rue St. Francis.”
“Is Jack De Vinne in Paris?”
“I presume he is at Noxton Hall,” was Clarence’s guarded reply. He did not think it necessary or advisable to tell his father that he had written Jack the morning that his wife and Bertha had left London that the latter was on her way to Paris to become the guest of the Countess Mont d’Oro.
There was silence for some time. Clarence grew impatient and turned his head. His father was evidently in deep thought.
“That will do,” he said at last. “I hope you have told me the truth. If you have not, I shall soon find out the extent of your deception. I shall leave to-night for London and will go to Paris to-morrow morning. Mr. Lake will be your companion until I return. If I find my ward is still Miss Renville, and I bring her back with me, I will dismiss the case against you. If she is married, Mr. Lake will escort you to London and you will have to stand the consequences of your very foolish action. I shall be obliged to take charge of my London business again, for I shall be a comparatively poor man when Miss Renville, or Mrs. Whatever-her-name-may-be, demands her inheritance, for, no doubt, you have told her that she is a rich woman by right.”
Clarence sprang to his feet. “I have not told her one word. She has heard nothing from me.”
Nor had she, nor did Clarence know that his wife had found the secret too much to keep and had unbosomed herself to Bertha on the way to Pagham.
Just after dinner, while Mr. Glynne was busily engaged making preparations for his journey, Brinkley, the butler, told him that a young man who looked as though he had just come from the country wished to see Mr. Clarence.
“Show him into the library,” said Mr. Glynne.
When he entered it, he found a young man standing first on one foot and then on the other and twirling his hat nervously.
Mr. Glynne closed the library door. “What did you wish to see my son for?”
“I’ve got somethin’ private to tell him.”
“I’m sorry to say that he is very sick and can see no one. I am his father; you can tell me, and when he is in a condition to listen, I will communicate the intelligence to him.”
“If he’s sick,” said the young man, “I don’t think the news I got fer him will make him any better.”
Mr. Glynne began to think that the young man had something of importance to communicate. “Have a seat, sir. You can tell your story much better sitting than you can standing.”
The young man looked intently at the luxurious easy-chair. He was more used to a hard bench than to upholstered furniture. He finally sat down, but stood up again as he felt the springs give way beneath him.
“Oh, you’ll find it all right,” said Mr. Glynne, “and very comfortable,” and he took his accustomed position at the library table. “Now, I won’t ask you any questions,” said he, “but will let you tell your story in your own way.”
The young man sidled to the edge of the chair which seemed more capable of supporting him, and began his story:
“My name is Silas Jubb and I live down in Pagham.”
Mr. Glynne was all attention.
“My chum’s name is Job Carder. He’s all knocked up and he couldn’t come, so he sent me.”
Mr. Glynne thought it was time to reassure the young man. “Yes,” he said, “my son’s wife was born in Pagham. She left London yesterday morning on her way to Paris, in company with a friend, and I understood from my son that they were to sail from Pagham.”
“Well, they won’t get there,” said Silas, with a shake of his head; “that’s what I’m here for.”
Mr. Glynne felt the blood rushing to his head, and his pulse quickened. “There has been an accident,” he thought. But he would ask no questions.
“Job’s father named his boat the Dart cuz it was the fastest craft of the kind in town, but it wuz run down by one of them Navy vessels in the Channel and Job’s father and Bill Merry and George Danks and the two women was drownded. Job was the only one picked up, and he’s ‘most dead. You see, afore the Dart set sail, the women told Job’s father to get word to your son if they reached the other side all right. As they didn’t, when Job came to, he thought as how you’d be anxious to know how things wuz and that’s what he sent me up for.”
“It was very thoughtful of him,” said Mr. Glynne, “and very kind of you to bring us the sad news.”
He had never felt such a strong impulse of generosity. He gave the young man a five-pound note, saying as he did so: “You can divide with your chum.”
The young man had arisen and put on his hat. His hand went to the brim by way of salute. “He’ll be glad to git it, for the loss of the boat’ll come hard on him. I told him before I started as how I thought I’d find you to be a gentleman, cuz the ladies wuz so fine.”
Mr. Glynne rang for Brinkley and told him to supply the man with a substantial meal before he started on his journey back to Pagham.
Five pounds! But the news was surely worth that and more.
“A great sorrow for Clarence, but such a solace for me,” was Thomas Glynne’s uppermost thought. The fortune was now his, if Clarence would hold his tongue.
His son’s sickness, the grave nature of which had led him to assure Mr. Jubb that he could not see him, did not keep Mr. Glynne from breaking the news at the earliest opportunity. He had not anticipated the result which followed. Perhaps, if he had, he would have told the story in a gentler manner.
Clarence was prostrated by the intelligence. By midnight his condition was so alarming that Brinkley was obliged to start off in the darkness to bring a doctor.
Brain fever, was the physician’s decision after he had made his diagnosis. Compared with many others, Clarence was a weak man both physically and mentally. He had been on the rack for twenty-four hours, and this great blow was more than he could bear. His brain gave way and he lay there with only the ministrations of the hired nurses, growing thinner and weaker every day.
Did his father wish him to live? Only the Great Power that knows all hearts could have answered that question.
CHAPTER IX.
NEWS OF THE FUGITIVES.
“Do you think it shows a proper regard for the memory of your dead brother to go to Paris and take part in its frivolities?”
The question was asked by the Earl of Noxton.
“I am not going to Paris for any such purpose, and I think it unjust to me for you to entertain such a thought,” said Jack. “I have received a letter which makes it absolutely necessary for me to go there; besides, I must have a change. I feel my brother’s death much more than you credit me with. It throws responsibilities upon me which I had never thought to assume. I shall notify the Admiralty that I do not wish an assignment at present.”
“I shall close up Noxton Hall,” said the Earl, “and go to Scotland with the Countess. Amid the solitude of our northern home we shall be much more likely to appreciate the lesson taught us by our sad bereavement. Both your mother and I had thought you would accompany us.”
“My stay in Paris will be short,” said Jack, “and I will give you my word that when my business there is attended to I will join you in Scotland.”
“I presume I shall have to be satisfied with that,” said the Earl. “I have no desire to command the heir to the Earldom of Noxton, if he is deaf to my entreaties.”
Jack went to Paris. He had been there before when a student, and his associates on that occasion had been those suited to his position in life. Now all was changed.
He had no difficulty in securing an introduction to the Countess Mont d’Oro, for an Earl’s son and heir is always persona grata. He received a warm welcome from that lady. Perhaps his greeting would not have been so cordial if almost his first inquiry had not been, “Has Miss Renville arrived?”
“Why, no,” said the Countess. “I wrote and asked her to come and said that I should be delighted to see her. You see I knew her father well. But I have received no word from her that she intended to make the visit at present.”
Jack could not conceal his agitation. “There must be some mistake here,” he cried. “Read this letter, my dear Countess, and tell me what you think,” and he passed her Clarence’s letter.
“I cannot understand the matter at all,” said the Countess, as she returned the letter. “I will write to Mr. Glynne at once. Come and see me day after to-morrow. Mr. Glynne will probably write me that her departure was postponed for some good reason.”
Jack forgot his promise, or rather statement, to his father, that he did not intend to visit Paris to engage in its frivolities. In his state of mind some distraction was absolutely necessary. “If I cannot stop thinking I shall go mad,” he said to himself, and he at once became immersed in the whirl of gaiety for which Paris is famous, though his interest therein was of the head rather than of heart.
On the appointed day he called on the Countess Mont d’Oro, but there was no letter from England. On the third day the Countess again shook her head, but on the fourth, in response to his inquiring glance, she said:
“I have a letter, but I am afraid to read it to you.”
“I can bear anything better than this suspense,” said Jack.
Then the Countess read Mr. Glynne’s letter.
“Dear Madam:
“Your letter received. I should have answered it sooner but for the dangerous illness of my son, who is at death’s door. In reply to your inquiry, I can only say that I have been informed by what I consider good authority that my ward, Miss Renville, left for London, in company with my son’s wife, on their way to Paris, your residence being their presumed destination. Instead of taking the boat from Dover to Calais, which would have offered a safe and speedy passage, for some as yet unexplained reason they chose to make the voyage in a fishing vessel which was run down in the Channel, and all on board, with the exception of the captain’s son, were drowned. I regret that I cannot give you any further particulars. If I learn anything more concerning the sad affair, I shall be pleased to communicate with you. I have the honour to be, dear madam,
“Your most obedient servant,
“Thomas Glynne.”
“Drowned!” cried Jack, “and I loved her so. Oh, madam, this blow would be easier to bear if, when I had the opportunity, I had told her that I loved her. I think she knew it, but I did not speak. I was the second son of an earl with no prospect but a minor position in the Navy. My brother is dead and I am now heir to the title and estates. You knew this, of course, before, but I tell you again to show you how foolish I was not to speak when I had the chance. All would have come out right; now all has gone wrong, and I am the one to blame. If I had told her that I loved her and we had been engaged, she never would have made the trip in this foolish way. Yes, madam, I am to blame and I shall never forgive myself.”
Countess Mont d’Oro was a practical, sensible woman. Instead of expressing sympathy for the young man in his almost uncontrollable grief, she used common sense.
“I do not think you have any right to blame yourself in any way for this sad affair. You were not, even in the remotest degree, the cause of it. If she had been engaged to you and had received my letter, she would have made the journey in just the same way, but instead of your receiving the news of it from her guardian’s son, she would, no doubt, have written to you herself and would have told you that she was going to make the trip on the fishing schooner so that her guardian could not follow her, for you remember that young Mr. Glynne says in his letter that her guardian had refused his permission for her to visit me. Now, we must hope for the best. Miss Renville’s guardian has the first report of the accident. One was saved and he, naturally, thinks that the others were lost. They may have been picked up by some vessel and we may hear from them within a few days.”
“You give me hope,” said Jack, “but I must confess that it is only a faint one. Dying men clutch at straws, they say, and I will grasp what you offer me.”
“Come and see me every day,” said the Countess. “I am a widow with one son about your age. I must confess that he is not a very affectionate or dutiful young man so far as his mother is concerned. Some sons are that way.”
“Yes, a good many are that way,” said Jack, “when they are young, but many of them reform when they grow older, and make up by their devotion for their past neglect.”
“I see,” said the Countess, “you are holding out a straw to me. I hope yours will prove a more substantial one than mine is likely to be.”
Jack called on the Countess every day. On one of his visits the Countess told him that her son was betrothed to a beautiful young girl who lived at Alfieri in Corsica. “That is my present home,” she added. “I was born in Italy; my husband, the late Count, was a native of Corsica, though of Italian ancestry.”
A week passed and still no tidings. “I can bear this no longer,” said Jack to the Countess. “My hope has died out. I know that the worst has happened and the dream of my life is gone forever. I had intended to stop in London and ask the Admiralty not to assign me to a post in the Navy, but I learn there are rumours of a coming war. Russia’s aggressions in the Crimea are resented not only by this country, but by my own, and I heard to-day that the King of Sardinia is disposed to form a triple alliance against the Muscovite. I shall go back to London to-morrow and request that I be assigned at once to some position of duty.”
“I would advise you not to do it,” said the Countess.
“You have been very kind to me,” said Jack. “Please make your advice more explicit. What do you think it best for me to do?”
“You said your father and mother were going to Scotland. What is your address there?”
“Cobleigh Towers. It is on the Scottish side of the Tweed, opposite Berwick. Let me see. Oh, if my letters are sent to Carlisle they will reach me.”
“Well, my advice is,” said the Countess, “that you rejoin your father and mother and be as patient as you can for the next ten days. If by that time I receive no word, I, too, shall lose hope. I will then agree with you that the best way to dull your sorrow will be to choose a life of action; that and labour are the only panaceas for such grief.”
“I will do it,” said Jack. “I will do anything to please you.”
Another week passed. The Countess still hoped from day to day, but each night saw no fruition. One morning, as the Countess was reclining in her boudoir, reading the monthly report of the steward of her Corsican estate, her maid announced that there were two young ladies in the drawing-room who wished to see her.
It was some time before the Countess had made the necessary change in dress and descended to greet her visitors. She surveyed, with a look akin to astonishment, the two very pretty young ladies who came forward to greet her. The one with dark hair spoke first.
“Is this Countess Mont d’Oro?”
The Countess bowed.
“I am Mrs. Glynne—Mrs. Clarence Glynne—and this is my friend Miss——”
She did not have an opportunity to complete the sentence, for the Countess stepped forward quickly and clasped the other young girl in her arms.
“And this is my dear little girl, Bertha Renville. I was your father’s friend and I will be yours. But how were you saved? We heard that all on board the fishing boat were drowned.”
“If we had been men,” cried Jennie, “we should have been drowned too. We were thrown into the water by the collision, but our dresses saved our lives. They would not have done so had we remained in the water long enough for them to get saturated, but they held us up, and we were seen by one of the officers on Her Majesty’s frigate Victoria which ran us down. The young man who saw us was a lieutenant. He had the vessel stopped and came to our rescue in a boat. Oh, I think he was just the loveliest young man I ever met in my life, don’t you, Bertha?”
“A very natural thought,” said the Countess, with a smile. “Young ladies are very apt to fall in love with handsome young men who save their lives.”
Bertha flushed perceptibly. She thought of the Thames and one who had saved her life on a previous occasion.
“And he had such a romantic name,” said Jennie.
“Of course I would not think of falling in love with him for I am a married woman, but I suppose there is no harm in my falling in love with his name—Claude Levaille, he said it was.”
“But where have you been all this time?” asked the Countess.
“Oh, that’s the strangest part of it,” said Jennie. “Come, Bertha, I have done all the talking so far. You must tell the rest of the story.”
“It is a very simple one,” said Bertha. “The frigate was bound for Marseilles. The admiral said he would have been delighted to put us ashore at some point near Paris, but he was under strict orders to proceed at once to the Mediterranean.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said the Countess. “Mr. De Vinne told me that there was likelihood of a war with Russia.”
“Jack De Vinne?” cried Mrs. Glynne. “Has he been here?”
“For a long time,” said the Countess. “He has been here every day to see if I had any news about you. He is a very sad, unhappy young man. He has gone to his father’s place in Scotland. I must write at once and tell him of your safety. Perhaps, though, it would be better if Miss Renville would write him. I will give you his address.”
“Oh, yes, that will be much better,” said Jennie. “And now that I have delivered you into the arms of your friend, the Countess,” she added, “I must go right back to London. I have no doubt that my husband is distracted.”
“Will you excuse me, Bertha?” said the Countess. “I cannot call you Miss Renville, it is too formal.”
“Nor do I wish you to,” said Bertha. “No one calls me Miss Renville, except——”
“Mr. De Vinne,” said Jennie, with a laugh, “but he won’t much longer.”
“Mrs. Glynne,” said the Countess, “I have something to tell you,” and she led her into an anteroom.
“What is it,” cried Jennie. “My husband, Clarence, is he dead?”
“Oh, no,” said the Countess, “but his father writes me that he is very sick, prostrated, no doubt, by the news of your supposed death. He is at his father’s residence; I forget——”
“Oh, I know,” said Jennie—“Buckholme. I have never been there. We were secretly married. Perhaps you do not know, but Clarence’s father wished him to marry Bertha, but he couldn’t because I was his wife, but his father didn’t know that. I suppose it is all out now and I’m glad of it. I will go to him at once.”
Jennie hurried with all speed to London and took the first train thence for Buckholme. The thought uppermost in her mind was as to what her reception by Clarence’s father would be, and her first question after greeting her husband was:
“Where is your father, Clarence?”
“Gone to seek Bertha, dear,” he answered, wearily, “but I hope a kind Providence will prevent his ever finding her.”
“Amen,” exclaimed Jennie, reverently.
CHAPTER X.
“LA GRANDE PASSION.”
After Jennie’s departure, the Countess gave herself up entirely to the pleasure which she found in the company of her young guest.
“I knew your father, Oscar Renville, I may say, intimately. It was after the death of your mother, but my husband was then living. I was in Corsica when your father died. I would gladly have taken you as my own, for I must confess that when my son was born I was very sorry he was not a daughter instead. It was only a short time ago that I learned Mr. Glynne had adopted you.”
“No,” said Bertha, “he never adopted me. He is, or rather was, my guardian.”
“Has he more than one child?”
“Only one son, Clarence. His father wished him to marry me, but although Clarence was always kind to me—really the best friend I had at Buckholme—he never proposed to me. I thought several times that he was on the point of doing so, but I can see now why he did not.”
“I think he would have done so,” said the Countess, “if it had not been for a previous love affair.”
“Oh, it was not that,” cried Bertha. “He knew me long before he became acquainted with his present wife; but it may have been so after all, for I was only sixteen.”
If Clarence Glynne had been lukewarm in his love-making, Bertha soon found that Count Napier Mont d’Oro was the exact reverse. On his part, at least, it was a case of love at first sight. He declared to his friend, the Marquis Caussade, that for the first time in his life he had an attack of la grande passion. He tried in every way to make himself agreeable to Bertha.
“Will you go driving with me?” he asked, one morning. “Paris never looked more beautiful than it will to-day. The environs are even more attractive than the city itself.”
“I will ask the Countess,” said Bertha.
“And so my son wishes you to go driving with him, does he?” was the Countess’s reply to Bertha’s question. “I have no right to command you, but my advice is to refuse. Some people have told me that my son is a very bad young man. I am not personally cognisant of his misdoings, nor do I wish to be, but I do not think it best for you to become too well acquainted with him.”
“I shall certainly do as you say,” replied Bertha.
All of the Count’s attempts to make Bertha his companion were flat failures and he decided to adopt another course. A new opera was about to be given. The tickets were held at extravagant figures, but the Count secured a box.
“Oh, you are musical!” he exclaimed, one day as he entered the drawing-room and found Bertha seated at the piano.
“I play a little for my own amusement,” said she.
“Have you any objection to my listening?”
“Oh, not at all! I trust you will not find it irksome.”
He was extravagant in his praises of her performance, but Bertha had learned to take his remarks at their true value.
He did not ask Bertha to go to the opera with him, but invited his mother instead.
“Are you going to make up a party?”
“Oh, no, I will go with you.”
“Have you asked Bertha?”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I have asked her to accompany me on several occasions, but she has always refused; I presume at your instigation. To speak plainly, I do not care whether she goes with us to the opera or not.”
He knew that this would pique his mother.
“Well, if Bertha cannot go, I shall not go,” said the Countess.
“If you choose to ask her to accompany you, I certainly shall not object, but, as I said before, I do not care whether she goes or not.”
He did not repeat this conversation to Bertha and the Countess herself was too politic to refer to it.
Every day, thereafter, the Count virtually haunted the drawing-room in the hope of finding Bertha at the piano. On one occasion he was successful.
“Will you not play for me?” he asked.
“You have heard my repertoire.”
“Do you not sing?”
“Very little; only the simplest of English ballads.”
He took a piece of music from the rack and placed it before her. “Can you play that?”
“I can try.”
“If you will, I shall be your debtor.”
“I cannot sing it.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I did not ask you to.”
It was a tenor song. Bertha played the prelude, but was astonished when she struck the first note of the vocal score to hear the Count’s voice take up the melody. He had a pure, sweet voice, and sang with great power and expression.
“It is a beautiful song; do you not think so?” he asked.
“Very,” was her laconic reply.
“Now, will you not sing for me one of those English ballads?”
Bertha had enjoyed the Count’s song, and she felt it would be discourteous to refuse under the circumstances.
The piece was a solo, but when she had sung several lines the Count joined in, singing in English.
“Encore! Encore!!” he cried, and they sang the second stanza together.
“You must be a good musician,” said Bertha, “to sing a part so well that is not in the music.”
“I am glad to hear that there is some good in me,” he remarked, gravely. “I am a thousand times your debtor, Miss Renville, both for your singing and your compliment, which I shall never forget.”
The night for the opera came, and as the Count, with his dark, handsome face, leaned forward, from time to time, to discuss the performance with the fair-haired English girl, scores of opera-glasses were turned in their direction. Count Napier Mont d’Oro had scored the point for which he had been working so long—he had been seen in public with the beautiful woman whom he loved, for the time being at least, and that satisfied him.
The next day the Countess was sitting in her boudoir reading the criticisms of the opera and the performance. At the close of the article in one of the papers were some items referring to the prominent personages who were present on the opening night. Her own name caught her eye, and she read an item which caused her to clench her hands until her finger-nails almost cut into the flesh, as she exclaimed: “The villain! I was a fool to trust him.” Then she read the item again:
“It is rumored that a certain young Count, one of the jeunesse dorée, and member of a prominent Corsican family, has become greatly enamoured of a beautiful young English girl who is visiting here. They were seen together at the opera, and if what was apparent in the past is an indication of what will take place in the future, Parisian society will be adorned, at no distant date, by another of England’s fairest daughters.”
Before the Countess had recovered from the vexation which the perusal of the item had caused her, the boudoir door was suddenly opened and Bertha ran into the room. She threw herself upon her knees, buried her face in the Countess’s lap, and burst into a flood of tears.
“Why, what’s the matter, my dear?” exclaimed the Countess. “What has happened?”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” cried Bertha.
“But, really, you must,” said the Countess. “Who in my house has dared to offend you?”
“He did not mean it as an offence—they never do—but it was so unexpected—I have never given him any reason.”
“Why, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the now astonished Countess. “Do be explicit. I have just read something in the paper that has made me very angry.”
The girl wiped away the tears from her reddened eyes and said: “Why did he do it?”
“Do what?” exclaimed the Countess. “Do speak, or I shall have to cry myself.”
Bertha began to weep again, but through her tears she managed to say: “Your son—the Count—asked me to be his wife.”
“Oh, the young scapegrace!” said the Countess, jumping to her feet. “Why, my dear, he is engaged to another woman, where we live, in Corsica. You stay here. I will go downstairs and have a talk with him. He shall leave the house this very day.”
“Oh, don’t turn him out on my account,” cried Bertha. “Do not, my dear Countess. I will go instead. This is his home and I have no right here.”
“Well, I have,” said the Countess, defiantly. “This is my house, and while I live it has a mistress, but no master.”
The Countess soon discovered that her son was in the drawing-room where the avowal of love had been made. He was seated at the piano, touching the keys lightly and humming an air.
“So, my young man,” the Countess exclaimed, “you are at your old tricks again.”
“Yes,” said the Count. “You had me taught to play the piano, and I have always loved it.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. If you would give more time to music and less to making love to people who do not appreciate it, it would be better for yourself and for me. What did you mean by insulting my guest?”
“Is it an insult,” he asked, “to ask a young lady to become a Countess?”
The Countess paused. “Perhaps not,” she said, “if you had any right to ask her, but you have not. What would you say if I told Vivienne?”
“I should say,” said the Count, “what would, no doubt, seem to be very impolite.”
“You would tell me to mind my own business, I presume,” said the Countess; “it is not an uncommon remark with you. Well, I am going to mind it. This is my house and I have only allowed you to remain here on sufferance. Either you or I must go.” She thought for a moment before she spoke again. “Yes, we will go. Bertha has never seen the world and I will give her an opportunity. You may stay in Paris. I shall not tell you where we are going, for, to borrow the words which you thought but did not speak, I do not consider it is any of your affair. If you discover where we are, and follow us, and speak a word of love to my guest, or even hint at it, I will tell Pascal Batistelli.”
The Countess was as good as her word. On the second day her preparations were completed, and on the morning of the third she left Paris, without informing her son as to her destination.
The Count really felt his rejection severely. He had been attracted to Bertha and as far as it lay in him to feel affection for any one, he really loved her. Night after night of dissipation followed his rejection and the consequent departure of Bertha from Paris. It was nearly one o’clock when he returned home one morning. His latch-key gave him admission to the house, and he would have gone upstairs at once to his room if he had not noticed a long, thin ray of light coming from the library. He went on tiptoe to the door and listened. He heard a sound like that of a file upon metal. His first thought was that it was a burglar. He was unarmed, but he had a sturdy frame and a pair of stout fists. He kicked the door open violently, rushed into the room, and pounced upon a man who was on his knees before the safe, which contained the family papers and valuables. He caught the man by the collar and threw him violently upon his back.
“Ah, Jacques, it is you, is it? What the devil are you up to?”
When the Countess left Paris, only three servants were retained. These were Jacques, the coachman; Timothée, the butler, or major domo; and Francine, the cook, who was Timothée’s fiancée. It was but natural that Timothée should spend his evenings in the kitchen with Francine, and this fact, the Count quickly reasoned, was what had given Jacques his opportunity to rob the safe.
“Why don’t you speak, you rascal?” cried the Count. “Were you trying to rob the safe?”
The man sat up. In one hand he held a key and in the other a small file. “No, sir. Not quite so bad as that. I don’t suppose you will believe me, but I will tell you the truth. Before the young lady went away she gave me a letter and said if a certain young gentleman called for it, to give it to him. I have carried it in my pocket so long that it was becoming crumpled and soiled, and I thought I would put it in the safe. I had this key and it nearly fitted; that is why I was filing it.”
“I may believe it,” said the Count, “but I don’t think the judge will to-morrow. But where’s the letter? You may get up.”
Jacques passed the letter to the Count. The handwriting was Bertha’s and it was addressed to Mr. De Vinne.
“You may get up,” repeated the Count. “Give me that key. I will take charge of the letter and see that it is delivered when the young gentleman comes for it. I don’t believe a word you have told me except that you had the letter. Thieves always leave some loophole to crawl through.”
The man went out. The Count examined the safe to see that it was securely locked, and then went upstairs to his room.
“Mr. De Vinne! I suppose he is her English lover. But why should he come here? What a foolish question! Of course if he knew she was here he would come. I would go to the ends of the earth to see her if I knew where she had gone. Perhaps this letter will tell. Well, I have done worse things than open a letter addressed to another man.” As he spoke he broke the seal and read: