Thomas Glynne knew that Jack De Vinne had gone with Cromillian and his party, though he did not know for what purpose. Doubt engenders suspicion, and he came to the conclusion that Cromillian had decided to espouse Jack’s cause, and had taken him to Ajaccio so that he could meet with Bertha.
Glynne was well provided with money, and it was in that shape which passes current in all lands—honest gold coins; he did not have to look far before he found one of the bandits who was willing to make an exchange, and Glynne soon learned what he most wished to know—the shortest and safest road to Ajaccio.
One night, Glynne, at his purchased friend’s suggestion, was put on guard. While his companions were sleeping soundly, in supposed safety, Glynne stole away in the darkness.
It was not quite daylight when he came suddenly upon Cromillian’s party, encamped in the maquis. A sleepy guard called to him, but receiving no reply, and still hearing the noise of his approach, fired in his direction. There was the sound of a falling body, then all was still. The sentry shortly reconnoitred and came upon the body of Thomas Glynne, who had been shot through the heart. He resumed his post, and it was not until morning that he informed his fellow bandits that he had called to the person, and, receiving no answer, supposed he was a spy, and had fired in his direction, as it proved, with unerring aim.
Among those to whom he told his story was Jack De Vinne, whose curiosity led him to look upon the supposed spy. He was startled beyond measure when he found that it was Bertha’s guardian, Thomas Glynne.
Jack was brave and resolute, but he could not look upon that still form with complacency. Bertha was deprived of her appointed protector. What would she say when she learned the truth? Jack thought that the least he could do was to give the body a decent burial and, with the assistance of some of the band, Thomas Glynne was interred near where he had been shot. Before this was done Jack took such papers as Glynne had upon him, thinking possibly there might be something of value to Bertha. Nor was he mistaken. To his surprise, he found the last will and testament of Oscar Renville and what he opined were other valuable papers in reference to her estates.
He went at once to the leader of the band, one Giuseppe Pisano, who had been appointed in place of the recreant Paoli, and explained the matter to him.
“I must go to Ajaccio,” said Jack, “and take this document to the dead man’s ward. It is of great importance, and it is my duty to take it at once. I know our good Captain would agree to it if he were here.”
Lieutenant Pisano gave him permission to go to Ajaccio, first exacting a promise that after having performed his mission, he would report to Cromillian, who was encamped in the maquis near Alfieri.
It would be hard to explain Jack’s feelings. They were an admixture of remorse, fear, hope, and love. He was sorry that Bertha’s guardian had been killed, even though he might be a villain and false to the trust imposed on him by Bertha’s father, and he was sorry for Clarence.
As a lover, his heart was full of happiness, for was he not to see Bertha after a separation which had seemed almost an eternity? He concealed the papers about his person, and set out with a light heart to find Bertha, vowing that they never should be parted again.
After Cromillian had killed Pascal, he declared his intention of demolishing the Batistelli castle if there were no other means of rescuing Vandemar and Vivienne. To do this, he must have the assistance of his followers, who were encamped in the maquis about a mile from the village.
Before entering the castle, he had hidden his rifle in the shrubbery, for, if possible, he wished to make his visit a peaceful one. For this reason, he had come alone to see Pascal, hoping to induce him to release Vandemar and, perhaps, bring about a truce, thus preventing more bloodshed. In this he had failed. Vandemar and Vivienne were in the dungeon chamber, and the demolition of the castle seemed to be the only way in which their lives could be saved.
Cromillian walked along, his rifle over his shoulder, unconscious of imminent danger. He was thinking of the most expeditious manner in which the walls of the castle could be so breached as to make the rescue of the lovers possible, when he felt a stinging, smarting sensation between his shoulders. Instantly his throat filled with blood, he choked, a momentary weakness overcame him, and he fell to the ground; but he was a man of large stature and great muscular strength. With the revulsion that followed such a severe physical shock, came the desire to be revenged upon his assailant, for he knew that an attempt had been made to assassinate him.
Grasping his rifle, which had fallen from his hand, he gave a quick, energetic lurch to his body, which enabled him to face in the opposite direction to that in which he had been walking. Not twenty feet from him, Cromillian saw an old man, with long white hair, who was brandishing a sword—his own sword, for there was not another like it in Corsica—it was old Manassa!
“A life for a life!” he cried. “The Batistellis are avenged!”
The old man turned and, with surprising agility, ran in the direction of a thick grove of trees. A moment later he would have vanished from sight. With an almost superhuman effort, Cromillian raised his rifle and fired. A yell of pain was proof that the bullet had struck, but the wound was not a mortal one. Old Manassa kept on and disappeared among the trees.
The exertion was too much for Cromillian; his throat again filled with blood and, weakened by its loss, consciousness left him.
Shortly after the meeting between Cromillian and Pascal, during which the latter was killed, the Countess and Bertha, with their guests, Admiral Enright and his daughter Helen, were seated together in the library of the Castle Mont d’Oro. Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who said:
“Adolphe, Monsieur Pascal Batistelli’s valet, wishes to speak with you, madame.”
The Countess arose. “I will go and see him. No; let him come in. We are all friends, and equally interested to hear what he may have to say.”
Adolphe entered shortly and told his story, somewhat disjointedly, but from it his hearers learned that a fight had taken place between Cromillian and Pascal, in which the latter had been killed; that Manassa had told him that Vandemar and Vivienne were in the dungeon chamber and that there they must die, for the paper telling how to open the door had been lost; that Manassa had gone, no one knew whither, and that his master lay unburied. “There is no head to the house, and I know not what to do,” he exclaimed. “I have come to you, Madame la Comtesse, for advice.”
The Countess turned to Bertha. “What can we say?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement.
“We must leave it all to the Admiral,” replied Bertha.
Turning to the Admiral, the Countess said: “I am sorry, my dear Admiral, to thus burden you, but there is no one but you to whom we may turn in this dreadful dilemma.”
Thus summoned to take the leading part in the affair, the Admiral at once displayed that great faculty in grasping details and organising action, which had made him famous.
“Go home, young man,” he said to Adolphe, “and tell the nurse, Clarine I believe you called her, to prepare your master’s body for burial. I will come to the castle soon and tell you what to do next.”
After Adolphe had gone, the Admiral turned to the Countess and said: “It is our duty to go at once to the castle. That poor girl hasn’t a relative in the world. Nor the boy either. Not a soul to take charge of an effort for their liberation but ourselves. It is horrible. They shall be freed, and it devolves upon us to do it.”
“I agree with you, Admiral,” said the Countess, “but I do not think it safe for us to do so unless we are accompanied by a proper guard.”
“Have no fear,” said the Admiral; “fortunately, that is provided for. I am momentarily expecting the arrival of a detachment of sailors and marines from the ship, for whom I have sent to protect myself and daughter until we are safe again on board our vessel. When they arrive, we will see what strong hands and willing hearts can do in so worthy a cause. Let us make preparations to go at once.”
The Countess left the room to give an order to her male retainers to accompany them.
Both the Countess and Bertha were greatly interested in the terrible condition and probable fate of Vandemar and Vivienne. The Countess had known Manuel Della Coscia and remembered the pretty little boy who had now grown to man’s estate. Then, too, she had thought a great deal of Vivienne, but had not allowed her interest to go beyond a certain point. She knew that the girl was lovable, but she felt that if she betrayed her own affection, it might lead her to encourage the Count in his attentions to Mlle. Batistelli. In her heart she knew that her son would never make Vivienne a good husband, and she was too honest and sincere a woman to wish to secure her own happiness by making another unhappy.
Bertha’s feelings were prompted by the natural sympathy of youth for youth. This sympathy was intensified by the fact that her own love affair was in a similar condition. To be sure, she did not feel that her life was in danger, but she did not know but that Jack was already dead. Were not Vandemar and Vivienne happier than she? They were together and, if they could not be saved, they could die in each other’s arms. If Jack were dead and she thus left alone, what possible hope of future happiness could there be for her?
“My dear,” said the Countess, as she re-entered the room, “there is a messenger downstairs who wishes to see you on very important business.”
“A messenger?” exclaimed Bertha, and her cheek paled. “Why, who can it be? I know no one in Corsica——”
“He would tell me nothing except that he came from your guardian.”
“My guardian!” cried Bertha, and her pale face grew still whiter. “I will not see him.”
“I think it best that you should,” said the Countess, decidedly.
Bertha thought for a moment: “I will go down, if you will come with me.”
“I think it best that you should go alone,” the Countess rejoined.
When Bertha reached the room, a man who had been seated at the farther end arose and came towards her. He was heavily bearded and Bertha considered him to be a stranger to her. She lowered her eyes.
“You have come from my guardian?” she asked, in a voice hardly audible.
“Yes—he is dead.”
“Dead?” cried Bertha. She knew her thoughts were wicked, but the words gave her a sense of relief.
“How—” she had wished to ask—“How did it happen?” but she could utter only the monosyllable.
“He was killed by one of Cromillian’s band, who mistook him for a spy.”
Something in the man’s voice caused her to gaze at him intently, searchingly.
“Jack!”—and with a glad cry Bertha sprang forward and threw her arms about the young man’s neck.
“Forgive me—that beard—I did not know you—and your voice—I am so glad that you are safe”—and she laid her head upon his shoulder.
“I am sorry for him. He may be better off,” said Jack. “Here are some valuable papers that he had on him wholly relating to yourself, and which you should guard carefully.”
“I hope this is the end, Jack,” she breathed, softly.
“I hope so—of our troubles,” he answered, “but others are in trouble. I must get help for a man whom I found in the road, shot through the lungs. I was not strong enough to carry him. Where is Count Mont d’Oro?”
“He, too, is dead,” said Bertha. “Perhaps Admiral Enright can help you—but what is that?” she cried.
They listened.
“It sounds like the beating of a drum,” said Jack, and he ran to the window. “Come here, Bertha. There is a body of sailors—English sailors, I think—and marines in front of the house.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bertha. “Admiral Enright sent to his ship for them, and now let us seek him out and also the Countess Mont d’Oro, who will be glad you are come, for everything here in Corsica seems to be at sixes and sevens.”
The Admiral greeted Jack with the utmost cordiality. “I knew that your good friend, and my Lieutenant, Victor Duquesne, was very much worried because of your absence, and I am glad you have returned to give a good account of yourself.”
Jack gave a brief recital of his wanderings since he left the hotel at Ajaccio, and also explained the condition of the wounded man, upon hearing which the Admiral immediately detailed four sailors to accompany Jack on his humane errand.
“My dear Countess,” said the Admiral, “our young friend has gone to save one life; it is now our duty to see if we can save two.”
It was a strange procession that left the house of the Countess Mont d’Oro and, escorted by the sailors and marines, soon reached the Batistelli castle. The Admiral and his daughter were in advance, while close behind them were the Countess Mont d’Oro, and Bertha who insisted upon accompanying them, declaring that nothing would induce her to remain at home alone.
Adolphe and Clarine stood in the open doorway waiting to receive them, and led the party through rooms and corridors, and up the steep stone stairway to the Hall of Mirrors. The picture they formed, transferred to canvas, would have won fame and fortune for the artist. There was the Admiral in the handsome uniform of his rank; the Countess dressed in the latest Parisian style, and Helen and Bertha in plain and simple attire, forming a marked contrast with the uniforms of the jack-tars and marines. The company was not very large, but its numbers were, apparently, multiplied by the mirrors on the walls, and it seemed as though a vast concourse was present.
The Admiral studied carefully the picture disclosed by the parting of the hinged mirrors. All could see that the artist had depicted a well-known incident in the garden of Eden.
“Does any one here know aught about the dungeon?” inquired the Admiral.
Adolphe led the old nurse, Clarine, forward. “I am the only one who knows,” she said. Clarine then told what she knew of the history of the dungeon chamber, the paper left by Vivienne’s father, how she had given it to the young girl on her birthday, and how it had disappeared, no one knew how or where.
“I understand,” said Admiral Enright. “There is no key to the door, nor handle, so it must be opened from the outside, by some ingenious concealed mechanism. To state the problem is easy, but I fear it will be hard to solve it. My dear,” turning to his daughter Helen, “you are well versed in regard to the castles of olden times and their dungeons. Have you learned, in all your studies of them, anything which may aid us in the present case?”
Helen had been standing apart from the rest, eagerly scanning the picture before her. At her father’s words she came forward and lightly touched the picture at different points with her finger.
“May one of your men assist me?” she asked, turning to the Admiral.
The Admiral motioned for one of the sailors to come forward.
“There must be some connection, father,” she said, “between the picture and what we may call the lock, which, in cases I have read of, is formed of bolts held in place by certain springs acted upon in a way which we must ascertain. You see, here are Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, standing beneath a tree, and above them the wicked serpent with glistening eyes. There is the apple in Eve’s hand. Now, if we follow the story as it is written, the serpent tempted Eve and Eve tempted Adam, who ate the apple. Now, supposing your man will place the forefinger of his right hand on the eye of the serpent and keep it there. Now, place the forefinger of your left hand on the stem of the apple. Now, press hard.” Suddenly there was a sound—a grating sound—like the moving of one metallic surface upon another; yet there was no movement of the door.
“Not quite,” exclaimed Helen, excitedly, “but thank God we must be nearing the solution. Now place a finger upon Eve’s mouth; now on Adam’s ear. Now, press hard.”
Again the grating sound, but still the doors did not open.
Helen now gazed long at the picture, while all present watched her in tense silence.
“Two of the bolts have been shot, father,” she said at last, “but there must be a third, and possibly more. Ah!” she exclaimed, as a sudden thought seemed to strike her, no doubt impelled by the idea of pushing Adam out of the garden of Eden, “press with all your might upon Adam’s chest!”
The sailor sprang forward to obey her command. Again the grating sound; this time much louder. There was a creaking noise, and the door opened slowly, as though pushed from within by invisible hands.
A wild shout of delight arose from the company, for there, standing side by side, were Vandemar and Vivienne. They had heard the grating and creaking and knew that the hour of their deliverance had come. All stood awe-hushed as Vandemar, seemingly the shadow of his former self, and Vivienne, with tear-stained face and pallid cheek, came forth.
“Bless—my—soul! Re-mark-a-ble!” exclaimed the Admiral, and he ran forward and grasped the young man’s hand.
The strong-armed sailor started to lend his support to Victor, but he was abruptly put aside by a young man, who now rushed through the crowd and helped lead Victor forward. It was Jack, who had performed his errand of humanity, and had arrived just in time to witness the release of his friend.
Pylades and Orestes were again reunited.
Simultaneously Vivienne was clasped in the arms of Clarine, who had been as a mother to her and had loved her all her life. With the assistance of the Countess and Bertha, Vivienne was led to a chair. Her first words were:
“Where is my brother Pascal?”
“He is dead,” cried Clarine. “Cromillian killed him. You are the last of the Batistellis.”
While the company had been at the Batistelli castle, Jack had performed the task intrusted to him. Cromillian had been brought in, a doctor called, and the flow of blood stanched. He was in a high state of fever and was delirious. He kept calling for his men to follow him and save Vandemar and Vivienne by tearing down the castle walls. “It is the only way,” he cried time after time, and after each exertion would fall into a stupor.
The next morning, when the doctor came, he was rational. He had been told that Vandemar and Vivienne had been liberated, and the intelligence had produced a most quieting effect.
“What is my real condition, Doctor?” he asked. “Tell me the truth. I can bear it. I have a duty to perform and wish to know whether there is time.”
“Well, sir,” said the doctor, “your wound is a mortal one. You are a very strong man and have great vitality. You will live another day, perhaps two, but I can offer you no hope beyond that.”
“Thank you,” said Cromillian. “I knew as much. I wish to see Vandemar. Let him come to me at once and have him bring two witnesses. I have something to tell him about his father.”
It was not long before Vandemar appeared, accompanied by the Admiral and Countess Mont d’Oro. Vandemar’s first words were:
“They said you could tell me something of my father. Where can I find him?”
“You will not have to go far. I am he—I am called Cromillian, but my right name is Manuel Della Coscia.”
His hearers were astonished, Vandemar most of all. Could this bandit be the father whom he had so longed to see?
“I do not expect you to love me, my son. It is unnatural that you should, for we have never been close to each other. But, before I die, I must remove a stigma from our family name. You are the last of the line, Vandemar, and should know the truth. Let your friends draw near, for my story is a long one and I am weaker than I thought.
“Vandemar and friends, as sure as there is a God in Heaven, I did not kill Conrad Batistelli. The old Count Mont d’Oro and Conrad Batistelli had a dispute about some land, for you know their estates adjoin. Pardon me, lady, for what I am forced to say, but it is the truth.
“One day, I met the old Count, who asked me if I had my stiletto with me. He had left home without his, and as he was going to examine his estate and might meet Batistelli, he was afraid that an altercation might ensue, when he, being unarmed, would be at a disadvantage. That evening I went to the Count’s house to get back my stiletto, for it was a valuable one and bore my initials. To my horror, I learned that he had killed Conrad Batistelli with it and, unthinkingly, had left the weapon beside the dead body of his victim.
“I was a widower; you were a little boy of six. The Batistellis were powerful, and I knew that our lives would be forfeited if we remained in Corsica. The Count gave me all the money he had in his possession, and a letter of credit for a large sum. I took you, mounted a fleet horse supplied by the Count, and made my way to Ajaccio. I obtained a disguise and, a few days later, secured a passage to France. I made my way at once to England, where I placed you at school. The Count sent me more money, from time to time, and I lived the life of a man of leisure; but when you were old enough to enter the Navy, my occupation was gone. I had taken the name of Hector Duquesne, and had given you that of Victor.
“I wearied of my quiet, do-nothing life, and decided to come back to Corsica. But what could I do here? If I returned under my own name, although I was an innocent man, the vendetta would claim me as a victim. I assumed the name of Cromillian and organised my company of moral bandits, pledged to do all they could to discountenance the practice of the vendetta.
“But I yearned to see you, and wrote to you, telling you who you were and why you had been banished from your native land, though I did not tell you when and where you could see me. I had hoped to meet you in some way, look upon your face for the last time, and then warn you to leave Corsica forever. You must do it now. My life will soon pay the forfeit, and yours will if you remain here. The vendetta never dies while food for the stiletto or the rifle remains alive.”
The Countess was deeply affected by Cromillian’s story. She had never dreamed that her husband was connected in any way with such a tragedy. What a whirligig of fate it was which had brought the father and son together under her roof. Cromillian must have divined what was passing in the Countess’s mind.
“My dear lady,” he said, “do not worry about what I have told you. The Corsicans are born murderers. If your husband had not killed Conrad Batistelli, he would have lost his own life. Is Pascal dead?”
“Yes,” said Vandemar, “he is to be buried to-morrow.”
“I shall soon follow him. Have they found old Manassa? I fired at him after he shot me, and then he ran for the woods.”
“We shall have a search made for him,” said Vandemar.
Father and son were left together. Each was at the portal of a new life. One was to go—he knew not where; the other looked forward to a life of happiness with the woman he loved.
As the Admiral and the Countess left the room, the former asked:
“Have you ever found anything among your husband’s papers bearing on this affair of the vendetta? I believe this man’s story, but even the truth should be verified.”
“No,” the Countess replied; “since my husband died in Paris, I have visited Corsica only when it was absolutely necessary to learn from my steward the condition of my affairs. The Count’s private papers are here, but they have never been disturbed since his death.”
“Suppose we look at them now,” suggested the Admiral.
A careful search disclosed a sealed packet, endorsed “Manuel Della Coscia. Statement of Account.” Below was written in a trembling hand, “Closed.” It was opened by the Admiral, and found to contain, among other papers, a signed statement corroborating in every particular the story told by Cromillian. The writer expressed his regret that he could not make a more adequate return for the great service rendered him by Manuel Della Coscia.
Vandemar’s father was sinking rapidly. The Countess and her guests were gathered at his bedside, and she had informed him of the finding of the paper, among her late husband’s effects, which entirely exonerated the Della Coscias from all complicity in the murder. A look of pleasure overspread the face of the wounded man as he motioned for Vandemar and Vivienne to approach. He joined their hands.
“Thus ends a Corsican vendetta,” he said, solemnly; then, seeing Jack and Bertha, he smiled faintly and added: “And an English family feud.”
His passing was painless and peaceful. At his request, his gravestone bore but one word—Cromillian.
The searching party that had been sent out to look for Old Manassa returned and reported that they had scoured the maquis, but could see no trace of him. His body was never found.
Admiral Enright at last received the orders from London for which he had been waiting so long. He told his hostess that he must join his ship and proceed at once to Portsmouth.
“Young man,” he said, turning to Vandemar, “you ought to go with me. On Mademoiselle Batistelli’s account, however, I will allow you to reach Portsmouth by way of Paris.”
“You will find me there waiting for you,” said Vandemar Della Coscia.
“And what am I to do?” asked Jack, turning to Bertha.
“You have neglected your duties as heir of the Earl of Noxton,” broke in the Admiral, with mock severity, “and you have added to your responsibilities by that neglect.”
Jack looked disturbed.
“I know, my dear Admiral, I have been very remiss, but you must own there have been extenuating circumstances.”
“Oh, yes,” said Admiral Enright, “I see her,”—and he looked at Bertha, who blushed prettily.
“No doubt we all wish to leave these scenes,” said the Countess. “I shall return eventually, but for the present I shall open my Paris residence, where, with Bertha, we shall be pleased to welcome you as our guests so long as you can find it convenient to stay.”
On the afternoon preceding the day of departure, a solemn conclave was held in the library of the Mont d’Oro castle.
“Mademoiselle Batistelli,” said the Admiral, turning to Vivienne, “is it your intention to return to the Batistelli castle eventually, or——”
“Never!” broke in Vivienne. “I shall never step within its doors again. I couldn’t. Nothing but distressing memories are connected with its walls, and I never wish to set foot in Corsica again.”
“I had thought as much,” remarked the Countess, “and had so expressed myself to Admiral Enright. As it adjoins my estate, I will make you a proposition. With your consent—and also that of your future husband—I will purchase the Batistelli castle and grounds at their proper valuation. Should this offer prove acceptable, it is my intention to raze the castle to the ground, and remove the hedge which has divided the estates for so many years. Thus all unpleasant memories will be banished. I shall be glad, for Paris is too noisy, and I shall have this castle to be the shelter of my declining years.”
This plan proved agreeable, and it was arranged that some of the Batistelli servants, including Clarine, should be added to the Mont d’Oro household; the others were dismissed with gratuities.
The next day the Osprey set sail from Ajaccio, bearing the Admiral and his daughter. It was arranged that Vandemar and Vivienne, and Jack and Bertha, accompanied by the Countess Mont d’Oro, should go at once to Paris.
Vivienne had wished Clarine to accompany her to England, for Vandemar had expressed his intention of making that country his future home.
“No, my darling,” said the old nurse, “I would like to go with you, but those whom I have served, and all, whom I have loved, excepting yourself, are dead and buried here in Corsica. Until within a short time, you have loved me better than any one else in the world, but now your love—all your love—belongs to another, and old Clarine will not ask you to divide it. I have not long to stay—you will not blame me, I know—but when I die, I wish to be buried in my native land. I could not die happy if I were to be laid away in that far off country, so far from those I——” Here the old nurse’s feelings overcame her, and her voice was so choked with sobs that she could not speak. Vivienne comforted her as best she could, and told her that she would write to her regularly, and that some day she might come with her husband to pay her a visit.
“Countess Mont d’Oro has agreed to take you into her household, Clarine. If she had not done so, I should have insisted upon your going with me, but with her I know that you will be well treated, and if you are sick you will have the best of care. She has promised me as much.”
Vandemar had a conversation with Admiral Enright before the sailing of the Osprey.
“My duty is to join my ship at once,” the young man had said.
“Young people do not see their duty sometimes as clearly as do their elders,” the Admiral had replied. “The time you spent in that dungeon has broken you down physically—I will not say mentally—as much as a three years’ cruise would have done. I am commander of the ship and I know that my action will be sustained by the Admiralty. I grant you a furlough of thirty days. If you cannot make Mademoiselle Batistelli your wife and join me at Portsmouth by the end of that time, you deserve to be court-martialled, and I will see that you are.”
Never had the mansion of the Countess Mont d’Oro been so ablaze with light as on the evening when she, accompanied by her guests, arrived in Paris. She had previously sent word as to what preparations she wished made for their coming. She had no sooner stepped over the threshold than she turned, and, with a blending of French fervour and Italian grace, with both hands extended, welcomed her guests.
“This is my city home,” she cried. “It shall be yours as long as you wish to stay. I have been mistress here for so long that it will be a pleasure for me to take orders from others. Command me, and I will obey.”
Vivienne had never been outside of Corsica and she viewed with wonder the beauties of the great city. It was the time of the Second Empire, and the Prince-President, on assuming the crown, had determined to make the people of Paris happy. He knew that Paris was France, and that if Parisians were happy the rest of the country would be tranquil.
During Bertha’s previous stay in the city, she had seen but few of its attractions, for she had declined to accompany Count Mont d’Oro, and had gone out very seldom with the Countess.
Vandemar and Vivienne, and Jack and Bertha, made a happy party and there were no restrictions upon their enjoyment. When asked to accompany them the Countess had replied:
“I have had my day as an active participant; I take the most pleasure now in seeing others enjoy themselves.”
Twenty days of Lieutenant Victor Duquesne’s furlough had expired. In his intercourse with the outside world, he still retained the name by which he was known in the Navy.
“When my name is changed upon the Navy roster,” he told the Countess, “I shall feel as though I had some legal right to it.”
“You will have to claim a legal right to it before then,” said the Countess. “You have no father nor mother, and I feel it is my duty to act towards you in place of both. Your friend, Mr. De Vinne, has a father and a mother living, and can take Miss Renville to his own home. You, at present, have no home, and as your combined father and mother, and as the combined father and mother of Mademoiselle Batistelli, you must take your choice between becoming the husband of Vivienne within the next ten days, or you will be obliged to leave her here in Paris. You careless, thoughtless, headstrong young men are very apt to forget the proprieties. You think that Vivienne belongs to you, and that nobody else has any interest in her, but, young man, bear in mind that until you legally and lawfully make her your wife, she is mine. You remember I lived next door to her in Corsica.”
Vandemar took Jack into his confidence.
“What am I to do, old man? Here’s the Countess says that I must marry Vivienne or she can’t let her go to England with me. She says you have a home to take your lady-love to, while I have none. I intend to make one, though.”
“The Countess is right,” said Jack, “and do you know I have been thinking that the best way to overcome possible objection is to render it futile.”
“Well, I can’t say that I follow you,” remarked Vandemar.
“Well, you will understand me,” said Jack, “when I express my determination of following you.”
Still Vandemar did not understand. “Why, of course,” said he, “we always intended to go to England together.”
“Yes,” said Jack. “Our original intention was to go as four separate individuals, but as the Fates seem to have decided that you and Vivienne must go as a couple, I am more than willing to take time by the forelock and, with Bertha’s kind co-operation, make another couple.”
Vandemar grasped Jack’s hand. “From the time we first met until to-day, Jack, I’ve never got into any kind of trouble, any sort of a dilemma, that you did not contrive some way of getting me out of it.”
“Well, you know,” said Jack, “that somehow or other we neither of us have forgotten the old story of Pylades and Orestes.”
“And I hope we never shall,” said Vandemar, fervently.
A sudden thought came to Jack. “Well, I may have kept faith with you and done part, if not all that I should have done in your behalf, but there is one poor fellow whom I have entirely forgotten, so fully have I been carried away by my own happiness.”
“Clarence?” queried Vandemar.
“Yes,” said Jack. “No news comes from that out-of-the-way place from which we have providentially escaped with our lives, and what is worth more, our wives to-be. Poor Clarence does not yet know of the death of his father. I will go and talk the whole matter over with Bertha, and we will decide what is best to write him.”
Clarence Glynne’s recovery had been rapid after the arrival of his wife. He had not been affected so much by the exhibit of his father’s enmity towards him as he was by the supposed loss of his wife, whom he dearly loved. The departure of his father in quest of Bertha made him virtual master of Buckholme, and he lost no time in installing his wife as its mistress. He had explained matters to Mr. Lake, giving him a most liberal douceur, and had received the detective’s promise that no publicity would be given to the affair of Glynne vs. Glynne.
Clarence resumed his position as head of the mercantile house of Walmonth & Company, and everything moved along much more smoothly and happily than it had before.
“The day of reckoning will come some time,” he said to his wife, one morning at breakfast.
“Well, Clarence,” she replied, “there is an old adage about not borrowing trouble. When the day of reckoning comes, we will figure up both sides of the account and see to whom the balance is due. I know you will pardon me when I say that I think your father has been playing a deep game. So far as you are concerned, there is no reason why the truth should not be known, but I don’t think he will be willing to have it divulged. In such a case the balance will be on your side. You suspect what the truth is, and if you should mention your suspicions to the authorities, the truth would have to come out.”
“That may be so,” said Clarence, “but a man doesn’t like to get his father in a hole, and then shake a stick at him and tell him he can’t come out unless he pays up.”
“I don’t say, Clarence, but that you are indebted to your father for your existence, but I really think you owe him very little love, and I am sure I have never had any for him, nor he for me.”
Jennie might have said more, but conversation was cut short by the entrance of Brinkley with the morning mail.
Clarence was so busily engaged with his breakfast that Jennie took the letters. She glanced over them quickly, throwing them, one by one, upon the table. The postmark of the last one she regarded attentively.
“Why, here’s one from Paris,” she exclaimed.
“From father?” asked her husband, still intent upon his bacon and eggs.
“No,” said she. “I will open it and read it to you.”
Womanlike she looked at the end of the letter first.
“Why, Clarence,” she exclaimed, “it’s from Jack De Vinne.”
“Go on,” said her husband, as he buttered a muffin, “let’s hear what he says,” and Jennie read:
“My Dear Clarence:
“I have been very remiss in my duty to you. I should have written to you long before this and conveyed to you some intelligence which you will find of the greatest importance. Let me give you my excuse first. I cannot tell you the whole story now, for I am not an adept at letter-writing, and usually confine my communications to a statement of bald facts. Well, the facts are these. By a curious coincidence I met my dear friend Victor Duquesne in Corsica. Bertha had gone there with the Countess Mont d’Oro, and I, as you know, followed her. Admiral Enright’s ship, upon which Victor was a lieutenant, came to Ajaccio shortly after I arrived, so we met. Your father followed Bertha to Corsica, intending to prevent my meeting with her. She was not poor, as your father had told me, but possesses a fortune in her own right. Your father was to be her guardian until the day of her marriage, when, by her father’s will, she was to be put in possession of her fortune. You see now why your father wished you to marry her and why he did not want her to marry anybody else.”
“We knew all that before, didn’t we, Clarence?” exclaimed Jennie.
“Yes,” said her husband, as he buttered a third muffin. “Go on, he’s got something more to tell. I know Jack; he writes just as he talks.”
“I cannot tell you all now, Clarence, all the terrible things that occurred in Corsica while we were there. The vendetta is the national pastime. We all got mixed up in it, and fortunate are we that we escaped with our lives; many did not. But Bertha and I, and Victor and his lady-love, a beautiful young Corsican girl named Vivienne Batistelli, and our mutual friend, Countess Mont d’Oro, are all safe now in Paris. I have written all this, Clarence, in the vain hope that I should find some way of breaking sad news to you in such a manner as not to give you too sudden a shock.”
Clarence dropped his knife and fork and looked intently at his wife. “I told you so, Jennie. I knew he was holding something back. But read on; it cannot be any worse than I think it is. I imagined while you were reading that something had happened, for how could Jack know about Bertha’s fortune?”
“You are right,” said his wife, who had been reading ahead while he had been talking; “you are right, Clarence, your father is gone. Jack says he was made captive by one party of bandits while your father was a captive with another band. Your father escaped with the evident intention of following Jack, but when challenged by the guard he did not answer quickly enough and was shot down. Jack saw that he was buried, and took possession of the papers upon him. He says that one of those papers was the will of Oscar Renville, and he took the liberty of giving it to Bertha, who read it. Those are not his own words,” said Jennie. “I will read it just as it is here, if you wish, Clarence.”
“Is there any more?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, another page.”