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.