CHAPTER XIII.
“TO SEE IS TO LOVE!”
THE post-chaises which conveyed Count Mont d’Oro and Thomas Glynne reached Marseilles two days sooner than did the slow-moving vehicle in which Jack De Vinne was a passenger. The Count and his companion were again fortunate in finding a vessel just ready to sail for Ajaccio, while Jack was detained two days after his arrival before he could find a vessel bound for the desired port. For these reasons, the Count and Thomas Glynne reached Corsica some five days sooner than did Jack.
Before their arrival the Count had decided that he would not take his companion to the hotel in Ajaccio. He was so well known in the town that he knew the presence of his foreign-looking companion would be sure to cause comment. Again, what one person in Ajaccio knew, soon everybody knew, and he did not care to have the news of his arrival reach his mother until he was able to present himself in person.
He was acquainted with a Corsican named Savoni, who lived upon a side street quite a distance from the centre of the town. Savoni was a widower with one daughter. His wife had been the victim of a vendetta, and the daughter had come near meeting the same fate as her mother. She had received a severe blow upon the head from which she had never fully recovered. She was able, however, to attend to her household duties and had the reputation of being one of the best cooks in Corsica. Count Mont d’Oro’s life in Paris had made him a bon vivant, and he knew by experience that, although the beds in the hotel at Ajaccio were clean and comfortable, the fare was not of a high order of excellence. It was, therefore, to Savoni’s house that he took Thomas Glynne and made arrangements for him to remain there until he should send for him to come to Mont d’Oro Castle.
The second day after his arrival in Corsica, the Count suddenly made his appearance at the home of his mother, to her great astonishment and to the dismay of Bertha Renville. The mother uttered no word of welcome. Her first inquiry was: “What brought you down here without an invitation?”
“I came as most travellers do,” was the reply, “by post-chaise from Paris to Marseilles, by sailing vessel from Marseilles to Ajaccio, and, to show that I am still an able-bodied young man, I came from that town on foot. I am, naturally, somewhat tired and deucedly hungry, and so, if you have no objection, my good mother, I will go down and get a lunch.”
Suiting the action to the word, he bowed to the ladies, who had not yet recovered from their astonishment, and withdrew. For several minutes after the Count’s departure, the ladies said nothing. Then the Countess spoke:
“He won’t tell me what he came for, so I shall have to find it out myself. Have you formed any opinion?” she asked, turning to Bertha.
“Why, certainly not,” said the young girl. “But from what you have told me, I should naturally say that he came to see his mother.”
“As you know that is not the case,” and there was a bitter smile upon the face of the Countess, “it must be that he came to see somebody else.”
Bertha may have divined the Countess’s meaning, but she did not propose to acknowledge it, so she said:
“Such being the case, his object is probably to see Mademoiselle Batistelli, to whom he is betrothed.”
“Perhaps so,” was the reply, “but we shall see,” and, by mutual consent, the subject was dropped.
As the vessel upon which Jack De Vinne was a passenger was approaching the quay, the young man caught sight of Mr. Thomas Glynne. His personal appearance, despite the false beard, was not materially changed, and he recognised him easily.
“Will he know me?” was Jack’s first thought.
Before leaving Paris he had procured a pair of spectacles of coloured glass to wear during the trip from Marseilles to Ajaccio, to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun on the water. He resolved to keep them on as a measure of disguise. He brought his portmanteau from his cabin, but delayed his departure from the vessel until he saw Mr. Glynne turn and walk leisurely towards the town; then Jack landed, keeping some distance behind him. Jack was debating in his mind whether he should go directly to the hotel, even if Mr. Glynne was also a guest there, when he saw the latter turn down a side street.
When Jack reached the hotel, he decided that he would still further conceal his identity by giving an assumed name. His command of the French language was so good that he felt he could easily pass for a native-born Frenchman, so, for the nonce, Jack De Vinne became Andrea Fortier.
The dinner was simple but substantial, and after it was over Jack went to his room to decide upon his future course of action. It filled him with happiness when he reflected that he could not be very far from Bertha Renville. If it had not been for the presence of her guardian he would have at once made inquiries as to where Countess Mont d’Oro lived, and have gone to the house; but the fact that Mr. Glynne was in Corsica showed that he must proceed cautiously in taking the next step. Glynne had no doubt learned that his niece was in Corsica, and was there upon the same errand as himself. In the afternoon the sky grew overcast, and soon a heavy rain-storm set in; Jack decided that he would postpone making any inquiries until the following morning.
When the bright sun heralded the advent of a new day, it not only gave a warm glow to the face of nature, but lighted up a scene of unwonted activity in the harbour. Riding therein was a great vessel, one of Old England’s invincible frigates, the port-holes indicating that it carried an armament of fully sixty guns, while the floating pennant showed that no less a personage than a British admiral was on board. The vessel was the Osprey, commanded by Admiral Sir Gilbert Enright. Acting under orders from the Admiralty, he had been visiting certain stations in the Mediterranean, Ajaccio being on his list.
The Admiral was accompanied by his only daughter, Helen. Before the departure of the Osprey from England, Miss Enright was convalescent after a severe illness. The Admiral had desired that some one else should be placed in command of the Osprey, as he did not wish to leave his daughter, whose health was not fully restored. To his great delight, one of the Admiralty, who was a personal friend, suggested that nothing would do Miss Enright so much good as a sea voyage, and, at his suggestion, permission was given by the Admiralty for the Admiral’s daughter to accompany him on the voyage.
Miss Enright was nearly thirty years of age, tall, thin, sallow, and with but few claims to personal beauty. She was a character, in a way. From her earliest years, Helen Enright had been a student. She loved to learn, and learned to love learning for its own sake. There were no colleges for women in those days, but her father was wealthy and she had been supplied with competent tutors in every line of study that she chose to undertake. She had a passion for mathematics. Her literary recreation was history, and there were few women of her age in England who could solve knotty mathematical problems or pass so severe an examination as she could have done in the history of England and the Continental countries.
The voyage had restored her strength, and she had evinced a desire to become acquainted with the technical details of the vessel which her father commanded, and with the principles of navigation. Her father’s duties were such that he could not devote the required time necessary to give her the desired instruction, so, at her suggestion, for her father usually allowed her to have her own way in everything, one of the officers was detailed to act as her tutor in seamanship. That officer was Lieutenant Victor Duquesne.
Miss Helen, of course, had met him before at the Naval Academy and at her father’s house, and was much pleased at his selection, for he had impressed her as being very handsome, very polite, and very dignified, and although she did not, as a rule, care much for the society of young men, on one occasion she found herself lamenting the fact that he was so young. Victor was but twenty-three. Perhaps the cause of her lamentation was the knowledge that she was seven years older than he, which, to her eminently practical mind, was an insuperable obstacle to an intimacy extending beyond the limits of—friendship.
It was late that morning when Jack arose and gazed out of his window and found that the quay was crowded with the inhabitants of Ajaccio. Jack’s first inclination was to join them. Then he reflected that Mr. Glynne would undoubtedly be there, and he wished to avoid all possibility of recognition until he had seen Bertha. He decided, therefore, to go downstairs and see if he could learn anything about the new arrival and the reason for the appearance of that formidable warship at that port. He found the landlord in a state of pleasurable excitement.
“What vessel is that in the bay?” inquired Jack.
“That,” answered the landlord, “is the British ship Osprey, commanded by Admiral Enright, and I have been notified that the Admiral, with his daughter and one officer, will dine at the hotel and possibly pass the night here.”
“The Osprey! Admiral Enright!” exclaimed Jack, excitedly. “Why, that is Victor’s ship. How fortunate!”
“What’s that?” inquired the landlord.
“Nothing,” answered Jack, abruptly. “I was only saying that I think I know one of the officers. What a dunce!” he commented to himself as he walked away, “but then I have been through so much since I parted from Victor, and then to think that my quest of Bertha should bring us both together again in this town! How strange! What a mighty little world this is, after all.”
He could scarcely contain himself, yet he felt that the only plan for him would be to await the arrival of the ship’s officers and ascertain if Victor was aboard. He did not wish to run the risk of meeting Mr. Glynne, so he returned to his room and passed the time in gazing out of the window toward the harbour, and in watching the crowd of people passing to and fro.
Towards noon a boat put off from the warship. Jack eagerly watched the craft as it neared the shore and was lost to his sight. Shortly, the crowd parted and three people were seen coming up the quay. One was a stout gentleman with a very florid face, wearing the undress uniform of a British admiral, while upon one side of him was a young lady, and on the other side was—yes—Victor!
Jack grabbed his hat and ran downstairs, but as he reached the veranda he suddenly, with great restraint, subdued his intense excitement, and as the three visitors approached, Jack stood quietly by the entrance of the hotel, hoping thus to accentuate Victor’s surprise, and at the same time conjuring up in his own mind the effect the meeting would have on his bosom friend. They had just reached the steps when Victor happened to look up and straight into the eyes of Jack!
Victor recoiled, as from a shock, gave another earnest look, then, neglecting all formalities, darted forward with both hands extended. “Jack!” he exclaimed.
“Old fellow,” cried Jack, “this is a pleasure.”
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Victor, totally at a loss what else to say, while in his intense gaze was a veritable compound of inquiry, surprise, and delight. At once recollecting himself, he placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder and turned to Admiral Enright. “Admiral Enright, permit me the honour of presenting to you my very closest friend, Mr. John De Vinne.”
“Mr. De Vinne, I am most happy to make your acquaintance,” said the Admiral, grasping Jack warmly by the hand. Then turning to his daughter, he said: “Mr. De Vinne, permit me to present you to my daughter, Miss Helen.”
Miss Enright graciously acknowledged the introduction.
The landlord now appeared and escorted the quartet to the hotel parlour, much to the chagrin of the curious crowd that had gathered outside the door.
After a few generalities had been indulged in, dinner was announced. To Jack was accorded the pleasant duty of escorting Miss Enright to dinner. The Admiral occupied the post of honour at the head of the table, with Victor on his left.
After the conclusion of the meal the Admiral’s daughter excused herself as she wished to rest for a while, and the Admiral also repaired to his room to attend to matters in connection with his visit. This left the young men to their own devices.
“Come right up to my room, Vic,” exclaimed Jack.
Slamming the door behind them, he threw his hat on the bed and motioned Victor to a seat and said: “Now, old boy, I have got you all to myself. How is it the fates have thrown us together?”
“You are the one to explain,” said Victor. “I am here in obedience to my father’s request, as you well know, but when I last saw you, you had as much idea of coming to Ajaccio as you had of visiting Hades.”
“Yes, I know,” exclaimed Jack. “You are right, but much has happened since we parted, which you should understand. I am now heir to the Earldom of Noxton.” He then, at length, made Victor acquainted with the death and burial of his brother, the escape of Bertha from her guardian and her flight to Corsica. “I arrived here but yesterday,” he concluded, “and to-morrow I shall search her out. Your father lives here, I believe,” he said.
“I don’t know,” answered Victor. “When I arrived at Malta I received a letter from my father forwarded to me from the Admiralty, which requested me to announce my arrival here in a note which I was to address to one Cromillian, my father saying that this man Cromillian was a friend of his and would see that the message reached him. I am in a quandary as to just what to do. I must leave early in the morning, commissioned by the Admiral to present a letter of introduction to Monsieur Batistelli. This will take a couple of days, for which I am very sorry, as I should like to send this letter to Cromillian at the earliest possible moment.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Jack. “You write the letter, Vic, and I will undertake to deliver it in the morning, and at the same time, possibly, I can secure information as to the whereabouts of Countess Mont d’Oro and, consequently, Bertha.”
“And will you do this?” cried Lieutenant Duquesne.
“What the ancient Pylades did for the ancient Orestes the modern Pylades will do for you,” answered Jack warmly.
“Thank you, my dear friend,” cried Lieutenant Duquesne, as he grasped Jack by the hand, “I can think of no service which would be more highly appreciated by me.”
The two friends, as may be imagined, found plenty of topics on which to converse, and before they parted that night Lieutenant Duquesne wrote his note and placed it in an envelope with the name Cromillian on the outside. “I have more time now,” he said, “than I shall have in the morning.”
They then bade each other good-night and Victor went to his room.
Jack was greatly excited by the course of events and sat down by the window. It was a bright, moonlight night. He felt that he must do something to quiet his mental agitation. He put on his hat and walked out of the hotel, scarcely noticing what course he was taking. He walked on until he found himself upon the quay. The great hull of the Osprey loomed up before him, the bright rays of the moon lighting up the vessel as if it were noonday.
He glanced downward and saw his full-length shadow projected upon the rough planks of the quay. The thought came to him that he did not wish to stand out in such bold relief, and he quickly sought a part of the quay where the shadows were almost impenetrable.
Hardly had he done so, when he heard the plashing of oars. In a moment, he saw a boat containing two men approaching the quay. When they reached the wharf, they stood for several minutes without speaking, but looking intently at the British frigate. Jack was not more than ten feet from them and, when they did speak, every word uttered was overheard by him.
“Just like those Englishman,” one of them said. “If they know anything, they won’t tell you, and if they don’t, they can’t tell you, so you learn nothing either way. I did my best to find out from that sentry whether Lieutenant Duquesne was on board, but not a word could I get out of him; only to come to-morrow, between eleven and twelve. But we can’t go to-morrow, for Cromillian told me that he had some important work on hand which would take us away to the south for a week.”
“I don’t see that we can do any more,” said the other man, “except to tell him that we can’t find out anything. He is a just man, is Cromillian, and he won’t blame us if we have done all that we can do.”
“I would go up to the hotel,” said the first speaker, “and see if this Lieutenant is there, but the landlord knows me, and so do all the servants, and, if I ask for the Lieutenant, they would immediately surmise that he was connected in some way with Cromillian, and the Captain, you know, cautioned us both to do nothing that would show that he knew the Lieutenant or anything about him.”
Jack waited to hear no more. The Fates had been kind. Here was his opportunity. Without stopping to think how reckless his conduct was, he stepped forward from his dark retreat and placed a hand on each of the speakers. Quick as lightning, they stepped back and pulling out their stilettos, stood facing him. Then Jack realised his narrow escape, for a Corsican usually strikes first and asks for explanations afterwards.
“Put up your weapons,” he said, in the mildest tone he could assume, although his voice was agitated. “I overheard what you said, but I am a friend.”
“You will have to prove that before we believe it,” said one of the men, and they still held their stilettos in position for ready use.
“I am a friend of Lieutenant Duquesne, the man whom you seek, and also have a letter from him which he has asked me to take to the man whose name is Cromillian. Here, look at this and you will see that I have spoken the truth.”
He took the letter from his pocket and showed it to the men.
“Is that all right?” asked one of the men, turning to the other. “You know I cannot read.”
The second man took the letter and scanned it closely.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s the name on the letter—Cromillian. What do you want us to do? To take the letter to Cromillian?”
“No,” said Jack, “I gave my word to Lieutenant Duquesne that I would deliver it to Cromillian myself. What better proof can you have of my good faith than my willingness to go with you?”
“That’s so,” said one of the men, and the other one nodded his assent. They sheathed their stilettos.
“When can you go?” asked one of them.
“At once,” replied Jack.
“Come along then,” was the command. “Are you good for a six-mile tramp over a rough road?”
“I have walked a much longer distance than that over worse roads than I have seen here,” was Jack’s reply.
“Come along then,” said one of the men. “Here, take your letter.”
Jack put it in his coat pocket and prepared to follow the men, but they had their ideas as to the precise manner in which the journey should be performed. Each of the men took one of Jack’s arms within his own, and thus, half captive and half supported, Jack began his march.
As they walked on, he felt somewhat elated at the course which events had taken, but his feelings of satisfaction would have given place to others of a different nature if he could have looked behind him and seen the figure which came stealthily forward from out a shadow as dense as that which had enfolded Jack, and not more than twenty feet from where the latter had stood.
Thomas Glynne kept the trio in sight. They were not likely to look back unless he approached them too closely, and it was easy for him to look forward.
“I never should have known him,” said Glynne to himself. “He seems changed somehow, but when he spoke I recognised his voice at once. My young man, I do not know what you are up to and the man they call Cromillian, but you evidently do not know what you are up to any more than I do. It is a good maxim, when you find a trail to follow it and trust to luck for the result. I shall probably get back to town before the Count sends for me to go to the house. I am sure he is a rascal at heart; but, if I can’t keep her from marrying Mr. Jack De Vinne I’ll know the reason why.”
The next morning, Lieutenant Duquesne went to Jack’s room and knocked. There being no response to repeated summonses of like nature, he tried the latch, and the door yielded. He looked in, and started back in astonishment. The bed had not been slept in, yet there was evidence that the occupant intended to return, for his portmanteau was open and several articles which he had taken from it were upon the table. Lieutenant Duquesne was much excited on making this discovery. He at once sought the landlord:
“Did my friend, Mr. Fortier, tell you last night, before he went out, that he was to be gone for any length of time?”
“Gone?” queried the publican. “Has he gone?”
“I do not know where he has gone or how long he intends to stay,” said the Lieutenant, a little nettled, “but he did not sleep in his room last night, which looks as though he intended to return.”
“Well,” said the landlord, “the room is his for a week, and he can come back when he gets ready. He paid me in advance. If he doesn’t come back when his time is up, I shall lock up his effects and charge him for storage until I get my money,” said the landlord.
“No doubt but you will do that,” said the Lieutenant, “but I am a little anxious to know what has become of him. Do you know when he went out? I hope no harm has come to him.”
“I went to bed early last night,” said the landlord, “but I will ask some of the servants.”
Inquiry failed to find any one who had seen Mr. Fortier leave the hotel, and Lieutenant Duquesne was obliged to content himself with the reflection that possibly the young man had started at once to perform the mission which he had intrusted to him. Once more, he went in search of the landlord:
“If my friend, Mr. Fortier, doesn’t come back at the end of the week, I wish you to lock the door, leaving the articles therein just where he left them. I will be responsible for the rent of the room, at least until our vessel sails.”
“It doesn’t make any difference who pays the bills, so long as I get my money,” said the landlord.
Lieutenant Duquesne ascertained the shortest road which would lead him to the Batistelli castle, and, having secured a saddle-horse, started to perform the mission which Admiral Enright had intrusted to him—the presentation of a letter of introduction which he bore from Lord Colton, the Admiral’s cousin.
Pascal Batistelli received the young man graciously. The head of the house of Batistelli was a man about forty years of age, with a naturally constrained expression and a forbidding manner; but he was well versed in the requirements of polite society, and he probably remembered that, when he had visited London, many years before, in search of Manuel Della Coscia and his son, soon after the death of his father, he had received many attentions and much assistance from Lord Colton, to whom he had been introduced by the French ambassador. The time had now come for him to reciprocate the courtesy, and he assured Lieutenant Duquesne that it would give him great pleasure to receive Admiral Enright and his daughter as his guests, and he added, as the thought came to him that this young man might be a suitor, or possibly the accepted lover, of the Admiral’s daughter:
“It would give me additional pleasure, my dear Lieutenant, if you, also, would accept the hospitality of my house.”
The Lieutenant thanked him and said that, if it was the Admiral’s wish and that of his daughter, he would be pleased to accept. The two gentlemen parted with mutual expressions of esteem and regard, although their acquaintance had been of very short duration, but such expressions are a part of the social code, and may mean more or less, as the case may be.
As the Lieutenant left the house, he stopped to survey the magnificent grounds which surrounded the mansion. As he walked slowly towards the gate, outside of which he had tied his horse, his ear caught the sound of running water. He paused at the entrance of a path which led through a grove of trees with overhanging, interlaced branches, forming a cool retreat. He entered, and, as he advanced, the sound grew louder and louder. At the end of the path he came to a sudden stop, gazing with admiration at the picture before him.
The sound of running water had come from a little brook which, at the end of the path, fell over a rocky ledge some six feet high, forming a small waterfall. The bright rays of the sun fell upon the drops of water as they descended, giving them the appearance of a shower of diamonds. But it was not this natural beauty by which the young man’s gaze was transfixed. Kneeling at the foot of the waterfall, a basket of freshly plucked flowers beside her, was the most beautiful girl whom he had ever seen. Her hair and eyes were black, while her skin had that peculiar tint found only among the women of the southern nations of Europe. She was young, not more than eighteen, and, as she knelt beside the brook, dipping first one hand and then the other in the water, and sprinkling the flowers, she formed a picture of beauty and grace sure to appeal to an impressionable young man like Lieutenant Victor Duquesne. She had not heard the young man approach, and kept on with her task, unmindful of his presence.
Her heart must have been full of happiness that morning, for she began to sing, and the Lieutenant was sure that he had never heard a voice of such purity and sweetness. He did not know what to do next, so he simply stood still gazing with unfeigned pleasure upon the lovely girl before him. Suddenly she looked up and their eyes met. She started to her feet, with a slight cry, and then the rich blood mounted to her cheeks, tinging them a deep red. She did not speak but her eyes asked the question, plainly:
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Lieutenant Duquesne divined their meaning and, bowing low, said: “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but I have just come from Monsieur Pascal Batistelli, whom I visited with a message from my superior officer, when I heard the sound of running water and, unconscious that I was guilty of an impropriety, I came down this path to learn the cause.”
“And you have seen my brother?” the young girl asked.
“I have seen Monsieur Pascal Batistelli,” was the reply. “Are you a daughter of the house?”
The young girl dropped the large black eyes which, up to this time, had looked frankly into his.
“I am the only daughter,” she said. “I am Vivienne Batistelli. I have two brothers, Pascal and Julien, but Julien is not at home. He went away yesterday and has not come back.”
“I regret that I did not meet him,” said the Lieutenant, politely, “but I trust that I may yet have that pleasure. Those are beautiful flowers which you have gathered, and the pure water that you have sprinkled upon them has given them an added loveliness. May I ask a favour?”
The young girl looked up and smiled. “If not too great a one,” she said.
“To grant it,” and the young man bowed low, “will rob you of but one of those beautiful flowers. I should like to take it with me as a souvenir of this unexpected but very pleasant meeting.”
“I surely shall not feel the loss of one little flower,” said she, as she took a white rose from the basket, “and I am pleased to give it to you if it will afford you as much pleasure as you say it will.”
He took the flower.
“Pardon, monsieur, but I must return to the house, or my flowers will wilt in the hot sun despite the cool bath which I have given them.”
Lieutenant Duquesne stepped to one side, thinking that she would go by way of the path and would have to pass him, but she turned in an opposite direction and quickly disappeared from sight. The Lieutenant left the path and, reaching the brook, stood upon the same place where she had knelt. As he did so, he saw her slight form disappear beneath a vine-covered arbour a short distance away. A thought came into his mind and, unconsciously, found expression in words:
“She is beautiful,” and he started at the sound of his own voice; “she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw. To see her is to love her!”
He retraced his steps and entered the path again when, to his surprise, he came face to face with a young man of about his own age, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, who stood regarding him with an angry frown upon his face.
It was the young Count Napier Mont d’Oro.