The Corsican Lovers by Charles Felton Pidgin - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXXII.
 “MERRIE ENGLAND.”

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.”

“Bertha wishes me to say to you that if your father, in the performance of his duty as guardian, has invested a part of her fortune in the business of Walmonth & Company, she has no desire to withdraw it at present. She is willing to make an arrangement by which a suitable interest may be paid her upon the amount. If it has all been invested in the business, a share in the profits, she thinks, would be more equitable. But all can be arranged when we arrive in England. Trusting that you and your wife are enjoying good health, and with kind regards from Bertha and myself, I am,

“Sincerely yours,
 “JOHN DE VINNE.”

“I cannot give you a royal wedding,” said the Countess Mont d’Oro, “but I am willing and able to make it a princely one.”

Both the young ladies protested against such extravagance.

“I have no one else to squander my money upon,” said the Countess. “Just think of it, you, Bertha, are going to be a countess, and probably Vivienne will one day hear her future husband addressed as Admiral.”

“Yes,” cried Bertha, “but both of those events are likely to be far in the future. I do not wish my presumptive father-in-law to die, and I know that it is long, in times of peace, before a lieutenant becomes an Admiral.”

“But these are not times of peace,” cried the Countess. “There is going to be a war. A friend of mine who is intimate at Court says that it will not be many months before France will declare war against Russia. It is something about the Crimea, but what that is I really do not know.”

“Why, that’s part of Russia,” cried Bertha. “Or perhaps the Russians wish to add it to their Empire. I remember reading about Peter the Great and how he founded the city of St. Petersburg. The book said that one hundred thousand men lost their lives from fever and other forms of disease while the city was being built.”

“Yes,” said the Countess, sharply, “these rulers are always willing to sacrifice the lives of their subjects if they can add thereby to their own power. I am a lover of peace.”

“So am I,” said Vivienne, “but are there not times when an honourable war is better than a dishonourable peace?”

The Countess did not answer the question, but said, gaily: “We are not here to discuss war, but an honourable peace. You two young ladies have capitulated, and the victors demand their booty—I should have said beauty.”

“Let it be a quiet wedding,” said Bertha, “with as few people present as possible.”

“That’s my idea, exactly,” said Vivienne.

“Well, you may have your own way so far as the marriage itself is concerned,” said the Countess. “About one part of the festivities though, I shall insist upon having my own way. After the marriage we will have a reception, and I shall claim the right to invite to that whom I please, and as many as I please.”

The wedding reception was over and the last guest had departed.

“This is the happiest day I have ever passed in this house,” said the Countess. “I am glad that my last days in it have been connected with such a series of happy events.”

“Why,” cried Vivienne, “are you not going to live in Paris?”

“No,” said the Countess, “I have already made arrangements to sell the house. I am going back to Corsica to live. I may never see you again, but you must write and tell me how happy you are, and your letters will be a great solace to me.”

“But you must come and see us,” said Bertha, “after we settle down in England.”

“No,” said the Countess, decidedly, “after I go back to Corsica I shall never leave it again. But we must not talk any more about my travels, which are of little consequence. The carriage will be here in half an hour to take you to the station. Lieutenant Della Coscia’s furlough expires day after to-morrow, and he must be in Portsmouth to meet the Admiral. Is it not so, Monsieur Lieutenant?”

“You have spoken the truth, Countess,” said Vandemar. “We have had our days of pleasure, and now for me come days of duty.”

The Countess did not break down when the moment for parting came. “You have my blessing,” she said, almost gaily; “life is bright for you, and I feel glad that I have in some small degree contributed to your happiness. Don’t forget to write to me,” were her last words as they descended the steps to enter the waiting carriage.

When Lieutenant and Madame Della Coscia and Mr. and Mrs. John De Vinne—or as we should have said Lord and Lady De Vinne—arrived at Portsmouth they learned that Admiral Enright was away on leave. About a fortnight previous to their arrival, the Admiral, accompanied by his daughter, had gone to his estate in Devonshire.

An officer of the Osprey, who was staying at the same hotel with the married couples, informed Vandemar and Jack that the Admiral’s leave would expire in three days, and that he would surely return by that time.

The young gentlemen and their wives were on their honeymoons, and the delay made little difference to them.

A week elapsed before Vandemar, who was in the smoking room, espied the Admiral’s genial face as he alighted from a carriage. In a moment Vandemar was with him and, arm in arm, they went back to the smoking room, where cigars were lighted.

“What is the matter?” asked Vandemar. “I hope your daughter is not sick. She is not with you. What caused your delay?”

The Admiral laughed immoderately; finally he ejaculated: “Bless my soul! A most re-mark-a-ble affair.”

“Tell me all about it,” cried Vandemar. “Madame Della Coscia is out driving with Mr. and Mrs. De Vinne and I am lonesome.”

“I hardly know where to begin,” said the Admiral, and again he laughed heartily.

“Why not at the beginning?” queried Vandemar.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said the Admiral. “Well, you know Doctor John Frobisher, who was surgeon on the Osprey?”

“Remember Jack Frobisher?” broke in Vandemar. “Of course I do! A mighty good fellow. Hard to get acquainted with, though. Bashful or diffident, I don’t know which.”

“You haven’t got the right word,” said the Admiral. “He was jealous.”

“Jealous!” cried Vandemar. “Of whom?”

“I think,” said the Admiral, “that it must have been a certain lieutenant attached to the Osprey, who was, I judge from what you have told me, lately married in Paris to a beautiful young Corsican lady.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Vandemar. “What possible proof can you have for such a ridiculous statement?”

“Well,” remarked the Admiral, “if you will let me go on with my story, I think I can make it as plain to you as it is to me.”

“Proceed, my dear Admiral,” said Vandemar, “but when you are through you will have to undergo a cross-examination.”

“My estate,” the Admiral began, “is a good five miles from the nearest village. When we left the mailcoach my own carriage was waiting for us—I ordered it ahead—but it was nine o’clock at night, and dark at that. I was for staying over night, but as we had a guest with us, Helen was for pushing on—and on we pushed.”

Vandemar forgot himself: “A guest?—Excuse me, Admiral.”

“Oh, that’s all right I ought to have told you that Doctor Frobisher was with us. He’s an orphan or something of that sort and had no place to go. Well, we had covered about two miles when we heard a pistol-shot close behind us, and Chudleigh, our driver, pulled up the horses with a jerk. Jack jumped out to see what the matter was. His feet had no sooner touched the ground than he saw a pistol pointed at him. Bless my soul! We were at the mercy of a highwayman, the worst of all land sharks. The fellow made me get out next, but Helen refused to move. She argued with the highwayman, telling him that his calling was nefarious and that he would surely end his days on the scaffold. The fellow reached in, caught hold of Helen, and tried to pull her out of the carriage. That was more than Jack could stand. He jumped upon the rascal and down they went. That fencing of yours was fine—the best I ever saw—but in a rough-and-tumble fight I think Jack can hold his own with the best of them. When Jack got through with the highwayman, we left him to sleep off his troubles.”

“Good for Jack!” Vandemar exclaimed, involuntarily.

“You are right,” said the Admiral. “You know how fond Helen is of personal bravery? Well, she was delighted, and she told John so. Either the scuffle or her praise unlimbered his tongue, and while I was asleep in a corner of the carriage, he had the audacity to propose and was accepted. A most re-mark-a-ble affair. They were married a week ago. I couldn’t get away any sooner.”

At that moment the driving party returned, and all joined in congratulating the Admiral in saving his money from the highwayman and securing so desirable a son-in-law.

“Now, Admiral,” said Vandemar, “you can help us. The two husbands and wives now before you have no place to call their own in which they can lay their heads. We are willing to buy or lease. Where can we go?”

“I know just the place,” cried the Admiral. “It was made for you. It is called Crow Lodge, and is about a quarter of a mile from my own place.”

“I should change the name at once,” said Vivienne.

“And what would you call it?” asked Vandemar.

“I should name it after our best friend,” she replied, “Countess Mont d’Oro—Marie Lodge. Would not that be a pretty name? It is to her more than to any one else that we owe our present happiness, and I am going to name everything I can after her.”

The Admiral looked up, and with a roguish twinkle in his eye, asked: “Even——”

Vivienne blushed rosy red; the others laughed, but she answered stoutly: “Yes, even!”

Jack and Bertha had been guests at Marie Lodge but a few days when an urgent summons came from his mother, the Countess. Before leaving Portsmouth, Jack had wired his father of his intended visit to Devonshire, and had given his address. The summons was in the form of a telegram. It read: “Come home at once. Your father is at the point of death.”

“You must come with me, Bertha,” said Jack. “Your place is by my side. I know my mother will receive you as a daughter. If my father has any objections to our marriage, it is too late to prevent it, but I wish his forgiveness, if he thinks such an act necessary, before he dies.”

The Earl of Noxton’s illness had not been of long duration, but he had suffered intense pain. Nature, at last, had succumbed in so far as to offer no further resistance to the inroads of disease; instead, there had come that physical peace and that lucid interval which so often precede dissolution.

As Jack had presaged, the Countess welcomed Bertha warmly.

“She is beautiful, is she not, mother?” asked Jack when they were alone.

“Yes,” said the Countess, “and she is poor. When I was married to your father he said I was beautiful, and I was poor.”

“You are beautiful now, mother,” said Jack, as he embraced her. “But Bertha is not poor. I thought she was, for her guardian told me so, but it turns out that she is rich.”

The three sat by the bedside of the dying man. The Earl of Noxton fixed his eyes intently upon Bertha.

“Who is she, John?” he asked, in a faint voice.

“She is my wife, father.”

“Ah, I remember, you told me about her. You said she was beautiful. I can see that for myself, but you also told me that she was poor. Well, your mother was both beautiful and poor when I married her, and I have never regretted that I made her a Countess. I hope you will not.”

Jack’s mother led Bertha away. “You must not mind his last words,” she said. “We knew that John had gone in search of you and we imagined what the end would be. The Earl’s father was opposed to our marriage, but Carolus was determined that I should be his wife, and I knew that John was like his father. My only wish is that the Earl could have lived to have seen you both happy.”

Jack stood by the bedside and took his father’s wasted hand in his. “Have I your forgiveness, father?”

The thin fingers closed upon his own; then he heard the words: “It runs in the blood; like father, like son.”

Both Vandemar and Clarence were soon in receipt of letters informing them of the death and burial of the Earl of Noxton. They read, too, in the papers, of the demise of Lord Carolus De Vinne, Earl of Noxton, and the announcement of the accession of his son John De Vinne to the title. The item contained the information that the young Earl had been married while in Paris to Miss Bertha Renville, daughter of the late Oscar Renville, who had left her a large fortune which would go to swell the revenues of the young Earl. The item further stated that the young Countess of Noxton was a beautiful English girl, and when the period of retirement was over she would, no doubt, prove a great acquisition to London society.

As Countess Mont d’Oro foretold, the war cloud grew black, and England, France, and Sardinia made a triple alliance against the aggressions of Russia in the Crimea.

“Admiral,” said Vandemar, “I am going to London to ask the Admiralty for active service.”

“Nonsense,” cried the Admiral. “You stay at home and look after your wife. This is not to be a naval war; this affair is to be fought out on land, and a sailor on land is of no more use than a turtle on its back. Besides,” the Admiral added, “I have arranged matters with the Admiralty. I am ordered to duty at Portsmouth, and I have requested that you should be with me.”

Vandemar saw that it was in vain to protest.

“We shall be very comfortably situated,” said the Admiral. “My son-in-law has resigned his position in the Navy and will at once take up general practice. Our doctor here is too old to go out nights, and John is to step into his shoes. Of course, after getting the best of the highwayman, John will not be afraid to go out late at night, and then, you see, Vandemar, we can run back and forth, and if we have to remain away from home any length of time, Vivienne can stay with Helen. If you are not satisfied with that arrangement, I must say I am.”

As the Admiral had said, the issues of the Crimean war were settled by the Army and not by the Navy. The battle of the Alma; the famous charge of Lord Raglan at Balaklava; the battle of Inkermann, on the night before which ten thousand British soldiers joined in singing “Annie Laurie,” and the siege and fall of Sebastopol followed each other, but not in as quick succession as have the battles in more modern warfare.

“Queen Victoria’s very sick;
Napoleon’s got the measles;
Sebastopol’s not taken yet,
Pop go the weasels.”

The words were those of a popular song; they were sung in a childish treble by a young blue-eyed and fair-haired boy who was playing on the terrace of Noxton Hall. The singer was Victor, the son and heir of John, Earl of Noxton.

“Why don’t you sing, Marie?” asked the boy, addressing a little girl with dark hair and dark eyes, who sat beside him.

“I don’t like to,” said little Miss Della Coscia. “I don’t think the words are pretty.”

“Well, I do,” rejoined Victor. “Papa says the English fought the Roosians and he says they beat them, too. Come, let’s fight. You be Roosian and I’ll be English.” He started towards the little girl, who turned and fled, screaming at the top of her voice.

“Why, what’s the matter, children?”

The speaker was Countess Mont d’Oro, who had been prevailed upon to visit England. She had resisted all entreaties until a picture had been sent her of her namesake, the little Marie. Then there had come to her heart a desire to see Vivienne’s child, which she could not repress. The Earl had heard of her visit to Marie Lodge, and had insisted that Vandemar and his family, and the Countess, should pay them a visit at Noxton Hall.

Before the Countess could ascertain the reason for Marie’s alarm, her loud cries had summoned Jack and Bertha, and Vandemar and Vivienne, to the terrace.

“What’s the trouble, Victor?” asked his father.

“Nothing, only I wanted to play war, and Marie was Roosian and I was English, but when I showed fight she ran away and made lots of noise.”

That evening after dinner Jack and Vandemar sat in the smoking room. As is often the custom with fond parents, who are good friends, they praised each other’s children.

“I am proud of my namesake,” said Vandemar; “he is a handsome, manly little fellow.”

“And I think,” said Jack, “that Marie, when she grows up, will be as beautiful as her mother. Who knows but that if my boy and your girl grow up together, she may, one day, be the Countess of Noxton?”

“Yes,” said Vandemar, with feeling, “if their hearts so decide, and not our wills. Neither you nor I, Jack, will ever interfere with the love-making of our children. Surely we have had enough of plots and counter-plots.”

“Yes,” said Jack, “if an obdurate guardian had prevailed, Bertha would not now be Countess of Noxton.”

“Yes,” spoke up Vandemar, “and if the Corsican vendetta had claimed its last victim, Vivienne would not now be the wife of Vandemar Della Coscia. By the way, Jack, what do you suppose the Countess told Vivienne to-day?”

“That she is going to sell her estates in Corsica and take up her residence in Paris once more.”

“The first part of your guess is correct,” said Vandemar, “but she is not going to live in Paris. She told Vivienne—I think I can repeat her very words, ‘My past troubles are buried in Corsica, and my joys are yet to come with you and Merrie England.’”

THE END.