JACK DE VINNE, with all the impatience of youth, was at the railway station half an hour before the starting time of the train which was to bear him to the woman he loved. He walked impatiently up and down the platform. Finally, he accosted a guard. “When will the Reading train be in?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” replied the man. “Sometimes it’s early, and sometimes it’s late, and sometimes it’s just on time.”
Jack thanked the man for the valuable information and resumed his walk. His next act was to buy a morning paper and tuck it beneath the straps of his valise. Never did time pass so slowly. He was sure it must be half-past seven, but upon looking at his watch he found that he had been in the station only ten minutes.
While standing uncertain, irresolute, dissatisfied, a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder, and turning quickly, he met the gaze of Victor Duquesne.
“Why, what brought you here, old boy?” he exclaimed.
“A fool’s errand, I suppose you will say, when I tell you what I came for. I was up early this morning, and the thought came to me that I had not told you to write to me if anything important occurred. Send the letter to Ajaccio, Island of Corsica. I do not know how long we shall stay at Malta, but from something I heard Helen say to her father, I think there is some reason for the Admiral’s visiting Corsica as soon as possible after his arrival in the Mediterranean. I select Ajaccio, because the letter will go direct by French post.”
“Glad you told me,” said Jack. “I write about two letters a year, and the chances are I should have addressed yours care of the Mediterranean Sea, and should have expected it to find you. I’m mighty glad to see you, too. I feel as though I had been waiting here a couple of hours,” he looked at his watch again, “but it has been only fifteen minutes. Ah, here’s the train now. Well, good-bye, old boy. Remember I am always your Pylades.”
“And I am your Orestes,” declared Victor. “Perhaps the time may come when one or both of us may be called upon to show the depth of friendship that lies in him.”
Once more the men shook hands. Then Jack grasped his luggage, which was of small compass, and made his way to a seat in a first-class carriage.
For some time after the train started, Jack sat pre-occupied with his thoughts. The word “thought” would be more correct, for he had but one, and that was of Bertha Renville. How would she receive him? Had he been deceived by the manner in which Clarence had extended the invitation? Did Mr. Thomas Glynne really wish him to come to Buckholme? He framed question after question in his mind, but to none could he supply a satisfactory answer. He pulled the morning paper from under the strap of his valise and looked listlessly at one page after another. He was not interested in the Court Calendar, for, beautiful as she was, he could not expect to find Bertha’s name there. The business and the financial columns were passed unheeded. He started to read an editorial, but after glancing at the first few lines, crumpled the paper in his hand and looked out of the window.
It was a beautiful morning and nature was in her fairest garb. As the train passed through well-known places, memories came back to him of many happy times passed there with his friend Victor. But Jack was not an ardent lover of nature, and he soon turned again to the newspaper.
A headline caught his eye: “Attempted Robbery at Brixton, Strange Death of the Burglar.” The caption was so attractive that Jack read the article through:
“A Mrs. Elizabeth Nason, widow, living on Oad Street, Brixton, was awakened early yesterday morning by the loud cackling of the fowls in her hennery, a small out-building in the rear of the house. She lives alone, her only protector being a large mastiff, which she kept within-doors at night. Upon hearing the commotion she went to the window and, peeping between the curtains, saw that a man had broken open the door of the hennery, had strangled a number of the fowls, which lay upon the turf beside him, and was endeavouring to secure others. She went quietly downstairs, called to the dog that was asleep in the kitchen, and opening the side door, led him into the garden. She bolted the door again, ran quickly upstairs, and looked out to see what would take place.
“The dog, knowing what was expected of him, ran towards the man, with jaws distended. A terrific battle between man and dog then took place, the following description of which was given to our reporter by Mrs. Nason:
“The man sprang to his feet, and Mrs. Nason saw, what she had not at first observed, that he had with him a large umbrella. As the dog sprang at him, the man grasped the umbrella by both ends and forced it, laterally, between the dog’s jaws. True to his nature, the dog shut his teeth firmly upon it. The man was of small stature, slight in build, and was thrown to the ground by the impact. That fall, undoubtedly, saved his life, for the time being, at least, for his hand came in contact with a heavy oaken bar which had been used to fasten the hennery door. While the dog was busily engaged trying to disengage his teeth from the umbrella, into which they had been firmly set, the man sprang to his feet and dealt the dog a stunning blow with the stick. The dog soon rallied, however, and the man, apparently fearing another attack, became frenzied, drew from his pocket a clasp knife with a blade fully six inches in length, and stabbed the animal viciously in both eyes. The maddened dog rose upon his hind legs, preparatory to springing upon his assailant, who improved the opportunity to stab the dog in the throat.
“Mrs. Nason could bear the scene no longer and turned from the window. Recovering her self-possession, she looked again and saw the man lying face downward, the body of the dog beneath him.
“She ran from the house to that of a neighbour, a Mr. Abraham Dowse, who, arming himself with a pitchfork, accompanied her to the scene of the conflict. He found that both man and dog were dead. The police were then called.
“The man was shabbily dressed, had no money upon his person, and the only means of identification was a letter addressed to Alberto Cordoni. The letter was postmarked Ajaccio and was more than six months old. It read as follows:
“A. C. You have been in London now for more than a year, but to no avail. If you had found any trace of Manuel Della Coscia, I would be willing to give you ten times what you have already received; but I shall send you no more money until you give me some proof that you are on his track.
“The letter itself was without date or signature. The body of the man, who was apparently an Italian or Corsican, was taken in charge by the police.”
“What a bloodthirsty set those Corsicans are,” said Jack to himself. “I wonder why Victor’s father wants him to go to that God-forsaken country. When I get back to London I will send this paper to Victor,” and he folded and replaced it beneath the straps of his valise.
The train was now approaching Windsor, the abode of royalty. Although Jack had the blood of the aristocracy in his veins, he was not interested in either castle or park. His thoughts were several miles beyond.
There was one place through which he was to pass which one cannot visit unmoved. Jack looked earnestly from the window. Yes, there it was, the village church of Stoke Pogis, and close to it the churchyard in which Gray wrote his immortal Elegy.
Jack was not a great lover of poetry, for, as he had expressed himself, “translating Greek poetry into English verse is enough to make a man sick of it for life.” But Victor had admired the elegy and had read it aloud several times to Jack, who now recalled one of the stanzas:
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
It is strange what unexpected comparisons lovers will make. He did not think of Bertha as being a gem in some ocean cave, but the thought did occur to him that it was not just the thing for so beautiful a girl to lived unnoticed in the little town of Maidenhead when the frequenters of London drawing-rooms would have gone wild over her and where she would be the belle of the season. Then the thought came to him that he did not wish her to be the belle of the season; he wished her to be his, his only, thus adding another proof to the adage that true love is selfish, which selfishness, carried to extremes, becomes the green-eyed monster, jealousy.
Jack leaned back in his seat and began wondering what his future would be. His life could not fail to be happy if Bertha promised to be his wife. Should he become a statesman, as had his father, or—but he would not think of that now.
He could see the great stone bridge which spans the Thames at Maidenhead, forming a means of communication between the County of Berkshire and that of Buckingham. Then he remembered that he had read of the old wooden bridge which spanned the river, and how the Duke of Surrey and the followers of Richard II. had at that bridge held the soldiers of Henry IV. at bay for hours, and then made a safe retreat.
They were nearing the station. Jack’s heart gave a great jump. Yes, that was the place where Miss Renville’s boat had been run down and capsized, and there she would have met her death had it not been for—yes, Fate must have willed that he should be there in time to save her.
Mr. Thomas Glynne, who, with his son, Clarence, a young man of twenty-four, formed the firm known in the city as Walmonth & Company, iron and steel merchants, was a short, thick-set man, with a round face and an expression of the utmost geniality. While business manager for Walmonth & Company he had lived, as he expressed it, “in smoky, dirty London,” but after becoming head of the firm, he made up his mind to have a country residence. He had looked North, South, East, and West before fixing upon a location, and finally decided to make his home in the little town of Maidenhead, the scenery surrounding which is picturesque and beautiful. Here he built a house of the conventional type, to which he had given the name of “Buckholme.” Had he been asked why he had thus named it, he probably would have replied: “Do you know anybody who has a house with that name?”
Some fourteen years before, when Mr. Glynne was about forty, the house of Walmonth & Company was in financial straits. Mr. Glynne, who had gone to Paris on business connected with the firm, was suddenly recalled by an urgent telegram, and on his return to London, the senior member of the house, Mr. Jonas Walmonth, informed him that the firm was unable to meet its obligations and would be forced to assign. This action was averted, however, for by some means, unknown to Mr. Jonas Walmonth and his brother Ezra, Mr. Glynne raised sufficient money to pay the outstanding liabilities and thus secured a controlling interest in the firm. The two Walmonth brothers were old bachelors, and two years after Mr. Glynne became the “Co.,” Ezra died suddenly of heart disease, while Jonas, broken in body and mind, was sent to a sanatorium from which he never emerged. No heirs came to claim the third interest belonging to the Walmonth brothers, and Mr. Glynne did not take special pains to find any. When his son Clarence became of age he was taken into the firm. He showed great aptitude for the business, and during the past year the senior partner had made few visits to the city. “What’s the use?” he said. “I have been in the traces for more than thirty years; the business runs itself, and all that Clarence has to do is to fill orders and collect bills. Besides, I see him once a week, and if he wants my advice, I am always ready to give it.”
Thomas Glynne had two passions; one was his love of flowers, and the other, the greater one, his love of money. Amply favoured as to the latter, he found great enjoyment in gratifying his love for floriculture. Visitors came from far and near to view the beautiful plants in his greenhouses and conservatory. It was a mystery to his associates in the trade as to how he had become possessed of enough money to buy out the Walmonth Brothers, build his beautiful house, and spend such extravagant sums for orchids and other rare plants.
It was no mystery to Mr. Thomas Glynne. He could have told them, had he wished, that when in Paris, at the time the urgent telegram was sent him by his employers, he had met with a most wonderful experience.
An English gentleman named Oscar Renville was engaged in the iron and steel business in Paris, and it was with him that Mr. Glynne, representing the Walmonth Brothers, transacted a very large business and with whom he was on most intimate terms of friendship. Mr. Renville was a widower, as was Mr. Glynne, for both had lost their wives a few years after marriage. Mr. Renville had one child, a beautiful little girl named Bertha.
One afternoon Mr. Glynne had gone to Mr. Renville’s office on business, and found the establishment in a state of great excitement. Mr. Renville had been stricken with apoplexy, and the clerks were debating what they should do, at the time of Mr. Glynne’s arrival. There was nothing undecided about Mr. Glynne. Mr. Renville was placed in a carriage and Mr. Glynne accompanied him home; nor did he leave his friend until he saw his body placed at rest in Père la Chaise.
Shortly before his death, Mr. Renville had made and signed a will by which Mr. Thomas Glynne was constituted the guardian of his only child and heiress, and given full control of her property until the time of her marriage.
Had Mr. Glynne’s associates in trade known this fact, it would, probably, have relieved the feeling of wonderment they entertained concerning his financial transactions.
It also evidences the fact that Mr. Glynne had no difficulty in satisfying his passion for flowers. He, however, did have some difficulty, or feared that he might have, in satisfying his love for money.
He knew that he was in undisputed possession of Bertha’s fortune, which amounted to about £40,000. But what was he to do when Bertha married and he was obliged to transfer the fortune to its rightful owner? There was one point in his favour, and a great one. Neither Bertha nor any one else knew that she had a fortune; but the fact might come out at some time or other, and Thomas Glynne, being a bad man at heart, was in wholesome fear of the law, which he knew dealt rigorously with those who betrayed a trust such as he had accepted.
He had formed three plans which would enable him to keep the money under his control. The first was to bring about a marriage between Bertha and his son Clarence. The second plan, in case the first proved impossible, was to prevent her marrying any one else. The third plan, if she persisted in forming a matrimonial alliance, was to keep possession of the property in some other way, and Mr. Glynne had not decided in his own mind just what that “other way” might be. “It would depend upon circumstances,” he said to himself.
Jack De Vinne thought Bertha Renville was beautiful, and she was, judged by the English standard. She was tall and lithe, perfect in form; with glossy hair of a golden tint; blue eyes; cheeks with a touch of pink that enhanced their whiteness, and a Cupid’s bow of a mouth, which was usually the home of a bewitching smile. Such a woman as men become heroes for; such a woman, for love of whom, men have died in misery.
When the train drew up at the little station, Jack at once caught sight of Clarence’s smiling face, and a moment later he was the recipient of a hearty greeting.
“I do not usually come down until Saturday,” said Clarence, “but as I had invited you to become our guest, I arranged matters in the City so that I can stay with you until Monday.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Jack. “I am rather bashful, you know, Mr. Glynne, and I’m afraid if you had not been here I should have felt like—like—a cat in a strange garret, you know.”
“That’s a very good simile,” remarked Clarence. “By comparing yourself to a cat, I suppose you are looking for a mouse.”
Jack smiled. What did the young man mean? Although he did not speak outright, his looks and words seemed to indicate that he thought Jack was interested in Miss Renville, and Jack had told Victor some things which led him to think that the young lady was more interested in his visit than either the young man or his father.
The night before Jack’s arrival at Buckholme, Mr. Thomas Glynne had informed his son that he wished to have a talk with him in the library after dinner.
Clarence had entered the apartment smoking a cigarette. His father was sitting at a beautifully carved and finely inlaid table.
“Throw that horrible-smelling thing away, Clarence. You know I detest cigarettes.”
“I know you do,” said Clarence, “but I like them. I never smoke during business hours and only one or two after dinner. I know it is a vice, but it is a mild one, and everybody is cognisant of it. There are men who have greater vices, but they conceal them from the public gaze. To oblige you, however, I will forego the pleasure it gives me,” and he threw it into the fireplace.
The father lost no time in bringing the subject he had in mind to his son’s attention.
“You know I am a business man, Clarence, and what I’ve got to say I say right out. I have said it before and to-night I am going to say it again. I want you to marry Bertha Renville.”
“There are only two objections to such a course,” said Clarence, coolly. “In the first place, I do not love her, and in the second place I am sure she would not have me if I did.”
“You love money, don’t you?” asked the father, sharply.
“Not for itself,” said Clarence. “I have no miserly instincts of which I am aware. I will acknowledge, however, that I love what money will buy.”
“Supposing I told you,” said the father, “that this marriage was absolutely necessary for financial reasons; that the firm was so deeply involved that it must assign unless more capital is secured at once; what would you say to that?”
Clarence smiled grimly, and there was a sarcastic turn to his lip as he replied: “Well, father, to speak honestly, I should think you had been reading some popular novel, and had learned that portion of it by heart which you have just now repeated. I am led to think this to be the case because the house of Walmonth Brothers, of which I have the honour to be the junior partner, has ten thousand pounds in the bank, with fully twenty thousand pounds in bills receivable, and no large bills payable. So you see, father, the extract from the popular novel is not applicable to our case at all.”
Thomas Glynne arose from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, a favourite position of his, and walked up and down for some time without speaking. Then he opened the door of one of the bookcases and took down a volume which showed marks of great usage. He approached his son and said, solemnly:
“Clarence, this is your mother’s Bible. I am going to tell you something, but you must swear on this book that you will keep what I am going to say to you a secret as long as I wish you to.”
“I dislike secrets,” said Clarence, “and I do not like to take an oath. I will promise not to mention what you say to me, and with me such a promise is as binding and sacred as an oath.”
Mr. Glynne laid the book on the table. “Well, I believe you, Clarence, but remember, I look upon your promise as though it had been an oath.” Then after a pause, “Did I ever tell you that my ward, Bertha Renville, is a rich woman?”
“Well, no,” said Clarence. “You have never treated her as though she was. Her allowance has been quite moderate and, to tell the truth, I have given her considerable money myself when I knew that she wished certain things, and told me that she could not afford to buy them. No, I never had any idea that she was a rich woman. I always supposed that her father was a poor man, but your friend, and that you, with your well-known kindness of heart, had provided for her out of your own bounty.”
“Well,” said Mr. Glynne, “I am glad that has been your opinion, and I mean that the rest of the world shall continue to think so. Now, I am going to tell you the truth. The money with which I bought out the firm of Walmonth Brothers—the money with which I built this house—in fact all the money I have used to satisfy my, as you know, fastidious tastes, in reality belongs to Miss Renville. By the terms of her father’s will, when she marries, I must turn over the property, with accrued interest, to her, and, of course, to her husband. Now, let me ask you the question I asked when you first came in: Will you marry her and keep this money in the family, or will you refuse to do so and lose everything—business, house——”
“Well,” said Clarence, “it seems rather a hard box to put a fellow in, but supposing she wants to marry somebody else?”
The father began to show signs of anger. The genial smile had vanished. “That’s not your business, young man. If she doesn’t marry you, she shan’t marry anybody else; I’ll look out for that.”
“Well, then,” said Clarence, “let us leave her out of the question and I will answer for myself. I am young and can work. I am sorry for you, for you are getting old and it may come hard on you; but my mind is made up. I do not love Bertha Renville, and whatever the result may be I won’t marry her.”
The usually genial Mr. Thomas Glynne became livid with rage. “We shall see about that, young man. You shall go out of the firm. I will close up the business. You are an ungrateful cub. I made life easy for you; now go out into the world and find out how hard it is to do anything for yourself.”
“That’s what I said I was willing to do,” said Clarence. “But you won’t drive me out of the firm, nor you won’t close up the business.”
The young man arose to his feet and father and son stood glaring at each other like two wild animals.
“Oh, I won’t, won’t I?” snarled Mr. Glynne. “How will you keep me from doing it?”
“Your own good sense will keep you from doing it, father,” said the young man, cooling down a little. “If you will keep still, I will do the same. There is no exigency, as I see, until there is some danger of her getting married; but if you take any steps to get me out of the firm, or to wind up the business, I shall tell Bertha.”
“But you promised you would not.”
“I know I did,” said Clarence, “but there is an old saying that a bad promise is better broken than kept. If you have told me the truth, you are entitled to invest her money and to look after it until her marriage. When that time comes you have either got to restore the property to its rightful owner or keep it yourself and become a criminal in the eyes of the law. In that case, I shall be sorry that my name is Glynne. I hope this very uncomfortable and unpleasant interview is at an end. May I be allowed to light another cigarette? My nerves are a trifle shaken by this unexpected disclosure.”
The young man suited the action to the word, blew a puff of smoke, and then said: “I suppose this is all, father. Good-night. I will keep your secret as long as you respect my rights.”
When his son had gone, Thomas Glynne clenched his fists and stamped his foot upon the library floor, but the rich Wilton was thick and gave forth no sound.
“Clarence is a fool. But she shall not marry any one else. If she dies, all will be mine. I am sorry I told him, but I trust it will bring him to terms. If he did not know it, no one would be the wiser.”