CHAPTER XLI.
TROUBLE BEGINS AGAIN.
When Charley had fully recovered, he and his lovely young wife decided to go to England where the first part of their married life had flowed along on mingled currents of joy and sorrow. They hoped to revisit the happier scenes; and, moreover, Charley had still another motive in returning. News had reached Senator Bonair that an old English estate was for sale; and, in the full tide of rejoicing over his deliverance from Rosalind, and his pride in his “united family,” he offered to buy the estate for his son.
“No, it’s too much for you to do for me, dad!” exclaimed Charley, when the astounding proposition was made. “I don’t deserve such generosity!”
“Perhaps not,” was his father’s laconic answer. “But if I’m of the opinion that you do—well, that should be sufficient. What do you say, Berry?”
“Oh, you know I think nothing is too good for Charley!” answered Berry, with a smile. “But, of course, we both appreciate how dear and generous you are.”
“Nonsense!” laughed the senator. “I confess I myself have a desire for this Erda estate, but, as I have all I can manage, with my duties in Washington and my country seat in California, I’m quite willing to buy this estate for Charles, if he wishes to join the ranks of the American-English ‘landed gentry.’”
Charles was more than willing, as his father knew. He was also profoundly grateful for his father’s generosity in making such a gift, which was all the more impressive as it was destined to be the last.
Hardly had the negotiations for the sale been completed, and the Erda estate came into Charles Bonair’s proud possession, when the senator, whose health had for some time been failing, fell seriously ill. All that the best English physicians could do proved unavailing; for, after a brief illness, he died, and was taken to America for burial near his beautiful California estate.
When Charles and his wife finally returned to England, after this sad interruption of their plans, they found surprising news awaiting them at Crumplesea, a summer resort near Thetford Towers, as the Erda estate was called. The news was conveyed in a letter from Rosalind, who had not even had the grace to send condolences to any of the Bonair family.
It was addressed to Berry, and ran as follows:
“You may, or may not, be surprised to know that my husband is your stepbrother, Adrian Vance. He informed me of this fact not long ago, indeed before we were married, but I found I loved him well enough to forgive his humble ancestry, even though in marrying him I was forced to claim kinship with you! We are, therefore, by stretching a point, sisters-in-law, and it is quite likely that, after all, we may meet again.”
“I hope not!” said Berry, after a pause.
“Amen to that!” answered Charles. “But we seem to be fated to meet that woman, in one way or another, wherever we go! I wonder how she found out that we are here?”
“She must have seen, in the newspapers, notices of the sale of Thetford Towers.”
“Of course! And probably she will expect us to ask them to visit us, in her new capacity as sister-in-law! Oh, she is quite capable of that! Especially now that father is dead. Well, she will be woefully disappointed, if we have anything to say about it!”
Berry smiled. “We may have less to say than we think, dear; the matter may be taken quite out of our hands by Rosalind herself. I foresee trouble. Another thing: Adrian is a mere adventurer, a gambler, and if he married her only for her money, how long do you suppose that will last?”
“What a worldly-wise little pessimist you are, dear!” responded Charles, with a laugh. “Come, tear up this insulting troublesome letter, and let’s drive over to the Towers. What’s the use of vexing ourselves with a mere chance that may not occur for a dozen years?”
This easy-going philosophy proved to be the wrong one, for they heard again from Rosalind, two years later. This time it was to announce the birth of a daughter, who was to be named Dora. Why Rosalind had taken the trouble to send this announcement to the Bonairs, in spite of their continued indifference to her existence, was not clear to Berry, who merely remarked: “I suppose she has reasons of her own.” But Charles saw through this move clearly enough. He readily guessed that Rosalind and her husband had not given up hope of being received at Thetford Towers; all the more now, for the sake of their daughter, Berry’s niece, and also because their fortunes were known to be on the wane.
His understanding was aided by reports of Adrian’s reckless speculations which he had heard from time to time, during his occasional visits in London.
On one of these occasions, he had, unknown to Berry, received a letter from Adrian Vance, requesting the loan of a large sum of money with which to pay several importunate creditors; and he had even gone so far as to lend Adrian half the amount, hoping thereby to avoid further difficulties with the Vance family. In this hope he was destined to be disappointed; for Adrian suddenly appeared at Thetford Towers, early in the following summer, and sought an interview with Charles and Berry.
The meeting was not pleasant to any of the three. Charles was frankly indignant, Berry cool and reserved, Adrian in a tumult of embarrassment, envy, and resentment.
“Rosalind is well, I dare say,” he said, in answer to their perfunctory question. “I’ve not seen her for several months. She’s studying to go on the stage—you’ll have her again for a rival, Berry, in your former sphere.”
The covert insolence of this seemingly playful remark was not lost upon its hearers, who took no notice of it, however, and soon afterward managed to bring the interview to a close. Adrian departed, no richer than he had come.
Before the end of the summer, he was killed in a railroad accident on the Continent, and Rosalind, the heiress whom he had reduced to poverty and driven to the stage, left the country, and was not again seen in England for many years. When she returned to trouble and harass her “relatives,” it was in an unexpected and disgraceful way.