CHAPTER XIII. — “HORNABY HOOK”
Time, it is said, will dull the deepest sorrow. There are some who put out of sight everything to remind them of the lost one, while others treasure every memento, and never tire of recalling the virtues of the departed.
In Alice's case the presence of her little boy was a constant reminder of her husband. In Aunt Ella she found a willing listener, and talking of her past happy married life aided greatly in restoring her nerve power and improving her general health.
She said one day, “Aunt Ella, don't you think it better to face your troubles bravely than to fly away from them?”
“I certainly do. You are following the right course, Alice; the same as I did when Robert died. Your parting with Quincy was sad, inexpressibly so, but imagine my feelings to awake and find my husband dead in the bed beside me. Did I try to forget him? You remember his rooms in the Mount Vernon Street house. They became my Mecca—the place to which I went when I had a 'blue fit,' or was depressed in any way. God has sent you a child to keep your husband's memory fresh. I repeat, Alice, you are doing the right thing.”
“I do it,” said Alice, “for two reasons. One is that it makes me happy. The other is, that believing that my husband still lives, I wish to bring up his son so that he will be proud of him.”
Florence, after awhile, made a confidante of Aunt Ella and told her about Captain Hornaby. She confessed her interest in him and said that notwithstanding his crime she loved him, but that her father would never forgive him.
“What part of England did he come from?” asked Aunt Ella.
“He said from Hornaby—that the place was named after his family. Their home was called Hornaby Hook, because, as he said, it was built upon a promontory in the form of a hook.”
“What is his father's name?”
“Sir Wilfred, and Reginald is the fourth son.”
“No chance of his ever getting the title,” remarked Aunt Ella.
“I wonder where Hornaby Hook is,” said Florence.
“That's easily found out. Linda has Burke's Peerage and I'll write to her to-day.”
Lady Fernborough more than kept her promise, for in her letter she told the Countess Florence's unhappy love story besides asking for information about the Hornaby family.
Linda's reply was a revelation.
“MY DEAR AUNT ELLA,
“I was very sorry to hear that Quincy's sister has been so unfortunate in her love affair, and astonished to find that Captain Hornaby is the cause of it. You will be surprised to learn that Algernon is well acquainted with Sir Wilfred who is an old-fashioned English gentleman and the soul of honour. He has met the Captain and thought him a fine young fellow. Hornaby Hook is on the Sussex coast about ten miles from us. Come and see us and bring Florence with you. Perhaps there is an explanation of the affair which the Captain can give. He should not be condemned without a hearing. Give my love to Alice and tell her I'm coming to see that baby very soon. With love, ever yours, LINDA.”
Aunt Ella was now in her element. There was a mystery to be explained and she held the key. She told Florence where Hornaby Hook was, and that the Hornaby family was a fine one, and that Sir Wilfred was held in the highest respect by everybody, but did not mention Linda's suggestion of a visit, and a possible explanation. She knew Florence would not accompany her if there was any possibility of her meeting the Captain. It would appear as though she was running after him, and no American girl, especially a Sawyer, would do that.
Sir Stuart was greatly interested in young Quincy, and Mrs. Villiers, the housekeeper, thought him the handsomest and best baby she had ever seen. Thus the way was paved for the first step in Aunt Ella's plot.
“Alice, do you think you would be very lonesome if I went away for a week?”
“Why no, Aunt Ella. Why should I be? I have the baby, and Sir Stuart and Mrs. Villiers are both goodness itself to me.”
“Florence is not looking very well. Don't you think a week at the seashore would do her good?”
“I wish she could go, poor girl. When I think of her, I say to myself that I have no right to be unhappy. If Quincy is dead, he died nobly, to save others. But the shame connected with Captain Hornaby is what Florence feels so deeply.”
That same day Aunt Ella wrote to Linda that she was coming with Florence, and that Algernon and she must arrange in some way to bring about that “explanation.”
Algernon, Earl of Sussex, and the Countess Linda lived at Ellersleigh in the County of Sussex, not many miles from historic Hastings. To Aunt Ella and Florence they extended a warm and heartfelt welcome, and Florence, used as she was to the luxuries of life, could not but marvel at the beauty and even splendour that surrounded the Countess—once an American country girl named Linda Putnam.
“I have sent out cards for a dinner party next Thursday,” said Linda to Aunt Ella. “There will be an opportunity for that 'explanation,' but you must assume the responsibility if there should be a tragic ending.”
“We must hope for the best,” replied Aunt Ella. “I will gather up the fragments after the explosion.”
From the expression on Florence's face, when Sir Wilfred Hornaby and Captain Reginald Hornaby were announced as guests, the explosion seemed imminent.
In her mind, she had looked forward to such a meeting with a sensation of delight. Now that it had come her pride was up in arms. She had been tricked into coming. The Countess and Aunt Ella had arranged this meeting. Perhaps he had been told that she would be present. Well, if they did meet, he would have to do the talking. She had no explanation to make. If he had one, he must introduce the subject.
At the dinner Florence sat next to Sir Wilfred, but the Captain was far removed on the other side of the long table. Sir Wilfred was politely attentive. Did he know of his son's crime? Evidently not—but, if he did, he had condoned the offence. But how could he if he was the man of honour that the Countess had pictured him in her letter to Aunt Ella? No, the son had deceived his father as he had her father. Did she really love him? Had she forgiven him? If he had proposed when Florence was in that state of uncertainty, his rejection would have been swift and positive.
When the dinner was over, the Captain, apparently unconscious of guilt, approached Florence. He offered his arm.
“Will you come with me, Miss Sawyer? I have a very important question to ask you.”
Should she go? He was going to ask her a question. She had many to ask him. This unpleasant uncertainty must end—now, was the accepted time.
She took his arm, and he made his way to the conservatory—that haven of confidences, where so many lovers have been made happy, or unhappy.
“Why have you not answered my letters?” he said.
“I never received them.” Her voice was cold, and she removed her hand from his arm.
“I sent them in your father's care.”
“That is probably the reason why I did not get them.”
“Why should he refuse to give them to you? I borrowed money from him but I repaid him before I left America.”
He thought she was not acquainted with his perfidy. She would undeceive him.
“Did you tell him the truth when you borrowed it?”
His face flushed. How could she know? But she did. He would be honest with her.
“No, I did not.”
“I knew it. My sister Maude recovered your coat, but there was no money or bills of exchange in your pocket book—only a few visiting cards bearing the name of Col. Arthur Spencer.”
The young man bowed his head. He was guilty. She would leave him without another word. She turned to go. He caught her hand, which she, indignantly, withdrew from his grasp.
“I will explain, Miss Sawyer.” Was he going to tell the truth, or invent another story?
“Arthur Spencer was the Colonel of the first regiment with which I was connected. I do not belong to it now. He is a poor man, and an inveterate gambler. I had not seen him for two years, when we met in New York just before I went to Boston. You are tired, Miss Sawyer.”
He pointed to a seat beneath some palms, and led her, unresistingly, to it.
“He asked me to dinner with him, and I went. Then he suggested a game of cards while we smoked and I foolishly consented. The stakes, at first, were small, and he won rapidly. He increased his bets and I was forced, against my will, to meet them. When we stopped playing, he had not only won all my money, but had my 'I O U' for three hundred dollars. I had to borrow money from him to pay my hotel bill and fare to Boston.”
Florence nodded. She could not speak.
“I had letters of introduction to Boston families—among them, your own. When that accident happened—” she looked up at him inquiringly—
{Illustration: “You have acknowledged that you are a gambler}
“No, don't think that of me—it was not intentional on my part—I was without money—the Colonel must be paid—my allowance was not due for ten days—I invented the story that I told your father.”
“It was a lie!” Florence choked as she uttered the accusing words.
“Yes, it was a lie, and one for which I have sincerely repented, I told my father, and he forgave me, but said, as the coat was gone, to let the matter drop, that nothing would be gained by confessing to your father as he had been paid, and had met with no loss.”
Florence sprang to her feet. “No loss!” she cried. “How can you say that? You have acknowledged that you are a gambler and a liar—why not finish the story and confess your crime?”
“Crime, Florence! What do you mean?”
Her lips curled
“You do not know what I mean?”
“No, as God hears me, I do not. You accuse me—of what?”
She felt that the crux was reached. “Did you not know when the check for five hundred dollars came back to my father's bank that it had been raised to five thousand dollars?”
The Captain reeled, and came near falling. He clutched at the palm tree which sustained him until he regained his footing.
“My God! And you have thought me the thief!”
“What else could I think?”
“I can't understand.... I met Col. Spencer in Boston—those birds of prey always follow their victims, and gave him the check, receiving two hundred dollars in return. He must have—and yet I cannot believe he would do such a thing. He is in London now. To-morrow I will go and find him.”
“But if he denies it—how can you prove him guilty?”
“Unless he frees my name from such a charge—I will challenge him—and kill him!”
Florence could no longer act as accuser. Her heart plead for the young Englishman who had confessed his error, but who so strenuously denied his participation in a crime. “Miss Sawyer, will you mercifully suspend judgment until my return from London?”
She did not reply in words, but gave him her hand.
When they rejoined the company both Linda and Aunt Ella noticed Florence's heightened colour and the brightness of her eyes.
“He must have explained,” said Linda, “when an occasion offered.”
“I hope so,” was Aunt Ella's reply, and she felicitated herself upon the success of their joint plot.