CHAPTER XXIV. — “WE THREE”
Nothing marred the pleasure of the trip on the Gallia and young Quincy and Tom could not have been happier than they were when the great steamer made its way up the Mersey towards its Liverpool pier.
A few hours only in the great bustling city and then they were off to find the house in which Tom's father was born and lived. It was near Chester, that modernized reminder of the old Roman days, and on their way to Fernborough Hall.
They found it uninhabited. The thatched roof was full of holes and the interior showed the devastation that wind and water had worked. Tall weeds filled the little garden and the general effect was dismal indeed.
“It won't do to take Dad a picture of this old shanty,” said Tom.
“Perhaps we can find a house that looks like it,” Quincy suggested.
They had no difficulty in doing that, for the same architectural plan, if the design be worthy the name, had plainly been followed in the construction of many cottages. They found one with the roof covered with moss and a garden full of old-fashioned flowers, and several views were taken with Quincy's camera.
“It's cheating in one way,” said Tom, “but it would break Dad's heart to see a picture of his old home as it really is—so we'll show him one as it ought to be.”
“And as it shall be,” said Quincy. “It won't cost much to fix it up, all but the moss, and that will come on it in time. You get a man, Tom, find out the cost of renovating the house, and I'll pay the bill. So will the sense of untruthfulness be removed from our sensitive feelings.” This was quickly arranged, for work, with the pay in advance, was a delectable possession in those parts.
When they reached Fernborough Hall, and Quincy was told of the search on which his mother had started out, he pretended to agree with his aunt that it was useless, and the height of folly, but from that moment hope sprang up within him, that, by some miracle, his father was still alive. He did not confide his hopes to Aunt Ella, and gave her no inkling of the real reason for his trip to Europe.
“It would make me very happy to know that my father was living,” he said, “but after so long a time it seems foolish to think it, does it not? When do you expect mother home, Aunt Ella?”
“The letter was written a month ago from Vienna, but, unfortunately, she did not give her address. If she were well, she should have been here before this. I have an idea that she may have gone to Switzerland on her way home, and charmed by its scenery, or forced by her weak condition, has remained there. Stay here for a week with your friend, and perhaps some word will come.”
“No, Auntie,” said Quincy, “Tom and I will run over to Vienna, and if we don't find her we will push on to William Tell's republic. We will write you often—Tom one day and I the next.”
“I have often wondered,” said Quincy to Tom two days later as they were on the cars speeding to Vienna—“I have often wondered,” he repeated, “how my mother could let me go away and stay away from her for fourteen long years. That she loves me, her letters show plainly. She says often that I am all she has in the world, but she never sent for me to come and see her nor did she ever come to see me. How do you explain it, Tom?”
“Very easily. That disaster at sea and the loss of your father has given her a horror of the ocean which she cannot overcome. She fears to trust herself or one she loves to its mercies again. Perhaps we can't understand her feelings, but you must respect them.”
“I do,” replied Quincy. “I have never doubted her love for me, and your theory, perhaps, explains her failure to manifest her love more forcibly.”
On the train they made a most agreeable acquaintance and regretted their inability to accept his invitation to visit him. His name was Louis Wallingford. He was an American, born in Missouri. He had been a reporter, then editor. His passion was music and he had forsaken a literary life for that of a musician. He had joined an orchestra much in demand at private parties given by the wealthy residents of St. Louis. At one of these, he had become infatuated with the daughter of a railroad magnate who counted his wealth by millions. A poor violinist, he knew it was useless to ask her father for his daughter's hand. The young lady's mother was dead. The father died suddenly of apoplexy, and Miss Edith Winser came into possession of the millions. Then he had spoken and been accepted. Conscious that her husband, talented as he was, would not be accepted, without a hard struggle, by the upper class, they decided to live in Europe.
He had found a deserted chateau on the borders of Lake Maggiore. Money bought it, and money had transformed it into an earthly Paradise. The building, of white marble, was adapted for classic treatment, and Greek and Roman art were symbolized therein.
The chateau contained a large music room and a miniature theatre in which Mr. Wallingford's musical compositions and operas were performed.
“I have just come from Paris,” said Mr. Wallingford, “where I have made arrangements for six concerts by my orchestra which will play many of my own pieces. Can you not be in Paris in a month and hear them?”
“Tell him your story,” whispered Tom to Quincy, and he did so.
Mr. Wallingford was deeply interested.
“If you find both your father and mother, they deserve another honeymoon. Bring them to Vertano and in the joys of the present we will make them forget the sorrows of the past.”
“I am afraid,” said Quincy, “that such good fortune would be more than miraculous.”
“Come with your mother and friend then,” said Mr. Wallingford as he left them to change cars.
They went to the Hotel Metropole in Vienna. Quincy consulted his guide book.
“Everybody lives in apartment houses in Vienna, so this book says. The question is, in which one shall we find my mother and her maid?”
“All we can do,” said Tom, “is to plug away every day. Keep a-going, keep asking questions, keep our eyes and ears open, and keep up our courage.”
“Your plan is certainly 'for keeps,' as we children used to say. Come along. Your plan is adopted. Have you written Lady Fernborough? 'Tis your turn.”
Many days of fruitless travel and the young men began to despair of success. Quincy was debating with himself whether it would not be better to give up the search for his mother, and follow up the clue about his father. He felt that every day was precious.
“I have an idea, Quincy,” Tom said one morning. “Perhaps your mother is quite sick and has gone to a public hospital or a private one of some kind.”
“That's a fine idea, Tom. We'll begin on them after breakfast.”
The sharp reports of gun shots and the softer cracking of pistols were heard.
“What's that?” cried Quincy.
“Some men are on a strike. They had trouble with the police last night and this morning's paper says the strikers have thrown up barricades. Probably the police and soldiers are trying to dislodge them.”
The firing continued, and from their windows the soldiers and people could be seen moving towards the scene of disturbance.
“Let's go out and see what is going on,” said Quincy.
“Let's stay in and keep out of trouble,” was Tom's reply. “It is the innocent bystander who always gets shot.”
“I'm going down to the office to find out about it,” and Quincy took his hat and left the room.
Tom was suspicious of his intentions and followed him. Quincy had left the hotel and was walking rapidly towards the scene of disturbance. Tom ran after him, and kept him in sight, but did not speak to him. At first he felt offended that Quincy had not asked him to go with him. Then he reflected: “I virtually told him in advance that I wouldn't go. He's his own master.”
They were nearing a street from which came the sounds of conflict—loud cries, curses, and the reports of firearms. Tom ram forward to prevent Quincy from turning into the street. He was too late—Quincy had turned the corner. Tom, regardless of danger, followed him. He started back with a cry of horror. Quincy had been shot and was lying upon the sidewalk, the blood streaming from a gun-shot wound in his right arm. Tom took him up in his arms, as though he had been a child, and returned to the safety of the unexposed street.
As he lay Quincy upon the sidewalk and took out his handkerchief to make a tourniquet with which to stanch the flow of blood, he cried: “Oh, Quincy, why did you walk right into danger?”
As he uttered the words, a man who was standing nearby, whose dress and swarthy face proclaimed him to be a foreigner, stepped forward and grasped Tom roughly by the arm.
“What did you call that young man,” asked the stranger, his voice trembling, perceptibly.
“I called him by his name—Quincy.”
“Quincy what? Pardon me, but I have a reason for asking.”
“His name is no secret,” said Tom, as he twisted the handkerchief tightly above the wound. “I can't understand your interest in him, but his name is Quincy Adams Sawyer.”
“Thank Heaven,” exclaimed the man. “And thank you,” he added, grasping Tom's hand—“Is he English?”
“No, we're both Yankees, from Fernborough, Massachusetts.”
The man knelt beside Quincy and gazed at him earnestly. He looked up at Tom.
“I could bless the man who fired that shot. My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer and this young man is my son!”
Tom's surmise had been correct. Alice did not improve and a long stay at the Hospital became necessary before the return to England would be possible.
“What's that noise, Babette?” asked Alice.
“There must be a riot somewhere,” was the reply. “The soldiers are marching past. They are fighting in a street nearby.”
Alice said no more. What had she to do with fighting and bloodshed? Her suffering was greater than any bullet could inflict. She fell into a doze from which she was awakened by a loud cry from Babette.
“Oh, Madame, a carriage has just stopped here, and they are bringing a wounded man into the Hospital. There are two men with him—one looks like an Englishman or American.”
“Go down, Babette, and see if you can find out who they are. I should be glad if I could be of help to one of my own countrymen.”
It seemed a very long time before the maid returned. When she did, the usually self-confident Babette seemed dazed. She did not speak until her mistress asked:
“Did you find out anything?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“What?”
“They are all Americans, Madame. A young man and his friend; the older man is the father.”
“The companion's?”
“No, the young man's.”
“Did you learn their names or where they are from?”
Babette sank upon her knees by the bedside.
“Oh, Madame, I am so happy.”
Alice regarded her with astonishment.
“Happy! Happy because a young man has been shot. You must have a bloodthirsty nature, Babette.”
“It isn't the shooting, Madame. It's the name.”
“The name? What name? You are nervous, Babette. You must lie down and rest. I keep you up too late nights reading and writing.”
“Oh, Madame, how can I say it? Can you bear it?”
“I have borne suspense for twenty-three years. I can bear much. What is it you would tell me?”
“You know, Madame, I said the older man was the young man's father. They both have the same name.”
“That's not uncommon, especially in America. The young man is called Junior. Sometimes when they are very proud of a family name they number them. Supposing my husband were living, and my son had a son, named after himself, the little boy would be Quincy Adams Sawyer 3rd.”
“Madame, I must tell you. The father and the son bear the name of Quincy Adams Sawyer!”
Alice regarded her as if affrighted. Then she leaped from the bed and cried: “Bring me my clothes, Babette. My husband and son! We three, brought together by the hand of God once more.”
The revulsion was too great. The pent-up agony of twenty-three years dissolved in a moment. Alice fainted and fell into Babette's arms.