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.”