It was Alixe’s turn to beg a fond heart’s throbbing sympathy when she whispered, “General Wragge advises and the Viceroy insists that we leave the island at once. Captain Anstruther must soon report to His Excellency the Viceroy at Calcutta, for his promotion to a Majority takes him back to his kinsman’s suite. The Earl has been honored with the control of Her Majesty’s Embassy at Paris. And so,” the words came slowly in trembling whispers, “both Anson and Harry have applied for ‘special licenses,’ and there will be two marriages at Edgemere, instead of one. Anson gave you to me, through a strange romance, and he demands to be my loving jailer!
“In three days we can all leave for London. Justine Delande has finished her solemn duty even now, with General Wragge as sole escort. It was the only way to hoodwink useless public gossip.”
“And will we be then so soon separated?” cried Nadine, clinging to her kinswoman, in a tremble of yearning love. “For you must go out with your husband to India. You must tell me of my mother, her life, her home, and I must see where she lies.”
“Ah, my darling,” said Alixe, “we will all go on to my home—your home, at Jitomir, my castle in Volhynia. Your own yet to be. There, Anson and I will leave you and Major Hardwicke for your honeymoon. There, my dearest child, where your own mother’s sweet face still looks down from the walls. Where the Russian violets and Volhynian forget-me-nots bloom around her tomb, where you will see her name carved in the memorials of a princely line as ‘Valerie, Princess Troubetskoi.’ There, I will tell you the whole story.”
An April rain of loving tears silenced the girl’s voice, as she looked out of the carriage window, and saw Major Hardwicke riding after them. “Tell me no more, now, Darling Alixe,” murmured Nadine, “I must have peace—even in this moment of happiness!” Her thoughts went back to the day when Harry Hardwicke had ridden “Garibaldi” straight to the rescue, in her moment of deadly peril, and his saber had fended off the huge cobra. And so, they journeyed on silently-linked in love, dreaming tender dreams.
In the western skies, the sun was sinking over the purpled sea, as they drove down to Edgemere, and the glow of the dying day lingered upon the beautiful hills of Jersey. For the wild storm was quieted and the sea shone as a sapphire zone. Golden gleams lit up stern old Mount Orgueil and gray Fort Regent, and tenderly tinted the rugged outlines of the moss-grown Elizabeth Castle. All nature dreamed in the peaceful, even fall. On the sea, white sails were flitting afar, and the swift steamers passed grandly on toward their distant havens. There was a group gathered in the splendid gardens of Edgemere as General Wragge gallantly advanced.
The silver-haired veteran graciously surrendered his command, as he aided his guests to alight. “This is to be ‘Bride’s Hall,’ and not a ‘place of arms’! You are now joint commanders, and so make the best use of your three days liberty! I give up my sword!”
That night, while Nadine Johnstone sat in a heart exchange of confidence with Justine Delande and the fair woman—no longer Berthe Louison—while Flossie Murray was playing hostess with Mrs. Wragge, General Wragge, Major Hardwicke, Captain Anstruther, and the now full-fledged Benedict, Eric Murray, gave some pithy parting counsels to Jack Blunt, “Gentleman Jack,” of the London Swell Mob. “Only a mere fluke, and, our desire to save a family needless pain, protects you,” said Hardwicke. “These five hundred pounds will enable you to reach America. I venture to advise you to avoid landing on English soil hereafter! You certainly owe something to your plucky, dead comrade, who generously lied, even in death, to save you from transportation!” With a sullen brow, Jack Blunt departed the next morning on the Granville steamer, and, only when in the safe hiding of Etienne Garcin’s Cor d’Abondance did he dare to breathe freely. There were two sorely wounded lodgers already lying there, who cursed the unerring aim of the vivacious and eccentric Alaric Hobbs of Waukesha. They had told the landlord their tales over cognac and absinthe, and Jack Blunt vainly tried to comfort the sloe-eyed Angelique, who mourned for the unreturning visitor who had sprung over the easily-stormed battlements of her mobile heart. “Il etait bien beau, cet homme la! Il m’aimait beaucoup! Je le regretterai toujours! C’etait un vrai gaillard!”
Which heartfelt tribute from a nameless wanton served for epitaph to the man lying in an unmarked grave in the soldiers plot at Fort Regent. With gnashing of teeth did Garcin and Jack Blunt discover that H. R. M.‘s Consul had officially aided Justine Delande to remove the valuable deposits of the dead adventurer.
“The whole thing was a dead plant on us. Luck turned against him at last!” growled Blunt, as they counted up the cost of the bootless cruise of the Hirondelle. And only Justine Delande’s bitter tears flowed in silence to lament the bold adventurer who had lost the game of life!