THE CORSICAN
LOVERS

A STORY OF THE VENDETTA
BY
CHARLES FELTON PIDGIN
Author of “QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER,” “BLENNERHASSETT,” ETC.

New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers

Copyright, 1906
By
B. W. DODGE & COMPANY
New York

CONTENTS.

THE CORSICAN LOVERS.

CHAPTER I.
BROTHERLY LOVE.

“You have no right, Pascal, to command me to marry a man whom I do not love.”

The speaker was a young girl not more than eighteen years of age. As she spoke, the flashing of her eyes and her clenched hands betokened the intensity of her feelings.

The person to whom the words were addressed was a man of about forty. He was smooth-shaven, and the black, shaggy eyebrows which met above the bridge of his nose, gave to his face a stern and almost forbidding expression. He did not reply to his sister’s impassioned words for some time, but sat, apparently unconcerned, tapping lightly on the library table with the fingers of his right hand.

At last he spoke: “I do not command you, Vivienne; all I ask is that you will comply with your father’s dying wish.”

“How do you know that it was his dying wish? He was dead when found, stabbed to the heart, as you told me, by Manuel Della Coscia—that brave Corsican who ran away to escape the vengeance he so well deserved.”

The man looked up approvingly. “My sister, that was spoken like a true Batistelli. If you loved your father, as your words seem to indicate, I do not see how you can disobey his slightest wish.”

The girl turned upon him, that bright flash again in her eyes. “Why are you so anxious that I should marry? Why is it that you yourself do not marry?”

The man’s answer came quickly: “I have sworn, and so has your brother Julien, that we will not marry until our father’s death has been avenged.”

The girl placed both her hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and looked into her brother’s face, as she said: “And neither will I.”

She spoke with suppressed intensity.

“You knew our father,” she continued; “you loved him when he was alive and you can love him now. You have something tangible to remember; I can only love his memory. I was but a child a few days old when he fell beneath the knife of the assassin. I do love his memory, and I know if he were living he would not condemn me to a loveless marriage.”

Again that inscrutable look came upon the man’s face. He shrugged his shoulders and the dark line of eyebrows lifted perceptibly.

“I do not know what he would do; I only know what he did.”

“And what did he do?” broke in Vivienne.

The man started. The question was asked with such vehemence that for an instant his marked self-possession was overcome.

“What did he do?” he repeated, thus gaining time, for he wished to think of the most forcible way in which to present the matter to his sister. “I will tell you. I know that he talked the matter over with old Count Mont d’Oro. The Count is dead, or there would be a living witness to the compact. But a few days before our father’s death, in fact the very day you were born, even while you were in your nurse’s arms, he said to me, ‘I am glad that it is a daughter. She shall be called Vivienne, and when she grows to womanhood she shall be a countess, for I have talked the matter over with Count Mont d’Oro, and we have both agreed that the little Count Napier shall be the husband of my little Vivienne.’ Three days later I looked upon his lifeless body. The words of the dead cannot be changed.”

It was now the young girl’s turn to think before speaking. The position that her brother had taken seemed, for the moment at least, unanswerable; but woman’s wisdom, like her wit, is equal to any emergency.

“Brother Pascal,” she began, and her voice was tremulous, “when I was bereft of a father’s and a mother’s love, you took their place. It is to you I have always looked for advice—both Julien and I, for you are so much older and wiser than we are. You have taken our father’s place; his words have become your words, but you are living and can change your words and free me from this bondage, for I would rather die than become the wife of Count Napier, or any other man I cannot love.”

Pascal Batistelli set his teeth tightly together, a dark look came into his face. “Am I to understand, then, that you absolutely refuse to marry Count Mont d’Oro?”

“Not only him, but any one else,” answered the girl. “I am content as I am.”

She turned away from the table, walked to the window, and looked out upon the grounds which stretched far and wide from the castle walls. The bright sunlight fell on tree and bush and on the brightly tinted flowers. All was beauty and peace without. How could nature be so happy, and she so miserable? Suddenly she turned and approached her brother, who had not changed his position.

“When did you wish this marriage to take place?” she asked, making a vain attempt to smile.

“On your eighteenth birthday,” he said, calmly.

“Oh, I have some time, then, to wait,” and she gave a little laugh. “You may tell Count Mont d’Oro that I will see him. I will tell him how much I love him. Then——” She could say no more. With a convulsive sob she turned and fled from the room.

“When a woman says she won’t, she often will,” soliloquised Pascal, as he arose and went to the window from which Vivienne had looked. “My father left fine estates. How could a sensible man make such a foolish will?”

Pascal took a small silver key from his pocket, and turning to an old escritoire, opened a drawer and took therefrom a paper. He then reseated himself at the table. “I should not have known,” said he to himself, “what was in my father’s will if I had not bribed the notary to break the seals and make me a copy. It is well to know what the future has in store for you—and for others. My father executed a document by which I was made guardian of my brother Julien and my sister Vivienne, until they became of age, I to supply all their wants as their father would have done. By a strange coincidence, my brother Julien is exactly seven years older than my sister. In a few months he will be twenty-five and she eighteen. The will must then be opened and what I alone know—I do not count the notary, for I have paid him his price—all will know.” Then he read the document carefully:

“If my daughter Vivienne marries Count Mont d’Oro’s son Napier, on or before her eighteenth birthday, as he will be wealthy in his own right, and I wish the marriage to be one of love, my estates shall be divided equally between my two sons, Pascal and Julien, if both are living; if but one be living, then to him, and if both should die and my daughter live, all shall go to her. If she does not marry Count Mont d’Oro’s son Napier for lack of love of him, half of my estate shall become hers. As Pascal will have had the entire income of my estate for eighteen years, he will be worth much, and the other half of my estate shall go to Julien, if living; if not, all shall go to Vivienne.”

“A very unfair will,” said Pascal, as he replaced the document in the escritoire. “If the dead could come back, such injustice would probably be remedied.”

There was a tap at the door, which opened almost immediately and Adolphe, Pascal’s valet, entered.

“The Count Mont d’Oro.”

“Admit him,” said Pascal, and a moment later the young Count advanced with outstretched hand, exclaiming even before their hands met:

“What news? What news? What does she say?”

“Oh, the impatience of you young lovers!” cried Pascal. “I think the leaven of love must have been left out of my composition. I have never yet met a woman who could put such fire into my blood as there seems to be in yours, my dear Count.”

“No more about me. Let us speak of her. What does she say?”

“Do not be too impatient. Even if I could repeat her very words, I could not say them just as she did. I can but translate them into a cold, formal phrase. She will see you.”

“I thought she would,” cried the young Count, “and when I kneel and lay my love at her feet, she will accept me and make me the happiest of men.”

“Be not too confident,” said Pascal; “she is young and wilful. You know the Batistellis are a determined race. I did not try to plead your cause. I am not used to love-making, and I felt that I should injure your prospects if I spoke in your behalf. But I warn you that you must use your eloquence and not appear too confident at the first.”

The Count laughed. It was not an honest, sincere laugh. A good judge of human nature would have detected in it a hollow sound—more of mockery than of true passion.

“One can see by looking at you, Pascal, that you are not an Adonis. You are not to blame if you have not the graces of Apollo. I have not descended from the ancient gods of Greece, but I have had an experience which even they might envy. I have run the gamut of Parisian society from the ante-chamber of royalty to the gutter, and in Paris there are beauties to be found even in the gutter.”

“I would not tell Vivienne that,” suggested Pascal.

“Of course not,” said the Count; “she is young and inexperienced and would not understand.”

“She might not understand,” said Pascal, “but on the other hand she might imagine more than the truth, and that would be fatal to your prospects, for I warn you, Count, that she is a woman who will not marry a man she does not love, and she will insist that he love her and her only.”

Again the Count laughed. “Why, even the King of France cannot command so much as that. I suppose I must bury the past. She is worth it. By the way, my dear Pascal, I think you told me that in case she marries me before her eighteenth birthday, the estates go with her.”

“My father made a most foolish will,” said Pascal, guardedly.

“That is what troubles me,” said the Count. “I feel like a robber; as though I had placed a pistol at your head and said, ‘Pascal Batistelli, give me your sister and your estates or you are a dead man.’” Then he added, after a moment’s thought: “I do not think that I can do it, after all. I think I shall go back to Paris.”

“Then you do not love my sister?” queried Pascal. He did not think the Count meant what he said, but it suited his purpose to take the remark seriously.

“When I am with her, yes,” said the Count; “then your sister Vivienne is the divine She; but, as I told you, there are beautiful women in Paris.”

Pascal felt the ground slipping from under his feet. “When you are married, Count, you can go to Paris; you are not obliged to live here in this dull place.”

“Oh, yes, but they will know that I am married.” Then, with a conceit which did not seem particularly offensive on account of the manner in which it was spoken, he added: “And, you know, I am quite a catch myself.”

“Certainly,” said Pascal, “and when the estates of Mont d’Oro and Batistelli are united, I have no doubt that many a fair eye in Paris will be wet with tears.”

“Well spoken, my dear Pascal,” cried the Count, as he threw his arm about the neck of his prospective brother-in-law.

Pascal did not appreciate the caress, but the urgency of the situation prevented his refusing it. “But you will see her?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” cried the Count. “My father wished this marriage to take place; my mother does not think that I am good enough for your sister. That is one reason why I am determined to marry her. To-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow,” said Pascal; “any hour in the morning. We breakfast at eight; no earlier than that, of course.”

“Don’t worry,” said the Count, “I do not rise until nine. By half-past ten she may expect her ardent suitor.” He flourished his hat through the air, bowed low to Pascal before placing it on his head, and a moment later was gone.

Pascal walked to the window and looked again upon the far-reaching acres of the Batistelli estate. “She must marry him; then I shall have half. That precious brother of mine will be killed in some drunken brawl or die a sot, then all will be mine.”

CHAPTER II.
“A MAN MUST HAVE A WIFE.”

The Countess Mont d’Oro and her son Napier sat at dinner together. They rarely spoke on such occasions, and the meal was nearly over before the Countess looked at him inquiringly and said:

“I saw you go over to the Batistelli house this morning. Some business matter, I presume.” After a pause, she asked, “Were you successful?”

“It was connected with my own personal affairs,” replied the Count, curtly.

“I suppose from your answer that you mean it is none of my business.”

“The inference is your own,” was the reply.

Both were silent for a while, then the Countess resumed: “Did you see Vivienne?”

“She was in the house; you can infer again.”

The Countess was cut by the last remark. Her manner of speaking had been pleasant, but there was a tone in her son’s reply that fired her Italian blood.

“I believe I have the most impudent son in Corsica.”

“I am sure that I have the most loving mother in all France,” said the Count, calmly.

To equalise a quarrel, when one of the participants is angry the other should also be angry. It is unfair for one to remain cool, calm, and collected, while the other is worked up to a fury of passion. If two soldiers meet in battle, one with a sword four feet long and the other with one but half that length, the contest is unequal; the one with the long sword keeps the other contestant at a distance, though the latter makes vain attacks upon his well-protected adversary. So in a lingual battle, the one who keeps his temper, who does not allow his voice to rise above an ordinary pitch, is the soldier with the long sword.

It must not be supposed that Countess Mont d’Oro allowed these thoughts to pass through her mind. She replied promptly to her son’s sarcastic allusion to her love for him.

“Why should I love you?” she cried. “Even when a child you had an ungovernable temper, and since you have grown up—I will not say since you became a man—your extravagance, your disregard of my wishes, even the slightest of them—has driven from my heart any love that I might have had for you. I am glad that your father lived long enough to understand you. He did wisely in leaving all to me. I was to make you an allowance at my discretion. I have paid your debts—gambling debts, I suppose they were principally—until my own income is greatly impaired.”

“And why have you been so generous?” asked her son.

“To avoid scandal. I did not wish our family affairs to become a subject for Parisian gossip. I do not care for what is said here in Corsica, but such news travels fast.”

“I presume from what you have said that you intend to cut off my allowance?”

“I do, as soon as you are married to Vivienne Batistelli. You must remember that I am not yet forty—I may marry again, and I do not wish my husband to have a dowerless bride.”

The Count smiled grimly. “It is all right for me to become a pensioner on my wife’s bounty?”

“Under the circumstances, yes,” said the Countess. “She will have enough. She will have all, and it is right she should. The property has been in Pascal’s hands for the past eighteen years, and a man of his disposition has not let any of it slip through his fingers, of that you may be sure. He has enough to set up for himself, and I suppose there are plenty of women who would have him, disagreeable as he is.”

“Why not marry him yourself?” asked the Count. “You would then be placed above all possible fear of want.”

The Countess arose from her chair. She did not speak until she reached the door of the dining-room; then she turned: “It is some time since you asked your last question, but I suppose you would like an answer. Considering my experience as your mother, I have no desire to become your sister-in-law.”

As his mother closed the door Count Napier sprang to his feet and began whistling the melody of a French chanson. “I may have a bad temper, but I think I know where I got it,” he muttered, as he made his way to the stables.

His favorite saddle-horse, Apollo, was soon ready, and making a cut at the stable-boy with his whip to reward him for his tardiness, and bestowing another upon the animal to show him that a master held the reins, he dashed off towards Ajaccio.

When he returned, several hours later, the fire of his mother’s wrath, to a great extent, had burned out. She was in a more complacent mood and asked, naturally: “Where have you been, Napier?”

“Perhaps Apollo could tell you. I really cannot remember.”

He went up to his room.

The night of the same day brought little sleep to the eyes of Vivienne Batistelli. She would doze, and in the half-sleep came unpleasant dreams. A dozen times during the night she was led to the altar by Count Mont d’Oro, but just as the words were to be spoken which would have united their lives forever, he changed into the form of a dragon, or something equally frightful, and she awoke with a scream to find herself in bed, her heart beating violently, and the room filled with shadows which carried almost as much terror to her heart as the visions which she had seen in her dreams.

At last her mental torture became unbearable. She arose and dressed herself. Drawing aside the heavy curtains, she saw that the sun was nearly up. She went into the garden. The dew lay thick upon the grass. She knelt down upon the green carpet. How cool it seemed to her hands, which were burning as with fire. She walked along one of the paths and the cool morning breeze refreshed her. Hearing the sound of a spade against a rock, she turned into a side path.

“It’s early ye are in gettin’ up,” said Terence, the gardener. “Ye may belave me or not, but whin ye turned into the path I thought the sun was up for sure.”

Vivienne could not help smiling. “Ah, Terence, you are a great flatterer, like all of your countrymen. Do you say such pretty things to Snodine, your wife?”

“Well, I did before we wuz married and some time afther, but to spake the truth, I sometimes think that Snodine’s good-nature sun has set and I’m afeared it’ll never come up again.”

“Oh,” said Vivienne, “Snodine is not such a bad wife. She has a sharp tongue, to be sure.”

“Ah, ah, that she has; and if she wud only use it in the garden instid of on me, your brother would not have to buy so many spades.”

Vivienne was not disposed to continue the conversation, and after walking to the end of a long path, made her way back without again coming in contact with Terence. As she approached the house she found that her old nurse, Clarine, was up. She must have seen Vivienne, for she threw open the window of her room, on the ground floor, and gave the young girl a cheery good-morning.

“May I come in?” asked Vivienne.

Clarine ran to open the door, and as Vivienne entered she took the young girl in her arms and kissed her. “Can you come in? You know you can. Whenever you wish to see Clarine, you may always come without the asking. I served your father and your grandfather, and I will serve you as long as I live,” and the old lady made a curtsy to intensify the effect of her words.

“I want to talk with you, Clarine,” said Vivienne. “I am in great trouble.”

“Trouble!” cried Clarine. “There is enough trouble falling upon the house of Batistelli without its being visited upon your innocent head. What is the matter, darling?” and she drew the young girl towards her. “But we cannot talk here. Come to my room, and we will sit down and you can tell me all about it.”

“Why,” exclaimed Vivienne, as they entered the room, “Old Manassa is here.”

“Yes,” said Clarine, “the very minute I am dressed he insists upon coming in and sitting in that arm-chair. I suppose if I gave it to him he would not be so anxious to visit me, but I won’t do it. It belonged to your grandfather. I was taken sick once and he sent the chair to me because it was so comfortable. When I got better he gave it to me and nothing would induce me to part with it, or even let it go out of my sight. But don’t worry about him, Vivienne, for he is sound asleep.”

With her head pillowed upon the breast of her old nurse, who had been a mother to her so far as it lay in her power, Vivienne told of her interview with her brother, and how determined he was that she should marry Count Mont d’Oro.

“Oh, what shall I do, Clarine?”

The old nurse pursed her lips and shook her head wisely. “Become engaged to him. Engagements and marriages are two different things, Vivienne.”

“Oh, I could not do that, Clarine. I could not make a promise that I did not intend to keep.”

“I would not ask you to,” said Clarine. “You can intend to keep it, but circumstances may prevent you.”

Then Vivienne told of the fearful dreams she had had during the night.

“Oh, I can never do it,” she cried. “I will never marry Count Mont d’Oro. They say, do they not, Clarine, that Manuel Della Coscia killed my father?”

“All Corsica believes it,” said Clarine, and she crossed herself reverently.

“Now, listen, Clarine; if the son of Manuel Della Coscia asked my hand in marriage, I would give it to him as soon as to Count Napier.”

Old Manassa had been leaning upon the head of his heavy stick. It fell from his hands to the floor with a crash.

“Why, what was that?” he cried. “Didn’t I hear somebody talking? I thought I heard the name of Manuel Della Coscia.”

“Nonsense, Manassa!” cried Clarine. “You have been at your old trick of dreaming and then waking up and thinking your dream was real. Now, go right to sleep again. You cannot have your breakfast for an hour yet.”

“I am sure he heard everything that we have said,” Vivienne whispered in Clarine’s ear.

“Oh, no, he is always like that, but even if he did hear, I will convince him that he dreamt it.”

“Come into the garden, Clarine. I do not wish to say anything that can be overheard.”

At some distance from the house they sat upon a bench beneath the drooping branches of a tree which formed a natural arbour.

“I have something to tell you, Vivienne,” said Clarine. “I had a dream, too, last night, but there is a good thing about my dreams—they always come true—and it was about you.”

“My fate must have been pleasanter than it is likely to be,” said Vivienne, “judging from your manner.”

“Listen, Vivienne,” said Clarine, “you can judge for yourself. I thought you were betrothed to a man whom you did not love and you were very unhappy; then a stranger came; he was young and handsome and your heart went out to him. He met Count Mont d’Oro and they quarrelled—they fought—the Count was killed and you married the stranger.”

“How foolish, Clarine! But you know they say dreams go by contraries.”

As they walked back to the house, Clarine said: “Take my advice, Vivienne, and tell the Count that you will marry him. You must trust in the One above. Your Heavenly Father doeth all things well—if it is to be, it will be.”

Old Manassa had not been sleeping. He had overheard what had passed between Vivienne and her nurse. Immediately after they had gone into the garden, he made his way to his master’s room. He found Pascal Batistelli alone.

“Ah, this is a sad day for the house of Batistelli,” he cried. “She is unworthy of the name.”

“Why, what has happened now?” asked Pascal.

“I heard her say it—your sister Vivienne.”

“Heard her say what?” cried Pascal. “Why don’t you speak out and not stand mumbling there?”

“I heard her say that she would as soon marry the son of Manuel Della Coscia as give her hand to Count Mont d’Oro. It is true. I heard it. I swear I did.”

Pascal took a silver coin from his purse and threw it towards Manassa.

“I see, you must be out of tobacco; but keep your eyes shut and your ears open and tell me all you hear. Is your gin bottle empty yet?”

“Not quite,” said Manassa.

“I am obliged to you for telling me what you heard,” said Pascal, “but go now; I am busy.”

The old man shambled towards the door. As he went out he muttered to himself: “She is unworthy of the name of Batistelli.”

Some hours later Vivienne was again walking in the garden. She knew that the Count was coming to see her—she knew what he was going to say—she knew what her answer was expected to be. She determined that the interview should not take place within-doors. Since talking with Clarine, she had prayed fervently for Heavenly guidance, and it seemed to her that it would come more quickly, more directly, if she were in the garden with the trees, the flowers, and the birds about her, and the blue sky overhead.

The greater part of Vivienne’s education had been drawn from nature. She had learned little from books or from contact with others. Her life had been circumscribed in many ways, and such a life makes one introspective. The dweller in a large city who has so much to attract, to interest him and take up his time, who gets but a glimpse of the sky between the house-tops, becomes superficial and does little deep thinking; but one who lives in the country, largely apart from his fellow man, who sees the wide expanse of heaven every day, feels as though he were closer to the Great Power—thinks more of the future and looks searchingly into his own heart, seeking to determine his probable fate when his good deeds and bad deeds, his sins of omission and commission, are scanned by the great Judge.

“And how is Mademoiselle Batistelli this beautiful morning?” asked Count Napier.

Vivienne, startled from her reverie, quickly decided that he should not come to the point at once. She knew his forceful manner of speech, and determined not to allow her heart to be carried by storm. She answered:

“I am not well—not sick, but worried. Julien was out all night. What will the end be?”

“Oh, he’ll get married some time and settle down.”

“And who would have him—a drunkard? I should pity her from the bottom of my heart.”

“You look at the matter too seriously,” said the Count. “Most men are drunkards—some with wine, some with women, but more with love. I was talking to your brother Pascal yesterday about our future.”

Vivienne clasped her hands and looked into his face, appealingly.

“We can have no future together, Count Mont d’Oro; I do not love you.”

“Well, as to that,” cried the Count, jauntily, “neither do I love you, but I respect and admire you.”

The appealing look left Vivienne’s face; in its place came an expression of determination.

“I wish to be loved—by my husband.”

“You must have been reading English novels,” said the Count. “In them you will find the word ‘home,’ but we have nothing like it in French. It may be that the word ‘love’ has no exact counterpart in our language. You must be content, as most Frenchwomen are, with the love of your children.”

“No, no,” cried Vivienne. “If they are not the offspring of love, they will have no love. It is too great a risk.”

“We must take risks in this life,” said the Count. “I will take you to Paris with me. You can enjoy yourself there; it is so different from this dull, sleepy place.”

He had tried the old form of temptation. By it Faust had won Marguerite; but Vivienne was made of sterner stuff.

“I care nothing for Paris or its sinful life; your mother has told me of it. I love my home—every stone in this old castle is dear to me, and my heart will always be here.”

“Ah,” said the Count, “I understand you. Your husband must be content to live here and never go to Paris.”

“If he loves me as I shall love him, he will be content to stay here with me.”

Count Napier Mont d’Oro felt sure that his mother intended to cut off his allowance when he became the husband of Vivienne; in fact, she might do so even if that event did not take place. Thrown upon his own resources, he knew his only means of existence would be the gambling-table. He was wild, ungovernable, criminal in many ways, but he did not look forward with unmixed pleasure to a sinful life. He was honest with himself in that he knew he thought more of the rich Batistelli estates than of the fair young girl who bore the name. He thoroughly believed in laissez-faire. His philosophy was very much like that of Clarine; take a step that does not exactly please you and trust that fate will so order your future that you will not be obliged to take another like it.

Apparently dropping conversation on the subject uppermost in their minds, he said: “I am going back to Paris, but for a little while only. I have some business matters there to attend to—I mean to close up. Then I am coming back to Corsica to settle down. After all, I think you are right; Parisian life is like fireworks—there is a snap and a go and a very pretty sight for a few minutes, and then it is all over. But the life of a country gentleman is solid and substantial. What more can a man ask in this world than a faithful and trusting wife and beautiful and loving children? As these pictures pass before my eyes, I know which one is the best and which is better for me, but before I go I wish to be sure of something that will overcome all temptation to stay in Paris, something to bring me back. You know, sometimes the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

“Your mother,” uttered Vivienne.

“No, yourself,” cried the Count.

“But you do not love me!”

“I have said that I did not, but I will say more—I love no one else.”

Vivienne was in a quandary. What should she do? Her own mind seemed powerless to direct her, and almost in a state of despair she recalled the advice Clarine had given.

Forcing a smile she turned towards the Count. “If I promise to marry you, Count, if before I become yours you see another whom you will love, will you come to me and tell me? No, no, I will not ask that; but if I learn that you do love some one else, it is understood and agreed that the knowledge of that fact will free me from the carrying out of my promise?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Count, “I agree to that willingly; it is but fair that I should.” He took her hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed it. “This is the bond,” he cried; “you are to be mine. I am the happiest man in Corsica.”

“Do not say that,” cried Vivienne. “You have no right to utter those words until I look into your face and say that I am the happiest woman in Corsica.”

Shortly after Vivienne had given her promise to the Count, he made his way to her brother.

“It is all right,” he cried. “It was a hard fight, but my eloquence won; she has promised to be my wife.”

“But when?” asked Pascal.

“Oh, I did not go so far as to fix the date. That is usually left to the lady, you know.”

“But it must be soon,” said Pascal. “There are weighty reasons.”

The Count thought of his mother’s reference to his allowance. “Yes, there are,” he replied. “We must use our combined eloquence to fix the marriage for an early day.”

In the afternoon, while walking in the garden, Pascal met Old Manassa.

“She has promised to marry him. Manassa, you are an old fool. You should have been in your grave long ago.”

The old man straightened up; his eyes flashed. “I shall not die until I see Manuel Della Coscia, who murdered your father, weltering in his own blood.”

CHAPTER III.
“PYLADES AND ORESTES.”

“Are you going, Vic?”

“Of course I am going. I have been ordered to join Admiral Sir Hugh Walter’s flagship, which sails for Halifax in a week.”

“I do not mean that. What I want to know is whether you are going to Buckholme with me. I met Clarence Glynne on the Strand yesterday, and he gave me a most cordial invitation to come out. He extended it to me in the name of his father, Miss Renville, and himself.”

“That was more than a double-header, Jack,” said Victor; “that was three of a kind.”

“I hope you won’t consider me egotistical, Victor, but I really think from what he said that she was the instigator of the invitation.”

The one addressed as Victor was silent for a moment. He cast his eyes downward as though thinking the matter over. At last he said:

“Why should I go, Jack? It was you who jumped into the river and saved her life, for she sank twice, you will remember. Besides, when she learns that you are the Honourable John De Vinne, and likely to become—I beg your pardon—Viscount De Vinne, what chance will there be for me?”

“Yes,” cried Jack, oblivious of his friend’s remark, “the whole picture comes back to me so vividly. What an idiot that fellow was to run into her boat—and then he was going to let her drown because he could not swim. He was near enough to row up and pull her into his boat when she came up the first time. Of course I had to swim for it, and dive too. I think a man who cannot steer a boat and cannot swim should stay on land.”

“Those are my sentiments—exactly,” remarked Victor.

The recalling of the event—the rescue from drowning of Miss Bertha Renville by Mr. Jack De Vinne—had such an effect upon the young man that he was in a very excitable condition.

“You might have been the one, Vic, to have saved her instead of me. To be fair about it we should have drawn lots, but, as you say, there was no time to lose. Although the affair happened a month ago, it seems as though it were but yesterday. It seemed a profanation, but we had to treat her just as though she were a man instead of a woman. You ran to get a trap and we took her to the tavern and called a doctor, then, when she was once more herself, we drove to Buckholme with her.”

“You’ve got it by heart,” said Victor. “Do you remember as well what took place at Buckholme? How delighted Clarence was and the half-hearted thanks of Mr. Glynne, Miss Renville’s guardian? What a roly-poly sort of a man he is.

“I was not taken with his outward appearance, and if I am any sort of a judge of human nature, I should say that he houses a bad heart within that portly frame.”

“I must confess, Vic, that I did not notice the man much. I was thinking of her; how close she had been to death, and how glad I was to have been the means of saving her life. I will be honest with you, Vic, and own up—I am in love with her. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and I want to ask your advice. What do you know about me, Victor?”

Victor Duquesne leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Well, Jack, I know that you are the second son of an earl—I really do not know his full title—but in England, you know, the second son of an earl is a mere nobody if his elder brother enjoys good health.”

“You have hit it just right, Victor,” said Jack. “I am really a nobody; that’s why I went into the Navy, but I hope you won’t take that remark as a personal reflection. There are a great many smart men in the Navy, and you are one of them.”

“Thanks, Jack. We are and always have been the best of friends. I hope I shall serve my king faithfully and well, and be worthy of your good opinion. But I fancy you are going to tell me something about yourself, for some reason or other known to you, but at the present time, unknown to me.”

“Well, listen,” said Jack. “I am the second son of the Earl of Noxton. My father obtained considerable reputation in a political way when he was Lord De Vinne, and although ten years have passed since he succeeded to the Earldom, he prefers, for some reason or other, to be known as Lord De Vinne. Even my mother thinks that ‘Lady De Vinne’ is a prouder title than ‘Countess Noxton.’ My father’s name is Carolus. I think he has told me at least a hundred times how one of his ancestors came over with William of Normandy, and the name Carolus has always been borne by the heir to the title.”

“I agree with your father and mother,” said Victor. “I should prefer a title which I had won or upon which I had conferred some honour, rather than one simply bequeathed to me.”

Jack continued: “My mother was a poor girl and, they say, very beautiful. She can bring forward neither of her sons, however, as evidence of that fact. Her name is Caroline. I have sometimes fancied that its similarity to Carolus had no small influence with my father. Now, to come to the point. My brother Carolus, who is five years older than I, is engaged to Lady Angeline Ashmont. He has been an invalid for some years and is now in Germany, taking the baths.”

“A temporary illness, I hope,” said Victor.

“I do not know,” said Jack. “He has been a great student, and instead of riding horseback and hunting and swimming, as I have done all my life, he stayed cooped up in his den working, I believe, on the genealogy of the family. He is as thin as a rail and as white as a ghost.”

“He has been overworking,” suggested Victor.

“Perhaps so,” said Jack; “time thrown away, I have always told him. When he inherits, which will be some years from now, for my paternal is as tough as a knot, I suppose I shall have a small allowance from him. I shall go into the Navy for a few years—maybe for life. I wish we could go on the same ship.”

“So do I,” said Victor.

The two young men were old friends; they had attended the same schools together, and together had received their naval training. Their regard for each other had been so marked that their fellows had dubbed them “Pylades and Orestes.” Neither had been called upon to suffer or die for the other, but the tie that bound them was so strong that, had it been put to the test, either would have proved himself worthy of his ancient namesake.

Jack gave a long, deep sigh.

“What’s the matter, Jack?” asked Victor. “Are you thinking of Miss Renville?”

“No, Victor, of you. What happy years we have passed together; and now our ways part. You have forged ahead of me and are now a lieutenant, while I—poor Jack—with inferior ability, have to be content with lower rank! You deserve the good fortune, Vic, but your friends must have great influence with the Admiralty.”

“I have no friends,” said Victor; “only one—you, Jack. The reason for my appointment is as inexplicable to me as it is to you. Of course I had a mother, but my father never spoke of her. I have not seen him for twelve years—since I was ten years old, when he put me to school—the one where I first met you. My expenses have been paid, but no word of any kind has come from him.”

“He is a man of mystery,” said Jack, “but nearly all mysteries are cleared up in time, and I have no doubt yours will be. By the way, what is the name of Sir Hugh’s flagship?”

“Strange, is it not, Jack, she is called the Orestes; so you see I shall have a constant reminder of our past friendship.”

“‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot,’” hummed Jack. Then he cried: “Come, Victor, we must go back to first principles; say yes or no—will you come to Buckholme with me?”

Victor hesitated. “Well—perhaps. Do you know, I have thought, Jack, that Mr. Glynne may have spoken to the Admiralty about me. You know he is in the iron and steel trade and is brought into business relations with them. Yes, I will go. I will try to find out whether he had anything to do with it. If he had, although he does remind me of a small elephant every time I look at him, I will give him a credit mark for his kindness.”

The conversation just narrated took place at Victor Duquesne’s apartments in London. As he had told Jack, his bills had been paid regularly and his allowance had not been a niggardly one. This enabled him to have a sitting-room and a chamber, and he could have afforded a valet had he been so disposed.

“You must not back out of your promise, Victor,” said Jack, as he extended his hand; “shake! That settles it. You are booked for Buckholme.”

“And you for Bertha,” said Victor, and they both laughed.

At that moment there was a light tap on the door.

“Come in,” cried the two young men together.

The door was opened for a short distance and the face of an untidy maid-of-all-work, with unkempt hair, appeared.

“Come in,” again cried Victor.

“I don’t care to,” said the slavey. “I don’t look well enough, and Mrs. Launders said if I dared go in she’d give it to me when I got back.”

“What do you want?” asked Victor, somewhat impatiently.

“I’ve got a letter for you,” said Sarah, the slavey, “and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll throw it in and you can pick it up.”

Suiting the action to the word, the letter flew high in the air and then fell to the floor. Sarah slammed the door, and her heavy boots were heard clattering upon the stairs all the way down.

Victor sprang forward and picked up the letter. He looked first at the postmark. “Ajaccio,” he cried. “It is from Corsica. I am not acquainted with any person there.” He held the sealed letter in his hand and regarded it.

“Never fool with a letter,” cried Jack. “Cut it open, tear it open, and know the best or worst as soon as possible. To me, a man who is afraid to open a letter is like a gambler who is uncertain whether to stake his last shilling or not.”

“This is my letter, Jack, and I propose to regard the outside of it as long as I choose before perusing its contents.”

Although the words had a sharpness in them, there was a look in Victor’s eye as he spoke which robbed them of any intention to offend.

“All right, old boy,” said Jack. “Don’t let me hurry you. Why not leave it on your table until you get back from Buckholme? My father is a man of wisdom. He has a large correspondence, but he never gets ready to answer his letters until they are about six months old. During that time he says half of them have been answered by the course of events, and it is too late to answer the others; so in that way he has not gained a very wide reputation as a letter-writer.”

Victor broke the seal, unfolded the sheet, and spread it carefully on the table before him. Reading it through quickly, he cried:

“Jack listen to this:

“My Dear Victor: Come to Corsica at once. When you reach Ajaccio, I will communicate with you secretly by messenger. Hear all, but say nothing. See Admiral Enright and sail with him on the Osprey.

“Your father,
“Hector Duquesne.”

Victor laid the letter upon the table, and as he brought his hand down forcibly upon it, he cried: “Now, what does that mean, Jack?”

“It’s just as plain as the nose on your face, Victor. It was your father who got the appointment for you. Tom Ratcliffe is going with Enright, who is ordered to cruise in the Mediterranean. Corsica, unless my geographical knowledge is twisted, is in the Mediterranean; so you see your father has fixed things all right.”

Victor sprang to his feet “Then I must see Enright at once. Whether I go to Buckholme or not depends upon when he sails.”

That evening Victor was at Jack’s rooms.

“I have got my transfer, Jack,” he cried as he entered the room.

“Lucky boy,” was Jack’s comment, “everything goes your way.”

“I don’t think it would have,” said Victor, “but upon one occasion when Admiral Enright visited the Naval Academy, he was accompanied by his daughter, Miss Helen. For some reason or other, probably on account of my well-known affability, I was detailed to escort her and show her the great attractions of the Academy. I could not find him to-day at the Admiralty and was obliged to go to his house. I met Miss Helen, and I am sure it was her influence that carried the day. We sail on Monday. To-day is Thursday; so you see, my dear Jack, Buckholme becomes an impossibility.”

“Then I must go alone,” said Jack. After another long sigh: “My fate lies there—I love Bertha Renville, and I know, if an opportunity offers, that I shall ask her to be my wife.”

“Do you leave early in the morning?” asked Victor.

“Yes, by the 7.30. I wish to get there early, for I shall ask her to go boating with me. There is no place like a boat for propounding momentous questions. Nobody to watch you, and only the little fishes to overhear what you say.”

“Well, Jack,” said Victor, as their hands met at parting, “you have my best wishes and my sincerest hopes for your happiness and success in life.”

“The same to you, old boy,” cried Jack.

They spoke no more, but when they stood by the open door, as though prompted by some instinct which they could not resist, they threw their arms about each other and stood for a moment in a brotherly embrace.

Victor ran swiftly down the stairs and walked homeward so fast that his fellow pedestrians looked after him, some with curiosity and others with suspicion.

Jack threw himself into an arm-chair, lighted his pipe, and smoked unremittingly for an hour.

The next morning he was not surprised to find that he had gone to bed without extinguishing the gas.

CHAPTER IV.
“BUCKHOLME.”

Jack De Vinne, with all the impatience of youth, was at the railway station half an hour before the starting time of the train which was to bear him to the woman he loved. He walked impatiently up and down the platform. Finally, he accosted a guard. “When will the Reading train be in?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied the man. “Sometimes it’s early, and sometimes it’s late, and sometimes it’s just on time.”

Jack thanked the man for the valuable information and resumed his walk. His next act was to buy a morning paper and tuck it beneath the straps of his valise. Never did time pass so slowly. He was sure it must be half-past seven, but upon looking at his watch he found that he had been in the station only ten minutes.

While standing uncertain, irresolute, dissatisfied, a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder, and turning quickly, he met the gaze of Victor Duquesne.

“Why, what brought you here, old boy?” he exclaimed.

“A fool’s errand, I suppose you will say, when I tell you what I came for. I was up early this morning, and the thought came to me that I had not told you to write to me if anything important occurred. Send the letter to Ajaccio, Island of Corsica. I do not know how long we shall stay at Malta, but from something I heard Helen say to her father, I think there is some reason for the Admiral’s visiting Corsica as soon as possible after his arrival in the Mediterranean. I select Ajaccio, because the letter will go direct by French post.”

“Glad you told me,” said Jack. “I write about two letters a year, and the chances are I should have addressed yours care of the Mediterranean Sea, and should have expected it to find you. I’m mighty glad to see you, too. I feel as though I had been waiting here a couple of hours,” he looked at his watch again, “but it has been only fifteen minutes. Ah, here’s the train now. Well, good-bye, old boy. Remember I am always your Pylades.”

“And I am your Orestes,” declared Victor. “Perhaps the time may come when one or both of us may be called upon to show the depth of friendship that lies in him.”

Once more the men shook hands. Then Jack grasped his luggage, which was of small compass, and made his way to a seat in a first-class carriage.

For some time after the train started, Jack sat pre-occupied with his thoughts. The word “thought” would be more correct, for he had but one, and that was of Bertha Renville. How would she receive him? Had he been deceived by the manner in which Clarence had extended the invitation? Did Mr. Thomas Glynne really wish him to come to Buckholme? He framed question after question in his mind, but to none could he supply a satisfactory answer. He pulled the morning paper from under the strap of his valise and looked listlessly at one page after another. He was not interested in the Court Calendar, for, beautiful as she was, he could not expect to find Bertha’s name there. The business and the financial columns were passed unheeded. He started to read an editorial, but after glancing at the first few lines, crumpled the paper in his hand and looked out of the window.

It was a beautiful morning and nature was in her fairest garb. As the train passed through well-known places, memories came back to him of many happy times passed there with his friend Victor. But Jack was not an ardent lover of nature, and he soon turned again to the newspaper.

A headline caught his eye: “Attempted Robbery at Brixton, Strange Death of the Burglar.” The caption was so attractive that Jack read the article through:

“A Mrs. Elizabeth Nason, widow, living on Oad Street, Brixton, was awakened early yesterday morning by the loud cackling of the fowls in her hennery, a small out-building in the rear of the house. She lives alone, her only protector being a large mastiff, which she kept within-doors at night. Upon hearing the commotion she went to the window and, peeping between the curtains, saw that a man had broken open the door of the hennery, had strangled a number of the fowls, which lay upon the turf beside him, and was endeavouring to secure others. She went quietly downstairs, called to the dog that was asleep in the kitchen, and opening the side door, led him into the garden. She bolted the door again, ran quickly upstairs, and looked out to see what would take place.

“The dog, knowing what was expected of him, ran towards the man, with jaws distended. A terrific battle between man and dog then took place, the following description of which was given to our reporter by Mrs. Nason:

“The man sprang to his feet, and Mrs. Nason saw, what she had not at first observed, that he had with him a large umbrella. As the dog sprang at him, the man grasped the umbrella by both ends and forced it, laterally, between the dog’s jaws. True to his nature, the dog shut his teeth firmly upon it. The man was of small stature, slight in build, and was thrown to the ground by the impact. That fall, undoubtedly, saved his life, for the time being, at least, for his hand came in contact with a heavy oaken bar which had been used to fasten the hennery door. While the dog was busily engaged trying to disengage his teeth from the umbrella, into which they had been firmly set, the man sprang to his feet and dealt the dog a stunning blow with the stick. The dog soon rallied, however, and the man, apparently fearing another attack, became frenzied, drew from his pocket a clasp knife with a blade fully six inches in length, and stabbed the animal viciously in both eyes. The maddened dog rose upon his hind legs, preparatory to springing upon his assailant, who improved the opportunity to stab the dog in the throat.

“Mrs. Nason could bear the scene no longer and turned from the window. Recovering her self-possession, she looked again and saw the man lying face downward, the body of the dog beneath him.

“She ran from the house to that of a neighbour, a Mr. Abraham Dowse, who, arming himself with a pitchfork, accompanied her to the scene of the conflict. He found that both man and dog were dead. The police were then called.

“The man was shabbily dressed, had no money upon his person, and the only means of identification was a letter addressed to Alberto Cordoni. The letter was postmarked Ajaccio and was more than six months old. It read as follows:

“A. C. You have been in London now for more than a year, but to no avail. If you had found any trace of Manuel Della Coscia, I would be willing to give you ten times what you have already received; but I shall send you no more money until you give me some proof that you are on his track.

“The letter itself was without date or signature. The body of the man, who was apparently an Italian or Corsican, was taken in charge by the police.”

“What a bloodthirsty set those Corsicans are,” said Jack to himself. “I wonder why Victor’s father wants him to go to that God-forsaken country. When I get back to London I will send this paper to Victor,” and he folded and replaced it beneath the straps of his valise.

The train was now approaching Windsor, the abode of royalty. Although Jack had the blood of the aristocracy in his veins, he was not interested in either castle or park. His thoughts were several miles beyond.

There was one place through which he was to pass which one cannot visit unmoved. Jack looked earnestly from the window. Yes, there it was, the village church of Stoke Pogis, and close to it the churchyard in which Gray wrote his immortal Elegy.

Jack was not a great lover of poetry, for, as he had expressed himself, “translating Greek poetry into English verse is enough to make a man sick of it for life.” But Victor had admired the elegy and had read it aloud several times to Jack, who now recalled one of the stanzas:

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

It is strange what unexpected comparisons lovers will make. He did not think of Bertha as being a gem in some ocean cave, but the thought did occur to him that it was not just the thing for so beautiful a girl to lived unnoticed in the little town of Maidenhead when the frequenters of London drawing-rooms would have gone wild over her and where she would be the belle of the season. Then the thought came to him that he did not wish her to be the belle of the season; he wished her to be his, his only, thus adding another proof to the adage that true love is selfish, which selfishness, carried to extremes, becomes the green-eyed monster, jealousy.

Jack leaned back in his seat and began wondering what his future would be. His life could not fail to be happy if Bertha promised to be his wife. Should he become a statesman, as had his father, or—but he would not think of that now.

He could see the great stone bridge which spans the Thames at Maidenhead, forming a means of communication between the County of Berkshire and that of Buckingham. Then he remembered that he had read of the old wooden bridge which spanned the river, and how the Duke of Surrey and the followers of Richard II. had at that bridge held the soldiers of Henry IV. at bay for hours, and then made a safe retreat.

They were nearing the station. Jack’s heart gave a great jump. Yes, that was the place where Miss Renville’s boat had been run down and capsized, and there she would have met her death had it not been for—yes, Fate must have willed that he should be there in time to save her.

Mr. Thomas Glynne, who, with his son, Clarence, a young man of twenty-four, formed the firm known in the city as Walmonth & Company, iron and steel merchants, was a short, thick-set man, with a round face and an expression of the utmost geniality. While business manager for Walmonth & Company he had lived, as he expressed it, “in smoky, dirty London,” but after becoming head of the firm, he made up his mind to have a country residence. He had looked North, South, East, and West before fixing upon a location, and finally decided to make his home in the little town of Maidenhead, the scenery surrounding which is picturesque and beautiful. Here he built a house of the conventional type, to which he had given the name of “Buckholme.” Had he been asked why he had thus named it, he probably would have replied: “Do you know anybody who has a house with that name?”

Some fourteen years before, when Mr. Glynne was about forty, the house of Walmonth & Company was in financial straits. Mr. Glynne, who had gone to Paris on business connected with the firm, was suddenly recalled by an urgent telegram, and on his return to London, the senior member of the house, Mr. Jonas Walmonth, informed him that the firm was unable to meet its obligations and would be forced to assign. This action was averted, however, for by some means, unknown to Mr. Jonas Walmonth and his brother Ezra, Mr. Glynne raised sufficient money to pay the outstanding liabilities and thus secured a controlling interest in the firm. The two Walmonth brothers were old bachelors, and two years after Mr. Glynne became the “Co.,” Ezra died suddenly of heart disease, while Jonas, broken in body and mind, was sent to a sanatorium from which he never emerged. No heirs came to claim the third interest belonging to the Walmonth brothers, and Mr. Glynne did not take special pains to find any. When his son Clarence became of age he was taken into the firm. He showed great aptitude for the business, and during the past year the senior partner had made few visits to the city. “What’s the use?” he said. “I have been in the traces for more than thirty years; the business runs itself, and all that Clarence has to do is to fill orders and collect bills. Besides, I see him once a week, and if he wants my advice, I am always ready to give it.”

Thomas Glynne had two passions; one was his love of flowers, and the other, the greater one, his love of money. Amply favoured as to the latter, he found great enjoyment in gratifying his love for floriculture. Visitors came from far and near to view the beautiful plants in his greenhouses and conservatory. It was a mystery to his associates in the trade as to how he had become possessed of enough money to buy out the Walmonth Brothers, build his beautiful house, and spend such extravagant sums for orchids and other rare plants.

It was no mystery to Mr. Thomas Glynne. He could have told them, had he wished, that when in Paris, at the time the urgent telegram was sent him by his employers, he had met with a most wonderful experience.

An English gentleman named Oscar Renville was engaged in the iron and steel business in Paris, and it was with him that Mr. Glynne, representing the Walmonth Brothers, transacted a very large business and with whom he was on most intimate terms of friendship. Mr. Renville was a widower, as was Mr. Glynne, for both had lost their wives a few years after marriage. Mr. Renville had one child, a beautiful little girl named Bertha.

One afternoon Mr. Glynne had gone to Mr. Renville’s office on business, and found the establishment in a state of great excitement. Mr. Renville had been stricken with apoplexy, and the clerks were debating what they should do, at the time of Mr. Glynne’s arrival. There was nothing undecided about Mr. Glynne. Mr. Renville was placed in a carriage and Mr. Glynne accompanied him home; nor did he leave his friend until he saw his body placed at rest in Père la Chaise.

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.”