Wrecked
"Il ne faut confier son secret qu' à celui qui n'a pas
cherché à le deviner."
"I do not care whether Paris is in the hands of the Communards or the
other bunglers so long as the Bank of France holds good," said John
Turner; and, indeed, I afterwards learnt that his whole fortune
depended on this turn of the wheel.
We were travelling down to Hopton, and it was the last week of May. We
bore to Madame de Clericy the news that at last the government troops
had made their entry into Paris and were busy fighting in the streets
there, hunting from pillar to post the remnant of the Communard
rabble. The reign of terror which had lasted two and a half months was
ended, and Paris lay like a ship that having passed through a great
storm lies at last in calm water, battered and beaten. Priceless
treasures had perished by the incendiarism of the wild mob--the
Tuileries were burnt, the Louvre had barely escaped a like fate. The
matchless Hôtel de Ville had vanished, and a thousand monuments and
relics were lost for ever. Paris would never be the same again.
Anarchy had swept across it, razing many buildings and crushing out
not a few of those qualities of good taste and feeling which had
raised Frenchmen to the summit of civilisation before the Empire fell.
John Turner was in good humour, for he had just learnt that, owing to
the wit and nerve of one man, the Bank of France had stood untouched.
With it was saved the house of Turner & Co., of Paris and London. The
moment my friend's affairs were on a safe footing he placed himself at
my service to help with the Vicomtesse de Clericy's more complicated
difficulties. I was glad to avail myself of the assistance of one
whose name was a by-word for rectitude and stability. Here, at all
events, I had a colleague whose word could not be doubted by Isabella,
of whose father John Turner had been a friend as well as of my own.
"Heard any more of Miste?" inquired Turner, while the train stood at
Ipswich station; for he was much too easy-going to shout conversation
during the progress of our journey.
"Sander writes that he has nearly caught him twice, and singularly
enough has done better since you gave Mr. Devar his _congé_."
"Nothing singular about that. Devar was in the swindle and kept Miste
advised of your movements. But there is some one else in it, too."
"A third person?"
"Yes," answered Turner. "A third person. I have been watching the
thing, Dick, and am not such a fat old fool as you take me for. It was
neither Miste nor Devar who cashed that draft. If you catch Miste you
will probably catch some one else, too, some knight-errant of finance,
or I am much mistaken."
At this moment the train moved on, and my friend composed his person
for a sleep which lasted until we reached Saxmundham.
"I suppose," said my companion, waking up there, "that Mademoiselle of
the _beaux yeux_ is to marry Alphonse when the fortune is recovered?"
"I suppose so," answered I, and John Turner closed his eyes again with
a queer look.
In the station enclosure at Lowestoft we found Alphonse Giraud
enjoying himself immensely on the high seat of a dog-cart,
controlling, with many French exclamations, and a partial success, the
movements of a cob which had taken a fancy to progress backwards round
and round the yard.
"It is," he explained, with a jerky salutation of the whip, "the
Sunday-school treat departing for Yarmouth. They marched in here with
a brass band--too much--Whoa! _le petit_, whoa!--too much for our
feelings. There--_bonjour_, Monsieur Turner--how goes it? There--now
we stand still.
"Not for long," said Turner, doubtfully; "and I never get in or out of
anything when it is in motion."
With the assistance of sundry idle persons we held the horse still
enough for my friend to take his seat beside Alphonse, while I and the
luggage found place behind them. We dashed out of the gate at a speed
and risk which gave obvious satisfaction to our driver, and our
progress up the narrow High Street was a series of hairbreadth
escapes.
"It is a pleasure," said Alphonse, airily, as we passed the lighthouse
and the cob settled down into a steady trot, "to drive such a horse as
this."
"No doubt," said Turner; "but next time I take a cab."
We arrived at the Manor House in time for luncheon, and were received
by the ladies at the door. Lucille, I remember, looked grave, but it
appeared that the Vicomtesse was in good spirits.
"Then the news is true," she cried, before we had descended from our
high places.
"Yes, Madame, for a wonder good news is true," answered Turner, and he
stood bareheaded, after the manner of his adopted country, while he
shook hands.
On this occasion we all frankly spoke French, for to John Turner this
language was second nature. We had plenty to talk of during luncheon,
and learnt much from the Paris banker which had never appeared in the
newspapers. He had, indeed, passed through a trying ordeal, and that
with an imperturbable nerve and coolness of head. He made, however,
little of his own difficulties, and gave all his attention to Madame's
affairs. Whenever he made mention of my name I saw Lucille frown.
After luncheon we went to the garden, which extends from the grim old
house to the cliff-edge, and is protected on either side by a double
rank of Scotch firs, all twisted and gnarled by the winter winds--all
turning westward, with a queer effect as of raised shoulders and
shivering limbs.
Within the boundary we have always, however, succeeded in growing such
simple flowers as are indigenous to British soil--making a gay
appearance and filling the air with clean-smelling scents.
"Your garden," said Madame, touching my arm as we passed out of the
dining-room window, "always suggests to me the English character--not
much flower, but a quantity of tough wood."
Alphonse joined us, and embarked at once on the description of an
easterly gale such as are too common on this coast, but new to him and
grand enough in its onslaught. For the wind hurls itself unchecked
against the cliff and house after its career across the North Sea.
Lucille and John Turner had walked slowly away together down the
narrow path running from the house to the solid entrenchment of turf
that stands on the cliff edge, covered with such sparse grass and herb
as the sand and spray may nourish.
"It is pleasant," Lucille said, as they went from us, "to have some
one to talk French with."
She was without her hat or gloves, and I saw the sunlight gleaming on
her hair.
"You have Alphonse Giraud," said Turner, in his blunt way.
Lucille shrugged her shoulders.
"And Howard, from time to time," added the banker, who, having
received permission to smoke a cigar, was endeavouring to extract a
penknife from his waistcoat pocket.
"Who talks French with the understanding of an Englishman," said
Lucille, quickly.
"You do not like Englishmen?"
"I like honest ones, Monsieur," said Lucille, looking across the sea.
"Ah!"
"Oh, yes--I know," cried Lucille, impatiently. "You are one of Mr.
Howard's partisans. They are so numerous and so ready to speak for
him--and he will never speak for himself."
"Then," said John Turner, smoking placidly, "let us agree to differ on
that point."
But Lucille had no such intention.
"Does Mr. Howard ask you--you and mother, and sometimes Alphonse--to
fight his battles for him and to sing his praises to me?"
Turner did not answer at once.
"Well?" she inquired, impatiently.
"I was just thinking how long it is since Dick Howard mentioned your
name to me--about three months, I believe."
Lucille walked on with her head erect.
"What have you against him?" asked Turner, after a short silence.
"It was from your house that Mr. Howard came to us. He came to my
father assuring him that he was poor, which he told me afterwards was
only a subterfuge and false pretence. I then learnt from Mr. Gayerson
that this was not the truth. I suppose Mr. Howard thought that a
woman's affection is to be bought by gold."
"All that can be explained, Mademoiselle."
"Then explain it, Monsieur."
"Let Howard do it," said Turner, pausing to knock the ash from his
cigar.
"I do not care for Mr. Howard's explanations," said Lucille, coldly.
"One never knows what to believe. Is he rich or poor?"
[Illustration: "I WAS JUST THINKING HOW LONG IT IS SINCE DICK HOWARD
MENTIONED YOUR NAME TO ME--ABOUT THREE MONTHS, I BELIEVE." LUCILLE
WALKED ON WITH HER HEAD ERECT.]
"He is which he likes."
Lucille gave a scornful laugh.
"He could be rich to-morrow if he would do as I advise him," grunted
Turner.
"What is that, Monsieur?"
"Marry money and a woman he does not love."
They walked on for some moments in silence, and came to the turf
entrenchment raised against the wind, as against an assaulting army.
They passed through a gangway, cut in the embankment, to one of the
seats built against the outer side of it. Below them lay the clean
sands, stretching away on either side in unbroken smoothness--the
sands of Corton.
"And why will he not take your advice?" asked Lucille.
"Because he is a pig-headed fool--as his father was before him. It is
all his father's fault, for placing him in such an impossible
position."
"I do not understand," said Lucille.
John Turner crossed his legs with a grunt of obesity.
"It is nevertheless simple, Mademoiselle," he said; "father and son
quarrelled because old Howard, who was as obstinate as his son, made
up his mind that Dick should marry Isabella Gayerson. Plenty of money,
adjoining estates, the old story of misery with many servants. Dick,
being his father's son, at once determined that he would do no such
thing, and there was a row royal. Dick went off to Paris, in debt and
heedless of the old man's threat to cut him off with a shilling. He
had never cared for Isabella, and was not going to sell his liberty
for the sake of a ring fence. His own words, Mademoiselle. At Paris
sundry things happened to him, of which you probably know more than
I."
He glanced up at Lucille, who was picking blades of grass from the
embankment against which he leant. Her eyelids flickered, but she made
no reply.
"Then," went on John Turner, "his father died suddenly, and it
transpired that the hot-headed old fool had made one of those wills
which hot-headed old fools make for the special delectation of
novelists and lawyers. He had left Dick penniless, unless he consented
to marry Isabella. When Dick told your father he was poor, he was well
within the limits of the truth, although he did it, as I understand,
to gain his own ends. When he told you a different story, he merely
assumed that this quarrel, like others, would end in a reconciliation.
He felt remorseful that he had practised a mild deception on your
father, and wished to clear his conscience. Death intervened at this
moment, and placed our young friend in the uncomfortable position of
having told untruths all round. You probably know better than I do,
Mademoiselle, why he got himself into this hobble."
But Lucille would make no such admission.
"But you ignore Isabella," she cried, impatiently, "you and Mr.
Howard."
"She will not allow us to do that, my dear young lady."
"Is she to wait with folded hands until Mr. Howard decides whether he
is inclined to marry her or not?"
"There is no waiting in the question," said John Turner. "Dick made up
his mind long ago, in the lifetime of his father, and Isabella must be
aware of his decision. Besides, Mademoiselle, you can judge for
yourself. Is there any love lost between them, think you?"
"No."
"Is there any reason why they should be miserable if they do not want
to be?"
"Isabella could not be more miserable than she is now, though she
hides it well."
"Ah," said John Turner, thoughtfully. "Is that so? I wonder why."
Lucille shrugged her shoulders. She either could not or would not
answer.
"Too much money," suggested Turner.
"When women have plenty of money they usually want something that
cannot be bought."
Lucille frowned.
"And now you are angry, Mademoiselle," said John Turner, placidly,
"and I am not afraid. I will make you still more angry."
He rose heavily, and stood, cigar in hand, looking out to sea--his
round face puckered with thought.
"Mademoiselle Lucille," he said, slowly, "I have known some men and
quite a number of women who have sacrificed their happiness to their
pride. I have known them late in life, when the result had to be lived
through. They were not good company. If pride or love must go
overboard, Mademoiselle, throw pride."