ALEC’S FATE
Denis Boyd did not forget the promise he had given Alec Clare not to
mention his encounter with the latter after his return to England. It
did not, however, seem to him that there was any necessity to include
his father in the embargo thus laid on his tongue. Accordingly when, a
little later, Colonel Boyd went on a visit to his son, the latter,
knowing that his father and Sir Gilbert were acquaintances of many
years’ standing, mentioned, as one of the minor incidents of his recent
visit to the States, his meeting with young Clare, without any thought
that the Colonel might have occasion to deem it worth his while to
mention the circumstance again. As it fell out, however, a few weeks
later, Colonel Boyd and Sir Gilbert found themselves together in the
reading-room of the London club of which both were members. They had
not met for some time, for of late years the baronet’s visits to the
metropolis had become few and far between. They greeted each other
heartily, and agreed to lunch together.
In the course of the meal the Colonel said: “By the way, Clare, my lad
and yours stumbled across each other quite by accident a little while
ago in the States, where Denny had been sent on a matter of business
for his firm.”
“Ah, indeed,” remarked the baronet as he set down the glass of wine he
had been in the act of raising to his lips. “And how was Alec?”
“First-rate, for anything I was told to the contrary. They had only a
very short time together, as I understood, and seeing that they were
chums at college, they would have plenty of subjects to talk about.”
“No doubt—no doubt. By-the-bye, did your boy say whereabouts in the
States it was—in New York, or Boston, or Chicago—that he came across
Alec?”
“Oh, it was in some quite outlandish place I believe; but I did not
trouble to remember the name.”
“I am rather anxious to ascertain Alec’s address, and for this reason:
his godmother, Mrs. Fleming, died lately and left him a legacy of two
thousand pounds. The executors, being anxious to wind up the estate,
have applied to me for his address, which I am unable to furnish them
with. You see, Alec kicked over the traces pretty considerably some
time ago, and he and I parted in a huff, since which he has not
condescended to keep me _au courant_ of his movements. Now, if your boy
can supply me with his address, it will get me out of my difficulty
with Mrs. Fleming’s executors.”
“I have no doubt Denny can furnish you with what you want. I will write
to him by to-night’s post, and advise you of the result the moment I
hear from him.”
Denis Boyd, in view of his promise to Alec Clare, could not help
feeling annoyed at the turn the affair had taken; and yet, as he put it
to himself, what harm could come of his furnishing Sir Gilbert with the
information he asked for? Apparently the only purpose for which the
baronet required his son’s address was that he might thereby be enabled
to inform him that a certain legacy was awaiting his instructions.
Really, when he, Boyd, came to think of it, Alec ought to be very
grateful to him, and doubtless would be were he made aware of the
circumstances, for having had it in his power to do him such a capital
turn.
His brief note to his father was to the effect that young Clare, who
passed in the States under the name of “John Alexander,” was at the
time the writer met him, residing at Pineapple City, a town on the
borders of Lake Michigan, in the State of the same name; and, further,
that he was engaged in business there, his partner being an Englishman
of the name of Travis.
This note was at once forwarded by Colonel Boyd to Sir Gilbert, who
lost no time in taking it in person to Mr. Page.
As it happened, the lawyer about that time had occasion to send a
confidential member of his staff to America, to make certain inquiries
in the interests of one of his clients; so it was decided that, instead
of trusting to the chances of a letter reaching Alec through the medium
of the post, the clerk in question, Winch by name, should proceed as
far as Pineapple City, seek out “Mr. John Alexander,” and deliver into
his hands the communication which would be entrusted to him for that
purpose.
The letter referred to was written by Mr. Page, and was read and
approved of by Sir Gilbert before being sealed up. It was nothing more
than a briefly worded intimation to the effect that two thousand
pounds, being the amount of the late Mrs. Fleming’s legacy to her
godson, was awaiting his disposal in the hands of the executors at such
and such an address. But the baronet had no knowledge of the little
private note from the same pen which the lawyer contrived to smuggle
into the envelope. In it he reproached Alec for having allowed so long
a time to pass without communicating with him, begging him at once to
repair the omission, and assuring him that in the writer he had a
friend who might always be relied upon to keep a watchful eye over his
interests.
Mr. Winch started on his long journey in due course. He would attend,
first of all, to that other business which was taking him across the
Atlantic, and then make the best of his way to Pineapple City.
Mr. Winch was an undersized, podgy man, with a round full-moon sort of
face and cold fish-like eyes of no hue in particular, to which a pair
of spectacles lent a still more vacuous expression. He was clean
shaven, always dressed in well-worn black, and, wet or fine, was never
seen without a serviceable alpaca umbrella. He had been Mr. Page’s
confidential clerk for many years, and that gentleman esteemed him
highly. Behind that Dutch-clock-like mask of a face was a
complex-working brain which delighted in secrets and mysteries, and
occasionally went so far as to imagine them where none existed.
Although his employer had never told him so—for that was one of the few
matters which the lawyer kept to himself—Mr. Winch had not the least
doubt in his mind that the John Alexander to whom the letter of which
he was the bearer was addressed and the heir of Withington Chase, who
had set out on his travels upwards of four years ago and had never
returned, were one and the same person. The name alone had been enough
to furnish him with the first hint. He seemed to scent a most
delightful mystery. Mr. Winch was jubilant, although, to look at him,
nobody would have guessed it.
What, then, must have been his feelings—indeed, it is not too much to
say that a tear blurred his spectacles—as on the morning of the
twenty-first day after his departure from Liverpool he stood in the
telegraph office at Pineapple City and wrote out the following
cablegram, addressed to Mr. Page:
“J. A. killed. Steamboat explosion—September 18th. Am returning at
once.”
The mystery on which he had counted had all at once collapsed owing to
the death of the person chiefly concerned.
It became Mr. Page’s unenviable duty, on receipt of the above message,
to convey the news to Sir Gilbert. Over what passed between the two on
that occasion we need not linger.
On arriving at Liverpool, Mr. Winch telegraphed to his employer by
which train he might be expected to reach Mapleford. It was as a
consequence of this message that he found Sir Gilbert Clare seated in
Mr. Page’s private office when, after a preliminary tap at the door, he
was bidden to enter.
“Glad to see you back, Winch, and looking so well,” said Mr. Page
heartily, as he shook hands with his subordinate. “Of course I know
already from your advices the nature of the arrangements you were
enabled to make in that matter of Lord Dovercourt, and I congratulate
you on your success. Later on we will go through the details one by
one. But, sit down. What I want you to do first of all is to furnish me
with the whole of the particulars you have been able to obtain
confirmatory of the cablegram by which you advised me of the death of
Mr. John Alexander.”
Mr. Winch seated himself opposite his employer at the big square
writing-table in the centre of the room. Sir Gilbert sat with his back
to them and facing the fire. Although he appeared to be immersed in
_The Times_, and betrayed no more interest in what followed than any
stranger might have done, the reason that had brought him there was
perfectly transparent to Mr. Winch, who could not help saying to
himself: “Surely to goodness, Mr. Page does not think me such an
innocent as not to be able to see through Sir Gilbert’s little plot!”
Much of what Mr. Winch had to relate will have already been anticipated
by the reader. We need only take up his narrative at the point where
Alec Clare, on the morning following the receipt of his wife’s letter,
stepped on board the _Prairie Belle_ at Milwaukee, in the expectation
of landing at Davisville about nine o’clock the same evening. But the
_Prairie Belle_ never reached Davisville. When about a dozen miles from
that place, and soon after nightfall, one of her boilers exploded. The
vessel parted amidships, and five minutes later all that was left of
her sank in deep water. The accident happened only about half a mile
from the shore, and a number of boats at once put out to the rescue of
the survivors, of whom a considerable number were picked up, several of
them, however, being so badly injured that they afterwards succumbed.
Of those saved John Alexander was not one. The only inference which
could be drawn, was that, either, like many among both passengers and
crew, he had been killed outright by the explosion, and that his body
had gone down with the ship, or else that, even though, perhaps unhurt,
he had sunk before help could reach him from the shore. In any case,
alive or dead, nothing was seen or heard of him after the explosion,
which had happened just eight weeks prior to Mr. Winch’s interview with
Mr. Frank Travis.
“I presume,” said Mr. Page, “it is a matter of absolute certainty that
Mr. Alexander was really on board the ill-fated vessel at the time of
the accident.”
“That was a question I did not fail to put to Mr. Travis. In reply he
told me that among the survivors was a person well acquainted with Mr.
Alexander, who had been talking to him only a few minutes before the
explosion.”
“In that case, I am afraid there is no room left for doubt as to the
poor fellow’s fate. A sad end, truly, for any one to come to!—I think
that will do for the present, Mr. Winch. We will go into other matters
later on.”
“By-the-way, sir, there is one point which I have not yet mentioned. It
is this: When Mr. Alexander, some little time prior to his death,
entered into partnership with Mr. Travis, he put the sum of fifteen
hundred pounds into the business. That amount Mr. Travis desired me to
say that he shall be prepared to refund to Mr. Alexander’s heir-at-law
after due substantiation of claim and reasonable notice having been
given him.”
“Hum! very honourable on the part of Mr. Travis. It is a matter,
however, as to which there is no immediate hurry, and in regard to
which I can take no steps without instructions.”
As soon as Mr. Winch had closed the door behind him the baronet faced
round.
“It is all true, then!” he exclaimed. “There seems no longer any room
for hope.”
“None whatever, I am afraid, Sir Gilbert.”
“He was my son, Page—my firstborn! I cannot forget that whatever his
faults—and they were many—may they lie lightly on his head!”
When, on his return home, the baronet broke the news to his wife, that
lady, being a fairly good actress, had no difficulty in giving the
needful lugubrious twist to her features, but when she strove to
eliminate a tear, she was not so successful. “I am so sorry,” she said
softly, laying a plump hand for a moment on her husband’s shoulder.
“Sorry for his sake, poor fellow!—and sorry for yours. But you must
strive not to give way, dear. You may rely upon it that it has been
ordained for the best.” To herself she said: “So, after all, the title
as well as the estates will come to Randolph! That is only as it should
be. I hate the thought of having to go into mourning, but I suppose
there’s no help for it.”
Poor Lady Clare!
No long time elapsed before a marble tablet was placed _in situ_ above
the family pew in Withington Church—where there were many more tablets
to keep it company—which recorded that it was to the memory of John
Alexander Clare, “who was accidentally killed abroad” on such and such
a date, “in the twenty-eighth year of his age.”
“To think,” said Mr. Winch as he one day read the inscription through
his spectacles, “that there are only three people in England who know
how that poor young man really came by his death, and that I am one of
them! But what reason had he for dropping his surname and hiding his
identity? Ah! those are mysteries which I’m afraid I shall never now
have a chance of fathoming.”
By Sir Gilbert’s desire, no communication was ever entered into with
Mr. Frank Travis. The baronet preferred to sacrifice the fifteen
hundred pounds which Alec had invested in the business rather than
reopen before the eyes of strangers a chapter of family history which,
as he trusted, was now closed for ever.