A SORROW AND A SOLACE.
The next morning after breakfast, during which not a word was spoken by
either of the three gentlemen, Clarence was commanded by his father to
follow him into the library. He saw by the look on his parent’s face
that he was implacable. He would, naturally, have objected to the
mandatory tone used by his father, but decided that it was useless to
quarrel about trifles when there were such important matters to be
settled.
Mr. Glynne, Sr., sat at the library table and Clarence sank into a chair
a few feet distant.
“Turn your face around so that the light may fall upon it,” said his
father. “I propose to ask you a few questions and I expect you to tell
me the truth. If you lie to me, I think the light will help me to
ascertain that fact.”
Clarence did as he was bidden.
“Now, who is your wife and what is she?”
“Is that material?” asked Clarence.
“Do not bandy words; the sooner we get at the point of the matter the
better. As to its being material, I think it is; very much so.”
“She is an orphan. She was the daughter of a fisherman, but when she
lost her parents she came to London and went to work to support herself.
She worked in our office for a while, but left because a better position
was offered her.”
“Very good,” said his father. “You surely looked for high game and got
it.”
“If you make any more such comments about my wife,” said Clarence, “I
will refuse to answer another question,” and there was a ring in his
voice which told the father that the son meant what he said.
“Where did she come from?”
“She was born at Pagham, a little village in Sussex on the English
Channel.”
“And she is gone with Bertha as her companion?” He had intended to say
“your accomplice.”
“Yes.”
“Where have they gone?”
“They are on their way to Paris. Bertha wished to visit her friend and I
thought it was all right for her to go.”
“Then that story you told me about her going away in a carriage with
Jack De Vinne was a lie?”
Clarence could not help smiling as he replied: “Well, I must confess it
was not a very close approach to the truth.”
“I judged not,” said his father. “I did not believe it when you told me.
You said Bertha was going to stay with a friend in Paris. What is her
name and where does she live?”
“She is the Countess Mont d’Oro, and she lives at 22, Rue St. Francis.”
“Is Jack De Vinne in Paris?”
“I presume he is at Noxton Hall,” was Clarence’s guarded reply. He did
not think it necessary or advisable to tell his father that he had
written Jack the morning that his wife and Bertha had left London that
the latter was on her way to Paris to become the guest of the Countess
Mont d’Oro.
There was silence for some time. Clarence grew impatient and turned his
head. His father was evidently in deep thought.
“That will do,” he said at last. “I hope you have told me the truth. If
you have not, I shall soon find out the extent of your deception. I
shall leave to-night for London and will go to Paris to-morrow morning.
Mr. Lake will be your companion until I return. If I find my ward is
still Miss Renville, and I bring her back with me, I will dismiss the
case against you. If she is married, Mr. Lake will escort you to London
and you will have to stand the consequences of your very foolish action.
I shall be obliged to take charge of my London business again, for I
shall be a comparatively poor man when Miss Renville, or Mrs.
Whatever-her-name-may-be, demands her inheritance, for, no doubt, you
have told her that she is a rich woman by right.”
Clarence sprang to his feet. “I have not told her one word. She has
heard nothing from me.”
Nor had she, nor did Clarence know that his wife had found the secret
too much to keep and had unbosomed herself to Bertha on the way to
Pagham.
Just after dinner, while Mr. Glynne was busily engaged making
preparations for his journey, Brinkley, the butler, told him that a
young man who looked as though he had just come from the country wished
to see Mr. Clarence.
“Show him into the library,” said Mr. Glynne.
When he entered it, he found a young man standing first on one foot and
then on the other and twirling his hat nervously.
Mr. Glynne closed the library door. “What did you wish to see my son
for?”
“I’ve got somethin’ private to tell him.”
“I’m sorry to say that he is very sick and can see no one. I am his
father; you can tell me, and when he is in a condition to listen, I will
communicate the intelligence to him.”
“If he’s sick,” said the young man, “I don’t think the news I got fer
him will make him any better.”
Mr. Glynne began to think that the young man had something of importance
to communicate. “Have a seat, sir. You can tell your story much better
sitting than you can standing.”
The young man looked intently at the luxurious easy-chair. He was more
used to a hard bench than to upholstered furniture. He finally sat down,
but stood up again as he felt the springs give way beneath him.
“Oh, you’ll find it all right,” said Mr. Glynne, “and very comfortable,”
and he took his accustomed position at the library table. “Now, I won’t
ask you any questions,” said he, “but will let you tell your story in
your own way.”
The young man sidled to the edge of the chair which seemed more capable
of supporting him, and began his story:
“My name is Silas Jubb and I live down in Pagham.”
Mr. Glynne was all attention.
“My chum’s name is Job Carder. He’s all knocked up and he couldn’t come,
so he sent me.”
Mr. Glynne thought it was time to reassure the young man. “Yes,” he
said, “my son’s wife was born in Pagham. She left London yesterday
morning on her way to Paris, in company with a friend, and I understood
from my son that they were to sail from Pagham.”
“Well, they won’t get there,” said Silas, with a shake of his head;
“that’s what I’m here for.”
Mr. Glynne felt the blood rushing to his head, and his pulse quickened.
“There has been an accident,” he thought. But he would ask no questions.
“Job’s father named his boat the _Dart_ cuz it was the fastest craft of
the kind in town, but it wuz run down by one of them Navy vessels in the
Channel and Job’s father and Bill Merry and George Danks and the two
women was drownded. Job was the only one picked up, and he’s ‘most dead.
You see, afore the _Dart_ set sail, the women told Job’s father to get
word to your son if they reached the other side all right. As they
didn’t, when Job came to, he thought as how you’d be anxious to know how
things wuz and that’s what he sent me up for.”
“It was very thoughtful of him,” said Mr. Glynne, “and very kind of you
to bring us the sad news.”
He had never felt such a strong impulse of generosity. He gave the young
man a five-pound note, saying as he did so: “You can divide with your
chum.”
The young man had arisen and put on his hat. His hand went to the brim
by way of salute. “He’ll be glad to git it, for the loss of the boat’ll
come hard on him. I told him before I started as how I thought I’d find
you to be a gentleman, cuz the ladies wuz so fine.”
Mr. Glynne rang for Brinkley and told him to supply the man with a
substantial meal before he started on his journey back to Pagham.
Five pounds! But the news was surely worth that and more.
“A great sorrow for Clarence, but such a solace for me,” was Thomas
Glynne’s uppermost thought. The fortune was now his, if Clarence would
hold his tongue.
His son’s sickness, the grave nature of which had led him to assure Mr.
Jubb that he could not see him, did not keep Mr. Glynne from breaking
the news at the earliest opportunity. He had not anticipated the result
which followed. Perhaps, if he had, he would have told the story in a
gentler manner.
Clarence was prostrated by the intelligence. By midnight his condition
was so alarming that Brinkley was obliged to start off in the darkness
to bring a doctor.
Brain fever, was the physician’s decision after he had made his
diagnosis. Compared with many others, Clarence was a weak man both
physically and mentally. He had been on the rack for twenty-four hours,
and this great blow was more than he could bear. His brain gave way and
he lay there with only the ministrations of the hired nurses, growing
thinner and weaker every day.
Did his father wish him to live? Only the Great Power that knows all
hearts could have answered that question.