“TO SEE IS TO LOVE!”
The post-chaises which conveyed Count Mont d’Oro and Thomas Glynne
reached Marseilles two days sooner than did the slow-moving vehicle in
which Jack De Vinne was a passenger. The Count and his companion were
again fortunate in finding a vessel just ready to sail for Ajaccio,
while Jack was detained two days after his arrival before he could find
a vessel bound for the desired port. For these reasons, the Count and
Thomas Glynne reached Corsica some five days sooner than did Jack.
Before their arrival the Count had decided that he would not take his
companion to the hotel in Ajaccio. He was so well known in the town that
he knew the presence of his foreign-looking companion would be sure to
cause comment. Again, what one person in Ajaccio knew, soon everybody
knew, and he did not care to have the news of his arrival reach his
mother until he was able to present himself in person.
He was acquainted with a Corsican named Savoni, who lived upon a side
street quite a distance from the centre of the town. Savoni was a
widower with one daughter. His wife had been the victim of a vendetta,
and the daughter had come near meeting the same fate as her mother. She
had received a severe blow upon the head from which she had never fully
recovered. She was able, however, to attend to her household duties and
had the reputation of being one of the best cooks in Corsica. Count Mont
d’Oro’s life in Paris had made him a _bon vivant_, and he knew by
experience that, although the beds in the hotel at Ajaccio were clean
and comfortable, the fare was not of a high order of excellence. It was,
therefore, to Savoni’s house that he took Thomas Glynne and made
arrangements for him to remain there until he should send for him to
come to Mont d’Oro Castle.
The second day after his arrival in Corsica, the Count suddenly made his
appearance at the home of his mother, to her great astonishment and to
the dismay of Bertha Renville. The mother uttered no word of welcome.
Her first inquiry was: “What brought you down here without an
invitation?”
“I came as most travellers do,” was the reply, “by post-chaise from
Paris to Marseilles, by sailing vessel from Marseilles to Ajaccio, and,
to show that I am still an able-bodied young man, I came from that town
on foot. I am, naturally, somewhat tired and deucedly hungry, and so, if
you have no objection, my good mother, I will go down and get a lunch.”
Suiting the action to the word, he bowed to the ladies, who had not yet
recovered from their astonishment, and withdrew. For several minutes
after the Count’s departure, the ladies said nothing. Then the Countess
spoke:
“He won’t tell me what he came for, so I shall have to find it out
myself. Have you formed any opinion?” she asked, turning to Bertha.
“Why, certainly not,” said the young girl. “But from what you have told
me, I should naturally say that he came to see his mother.”
“As you know that is not the case,” and there was a bitter smile upon
the face of the Countess, “it must be that he came to see somebody
else.”
Bertha may have divined the Countess’s meaning, but she did not propose
to acknowledge it, so she said:
“Such being the case, his object is probably to see Mademoiselle
Batistelli, to whom he is betrothed.”
“Perhaps so,” was the reply, “but we shall see,” and, by mutual consent,
the subject was dropped.
* * * * *
As the vessel upon which Jack De Vinne was a passenger was approaching
the quay, the young man caught sight of Mr. Thomas Glynne. His personal
appearance, despite the false beard, was not materially changed, and he
recognised him easily.
“Will he know me?” was Jack’s first thought.
Before leaving Paris he had procured a pair of spectacles of coloured
glass to wear during the trip from Marseilles to Ajaccio, to shade his
eyes from the glare of the sun on the water. He resolved to keep them on
as a measure of disguise. He brought his portmanteau from his cabin, but
delayed his departure from the vessel until he saw Mr. Glynne turn and
walk leisurely towards the town; then Jack landed, keeping some distance
behind him. Jack was debating in his mind whether he should go directly
to the hotel, even if Mr. Glynne was also a guest there, when he saw the
latter turn down a side street.
When Jack reached the hotel, he decided that he would still further
conceal his identity by giving an assumed name. His command of the
French language was so good that he felt he could easily pass for a
native-born Frenchman, so, for the nonce, Jack De Vinne became Andrea
Fortier.
The dinner was simple but substantial, and after it was over Jack went
to his room to decide upon his future course of action. It filled him
with happiness when he reflected that he could not be very far from
Bertha Renville. If it had not been for the presence of her guardian he
would have at once made inquiries as to where Countess Mont d’Oro lived,
and have gone to the house; but the fact that Mr. Glynne was in Corsica
showed that he must proceed cautiously in taking the next step. Glynne
had no doubt learned that his niece was in Corsica, and was there upon
the same errand as himself. In the afternoon the sky grew overcast, and
soon a heavy rain-storm set in; Jack decided that he would postpone
making any inquiries until the following morning.
When the bright sun heralded the advent of a new day, it not only gave a
warm glow to the face of nature, but lighted up a scene of unwonted
activity in the harbour. Riding therein was a great vessel, one of Old
England’s invincible frigates, the port-holes indicating that it carried
an armament of fully sixty guns, while the floating pennant showed that
no less a personage than a British admiral was on board. The vessel was
the _Osprey_, commanded by Admiral Sir Gilbert Enright. Acting under
orders from the Admiralty, he had been visiting certain stations in the
Mediterranean, Ajaccio being on his list.
The Admiral was accompanied by his only daughter, Helen. Before the
departure of the _Osprey_ from England, Miss Enright was convalescent
after a severe illness. The Admiral had desired that some one else
should be placed in command of the _Osprey_, as he did not wish to leave
his daughter, whose health was not fully restored. To his great delight,
one of the Admiralty, who was a personal friend, suggested that nothing
would do Miss Enright so much good as a sea voyage, and, at his
suggestion, permission was given by the Admiralty for the Admiral’s
daughter to accompany him on the voyage.
Miss Enright was nearly thirty years of age, tall, thin, sallow, and
with but few claims to personal beauty. She was a character, in a way.
From her earliest years, Helen Enright had been a student. She loved to
learn, and learned to love learning for its own sake. There were no
colleges for women in those days, but her father was wealthy and she had
been supplied with competent tutors in every line of study that she
chose to undertake. She had a passion for mathematics. Her literary
recreation was history, and there were few women of her age in England
who could solve knotty mathematical problems or pass so severe an
examination as she could have done in the history of England and the
Continental countries.
The voyage had restored her strength, and she had evinced a desire to
become acquainted with the technical details of the vessel which her
father commanded, and with the principles of navigation. Her father’s
duties were such that he could not devote the required time necessary to
give her the desired instruction, so, at her suggestion, for her father
usually allowed her to have her own way in everything, one of the
officers was detailed to act as her tutor in seamanship. That officer
was Lieutenant Victor Duquesne.
Miss Helen, of course, had met him before at the Naval Academy and at
her father’s house, and was much pleased at his selection, for he had
impressed her as being very handsome, very polite, and very dignified,
and although she did not, as a rule, care much for the society of young
men, on one occasion she found herself lamenting the fact that he was so
young. Victor was but twenty-three. Perhaps the cause of her lamentation
was the knowledge that she was seven years older than he, which, to her
eminently practical mind, was an insuperable obstacle to an intimacy
extending beyond the limits of--friendship.
It was late that morning when Jack arose and gazed out of his window and
found that the quay was crowded with the inhabitants of Ajaccio. Jack’s
first inclination was to join them. Then he reflected that Mr. Glynne
would undoubtedly be there, and he wished to avoid all possibility of
recognition until he had seen Bertha. He decided, therefore, to go
downstairs and see if he could learn anything about the new arrival and
the reason for the appearance of that formidable warship at that port.
He found the landlord in a state of pleasurable excitement.
“What vessel is that in the bay?” inquired Jack.
“That,” answered the landlord, “is the British ship _Osprey_, commanded
by Admiral Enright, and I have been notified that the Admiral, with his
daughter and one officer, will dine at the hotel and possibly pass the
night here.”
“The _Osprey_! Admiral Enright!” exclaimed Jack, excitedly. “Why, that
is Victor’s ship. How fortunate!”
“What’s that?” inquired the landlord.
“Nothing,” answered Jack, abruptly. “I was only saying that I think I
know one of the officers. What a dunce!” he commented to himself as he
walked away, “but then I have been through so much since I parted from
Victor, and then to think that my quest of Bertha should bring us both
together again in this town! How strange! What a mighty little world
this is, after all.”
He could scarcely contain himself, yet he felt that the only plan for
him would be to await the arrival of the ship’s officers and ascertain
if Victor was aboard. He did not wish to run the risk of meeting Mr.
Glynne, so he returned to his room and passed the time in gazing out of
the window toward the harbour, and in watching the crowd of people
passing to and fro.
Towards noon a boat put off from the warship. Jack eagerly watched the
craft as it neared the shore and was lost to his sight. Shortly, the
crowd parted and three people were seen coming up the quay. One was a
stout gentleman with a very florid face, wearing the undress uniform of
a British admiral, while upon one side of him was a young lady, and on
the other side was--yes--Victor!
Jack grabbed his hat and ran downstairs, but as he reached the veranda
he suddenly, with great restraint, subdued his intense excitement, and
as the three visitors approached, Jack stood quietly by the entrance of
the hotel, hoping thus to accentuate Victor’s surprise, and at the same
time conjuring up in his own mind the effect the meeting would have on
his bosom friend. They had just reached the steps when Victor happened
to look up and straight into the eyes of Jack!
Victor recoiled, as from a shock, gave another earnest look, then,
neglecting all formalities, darted forward with both hands extended.
“Jack!” he exclaimed.
“Old fellow,” cried Jack, “this _is_ a pleasure.”
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Victor, totally at a loss what else to
say, while in his intense gaze was a veritable compound of inquiry,
surprise, and delight. At once recollecting himself, he placed his hand
on Jack’s shoulder and turned to Admiral Enright. “Admiral Enright,
permit me the honour of presenting to you my very closest friend, Mr.
John De Vinne.”
“Mr. De Vinne, I am most happy to make your acquaintance,” said the
Admiral, grasping Jack warmly by the hand. Then turning to his daughter,
he said: “Mr. De Vinne, permit me to present you to my daughter, Miss
Helen.”
Miss Enright graciously acknowledged the introduction.
The landlord now appeared and escorted the quartet to the hotel parlour,
much to the chagrin of the curious crowd that had gathered outside the
door.
After a few generalities had been indulged in, dinner was announced. To
Jack was accorded the pleasant duty of escorting Miss Enright to dinner.
The Admiral occupied the post of honour at the head of the table, with
Victor on his left.
After the conclusion of the meal the Admiral’s daughter excused herself
as she wished to rest for a while, and the Admiral also repaired to his
room to attend to matters in connection with his visit. This left the
young men to their own devices.
“Come right up to my room, Vic,” exclaimed Jack.
Slamming the door behind them, he threw his hat on the bed and motioned
Victor to a seat and said: “Now, old boy, I have got you all to myself.
How is it the fates have thrown us together?”
“You are the one to explain,” said Victor. “I am here in obedience to my
father’s request, as you well know, but when I last saw you, you had as
much idea of coming to Ajaccio as you had of visiting Hades.”
“Yes, I know,” exclaimed Jack. “You are right, but much has happened
since we parted, which you should understand. I am now heir to the
Earldom of Noxton.” He then, at length, made Victor acquainted with the
death and burial of his brother, the escape of Bertha from her guardian
and her flight to Corsica. “I arrived here but yesterday,” he concluded,
“and to-morrow I shall search her out. Your father lives here, I
believe,” he said.
“I don’t know,” answered Victor. “When I arrived at Malta I received a
letter from my father forwarded to me from the Admiralty, which
requested me to announce my arrival here in a note which I was to
address to one Cromillian, my father saying that this man Cromillian was
a friend of his and would see that the message reached him. I am in a
quandary as to just what to do. I must leave early in the morning,
commissioned by the Admiral to present a letter of introduction to
Monsieur Batistelli. This will take a couple of days, for which I am
very sorry, as I should like to send this letter to Cromillian at the
earliest possible moment.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Jack. “You write the letter, Vic, and I will
undertake to deliver it in the morning, and at the same time, possibly,
I can secure information as to the whereabouts of Countess Mont d’Oro
and, consequently, Bertha.”
“And will you do this?” cried Lieutenant Duquesne.
“What the ancient Pylades did for the ancient Orestes the modern Pylades
will do for you,” answered Jack warmly.
“Thank you, my dear friend,” cried Lieutenant Duquesne, as he grasped
Jack by the hand, “I can think of no service which would be more highly
appreciated by me.”
The two friends, as may be imagined, found plenty of topics on which to
converse, and before they parted that night Lieutenant Duquesne wrote
his note and placed it in an envelope with the name Cromillian on the
outside. “I have more time now,” he said, “than I shall have in the
morning.”
They then bade each other good-night and Victor went to his room.
Jack was greatly excited by the course of events and sat down by the
window. It was a bright, moonlight night. He felt that he must do
something to quiet his mental agitation. He put on his hat and walked
out of the hotel, scarcely noticing what course he was taking. He walked
on until he found himself upon the quay. The great hull of the _Osprey_
loomed up before him, the bright rays of the moon lighting up the vessel
as if it were noonday.
He glanced downward and saw his full-length shadow projected upon the
rough planks of the quay. The thought came to him that he did not wish
to stand out in such bold relief, and he quickly sought a part of the
quay where the shadows were almost impenetrable.
Hardly had he done so, when he heard the plashing of oars. In a moment,
he saw a boat containing two men approaching the quay. When they reached
the wharf, they stood for several minutes without speaking, but looking
intently at the British frigate. Jack was not more than ten feet from
them and, when they did speak, every word uttered was overheard by him.
“Just like those Englishman,” one of them said. “If they know anything,
they won’t tell you, and if they don’t, they can’t tell you, so you
learn nothing either way. I did my best to find out from that sentry
whether Lieutenant Duquesne was on board, but not a word could I get out
of him; only to come to-morrow, between eleven and twelve. But we can’t
go to-morrow, for Cromillian told me that he had some important work on
hand which would take us away to the south for a week.”
“I don’t see that we can do any more,” said the other man, “except to
tell him that we can’t find out anything. He is a just man, is
Cromillian, and he won’t blame us if we have done all that we can do.”
“I would go up to the hotel,” said the first speaker, “and see if this
Lieutenant is there, but the landlord knows me, and so do all the
servants, and, if I ask for the Lieutenant, they would immediately
surmise that he was connected in some way with Cromillian, and the
Captain, you know, cautioned us both to do nothing that would show that
he knew the Lieutenant or anything about him.”
Jack waited to hear no more. The Fates had been kind. Here was his
opportunity. Without stopping to think how reckless his conduct was, he
stepped forward from his dark retreat and placed a hand on each of the
speakers. Quick as lightning, they stepped back and pulling out their
stilettos, stood facing him. Then Jack realised his narrow escape, for a
Corsican usually strikes first and asks for explanations afterwards.
“Put up your weapons,” he said, in the mildest tone he could assume,
although his voice was agitated. “I overheard what you said, but I am a
friend.”
“You will have to prove that before we believe it,” said one of the men,
and they still held their stilettos in position for ready use.
“I am a friend of Lieutenant Duquesne, the man whom you seek, and also
have a letter from him which he has asked me to take to the man whose
name is Cromillian. Here, look at this and you will see that I have
spoken the truth.”
He took the letter from his pocket and showed it to the men.
“Is that all right?” asked one of the men, turning to the other. “You
know I cannot read.”
The second man took the letter and scanned it closely.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s the name on the letter--Cromillian. What do you
want us to do? To take the letter to Cromillian?”
“No,” said Jack, “I gave my word to Lieutenant Duquesne that I would
deliver it to Cromillian myself. What better proof can you have of my
good faith than my willingness to go with you?”
“That’s so,” said one of the men, and the other one nodded his assent.
They sheathed their stilettos.
“When can you go?” asked one of them.
“At once,” replied Jack.
“Come along then,” was the command. “Are you good for a six-mile tramp
over a rough road?”
“I have walked a much longer distance than that over worse roads than I
have seen here,” was Jack’s reply.
“Come along then,” said one of the men. “Here, take your letter.”
Jack put it in his coat pocket and prepared to follow the men, but they
had their ideas as to the precise manner in which the journey should be
performed. Each of the men took one of Jack’s arms within his own, and
thus, half captive and half supported, Jack began his march.
As they walked on, he felt somewhat elated at the course which events
had taken, but his feelings of satisfaction would have given place to
others of a different nature if he could have looked behind him and seen
the figure which came stealthily forward from out a shadow as dense as
that which had enfolded Jack, and not more than twenty feet from where
the latter had stood.
Thomas Glynne kept the trio in sight. They were not likely to look back
unless he approached them too closely, and it was easy for him to look
forward.
“I never should have known him,” said Glynne to himself. “He seems
changed somehow, but when he spoke I recognised his voice at once. My
young man, I do not know what you are up to and the man they call
Cromillian, but you evidently do not know what you are up to any more
than I do. It is a good maxim, when you find a trail to follow it and
trust to luck for the result. I shall probably get back to town before
the Count sends for me to go to the house. I am sure he is a rascal at
heart; but, if I can’t keep her from marrying Mr. Jack De Vinne I’ll
know the reason why.”
The next morning, Lieutenant Duquesne went to Jack’s room and knocked.
There being no response to repeated summonses of like nature, he tried
the latch, and the door yielded. He looked in, and started back in
astonishment. The bed had not been slept in, yet there was evidence that
the occupant intended to return, for his portmanteau was open and
several articles which he had taken from it were upon the table.
Lieutenant Duquesne was much excited on making this discovery. He at
once sought the landlord:
“Did my friend, Mr. Fortier, tell you last night, before he went out,
that he was to be gone for any length of time?”
“Gone?” queried the publican. “Has he gone?”
“I do not know where he has gone or how long he intends to stay,” said
the Lieutenant, a little nettled, “but he did not sleep in his room last
night, which looks as though he intended to return.”
“Well,” said the landlord, “the room is his for a week, and he can come
back when he gets ready. He paid me in advance. If he doesn’t come back
when his time is up, I shall lock up his effects and charge him for
storage until I get my money,” said the landlord.
“No doubt but you will do that,” said the Lieutenant, “but I am a little
anxious to know what has become of him. Do you know when he went out? I
hope no harm has come to him.”
“I went to bed early last night,” said the landlord, “but I will ask
some of the servants.”
Inquiry failed to find any one who had seen Mr. Fortier leave the hotel,
and Lieutenant Duquesne was obliged to content himself with the
reflection that possibly the young man had started at once to perform
the mission which he had intrusted to him. Once more, he went in search
of the landlord:
“If my friend, Mr. Fortier, doesn’t come back at the end of the week, I
wish you to lock the door, leaving the articles therein just where he
left them. I will be responsible for the rent of the room, at least
until our vessel sails.”
“It doesn’t make any difference who pays the bills, so long as I get my
money,” said the landlord.
Lieutenant Duquesne ascertained the shortest road which would lead him
to the Batistelli castle, and, having secured a saddle-horse, started to
perform the mission which Admiral Enright had intrusted to him--the
presentation of a letter of introduction which he bore from Lord Colton,
the Admiral’s cousin.
Pascal Batistelli received the young man graciously. The head of the
house of Batistelli was a man about forty years of age, with a naturally
constrained expression and a forbidding manner; but he was well versed
in the requirements of polite society, and he probably remembered that,
when he had visited London, many years before, in search of Manuel Della
Coscia and his son, soon after the death of his father, he had received
many attentions and much assistance from Lord Colton, to whom he had
been introduced by the French ambassador. The time had now come for him
to reciprocate the courtesy, and he assured Lieutenant Duquesne that it
would give him great pleasure to receive Admiral Enright and his
daughter as his guests, and he added, as the thought came to him that
this young man might be a suitor, or possibly the accepted lover, of the
Admiral’s daughter:
“It would give me additional pleasure, my dear Lieutenant, if you, also,
would accept the hospitality of my house.”
The Lieutenant thanked him and said that, if it was the Admiral’s wish
and that of his daughter, he would be pleased to accept. The two
gentlemen parted with mutual expressions of esteem and regard, although
their acquaintance had been of very short duration, but such expressions
are a part of the social code, and may mean more or less, as the case
may be.
As the Lieutenant left the house, he stopped to survey the magnificent
grounds which surrounded the mansion. As he walked slowly towards the
gate, outside of which he had tied his horse, his ear caught the sound
of running water. He paused at the entrance of a path which led through
a grove of trees with overhanging, interlaced branches, forming a cool
retreat. He entered, and, as he advanced, the sound grew louder and
louder. At the end of the path he came to a sudden stop, gazing with
admiration at the picture before him.
The sound of running water had come from a little brook which, at the
end of the path, fell over a rocky ledge some six feet high, forming a
small waterfall. The bright rays of the sun fell upon the drops of water
as they descended, giving them the appearance of a shower of diamonds.
But it was not this natural beauty by which the young man’s gaze was
transfixed. Kneeling at the foot of the waterfall, a basket of freshly
plucked flowers beside her, was the most beautiful girl whom he had ever
seen. Her hair and eyes were black, while her skin had that peculiar
tint found only among the women of the southern nations of Europe. She
was young, not more than eighteen, and, as she knelt beside the brook,
dipping first one hand and then the other in the water, and sprinkling
the flowers, she formed a picture of beauty and grace sure to appeal to
an impressionable young man like Lieutenant Victor Duquesne. She had not
heard the young man approach, and kept on with her task, unmindful of
his presence.
Her heart must have been full of happiness that morning, for she began
to sing, and the Lieutenant was sure that he had never heard a voice of
such purity and sweetness. He did not know what to do next, so he simply
stood still gazing with unfeigned pleasure upon the lovely girl before
him. Suddenly she looked up and their eyes met. She started to her feet,
with a slight cry, and then the rich blood mounted to her cheeks,
tinging them a deep red. She did not speak but her eyes asked the
question, plainly:
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Lieutenant Duquesne divined their meaning and, bowing low, said: “I beg
your pardon, mademoiselle, but I have just come from Monsieur Pascal
Batistelli, whom I visited with a message from my superior officer, when
I heard the sound of running water and, unconscious that I was guilty of
an impropriety, I came down this path to learn the cause.”
“And you have seen my brother?” the young girl asked.
“I have seen Monsieur Pascal Batistelli,” was the reply. “Are you a
daughter of the house?”
The young girl dropped the large black eyes which, up to this time, had
looked frankly into his.
“I am the only daughter,” she said. “I am Vivienne Batistelli. I have
two brothers, Pascal and Julien, but Julien is not at home. He went away
yesterday and has not come back.”
“I regret that I did not meet him,” said the Lieutenant, politely, “but
I trust that I may yet have that pleasure. Those are beautiful flowers
which you have gathered, and the pure water that you have sprinkled upon
them has given them an added loveliness. May I ask a favour?”
The young girl looked up and smiled. “If not too great a one,” she said.
“To grant it,” and the young man bowed low, “will rob you of but one of
those beautiful flowers. I should like to take it with me as a souvenir
of this unexpected but very pleasant meeting.”
“I surely shall not feel the loss of one little flower,” said she, as
she took a white rose from the basket, “and I am pleased to give it to
you if it will afford you as much pleasure as you say it will.”
He took the flower.
“Pardon, monsieur, but I must return to the house, or my flowers will
wilt in the hot sun despite the cool bath which I have given them.”
Lieutenant Duquesne stepped to one side, thinking that she would go by
way of the path and would have to pass him, but she turned in an
opposite direction and quickly disappeared from sight. The Lieutenant
left the path and, reaching the brook, stood upon the same place where
she had knelt. As he did so, he saw her slight form disappear beneath a
vine-covered arbour a short distance away. A thought came into his mind
and, unconsciously, found expression in words:
“She is beautiful,” and he started at the sound of his own voice; “she
is the most beautiful girl I ever saw. To see her is to love her!”
He retraced his steps and entered the path again when, to his surprise,
he came face to face with a young man of about his own age, dressed in
the height of Parisian fashion, who stood regarding him with an angry
frown upon his face.
It was the young Count Napier Mont d’Oro.