M. BORDIER JOINS THE HUNT.
On the twelfth day I said:
"Bob, I think I shall run up to London."
"By all means," said Bob, cheerfully, a sign that my society was not
indispensable to him, and that he was not wearying of his task.
"Should anything occur I will telegraph to you. To which address,
though?"
"Repeat your telegrams," I said, "to my chambers and my mother's
house. I shall be back in two days, and if by that time things are
still in the same position I think you should pay a visit to Sophy,
and contrive somehow to speak to her. This inaction is intolerable."
"You have no patience," said Bob. "The train is laid. What more do you
want?"
"Movement, Bob, movement." I looked at my watch. "Mustn't lose the
train. I'm off."
And off I was, and in a few minutes whirling toward London. It was
destined, however, that I should not reach there as early as I
expected. We were midway when the train slackened, crawled along a few
hundred yards, then came to a standstill.
"What's the matter?" I called to the guard, thrusting my head out of
the window.
"Engine broke down, sir," was the answer. "Can't get on."
"Confound it!" I cried. "How long shall we have to wait?"
"There's no knowing, sir. Not till to-morrow morning, perhaps."
"But it is impossible for me to remain here all night."
"Very sorry, sir. It doesn't depend upon me. Accidents will happen."
Fretting and fuming would not mend matters, and I was compelled to
submit. It turned out as the guard had indicated. Something else had
occurred on the line which rendered it out of the question that
another engine could be sent to our aid, and we did not arrive in
London till the afternoon of the following day. I hastened at once to
my chambers, then visited the office of the _Evening Moon_, and then
proceeded to my mother's house, which I did not reach till six o'clock
in the evening. The moment the street door was opened Emilia ran into
the passage to greet me.
"You have seen him," she cried, "and he has explained all."
"Seen whom?" I asked, very much astonished, "and what is there to
explain?"
"You have not met M. Bordier, then," she said, falling back.
"No," I replied. "I left the country suddenly yesterday, and an
accident happened to the train. I was detained all night."
"I sent you a letter also," said Emilia, "it was posted yesterday
morning."
"That accounts for my not receiving it. It must have arrived after my
departure."
I saw that she was agitated, and I led her to the sitting-room, where,
after exchanging a few words with my mother, we were left alone. Then
I learnt what had taken place.
M. Bordier, it appears, had visited Emilia every day during my
absence, and had observed in her signs of suppressed excitement which
had caused him deep concern. At first he made no comment upon this
change in her, but at length he questioned her, and, receiving no
satisfaction, told her with delicate pointedness that he deemed it her
duty to confide in him if she were in any trouble. Still she evaded
his inquiries, and this with marks of such extreme distress that he
became more pressing in his desire that she should be candid and
straightforward with him. I will give what afterward transpired in
Emilia's own words.
"He came the night before last," she said, "and asked to speak
privately with me. I could not refuse him; it appeared to me as if my
refusal to appease his natural curiosity had aroused suspicions which
might be fatal to my daughter's happiness. He spoke very kindly, but
very firmly. Considering the relations in which we stood to each
other, he had come to a decision which it was right should be
communicated to me. Before doing so he would ask me a question or two
to which he expected frank answers. He asked me how long I had known
your family. I replied, about two weeks. Had I any previous knowledge
of them? I said no. Through whom had I become acquainted with them? I
said, through you. He then asked who and what you were; I told him,
trembling all the time, because his questions were leading straight to
the secret I was hiding from him. Had I any previous knowledge of you,
he asked; were you related to me in any way? I answered that you were
not related to me, and that I had made your acquaintance only since my
arrival in London. Were you acquainted with the cause of my trouble,
he asked. I said yes, you were, and that you were endeavoring to
befriend me. He reflected a little before he continued, and when he
spoke it was in the same kind and gentle voice, but more firmly than
before. 'It amounts to this,' he said, 'that you have a secret which has
brought grief upon you, and that you confide this secret to a stranger
and deny it to me. I draw from this a reasonable inference--that you
have a trouble of a private nature which you are deliberately concealing
from those who have a right, if anyone has the right, to share it with
you. Is it a pecuniary trouble?' I answered that it was not, and he said
that he regretted it, as then it might be easily got over. He then
referred to the conversation we had in Geneva, when he came to speak to
me about Julian's attachment to my dear child, and to a remark he had
made that the time would arrive when it would be necessary that he
should become acquainted with certain particulars of my past life. My
heart fainted within me when he bluntly inquired whether my secret was
in any way connected with my past history. I could make but one reply,
yes. 'Do you not see,' he said, 'that you are creating suspicions in my
mind, and that I am beginning to ask myself whether I should be doing
my duty as a father if I allowed the engagement between our children to
continue? Be advised for your own sake, for theirs. Tell me everything;
accord to me at least the privileges you have accorded to a stranger. I
have the reputation of being a just man, and I know that I have none
but kindly feelings toward you. There are difficulties, I admit, in
many human lives which need the skill of a strong man to surmount. I
place my knowledge of the world and my goodwill at your service, and if
you refuse to avail yourself of them your conduct will inspire me with
very grave doubts.' Thus driven, what could I do? It seemed to me that
it would be the wisest course to confide implicitly in him, and I did
so. I laid bare the story of my life, from my earliest remembrance to
the hour the disclosure was made. The errand upon which I came to
England, my adventures here, my meeting with you, my interview with
Gerald's brother--nothing was concealed; I even searched my mind to be
sure that not a detail was omitted. And then I threw myself upon his
mercy. I swore solemnly to the truth of my story, and to my belief that
the marriage ceremony was genuine. 'To part from your son now,' I said,
'will break my daughter's heart. In mercy to her, have pity!' 'From my
inmost soul I pity you,' he said. 'I believe your story; I believe you
to be honestly married; but it must be proved; we must be able to hold
up our heads in the face of the world. You say there is a chance of
the copy of your marriage certificate being hidden in the secret
drawer of the writing-desk you have described, and that a scheme is in
operation which holds out a hope that the desk may be found. Julian
loves your daughter; his happiness is bound up in her; and because I
am his father and love him most sincerely I will do all that lies in
my power to set this crooked matter straight. I will go down to your
friend Mr. Agnold as your representative and champion. Give me a
letter to him which will confer upon me the right to act for you.
There are means in my hands which Mr. Agnold may not possess, or would
not naturally be willing to employ, by which we can attain our object.
I can go myself to this Dr. Peterssen, and offer to purchase the desk
from him, supposing it to be in his possession. To such a man a large
sum of money would be a temptation; I would not stop short of five
thousand pounds; and this, with a guarantee that he shall not be
molested, and time afforded him to reach another country, may be the
crowning inducement. Even if he has not the desk, he is pretty sure to
have learnt from Mr. Gerald Paget the name of the place in which the
marriage ceremony was performed, and would be willing to sell the
information for the sum I have named. The proof then would be easy.
Write a letter at once; I will start to-morrow.' His words, his voice,
gave me hope. I wrote the letter, and yesterday he left London to
present it to you."
This was the story which Emilia narrated to me, and I could not blame
her for acting as she had done. Only I was angry with myself for
leaving Bob; had I remained I should have seen M. Bordier, and we
might have discussed matters and brought them to a head. In view of
what Bob had said of his impression that Dr. Peterssen was very hard
up, the temptation which M. Bordier was ready to offer would be too
strong for him. Five thousand pounds was a grand bait, and Dr.
Peterssen would have accepted it and fled the country.
"You have done right," I said to Emilia.
"How thankful I am that you approve!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me
ungrateful that I should take a step so important without consulting
you."
"You had no choice," I said, "and M. Bordier is a gentleman. Did his
son accompany him?"
"Poor Julian! I do not know. I fear he is scarcely in a fit state."
I inferred from this that Julian Bordier was ill, but before I had
time to make an inquiry my mother entered the room.
"A telegram for you," she said, and handed it to me.
I tore it open and read it. "I have strange and important news for
you. Sophy is with me. Come down at once. Bob."
There was an A B C in the house, and I turned over the pages
feverishly. I had just twenty-two minutes to catch a train, the last
of the day, which would enable me to get to Bob at about eleven
o'clock. Late as it would be I knew that he would expect me. I rapidly
explained to Emilia the necessity of my immediate departure, and ran
out of the house. Fortunately a cab was passing. "Drive as if Old Nick
was at your heels," I said to the cabby, jumping in. "Treble fare."
The driver cracked his whip, and away we rattled.