When Charley had fully recovered, he and his lovely young wife decided
to go to England where the first part of their married life had flowed
along on mingled currents of joy and sorrow. They hoped to revisit the
happier scenes; and, moreover, Charley had still another motive in
returning. News had reached Senator Bonair that an old English estate
was for sale; and, in the full tide of rejoicing over his deliverance
from Rosalind, and his pride in his “united family,” he offered to buy
the estate for his son.
“No, it’s too much for you to do for me, dad!” exclaimed Charley, when
the astounding proposition was made. “I don’t deserve such generosity!”
“Perhaps not,” was his father’s laconic answer. “But if I’m of the
opinion that you do--well, that should be sufficient. What do _you_
say, Berry?”
“Oh, you know I think nothing is too good for Charley!” answered Berry,
with a smile. “But, of course, we both appreciate how dear and generous
you are.”
“Nonsense!” laughed the senator. “I confess I myself have a desire for
this Erda estate, but, as I have all I can manage, with my duties in
Washington and my country seat in California, I’m quite willing to
buy this estate for Charles, if he wishes to join the ranks of the
American-English ‘landed gentry.’”
Charles was more than willing, as his father knew. He was also
profoundly grateful for his father’s generosity in making such a gift,
which was all the more impressive as it was destined to be the last.
Hardly had the negotiations for the sale been completed, and the Erda
estate came into Charles Bonair’s proud possession, when the senator,
whose health had for some time been failing, fell seriously ill. All
that the best English physicians could do proved unavailing; for, after
a brief illness, he died, and was taken to America for burial near his
beautiful California estate.
When Charles and his wife finally returned to England, after this sad
interruption of their plans, they found surprising news awaiting them
at Crumplesea, a summer resort near Thetford Towers, as the Erda estate
was called. The news was conveyed in a letter from Rosalind, who had
not even had the grace to send condolences to any of the Bonair family.
It was addressed to Berry, and ran as follows:
“You may, or may not, be surprised to know that my husband is your
stepbrother, Adrian Vance. He informed me of this fact not long ago,
indeed before we were married, but I found I loved him well enough to
forgive his humble ancestry, even though in marrying him I was forced
to claim kinship with you! We are, therefore, by stretching a point,
sisters-in-law, and it is quite likely that, after all, we may meet
again.”
“I hope not!” said Berry, after a pause.
“Amen to that!” answered Charles. “But we seem to be fated to meet that
woman, in one way or another, wherever we go! I wonder how she found
out that we are here?”
“She must have seen, in the newspapers, notices of the sale of Thetford
Towers.”
“Of course! And probably she will expect us to ask them to visit us,
in her new capacity as sister-in-law! Oh, she is quite capable of
that! Especially now that father is dead. Well, she will be woefully
disappointed, if _we_ have anything to say about it!”
Berry smiled. “We may have less to say than we think, dear; the matter
may be taken quite out of our hands by Rosalind herself. I foresee
trouble. Another thing: Adrian is a mere adventurer, a gambler, and if
he married her only for her money, how long do you suppose that will
last?”
“What a worldly-wise little pessimist you are, dear!” responded
Charles, with a laugh. “Come, tear up this insulting troublesome
letter, and let’s drive over to the Towers. What’s the use of vexing
ourselves with a mere chance that may not occur for a dozen years?”
This easy-going philosophy proved to be the wrong one, for they heard
again from Rosalind, two years later. This time it was to announce the
birth of a daughter, who was to be named Dora. Why Rosalind had taken
the trouble to send this announcement to the Bonairs, in spite of their
continued indifference to her existence, was not clear to Berry, who
merely remarked: “I suppose she has reasons of her own.” But Charles
saw through this move clearly enough. He readily guessed that Rosalind
and her husband had not given up hope of being received at Thetford
Towers; all the more now, for the sake of their daughter, Berry’s
niece, and also because their fortunes were known to be on the wane.
His understanding was aided by reports of Adrian’s reckless
speculations which he had heard from time to time, during his
occasional visits in London.
On one of these occasions, he had, unknown to Berry, received a letter
from Adrian Vance, requesting the loan of a large sum of money with
which to pay several importunate creditors; and he had even gone so
far as to lend Adrian half the amount, hoping thereby to avoid further
difficulties with the Vance family. In this hope he was destined to be
disappointed; for Adrian suddenly appeared at Thetford Towers, early in
the following summer, and sought an interview with Charles and Berry.
The meeting was not pleasant to any of the three. Charles was
frankly indignant, Berry cool and reserved, Adrian in a tumult of
embarrassment, envy, and resentment.
“Rosalind is well, I dare say,” he said, in answer to their perfunctory
question. “I’ve not seen her for several months. She’s studying to go
on the stage--you’ll have her again for a rival, Berry, in your former
sphere.”
The covert insolence of this seemingly playful remark was not lost upon
its hearers, who took no notice of it, however, and soon afterward
managed to bring the interview to a close. Adrian departed, no richer
than he had come.
Before the end of the summer, he was killed in a railroad accident on
the Continent, and Rosalind, the heiress whom he had reduced to poverty
and driven to the stage, left the country, and was not again seen in
England for many years. When she returned to trouble and harass her
“relatives,” it was in an unexpected and disgraceful way.