A RUN OVER TO FRANCE
But if Bryce Collins was willing to stand by his love and loyalty to his
sweetheart, Rosemary was by no means acquiescent.
She positively refused to marry Bryce or to be engaged to him.
“It will not do,” she told him. “Your mother would never agree, and I
would never marry you against her wishes. Oh, Bryce, can’t you see it as
I do? I should be utterly miserable as your wife, unrecognized,—or even
unwillingly recognized by your people. I, who have always considered
myself a Vincent, whose fine line of stainless names has been my
inspiration as well as my pride, now to find myself not only no Vincent,
but of no known parentage whatever! Bryce, you can’t realize what that
means to me. My parents may have been anybody—anybody at all! I may have
in my veins the blood of ignorant, low-bred people, even criminals! It is
appalling,—I can’t bear to think of it. But I must think of it,—I must
face it, and plan my life accordingly. I shall never marry, of that I
am certain. It would be unfair to my husband, unfair to my children. I
would be willing to stay right here with Uncle Homer, and never have any
company or go anywhere. But he won’t have me. Nobody wants me. I am an
outcast, a wanderer on the face of the earth.”
Rosemary did not say this by way of appealing to Collins’ sympathy, nor
was it a mere dramatic cry on her part. She was thinking aloud more than
talking to him, and she really felt her utter friendlessness, loneliness,
and homelessness. It was a cry from her very soul, and it went straight
to Collins’ heart.
“Rosemary,” he said, and his thin, dark face was strong with purpose,—“I
am going to find your parents. I want you anyway, dear,—nameless or a
Princess Royal,—it’s all the same to me. You are my own Rosemary. But I
know, for your own sake, this thing must be cleared up. And for mine,—for
ours, Rosemary. I know you too well to believe you are of anything but
gentle birth. Such features and mental traits as yours never belonged
to an ignorant or low-born ancestry. I can’t help thinking you are a
Vincent—maybe they adopted a cousin or distant relative—”
“No, Bryce, that’s impossible. Uncle Homer is most clannish and loyal to
his kindred. If I had the slightest claim to the Vincent name, he would
stand by me. And he is standing by me. We must remember, Bryce, that he
had to tell me about this,—he couldn’t let me marry you under a name not
my own. Could he?”
“No, Rosemary, he couldn’t. I do see that. But his putting you out of the
house—”
“You don’t know him, Bryce. Uncle Homer is a peculiar man, but his
strange ways are simple, after all. He only asks to be let alone, to
enjoy himself in his own way.”
“And isn’t that infernally selfish?”
“Not so much so as you think. He loves his books, his music, his
collections of curios and pictures, and he wants to enjoy them unbothered
by people about, especially young people. He frequently has guests of his
own age, and he is a charming and courteous host. Now, if I were really
his niece, really a Vincent, I might resent his not wanting me here. But
when he is so fond of solitude, and freedom from interruption, when I am
not the slightest relation to him, when he says he is willing to give me
a fair allowance,—why should he feel any further responsibility for me,
or any obligation to let me remain at Greatlarch?”
“As you put it, Rosemary, it is logical enough, but in all these years he
must have learned to love you—”
“Ah, Bryce, that’s the worst of it. He didn’t and it has been my own
fault. Antan loved me, because she sympathized with my gay disposition
and love of social life. But Uncle Homer didn’t like my everlasting
running about, as he called it, and,—here’s the trouble,—I took no pains
to please him, or to give up my inclinations to his. I was the selfish
one, I thought only of my gayeties, my dances, and my friends, and I
ignored Uncle’s wishes, and even deceived him often as to my doings. Oh,
I was more to blame than he, that he didn’t love me as Antan did. And as
I sowed the wind, now I am reaping the whirlwind.”
Rosemary’s lovely, wistful eyes looked into Collins’ own and she shook
her head in utter disapproval of her own past conduct.
“Tell him you’ll do differently now. Tell him you’ll stay at home and
look after his comforts and order his household for him—”
“He doesn’t want me or need me,” Rosemary said, the sad tears filling her
eyes. “Mellish and Melly can do everything he wants, they know his ways,
and they are devotion itself. The few little things I could do in their
absence would not compensate to Uncle for the bother of having me around.
He doesn’t want me, Bryce, that’s all. And as there is no reason why he
should have me here, of course I must go. But where can I go?
“Don’t think I am whining—or playing the martyr. I hate such a spirit.
And I am going to brace up and bear this thing bravely,—but, oh, Bryce,
it is so hard to bear, and it came to me so suddenly,—it was so undreamed
of! Don’t despise me for giving way to my despair.”
“Despise you! My darling—I love you more every minute!”
They were alone in the living-room, Homer Vincent at the organ on the
other side of the house. They could hear the low strains of mournful
music now and then, and Rosemary knew his soul was troubled.
But so was her own, and while Bryce Collins’ love was a solace, yet the
very fact that she must thrust that love away from her made her grief the
more poignant.
He led her into the embrasure of a south window and took her in his arms.
“Rosemary,” he said, and her lifted face showed white and drawn in the
moonlight, “sweetheart, I am yours. My heart is devoted to you and to
your service. If you will marry me at once, I will brave my parents’
displeasure, I will marry you under the name of Rosemary Vincent, and we
will go away and establish a home of our own, where no one shall ever
know more about you than that.”
“No, Bryce, it can’t be done that way. No minister would marry me by a
name to which I have no right. Oh, I wish Uncle had told me long ago. I
wish my father had told me—Bryce, he couldn’t have been more like a real
father if I had been born his child! He loved me with a true fatherly
affection—”
“Well, we know he was not your father, dear. There’s no getting away from
those letters. Is there?”
“No, I’ve read them all over and over. They’re true as Gospel.”
“Then, let’s face facts. If you won’t,—if you can’t marry me now, we must
find a nice, snug home for you, and I shall set about finding out your
history.”
“You can’t do that, Bryce.”
“Can’t I? Well, I can make a pretty big stab at it! Do you
happen to know, my little love, that your future husband has
quite some persistency? Quite some of what is known as bulldog
stick-to-it-ativeness! And what I set out to do, I most generally
sometimes always accomplish! So, dear little girl, try to possess your
soul in patience till your ardent cavalier can run over to France and
back and then we’ll see what we shall see!”
“To France! You can’t mean it!”
“But I do mean it, and if you’ll go, I’ll take you with me.”
“No, Bryce, we can’t marry. On that point I’m positive.”
“Well, then, it’s merely a postponed wedding. Don’t you dare fall in love
with any one else while I’m gone.”
For answer Rosemary put her soft arms round his neck and kissed him
voluntarily. It was the first time she had ever done so, and Collins
clasped her close.
“My little girl,” he whispered, “my darling little girl, with your love
to look forward to, with you to win, I can do anything! accomplish any
task. I shall go to the asylum where you were adopted, and I haven’t the
slightest doubt that I can trace your parentage. Of course they have
records, and I shall insist on seeing them.”
“I’m afraid, Bryce,—afraid of what you may find out—”
“I will ask you, mademoiselle, to have more respect for my future wife! I
allow no one, not even you, to imply the least disparagement of her birth
or breeding. So, kindly refrain from such comment! When I return from my
quest I will announce to you the details of her illustrious lineage!”
But Rosemary was not comforted by Collins’ gay chatter. She had a
foreboding that his investigation, if he really made one, might bring to
light more and worse facts than those already known. For, poor Rosemary
thought, people don’t put their children in orphan asylums if everything
is all right and proper.
“It’s awful, Bryce,” she said, “not to have the least idea whether you’re
the child of decent people, or scum of the earth!”
“Don’t talk like that, dear. The suspense, the uncertainty is awful,—oh,
I appreciate your feelings, darling, but these conditions we have to
face, and we must face them bravely. Now, I shall get from Mr. Vincent
all the addresses of the asylum in question and the various residences
of your adopted parents while they remained in France, and then, if
necessary, I shall follow up your father’s removal to Seattle, and go
there to learn what I can.”
“You never can trace it, Bryce, you can’t delve into matters so far back,
as you might do if the dates were later. The war, doubtless, caused the
loss of lots of records and statistics, and you never can get the truth
from those old archives.”
“Now, my little Cassandra, no more of these dismal forebodings. No more
cold water to be thrown on my projects,—if you please. And I’ll tell
you another thing. After I get you all straightened out as to vital
statistics, I’m going to devote my energies to tracking down the murderer
of your aunt. I don’t believe those addle-pated policemen will ever get
anywhere. Oh, yes, I know that Burlington man is alert and promises
well. But if he doesn’t succeed in getting at the bottom of the mystery,
I will! Now, my little love, do you begin to realize what a determined
man you’ve got to put up with for the rest of your life? Just as soon
as I get matters fixed up to my liking you’ll be wooed and married and
to a tyrant worse than any feudal lord you ever read about in mediæval
history!”
But Rosemary was not deceived by his banter. She knew he meant it all,
but she knew the obstacles in his path, and without unnecessary doubt
she clearly foresaw the opposition his plans would receive from his own
people.
Bryce Collins had an independent fortune left him by his grandfather, but
it was not large enough to preclude his having a business of his own.
Nor did he mean to go through life without working and earning. But now,
fired with enthusiasm over these new plans of his, he proposed to use his
inheritance and postpone his business career, which, naturally, would not
seem wise to his parents.
And Collins was a devoted son, and on the best of terms with his family.
Also his mother admired Rosemary, and was glad at the hope of an
alliance between her son and the Vincent family. But in view of the new
developments, Bryce Collins well knew the quick turn that his mother’s
inclinations would take.
With his volatile nature, however, he put from him all unpleasant
anticipations, and gave himself up to the joy of being with Rosemary
and of comforting her by his presence and by his love, in spite of her
forebodings.
When Collins detailed his plans to Homer Vincent, he was given a patient
and thoughtful hearing.
“You propose to go to France and to Seattle both?” Vincent asked, for the
young man’s enthusiastic statements were a bit incoherent.
“If necessary, sir. You see, I must get at the truth of things. I mean I
must find out who were the real parents of Rosemary.”
“You’re not afraid of what that discovery may mean—to you—and to her?”
“I’ve thought about that, Mr. Vincent, and it seems to me the truth,
however disappointing, will be better than ignorance. If Rosemary is
of decent and legitimate birth, I don’t care how lowly her origin. If,
however, she is of disgraceful ancestry, then I shall take her away from
here to some distant place, and try to make her forget it all.”
Bryce Collins’ young face was somber and his strong jaw was sternly set
in his intensity of purpose.
“You are taking a fine stand, Collins,” Homer Vincent said, “and I
admire your pluck and your loyalty to Rosemary. But my advice would be
to let sleeping dogs lie. Aside from the fact that a trip to France at
this late date would in all probability be a wild-goose chase, there
is also an even chance that your discoveries, if you make any, will be
disappointing.”
“What is your advice, then, sir?”
“I don’t know what to say. But, though I’m not at all sure it’s right, I
would be willing to ignore the whole matter of Rosemary’s birth and, if
you are willing, let her marry you as Rosemary Vincent, my niece.”
“Does no one else know the truth?” Collins was thinking quickly.
“Only the detective, Prentiss. I believe, in her frenzied surprise the
girl told him. But I’m sure we can pledge him to secrecy. You understand,
Collins, I never would have let her marry you as my niece without telling
you both the truth. But since you know it, if you care to adopt such a
course, I will do my part. I will give her a wedding, small and quiet, of
course, as the house is in mourning, and I will never divulge the secret
of her adoption.”
Collins thought this over.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Vincent,” he said, at last. “I confess I
am tempted to do this thing. It is the line of least resistance, and
quite the simplest way out of our difficulty. But, beside the question
of Rosemary and myself, we must think of our possible children. You
know as well as I do that, while in America ancestry and lineage is not
looked upon as it is in England, yet if, in time to come, there should
be discovered any stigma on my wife’s name, is it a fair deal to the
innocent babes who may be born to us?”
“That is a question for your own consideration, Bryce.” Vincent spoke
gravely. “I feel strongly about family ties myself. I admit I have never
felt toward Rosemary as I should have felt toward a child of my brother’s
own. But it is too hard on her to tell her these things. She is a sweet,
sensitive nature,—a dear girl in every way. But she is not my kin. Yet,
as I said, I will keep her secret, if you wish me to.”
“No!” and Collins’ face took on a look of even sterner determination.
“No, I cannot do it. I love Rosemary too well, too deeply, not to try,
at least, to vindicate her claim to honor and right. I shall go on
my quest,—at most, it will not take me more than about a month, and
I shall find out something,—or learn that nothing can be found out.
In the latter case, I will, perhaps, give your proposition further
consideration. I will ask you to keep the secret until my return. Can
you—will you do this?”
“I will if I can. But since Prentiss knows it, it is in danger of further
publicity. What is your project, in detail?”
“I’ve planned nothing further than to go to that asylum from which
Rosemary was taken. You have the address of that, have you not?”
“Yes, and all the addresses of my brother’s residences in Paris and some
suburban towns. They moved two or three times. You will, of course,
return here before going to Seattle, if you conclude to go there?”
“Yes, and I hope I shall not have to go out there. But I know there is
no use in writing to these places, or sending any sort of an emissary.
Only my own desperate determination can accomplish my ends, if indeed I
can accomplish them at all. Now, another thing. May not Rosemary stay
here with you until my return? I cannot think you will turn her from your
door.”
“It isn’t exactly turning her out,” Vincent said, looking troubled.
“But,—well, as man to man, Collins, I may as well admit that I’m what is
known as a woman-hater. I loved my dear sister, but I have never cared
for any other woman, and I long for a home without a woman in it,—except
as a servant. This may seem strange to you,—perhaps it is strange. But
you must realize that alone in my home I can pursue my own avocations,
I can have things just as I want them, I can have the uninterrupted
solitude that I love; when, with Rosemary here, the whole atmosphere
is changed, the whole house on a different basis. This is really not
unreasonable; I am aging, I am a bit eccentric, I have suffered a
terrible tragedy, and I have no real responsibility toward my brother’s
adopted child, outside of her financial maintenance; and, so, I hold that
it is not my bounden duty to keep Rosemary here.”
“That is all true, but won’t you consent, even to keep her here until my
return? You’ve promised to keep her secret until then—if you can. Surely
to send her away would rouse suspicion against her of some sort. I am
sure she will agree to annoy you by her presence as little as possible.
She can keep out of your way—”
“Oh, don’t make me out an ogre!” Vincent exclaimed. “Of course, she
can stay here—for a month or two. As I have had her here for five
years—but, you see, Bryce, it was very different when my sister was
here. She stood between me and any nuisance the girl might have been.
She kept Rosemary in a sort of subjection, which I see now, with her
aunt’s restraint missing, has utterly vanished. She permeates the
household,—unconsciously, of course, but breezily, noisily, as any young
girl would. I can’t deny her the visits of her young friends entirely,
yet when they come they are laughing and chattering all over the house,
and it annoys me frightfully. Absurd, you would say. But you can’t
realize the difference between the viewpoint of an enthusiastic young
fellow and a world-weary, hermit-souled old man.”
“You’re far from an old man, Mr. Vincent, but I do understand what you
mean, and I can see it from your point of view. And I realize that if
Rosemary were really your niece, things would be very different. However,
I’m going to hold you to your agreement that she may stay here a month or
so, until I can run over to Paris and back. Then—”
“Collins, I’m not sure I ought to say this,—and yet, it’s only fair to
warn you of even a remote possibility. You know, those detectives have
no theory, no idea of how my sister’s murder was accomplished. Nor have
I, for that matter. But since we know it was accomplished, since some
murderer did, somehow, gain access to that locked room, and get out
again, we must assume some diabolically clever criminal. Now, you must
not overlook the possibility that it may have been some one of Rosemary’s
relatives,—some one who has watched over her career, secretly, meaning
to profit in some wicked way by the girl’s good fortune. This may seem
far-fetched, but what theory does not seem so? At any rate, suppose the
murderer of my sister should turn out to be some evil-minded relative of
Rosemary’s real parents, do you want to delve into the matter?”
“Yes, I do. Even though there is a possibility of what you suggest, I
deem it so remote a one that it is almost negligible. I have determined
to go to France; I shall tell my people it is merely a travel tour,
they will raise no objection. And I will ask you to preserve Rosemary’s
secret, in so far as you can. Your definite request will ensure Prentiss’
silence, I am certain. And, Mr. Vincent, if your hinted theory should
prove true, at least you will have achieved the solution of the mystery
of Miss Anne’s terrible death. It is one of my strongest desires to
avenge her memory, and once the matter of Rosemary’s birth is settled, I
shall turn my attention to the murder tragedy, if it has not by that time
been discovered.”
“You are a determined man, Bryce, and while I admire your indomitable
perseverance, I wish I felt more faith in your success. I doubt your
making any discoveries at all in France, but if you are bent on going, I
will give you all those old addresses, and letters, if you want them, to
various people who may help you in your search. In all probability the
asylum will have the old records of Rosemary’s adoption by my brother,
but will they have the statistics to prove who her own parents were?
Still, as I said, I will give you all these documents, if you are bent on
going.”
“I am bent on going,” said Bryce Collins.
And go he did. Obstacles fell before him like grain before the reaper.
His determination was so strong, his will so powerful, that he made his
departure possible and speedy.
Rosemary knew his errand, and imbued with his own hopefulness, she bade
him Godspeed.
But she did not know she remained at Greatlarch only on sufferance and
because of Collins’ insistent plea to her uncle.
Vincent treated her kindly but with no words of love or sympathy. Indeed,
his words were few and his manner self-absorbed and often seeming utterly
oblivious to her presence.
Rosemary did not resent this. She quite understood her uncle’s attitude
toward her, she well knew his distaste for her presence. And she felt, at
times, that she would gladly go away. But the charm of the place, and her
great love for it, held her there, as well as her ignorance of the world
and her feeling of inability to face its unknown and perhaps unfriendly
possibilities.
She wrote notes to Lulie Eaton and a few other girl friends, asking them
not to come to see her for the present. And she gave Mellish orders to
admit none of the young men who came to call on her.
She was determined to think things out for herself, but she could not
do this all at once. It was all so new and unaccustomed,—this thinking
for herself. All her life her plans had been made for her, in important
matters. She had willingly acquiesced in all Antan’s advices, knowing
that the aunt who loved her would give all the liberty and pleasure that
could be hers.
And now, she had no one to whom to turn for advice or for information.
Even Prentiss, who was friendly, was away on his investigations in New
York.
There remained only the two Mellishes and little Francine.
Reduced to the society of servants or none at all, Rosemary did talk over
her affairs with good Susan Mellish.
“Never fear, dearie,” that kind woman said; “it’ll all come out right.
Your uncle is for now that worrited there’s no doing anything with him.
But these detective men, they’ll find out the wicked villain and they’ll
hang him high! Or, what’s more belike, they’ll find there was no mortal
murderer, and then they’ll know where to look!”
For Mrs. Mellish was strong in her belief that the hand that slew Anne
Vincent was the phantom hand of the dead Mrs. Lamont.
And there were those who agreed with her.