BY ADELINE SERGEANT.
“ALIVE OR DEAD.”
The Liverpool streets were, as usual, muddy, crowded, and malodorous;
but had they been bowers of Elysian bliss they could not be traversed
by men with gladder hearts than those of Onslow and Jacynth when
they set foot on English soil. The gladness was of a sober sort, and
tinged, perhaps, by anxiety for the future and sorrow for the past;
but there was a natural elation, brought about by the recollections of
the peril that they had escaped, and triumph in the thought of Ronny’s
restoration to his mother’s arms. They took a friendly leave of the
captain and officers of the ship which had brought them to Liverpool,
and then proceeded to the nearest hotel, where they intended to stay
for a few hours only, in order to replenish their pockets and wardrobes.
“Shall we telegraph to Fenella?” Frank asked wistfully; and Jacynth
replied, in a brisker tone:
“Why, of course, or she will be hearing some garbled version of the
shipwreck story, and will imagine that she has lost Ronny forever.”
“Don’t put too much in the telegram,” said Lord Francis, still in an
uncertain voice. “‘Ronny safe and well; we are bringing him back to you
to-day.’ And Jacynth, old man, sign it with both our names. She owes
his safety to you rather than to me. Sign it by your name alone, if you
like. I have no right [a little bitterly] to claim her gratitude.”
Jacynth stood silent for a moment. Onslow was generous, but did he
not, after all, speak truth? Surely he--Jacynth--had some right to
Fenella’s gratitude; it was all that would be left to him when the
husband and wife were reconciled. He felt sure that that reconciliation
would take place, and no place would then be left for him save that of
a useful friend. Yes, he was tempted for a moment to claim the whole
of Fenella’s gratitude for the safety of her boy. But how could he let
Frank Onslow be more generous than himself?
He laughed slightly when that little pause was ended, and shook his
head.
“Lady Francis will question me pretty closely, and will soon find out
where credit is due,” he said. “There is no question as to which of us
has suffered most in her cause and Ronny’s.” And he signed the telegram
with Onslow’s name alone.
They had thought of going south that evening, but an unexpected
delay arose. Ronny developed symptoms of a severe cold, verging on
bronchitis, and the doctor, who was immediately summoned, declared that
it would be the height of folly to let him travel for a day or two.
“It’s nothing serious, but you cannot be too careful where children are
concerned,” he said, “and the boy has had a chill. You, too [glancing
at Lord Francis] don’t look quite fit for a long journey.”
“I am fit for anything; all I want is to be with my wife again,” Onslow
averred feverishly.
The doctor glanced at him in a dubious way and shook his head. He
knew something of the Onslows’ history--as who did not--and did not
understand the young man’s anxiety to seek out his presumably erring
wife. “Even for yourself I should not recommend the journey until you
have had a rest,” he said, “and as your little boy is so unwell, you
cannot do better than keep yourselves quiet and warm, for a day or two,
until he is recovered.”
He spoke privately to Jacynth afterward.
“The little fellow is not seriously ill; you need not be alarmed,” he
said. “I am making a trifle worse of his case than I need in order to
detain Lord Francis for a short time. I suppose you see for yourself
how much he is in need of rest and care. The fire must have given him a
severe nervous shock.”
“He is not strong, but I hoped that he would be better if I could get
him to Guernsey and leave him in good hands.”
“Do you mean his wife’s hands?” the doctor asked abruptly.
“I do. He will never be happy till he has seen her.”
“Then why not telegraph to her to come here? The great thing just now
with Lord Francis is to keep his mind easy. If her presence would
soothe and calm him you had better send for her at once, especially as
the boy is unwell. If he should be unduly excited or agitated, however,
I would not answer for the consequences.”
Jacynth hesitated, “I do not know,” he said slowly, “whether she could
travel so far. She has been ill--and----”
“And, perhaps--she may not care to come, eh?” said the shrewd old
doctor. “You must excuse me if she is a friend of yours, but the fact
is, everything I have heard of Lady Francis Onslow leads me to conclude
that she will not put herself much out of her way for her husband’s
sake.”
“You do not know her,” said Jacynth warmly; then, controlling with some
difficulty a feeling of offense, he added, “I believe that she is very
much attached to Lord Francis, and would come at once if she thought
that he was ill.”
“Then telegraph,” said the doctor. “Anything rather than let him travel
in his present state of nerves and heart. It might be the death of
him.” And with a brusque nod he took himself off, leaving Jacynth more
than ever perplexed by the duty that devolved on him.
What could he say to Fenella that would neither frighten nor repel? If
he told her that Ronny was ill, she would be frantic with alarm. If he
said that Lord Francis needed her, she might shrink away with wounded
pride. He thought of the way in which she had spoken to him of her
husband, and decided that he could not hope to conjure by his name.
As he had said to the doctor, she would come if he told her that Lord
Francis were ill; but if he summoned her on that account, how explain
her appearance to Onslow himself? Every way seemed to be surrounded
by difficulties. At last, in desperation, he wrote and dispatched the
following telegram:
Ronny knocked up by traveling; Lord Francis also unwell; can you come
to us in order to save delay?
“The mother’s heart in her,” said Jacynth to himself, “will supply
all that is ambiguous in this message, and we shall have her with us
to-morrow.”
He felt so much more at ease when the message was sent off, that he
turned into the smoking room to glance at the papers and smoke a cigar
before going back to Onslow. Ronny was under the care of a nurse, and
Onslow was probably resting; he had no special responsibility with
respect to either of them at present, and he was glad to feel himself
free.
The papers already contained long accounts of the fire, of the swamping
of the boats, and of the rescue of the four survivors found clinging
to the wreck. A list of the drowned passengers and crew was appended,
and here Jacynth caught sight of the name of Mme. de Vigny. “So she
went back to her old title, did she?” he mused. “Well, one obstacle to
Fenella’s happiness has been removed now that that woman is dead. Let
us hope that she is dead indeed. It would be no kindness to her or to
others to hope for her safety.”
His eye had fallen on a short paragraph, which at first he had
overlooked. Here it was stated that three or four of the crew had
managed, by clinging to floating spars or other pieces of wreckage,
to come safe to land, and that it was possible that more lives had
been preserved in this way, than could at present be ascertained.
There was no mention, however, of any woman among the survivors: and,
uncharitable as the wish might sound, it must be confessed that Jacynth
heartily desired to be assured that Lucille de Vigny would trouble no
man’s peace again.
The rest of the day dragged slowly by--slowly, because he and Onslow
were both fretting at the delay caused by poor Ronny’s illness.
They were longing to reach the sunny shores of Guernsey, to enter
that rose-wreathed cottage, and to pour their stories--each in his
own way--into the ears of the woman dearer to them than any other
in the world. And Onslow was not upheld by the hope that Jacynth
cherished--namely, that Fenella, forgetting her past injuries in the
love of her child, would fly at once to nurse him, and to clasp her
newly-rescued husband in her arms. Painful as this consummation might
be to Jacynth personally, he was unselfish enough to rejoice in the
prospect of Fenella’s future happiness, but Lord Francis, who did not
know of the later telegram, grew irritable in his state of suspense and
anxiety, and would neither rest by day nor sleep by night.
Jacynth had counted confidently on a return telegram from Fenella as
soon as possible, and he was annoyed and disappointed when another
day dragged slowly by without any news of her. Did she harbor so much
resentment against Lord Francis, that she would not even come to him
when their child was in danger? Jacynth’s anger burned a little at the
thought. He could not believe that Fenella would be thus implacable.
And Ronny was distinctly worse, he was feverish, and wandered in his
talk, calling out for “Mummy” and imploring to be taken away from Mrs.
Clutterbuck in a way that was pitiful to hear. There were hints, too,
of that darker time when he had been left alone with men and women of
a coarser type--brutes in human guise, who starved and beat him and
swore at him because he would neither lie nor steal. This part of his
story his friends had striven to make him forget, but when his brain
was clouded by fever, the frightful images of those terrible weeks in a
New York slum came back to him with redoubled force, and it sometimes
seemed as though only the presence of the mother for whom he cried so
constantly could chase them away.
And yet Fenella did not come.
On the third day Jacynth waxed desperate, and resolved to telegraph
again. He had seen in the newspapers some accounts of a gale which had
been raging in the Channel, and it occurred to him that the Guernsey
boats might perhaps have ceased running, which would of course give
a reason for Fenella’s silence, and yet it seemed to him impossible
that she should have heard nothing yet, or been unable to send him any
answer. He would telegraph again, but he would go to Onslow first; it
was possible--just possible--that she might have written to _him_.
From the look of agitation on Frank’s face, and the convulsive
tightness with which he grasped a letter in his hand, Jacynth fancied
at first that his conjecture had been correct. “What is it?” he said
hurriedly. “Your wife--is she coming? Does she know that you are safe?”
“Heaven knows! She makes no sign. No, the letter is not from her.”
His face was so pale, his aspect so disordered, that Jacynth could only
gaze at him in surprise. And seeing his expression, Frank suddenly
thrust the letter into his hand.
“See there,” he said. “What does it mean? Do you think there is
anything in it? If it should be true--of Fenella, my darling--what have
we done?” And he sank down in a chair beside the table, and buried his
face in his hands.
Jacynth opened the letter, which was written on coarse blue paper, and
inclosed in a common envelope. Outside it looked like a tradesman’s
circular. There was no stamp, no postmark; it was simply superscribed
with Onslow’s name, and addressed to the hotel. The writing was
evidently disguised, many of the words were printed, others written in
a sloping hand.
“I will not tell you who I am,” the letter began, “or you may not
believe me; nevertheless, I speak the truth. I am the only person,
except Lady Onslow, who can unravel the mystery of Count de Mürger’s
death. From her lips you will never hear it; will you hear it from
mine?
“She is innocent of his death; I can convince you of that. She is
screening another. Do you not want to know his name? I was in the
corridor on the night when the murder took place; I saw and heard all
that occurred.
“If you want to clear your wife’s name, come at four o’clock this
afternoon to No. 10 Pearson’s Row, Mersey Street, then I will tell
you all.
“ONE WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH.”
The paper dropped from Jacynth’s hands. “If Mme. de Vigny were living
I should say that she wrote this letter,” he remarked. “But how,” he
added, rather to himself than to Frank, “how could she know?”
Onslow looked up. His face was haggard, and there was a wild light in
his eyes. “If she lives,” he said brokenly, “she shall pay for all that
she has done----”
“There is no likelihood that she has been saved,” Jacynth broke in. “I
don’t think a single woman was rescued. No, Frank, this is a plant; and
of course you will take no notice of it.”
“No notice of it! But do you think that I would leave a stone unturned
where Fenella’s honor is in question?”
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t go,” cried Jacynth hotly. “There can be no
possible good in it. What can there be for you to hear, unless you
doubt your wife’s story?”
His brow became dark and menacing as he spoke, but he was more anxious
than angry. He and Fenella knew the truth, and he was bound by her
wishes to keep it secret from Lord Francis; was it possible that anyone
else should know? Surely, he said to himself, no other soul on earth
now living had an inkling of the truth. But at all hazards he would try
to prevent Onslow from keeping so suspicious and so unworthy a tryst.
Frank Onslow, however, had made up his mind, and did not respond to any
of Jacynth’s somewhat ineffective arguments. And when the clock struck
three, he took up his hat and went out without saying whither he was
bound. But Jacynth was only too certain that he had gone to the place
mentioned in the letter.
While he still stood hesitating whether to follow and force his company
on him whether he would or no, there was a sound outside the door
which made him start--the rustle of a woman’s dress, the well-known
intonation of a woman’s voice.
“My Ronny; is he here? And Frank--Frank?”
Fenella had arrived.
She came in, radiant with hope and joy, holding out her hands to
Jacynth, who came slowly forward and clasped them in his own.
“My Ronny,” she repeated. “Ah, how happy you have made me. I shall have
both Ronny and Frank again. Take me to them at once; I cannot bear
another instant of delay.”