ENID WEARS AN OLD ORNAMENT
Lady Margaret took her departure from the hotel at an early hour. Her
son went with her. Their house was situated on the outskirts of the
town, and, although Stanhope would gladly have remained with the two men
to discuss the events of this night of surprises, he felt that his
mother demanded his present attention.
Indeed, her ladyship had much to say to him. She, like the others, had
been impressed by Mrs. Vansittart's appearance, even under the
extraordinarily difficult circumstances of the occasion. The feminine
mind judges its peers with the utmost precision. Its analytical methods
are pitilessly simple. It calculates with mathematical nicety those
details of toilette, those delicate nuances of manner, which distinguish
the woman habituated to refinement and good society from the interloper
or mere copyist.
It had always been a matter of mild wonder in Penzance how Constance
Brand had acquired her French trick of wearing her clothes. Some women
are not properly dressed after they have been an hour posing in front of
a full-length mirror; others can give one glance at a costume, twist
and pull it into the one correct position, and walk out, perfectly
gowned, with a happy consciousness that all is well.
Every Parisienne, some Americans, a few English women, possess this
gift. Constance had it, and Lady Margaret knew now that it was a lineal
acquisition from her mother. The discovery enhanced the belief, always
prevalent locally, that Brand was a gentleman born, and her ladyship was
now eager for her son's assistance in looking up the "Landed Gentry" and
other works of reference which define and glorify the upper ten thousand
of the United Kingdom. Perhaps, that way, light would be vouchsafed.
Being a little narrow-minded, the excellent creature believed that a
scandal among "good" people was not half so scandalous as an affair in
which the principals were tradesmen, "or worse."
She confided something of this to her son as they drove homewards, and
was very wroth with him when he treated the idea with unbecoming levity.
"My dear boy," she cried vehemently, "you don't understand the value of
such credentials. You always speak and act as if you were on board one
of your hectoring warships, where the best metal and the heaviest guns
are all-important. It is not so in society, even the society of a small
Cornish town. Although I am an earl's daughter I cannot afford to be
quietly sneered at by some who would dispute my social supremacy."
As each complaisant sentence rolled forth he laughed quietly in the
darkness.
"Mother," said he suddenly, "Mr. Traill and I have had a lot of talk
about Enid during the past two days. I have not seen you until this
evening before dinner, so I have had no opportunity to tell you all that
has occurred."
"Some new embroglio, I suppose," she said, not at all appeased by his
seeming carelessness as to what the Dowager Lady Tregarthen or Mrs.
Taylor-Smith might say when gossip started.
"Well, it is, in a sense," he admitted. "You see, we are jolly hard up.
It is a squeeze for you to double my pay, and, as I happened to inform
Mr. Traill that I was going to marry Enid, long before he knew she was
his daughter, it came as a bit of a shock afterwards to hear that he
intends to endow her with two hundred thousand pounds on her
wedding-day. Now the question to be discussed is not whether the adopted
daughter of a poor lighthouse-keeper who may be Lord This-and-That in
disguise is a good match for me, but whether an impecunious lieutenant
in the Royal Navy is such a tremendous catch for a girl with a great
fortune."
Lady Margaret was stunned. She began to breathe quickly. Her utmost
expectations were surpassed. Before she could utter a word her son
pretended to misunderstand her agitation.
"Of course it was fortunate that Enid and I had jolly well made up our
minds somewhat in advance, but it was a near thing, a matter of flag
signals--otherwise I should have been compelled to consider myself
ruled out of the game. Therefore, during your tea-table tactics, if the
Dowager, or that old spit-fire, Mrs. Taylor-Smith, says a word to you
about Brand, just give 'em a rib-roaster with Enid's two hundred thou',
will you? Whilst they are reeling under the blow throw out a gentle hint
that Constance may ensnare Traill's nephew. 'Ensnare' is the right word,
isn't it? The best of it is, I know they have been worrying you for
months about my friendship with 'girls of their class.' Oh, the joy of
the encounter! It must be like blowing up a battle-ship with a tuppenny
hapenny torpedo-boat."
So her ladyship--not without pondering over certain entries in the Books
of the Proudly-born, which recorded the birth and marriage of Sir
Stephen Brand, ninth baronet, "present whereabouts unknown"--went to
bed, but not to sleep, whereas Jack Stanhope never afterwards remembered
undressing, so thoroughly tired was he, and so absurdly happy,
notwithstanding the awkward situation divulged at the dinner.
Pyne, left with his uncle, set himself to divert the other man's
thoughts from the embarrassing topic of Mrs. Vansittart.
He knew that Brand was not likely to leave them in any dubiety as to the
past. Discussion now was useless, a mere idle guessing at probabilities,
so he boldly plunged into the mystery as yet surrounding Enid's first
year of existence.
Mr. Traill, glad enough to discuss a more congenial subject, marshalled
the ascertained facts. It was easy to see that here, at least, he stood
on firm ground.
"Your father, as you know, was a noted yachtsman, Charlie," he said.
"Indeed, he was one of the first men to cross the Atlantic in his own
boat under steam and sail. Twenty years ago, in this very month, he took
my wife and me, with your mother, you, and our little Edith, then six
months' old, on a delightful trip along the Florida coast and the Gulf
of Mexico. It was then arranged that we should pass the summer among the
Norwegian fiords, but the two ladies were nervous about the ocean voyage
east in April, so your father brought the _Esmeralda_ across, and we
followed by mail steamer. During the last week of May and the whole of
June we cruised from Christiania almost to the North Cape. The fine keen
air restored my wife's somewhat delicate health, and you and Edith
throve amazingly. Do you remember the voyage?"
"It is a dim memory, helped a good deal, I imagine, by what I have heard
since."
"Well, on the fourth of July, putting into Hardanger to celebrate the
day with some fellow-countrymen, I received a cable which rendered my
presence in New York absolutely imperative. There was a big development
scheme just being engineered in connection with our property. In fact,
the event which had such a tragic sequel practically quadrupled your
fortune and mine. By that time, the ladies were so enthusiastic about
the sea-going qualities of the yacht that they would have sailed round
the world in her, and poor Pyne had no difficulty in persuading them to
take the leisurely way home, whilst I raced off via Newcastle and
Liverpool to the other side. I received my last cable from them dated
Southampton, July 20th, and they were due in New York somewhere about
August 5th or 6th, allowing for ordinary winds and weather. During the
night of July 21st, when midway between the Scilly Isles and the
Fastnet, they ran into a dense fog. Within five minutes, without the
least warning, the _Esmeralda_ was struck amidships by a big Nova
Scotian barque. The little vessel sank almost like a stone.
Nevertheless, your father, backed by his skipper and a splendid crew,
lowered two boats, and all hands were saved, for the moment. It was
Pyne's boast that his boats were always stored with food and water
against any kind of emergency, but, of course, they made every effort to
reach the ship which had sunk them, rather than endeavor to sail back to
this coast. As the _Esmeralda_ was under steam at the time, her boilers
exploded as she went down, and this undoubtedly caused the second
catastrophe. The captain noticed that the strange ship went off close
hauled to the wind, which blew steadily from the west, so he, in the
leading boat, with your father and mother, you and my wife and child,
followed in that direction. He shouted to four men in the second boat to
keep close, as the fog was terrific. The barque, the _John S._, hearing
the noise of the bursting boilers, promptly swung round, and in the
effort to render assistance caused the second and far more serious
catastrophe. The captain's boat encountered her just as the two crafts
were getting way on them. Someone in the boat shouted, they heard an
answering hail, and instantly crashed into the barque's bows. The sail
became entangled in the martingale of the bowsprit, the boat was driven
under and filled, and the second boat crashed into her. All the
occupants of the captain's boat were thrown into the sea. You were
grasped by a negro, a powerful swimmer. He, with yourself and two
sailors, were rescued, and that was all. Your father was a strong man
and he could swim well. He must have been stunned or injured in some
way. The two sailors jumped from the second boat and clung to the
barque's bobstays. The whole thing was over in a few seconds."
Mr. Traill rose and paced slowly to the window. Pyne stared into the
fire. There was no need for either of them to conjure up the
heart-rending scene as the sharp prow of the sailing-ship cleft through
the seas and spurned the despairing hands clutching at her black walls.
Too often had the older man pictured that horrific vision. It had
darkened many hours, blurred many a forgetful moment of pleasure with a
quick rush of pain.
Even now, as he looked out into the still street, he fancied he could
see Enid's mother smiling at him from a luminous mist.
He passed a hand over his eyes and gazed again at the moonlit roadway.
From the black shadows opposite a policeman crossed towards the hotel,
and he heard a bell ring. These trivial tidings restored his wandering
thoughts. How the discovery of his lost child had brought back a flood
of buried memories!
"It is easy to understand that I should be fanciful tonight," he said,
returning to the cheery glow of the fire and the brightness of the room.
"The whole story of the disaster centered in the narratives of the
sailors and the negro. They all declared that both boats went down. The
crew of the barque, who ran to starboard, as the leading boat was
swamped and sank on that side, imagined they heard cries to port. But
though they lowered a boat, and cruised about the locality for hours,
they found nothing but wreckage. You, Charlie, when I went to St. John's
five weeks later, could only tell me that you had felt very cold and
wet. That is all I ever knew of the fate of the _Esmeralda_ until, in
God's good time, I met Stanhope on board the _Falcon_."
"Then the manner of Enid's rescue is conjectural?"
"Absolutely. But Stanhope, who is a sailor, and two men named Spence and
Jones, who were Brand's colleagues on the Gulf Rock at that time, have
helped me in building up a complete theory. It is quite clear that the
second boat did not sink, as was reported by the captain of the _John
S._ She was damaged, and had her mast broken, by the collision. In the
darkness and confusion she would be readily carried past the barque,
which was probably traveling four knots an hour. The two sailors, in
springing from her gunwale into the bobstays, would certainly cant her
considerable, and at that instant my poor wife either threw her child
into the boat with a last frenzied effort, or someone caught the baby
from her as she sank. The boat was seen by Brand floating in with the
tide on the morning of the 30th of July. She had been nine days at sea.
Some survivor must have given the little one nourishment in that time,
as a twelve-months-old child could not possibly have lived. In all
likelihood, the bank of fog clung to the surface of the sea and followed
the tides, as there was little or no wind on the days following the loss
of the yacht. Again, there were provisions in the boat, but no water.
Why? Either the water-casks had started their staves when the smash took
place, or a careless steward had failed to fill them. The next thing is
the identity of the boat. By the stupidity of a sailor, one of the
_Esmeralda's_ life-boats was burnt to the water's edge in Norway. He
upset a tin of petroleum whilst he was opening it, and a lighted match
did the remainder. Indeed, he and another man at the oars narrowly
escaped death. A boat was purchased, but accident or mischance prevented
the _Esmeralda's_ name being painted on it. There was a Norwegian port
number on the stern-board, and this was smashed away by the falling
mast. As the sail was trailing in the water when the boat was found by
Brand, it is assumed that the survivor or survivors, who paid some heed
to the child, suffered from injuries which prevented him or them from
hauling it in. One man's body was found on board and he had been dead
many days. Finally, we have the evidence of the child's clothing."
"The girls told me something of the story on the rock," said Pyne. "Gee
whiz! I little dreamed that Enid, or Edith, I mean, was my first
cousin."
"You know that her garments were marked E. T., and that a little shawl
was pinned about her with a gold brooch set with emeralds arranged as a
four-leafed shamrock?"
"No. I fancy that they were hindered in their yarn. Believe me, there
was always enough to do in that wonderful place. Besides, I knew about
the brooch. Had they mentioned it, I guess the gray matter at the back
of my head would have become agitated by thought."
"Yes, of course. I am talking to you as if you were hearing this sad
history for the first time."
"It is new enough. It has a fresh point of view, which is everything.
Now, about that brooch?"
"I bought it in Bergen. I remember your poor father laughing about it.
It was odd to find an Irish emblem in that out-of-the-way little town. I
have not seen it yet, but it is ludicrous to think that so many
coincidences can affect two different children cast adrift about the
same time in open boats at the junction of the St. George's Channel and
the North Atlantic."
"It's the kind of thing that doesn't occur with monotonous regularity,"
agreed Pyne. "By the way, I have just made an interesting discovery on
my own account."
"What is it?"
"It might easily have happened that not Enid--sorry--I mean Edith--but I
should have been the youngster cast adrift in that boat."
"Yes, that is so, of course."
"And I would have grown up as Constance's brother. Guess things have
panned out all right as it is."
It was on the tip of his uncle's tongue to ask for some explanation of
the very gratified tone in which Master Charles made this remark, but
the head waiter entered, solemnly, with the air of respectful and
discreet decorum which only an English family butler or a head waiter
can assume without burlesque.
"Beg pardon, gentlemen," he said, "but I thought you would like to know
about the lady in No. 11, Mrs. Vansittart."
"Yes, what of her?" demanded Traill, whilst Pyne found himself imagining
that which caused his heart to beat more rapidly than even the fight for
life in the saloon of the _Chinook_.
"She went out, sir, about an hour ago, and--"
"Has she not returned?"
"No, sir. A policeman has just called to say that she was taken ill, and
is now bein' cared for at Mr. Brand's house."
Uncle and nephew glared at each other as men do when they call the gods
to witness that no madder words could be spoken. Before the waiter, they
perforce restrained themselves.
But Pyne shouted:
"Where is the policeman?"
"He is down below, sir. Shall I bring him up?"
Sergeant Jenkins, however, was too loyal in his friendship to Brand to
tell them exactly how it came about that Mrs. Vansittart was sheltered
in Laburnum Cottage. He admitted that he directed the lady to the house
in the first instance, and that Mr. Brand told him subsequently to
convey the stated message to the hotel.
Nevertheless, he was the richer for a sovereign as he went out.
Mr. Traill helped himself to a whiskey and soda.
"Here's to the reconciliation of Brand and his wife," he said, with a
lighter tone and more cheerful manner than he would have deemed possible
five minutes earlier.
Pyne followed his example.
"Say, uncle," he cried, "here's a queer item. When I first met Constance
I spoke of Mrs. Vansittart, and I called her my prospective step-aunt."
"A d----d silly name, too."
"Constance seemed to think that, or its feminine equivalent. She
corrected me, 'You mean your fiancée's aunt,' she said."
"Oh, did she?"
"Yes, and here's to her being my fiancée's mother."
* * * * *
With the morning came doubt. A maid, who was given charge of the two
children, told Pyne that Mrs. Vansittart had been greatly upset the
previous evening. The girl was sure that the lady had passed nearly an
hour in tears kneeling by the side of her bed. Then, having regained
control of herself to some extent, she rang for the maid and asked at
what time the first train left for London next day. She ordered her
breakfast at an hour which seemed to indicate her intention to depart by
that train, said that she would leave instructions with Mr. Pyne
concerning the children, and gave the maid two letters which she had
written. These were to be delivered at nine o'clock. It was now nine
o'clock. What was to be done with the letters?
As they were addressed to Pyne and his uncle respectively, he soon
settled that point.
His letter read:
"Dear Mr. Pyne--I am leaving for London quite early, so I will not
see you again in Penzance. I have supplied the little girls with
all the garments they will need during the next few days. If, on
inquiry, you ascertain that they have no relatives anxious, not
merely willing, to take charge of them, I shall be most pleased to
assume that responsibility. In that event, kindly write to me, care
of my bankers.
Yours very sincerely,
E. VANSITTART."
The communication to his uncle was equally brief. Mr. Traill read it to
him. It ran:
"Dear Mr. Traill--I cannot marry you. Please forgive me. I did not
realize, when you honored me with your proposal, that an
insuperable obstacle existed. That is all--a lame explanation--but
complete so far as it goes. A woman who has wrecked her life finds
it hard to choose her words.
Your sincere friend,
E. VANSITTART."
They discussed these curt notes during breakfast.
"I do not like their tone," said Mr. Traill, gravely. "They impress me
as the hurried resolutions of a woman driven to extremities. Were it not
for her request about the children, I should think what _you_ thought
last night, Charlie, when that policeman turned up."
"I must have telephoned my ideas to you mighty quick," was the retort.
"My dear boy, even at this moment we don't know what she intended to do.
Why did she go out? What is the nature of her sudden illness? How comes
it that she is at Brand's house?"
"I may be mistaken, but I think we will be given answers to all your
questions in due time. Nothing really serious can be amiss, or we should
have heard of it from Brand himself. Now, will you remain on guard here
whilst I go out with Elsie and Mamie? The one thing that matters in
their little lives this morning is that I shall hurry up and go
doll-hunting with them."
"I will hold the fort until you return. You will not be long?"
"Perhaps half an hour. Whilst I am out I will make some inquiries as to
the condition of our other friends of the _Chinook_."
"By the way, many of them must be destitute. It is my desire, Charlie,
to pay the expenses of any such to their destination, and equip them
properly for the journey."
"You are a first-rater, uncle, but it'll make your arm tired if you O.K.
the bill all the time. Now here's a fair offer. Let me go halves."
"Be off, you rascal. You are keeping two ladies waiting."
With seeming anxiety to atone for the excesses of the week, the weather
that morning justified the claim of Cornwall to be the summer land of
England. The sun shone from a blue sky flecked with white clouds. The
waters of Mount's Bay sparkled and danced in miniature wavelets. The air
was so mild, the temperature so equable, that it was hard to credit sea
and wind with the havoc of the preceding days.
The Gulf Rock disaster did not stand alone in the records of the
hurricane. Even the day's papers contained belated accounts of
casualties on the coasts of Normandy, Holland, and far-off Denmark. But
nowhere else had there been such loss of life, whilst renewed interest
was evoked by the final relief of all the survivors.
Pyne's appearance outside the sitting-room was hailed with a yell.
Notwithstanding her own perplexities, Mrs. Vansittart had taken good
care that the children were well provided for. They were beautifully
dressed, and the smiling maid who freed them from control when the door
opened said that they might go out without jackets, the day was so fine.
He descended the stairs, with a cigar in his mouth and a delighted
youngster clinging to each hand.
In the hall he encountered a dozen journalists waiting to devour him.
They had failed to penetrate the strategic screen interposed by the head
waiter. Now the enemy was unmasked and they advanced to the attack.
Pyne was ready for them. He had already outlined his defence.
"Will one of you gentlemen, representing all, kindly give me a word in
private?" he asked.
This was readily agreed to.
"Now this is the deal I will make," he said, when the two were isolated.
"I will meet you all here in an hour's time. I will be interviewed,
sketched, snapshotted, give you locks of my hair, my autograph, my views
on the Far East, the next Presidential election, and the fiscal
question, if you bind yourself to one thing."
"And that is?"
"Among the passengers saved from the _Chinook_ is a Mrs. Vansittart. She
is very ill, and is being cared for by Mr. Brand and his daughters. Make
no reference to her in any way whatever beyond including her name in the
published lists. Promise that and I'll talk a page."
"I am sure I can agree without consulting my colleagues," said the
surprised reporter.
"Come along, kids," said Pyne. "I am delivered bound to the torture."
He passed out into the street, when Elsie's sharp eyes, searching for a
shop, suddenly caught sight of Enid hurrying towards the hotel.
The child ran to meet her, and Enid, flushed with excitement, began to
explain that Mrs. Vansittart was in bed, suffering from collapse and in
a feverish state. The doctor's verdict was that she was in some danger,
but would recover if carefully tended and kept in absolute quiet.
"Is Constance with her?" asked Pyne.
"Yes."
"And where is Mr. Brand?"
"He will be here soon. He asked me to call--and tell you--and Mr.
Traill--what had happened."
Enid's speech was not prone to trip. Pyne's eyes gleamed into hers.
"Mr. Brand asked you to see my uncle?" he said cautiously.
"Yes," she faltered.
"Did he say anything else?"
"Yes--cousin."
"Let me take you right in. I guess it would make a sensation if I--here,
Mamie, just hug Miss Enid good and hard for me, will you?"
Whilst the children waited in the hall, he accompanied the girl up the
stairs and threw open the door of the sitting-room.
"Here is somebody you want to see, uncle?" he cried, and rejoined the
little ones.
"Hoo-roosh!" he yelped. "Now let's buy a toy-store."
Enid and her father faced each other for some seconds in silent
bewilderment. Then Mr. Traill rose and came near to her. She did not
know what to do or say. This tall, stately man was one who should be
dearer to her than anyone else in the world. She was his daughter, yet
they were strangers one to the other.
"I--I--" How could she utter conventional words in such a moment? Her
lips quivered and tears trembled in her eyes. Then he knew. The lace
around her white neck was fastened with a little gold brooch bearing a
four-leafed shamrock in emeralds. He looked at her with a profound
reverence, and caught her by the shoulders.
"My dear," he murmured, "you are very like your mother."
"I am glad," she said, and kissed him.