INFLUENCE OF CLIMATE ON ADVENTURE—UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF LUCY—HER
REVELATIONS—DANGER AHEAD
SO a few days passed, and, pleasantly idle though it all was, it began
to be time for us to think seriously of our purport in being at Monte
Carlo at all. Our party had very easily fallen into the ways of the
place, and appeared to be enjoying themselves, each in their own
fashion, amazingly.
“Here’s Teddy’s got a bicycle,” as I said to Brentin, “and is always
over at Mentone with friends. Bob Hines does nothing but gamble, and is
scarcely ever with us, even at meal-times. He lives on sandwiches and
hot _grog Américaine_ at the Café de Paris. Forsyth struts about in
fancy suits, making eyes at the ladies, and Masters is all day at the
back of Miss Rybot’s chair, supplying her with fresh funds and taking
charge of her winnings.”
“_C’est magnifique_,” yawned Brentin, “_mais ce n’est pas la guerre_.”
“It’s worse,” I said; “it’s Capua, simply, and must be put a stop to.”
“I know if I were here a fortnight longer,” yawned my sister, “with
nothing to do, I should desert my husband and child and be off into
Italy along the Corniche with white mice.”
“Turn pifferari; exactly,” said Brentin. “Therefore, sir, we must move
in this business, and the sooner the better, or the golden opportunity
will slip by us, never to return. And that’s all there is to it. We will
summon a council of war this evening on board the _Amaranth_ and fix the
day finally.”
“Well, all I ask is,” said my sister, “that in case of failure Miss
Rybot and I are afforded every opportunity of escape. I don’t want to
give those Medworth Square people the chance of coming and crowing over
me in a French prison. Besides, it wouldn’t do Frank’s business any
good, if I were caught.”
“Why, just think what a book you could make of it,” I murmured—“_Penal
Servitude for Life; by a Lady_. Rivers would make his fortune.”
What would have been, after all, the end of our adventure, whether the
sunshine might not have softened us into finally abandoning the
enterprise altogether—to my lasting shame and grief!—I cannot take
upon myself to say. All I know for certain is, that if our hands had not
been, in a measure, forced—if circumstances had not made it rather more
dangerous for us to go back than to go on—our party would at any rate
have needed an amount of whipping into line which would as likely as not
have driven them into restive retirement, instead of the somewhat
alarmed advance which was ultimately forced on us and turned out so
entirely successful.
And as it is my particular pride to think I owe the undertaking, in the
first place, to my love for Lucy, so it is my joy to reflect how the
final carrying of it out was due to her affection for me, that drove her
to journey—quite unused to foreign parts as she was—right across
Europe, alone, and give me timely warning of the dastardly scheme on
foot for our capture and ruin.
It was the very afternoon following the morning of our brief
conversation on the terrace that I went back early to the hotel, with
some natural feelings of depression and irritation at the growing
callous inertia of our party.
I was going up to my room, when from the reading-room I heard the sound
of the piano. I stopped in some amazement, for there was being played an
air I never heard any one but Lucy play. It was an old Venetian piece of
church music (by Gordigiani, if I remember right), and I had never heard
it anywhere but at “The French Horn,” on the rather damaged old cottage
piano in the little room behind the bar.
I stole down-stairs again, and, my heart beating, opened the glass door
noiselessly.
It was Lucy! and the next moment, with a little scream, she was in my
arms. I took her to the sofa; for some moments she was so agitated she
couldn’t speak, nor could I, believing, indeed, it was a ghost, till I
felt the soft pressure of her arms and the warmth of her cheek as her
head lay on my shoulder, while she trembled and sobbed.
“Don’t be frightened,” I murmured. “It’s really I. Now, don’t cry; be
calm and tell me all about it. We are both safe; we love each other.
Nothing else in the world matters.”
At last, in broken tones and at first with many tears, she told me the
whole story. I listened as though I were in a dream, and my bones
stiffened with anger and apprehension.
The gist of it was briefly this: that one day Mr. Crage had come down to
“The French Horn” and had an interview with her father in the
bar-parlor. He had come to put an end to Mr. Thatcher’s tenancy, a
yearly one, and turn him out of the inn, unless, as he suggested,
exactly like a villain on the stage, Lucy would, for her father’s sake,
engage to marry him, in which case he might remain, and at a reduced
rent. Thatcher, who, after all, is a gentleman, declared the idea
preposterous, more particularly as his daughter was already engaged,
with his full consent and approbation.
“Oh, ah!” snarled Crage—“to that young cockney who was down here at
Christmas. Suppose you call her in, however, and let her speak for
herself.”
Whereupon Lucy was sent for and told of Crage’s iniquitous proposal, of
which Thatcher very properly urged her not to think, but to refuse there
and then.
“Oh, ah!” Crage had grinned. “The young cockney has enough for you all
and won’t grudge it, I dare say. He’s gone to Monte Carlo, ain’t he?”
Yes, said Lucy, Mr. Blacker had, and had promised her not to gamble.
“Gamble or not,” sneered Crage, “I know what he is up to. The police are
already on his track. Why, I shouldn’t be the least surprised to hear
he’s already in their hands, and condemned to penal servitude for life.”
On hearing that, poor Lucy said she thought she should have dropped on
the floor, like water. But she has the courage of her race, and, telling
the old man in so many words he was mad, turned to leave the room.
Now, it’s an odd thing that the old wretch, though he never minded being
called a liar, never could bear any reflection on his sanity—it was the
fusty remains, I suppose, of his old professional Clement’s Inn pride;
so he lost his temper at once, and with many shrieks and gesticulations
told them the whole story.
That—as I have written—Bailey Thompson was a detective, frequently in
the “Victoria” smoking-room in the course of his duty; and that Brentin
had actually confided in him—as we know—all that we were going to do,
that he was an old friend of Crage’s, dating from the Clement’s Inn
days, and on Christmas night had divulged the whole scheme just as he
had received it from us, telling him with much glee, being a season of
jollity and good-will, how he was going to follow us to Monte Carlo and
make every disposition to catch us in the act. Crage added that Bailey
Thompson had rather doubted at first whether we weren’t humbugging him;
but having since heard from his sister, Mrs. Wingham, that she believed
we were really in earnest, was already somewhere on his way out to
superintend our capture in person.
“I didn’t know what to do,” cried Lucy, piteously; “I could only laugh
in his face and tell him he was the victim of a practical joke.”
“Practical joke!” Crage had screamed; “you wait till they’re all in
prison; perhaps they’ll call that a practical joke, too. Now, look here,
Thatcher, you’re a sensible man; you break off this engagement before
the scandal overtakes you all, and I’ll treat you and your daughter
handsomely. You shall stay on in the inn, or not, just as you please,
and the day we’re married I’ll settle Wharton on dear Lucy here. I
sha’n’t live so very much longer, I dare say,” he whined—“I’m
eighty-two next month—and then she can marry the young cockney, if she
wants to, when he’s done his time. Don’t decide now; send me up a note
in the course of the next few days. Hang it! I won’t be hard on you;
I’ll give you both a fortnight.”
And with that and no more the wicked old man had stumped out of the bar
parlor.
Lucy’s mind was soon made up. Notwithstanding her father’s
expostulations, she had determined to come after me and learn the truth
for herself; and as he couldn’t come with her, to come alone. She hadn’t
written, for fear of my telegraphing she was not to start. And here she
was, to be told the truth, to be reassured, to be made happy once more;
if possible, to take me home with her.
“Oh, it’s not true, Vincent, dearest!” she murmured. “It’s all a fable,
isn’t it? You’re not even dreaming of doing anything so dangerous and
foolish?”
Now, deep and true as is my affection for Lucy, I should have been quite
unworthy of her if I had allowed myself to be turned from so deeply
matured and worthy a purpose as ours merely by her tears.
The more I had seen of Monte Carlo, the more sincerely was I convinced
of its worthlessness, and the dignity of a serious effort to put a stop
to it. For it is simply, as I have written, a _cocotte’s_ paradise and
nothing more; and if, by any effort of mine, I could close it, I felt I
should be rendering a service to humanity only second to Wilberforce and
the Slave Trade. What a glorious moment if only I could live to see a
large board stuck out of the Casino windows with _À Vendre_ on it, to
say nothing of the boards taken in from outside the London hospitals and
the closed wards in working order again, full of sufferers!
So I calmed dear Lucy and told her how glad I was to see her; that above
all things she must trust me and believe what I was doing and going to
do was for the best and would turn out not unworthy of nor unserviceable
to her in the long-run; more especially, if only it were, as we had
every reason to believe it would be, successful.
After some further talk, she promised to say no more and to trust me
entirely, both now and always, begging me only to assure her I was not
angry, and that what she had done in coming was really for my benefit
and welfare. I told her truly she had rendered me the greatest possible
service, and that I loved her if possible more deeply for this new proof
of her devotion than before. Then I telegraphed to her father of her
safety, got her something to eat, and sent her off early to bed after
her long journey (she had come second-class, poor child, and had stopped
once at least at every station, and twice at some), and at nine o’clock
we went down to the Condamine to go on board the _Amaranth_ for our
council of war.
On the way down I told Brentin the reason of Lucy’s sudden visit, and
the new danger from Bailey Thompson, who by this time was clearly on his
way after us, if indeed he hadn’t already arrived. At the same time, I
candidly confessed to my indiscretion with Mrs. Wingham, and the letter
I had seen her writing to her brother. We found no difficulty in
agreeing we both had behaved like arrant fools, and might very fairly be
pictured as standing on the romantic, but uncomfortable, edge of a
precipice.
“But we must go on, sir,” said Brentin, with decision. “It will never do
to back out now, after coming so far and spending so much money. We must
never allow this shallow detective trash to frighten us; we must meet
him in a friendly spirit, and find some means to dump him where he may
be both remote and harmless. The Balearic Isles, for choice.”
“What about the band of brothers?” I asked. “How will they regard these
fresh revelations?”
“That’s the difficulty,” replied Brentin, thoughtfully. “We must
exercise care, sir, or they’ll be scattering off home like Virginia
wheat-ears.”