ARRIVAL OF BRENTIN—MY WEDDING-DAY—WE GO TO WHARTON—BAILEY
THOMPSON AND COCHEFORT FOLLOW US—WE FINALLY DEFEAT THEM BOTH
BRENTIN was in “The French Horn” by a quarter to seven, and, rather to
my surprise, he came alone. I thought Hines or Masters would surely have
come with him; but no, he said, except for Forsyth, they had all parted
company at Southampton. Masters and Miss Rybot had gone to Sea View,
where they were to be married almost immediately, and Hines had gone off
to stay with a married sister at Bournemouth. Forsyth alone had
travelled up to town with him, and then gone on straight to Colchester
to take up his neglected regimental duties. So I wrote out a telegram to
be sent first thing in the morning, begging him to come over and be my
best man.
And the boodle? Brentin winked and, with his hands on his knees, began
to laugh, like the priest in the _Bonne Histoire_.
“Some of it has melted, sir,” he joyously cried. “Your friend Hines has
got his, and Mr. Parsons, by this time, is toying with ay registered
letter way up in Southport. I have handsomely recompensed Captain Evans
and the crew; they have, no doubt, been tanking-up and painting
Portsmouth red all the time. I have reimbursed myself for the yacht and
other trifles, and there now remains the £30,000 for your young lady’s
ancestral home, and some £20,000 for the hospitals and so on. To-morrow,
sir, we will draw up a list of the most deserving of them.”
“You have the money with you?”
“Yes,” he said; it was all safe in what he called his grip, or hand-bag,
and quite at my service. I told him of my desire to complete the
purchase immediately before the marriage was solemnized, and then we
fell to talking of Bailey Thompson and his strange silence.
“Why, the man is piqued, sir,” said Brentin; “that’s what he is, piqued.
Beyond saying that, I do not propose to give him ay second thought. He
is mad piqued, and that’s all there is to it!”
So I tried to feel completely at my ease, and managed to spend a very
happy evening in the bar parlor, Lucy playing to us and Brentin
occasionally bursting into raucous song. Now, when I think of him, I
like best to remember him as he was that evening, forgetting his harder,
commoner side, when he so outrageously proposed to desert poor Teddy;
even refusing (as I forgot at the time to mention) to allow the cannon
to be brought into play for his rescue by shelling the rooms. He was
infinitely gay and amusing, only finishing up the evening, after dear
Lucy’s retirement, with a long and violent dispute with Mr. Thatcher on
the vague subject of the immortality of the soul. Thatcher believed he
had a soul and would live forever, in another, happier sphere; Brentin
denied it, could see no sign of Thatcher’s soul anywhere; so I left them
trying to shout each other down, both speaking at once.
I retired to rest with many solemn, touching thoughts. The last night of
bachelorhood gives rise to at least as much deep reflection as that of
the young maiden’s; more, in fact, so far as the bachelor himself is
concerned. I thought over it all so long and deeply I at last got
confused, and when I woke, the bright February sun was streaming in on
my best clothes and the bells from Nesshaven Church were ringing.
All the morning those bells rang out their happy, irregular peal.
“The village church beneath the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peal shall swell the breeze,
And point with slender spire to heaven!”
Only, to be exact, Nesshaven Church has no spire, but a sunk, old,
bird-haunted, ivy-clad tower.
It was Thatcher’s idea to set the bells going early and keep them at it
all day; you see, they rang not only for the marriage of his only child,
but for his return to their ancestral home; and, when they showed any
sign of flagging, Thatcher listened with a pained expression, and cried,
“Why, surely they’re not going to stop yet! Run, Bobby, or Harriet, or
George, my man!”—or whoever happened to be handy—“and tell ’em to keep
’em going, and give ’em this from me. Here, Vincent, my boy, have you
got half-a-crown?”
By ten o’clock we were all dressed and ready, waiting only for Forsyth.
Soon after ten he came, and the procession started. It was a lovely day
again, mild and sunny, and, in true country-wedding fashion, we all set
out to walk. Lucy, looking perfectly sweet in gray, was on her father’s
arm, and the old lady, in black silk, on mine; while Brentin, carrying
his grip, with the boodle in it, and that good little chap, Forsyth,
brought up the rear.
The old lady, who within the last three months seemed to me to have
failed a good deal, mentally, at any rate, stepped out right well,
hanging lightly on my arm. At first she thought we were going straight
to the church, and couldn’t understand why we left it on our right and
went on up to the big house. Then she seemed to think it quite natural,
and that the place was hers again, and began talking of her early days,
when first she was married and came to Wharton as a bride. Once or
twice, indeed, she called me “Francis,” her husband’s name, who died in
1850, and drew my attention to the scandalous, weedy state of the walks.
“And this is what we pay good wages for!” she cried. “These men must be
spoken to about it, my dear, immediately.”
The gardener’s wife, who opened for us the hall door, was astonished at
our numbers.
“Why, what a crowd of you!” she said.
The old lady passed her haughtily.
“Come, Tom!” she cried to Mr. Thatcher. “We’ll go up-stairs and have tea
in _my_ room. Come, Lucy!”
And up-stairs, up the bare stone staircase, they went, for, as I
whispered to Thatcher, it was just as well the ladies should be out of
the way while we did our business.
In the great empty drawing-room we found old Crage ready waiting for us.
He had dressed himself up in rusty attorney black for the occasion, and
the plain kitchen-table was neatly spread with bundles of documents,
title-deeds, and so forth.
As the woman showed us in, she told me he had been up all night
rummaging in his old tin boxes, talking and mumbling to himself. Now he
seemed quite spry and well again. I could scarcely believe, as he sat
there alert and attentive, he was the same stricken, shambling old hunks
I had seen the previous afternoon, dragging himself about, senile and
dying. Such is the power of the will and the business instinct,
prolonged even to the verge of the grave!
Brentin, who, as usual, took everything into his own hands, adopted the
simplest method of dealing with him. Crage received us in complete
silence, and no one spoke a word, while Brentin opened his grip and took
out the notes and two or three little bags of gold. The gold he emptied
into heaps and piled them round the notes.
Then, “Thirty thousand pounds,” he said, with a smile—“thirty thousand
pounds! Is it a deal?”
Crage sat bolt upright, with his hand curved over his ear.
“For the entire property?” he asked.
“For the entire property. Is it a deal? Thirty thousand pounds, neither
less nor more.” And he emptied the grip and shook it, to show that not a
penny more remained.
“It’s worth more in the open market,” said Crage, cautiously.
“Then take it to the open market. We have no time to haggle. My client
is on his way to be married. Good-day.” And with that he began to scrape
the notes and gold together again.
“Hold hard!” cried Crage. “Don’t hurry an old man.”
“We’ll give the old man three minutes,” said Brentin, coolly pulling out
his watch.
We were all three of us grouped round the table, watching Crage, with
our backs to the door. The woman stood at his elbow, and we could, in
the complete silence, hear the heavy, swinging tick-tick of Brentin’s
large old-fashioned watch.
“Half time!” cried Brentin, when suddenly we heard steps outside in the
hall. I had just time to recognize Bailey Thompson’s even, divisional
tread, when he pushed the door open and stepped in. He was dressed as
usual, and behind him came a gentleman in a tight black frock-coat, an
evident Frenchman, thin, dark, and wiry, with a withered face, like a
preserved Bordeaux plum.
“One moment, if—you—please, gentlemen!” cried Bailey Thompson, as he
stepped up to the table.
My heart gave a bound, and Forsyth started and said, “Ho!” but the
unabashed Brentin merely politely replied, “One moment to _you_, sir. We
will attend to you directly.—Time’s up, Mr. Crage! is it or is it not a
deal?”
Bailey Thompson laughed. “Cool as ever, Mr. Brentin, I see,” he said.
“But don’t you think this amusing farce of yours has gone on long
enough? It has been successful so far, as I always thought it would be!”
“You’re mighty good!”
“We have no desire to be unduly hard on you.”
“You are mighty particular good!”
“The Casino authorities are, on the whole, willing to regard you as
eccentric English gentlemen of position, who have played a very cruel
practical joke on them.”
“That so?”
“That is so. This is their representative, Mossieu Cochefort.”
“_Enchantay!_” cried Brentin, with a bow.
“He is charged to say that, on the due return of the money you have
sto—ahem!—carried off, and an undertaking from you in writing that you
none of you ever visit the place again, on any pretence, they are
willing to forego criminal proceedings, and no further questions will be
asked.”
“Oh, come off it!” cried Brentin, laughing.
“Otherwise,” continued Bailey Thompson, with great gravity, “I must ask
you, Mr. Blacker, and Mr. Forsyth here, to follow me to the cab in
waiting at the door, and return with us to London as our prisoners.”
“In short, sir,” said Brentin, swelling with indignant importance, “you
invite _us_, eccentric gentlemen of recognized position, to compound a
felony!”
Thompson shrugged his shoulders, and Mossieu Cochefort looked puzzled.
“Be ashamed of yourself, sir!” Brentin cried, his voice ringing
scornfully through the empty room. “Be ashamed of yourselves, you and
Mossieu Cochefort, and give over talking through your hat! Mr. Crage, if
you will write out a formal receipt we will look upon the affair as
settled. The formal transfer can be effected later.”
“Aye, aye!” mumbled Crage, and, with his eyes on the money, began
fumbling in the inside pocket of his rusty black coat for the receipt.
“Gentlemen!” cried Thompson, with affected earnestness, “I warn you! I
very solemnly warn you—”
“Oh, come off it, Mr. Bailey Thompson, sir!” was Brentin’s emphatic and
withering reply; “come off it, and shut your head. We have long had
enough of you and your gas. For my part, my earnest advice to you and
Mossieu Cochefort is that you kiss yourselves good-bye and go your
several ways. And tell your amazing Casino Company from us that the only
undertaking we will give them is not to come and do it again in the
fall. To repeat a success is always dangerous; and next time, no doubt,
you will all be better prepared.—Now, Mr. Crage, the receipt!”
“_Qu’est ce qu’il a dit?_” asked the puzzled Frenchman, as Thompson,
fuming and fretting, dragged him off to the window to explain.
Meantime old Crage had produced his receipt, already written and signed,
and, handing it over, with trembling, eager fingers was beginning to
count the notes.
“Ten fifties—ten thousands—ten twenties,” he was mumbling, “nice clean
notes—beautiful crisp notes—he won’t get ’em back from me, if that’s
what he’s after! No, no, not from Crage. Crage wasn’t in Clement’s Inn
for forty years for nothing. Ten more fifties!—” So he went on mumbling
to himself, and stuffing the notes away in a broken old pocket-book,
while Brentin handed me over the receipt, and snapped his grip with a
click.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ve bluffed ’em. Keep cool.”
“Hadn’t you better let me keep ’em for you!” whined the woman, bending
over Crage’s chair. “You’ll only lose ’em. Give ’em me to take care of
for you, there’s a dearie!”
To which pathetic appeal the old man paid no sort of heed, but pushed
the pocket-book into his inside breast-pocket, with many senile signs of
satisfaction and joy.
“And now!” cried Brentin, in imperturbable high spirits, “the
wedding-procession will reform, and proceed to the church for the tying
of the sacred knot. Mr. Bailey Thompson—Mossieu Cochefort—we shall be
glad if you will join us, and afterwards, at ‘The French Horn,’ to a
slight but high-toned repast. Good-day, Mr. Crage; take care of yourself
and your money. Let us hope that when the robins nest they will find you
in your usual robust health. Mossieu Cochefort—Mr. Bailey Thompson—if
you will kindly follow us—”
But a sudden access of fury seemed to have seized the usually calm
little detective; he was stamping his feet, waving his arms, almost
foaming at the mouth.
In execrable French, Stratford-atte-Bow-Street French, he began to swear
aloud he would have nothing more to do with it, that he had done his
best, that he had never yet had dealings with the French police but they
hadn’t muddled it; for his part, his work was finished, and he was going
home.
“Here they are!” he cried, “three of them, all ready for you. Will you
have them, or won’t you? _Les voilar! Nong? Vous ne les voulay pas?_
Then if you don’t want them, why the ——” (dreadful bad word!) “did you
bring me off down here?” he yelled, breaking into profane English.
“_Mais, voyons! voyons!_” murmured the startled and conciliatory
Cochefort.
“Damn your _voyons_!” Bailey Thompson screamed. “If you don’t want them,
and won’t take them, do the rest of it yourself, the best way you can. I
wash my hands of it. Good-day, gentlemen, and thank your lucky stars for
the imbecility of the French police!” and with that he rushed to the
door, through the hall, and out into his cab. As he pulled the hall door
open I heard the wedding-bells come surging in with a new burst of joy.
“_Mais, mon ami!_” cried Cochefort, as Thompson tore himself away, “_ne
me laissez pas comme ça!_” and with much gesticulation prepared to
follow.
But Brentin sagely stopped him. “_Restay, Mossieu Cochefort!_” he said,
graciously; “_Restay avec nous. Tout va biang. Restay!_”
“_Mais, quel cochon!_” cried the angry Cochefort, stretching out his
black kid hands, and shaking them in Bailey Thompson’s direction. “_Ma
parole d’honneur! a t’on jamais vu un pareil sacré cochon!_”
“_C’est vrai!_” said Brentin. “_Mais il est toujours comme ça. Vous
savvy, il n’est pas gentilhomme. Nous sommes tous gentilhommes. Nous
vous garderong et vous traiterong tray biang. Restay!_”
So Mossieu Cochefort allowed himself to be comforted, and restay’d. We
took him with us to the church, and did him right well at lunch, and
then, so forlorn and downcast the poor creature seemed, Lucy and I
carried him off with us up to town, if only out of kindness, to put him
on his way back to Monaco.
On the way up in the train he confessed to me his only instructions had
been to try and get the money back, and that if he couldn’t manage that,
or part of it, he was directed not to think of embarrassing the
authorities by taking us all in charge. I could conceive, he said, that
the authorities didn’t want to be made the laughing-stock of Europe by
having to try us, nor to add to their already heavy expenses by keeping
us in prison—nearly all quite young men—for the term of our natural
lives. He hadn’t been able fully to explain all this to Bailey Thompson:
the man was such a lunatic, he said, and so obstinate: and besides, from
the moment of his arrival Bailey Thompson had ridden the high horse over
him, and proudly declaring he didn’t require to be taught his duties by
a foreigner, had immediately carried him off down to Nesshaven, scarcely
allowing him once to open his mouth all the way.
At Liverpool Street he seemed more lost, poor wretch, than ever. He knew
no single word of English, and looked at us so pathetically, as we stood
on the platform together, our soft hearts were touched. So we made up
our minds to carry him along with us to Folkestone, dine him at the
“Pavilion,” and afterwards see him safe on board the night-boat for
Boulogne.
It was droll, all the same, this carrying a French detective about with
us on our wedding-day; but the man was so truly grateful I have never
regretted it. We gave him a good dinner at the hotel, and at ten o’clock
walked him out on to the pier for his boat. He made me a little speech
at parting, declaring I had treated him “_en vrai camarade_,” and that
if ever I wanted to come to Monte Carlo again I was to let him know and
he would see I came to no harm. To Lucy he presented all his compliments
and felicitations on securing the affection of “_un si galant homme!_”
and then, with a twenty-pound note I slipped into his hand at parting,
bowed himself away, and was soon lost to sight in the purlieus of the
second cabin, whither he went prepared to be dreadfully sick, smooth and
calm as the night was.
As Lucy and I strolled back to the hotel, arm-in-arm, we both were
silent.
At last, just as we got back and heard the steamer’s final clanging bell
and despairing whistle, “I can’t make out, really, whether you’ve all
done right or wrong,” she whispered, softly; “but this I know, dearest,
you have been most extraordinarily lucky.”
To which simple little speech I merely pressed her arm, by way of
showing how thoroughly I agreed with her.
CONCLUSION
THIS is the true account of our raiding the tables at Monte Carlo, done
the best way I could.
For the rest, I may just mention poor old Crage died before the end of
the month, and by Easter Mr. Thatcher and his mother were safely
installed in Wharton Park. Arthur Masters was married to Miss Rybot in
April, Forsyth is to do the same to a widow (so he says) in September,
Bob Hines is very flourishing with his new gymnasium and
swimming-bath—just about finished now, as I write, at the end of
June—and Parsons is, I believe, at Southport, parading Lord Street as
usual in breeches and gaiters.
As for Brentin, I never saw him again, for by the time Lucy and I had
returned from our honeymoon he was back in New York. But I heard from
him the other day—a long, rambling letter, in which he told me he had
sold the _Amaranth_ to Van Ginkel, for his wife the Princess Danleno,
whom he had remarried, and with whom, on separate vessels, he was
sailing about the Greek Archipelago—probably in belated search for
Bailey Thompson. He concluded by begging me to think of something
“snappy” we could do together in the fall, ending finally by writing:
“What’s the matter with our going to Egypt and turning the Nile into the
Red Sea? A communicative stranger, an Englishman, by his accent, assures
me there is just one place where it can be done. Think it over, sonny,
and if you decide to do it, count on me. Sincerely, =Julius C.
Brentin=.”
I would write more, only Lucy is calling to me from the hay-field, the
other side of the ha-ha of Wharton, where I have come to finish this
work in retirement.
“Around my ivied porch shall cling
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown with ’kerchief blue.”
As my dear Lucy says, I really am, and always have been, a most
extraordinarily lucky man.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Some words are
hyphenated by the author for emphasis.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.
Italicized words are surrounded by underline
characters, _like this_. Words in bold characters are surrounded by
equal signs, =like this=.