THE TIGHTENING OF THE NET
In the ordinary course of events the mortal remains of Walter Carmac
would have been inclosed in a leaden shell and transhipped to the United
States for burial. But a woman's whim intervened. Mrs. Carmac suddenly
decreed that the interment should take place at Nizon. Pont Aven
possesses no cemetery of its own. Nizon, perched on the plateau of a
neighboring hill, provides a final resting place for dwellers in the
valley. Thither was borne in state a huge casket containing the body of
the dead millionaire.
Such a funeral had not been seen at Pont Aven in many a year. The
village turned out en masse. By that time everyone knew of the
extraordinary coincidence that brought Yvonne to the rescue of a wrecked
vessel that had her aunt on board. When the news spread that the woman
was immensely rich local interest rose to boiling point.
Many and various, therefore, were the conjectures of the crowd as soon
as it was seen that the widow, who insisted on attending the ceremony,
was not accompanied by her niece. She was escorted to a carriage by her
husband's nephew, a tall, slim, dark-featured young man of aristocratic
appearance. In a second carriage were seated Bennett, the lawyer, head
of the firm of Bennett, Son & Hoyle, an elderly man who had conveyancing
and mortgage stamped on his shrewd yet kindly face; Captain Popple,
hectic in a suit of black; and Raymond, looking smaller and more
dejected than ever in his mourning attire. That was all, in so far as
relatives and friends were concerned.
The third and last carriage contained a local notary, the mayor of Pont
Aven, and Dr. Garnier.
Mrs. Carmac's unexpected decision that her husband should be buried in
Brittany was made known only when it was impossible for others to come
from a distance. With one exception, the steward whose ankle was
sprained, the crew of the Stella had been sent to England; so the
millionaire was followed to the grave by few who were acquainted with
him in life. But the village saw to it that the cortège lost nothing in
dignity or size. Gendarmes, custom house officials, and various town
functionaries marched behind the carriages. Half a dozen sailors of the
French marine yielded to the national love of a spectacle, and fell into
line. Then came the townsfolk in serried ranks, the Breton garb of men
and women adding a semibarbaric touch of color.
A Paris correspondent of a New York daily expressed the opinion to a
colleague that the bereaved wife had acted right in burying her husband
within sight of the sea that had claimed him as a victim.
"At first," he said, "I thought it a somewhat peculiar proceeding. Now I
begin to understand. If I had any choice in the matter, I should
certainly prefer to find my last home in this peaceful little spot
rather than fill lot number so-and-so in a crowded cemetery."
"Tastes differ," said the other. "Personally I'd like to have my ashes
bottled and put in a window overlooking Broadway. Who comes in for all
the money?"
"The widow, I'm told."
"Doesn't young Fosdyke get a slice?"
"Don't know. No good trying to worm anything out of Bennett."
"Fosdyke looks like a southern Frenchman. He's English, I suppose?"
"Yes, by birth and residence. But his father was an American,--came over
with a racing crowd in the '80's,--and married a pretty Creole."
"Oh, is that it?"
"Well, there's a drop of negro blood in the family; away back, perhaps,
but unmistakable. Did you ever meet Carmac?"
"No."
"A tremendous fellow; but years ago he was as thin as Fosdyke."
"How did they make their money?"
"Cotton, and backing the North during the Civil War. That's why they
left the States. The pure-blooded Southerners didn't like 'em, anyway,
and the men who fought under Lee and Stonewall Jackson would have tarred
and feathered the whole tribe afterward."
"What's this I hear about a niece discovered in Pont Aven by the lady?"
"Haven't you seen her?"
"No."
"Then take my advice, and quit by the next train. You're too
impressionable. One glimpse of her, and your life's a wreck. She's the
prettiest ever."
"Why isn't she here today?"
"Ask me another. But if I were Fosdyke, I'd be in no hurry to rush back
to smoky London. By hook or by crook I'd keep Uncle's money in the
family."
* * * * *
This well informed cynic had not gone an inch beyond the known facts
concerning the Carmacs. At twenty-five the man now dead was endowed with
that peculiar quality of looks which is often the heritage of men and
women of mixed descent, when all other traces of a negroid strain are
eliminated save the black and plentiful hair, the brilliant eyes, the
strong white teeth, a supple frame, and a definite thickness of skin
which makes for perfect complexion and coloring.
As Walter Carmac had been in youth so was his nephew now. Rupert Fosdyke
had often been described as "the best-looking man in London society."
The tribute came from the opposite sex. Men, for the most part, disliked
him because of his egregious vanity. But he was no carpet knight. He
played polo regularly at Ranelagh, was a keen fox hunter, and had ridden
his own horses in steeplechases at Warwick, Leamington, and other county
fixtures. He was a prominent "first nighter" in theatrical circles, and
knew a great many musical comedy celebrities by abbreviated versions of
their assumed Christian names. This latter weakness had brought him into
court as a principal in a somewhat notorious breach of promise case, and
his uncle and he had quarreled irrevocably on that occasion.
Rupert regarded the older man as a philanthropic "muff," and dared to
tell him so, though such candor was likely to prove expensive. His own
income was ten thousand dollars a year, provided by trustees of his
mother's estate. He contrived only to exist on this sum, and would not
have been guilty of the folly of alienating a millionaire uncle, who had
no heir, but for the onerous conditions laid down for his future career.
He was to abandon the "fast set," take Raymond's place as Carmac's
secretary, and marry.
Rupert laughed derisively. "Goodby!" he said. "Try again when I'm
forty."
After that the two remained at arm's length. And now the nephew was
following his uncle's body to the grave, and gazing with curiously
introspective eyes at the tiny panorama unfolded by the quaint old
village as the leading carriage moved slowly onward.
Singularly enough, he was a prominent figure in Pont Aven that day. Not
only was he discussed by the multitude, but he was not wholly ignored by
a gray-haired man and a girl dressed in quiet tweed, who had walked to
the summit of the lofty spur that separates Nizon from the Bois d'Amour,
and were watching the long procession climbing the Concarneau road.
* * * * *
Ingersoll had returned from Concarneau early that morning. Yvonne,
troubled in spirit because of certain hints dropped by Mrs. Carmac, had
written to her father an urgent request to come home.
"Yvonne," said Ingersoll, breaking a long silence, "why is Mrs. Carmac
burying her husband here?"
"She has not told me, Dad, but I am beginning to fear that she means to
remain in Pont Aven."
The girl's voice was low and unemotional; but her father was not
deceived by its studious monotone. He looked down at the village in
which they had passed so many peaceful years, at the cluster of sardine
boats,--among them the Hirondelle, laid up near the quay,--at the
tortuous river, thrusting its silvery bends ever toward the open sea, at
the favorite paths over the gorse-clad shores, leading on the one hand
to the Château du Hénan and on the other to the Menhirs and the hamlet
of Rosbras. Those riverside walks abounded in beauty spots. He had
painted them all, in many lights and in most seasons. They held a
perennial charm. He could have sketched each secluded dell from memory
with almost photographic accuracy, and hardly made an error in the type
of the surrounding foliage, whether of lordly and treacherous elms, or
close-knit firs, or blossom-covered apple trees.
"It is hard!" he said at last, almost unconsciously.
Yvonne heard, and her eyes grew dim. "It is more than hard," she
murmured. "It is thoughtless."
A fierce joy surged into her father's heart, yet he only said softly,
"We must find another hermitage, my dear one."
"Why should we be driven out of the place we have made our home?" she
cried, yielding suddenly to the overwhelming demand for a confidant. "My
mother has the wide world to choose from. Why should she settle in Pont
Aven? I am sorry for her, and she is very lovable and gracious; but no
power on earth can part you and me, Dad. Oh, I have been so miserable
during these wretched days! I have had the wildest, maddest thoughts. If
only she had not made a new life so impossible! She, my mother, another
man's wife!"
The sheer necessity of calming the girl's hysterical outburst imposed a
restraint on Ingersoll he was far from feeling. "We need not contemplate
heroic measures today, at any rate," he soothed her. "Mrs. Carmac's
present mood supplies no warranty of her actions next week or next
month. Though she may seem to have recovered from the strain of the
wreck, probably she is still very shaken and low-spirited. That phase
will pass. She has many interests elsewhere--and few here. Moreover, you
know me too well to believe that I would forbid you ever to hear from or
see her again. That would be foolish, criminal. You are a grown woman
now, Yvonne. Life has revealed some of its riddles, bared some of its
brutal crudities. I can never forget, strive as I might, that you have
met your mother. Let us bide a wee, Sweetheart. Let us wait till you and
your mother have discussed an awkward situation openly. I gathered from
your letters that she is saddened and disillusioned, and I shall be slow
to believe that she really contemplates a permanent residence in Pont
Aven. She and I cannot dwell in the same small village. If she stays, I
go. Why, then, should she wish to bury herself alive here?"
Yvonne dried her eyes. "I'm so glad I brought you back, Dad," she said
more cheerfully. "It is such a relief to hear you tackling a problem
that has nearly driven me crazy. You see, I had no one to talk to. I
couldn't confide in Lorry; though I imagine he guesses the truth----"
"Why do you think that?" broke in Ingersoll quickly.
"It seems that some days ago he overheard a conversation between Captain
Popple and Mr. Raymond, Mr. Carmac's secretary, the man whose arm was
injured. He was writing in the old dining room at Julia's, and heard
voices outside. At first he paid no heed; but some reference to an
attempt at salvage on the wreck appeared to upset Mr. Raymond very
considerably. Then, when Mr. Raymond became calmer, he led the talk
round to us--to our history, I mean. Some lady had given Captain Popple
certain details picked up from village gossips. The captain--quite
innocently, Lorry thought--corrected a silly story which Mr. Raymond had
got from Peridot, and Mr. Raymond grew quite excited. Lorry has seen
Peridot, and finds that Mr. Raymond actually went to his cottage and
questioned him--about us. Peridot told him some outrageous fibs----"
"He would," said Ingersoll, with a grim smile.
"Well, Lorry is such a loyal soul that he didn't hesitate to warn Mr.
Raymond very plainly that he must mind his own business."
"Exactly what one might expect from Lorry too."
"I don't attach much weight to Mr. Raymond's prying, nor does Mrs.
Carmac. I told her. Was that right?"
"Quite right."
"But I couldn't help seeing that Lorry must have formed some theory of
his own, or he would never have interfered."
"If Lorry were our only bugbear, our troubles would be light. Have you
met this Raymond?"
"Oh, yes. Often. He comes to Mrs. Carmac daily for orders; though she or
I have to write letters and telegrams, as he can only print laboriously
with his left hand."
"Have you seen a good deal of Rupert Fosdyke?"
* * * * *
Now Yvonne had not mentioned Fosdyke's name in her letters. She did not
like him. Indeed, she mistrusted him from the moment of their first
meeting, when the gallant Rupert favored her with a glance of surprised
admiration; which, however, faded into a covert scrutiny on hearing that
she was Mrs. Carmac's niece.
Her sentiments toward this new-found "cousin" had developed speedily
from passive indifference into active resentment of his ways. Of course
there was nothing in Pont Aven to interest an ultra "man about town"; so
Fosdyke took to escorting Yvonne from the hotel to Mère Pitou's cottage.
At first she yielded out of politeness. When the short promenade became
an established custom, and Fosdyke even called for her at the hours she
might be expected to visit her mother, she was at a loss to know how to
get rid of him. She thought first of Tollemache; but instinct told her
that he and Fosdyke would mingle as amicably as fire and oil, and with
similar results. Then she sought the assistance of Madeleine Demoret,
and thereby added a new burden to an already heavy load; for the village
girl became straightway infatuated about the handsome stranger, and
Fosdyke, who spoke French fluently, took malicious pleasure in annoying
the pretty prude, as he classed Yvonne, by flirting with Madeleine.
No wonder, therefore, that the girl should have longed for her father's
company and protection; though she looked at him now with an air of
bewilderment.
"You know something of him, then?" she said, searching the worn face
with anxious eyes.
"I know his name. I attended his mother's wedding. Indeed, why trouble
to conceal the fact that it was then I first saw your mother? She was a
brides-maid, a girl of fourteen, and already notable as a musical
prodigy. I did not meet her again for six years, when her voice had
given way, and she began to dabble in art. Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke brought
their little son to our wedding. He was an extraordinarily pretty child,
and almost attracted more attention than the bride."
Ingersoll spoke in the tone of one who was recalling the past without
pain; but his glance followed the last stragglers of the procession to
Nizon,--Nizon, with its finely carved Calvary, and its high-perched
stone cross bearing the tortured body of the Christ.
"Father dear," cried Yvonne impulsively, "I have made up my mind. You
are powerless; but I can act. I will not have you harrowed and wounded
at every turn. You and I, together with Lorry and Peridot, saved my
mother's life. She must repay us by the only means she possesses,--by
conferring the freedom of our own small Paradise."
"Yvonne," he sighed, "some day soon you will be marrying."
* * * * *
Whereat the girl almost laughed. "No matter what happens, that is the
last thing I should dream of doing," she said.
"But why? It is the one thing that a girl of your age should have mainly
in mind. Even in this small community, you might find a most excellent
and chivalric husband----"
"Meaning Lorry," said Yvonne, without hesitation.
"Well--yes."
"But--I don't care for Lorry--in that way."
"Has he ever asked you?"
"No. Once or twice, perhaps, he has hinted that Barkis was willing. The
last time was no later than the day of the wreck."
"And what did you say?"
"I was nearly angry with him."
"You would prefer him, I suppose, to a man of the Rupert Fosdyke type?"
"I loathe the sight of Rupert Fosdyke!"
"How has he offended you?"
"In no way that I can put into words. He is very courteous, and quite a
clever talker, and he tries to make every woman he meets believe that
she is the one creature on earth he adores."
"Then poor Lorry, with his chummy slang and abounding good conceit with
himself and all the world,--excepting this Mr. Raymond, I take
it,--compares but indifferently with the smooth-spoken Rupert?"
"Lorry! He's a man! He's worth a million Fosdykes!"
Ingersoll, well pleased, adopted the sound policy of leaving well enough
alone. "Still, you have given me no specific reason for your dislike of
Fosdyke," he persisted.
"You read my mind too plainly, Dad," she protested, smiling vexedly. "I
didn't mean to tell you, hoping matters would adjust themselves; as,
indeed, they may do now, if these invaders withdraw. But Madeleine has
quite lost her head over him."
"Madeleine Demoret!" Ingersoll was evidently amazed, as well he might
be, seeing that Breton maids are less approachable by strangers than the
girls of almost any other nationality.
"Yes, and the worst thing is that I am to blame."
"But how can that be possible?"
"Mr. Fosdyke arrived here last Saturday, and of course I was introduced
to him as Mrs. Carmac's niece. The necessity for any such pretense is
rather hateful, and he did not render it more acceptable by claiming me
as a cousin. Really, Dad, with the slightest encouragement on my part,
he would have kissed me!"
"Shocking!" said Ingersoll.
"Father dear, don't make fun of me. His cousinly kiss would have burnt
my cheek."
"I can't profess fierce indignation because a young man tried to seize a
good opportunity to kiss a pretty young woman."
"Well, he didn't dare make the attempt," declared Yvonne spiritedly. "He
realized at once that I would have slapped his face soundly for his
pains."
"But are you serious about Madeleine? I mean, rather, do you think she
is really enamored of him, or merely showing off for Peridot's benefit?"
"So serious that I am profoundly thankful the settled weather has kept
Peridot at sea."
"Do they meet frequently?"
"I hate suspecting people, Dad; so I can only say that I don't know. Let
us get away from all this worry for a day. Send Barbe for Lorry, and ask
him to _déjeuner_. Then the three of us will walk by the Belon road to
Moëlan, and have tea at the inn. It will do us a heap of good."
* * * * *
Mrs. Carmac, after a burst of hysterical sobbing which her nephew tried
to stop by a few conventional words of sympathy, subsided into even more
exasperating silence as the carriage rolled back from Nizon. Fosdyke,
being an egotist, did not exert himself to console her; he was, indeed,
profoundly relieved when the wretched journey came to an end. He helped
his aunt to alight, but did not attempt to escort her into the annex.
Instead he waited until the second carriage drove up, and Bennett
appeared.
"Am I wanted for any formalities?" he inquired offhandedly.
"Not at present, Mr. Fosdyke," was the quiet answer.
"Isn't it customary that the will should be read after the funeral?"
"Yes, if it is available."
"Surely my uncle did not die intestate?" The question was shot out with
a fiery eagerness that showed how joyfully any indication of the absence
of a will would have been received.
"No," said Bennett, after a pause. "Mr. Carmac's will, in duplicate, is
lodged in my office and at his bank. I did not bring my copy, as I had
no reason to believe that events would shape themselves as they have
done. But a confidential clerk is on the way with the document. He
telegraphed from St. Malo this morning that he had caught a train that
should reach Pont Aven about half past four this afternoon. At five
o'clock, if convenient to you, I suggest that we meet in Mrs. Carmac's
rooms."
Then Fosdyke knew that the gray-haired lawyer had been playing with him;
but he only said airily, "Such distractions as seem to flourish in Pont
Aven will probably leave me at liberty about the time you name, Mr.
Bennett."
The lawyer nodded, kept a stiff upper lip, and followed Mrs. Carmac.
"The old fox!" growled Fosdyke savagely, careless who heard him. "I'll
bet good money he has feathered his own nest all right!"
The mayor, the doctor, and the notary, who had descended close at hand,
wondered what had put this elegant young gentleman into a temper.
Raymond and Popple understood well enough, but said nothing.
"I suppose you ought to invite these local gentlemen to take a glass of
wine?" suggested the secretary.
"I'll see them boiled first!" was the amiable answer.
Then Raymond, in his slow French, gave the invitation on his own behalf;
but the Pont Aven men were not slow-witted, and courteously excused
their further attendance.
"I've a notion that a gargle of some sort wouldn't come amiss," observed
Popple thoughtfully.
"I can't drink now," fumed Fosdyke. "Raymond, a word with you!"
Raymond, however, had been furtively engaged in taking stock of Rupert
Fosdyke during the last few days.
"Sorry," he said, "but our chat must be postponed. Mrs. Carmac would be
exceedingly annoyed if she heard that we were inhospitable. You ought
not to have spoken the way you did before those French gentlemen. It was
distinctly bad form."
If a timid hare coursed by a greyhound were suddenly to turn and
admonish its pursuer, the dog would hardly be more surprised than
Fosdyke when this queer-looking little secretary dared to chide him. He
was so completely taken aback that he laughed.
"I guess you're right," he said. "Order a bottle of champagne. I'll ask
those fellows to dinner, and do them well. Then they'll forgive me. Lead
on, Macduff! And cursed be he who first cries 'Hold! Enough!'"
Fosdyke's changed mood was distinctly more agreeable. Popple, for one,
deemed him a rather peppery young gentleman, but none the worse because
he spoke out freely.
* * * * *
"Life's a rum thing, anyhow," said the skipper, when the three were
seated in the dining room of the hotel, which was otherwise empty.
"About this very hour this day week the Stella was makin' bad weather of
it off some little islands north of the Aven. I wanted to put in here;
but Mrs. Carmac wouldn't hear of it. I must push on for Lorient, she
said--an' the pore gentleman we've just planted on top of the hill there
was chaffin' her about bein' afraid o' spooks. Sink me! Who's the spook
now?"
"I don't see what ghosts had to do with Pont Aven," said Fosdyke
sharply.
"Neither do I, Sir," said Popple. "It was a funny remark, look at it any
way you like."
"Both of you seem to forget Mrs. Carmac's niece," put in Raymond
suavely. The conversation had suddenly taken a dangerous turn, and it
must be headed deftly into a safer channel.
"What of her?" demanded Fosdyke.
"Well, she represents the family disagreement which estranged Mrs.
Carmac and the late Mrs. Ingersoll. You see, Mr. Fosdyke, your aunt was
aware that her sister lived here, but evidently did not know she was
dead. That fact would account for her disinclination to visit Pont Aven.
In a word, Fate drove us on to that wretched reef, which you, Captain,
will see more of if this fine weather lasts. How goes the salvage
scheme?"
"I've got a diver, an' the right sort of craft to stand by. Has its own
steam, an' a derrick, an' it'll be alongside Les Verrés at nine o'clock
tomorrow morning. I'm sorry I can't find that chap Peridot. They tell me
he's away with the fishin' fleet; but some of the boats may come in by
tonight's tide."
"What is there to salve?" said Fosdyke.
"Banknotes, an' jew'lry, an' dockyments," said Popple.
"Rather a wild-goose chase, isn't it?"
"That is a point on which our worthy friend and I differ," put in the
secretary. "I bow to his superior judgment, of course; but I shall be
vastly surprised if he brings ashore anything worth having."
"It's a bit of a handicap not havin' Peridot," grumbled the sailor.
"Who is Peridot?" demanded Fosdyke.
"A Breton, whom Mr. Ingersoll employs occasionally on his cutter,"
explained Raymond. "He, and an American named Tollemache, together with
Mr. Ingersoll and his daughter, were concerned in the rescue."
"Mighty lucky thing for the rest of you that they were at sea that day,"
commented Fosdyke, with a certain viciousness born of a thought that had
darted through his mind. "It was a close call, I'm told. Two minutes
after the last man was taken off the Stella smashed up."
Raymond smiled. He knew exactly what this dutiful nephew was thinking.
Had the Stella been lost with all on board, there would have been some
chance of the Carmac estate passing to nephew and nieces,
notwithstanding the will. Mrs. Carmac might have been legally presumed
to have died first, or, failing that, her relatives might have remained
unknown.
"Mrs. Carmac means to present Peridot with a sardine boat of his own,"
he said, waiting until Fosdyke was surfeited with the gall of his own
evil notion. "Then," he went on, gazing contemplatively at a cart laden
with casks of cider lumbering across the square, "then, I am given to
understand, Peridot will marry a girl named Madeleine Demoret, and
settle down in prosperity and content."
There was a pause. Captain Popple, who really had no reason to complain
of any deficiency of vision, either literal or figurative, poured out
another glass of champagne, and watched the wine creaming.
"This fortunate person, Peridot, owns a queer name," said Fosdyke,
surveying the secretary with a steady scrutiny. "Isn't a _peridot_ a
precious stone of sorts?"
"Yes; but his real name is Larraidou. The other is only a nickname,
arising from the curious color of his eyes. He's by way of being a
humorist too; though I fancy he could reveal a very ugly disposition if
roused."
"Humor of any variety is surely out of place in Pont Aven," said
Fosdyke. "Here's to Peridot remaining several more days with the fishing
fleet--and damn his eyes!" He rose and went out.
"Affable kind o' young gent, that," commented Popple. "A trifle quick on
the trigger, though. I was glad to hear you touchin' him up a bit, Sir.
You did it neatly--twice, an' all."
"Twice?" Raymond affected astonishment.
But Popple was a wary bird too. "No business of mine, anyhow," he said
shortly, and, finishing his wine with a gulp, betook himself upstairs,
where the injured steward was still confined to his bedroom.
* * * * *
The sprained ankle had proved awkward; practically it amounted to a
dislocation, and Dr. Garnier would not yet allow the patient to put the
injured foot on the ground. A cheerful little Cockney, the steward had
interested Yvonne at once by his happy-go-lucky demeanor when brought on
board the Hirondelle. Each day she had visited him for a few minutes.
Tollemache seldom passed without exchanging a few lively words with him,
and he was a positive godsend to Popple.
"Well, Harry my boy, how goes it?" was the skipper's greeting.
The invalid was sitting up in an easy chair, placed in front of a low
window. Thus he could gaze into the square beneath, and see its whole
extent. In summer the dense foliage of the sycamores would have blocked
the view; but in mid-December their bare branches hid nothing.
"Fine, Cap'n," he answered. "Mr. Tollemache tole me the doctor said I
might hop downstairs tomorrow. This d'y week I'll be leggin' it back to
England, 'ome, an' work."
"Mebbe, an' mebbe not," said Popple, settling his bulk into another
chair, and beginning to fill a pipe.
"'Strewth, Cap'n, you're the larst man I'd tike for a Job's comforter,"
said the steward.
"W'at's the rush?"
"No rush; but I'm goin' along all right, an' 'er Lydyship won't want to
keep a chap like me 'angin' abart."
"S'pose you get a job here?"
"Now, I arsk you, Cap'n, w'at can I do in a plice where they tork
neither French nor English? I'd be a byby among 'em--a silly byby."
"This salvage business may last a bit. If you like, I'll ax Mrs. Carmac
to put your name on the books."
"Cap'n, d'y mean it? Well, you are a brick! It'll help a lot if I earn a
quid or two while I'm crocked. I've been thinkin' abart this salvage
idee. W'at's behind it?"
"Just pickin' up any odds an' ends we come across. But that's a funny
question. Got something in your noddle?"
"Nothink, Cap'n. On'y it struck me that w'at between sea an' rock the
Stella must be pretty well dished by this time."
"Everybody says that," growled Popple. "An' that's just why I've a fixed
notion we'll find more'n anyone bargains for."
He was busy with his pipe, which refused to draw freely, so failed to
perceive that the steward was gazing out into the square with a
curiously brooding stare. Harry Jackson had been taught by a hard world
not to blurt out everything he knew.
"Harry," said Popple suddenly, "would ye like a tonic?"
"Would a duck swim, Cap'n?" said Harry instantly.
"There was a glass or two left in a bottle of the boy downstairs. 'Arf a
mo! I'll ax Marie if it's still on tap."
Harry stared again out of the window. This time his glance followed
Harvey Raymond, who was strolling toward the bridge. He watched the
secretary's thin figure, its ungainliness being somewhat enhanced by the
stiffly bandaged arm, until Popple returned in triumph with nearly a
pint of champagne and a wine-glass.
"There you are, Son!" he cried joyously. "Put that where the cat can't
get it. You're drinkin' Mr. Raymond's health."
"Am I?" said Harry. "Then, 'ere's to him, the swab!"
"Hullo! Don't you like him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"'E ain't my sort, Cap'n. Monkey-fice, we chaps forrard used to call
'im."
"Sink me! You didn't see much of him."
"Didn't need to. 'E's the kind o' jumped-up snotty who torks to men
beneath 'im as if they was dawgs. When a real toff calls me 'Jackson' I
s'y 'Yes, Sir'; but when that blighter did the sime thing I wanted to
bung 'im one in the jawr."
"Well, I'm dashed!" breathed Popple, surveying his friend with manifest
approval. "Now, who'd ha thought he'd stirred you up in that way?
Between you an' me, Harry, I'm not too fond of him meself. I suspicioned
that Mrs. Carmac meant to fire him last week; but I was mistaken.
Anyhow, 'Live an' let live' is my policy. So long as he doesn't
interfere with me, I'll leave him alone."
"Sime 'ere," agreed Jackson.
* * * * *
Mrs. Carmac passed a restless afternoon. Twice she summoned her maid,
Celeste, who had come from Paris on receipt of a telegram, meaning to
send that discreet tirewoman for Yvonne, yet twice changed her mind.
As the hour fixed by Bennett drew near, she felt more reconciled to
Yvonne's prolonged absence. She was beginning to realize the
perplexities and embarrassments to which her daughter was being
subjected daily.
The lawyer was first to arrive. "I am glad of the opportunity of having
a word with you in private," he said. "Of course you are acquainted with
the disposition your husband made of his estate; but Rupert Fosdyke may
be disagreeably surprised. If he protests, do not be drawn into
argument. Please leave matters in my hands."
"Am I to say nothing at all?" she demanded.
"Nothing controversial. If he blusters, and asks questions, refer him to
me."
"He knows already that Walter viewed his--what shall I call
them?--social entanglements with disfavor."
"Yes. For all that, he may be hoping for more than he will get."
"Wouldn't it be wise to soften the blow by an act of voluntary
generosity?"
Bennett shook his head. "It would be construed rather as weakness than
as strength," he said. "Fosdyke is not poor. On ten thousand dollars a
year a man can live very comfortably, even in society. An extra couple
of thousand will keep his hunters or run a car. No, Mrs. Carmac. Your
husband's intentions are set forth very clearly, and I advise you not to
depart from them in the slightest particular."
Five o'clock came and passed; but Fosdyke did not put in an appearance.
They waited ten minutes, and the lawyer was about to suggest that the
will should be read without more delay when a hasty step on the stairs
and an imperative knock on the door announced the errant one's advent.
* * * * *
He apologized gracefully enough. "I went for a stroll," he said, "and
missed my way in the dark. I hope I have not kept you waiting?"
"It did not matter, Rupert," said Mrs. Carmac.
"Well, now that we have come together, suppose we get to business," said
the lawyer, unfastening a brief bag and extracting from its depths a
bulky parchment. He began reading at once. Mrs. Carmac sat very still, a
listener whose thoughts hardly kept pace with the loud-sounding legal
jargon. Fosdyke, however, followed every word attentively. First in
order was a long list of bequests to various institutions, and legacies
or annuities to servants. Annuities of five thousand dollars a year to
each of Carmac's two nieces succeeded. Then came a personal reference:
"To my nephew, Rupert Fosdyke, I give and bequeath the sum of
two thousand five hundred dollars per annum during his life.
This sum is to be increased to ten thousand dollars per annum on
his marriage, provided that such marriage takes place within two
years after my death, unless a postponement is rendered
necessary by unavoidable circumstances which the trustees of
this my will shall deem sufficient cause for an extension of the
said period of two years, and provided also that the said
trustees shall approve of the person he marries. Such approval
should not be withheld unreasonably; but nothing in this
testament shall be regarded as interfering with or controlling
the absolute discretion of the said trustees."
There was no hint of tremor or emphasis in Bennett's tone as he recited
that onerous clause. He treated Fosdyke's legacy with the same sangfroid
he had displayed in detailing a bequest of fifty-two pounds per annum to
an aged gardener attached to the Surrey mansion.
But the despoiled heir bubbled into instant frenzy. He could hardly
believe his ears when the amount was disclosed. The generous treatment
of his sisters prepared him for at least five times the sum they would
receive, and his sallow face grew livid when he knew that the dead man's
hand still retained its grip.
He gasped something; but the lawyer promptly raised his voice, with the
air of a man who was not to be stayed in an important undertaking
because of an incensed legatee. Thereafter Fosdyke paid little heed. He
understood, it is true, that the whole of the residue of the real and
personal estate was left unconditionally to "my dear wife, Stella
Carmac," and that the said Stella Carmac, John Carruthers Bennett, and
the public trustee were named as trustees, with the ordinary provisions
as to the appointment of successors.
But these things reached his senses through a haze of fury and
disappointed greed. He was almost beside himself with rage. Two thousand
five hundred dollars a year! This slight woman in black, sitting there
downcast and melancholy, would have at command an income of quarter of a
million! Bitter as were his thoughts toward his uncle's widow, he was
even more enraged with the smug lawyer. If murder would have served his
purpose, Fosdyke was in a mood to choke the life out of the gray-haired
man whose voice had droned out that sentence of almost complete
excommunication.
"Can I have a copy of that precious screed?" he said, and if each word
had been a poison-tipped arrow Bennett would have died a sudden and
painful death.
"A copy of any will of which probate is granted in England can be
obtained by application at Somerset House," said the lawyer calmly; "but
in this instance, as you are interested, I see no reason why, with Mrs.
Carmac's consent, an uncertified copy should not be supplied from my
office."
"I am not thinking of contesting it," went on Fosdyke bitterly. "I have
no doubt that the robbery has been carried out in accordance with the
law."
"You have been aware of your uncle's views during the last four years,
Mr. Fosdyke--why do you now resent their clear and final enunciation?"
came the cold, unemotional comment.
Fosdyke rose. He would have gone had not Mrs. Carmac stayed him. She too
stood up, and came nearer. She was deathly pale, her lips trembled, and
she spoke at first with difficulty.
"Whatever the consequences, I cannot let you leave me with anger in your
heart," she said. "Still less can I endure that your uncle's memory
should be made hateful by what you regard as unjust treatment. It was
not his intention, it can never be mine, that you should be punished for
past errors.... Mr. Bennett, I beg you not to interfere. There are
moments in life when a higher law operates than is writ in the
text-books.... If I were to let you go now, Rupert, harboring evil
thoughts against me and the man who is dead, I should hold myself
responsible in some degree through all the future years. Your uncle only
asks that you shall marry some woman worthy in herself and fitted to
carry on the traditions of your family. Do that, and you will never
regret it, either in its influence on your own career or in the material
benefits it will bring without stint or delay. I can say no more. But I
do ask you to believe that I am speaking from my very heart."
She ceased. For a few seconds there was profound silence in the plainly
furnished room, which, by its very simplicity, gave a curious
indefiniteness to a conversation in which money, money in millions,
minted wealth that would have overflowed through windows and door if
piled on the floor, figured as a vital element.
But Fosdyke closed his ears to the woman's plea; though his alert wits
warned him that a declaration of war would be nothing short of rank
lunacy at the moment. So he bowed with the easy grace that was natural
to him.
"I appreciate what you have said, Aunt," he murmured, choking back the
humiliated wrath that stormed for utterance. "I don't imagine you expect
me to discuss matters now. With your permission, I shall leave Pont Aven
as soon as possible. On your return to London I shall ask permission to
visit you."
Mrs. Carmac would have answered, but he quitted the room abruptly.
"Rupert Fosdyke is a thorough bad lot," said Bennett, fastening the lock
of a brief bag with an angry click. "If that young man pulls himself
straight, I'll--well, I'll grow potatoes instead of preparing deeds!"
Mrs. Carmac smiled wistfully. She knew, none better, that the pendulum
of life can swing from one extreme to the other. Yet even she might have
lost faith had she been with Yvonne when the girl hurried from home
after supper.
* * * * *
At that hour, about half-past eight, though the night was pitch dark,
one so accustomed to unhindered movement in any part of the village did
not hesitate to take the short cut that led across the Aven by a
footbridge and debouched by an alley on the main street not far from the
Place. She was on the bridge, and a faint luminosity from the swirling
waters beneath showed posts and rails with sufficient clarity. At that
point she ran into two people, a man and a veiled woman, who emerged
from the black shadow of a mill. The man was Rupert Fosdyke; but the
woman was a stranger. Who could it be?
Suddenly some trick of carriage and bearing suggested Madeleine Demoret.
Madeleine masquerading in modern attire! Madeleine without coif or
collar! And Yvonne knew how a Breton maid shrinks from revealing herself
to masculine gaze without her coif, which is the symbol of all that is
pure.
In her dismay she nearly cried aloud to her friend. But the two had
hurried on, vanishing in the direction of the Bois d'Amour. Sick at
heart, she hastened to Madeleine's cottage, where the girl lived with an
aunt.
"_Tiens!_" cried the woman who looked up from the hearth when Yvonne
entered. "Why isn't Madeleine with you? She went to Mère Pitou's half an
hour ago."
"We've been to Moëlan," faltered Yvonne. "I must have missed her. _Au
revoir_, Madame Brissac."
"Oh, I cannot bear it!" cried Yvonne in an agony of shame when she was
alone again in the darkness. "My mother! And now my friend! What shall I
do? Is there none to help? How can I tell my father--or Lorry? Dear,
lion-hearted Lorry! Surely I can trust him, and he will take that man in
his strong hands and crush him!"