Flower of the Gorse

"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!"

CHAPTER IX

SHOWING HOW HARVEY RAYMOND BEGAN THE ATTACK

Raymond had too many irons in the fire that day to permit of the relaxation of mental and bodily energies that his condition demanded.

It was essential to the success of a scheme now taking definite shape in his mind that he should seem to avoid Rupert Fosdyke's prying while maintaining a close surveillance on his movements. Thus, owing to the chance that he occupied a bedroom overlooking the Place, he knew when Fosdyke went out after changing the garments of ceremony worn that morning, and guessed quite accurately that an afternoon stroll would lead the younger man past Madeleine's cottage. He watched for the arrival of the solicitor's clerk from London, and witnessed Fosdyke's return soon after five o'clock. Then, realizing that the first of many formalities with regard to Carmac's will was in progress, he quitted his post, meaning to sit on the terrace until Fosdyke reappeared.

The weather, however, had turned cold, and he found an overcoat necessary. With the help of a servant he buttoned the coat in such wise that the empty right sleeve dangled as though he had lost a limb. As a consequence he was not instantly recognizable. Harry Jackson, seated patiently at the window behind the sycamores, failed to make out the identity of that small, ungainly figure until it had paced to and fro several times across the top of the small square.

A remarkable feature of a day rich in events fated to exercise a malefic influence on the lives of four people was provided by the fact that two men so opposite in characteristics as Harvey Raymond and Harry Jackson should have spent some hours in staring out from their respective apartments at the normal if picturesque panorama presented by the main thoroughfare of the village. Each was unaware of the other's vigil, each wholly unconscious of the part he was destined to play in a drama of love and death.

The secretary, of course, was nursing a project that could hardly fail to raise his fortunes to a height hitherto undreamed of; whereas the cheery-hearted steward, though his puzzled thoughts at times would have bothered Raymond far more than an occasional twinge of a broken arm did he but know their nature, was actually concerned about little else than his own future and the welfare of a mother dependent on his earnings. Still, it was odd that the sight of Raymond seldom failed to bring a perplexed frown to Jackson's face. The two had never met until the Stella sailed from Southampton Water. They had not exchanged a word beyond the commonplaces of existence on board a yacht. Yet Jackson disliked Raymond, and, if minds were mirrors, the quasi-gentleman would have seen in the civil-spoken steward a mortal enemy; though none would be more surprised by the fact than the sturdy little Cockney himself.

Jackson felt rather lonely just then. Popple was occupied with an English-speaking representative of the Brest marine salvors, from whom he had hired a diver and a tug. Tollemache had vanished, being miles away at Moëlan with Yvonne and her father, and the changeful show beneath had lost some of its novelty in the eyes of the lively Londoner. He resented enforced inactivity. He wanted to be up and doing, bustling about like Popple; but that wretched ankle of his anchored him securely in bed or easy chair.

Thus there was nothing to distract his attention from Raymond's slow promenade beneath; and he speculated idly as to whom the secretary was awaiting – evidently someone from the annex, judging by the frequent glances cast that way.

At last Jackson's harmless curiosity was gratified. Rupert Fosdyke, walking rapidly, hove in sight. The main door of the annex was not visible from the onlooker's window; but Raymond's unflagging patrol told him where the expected one would come from, and a close family likeness between uncle and nephew – notably in the dark, lustrous eyes, raven black hair, and pink and white skin – served as an effectual label. No cumbrous Brittany cart happened to be creaking noisily over the rough cobbles of the square. The gale had subsided. The window was open. Jackson could hear every word that passed. These were brief, and much to the point.

"Ah, Mr. Fosdyke!" said Raymond, affecting a pleased interest because of their chance meeting. "I'm glad I've run across you. What did you wish to say when we came back from Nizon?"

Fosdyke, staring with uncomprehending eyes at first, seemed to awake suddenly to the fact that his late uncle's secretary barred the way. "I've forgotten," he said slowly. "At present I want only to tell you to go to the devil!"

"Indeed!" Raymond jerked his head backward, as if he had been flicked with a whip on the cheek.

"Yes, truly."

"But what grounds for quarrel exist between us?"

"Quarrel? I'm not quarreling. I simply curse you."

"But why?"

"I feel like that, and you are a suitable object."

"Yet no man breathing could be better disposed toward you personally than myself."