Flotsam

Otago Witness, Issue 3714, 19 May 1925, Page 52

Flotsam

THE NOVELIST.

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken.

Authors of “ The Real Mrs. Dare, “ The Man She Never Married,” ” Sword and Plough,” &c., &c.

[Published by Special Arrangement.] [Copyright.]

CHAPTER Xl.—(Continued.) So Clarice had done the unforgivable thing, the thing her mistress had always feared she would do. Maud was furious. She looked for all the world as if she could strangle tlie wretched Clarice. “1 insist on your telling me everything,’’ she said, “ everything, with no reservation.” And Clarice told her everything, with one most important reservation, the cue thing that would have explained her otherwise incomprehensible action, and in a way justified her seeming breach of faith. Clarice did not tell her lady that she had witnessed Miss Jacqueline locked in the arms of Mr Bolton. That, after all, was Miss Jacqueline’s secret. Maud was beside herself with fury. “Clarice,” she said, “this ends everything between us. I can dispense with your services from this moment. You can pack'up and go this afternoon. I will settle up with you here and now. I owe you a great deal, I'm afraid. Doubtless you have kept account. Please let me have full details as soon as possible.” “Oh, my deal’!” cried Clarice, “you can’t mean what you are saying. Alter all these long years. You can’t do without me. You can’t turn me off like this. My lady, I did it for the best. I did it for your happiness, really. Can't you understand. There was that Mr Stone worrying the life out of her ” “ Please keep Mr Stone’s name out of this conversation. I wish to have nothing more to say to you. You have behaved abominably. You have betrayed my confidence. I want to have nothing more to do with you. I shall pay you a year’s wages and I shall give you excellent references, though, after what has happened I really don’t know w'hy I should do so. Oh, how hateful you are, how atrociously false! Go—go away, you deoeitfu’ creature. Never let me see your face again.” “ Oh, my dear lady—and after all these years! You don't mean what you are saying. I’m taking no notice of anything. You are not yourself. Nothing shall take me away from you. You wouldn’t know' what to do if I wasn’t here with you. You know that. Wild horses shan’t drag me from you, my lady.” “ What do I owe you?” “ I’m sure I don't know, my lady. I’ve never kept any account. I’ve never felt that you owe me anything, but it’s I that owe you everything. You see, 1 always feel as if I was in a way responsible for you. Come, my dearie, don’t be so angry with your poor old Clarice, who is always trying to do everything for the best. Don’t you see that ‘the most important thing to attend to is Miss Jacqueline.” ‘Well, what about Miss Jacqueline?” asked Maud. “Oh, I’m that worried, my lady, I can’t tell von. I -can’t find her’ anywhere. I’ve been looking for her all the morning. I don’t know what on earth to make of it, I really don’t.” “You think she’s run away?’ “I don’t know what to think—l’m afraid to think. Oh, the poor, wee, frightened mite !” “That girl is a perpetual nuisance,’ said Maud, in exasperation. “Oh, my iady,” protested Clarice. “And you her mother!” “Of course, I don’t mean that, Maud recanted. “Of course, not. I really don’t think I know what I’m saying.” “I’m sure you don’t, my lady.” “But surely someone must have seen her.” “No one, my lady.” “But her things—has she taken anything ?” “Nothing, my lady. Everything is just as it should be. Her pyjamas are there, and everything else. Nothing is missing. That’s the terrible part of it, don’t you see?” “You mean— ” “That’s she’s done* away with herself.” “Oh, surely you don’t think that?” “So you do care just a little/my ladv? You don’t like to think of that little bundle of golden sunshine doing a thing like that, do you?” Clarice had her plump arms around her mistress. “But why should you think the child thought of anything of the sort? Why?" “I happen to know,” Clarice replied, “that she is devoted to her father. She adores him—worships his memory. Mrs Mantuii has told me. She won't henr a word against him. She swears that ho is honest to the core, and that all the charges brought against him vie false, or can be explained. She says her father is an honest man who lias been the victim of knaves.” “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she isn’t right,” said Maud reminiscently. “Anybody could fool poor Dennis as easily as he could fool others. He was

always a complete egotist. He could make himself believe anything. But what has all this to do with your preposterous idea of the child havin*g committed suicide?” She was utterly miserable, my lady, heartbroken and harassed. She had just everything. And she was so conscious ot the shame of it all, so completely brouen in spirit. You have a talk to Mrs Manton. She will tell you a lot of annu-ng things.” . . “I ve no patience with all this gossip, exclaimed Maud, irritably. “And then there’s Parker—the things he’s told me. And Dr Goring “Dr Goring—a foolish, moss-eaten country doctor. Heavens above, Clarice, aren’t you old enough to put all this backstairs talk on its proper level? You are Keeping something back from me. You know you are. There must be something else. Now, out with it. I’ve no patience with you.” “ I’m sorry, my lady, there is nothing else I can teil. It’s an’ instinct more than anything else.” “You don’t think it has anything to do with Mr Stone? ” “ Oh, no, my lady! ” “ Or anyone else; ” asked Maud mean ingly. . Clarice dropped her eyes. “No, no, my lady,” she faltered. They might torture her before she would say what was really in her mind. Maud gave her a swift look and nodded enigmatically. “ If you are keeping anything back from me, Clarice,” she said, “ you'll be sorry for it. That will be enough for the moment. And not a word of all this to a living soul, you understand? I must go back to the others or they’ll all be setting up a hue hud cry after me.” “ Oh, my lady, I can't tell you how sorry I am for you—for you all.” Maud turned and strode out of the room, and Clarice burst into tears. “ Well, here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” Maud exclaimed, rushing into the dining room. “ Our little Miss Jack is lost. She’s disappeared. My maid has been looking for her all the morning. Of course everyone treated the announcement with incredulous amusement, everyone save two men, to whom the news meant more than met the eye. Stone exhibited just the right amount of concern, and he knew that Maud had her eyes on him all the time, and was wondering when it would be possible for him to have a few words in private with her. Bolton was frankly alarmed, and Le showed it. “I say, Maud, what.do you mean? Are you joking? ” he inquired anxiously. “ It’s no joking matter,” she answered. “ Our little Miss Jack is missing.” And for the 'benefit of all concerned, or otherwise, she briefly stated the facts, and then attempted to turn the conversation adroitly into other channels. After all, there was nothing very alarming in a girl not turning up for lunch. Why make a fuss about it ? She had in all probability gone for a walk and miscalculated the time. She would reappear later in the afternoon. But she did not appear later in the afternoon. And when at dinner time there was no sign of her, or word from her, and all the servants were excitedly agog and wild rumours were flying about, the disappearance of Miss Jack assumed greater importance. It was a long time before Bolton had an opportunity of a word alone with Maud. Stone got the first chance. He was bin tally frank. “I don’t for a moment suppose that I am the cause of it,’ he said, “but you may as well know that, at the ridiculous hour of seven o’clock this morning, I proposed to Miss Jack, and she turned me down.” “I thought as much, said Maud, ruminating. “Was there a scene?” “Nothing out of the ordinary. She turned me down and called me names and dashed nwav. But I feel I owe it to you to tell you.*’ “You didn’t use the knowledge I gave you?” “I did not,” indignantly exclaimed Stone. “Nor am I ever likelv to. Please understand that. You must have a pretty ugly opinion o'f me to ask such a question/' “I haven’t a particularly good opinion of you, my dear Martin; but on this occasion I believe you’/ “Thank you. And, l»y the way, I have just been telephoning London, and find that I must get back to-night. It is very urgent. I’m awfully sorry.” “So am I. And I’m sure John will bo terribly disappointed,” said Maud, coldly. He left it at that, and bowed respectfully over her hand

J “You seem io have made a pretty mess of things,” she said. “But I ought to I have known.” ! 1 lien came Bolton. I “Look here, .oaud dear, what’s to bo ’ done about this?’ he asked, when at long last he found it possible to talk to her without the presence of other people. “Pm sure I don’t know, she answered with a careless shrug of her slim, girlish shoulders. “Why all this commotion? Why all this fuss? The girl will turn up all right. Leave her alone, and she ll come home and bring her tail behind her.” “That’s all very well; but you know what a wild, irresponsible young tiling she is. I confess h rankly that 1 am genuinely alarmed.” “Your face betrays that fact, my dear. You really ought to exercise greater contiol.” “Has Clarice told vuu anything?” lie asked. “Yes, lots of tilings—lots of most disturbing things.” ‘T see. May I know what they are?” “You ought to know, surely.” She was in m* mood to spare his feelings. But shewas at her old game of playing with fire. “She did not tell you, then, that she came upon us in the rose-garden just before breakfast and saw and heard things which she was not intended to see or hear.” “You mean you and Jacqueline?” “Yes.” Maud’s thin nostrils dilated. Her lovely eyes shot out darts of flame. “ Ah, so that was what she was keeping baek!” she breathed. “ I might have guessed as much.” “ She did not tell you? ” “ No; but I knew.” “ But you don’t know all.” “ 1 know quite enough, thank you,” she answered coldly. “ Pray leave something to the imagination. I require no details. Then this writes the end as far as we two are concerned? ” “ I’m awfully sorry, Maud * “ Not at all,” she answered. “ You can’t help it, I suppose. It might have happened to me, just in the way of things. Only I do think you might nave been a bit more sporting.” “ Maud, I’m a brute. I hate myself. I can’t tell you how I hate myself. But it is Fate.” “ Fate be bothered! You’re just a man like the rest of them. Well, John, T’m sorry and I’m disappointed. I’m particularly sorry for you because, you see, there seems every reason to suppose that Miss Jacqueline Croft has committed sui cide. In which case, you sec, you hay rather thrown away a woman who is genuinely fond of you, and was quite willing to make you a good wife for a—well, ‘ de mortuis nil nisi bonum.’ ” She waited to see the effect on but it was disappointing. “ 1 think,” he said, “that you can dismiss the idea of suicide. I have been going into all the circumstances, and I have made a discovery. All that boy’s kit which she wore in the Queen of Peru, all of it, stockings, boots, cap, and '.he rest, has disappeared. It was there yesterday. It is not there to-day. It takes very little reasoning to assume that Jacqueline has gone away in the things she came in. It is just like her.” “ Thank God! ” said Maud, with a surprising change of voice and manner. “ Oh, I hope vou are right. Does Clarice know? 1 must rush and tell her. Oh, John, I can’t tell you how relieved I am! ” “So am I, old girl. But that doesn’t mean that we’ve found her. I’m going to waste no time in trying to trace her. I must inform the police without delay. Do you happen to know whether she had much money? ” “ I haven't the remotest idea. I am inclined to think she wouldn't have a penny. She never had any need of money here.” Just so. and I hope you’re right, because she couldn’t get very far away without the wherewithal to pay her travelling expenses. But just think of it, Maud darling—that poor child, absolutely alone, destitute, starving nerhaps! And all through my unpardonable folly. Oh, my dear girl, I don’t deserve to live! ’’ “ Don’t talk sucli nonsense, John. I admit you behaved like a fool No fool like an old fool. And I think you mighthave hatT the common courtesy, to put it mildly, to have informed me that you wished our engagement to end before precipitating this thing. It was hardly fair on either of us, was it 9 ” “It was danviafcle,” said Bolton. “Nothing you can say of me can be worse than what I think of myself. I have behaved abominably. My action is unforgiveable. If any harm should come to that poor girl, hang it all, I’ll blow my brains out.” “I really think you are a little mad, John. I do of you to keep yourself in hand. This nas all the makings of a first-class scandal; and only discreet and diplomatic action now, this moment, is going to avert a very sticky business. I’m sorry for Jacqueline, of course; but I am a’so just a bit sorry for myself. Y'ou don’t think of me. Your thoughts are alf for the girl and your silly self.” “I’m frightfully sorpy, old darling,” lie cried. “I’m a senile idiot, that’s what I am. I was swept away on an instant impulse. I swear it. I never meant to say n word to her. I had reasoned the whole position out calmly, and had come to the only sensible conclusion possible, and that was that for a man ~of mv ago to think of marrying a child of her ago was unnatural and impossible.” “And you fcigofc, I suppose, that you were going to marry me. You forgot me altogether. I didn’t count?” “That is not true. You counted first and foremost of all.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” Poor Maud. She was, as it were, fighting for her life. Whatever happened, whatever the sacrifice she might be called upon to make, to dignity, honour or reason, she must not let John go out of her life like this. The appalling prospect of

his breaking with her, as indeed he had done already, was not to be thought of. He was just like a great, overgrown boy, so transparently honest, so frank, and so indescribably foolish. But he had been straight with her, although it served her purpose to accuse him of acting otherwise. She knew him inside out; she realised that she was keeping nothing back. This girl, irony of ironies, this child of her own, had woven the spell of sense around him. She was no fool, and she had seen how Jacqueline had been attracted to John. The call of sex. She had seen it again and again. The most potent power in life, the force that drove sane men and women to unbelievable actions, to madness, crime and despair. There was no use in fighting against it. She knew that, iet she must fight. For a dizzy moment she was tempted to tell him who Jacqueline really was. Jacqueline knew; Clarice knew. Was it likely that John could long enjoy his ignorance? And would it not be far better for the truth to come from her? That would be a supreme sacrifice in very truth, because that would effectually part them. She reasoned the thing out wildly in her mind, as John continued in his blundering excuses and his self-con-demnations and his anxieties for Jacquelire. Jacqueline—Jacqueline. It was always the girl. He was obviously most acutely alarmed. He could think of nothing else. Grudgingly, only every now and then, he would return to Maud* and metaphorically fl'ng himself in abasement at her feet, and plead with her not to be too hard on him and to help him to find Miss Jack. She knew that he laboured under the illusion that he it was who was solely responsible for the ' flight of Jacqueline; but she knew otherwise. It was the knowledge she had gained from Clarice that had driven her away, Hagar-like, into the wilderness. And of that John knew nothing. She would tell him. She took the plunge. She faced the situation. For (rood or ill, she had lost John. Whatever happened, he had gone from her for ever. She must face the arid future as best she might. “John,” she said very quietly, ‘ what I am going to tell you will shock you and will make you physically and mentally sick; but as I no longer count for anything in your life, it is just as well that I tell you.” “My dear girl, what are you saying! “John, I have deceived you ever since we met. I am a liar and a fraud. 1 think, just as I feel now, that I must be the most wicked and horrible woman in the world. But, believe me, before you know everything, that from the moment you asked ‘me to share your life, I have had only one thought mmy “ eart and brain, and that was you “Maud,” he burst out. ‘I say, don t rub it in like that.” “Stop. Don’t interrupt me. As I say, I have never had any other idea in my mind hut you, and my one object has been to make you happy, and when we were to be married, to be a good and true ivife to you. But I kept something back, John, old'hoy. I wasn’t straight. If you d known the truth, as I ought to have to.d you at the beginning. I don t suppose for a moment you would ever have thought of making me your wife.” 'Don’t be ridiculous, said Bolton. “What the deuce is all this about! .. “ You were a rich man, my dear, sne went on quietly. “I was and always shall be stoney broke. Tile prospect of being the wife of a man like you, when you seemed to really want me, was a great temptation. 1 fought agajnst it, but I succumbed.” She burst mto > little hard laugh. “And for this-this say, Maud, old girl, don’t he too hard on me,” pleaded Bolton. “ You see,” she continued, ignoring Ms interruption, “ I never really felt towards you as a woman ought to feel towards the man she is going to marry, don t you understand? I didn’t love you. Diere, now you see what I mean. I was, and am, and always shall be, awfully fond of you as a friend, companion, and a good pal; but I hated it when you kissed me—ugh! I could have screamed when you took me in your arms.” “ ITie devil you didl Well, Im hanged! ” Contrary to Maud's eructations Bolton smiled broadly, cheerfully. •' Gad' ” he exclaimed, “ that’s a relief! So you don’t mind the break-up between us as much as I thought you would. After all, we can be good friends—same as before—eh? ” , , , . , She smiled and shook her lovely head. “ You oTeat, big, silly hoy,” she murmured. “ Just iif still and hear me cut, and then I'll lose no time in adjusting myself to the new order of things. Now, my one object in accepting your offer to marry me was money. I hadnt got a cent.' I haven't now; but, believing I 6hould eventually become Mrs John Bolton, I have contracted a vast pile of bills. You see, John, I’m brutally frank. I leave you to-day penniless and bankrupt.”

“ What infernal nonsense 1 ” he cried, really angry. “ You don't suppose I’m going to let you down like that. Anything you want—everything I've got in the world, if itVomes to that, is yours." “ Tliat is kind and generous of vou and just like yon, old boy ; hut you know tliat I would not touch a penny of it. lam not too old to earn a living. 1 ought not to have mentioned that part of it. But what I am now going to tell you will probably make you think very differently of me. 1 ’ " If,” he interrupted her, “ you ore going to tell mo that you are the divorced wife of the deceased Michael Dennis Croft, and the mother of Jacqueline, ? lease save yourself the trouble, because have known it all along." (To be continued.)