Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 92, 9 July 1927, Page 12

Flotsam

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hos ken.

Authors of “ The Real Mr». Dare " The Man She Never Married/* " Sword and Plough," &c., £rc.

To have Flotsam, i.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out cf a ship during a storm, an 1 Wilsam, i.e., goods driven ashore when ships are wrecked. These wrecks were called by the vulgar. Goods of God’s mercy. (Ancient Charter of Dover.) SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.—John Bolton kneels on the shingle beside the animate form of a ■ lad who has just been rescued from drowning. The sailor who has brought the be.-' from the shipwreck can give no information about him. Eater, inquiries .proving futile, John Bolton carries the lad to his motor, covers him with rugs, and drives off The boy refuses the stimulating drink that John offers, and wants to go. This request is refused. Questioned the lad states that he is Jack King. He and his father were bound for South America. Complains of feeling sick and collapses. Arrived at Saye Castle, John Bolton’s home, Mrs. Manton, the housekeeper, undertakes to get the boy to bed, but he fights, kicks, bites, struggles, and makes off. John Bolton catches him and he capitulates by fainting. He is got to bed and Dr. Goring is sent for. About six in the evening Mrs. Manton seeks her master and informs him that Jack King is a girl—a young woman about eighteen. Dr. Goring says the patient must be kept perfectly quiet for a few days. John Bolton communicates with the steamship offices in London, Scotland Yard tells a sordid story. The girl’s father is really Michael Dennis A’roft, company promoter, whose gigantic 'failure has engulfed the savings of millions of hard workers. His daughter, Jacqueline, is penniless. CHAPTER 11. (Continued). “I am most perplexed,” Bolton wrote. “Of course, I know, strictly speaking, that the whole thing has nothing whatever to do with me, and that I have no responsibility in regard to the poor child. At the same time, I feel that 1 cannot bring myself to leave her to fend for herself. It is difficult to explain—a dickens of a problem. I wish you were here, old girl, so that we could have a good old pow-pow and thresh the whole thing out. I wonder what you would advise ...” The sharp-cut nostrils of Maud’s piquant little nose contracted and the laughing dark blue eyes of her darted lire. She knew what she would advise. She sniffed quite cattishly as she read on:—

ft “• • • and the girl herself is altogether a most intriguing young person, a bundle of nerves and contradictory moods. At first she was like a young, untamed panther; but she is getting much more tractable. I think «he has at last got it into her excited little head that she hasn’t fallen among thieves, but that we are really her friends—even though she admits it grudgingly.

; “I am sure you would be interested in her. She badly wants a woman to look after her.

• T really haven’t the heart to send her away—it would seem like turning u stray dog out into the night . . .” There could be no doubt in Maud’s mind that Miss Jacqueline had made already a greatly favourable impression on the susceptible John.

T suppose,” he went on, “there is no likelihood of your being back in England for several weeks. I hate to ask you to cut short your holiday, but I would really like to discuss this matter with you. I feel so helpless. And as you and I are practically running In double harness in a very short time, I don’t feel quite as free as I should otherwise to make a definite decision in regard to Jacqueline ...”

That decided Maud. She rang for Clarice. The little woman was swift to answer the summons.

“Clarice,” said Maud, “I am not dining out to-night. Please telephone to Mrs. Harden Ellerwood, and say that I am exceedingly sorry that I am unable to dine with them at the A 1 penrose, as I am suddenly called to London. And please get packed up as soon as possible. We shall leave by the seven-ten train, and I’ll dine in the restaurant. And book two sleeping berths. The train will be half-empty at this time of year.”

* Clarice was not unaccustomed to the sudden impulses of her beautiful mistress.

Maud spent the next day in Paris and left for Boulogne by the afternoon express, and, after a painfully rough crossing, more dead than alive, reached Folkestone about ten o’clock. Leaving Clarice to follow her with the trunks and other Impedimenta, she, with a dressingcase, proceeded to the pavilion, where she went straight to bed.

She had wired John from Bale that she had received his letter, and was returning to England on other business. and would see him at once. She purposely did not tell him when she was arriving, because she had a positive hatred of anyone meeting her after a Channel crossing. The next morning, refreshed by a long night’s rest, rejuvenated by the skilful attentions of Clarice, and a hat slie had bought in Paris, the wretched Journey was forgotten, and she lived

again. She ordered a motor-car from the hotel, and drove off to Saye Castle, a matter of five or six miles. She would give John a pleasant surprise. She wondered a little bitterly whether it would be such a pleasant surprise, after all, Jacqueline! He felt so helpless about Jacqueline, did he? He hadn’t the heart to send her away. It would seem like turning a stray dog out into the night. It was difficult to explain, was it? Oh, yes, she would give John quite a pleasant surprise. She smiled seraphically. She knew that she was looking her best. For all her five and thirty years she knew she could hold her own with any girl or any woman. She was youth incarnate. She was the woman who never grows old, but is always young. Then suddenly, like a sharp vertigo, a thought struck her, a sharp, swift memory from the past, and it seemed to send her skin all goose-flesh—the memory of a little plump baby, a rose-leaf-faced baby, with little pink clutching hands and such strange-looking, questioning yellow eyes, tea-coloured eyes, so odd in a baby. Her heart contracted. She was going to see that little baby again—after all these years. And, God in Heaven, she was jealous of that little rosy-faced baby! For the first time in her life Maud Genge felt old. The car swung round the drive and pulled up at the entrance of Saye Castle. She sat in the car, and looked inquiringly, and a little puzzled. Somehow she had expected to see John on the steps awaiting her. Surely they must have heard the car—it was a particularly noisy car, and the chauffeur had heralded their approach with raucous soundings of his klaxon horn. The gardens were a blafee of colour of massed roses, and the perfect ageold lawns, so green, so immaculately trimmed, swooned away into the great borders of blue delphiniums and Canterbury bells, ox-eyed daisies, and anchusa and hollyhocks. The far-away sound of a lawn mower was all that broke the silence of the still August noon. The only sign of life was the distant form of a gardener tending a pergola of rambler roses. The great square-clipped box and ilex hedges looked lamp-black against the cloudless blue of the sky. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and newly-mown grass. The dull drone of bees was everywhere. Suddenly Parker, the butler, appeared, and, recognising her, descended the low steps with an energy quite out of keeping with his habitual decorum.

“Well, well, my lady,” he exclaimed, beaming a friendly welcome, “who would have thought it? Where does your ladyship come from, if I may ask? We didn’t expect you so soon.” He opened the door of the car and assisted Maud to alight. “Arrived last night, Parker,” she said. “Thought I’d give Mr. Bolton a surprise. Where is he?” “I’m sorry, my lady, but he went up to town early this morning. He had no idea that you would be in England so soon.” “‘But he got my telegram?”

“Oh, yes, my lady, but I don’t think he gathered that you would be here so soon. He will be returning tonight. And if a telegram was to come from your ladyship, I was to telephone it to his club. Dear, dear, this is very unfortunate. He will be most distressed. And how are you, my lady?” Maud assured Parker that she was literally in the pink, and said that she would take a walk around the gardens. Would her ladyship be staying for luncheon? No, her ladyship thought that she would go back to Folkestone for lunch. Would her ladyship like any immediate refreshment? No, buit perhaps Parker would see that that the chauffeur was looked after for half an hour or so.

Then Mrs. Manton, the housekeeper, appeared, immaculately attired and beaming a welcome that was not only conventional but genuine. Maud had long ago impressed her personality on Mrs. Manton, who regarded her as one of the most wonderful ladies in the world. Maud had the facility of turning all her servants and all the servants of her friends into abject idolaters.

And this did not mean the lavish distribution of gratuities, because, as a general rule, she was far more likely to borrow of them than to give them tips. It was just the way she had with them. She made them her dear and personal friends; she invited their confidence and gave them hers —or, at any rate, made them think she did. There was a great personal charm about Maud which communicated itself to everyone with whom she came in contact. It was, quite apart from her beauty and virility, her greatest asset in life.

Mrs. Manton would not hear of her ladyship going back to Folkestone for lunch. The idea! Mr. Bolton would never forgive her. And, besides, there was a special reason why her ladyship

should stay to lunch—a very special reason. Mrs. Manton forthwtih plunged into the exciting history of Miss Croft —the amazing Jacqueline Croft. As a matter of fact, she told Maud very little more than she knew already, and not nearly as much as she guessed.

“Of course, she’s ever so much better now,” Mrs. Manton concluded.

“Quite normal, as you, might say; and I must admit it myself—a very nice young lady for all her tantrums. Oh, we were wishing you were here, my lady, at the time. You would have been a great help. I think Mr. Bolton was seriously contemplating cabling to your ladyship an 5.0.5., as he called it.”

“Where is this interesting young per sonage now?” asked Maud Genge.

“She’s somewhere about the gardens, I expect. She’s always out-of-doors. We used to have to watch her, because we were afraid she was going to escape. But lately she’s got fairly accustomed to us, and has quite settled down. That’s largely due to Mr. Bolton, if I may say so, my lady. Mr. Bolton has behaved like an angel—he really has. He couldn’t have treated her better if if he’d been her own—what shall we say?— well, her own brother, my lady.” “Or father?” Maud ventured.

“No—hardly ‘father.’ I always look on Mr. Bolton as little more than a boy, though, of course, I know he’s getting on. But, somehow or other, I couldn’t imagine him as the father of Miss Jack, any more than I could think of your ladyship as her mother.” Maud winced inwa.rdly, but she rather enjoyed the irony of it. “So you call her Miss Jack, do you?” she said. “Yes. Mr. Bolton first started calling her Miss Jack, instead of Jacqueline.” “Oh, did he?” mused Maud, aloud. “Yes, and she just worships Mr. Bolton now, though at first she used to behave as if she could murder him. Ah, well, but all that has passed, thaiik goodness. And, my lady, Mr. Bolton has become most attached to Miss Jack. He’ll do anything for her, and he won’t hear a word against her. But he is always like that when he really takes to anyone. He’s never properly got over poor old Kruger’s death —you know, my lady, Kruger, his old setter, not that Boer general. And then there’s Trotsky—that hideous bull terrier. He just dotes on Trotsky. It’ll be the same with Miss Jack —you mark my word, my lady. Oh, he wants looking after, does my Mr. Bolton, and it’ll be a good thing when he’s got you, my lady, to help him. He is so helpless.” (To be contniued.)