Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 103, 22 July 1927, Page 14

Flotsam

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken.

(To be continued.) To have Flotsam, i.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out of a ship during a storm, and 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 n lad who has just been rescued trom drowning. The sailor who has brought the boy 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 p sordid story. The girl’s father is really Michael Dennis Croft, company promoter, whose gigantic failure has engulfed the savings of millions of hard workers. His daughter, Jacqueline, is penniless. CHAPTERS I (Continued) and n.— John Bolton writes to his fiancee, Lady Maud Genge, tells the whole story of Jacqueline, and asks her to help him. He has his first interview with Jacqueline She reveals herself as a striking-looking girl, full of character. She has taken the news of her father’s death quietly. Lady Maud Genge, in the Swiss mountains, reads in the paper of the death of Dennis Croft. She talks It over with her maid Clarice. Later she muses over her past life, her runaway marriage, her divorce, her father's accession to the peerage. A letter comes to her from John Bolton, giving her the history of the arrival of Jacqueline, and expressing a wish for her presence and advice. Lady Maud gives her maid orders to pack. She is returning to England. She spends the night at Folkestone after crossing the Channel, and in the morning hires a car and motors to Saye Castle. John Bolton is not there to meet her, but Parker, the butler, and Mrs. Manton, welcome her The housekeeper gives her the latest news of the new protegee, and says how fond the master is of her. CHAPTERS 111 and rv.—Lady Maud wanders round the gardens and comes upon Jacqueline. She gets into conversation and tries to win the girl, apparently succeeding. Maud discovers that Jacqueline is well educated. John Bolton arrives about five o’clock. He is pleased that the two women are friends. Lady Maud goes back to her hotel, where John dines with her that evening. When they are taking coffee the subject of Jacqueline is introduced. His fiancee refuses to be dragged into mothering her. When John asks her to do this she says, “Not on your life!’’ She leaves the ultimatum with him that he loses her if he keeps Jacqueline.

CHAPTER X.—Continued.

“I have told you all this,’* said Maud, unabashed, “as a means to help you to win Jacqueline.’*

“I should hate to believe that you thought I should use such means,” he replied. “As I say, I don’t believe what you have told me. If I did, I should regard it as a very great and sacred secret.”

“Sanctimonious prig!’* “Neither sanctimonious nor prig, dear lady. Regard me as a bit of a fool if you like; but you must know that I try to play the game according to the rules and my own feelings, which, I trust, are gentle. I’ll go and have a shot at little Miss Jack on my own; but I’m not going to blackmail her with this cock-and-bull story of yours. Either she takes me on my standing or she turns me down. I’m no plaster saint, but I’m hanged if I’m a blackmailer!”

The next day Stone found the opportunity for which he sought. He and Jacqueline were alone together. It had all happened quite naturally and was in no way pre-arranged or contemplated. It was early in the morning before breakfast. Stone had gone out for a stroll around the gardens and a breath of the scented morning air. On the lower terrace, with its wide vista of the marsh and the sea and the long tongue of Shingleness, stretching out like a quivering tentacle toward France, uncannily clear on the horizon, he came face to face with Jacqueline. “Top of the morning to you, Miss Jack,” he said. “What a glorious day! And what a priceless view!”

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There was no escape for her. For a moment he saw a look of fear in her eyes; but she returned his greeting naturally enpugh. “You are up early, Mr. Stone,” she said, a little nervously. “It’s the early bird that catches the worm.”

“I hope I’m not the worm,” she retorted, with a boyish laugh. “By the way,” she added seriously. “I took you at your word and did not answer your letter.”

“There was nothing to answer. Indeed, there was nothing to write about; only somehow I felt that I owed you some sort of apology.” “Not at all, I've forgotten all about it.”

“But I haven’t,” he said gravely. “And this fortunate greeting gives me the chance of settling it one way or another.”

“Settling what?” exclaimed the girl, staring at him blankly. “Whether you are going to marry me or not,” said Stone.

“Marry you?” “Yes. Why not? I’m not nearly so old as 1 look, and I’m never at my best at half-past seven in the morning. Preposterous hour to propose marriage to a girl! Anyhow, I’ve done it. So there you are. You see me at my worst, though I see you at your best. Perhaps that is just as well ” “Mr. Stone!”

“Jacqueline—little Miss Jack, as they call you, little Miss Jack, I love you more than all the world.”

She stared at him in bewildering amaze—frightened, fascinated, terrified.

This was what she had feared. She had known it was inevitable, though she had striven to escape it. She was caught up in the octopus tentacles of a Fate she was destined never to escape. She stood there, stricken of speech, staring affrighted and fascinated like a rabbit held‘in thrall by the eye of a snake. She was incapable of speech or movement. She was paralysed, inert, unable to escape the devouring pounce of the snake.

Her silence somewhat disconcerted Stone. “Won’t you say anything?” he pleaded, then he laughed reassuringly. “I admit this is hardly the hour to settle the most serious affair of one’s life.” Then it was that Jacqueline pulled herself together and rode the storm. “You are right, Mr. Stone,” she said, speaking quickly, and a little wildly. “Let us go indoors and see if .there’s any breakfast going. I’m feeling perfectly ravenous.” “And I,” said he, “could demolish a kidney and possibly some bacon and eggs. But won’t you answer my question before we go and eat. Will you marry me?” Jacqueline gave him a look that would have killed him, but for his extra thick skin. She went as white as paper, but her eyes flashed red fire. “I think you are a most detestable cad,” she said. “And please never speak to me again.” She swung around and walked swiftly toward the house. “Jacqueline,” he cried. “Jacqueline.” But she had gone.

John Bolton was also up early on this gorgeous September morning and was taking the air before his breakfast of grape fruit and grilled sole. Jacqueline, walking swiftly through the great rose gardens as the quickest way to her rooms, practically ran into his arms. He saw at once that something was amiss. The white, strained face and the wild, frightened eyes told him that. She looked just as she did on that foggy day when he had forcibly taken her away from the scene of the wreck of the “Queen of Peru,” off Shingleness. “My dear child, what on earth is the matter?” he exclaimed, catching hold of her trembling hands. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” “It’s nothing—really, it’s nothing,” she protested. “Oh, but that’s all nonsense!” he said. “Something has happened. What is it? I insist on knowing. Come, come, little girl ” “Don’t —what does it matter?” Then she commenced to sob, jerkily, like a child who has been frightened. Then the thing happened. It came in a flash on the torrent of a great overwhelming impulse. As well oppose a tidal wave or stay the rushing hurricane. Bolton caught her in his arms and held her close to him—so very close—and rained kisses on her sun-flecked yellow hair. “My little love! —my darling! ” She did not struggle. She lay inert in his arms, sobbing. He raised her tear-stained face to his and kissed her on the lips. “I love

you!—l love you!” he whispered. “Tell me you love me, too.” “You know I do,” she breathed. “But, oh, it has come so suddenly. It is like being struck by lightning.” “Kiss me! Kiss me!”

She gave him her lips unresisting, then tore herself from him. “This is madness! What are we thinking of?” “My darling, what does anything matter now?”

“But everything matters. Oh, don’t you understand? Lady Maud ” “I’ll deal with Lady Maud,” he said, grimly. But, of course, he understood, and, of course, he realised what had happened, and all that would inevitably have to happen afterwards. But it was Fate, and he accepted it, and clasped her to him again in an ecstasy. Neither heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and it was not until a quiet voice broke in upon their transports that they realised that there was a third person present in the shape of Maud’s faithful maid, Clarice, the little, dumpy, bird-like woman in her black, old-fashioned dress. “If you please, sir,” said Clarice, “her ladyship wants to see you. She sent me out to look for you.” “Certainly,” replied Bolton, assuming a nonchalance that he was far from feeling. “Where is her ladyship?” “In the breakfast room, sir.” And Clarice, having accomplished her mission, slightly inclined her sleek head and retired. What she had seen, what she had heard, what she understood, or how she interpreted things, it was impossible to know, and vain to conjecture. Jacqueline was trembling like an aspen and looked as pale as a ghost. “Courage, sweetheart!” Bolton whispered. “Don’t give yourself away. Leave everything to me. Trust me implicitly.” They walked together across the ageold lawns toward the house. Suddenly Jacqueline stopped. She looked like a wild sprite, unearthly and uncanny. She snatched a great tomatocoloured Padre rose from her breast, and tore it to pieces in a kind of frenzy. “I’m going away!” she said. “I’m going now—this very minute! Do you understand? You must forget that you have ever seen me. You must blot me out of your memory.” “Don’t be silly!” he said with a bland, proprietorial air. “I should be mad and criminal to stay here another minute now.” Again he said: “Don’t be silly!” It sounded fatuous under the circumstances, but it was the only thing he could think of to say; he was thinking very hard, and he realised that he was driving an untrained filly, who might get the bit in her teeth before he knew where he was. And it was even so. She bolted before he knew what she was about. Like a streak of lightning she darted swiftly as a nymph after the retreating form of squat-figured old Clarice. He watched her and exulted in the grace of her stride, her youthful form, her utter abandonment to the instant impulse. He saw her overtake Clarice and seize her arm. He saw them stop and watched Clarice talking impulsively, and then the two walked together, deep in intimate converse. There was nothing for him to do but to continue his course and seek his Lady Maud. He had lost all appetite for his iced grape fruit and grilled sole. But the scent of the late summer roses was in is nostrils and his heart was singing. CHAPTER XI. “Clarice,” panted Jacqueline,” what did you see? What did you hear?” “My dear Miss Jacqueline, what on earth do you mean?” exclaimed Clarice, was admirably simlated surprise. “You know quite well what I mean!” cried Jacqueline, excitedly. “And I’m going to have it out with you. I don’t want you to pretend and be discreet and all that. I want to know. I will know. It doesn’t make any difference to me what you do—what you tell Lady Maud—it makes not the slightest difference. But I will know. Do you understand?”’ “My dear Miss Jacqueline, I do pray of you to control yourself,” faithful old Clarice pleaded. “You’re making quite a scene. And, if you must know for your own satisfaction, I quite unwittingly saw much more than I was intended to see.’” “There! I knew it!” “But I couldn’t help it. I would have had all my teeth out rather than this should have happened. I’ve suspected it all along; but suspecting isn’t knowing. Now I know. Oh, dearie me, what a terrible state of affairs! Of all the things that could ever happen! Oh, dearie, dearie me! I never thought it would come td this. What is to be done? Oh, it is too awful, Miss Jacqueline—you as I nursed as a dear, little baby, and have never ceased thinking of and praying for every day of my life. And my dear lady, who I’d die for willingly. You and she! Oh, it is too awful. My poor brain won’t stand out against it much longer. Why does this Mr. Bolton want to go and spoil both your lives? Aren’t there enough other women in the world for a rich gentleman lfke him to amuse himself with without going and making love to a mother and a daughter at the same time? I hope God will punish him for his wickedness, punish him good and plenty.” (To be Continued.)