Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 112, 2 August 1927, Page 14

Flotsam

Coralie Stanton and. Heath Has ken.

To have Flotsam, 1.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out of a ship during a 6torm, and Wilsam. 1.e., goods driven ashore when ships are wrecked. These wrecks were called by the vulgar. Goods of God’s mercy. (Ancient Charter of Dover.) CHAPTER XIV. —CContinued.) Dear Sir” (it read): "A mutual friend of ours, Mr. Elmer Smeed, of New York City, has told me that you have rendered great assistance to my daughter, Jacqueline, when she was in great distress. I wish to thank you most profoundly for all you have done. T should do myself the honour of calling upon you instead of writing, but for the feeling that you would resent such action, holding the views you do of my conduct as told me in confidence by my friend, Smeed. “I never explain or apologise for anything I do. But I will make an exception in your case, since I owe so much to you. “I got into a hopeless mess a few months ago and had to run away and leave everything. If I had stayed I should undoubtedly have been put away for some years, and all possibility of my making good disposed of. I have by my action succeeded in what I set out to perform, and have come back to England to settle my liabilities in full. Indeed that has already been done. I owe no man a farthing, and can hold my head among my fellows a free man again among honourable men.

“I am most anxious to find my daughter, and before taking steps, I write to ask you to be so very good as to let me know what has already been done, so that there shall be no overlapping. “I am again given to understand that Jacqueline’s mother is known to you. I wish you to understand I do not intend to embarrass you or her in any way. If you prefer to communicate with me through my lawyers, will you kindly write to Mr. William Wellington (of Messrs Seascape. Lung and Wellington, solicitors, 300 b, Coleman Street, E.C.), who is completely in my confidence. “If it is not asking too much of you. I should naturally prefer a personal meeting, and will keep any appointment you may be so good as to accord me. “Again, dear sir. I beg you to accept the sincere thanks for all you have done for my unfortunate and unhappy little girl. “Yours faithfully, (M. D. Croft.)’* So his last hope was destroyed. Ever since he knew that Michael Croft was alive, he had felt so sure that Jacqueline would discover the fact, and no power in Heaven or earth would prevent her from flying to her father. It was quite a decent letter of Croft, and he decided at once to see him. He telephoned the Rita: Hotel and asked for Mr. Croft, and in a few seconds heard a big booming voice asking: “Who’s that?” “Is that Mr. Croft?” asked Bolton. “It is, and who are you?” “This is John Bolton speaking from Saye Castle.” “Sorry, Mr. Bolton. It’s very good of you to ring me up. You got my letter?” “I did, and I was “wondering if you’d run down here, and have a chat. There’s a good train at eleven from Charing Cross. I shall be delighted to put you up over night, if you can

, Acthora of " The Real Mra. Dare , V “ The Man She Never Married.” “ Sioord and Plough,” &c., £rc.

spare the time. What do you say?” “I’ll come down by the eleven train. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness.” The boom in the voice had gone. It was like a sudden lull after a raging tempest. It was quite a pleasant voice. “Book to Eastings. There's no change. I’ll meet you with my car. Train arrives twelve-forty-eight.” “Good. I’ll be there.” “And you’ll stay the night?” “No, thank you very much. I won’t impose that much on your hospitality, besides I’m rather rushed up here in town at the moment.” “Well, as you will. You may change your mind.” They rang off, and Bolton rose from his chair to find himself face to face with Mrs. Manton, looking most perturbed and excited. He had never seen the usually unruffled Mrs. Manton exhibit any form of emotion. “Oh, sir,” she burst out, excitedly. “What do you think has happened?” “Anything might happen to-day and leave me unmoved,” said Bolton. “But, sir, Miss Jack has come back.” And there behind Mrs. Manton stood Jacqueline, white, wide-eyed, trembling with excitement. There she stood, a slim stripling of a boy in the very self-same boy’s clothes in which she had been clad when five or six

months ago Bolton had brought her unwillingly to Saye. “Well, young fellow,” said Bolton. “So you’ve turned up again, hav*e you? And may I ask what is the meaning of all this?” Mrs. Manton discreetly withdrew. Hardly had the door closed than she was in John Bolton’s arms, her lips pressed close to his. “Oh, my little love. Thank God you have come back,” he cried.

“My darling, my darling,” she murmured trembling and sobbing. It was a long time before he could get her to explain what had happened, but at last he tore her story from her.

It was Martin Stone after all—Martin Stone, liar and hypocrite! In her disjointed way she told Bolton how, horrified by the discovery that Lady Maud was her mother and that she was deeply in love with John, she had put on her boy’s clothes and rushed madly away, possessing barely five pounds of money, all of which she owed to Bolton, and just enough clothing that she could cram into a small handbag.

She had no idea of what she meant to do. She was like a wild thing. She said she just hid in the woods until dark and then, hungry and thirsty and cold, she was tempted to go back to Saye; but she withstood

the temptation and made her way to the station at Eastinge to find there was a train to London at nine-forty. Here at Eastinge Station she ran into the arms of Martin Stone, who recognised her *at once. And why should he not, seeing that early that morning he had proposed marriage to her?

Stone was kind, sympathetic and mysterious. She was half mad and quite irresponsible. He told her that he knew all about her father, that he was not drowned, but was alive and living in hiding in Paris. He appeared to be incredibly generous and anxious to help her. He said he would take her to her father. She believed him. They travelled to London together and he found her a room at a good London hotel. The next morning when he called to make arrangements, she was so ill that he called in a doctor, who insisted that she should go at once to a nursing home.

It was agreed between Stone and herself that he should pose as her uncle and she call herself Miss Benham. He was kindness and consideration itself. She trusted him implicitly and hated herself for ever thinking evilly of him. He never referred to his feelings towards her, never made love to her. He was simply courteous, respectful, and most frightfully kind. When she got well again, she willingly went with him to Paris. In the meantime he had told her that her father had sent him money to pay all expenses for new clothes and nursing home, doctor, and travelling expenses; but that he dare not write to her lest he should give his whereabouts away.

No one could have been more chivalrous, more considerate of her feelings. She trusted him wholeheartedly without a shred of suspicion. He booked her room at a delightful little hotel in the Rue Valois and himself stayed at the Crillon. That night they dined together at Langers and he left her at her hotel. On the way back she realised that she had been duped, that her father was not in Paris or anywhere else as far as Stone knew. The hideous diabolic

plot was revealed. She saw what he wanted. She had delivered herself into his power.

She tore herself from him, stopped the cab and dashed into the vortex of the Avenue de l’Opera, leapt into a taxi, and drove to her hotel, packed up, paid her bill, and drove to the Gare du Nord. and just caught the night train to Calais. It was in the train that she lost all consciousness. She remembered nothing else for some weeks, save vaguely in moments of semi-conscious-ness.

Then she woke up in a hospital ward in Dover, as they told her, and learnt that she had had a serious breakdown. Followed a long period of convalescence, during which she steadfastly refused to betray her identity. Her passport was in the possession of Stone. At last, determined to escape, she got into her old clothes —the garments of Jack King of the Queen of Peru, and, in sheer desperation, found her way to Saye. “Your home, sweetheart,” said Bolton. “Ah, if only I could think it really was. It will always be my soul’s home.” Thefi Bolton quietly told her how things had gone with him and with Maud. “We’ll be married as soon as pos-

sible,” he announced with conviction. “So that’s settled.” He looked at his watch. “By jove!” he said. “I’ve got to meet a friend at Eastinge. We’ve hardly got time.” He rang and ordered the car. “You’ll come with me?” “But not dressed like this?” “Certadnly! Nothing could be more appropriate.” And she went. And as Michael Croft alighted from the London train that is how he met his daughter. “Allow me, Mr. Croft,” said Bolton, “to present you to my future wife — that is, of course, if you have no objection. I have not hitherto had an opportunity of asking your permission, though I have the full sanction of her mother.” ♦ * * It will not surprise you to know that Croft and Maud were present at the wedding of the daughter they had both so grievously wronged, and that less than a year afterwards Mr. and Mrs. John Bolton were present at a simple and very quiet affair at a registry office in London, when Lady Maud Genge became the wife of Michael Croft again. The End.