Come out here,Steve,an'take the team.Jump down,Masther Gerald,an'stretch yer legs a bit.It's kilt ye are entirely."A swarthy little Mexican appeared,and led the tired horses into the stable.Then the young journalist took a good look at the man who seemed to know him so well,and endeavored,as the phrase goes,to "place him.""Ye don't mind me,yer honor,an'how wud ye?But I mind yersilf well.Sure it's often I've druv ye and Mr.Edward too.I used to wurruk for Mr.Ross of Mullinger.I was Denny the postboy--Denis Driscoll,yer honor;sure ye must know me?""Oh yes,to be sure--I remember,"said Gerald,as recollection slowly dawned upon him."But who'd have thought of finding you in a place like this?I didn't even know you'd left Ross's stables.""Six or siven months ago,yer honor."
"And have you been here ever since?I hope you are doing well,"said Gerald.
"Iver since,sor,an'doin'finely,wid the blessin'o'God.I own that place,"pointing to the stable,"an'four as good turnouts as ye'd ax to sit behind.""I'm glad of it,"said Gerald heartily."I like to hear of the boys from the old neighborhood doing well.""Won't ye step inside,sor,an'thry a drop of something?Ye must be choked intirely wid the dust.""I don't care if I do,"answered Gerald."I feel pretty much as if I'd swallowed a limekiln."A minute later the two were seated in Denny's own particular room,where Gerald washed the dust from his throat with some capital bottled beer,while his host paid attention to a large demijohn which contained,as he informed the journalist in an impressive whisper,"close on to a gallon of the real ould stuff."Their conversation extended far into the night;but long before they separated Gerald induced Denny to despatch his Mexican helper,on a good mustang,to the Ugarte ranch,bearing to Senor Vincenza Mr.Ffrench's card,on which were penciled the words:"Please come over to San Luis as soon as possible.Most important business."For the tale told by the ex-postboy,his change of residence and present prosperity,seemed to throw a curious light on the Drim churchyard mystery.
Senor Vincenza appeared the following morning just as Gerald had finished breakfast.The ranchero remembered the representative of the Evening Mail and greeted him cordially,expressing his surprise at Gerald's presence in that part of the country.The Spaniard evidently imagined that this unexpected visit had some bearing on the recently decided lawsuit,but the other's first words dispelled the illusion.
"Senor Vincenza,"Ffrench said,"I have heard a very strange story about your sister,and I have come to ask you for an explanation of it."The young Spaniard changed color and looked uneasily at the journalist.
"What do you mean?"he asked."I do not understand you.My sister is in Europe.""Yes,"answered Gerald,"she is in Europe--in Ireland.She fills a nameless grave in Drim churchyard."Vincenza leaped to his feet,and the cigarette he had lighted dropped from his fingers.They were in Gerald's room at the hotel,and the young man had placed his visitor so that the table was between them.He suspected that he might have to deal with a desperate man.Vincenza leaned over the narrow table,and his breath blew hot in Ffrench's face as he hissed,"Carambo!What do you mean?How much do you know?""I know everything.I know how she died in the carriage on your way from Mullingar;how you purchased a coffin and bribed the undertaker to silence;how you laid her,in the dead of night,among the weeds in the graveyard;how you cut her name from the chatelaine bag,and did all in your power to hide her identity,even carrying off with you the postboy who drove you and aided you to place her where she was found.Do you recognize that photograph?Have you ever seen that coat-of-arms before?"and Ffrench drew the two cards from his pocket and offered them to Vincenza.
The Spaniard brushed them impatiently aside and crouched for a moment as if to spring.Gerald never took his eyes off him,and presently the other straightened up,and,sinking into the chair behind him,attempted to roll a cigarette.But his hand trembled,and half the tobacco was spilled on the floor.
"You know a great deal,Mr.Gerald Ffrench.Do you accuse me of my sister's murder?""No,"answered Gerald."She died from natural causes.But I do accuse you of fraudulently withholding this property from its rightful owners,and of acting on a power of attorney which has been cancelled by the death of the giver."There was a moment's silence,broken only by a muttered oath from Vincenza as he threw the unfinished cigarette to the ground,and began to roll another,this time with better success.It was not till it was fairly alight that he spoke again.
Listen to me,young man,"he said,"and then judge me as you hope to be judged hereafter--with mercy.My sister was very dear to me;I loved her,O God,how I loved her!"His voice broke,and Gerald,recalling certain details of Denny's narrative,felt that the Spaniard was speaking the truth.It was nearly a minute before Vincenza recovered his self-command and resumed.
"Yes,we were very dear to each other;brought up as brother and sister,how could we fail to be?But her father never liked me,and he placed restrictions upon the fortune he left her so that it could never come to me.My mother--our mother--had died some years before.Well,Catalina was wealthy;I was a pauper,but that made no difference while she lived.We were as happy and fond a brother and sister as the sun ever shone upon.When she came of age she executed the power of attorney that gave me the charge of her estate.She was anxious to spend a few years in Europe.I was to take her over,and after we had traveled a little she was to go to a convent in France and spend some time there while I returned home.But she was one of the old Costellos,and she was anxious to visit the ancient home of her race.That was what brought us to Ireland.""I thought the Costello family was extinct,"said Gerald.
"The European branch has been extinct since 1813,when Don Lopez Costello fell at Vittoria;but the younger branch,which settled in Mexico towards the end of the eighteenth century,survived until a few months ago--until Catalina's death,in fact,for she was the last of the Costellos.""I see,"said Gerald;"go on."
"She was very proud of the name,poor Catalina,and she made me promise in case anything happened to her while we were abroad that she should be laid in the ancient grave of her race--in the churchyard of Drim.She had a weak heart,and she knew that she might die suddenly.I promised.And it was on our way to the spot she was so anxious to visit that death claimed her,only a few miles from the place where her ancestors had lived in the old days,and where all that remains of them has long mouldered to dust.So you see,Mr.Ffrench,that I had no choice but to lay her there.""That is not the point,"said Gerald;"why this secrecy?Why this flight?Dr.Lynn,I am sure,would have enabled you to obey your sister's request in the full light of day;you need not have thrown her coffin on the ground and left to strangers the task of doing for the poor girl the last duties of civilization."Gerald spoke with indignant heat,for this looked to him like the cruellest desertion.
"I know how it must seem to you,"said Vincenza,"and I have no excuse to offer for my conduct but this.My sister's death would have given all she possessed to people whom she disliked.It would have thrown me,whom she loved,penniless on the world.I acted as if she were still living,and as I am sure she would have wished me to act;no defence,I know,in your eyes,but consider the temptation.""And did you not realize that all this must come out some day?"asked Ffrench.
"Yes,but not for several years.Indeed,I cannot imagine how it is that you have stumbled on the truth."And Gerald,remembering the extraordinary chain of circumstances which had led him to the root of the mystery,could not but acknowledge that,humanly speaking,Vincenza's confidence was justified.
"And now you have found this out,what use do you intend to make of it?"asked the Spaniard after a pause.
"I shall publish the whole story as soon as I return to San Francisco,"answered Gerald promptly.
"So for a few hundred dollars,which is all that you can possibly get out of it,you will make a beggar of me.""Right is right,"said the young Irishman."This property does not belong to you.""Will you hold your tongue--or your pen--for fifty thousand dollars?"asked the Spaniard eagerly.
"No,nor for every dollar you have in the world.I don't approve your practice and I won't share your plunder.I am sorry for you personally,but I can't help that.I won't oust you.I will make such use of the story as any newspaper man would make,and so Igive you fair warning.You may save yourself if you can.""Then you do not intend to communicate with the heirs?"began Vincenza eagerly.
"I neither know nor care who they are,"interrupted Gerald."I am not a detective,save in the way of my profession,and I shall certainly not tell what I have discovered to any individual till Igive it to the press."
"And that will be?"asked the Spaniard.
"As soon as I return to San Francisco,"answered Ffrench."It may appear in a week or ten days.""Thank you,senor;good morning,"said Vincenza,rising and leaving the room.
Three days later Senor Miguel Vincenza sailed on the outgoing Pacific mail steamer bound for Japan and China.He probably took a considerable sum of money with him,for the heirs of Catalina Costello y Ugarte found the affairs of the deceased in a very tangled state,and the ranch was mortgaged for nearly half its value.
Gerald Ffrench's story occupied four pages of the next issue of the Golden Fleece,and was widely copied and commented on over two continents.Larry,the groom at Ballyvire,read the account in his favorite Westmeath Sentinel,and as he laid the paper down exclaimed in wonder--"Begob,he found her!"
Lady Betty's Indiscretion "Horry!I am sick to death of it!"There was a servant in the room gathering the tea-cups;but Lady Betty Stafford,having been brought up in the purple,was not to be deterred from speaking her mind by a servant.Her cousin was either more prudent or less vivacious;he did not answer on the instant,but stood looking through one of the windows at the leafless trees and slow-dropping rain in the Mall,and only turned when Lady Betty pettishly repeated her statement.
"Had a bad time?"he then vouchsafed,dropping into a chair near her,and looking first at her,in a good-natured way,and then at his boots,which he seemed to approve.
"Horrid!"she replied.
"Many people here?"
"Hordes of them!Whole tribes!"she exclaimed.She was a little lady,plump and pretty,with a pale,clear complexion,and bright eyes."I am bored beyond belief.And--and I have not seen Stafford since morning,"she added.
"Cabinet council?"
"Yes!"she answered viciously."A cabinet council,and a privy council,and a board of trade,and a board of green cloth,and all the other boards!Horry,I am sick to death of it!What is the use of it all?""Country go to the dogs!"he said oracularly,still admiring his boots.
"Let it!"she retorted,not relenting a whit."I wish it would;Iwish the dogs joy of it!"
He made an extraordinary effort at diffuseness."I thought,"he said,"that you were becoming political,Betty.Going to write something,and all that.""Rubbish!But here is Mr.Atley.Mr.Atley,will you have a cup of tea,"she continued,speaking to the newcomer."There will be some here presently.Where is Mr.Stafford?""Mr.Stafford will take a cup of tea in the library,Lady Betty,"replied the secretary."He asked me to bring it to him.He is copying an important paper."Sir Horace forsook his boots,and in a fit of momentary interest asked,"They have come to terms?"The secretary nodded.Lady Betty said "Pshaw!"A man brought in the fresh teapot.The next moment Mr.Stafford himself came quickly into the room,an open telegram in his hand.
He nodded pleasantly to his wife and her cousin.But his thin,dark face wore--it generally did--a preoccupied look.Country people to whom he was pointed out in the streets called him,according to their political leanings,either insignificant,or a prig,or a "dry sort;"or sometimes said,"How young he is!"But those whose fate it was to face the Minister in the House knew that there was something in him more to be feared even than his imperturability,his honesty,or his precision--and that was a certain sudden warmth,which was apt to carry away the House at unexpected times.On one of these occasions,it was rumored,Lady Betty Champion had seen him,and fallen in love with him.Why he had thrown the handkerchief to her--well that was another matter;and whether the apparently incongruous match would answer--that,too,remained to be seen.
"More telegrams?"she cried now."It rains telegrams!how I hate them!""Why?"he said."Why should you?"He really wondered.
She made a face at him."Here is your tea,"she said abruptly.
"Thank you;you are very good,"he replied.He took the cup and set it down absently."Atley,"he continued,speaking to the secretary,"you have not corrected the report of my speech at the Club,have you?No,I know you have had no time.Will you run your eye over it presently,and see if it is all right,and send it to the Times--I do not think I need see it--by eleven o'clock at latest.The editor,"he added,tapping the pink paper in his hand,"seemed to doubt us.I have to go to Fitzgerald's now,so you must copy Lord Pilgrimstone's terms,too,please.I had meant to do it myself,but I shall be with you before you have finished.""What are the terms?"Lady Betty asked."Lord Pilgrimstone has not agreed to--""To permit me to communicate them?"he replied,with a grave smile.
"No.So you must pardon me,my dear,I have passed my word for absolute secrecy.And,indeed,it is as important to me as to Pilgrimstone that they should not be divulged.""They are sure to leak out,"she retorted."They always do.""Well,it will not be through me,I hope."She stamped her foot on the carpet."I should like to get them,and send them to the Times!"she exclaimed,her eyes flashing--he was so provoking!"And let all the world know them!I should!"He looked his astonishment,while the other two laughed softly,partly to avoid embarrassment,perhaps.My Lady often said these things,and no one took them seriously.
"You had better play the secretary for once,Lady Betty,"said Atley,who was related to his chief."You will then be able to satisfy your curiosity.Shall I resign pro tem?"She looked eagerly at her husband for the third part of a second--looked for assent,perhaps.But she read no playfulness in his face,and her own fell.He was thinking about other things."No,"she said,almost sullenly,dropping her eyes to the carpet;"Ishould not spell well enough."
Soon after that they dispersed,this being Wednesday,Mr.
Stafford's day for dining out.Everyone knows that Ministers dine only twice a week in session--on Wednesday and Sunday;and Sunday is often sacred to the children where there are any,lest they should grow up and not know their father by sight.Lady Betty came into the library at a quarter to eight,and found her husband still at his desk,a pile of papers before him waiting for his signature.
As a fact,he had only just sat down,displacing his secretary,who had gone upstairs to dress.
"Stafford!"she said.
She did not seem quite at her ease,but his mind was troubled,and he failed to notice this."Yes,my dear,"he answered politely,shuffling the papers before him into a heap.He knew he was late,and he could see that she was dressed."Yes,I am going upstairs this minute.I have not forgotten.""It is not that,"she said,leaning with one hand on the table;"Ionly want to ask you--"
"My dear,you really must tell it to me in the carriage."He was on his feet already,making some hasty preparations."Where are we to dine?At the Duke's?Then we shall have nearly a mile to drive.Will not that do for you?"He was working hard while he spoke.There was a great oak post-box within reach,and another box for letters which were to be delivered by hand,and he was thrusting a handful of notes into each of these.Other packets he swept into different drawers of the table.Still standing,he stooped and signed his name to half a dozen letters,which he left open on the blotting-pad."Atley will see to these when he is dressed,"he murmured."Would you oblige me by locking the drawers,my dear--it will save me a minute--and giving me the keys when I come down?"He was off then,two or three papers in his hand,and almost ran upstairs.Lady Betty stood a moment on the spot on which he had left her,looking in an odd way,just as if it were new to her,round the grave,spacious room,with its somber Spanish-leather-covered furniture,its ponderous writing-tables and shelves of books,its three lofty curtained windows.When her eyes at last came back to the lamp,and dwelt on it,they were very bright,and her face was flushed.Her foot could be heard tapping on the carpet.Presently she remembered herself and fell to work,vehemently slamming such drawers as were open,and locking them.
The private secretary found her doing this when he came in.She muttered something--still stooping with her face over the drawers--and almost immediately went out.He looked after her,partly because there was something odd in her manner--she kept her face averted;and partly because she was wearing a new and striking gown,and he admired her;and he noticed,as she passed through the doorway,that she had some papers held down by her side.But,of course,he thought nothing of this.
He was hopelessly late for his own dinner-party,and only stayed a moment to slip the letters just signed into envelopes prepared for them.Then he made hastily for the door,opened it,and came into abrupt collision with Sir Horace,who was strolling in.
"Beg pardon!"said that gentleman,with irritating placidity.
"Late for dinner?"
"Rather!"cried the secretary,trying to get round him.
"Well,"drawled the other,"which is the hand-box,old fellow?""It has just been cleared.Here,give it me.The messengers is in the hall now."And Atley snatched the letter from his companion,the two going out into the hall together.Marcus,the butler,a couple of tall footmen,and the messenger were sorting letters at the table.