CHAPTER XLIX. A GOLDEN AFTERNOON
When Ralph met Captain Horn that afternoon, there rose within him a sudden, involuntary appreciation of the captain’s worthiness to possess a ship-load of gold and his sister Edna. Before that meeting there had been doubts in the boy’s mind in regard to this worthiness. He believed that he had thoroughly weighed and judged the character and capacities of the captain of the Castor, and he had said to himself, in his moments of reflection, that although Captain Horn was a good man, and a brave man, and an able man in many ways, there were other men in the world who were better fitted for the glorious double position into which this fortunate mariner had fallen.
But now, as Ralph sat and gazed upon his sister’s lover and heard him talk, and as he turned from him to Edna’s glowing eyes, he acknowledged, without knowing it, the transforming power of those two great alchemists, — gold and love, — and from the bottom of his heart he approved the match.
Upon Mrs. Cliff the first sight of Captain Horn had been a little startling, and had she not hastened to assure herself that the compact with Edna was a thing fixed and settled, she might have been possessed with the fear that perhaps this gentleman might have views for his future life very different from those upon which she had set her heart. But even if she had not known of the compact of the morning, all danger of that fear would have passed in the moment that the captain took her by the hand.
To find his three companions of the wreck and desert in such high state and flourishing condition so cheered and uplifted the soul of the captain that he could talk of nothing else. And now he called for Cheditafa and Mok — those two good fellows whose faithfulness he should never forget. But when they entered, bending low, with eyes upturned toward the lofty presence to which they had been summoned, the captain looked inquiringly at Edna. As he came in that afternoon, he had seen both the negroes in the courtyard, and, in the passing thought he had given to them, had supposed them to be attendants of some foreign potentate from Barbary or Morocco. Cheditafa and Mok! The ragged, half-clad negroes of the sea-beach — a parson-butler of sublimated respectability, a liveried lackey of rainbow and gold! It required minutes to harmonize these presentments in the mind of Captain Horn.
When the audience of the two Africans — for such it seemed to be — had lasted long enough, Edna was thinking of dismissing them, when it became plain to her that there was something which Cheditafa wished to say or do. She looked at him inquiringly, and he came forward.
For a long time the mind of the good African had been exercised upon the subject of the great deed he had done just before the captain had sailed away from the Peruvian coast. In San Francisco and Paris he had asked many questions quietly, and apparently without purpose, concerning the marriage ceremonies of America and other civilized countries. He had not learned enough to enable him, upon an emergency, to personate an orthodox clergyman, but he had found out this and that — little things, perhaps, but things which made a great impression upon him — which had convinced him that in the ceremony he had performed there had been much remissness — how much, he did not clearly know. But about one thing that had been wanting he had no doubts.
Advancing toward Edna and the captain, who sat near each other, Cheditafa took from his pocket a large gold ring, which he had purchased with his savings. “There was a thing we didn’t do,” he said, glancing from one to the other. “It was the ring part — nobody thinked of that. Will captain take it now, and put it on the lady?”
Edna and the captain looked at each other. For a moment no one spoke. Then Edna said, “Take it.” The captain rose and took the ring from the hand of Cheditafa, and Edna stood beside him. Then he took her hand, and reverently placed the ring upon her fourth finger. Fortunately, it fitted. It had not been without avail that Cheditafa had so often scanned with a measuring eye the rings upon the hands of his mistress.
A light of pleasure shone in the eyes of the old negro. Now he had done his full duty — now all things had been made right. As he had seen the priests stand in the churches of Paris, he now stood for a moment with his hands outspread. “Very good,” he said, “that will do.” Then, followed by Mok, he bowed himself out of the room.
For some moments there was silence in the salon. Nobody thought of laughing, or even smiling. In the eyes of Mrs. Cliff there were a few tears. She was the first to speak. “He is a good man,” said she, “and he now believes that he has done everything that ought to be done. But you will be married to-morrow, all the same, of course.”
“Yes,” said Edna. “But it will be with this ring.”
“Yes,” said the captain, “with that ring. You must always wear it.”
“And now,” said Mrs. Cliff, when they had all reseated themselves, “you must really tell us your story, captain. You know I have heard nothing yet.”
And so he told his story — much that Edna had heard before, a great deal she had not heard. About the treasure, almost everything he said was new to her. Mrs. Cliff was very eager on this point. She wanted every detail.
“How about the ownership of it?” she said. “After all, that is the great point. What do people here think of your right to use that gold as your own?”
The captain smiled. “That is not an easy question to answer, but I think we shall settle it very satisfactorily. Of course, the first thing to do is to get it safely entered and stored away in the great money centres over here. A good portion of it, in fact, is to be shipped to Philadelphia to be coined. Of course, all that business is in the hands of my bankers. The fact that I originally sailed from California was a great help to us. To ascertain my legal rights in the case was the main object of my visit to London. There Wraxton and I put the matter before three leading lawyers in that line of business, and although their opinions differed somewhat, and although we have not yet come to a final conclusion as to what should be done, the matter is pretty well straightened out as far as we are concerned. Of course, the affair is greatly simplified by the fact that there is no one on the other side to be a claimant of the treasure, but we consider it as if there were a claimant, or two of them, in fact. These can be no other than the present government of Peru, and that portion of the population of the country which is native to the soil, and the latter, if our suppositions are correct, are the only real heirs to the treasure which I discovered. But what are the laws of Peru in regard to treasure-trove, or what may be the disposition of the government toward the native population and their rights, of course we cannot find out now. That will take time. But of one thing we are certain: I am entitled to a fair remuneration for the discovery of this treasure, just the same as if I claimed salvage for having brought a wrecked steamer into port. On this point the lawyers are all agreed. I have, therefore, made my claim, and shall stand by it with enough legal force behind me to support me in any emergency.
“But it is not believed that either the Peruvian government, or the natives acting as a body, if it shall be possible for them to act in that way, will give us any trouble. We have the matter entirely in our own hands. They do not know of the existence of this treasure, or that they have any rights to it, until we inform them of the fact, and without our assistance it will be almost impossible for them to claim anything or prove anything. Therefore, it will be good policy and common sense for them to acknowledge that we are acting honestly, and, more than that, generously, and to agree to take what we offer them, and that we shall keep what is considered by the best legal authorities to be our rights.
“As soon as possible, an agent will be sent to Peru to attend to the matter. But this matter is in the hands of my lawyers, although, of course, I shall not keep out of the negotiations.”
“And how much percentage, captain?” asked Mrs. Cliff. “What part do they think you ought to keep?”
“We have agreed,” said he, “upon twenty per cent. of the whole. After careful consideration and advice, I made that claim. I shall retain it. Indeed, it is already secured to me, no matter what may happen to the rest of the treasure.”
“Twenty per cent.!” exclaimed Mrs. Cliff. “And that is all that you get?”
“Yes,” said the captain, “it is what I get — and by that is meant what is to be divided among us all. I make the claim, but I make it for every one who was on the Castor when she was wrecked, and for the families of those who are not alive — for every one, in fact, who was concerned in this matter.”
The countenance of Mrs. Cliff had been falling, and now it went down, down, again. After all the waiting, after all the anxiety, it had come to this: barely twenty per cent., to be divided among ever so many people — twenty-five or thirty, for all she knew. Only this, after the dreams she had had, after the castles she had built! Of course, she had money now, and she would have some more, and she had a great many useful and beautiful things which she had bought, and she could go back to Plainton in very good circumstances. But that was not what she had been waiting for, and hoping for, and anxiously trembling for, ever since she had found that the captain had really reached France with the treasure.
“Captain,” she said, and her voice was as husky as if she had been sitting in a draught, “I have had so many ups and so many downs, and have been turned so often this way and that, I cannot stand this state of uncertainty any longer. It may seem childish and weak, but I must know something. Can you give me any idea how much you are to have, or, at least, how much I shall have, and let me make myself satisfied with whatever it is? Do you think that I shall be able to go back to Plainton and take my place as a leading citizen there? I don’t mind in the least asking that before you three. I thought I was justified in making that my object in life, and I have made it my object. Now, if I have been mistaken all this time, I would like to know it. Don’t find fault with me. I have waited, and waited, and waited — ”
“Well,” interrupted the captain, “you need not wait any longer. The sum that I have retained shall be divided as soon as possible, and I shall divide it in as just a manner as I can, and I am ready to hear appeals from any one who is not satisfied. Of course, I shall keep the largest share of it — that is my right. I found it, and I secured it. And this lady here,” pointing to Edna, “is to have the next largest share in her own right, because she was the main object which made me work so hard and brave everything to get that treasure here. And then the rest will share according to rank, as we say on board ship.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” murmured Mrs. Cliff, “he never comes to any point. We never know anything clear and distinct. This is not any answer at all.”
“The amount I claim,” continued the captain, who did not notice that Mrs. Cliff was making remarks to herself, “is forty million dollars.”
Everybody started, and Mrs. Cliff sprang up as if a torpedo had been fired beneath her.
“Forty million dollars!” she exclaimed. “I thought you said you would only have twenty per cent.?”
“That is just what it is,” remarked the captain, “as nearly as we can calculate. Forty million dollars is about one fifth of the value of the cargo I brought to France in the Arato. And as to your share, Mrs. Cliff, I think, if you feel like it, you will be able to buy the town of Plainton; and if that doesn’t make you a leading citizen in it, I don’t know what else you can do.”
CHAPTER L. A CASE OF RECOGNITION
Every one in our party at the Hotel Grenade rose very early the next morning. That day was to be one of activity and event. Mrs. Cliff, who had not slept one wink during the night, but who appeared almost rejuvenated by the ideas which had come to her during her sleeplessness, now entered a protest against the proposed marriage at the American legation. She believed that people of the position which Edna and the captain should now assume ought to be married in a church, with all proper ceremony and impressiveness, and urged that the wedding be postponed for a few days, until suitable arrangements could be made.
But Edna would not listen to this. The captain was obliged, by appointment, to be in London on the morrow, and he could not know how long he might be detained there, and now, wherever he went, she wished to go with him. He wanted her to be with him, and she was going. Moreover, she fancied a wedding at the legation. There were all sorts of regulations concerning marriage in France, and to these neither she nor the captain cared to conform, even if they had time enough for the purpose. At the American legation they would be in point of law upon American soil, and there they could be married as Americans, by an American minister.
After that Mrs. Cliff gave up. She was so happy she was ready to agree to anything, or to believe in anything, and she went to work with heart and hand to assist Edna in getting ready for the great event.
Mrs. Sylvester, the wife of the secretary, received a note from Edna which brought her to the hotel as fast as horses were allowed to travel in the streets of Paris, and arrangements were easily made for the ceremony to take place at four o’clock that afternoon.
The marriage was to be entirely private. No one was to be present but Mrs. Cliff, Ralph, and Mrs. Sylvester. Nothing was said to Cheditafa of the intended ceremony. After what had happened, they all felt that it would be right to respect the old negro’s feelings and sensibilities. Mrs. Cliff undertook, after a few days had elapsed, to explain the whole matter to Cheditafa, and to tell him that what he had done had not been without importance and real utility, but that it had actually united his master and mistress by a solemn promise before witnesses, which in some places, and under certain circumstances, would be as good a marriage as any that could be performed, but that a second ceremony had taken place in order that the two might be considered man and wife in all places and under all circumstances.
The captain had hoped to see Shirley and Burke before he left Paris, but that was now impossible, and, on his way to his hotel, after breakfasting at the Hotel Grenade, he telegraphed to them to come to him in London. He had just sent his telegram when he was touched on the arm, and, turning, saw standing by him two police officers. Their manner was very civil, but they promptly informed him, the speaker using very fair English, that he must accompany them to the presence of a police magistrate.
The captain was astounded. The officers could or would give him no information in regard to the charge against him, or whether it was a charge at all. They only said that he must come with them, and that everything would be explained at the police station. The captain’s brow grew black. What this meant he could not imagine, but he had no time to waste in imaginations. It would be foolish to demand explanations of the officers, or to ask to see the warrant for their action. He would not understand French warrants, and the quicker he went to the magistrate and found out what this thing meant, the better. He only asked time to send a telegram to Mr. Wraxton, urging him to attend him instantly at the police station, and then he went with the officers.
On the way, Captain Horn turned over matters in his mind. He could think of no cause for this detention, except it might be something which had turned up in connection with his possession of the treasure, or perhaps the entrance of the Arato, without papers, at the French port. But anything of this kind Wraxton could settle as soon as he could be made acquainted with it. The only real trouble was that he was to be married at four o’clock, and it was now nearly two.
At the police station, Captain Horn met with a fresh annoyance. The magistrate was occupied with important business and could not attend to him at present. This made the captain very impatient, and he sent message after message to the magistrate, but to no avail. And Wraxton did not come. In fact, it was too soon to expect him.
The magistrate had good reason for delay. He did not wish to have anything to do with the gentleman who had been taken in custody until his accuser, Banker by name, had been brought to this station from his place of confinement, where he was now held under a serious charge.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes, twenty-five minutes, passed, and the magistrate did not appear. Wraxton did not come. The captain had never been so fiercely impatient. He did not know to whom to apply in this serious emergency. He did not wish Edna to know of his trouble until he found out the nature of it, and if he sent word to the legation, he was afraid that the news would speedily reach her. Wraxton was his man, whatever the charge might be. He would be his security for any amount which might be named, and the business might be settled afterwards, if, indeed, it were not all a mistake of some sort.
But Wraxton did not appear. Suddenly the captain thought of one man who might be of service to him in this emergency. There was no time for delay. Some one must come, and come quickly, who could identify him, and the only man he could think of was Professor Barré, Ralph’s tutor. He had met that gentleman the evening before. He could vouch for him, and he could certainly be trusted not to alarm Edna unnecessarily. He believed the professor could be found at the hotel, and he instantly sent a messenger to him with a note.
It took a good deal of time to bring the prisoner Banker to the station, and Professor Barré arrived there before him. The professor was amazed to find Captain Horn under arrest, and unable to give any reason for this state of things. But it was not long before the magistrate appeared, and it so happened that he was acquainted with Barré, who was a well-known man in Paris, and, after glancing at the captain, he addressed himself to the professor, speaking in French. The latter immediately inquired the nature of the charges against Captain Horn, using the same language.
“Ah! you know him?” said the magistrate. “He has been accused of being the leader of a band of outlaws — a man who has committed murders and outrages without number, one who should not be suffered to go at large, one who should be confined until the authorities of Peru, where his crimes were committed, have been notified.”
The professor stared, but could not comprehend what he had heard.
“What is it?” inquired Captain Horn. “Can you not speak English?”
No, this Parisian magistrate could not speak English, but the professor explained the charge.
“It is the greatest absurdity!” exclaimed the captain. “Ralph told me that a man, evidently once one of that band of outlaws in Peru, had been arrested for assaulting Cheditafa, and this charge must be part of his scheme of vengeance for that arrest. I could instantly prove everything that is necessary to know about me if my banker, Mr. Wraxton, were here. I have sent for him, but he has not come. I have not a moment to waste discussing this matter.” The captain gazed anxiously toward the door, and for a few moments the three men stood in silence.
The situation was a peculiar one. The professor thought of sending to the Hotel Grenade, but he hesitated. He said to himself: “The lady’s testimony would be of no avail. If he is the man the bandit says he is, of course she does not know it. His conduct has been very strange, and for a long time she certainly knew very little about him. I don’t see how even his banker could become surety for him if he were here, and he doesn’t seem inclined to come. Anybody may have a bank-account.”
The professor stood looking on the ground. The captain looked at him, and, by that power to read the thoughts of others which an important emergency often gives to a man, he read, or believed he did, the thoughts of Barré. He did not blame the man for his doubts. Any one might have such doubts. A stranger coming to France with a cargo of gold must expect suspicion, and here was more — a definite charge.
At this moment there came a message from the banking house: Mr. Wraxton had gone to Brussels that morning. Fuguet did not live in Paris, and the captain had never seen him. There were clerks whom he had met in Marseilles, but, of course, they could only say that he was the man known as Captain Horn.
The captain ground his teeth, and then, suddenly turning, he interrupted the conversation between the magistrate and Barré. He addressed the latter and asked, “Will you tell me what this officer has been saying about me?”
“He says,” answered Barré, “that he believes you know nobody in Paris except the party at the Hotel Grenade, and that, of course, you may have deceived them in regard to your identity — that they have been here a long time, and you have been absent, and you have not been referred to by them, which seems strange.”
“Has he not found out that Wraxton knows me?”
“He says,” answered Barré, “that you have not visited that banking house since you came to Paris, and that seems strange also. Every traveller goes to his banker as soon as he arrives.”
“I did not need to go there,” said the captain. “I was occupied with other matters. I had just met my wife after a long absence.”
“I don’t wonder,” said the professor, bowing, “that your time was occupied. It is very unfortunate that your banker cannot come to you or send.”
The captain did not answer. This professor doubted him, and why should he not? As the captain considered the case, it grew more and more serious. That his marriage should be delayed on account of such a preposterous and outrageous charge against him was bad enough. It would be a terrible blow to Edna. For, although he knew that she would believe in him, she could not deny, if she were questioned, that in this age of mail and telegraph facilities she had not heard from him for nearly a year, and it would be hard for her to prove that he had not deceived her. But the most unfortunate thing of all was the meeting with the London lawyers the next day. These men were engaged in settling a very important question regarding the ownership of the treasure he had brought to France, and his claims upon it, and if they should hear that he had been charged with being the captain of a band of murderers and robbers, they might well have their suspicions of the truth of his story of the treasure. In fact, everything might be lost, and the affair might end by his being sent a prisoner to Peru, to have the case investigated there. What might happen then was too terrible to think of. He turned abruptly to the professor.
“I see that you don’t believe in me,” he said, “but I see that you are a man, and I believe in you. You are acquainted with this magistrate. Use your influence with him to have this matter settled quickly. Do as much as that for me.”
“What is it that you ask me to do?” said the other.
“It is this,” replied the captain. “I have never seen this man who says he was a member of the Rackbirds’ band. In fact, I never saw any of those wretches except dead ones. He has never met me. He knows nothing about me. His charge is simply a piece of revenge. The only connection he can make between me and the Rackbirds is that he knew two negroes were once the servants of his band, and that they are now the servants of my wife. Having never seen me, he cannot know me. Please ask the magistrate to send for some other men in plain clothes to come into this room, and then let the prisoner be brought here, and asked to point out the man he charges with the crime of being the captain of the Rackbirds.”
The professor’s face brightened, and without answer he turned to the magistrate, and laid this proposition before him. The officer shook his head. This would be a very irregular method of procedure. There were formalities which should not be set aside. The deposition of Banker should be taken before witnesses. But the professor was interested in Captain Horn’s proposed plan. In an emergency of the sort, when time was so valuable, he thought it should be tried before anything else was done. He talked very earnestly to the magistrate, who at last yielded.
In a few minutes three respectable men were brought in from outside, and then a policeman was sent for Banker.
When that individual entered the waiting-room, his eyes ran rapidly over the company assembled there. After the first glance, he believed that he had never seen one of them before. But he said nothing; he waited to hear what would be said to him. This was said quickly. Banker spoke French, and the magistrate addressed him directly.
“In this room,” he said, “stands the man you have accused as a robber and a murderer, as the captain of the band to which you admit you once belonged. Point him out immediately.”
Banker’s heart was not in the habit of sinking, but it went down a little now. Could it be possible that any one there had ever led him to deeds of violence and blood? He looked again at each man in the room, very carefully this time. Of course, that rascal Raminez would not come to Paris without disguising himself, and no disguise could be so effectual as the garb of a gentleman. But if Raminez were there, he should not escape him by any such tricks. Banker half shut his eyes, and again went over every countenance. Suddenly he smiled.
“My captain,” he said presently, “is not dressed exactly as he was when I last saw him. He is in good clothes now, and that made it a little hard for me to recognize him at first. But there is no mistaking his nose and his eyebrows. I know him as well as if we had been drinking together last night. There he stands!” And, with his right arm stretched out, he pointed directly to Professor Barré.
At these words there was a general start, and the face of the magistrate grew scarlet with anger. As for the professor himself, he knit his brows, and looked at Banker in amazement.
“You scoundrel! You liar! You beast!” cried the officer. “To accuse this well-known and honorable gentleman, and say that he is a leader of a band of robbers! You are an impostor, a villain, and if you had been confronted with this other gentleman alone, you would have sworn that he was a bandit chief!”
Banker made no answer, but still kept his eyes fixed upon the professor. Now Captain Horn spoke: “That fellow had to say something, and he made a very wild guess of it,” he said to Barré. “I think the matter may now be considered settled. Will you suggest as much to the magistrate? Truly, I have not a moment to spare.”
Banker listened attentively to these words, and his eyes sparkled.
“You needn’t try any of your tricks on me, you scoundrel Raminez,” he said, shaking his fist at the professor. “I know you. I know you better than I did when I first spoke. If you wanted to escape me, you ought to have shaved off your eyebrows when you trimmed your hair and your beard. But I will be after you yet. The tales you have told here won’t help you.”
“Take him away!” shouted the magistrate. “He is a fiend!”
Banker was hurried from the room by two policemen.
To the profuse apologies of the magistrate Captain Horn had no time to listen; he accepted what he heard of them as a matter of course, and only remarked that, as he was not the man against whom the charges had been brought, he must hurry away to attend to a most important appointment. The professor went with him into the street.
“Sir,” said the captain, addressing Barré, “you have been of the most important service to me, and I heartily acknowledge the obligation. Had it not been that you were good enough to exert your influence with the magistrate, that rascal would have sworn through thick and thin that I had been his captain.”
Then, looking at his watch, he said, “It is twenty-five minutes to four. I shall take a cab and go directly to the legation. I was on my way to my hotel, but there is no time for that now,” and, after shaking hands with the professor, he hailed a cab.
Captain Horn reached the legation but a little while after the party from the Hotel Grenade had arrived, and in due time he stood up beside Edna in one of the parlors of the mansion, and he and she were united in marriage by the American minister. The services were very simple, but the congratulations of the little company assembled could not have been more earnest and heartfelt.
“Now,” said Mrs. Cliff, in the ear of Edna, “if we knew that that gold was all to be sunk in the ocean to-morrow, we still ought to be the happiest people on earth.”
She was a true woman, Mrs. Cliff, and at that moment she meant what she said.
It had been arranged that the whole party should return to the Hotel Grenade, and from there the newly married couple should start for the train which would take them to Calais; and, as he left the legation promptly, the captain had time to send to his own hotel for his effects. The direct transition from the police station to the bridal altar had interfered with his ante-hymeneal preparations, but the captain was accustomed to interference with preparations, and had long learned to dispense with them when occasion required.
“I don’t believe,” said the minister’s wife to her husband, when the bridal party had left, “that you ever before married such a handsome couple.”