Chapter IX: A Living Tragedy

The Burlington Hawkeye bided his time to obtain an interview with Rosemary when he could see her alone. He felt considerable curiosity about the girl and wanted to learn some personal facts concerning her.

Rosemary Vincent had been what is sometimes called buffeted by Fate. But the buffetings had been so gentle and the girl so well protected, she had never felt them definitely.

She still had delightful memories of a childhood spent in Paris, of a devoted mother and doting father, who might easily have spoiled her had she been of a less loving and lovable disposition. Naturally obedient and dutiful, always sunshiny and happy, her life was uneventful until, when she was ten years old, her mother died.

But the broken-hearted child was so petted and entertained by her father that her life again became happy and her mother merely a beloved memory.

Moreover, her father, soon after his wife’s death, was sent by his business firm to America to establish a branch business in Seattle.

This pleased Carl Vincent, who was glad to return to his native land, although in a hitherto unfamiliar portion of it.

He grew to like the Seattle climate and people, and contentedly remained there, bringing up his daughter in kindly and well-conditioned circumstances.

Carl Vincent became a very rich man, but of this Rosemary had no knowledge or thought. Vincent deemed it best to keep the girl to her simple tastes and ways, and though their home was delightfully appointed, it was by no means magnificent or of a grandeur commensurate with Vincent’s income.

Then, when his daughter was sixteen years old, Carl Vincent was killed in a motor accident.

The tragedy was a terrible one, and the girl was not even allowed to see her dead father.

Immediately Homer Vincent went out to Seattle, from his home in Burlington, Vermont, where he was then living.

He tenderly cared for the orphaned girl and took her back home with him as soon as the business matters consequent on his brother’s death could be completed.

Anne Vincent, whom Rosemary lovingly called Antan, welcomed her niece warmly, and again Rosemary’s acute grief was diverted by the scenes and experiences of her new home.

She deeply mourned her father, but Rosemary Vincent was an eager, vivid spirit, a life- and laughter-loving girl, and she quickly became a favorite among the young people and neighbors.

Then, six months later, Homer Vincent bought the huge mansion of Greatlarch, and the three moved there.

Rosemary loved the house as much as her uncle did. Her Paris memories made her appreciate the full charm of the old French chateau, and her own beauty-loving nature made her feel at home in the marble halls.

Uncle and aunt were kind and loving to their niece, but Rosemary found her freedom a bit curtailed. Her father had let her do everything she wished, for she had never desired the unadvisable, in his opinion.

But Uncle Homer was more stringent in his commands. The girl could have her own way in many instances, but if her ways interfered in the slightest with Homer Vincent’s personal inclinations, Rosemary must give them up.

She did not openly rebel; in fact, she felt she owed willing obedience to her kind uncle, but at times her patience gave out, and her disappointments made her petulant.

Especially in the matter of young visitors at Greatlarch. Rosemary wanted dances and house parties, and girl friends for long visits. But these were banned by Uncle Homer, because the laughter and chatter of a lot of young people disturbed the restful calm that he wished to pervade the household.

It had been tried a few times, with results embarrassing to the guest and heartbreaking to Rosemary.

Aunt Anne had interceded for her niece, had begged her brother to indulge the girl, at least occasionally, but Vincent was firm. It was his house, therefore, his castle. He had a right to order it as he chose, and it was Rosemary’s duty to obey.

His calm air of finality, which was never absent from him, made his rules adamant, and Rosemary gave up the struggle and succumbed to a solitary life in her home, though getting much enjoyment from social gayeties elsewhere.

Though, here again, she was handicapped by her uncle’s insistence on her early homecoming. This brought about a slyness and secrecy, quite foreign to Rosemary’s nature, but developed by her love of dancing and of young society.

And by the help of Hoskins and the connivance of the two Mellishes, all of whom adored her, Rosemary managed to stay at most parties until they were over.

Another thorn in her flesh was the trouble about Bryce Collins.

Though Homer Vincent had no definite objection to the young man, he expressed his strong disapproval of Rosemary’s marriage with any one. Of this stand he gave no explanation, his usual manner being such that explanations never seemed necessary. His word was law, unquestionable and immutable.

Yet Vincent was not a stern or awe-inspiring personality. If things were going as he wished,—and they usually were,—he was not only amiable, but charming and entertaining.

He was subject to moods, which must be observed and humored by his household. He made laws which must be obeyed. He gave orders which must be carried out. These things done, Homer Vincent was the most gracious of hosts, the most generous of brothers and uncles.

And all this, the Burlington Hawkeye learned from Rosemary Vincent when he asked her to go for a brisk walk with him, around the grounds of Greatlarch.

The girl, with her responsive disposition, liked Prentiss at once. He had an ingratiating manner, and a pleasant air of courteous deference. The stare of his slightly prominent eyes was often veiled by lowered lashes, and under the influence of his discreet but leading questions, Rosemary told him all about her life, past, present, and future, so far as she knew it.

“And your father was the brother of Mr. and Miss Vincent?” he asked, interestedly.

“Yes, their youngest brother. And the dearest man! Dad had the best traits of Uncle Homer and Antan, and none of their faults.”

“And he was very rich, wasn’t he?”

“Why, yes,—I suppose so. I never thought much about that. I’ve always had all the money I wanted, but I’m not an extravagant person.”

“But you must be an heiress. You must inherit your father’s fortune, don’t you?”

“I suppose so. Probably he left it to the three of us.”

“Do you mean to say you don’t know? Don’t know anything about your own finances?”

Rosemary laughed outright.

“Is that strange?” she said; “well, then, it’s true. I don’t know a thing about money matters—but I do know this. Antan’s great ruby was to be mine, and now that horrid Johnson man has stolen it! Oh, don’t think I am heartless to think of it, but you know how I do mourn dear Antan, and it seems awful that he should have taken the ruby, too!”

“Are you fond of jewels?”

“Not specially, but that stone was a favorite of mine,—and it is a wonderful stone,—it has a history—”

“Miss Vincent, do you believe in hauntings,—in,—well, in spooks?”

“Oh, I do and I don’t. It’s too absurd to think a ghost killed Antan,—and yet, how could a mortal get in—and get out?”

“Well, just granting that a mortal could do that,—suppose a skeleton key or something like that,—whom would you suspect?”

“Why, that Mr. Johnson, of course. He was a clever burglar,—he just took that means of hood-winking Uncle Homer,—the ruby-making business, I mean.”

“Yes, it would seem so. But why didn’t he steal anything else? Wasn’t there other jewelry of your aunt’s about?”

“I daresay; but nothing to compare in value to that. Why, do you know that a ruby is worth three times as much as a diamond of the same size? And Antan’s ruby was enormous!”

“Where did she get it?”

“Bought it herself,—soon after I came here to live.”

“Well, Miss Vincent, I truly think, now that you and your uncle are left alone, you ought to have some sort of a financial settlement. From what you tell me, I am sure you have an independent fortune, and it ought to be settled upon you. Aren’t you of age?”

“Twenty-one last birthday.”

“Then you should see to it at once. Doubtless your uncle is going to attend to it shortly, but don’t let him delay.”

“Why, Mr. Prentiss?” the girl asked, curiously. “I am well provided for. All my bills are paid without question, all my wants supplied unhesitatingly.”

“Oh, well, perhaps it’s a matter of no immediate importance. You may as well wait until after this awful mystery is solved.”

“Will it ever be solved? Can you find that Johnson man? Where can he be? Where do you think, Mr. Prentiss? They call you a Hawkeye, has your sharp eyesight yet discerned anything?”

“I know that Mr. Johnson has five or six days’ start of me, and that in that time he could get to the ends of the earth,—with his ruby!”

“Don’t call it his ruby,—it’s mine,—and I hope you are going to get it back for me.”

The girl’s topaz-colored eyes looked into those of Prentiss. Her eyes were not unlike his own in tints, but while his were round and staring, hers were deep-set and expressive. Her long lashes were golden-brown, like her hair, and her whole face was suggestive of the russet and gold glory of an autumn day. Her clear, olive skin was tanned by a summer in the sun, and her red-brown hair showed golden light in its clustering curls that shone like copper or deepened to dusky bronze.

Her principal characteristic was an effect of vivid life. Her glance was direct, her face animated, her lithe, graceful gestures indicative of vitality and enthusiasm.

Perception and responsiveness shone in her eyes and her scarlet, sensitive lips quivered with a bewildering charm.

A fleeting, evanescent dimple showed only when she was deeply amused, but whoever once saw it, used every effort to bring it forth again.

Though too intelligent not to have a subconsciousness of her own beauty, Rosemary was not vain or conceited over it.

She accepted it as she did food or sunlight, and gave it no more definite thought. Full of the joy of living, absorbed in her daily duties and pleasures, she went her way like a wise butterfly, taking no heed of the morrow in the occupations of the day.

Her trivial troubles were those caused by her uncle’s restrictions on her freedom, and her only real trouble, and that just dawning, was his refusal to recognize Bryce Collins as her possible suitor.

The pair were in love with that first flush of youthful affection that is none the less real because of its ignorance and inexperience.

Rosemary had liked other boys, had felt an interest in other young men, but until she knew Bryce Collins, she had never felt the personal attachment, the mating thrill, that is the precursor of true love.

Moreover, she admired Collins from an intellectual viewpoint. She appreciated his mentality, and liked his casual traits. She adored his big, strong manliness, and she was beginning to love him with a sense of reciprocation of his own affection for her.

Their love was dawning, budding, just ready to spring into full light, to burst into full blossom, when it was thwarted by Homer Vincent’s decree against it.

Nor was Bryce Collins ready to submit tamely to the dictum. He openly rebelled, while Rosemary, uncertain of the wisdom of defying her uncle, was waiting to see what would happen.

Antan had been her niece’s ally, in secret, but Anne Vincent would never dream of opposing her brother’s decisions.

And now, even Antan’s support was gone, and Rosemary began to think she must do something definite about it all.

Her nature felt a strong distaste to secret meetings with Collins. Her father had brought her up to strict honesty and a hatred of deceit. Her little evasions about late homecoming or casual meetings with Bryce at other girls’ houses, she condoned to herself as trifles. But now a real dilemma confronted her.

She was left the only helpmeet in her uncle’s home; the only overseer and housekeeper for him to depend on in the matter of his small habits and peculiar comforts. If she were to desert him, he would be left entirely to the care of paid servants, and after all he had done for her, Rosemary’s soul rebelled at the thought of ingratitude.

And yet,—there was Bryce,—growing dearer and more lovable every day. And with her growing love, came growing womanhood, growing desire for her chosen mate, for her own life partner.

And perhaps egged on by her talk with Prentiss, Rosemary decided to have a talk with her uncle.

She found him in his own Tower room, and to her satisfaction his mood was a composed and apparently pliable one.

“I want a talk, Uncle Homer,” she said, as he held a chair for her. “A serious talk.”

Rosemary was glancing about the room, and a sudden thought struck her.

“Uncle Homer,” she exclaimed, “what were you hiding in a secret panel the night,—the night Antan died?”

Homer Vincent’s face showed his amazement.

“What do you mean?” he asked, blankly.

“Yes, when I came home,—oh, I was late,—you were putting something away in a secret panel, in this room. Some papers and also something that shone like gold.”

“Well, Rosemary, even if I was doing that, it doesn’t really concern you, and in fact, I don’t remember the circumstance. But what is your serious talk about? Bryce Collins?”

“Yes, Uncle,” and the girl bravely stated her case. Fortified by the advice of Prentiss, she asked concerning her own financial affairs, and declared that, being of age, she had a right to know these things.

Homer Vincent drew a long sigh, and regarded his niece with a look that was both sad and sympathetic.

“I’m glad, in a way, Rosemary, that you have brought up this subject. I’ve been trying to get up my courage to broach it to you for a long time, but I couldn’t bear to disturb your happy, girlish content.”

From his tone, rather than his words, Rosemary sensed trouble, and she looked up quickly to find her uncle regarding her with real sorrow in his deep gray eyes.

“What is it, Uncle Homer?” she cried, paling in an intuitive premonition of an unpleasant disclosure of some sort. “Don’t condemn Bryce unheard!” for the poor child could think of no other ill news.

“No, Rosemary, what I have to tell you now is in no way connected with young Collins, though it may have a bearing on your friendship for him. Child, I don’t know how to begin.”

“Is it so very disagreeable?” she asked, wonderingly. “Then get it over quickly,—I’ll be brave.”

And she had need of bravery, for this was the tale he told,—the secret he revealed.

“Then, to put it baldly,—plainly, Rosemary,—you are not—you are not really the child of your supposed parents. You are adopted.”

“What!” There seemed to be nothing else to say, and Homer Vincent did not repeat his statement, for he knew she had heard.

Her mind raced, her quick perceptions realized everything in one blinding flash.

Not her parents’ child! Merely an adopted daughter! Whose?

“Don’t look like that, Rosemary, listen to the story.”

“But it can make no difference. What are details? If I am not the daughter of my dear father—and my angel mother—who am I?”

Her cry rang out, like the shriek of a lost soul. Her emotional nature was stirred to its depths for the first time in her happy young life.

“Go on,” she cried, inconsistently; “tell me the rest! Who am I?”

“Try to be quiet, dear, and let me tell you. My brother Carl married a lovely woman named Mary Leslie. A little child was born to them, but died almost immediately. My sister-in-law, sadly stricken, wanted to adopt a baby in its place. My brother approved of this, and so, Rosemary, they took you from an orphan asylum. And they brought you up as their own child, they loved and cared for you, and, as they never had any other children, they lavished real parental devotion on you, as no one knows better than you do yourself.”

“Oh, I do know it!” and Rosemary moaned between her interlaced fingers. “But I can’t believe it, Uncle! I can’t sense it! Not the daughter of my dear, dear father! Why, he loved me so—”

“Yes, that’s what I said,—they both loved you like a real child of their own,—I know they did.”

“Who else knew of this? Antan?”

“Yes, of course she knew it, but no one else at all. That is, except the asylum authorities. Your parents,—for I shall continue to call them so,—lived in Paris at that time, and you were taken from a small and exclusive orphanage—”

“Do you know who I was? Did they know? Oh, Uncle, I can’t stand it! It’s too dreadful—”

“Dear Rosemary, don’t overrate the thing. It is a shock to you, of course, but remember I’ve known it all your life,—so did your Aunt Anne,—so, of course, did your parents. Did it make any difference in our love for you? In our treatment of you? Never. And it will make no difference now. The only difference is that you know it yourself, and I deem it wise that you do know. As I said, I’ve been thinking for some time that I ought to tell you,—it is your right to know—”

“My right! I have no rights! I have no birthright, even—no name! Uncle, I can’t stand it! I shall kill myself—”

“Hush, Rosemary,” Vincent commanded, sternly. “Never say a thing like that again. You’re over-excited now,—you are stunned at this news,—but you will get used to it,—you must get used to it. You have your life to live—”

“I have no life to live! I have no name—no hope—no—”

“Unless you can calm yourself, my dear, I must ask you to leave me until you attain some degree of composure. I want to talk to you about several things, about your prospects, about your future, but I cannot talk with a girl who rants and screams in nervous paroxysms.”

“Forgive me, Uncle,” and Rosemary’s habit of obedience came to her aid. “I will try to be calm,—I will talk rationally,—but—I mean, I will if I can.”

The poor child strove vainly for composure, but her quivering sobs were persistent, and her tears would not stop.

Ignoring them then, Homer Vincent continued.

“I will take this opportunity to tell you some further truths, Rosemary, for I don’t want to repeat a scene like this if we can help it. Let us, therefore, talk it all over now, and do try,—make an earnest effort to stop that convulsive crying.”

“Yes, Uncle. Tell me, first of all, do you know who I am?”

“No, Rosemary, I do not. Your father,—as I said, I will continue to call my brother by that name,—kept no record of your birth. I know this, because at his death I took charge of all his papers, both concerning business matters and private affairs, and there was no document of any sort pertaining to your adoption. But I have personal letters from my brother and from his wife, telling my sister and myself all about the matter. You can read them for yourself, and it will comfort you to read how they loved you from the first, and how delighted they were with their little new daughter. Never for one moment, Rosemary, forget the love they showered upon you, or the debt of gratitude you owe them and their memory for the happy and beautiful life they gave you. Also, if it pleases you to recognize it, your Aunt Anne and I, myself, have always endeavored to show you the same love and affection as if you were really our niece.”

“You did, Uncle, you both did,—and I do realize it, and I am grateful.”

“Try to show it now, my dear, by less agitation. This scene is wearing me out,—I am in a nervous state, naturally, since your aunt’s death, and I cannot bear much more. But what I must tell you, Rosemary, is that you are virtually penniless. My brother left no will, and, of course, his estate reverted to your Aunt Anne and myself, as his natural heirs. He assumed I would provide for you, and I have done so, and I always shall. But, Rosemary, I do not wish you to continue to live here. When your aunt was with us, it was quite different. Now, I am not able to meet the conditions consequent upon having a young lady in the house. You are young and fond of young society. I am getting old, and I need rest and quiet in my home. I am sure you can see for yourself that it would be impossible for us to remain together happily. And I am sure you would not wish to stay here, unwanted. So, Rosemary, dear, we will at some early date talk over your plans, and see about settling you somewhere by yourself. Of course, you cannot expect the luxurious life you have led here, but I will give you what I consider a sufficient allowance for a young girl, and doubtless you will like to take up some light occupation that will bring you in an additional sum. You are not a Vincent, as I have told you, and so you have no real claim on me. But I will willingly give you an allowance and I trust you will find a little home for yourself. This is why I had to forbid you all thought of marrying young Collins. They are an aristocratic old family, and his people, of course, would not hear of his alliance with—”

“Don’t say it! I _am_ a nameless orphan, but I never shall foist myself on the family of Bryce Collins—or on anybody else!”

And, white-faced and trembling, biting her scarlet lips in agony, Rosemary walked out of the room.