Blanche Coningham's Surrender

Front matter

BLANCHE CONINGHAM'S SURRENDER a Blanche Coningham *s Surrender BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS Author of 'Hush Money! ' Two False Moves' ' The Mystery of Clement Dunraven ' Etc, Etc, Etc. LONDON F. V. WHITE & CO. i4 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, IV. C. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. Chat and Cigars ..... i II. Count de Florian , . . .11 III. The Duchess's Ball . . . .22 IV. An Eye for an Eye . . . -33 V. Return at Once ..... 43 VI. For the Turn of the Tide . . -53 VII. At Lady Montresor's . . . .62 VIII. In His Power ..... 72 IX. For Blanche's Sake . . . .82 X. Among the Roses ..... 92 XI. Jonathan Pringle . . . .103 XII. Foreshadows . . . . .113 XIII. An Unknown Correspondent . . .123 XIV. Husband and Wife . . . 133 XV. The Little Paradox . . . .143 XVI. The Cottage on the Cliff . . 153 XVII. Lady Verb's Request .... 162 V VI CONTENTS CHAP. PAGI" XVIII.

Life or Death . . . . .171 XIX. Playing with Fire . . . .180 XX. Death by Misadventure . . . 190 XXI. At the Maison des Lilas . . . 199 XXII. A Confession ..... 209 XXIII. Not Mad .....'. 218 XXIV. Prendergast to the Rescue . . . 228 XXV. An Anonymous Letter .... 238 XXVI. In the Midst of Life .... 247 XXVII. True as Steel . . . . -257 XXVIII. The Tug of War . . . . .267 XXIX. Two Desperate Men .... 278 XXX. No Escape ...... 287 XXXI. He and She . . . . .296 XXXII. ' Let There be Light ' . . . .

Chapter I Chat And Cigars Nine

o'clock in the evening. The hour at which Paris wakes up into active life. The boulevards and principal streets are usually crowded with loiterers, and all the chairs in front of the many cafe's are filled with smokers and gossipers. Rain, however, has set in with vindictive fury, and a tropical current has swept the streets free of everybody who by any possibility can get under shelter. In the Rue Royale, from the Madeleine to the Place de la Concorde, there is scarcely a human being to be seen ; and the only sound heard is that of the omnibuses and cabs passing along the dripping asphalt. ' It is impossible to go out in this weather, Clarence, so we may as well have a smoke here, and see what it is like a little later.' Eustace Prendergast, a fine - looking man in the forties, about whose temples a few silver hairs A were beginning to show themselves, turned from a window at the further end of the room, from which he had been looking down into the dismal street, and seated himself once more in a comfortable arm chair.

Eustace Prendergast had for some years made Paris his headquarters. He lived a great part of the year in a cosy, luxurious apartment in the Rue Royale, where he frequently gave dinners to his friends, who were all agreed that Prendergast's chef was a true ' cordon bleu ' ; and that in the whole of Paris no one understood the details of comfort and elegance as did the silent Englishman, by name Reeves, who waited on Mr Prendergast and his guests with much punctilious care. Of course, Eustace Prendergast was rich. No man, unless he were amply endowed by fortune, could live the life of luxury which distinguished the apartment in the Rue Royale from most bachelors' quarters. Yet he was no Sybarite. It was for others rather than for himself that he troubled about the pleasures of the table and the details of a well-appointed manage.

In fact, he never did trouble about them ; he left the entire arrangements to Louis and Reeves, his two domestics, and accepted the luxuries he thus obtained, quite naturally, because he had been accustomed to them all his life. It did not, therefore, occur to him that any other way of living was possible. People said there was some past history that prevented it, or surely he would have married. If so, he never told even his most intimate friends what that history was, but lived on his gay bachelor life, without apparently having a single care ; only he was always very sympathetic about the love affairs of his friends, and most ready to lend a helping hand whenever it was possible to do so. At the present moment it was an unthriving love affair that was linking him, more closely than he had ever been linked before, to Clarence Goodrick, a young fellow, who was many years his junior; and in whom, being connected with him by marriage, he was taking even a keener interest than that he usually professed for youngsters who were suffering from the pangs of disappointed love.

At least, the little world in which they moved ascribed this as a reason that the two men, between whom there existed such a disparity of years, should be intimate ; but they were, as usual, only half-correct in their supposition. There was a deeper and a stronger reason why Eustace Prendergast took the fortunes of this young cousin under his especial care than had as yet been guessed by those who thought that, being outsiders, they must therefore see the most of the game. Clarence Goodrick did not seem in the very least disappointed at the resumption of chat and cigars in his friend's comfortable dining-room. He had never been in Paris before, and had only arrived that very day ; yet he did not appear to be in any hurry to become initiated into its gaieties and its pleasures. For the moment, at all events, a chat with Eustace Prendergast was all he craved.

Chatting with Prendergast meant to talk of her. And though Clarence Goodrick was by no means a mere love-sick booby, whose whole time was devoted to beauty's whims, yet there are moments in the lives of even the bravest and most hard working of men when love reigns supreme, and to win in the race for beauty's prize is the ne plus ultra of his dreams. Clarence Goodrick was the younger son ofa baronet, his elder brother being Fortune's favourite, since he was to inherit all the plums Sir Tyler Goodrick had to leave ; while Clarence, though he possessed the good looks of the family, would have but the most moderate of incomes. At this present time he had but an allowance of two hundred a year, which, until lately, he had thought a colossal fortune, being sup plemented as it was by another hundred from a Government office.

Clarence had willingly induced himself to believe that this small income was riches, because he was devoted to his two sisters, and he was well aware that if his father gave him a larger share it would necessitate the reduction of theirs. On this account he had been most prudent, never playing high, or racing, or indulging in any other pursuit that cost much money — permitting himself even to be called 'a parsimonious young idiot' by certain free-spoken members of London's golden youth — rather than that he should make those loved ones in the dear old country house suffer by his extravagances and want of thought. Surely a young fellow whose mind was of so honest and kindly a calibre, and who had the strength of purpose to be true to his instincts, ought to have flourished and been prosperous even in Love's arena.

But Clarence, young though he was, had lived long enough to learn that those who mean the best are not always treated the best by that capricious Fate that seems to rule their destinies. ' I do not know, Clarence, my boy, that you have done the wisest thing in the world by coming over here,' said Prendergast, as by means of a vesta he lighted a fresh cigar. ' Oh, Eustace ! you are surely not going to call me unwelcome, and send me back again ? ' ' So likely ! ' and the older man laughed. ' No, no, Clarence ; I invited you to come. You shall " do " Paris now you are here, whatever the consequences and — well, it is the end that puzzles me.' ' Oh, I am quite sure of Lady Vere,' said Clarence, warmly. ' She is truth itself, and she has promised — ' ' Stop, stop, my lad. Though I have not yet had the honour of making the acquaintance of Lady Vere, I do not doubt her sincerity and loyalty for a moment.

It is of you I am thinking, not ofher.' ' Why, surely, old fellow, you do not think for a moment that I am merely professing to love her for the sake of vanity or amusement, or some other dastardly cause, and shall throw her over when I am tired of the pastime ? If you do think so, I had better—' And he jumped up as though he intended to be off back to England forthwith. ' Stop, stop, rash, impetuous youth ! You have travelled very wide of my meaning. Do for good ness' sake sit down and be rational, or I cannot be plain.' Clarence obeyed, but he looked somewhat sullen, as if to be tutored when he expected sympathy was, as he would have expressed it, ' no end of a bore.' ' Of your love, your true lasting love for Lady Vere, I have no doubt whatever,' went on Mr Prender gast, speaking very deliberately, 'but whether you are acting quite honourably, whether you have any right to go on with this suit, is another matter.

If Lord Sandover — ' ' What is the good of talking about Lord Sandover, Eustace ? Of course, he disapproves — fathers always do — but by what right I should like to know. He is only a newly-fledged peer, and we Goodricks are as old as England.' 'Vanity of race, my boy, is a snare. Aristocracy of birth is, in this nineteenth century, a mere delusion. To my mind, aristocracy of intellect is far superior ; and this Lord Sandover possesses most conspicuously, since it was his intellect that made him a peer.' ' Don't call it intellect ; call it his money-grubbing proclivities,' interrupted Clarence. ' They made him a peer because he has a big fortune, and it is because he wishes to pass over that fortune intact to that little whipper-snapper son of his, who calls himself Lord Molefield, and swaggers about his father the Earl of Sandover, that my sweet Lady Vere is not to be given a penny.' ' Oh, Clarence, Clarence ! you are sore, my boy, or you would not talk so rashly, even to me.

Evidently too sore to have noticed that the two cases are absolutely parallel. Has it never occurred to you to harness Molefield and your own brother Vincent in the same curricle ? ' ' Those two together ! No, Eustace, that won't do. Vincent is a grand fellow, while Molefield, though he is Lady Vere's brother, is a snob.' ' I wonder if love makes a man illogical ? ' asked Mr Prendergast. 'Not in the least. I know what you mean, but the cases are quite dissimilar. My father has only followed in the footsteps of his ancestors ; and, after all, each of my sisters will have three hundred a year ; and while Lord Sandover has no ancestors, he will not give Lady Vere a penny ! ' ' Not if she marries you ? ' ' And why should she not marry me, I should like to know, seeing that I am neither a cripple nor a cad ? ' 'Because Lord Sandover sets money before the birth of which you are so proud, and, being a sensible man, is aware that happiness is very frequently severely wounded in a conflict with poverty.' 'Knowing that, he ought to give Lady Vere a proper allowance.' ' I am sure you don't wish to live on Lord Sand over's money.' ' Not at all.

I have three hundred a year now ; I shall come into twenty thousand pounds when old Uncle Phil dies. If Lady Vere had three hundred a year we should do very well.' ' Notwithstanding this rational and £ s. d. calcula tion of yours, I doubt if Lord Sandover will ever see it from the same focus. A girl who has been accustomed to live with the entourage that at least sixteen thousand a year commands, will find life rather difficult when her income is reduced to six hundred, even if the interest on twenty thousand is looming in the future.' ' Then you advise me to give it all up and say adieu to Lady Vere ? ' ' My dear boy, I do not presume to give any advice on the subject. It is for you and Lady Vere Langley to decide what you wish to do ; only, as your friend, I think it right to represent the case in its most adverse light.

I do not know the young lady, there fore can form no opinion as to her capabilities for fulfilling all the requirements of a poor man's wife.' ' Oh ! She is right enough in that way ; the trouble is, she does not like positively to thwart her father — though she does not intend to give me up.' ' For both decisions I commend her,' said Prender gast. ' Let us hope that things will turn out better than their present aspect leads us to expect. I suppose you mean to go to-morrow and pay Lady Vere a visit ? ' ' It depends on the letter I get from her as to whether I shall go and see her at her friend's house or meet her somewhere. You know this Mrs Coning ham she is staying with, do you not ? ' ' Yes,' answered Mr Prendergast very shortly, while a sharp contraction of his eyebrows evinced dis pleasure.

Whether it was at a proposed surreptitious meeting between his young friend and Lady Vere Langley, or at the introduction of Mrs Coningham's name into the matter did not transpire. They smoked in silence for a few minutes, during which time no sound was heard save the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and the muffled thud of the horses' feet on the asphalt in the street below. They were both thinking — thinking hard. Clarence Goodrick, notwithstanding the cloud that hung over him, had hope woven firmly among his thoughts ■ — the hope that is seldom absent from the mind when the first quarter of a century of life is barely reached. Eustace Prendergast, to judge from the dark ex pression of his face, had thoughts which seemed to involve a hopelessness from which even he — and he was a strong-willed man — was powerless to dis embarrass himself.

And yet he was supposed to have not a single trouble in the whole world. Clarence Goodrick, rousing himself from his own dream, noticed his friend's abstraction. He stretched his hand across the table and touched his arm in order to rouse him. ' Tell me,' he said — ' tell me something of this Blanche Coningham about whom Lady Vere speaks so rapturously ? ' Alert at once, Eustace Prendergast took a long whiff at his cigar, and then answered, — ' Blanche Coningham is a delightful woman, with a delightful house in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. She is a widow with one little boy about ten years old, who will one day inherit his mother's fortune. The late Coningham had but little money. I am afraid he was a bit of a fortune-hunter — a beast of prey of which women with money are very frequently victims.' ' What a commonplace social story ! ' cried Clarence, looking with some surprise at his host, who was not wont to give succinct domestic histories.

That some thing was underlying this one he felt very certain. ' It is not of Mrs Coningham's life as everyone knows it that I was asking, but of her inner self that I want to know,' he went on, persistent, not only in his questions, but in his scrutinising contemplation of Prendergast. ' You see, she is Lady Vere's most intimate friend ; it is therefore only natural I should like to know something of her worth.' ' Have no fear. Blanche Coningham' s character will stand any amount of testing. She is purity and loving-kindness personified.' ' You have known her a long time.' ' As a girl, before she married Coningham. Her father owned a large factory about five miles from us in Yorkshire.' ' Oh,' said Clarence, ' she was Miss Wilbraham.' ' Exactly. But how do you know anything about it ? ' ' As if one did not know that name, and that the Wilbrahams and the Prendergasts were allied, as the county and factory seldom are.' ' Old Wilbraham was a most worthy man, and was much respected by the entire neighbourhood,' said Prendergast.

A fact which did not, however, seem to specially interest Clarence Goodrick, who was far more impressed by the knowledge that his daughter should be living in Paris as a grande dame, and should be the devoted ' friend ' of Lady Vere Langley. ' Could it be possible,' he wondered, ' that Lord Sandover knew that Mrs Coningham was born and bred in a factory, when he allowed his daughter to associate so freely with her, he who despised an alliance with the Goodricks as not being sufficiently advantageous ? ' Another glance at Prendergast's face told him, however, that if he were wise he would not put this question to him. He had never seen Eustace Prendergast look as he did under the seeming ordeal of these questions about Mrs Coningham. ' Was he in love with her — Prendergast the impreg nable, as he was called by his friends?

Had she aught to do with that old buried secret that people said hung about him like a shroud ? Eleven — twelve years it must be since she had married Coningham, the fortune-hunter. Was he, perhaps, in love with her then ? Impossible ! Men of the world such as Prendergast are seldom faithful.' And then he sighed as he thought of Lady Vere, since he fully intended to be faithful to her ; but then, perhaps, he scarcely deemed himself to be a man of the world. The sigh recalled Eustace Prendergast from a second dream into which he had drifted. He sprang up. ' Let us go out,' he said ; ' this room is stifling ! It cannot be raining still ; if it is, we will take a carriage and go to a cafe!

Chapter II Count De Florian

Mrs Coningham's house in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne was a miniature palace, filled with priceless gems of art and luxury. She herself was by no means the least beautiful object in that abode of beauty ; being of the still-life type, she and they would bear comparison. Blanche Coningham was a tall, white-faced woman with large brown eyes. She moved slowly and gracefully, and had a most reposeful manner. Flutter and fluster were absolutely foreign to her. Though she took, at all events, a seeming interest in all that went on around her, especially in connection with her friends, she did not fuss or babble incessantly, and was perhaps on this account more appreciated by men than by women, whose gossip she in no way encouraged, Lady Vere Langley being her only intimate female friend. That old Wilbraham's daughter should have turned out to be thoroughly grande dame and pose'e in all her ways might have puzzled some of the believers in heredity, who had known her father to be only a pushing man.

They might perhaps have searched for some suspicious cause why his daughter should be so utterly unlike himself, save for the similarity to his grandfather that existed in little Bertie, Mrs Coningham's ten-year-old boy. He had not only the same features, but already there was developing in him the same capability for carving out a future for himself, and it seemed a pity that the fortune that would one day be his was already in existence and that it had not been left for him to make it for himself. In more ways than one it had perhaps been well for the boy could this have been so, but of this no one thought when they talked of the riches with which bright-eyed, intelligent Bertie would one day be endowed. Blanche Coningham was devoted to Bertie. ' He was,' she said, ' the only being she loved,' and this was, as far as she knew herself, the truth ; but people are apt to deceive themselves at times, even in matters connected with their own heart and its vagaries.

Of course, she did not mean by this that she did not care for her friend Lady Vere Langley ; she did care for her exceedingly. Not only were their natures sympathetic, but it suited Mrs Coningham to be the devoted ally, and at times the chaperon, of Lady Vere. From this it may be argued that the vulgarity that had existed in old Wilbraham was not wholly dead in his daughter. Certainly not ; but all her pushing pro clivities were in the direction of social success, which was the more attainable since Mrs Coningham had the cleverness and the wisdom to conceal her hand and to appear absolutely indifferent about the position of the people she knew, only, she said, wishing them to be pleasant and amusing. Yet those who were not on a very elevated rung of the social ladder seldom managed to attain the desired standard in agreeable amenities.

All this was done so quietly that it was by no means transparent, and it would have been accounted moral treason to have whispered the word 'snob' in connection with Blanche Coningham. In fact, men would have fought about it, and women would have stared and repudiated the idea that their pattern of good manners and good breeding should have been thus foully slandered. Dressed in the softest of peach colours, for the early May morning had dawned in beauty after last night's rain — she wore a dainty toque on her fair hair. She had just left her bedroom, evidently with the intention of going out. On a table in the boudoir, through which she passed, lay a note. She took it up and opened it. It was from Lady Vere. ' Dearest Blanche, — Clarence is in Paris. I am going to meet him at the Madeleine — if it is only to tell him that I cannot see him again.

Do not wait luncheon, though doubtless I shall be back before then. — Yours, VERE.' Mrs Coningham's brow contracted as she read this scribbled missive. ' Not see him again ? ' she murmured. ' Ah, Vere, if you would only keep to it ! But I fear there is a good deal of trouble in store about this Clarence. Foolish child, foolish child ! and Lord Sandover seems so positive.' She had expected that Lady Vere would go out with her for a morning stroll in the Avenue, but, as she was not available, she sallied forth alone, intend ing to join Bertie and his old north-country nurse, who was occasionally his companion when the French governess was absent. The sun was high in the heavens, though the hour was an early one, and the whole Avenue was bathed in its glorious light. There were many pedestrians and equipages ; it seemed as if le tout Paris had turned out to be refreshed by these May glories, after the somewhat severe winter through which they had passed.

Mrs Coningham looked up and down, but could see nothing of Bertie. She was about to turn back into her own grounds when a voice stopped her. It was that of one of her well-known acquaintances, Lady Mon tresor, a woman whom fashion had raised to a fairly high pedestal, but who was scarcely worthy of her position. Having said that she was a cheery, well dressed, chatty woman, the catalogue of her good qualities was enumerated, for there were falseness and unpaid bills, and a certain amount of veiled spite as a counterpoise to her seeming charms. Mrs Coningham was, nevertheless, pleased to see her, for Lady Montresor knew everyone, and could tell her many things about many people. ' Come and sit down somewhere,' suggested Lady Montresor. ' I have left my brougham under that tree, but after all it is too hot to walk.' 'Delighted,' answered Mrs Coningham; 'we can see our friends as they pass.

I was looking for Bertie, but I cannot see him anywhere.' ' So clever of you to have a Bertie ! He must make a most useful chaperon,' and Lady Montresor laughed, just a little maliciously ; then she continued, as if a sudden recollection had come to her, ' I thought Lady Vere Langley was with you ? ' ' So she is, but she has gone to the Madeleine this morning.' ' To the Madeleine ! Has she turned pious? It is not Lent, is it ? Surely you do not allow a pretty girl like Lady Vere to go to the Madeleine alone ? ' ' Of course, her maid is with her,' said Mrs Coning ham, colouring as she made the shot. The truth was that not until that moment had it occurred to her to question who had gone with Lady Vere, notwithstanding that she was quite aware that Lady Vere possessed the advanced, independent opinion that she could thoroughly take care of herself.

French prejudices in the matter would probably have weighed as mere feathers when the meeting with Clarence Goodrick was in the balance, the presence of the maid being a superfluity from which she would gladly disembarrass herself. To get away from the subject of Lady Vere and her escort, Mrs Coning ham began to ask questions about the passers-by, evincing an interest which was exceedingly pleasant to Lady Montresor, who loved to babble about other people's affairs, but who could but seldom get Mrs Coningham to show any curiosity. Not that Blanche Coningham was as unacquainted with the gossip of the fashionable world as she seemed. She could not, from her position, help hearing a good deal, but she never propagated it. To-day, however, she was rendered au fait with several stories that had hitherto escaped her, and she was beginning to get somewhat tired of such a large amount of nothingness, and to find herself instinctively looking about for Bertie, when a high phaeton, or caleche, drawn by an exceedingly frisky steed, came swiftly along the Avenue from the Bois, giving the idea among the more soberly-conducted carriages by which it was surrounded, either that the horse had run away or that the driver had lost his head.

Those who knew him — and he was by no means an unknown individual — were perfectly aware that neither alter native was correct. Count Gustave de Florian's head was poised very carefully on his broad shoulders, and as for mental weakness, no one would have accused him of such a failing. ' De Florian, as usual, driving the chariot of the sun ! That man is a positive terror with his rapid driving,' said Lady Montresor. Mrs Coningham, who rather admired the rapid driving— as people with calm, sluggish temperaments are apt to admire energy in others — did not, how ever, contradict by giving her opinion ; she merely said, — ' He is very handsome.' ' Handsome is as handsome does, my dear. De Florian is a vaurien, or I am no judge of character. Do you know him personally ? ' ' No ; I have never chanced to meet him when he could be presented.' ' So much the better for you, I was going to say, only, of course, De Florian is the fashion.

Eccen tric people always are. Extraordinary, is it not, that people who never rise above the commonplace themselves, invariably admire the outre in others.' ' And Count De Florian is outre ? What does he do ? ' ' Surely, my dear Mrs Coningham, you cannot call a man a rational human being who drives as if he were Phaeton, and dresses as if he were a Tyrolese minstrel ? Such clothes in these days, too, when all the chic Parisians employ English tailors ! He is rather a mauvais sujet into the bargain ; he has gambled away two fortunes, and his promiscuous love-making is scarcely respectable. They say, too, he has a wife somewhere in Greece or the Ionian Islands.' ' Poor man ! I daresay half the things he is credited with he has never heard of.' ' Don't you deceive yourself. Old Nick may not be so bad as he is painted, but I believe this handsome follower of his is far worse.' Mrs Coningham laughed merrily.

She always took Lady Montresor's assertions about her friends cum grano, and since she abused this Count de Florian so roundly she was inclined to think her in love with him. Nor was this idea by any means lessened when Count de Florian, who had driven past towards Paris only a few moments before, returned at the same vigorous pace, and drew the horse up, bringing him suddenly down almost on his haunches just in front of the two ladies. He tossed the reins to his groom — a dapper little fellow who looked as if he had been stunted in his youth on purpose to follow his vocation — and came up to Lady Montresor, carrying his Tyrolese hat in his hand, French fashion. He did not, however, speak French, but English, with a perfectly pure accent, which somewhat astonished Mrs Coningham, who from his appearance had conjectured that he could not possibly have anything in common with England.