CHAPTER XV
THE HOMEWARD BOUND
It was the middle of the following afternoon, and there was quiet in the premises of the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Its guests languished, napping through the heat of the day in their rooms; and only in O'Rourke's quarters were any evidences of activity to be found. But there confusion reigned—such confusion as might be expected to attend a sudden and unexpected departure from a place wherein one has believed oneself established for an indeterminate if lengthy period of time.
Danny, his face as red as his hair, perspiring and profane, stood in the middle of the floor, ankle-deep in a litter of wearing apparel, saddles, belts, holsters, and all the variegated paraphernalia which O'Rourke had seen fit to attach unto himself in the course of a short but active campaign for fortune—upon which in this one instance, contrarily enough to prove her sex, Fortune had smiled. The acquisitiveness of an Irishman with a pocketful of money is proverbial; of late nothing had been too good for O'Rourke, too cumbersome, or too expensive. He had been prospering, and the shopkeepers of the Mediterranean ports were bearing in fond remembrance his extravagances.
And Danny, wild-eyed and desperate, was endeavoring to pack all this resultant accumulation of rubbish into one small trunk and a smaller leathern suit-case, in time to get them off, together with himself and his master, upon the mail boat scheduled to touch and leave Tangiers at five that afternoon.
The reason for this activity was not far to seek. It lay before O'Rourke in the shape of a letter on the top of a little rickety table, whereat the Irishman himself was sitting and writhing in the agonies of epistolary composition.
O'Rourke's color was scarcely less vivid than Danny's; and his perturbation of mind was apparent, even to the body-servant,—who therefore, and sagaciously, was at pains to make no unnecessary disturbance which would tend to distract his master's trend of thoughts, and who kept the corner of an eye warily alert for flying boots and other missiles, which were to be apprehended as signals that O'Rourke was annoyed by his follower.
But, for all that, Danny was trembling with joy; and even the eye of O'Rourke was alight with satisfaction as he conned and reconned the information contained in the brief, legal-looking scrawl which had arrived per the east-bound mall packet, that very morning.
The adventurer divided his attention between that communication and another which he was setting himself determinedly to compose, pending his early departure. He dug fingers into his dark hair and ground his teeth with despair as the pen sputtered and tracked an irregular way across the many sheets of hotel writing-paper which he had requisitioned for his purpose.
At length, with an exclamation which caused Danny to retreat with rapidity to a fine strategic position near the door, whence a further retreat to the outer hallway would be feasible if necessary, O'Rourke thrust aside the page he had just blackened and took up another. With the fire of grim purpose in his glance he settled himself to a fresh start.
"My dear Chambre" (he wrote):
"'Tis no manner of use. I am not a polite letter writer. This I tell you frankly, having no intent to deceive. The truth is that this will be about the 'steenth start I have made to this note—and so far, praises be! the most promising. Being in a hurry to get this off within the next two hours, which I am, this must serve—or nothing will. At the same time, I'm appreciative of the fact that 'tis the deuce of a poor hand I am to write letters, and I'm sorry for yourself, who'll have to wade through it all.
"Nevertheless, I feel expansive, and it's myself who will be opening my mind and heart to you, and probably at length—since I am unskilled in the pruning of my thoughts to fit in a certain number of words. Faith! telegrams were always an uncommon expense to me!
"I am here in Tangiers—a fact of which you will be suspicious the minute you lay eyes on the note-paper and the postmark. No matter. When you receive it, it is myself who will be in a neater, cleaner land than this—and glad am I of the prospect. I leave this night for the old country. And you will please to address your answer to The O'Rourke himself (who is now me), Castle O'Rourke, County Galway, Ireland, U. K.
"It's the matter of a year, more or less, since I left ye in Lützelburg, and by that same token it's the divvle of a long time, and it's much we'll have to tell one another, I'm hopeful, when next we meet. During that time, it's not a word you have sent me of yourself nor your affairs; though I understand from other sources that all's well with you and Madame la Grande Duchesse—to whom you will kindly convey my respects and best wishes. You are a fortunate man. Faith, I wish I could say as much for myself!
"Not that I would blame you for the neglect. 'Tis as much my own fault as yours. I despise letter writing, as I've said before. And what with wandering up and down upon the face of the earth, seeking what I might devour, like the Old Gentleman in the Good Book—may he fly away with himself!—and going hungry a good part of the time at that, and bearing with Danny—whom I picked up in Alexandria, by the way—and having a good time, truth to tell, and doing not so badly in a money way, though my income has been, as usual, casual, and what with the news that's come to me now, this very bright and beautiful morning, of my poor old Uncle Peter, one of the best men who ever lived, who's finally had the decency and courtesy to die—God rest his soul!—which rest he will be needing in the Hereafter, I'm convinced; for a meaner old skinflint and curmudgeon never trod the old sod and refused to accommodate his affectionate nephew with enough money to pay even a part of his debts, thus forcing the tender lad to go out into the cold and heartless world and seek his fortune, which he has been a long time finding—my dear Uncle Peter, I was saying, has died and left me—because he could not help it and for no other reason, the mean old miser, himself having no nearer of kin—a pile of gray rock and green moss called Castle O'Rourke, together with two hundred acres of peat bog and a few shillings that should have been mine long ago if I'd had my rights, to say nothing of several expensive suits in litigation of which I know nothing at all and care less, but which my solicitors advise me he willed to me especially in a damnable codicil, whatever that may be—"But wherever at all I am in that sentence I shall never tell you, my dear man, for I don't know. What I'm trying to tell you is this: that the O'Rourke is at last come into his own, praises be and no thanks to Uncle Peter, whom I verily believe lived ten years longer than he really wanted to, just to keep me out of my due!
"And now I am resolved to settle down and lead a quiet and peaceful life for the rest of my days. I'll never again lift a hand against any man either in anger or for the love of the fight. And if you dare laugh, or even so much as chuckle, at me for saying that, I give you my word that I'll call you out and run you through, friendship or no friendship, Chambret!
"Now, the meat of all this lies in the fact that, so soon as I can settle my affairs I will be strolling over to Paris,, and I shall count upon your meeting me, if you still love me, with word of the whereabouts of the one woman in all the world for whom I give the snap of my fingers. There's no need naming names, but in case there should exist in your mind any confusion as to the identity of the particular lady in question, I'll just whisper to you that she's Madame la Princesse, Beatrix de Grandlieu.
"Where is she, Chambret? Don't be telling me she's married, for myself wont believe a word of it. Faith, she promised to wait for me, and now 'tis no penniless Irish adventurer who is languishing for her, but The O'Rourke—you have my permission to inform her—landed proprietor himself and as good a man as ever walked in shoe leather.
"Is she happy? Does she talk of me? Would she, do you think, be glad to see me? Where can I find her, Chambret? And when? In a single word—Speak out, man! Don't you know I'm faint with longing for her?—in a word does she still love the O'Rourke? I can't live without her, old friend, now that I'm rich enough to support a wife, and the man that tries to win her from me will be sorry for the rest of his life!
"Tell her from me, that I have on my watch chain the half of a sovereign that—"
"Yer honor!"
"Go to thunder!"
"But yer honor—"
"I'll 'honor' ye, ye omadhaun! Get the deuce out av here, before I—"
Danny, who had quietly finished his task of packing and had slipped away, leaving O'Rourke in the heat of composition and dead to the world, on returning had merely ventured to stick the tip of his snub nose and the corner of one eye around the edge of the door. From this vantage point he dared persist, emboldened by necessity.
"Yer honor, 'tis—"
"D'ye want me to flay ye alive?"
"The min f'r th' troonks!" shouted Danny defiantly.
"What's that?"
O'Rourke paused and put down his pen with a sigh.
"'Tis the stheamer that will be in in half an hour, yer honor—"
"Very well, then. I'm coming," said O'Rourke pacifically.
But it was with regret that he added a hastily scrawled signature to his letter to Chambret, then sealed and addressed it. Calling Danny, he handed him the missive, with strict injunctions to let nothing deter him from posting it without the least delay; and, rising, O'Rourke left the Hôtel d'Angleterre and strolled down to the water-front deliberately, watching the mail-boat steam slowly into the roadstead—the vessel that was to bear him away from Tangiers, away from the East, away from Romance. He found himself almost sorry that he was to know no more this life that he had chosen chosen—and yet the memory of the princess of his dreams lured him northwards irresistibly.
As he waited, upon a pier-head, for the boat which was to bear him and Danny and their luggage to the steamer, a man came bounding hurriedly through the precipitous streets of Tangiers, and caught him almost at the last moment,—a young man, with a glowing, happy face, breathing heavily because of his haste.
"I have come to bid you God-speed, O'Rourke," said William Everett Senet, Consul-General, grasping the adventurer's ready hand. "And—and I suppose I am wrong to feel this way, but I have good news—of a sort."
O'Rourke lifted his brows. "The Count of Seyn-Altberg?" he asked.
Senet nodded. "Von Wever confessed—you know. We found the poor fellow—the count—But there's no profit going over that. He—it was terrible; he was beyond aid. Died this morning, early. Von Wever's gone inland … hunting!"
"And yourself?"
"Oh, I've sent in my resignation," said young Senet. "I'm going to take Nellie home—the countess, I mean—" he blushed furiously—"just as soon as my successor arrives."
"That's right," said O'Rourke. "Me boy, 'tis no place for the likes of ye—this Tangiers. May ye both be happy!"