My first and all but overpowering impulse was to possess myself of
a spade and dash for the wreck of the _Island Queen_. Sober second
thought restrained me. Merely to get there and back would consume
much time, for the descent of the cliffs, and still more the climb
up again, was a toilsome affair. Also, reflection showed me that
to dig through the damp close-packed sand of the cabin would be no
trifling task, for I should be hampered by the need of throwing out
the excavated sand behind me through the narrow companionway. I
could achieve my end, no doubt, by patient burrowing, but it would
require much more time than I had at my command before the noon-day
sounding of Cookie's gong. I must not be seen departing or
returning with a spade, but make off with the implement in a
stealthy and burglarious manner. Above all, I must not risk
betraying my secret through impatience.
But there was nothing to forbid an immediate pilgrimage to the
much-sought gravestone with its sinister symbol. The account in
Peter's diary of his adventure with the pig placed the grave with
such exactness that I had no doubt of finding it easily. That
done, I would know very nearly where to look for the cave--and in
order to bid defiance to a certain chill sense of reluctance which
beset me at the thought of the cave I started out at once, skirting
the clearing with much circumspection, for it seemed to me that
even the sight of my vanishing back must shout of mystery to Cookie
droning hymns among his pots and pans. Crusoe, of course, came
with me, happily unconscious of his own strange relation to our
quest.
Following in the steps of Peter, who seemed in an airy and
uncomfortable fashion to be bearing me company, I struck across the
point, at the base of the rough slope which marks the first rise of
the peak. As I neared the sea on the other side great crags began
to overhang the path, which was, of course, no path, but merely the
line of least resistance through the woods. Soon the noise of the
sea, of which one was never altogether free on the island, though
it reaches the recesses of the forest only as a vast nameless
murmur, broke in heightened clamor on my ears. I heard the waves
roaring and dashing on rocks far below--and then I stood at the
dizzy edge of the plateau looking out over the illimitable gleaming
reaches of the sea.
Somewhere in this angle between the ragged margin of the cliffs and
the abrupt rise of the craggy mountainside, according to Peter's
journal, lay the grave. I began systematically to poke with a
stick I carried into every low-growing mass of vines or bushes.
Because of the comparatively rocky, sterile soil the woods were
thinner here, and the undergrowth was greater. Only the very
definite localization of the grave by the accommodating diarist
gave any hope of finding it.
And then, quite suddenly, I found it. My proddings had displaced a
matted mass of ground-creeper. Beneath, looking raw and naked
without its leafy covering, was the "curiously regular little
patch of ground, outlined at intervals with small stones."
Panic-stricken beetles scuttled for refuge. A great green slug
undulated painfully across his suddenly denuded pasture, A whole
small world found itself hurled back to chaos.
At the head of the grave lay a large, smoothly-rounded stone.
I knelt and brushed away some obstinate vine-tendrils, and
the letters "B. H." revealed themselves, cut deeply and
irregularly into the sloping face of the stone. Below was the
half-intelligible symbol of the crossed bones.
There was something in the utter loneliness of the place that
caught my breath sharply. At once I had the feeling of a marauder.
Here slept the guardian of the treasure--and yet in defiance of him
I meant to have it. So, too, had Peter--and I didn't know yet what
he had managed to do to Peter--but I guessed from his journal that
Peter had been a slightly morbid person. He had let the wild
solitude of the island frighten him. He had indulged foolish
fancies about crucifixes. He had in fact let the defenses of his
will be undermined ever so little--and then of course there was no
telling what They could do to you.
With an impatient shiver I got up quickly from my knees. What
abominable nonsense I had been talking--was there a miasma about
that old grave that affected one? I whistled to Crusoe, who was
trotting busily about on mysterious intelligence conveyed to him by
his nose. He ran to me joyfully, and I stooped and patted his warm
vigorous body.
"Let Bill walk, Crusoe," I remarked, "let him! He needn't be a dog
in the manger about the treasure, anyhow."
Now came the moment which I had been trying not to think about. I
had to find the entrance to the cave, and then go into it or part
with my own esteem forever. I went and peered over the cliff. I
had an unacknowledged hope that the shelf of which Peter had
written had been rent off by some cataclysm and that I could not
possibly get down to the doorway in the rock. My hope was vain.
The ledge was there--not an inviting ledge, nor one on which the
unacrobatically inclined would have any impulse to saunter, but a
perfectly good ledge, on which I had not the slightest excuse for
declining to venture. Seventy feet below I saw a narrow strip of
sand, from which the tide was receding. It ran along under the
great precipice which rose on my right, forming the face of the
mountain on the south side. On that strip of sand the old
hiding-place of the-pirates opened. I thought I saw the
overhanging eaves of rock of which the diary had spoken.
There was truly nothing dangerous about the ledge. It was nearly
three feet wide, and had an easy downward trend. Yet you heard the
hungry roar of the surf below, and try as you would not to, caught
glimpses of the white swirl of it. I moved cautiously, keeping
close to the face of the cliff. Crusoe, to my annoyance, sprang
down upon the ledge after me. I had a feeling that he must
certainly trip me as I picked my way gingerly along.
An angle in the rock--a low dark entrance-way--it was all as Peter
had described it. I peered in--nothing but impenetrable blackness.
I took a hesitating step. The passage veered sharply, as the diary
had recorded. Once around the corner, there would be nothing but
darkness anywhere. One would go stumbling on, feeling with feet
and hands--hands cold with the dread of what they might be going to
touch. For, suddenly portentous and overwhelming, there rose
before me the unanswered question of what had become of Peter on
that last visit to the cave. Unanswered--and unanswerable except
in one way: by going in to see.
But if by any strange chance--where all chances were strange--he
were still there, I did not want to see. I did not like to
contemplate his possible neighborhood. Indeed, he grew enormously
more real to me with every instant I stood there, and whereas I had
so far thought principally about the treasure, I now began to think
with intensity of Peter. What ironic stroke of fate had cut him
down in the very moment of his triumph? Had he ever reached the
cave to bring away the last of the doubloons? Were they
still waiting there unclaimed? Had he fallen victim to some
extraordinary mischance on the way back to the _Island Queen_? Had
a storm come up on that last night, and the weakened cable parted,
and the _Island Queen_ gone on the rocks, drowning Peter in the
cabin with his gold? Then how had Crusoe got away, Crusoe, who
feared the waves so, and would bark at them and then turn tail and
run?
Speaking of Crusoe, where was he? I realized that a moment ago he
had plunged into the passage. I heard the patter of his feet--a
pause. A queer, dismal little whine echoed along the passage. I
heard Crusoe returning--but before his nose appeared around the
angle of the tunnel, his mistress had reached the top of the cliff
at a bound and was vanishing at a brisk pace into the woods.
With bitterness, as I pursued my way to camp, I realized that I was
not a heroine. Here was a mystery--it was the business of a
heroine to solve it. Now that I was safely away from the cave, I
began to feel the itch of a torturing curiosity. How, without
going into the terrifying place alone, should I find out what was
there? Should I pretend to have accidentally discovered the grave,
lead the party to it, and then--again accidentally--discover the
tunnel? This plan had its merits--but I discarded it, for fear
that something would be found in the cave to direct attention to
the _Island Queen_. Then I reflected that very likely the
explorers would work round the island far enough to find the
sea-mouth of the cave. This would take matters entirely out of my
hands. I should perhaps be enlightened as to the fate of Peter and
the last remaining bags of doubloons, but might also have to share
the secret of the derelict with the rest. And then all my dreams
of playing fairy godmother and showering down on certain
heads--like coals of fire--torrents of beautiful golden doubloons,
would be over.
On the whole I could not tell whether I burned with impatience to
have the cave discovered, or was cold with the fear of it.
And then, so vigorous is the instinct to see one's self in heroic
postures, I found I was trying to cheat myself with the pretense
that I meant presently to abstract Aunt Jane's electric torch and
returning to the tunnel-mouth plunge in dauntlessly.