A STARTLING REVELATION.
Our explorers made but one stop on the way back, and that was at the old
wine cask. Percy rinsed the silver cup, and having refilled it he handed
it to the earl to taste. The old man tasted. He tasted again, and again,
and finally drank it to the last drop.
“I declare,” said he, with deep earnestness in look and tone, “if we
ever perform the work of clearing out this place I must secure that
cask. It is by far the finest port I ever drank.”
Percy drank half a cup full, after having offered it to Cordelia and
Mary, who had only touched their lips to it. It was too strong for them.
They then passed on and ascended the ladder, finding everything in the
old chapel as they had left it. Not even a mouse had found their basket,
nor had any thief laid hands upon the muskets.
The others watched the movements of their guide while he closed up the
secret opening in the pavement, and when it had been done and they had
told once more how wonderful it all was, they turned their attention to
lunch, for the walk had given them an appetite.
Not far from the chapel was a spring of pure ice-cold water in a little
rocky dell, and to that our hero led the way. It was a romantic spot;
and there they sat, and spread their banquet.
It was near the middle of the afternoon when they arrived at the castle
on their return. The old steward was somewhat disappointed upon finding
that no game had been brought home, but he said he had expected nothing
better when he had seen the women folks mixing up with the sport.
Cordelia heard him, and boxed his ear, which event pleased him far more
than the lack of game had distressed him.
Percy went in and spent an hour with the earl in conversation on the
subject of their late excursion and matters connected with it. Before
closing reference was again made to the pirate chief.
The youth promised that he would keep track of him as soon as he should
once more show himself at Allerdale.
“Be sure of one thing,” he said. “The brig can not leave the cove
without my knowing it; and she will not leave until Ralph Tryon has
rejoined her. I say to you again--borrow no trouble. Do not be uneasy.
My word for it, you shall yet make a full and favorable report to the
authorities in London.”
“That’s the most I care for, Percy. I will leave it in your hands.”
“Do so, my lord; and sleep soundly the while. Remember, it may be a week
before we can make a decisive movement.”
“All right. Let it be when it will, so that we find success at the end.”
And with this the visitor took his leave. Cordelia met him in the outer
hall. She had not been present at the interview just closed; but she
could not let him go without seeing, and speaking with him before he
went. She wanted to thank him for the pleasure he had afforded her; she
wanted to bless him, and she wanted to kiss him.
“Oh, my dear love!” she murmured, with her hands on his shoulders, and
her eyes gazing up into his own. “I can not tell you how happy I am.
Will anything ever come to mar the perfect bliss?”
“Let us hope not, my darling. My trust is in heaven, and in your truth.
I do not think either can fail me. We can love while we live; but, ah,
there is after all a power between us which we may not surmount.”
“You mean--the earl?”
“Yes.”
“Let us not think of him at present. Wait, Percy, until this business of
the pirates is settled. Do you know, my dear, I have thought it possible
that you might come forth from that affair with a standing and
reputation that will cause my dear old guardian to regard you in a
different light from what he does now? Even now he respects and esteems
you. Think how he has been to-day. Really and truly I had not expected
him to be quite so free and affable, but certainly I never saw him more
so. Wait, my precious. Don’t fail the earl in the matter of the pirate
chief. Who shall say what may happen after that?”
Ah, if they could have known what was to happen! Perhaps it was well
they did not.
Percy thought he could understand his darling’s feelings--her hopes and
aspirations. She fancied, in her goodness of heart, and in her love for
him, that he would come forth from the crusade against the pirates with
a hero’s crown, and that the world would respect and esteem him as such.
He would not destroy her castle. He promised her that he would do the
very best he could--would do all that lay in his power--towards helping
the earl and punishing the outlaws.
Then he kissed her once more, and shortly thereafter took his way
homeward.
Home! He shuddered when he thought of it. There was something in the
memory he held of his father that was sacred--something that imparted to
the old stone cottage a faint shadow of homeness, but not another
thing--not another memory of his life endeared the place to him, or gave
him yearnings for it.
And since he had discovered Cordelia’s love the place seemed less like
home than ever before. He felt that it was no place for him. How long
could it be before they--the smugglers--would suspect that he was at
heart against them? And they would tell his mother. And--what would she
do? Oh, he would have given much to know the woman’s real feelings. Was
she friendly to Ralph Tryon’s wicked course; or, was she not? He feared
that she sustained the man.
However, he would not remain much longer a dweller in the stone cottage.
For three months, and little more, he had been free from the promise
given to his dying father, and there was nothing to keep him. He had
remained thus far because his mother had appeared to expect it, and
because he would not leave her entirely alone.
The sun had set when he left the castle, and by the time he had reached
the edge of the woods flanking the cove, and within which stood the
cottage, it had grown quite duskish. So nearly dark was it, that when he
had entered the wood it seemed really like night.
The fancy struck him as he took the first step into the woodland path,
that he saw a moving figure, not unlike that of a man, a short distance
away on his right hand. His thought for the moment was to stop and
speak, but he heard nothing; and as the thing, whatever it was, had
disappeared, he kept on.
He had not gone a great way--perhaps half the distance through the
wood--when his attention was called to the pattering of feet behind him.
He bent his ear and listened, and presently he stopped and turned.
“Ah, Guy! Is it you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been waitin’ for ye a long time.”
It was a boy--a bright-faced, bright-eyed, handsome youngster of
fourteen, named Guy Carrol. He was son of a sister of old Donald Rodney,
and for four years almost, he had been the old smuggler’s _protégé_.
His mother, whom Donald had loved warmly, had been first widowed, and
then, when her boy had reached the age of ten years, she had died; and,
dying, she had given the boy to her brother, and he had promised that he
would care for him as though he had been his own.
For three years the old uncle had sent the lad to school, and then, when
the little fellow had teased, and coaxed, and begged, and fairly prayed,
Rodney had yielded, and taken him to sea with him. But he would not have
done it if he could have looked ahead and seen just what the voyage was
to be.
The heart of the orphan boy had turned towards our hero the first time
he had ever seen him.
Percy had gone on board the brig about a year before, and met the little
fellow in the gangway, and something in the handsome boyish face and in
the great bright, honest eyes, had at once appealed to his deepest
heart, and he had laid his hand on the boy’s head and blessed him, and
spoke cheerily and encouragingly to him; had hoped he would love his old
uncle and grow up to be a good man and true.
It was not much to do, but it proved the turning point in the boy’s
life; and from that time he had worshiped Percy Maitland.
“Well, here I am, at length. What can I do for you?”
“It isn’t for me, sir. It is for yourself. Uncle Donald bade me come out
and speak with ye. Wait a bit. S’pose we go on a little. There’s a place
close by where there’s more room.”
“Room, my boy! What in the world--”
“Sh! Speak low, sir! We don’t know whose ears may be near us. Where
there’s more room we’d be more likely to see ’em.”
Percy was becoming interested. At a short distance they came to a sort
of clearing, where there had once been, so tradition said, a log hut;
and here they stopped. The boy cast a quick, sweeping glance around, and
then spoke.
“Mr. Maitland, Uncle Rodney bade me tell you there is danger, and you
must look sharp. Cap’n Tryon has been to your mother’s--”
“Captain Tryon! Is he here?”
“Yes, sir. He came some time in the night, and he’s in a terrible way.”
“But what has he come for? What has happened to upset him?”
“Why, sir--as Uncle Donald told it to me--somewhere on the road, between
this and Burton, somebody saw him that knew him. He was on the outside
of the stage-coach with the driver, and it was the driver that told him
how the man had looked at him.
“Well, sir, the next time the coach stopped with the mail, up comes
three officers and tells the cap’n he’s their prisoner. P’rhaps you can
guess how he took it. They must have had a pretty sharp time of it for a
little while.
“Cap’n Tryon’s got two bullets in him--one in his arm and the other in
his shoulder, but he give ’em the slip. He says he left two of ’em on
the ground, but he didn’t know whether they were dead or not. Mercy! how
he did swear! I heard him while he was on board the brig.”
“But what has this to do with me, Guy?”
“Ah, that’s just it, sir! He--that’s the cap’n--swears ’at you’ve been
and blowed on him; and on the rest of us. Of course, Uncle Donald knew
better, and so did I; but what’s the use of our saying anything against
him? He swears ’at you’ve blowed, and now he’s goin’ to have vengeance.”
The boy paused at this point, and looked up into Percy’s face, as though
waiting for a reply. Evidently, he expected a disclaimer. At all events,
the young man knew that it would greatly please him to receive one, and
he gave it at once, and emphatically.
“Guy--Ralph Tryon lies if he says so! and I believe he knows he lies!
Now, tell me, what does he propose to do?”
“That’s what we don’t know, sir; but Uncle Donald says you must keep an
eye on your mother. It’s a hard thing to say--dreadful hard to tell a
man to beware of his own mother--but so it is. It’s to her the cap’n has
been; and uncle overheard enough between ’em to be very sure ’at
mischief is meant to yourself, sir!”
“How did your uncle happen to overhear this? Where did it happen?”
“At the cottage, sir, to-day. The cap’n came aboard the brig about
midnight--the last that ever was. The lookout heard him call for a boat,
and uncle went off and got him. This forenoon he went ashore, and Uncle
Donald with him; and they went up to the cottage; and while the cap’n
was tellin’ his story to Mistress Margery, Donald went out; and they
must have thought he’d gone further away. I s’pose, if the truth was
told, he was list’nin’. I wish you could see the old man; but he can’t
leave the brig; and he says it wouldn’t do for you to come there.”
“Can you tell me anything that was said?” Percy asked eagerly.
“Only this, sir. Of course, my uncle didn’t dare to get too near. If
they’d caught him, there’s no telling what might have happened. He heard
Cap’n Tryon tell the mistress how that you had betrayed ’em--the whole
lot of ’em--to the sheriff or the constable. What the mistress said he
couldn’t exactly hear; but he could tell that she sided in with the
cap’n. After awhile the cap’n said something about clappin’ a stopper on
ye--on the young spy and informer, he called ye.”
“And what said my mother to that?”
“That was what Donald tried awful hard to find out but he couldn’t do
it. Howsumever, he’s sure she agreed to it. She didn’t say she’d help,
but it was understood that she shouldn’t stand in the way of what the
other would do.”
“And that is all old Donald heard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t learn or gain any intimation of how Tryon intends to
operate--what he means to do?”
“No, sir. Uncle Donald says that’s for you to find out. If the cap’n was
to be on the ground, t’would be different. Then you’d keep an eye on
him; but, seein’ as he is goin’ off again, you’ll have to be more
careful and keep a sharp lookout, fore and aft and on both sides.”
“Going away!” exclaimed Percy, with a start of disappointment and
disgust. “Do you mean, he will leave Allerdale?”
“Why, bless ye! he’s gone, sir. He went early this afternoon. One of the
gunners drove him over to Springvale in a cart belonging to the host of
the village inn; and I understand he was bound north for Scotland. Uncle
Donald said he was cross and ugly, and it was impossible to make out
exactly what he meant to do. But he’s off, sir, and won’t be back for a
week or thereabout, if what he told my uncle was the truth.”
“You are anxious to get back to the brig, my dear boy?”
“I’m rather anxious to be out of this, sir,” the lad replied, promptly
and frankly. “I wouldn’t have one of the cap’n’s men catch me here with
you for the world.”
“Ah, you recognize a line of demarcation in the crew of the brig?--I
mean you understand there to be two parties.”
“Yes, sir, I do. Uncle Donald will never--But I mustn’t blab.”
“It’s all right, Guy. I know all about it, and from your uncle’s own
lips. And now--if you have nothing more to tell me--you may trot back as
quickly as you please; and be sure I shall not forget the great service
you have done me.”
“Oh, sir, don’t say that! If you knew how much good it does us--Uncle
Donald and I--to serve you, you wouldn’t think of layin’ it up as
anything to be remembered.”
“Never mind about that just now. You’ll accept my gratitude; and you’ll
convey the same to your uncle, and tell him, further, that Percy will be
sure to keep his eyes wide open.”
Our hero stood and watched the disappearing form of his young friend,
and when he could no longer hear the sound of his footfall he turned
once more toward the cottage.
And he had something now to think about. He was not greatly surprised
that Ralph Tryon should seek his life. Knowing the character of the man
for all that was cruel and reckless and wicked, and remembering the
antagonism that had existed between them from the very first of their
acquaintance, he could find nothing surprising in this desire for dire
and deadly vengeance.
What he wondered at was that the villain should have applied to his
mother. How had he dared to broach such a subject to her?
Could there be any mistake? Had Donald Rodney been deceived or had he
entirely misunderstood? In his heart he was forced to the confession
that he had no respect for his mother, or no respect for her character,
nor could he esteem her.
Oh, if his mother could be but a memory, as was his father, how much of
misery might have been spared him! In the name of mother there was
something sacred--something that quickened his pulses and elevated his
feelings.
But in his own case, when he descended from the empty name to the living
reality, the sacredness vanished, and a sense of repulsion took the
place of calmer feeling.
He could not tell what to think--what to fear. He must wait and let time
determine. The thought occurred to him of seeking rest at the village.
Why should he sleep again beneath the old roof? Would he not be safer at
the inn? Would not that be the best and surest way of settling the whole
matter?
But it would not answer. He could offer no excuse without opening his
parent’s eyes to the truth--to the fact of his having received warning.
No, he would go on, and make the best of it. He was sustained by a
wondrous sense of power. Never in his life had he felt more secure than
at that moment, and yet he did not doubt that a severe struggle--a dark
ordeal--was before him.
Surely, the glory of Cordelia’s love, with all its possibilities for
future joy and gladness, had not dawned upon him only to be swallowed up
in a dire calamity at the hands of a pirate chief! No, no; he would not,
he could not believe it!
He walked on and entered the cottage, turning at once into the
comfortably furnished living-room as soon as he had deposited his cap
and light cloak in the narrow hall.
He found the supper-table set, and his mother was evidently awaiting his
coming, as he had told her that he would be at home to the evening meal.
The kettle was steaming on the crane; the teapot was on the hob; while a
pan of newly baked rolls was set up against a flat-iron before the fire
to keep warm.
“Am I late, mother?” the new-comer asked cheerily.
“Not at all, Percy. Supper is all ready: but I have not waited long. I
didn’t expect you before.”
Never had she spoken more pleasantly, and never had she appeared more
kind. Once she really smiled, though there was but little of warmth or
light in it.
If she had looked him straight in the face; if she had turned to him
frankly and trustingly--he would certainly have cast old Donald’s dark
suspicions to the winds.
But she did not do this. There was a tendency in her eyes to avoid him.
Even while addressing him, she did not look directly at him, and if, by
chance, she caught his gaze fixed upon her--if her eyes met his own--she
started guiltily.
“I suppose you’ve been at the castle?” she said after she had set the
rolls and the teapot on the table; and there was a perceptible touch of
bitterness in her voice.
“I have been at the castle during the day, twice,” Percy replied,
honestly.
“Do you hear anything new up there?”
“Nothing at all. Lord Oakleigh has gone back to Oxford.”
He might have said more, but at that moment Margery turned quickly
toward the buffet in a far corner, as though for something she had
forgotten.
As his mother turned thus abruptly away, our hero’s gaze wandered to the
table, and something attracted his attention which he had not before
seen.
He saw it now, however, and the sight gave him a start that sent a throb
and a chill through his whole frame.
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