AN ATTEMPT AT MURDER.
What Percy had discovered on the supper-table, standing near to his own
plate, was only a wine bottle. But it was a very peculiar bottle--that
is, in his eyes. It might not have been so in the eyes of another.
Two circumstances in connection with it came to his mind; first, he was
very sure there had been no such bottle as that in the cottage when he
had left it that morning. In the very nature of the home arrangement it
would have been next to impossible for a bottle of wine to stand in the
dwelling without his knowledge, and he had no knowledge of that.
The next circumstance was startling. The bottle was of an entirely new
pattern, the glass of a color such as he had never seen in a bottle but
once before, and that once before had been in the cabin of the
Staghound, during his late conference with Donald Rodney!
It had been exactly such a bottle that the old man had produced when he
had offered him the finest old wine that was ever tasted. How came the
bottle here? That it had been brought during the day he was confident.
As his mother had turned away to the buffet, so he now turned away to a
window, and did not come back until he had put away the last outward
sign of his misgivings.
“I don’t suppose the old earl loves that grandson of his over and above
much, does he?” Margery remarked, looking at her son keenly after they
had taken their seats and she had lifted the pot to pour out the tea.
“I can not presume to judge of that matter, mother,” Percy replied, in
an easy, natural tone. “I know that the young man tries his
grandfather’s patience somewhat; and I have no doubt that the old man
wishes he were different. However, I know but little about him.”
“I suppose you have spoken with the young lord?”
“Yes. I have spoken with him, and that is about all.”
“It strikes me, Percy, if I was in his place I should ask you to make
yourself a little less familiar at the big house.”
The youth looked at his mother in surprise. What was she driving at? Was
she seeking to pry into his relations with Cordelia?
“Mother, I do not quite understand you. What the world should Lord
Oakleigh have to do with my familiarity at the castle?”
“Why, doesn’t he intend to marry with the Lady Cordelia Chester?”
For the life of him our hero could not keep back the start, nor the
flush that mounted to his brow and temples; but not a sign of the
emotion appeared in his voice when he spoke.
“I know nothing of the young lord’s intentions.”
“But,” pursued the woman, seeming desirous of gaining information, “so
long and so intimate, as you have been at the castle, you ought to know
what the general idea is, what the plan is in that respect. How does the
old earl regard the matter? Of course he wants the girl to marry with
his own son’s son.”
“Perhaps he does.”
“What do you think about it? Do you believe he wishes it?”
“No, I do not!” Percy answered plumply.
“Then you don’t think he would influence the girl to marry with
Oakleigh?”
“He never will try to influence her in any way in regard to her
marriage. That I know.”
“And perhaps you know that the girl wouldn’t have him for a husband on
any consideration?”
“Yes,” answered the youth, and, thus driven, he answered somewhat
warmly, “I know just that!”
“Poor young man! I’ve heard he loved her dearly.”
“Then you’ve heard more than ever I did; for I candidly believe the man
can love no living thing save himself!--There, mother, I think we had
better drop this subject. The affairs of those people can be nothing to
us, and we will let them rest.”
Percy saw the smile that curled his mother’s lips, and he saw the sneer;
but he made no further remark, nor did she, on that subject.
The meal was drawing toward its close, and Percy had not offered to
touch the wine. Usually he had drunk a few swallows when commencing to
eat. He was watching his mother narrowly.
He saw that her eyes often rested upon the bottle, and then turned
toward himself; and more than once he was confident he detected a cloud
of anxiety on her brow. Finally she spoke.
“Percy, won’t you try the wine?”
“Certainly. I’ll drink with you, mother.”
The thought had come to him as he had spoken it, impulsively and not
with premeditation, but the effect on the woman was quick and
remarkable.
She gave a start like one frightened, and she looked into the speaker’s
face as though she would look him through. Very soon, however, she
overcame the emotion, and said, with a poor attempt at a smile:
“Indeed, boy, you know I never drink wine in the evening.”
“And it is seldom that I take it with my supper,” the youth returned,
pleasantly.
“But this is very fine.”
“Ah,” taking up the bottle and holding it between his eye and the blaze
of the nearest candle, “where did this come from?”
“From France, I suppose; though it is of Italian vintage.”
“I mean, how came it here? How did you get it?”
“It must have come from one of the brig’s crew, of course. Very likely
old Rodney brought it up, or it may have been Stephen Harley. I only
know it is a very fine old wine, the like of which we do not often see.”
Percy was strongly tempted to drive his mother to the wall, then and
there; but second thoughts told him to hold his peace. If there should
be any collusion between her and Ralph Tryon, he must know it; and to
betray himself now would defeat his end and serve no good purpose.
First, if possible, he would discover if the wine which had been thus
pressed upon him had been tampered with. He was very sure it had. Tryon
himself had brought that wine to the cottage--had brought it with an
object; and that object was his own--Percy’s death!
Good heavens! could his mother be knowingly concerned in this? He did
not wish to believe it. Yet, if he should find the wine poisoned, how
could he doubt it?
Ha! A happy thought occurred to him. On the premises was a cat--it had
been a little kitten when Hugh Maitland died--which the smugglers, when
on shore and stopping at the cottage, had taught to lick up wine as it
did milk, and more than once had poor puss been reduced to a state of
utter inebriety in furnishing sport for the seamen.
“I’ll tell you what I will do, mother,” said our hero, after a little
thought. “Sometimes I am thirsty in the night. Suppose I take the bottle
up to my chamber.”
“Do so,” responded Margery, quickly. “And let me once more assure you,
you’ll find it about the finest wine you ever tasted. At all events, I
found it so. You will see a part of it has been consumed.”
That was true, but it proved nothing. The young man, when he had arisen
from the table, took the bottle and carried it up to his room, together
with a goblet.
Later he came down and took a look out of doors. There was a small shed
in the rear of the cottage, with a cowhouse and sheepfold close by.
In this shed he found the cat, which he took in his arms, and carried to
the front door of the dwelling; and, as good fortune would have it, as
he passed the windows of the sitting-room he saw his mother on her way
to the kitchen, with the last of the supper dishes in her hands.
To glide up to his own room, unseen, with the cat in his arms, was now
easy; and it was accomplished without mishap. In his chamber, he put the
cat on the floor, then gently turned the key in the lock of his door,
and then reflected.
He hesitated. If his mother had done this thing, did he wish to know it?
The query was very soon answered. His own safety--his life perhaps,
demanded it.
And even then he held back. The thought of sacrificing the poor cat was
really painful to him. He looked upon it--so trustful and so contented
in his company, so full of life and sport, the puss he had played with
and fondled and fed for so long a time--for years. Could he kill it? He
hoped he would not. Perhaps, after all, the wine was as innocent as the
dew of heaven.
He had in his room a cup and saucer. The saucer he took, and into it
poured a little of the wine. He touched his tongue to it, but could
perceive no unpleasant taste--Ah!--Wait!--By and by he was sensible of a
puckering effect, together with a slight prickling, which he had not
experienced at first. In fact, he was very sure that he might have drunk
a full goblet of it without tasting the false tang.
However, he placed the saucer on the floor, and the cat came to it at
once and began to lap it up. It lapped up not quite half of it, and
stopped. Presently it lapped a little more; then stopped again and went
away and lay down.
Had puss drunk enough, or was the taste of the beverage unpleasant?
After a time Percy took the saucer and set it down close to the cat’s
nose, but she would not touch it. When he found that pussy could not be
persuaded to drink any more he took up the vessel, and, by the exercise
of a little care, succeeded in pouring the wine that remained in it back
into the bottle.
He had done this and was in the act of setting the bottle away on the
mantel, when a low, painful wail from the cat attracted his attention,
and on looking down he saw the poor creature already in spasms. But it
did not suffer long, for which the experimenter was profoundly thankful.
Within a minute from the time of the first symptom of trouble its life
was at an end.
Percy Maitland stood looking upon the dead cat, and thought. What should
he do? That an attempt had been made to destroy--to murder him--he
simply knew; and he knew, too, that his mother had been knowing to it.
Aye, she had actively lent her hand to aid in its accomplishment.
Why--why--was Ralph Tryon so bitter toward him? Why did he hate him with
such deadly hatred?
“It can not be because he thinks I will betray him,” the youth thought
aloud. “He has hated me from the first. The first time I ever set eyes
on him, when he saw how I watched and studied him--when he saw perhaps
that his appearance had puzzled me--even then he hated me and could have
killed me, I verily believe, with a good relish.”
And then he gave thought again to his mother. What should he do? Should
he let her know of the dreadful discovery he had made? He had not the
heart to do it. He knew not how he should meet her.
Yet she must know it, sooner or later. It could not be kept from her a
great while. Of course he must leave the cottage. It could be no longer
a home for him. Also, he must see old Donald, and make an arrangement
with him for the immediate transmission of intelligence of the return of
Tryon.
An hour later, when he knew that his mother had retired, he removed his
shoes, and noiselessly carried the dead cat downstairs and out of doors,
throwing it down among some bushes, where it might appear that the poor
thing had there parted with life.
Back in his room, Percy locked his door, and set a table against it, and
then went to bed, and finally to sleep. On the following morning he was
up with the sun; and by the time he had performed his ablution, and
completed his toilet, he had resolved fully upon the course he would
pursue.
He would make no complaint to his mother; he would tell her nothing of
what he had discovered, unless she should push him.
Yet he meant to put the laboring oar into her hand. She could demand
what of explanation she pleased.
He possessed but little personal property. All the furniture in the
cottage was the property of his mother, though a portion of it he had
purchased. He had his clothing, a few valuable weapons--three swords,
half a dozen pistols of different sizes and patterns, a fine rifle, and
three fowling-pieces, or one of them was a proper king’s-arm musket.
This property he collected--not together, but so arranged it that it
could handily and quickly be taken in hand and carried away. He then
went below, with the bottle in his hand, finding Margery just out from
her sleeping-room, which was on the ground floor.
He met her eye as he entered the living-room, and saw that she was
shaken. A tremor shook her from head to foot. Her countenance was not
that of a happy woman.
Evidently she was not proud of what she had done, nor quite satisfied
with it.
“Mother,” he said, in his usual pleasant tone, but with a tinge of
sadness in it, “I have brought back the wine.”
“You--you did not drink any of it?” she said interrogatively, as she
took the bottle from his hand. She certainly had not looked to see if
any of the contents were gone.
“No--I did not care to.”
“You were not afraid of it, I hope.”
“Not particularly afraid of it, because I knew it could not harm me if I
did not taste it. We are all of us, more or less, the creatures of our
fancy; and I am willing to confess to you that I took a very strong
fancy that it would be best for me not to drink from this bottle.”
“Percy! What do you mean? I hope you--I hope--pshaw! If you’re afraid of
being poisoned here you’d better go up to the castle and make your home
there. I’ve no doubt they would welcome you with open arms. Oh, what a
word I could whisper in that old--”
She stopped suddenly, in full career, as though struck dumb. She looked
for a moment longer into the young and handsome face before her; then
turned on her heel, and went out into the kitchen, taking the wine
bottle with her.
Percy watched her until the closing door behind her had shut her from
his view; then he put on his cap; buckled on his sword--a light, but
valuable weapon; took a light cloak over his arm, and went forth,
determined within himself that he had slept his last sleep, and eaten
his last meal, in the old cottage--the home of his boyhood--the only
home he had ever known.
He took his way directly toward the shore of the Cove, determined to
have speech with old Donald at all events.
And he could not see where would be the danger, unless Tryon had
succeeded in stirring up his immediate friends more bitterly against him
than he could think possible.
However he was saved all trouble--most agreeably saved. Little more than
half the distance through the wood had he gone when he met both Donald
Rodney and young Guy Carroll.
“Dear old man! I was coming to see you. I had determined to brave the
danger, if any there might be.”
“Mercy on us! I’m glad ye didn’t come, my dear boy. The cap’n’s laid in
with a dozen or so of his own men, if ye do come aboard, to play some
sort of a rough trick on ye. I don’t know what it is, but it may cost ye
yer life.”
“Donald, I don’t see how you can endure it.”
“I aint agoin’ to endure it, my boy, not a bit longer than it takes me
to get what belongs to me. I don’t forget that a part of the brig is my
own property. I’ll get that, and then I’m off, and this blessed boy with
me. And now, Percy, what’s up? I can’t be here but a few minutes.”
“Only this, Donald: I want you to let me know the moment Ralph Tryon
gets back. That’s all. Just give me the intelligence.”
“I’ll do it, Percy. Shall I find ye at the cottage?”
“No. At the inn--the Allerdale Arms.”
“Eh! Are ye goin’ to cut yer cable, my boy?”
“For a time, yes. Ah, old friend, the warning you sent me may have saved
my life. At all events, I shall so regard it.”
“I knew there was something in the wind, Percy. I’m blamed if I can
understand it. How she can do it is beyond me. But I don’t s’pose you
care to talk about it.”
“I would rather not, Donald. But it is due to you that I should tell you
this: You were not mistaken. There was deadly mischief meant to me; and
the pair of them were engaged in it. There! let it rest at that. Now,
tell me, Guy said something about the captain’s being set upon by
officers of the constablery. How badly was he hurt?”
“Oh, not very bad. He had a bullet through his right arm, below, and
another higher up. It don’t prevent him from traveling.”
“Isn’t he afraid of being again recognized by officers of the law?”
“He don’t appear to be. Howsumever, that’s his lookout. I don’t care how
quick he gets overhauled. He’s a black-hearted wretch!”
“I agree with you, old man. You don’t know when he will return?”
“I haven’t the least idea anything about it. I don’t know where he’s
gone, nor when he’ll come back.”
After this arrangements were perfected--made sure--for the conveying to
our hero of intelligence of Tryon’s reappearance at the Cove; and then
they separated, Donald and his nephew returning to the landing, while
Maitland took his way toward the village, and the inn.
Martin Vanyard, fifty years of age, fat, rosy and robust, loved the
handsome son of Hugh Maitland almost as though he had been of his own
flesh and blood; and he declared he’d heard nothing for years that had
pleased him so much as had Percy’s proposal to take up his quarters
beneath his roof.
“Bless yer dear heart! I’ll make ye as comfortable as a prince! Ye’ll
come to-day?”
“Yes. We’ll begin with this morning’s breakfast.”
Toward the middle of the forenoon Margery Maitland was considerably
surprised by the appearance of a cart, drawn by a single horse, before
her door; and a few moments later Percy entered the room where she
stood.
“Percy! What does this mean?” She was trembling at every joint, and her
face had turned pale.
“It means, mother,” the son promptly answered, “that I have at length
carried into execution a plan which I have for several weeks
contemplated.”
“You’re going to leave me?”
“Yes. I have engaged quarters with Vanyard at the village inn. I got my
breakfast there.”
“Percy! You needn’t tell me! This is thought of suddenly. You didn’t
dream of it when you came home last evening.”
“Never mind, mother. I dreamed of it during the night and this morning
resolved to act.”
“Percy! You--”
He advanced and laid a hand on her shoulder, and looked straight into
her shrinking, cowering eyes.
“Margery Maitland! if you will leave the cause between us exactly where
it is, I will do the same. If you force me to speak further, I shall
speak that which you will not care to hear. Be wise and let it rest as
it is. Be sure of one thing, if ever you suffer harm in life, if
calamity of any kind shall befall you, it shall not be from me. I can
not forget you are my mother. Mother! Mother! My last word to you shall
be, from the very depths of my heart, God bless and keep you now and
evermore!”
Half an hour later the cart had gone, bearing away Percy and all his
personal possessions; and Margery Maitland, having gazed after it until
it had gone from sight, for the first time since her husband died sat
down and wept bitter tears.
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