CONSTERNATION AT THE CASTLE--FRIGHT AT THE LANDING.
Two days passed after our hero’s removal to the inn, and not a sign from
old Donald. Percy had visited the castle and reported progress to the
earl. He told how the pirate chief had been arrested, and how he had
made his escape with two bullets in his arm.
“He must have had help,” said the old nobleman, “or the officers who
took him did not wish to keep him. The story sounds to me like a fable
of his own invention. You say he is trying to make his men your
enemies?”
“Yes, my lord. He is leaving no stone unturned that can work to my
injury.”
“Then, depend upon it, the story of the arrest is all a sham, and so are
his wounds. I know our Headlandshire constables better than that. But
wait till we have him in sight.”
“It can not be long, my lord.”
“I pray it may not be.”
Late on the evening of this second day, so late that Percy had retired
to his chamber at the inn for the night, as he sat by his small table
reading, he was disturbed by a rap on his door, and upon bidding the
applicant to enter, the door was opened by the rosy-faced host, who
ushered into the room Donald Rodney.
“My dear old friend!” as soon as the landlord had gone and closed the
door, “what now? You know I am glad to see you under any circumstances,
but something unusual must have happened to bring you hither at such an
hour.”
“Something unusual has happened, Percy, and I thought you’d like to
know. This evenin’, along about eight, or just when it was fairly dark,
a boat from the landing came alongside with Abel Jackman in it. He, ye
know, is Cap’n Tryon’s servant. He came aboard with orders for three
men--Gurt Warnell, Bryan Vank, and Jack Dormer--to come with him and
join the cap’n on shore. P’raps ye know, and p’raps ye don’t, them is
three of the very worst--the bloodiest villains of the lot. Well, they
went ashore with Jackman, but where they’ve gone or what it all means
I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon. All is, I made an excuse
that I’d got business ashore that couldn’t be put off, and here I am.”
“You don’t know whether Tryon is here in town or not?”
“No, I’m not sure anything about it; but the fancy kind o’ strikes me
that he is. Something that Abel Jackman said give me the idea that he
couldn’t be a great way off.”
“And you know nothing more about him?”
“Not a thing, my dear boy. If anything comes to my knowledge, you shall
hear of it.”
Percy called for a bowl of punch, which the old seaman preferred to
wine, and after a social chat on various matters, but chiefly on the
subject of the pirate chief, and his possible intentions for the future,
the visitor took his leave.
Our hero, when left alone, paced to and fro in his chamber, far from
satisfied with the appearance which matters connected with Ralph Tryon
had assumed. He did not like it at all. Why had the villain thus come
back under cover of night? And why had he sent off his servant to the
brig, instead of going himself? And, further still, what did he want
with those three men? He remembered them very well. They were
comparatively young men, young in years, but evidently old in crime.
They were strong, muscular, brutish fellows, in all probability from the
slums of the metropolis. These were the men whom the chief had called to
his aid. Once more, what did he want with them?
For a full hour the young man remained up, a prey to various and
conflicting emotions, and not until he had become too worn and weary to
think further did he seek his pillow.
On the morning of the following day he was up with the sun, and he asked
of the landlord that he might have an early breakfast.
He had promised Cordelia that he would come up to the Castle, and go
with her to the river if the day was fair. He had run his best boat up
to the Park landing, as it had been their intention to enjoy a sail. He
feared now, however, that they might have to postpone it. The news he
had received of the presence in the neighborhood of Ralph Tryon made a
difference.
He did not feel that he ought, for any length of time, to be beyond easy
reach of Donald Rodney. But he would go to the castle, as he had
promised, and explain the situation; and he had no doubt that the
proposed sail would be given up cheerfully.
After that he would see the earl, and inform him what had happened; and
then he might return to the village and await further intelligence from
his friends of the brig. About this, however, he could not decide until
he had seen Cordelia and the earl.
Good Martin had his young guest’s breakfast ready for him about as soon
as he was ready to sit down; and, as a matter of sociality, ate with
him. But he found not a very entertaining companion. There was too much
in the youth’s mind--too much that was perplexing and harrowing--to
admit the introduction of new topics to his thoughts.
The old publican understood, and gave him full sympathy; so the meal
passed off very cheerfully after all.
And then, away for the castle. He went on foot; but many horses would
have gone more slowly. He covered the ground as does one who walks for a
wager, or on whose speed depends momentous results. In fact, he was very
anxious; and there was no particular reason, known to him, why he should
be.
He knew very well that his darling would not complain at the loss of her
sail, when she came to know the cause of its postponement. Yet he was
anxious.
It was not eight o’clock when he reached the castle. His watch said, ten
minutes of it.
“Ho, Master Percy! the young lady and her maid have been gone this
half-hour. Her ladyship said we were to tell you that they’d be found at
the landing, where your boat is, or so near by that you can’t miss ’em.”
So said old Michael, the steward, who was the first person our hero saw
on his arrival.
“You are sure she said to the landing, Michael?”
“Of course I am. I put up the luncheon for ’em; and she told me how she
was going when I gave it to Mary.”
“She knows which landing it was that I left my boat at?”
“She said the Park landing, and there is but one that I know of by that
name.”
“That is so,” the young man nodded, and then, without stopping for
further remark, he turned about and started toward the river.
His course was in a northerly direction, and the distance to the landing
three-quarters of a mile. Not quite two-thirds of the way was down the
gentle slope of the open, velvety park, and beyond was a belt of woods,
but entirely free from wildwood or the tangle of underbrush.
The trees, however, were of the old forest growth, standing near
together, forming a solitude grand and imposing. The woods extended to
the river’s bank, and the path which Percy was following led directly to
the landing.
He began to look for his darling and to call her by name as soon as he
had entered the strip of forest, but he saw nothing nor did he receive
any answer.
Pretty soon he was at the landing--a platform of chestnut plank, built
out to deep water, so that vessels of goodly draught could lie alongside
it.
His boat was there as he had left it, but empty.
He looked up the bank and down, and he called aloud, in the end shouting
with all his might--and his voice was powerful--but no response did he
receive.
At length he thought of looking for the girls’ footsteps, and he found
them very soon. At only a short distance from the river was a place
where a bed of fine yellow sand had been spread entirely across the
path, and here, as plain and distinct as could be, were the footprints
of the two girls, and freshly made. He compared them with the prints
which his own feet had made on the previous day, when he had brought up
his boat, and then with those which he had made on this present
crossing. The result convinced him that the girls had crossed only a
short time before.
And they had not gone back! No; they had gone down toward the river, as
their footprints showed, but there was no sign of their feet going in
the other direction.
Where could they have gone? He went back to the landing, and there
shouted once more. Then he started upon a swift run up the stream. On
the way he happened to think that there were spots where tracks would be
found if they had gone in that direction. He looked, and found none.
Then he went down the shore, and with the same result. Not anywhere
could he find a sign beyond the landing. The girls had certainly made
their way to that point. Aye, he found their tracks close to its inner
edge. He stood upon the outer edge of the platform, looking about him,
when his eye chanced to droop, and suddenly he caught sight of a white
object like a bit of fine lace or linen fluttering upon one of the posts
below.
He got down to it as quickly as possible and brought it up. It was a
fine, lace-bordered handkerchief with the monogram worked with crimson
silk in one corner--“C. C.”
Merciful heaven! What did it mean? Had she fallen into the flood? Had
one of them fallen in, and the other nobly followed to save her
companion? Again he searched in the new direction.
The current in the river was not rapid. He could row his boat against it
without great labor. Yet it was sufficient to sweep a human body away if
its owner could not swim.
The anxious, half-frenzied man now cast free his boat, and floated down
the stream until he knew there could be no use in his going further, and
he had seen no sign either in the water or on the bank.
Slowly he pulled back and made his boat fast again. What could he now do
better than to return to the castle? Perhaps he would find them there.
Something might have frightened them and sent them back; or Cordelia
might have felt unwell and gone home for that cause.
If he did not find them he could give the alarm and set the servants of
the household upon the search. And the sooner that was done the better.
So back to the castle he went. It was near ten o’clock when he arrived.
Had Lady Cordelia come home? was his first question. The old steward
looked at him in wonder. How did he expect her to come home, when she
had gone away on purpose to sail with him in his boat? No. She hadn’t
come.
While they were speaking--they were in the main hall--the earl joined
them. He had heard, and recognized, young Maitland’s voice, and he was
anxious to know what had brought him back so soon, and, he was sure,
alone. The story was quickly told.
The old man was in agony. That some direful calamity had befallen he was
sure.
“Oh, Percy! Percy! We must find her! You will not forsake me in this
great need?”
“Forsake you, my lord; I would give my life at this moment, were she in
danger, to rescue her from it! My hand and my heart are yours until she
shall be found. We shall find her, sir. I am sure we shall find
her--though it may take time. Oh, no one could harm her! Who could have
the heart?”
“Oh, Percy, those dreadful pirates! They know that I have been ordered
to put forth my hand against them; and this may be a means they have
adopted for gaining a powerful hold upon me!” And from that moment the
earl seemed to look upon the smuggler’s son as his one stay and support.
Percy’s thoughts took a different direction from those of the earl. He
was inclined to regard Lord Oakleigh as the villain whose hand had thus
been laid upon them.
Look at it in what way he might, he could not put away the belief. Not
only the young lord’s character--his heartlessness, his recklessness,
and his desire to possess the lady--pointed him out as the probable
culprit; but he had made threats--he had sworn to the girl herself, with
a horrible oath--that he would make her his own very soon.
Yes. Percy believed Lord Oakleigh to be the man; but he would not say so
yet. Time should show. First, however, they must gain some sign--some
token of the whereabouts of the missing ones.
The servants had collected and a general interchange of opinions had
taken place--as weak and aimless as such interchanges usually are--when
the earl, after a time of painful thought, looked toward the smuggler’s
son, and finally went up to him and laid his trembling hand on his
shoulder.
“Percy Maitland, find my darling! I am old; I am shaken. I am not what
once I was. Oh, find her! find her!” And he then turned to the servants
and instructed them that to Maitland they were to look for direction,
and he charged them to obey him in every particular. And so the search
commenced, the earl himself going with them. He could not lead, nor
could he remain behind.
Meantime where were Cordelia and Mary Seymour?
On that morning Cordelia arose with the sun. Percy had promised her, if
the weather should be propitious, that he would have his boat at the
Park landing, and take her, with Mary, to sail on the river.
She arose and looked forth; and never had she beheld the promise of a
more beautiful day. She called her maid, and bade her go to the steward
and have a basket filled with a proper lunch for three persons, after
which she repaired to the apartment of the cook and asked for breakfast.
She wanted it at once--for herself and Mary--because she was going away.
She was not particular about much cooking. She had eaten cold victuals
before, and could do it again.
Everything went to please her, and by the time the sun was two hours
high she was ready to set forth. She went in to kiss her grandpa, but he
had not arisen; so she left word for him where she was going and with
whom. The hands of the old clock in the hall were pointing to
quarter-past seven as the two girls passed through, and ere long they
were beyond the castle walls, tripping merrily along one of the graveled
walks of the park, but the fresh, cool breeze of night had prevented the
fall of dew, so they took the velvety sward when the fancy struck them.
Percy had said on the previous evening that he would come to the castle
for them; but she was confident he would come by way of the river bank
and the landing, so it could make no difference, only in this, they
would gain so much more time for the sail. If he had not reached the
landing on their arrival at that point they would wait there for him.
They had crossed the open slope of the park and entered the woodland
path when they heard voices away upon their left--the voices of men, as
in ordinary conversation. They stopped for a time and listened. Mary
suggested that they should turn back; but her mistress bade her to wait
and listen. They stood thus for several minutes, hearing not another
sound.
“Ho!” cried Cordelia, in her brave confidence, “what should harm us
here? Why! this is a part of the park.”
“But there were men, certainly,” said the maid; “and of course they must
have been strangers.”
“Honest men, you foolish girl, who have been out thus early to catch a
few fish for breakfast.”
“Then they must be poachers, my lady; and I’m sure they are not honest
men.”
Cordelia laughed merrily at her companion’s witty retort, and shortly
afterward they started on again toward the river. They reached the
landing, where they found the boat in waiting, but no boatman.
“Percy is not here!”
“You did not expect to find him here, did you, lady?”
“Why, no; but I thought we should surely meet him. However, he will soon
be here. It is past the time he set.”
“For meeting us at the castle, lady, not here.”
“Pshaw! What do you take me up so quickly for, Mary? You make me quite
nervous.”
“Dear lady, pray do not pay any attention to what I say. I suppose I am
a little timid. At all events, I can not help wishing we had not come
here alone.”
“Well, to tell the plain truth, Mary, I begin to wish so myself. But it
is too late to cry now. He will not be long after this. Ah! What’s that?
A man! A stranger!”
Yes, as the last words addressed to her companion fell from her lips she
was startled by a quick footfall behind her; and on looking around she
beheld a man advancing rapidly toward her, and presently she saw that he
was not alone.
There was another, and another; aye, and still another, four of them in
all; and a more rough and villainous set she had never seen.
In fact, the foremost man--he who seemed to be the leader of the
others--was the very worst-looking, the most wicked and cruel looking
human being she had ever set eyes upon.
He was a man tall and stout, dressed in the garb of the sea, though the
material was rich and costly.
The velvet was of the finest; the silk and satin seemingly of the
softest; a massive gold chain around his neck was attached to his watch,
while a large diamond of purest water sparkled in the silken kerchief
loosely knotted at his throat.
His face reminded her of a wild beast, and nothing else. His full beard,
long, thick and shaggy, and the mass of hair that covered his head, were
like the mane of a lion in color and character. His eyes, gleaming
beneath the overhanging brows, were bright like fire and black as coals.
In an instant Cordelia thought of Ralph Tryon, the pirate chief. Percy
had described him to her minutely, and here he certainly was.
With a low, faint cry, and with her two hands clasped over her bosom,
she started back, but she could not move far in that direction, as the
edge of the platform was directly behind her.
“Sweet lady,” the man said, his voice hoarse, as voices are apt to be
that have been long used to rising above the roar of the tempest, “I
trust you are not afraid of me.”
He bowed as he spoke, and looked at her with an expression which she
could not translate, though it appeared to her one of cruel malevolence.
She noticed now that he carried his right hand pushed inside the bosom
of his vest, and she remembered what she had heard of his being wounded
in that arm.
“Lady!” he pursued, after a lengthy pause, “have you no word for me? May
I not be permitted to hear the sweet music of your voice?”
“Sir!” our heroine returned, struggling with all her might to speak
calmly, or at least coherently--“who are you? Why have you thus placed
yourself in my way? What would you with me?”
At this point, and before the chief could reply to the lady’s demand,
one of those behind--a dark-visaged, low-browed, villainous-looking
man--came to his side and whispered something in his ear. His words
Cordelia could not distinguish, but she had no difficulty in
distinguishing the response.
“Aye, Gurt, you’re right,” the tawny chief said. “The sooner we haul our
wind out o’ this the better it may be for us. Bryan! Jack! This way, and
lend a hand. Mind now, no roughness! Handle them as lightly as you can.”
And the three men, thus commanded, moved forward.
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