THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.
The springtide sun set ruddily and frostily across the Sound; and as
the fiery ball hung for a moment on the western shore, a broad pathway
like a pathway of rippling blood, or deep-tinged, running gold, went in
a line from Ian Davey's boatyard to the Cornish coast.
"An omen!" cried Dan, seeing with the eye of the superstitious sailor.
"We sail to wealth over a golden sea."
Nick shook his head. "The colour is not yellow enough for my liking.
Is the boat ready?"
"Ay."
"Then let us be going whilst the breeze holds easterly."
Ian Davey's lad came out of the boathouse with a pair of oars on his
shoulders. He went down to a little fisher boat that rocked gently
against the end of the wooden jetty. The two sailor-men followed him.
The mast was stepped, and they pushed out from the shore, the two men
rowing and the lad steering. As soon as they were far enough out to
catch the breeze the sail was set, and the little craft went bowling
along over the fast-darkening sea. The oars were shipped, and Dan fell
to musing. He tried to recollect the occasion of his last visit to the
Cornish village from which his family had sprung, and was astonished to
find that, in the sum of ten thousand leagues of travel since manhood,
the little journey he was now taking did not once enter. He stroked
his red beard, perplexed at the oddity of the whole thing. He pictured
the steep, cobbled street leading up from the shore, and peeped into
every remembered window in the row of rude thatched cottages. Slowly
he recalled the names of old boy and girl companions who had played
with him around the doorstep of his grandfather's house. For half the
voyage the object which had prompted it was forgotten. The journey was
as silent as a secret journey should be. It began in twilight and
ended in darkness. The keel of the boat grated on the soft sand. Dan
and Nick Johnson stepped out.
"How long will ye be?" asked Davey's lad.
Dan pondered. "Ye cannot get back without us; 'twill be a matter of
hard rowing against the wind. I have been thinking. This place is
hallowed soil to me, and my feet have not trodden it for thirty years.
Bide thou here to-night; I will find thee supper and a pallet. There
are many folk with whom I would fain speak now that I am here. Keep a
still tongue concerning us: we will speak for ourselves. Tie up thy
boat, and ask for John Pengelly. If he be dead, ask for any of his
children; they will entertain thee for my sake."
Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. He
stood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then he
made for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and the
faint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretched
across the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, and
pulled the latch string.
"Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengelly
that speaks."
"Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly,"
came the answer.
Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold.
A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight,
and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genial
warmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood into
flame.
"Close the door, friend," said the fisherman.
"I have a comrade on the threshold."
"Then bring him in."
Nick entered, apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town,
and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose.
"Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but the
wife shall set meat and drink before you."
"We are fresh from eating and drinking," said Dan, "and have but looked
in for a little chat, seeing that ye were not abed."
"Say your say, friends."
Dan did so, in his own roundabout fashion. He casually mentioned his
voyages to the West, a theme of unfailing interest to any man dwelling
on the shores of Plymouth Sound. Then he came to the real reason for
his visit. He described the two sailors he had met in Plymouth. The
fisherman had never seen them. Dan had guessed as much, but he wanted
to be sure. Then he sketched Basil. The fisherman sat upright in a
moment.
"I know him," he cried. "He has been amongst us, off and on, for more
than a month. I'll take you to him."
But Dan would not trouble any one to do that.
"He knows me well enough," he replied, "and I would rather take him by
surprise. We had a jolly time together last Christmas."
So the fisherman pointed out where Basil was staying, and his two
callers took their leave, promising to look in upon him again in the
morning.
Apart from the row of cottages stood the house in which Brother Basil
was staying. At one time the place had made some pretensions to
smartness. It was stone-built throughout and tiled. In the rear was
an orchard of apple-trees; and a herb garden, now choked with weeds,
separated the front of the house from the roadway. The place was in
the occupation of a widow woman, whose late husband had once been a man
of some means.
The night was sufficiently starlit for a sailor to pick his way with
certainty, and the two men went rapidly forward. The gate in the fence
stood ajar, and Dan went first to spy out the land. The front window
was heavily shuttered, an unusual precaution to take on a fine night.
Putting his eye to a chink, the sailor could just discern the shadowy
outline of a man seated at a table. A rushlight stood beside him, and
apparently he was reading. Passing on to the door, he found that the
latch-string was pulled in through the latch-hole; the door was secure.
Steadily, Dan pressed against it; it was firm as the wall, no play to
and fro on latch and hinge. "Bolted," he muttered, and stole back to
the fence, in whose shadow Nick was still standing. He whispered his
report, and the two consulted together for a moment. Then both went
round to the orchard, stole through a gap in the straggling hedge, and
came over the grass to the rear of the house. A light shone through
the unshuttered window.
"Ah!" exclaimed Dan, "this looks more like the home of honest people.
Yon thief in front is bolted and barred. I warrant me the widow hath
not pulled in her latch-string. We must open and enter. To knock
would be to give warning to our man, who hath ears that gather sound
quicker than doth a rabbit's."
"How will the widow take our incoming?" asked Nick. "We be two
strangers, and night hath fallen. Should she cry out, we are undone;
for the fishers would come upon us, and maybe lay us low without a
chance to explain our errand. Thy monk-man, too, is a guest of the
village. Should he sound an alarm, 'twould go hard with us if the
neighbours took us for thieves and him for an honest man."
Dan paused. "Shrewdly spoken, comrade. But there is no time to go
round the place and prove that we be honest Protestants and good
sailors, whilst the little man is a thieving Papist and murderous
traitor. We should cause clamour enough to give him warning and time
for escape. We will get within. Thou wilt stay with the widow, and
keep her from doing us a mischief. I will see to my man alone."
"If thou shouldst want help?"
"I will cry out for it quickly enough."
As Dan predicted, the latch-string still hung out. A gentle pull, and
the well-used door swung open. The widow was in her kitchen, raking
together the red embers on the hearth preparatory to going to bed. The
noise of her scraping was sufficient to cover up the sounds at the
door, and Dan was at her side, his fingers on her lips, ere she was
aware of his presence.
"Sh!" he whispered in warning; "not a sound, good mother. We are
friends, but thou art in danger; thy life depends on thy silence."
The poor woman paled, and shook in every limb. Dan whispered
reassuringly, and removed his hand from her mouth.
"God 'a mercy!" she gasped.
Nick brought forward a stool and gently placed her upon it.
"Have no fear," he said; "I will stay with thee."
"Who are ye?"
"Friends and protectors, mother; honest sons of Devon, who have
discovered a deadly plot. Lean thou on my shoulder."
Nick's whispers were soothing, his face was honest; the widow's brain
was bewildered. She believed him, and clung to him in white terror.
Dan saw that she was safe from any hysterical screaming, enjoined
silence on both, and passed on towards the parlour where Basil was
sitting. He paused for a moment to draw his sword, then tip-toed to
the door. Leaning against the oaken post, he heard the rustling of
paper. He set his teeth; there was a flash of light; the door had been
opened and shut again, and the sailor and the Spanish agent stood face
to face.
Basil's first emotion was one of the most absolute and complete
astonishment. So surprised was he that he actually sat and rubbed his
eyes as though to clear them from deluding visions. And in just that
moment of stupefaction Dan acted. The papers were on the table:
doubtless they were his papers. He lunged forward, spitted them on the
point of his sword, and crammed them into his doublet by the time Basil
was on his feet, and a dagger in his hand. The sailor expected a
vicious spring from his adversary, but Basil made no move forward. His
quondam roadside companion had the advantage of him in height, reach,
and length of weapon, and he had related sufficient of his exploits
during their Yuletide tramp to prove himself an apt swordsman. The
ex-monk had been trained in a school that set guile above force. He
saw at once that his tongue would be his better weapon, so put his
dagger back into his belt, sat down and snuffed his candle.
"Thou art not going to fight?"
"Why should we do so? Sit down, Dan Pengelly, and explain thyself."
It was the sailor's turn to be astonished. He got a stool and seated
himself, his back to the door, and his weapon across his knee. Basil
laughed with assumed good-humour.
"Thou art careful, comrade."
"Thou hast tricked me once."
"And thou hast neatly tricked me. We cry 'quits.'"
"Not so."
"Why not? I have thy papers--I make no secret of that--and thou hast
mine."
"Are not these the same?"
"No. But let us exchange, and give over all talk of robbery." Basil
got up and went to a little press in the wall. Before opening the door
he turned again to Dan. "Thou wilt observe that I am not afraid of
turning my back to thee. I have more faith in thine honour than thou
hast in mine."
The sailor flushed and fidgeted. "Thou didst deceive me under the
guise of friendship," he muttered.
"Pshaw, man! thou wert undone by thine own foolishness. Why didst
chatter to a stranger about thy papers? Is not all England agog to
find the land of 'El Dorado'? Dost think that any man breathing could
resist the temptation to gain a knowledge of the way thither? I suffer
from no gold hunger, but I would like the honour of discovering that
notable country. So wouldst thou; so would Admiral Drake. I shall
have done thee no harm, but rather given thee a lesson in caution if I
restore thy papers."
"Wilt do so?"
Basil opened the press, and tossed a packet on the table. "There they
are."
Dan snatched it up, and turned it round and round in his fingers. "Why
dost thou give them back?"
"They are thine, and thou hast come for them."
"Hast read them?"
"Of course."
"What is in them?"
"Maybe truth, maybe idle tales; their value remains to be proven.
Come, thou hast thy packet; give me mine."
A cunning gleam came into the sailor's eyes. "I have not read thine.
Can we fairly cry quits until I have done so?"
Basil bit his lip. "Canst read?"
"No."
"Then let me read them to thee. They are part of a treatise on
philosophy which I am writing. The opinion of a plain man upon it
would be valuable. I should like to have thine."
But Dan was no philosopher, and his present adversary had given him an
excellent lesson in caution. He thrust his own packet into his
doublet, to lie side by side with the other papers.
"Master Priest, Papist, and spy of Spain--for so I learn thou art--thy
work is more likely to be the hatching of plots than the writing of
learned books. Thou didst keep my papers for a time quite against my
will, and without my consent; therefore shall I hold thine until I
learn their contents. Tit for tat is reasonable justice 'twixt man and
man."
Basil laughed. "Read me thy riddle," he said. "The world is narrow;
thou art surely confounding me with some other man."
"That is possible. A few hours will decide the point. A certain
Master Morgan of Gloucestershire and a well-known knight, Sir Walter
Raleigh of Sherborne, are yonder in Plymouth town, and will be able to
testify for or against thee. Thou shalt be haled before them
to-morrow."
"That's work for a strong man, Dan Pengelly."
"There are many of my family in this village, and I did not come alone
from Plymouth. The widow hath bonny company in the kitchen."
Basil's face blazed. "'Tis she hath betrayed me."
"Not so. We scared her worse than we scared thee."
Basil sat silent for a while, and Dan drummed on his sword-hilt with
his fingers. At length the spy spoke again.
"I suppose it is useless to argue with thee?"
"I never had any head for disputations."
"Very well then, ye must be my guests for the night. Call thy friends
from the kitchen, ask the widow for some ale, and let her be getting to
bed. Thou and I may get to blows if we sit alone."
Dan stared. His prisoner was actually asking for an increased guard,
and would be glad of more company. Not suspecting any trick, but
determined not to be caught napping, he got up, opened the door, and
stood with his hand on the latch calling for Nick. He bellowed twice
before he got an answer. With Nick's answering shout he caught sound
of a sudden crash in the room behind. He bounded back. Basil was
gone; the window was opened. He dashed to the opening, and the trick
was disclosed. The prisoner had silently unfastened the shutters,
smashed the lattice, and escaped. Nick came running along. The alarm
was given, and the whole village awakened to chase the Papist spy.
They did not catch him.
Dan returned to Plymouth next morning and handed his papers to Sir
Walter. The first packet proved to be a description of "El Dorado's"
land, and a guide to the fabled region. It was the work of a Spanish
missionary, and was written to King Philip himself. Basil's treatise
on philosophy was none other than a letter from a Spanish agent in
London, giving particulars of a plot against Elizabeth and in favour of
the Queen of Scots. Raleigh declared the latter paper to be of
immeasurably greater value than the Orinoco packet. The knight had had
experience of such papers before, and knew, only too well, that they
contained more fable than fact. He handed them to Captain John Drake,
and left it to him and the gentlemen adventurers who were to sail with
him to decide what faith they should put in the missionary's
disclosures.