RIGHT IS MIGHT
Montrose was so accustomed to obey his Master that he never questioned
the order to climb the cliff and leave Alice alone in the cave. Yet as
he straightened himself behind the bush which masked the entrance he
wondered why such instructions had been given. Neither he nor the girl
knew that Enistor watched for their coming, so the young man could only
conjecture that Eberstein wished him to surrender to those officers of
the law who were hunting for him. This seemed strange in the face of the
doctor's telegram advising him to fly; but for want of knowledge
Montrose was not in a state of mind to reconcile the apparent
contradiction. His sole idea was to do what he had been told to do, even
though--as seemed to be the case--he was risking loss of liberty and
life. And indeed, with regard to the last Montrose believed that he
might lose it otherwise than on the gallows.
The narrow, tortuous path sloped upward abruptly, with the cliff soaring
high above it and the cliff dropping steeply below to unfathomable
depths. Fortunately the mighty wind, which roared inland from the sea,
enabled him to cling the more surely to the rocky face of the precipice,
and by slow degrees he crawled towards his goal overhead. In a less
degree than Alice was the young man accustomed to such perilous
wayfaring, and only by persistent will-power did he manage to control
his nerves. What with the screaming of the tempest above and the
bellowing of the waters below, he nearly lost his head. The tumult of
sound, the stormy darkness only fitfully dispersed by gleams of
moonlight, his dangerous position midway between heaven and earth--these
things were enough to daunt the bravest man. But that he had been
supported by unseen powers, Montrose would never have succeeded in
scaling that tremendous cliff. Yet he did so, painfully crawling upward
inch by inch, shaken like a leaf in the grip of the wind and stunned by
the uproar of great waters. At length, after many hours--so it seemed to
him who had lost count of time--he reached the summit and cast himself
breathlessly on the wet herbage. Panting painfully, he sat up after a
pause, and then the lightning flaring in the dark sky showed him a tall
figure rushing towards him. And at the very moment of the onset the
winds swept clear the face of the moon to reveal in her waning light
that Enistor had found him at last.
"I have you now," shouted the Squire, stumbling towards his victim with
eager haste. "You shall not escape."
Montrose had no thought of escape and could not have saved himself even
had he been so inclined. He was wholly spent with that fearful climb and
was unable to cry out, much less shape his breath into speech. Yet with
the instinct of self-preservation--since he was dangerously near the
verge of the precipice--he rolled blindly to one side as Enistor dashed
heedlessly towards him. One moment he saw the big man reeling with
extended hands to clutch and capture in the half-light; the next and
his enemy had disappeared over the cliff, crying hoarsely as he realised
that he had underestimated the distance. The cry was echoed by Montrose,
who nearly lost what few senses remained to him in the horror of the
moment. Then it flashed across his bewildered mind that Enistor was dead
and that there was no chance of capture for the moment. Striving to
regain his breath, to control his mind, to master his nerves, that
effort was the insistent thought which governed his whole being. Utterly
unmanned, he sobbed hysterically.
But the loss of self-control did not last long. By a powerful exercise
of the will Montrose succeeded in gaining the mastery of his being and
on hands and knees crawled towards the edge of the cliff. He did not
expect to see Enistor, as in his impetuous rush the man must have hurled
himself directly into the thundering waves which broke far below in
white and furious foam. In the moonlight, which radiated strongly for
the time being against the face of the sea-front, Montrose saw a dark
body half-way down. The Squire had fallen straightly for some distance,
then had cannoned off one rock to strike against another, and finally
came to rest on a projecting spur, where the senseless body remained,
hanging helplessly above the boiling of the witches' cauldron below.
Clearly and distinctly Montrose saw the perilous position of his enemy:
clearly and distinctly he knew that his enemy could be saved. It
remained with him to allow Enistor to die terribly (since the man's
first movement when he revived would precipitate him into the hell
beneath) or to descend and effect a rescue. How could he do so without
a rope and lacking assistance? The young man did not know, but what he
did know, and the thought burnt into his brain, was that Enistor could
be saved, or doomed. And the choice lay with him.
The temptation was almost overpowering. Only Enistor could depose to
that fatal visit to the cottage, and if such a proof was wanting
Montrose knew positively that he could not even be accused, much less
arrested. He was aware of his innocence, yet Enistor, who hated him,
could prove him to be guilty, and hand him over to an unmerited death.
This the man would assuredly do, and Montrose winced to think how his
name would be covered with ignominy and how greatly Alice would suffer.
Why should he save one who designed his disgrace; who desired his death?
He asked himself this question, and then asked it of God. No reply came
either from himself or from the Unseen. He felt as though the guidance
of the Higher Powers had been withdrawn, and that he was left to choose
unbiased, uninstructed, completely free. Then he recollected how
Eberstein had said that both good and evil would be placed before him,
and how swiftly he had declared he would select the good. His memory
recurred to the subsequent warning: "Be not over-confident lest you
fall." This was the time of choice, the crucial moment, which decided
all. If he saved Enistor he saved the only witness who could bring about
his condemnation: if he did not rescue the man he would be free to marry
Alice, to enjoy the money, and to lead a peaceful life. But could a
peaceful life be built up upon a crime? for a crime it was to allow his
enemy to perish. No! Come what might, arrest, trial, condemnation, and
shameful death, it was impossible to hesitate longer. Enistor must be
rescued and he must be the man to do the deed. In a frenzy of eagerness,
and in deadly fear lest the evil should overpower the good, Montrose
sprang to his feet and hurried impetuously towards the lights of the
coastguard station. There was not a moment to be lost, so he literally
fell against the door and clamoured for admittance.
"What's the row? What's the row?" asked a gruff voice, as the door
opened violently and a coastguard appeared. "You, sir!" The man had seen
him before and recognised him in a moment. "Have you come to give
yourself up?"
"Do what you like about that," gasped Montrose, clinging to the door, a
wild figure ragged and streaming with water, "only help me to save
Enistor."
"The Squire! What's that about the Squire?" and another coastguard laid
down his pipe to step hurriedly forward.
"He has fallen over the cliff."
"You threw him over!" cried both men simultaneously.
"No! No! I swear I did not. But what does it matter? You can arrest me
afterwards if you choose. Just now I want to save Enistor. His body is
hanging halfway down. Get me a rope, a lantern; come and assist. I must
save him." And Montrose, feeling a new and powerful life move him to
action, rushed into the darkness.
The startled coastguards followed, both to see what had happened and to
arrest the fugitive for whom the whole country-side was searching. But
discipline prevailed in spite of their natural bewilderment, and they
came to the verge of the cliff when Montrose shouted, with lanterns and
a stout rope. The young man was lying on his stomach pointing downward
to where the body was plainly seen in the moonlight. The coastguards
recoiled in dismay.
"Is that the Squire?" cried one. "Then he's dead for certain."
"No! Tie the rope round me. I shall descend," said Montrose feverishly.
"It's almost sure death, sir," declared the other man more respectfully,
for if the fugitive intended to descend upon such an errand of mercy it
was impossible that he could be guilty of the murder.
"Death or life, I'm going," retorted Montrose, and hastily bound the
rope under his armpits, assisted by the two men, while he slung one of
the lanterns round his neck. "Now! Pay out the rope!" and he let himself
down gradually, clinging dexterously to the scanty herbage of the
precipice.
Luckily the storm was dying away and the wind had rapidly swept the
greater part of the heavens clear of vapours. In the starry space above
the sealine the moon shone out more strongly than usual, so Montrose had
ample light to negotiate his downward course. The coastguards peered
over the edge of the cliff, and twisted the rope round a convenient
rock, measuring it out gradually. But hardened men as they were, they
shivered as every now and then the daring adventurer swung clear, to
hang like a spider at the end of the slender line, while the cruel
rocks and hungry waters waited below for their prey.
But the Power that had supported Montrose before supported him now, and
he felt singularly clear-headed and strong. Slowly but surely he dropped
down the face of the precipice and finally alighted gently on the
projecting spur of rock. Very cautiously he looped a twist of the rope
round Enistor's body, knotting it to himself, for the least mistake
would have tumbled both from the insecure foothold. As it was the spur
trembled and vibrated dangerously under the added weight of Montrose,
even though he was greatly supported by the line. However he managed to
bind the Squire's insensible body to himself, then gave the signal to be
drawn up. The coastguards made sure that the rope was safely attached to
the rock, and then, hoping that it would not give way under the strain,
they began to haul up the two men. With one arm round Enistor, who was
bound more or less tightly to him by the rope, Montrose assisted as best
he could with the arm left free and with his feet. But it was a perilous
journey, and the two men above, as well as Montrose, heaved sighs of
relief when willing hands dragged rescuer and rescued into safety.
Notwithstanding the immense strain to which he had been subjected, the
young man still felt able to deal with the situation. "Have you any
brandy?" he asked the nearest man, as the three of them looked down at
the insensible body.
"Yes, sir," and a flask was handed over.
Montrose knelt and forced the clenched teeth apart to pour down the
ardent spirit. The Squire still lived, for his heart was beating
faintly, but his face was woefully scratched, his head was bruised, and
the mackintosh he wore was ripped to shreds by the tearing and rending
of the rocks and shrubs which he had struck during his fall. That he was
alive was a miracle, and so the bluff coastguards thought as they held
the lanterns for Montrose to do his office of mercy. They respected the
young hero intensely for what he had done, as few men would have dared
the perils of such a descent in the stormy gloom of the night. But they
did not know how truly heroic Montrose had been in saving the life of
one who could condemn him to a shameless death for a deed he had never
committed. Montrose himself did not consider the action further, being
wholly occupied in aiding Enistor to recover his senses. What he had
done he had done. There was no more to be said.
"Better?" asked the young man softly, when Enistor feebly opened his
eyes to stare into the pale face bending over him.
"What's the--the matter?" murmured the broken man faintly.
"You fell over the cliff. Hush, don't talk. Take some brandy: you will
be all right soon."
"No! I think--I think--my back--broken," the voice died away in a drawl
of exhaustion and the eyes closed. With a last effort they opened again,
and Enistor asked a question. "Who saved me?"
"I did!"
"You!" The voice expressed astonishment, disbelief, hatred, scorn; a
whole gamut of disordered passion, as some all-comprehending sixth sense
told Montrose. Then the sick man relapsed into insensibility.
"Help me to carry him to Tremore one of you," said Montrose, rising and
looking at the men, who were staring curiously at him in the mingled
light of the moon and the lanterns. "The sooner a doctor sees him the
better."
"I can take him along with my mate here, sir," said a coastguard
gruffly; "if you go you will be arrested for the murder of that old
foreign cove."
"As I am innocent I don't mind being arrested. And if you two hand me
over to the police I understand that a certain reward----"
"Don't speak like that, sir," broke in the other man hastily; "a
gentleman what risked his life to save him as was hunting him down ain't
no murderer."
"Thank you," said Montrose thankfully and simply. "All the same I am
going to surrender. Meantime, we must take the Squire home."
The men stared and wondered, admiring Montrose more than ever, since he
was risking his liberty as he had risked his life to save the man who
was so bitter against him. One coastguard returned to the station, but
Montrose and the other carried the body of Enistor on a hurdle--taken
from a near sheepfold--to Tremore. They took a long time to cover the
distance across the dark misty moorland, and as they approached the
great house Montrose little by little felt the artificial strength which
had sustained him so far ebbing away. He wondered why it was leaving
him: he wondered what would happen when the police took him: he wondered
if Alice was still in the cave: and finally broke down altogether on the
threshold of the dark house. When the coastguard rang the bell and
roused the servants he handed over two insensible men to be taken
indoors. Like a blood horse Montrose had kept up the pace until he
reached the goal, and then had fallen into as unconscious a state as
that of the man whom he had saved. But as his senses left him he
glimpsed a glorious radiance round about him: he saw the smiling,
approving face of his Master, and knew that a hand was raised in
benediction. And soundlessly the words of a Beatitude came to him as
soft and refreshing as summer rain. "Blessed are the merciful: for they
shall obtain mercy!" After that gracious saying he knew no more.
Then Montrose lost count of time. From the moment when he sank in the
darkness before the door of Tremore until the hour he woke in his own
bed time had no existence. A screened lamp illuminated the room, the
blinds were drawn, the door was closed, and a fire was burning in the
grate. He was clasping a tender hand, and his eyes opened to see the
face of Alice bending over him with that motherly look which all women
give to men in time of sickness. It was certainly night, Montrose
thought dreamily, and he probably had been carried to his bedroom a few
minutes since. But how had Alice come so swiftly from the cave? Was this
another miracle in this life of miracles?
"Did you come after us?" he asked weakly.
The girl uttered a cry as his lips moved and thankful tears fell on his
pale face. "Douglas! do you know me?"
"Alice! Yes, I know. Alice! I am all right." He strove to rise, but fell
back.
"You are weak still," said the girl, arranging his pillow, "don't
attempt too much, dearest. Take this," and a strengthening drink was
held to his lips.
"But I must see what is happening," muttered Montrose impatiently, his
brain becoming gradually clearer. "Your father lies insensible at the
door with that coastguard in charge."
"Father is in bed and the coastguard is gone, Douglas. It was last night
you came here."
"Last night! Impossible! It is night still."
"My dear one, you have slept for twenty-four hours. The doctor said it
was the best thing that could happen after the strain you have
undergone. You will soon grow strong. I am your nurse and have been
watching you for hours and hours. Now," Alice rose and moved towards the
fire, "you shall have some soup."
"I do feel tremendously hungry," admitted the patient; "and your
father?"
"Hush!" Alice's face grew sad. "You must not talk. Shortly you shall
know all that has taken place. Drink the soup and then try to sleep."
Montrose wilfully argued and objected, but the girl was firm. Finally he
finished the bowl of broth and closed his eyes again. When he was quite
asleep Alice left the housekeeper to watch beside him through the night
and retired to her own room for a much-needed rest. Anxious as she was
about many matters both with regard to her lover and her father,
weariness, mental and physical, demanded its due and she slept soundly
until ten o'clock the next morning. Her first waking thought was for her
father, and after she had learned his present condition she sought the
sick-room of her lover. But Montrose was no longer sick. He was up and
dressed, with a healthy colour in his cheeks and very bright eyes, ready
for his breakfast and anxious to learn what had taken place during his
insensible condition. Even the thought that he might be arrested on that
very day did not daunt him. Knowing his innocence, and aware that he had
conquered selfish fear to the extent of saving the life of the sole
witness who could condemn him, he felt convinced that in some way--he
did not know how--things would be made smooth. Therefore he went down to
the dining-room with Alice and, after making a good meal, he accompanied
her to her very own sitting-room to hear explanations.
"Your father is in danger of death, you say?" he asked, when they were
seated.
"Yes, Douglas. The fall hurt his spine and the doctor does not think
that he will recover. However, he is sensible enough and can talk."
"What does he say?" asked Montrose nervously.
"Scarcely a word. And that is why I am so anxious to hear from you all
that took place after you left the cave. Both the coastguards told me
much; but you can tell me more. In the first place, where did you meet
my father?"
"In the first place," said Montrose, asking a counter-question, "am I to
be arrested for murdering Narvaez?"
"No! While you have been asleep wonderful discoveries have been made and
your character has been entirely cleared. It was Job Trevel who broke
Don Pablo's neck."
"Job? But his mother said that he went out fishing some hours before the
death!" said the young man, startled and puzzled by the revelation.
"So his mother truly thought. Job did go down to take his boat out, but
jealousy of Rose brought him back to Polwellin. He suspected that she
intended to see Don Pablo, and when he found she had gone out he
followed her to the cottage on chance. Rose was there after you left and
Don Pablo came out with her to the gate. Then Job, crazy with anger,
sprang on him and--you know the rest."
"I don't know how Job escaped, or why Rose held her tongue when I was in
danger of arrest for what I did not do!"
"Rose ran home terribly afraid lest she should be accused of having had
something to do with the murder, and took to her bed intending to be
silent out of selfish fear. Job returned to his boat and went away. He
has not yet returned, and I don't think he ever will."
"But how was this found out?"
"The doctor who attended Rose became suspicious of something she said
when half delirious. He told the Perchton Inspector, who saw Rose and
forced her to reveal the truth. Now the police are hunting for Job, and
you are entirely exonerated, although you will no doubt be called upon
to state the hour when you left Don Pablo."
"Thank God for his mercies," said Montrose devoutly. "It is a most
amazing thing, Alice. And to think that last night I nearly decided to
let your father die, since he alone would witness against me."
"I expect that was the test that Dr. Eberstein spoke of, Douglas. I
don't know how my father came to be on the spot unless he followed me by
stealth when I came to see you at the cave."
Montrose nodded. "No doubt your father suspected you and followed as you
say, dear. The moment I reached the top of the cliff, he rushed at me,
but making a mistake about the distance in the gloom, he hurled himself
over the precipice. I saw that his body was lying half way down, and it
was in my mind to leave him there. Oh! what a struggle I had," cried the
young man passionately, "only Christ's love could have nerved me to save
the man."
"Yes! Yes!" Alice fondled his hand. "The descent was very dangerous."
"It is not that I was thinking about. That was nothing. But my doubts,
my hesitation: my desire to save my own life at the cost of his. I
wonder my hair has not turned grey. And to think that all the time
things were coming to a point which would proclaim my innocence. Had I
let your father die I should have committed a purposeless crime. But
thanks be to Christ the All-Loving and All-Powerful, I did as I would be
done by, and gave my enemy his life. What a moment of anguish it was:
what a bitter, bitter moment," and the young man wiped the perspiration
from his brow.
Alice drew his head down on her breast and murmured over him as a mother
murmurs over a child. And Montrose really was a child at the moment as
what he had passed through shook him still to the core of his being.
"It's all right now, dear; it's all right now," she urged gently. "You
have conquered your greatest enemy."
"Your father?"
"No, dear, yourself. And perhaps my father also. He does not seem to be
so bitter against you as he was. Twice he smiled when your name was
mentioned."
"Then he has recovered?"
"He will never recover," said the girl sadly. "The doctor says that his
spine is injured."
"Poor man!" cried Douglas generously, "can I not see him?"
"Not at present. The doctor says he is to be kept quiet just now." Alice
burst into distressful tears. "Heaven only knows that I have little
reason to love my father; but it is heart-rending to see him lying
there, broken down and helpless, with no future save a painful death."
This time it was her lover's turn to soothe and console. Drawing the
sobbing girl closer to his heart, he said what he could. "Death is the
gate of Life, we are told, dear."
Alice made no reply. The phrase did not tend to disperse her grief,
which was rather that of pity than of love, although the two are so much
akin that the one can scarcely be distinguished from the other. Montrose
wisely said no more, thinking truly that silence was more comforting
than words, and they both remained silent for some minutes. A knock at
the door parted them, and Alice dried her tears to receive a card from
the incoming servant. At once her sad face lighted up with pleasure and
hope.
"Oh, Douglas, Dr. Eberstein has come," she exclaimed joyfully. "Bring
the gentleman here at once, at once!" And when the servant had departed
the girl turned to her lover with an air of relief. "The doctor will put
everything right. I feel certain of that."
"So do I," replied Douglas confidently. "He may even cure your father."
Eberstein was shown in at this moment, and when the door was closed, he
walked over to Montrose with a glad smile to place his two hands on the
young man's shoulders. "You have conquered, my son. As a true follower
of the Blessed One you have forgiven your enemy in the face of
overwhelming temptation to act otherwise."
"Then Mr. Enistor truly was my enemy?" asked Montrose hurriedly.
"Life after life he has been your enemy. Remember the vision which you
saw in London, and the wounded man who came between you and the girl you
love."
"Enistor!"
Eberstein bowed his head. "He was then a priest of the Star-Angel, Mars,
in Chaldea. Alice was a vestal and you a noble who loved her. I warned
you then not to pluck the fruit before it was ripe, but you would, and
in carrying away the girl you murdered Enistor. This is the sin which
has parted you and Alice for many ages. Now the debt is paid; for the
life you destroyed you have given a life in saving your enemy. The
shadow has vanished, and now," Eberstein placed the hand of Alice in
that of Montrose, "now you are one once more. In union lies strength,
therefore let the sorrows you have passed through bind you truly
together for service to God."
"How wonderful! How wonderful!" gasped Alice, holding tightly to her
lover as if she feared to lose him again. "Will there be no more
trouble?"
"The troubles which all undergo when dwelling in the flesh. But these,
in many cases, you will be able to avert, since you have much light and
more will be given. But the dark Karma of Chaldea has been dispersed for
ever. Thank God, my children, that you have been so wonderfully guided
through the mists of error into the clear day of truth."
"We do thank Him," said Douglas reverently, "and you for so guiding us."
"I am but the instrument used for God's high purpose," said Eberstein,
with a solemn look, "and I thank Him that I have been so honoured. Now
you both must do as you have been done by, and aid in the salvation of
Korah Enistor."
"My father! How can we do that?" inquired Alice anxiously.
"We must wait for the arrival of that Son of Perdition who wishes to
keep that most unhappy soul in bondage. Then will Love and Hate battle
for the prize. The result depends upon that soul's choice."
"But Narvaez is dead," said Montrose, puzzled.
"Narvaez is more alive than ever in the body of Julian Hardwick."
"Oh!" Alice recognised the truth of this astounding statement at once.
"I knew Julian was different: that he was evil instead of good."
"You sensed Narvaez' black soul in Hardwick's body," said Eberstein
simply. "Be strong, be ready; for the hour of strife is at hand."
"Let us pray!" cried Alice fervently, and the two did pray with full
hearts, while the Master strengthened the selfless petition.