BUT NOT TO BED
Harold glanced at the clock; it was nearly one in the morning, time to
go to bed if he was going. But he did not feel inclined to go to bed.
If he did, with this great discovery on his mind he should not sleep.
There was another thing; it was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas Day,
the day of Ida’s answer. If any succour was to be given at all, it must
be given at once, before the fortress had capitulated. Once let the
engagement be renewed, and even if the money should subsequently be
forthcoming, the difficulties would be doubled. But he was building his
hopes upon sand, and he knew it. Even supposing that he held in his
hand the key to the hiding place of the long-lost treasure, who knew
whether it would still be there, or whether rumour had not enormously
added to its proportions? He was allowing his imagination to carry him
away.
Still he could not sleep, and he had a mind to see if anything could be
made of it. Going to the gun-room he put on a pair of shooting-boots,
an old coat, and an ulster. Next he provided himself with a dark
lantern and the key of the summer-house at the top of Dead Man’s Mount,
and silently unlocking the back door started out into the garden. The
night was very rough, for the great gale was now rising fast, and
bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a moment before making up
his mind to go on. However, he did go on, and in another two minutes
was climbing the steep sides of the tumulus. There was a wan moon in
the cold sky—the wind whistled most drearily through the naked boughs
of the great oaks, which groaned in answer like things in pain. Harold
was not a nervous or impressionable man, but the place had a spectral
look about it, and he could not help thinking of the evil reputation it
had borne for all those ages. There was scarcely a man in Honham, or in
Boisingham either, who could have been persuaded to stay half an hour
by himself on Dead Man’s Mount after the sun was well down. Harold had
at different times asked one or two of them what they saw to be afraid
of, and they had answered that it was not what they saw so much as what
they felt. He had laughed at the time, but now he admitted to himself
that he was anything but comfortable, though if he had been obliged to
put his feelings into words he could probably not have described them
better than by saying that he had a general impression of somebody
being behind him.
However, he was not going to be frightened by this nonsense, so
consigning all superstitions to their father the Devil, he marched on
boldly and unlocked the summer-house door. Now, though this curious
edifice had been designed for a summer-house, and for that purpose
lined throughout with encaustic tiles, nobody as a matter of fact had
ever dreamed of using it to sit in. To begin with, it roofed over a
great depression some thirty feet or more in diameter, for the top of
the mount was hollowed out like one of those wooden cups in which
jugglers catch balls. But notwithstanding all the encaustic tiles in
the world, damp will gather in a hollow like this, and the damp alone
was an objection. The real fact was, however, that the spot had an evil
reputation, and even those who were sufficiently well educated to know
the folly of this sort of thing would not willingly have gone there for
purposes of enjoyment. So it had suffered the general fate of disused
places, having fallen more or less out of repair and become a
receptacle for garden tools, broken cucumber frames and lumber of
various sorts.
Harold pushed the door open and entered, shutting it behind him. It
was, if anything, more disagreeable in the empty silence of the wide
place than it had been outside, for the space roofed over was
considerable, and the question at once arose in his mind, what was he
to do now that he had got there? If the treasure was there at all,
probably it was deep down in the bowels of the great mound. Well, as he
was on the spot, he thought that he might as well try to dig, though
probably nothing would come of it. In the corner were a pickaxe and
some spades and shovels. Harold got them, advanced to the centre of the
space and, half laughing at his own folly, set to work. First, having
lit another lantern which was kept there, he removed with the sharp end
of the pickaxe a large patch of the encaustic tiles exactly in the
centre of the depression. Then having loosened the soil beneath with
the pick he took off his ulster and fell to digging with a will. The
soil proved to be very sandy and easy to work. Indeed, from its
appearance, he soon came to the conclusion that it was not virgin
earth, but worked soil which had been thrown there.
Presently his spade struck against something hard; he picked it up and
held it to the lantern. It proved to be an ancient spear-head, and near
it were some bones, though whether or no they were human he could not
at the time determine. This was very interesting, but it was scarcely
what he wanted, so he dug on manfully until he found himself chest deep
in a kind of grave. He had been digging for an hour now, and was
getting very tired. Cold as it was the perspiration poured from him. As
he paused for breath he heard the church clock strike two, and very
solemnly it sounded down the wild ways of the wind-torn winter night.
He dug on a little more, and then seriously thought of giving up what
he was somewhat ashamed of having undertaken. How was he to account for
this great hole to his gardener on the following morning? Then and
there he made up his mind that he would not account for it. The
gardener, in common with the rest of the village, believed that the
place was haunted. Let him set down the hole to the “spooks” and their
spiritual activity.
Still he dug on at the grave for a little longer. It was by now
becoming a matter of exceeding labour to throw the shovelfuls of soil
clear of the hole. Then he determined to stop, and with this view
scrambled, not without difficulty, out of the amateur tomb. Once out,
his eyes fell on a stout iron crowbar which was standing among the
other tools, such an implement as is used to make holes in the earth
wherein to set hurdles and stakes. It occurred to him that it would not
be a bad idea to drive this crowbar into the bottom of the grave which
he had dug, in order to ascertain if there was anything within its
reach. So he once more descended into the hole and began to work with
the iron crow, driving it down with all his strength. When he had got
it almost as deep as it would go, that is about two feet, it struck
something—something hard—there was no doubt of it. He worked away in
great excitement, widening the hole as much as he could.
Yes, it was masonry, or if it was not masonry it was something
uncommonly like it. He drew the crow out of the hole, and, seizing the
shovel, commenced to dig again with renewed vigour. As he could no
longer conveniently throw the earth from the hole he took a “skep” or
leaf basket, which lay handy, and, placing it beside him, put as much
of the sandy soil as he could carry into it, and then lifting shot it
on the edge of the pit. For three-quarters of an hour he laboured thus
most manfully, till at last he came down on the stonework. He cleared a
patch of it and examined it attentively, by the light of the dark
lantern. It appeared to be rubble work built in the form of an arch. He
struck it with the iron crow and it gave back a hollow sound. There was
a cavity of some sort underneath.
His excitement and curiosity redoubled. By great efforts he widened the
spot of stonework already laid bare. Luckily the soil, or rather sand,
was so friable that there was very little exertion required to loosen
it. This done he took the iron crow, and inserting it beneath a loose
flat stone levered it up. Here was a beginning, and having got rid of
the large flat stone he struck down again and again with all his
strength, driving the sharp point of the heavy crow into the rubble
work beneath. It began to give, he could hear bits of it falling into
the cavity below. There! it went with a crash, more than a square foot
of it.
He leant over the hole at his feet, devoutly hoping that the ground on
which he was standing would not give way also, and tried to look down.
Next second he threw his head back coughing and gasping. The foul air
rushing up from the cavity or chamber, or whatever it was, had half
poisoned him. Then not without difficulty he climbed out of the grave
and sat down on the pile of sand he had thrown up. Clearly he must
allow the air in the place to sweeten a little. Clearly also he must
have assistance if he was to descend into the great hole. He could not
undertake this by himself.
He sat upon the edge of the pit wondering who there was that he might
trust. Not his own gardener. To begin with he would never come near the
place at night, and besides such people talk. The Squire? No, he could
not rouse him at this hour, and also, for obvious reasons, they had not
met lately. Ah, he had it. George was the man! To begin with he could
be relied upon to hold his tongue. The episode of the production of the
real Mrs. Quest had taught him that George was a person of no common
powers. He could think and he could act also.
Harold threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lantern, and
passing out, locked the door of the summer-house and started down the
mount at a trot. The wind had risen steadily during his hours of work,
and was now blowing a furious gale. It was about a quarter to four in
the morning and the stars shone brightly in the hard clean-blown sky.
By their light and that of the waning moon he struggled on in the teeth
of the raging tempest. As he passed under one of the oaks he heard a
mighty crack overhead, and guessing what it was ran like a hare. He was
none too soon. A circular gust of more than usual fierceness had
twisted the top right out of the great tree, and down it came upon the
turf with a rending crashing sound that made his blood turn cold. After
this escape he avoided the neighbourhood of the groaning trees.
George lived in a neat little farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away.
There was a short cut to it across the fields, and this he took,
breathlessly fighting his way against the gale, which roared and howled
in its splendid might as it swept across the ocean from its birthplace
in the distances of air. Even the stiff hawthorn fences bowed before
its breath, and the tall poplars on the skyline bent like a rod beneath
the first rush of a salmon.
Excited as he was, the immensity and grandeur of the sight and sounds
struck upon him with a strange force. Never before had he felt so far
apart from man and so near to that dread Spirit round Whose feet
thousands of rolling worlds rush on, at Whose word they are, endure,
and are not.
He struggled forward until at last he reached the house. It was quite
silent, but in one of the windows a light was burning. No doubt its
occupants found it impossible to sleep in that wild gale. The next
thing to consider was how to make himself heard. To knock at the door
would be useless in that turmoil. There was only one thing to be done
—throw stones at the window. He found a good-sized pebble, and standing
underneath, threw it with such goodwill that it went right through the
glass. It lit, as he afterwards heard, full upon the sleeping Mrs.
George’s nose, and nearly frightened that good woman, whose nerves were
already shaken by the gale, into a fit. Next minute a red nightcap
appeared at the window.
“George!” roared the Colonel, in a lull of the gale.
“Who’s there?” came the faint answer.
“I—Colonel Quaritch. Come down. I want to speak to you.”
The head was withdrawn and a couple of minutes afterwards Harold saw
the front door begin to open slowly. He waited till there was space
enough, and then slipped in, and together they forced it to.
“Stop a bit, sir,” said George; “I’ll light the lamp;” and he did.
Next minute he stepped back in amazement.
“Why, what on arth hev you bin after, Colonel?” he said, contemplating
Harold’s filth-begrimed face, and hands, and clothes. “Is anything
wrong up at the Castle, or is the cottage blown down?”
“No, no,” said Harold; “listen. You’ve heard tell of the treasure that
old Sir James de la Molle buried in the time of the Roundheads?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve heard tell of that. Hev the gale blown it up?”
“No, but by heaven I believe that I am in a fair way to find it.”
George took another step back, remembering the tales that Mrs. Jobson
had told, and not being by any means sure but that the Colonel was in a
dangerous condition of lunacy.
“Give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and I’ll tell
you. I’ve been digging all night, and my throat’s like a limeskin.”
“Digging, why where?”
“Where? In Dead Man’s Mount!”
“In Dead Man’s Mount?” said George. “Well, blow me, if that ain’t a
funny place to dig at on a night like this,” and, too amazed to say
anything more, he went off to get the milk.
Harold drank three glasses of milk, and then sat down to tell as much
of his moving tale as he thought desirable.