THE PLOT THICKENS
The next day after the death of Herrick I set out again for the cavern,
determined to find out, if possible, whether Lord Dunraven still lurked
in its dark recesses; and also to follow the right-hand tunnel to its
termination, for it might be that it led to some place from which I
could escape.
I strode up the hill again, and before pushing through the hedge which
screened the mouth of the cave, I turned and looked about me. There was
no one in sight, and so bending my head, I brushed aside the bushes
and entered. Lighting the candle which I had brought with me, I peered
around. The body of Herrick was gone; evidently someone had removed it
since last night.
I passed rapidly down the passage, until I reached the place where the
two paths diverged. I took the one to the right, and with my candle
over my head made my way down it. There was nothing unusual about the
tunnel, it loomed about me much as had the other. Its sides and floor
were of white stone which gleamed in the candlelight.
I had probably gone about two hundred feet when there came a sudden
gust of wind which blew my candle out. Now I was at a loss to account
for this, as it felt more like an artificial gust than a natural one;
more as if someone with a great fan had created a breeze. Fumbling
about, I found my flint and steel which I always carried with me, and
striking it, I relit my candle and looked around. There was no one in
sight, and so pausing an instant, I started on my way again.
I had barely taken a couple of steps when there came a second blast of
wind, as sudden and unexpected as the first, and my candle was blown
out again, as silently and quickly as it had been before. Exasperated
by this recurrence I angrily struck another light, and as I did so the
candle was snatched from my hand, and a low mocking laugh ran through
the tunnel; sinister and cold it sounded in my ears, and at the noise I
shrank back.
I am not a superstitious man (I have seen too much of the world for
that), but the flint and steel as I struck it, had lit up the cave
around me for an instant with a flash of light, and it was at that
instant that the candle had been caught from me. It had been no human
hand that had done this, for I could see distinctly around, and naught
had touched my hand; only as I looked had the candle fallen from my
fingers.
Again and again I struck the flint and steel, and peered wonderingly
about me. There was no trace of the candle anywhere, only the bare,
cold walls of the cave could I see, as I stood with white face and
shaking hands.
The accents of a voice, stern and low, from I knew not where, fell upon
my ears: "Go back! Go back! And if thou wouldst live, come not again to
this place."
A sudden shiver passed over me, and my knees knocked together with
terror; there was a grandeur and majesty in the tones that I had heard
in no earthly language. It was as though I listened to the voice of a
god. A sudden dread fell upon my soul as I stood there, and the craven
"Fear" which I had never known before in all my life, on the fields of
Ireland, or in great London, smote me with his cold hand.
Gone were my manhood and courage now, and I became as some old withered
hag, crouched in the chimney by the fire. With a yell I turned and fled
down that silent cavern, as though grim Death himself were at my heels.
Twice I dashed into the wall in the darkness and fell, screaming at the
top of my voice, thinking that the fiends had me for sure; but I was up
again in an instant, and with another wild yell had resumed my flight.
My reason had forsaken me for the moment, and I was as though a madman.
I fancied I could see white figures, with outstretched hands and
glaring eyes, awaiting me at every step. Screaming and yelling I rushed
on, and never once did I slacken pace, until in front of me I saw the
light streaming through the undergrowth at the entrance.
Dashing up the embankment, I tore through the bushes and out into the
open air again, where I cast myself flat upon the ground and sobbed
with thankfulness for the sunlight, the calm blue sky above me, and the
fresh air beating upon my face.
It must have been a ruse of DeNortier's to frighten me from the cave,
fearing that I would discover some of his secrets or perhaps his buried
treasure; and if it were a trick, it served his purpose well, for
never, from that day to this, have I put foot again in that cavern. Not
for a barrel of gold would I tread again its dark recesses and feel
that thrill of horror at the sound of that solemn voice. I sometimes
now at night awake trembling with fear, thinking I hear once more in my
ears those calm, majestic tones, the like of which I have never heard
again from the lips of man.
An hour after I had rushed from the cavern I was standing on the porch
of the mansion, watching the ocean as it roared and chafed against its
sandy prison, as though it were some caged thing striving to be free.
* * * * * * *
Two weeks had flown by since I had listened to Lord Dunraven's voice in
DeNortier's chamber. Two weeks in which I had waited, my nerves keyed
up to the highest pitch, for the next move from my enemies; but no
sound came.
My lord I had not seen since that night when he had disappeared in
the cavern. It was as though he had vanished forever; but I knew that
somewhere behind the scene he was watching and waiting for the time
to ripen, so that the curtain could rise for the last scene in the
tragedy. DeNortier had said naught to me, though he must have known of
Herrick's death, and of the fact that I now had discovered the secret
of my captivity. He still came and went as heretofore.
I heard the sound of footsteps behind me and turning I saw one of the
Indian attendants, called José.
"What is it, José?" I asked, speaking in his own tongue.
"The Señor wishes to talk with thee," he answered. "Even now he waits
in the great room," and so saying he disappeared into the house.
So the next move had come after all. I would be very watchful and
silent, and so thinking, I passed into the hall and back to the great
room where DeNortier awaited me.
He was seated there in one of the huge chairs, his head buried in his
hands, and did not hear me as I entered.
"What is it, Count?" I asked.
I had not seen him in several days, and the change in his appearance
startled me; it was so different from his accustomed look.
"Art sick?" I asked, "or what is it that ails thee?"
He answered slowly and lifelessly. "I have even now a throbbing
headache. But be seated, there is something of importance that I would
speak to thee of."
Seating myself near him, I waited in silence to hear what he would say.
"Thou wilt remember that a few months ago I freed a beautiful Spanish
girl at thy request. At that time thou didst tell me that I might do
with thee what I would, if I but freed the maid. Is this not true?"
"It is true," I answered. "But at the same time I told thee that I
would do nothing unworthy of an English gentleman. Thou dost remember
that too?"
"Distinctly," he replied. "What I now ask of thee is nothing that would
stain the honor of even the most scrupulous. 'Tis but a simple thing.
If thou wilt sign the paper that I shall hand to thee in a moment, then
not only wilt thou have kept thy promise to me, but in addition thou
shalt be set at liberty, with the sum of five hundred pounds to speed
thee on thy way. Come, 'tis a generous offer, and one worthy of thy
acceptance."
"Where is the paper?" I asked. "Let me but see that, and I will then
tell thee in a few moments whether I will sign it or not."
The Count reached his hand within his doublet and drew out a long stiff
paper. He looked me full in the eye, and I could see the excitement
upon his face, try as he would to conceal it.
"Do nothing rash," he said in a hurried tone. "Believe me or not, I
wish thee well, and would grieve to see thee come to harm. Be cool,
and weigh well what thou doest; for after thou hast once chosen, thy
decision cannot be revoked. On one side liberty, on the other side
imprisonment and perhaps death," and he coughed dryly behind his hand.
"Choose which thou wouldst have," and he extended the paper to me.
I took it in my hand and breaking the seal, held it up to the
candlelight. What paper could it be, that would be worth such a price
as this?
"This indenture made and entered into this the twenty-fifth day of
February, 1587, A.D. and in the reign of our Sovereign
Queen----" I glanced on further down. "Between Thomas Winchester, Kt.,
of the City of London, England, party of the first part, and James
Henry Hampden, Lord Dunraven, of the city and county aforesaid, party
of the second part. Witnesseth: that for, and in consideration of the
sum of five hundred pounds to me in hand paid----"
A long string of legal phrases followed, all jargon, and without
meaning to me.
" ... Said party of the first part, doth hereby relinquish, release,
assign and transfer all the right, title, interest or pretension,
which he may have or possess, to and in the hand of the Lady Margaret
Carroll, of Riverdale, England. And the said Thomas Winchester, Kt.,
doth hereby promise and bind himself not to have any communication by
any means whatsoever with the said Lady Margaret Carroll, and doth
further bind himself not to set foot in England for the space of fifty
years from the date hereinbefore set out; and to reside abroad during
the whole of that time."
I had seen enough. Tearing the document into a thousand fragments, I
scattered them to the four winds, before the astonished Spaniard could
rise from his chair.
Then turning to him, my voice hoarse with anger, I cried:
"And thou hast the hardihood to present such a paper as this to me
to sign? On guard and defend thyself," and drawing my blade, I stood
waiting for him to rise.
But the Count did not move from his seat nor turn even so much as an
eyelash.
"Strike if thou wilt," he replied calmly. "I will not defend myself,"
and he sat still and motionless where he was.
I could not murder him in cold blood, and he would not budge to raise
a finger in his own behalf. Sheathing my sword I leaned over the table,
and speaking slowly and distinctly, my face almost touching his own, I
said:
"Go back and tell thy master that I spurn his offer as I would himself,
were he not too much of a coward to be here in person, instead of
sending thee as a tool in his place." And turning on my heel, without
so much as another look at him, I strode away and out of the house.
A storm was brewing upon the sea. Already the dark, heavy clouds hung
over us, and a calm, deep, ominous silence seemed to brood over earth
and sky, as though the storm god gathered every nerve and sinew, and
crouching low, poised himself for one great effort that would carry
terror into the hearts of men.
Passing down the steps of the house, I made my way out to the sea. My
mind was in a chaos of thoughts and doubts, and I longed for the storm
and struggle of the tempest.
The pale twinkling stars above me were vanishing one by one behind the
storm clouds; cold and silent they looked down on me from their great
heights, as they had gazed upon so many of the storm-tossed children of
men. Generations and ages had passed away since they had seen the first
mortal upon the earth. What mattered it to them that poor sin-cursed
humanity lived and died; had their loves and hates; their friends and
foes; their good days and their bad ones; lived their little span, and
then crept away to make room for others who would take their places.
A sense of my own littleness crossed my mind. Out here with nature,
stripped of all the gloss and glitter of civilization; alone, without
that sense of security which comes to us when we are huddled with
our fellows; a single atom upon the troubled sea of life--my own
perplexities seemed to dwindle, and a feeling of peace swept over my
care-worn spirit.
The storm was about to burst; great white-capped billows surged up,
like the serried ranks of the foe ready to charge. The roar deepened
and increased to a perfect thunder which seemed to shake the very
earth. The sea lashed and whipped itself into a foaming caldron; the
winds howled like the spirits of the departed; and the great black
clouds seemed to almost touch the very sea. A flash of lightning
forked, many-tongued, sprang athwart the sky, and a burst of thunder
peeled forth like the roar of a score of culverins.
One lone bird, solitary and forsaken, beat forward before the
approaching gale. Such was my life I thought, as I watched him struggle
against the wind. Why must I ever be the storm petrel, sport for the
wind and wave, borne on, ever on, before the tempest, by the resistless
force of the blast.
My old friends sat in London to-night with lights and cheer. The old
Mermaid Inn rang with song and jest as they passed the cup, and smoked
the fragrant weed that had been brought back from the golden Virginia.
I could almost hear the hoarse tones of Francis Drake as he spun out
some long-winded yarn; could hear the deep-chested laugh of Raleigh;
and the yell ring out as Bobby Vane struck up some light-hearted ditty,
and the others with a roar joined the chorus.
Theirs was a pleasant, easy way, smooth to the foot, bright with the
garlands of flowers and the companionship of their fellows; mine was a
solitary, lonely road, rough and stormy, with no friend to help or aid
me. I must walk high up above the crowd, walk as best I might, this
untrod path until morn. So be it. I would not murmur at what fate held
in store for me. Come what might, I would at least play my part with
what courage I possessed.
A slight sound seemed to come from the darkness about me. I bent
forward and listened. Someone was evidently approaching, making his way
toward the mansion. I could hear the quick crunch of the sand under
the advancing feet, though the night had grown inky black and I could
distinguish no figure in the gloom. Throwing myself flat upon the sand,
I waited for the coming traveler.
The sound came nearer and passed where I lay, invisible in the night.
Just as it moved swiftly by, there was a blinding flash of lightning,
illuminating the darkness with dazzling brilliancy, and throwing into
relief the stout form of Father Francis, as with head bent down to
avoid the force of the wind, he stood motionless, his back to me,
waiting for the crash of the thunder to die away. What was the priest
doing here, at this time of night and in such a gale? It must be
something of importance that called him forth, for he loved his own
ease too well to sally out in the storm and tempest without good cause.
Like a flash I sprang to my feet, drawing my sword as I did so; and
as he stood there motionless, before he could turn, I was upon him.
Catching the weapon by the blade, I brought the heavy hilt upon his
head, and with a dull thud, he fell to the ground.
Kneeling beside him, I ran my hand over his garments as he lay there.
Perhaps he had some paper or message that he was carrying, which would
be of use, could I but discover it. Ah! I touched a square oblong
package in the folds of his cassock, and running my hand on the inside,
I drew it out. They were papers most probably, tied up securely, with
a fold of canvass around them. Was there aught else there? I searched
thoroughly, but could find nothing further, though I felt over every
inch of his robe.
As I straightened myself up the storm broke, and a perfect torrent of
rain poured down upon me. Hastily sheathing my sword, I left the priest
where he was, and made for the house in a run, the package clutched in
my hand. Had it not been for the light that streamed from the windows,
I would never have found it in the darkness; but I reached the porch,
after a brief dash of a few minutes, the wind tugging and fighting at
my heels as if to impede my progress, loath to see me escape from its
fury.
Hastily slipping the bundle in my doublet, I stepped upon the veranda
and passed into the hall. DeNortier, pale and distraught, was standing
in the door, surveying with lusterless eye the storm.
"'Tis an awful gale," he said, on perceiving me. "See the surf," and he
pointed out to where the great waves pitched and tossed below us.
"Terrible," I answered. "The wind roars like the culverins of a fleet."
Passing him, I made my way up to my own room. Lighting the candle and
fastening the door, I looked around me. All was quiet and silent, and
going to the window, I drew the curtain across it. Then seating myself
under the light, while the storm howled and roared outside, I cut the
fastenings and opened the package.
Drawing out a paper, I looked at it. It was a brief account of the
coming of Hampden to the title and estate of his uncle, written by
someone evidently well acquainted with the state of affairs which
existed.
But it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, I picked up the
next one. An account of the disappearance of Sir Thomas Winchester. "He
had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... A great loss to London
society. A diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without
avail...."
I threw it aside with a smile. Evidently this was Dunraven's work, for
though no name was signed to the paper, I had no doubt that he was the
author. My lord wished it thought that I was dead, and most likely at
that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my
remains. If ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with
consummate ease and skill, it was Dunraven.
Several other papers I saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of
mine, and also of DeNortier's, from day to day, setting out the
minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it.
The rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty
billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the Viscount James
Henry Hampden. I had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of
some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. I had oft smelt just such a
perfume, sweet, delicate. There was only one whom I knew, around whose
dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. Opening it with a
hand which despite my efforts trembled, I read the few brief lines it
contained. Only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and
signed with the name--Margaret Carroll.
Yet there, in that brilliantly-lighted room, in a far-away island,
separated from her by leagues of rolling water, I pressed that
sweet-scented billet to my lips, and forgetting all else, was happy.
Thrusting it into my doublet, there next my breast, where I could feel
the quick pulsing of my heart's blood against it, I arose to my feet.
Replacing the other papers in the oilcloth, I looked around the room.
Where should it be concealed? I could not keep it about my person, that
was out of the question. My eye fell upon a heavy chest against the
wall, and moving it I pushed the papers under the bottom; they could
stay there at least, until I could find a better place.
I was weary, and throwing myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed, I
dropped off to sleep.