AT THE MYSTERY TREE
All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had
returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy
between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a
friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was
an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to
which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the
coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was
not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So
he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a
dull pain in both head and heart.
All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding
Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted
to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles.
It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he
had not thought out any solution to his own problem, nor how to
approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop.
To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it
chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that
made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever
having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his
heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment.
With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring
of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his
life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought,
had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal
a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to
overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted
on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her;
rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were
concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The
blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with
ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be
permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take
care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway
girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have
blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a
beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be.
Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little
of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the
officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him.
It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road
where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he
flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he
first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter
regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past.
The gray ocean seemed trying---and the thought consoled him a
little--to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to
remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his
sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for
himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even
as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must
flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but
he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger
brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some
disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided.
How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to
know. A step aroused him from his stupor.
He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was
tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a
little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier,
with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his
eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's
resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave
back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute
the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the
doorway in the tree was flung open.
Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He
heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two
met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as
he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back
into her life. She spoke in French and--was it because of the language
used or of the unusual excitement?--her voice took on a strange elusive
quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well,
yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again
would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of
escape, so he steeled his heart to listen.
"You have come, my beloved," he heard her say.
"I have come, Carlotta. I told you that nothing could keep me. When
you wrote telling me where to come, and when and how to signal, I did
not delay one minute."
"I feared to write, Luigi. Perhaps they are even now watching you."
"I think they do not know I am here," he answered. "I have seen no one
watching. And who knows of our love? How could they know?"
"They know very much, my Luigi, and I am afraid I should not have
called you. But I wanted you so much."
"If you had not called me I should have died. Without you, how could I
live?"
"You love me, then, so much?"
"It takes great love to look up to you, Carlotta, and have I not
looked?"
"Yes, yes, Luigi, and I love you."
They wandered down the little lane between the wall and the trees that
lined the road, while Mark lay in dumb misery in the grass. It had
been hard before. It was harder now when he knew for sure. He must go
away, and never see her again. It was all that was left him, as an
honorable man, to do.
Down the road his eye caught a movement as if someone were slipping
into the bushes. Mark watched for a second glimpse of the lovers, but
they were far away on the other side. For a long time there was no
other visible movement of the figure that had slipped into the shadows;
but the listener could hear softened steps in the underbrush, and the
crackling of dead branches. Was it Saunders who at last had found his
man? Instinctively Mark resolved to protect, for did he not love her?
He watched the shrubbery, and soon he saw a face peer out; but it was
not the face of Saunders. It was a strange face, youthful, but bearded
and grim, and a gun was poised beside it. Mark lay quite still, for
now he heard the lovers' steps returning; but he never took his gaze
off that terrible face. He saw the gun lifted and he prepared to
spring; but when the man and the girl came into sight the gun barrel
dropped, and the face disappeared. In an instant Mark realized that it
was the man and not the girl who was threatened, and that nothing would
be done while she was there.
The lovers stood before the tree, saying good-bye.
"You will come back, Luigi?" the girl asked anxiously.
"I will come when you call, my beloved."
"But if they find you?"
"They will not find me."
"Then we can go away. There is a great West in this country. I have
my jewels, you know. We could hide. We could live like other people.
We could be just alone together."
"But would you be happy, Carlotta?"
"I should be happy anywhere with you, Luigi. It is too much to pay for
being a duchess, to lose all I want in life."
"But many duchesses must do that, you know. I never have asked such a
sacrifice, though, God knows, I have wanted it."
"You have never asked, Luigi, and that makes me all the more happy to
give. I will tell you when to come."
With an ardent embrace the two parted. She stepped inside the tree and
closed the door.
The young officer turned. Mark knew that the time had come for action,
and jumped for the other side--but too late. There was no sound, but
powder burned Mark's hand--powder from the muffled gun barrel which he
had tried to knock aside. The lover stood for an instant with his eyes
wide open, as if in wonder at a strange shock, but only for an instant.
Mark sprang to his side, and caught him as he fell to the ground.
There was a heavy crashing through the underbrush, then a voice was
raised in an oath and there was the sound of a struggle. Mark looked
up as Saunders broke through the bushes dragging after him the body of
the murderer. Dropping his unconscious burden, the detective came up
to where Mark was bending over the victim and pulled a little electric
glow lamp from his pocket.
"Let me look at him, Griffin," he said. He looked long and earnestly
at the man's face, then snapped off the light.
"He's the man," he announced.
[Illustration: Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's
the man!" he announced.]
"Who is he?" asked Mark quickly.
"The man I told you about--the man I took you for--the man for whose
sake the Duchess ran away--the chap I was watching for."
"And the other?" Mark nodded toward the gunman, who still lay
unconscious.
"Oh, he doesn't matter." Saunders spoke carelessly. "He'll get out of
it. It's all been arranged, of course. They really sent me here to
watch her; evidently they had him trailed from the beginning."
Crossing over, Saunders again snapped on his light, and examined the
face and clothing of the murderer.
"It's easy to see, Griffin, what the game was. This chap is one of the
foreigners at the railroad camp. He can say he was out
hunting--shooting squirrels--anything."
"He can't say that," put in Mark quickly, "for I saw him do it. I
tried to stop him."
Saunders turned quickly to Mark.
"Forget it, Griffin," he said earnestly. "You saw nothing. Keep out
of it. If it were only a common murder, I'd tell you to speak. But
this is no common murder. There are international troubles mixed up in
it. No one will thank you, and you will only get into difficulties.
Why, the biggest men in the country would have a special messenger down
here inside of twenty-four hours to keep you silent if they knew who
were behind this thing. For God's sake, leave it alone. Let this
fellow tell his story." He pointed to the man who was now coming to
his senses. "He has it all prepared."
"I'll leave it alone only if the man is dead; but, good God! you can't
expect me to leave him here to the mercy of that brood if he's only
wounded."
The detective smiled grimly.
"Wounded! Why, Griffin, do you think they would send a man who would
miss? Come, look at him."
Mark placed his hand over the young officer's heart. He felt for the
pulse, and looked into the face.
"Come, Saunders," he said, "we can do nothing for him."