KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE
The first person whom Nan encountered on her return from Trenby Hall
was Mrs. Seymour. The latter's eyebrows lifted quizzically.
"Well?" she asked. "How did it go?"
"It didn't 'go' at all!" answered Nan. "I was enveloped in an
atmosphere of severe disapproval. In fact, I think Lady Gertrude
considers I require quite a long course of training before I'm fitted
to be Roger's wife."
"Nonsense!" Kitty smiled broadly.
"Seriously"--nodding. "Apparently the kind of wife she really wants
for him is a combination of the doormat and fetch-and-carry person who
always stays at home, and performs her wifely and domestic duties in a
spirit of due subservience."
"She'll live and learn, then, my dear, when she has you for a
daughter-in-law," commented Kitty drily.
"I think I'm a bit fed up with 'in-laws,'" returned Nan a trifle
wearily. "I'll go out and walk it off. Or, better still, lend me your
bike, Kitty, and I'll just do a spin to Tintagel. By the time I've
climbed up to King Arthur's Castle, I'll feel different. It always
makes me feel good to get to the top of anywhere."
"But, my dear, it's five o'clock already! You won't have time to go
there before dinner."
"Yes, I shall," persisted Nan. "Half an hour to get there--easily! An
hour for the castle, half an hour for coming back, and then just time
enough to skip into a dinner-frock. . . . I must go, really, Kitten,"
she went on with a note of urgency in her voice. "That appalling
drawing-room at Trenby and almost equally appalling dining-room have
got into my system, and I want to blow the germs away." She
gesticulated expressively.
"All right, you ridiculous person, take my bicycle then," replied Kitty
good-humouredly. "But what will you do when you have to _live_ in
those rooms?"
"Why, I shall alter them completely, of course. I foresee myself
making the Hall 'livable in' throughout the first decade of my married
existence!"--with a small grimace of disgust.
A few minutes later Nan was speeding along the road to Tintagel, the
cool air, salt with brine from the incoming tide, tingling against her
face.
In less than the stipulated half-hour she had reached the village--that
bleak, depressing-looking village, with its miscellany of dull little
houses, through which one must pass, as through some dreary gateway, to
reach the wild, sea-girt beauty of the coast itself. Leaving her cycle
in charge at a cottage, Nan set out briskly on foot down the steep hill
that led to the shore. She was conscious of an imperative need for
movement. She must either cycle, or walk, or climb, in order to keep
at bay the nervous dread with which her visit to Trenby had inspired
her. It had given her a picture of Roger's home and surroundings--a
brief, enlightening glimpse as to the kind of life she might look
forward to when she had married him.
It was all very different from what she had anticipated. Even Roger
himself seemed different in the environment of his home--less
spontaneous, less the adoring lover. Lady Gertrude's influence
appeared to dominate the whole house and everyone in it. But, as Nan
realised, she had given her promise to Roger, and too much hung on that
promise for her to break it now--Penelope's happiness, and her own
craving to shut herself away in safety, to bind herself so that she
could never again break free.
Her unexpected meeting with Peter the previous evening had shown her
once and for all the imperative need for this. The clasp of his hand,
the strong hold of his arms about her as he bore her across the stream,
the touch of his lips against her hair--the memory of these things had
been with her all night. She had tried to thrust them from her, but
they refused to be dismissed. More than once she had buried her hot
face in the coolness of the pillows, conscious of a sudden tremulous
thrill that ran like fire through all her veins.
And that Peter, too, knew they stood on dangerous quicksands when they
were alone together, she was sure. This morning, beyond a
briefly-worded greeting at breakfast, he had hardly spoken to her,
carefully avoiding her, though without seeming to do so, until her
departure to Trenby Hall made it no longer necessary. She hoped he
would not stay long at Mallow. It would be unbearable to meet him day
after day--to feel his eyes resting upon her with the same cool gravity
to which he had compelled them this morning, to pretend that he and she
meant no more to one another than any two other chance guests at a
country house.
Nan's thoughts drove her swiftly down the steep incline which descended
towards the cove and, arriving at its foot, she stopped, as everyone
must, to obtain the key of the castle from a near-by cottage. The old
dame who gave her the key--accepting a shilling in exchange with
voluble gratitude--impressed upon her the urgent necessity for
returning it on her way back.
"If you please, lady, I've lost more than one key with folks forgettin'
to return them," she explained.
"I won't forget," Nan assured her, and forthwith started to make her
way to the top of the great promontory on which stands all that still
remains of King Arthur's Castle--the fallen stones of an ancient
chapel, and a ruined wall enclosing a grassy space where sheep browse
peacefully.
Quitting the cottage and turning to the left, she bent her steps
towards a footbridge spanning a gap in the cliff side and, pausing at
the bridge, let her eyes rest musingly on the great, mysterious opening
picturesquely known as Merlin's Cave. The tide was coming in fast, and
she could hear the waves boom hollowly as they slid over its stony
floor, only to meet and fight the opposing rush of other waves from the
further end--since what had once been the magician's cave was now a
subterranean passage, piercing right through the base of the headland.
For a while Nan loitered on the bridge, gazing at the wild beauty of
the scene--the sombre cove where the inrushing waves broke in a smother
of spume on the beach, and above, to the left, the wind-scarred,
storm-beaten crag rising sheer and wonderful out of the turbulent sea
and crowned by those ancient walls about which clung so much of legend
and romance.
Perhaps the magic of old Merlin's enchantments still lingered there,
for as Nan stood silently absorbing the mysterious glamour of the
place, the petty annoyances of the day, the fret of Lady Gertrude's
unwelcoming reception of her, seemed to dwindle into insignificance.
They were only external things, after all. They could not mar the
loveliness of this mystic, legend-haunted corner of the world.
At length, with a faint sigh of regret, she crossed the bridge and
walked slowly up a path which appeared to be little more than a rough
track hewn out of the rocky side of the cliff itself, uneven and strewn
with loose stones. Nan picked her steps gingerly. At the top of the
track her way turned sharply at right angles to where a narrow
ridge--so narrow that two people could not walk it abreast--led to
Tintagel Head. It was the merest neck of land, very steep on either
hand, like a slender bridge connecting what the Cornish folk generally
speak of as "the Island" with the mainland.
Nan proceeded to cross the narrow ridge. She was particularly
surefooted as a rule, her supple body balancing itself instinctively.
But to-day, for the first time, she felt suddenly nervous as she neared
the crag and, glancing downward, caught sight of the sullen billows
thundering far below on either side. Perhaps the events of the day had
frayed her nerves more than she knew. It was only by an effort that
she dismissed the unaccustomed sensation of malaise which had assailed
her and determinedly began the ascent to the castle by way of a series
of primitively rough-hewn steps. They were slippery and uneven, worn
and polished by the tread of the many feet which had ascended and
descended them, and guarded only by a light hand-rail that seemed
almost to quiver in her grasp as, gripped by another unexpected rush of
fear, Nan caught at it in feverish haste.
She stood quite still--suddenly panic-stricken. Here, half-way up the
side of the steep promontory, the whole immensity of the surrounding
height and depth came upon her in a terrifying flash of realisation.
From below rose the reiterated boom of the baulked waves, each thud
against the base of the great crag seeming to shake her whole being,
while, whichever way she looked, menacing headlands towered stark and
pitiless above the sea. She felt like a fly on the wall of some
abysmal depth--only without the fly's powers of adhesion.
Very carefully she twisted her body sideways, intending to retrace her
steps, but in an instant the sight of the surging waters--miles and
miles below, as it seemed--sent her crouching to the ground. She could
not go back! She felt as though her limbs were paralysed, and she knew
that if she attempted to descend some incalculable force would drive
her straight over the edge, hurtling helplessly to the foot of those
rugged cliffs.
For a moment she closed her eyes. Only by dogged force of will could
she even retain her present position, half crouching, half lying on the
ill-matched steps. It almost seemed as though some power were drawing
her, compelling her to relax her muscles and slide down, down into
those awful depths. Then the memory of a half-caught phrase she had
overheard flashed across her mind: "If you feel giddy, always look up,
not down." As though in obedience to some inner voice, she opened her
eyes and looked up to where, only a few battered steps above, she could
see the door of the castle.
If she could only make it! Rising cautiously to her knees she crawled
up one more step and rested a moment, digging her fingers into the
crevices of the rock and finding a precarious foothold against a
projecting ledge. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the door she scrambled
up a few inches further, then paused again, exhausted with the strain.
Two more steps remained. Two more desperate efforts, while she fought
the hideous temptation to look downwards. For an instant she almost
lost all knowledge of what she was doing. Guided only by instinct--the
instinct of self-preservation--her eyes still straining painfully in
that enforced upward gaze, she at last reached the door.
With a strangled sob of relief she knelt up against it and inserted the
big iron key, with numbed fingers turning it in the lock. The heavy
door opened, and Nan clung to it with both hands till it had swung back
sufficiently to admit her. Then, from the security of the castle
itself, she pushed it to and locked it on the inside, as the old woman
at the cottage had bidden her, thrusting the key into the pocket of her
sports coat.
She was safe! Around her were the walls of the ancient castle--walls
that seemed almost part of the solid rock itself standing betwixt her
and that horrible abyss below! . . . Her limbs gave way suddenly and
she toppled over in a dead faint, lying in a little crumpled heap at
the foot of the wall.
It was very quiet up there within King Arthur's Castle. The tourists
who, mayhap, had visited it earlier in the day were gone; no one would
come again to-night to disturb the supreme stillness. The wan cry of
the gulls drifted eerily across the sea. Once an enquiring sheep
approached the slim young body lying there, stirless and inert, and
sniffed at it, then moved away again and lay down to chew the cud.
The golden disc of the sun dropped steadily lower in the sky. . . .
* * * * * *
"Nan's very late."
Mrs. Seymour made the statement rather blankly. Dinner had been
announced and the house-party were gathered together in the hall round
the great hearth fire. The summer day had chilled to a cool evening,
as so often happens by the sea, and the ruddy flames diffused a cheery
glow of warmth.
"Perhaps Lady Gertrude is keeping her to dinner," said Lord St. John.
"It's very probable." As he spoke he held out his hands to the
fire--withered old hands that looked somehow frailer than their wont.
Kitty shook her head.
"No. She--I don't think she enjoyed her visit overmuch, and, when she
came back she went out cycling--to 'work it off,'" she said.
"Where did she go?" inquired Penelope.
"To Tintagel. I told her she wouldn't have time enough to get there
and back before dinner. Never mind. We'll begin, and I'll order
something to be kept hot for her."
Accordingly they all adjourned to the dining-room and dinner proceeded
in its usual leisurely fashion, although the gay chatter that generally
accompanied it was absent. Everyone seemed conscious of a certain
uneasiness.
"I wish young Nan would come back," remarked Barry at last, looking up
abruptly from the fish he was dissecting. A shade of anxiety clouded
his lazy blue eyes. "I hope she's not come a cropper down one of these
confounded hills."
He voiced the restless feeling of suspense which was beginning to
pervade the whole party.
"What time did she start, Kit?" he went on.
"About five o'clock, I should think, or soon after."
"Then she'd have had loads of time to get back by now."
The general tension took the form of a sudden silence. Then Peter
Mallory spoke, very quietly:
"She didn't propose going up to the castle, did she?" In spite of its
quietness his voice had a certain clipped sound that drove home the
significance of his question.
"Yes, she did." Kitty tried to reassure herself. "But she's as
surefooted as a deer. We all went up the other day and Nan was by far
the best climber amongst us."
Almost simultaneously Peter and Barry were on their feet.
"Something may have happened, all the same," said Barry with concern.
"She might have sprained her ankle--or--or anything."
He turned to the servant nearest him.
"Tell Atkinson to get the car round and to be quick about it."
"Very good, sir." And the man disappeared on his errand.
In a moment the thought that a possible accident might have befallen
Nan broke up the party. Kitty and Penelope hurried off in quest of
rugs and sandwiches and brandy--anything that might be of service,
while the men drew together, conversing in low voices while they waited
for the car.
"You'll find her, Barry?" St. John's voice shook a little. "You'll
bring her back safe?"
"I'll bring her back." Barry laid kindly hands on the old man's
shoulders which had seemed suddenly to stoop as though beneath a
burden. "Don't worry. I expect she's only had some trifling mishap.
Burst a tyre probably and is walking back."
St. John's look of acute anxiety relaxed a little.
"I hope so," he muttered, "I hope so."
A servant opened the door.
"The car's waiting, sir."
"Good." Barry strode into the hall, Mallory following him.
"Barry, I must go with you," he said hoarsely.
In the blaze of the electric light the two men looked hard into each
other's faces. Then Barry nodded.
"Right. I'll leave the chauffeur behind and drive myself. We must
have plenty of room at the back in case Nan's hurt." He paused, then
held out his hand. "I'm damned sorry, old man."
"I suppose Kitty told you?"
"Yes. She told me."
"I think I'm rather glad you know," said Peter simply.
Then, hurrying into their coats, the two men ran out to the car and a
moment later they were tearing along the road, their headlights blazing
like angry stars beneath the calm, sweet light of the moon overhead.
The old dame who kept the keys of the castle rose from her supper as
the honk, honk of a motor-horn broke on her startled ears. People
didn't come to visit the castle at this time of night! But the purr of
the engine outside her cottage, and the long beams of light flung
seawards by the headlights, brought her quickly to the door.
"We want a key--for the castle," shouted Barry, while to expedite
matters Peter sprang out of the car and went to the floor of the
cottage.
"The key!" he cried out.
She extended her hand, thinking he had brought one back.
"Ah, I knew I'd missed one," she said. She shook a lean forefinger at
him reprovingly: "So 'twas you run off with it! I'm obliged to you for
bringing it again, sir. I couldn't rightly remember whether 'twas a
young lady or gentleman who'd had it. There's so many comes for a key
and--"
"It was a lady. She's up there now, we think. And I want another key
to get in with. She may have been taken ill."
Peter's curt explanation stemmed her ready stream of talk abruptly.
Snatching the key which she took down from a peg on the wall he
returned to the car with it. Barry was still sitting behind the
steering wheel. He bent forward, as Peter approached.
"You go," he said, with a bluntness that masked an infinite
understanding. "There's the brandy flask"--bringing it out of a side
pocket. "If you want help, blow this hooter." He had detached one of
the horns from the car. "If not--well, I shall just wait here till you
come back."