THE OUBLIETTE.
In these unromantic, plodding, prosaic days of railways, telegraphs,
and telephones who would imagine that the fine old family mansion of
Dundargue would be the scene of a crime--of a tragedy--suited only to
the days of the Sir Malise Graham of the fourteenth century?
Yet so it was.
Allan was not killed--he was perhaps one of those fellows who are not
easily killed--but he was severely injured by the fall and
concussion, and it was long before he began to struggle back into a
consciousness of existence, as he had fallen partly on his head and
left shoulder.
The former had suffered from that circumstance, and from the dreadful
blow dealt him by Hawke Holcroft; and he was not slow in discovering
that his left arm was useless--broken above the elbow.
'Thank heaven, it is not my sword arm!' he whispered, huskily, as he
strove to stagger up; but only to sink helplessly down again on the
cold stone floor of his prison.
He was too weak--too confused to feel either just rage or indignation
yet. There was a horrible dream-like sense of utter unreality in the
whole situation in which he so suddenly found himself, and some time
elapsed before the whole episode with Holcroft--his unfortunate offer
to show him this fatal place, the situation and character of which
had suddenly suggested the crime--their idling in the
picture-gallery, smoking and wandering through corridors, up and down
ancient stairs, with eventually a sudden recollection of the whole
adventure--surged into his brain, and a gasp of rage escaped him.
'Accursed coward and villain!' muttered Allan, looking upward; but
all was darkness there and around him.
The hours stole on. He staggered up, and at last began to explore
the place in which he found himself--a somewhat needless act, as he
knew it but too well, having many a time, when a boy, with fear, awe,
and curiosity, lowered down a candle at the end of a string, and seen
it swaying to and fro far down below till the damp vapour
extinguished the flame.
Yet he felt with his right hand the circular wall of massive masonry
which enclosed him, carefully again and again, in the desperate hope
of finding some outlet, though he knew well by the history and
traditions of the place that no such thing could ever have existed;
but he could not remain still or withstand the nervous desire for
exertion--to be up and doing something; till again he sank on the
floor in utter weariness of heart, albeit that heart was aflame with
rage.
He uttered shouts for help from time to time, till his voice became
hoarse and began to fail him, and his spirit too, as he knew the
enormous thickness of the old walls around him; and tears of rage
almost escaped him as he pondered over the cold and calculating
villainy, of which he was now so mysteriously the helpless victim.
He had no doubt that the hours of the night were now stealing on, and
that long ere this his absence must have been discovered, and
speculation would be rife. He had his watch, but he was in utter and
blackest darkness, and his box of cigar lights having dropped from
his pocket he had no means of consulting the dial.
He could but lie there in great pain and passive misery--a misery
that seemed so unnatural that it was like a nightmare, an unreality,
that must pass away as suddenly as it had come upon him.
How terrible and indescribable, however, grew his aching thoughts as
the weary time went on!
He might die of cold, of hunger, of agony--die within a few yards of
his own hearthstone--die thus under his father's roof, and close by
where at that very moment the whole family were a prey to
bewilderment and distress by his sudden disappearance!
Oh, it was all too maddening to think of. So there he could but lie,
buried, immured, entombed in darkness; chill as death, not a breath
of pure air in his nostrils; not the faintest glimmer of light, and
no human sound in his ears. As the hours crept on he could scarcely
distinguish waking from sleeping, a dream from reality; and at times
all seemed to become chaos, and he could think of nothing unless it
were a buzzing in his head and the acute agony of his broken arm.
Anon he would utter a feeble shout for 'help,' but his own voice
seemed to return to him; beyond the walls that enclosed him it would
not go. He knew that there are situations in life incident to misery
and painful excitement, when the human machinery by the rapidity of
mental action is worn out sooner than its alloted time, and he began
to consider how long it was possible to exist without food or water.
Wearily, agonisingly the hours dragged on.
By this time he was certain that night had passed and day had come
again; and what must the thoughts of his people be? Inquiries and
searches would be made he knew, but who would ever dream of searching
for him where he was _then_.
He had not yet begun to suffer from hunger, but he had a considerable
thirst, and hunger would come too.
He thought of all he had read of the endurance of men on rafts and in
open boats at sea; of entombed miners buried deep in the bowels of
the earth, and his hair seemed to bristle up at the recollections.
Hunger, thirst, and an unknown death--or death at such craven hands.
'Oh, God,' he moaned, 'will aid never--never come?'
In that gruesome place and time there occurred to him--ghastly
memory!--thoughts of the unknown and forgotten dead whose matted
bones had been found in it by antiquarian explorers, as he had
mentioned to Holcroft--the remains of unfortunate creatures flung in
there by his forefathers.
Could it be that this unlooked-for fate of his was to be a species of
expiation for them? And was he to die now by this death, when life
had become to him so much dearer than ever?
If his disappearance remained utterly unaccounted for, and his death
became--as of course it would be--a thing of the past, and forgotten
even by those to whom he was dear, might not Hawke Holcroft regain
such influence as he had ever possessed over Olive and make her his
own? She would be free then; there would be no obstacle, and no
other rendering of the will necessary, now that _he_ was removed.
Never again to see her face or the faces of those he loved and who
loved him so; to die a rat's death, within arm's length of them
almost! Could his ancestor have foreseen, when he formed this
infernal trap, that one of his own race was to perish therein, and
thus!
After a time, amid all this tangle of terrible thoughts, he began to
forget where he was; his senses partly left him; he believed himself
to be with the regiment--the Black Watch, with their dark tartans and
historic crimson plumes; he heard the crash of the drums, the braying
of the pipes, and saw many familiar faces around him, those of
Cameron and Carslogie among others. Now the regiment was going into
action; he saw the line forming, the eyes of the men lighting grimly
up as they loaded, and the sunshine flashed upon the ridges of
levelled steel. The dream seemed a palpable one, and, with a shout
louder than he thought he could utter, he called upon them to follow
him in the charge!
His own cry awoke or roused him; the glorious vision of the charging
line melted into opaque darkness, and now Allan found himself weaker
than ever. He thought all was nearly over with him now. He turned
his thoughts to prayer, ere it might be too late, and from pondering
on release and vengeance and the things of this life, he began to
think, as his powers ebbed, of the life to come.
He felt that he must resign himself to the inevitable, and to die--to
die there after all, and at last he became totally insensible.