THE LANTERN ABOVE
Chase sat for hours on his porch that night, gazing down upon the château. Lights gleamed in a hundred of its windows. He knew that revelry held forth in what he was pleased enough to call the feudal castle, and yet his heart warmed toward the gay people who danced and sang while he thirsted at the gates.
The bitterness of his own isolation, the ostracism that circumstance had forced upon him, would have been maddening on this night had not all rancour been tempered by the glorious achievement in the market-place. He wondered if the Princess knew what he had dared and what he had accomplished in the early hours of the night. He wondered if they had pointed out his solitary light to her—if, now and then, she bestowed a casual glance upon that twinkling star of his. The porch lantern hung almost directly above his head.
He was not fool enough to think that he had permanently pulled the wool over the eyes of the islanders. Sooner or later they would come to know that he had tricked them, and then—well, he could only shake his head in dubious contemplation of the hundred things that might happen. He smiled as he smoked, however, for he looked down upon a world that thought only of the night at hand.
The château was indeed the home of revelry. The pent-up, struggling spirits of those who had dwelt therein for months in solitude arose in the wild stampede for freedom. All petty differences between Lady Deppingham and Drusilla Browne, and they were quite common now, were forgotten in the whirlwind of relief that came with the strangers from the yacht. Mrs. Browne's good-looking eager husband revelled in the prospect of this delirious night—this almost Arabian night. He was swept off his feet by the radiant Princess—the Scheherezade of his boyhood dreams; his blithe heart thumped as it had not done since he was a boy. The Duchess of N---- and the handsome Marchioness of B---- came into his tired, hungry life at a moment when it most needed the light. It was he who fairly dragged Lady Agnes aside and proposed the banquet, the dance, the concert—everything—and it was he who carried out the hundred spasmodic instructions that she gave.
Late in the night, long after the dinner and the dance, the tired but happy company flocked to the picturesque hanging garden for rest and the last refreshment. Every man was in his ducks or flannels, every woman in the coolest, the daintiest, the sweetest of frocks. The night was clear and hot; the drinks were cold.
The hanging garden was a wonderfully constructed open-air plaisance suspended between the château itself and the great cliff in whose shadow it stood. The cliff towered at least three hundred feet above the roof of the spreading château, a veritable stone wall that extended for a mile or more in either direction. Its crest was covered with trees beyond which, in all its splendour, rose the grass-covered mountain peak. Here and there, along the face of this rocky palisade, tiny streams of water leaked through and came down in a never-ending spray, leaving the rocks cool and slimy from its touch.
Near the château there was a real waterfall, reminding one in no small sense of the misty veils at Lauterbrunnen or Giesbach. The swift stream which obtained life from these falls, big and little, ran along the base of the cliff for some distance and was then diverted by means of a deep, artificial channel into an almost complete circuit of the château, forming the moat. It sped along at the foot of the upper terrace, a wide torrent that washed between solid walls of masonry which rose to a height of not less than ten feet on either side. There were two drawbridges—seldom used but always practicable. One, a handsome example of bridge building, crossed the current at the terminus of the grand approach which led up from the park; the other opened the way to the stables and the servants' quarters at the rear. A small, stationary bridge crossed the vicious stream immediately below the hanging garden and led to the ladders by which one ascended to the caverns that ran far back into the mountain.
Two big, black, irregular holes in the face of the cliff marked the entrance to these deep, rambling caves, wonderful caverns wrought by the convulsions of the dead volcano, cracks made by these splintering earthquakes when the island was new.
The garden hung high between the building and the cliff, swung by a score of great steel cables. These cables were riveted soundly in the solid rock of the cliff at one end and fastened as safely to the stone walls of the château at the other. It swung staunchly from its moorings, with the constancy of a suspension bridge, and trembled at the slightest touch.
It was at least a hundred feet square. The floor was covered with a foot or more of soil in which the rich grass and plants of the tropics flourished. There were tiny flower beds in the center; baby palms, patchouli plants and a maze of interlacing vines marked the edges of this wonderful garden in mid-air. Cool fountains sprayed the air at either end of the green enclosure: the illusion was complete.
The walls surrounding the garden were three feet high and were intended to represent the typical English garden wall of brick. To gain access to the hanging garden, one crossed a narrow bridge, which led from the second balcony of the château. There was not an hour in the day when protection from the sun could not be found in this little paradise.
Bobby Browne was holding forth, with his usual exuberance, on the magnificence of the British navy. The Marquess of B----, uncle to the Princess, swelled with pride as he sat at the table and tasted his julep through the ever-obliging straw. The Princess, fanning herself wearily, leaned back and looked up into the mystic night, the touch of dreamland caressing her softly. The others—eight or ten men and half as many women—listened to the American in twice as many moods.
"There she is now, sleeping out there in the harbour, a great, big thing with the kindest of hearts inside of those steel ribs. Her Majesty's ship, the King's Own! Think of it! She convoys a private yacht; she stops off at this beastly island to catch her breath and to see that all are safe; then she charges off into the horizon like a bird that has no home. Ah, I tell you, it's wonderful. Samrat, fill the Count's glass again. May I offer you a cigarette, Princess? By the way, I wonder how Chase came off with his side show?"
"Saunders tells me that he was near to being butchered, but luck was with him," said Deppingham. "His ship came home."
"It was a daring trick. I'm glad he pulled it off. He's a man, that fellow is," said Browne. "See, Princess, away up there in the mountain is his home. There's a light—see it? He keeps rather late hours, you see."
"Tell me about him," said the Princess suddenly. She arose and walked to the vine-covered wall, followed by Bobby Browne.
"I don't know much to tell you," said he. "He's made an enemy or two and they are trying to drive him out. I'd be rather sorry to see him go. We've asked him down here, just because we can't bear to think of a fellow-creature wasting his days in utter loneliness. But he has, so far, declined with thanks. The islanders are beginning to hate him. They distrust him, Britt says. Of course, you know why we are here, you—"
"Every one knows, Mr. Browne. You are the most interesting quartette in the world just now. Every one is wondering how it is going to end. What a pity you can't marry Lady Agnes."
"Oh, I say!" protested Browne. She laughed merrily.
"But how dull it must be for Mr. Chase! Does he complain?"
"I can't say that he does. Britt—that's my lawyer—Britt says he's never heard a murmur from him. He takes his medicine with a smile. I like that sort of a fellow and I wish he'd be a little more friendly. It couldn't interfere with his duties and I don't see where the harm would come in for any of us."
"He has learned to know and keep his place," said she coolly. Perhaps she was thinking of his last night in the palace garden. Away up there in the darkness gleamed his single, lonely, pathetic little light. "Isn't it rather odd, Mr. Browne, that his light should be burning at two o'clock in the morning? Is it his custom to sit up—"
"I've never noticed it before, now you speak of it. I hope nothing serious has happened to him. He may have been injured in—I say, if you don't mind, I'll ask some one to telephone up to his place. It would be beastly to let him lie up there alone if we can be of any service to—"
"Yes, do telephone," she broke in. "I am sure Lady Deppingham will approve. No, thank you; I will stand here a while. It is cool and I love the stars." He hurried off to the telephone, more eager than ever, now that she had started the new thought in his brain. Five minutes later he returned to her, accompanied by Lady Agnes. She was still looking at—the stars? The little light among the trees could easily have been mistaken for a star.
"Lady Deppingham called him up," said Bobby.
"And he answered in person," said her ladyship. "He seemed strangely agitated for a moment or two, Genevra, and then he laughed—yes, laughed in my face, although it was such a long way off. People can do what they like over the telephone, my dear. I asked him if he was ill, or had been hurt. He said he never felt better in his life and hadn't a scratch. He laughed—I suppose to show me that he was all right. Then he said he was much obliged to me for calling him up. He'd quite forgotten to go to bed. He asked me to thank you for bringing a warship. You saved his life. Really, one would think you were quite a heroine—or a Godsend or something like that. I never heard anything sweeter than the way he said good-night to me. There!"
The light in the bungalow bobbed mysteriously for an instant and then went out.
"How far is it from here?" asked the Princess abruptly.
"Nearly two miles as the crow flies—only there are no crows here. Five miles by the road, I fancy, isn't it, Bobby? I call him Bobby, you know, when we are all on good terms. I don't see why I shouldn't if you stop to think how near to being married to each other we are at this very instant."
"I wonder if help could reach him quickly in the event of an attack?"
"It could, if he'd have the kindness to notify us by 'phone," said Browne.
"But he wouldn't telephone to us," said Lady Deppingham ruefully. "He's not so communicative as that."
"Surely he would call upon you for help if he----"
"You don't know him, Genevra."
The Princess smiled in a vague sort of way. "I've met him quite informally, if you remember."
"I should say it was informally. It's the most delicious story I've ever heard. You must tell it to Mr. Browne, dear. It's all about the Enemy in Thorberg, Mr. Browne. There's your wife calling, Bobby. She wants you to tell that story again, about the bishop who rang the door bell."
The next morning the captain of the King's Own came ashore and was taken to the château for dejeuner. Late in the afternoon, the Marquess and his party, saying farewell to the Princess and the revived legatees, put out to the yacht and steamed away in the wake of the great warship. The yacht was to return in a month, to pick up the Princess.
Genevra, her maids, her men and her boxes, her poodle and her dachshund, were left behind for the month of March. Not without misgiving, it must be said, for the Marquess, her uncle, was not disposed to look upon the island situation as a spot of long-continued peace, even though its hereditary companion, Prosperity, might reign steadily. But she refused to listen to their warnings. She smiled securely and said she had come to visit Lady Agnes and she would not now disappoint her for the world. All this, and much more, passed between them.
"You won't be able to get help as cleverly and as timely as that American chap got it last night," protested the Marquess. "Warships don't browse around like gulls, you know. Karl will never forgive me if I leave you here----"
"Karl is of a very forgiving nature, uncle, dear," said Genevra sweetly. "He forgave you for defending Mr. Chase, because you are such a nice Englishman. I've induced him to forgive Mr. Chase because he's such a nice American-—although Mr. Chase doesn't seem to know it-—and I'm quite sure Karl would shake his hand if he should come upon him anywhere. Leave Karl to me, uncle."
"And leave you to the cannibals, or whatever they are. I can't think of it! It's out of the—"
"Take him away, Aunt Gretchen. 'And come again some other day,'" she sang blithely.
And so they sailed away without her, just as she had intended from the beginning. Lord Deppingham stood beside her on the pier as the shore party waved its adieus to the yacht.
"By Jove, Genevra, I hope no harm comes to you here in this beastly place," said he, a look of anxiety in his honest eyes. "There goes our salvation, if any rumpus should come up. We can't call 'em out of the sky as Chase did last night. Lucky beggar! That fellow Chase is ripping, by Jove. That's what he is. I wish he'd open up his heart a bit and ask us into that devilish American bar of his."
"He owes us something for the warship we delivered to him last night," said Bobby. "He has made good with his warship story, after all, thanks to the King's Own and Britt."
"And the fairy Princess," added Lady Deppingham.
"I am doubly glad I came, if you include me in the miracle," said Genevra, shuddering a little as she looked at the lounging natives. "Isn't it rather more of a miracle that I should come upon mine ancient champion in this unheard-of corner of the globe?"
"I'd like to hear the story of Chase and his Adventures in the Queen's Garden," reminded Bobby Browne.
"I'll tell it to you to-night, my children," said the Princess, as they started for the palanquins.
Hollingsworth Chase dodged into the American bar just in time to escape the charge of spying.