Chapter Forty Five.
The Horror in the Zorn.
“Yes! What is it? Aunt Marguerite ill?”
Harry Vine started up, listening.
“Did any one call?”
There was no reply, and he sat there listening, still with the impression strong upon him that he had heard someone knock at his bedroom door and call him by name.
Then a curious sense of confusion came over him as he tried to make out what it meant. His head was hot, but his hands were cold, and he felt that he ought to know something which constantly eluded his mental grasp.
Land—rock—water running, gurgling, and splashing, and utter darkness. Where was he? What did it all mean?
For along time the past was a blank. Then, as he sat with his hands pressed to his head, staring wildly before him, it all came back like a flash—his trouble, the escape, the long swim, and his taking refuge in this cave.
Then he must have slept all day, and it was now night, or else the tide had risen above the mouth of the entrance and the water was slowly rising to strangle him, and Heaven have mercy upon him, there was no escape!
He began to creep down slowly toward the water, determined to swim with the next retiring wave, and try to reach the shore. Even if he drowned in the effort, it would be better than sitting there in that horrible cave, waiting for a certain death.
But he found that comparatively he had to descend some distance before he could feel the water, and as he touched it with his extended hand, he fancied that he could detect a gleam of light.
For a long time he could not convince himself that it was not fancy, but at last he was sure that there was a faint reflection as from a star whose light struck obliquely in. Then the month of the cave was open still and he could swim out if he wished. But did he wish?
He felt about, and in a short time could distinguish by the sense of touch now high the tide had risen, and that it had not been within a couple of feet of where he had lain, where the sand was quite warm still. He too was dry, and therefore it must be night, and he had been plunged in a state of stupor for many hours. Suddenly a thought struck him.
He had a match-box in his pocket, a little tight-fitting, silver match-box, which held a few cigar lights. That match-box was inside his cigar case, and both fitted so lightly that the water might have been kept out. A light, if only for a few moments, would convince him of his position, and then there were his cigars. He was ravenously hungry now, and if he smoked that would perhaps dull the sensation.
He drew out his cigar case and opened it, and took out a cigar. This was dry comparatively; and as with trembling fingers he felt the little silver case, he wondered whether it closed tightly enough to keep out the water.
He took out a match. It felt dry, and the box was quite warm, but when he gave the match one rub on the sand-faced end, he obtained nothing but a faint line of light. He tried again and again, but in vain; and hesitated about testing another match till some hours had passed.
He could not resist the temptation, and taking another of the frail waxen tapers, he struck it sharply, and to his great delight it emitted a sharp, crackling sound. Another stroke and it flashed out, and there beamed steadily a tiny clear flame which lit up the place, revealing that it was just such a zorn as his touch and imagination had painted, while the water was about a couple of feet below where he knelt on the sand, and—
The young man uttered a wild cry of horror, the nearly extinct match fell from his fingers, and burned out sputtering on the wet sands at his feet.
His first effort was to crawl right away as high up as possible, and there, shuddering and confused, he sat, or, rather, crouched, gazing down beyond where the match had fallen.
At times he could see a tiny, wandering point of light in the water, which gradually faded out, and after this seemed to reappear farther away, but otherwise all was black and horrible once more. More than once he was tempted to walk down into the water and swim out, but in his half-delirious, fevered state he shrank from doing this, and waited there in the darkness, suffering agonies till, after what seemed to be an interminable time, there was a faint, pearly light in the place which gradually grew and grew till it became opalescent, then growing, and he knew that the sun had risen over the sea.
Half frantic with horror, a sudden resolve came upon him. There was so strong a light now in the cavern that he could dimly see the object which had caused him so much dread, an object which he had touched when he first waded in, and imagined to be a seal.
Trembling with excitement, he crept down to the water’s edge, waded in to his knees, and in haste, forcing himself now to act, he drew from where it lay entangled among the rocks, the body of a drowned man, the remains of one of the brave fellows who had been lost at the wreck of Van Heldre’s vessel. The body was but slightly wedged in just as it had been floated in by a higher tide than usual, and left on the far side of some piece of rock when the water fell, but had not since risen high enough to float it out.
The horrifying object yielded easily enough as he drew it away along the surface, and he was about to wade and swim with it to the mouth, when he stopped short, for a sudden thought occurred to him.
It was a horrible thought, but in his excitement he did not think of that, for in the dim light he could see enough to show him that it was the body of a young man of about his own physique, still clothed and wearing a rough pea-jacket.
Disguise—a means of evading justice—the opportunity for commencing anew and existing till his crime had been forgotten, and then some day making himself known to those who thought him dead.
“They think me dead now,” he muttered excitedly. “They must. They shall.”
Without pausing for further thought, and without feeling now the loathsome nature of the task, he quickly stripped the pea-jacket and rough vest from the dead form, and trembling with excitement now in place of fear, tore off his own upper garments, pausing for a few moments to take out pocket-book and case and cigars, but only to empty out the latter, thrust the book and case back, and at the end of a few minutes he was standing in shirt and trousers, the rough jacket and vest lying on the sands, and the form of the drowned sailor tightly buttoned in the dry garments just put on.
Harry stood trembling for a few minutes, shrinking from achieving his task. Then with the full knowledge that the body if borne out of the cave would be swept here and there by the current, perhaps for days, and finally cast ashore not many miles away, he softly waded into the water, drew the waif of the sea along after him, right away to the mouth of the cave, where he cautiously peered out, and made well sure that no fishermen were in sight before swimming with his ghastly burden along the zig-zag channel, out beyond the rocks, where after a final thrust, he saw the current bear it slowly away before he returned shuddering into the cave, and then landed on the dry sand to crawl up and crouch there.
“They think me dead,” he said in a husky whisper, “let them find that, and be sure.”
He was silent for a time, and then as the thoughts of the past flooded his soul, he burst into a wild fit of sobbing.
“Home—sister—Madelaine,” he moaned, “gone, gone for ever! Better that I had died; better that I was dead?”
But the horror was no longer there, and in a short time he roused up from his prostrate condition half wild and faint with hunger.
After a few minutes’ search he found a couple of his cigars lying where he had thrown them on the sand, and lighting one, he tried to dull the agony of famine by smoking hard.
The effect was little, and he rose from where he was seated and began to feel about the shelves of the rock for limpets, a few of which he scraped from their conical shells and ate with disgust; but they did something towards alleviating his hunger, and seemed to drive away the strange half-delirious feeling which came over him from time to time, making him look wildly round, and wonder whether this was all some dreadful dream.
About mid-day he heard voices and the beating of oars, when, wading towards the opening, he stood listening, and was not long in convincing himself that the party was in search of him, while a word or two that he heard spoken made him think that the party must have picked up the body of the drowned sailor.
The voices and the sound of the oars died away, and in the midst of the deep silence he crept nearer and peered out, to be aware that a couple of boats were passing about a quarter of a mile out, while from their hailing some one, it seemed that a third boat, invisible to the fugitive, was coming along nearer in.
He crept back into the semi-darkness and listened with his ear close to the water, till, after a time, as he began to conclude that this last boat must have gone back, and he wondered again and again whether the drifting body had been found, he heard voices once more, every word coming now with marvellous clearness.
“No, sir, only a bit of a crevice.”
“Does it go far in?”
“Far in, Mr Leslie, sir? Oh, no. Should waste time by going up there. You can see right up to the mouth, and there’s nothing.”
“But the current sets in there.”
“Yes, sir, and comes out round that big rock yonder. Deal more likely place for him to ha’ been washed up farther on.”
“Leslie, and in search of me,” said Harry to himself as the boat passed by. “Yes; they do believe I’m dead.”
That day dragged wearily on with the occupant of the cave, tossed by indecision from side to side till the shadow began to deepen, when, unable to bear his sufferings longer, he crept out of the opening with the full intent of climbing the cliff, and throwing himself on the mercy of one of the cottagers, if he could find no other means of getting food.
The tide was low, and he was standing hesitating as to which way to go, when he turned cold with horror, for all at once he became aware of the fact that not fifty yards away there was a figure stooping down with a hand resting on the rock, peering into an opening as if in search of of him.
His first instinct was to dart back into the cavern, but in the dread that the slightest movement or sound would attract attention, he remained fixed to the spot, while the figure waded knee deep to another place, and seemed to be searching there, for an arm was plunged deeply into the water, a rope raised, and after a good deal of hauling, a dripping basket was drawn out and a door opened at the side, and flapping its tail loudly, a good-sized lobster was brought out and deposited in the basket the figure bore upon her back.
“Mother Perrow!” exclaimed Harry beneath his breath, and then an excited mental debate took place. “Dare he trust her, or would she betray him?”
Fear was mastering famine, when Poll Perrow, after rebaiting her lobster pot, was about to throw it back into deep water, but dropped it with a splash, and stood staring hard at the shivering man.
“Master Harry!” she exclaimed, and, basket on back, she came through water and over rock toward him with wonderful agility for a woman of her age. “Why, my dear lad,” she cried in a voice full of sympathy, “is it you?”
“Yes, Poll,” he said tremulously, “it is I.”
“And here have I been trying to find you among the rocks while I looked at my crab pots. For I said to myself, ‘If Master Harry’s washed up anywhere along the coast, there’s nobody more like to find him than me.’ And you’re not dead after all.”
“No, Poll Perrow,” he said agitatedly, “I’m not dead.”
“Come on back home,” she cried. “I am glad I found you. Master Vine and Miss Louise, oh, they will be glad!”
“Hush, woman!” he gasped, “not a word. No one must know you have seen me.”
“Lor’, and I forget all about that,” she said in a whisper. “More I mustn’t. There’s the police and Master Leslie, and everybody been out in boats trying to find you washed up, you know.”
“And now you’ve found me, and will go and get the reward,” he said bitterly.
“I don’t know nothing about no reward,” said the woman staring hard at him. “Why, where’s your jacket and weskut? Aren’t you cold?”
“Cold? I’m starving,” he cried. “You look it. Here, what shall I do? Go and get you something to eat?”
“Yes—no!” he cried bitterly. “You’ll go and tell the police.”
“Well, I am ashamed o’ you, Master Harry, that I am.”
“But it was all a misfortune, Poll Perrow, an accident. I am not guilty. I’m not indeed.”
“I warn’t talking about that,” said the woman surlily, “but ’bout you saying I should tell the police. It’s likely, aren’t it?”
“Then you will not tell—you will not betray me?”
“Yah! are it likely, Master Harry? Did I tell the pleece ’bout Mark Nackley when he was in trouble over the smuggling and hid away?”
“But I am innocent; I am indeed.”
“All right, my lad, all right, Master Harry. If you says so, that’s ’nough for me. Here, I’ll go and tell Master Vine I’ve found you.”
“No, no; he thinks I’m dead.”
“Well, everybody does; and I said it was a pity such a nice, handsome young lad should be drowned like that. I told my Liza so.”
“My father must not know.”
“Miss Louy then?”
“No, no. You must keep it a secret from everybody, unless you want to see me put in prison.”
“Now is that likely, my lad? Here, I’ve got it. I’ll go and tell Master Luke Vine.”
“Worst of all. No; not a word to a soul.”
“All right, Master Harry; I can keep my mouth shut when I try. But what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m hiding yonder.”
“What! in the little seal zorn?”
“Yes. Don’t betray me, woman, pray!”
“Betray you, Master Harry? You know I won’t.”
“You will not tell a soul?”
“You tell me not to tell nobody, and I won’t say a word even to my Liza. But they’re seeking for you everywhere—dead. Oh! My dear lad, shake hands. I am glad you warn’t drowned.”
The warm grasp of the rough woman’s coarse hand and the genuine sympathy in her eyes were too much for Harry Vine. Weak from mental trouble—more weak from hunger—manhood, self-respect, everything passed from him as he sank upon one of the hard pieces of weedy rock; and as the woman bent over him and laid her hands upon his shoulder, he flung his arms about her, let his head sink upon her breast, and cried like a child.
“Why, my poor, poor boy!” she said tenderly, with her hard wooden stay busk creaking in front, and her maund basket creaking behind, “don’t—don’t cry like that, or—or—or—there, I knew I should,” she sobbed, as her tears came fast, and her voice sounded broken and hoarse.
“There, what an old fool I am! Now, look here; you want to hide for a bit, just as if it was brandy or a bit o’ lace.”
“Yes, Poll; yes.”
“Then wait till it’s dark, and then come on to my cottage.”
“No, no,” he groaned; “I dare not.”
“And you that cold and hungry?”
“I’ve tasted nothing but the limpets since that night.”
“Limpets!” she cried, with a tone of contempt in her voice, “why they ain’t even good for bait. And there are no mussels here. Look here, my dear lad, I’ve got a lobster. No, no; it’s raw. Look here; you go back to where you hide, and I’ll go and get you something to eat, and be back as soon as I can.”
“You will?” he said pitifully.
“Course I will.”
“And you’ll keep my secret?”
“Now don’t you say that again, my lad, because it aggravates me. There, you go back and wait, and if I don’t come again this side of ten o’clock Poll Perrow’s dead!”
She bent down, kissed his cold forehead, and hurried back among the rocks, splashing and climbing, till he saw her begin to ascend the narrow rift in the cliff; and in a few minutes the square basket, which looked like some strange crustacean of monstrous size creeping out of the sea and up the rocks, disappeared in the gathering gloom; and Harry Vine, half-delirious from hunger, crept slowly back into the cave, half wondering whether it was not all a dream.