TREASURE TROVE.
A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.
Around a roaring fire in a little, lone, beetle-browed inn which stood by the sea about six miles from Saint Quinians, known as the Lobster, were assembled one evening, about a week after the events recorded in the last chapter, some half-dozen men, whose apparel and appearance proclaimed them fisher-folk. They were sitting simply smoking and drinking, not speaking, for it may be noted that men whose lives are spent in one continual struggle with danger and death are generally silent. It was a wild, wet evening, although it was April, and the great waves were tumbling on the rocky shore with a booming which never ceased, and which was audible above the roar of the wind and the rattle of the rain against the rickety casements, so that the assembly was not a little astonished to hear the voice of the landlord talking with a stranger, and presently to see a tall man, clad from head to foot in waterproofs, enter. All eyes were instantly fixed on him in a suspicious sort of manner, and more than one man rose, for in these days, coast-folk enjoyed almost as little peace on land as at sea, as preventive men were continually poking about in search of smugglers, and the pressgang was hard at work collecting hands for His Majesty’s ships. But as the newcomer was alone, and saluted them with a ‘good-evening’ as he divested himself of his reeking overalls, their momentary alarm seemed to subside, and they made a space for him in the circle round the fire.
The visitor, who was no other than Jasper Rodley, ordered a stiff tumbler of grog and a new pipe, took his seat, and gazed intently at the leaping flames for some moments without speaking. ‘It’s a wretched evening for a walk,’ he said presently; a remark which elicited a gruff murmur of assent from the circle; ‘and the road from Saint Quinians is as hard to follow as the course between Deadland Shoal and the Painter Buoy,’ he continued. He was evidently a sailor, so that eyes were again fixed on him with something of the original suspicion.
There was another pause, during which pipes were puffed vigorously and more than one mug emptied.
Jasper Rodley broke the silence. ‘Doesn’t a Captain West live somewhere hereabouts?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied a man. ‘Can’t mistake the house—a long white un, standing in a bit o’ garden with a flagstaff in it, about two miles towards the town.’
‘Strange sort of man, isn’t he?’ asked Rodley.
‘Well, sir, he’s strange in some things; but nobody don’t know any harm of him,’ replied the man; ‘’cos it’s precious little folk see of him.’
‘Said to be very rich, isn’t he?’ asked Rodley.
This question brought the eyes of the party to bear again upon the speaker, the problem troubling the rude minds being: ‘If this chap wants to see the captain, and hails from Saint Quinians, why on earth does he go two miles farther than he need?’ Mental conclusion arrived at—stranger up to no good.
‘Well, no, mate,’ replied the man to Rodley’s question; ‘he ain’t what you’d call rich, not by no means, seein’ that he’s only a half-pay captain. But he’s been richer durin’ this last four year than he wur afore.’
‘Lives all alone with his daughter, doesn’t he?’ continued Rodley.
Mental conclusion previously arrived at by the party is confirmed.
‘Yes,’ replied the man who acted as spokesman; ‘lives with Miss Bertha, the cap’en do. She’s a proper quean, she is. Purtiest slip of a lass in these parts by a long way. But the cap’en he keeps her uncommon close; can’t a-bear her to be out of his sight; and when she goes into town a-marketin’ on Wednesdays, we says it’s about all the life she sees.’
Another silence ensued, during which the half-dozen pairs of eyes were taking stock of Rodley sideways, and endeavouring to solve the problem of his intentions from his dress and appearance.
At length Rodley said: ‘Wasn’t there a lugger wrecked off here about four years ago called the Fancy Lass?’
‘Nobody heard of it,’ replied the spokesman. ‘There was a lugger of that name left Saint Quinians about four years agone; but she warn’t never heard of no more; and bein’ a smuggler, that ain’t surprisin’.’
‘I thought some bodies were washed ashore by the Locket Rock about that time,’ observed Rodley.
‘There’s a sight o’ poor chaps washed ashore hereabouts every gale,’ replied the man. ‘’Tain’t possible allus to say who they be or where they come from. Saint Quinians’ churchyard is full on ’em.’
Not another word was spoken for at least twenty minutes. At the expiration of that time, Rodley rose, went to the door, looked out, remarked that the rain had stopped, put on his overalls, paid his reckoning, wished the company ‘good-night,’ and went out into the darkness.
‘Didn’t get much information out of these chaps!’ he muttered as he pulled his hat down over his face against the driving wind and retraced his steps towards the captain’s house. What with battling against the wind and stumbling about the uneven road in the dark, it was an hour before the solitary light in the captain’s house met Rodley’s gaze. He crossed the small garden and knocked.
Bertha opened the door, and asked timidly: ‘Who is it?’
‘I—Jasper Rodley,’ was the reply.
She uttered a cry of alarm, and would have shut the door, but that Rodley had placed his foot in the opening. The captain hearing his daughter’s cry, came hobbling along the passage hastily. When he beheld Rodley, a cloud came over his face, and he said: ‘Hillo, mate, what is it at this time o’ night?’
‘I want a bed for to-night, and a few words with you, captain,’ said Rodley, who by this time was fairly inside the house, and coolly taking his hat and coat off.
‘But I’ve no room here. There’s an inn farther down, where they’ll put you up better than we can.’
‘I’m a sailor, captain,’ replied Rodley, ‘and I don’t mind where I shake down: that’s of no consequence, but the talk is.’
The captain, who seemed to treat his evidently unwelcome visitor with a kind of deference, shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into the sitting-room, where the remains of a substantial meal graced the table. Jasper Rodley made himself very comfortable in an armchair; the captain, who was the wreck of a fine man, and who, being lame from a recent accident, used a stick, remained standing, as if uncertain how to proceed next; whilst poor Bertha stood, trembling with fright, by the door.
‘Captain,’ said the visitor, ‘isn’t ten o’clock the usual time for young ladies to go to bed?’
At this hint, the old man made a signal to his daughter, who retired.
‘Now then,’ continued Rodley, ‘let’s to business.’
‘I’m not aware that I have any business with you,’ said the captain.
‘Well, you’ll soon have some with me. Look here. We’re men of the world, and we must understand each other. I’ve only met you twice before: each time you were coming from the same place, and each time you were astonished, in fact, alarmed, at seeing me.’
‘Well, sir, and what of that?’ asked the old sailor. ‘Here am I, an old East India Company’s skipper, living in a lonely place, where I don’t see half-a-dozen people in the course of a month. You came upon me suddenly, just when it was getting dark, and I was naturally startled.’
‘O no; that’s not it,’ continued Rodley. ‘But we’ll leave that for a bit. First of all, I’m head over heels in love with your daughter.’
‘I’m sorry for it.’
‘And I intend to marry her,’ continued his visitor.
‘That depends firstly whether she will have you, which I very much doubt,’ said the captain; ‘and secondly upon whether I let her go, which I also doubt.’
‘So you think,’ sneered Rodley. ‘Now, then, to the other matter. Four years ago, you were a poor man.’
‘So I am now,’ retorted the captain.
‘O no; you’re very well off; your private bank is safe enough.’
The captain fidgeted uneasily in his chair at this.
‘You see, I know more than you think,’ said Rodley; and bending over and speaking in a lower tone of voice, he added: ‘Is it not a little curious that you should have come into your fortune about the same time that the Fancy Lass was wrecked about a hundred yards from your house?’
The poor old captain’s amazement and perplexity culminated here in a start which sent his pipe flying from his hand. ‘Why, how do you know? Who told you?’ gasped the old man. ‘Not a soul escaped from her.’
Jasper Rodley looked searchingly at him for a moment, and said: ‘Perhaps not. That’s got nothing to do with what we are talking about.’
‘And the boat went to pieces,’ added the captain.
‘You’re almost as well up in the subject as I am,’ said Rodley. ‘But she was wrecked on Sherringham Shoal, and went to pieces on the Locket Rock.’
‘Well?’ asked the captain.
‘And her cargo—valuable cargo it was,’ continued Rodley, actually smiling with enjoyment at the misery he was causing—‘her cargo was recovered.’
The old man rose and hobbled about the room in a state of pitiable agony. ‘How do you know?’ he asked desperately.
‘The last time I met you,’ replied Rodley, ‘you were so startled that you dropped something—this.’ He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a sovereign.
‘What do you infer from that?’
‘Why, what’s the use of asking me what I infer? What’s the most natural inference I should draw?’
The captain resumed his seat, and was silent for some minutes. In the meanwhile, Rodley filled another pipe and mixed himself a glass of grog.
At length the old man said: ‘I understand the case to be this. You want to marry my daughter. If I refuse, you’ll’——
‘I will expose you as having taken property which does not belong to you,’ replied Rodley.
‘You must prove it,’ cried the captain. ‘Why shouldn’t I keep my money where I think fit? This is a lonely house, in a dangerous neighbourhood; the folk all about are desperate men—wreckers, smugglers, old privateersmen, escaped pressed-men—men who, if they thought I kept money and valuables on the premises, would not hesitate to rob me; and what could we, a lame old man and a young girl, do to protect ourselves?’
‘I can prove it,’ continued Rodley quietly. ‘But I’m not such a fool as to tell you how I can prove it. Look here; we need not waste words over it. You are in my power; you cannot escape. The price I put upon keeping silence upon a matter which would bring you into the felon’s dock, is the hand of your daughter Bertha. I give you a week to decide, for the matter presses, and I do not intend to remain longer than I can help at Saint Quinians.’
‘Then you would take my Bertha far away from me!’ exclaimed the old man in horror.
‘Not necessarily; my business is on the sea. When I am away, she would remain with you. It would comfort you, and relieve me of the expense of keeping up an establishment, and would thus be an agreeable arrangement for both parties. Is that a bargain?’
The old man bowed his head.
‘Mind,’ said Rodley, smiling, as he rose to go to bed, ‘I shall keep strict watch on the—on the bank!’