CHAPTER VI THE PLOT THICKENS
The next day after the death of Herrick I set out again for the cavern, determined to find out, if possible, whether Lord Dunraven still lurked in its dark recesses; and also to follow the right-hand tunnel to its termination, for it might be that it led to some place from which I could escape.
I strode up the hill again, and before pushing through the hedge which screened the mouth of the cave, I turned and looked about me. There was no one in sight, and so bending my head, I brushed aside the bushes and entered. Lighting the candle which I had brought with me, I peered around. The body of Herrick was gone; evidently someone had removed it since last night.
I passed rapidly down the passage, until I reached the place where the two paths diverged. I took the one to the right, and with my candle over my head made my way down it. There was nothing unusual about the tunnel, it loomed about me much as had the other. Its sides and floor were of white stone which gleamed in the candlelight.
I had probably gone about two hundred feet when there came a sudden gust of wind which blew my candle out. Now I was at a loss to account for this, as it felt more like an artificial gust than a natural one; more as if someone with a great fan had created a breeze. Fumbling about, I found my flint and steel which I always carried with me, and striking it, I relit my candle and looked around. There was no one in sight, and so pausing an instant, I started on my way again.
I had barely taken a couple of steps when there came a second blast of wind, as sudden and unexpected as the first, and my candle was blown out again, as silently and quickly as it had been before. Exasperated by this recurrence I angrily struck another light, and as I did so the candle was snatched from my hand, and a low mocking laugh ran through the tunnel; sinister and cold it sounded in my ears, and at the noise I shrank back.
I am not a superstitious man (I have seen too much of the world for that), but the flint and steel as I struck it, had lit up the cave around me for an instant with a flash of light, and it was at that instant that the candle had been caught from me. It had been no human hand that had done this, for I could see distinctly around, and naught had touched my hand; only as I looked had the candle fallen from my fingers.
Again and again I struck the flint and steel, and peered wonderingly about me. There was no trace of the candle anywhere, only the bare, cold walls of the cave could I see, as I stood with white face and shaking hands.
The accents of a voice, stern and low, from I knew not where, fell upon my ears: "Go back! Go back! And if thou wouldst live, come not again to this place."
A sudden shiver passed over me, and my knees knocked together with terror; there was a grandeur and majesty in the tones that I had heard in no earthly language. It was as though I listened to the voice of a god. A sudden dread fell upon my soul as I stood there, and the craven "Fear" which I had never known before in all my life, on the fields of Ireland, or in great London, smote me with his cold hand.
Gone were my manhood and courage now, and I became as some old withered hag, crouched in the chimney by the fire. With a yell I turned and fled down that silent cavern, as though grim Death himself were at my heels. Twice I dashed into the wall in the darkness and fell, screaming at the top of my voice, thinking that the fiends had me for sure; but I was up again in an instant, and with another wild yell had resumed my flight.
My reason had forsaken me for the moment, and I was as though a madman. I fancied I could see white figures, with outstretched hands and glaring eyes, awaiting me at every step. Screaming and yelling I rushed on, and never once did I slacken pace, until in front of me I saw the light streaming through the undergrowth at the entrance.
Dashing up the embankment, I tore through the bushes and out into the open air again, where I cast myself flat upon the ground and sobbed with thankfulness for the sunlight, the calm blue sky above me, and the fresh air beating upon my face.
It must have been a ruse of DeNortier's to frighten me from the cave, fearing that I would discover some of his secrets or perhaps his buried treasure; and if it were a trick, it served his purpose well, for never, from that day to this, have I put foot again in that cavern. Not for a barrel of gold would I tread again its dark recesses and feel that thrill of horror at the sound of that solemn voice. I sometimes now at night awake trembling with fear, thinking I hear once more in my ears those calm, majestic tones, the like of which I have never heard again from the lips of man.
An hour after I had rushed from the cavern I was standing on the porch of the mansion, watching the ocean as it roared and chafed against its sandy prison, as though it were some caged thing striving to be free.
* * * * * * *
Two weeks had flown by since I had listened to Lord Dunraven's voice in DeNortier's chamber. Two weeks in which I had waited, my nerves keyed up to the highest pitch, for the next move from my enemies; but no sound came.
My lord I had not seen since that night when he had disappeared in the cavern. It was as though he had vanished forever; but I knew that somewhere behind the scene he was watching and waiting for the time to ripen, so that the curtain could rise for the last scene in the tragedy. DeNortier had said naught to me, though he must have known of Herrick's death, and of the fact that I now had discovered the secret of my captivity. He still came and went as heretofore.
I heard the sound of footsteps behind me and turning I saw one of the Indian attendants, called José.
"What is it, José?" I asked, speaking in his own tongue.
"The Señor wishes to talk with thee," he answered. "Even now he waits in the great room," and so saying he disappeared into the house.
So the next move had come after all. I would be very watchful and silent, and so thinking, I passed into the hall and back to the great room where DeNortier awaited me.
He was seated there in one of the huge chairs, his head buried in his hands, and did not hear me as I entered.
"What is it, Count?" I asked.
I had not seen him in several days, and the change in his appearance startled me; it was so different from his accustomed look.
"Art sick?" I asked, "or what is it that ails thee?"
He answered slowly and lifelessly. "I have even now a throbbing headache. But be seated, there is something of importance that I would speak to thee of."
Seating myself near him, I waited in silence to hear what he would say.
"Thou wilt remember that a few months ago I freed a beautiful Spanish girl at thy request. At that time thou didst tell me that I might do with thee what I would, if I but freed the maid. Is this not true?"
"It is true," I answered. "But at the same time I told thee that I would do nothing unworthy of an English gentleman. Thou dost remember that too?"
"Distinctly," he replied. "What I now ask of thee is nothing that would stain the honor of even the most scrupulous. 'Tis but a simple thing. If thou wilt sign the paper that I shall hand to thee in a moment, then not only wilt thou have kept thy promise to me, but in addition thou shalt be set at liberty, with the sum of five hundred pounds to speed thee on thy way. Come, 'tis a generous offer, and one worthy of thy acceptance."
"Where is the paper?" I asked. "Let me but see that, and I will then tell thee in a few moments whether I will sign it or not."
The Count reached his hand within his doublet and drew out a long stiff paper. He looked me full in the eye, and I could see the excitement upon his face, try as he would to conceal it.
"Do nothing rash," he said in a hurried tone. "Believe me or not, I wish thee well, and would grieve to see thee come to harm. Be cool, and weigh well what thou doest; for after thou hast once chosen, thy decision cannot be revoked. On one side liberty, on the other side imprisonment and perhaps death," and he coughed dryly behind his hand. "Choose which thou wouldst have," and he extended the paper to me.
I took it in my hand and breaking the seal, held it up to the candlelight. What paper could it be, that would be worth such a price as this?
"This indenture made and entered into this the twenty-fifth day of February, 1587, A.D. and in the reign of our Sovereign Queen——" I glanced on further down. "Between Thomas Winchester, Kt., of the City of London, England, party of the first part, and James Henry Hampden, Lord Dunraven, of the city and county aforesaid, party of the second part. Witnesseth: that for, and in consideration of the sum of five hundred pounds to me in hand paid——"
A long string of legal phrases followed, all jargon, and without meaning to me.
" ... Said party of the first part, doth hereby relinquish, release, assign and transfer all the right, title, interest or pretension, which he may have or possess, to and in the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll, of Riverdale, England. And the said Thomas Winchester, Kt., doth hereby promise and bind himself not to have any communication by any means whatsoever with the said Lady Margaret Carroll, and doth further bind himself not to set foot in England for the space of fifty years from the date hereinbefore set out; and to reside abroad during the whole of that time."
I had seen enough. Tearing the document into a thousand fragments, I scattered them to the four winds, before the astonished Spaniard could rise from his chair.
Then turning to him, my voice hoarse with anger, I cried:
"And thou hast the hardihood to present such a paper as this to me to sign? On guard and defend thyself," and drawing my blade, I stood waiting for him to rise.
But the Count did not move from his seat nor turn even so much as an eyelash.
"Strike if thou wilt," he replied calmly. "I will not defend myself," and he sat still and motionless where he was.
I could not murder him in cold blood, and he would not budge to raise a finger in his own behalf. Sheathing my sword I leaned over the table, and speaking slowly and distinctly, my face almost touching his own, I said:
"Go back and tell thy master that I spurn his offer as I would himself, were he not too much of a coward to be here in person, instead of sending thee as a tool in his place." And turning on my heel, without so much as another look at him, I strode away and out of the house.
A storm was brewing upon the sea. Already the dark, heavy clouds hung over us, and a calm, deep, ominous silence seemed to brood over earth and sky, as though the storm god gathered every nerve and sinew, and crouching low, poised himself for one great effort that would carry terror into the hearts of men.
Passing down the steps of the house, I made my way out to the sea. My mind was in a chaos of thoughts and doubts, and I longed for the storm and struggle of the tempest.
The pale twinkling stars above me were vanishing one by one behind the storm clouds; cold and silent they looked down on me from their great heights, as they had gazed upon so many of the storm-tossed children of men. Generations and ages had passed away since they had seen the first mortal upon the earth. What mattered it to them that poor sin-cursed humanity lived and died; had their loves and hates; their friends and foes; their good days and their bad ones; lived their little span, and then crept away to make room for others who would take their places.
A sense of my own littleness crossed my mind. Out here with nature, stripped of all the gloss and glitter of civilization; alone, without that sense of security which comes to us when we are huddled with our fellows; a single atom upon the troubled sea of life—my own perplexities seemed to dwindle, and a feeling of peace swept over my care-worn spirit.
The storm was about to burst; great white-capped billows surged up, like the serried ranks of the foe ready to charge. The roar deepened and increased to a perfect thunder which seemed to shake the very earth. The sea lashed and whipped itself into a foaming caldron; the winds howled like the spirits of the departed; and the great black clouds seemed to almost touch the very sea. A flash of lightning forked, many-tongued, sprang athwart the sky, and a burst of thunder peeled forth like the roar of a score of culverins.
One lone bird, solitary and forsaken, beat forward before the approaching gale. Such was my life I thought, as I watched him struggle against the wind. Why must I ever be the storm petrel, sport for the wind and wave, borne on, ever on, before the tempest, by the resistless force of the blast.
My old friends sat in London to-night with lights and cheer. The old Mermaid Inn rang with song and jest as they passed the cup, and smoked the fragrant weed that had been brought back from the golden Virginia. I could almost hear the hoarse tones of Francis Drake as he spun out some long-winded yarn; could hear the deep-chested laugh of Raleigh; and the yell ring out as Bobby Vane struck up some light-hearted ditty, and the others with a roar joined the chorus.
Theirs was a pleasant, easy way, smooth to the foot, bright with the garlands of flowers and the companionship of their fellows; mine was a solitary, lonely road, rough and stormy, with no friend to help or aid me. I must walk high up above the crowd, walk as best I might, this untrod path until morn. So be it. I would not murmur at what fate held in store for me. Come what might, I would at least play my part with what courage I possessed.
A slight sound seemed to come from the darkness about me. I bent forward and listened. Someone was evidently approaching, making his way toward the mansion. I could hear the quick crunch of the sand under the advancing feet, though the night had grown inky black and I could distinguish no figure in the gloom. Throwing myself flat upon the sand, I waited for the coming traveler.
The sound came nearer and passed where I lay, invisible in the night. Just as it moved swiftly by, there was a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the darkness with dazzling brilliancy, and throwing into relief the stout form of Father Francis, as with head bent down to avoid the force of the wind, he stood motionless, his back to me, waiting for the crash of the thunder to die away. What was the priest doing here, at this time of night and in such a gale? It must be something of importance that called him forth, for he loved his own ease too well to sally out in the storm and tempest without good cause.
Like a flash I sprang to my feet, drawing my sword as I did so; and as he stood there motionless, before he could turn, I was upon him. Catching the weapon by the blade, I brought the heavy hilt upon his head, and with a dull thud, he fell to the ground.
Kneeling beside him, I ran my hand over his garments as he lay there. Perhaps he had some paper or message that he was carrying, which would be of use, could I but discover it. Ah! I touched a square oblong package in the folds of his cassock, and running my hand on the inside, I drew it out. They were papers most probably, tied up securely, with a fold of canvass around them. Was there aught else there? I searched thoroughly, but could find nothing further, though I felt over every inch of his robe.
As I straightened myself up the storm broke, and a perfect torrent of rain poured down upon me. Hastily sheathing my sword, I left the priest where he was, and made for the house in a run, the package clutched in my hand. Had it not been for the light that streamed from the windows, I would never have found it in the darkness; but I reached the porch, after a brief dash of a few minutes, the wind tugging and fighting at my heels as if to impede my progress, loath to see me escape from its fury.
Hastily slipping the bundle in my doublet, I stepped upon the veranda and passed into the hall. DeNortier, pale and distraught, was standing in the door, surveying with lusterless eye the storm.
"'Tis an awful gale," he said, on perceiving me. "See the surf," and he pointed out to where the great waves pitched and tossed below us.
"Terrible," I answered. "The wind roars like the culverins of a fleet."
Passing him, I made my way up to my own room. Lighting the candle and fastening the door, I looked around me. All was quiet and silent, and going to the window, I drew the curtain across it. Then seating myself under the light, while the storm howled and roared outside, I cut the fastenings and opened the package.
Drawing out a paper, I looked at it. It was a brief account of the coming of Hampden to the title and estate of his uncle, written by someone evidently well acquainted with the state of affairs which existed.
But it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, I picked up the next one. An account of the disappearance of Sir Thomas Winchester. "He had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... A great loss to London society. A diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without avail...."
I threw it aside with a smile. Evidently this was Dunraven's work, for though no name was signed to the paper, I had no doubt that he was the author. My lord wished it thought that I was dead, and most likely at that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my remains. If ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with consummate ease and skill, it was Dunraven.
Several other papers I saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of mine, and also of DeNortier's, from day to day, setting out the minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it.
The rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the Viscount James Henry Hampden. I had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. I had oft smelt just such a perfume, sweet, delicate. There was only one whom I knew, around whose dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. Opening it with a hand which despite my efforts trembled, I read the few brief lines it contained. Only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and signed with the name—Margaret Carroll.
Yet there, in that brilliantly-lighted room, in a far-away island, separated from her by leagues of rolling water, I pressed that sweet-scented billet to my lips, and forgetting all else, was happy. Thrusting it into my doublet, there next my breast, where I could feel the quick pulsing of my heart's blood against it, I arose to my feet.
Replacing the other papers in the oilcloth, I looked around the room. Where should it be concealed? I could not keep it about my person, that was out of the question. My eye fell upon a heavy chest against the wall, and moving it I pushed the papers under the bottom; they could stay there at least, until I could find a better place.
I was weary, and throwing myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed, I dropped off to sleep.