Chapter XIII: A Startling Revelation

Our explorers made but one stop on the way back, and that was at the old wine cask. Percy rinsed the silver cup, and having refilled it he handed it to the earl to taste. The old man tasted. He tasted again, and again, and finally drank it to the last drop.

“I declare,” said he, with deep earnestness in look and tone, “if we ever perform the work of clearing out this place I must secure that cask. It is by far the finest port I ever drank.”

Percy drank half a cup full, after having offered it to Cordelia and Mary, who had only touched their lips to it. It was too strong for them.

They then passed on and ascended the ladder, finding everything in the old chapel as they had left it. Not even a mouse had found their basket, nor had any thief laid hands upon the muskets.

The others watched the movements of their guide while he closed up the secret opening in the pavement, and when it had been done and they had told once more how wonderful it all was, they turned their attention to lunch, for the walk had given them an appetite.

Not far from the chapel was a spring of pure ice-cold water in a little rocky dell, and to that our hero led the way. It was a romantic spot; and there they sat, and spread their banquet.

It was near the middle of the afternoon when they arrived at the castle on their return. The old steward was somewhat disappointed upon finding that no game had been brought home, but he said he had expected nothing better when he had seen the women folks mixing up with the sport.

Cordelia heard him, and boxed his ear, which event pleased him far more than the lack of game had distressed him.

Percy went in and spent an hour with the earl in conversation on the subject of their late excursion and matters connected with it. Before closing reference was again made to the pirate chief.

The youth promised that he would keep track of him as soon as he should once more show himself at Allerdale.

“Be sure of one thing,” he said. “The brig can not leave the cove without my knowing it; and she will not leave until Ralph Tryon has rejoined her. I say to you again--borrow no trouble. Do not be uneasy. My word for it, you shall yet make a full and favorable report to the authorities in London.”

“That’s the most I care for, Percy. I will leave it in your hands.”

“Do so, my lord; and sleep soundly the while. Remember, it may be a week before we can make a decisive movement.”

“All right. Let it be when it will, so that we find success at the end.”

And with this the visitor took his leave. Cordelia met him in the outer hall. She had not been present at the interview just closed; but she could not let him go without seeing, and speaking with him before he went. She wanted to thank him for the pleasure he had afforded her; she wanted to bless him, and she wanted to kiss him.

“Oh, my dear love!” she murmured, with her hands on his shoulders, and her eyes gazing up into his own. “I can not tell you how happy I am. Will anything ever come to mar the perfect bliss?”

“Let us hope not, my darling. My trust is in heaven, and in your truth. I do not think either can fail me. We can love while we live; but, ah, there is after all a power between us which we may not surmount.”

“You mean--the earl?”

“Yes.”

“Let us not think of him at present. Wait, Percy, until this business of the pirates is settled. Do you know, my dear, I have thought it possible that you might come forth from that affair with a standing and reputation that will cause my dear old guardian to regard you in a different light from what he does now? Even now he respects and esteems you. Think how he has been to-day. Really and truly I had not expected him to be quite so free and affable, but certainly I never saw him more so. Wait, my precious. Don’t fail the earl in the matter of the pirate chief. Who shall say what may happen after that?”

Ah, if they could have known what was to happen! Perhaps it was well they did not.

Percy thought he could understand his darling’s feelings--her hopes and aspirations. She fancied, in her goodness of heart, and in her love for him, that he would come forth from the crusade against the pirates with a hero’s crown, and that the world would respect and esteem him as such.

He would not destroy her castle. He promised her that he would do the very best he could--would do all that lay in his power--towards helping the earl and punishing the outlaws.

Then he kissed her once more, and shortly thereafter took his way homeward.

Home! He shuddered when he thought of it. There was something in the memory he held of his father that was sacred--something that imparted to the old stone cottage a faint shadow of homeness, but not another thing--not another memory of his life endeared the place to him, or gave him yearnings for it.

And since he had discovered Cordelia’s love the place seemed less like home than ever before. He felt that it was no place for him. How long could it be before they--the smugglers--would suspect that he was at heart against them? And they would tell his mother. And--what would she do? Oh, he would have given much to know the woman’s real feelings. Was she friendly to Ralph Tryon’s wicked course; or, was she not? He feared that she sustained the man.

However, he would not remain much longer a dweller in the stone cottage. For three months, and little more, he had been free from the promise given to his dying father, and there was nothing to keep him. He had remained thus far because his mother had appeared to expect it, and because he would not leave her entirely alone.

The sun had set when he left the castle, and by the time he had reached the edge of the woods flanking the cove, and within which stood the cottage, it had grown quite duskish. So nearly dark was it, that when he had entered the wood it seemed really like night.

The fancy struck him as he took the first step into the woodland path, that he saw a moving figure, not unlike that of a man, a short distance away on his right hand. His thought for the moment was to stop and speak, but he heard nothing; and as the thing, whatever it was, had disappeared, he kept on.

He had not gone a great way--perhaps half the distance through the wood--when his attention was called to the pattering of feet behind him. He bent his ear and listened, and presently he stopped and turned.

“Ah, Guy! Is it you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been waitin’ for ye a long time.”

It was a boy--a bright-faced, bright-eyed, handsome youngster of fourteen, named Guy Carrol. He was son of a sister of old Donald Rodney, and for four years almost, he had been the old smuggler’s _protégé_.

His mother, whom Donald had loved warmly, had been first widowed, and then, when her boy had reached the age of ten years, she had died; and, dying, she had given the boy to her brother, and he had promised that he would care for him as though he had been his own.

For three years the old uncle had sent the lad to school, and then, when the little fellow had teased, and coaxed, and begged, and fairly prayed, Rodney had yielded, and taken him to sea with him. But he would not have done it if he could have looked ahead and seen just what the voyage was to be.

The heart of the orphan boy had turned towards our hero the first time he had ever seen him.

Percy had gone on board the brig about a year before, and met the little fellow in the gangway, and something in the handsome boyish face and in the great bright, honest eyes, had at once appealed to his deepest heart, and he had laid his hand on the boy’s head and blessed him, and spoke cheerily and encouragingly to him; had hoped he would love his old uncle and grow up to be a good man and true.

It was not much to do, but it proved the turning point in the boy’s life; and from that time he had worshiped Percy Maitland.

“Well, here I am, at length. What can I do for you?”

“It isn’t for me, sir. It is for yourself. Uncle Donald bade me come out and speak with ye. Wait a bit. S’pose we go on a little. There’s a place close by where there’s more room.”

“Room, my boy! What in the world--”

“Sh! Speak low, sir! We don’t know whose ears may be near us. Where there’s more room we’d be more likely to see ’em.”

Percy was becoming interested. At a short distance they came to a sort of clearing, where there had once been, so tradition said, a log hut; and here they stopped. The boy cast a quick, sweeping glance around, and then spoke.

“Mr. Maitland, Uncle Rodney bade me tell you there is danger, and you must look sharp. Cap’n Tryon has been to your mother’s--”

“Captain Tryon! Is he here?”

“Yes, sir. He came some time in the night, and he’s in a terrible way.”

“But what has he come for? What has happened to upset him?”

“Why, sir--as Uncle Donald told it to me--somewhere on the road, between this and Burton, somebody saw him that knew him. He was on the outside of the stage-coach with the driver, and it was the driver that told him how the man had looked at him.

“Well, sir, the next time the coach stopped with the mail, up comes three officers and tells the cap’n he’s their prisoner. P’rhaps you can guess how he took it. They must have had a pretty sharp time of it for a little while.

“Cap’n Tryon’s got two bullets in him--one in his arm and the other in his shoulder, but he give ’em the slip. He says he left two of ’em on the ground, but he didn’t know whether they were dead or not. Mercy! how he did swear! I heard him while he was on board the brig.”

“But what has this to do with me, Guy?”

“Ah, that’s just it, sir! He--that’s the cap’n--swears ’at you’ve been and blowed on him; and on the rest of us. Of course, Uncle Donald knew better, and so did I; but what’s the use of our saying anything against him? He swears ’at you’ve blowed, and now he’s goin’ to have vengeance.”

The boy paused at this point, and looked up into Percy’s face, as though waiting for a reply. Evidently, he expected a disclaimer. At all events, the young man knew that it would greatly please him to receive one, and he gave it at once, and emphatically.

“Guy--Ralph Tryon lies if he says so! and I believe he knows he lies! Now, tell me, what does he propose to do?”

“That’s what we don’t know, sir; but Uncle Donald says you must keep an eye on your mother. It’s a hard thing to say--dreadful hard to tell a man to beware of his own mother--but so it is. It’s to her the cap’n has been; and uncle overheard enough between ’em to be very sure ’at mischief is meant to yourself, sir!”

“How did your uncle happen to overhear this? Where did it happen?”

“At the cottage, sir, to-day. The cap’n came aboard the brig about midnight--the last that ever was. The lookout heard him call for a boat, and uncle went off and got him. This forenoon he went ashore, and Uncle Donald with him; and they went up to the cottage; and while the cap’n was tellin’ his story to Mistress Margery, Donald went out; and they must have thought he’d gone further away. I s’pose, if the truth was told, he was list’nin’. I wish you could see the old man; but he can’t leave the brig; and he says it wouldn’t do for you to come there.”

“Can you tell me anything that was said?” Percy asked eagerly.

“Only this, sir. Of course, my uncle didn’t dare to get too near. If they’d caught him, there’s no telling what might have happened. He heard Cap’n Tryon tell the mistress how that you had betrayed ’em--the whole lot of ’em--to the sheriff or the constable. What the mistress said he couldn’t exactly hear; but he could tell that she sided in with the cap’n. After awhile the cap’n said something about clappin’ a stopper on ye--on the young spy and informer, he called ye.”

“And what said my mother to that?”

“That was what Donald tried awful hard to find out but he couldn’t do it. Howsumever, he’s sure she agreed to it. She didn’t say she’d help, but it was understood that she shouldn’t stand in the way of what the other would do.”

“And that is all old Donald heard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He didn’t learn or gain any intimation of how Tryon intends to operate--what he means to do?”

“No, sir. Uncle Donald says that’s for you to find out. If the cap’n was to be on the ground, t’would be different. Then you’d keep an eye on him; but, seein’ as he is goin’ off again, you’ll have to be more careful and keep a sharp lookout, fore and aft and on both sides.”

“Going away!” exclaimed Percy, with a start of disappointment and disgust. “Do you mean, he will leave Allerdale?”

“Why, bless ye! he’s gone, sir. He went early this afternoon. One of the gunners drove him over to Springvale in a cart belonging to the host of the village inn; and I understand he was bound north for Scotland. Uncle Donald said he was cross and ugly, and it was impossible to make out exactly what he meant to do. But he’s off, sir, and won’t be back for a week or thereabout, if what he told my uncle was the truth.”

“You are anxious to get back to the brig, my dear boy?”

“I’m rather anxious to be out of this, sir,” the lad replied, promptly and frankly. “I wouldn’t have one of the cap’n’s men catch me here with you for the world.”

“Ah, you recognize a line of demarcation in the crew of the brig?--I mean you understand there to be two parties.”

“Yes, sir, I do. Uncle Donald will never--But I mustn’t blab.”

“It’s all right, Guy. I know all about it, and from your uncle’s own lips. And now--if you have nothing more to tell me--you may trot back as quickly as you please; and be sure I shall not forget the great service you have done me.”

“Oh, sir, don’t say that! If you knew how much good it does us--Uncle Donald and I--to serve you, you wouldn’t think of layin’ it up as anything to be remembered.”

“Never mind about that just now. You’ll accept my gratitude; and you’ll convey the same to your uncle, and tell him, further, that Percy will be sure to keep his eyes wide open.”

Our hero stood and watched the disappearing form of his young friend, and when he could no longer hear the sound of his footfall he turned once more toward the cottage.

And he had something now to think about. He was not greatly surprised that Ralph Tryon should seek his life. Knowing the character of the man for all that was cruel and reckless and wicked, and remembering the antagonism that had existed between them from the very first of their acquaintance, he could find nothing surprising in this desire for dire and deadly vengeance.

What he wondered at was that the villain should have applied to his mother. How had he dared to broach such a subject to her?

Could there be any mistake? Had Donald Rodney been deceived or had he entirely misunderstood? In his heart he was forced to the confession that he had no respect for his mother, or no respect for her character, nor could he esteem her.

Oh, if his mother could be but a memory, as was his father, how much of misery might have been spared him! In the name of mother there was something sacred--something that quickened his pulses and elevated his feelings.

But in his own case, when he descended from the empty name to the living reality, the sacredness vanished, and a sense of repulsion took the place of calmer feeling.

He could not tell what to think--what to fear. He must wait and let time determine. The thought occurred to him of seeking rest at the village.

Why should he sleep again beneath the old roof? Would he not be safer at the inn? Would not that be the best and surest way of settling the whole matter?

But it would not answer. He could offer no excuse without opening his parent’s eyes to the truth--to the fact of his having received warning.

No, he would go on, and make the best of it. He was sustained by a wondrous sense of power. Never in his life had he felt more secure than at that moment, and yet he did not doubt that a severe struggle--a dark ordeal--was before him.

Surely, the glory of Cordelia’s love, with all its possibilities for future joy and gladness, had not dawned upon him only to be swallowed up in a dire calamity at the hands of a pirate chief! No, no; he would not, he could not believe it!

He walked on and entered the cottage, turning at once into the comfortably furnished living-room as soon as he had deposited his cap and light cloak in the narrow hall.

He found the supper-table set, and his mother was evidently awaiting his coming, as he had told her that he would be at home to the evening meal.

The kettle was steaming on the crane; the teapot was on the hob; while a pan of newly baked rolls was set up against a flat-iron before the fire to keep warm.

“Am I late, mother?” the new-comer asked cheerily.

“Not at all, Percy. Supper is all ready: but I have not waited long. I didn’t expect you before.”

Never had she spoken more pleasantly, and never had she appeared more kind. Once she really smiled, though there was but little of warmth or light in it.

If she had looked him straight in the face; if she had turned to him frankly and trustingly--he would certainly have cast old Donald’s dark suspicions to the winds.

But she did not do this. There was a tendency in her eyes to avoid him. Even while addressing him, she did not look directly at him, and if, by chance, she caught his gaze fixed upon her--if her eyes met his own--she started guiltily.

“I suppose you’ve been at the castle?” she said after she had set the rolls and the teapot on the table; and there was a perceptible touch of bitterness in her voice.

“I have been at the castle during the day, twice,” Percy replied, honestly.

“Do you hear anything new up there?”

“Nothing at all. Lord Oakleigh has gone back to Oxford.”

He might have said more, but at that moment Margery turned quickly toward the buffet in a far corner, as though for something she had forgotten.

As his mother turned thus abruptly away, our hero’s gaze wandered to the table, and something attracted his attention which he had not before seen.

He saw it now, however, and the sight gave him a start that sent a throb and a chill through his whole frame.

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