Chapter III: Our Hero Meets with an Adventure

Six years, lacking only the weeks from the 1st of September to the middle of November, have passed since we stood by the death-bed of Sir William Chester. The changes in that time have been many. The death of the earl’s only son, Lord Oakleigh, is already known to us. The rest of our friends are still living.

The good old earl, now at the full age of three score and ten, is as hale and hearty as ever, and appears to be not a whit nearer to the end of his endurance. Moreover, the six years last past have been, on the whole, to him years of happiness. His grandson has given him trouble--has often caused his heart to ache; but the bright angel of the household--his ward Cordelia--has given him joy and gladness enough to make up for all the pain from other sources.

A day that had been fair and bright, of the first week of September, was drawing to a close as Percy Maitland pulled his light, handsome skiff from the waters of the bay up into the river. He kept on until he had reached a point where, on the other side, toward the stone cottage, a small bay or inlet made up into the shore. Into this he turned his boat and shortly after landed. And as he now stands, his broad full breast thrown well out as he drinks in the pure air, we can examine him critically.

We need only say, however, that not a promise of his early youth remained unfulfilled. He had grown tall--almost six feet--and muscular in proportion; the symmetry of his form perfect. His hair, worn quite long, floated about his head in wavy, shimmering masses--not curling but coming very near to it. Its color had deepened to a golden brown--some might have called it auburn; but whatever it was called none might dispute its poetic beauty. His eyes of the same sapphire blue as formerly, and become brighter and more eloquent--bright with intellect and eloquent with lofty thought and noble aspiration. The whole face, in taking on the stamp of manhood, had increased in beauty as it had grown in strength and intelligence.

His garb was peculiar to himself. He had given his measurements and directions to a friend whom he could trust, and his garments had, for several years, been made to order in France. A loose, easy frock of purple velvet, trimmed lightly with narrow gold lace, so fitting as to show his perfect form; beneath this a vest of amber-colored silk, with silver buttons; then tights of knitted blue silk, revealing every thew and sinew of his muscular lower limbs; and on his feet a pair of light calf-skin boots, with tops of red morocco. His head was protected by a light blue velvet cap, or bonnet, on the left side of which was an eagle’s feather, secured in place by a brooch of gold.

Could the youth afford this style of dress? it may be asked. We will only say in reply, his father had left him a goodly amount of gold which could not be taken from him, and a few of the old smugglers would occasionally force upon him goodly sums, not only for favors received, but in remembrance of the old times, when they had loved him as a boy. And they had never ceased to love him.

Having secured his boat, the young man stepped back and took from the stern-sheets a willow basket, in which were a dozen fine fish; and then, with the basket on his arm, he took the path that led toward the castle. The fish were intended for that place, he having promised the old steward that he should have them before dark, provided, of course, that he should have the good fortune to catch them.

For the distance of a quarter of a mile the path lay through a thick wood and flanked the westerly side of Allerdale park. Half-way through this wood the young fisherman had gone, when he saw, coming toward him from the direction of the castle, a man whom he would he have avoided if the thing had been possible. As it was, he made a movement as though he would step aside from the path, but the man had seen him, and was already upon the point of hailing him. “Oho! Maitland, you are the man I was after. I’ve been searching for you this half hour.”

“Ralph Tryon! What do you want of me?”

The man whom Percy had thus named was not quite so tall as was our hero, though he appeared the heavier and more stocky of frame. His age would be a difficult matter for a stranger to determine. He might have been thirty, he might have been more; but, in all probability he was considerably younger. His face was more than half covered by a full, thick, coarse, yellow beard; his hair, long and matted, was tawny, like a lion’s mane; while two eyes, small and sunken but bright and fiery, were decidedly black in color. His garb was of the sea, and, take him all in all, he was not a pleasant man to look upon.

Such was the man, who, for two years and a little more, had held the office which Hugh Maitland had once filled--chief of the Smugglers of King’s Cove.

“You are wanted to pilot in the Staghound,” was Tryon’s answer to Percy’s demand.

“Pilot in the Staghound!” repeated the youth in blank surprise. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“Because I must go another way. I have business that I can not put aside.”

“Donald Rodney is on board, is he not?”

“Yes, but he can not run her in safely. I would not trust him, and he dare not trust himself. No, no, you must do it.”

“But, you have no right to ask it of me. I wish to have nothing more to do with the brig, in any way or shape.”

“Have a care, young man! Do you forget your promise to your dying father?”

“No,” said Percy quickly. “I do not forget it. For five years and ten months I kept it; and then it was at an end. I promised him that, until I reached the age of twenty-one, I would perform that task whenever called upon to do so. The one-and-twentieth anniversary of my birthday is past and gone; and I am free.”

A fierce oath burst from the smuggler’s lips, and he was evidently upon the point of launching forth into threats, but common sense came to his aid. He was situated peculiarly. The brig must be brought safely into her haven, for she had beneath her hatches one of the most valuable cargoes she had ever carried and he could not do it without making a change in his plans which he would not make if he could possibly avoid it.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the other backing away from the oath which he had, in his hot anger, flung at him, “don’t be a fool. Allow a man to spit out his feelings when he’s in a tight place, can’t ye? I didn’t mean that oath for you, Percy. I was swearing at my own hard luck. Look ye, it will be a dead loss to me of more than £500 if I can’t be in Bathgate to-morrow. The brig will be outside in the early morning, and the chances are that a king’s ship--sloop of war--will be at her heels. If it was to be a flood tide we might trust Rodney to run her in: but it will be on the ebb, and he is shaky. Come, come, Percy, say you’ll do it, that’s a good fellow!!”

“Tryon, I don’t like it. I thought my poor share of that business was ended.”

The tawny chieftain was evidently struggling with all his might. He could have put a pistol bullet through young Maitland’s head with keen relish or a knife into his bosom; but that would not answer his purpose. Also, he could have cursed and sworn, with real enjoyment; but that would have been equally worse than useless.

“Percy, old Donald will be looking for you. Will you disappoint him? And think of the other friends you have on board the Staghound. Would you like to have them nabbed by the king’s officers? Oh! if I could go I would; but I can not. It would ruin me. Donald was sure you would come. And others were as sure as he.”

“Where did you leave the brig?” Percy asked.

“At the old place--Betty’s Cove--in the Ribble. A few articles were to be landed there.”

“What about the sloop of war? Has she been seen?”

“Bless you, yes. We ran away from her, just at dark night before last. Donald will run the brig out to-night, and make his way here under cover of darkness. We know the corvette is off the coast, and keeping a sharp lookout for us.”

Percy stood for a few moments in thought. For the man before him he would not have gone from the promise he had made himself--a promise that he would never again have any part with the smugglers.

Had the crew remained as his father had left it--had Donald Rodney been the chief, as he should have been--and, had they confined their trade to the simple, straightforward course which had been pursued in other years, under such circumstances he might not have refused his aid in a time of need; but it was different now.

There was an atmosphere about Frank Tryon which he did not like; something was there that aroused within him dark and painful suspicions. But--for this once--should he leave his father’s old friends in the lurch?

“Tryon,” said he at length, looking up and speaking shortly and crisply, “do you believe Rodney will ever learn to find the channel to the Cove?”

“Never, in the ebb tide. It isn’t in him. He is a good sailor, but he could never be a navigator, nor a safe pilot.”

“Have you any one on board the brig who could learn?”

“Yes I have just the man.”

“Very well. If I will bring the vessel in this time, will you promise not to ask me to do it again?”

The man hesitated. Evidently he did not like to give up his hold on the young man; but a little reflection told him he must do so; so he did it as gracefully as possible.

“All right,” he said. “I will set about teaching my new pilot at once; and you shall not be again asked to do this work, at least, not by me.”

Percy promised that he would run out on the next morning and look for the brig, and if he should find her, he would bring her in and then, with a simple nod, he picked up his basket, which he had set upon a wayside stone while he had been talking, and passed on.

The smuggler gazed after him with a dark look in his eyes--a look which, had the youth seen it, would have made him shudder.

Once Percy looked back and saw Tryon just starting away from the spot where he left him, but not by the path. No, instead of that he struck squarely off into the wood, his face toward the stone cottage.

“He is going to see my mother,” said our hero, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. “He is there oftener than I like.” For a time he stood where he had stopped, with his gaze fixed upon the spot where the form of the smuggler had last appeared. At length he burst forth, at the same time smiting his free hand upon his bosom:

“Oh! where--where have I seen that man? Somewhere--somewhere--when he was not what he is now! My father knew him, and would not tell me who he was. I wonder if my mother knows. Of course she does. And Rodney must know. I shall find out somehow. The mystery puzzles me. Aye, it frets me. There is something uncanny about the fellow. There is a piratical look about him that chills me to the very core. But, let him go. There are pleasanter things in the world than Ralph Tryon.”

And with this the youth set forth once more on his way to the castle. A few minutes saw him clear of the wood, and in fifteen minutes more he was at the steward’s door.

Allerdale Castle was a grand old pile. In fact it was both old and new. A portion of it, the main walls and the donjon, together with a portion of the outbuildings, were of the time of the Plantagenets; there was a later structure of the time of Elizabeth, and a wing of goodly dimensions--a fair-sized dwelling of itself--was of modern build, having been constructed by the grandfather of the present earl and finished by his father.

“Ah, Percy! It’s good for one’s eyes to see ye! What’s in the basket? I hope ye haven’t come empty handed, for his lordship has made up his mouth for a fish breakfast--O-o-oh! Bless and save us! Where did ye take ’em?”

It was the fat old steward, Michael Dillon, who had thus hailed the young man, and who had thus exclaimed when he had looked into the basket and espied the silvery treasures that filled it almost to the brim.

“I took them at the mouth of the Cove channel, Michael, the only spot I know where those mongrel salmon can be found. If the earl don’t find them as toothsome as anything he ever eat in the shape of fish, then the fault will lie at the door of your cook.”

“Ho! Lord Oakleigh has been out I don’t know how many times to try for those same fish, and he has never caught one yet.”

“Is Lord Oakleigh still at the castle?”

“Yes. He has gone over to Dayton--he went yesterday--to stop till to-morrow.”

“When will he return to Oxford?”

“I don’t know. Ha! but here comes somebody that does.”

Percy turned, and his heart bounded with an impulse that shook him from head to foot. It was Cordelia Chester who had come upon the scene, the child whom we last saw with her bowed head upon the pillow of her dying father.

The promises of her childhood, so far as beauty was concerned, had, if such a thing could be possible, been more than fulfilled. The brown hair had grown darker and richer, and the eyes, gray like opals, had taken to themselves a depth of brilliancy wonderful to behold.

They were, in truth, marvelous eyes; as frank and unswerving as eyes could be, and as true as heaven. It is a strong expression, but it is true. If ever there was truth and purity on earth, the quality was mirrored in the opalistic depths of Cordelia Chester’s eyes.

She was not tall; scarcely up to the ordinary stature of woman; but she was plump and ruddy, and healthful and strong, with a native capacity for fun and frolic, yet full of practical common sense, and a wonderful faculty for business.

The earl had promised Sir William that he would take care of his daughter’s estate and look carefully after the returns of her agent, and this he had done for three or four years; but the time had come when Cordelia was able not only to look after her own business affairs, but to keep the accounts of her guardian as well. Yes, she was the business head of the castle. And who had taught her? We are to discover that immediately.

“Oh, Percy! I am glad you have come. I have got myself into a tangle from which you must help me out.”

“A tangle, dear lady? What may be its nature?”

“It is a note which the earl holds against the lessee of his coal mine in Bentland. There have been three payments made on it: but there was a considerable sum of interest due on the amount paid, which interest was not paid. So, you see, there has been interest on interest, and--Oh! it is a mixed up mess in every way. Come; we shall have time to fix it before dark, if we go at it directly. Oh! I am so glad you are here!”

“If the mistress commands, I suppose the slave must obey,” said Percy, a pleasant smile rippling over his handsome face, as he made a movement as though to follow her.

Ordinarily the sparkling, quick-witted girl would have made a joking, laughing rejoinder to his sally, but it was not so now.

“Oh! Percy,” she returned, the look she gave him full of grateful emotion. “I do not feel like a mistress in this dire strait. I must acknowledge you the master. But,” she added, as they started on their way, “I will be mistress to-morrow, when I shall expect you to obey me very punctually.”

“You have but to command me, lady.”

“We shall see.”

Cordelia led the way to a prettily furnished boudoir on the second floor of the modern wing, where were found the books and papers she had been overhauling for her grandfather. So she always called him, and she could not feel that he had been anything else to her.

The note was produced, with half a dozen scrawling, blotted indorsements on its back, three of which were not dated.

“Paid on the within--£500,” one of them read with no date.

“Paid £700,” read another, also without date.

However, the earl’s cash book was at hand, and here the entries were found with dates, as they should be; and with this help the young man went at the work. When he had made the matter of dates correct--entered them on the note--he turned to the work of computing interest. “Now, my lady, I think you would like to understand this business; because, do you know you will not have me here always to help you.”

The girl started as though word of some dire calamity had been suddenly whispered in her ear; but Percy had turned his eyes upon his work, and did not see; and before he looked at her again she had recovered from the shock, or she had at least overcome all outward signs.

She gave her attention as closely as she could, while her companion computed the interest, at the same time explaining to her the various steps as he progressed.

“There you have it, dear lady; and I will warrant it correct. You can see how important is interest on interest. The earl might have lost more than £200 if that had been left unreckoned.”

But the girl was not in the mood, at that particular time, for the further study of interest, either simple or compound. She had planned an excursion to the Witch’s Crag for the morrow, and she wanted Percy for guide and protector. So, having thanked him, with all her heart, for the kindness just received at his hands, she broached the other matter. There were beautiful autumnal flowers blooming amid the wild fastnesses of the crag, and she determined to find them if she could. He, however knew just where to look for them.

“Will it answer,” asked the young man after a little thought, “if I come after noon?”

“Yes I don’t care to start before noon. Mary will go with us to carry the basket.”

Percy promised that he would be with her in time for the excursion and then took his leave. She watched him as he departed--watched him until an intervening angle of a wall had hidden him from view. Then with her hand pressed over her heart, she bent her head in thought.

“What did he mean, I wonder, by saying that he wouldn’t be here to help me? Oh! if I dared to ask him! I will! He must not go away. He shall not. I would rather have--”

And there she stopped. Whatever she thought further was hidden in her own bosom. But we have heard enough to tell us that her heart was turning towards her kind and handsome Mentor.

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