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                      THE SMUGGLER OF KING’S COVE




                                   OR

                         THE OLD CHAPEL MYSTERY




                                   BY

                           SYLVANUS COBB, JR.

          AUTHOR OF “ORION, THE GOLD-BEATER,” “THE GUNMAKER OF
                 MOSCOW,” “THE PAINTER OF PARMA,” ETC.




                                -------




                             PHILADELPHIA:

                         HENRY T. COATES & CO.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               COPYRIGHT

                                   BY

                             MARY I. COBB.




                          COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY
                       THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.




                          All rights reserved.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CONTENTS.

                                -------

          CHAPTER.                                       PAGE
                I. OUR HERO MAKES TWO PROMISES,             1
               II. A NEW LORD,                             15
              III. OUR HERO MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE,       30
               IV. DEAD MAN’S REEF,                        43
                V. OLD DONALD’S CONFESSION,                56
               VI. ON WITCH’S CRAG,                        69
              VII. A SPECTER IN THE MONK’S CHAPEL,         83
             VIII. LORD OAKLEIGH,                          96
               IX. A COMPROMISE,                          110
                X. A BROKEN HAND--A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY,  123
               XI. IN THE SECRET CRYPT,                   137
              XII. AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION,               150
             XIII. A STARTLING REVELATION,                164
              XIV. AN ATTEMPT AT MURDER,                  177
               XV. CONSTERNATION AT THE CASTLE,           191
              XVI. A TERRIBLE MOMENT,                     205
             XVII. A SURPRISE FOR ALL HANDS,              218
            XVIII. MARGERY’S REVELATION,                  233

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      THE SMUGGLER OF KING’S COVE;

                                  OR,

                        The Old Chapel Mystery.

                                -------

                               CHAPTER I.

                      OUR HERO MAKES TWO PROMISES.

We doubt if there is anywhere on the sea board of England another
stretch of coast so wild and rugged, and so forbidding of aspect to
navigators, as is that of Headlandshire--probably so called because of
its numerous bold headlands overlooking the Irish Sea.

Not far from midway of this stretch of coast is an inlet of the sea,
called Raven Bay; and from this bay there is still another inlet, narrow
and dubious of entrance, but deep and broad within, called King’s Cove.

The story goes that once upon a time an English king, fleeing from his
rebellious subjects by sea, sought shelter here and safety; and found
them both.

The bay itself is no mean shelter when safely gained. About its entrance
are numerous rocks, large and small--some lifting their storm-beaten
crests above the surface of the water, while many lie hidden beneath it;
also, there are a number of small islands so arranged as to effectually
veil the inlet from the eyes of strangers passing to and fro outside.

The man who would run even an ordinary yacht in safety into Raven Bay
must be thoroughly acquainted with every fathom of the true channel.

But, though we have gained that first haven, we see nothing of King’s
Cove--not a sign of it. Yet it is not far off. Away in the southeast
corner are two small well-wooded islands, which appear, when viewed from
the bosom of the bay, to be simple lumps of the mainland; but once get
in behind the outer one and we find a narrow, deep, winding channel
running between the two, and finally opening into a basin of water
wonderful to behold.

There it lies, an entirely land-locked off-put of the sea, oval in form,
very nearly a mile long by three-quarters of a mile wide, deep enough
and broad enough to float a naval squadron.

Not only was this cove land-locked, but it was so completely environed
by woods--by forest monarchs--as to be as invisible from the land as
from the water side.

From Raven Bay the view landward was partly wild and rugged, but
altogether picturesque and romantic. On the left, to the northward, as
we face inward from the seas, distant a mile and a half rose a grim
towering mass of volcanic rock, known as the Witch’s Crag.

Towards the bay the crag descended gradually--a continuous ragged, rocky
declivity--to the water’s edge.

Eastward from the bay, on a gradual verdant slope, many miles in extent,
opened to view one of the most beautifully romantic scenes in
England--the magnificent park, the outlying farms, the flanking forest,
and the grand old castle of Allerdale; while nearer at hand, close upon
the shore, nestled a pretty village, bearing the same name.

And this whole stretch of landscape was cut in twain, near its center,
by a silvery, limpid stream, rising in the distant hills and flowing
westward until it mingled its tide with the waters of the bay. It was
called Dale River.

There is one other view that must not be overlooked. Away to the right,
towards the south, half a mile from the village, but only a few rods
distant from the eastern shore of Kings’ Cove, in the edge of the
forest, with no other human habitation near, stood a small stone
cottage, the abode, when on shore, of the chief of a crew of smugglers,
whose lair was in the adjacent hidden inlet.

We now approach two scenes of a different character. The first is in the
cottage of the smuggler chief.

Hugh Maitland, now close upon his fortieth year, had for full half his
life been a bold and successful smuggler. Never, as yet, had he been
arrested.

Not only had the secret cove afforded him safe hiding from the king’s
cruisers, but the mass of the people, high and low, whom he had
furnished abundantly and cheaply with many a luxury of life, had been
his friends, tried and true, in the hour of need.

At length, however, an enemy with whom he was powerless to contend had
laid its unsparing hand upon him.

He was dying. A round shot, from the bow gun of a revenue cutter, had
struck the quarter-rail of his brig, knocking therefrom a splinter,
which had entered his side.

Two surgeons had been with him until within a few minutes of the time
when we look in upon him, and had promised to call again during the day,
but not with the hope of saving him. Death was sure, and close at hand.

The dying chief lay upon a comfortable bed, in a rear apartment on the
ground floor of the cottage, and near him were two persons--his wife,
Margery, and his son, Percy.

Margery Maitland was of middle age; a tall, handsome woman of dark
complexion, her hair black as a raven’s wing, with a pair of full,
bright, restless eyes to match.

She had loved her husband better than anything else on earth. Her
marriage had cost her friends and position, and she had prized the thing
gained accordingly.

She had been a faithful and devoted companion of his home life, making
that home as pleasant and attractive to him as she could.

Perhaps if his life had been entirely passed at home she might not have
made it quite an elysium for him; but let that pass. With regard to her
love for her son--of that anon.

Percy Maitland had entered upon the sixteenth year of his life. He
looked old for his age. Neither in form nor in feature did he resemble
his father or his mother. He was tall, like his mother, and, like her,
handsome, and there the likeness ended.

He was of a light, ruddy complexion; his hair, floating about his
shapely head in wavy masses, was a rich, golden auburn in color; his
eyes were blue as sapphires; his brow high, broad and full, with the
lower features in symmetrical keeping.

The whole face, in short, was a picture of manly beauty. It was a face
to admire, a face to love, and, above and beyond all, it was most
emphatically a face to trust.

Falsehood and deceit, treachery and cunning, together with all the baser
passions and instincts of human nature, were as foreign to that face as
is darkness to the full blaze of noonday. His youth gave ample promise
of a strong and vigorous manhood.

Whatever may have been the feelings of the mother toward her son, his
father had loved him with a love bordering on passion.

He had been proud of his boy’s beauty and proud of his surpassing
intellectual qualities; and when Percy had decided that he would not
sail in the brig as one of her crew--that he could not find it in his
heart to become a smuggler--the chieftain had seen the curate of the
village church, a finished scholar, and engaged him to be private tutor
to his boy. And so it had been.

Strangely enough, the mother had fought against all this. She had
insisted upon it--had put forth all her influence to that end--that the
boy should follow the fortunes of his father, and be ready, when the
time should come, to take command of the smuggler brig.

But she had pleaded and labored in vain. The love of the father had been
proof against all opposing forces.

A November day was drawing to its close, and a November chill was in the
fierce gusts that shook the limbs of the forest trees outside, as Hugh
Maitland lay dying in the old stone cottage. For several minutes he had
gazed upon the face of his son, thinking deeply. By and by he spoke:

“Percy!” The boy started and looked up. Then he arose and would have
advanced to the bedside, but his father waved him back.

“No, no. Sit down, my boy; I have something to say to you. Now,” when
the youth was again seated, “I wish you to answer me. Have I not, so far
as I could, so far as it was in me to do, been a kind and loving father
to you?”

“Oh, my father!” cried the son, extending his clasped hands towards the
bed. “You have been all that an earthly parent could be. I know you have
loved me well and truly. Since I can remember your whole heart has been
mine; and you know, you know, father, that I have loved you in return.”

“Aye, my boy, I do know it; and I tell you truly, your love has been a
blessing to me.” He paused here, and closed his eyes as though to rest.

He had spoken with difficulty, for he had become very weak, and the
speaking fatigued him. Presently he looked up and spoke again. His tones
were low and wavering, but with a depth that plainly told of former
power and compass; and he spoke distinctly.

“Percy, I have two requests to make; two promises I ask from you in
return. It is understood on all hands--your mother understands, and
Donald Rodney understands and through him every man of the crew will
gain knowledge--that you are, henceforth and forever, free from any
connection whatever with the contraband traffic. You shall never be
asked to go outside in our vessel; nor shall you be asked to help land
any item of our contraband goods--Hush! Don’t thank me yet. Wait until
you have heard my requests.

“My dear boy, I shall not live to see another day. I am bleeding
internally. Ah! I know the signs. The end is nearer than you think. I am
going--going to leave your mother alone, if you forsake her. My first
petition is this: Until you have reached the age of one-and-twenty you
will make the old cot your home, and give to your mother your presence
and your care. Surely, you will not refuse me this. Margery has been a
faithful wife to me, and I shall feel death robbed of much of its terror
in the knowledge that she is not to be left alone.”

Percy saw very plainly the hand of his mother in this. He knew, as
though he had heard her, that she had put that request into his father’s
mouth, and had urged him to press it strongly.

But, under any circumstances, he would not have refused. He had a
deep--a heartfelt--desire to be near the castle; and in what other way
could he so surely attain that end?

If he took a few seconds for thought before he answered, it was not with
the appearance of hesitation. When he spoke, not only were his tones
frank and hearty, but the warm, loving light in his handsome face told
her that he was sincere.

“Father, I will do what you ask, provided, of course, that no unforeseen
event beyond my power to overcome shall interpose to prevent it.”

“That is understood, of course, and I thank you, my boy--I thank you
from my heart. I shall die easier in the assurance that Margery is to
have the tender, loving care of our son after I am gone. And now, Percy,
to my second request.”

He paused for a little time, while his wife arose and went into the room
adjoining, returning presently with a phial and a glass.

She prepared for the sufferer a potion which one of the physicians had
prescribed, and he drank it, experiencing therefrom temporary relief and
strength.

“Percy, are you aware of the fact that when I am dead and gone that you
will be the only living man who can safely run our brig into the Cove?”

“Rodney can do it, father,” the youth replied, with much surprise.

“No, no, he cannot. The last time in I gave up the command to him when
we were about a mile outside Hood’s Island; and, if you will believe me,
we came within an ace of losing the old Staghound; and, most likely,
losing a few of ourselves as well. While I was looking in another
direction, never dreaming of danger, we were within a dozen fathoms of
the northern point of Dead Man’s Reef! Yes, my boy, had I been ten
seconds later no power on earth could have saved us. Poor old Donald! He
said he had no idea the reef made up so far.

“Perhaps I have been wrong. I have kept our secret too close for my own
good. You learned the course almost by instinct. By the way--didn’t you
tell me that you had discovered a safe channel some where about midway
of that reef?”

“Yes, father, I found it last spring. It is just about midway between
the southern headland of the bay and the northern extremity of the reef.
I took soundings, and got all the necessary bearings for coming in.
There are no reliable bearings by which to run out.”

“They’re not needful, boy. But the time may come when that way of
running in may be of use. My soul! it doesn’t seem possible. I wouldn’t
have believed that a course through that reef could have been found for
a fair sized barge, let alone a brig. But, my dear boy, this isn’t
getting on with business, and I feel that my voice is giving out.”

“Yes, father--your second request. Has it to do with piloting the brig?”

“Yes, Percy. I want you to give me your promise that, while you find a
home here in the old cottage, you will pilot the brig in whenever you
are asked to do so. As you know, we have other havens. For the year to
come she may not have occasion to run in here more than once or twice.
This is the refuge when the king’s cruisers are at our heels. On other
occasions we come here but seldom.”

“Of course,” said the youth, “until I can teach others how to find the
true course, I will find it for them; but, when I shall have taught
Rodney, he can, in turn, teach others--”

“Ah! my boy,” interrupted the chief, “the teaching of others is the very
thing we wish to avoid. You and Rodney will be enough. Surely, you can
do that for the old crew after I am gone.”

“Enough, father. I give you the promise. While I shall remain here--say
till I am twenty-one--whenever I shall receive due notice that the brig
is outside, or is expected, and that I am wanted to pilot her in, I will
take my boat and find her.”

“Bless you, Percy! Bless you! I have no more to ask. I shall die with
less of regret now that I have those two pledges from you.”

“Father,” said the boy, after a time of silence, during which Margery
had given her husband another dose of medicine, “who is that young
fellow that has made two or three runs with you to the French
coast--Ralph Tryon, I heard Rodworshiperney call him?”

“Oh” returned the failing chief, with a dubious motion of the head,
“he’s nobody that you care about.”

“But--you can tell me who he is--where he came from--or--or--”

“Percy! Don’t you see? Your father is suffering.”

It was Margery who had thus interfered. The dying man would have checked
her, but his voice failed him, and he sank back on the pillow with a
moan of pain. Sank back and lifted not his head again; neither did he
speak any more. Half an hour later the son was kneeling by the bedside
in devout prayer, while the bereaved wife, now widowed, wept in the
first great sorrow of her life.

The second scene is at the castle, where there is a bed on which lies
one dying.

It is now November. In the early springtime Sir William Chester had come
to Allerdale Castle in failing health, bringing with him his only child,
Cordelia, a girl of twelve years and little more.

She was all that was left to him of his own blood to care for and to
love. His wife had died several years before in India, where he was
employed by the government.

His parents had both died during his youth, and brother or sister he
never had. Neither had he an uncle or an own cousin. An aunt by marriage
he possibly may have had, but were she living she could be nothing to
him.

Thomas Brandon, Earl of Allerdale, had reached the age of sixty-four, a
hale hearty old man, seemingly as strong and vigorous as ever.

He was a handsome man, tall and strong, with a full, broad chest; his
limbs shapely and muscular, with a step as firm and light as that of
youth.

He had a grand head, covered with snow-white hair, and a strongly marked
face that retained much--very much--of its old-time beauty, for Tom
Brandon, when he had been simple Lord Oakleigh, had been accounted one
of the handsomest men of his time.

The earl was but little better off in the way of kindred than was his
guest. He had a son and a grandson, and that completed the list.

His wife had died while he was still young, leaving him with one child,
and he had never married again.

His son George, Lord Oakleigh, was absent in India. From him Sir William
had come when he first appeared at the castle. George Brandon and
William Chester were very nearly of the same age. The former was
forty-six, the later one year younger.

They had been friendly in youth, had been classmates at college, and had
been much together in after life.

In India they had been like brothers, a common misfortune, or calamity,
having cemented the bonds of their union more firmly and more closely
than ever before.

It was the death of their wives. They had resided beneath the same roof
in Calcutta. There Lady Chester had been taken down with fever, and Lady
Brandon had helped to nurse her.

Suffice it to say, both had the fever, and both died. Sir William was
left with his little Cordelia, then only ten; Lord Oakleigh being left
with a son three years older.

A few months after the sad bereavement Lord Oakleigh sent his son
Matthew home to England, to the care of his father, the earl having
written out an earnest request that it should be so done.

The boy had arrived safely, and from that time had been his
grandfather’s charge.

Little more than a year later Sir William had begun to feel that his
failing health betokened something serious. He was convinced that he
should never recover in India.

He considered a perfect recovery impossible; but, were he to seek his
native land, he might gain a few more years of life.

So, towards the close of the year, he had made his arrangements for
returning home. Said Lord Oakleigh, after the thing had been settled,
and the baronet had packed up:

“You say you have no settled home in England. Your family estate--the
home of your ancestors--Leyburn Abbey, with its park and forest, you
have leased for a term of years; and, of course, you can not push your
tenant out, if he wishes to remain, which we know he does. So, my dear
Willie, do you make your way to Allerdale, and there cast anchor. My
father will be delighted to see you--delighted to hear from me--and a
thousand times delighted when you tell him you have come to make a good
long stop with him. There your little Cordelia will have my boy Matt to
play with; and, further, the young hero will be old enough and strong
enough to have a care for her. Tell me--promise me--it shall be so.”

When Sir William had finally given the required promise he had a request
to make on his own account. He made it thus:

“George, I am a sicker man than you think. Should it prove in the end
that I am going to England only to die, I wish to leave my child in your
charge. You will be her guardian. Promise me that.”

At first George Brandon had been unwilling to listen to any such thing
as his friend’s dying; but, at length, when the baronet had pushed him
into a corner, he had replied:

“Look ye, William, you are going to Allerdale. That is settled. If you
are to die, as you seem to think may be possible, you will die there. If
that is to be, let my father be your daughter’s guardian. She could not
have a better. You can arrange with him, if you please, that should he
die while Cordelia is under age and I should survive him, he may
transfer the authority to me. Under such circumstances I should assume
the duties most cheerfully, though with sad remembrance. However, my
father is a hale and hearty man, and comes of a long-lived stock. I am
very sure, barring accidents, that he will live to see your daughter
married.”

So Sir William had left India with the understanding that if a guardian
should be required for his child the old earl should be the man.

Once Lord Oakleigh had let fall the remark that it might be a pleasant
thing in the future that their children should become united in
marriage; but Sir William had made no response.

Perhaps he felt that it was too early to be thinking of marriage for his
little pet, and it is not impossible that he preferred to wait a few
years and see what sort of a husband his friend’s son gave promise of
making.

That was the first and the last word ever spoken between Lord Oakleigh
and Sir William Chester regarding the marriage of their children; but it
was not the last of the subject, as we shall see anon.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER II.

                              A NEW LORD.

Sir William Chester came home to England to die. He had felt it when
leaving India; he had felt it on the voyage, and he had become assured
of it ere long after he had reached the fatherland.

He had made no movement towards ejecting his tenant from Leyburn Abbey.
He had found rest and shelter at Allerdale, and had very soon come to
love the old earl as he would have loved a father.

And the earl had quickly learned to love him. It had not needed the good
word of his son. His own heart had found the lovable man; and love had
been given without stint.

And the little Cordelia, now completing her twelfth year--she was like a
ray of blessed sunlight in the old castle.

She was a plump little thing, bright and winsome, her silken locks
giving promise of a rich golden brown; her large gray eyes, like twin
stars, full of laughter and full of warm, impulsive love.

Where she loved she would love with all her heart; and strange as it may
appear, her first and warmest love was given to the old earl--“Gran’pa,”
she called him, with her two dimpled arms round his neck and her rosy
lips pressed upon his cheek.

And the love that Lord Allerdale gave to the bright-faced little girl
became part of his very life. He could not, after a time, bear to have
her away from him.

He held her on his knee; he carried her in his arms; he led her in the
court and in the park, and he played with her; in short, in her society
he renewed, not his youth, but his very childhood. What a happy old man
he was when the little child had him in full subjection.

Lord Oakleigh had spoken of another as the prospective playmate of
Cordelia--his son, Matthew.

And Matthew Brandon played with her often, though she would always leave
him for the companionship of his grandfather.

Matthew Brandon was now entering his sixteenth years--just the age of
the smuggler’s son. He was not what would be called a handsome boy.

His complexion was dark; his hair intensely black; and his eyes, deeply
set in their sockets, were small, with an unusually narrow space between
them.

His face was not a mirror of frankness; and the servants were painfully
aware of two lamentable facts: First, he could be cruel and vengeful;
and second, he could lie. Of this, however, his grandfather was
ignorant.

The servants loved him too well to pain him by the telling, while the
boy was wise and wary enough to hide his darker side from those who had
authority to punish.

On the same November day that saw the smuggler chief lay dying in the
stone cottage by the Cove, Sir William Chester lay dying in one of the
tapestried chambers of Allerdale Castle.

He had sent for Matthew, and the boy had come--had come reluctantly
enough from the making of a rabbit-trap.

With his failing hand on the lad’s head, Sir William told him of his
father--told him what a good, true and loyal man he was.

“And may I not hope, my boy, that you will grow up to be like him? You
don’t know how dearly he loves you; how proud he is of his son; nor do
you realize how much of his joy and gladness in the future is dependent
upon your success in life. Oh! Matthew! Matthew! Will you not strive,
with all your might, to make your father happy and blessed? You can do
it. Let him know that his beloved boy is good and true, and honest, and
kind of heart--let him know this, and he will be as happy as a man can
be. You will try, won’t you?”

The boy kicked at the carpet with his foot; he gazed out at a
neighboring window; gazed everywhere save into the watchful eyes of the
speaker.

At length, when the baronet had finished what he had to say, Master
Matthew grunted out a dubious--“Yes--I s’pose so”--and speedily
thereafter sought his trap.

After this the baronet called his little daughter to his bedside; and
when he had kissed her he fancied that he saw a cloud on her open brow
and a look of disappointment in her bright eyes.

“What is the matter with my darling?” he asked, drawing her head down
upon his pillow.

And pretty soon it came out. Percy had promised her that he would come
up that afternoon and help her in her lessons.

Practically he had become her teacher, and she looked forward to his
coming with so much of eagerness that failure on his part became to her
a bitter disappointment.

“Well, well, little pet, do not worry. He may come yet.”

“No, no, papa, he cannot come. His papa is sick, and is dying! Oh! think
of it! He will never have a papa any more. Dear papa! you won’t die,
will you? Oh, tell me that you will not!”

A convulsion shook the dying man from head to foot. He had spoken to his
child of death, had sought to accustom her to the thought; but not yet
had he told her that he was surely leaving her.

He could not do it now--could not tell her that he was dying; but he
told her she must be brave and strong; and she must remember that, even
though he should be taken from her, she would have her dear grandpa
left, who would love her always.

With regard to Percy, of whom his daughter had spoken, the baronet had
no fixed thoughts of any kind. He knew the boy--knew him to be the son
of a man who was said to be a noted smuggler; but, somehow, the idea of
smuggling, as an offence, did not strike him with anything akin to
horror.

On the contrary, he thought of it without pain and even without
bitterness. Though he would not have willingly admitted a smuggler to
his friendship, he would not make war against him. And, further, he
would not visit the sins of the father upon the head of the child.

He had met Percy Maitland, and had spoken with him, and had been most
agreeably surprised by the beauty of person, and his evident beauty and
purity of mind.

He had seen enough of the boy to feel assured that the errors of the
sire had not in the least given taint to the son.

Another thing had wrought somewhat upon Sir William’s mind with regard
to Percy Maitland. When he had become acquainted with him, the first
thought that came to him thereafter found vent in these words, spoken
aloud, to himself:

“Oh, what would I give if Matthew could be like that boy! What a
blessing he might be to his father! What a blessing to us all!”

He knew that during the summer Cordelia had become not only acquainted,
but intimate with the smuggler’s son. One day the little pet had
surprised her father by asking him a question in very good French.

“For mercy’s sake! where did you learn that?” he had asked her.

“Ho! Percy taught me; and he is going to teach me to read French. Won’t
it be nice?”

And the baronet had suffered it to go on. It was enough for him that his
child was the happier for this friendship; and, further, that under its
influence she was really improving.

She was learning rapidly. Of danger in the future he never thought.

As the day drew towards its close Sir William found himself alone with
the earl. The legal steps necessary towards constituting the latter
guardian of the child, with full authority, had all been taken, and it
only remained for him to give such instructions as he had to give.

The papers had been filled out, signed, sealed and witnessed some time
before, and the earl had them in his possession, ready to act when the
time should come.

“Lord Allerdale,” said the baronet, when all preliminary matters had
been disposed of. “I shall not see the light of another day. You know
that.”

“I suppose,” replied the earl, with a faint, fleeting smile, “if I would
be in the fashion I ought to declare that I do not know any such thing;
but alas! I know it but too well. Still, I will give you more time than
that. You shall not leave us to-night, nor yet to-morrow. No, no--we
must keep you for days to come, if not for weeks.”

“Well, well,” rejoined the invalid, quickly, “be sure I will live if I
can; but we will be on the safe side. The few directions I have to give
you I will give you now, and then the end may come when it will. It will
find us prepared.”

“You are right in that, William. What you have to say to me I would have
you say at once. And I am anxious to know your wishes. Remember, you
have given your child into my care and keeping; and, though you have
confidence in my judgment, yet I would have from you certain directions
for my guidance.”

“I have confidence in your judgment, my lord,” said the baronet, with a
warm light in his failing eyes, “but it is in your great love--in the
goodness of your heart--that I most hopefully trust, for I know you will
love my darling when I am gone. I know it.”

“Love her!” repeated the old man, the tones seeming to come from the
profoundest depths of his heart, “I shall love her now--as a bright
angel, given to bless and brighten and beautify the evening of my life!
Oh! I have no words that can tell my love for the little seraph.”

For a time both the men gave way to their feelings in silence. At length
the baronet broke the spell.

“My lord, you have spoken of directions from me. I have one or two to
give you, and that is all. And here let us speak frankly. The time was
when, I know, your son had a wish that his boy and my little girl should
grow up to become husband and wife. Perhaps, at one time, I may have had
some such thought; but, with my present light, I certainly cannot wish
it. Matthew must grow up to be a different man from what he now gives
promise of being if he would look upon my daughter with the thought of
making her his wife. Surely, my lord, you will agree with me, in this?”

“Yes, yes, Sir William, I do, certainly,” the earl answered sadly. “I
have often wished that Matthew was different; and I have never held the
wish so deeply as I have done since I have known your darling. Oh! if
the boy were worthy of her how happy we all might be! But, who shall say
what may happen? He is young yet. What he may be when he shall have
grown to manhood we can not tell.”

“That is so,” nodded the baronet thoughtfully. After a little pause he
added: “But, my lord, you will promise me, unless Matthew shall be truly
worthy--in every way a good and reliable man--you will not allow him to
offer love to Cordelia?”

“Yes, William, I promise that. But the promise was not needed. The good
of your child will be to me as precious and as eagerly cared for as my
own life could be.”

“Another promise I would have, my lord; Cordelia shall never be urged to
marry against her will. Oh! what misery have I seen from that cause! A
marriage without love! It is a sin--a crime against common humanity, if
not against heaven! Let my child be reared as I know you will rear her,
and her own heart will be the safest, surest guide to happiness and
peace in the future.”

“Sir William,” the old man replied, with deep feeling, “I give you that
promise from my heart. Your sweet child shall never, with my consent be
asked to wed without love. If I had a daughter of my own, it should be
my chief desire--I may say, the end and aim of my life, to make her
happy. I would keep her pure, and good and true; being well assured that
in her blessedness my own greatest blessing of life would be found. And,
my dear son--for you are as a son to me--I will do by your daughter as I
would by a daughter of my own.”

Sir William murmured a few words in grateful response; but they were not
needed. His tears, and the impulsive grasp of his feeble hand, spoke
louder than any words could have done.

“Dear father,” the sick man said, breaking in upon a silence that lasted
a full minute, he still held the earl’s hand, not having relinquished it
since he had caught it in his impulse of gratitude. “My dear father, if
I may call you so--”

“Never call me by any other name,” the aged nobleman interposed. He
gazed for a few seconds into the pale, wan face upon the pillow, tears
starting from his eyes while he did so; and then resumed: “William, my
son, I know not why it is, but it is a fact nevertheless, a fact that
you have won a place in my heart close by the side of my own noble boy.
Ah! you know I may call him noble.”

“I never knew a nobler man,” the baronet responded quickly.

“Bless you!” the earl went on, two big tears starting down his ruddy
cheeks as he spoke.

“I was saying that I could not understand it. I cannot quite understand
the way and manner in which my heart has gone out to you. It is not that
I love you. No, no. I could not have helped doing that had I tried. No;
the mystery is this. In losing you or in contemplating your loss, I feel
as though I were losing my all of life. Little Cordelia will be my only
love.”

“My lord! Do you forget your son?”

The old man shook his head with dubious look and motion, while a shadow
that told of pain rested on his face.

“No,” he answered, “I think of him continually.” He paused a moment, and
then abruptly asked: “William, are you inclined to laugh at
presentiments?”

“No, my lord, far from it. I have had presentiments of my own that were
later fulfilled to the letter.”

“Chester, you speak of my son. It is a presentiment I have in relation
to him that has drawn my heart so closely to yourself. Something tells
me I shall see him never again on earth. It is not the result of a
dream; it is not a weird fancy; it has come to me like a revelation, and
I cannot put it away. But let it pass. I will not darken your last hours
of life with my gloomsome forebodings. Had you not another request to
make of me in relation to your child?”

The baronet had evidently thought to combat the unhappy presentiment of
his old friend, but when that friend had himself proposed that the
subject be dropped he had no desire to reopen it. To the last question
he replied, after a little reflection:

“Yes, my lord, there is one other subject upon which I wish to speak. I
believe my worldly affairs--affairs of property--are all settled. My
agent at Leyburn will account to you annually in the matter of rents.
The amount will be from £15,000 to £18,000 a year. Something must be
allowed for repairs and improvements. That agent, I think, is strictly
honest; yet it may be well for you to have an eye on the estate for
yourself. The distance is not great. You can go and return, with plenty
of time for business, in two days, with only one night away from your
home.

“My bank account will give you £10,000 more, as it now stands. Of course
you will be adding to it from the returns of the agent. Thus you will
see, I shall leave behind for my child an annual income of at least
£25,000.”

“And you would request me to look after this?” broke in the earl, with a
surprise which he did not attempt to hide. “My dear Sir William, do you
suppose--”

“My lord! My dear father--!” cried the baronet, as soon as he could gain
the power of speech--for his powers were failing rapidly, “how could you
mistake me? Bless my soul! I should as soon have thought of asking you
to be kind and merciful to little Cordelia! Oh! no, no: I will tell you
what I had to ask, and I pointed out the sum and substance of the dear
one’s wealth to show that my request was reasonable--that the cost would
not stand in the way of its fulfillment.

“My lord--listen: It is my earnest desire that my child shall never be
sent away from your immediate care--never from your castle while you
find home in it--never away from your daily loving sight--for the
purpose of attending any school. She can have tutors here; and she shall
be taught whatever she desires to know.”

And he then went on to enumerate the more important branches of
education that had occurred to him. In the end, said the earl, holding
his friend’s hand while he spoke:

“My dear William, it shall be as you have said; and, I may add, it would
have been so if you had not spoken. Expense! Pshaw! Why bless and save
us! I can’t spend the twentieth part of my income in the ordinary way of
living. If I spend a portion of it for the good of our little cherub, I
shall be happy. However, that is all understood. And now, is there not
something more?”

“No, I think of nothing, It is growing dark.”

“Yes; the sun is near its setting.”

“Near its setting? What do you mean? It must have set long ago.”

“Certainly not. Open your eyes--there. Do you see where the sunbeams
fall upon the wainscot, near the door?”

The baronet turned his face in the direction pointed out and shook his
head in disappointment.

“I can not see it. It is dark--dark. My lord.”

“Here, William. What is it?” Thus speaking, the earl moved softly back
to the bedside and took the baronet’s thin, cold hand in his own warm
grasp. “Have you something more to say?”

Chester looked up half vacantly but with an expression of eagerness not
to be mistaken.

“Yes. Sit down, my lord.”

“I am sitting. Do you not see?”

“Not plainly; but I can feel your hand.” He paused here, and for a brief
space seemed buried in profound thought. At length he turned the poor
sightless eyes once more toward his host, and went on, with deep and
anxious feeling:

“Lord Allerdale, will you tell me what is your plan in regard to
Matthew. Is he to live here always with you?”

“Would it give you relief if I should answer you in the negative?”

“Oh! my lord! Do not think I would seek to drive the boy from his proper
home. No! no! no! no! Yet--yet--you will not allow him to--”

“Stop! Stop where you are, William, and let me think a little bit.” With
this the earl took a turn across the room with his head bowed and his
arms folded on his breast. When he came back his countenance had cleared
and a brighter look was on his face than had been there for a
considerable time.

“My dear Chester,” he said with frank sincerity, “within these few
moments last past I have resolved upon an important step. Matthew has
for a long time been teasing me to let him go to school with a friend of
his at Oxford. It is a private establishment, wherein youths are
prepared for entering college. I have thought it all over, and have come
to the conclusion that he will be better off there than here. I shall
let him go.”

Sir William tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His face, however,
in the quick bright light that flashed upon it, told how much the earl’s
speech had comforted him. He had conceived a deep, harrowing dread of
the influence of Matthew Brandon over his sweet child.

The sun had set and the shades of evening had fallen when Sir William
Chester found strength to ask for his daughter.

She came and laid her head beside his own on the pillow. He kissed her
and breathed a whispered blessing; and shortly thereafter the earl took
her down into his lap.

A few moments later the dying man gave a sudden start, and put forth
both his hands, as toward an object in the vacancy above him--the hands,
which for two hours and more he had not been able to lift to his lips.
But they were lifted now, and strongly upheld; and at the same time a
celestial light beamed in his eyes, and brightened his death-white face.

“George! George!” he cried, in seeming ecstasy, “I come! I come! Oh!
this is rest!” And that was the last. His hands fell back upon his
hushed bosom. With those words on his lips, and that ecstatic smile upon
his face, he died. But the strangest part was to come; though the earl
was not unprepared for it. The dying words of Sir William--the evident
vision that had called them forth--had impressed him deeply. He could
not believe they had been meaningless.

Four months had passed after the death of the baronet, when word came
from India that George Brandon, Lord Oakleigh, was dead. He had died not
more than three or four hours before Sir William Chester had breathed
his last.

And thus, by one of those curious dispensations of Providence, given, it
would almost seem, on purpose to puzzle us, a boy in his sixteenth year,
more fit for the pillory than for a title--Matthew Brandon--had become
Lord Oakleigh.

                                -------


                              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.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER IV.

                            DEAD MAN’S REEF.

On the morning following his meeting with the smuggler chief in the wood
our hero was up with the sun, if not a little before it. But, early as
it was, his mother was up still earlier. He had told her on the previous
evening of his promise to Captain Tryon, and she had arisen to get him a
bite of breakfast, as there was no telling at what hour he would board
the brig.

Margery Maitland had changed but very little since her husband’s death.
There were a few lines of silver in the raven blackness of her hair
which had not been there before. Old lines had deepened on her face
while new ones had been added.

She was still a handsome woman, notwithstanding a certain sharpening of
her features and an atmosphere of coldness, almost of misanthropy, that
enveloped her. She was seldom seen to smile and in the presence of her
son she smiled never.

Sometimes, when the old lieutenant, Donald Rodney, with a few of his
chosen mates was spending an evening in the cottage, and the bottle and
punch-bowl circulated freely, then, under the influence of jest and
story, and hearty laughter, she might join them so far as to smile, with
occasionally a hard metallic laugh.

“Mother,” said the youth, after he had taken his seat at the table, on
which she had spread a breakfast that should have pleased an epicure. “I
have a question to ask you; and it is in relation to a matter which has
puzzled me exceedingly. Who and what is this man who has taken my
father’s place on board the brig?”

The woman caught her breath and turned quickly to the fire. With the
tongs she lifted a couple of fallen brands into place by which time she
had regained her wonted composure, and was ready to face her son, which
she did, with a look that she meant to be one of surprise.

“Do you ask me who and what Captain Ralph Tryon is?”

“Exactly, mother. Will you tell me?”

“Well! upon my word! Here he’s been, off and on, for the matter of eight
years and more; and now you ask me that!”

“Yes, mother, I do ask you; for I am sure you know more of him than I
do.”

“Why should you think so?”

“Don’t do that!” the youth pleaded, beseechingly. “I pray you do not
deny a self-evident fact.”

“Boy!”

“Stop! Let me finish. Mother, I never spoke a word with Captain Tryon
that I was not forced to speak--so forced by circumstances beyond my
control. I never held with him a social confab; nor have I ever
conversed with any of my old crew about him. I did, once, ask old Rodney
the same question I have now asked you.”

“Ha! You did! And what was his answer?”

“His answer left me more puzzled than I was before; for he plainly
showed to me that he was not at liberty to talk about his commander. In
short, he wouldn’t say a word, only of refusal.”

“And you’ll get the same answer from me! So, now, go and eat your
breakfast.”

Percy knew his mother well enough to know that if she had so willed,
that must be the end. He was disappointed, and he felt hurt; but there
was no help for it that he could see and he turned his attention to his
meal.

And that would have been the end had Margery been content to leave the
matter as it was; evidently, she was not satisfied. As she moved
noiselessly about the small living-room she cast, ever and anon,
inquiring glances upon her son, as though she had something to ask. And
so she had. As is proved afterward, she was anxious to know what Percy
had discovered or how much, if anything, he suspected with regard to her
relations with the new smuggler chief.

At length she stepped close to his side and after a little further
thought she said:

“Percy, what did you mean by the question you asked me? How could you
suppose that I could know anything of Captain Tryon?”

The youth marked the anxiety in his mother’s voice and it gave him new
cause for distrust. Had all been clear and above board she could not
have felt thus.

“Mother,” he answered, calmly and kindly, but firmly, at the same time
looking her straight in the eye. “I will only tell you what I know. I
know that Ralph Tryon is a frequent visitor here and that you give him
warm welcome. I know that he has more than once come to you for advice
and assistance--”

“Advice, in what?” broke in the woman, eagerly. “In what has he ever
asked me to advise him?”

“Ah! That I do not know. I only know what I have told you, and I know
further that you have--” He stopped abruptly and paused. A moment later
he added, with more feeling than he had before shown, “Mother, I have
said enough in that strain. I have never watched you, never spied upon
you, and never will. Heaven knows I seek only your good. Surely, you can
not wonder that I, when I have seen a man so familiar and so warmly
welcomed beneath this roof as is Ralph Tryon, should be anxious to know
who and what he is. That, you know, I am convinced. What objections have
you to telling me?”

“My dear boy, you see him commander of the Staghound and chief of the
King’s Cove smugglers. Is not this enough? What reason have you for
thinking anything else of him?”

“Mother!” replied the youth, quickly and sternly, with his gaze fixed
sharply on her face, “listen to me. I know that Ralph Tryon is all that
you said. I know, also, that he is more. Somewhere, at some time, I have
seen him under other circumstances, if not under another name.”

Margery Maitland was startled--she was frightened. If not so, then her
looks belied her.

“Percy! What do you say? You have seen him elsewhere--in another guise?
Where? Where was it?”

The youth shook his head.

“Ah! that is the very thing that puzzles me,” he said, dubiously. “I can
not tell where I have seen him, nor when. I only know that it is so.”

Margery had recovered herself, though traces of her recent fright were
still visible.

“Pshaw!” she cried, trying to simulate contempt. “It’s all in your
imagination, boy. Just think of it; here he has been these seven or
eight years, out and in before you, and now, when he is known of all men
for what he is, and for nothing else, you begin to fancy that he is
somebody else! It is ridiculous! You ought to be ashamed of such petty
trifling.”

“All right,” returned Percy, getting up from the table as he spoke. “Let
it pass. Only, my dear mother, I would like to correct you in one thing.
I am not just beginning to fancy the thing I have mentioned. No, no: far
from it. I can well remember the first time I ever set eyes on him and
heard him speak--it was on board the brig--the same belief or impression
possessed me. Yes, even then I could have sworn that he had been known
to me in a totally different guise, and the impression has gone on
gaining strength from that time. But I shall know one of these days.
Something tells me it will be revealed to me. I can wait.”

Again the woman started; and the look she darted upon her son was not
pleasant to see; but his back was turned toward her, and he did not
catch it.

Without further remark, our hero set about his preparations for
departure. The garb he now wore was a neat, well-fitting seaman’s dress,
of fine blue cloth, with an ordinary Scotch cap on his head.

Having donned his cap, and put a flask of wine in his pocket, he threw a
serviceable peacoat over his left arm, and was ready to set forth.

He asked his mother if she had any errand to send to Rodney, or any
other of the crew. She had none. And then, as was his custom, he bade
her a pleasant “good-morning,” by way of adieu, and departed.

If Percy could have looked back upon his mother, as he walked swiftly
away he would have seen that she was watching him with an expression of
countenance far from pleasant or satisfactory.

If the words she spoke to herself could have reached his ears, he would
have heard her mutter with marked anxiety:

“Mercy! He must be warned! I must put him on guard at once. If Percy is
bent upon discovering his secret, who shall say that he may not do it?
He is sharp; and he can be stubborn. Heavens and earth! If he should
discover! But he must not! Ralph must look to himself. There can be no
danger if we are both careful. I know I can be so; and I think he will
be.”

But the youth heard not; and it may have been well that ignorance in
that direction was his portion. He was bound for the landing where we
saw him step from his skiff to the shore on the previous afternoon.

It was distant half a mile from the cottage, the path lying through a
deep wood most of the way.

The sun was just rising above the hills beyond the park when he reached
it. He was in ample time.

He made quick work of getting his boat into the stream and his oars out,
and he was not long in pulling to the lake.

Once there, where he could make use of the wind, he let drop the center
board; then stepped the mast, and very soon thereafter the light craft
was shooting away under a broad leg-of-mutton sail, like a race horse,
that is, supposing that a race horse could travel like a duck.

The distance from the inner shore of the bay to the outer headlands was
not far from two miles. The brig was to come from the south, so our
pilot put his boat’s head in that direction, running it over Dead Man’s
Reef, the great black rocks of which he could plainly see as he passed
above them.

They were, in truth, terrible looking things and the man who would have
proposed to run a large vessel, anything deeper than a common sailboat,
through the territory they occupied might well have been deemed insane
or mad.

Percy ran out between the southern headland of the bay, called South
Head and Hood’s Island, and scarcely had he gained the open sea when he
saw the brig three miles away or more, coming up with the wind on her
larboard beam and every rag of canvas spread that she could carry. What
did it mean? he asked himself.

Ha! Ere long he saw. Having run a little further out, so that his eye
could sweep the southern horizon to the coast, he espied a heavy ship,
also spanking along under all the sail she could spread. He kept a small
telescope in the close locker in the stern-sheets, and, through this,
standing erect against the mast, he viewed the stranger.

“Oho! The sloop-of-war, as I live!” He made sure there could be no
mistake, then he put away the glass and resumed his place at the helm.

The corvette was, as nearly as he could judge, three miles distant from
the brig and she appeared to be gaining. At first Percy was surprised.
He had not thought there was a ship in the British navy that could sail
with the Staghound; but he very soon solved the mystery. The latter’s
lee scuppers were under water. She was loaded as he had never seen her
loaded before. Only a reckless, unreliable man could have done such a
thing.

In a heavy seaway, or in the teeth of a respectable storm, she would
have foundered, in spite of all that could have been done to save her.
Of course, the throwing overboard of a portion of the cargo might have
saved her; but, if they would have cast it over in a storm, why had they
not done it to enable them to run way from the king’s ship?

With the brig and the boat approaching one another rapidly, the three
miles were quickly covered. Percy had taken in his sail, and unstepped
his mast just in season to catch a line thrown to him from the brig’s
lee quarter; and in a few moments more he was on her deck, with his boat
towing astern.

The brig was a Yankee-built vessel; originally, as lettering in her
cabin proved, hailing from Baltimore. She had a capacity of two hundred
and fifty tons; was sharp forward; with a clean, pretty run; spars lofty
and very nearly perpendicular, depending for support more on the
strength of stays and shrouds than on bulk and weight of timber, with a
spread of canvas that completely overshadowed her.

The first man to greet the youth as he sprang over the quarter-rail, was
the old lieutenant, Donald Rodney, a man past his first half century of
life; a stout, rugged, pleasant-faced English seaman.

He was a true friend and he meant to do as nearly right as he knew how;
or, such had been his aim in other years, but he had of late fallen
under new influences, and Percy, as he gazed upon him, and found his eye
faltering, feared that he had been going wrong.

In short, he feared that all hands--that everything on board, had been
going wrong for a considerable time.

However, that was no time for moralizing. He had come to save the brig,
and he would do it if he could. He cast his eyes over the taffrail, and
saw the ship not a fathom more than a mile and a half away. She was
nearer than he had thought.

“Donald, why haven’t you cast overboard a part of your cargo! Mercy on
us! If the corvette had a single mile more of running space she would be
very apt to--”

The speech was cut short by the flash of a gun at the ship’s weather
bridle port and at the same instant a crashing aloft. A few moments
later the brig’s main top-gallant mast came tearing down over the lee
rail.

“Cut away! Cut everything clear!” shouted our hero. He paused here, and
looked around upon the men who came crowding upon the quarter-deck.

The brig’s crew numbered five-and-fifty men, only thirty of whom had
been with the old commander, Captain Maitland. The five-and-twenty new
men had been added by Tryon, and they were a dark-visaged, evil-eyed
looking set. The only thing that Percy could think of when he looked at
them, was five-and-twenty pirates! He was well aware that of the old
crew there were a number--perhaps the majority of them--who would have
readily departed upon an evil course under the influence of an evil
leader. He looked over the crew as they came aft, and asked them:

“Will you give the command to me? Quick with your answer!”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Then cut away the wreck of the mast and take your stations, Rodney!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Put two of the very best men you have at the wheel.”

“I guess I’d better be one of ’em, sir.”

“No. I want you in the waist. I must take my place on the heel of the
bowsprit, when the pinch comes.”

Two good men of the crew, both of whom our hero knew well, took the
wheel, and the brig was soon on her course, with the wreck of the
topgallant mast floating astern. The corvette let fly one more shot, but
without effect, and she seemed inclined to fire no more. She had found
herself gaining so fast that further firing would be worse than useless.
Not only would it be a waste of ammunition, but they would be making a
wreck of their own prize.

Aye, the officers of the king’s ship were as sure of the brig as they
were of the coming of noontime. They knew there was a bay somewhere
ahead into which the chase would probably run; but they could run in as
well and capture the bold contrabandists at their leisure.

The brig was now within a few minutes’ run of the southern headland of
Raven Bay, and between that headland and Hood’s Island was a broad, fair
opening to the inlet beyond; but close behind it, lurking in the hidden
depths like hungry beasts of prey were the sunken rocks of Dead Man’s
Reef. The reef stretched the whole distance, on a line between the
headland and the island; and never yet within the knowledge of man had a
vessel larger than a common pleasure-boat dared to attempt the passage.
No fisherman of that region was reckless enough to risk his smack over
that death-trap. The true channel, the proper and safe entrance to the
bay, was a mile further to the northward, between the upper headland and
Old Man’s Island.

“I tell ye,” cried a man of the brig’s crew, looking back upon the
corvette and then ahead upon the point beyond Old Man’s Island, “we can
never reach it in the world!”

“Silence!” shouted the youthful pilot, in a voice that reached every
ear, and caused every man to start. “I said I would save you. Obey me to
the letter and I will do it. Stand by, all hands! Clew up the mainsail!
Lay the yards square! Up helm! Easily! So!”

The men were thunderstruck. They did not refuse to obey, yet they were
sure they were going to wreck and ruin. Aye--for they were heading fair
and square upon Dead Man’s Reef! What in the world did it mean?

“Percy! Percy! You can never do it--never!” groaned old Rodney in an
agony of terror.

“I’ll do it, Donald, if you are sharp enough to follow me--to see that
the helm answers my orders.”

“I’ll do the best I can, dear boy. But--Oh, can ye do it?”

“Wait and see.”

The youth then spoke to the men a word of cheer, assuring them that he
could take the brig safely through the reef, and then took his station
forward, with Donald in the waist to pass his orders aft, in case there
should be need. He had already given to the helmsmen general
instructions, so they knew how to steer till the need should come for a
change. And pretty soon it came. The brig had passed into the mouth of
the bay, with South Head on her starboard quarter, and Hood’s Island on
her larboard; and now the long stretch of Dead Man’s Reef was under her
forefoot, and she had almost an eighth of a mile to run in the midst of
the terrible rocks!

The young hero never blanched, never quivered, though every other man on
board shook from top to toe.

“Helm, there!--starboard!--steady!--so! Starboard again! Easy!--hold!
Now! port--so!”

And so he went on through the trying time. The men hung over the sides,
looking down upon the ugly rocks, some of which were within two or three
feet of the surface--looking down, and holding their breaths--wondering
if the thing could be possible. It seemed a long, long time; though it
was not many minutes before the glad shout went up.

“There we are!” exclaimed Percy, as he stepped down from his perch
forward and went aft. “The reef is behind us, and all with us is well.
How is it with the ship, I wonder?”

Aye, how was it? The commander of the corvette, seeing the heavily laden
brig slip in so readily to the fair looking opening, between the
headland and the island, determined that he would follow. If the brig
could go his ship could go. But alas and alack for the ship! The last
the smugglers saw of her, as they were about to pass from the sight of
their expectant, prize-loving crew, she was hard and fast on the rocks.

We may add: Her boats were sufficient to save all the human life within
her, but for herself, she was to lie there until the winds and waves,
with the assistance of the sunken rocks, had beaten her in pieces.

                                -------


                               CHAPTER V.

                        OLD DONALD’S CONFESSION.

While the unfortunate sloop-of-war lay jammed in between two jagged
sunken rocks of the terrible reef, with rocks ahead of her, and rocks
astern and rocks on every hand; and while her boats were busy in getting
the men of her crew safely to the shore, the smuggler brig was at anchor
in King’s Cove, as effectually hidden from the prying eyes of her
enemies as though she had been at the bottom of the sea.

Never mind about the wild plaudits of the outlaws as they gathered
around their youthful pilot and preserver. But for him they would have
been either prisoners or dead--every man of them; and they knew it.

Percy could not prevent them from being grateful, nor could he entirely
hush their loud and boisterous acclaims; the most he could do was to
persuade them to cut it as short as possible and, soon as he could find
opportunity, to get away into the cabin with Donald Rodney.

Next to his father, old Donald had been the one man of the old crew whom
Percy had loved and esteemed. He could not remember the time when he had
not loved “Uncle Rodney” as he had called him in his boyhood.

The first crew organized by Hugh Maitland had acknowledged Donald Rodney
as second in command, and from that time he had followed the career then
commenced.

And the youth still retained his love for the dear old friend of his
boyhood: and, further, he had accepted a great many favors from the old
man’s hand.

Thus loving, and thus respecting, the veteran, our hero had determined
to hold with him a serious conversation. He was bound, if possible, to
know the present character of the brig; together with something more of
the character of the man who now commanded her.

Rodney, as soon as his young friend had taken a seat, produced a bottle,
and two glasses.

“Only one bottle, my dear boy; for I know its the wine you’ll like. Just
taste it, and say if you ever tasted finer.”

Percy filled a glass and sipped a little of it, and the old man had not
exaggerated. He had certainly never tasted a finer wine, and he said so.
He drank the contents of his glass slowly, and then leaned back in his
chair.

He saw very plainly that the old man was nervous and uneasy--that he
would rather have been almost anywhere else than in that cabin with the
son of his old commander looking him in the eye. But the youth intended
to deal gently with him, though squarely.

“Donald, I have called you down here because I have a few questions to
ask--questions which I hope and trust you will answer. But, first, let
me give you my solemn promise that anything you may say to me--any
information you may give me--shall be held sacred and secret in my own
bosom. I will never use information from your lips to the injury of any
living being. Surely that ought to lead you to trust me.”

“Heave ahead, Percy!” the smuggler replied, frankly. Presently he added
with a smile, but not a happy one, “I can imagine pretty nearly what ye
want, and I tell ye, fair and honest, if ye lay too close I shall sheer
off.”

“All right, old friend. Take your own course. In the first place, will
you tell me what your present cargo consists of? Remember, I have this
day saved it--saved not only the cargo and brig, but every man on board.
Where would you be at this moment, Rodney, but for me?”

“Either shot, or in irons on board a king’s ship,” answered the old man
promptly.

“When I boarded the brig this morning,” pursued Percy, “her main-hatch
was off.”

“Yes, I’d ordered it off, thinkin’ we might have to throw overboard some
of the cargo; and some of it would have gone if the captain’s men hadn’t
stuck out so against it.”

“You mean the new men, who came in with Tryon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Rodney, as I cast my eyes down into the hold I caught sight of
two or three boxes, iron-bound, bearing the name and marks we sometimes
see on boxes of merchandise brought over by American vessels. What are
they doing in the Staghound’s hold? What are they? Will you tell me?”

The old man was terribly perplexed. His two hard, brown hands were
clasped on his knees, and his head was bent.

“Donald, can’t you look me in the face, as of old?”

Upon that the poor man broke down. He could contain himself no longer.

“No, Percy! I can’t!”

“Poor old Donald! What is it? How much have you--suffered them to lead
you into doing?”

“Percy! I swear to you--I swear, on my Bible oath, that I’ve never
lifted a hand to help in any of their mean, dirty work! The most I’ve
done has been to let others do it, and wink at it. And yet, if we’d been
taken to day by the king’s ship I should have been strung up with the
rest of ’em! I tell you truly, dear boy, I never thought how dreadful it
would be till it was all over.

“Oh! when we were honest smugglers, only bringing over the goods
honestly bought in France, or Holland, or Germany, payin’ hard gold for
everything we took, and simply runnin’ it in without stoppin’ to ask the
king’s permission, and sellin’ it to them as would buy--why, then, my
boy, I could look an honest man in the face anywhere. Then, Percy, some
o’ the first men in the land were our friends. Bless ye, boy, your
father had friends everywhere. There was scarcely a lord or a lady
anywhere along the coast that didn’t bid him welcome. Ah! it’s different
now.”

“In short, Donald, the Staghound has become a pirate?”

“Ye-e-es! You’ve hit it. I won’t try to deny it.”

“And Ralph Tryon is responsible for it?”

“Take care, Percy! Don’t ask too much about him!”

“You can answer that. Is not he the chief power in this business? Was it
not through his influence that the wicked trade was entered upon?”

“Through his and the rest of the gang.”

“But he was the chief?”

“Yes, I s’pose he was.”

“Now, Donald, how far has this thing gone? Have you taken human life?”

“For the love of heaven!” groaned the suffering old man, with his
clasped hands extended, “don’t ask me any more. Let the one thing I’m
goin’ to tell ye of my own free will satisfy ye. And, mind this, ye’ll
keep what I now say a secret. Will ye promise that?”

The youth promised, and the other went on, speaking in low, whispered
tones, and ever and anon casting a quick, furtive glance around.

“There’s two-and-twenty of us--all the old crew but eight--have sworn to
one another by a solemn oath that we’ll leave the brig after this.
There’s a good deal of property aboard--honestly got--that belongs to
us, and we want it; but, as soon as we get the business squared, we will
clear out. And, really, I doubt if we are wanted. At all events, I aint.
They don’t trust me.”

“Good! good! And you will let me give you a bit of advice. Get clear of
the brig as soon as you can. Your doings have made a noise in London,
and very soon a strong effort will be made to find the offending
vessel.”

Donald assured his young friend that he and his mates would get clear as
soon as they possibly could; and upon this a silence fell, which lasted
while they both took another sip of wine, and a few seconds beyond.
Percy broke it.

“Donald, I come now to a question which I am very anxious you should
answer, and, before asking it, I will renew the pledge of secrecy which
I gave you before. Will you tell me what you know of Ralph Tryon?
Who--What--! Can a simple question startle you like that? Has the man
such power over old Donald Rodney that he dare not speak?”

“No! no! Percy, you don’t understand. We’re all bound by a terrible
oath--one of the most terrible ye can imagine--that we won’t speak in
answer to any such question as you have asked. I’d rather lose a hand
than answer ye!”

“For how long a time have you been bound by that oath, Rodney?”

“For a long, long time. But don’t ask me. I mustn’t answer to anything
of the kind.”

“Well, look ye, old friend--my old ‘uncle,’ who loved me once, and
who--”

“Loves you more than ever before,” broke in the old man, feelingly.

“I believe you, Donald; and I hope you will feel like answering my next
question. Tell me, haven’t I known, or haven’t I seen Ralph Tryon in
another character--a character widely different from that in which he
now appears?”

Rodney had started with the old fright as the youth began to speak, but
a moment later he had taken on a new look--one of quick, keen inquiry.

“Percy,” he said in a hoarse whisper, scarcely audible, at the same time
laying his hand on his companion’s knee. “What have ye got in your mind?
Where d’ye think ye’ve seen him?”

“There is the trouble, Donald. For the life of me I cannot tell, and yet
I am as sure of it as I am that you now sit before me. Will you help
me?”

Every line and lineament of the old man’s face was wrought upon by an
agony of physical torture. After a little pause he started to his feet
and laid a hand on the youth’s head, and his voice when he spoke was
full of earnest, prayerful supplication.

“Percy! Percy! If you love me, don’t ask me any more! It’s more than my
life is worth to answer you as you wish to be answered. I can’t! I
can’t! Oh! you will give over, won’t you? You won’t torture me any more?
Ask me anything else in the world--anything--and I’ll answer, if I know
how; but not that--Oh! not that!”

“All right; I won’t press you further, Donald. I am only sorry that the
wretch has gained such power over you; but I am glad you have resolved
to break the chain.”

“Yes, yes, dear boy, I’ll break that, be sure; but, you’ll remember, my
oath will last while I live. You will never ask me that question again,
will you?”

Percy gave the promise, and thus failed his last chance, his last solid
hope of solving the mystery that had so perplexed him and that was
perplexing him still; aye, and that must continue to perplex him until
he could discover that which was so strangely, yet so effectually,
hidden from him.

“By the way,” he said, after they had both arisen and were ready for
returning to the deck--the thought had at that moment occurred to
him--“there is one thing you can tell me. I have often wondered that
Captain Tryon never offered nor asked to remain beneath the roof of our
cottage through a night. Why is this? Where does he spend his time when
on shore?”

The old man scratched his head, and then gave his trousers a hoist; then
he scratched his head again. Finally, with a burst, he answered:

“’Pon my word, Percy, I can’t tell you. One thing I will say--yes, two
of ’em--and them’s the only two I’ll speak, if ’twas to save my life!
First, then, the captain, when he is ashore, spends a part of his time
in another place, where he’s got friends. It isn’t anywhere about these
parts. Second, I haven’t the least bit of doubt that he’s got a secret
hidin’ place somewhere near the Cove, or, anyhow, not a great ways off;
but, as I’m a livin’ man, I don’t know where it is. I aint one of them
that he trusts with that kind of a secret.”

“A hiding-place near--”

“Hush! Be careful, for heaven’s sake! Don’t say any more. Let that be
the last.”

“So be it, Donald, and for what you have told me I thank you.”

“Say!--Percy!” catching the young man by the arm as he was about to lift
his foot to the first step of the ladder, “you won’t lisp a word to your
mother of what I’ve told ye--not a word!”

“Have no fear, Donald. I will speak of it to nobody, and never as having
come from you.”

“Bless ye for that, my boy.”

And then they went on deck, where they found the men of the crew
variously employed. Half of them had gone on shore, while the remainder
were at work putting matters to rights.

Old Donald’s first care after his pilot had left him was to attend to
the replacing of the lost topgallant-mast, for which they had plenty of
spar timber aboard.

A dozen or more of the crew gathered around our hero as he stood on the
quarterdeck, all eager to take him by the hand and speak a parting word.
He read in their faces the feeling that they might never see him again.
The information Donald had given him enabled him to do this. And his
words of good will and blessing in response appeared to be accepted by
them as though they were aware of his knowledge. They probably thought
their old mate had told him of their plans for the future. He gave them,
each and all, a hearty grasp of the hand and a soul-sent God’s blessing,
and so he left them.

Old Donald went with him to the shore; and the last friendly look
exchanged between them was through brimming tears.

Percy was saved the trouble of telling to his mother the story of his
adventure on board the brig. He found two of the old crew at the cottage
before him--two men who had been true to his father, and who, he had no
doubt, were of the number banded together for the purpose of seeking new
employment.

But they would make no remark in relation thereto in the widow’s
hearing. The smugglers all knew that she was friendly to their chief;
and they believed she would support and defend him against the rest
together.

They wondered at it, as her son had wondered. What she could have found
in the man to respect or esteem they--the true men of the old
crew--could not imagine. It was a puzzle in every way.

There were times when it appeared to our hero that his mother was warmly
attached to Tryon, that she served and obeyed him because of her liking
for the man. There were other times, however, when it appeared as though
she was afraid of the man, that she held him in fear, if not in absolute
terror.

Yes, it was a puzzle, a puzzle to Percy Maitland of the most perplexing
and even painful character. And he thought of it now more painfully than
ever before, now that the revelation or confession of old Rodney had
opened up the full blackness of the villain’s character. He had always
believed Ralph Tryon to be a villain and now he knew it, knew him to be
guilty of one of the gravest crimes known to the law of man. Did his
mother know this? How could she help knowing it? She must have known it
from the first.

Aye--as he reflected--as he called to mind certain scenes of the past,
he remembered words spoken between the two--between his mother and Ralph
Tryon--which had reference to this very business.

Once, very nearly a year before, when he had come suddenly and
unexpectedly upon them while they were in close conversation, he had
heard these words from Tryon’s lips: “Ho! ’twould be a quick hanging,
and no mercy, if he were once caught!”

And there had been other things as significant as that. Yes; his mother
had been knowing to the man’s true character from the first. And that
had been--how long? He had forgotten to ask Donald the question, but he
could judge nearly.

It had been little more than a year ago. At the time he had overheard
that remark about a quick hanging the work of piracy had just been
entered upon. It had been only a little while previous to that time that
he, Tryon, had been given full and undisputed command.

But where was the use? The conversation in the brig’s cabin had aroused
his feelings to a high pitch of excitement, and it took a considerable
time to quiet them; but he did it at length. He turned his thoughts to a
pleasanter theme.

It was near noon when he arrived at the cottage, and he had found his
mother at work setting out a repast for her two visitors. He went up to
his chamber and made a radical change in his garb, appearing, when it
was complete, very nearly as we found him on the previous day, save that
in place of the high-topped boots he had put on a pair of light, but
firm-soled, walking shoes, such as would be easy and safe in climbing
the craggy eminence he had in view.

The meal had been prepared on his return to the room below, and a plate
had been set for him, so he took his place at the board and made a
hearty meal with the two seamen.

They were his friends, and while they ate together more than one glance
passed between them signifying that they were in possession of a common
secret; and once they came so near to letting it out by an unguarded
remark that Margery was startled.

“What is that?” she asked, turning quickly upon the man who had
spoken--an old seaman and a good one--named Stephen Harley. “What did
you say, Stephen? That you wouldn’t sail in the brig again?”

“Bless your dear soul! no,” the poor fellow replied, trembling like an
aspen. And a happy thought struck him in his moment of need. “I was
sayin’ to Master Percy--God bless him!--’at we shouldn’t none of us been
likely to’ve sailed in the dear old brig again--never again--if that
king’s ship had overhauled us. And she’d ’a’ done it, ma’am, if it
hadn’t been for your boy here. My soul! I wish you could ’ave seen her
on the rocks. Hi! I wonder ’f they’ve got any more ships that want to
dance over Dead Man’s Reef.”

The woman took the answer seriously, never suspecting a hidden meaning.
The men, both of them, knew her too well, knew too surely where her
sympathies lay, to speak in her hearing of their plans for the future.

Had she but suspected an intent on the part of any of the crew to
forsake their chief, she would be sure to give him warning.

Percy finished his meal, and having bidden his two friends an
affectionate adieu, he left the cottage, feeling freer and lighter of
heart when he was clear of it. It was his home--had been his home since
his birth, and his mother presided at the hearthstone, yet he could not
love it.

Since his father’s death its atmosphere had not been congenial to him.
There were times when this feeling was so strong within him that it
seemed impossible that he could remain there longer; but his promise to
his dying father held him.

Not, however, beyond his majority. Now that he had reached the age of
one-and-twenty, he was free to go where he pleased. What should hold him
after that? Ah! he was on his way to the attraction at that very moment.
The bond that held him was not at the cottage.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER VI.

                            ON WITCH’S CRAG.

When Percy reached the castle he found Cordelia all ready for her
ramble, with her maid in waiting to attend her. Mary Seymour was this
maid’s name, a cheery-faced, intelligent, pretty girl, just a year older
than was her mistress. She had flaxen hair and blue eyes--eyes full of
good-nature and frolic; straightforward, truthful and honest.

The friendship between Percy Maitland, the smuggler’s son, and the
daughter of Sir William Chester was something curious. It had commenced
within a month after the girl’s first appearance at Allerdale--shortly
before she had completed her twelfth year of life.

One of the first impressions made upon the baronet, after he had
accepted a home at the castle, had been in relation to the earl’s
grandson--Matthew Brandon--who, as we remember, had then entered upon
his sixteenth year; or he was about entering upon it when the baronet
and his daughter arrived.

Instinctively--in spite of his love and esteem for the boy’s noble
father; in spite of his love and deep reverence for the good old
grandfather, he conceived a strong, shuddering dislike toward that boy.
He fought against it, but without avail.

Under these circumstances little Cordelia chanced to fall in with Percy
Maitland, and a mutual attachment, as strong and enduring as it was
sudden and unbidden, was the result.

Percy took her in his boat, and led her by the banks of the river, and
taught her to fish, and he guided her through the wild passes of the
crag, and gathered for her all the beautiful flowers he could find.

At length the boy of the stone cottage came under the eye of Sir
William. Cordelia brought him. She had told so much about him that her
father had become eager to see and know him.

In a very short time the keen-eyed, observing baronet had read the boy’s
character without mistake. In fact, it was one of those characters--and
the character was written on a face and stamped in a voice--which could
not be mistaken.

And the baronet had, from the very first, felt it in his heart to thank
his good fortune that had brought such a companion and playmate for his
sweet child: and when, later, he had discovered that the low-born boy
was competent to teach all that his loved one could wish to know, his
thankfulness was increased to a degree that rendered him happily
content.

And so, as we have already seen, matters had gone on during the few
remaining months of the parent’s life. And since that time there had
been no change. Percy had remained the lady’s true and loyal knight,
teaching her all that she knew of school studies, and attending
faithfully upon her whenever need required, or opportunity offered. In
truth, the earl had appointed the youth to the post of teacher.

When the question had arisen concerning a resident tutor for the young
girl, she had herself decided. She had put her foot down emphatically,
and had said:

“I will have Percy Maitland for my tutor, and none other.”

And the earl had not disputed her. Really, he did not want a strange
tutor beneath his roof; he did not want the trouble of selecting, with a
chance, in the end, that he might be cheated.

The men in every way competent and morally qualified to teach a
beautiful young lady, like his sweet ward, were not plenty. So it was,
truly, a source of great relief to him when it had been finally decided
that young Maitland should be her tutor.

And so matters had gone on from that time. If the old earl had ever
asked himself if mischief, or trouble, could possibly come from it, he
had not made the query manifest to others. Everything went so evenly, so
smoothly, and so happily, that he had not the heart to disturb it.

With regard to Matthew, the young Lord Oakleigh, he was at home but
little. It had been from the first his desire that he should attend
school, with friends whom he loved, at Oxford; and his grandfather had
not flatly refused him, though he had seriously objected.

Knowing the boy’s character as he did--knowing how prone he was to
error, how untruthful he could be and how easily he gave way to
passion--knowing this, the earl had felt it to be his duty to keep the
lad at home if he could.

But it was not to be. On the first occasion when he had asserted his
authority, and kept master Matthew within the castle walls against his
will, he had run away at night, and had remained away two months and
more, and before he went he had robbed his grandfather’s strong box of a
large amount of money in gold. After that the earl had surrendered, and
the boy had been suffered to lead his own life after his own will and
pleasure.

One thing, and one only, gave the old man a grain of comfort: his
grandson seemed desirous to gain a good education; and so long as the
boy was at Oxford, at his studies, he would try to be content. Ah! if
Lord Allerdale could have known the character and extent of the youth’s
studies, it might have been different!

At the age of eighteen Matthew had entered one of the best colleges, or,
at least, he professed so to have done, and the time for his graduation
was now near at hand.

Touching the matter of money, he had plenty to spend; more, in fact,
than he should have had, but his father had left him a goodly sum. He
had also inherited from his mother, so his guardian, as the less of two
evils, had let him have about all he had asked for. The greater evil,
which the earl could not have put away, was debt.

During his visits to the castle, from first to last, Lord Oakleigh had
given Cordelia but little trouble; though he sometimes looked at her in
a manner that made her afraid. And he had once let fall a remark that
she could not forget. It had been about a year previous to the time of
which we are now writing. He had been at home on the autumnal vacation.

One day he met Cordelia in one of the halls, alone, and offered to kiss
her. She pushed him away angrily, and bade him, with quivering lips and
flashing eyes, never to repeat the offense.

He laughed at her, seeming to enjoy her spitefulness, as he called it;
and he said to her, with significant nod, and a look straight into her
eyes:

“Don’t be afraid of me, my pretty one. I should be a fool to harm you,
seeing that you are my own. Look sharp, Cordelia. Be sure you’re ready
when I call for you!”

And with that he had turned away, and had never alluded to the subject
since; but our heroine was very sure he thought of it, and it worried
and fretted her exceedingly.

They set forth, a happy, merry trio--Cordelia, Percy, and Mary--the
latter being regarded as a dear companion rather than as a servant.

The distance from the castle to the foot of Witch’s Crag was a full
mile, perhaps a little more. Two-thirds of the way lay through the park,
the remainder being woods.

The day had thus far been clear and bright. With the coming of noon it
had grown to be very warm--almost too warm for September--but a gentle
breeze fanned their cheeks and gave them comfort.

The course they were pursuing was toward the north. If there were clouds
rising beyond the crag they did not see them. And had they seen them
they would have taken no alarm.

“We must visit the old chapel of the monks!” said Cordelia, as they were
entering the forest.

“Certainly,” responded Percy. “A visit to the Witch’s Crag, without
paying one’s respects to the memory of the old Franciscans, would seem
almost sacrilegious.”

Accordingly, when half-way through the wood, they turned into a path
that swerved to the right, which they followed to the foot of the crag.
They had seen the wonderful mass of ragged rock many times, yet they
viewed it now in awe and wonder.

There it arose before them, a steep, wild ascent of broken, jagged
rocks--ledge on ledge and bowlder on bowlder--until, at the summit, a
height of 600 feet above sea level was reached.

And on that south side, which our adventurers had approached, the
acclivity was bold and abrupt. Toward the west, as we remarked in the
beginning, it sloped down gradually, its foot a mile and a half from the
top, reaching to the water’s edge. But the rugged rise of the crag was
not all of interest their eyes looked upon.

Bearing to the right, a short distance up the rough ascent, was seen
what, at first sight, appeared to be a mass of rock, thus quaintly piled
up by some wonderful convulsion of nature; but, upon nearer view, it was
found to be the work of human hands.

It was a solid, massive structure; its walls built from the rock of the
crag; large enough to comfortably accommodate three to four hundred
people within.

It was oblong in form: the walls were not far from fifteen feet in
height: its roof--its most wonderful part--being a massive arch, formed
of large blocks of stone hewn to the required form for the purpose.

Its broad doorway was an open arch toward the south, and on the sides
were six arched openings for windows, with the brazen frames and leaden
mullions of the casements intact; but there were no panes--no signs of
glass to be seen.

How many years the structure had stood there none could tell. Tradition
told that a fraternity of Franciscans--gray friars--had once occupied a
monastery near where the castle now stood; and that they had erected
this chapel as an offering to St. Francis, whose effigy, in stone, had
stood near the altar, while they had occupied it.

How many years it had stood there, none could tell; yet its wall, and
its wonderful roof, were as tight, as impervious to water, as ever. At
the open windows, and at the deep arch of the vestibule, the storm could
find entrance; but nowhere else.

Our three adventurers entered the chapel and looked around. The altar,
at the end opposite the entrance, was a single stone set against the
rear wall.

It was four feet high by about five feet wide, and three feet deep from
front to rear. In a far corner at the other end, toward the door, were a
dozen or more square blocks of stone that had evidently been intended
for seats.

In those old times, and amongst those old friars, it was not deemed
necessary that a worshiper should sit while holding communion with
Jehovah; and seats, as a general thing, were not provided.

These few granite blocks might have been designed for the sick, lame, or
aged, who could not stand. As they left the chapel Percy looked at his
watch, a reliable time-piece his father had brought to him from France,
and found it to be almost three o’clock.

“Shall we have time to go to the top of the crag?” he asked, with a
shade of anxiety on his face.

“Oh, yes! yes! We shall have plenty of time--four hours, at least.”

“It will be very dark in four hours from now, dear lady.”

“Time enough. Oh, I must see the top; and the view out to sea! You shall
know how fast I can walk.”

Percy smiled and nodded assent, and on they went. It was a wild, rugged
road, but more in the seeming than in fact, for the experienced guide,
who had traversed the crag in every direction from earliest childhood,
knew every inch of the way, and was able to follow a path almost as easy
of ascent as would have been the climbing of a grassy slope of the same
inclination.

By and by they came to a stretch of path which was restful--a grand
aisle, with perpendicular walls towering aloft on either hand; the floor
of which was very smooth and even, and wide enough to allow two persons
to walk abreast, with room to spare.

In reaching this point, they had climbed an ascent where our hero had
given to Cordelia his hand; and he continued to hold it after the need
had passed.

Mary was several yards in the rear, and seemed inclined to remain so.

For a time the two in advance had been silent. The sublimity of the
scene around them had inspired them.

Presently Cordelia looked up, with a new light in her eyes and a new
look on her beautiful face. A new thought had possessed her--a thought
that sent a tremor to her heart, imparting a perceptible quiver to her
lips.

“Percy!” she said, withdrawing her hand from his grasp and transferring
it to his arm, where it clung trustingly. “Percy! what did you mean by
what you said to me last evening when you asked me to look when you
worked out that matter of interest?”

He looked at her with surprise, and his look plainly asked her to what
she referred.

“Don’t you remember?” she said, in answer to his silent question. “You
said I shouldn’t have you always to help me; and--and--Percy--you spoke
as though I might not have you a great while. Did you mean that?”

The girl’s look and tone--the light of her eyes, and the deep feeling
unmistakably stamped on her face, would have caused a colder, sterner,
and a duller man than was Percy Maitland to pale and tremble. The great
love of his heart was never so near the surface before. It threatened,
almost, to burst the bounds of sense and reason, and find for itself
utterance.

But it must not be. The pure, gentle girl had trusted him, and that
trust he would not betray.

“Dear lady,” he said, as soon as he dared venture his voice, “you can
not know how aimless is the life I now lead. I gave to my father, when
he lay dying, a solemn promise that I would remain with my mother until
I was one-and-twenty. That event is past. I saw the dawning of my
twenty-second year three months ago. I am but wasting my life here.”

“Wasting--your--life! Oh, Percy! Have all the months--the years--been
wasted that you have spent in helping me? What should I do if you were
gone?”

“Hush, hush! You know not what you are saying.”

“Percy! What is the matter with you? What new freak have you taken into
your head? Why are you so eager to go away?”

Was she playing with him--trifling with his heart? He asked himself the
question, and then bent his gaze upon her upturned face. Oh, no, no!
There were tears in her eyes, and on her face a soul-sent prayer.

What could she mean? How much dared he to speak? A curious thought
occurred to him. In all the years he had known her--through all their
intimate association--though she had always called him by his Christian
name, she had done it in the days of childhood, and she had done it ever
since--in all that time he had never dared, had never presumed, to
address her in any way save as a lady, set by the rank of birth high
above him.

In the early days he had been old enough, with manly feelings enough, to
respect the rank she held, and he had felt proud that he was admitted to
her friendship.

And now the thought came to him--an audacious thought--that he would
call her as her grandfather called her; as Lord Oakleigh was permitted
to call her. He would do it, and mark the result. He expected it would
startle her; most likely, offend her; she might be angry, but he would
try it.

He trembled with thought of the daring; but, after a time, he felt that
his voice might be trusted. He looked down upon her--so looked that her
eyes must gaze straight into his own when she lifted her head, and then,
drawing the hand upon his arm more closely to his side, he made the
venture:

“Cordelia!”

She looked up quickly, looked up with a joy in her face, with a
happiness beaming in her sparkling eyes, such as the youth had never
seen there before.

Never had his voice sounded so softly sweet in her ears, never had she
heard music so nearly divine. She clung to him fondly, and expectantly,
waiting for him to go on.

“Percy!” she whispered, when she found that he would speak no further.
“What were you going to say?”

He could contain himself no longer. The deep feelings of his heart, held
in check so long, were to find utterance at length. But he had a thought
of the maid walking behind them, and was guarded.

“O dear, dear lady! Cordelia! How dared I speak that name? How dared I
call you as those of your own rank in life call you? I will tell you, if
I may. Shall I go on?”

“Yes, yes; go on.” And she wound her arm more closely around the support
it had found.

“I spoke that name for a test, dear--”

“Ah! Have a care, sir!” she broke in, as his voice hung for a moment in
choice for a word, and she looked up archly, with something in her eyes
that startled him.

“Cordelia!” he cried, gazing now without flinching, “I can not believe
that you would trifle with me. I can not believe that you could find it
in your heart to make light of the holiest feelings--the purest and
loftiest aspirations of my soul. Something tells me--I see it in your
face--in your kindly smile--that you will not be offended if I confess
to you the one deep controlling sentiment of my heart. I can make the
confession, and then bid you farewell. Ah! if--But why complain? I must
suffer. And yet I would not lose the memory of this blessed hour for all
the world beside! Cordelia, could I have been with you all these
years--so intimate--our companionship so close and trusting--could I
have lived through it all without--without--loving you? Are you very
angry?”

She looked up, and smiled divinely through her tears--looked up, and
clung still more closely to his side.

“Percy, do you think you alone have the capacity to love? Do you think I
would have associated with you all these years if I had not found in you
one whom I could honor and respect? And, dear Percy, how could I honor
and respect one like you, without loving?”

“Cordelia! Oh, do not let me mistake! Do you understand me? Do you know
what my love means? Oh, if I were to pour out the whole volume of my
love--”

“Well--what would you say? Would you call me by another name?”

“Yes! Yes! Oh, my darling! my angel!”

“Percy,” looking straight up into his eyes, with a wealth of love in her
beautiful face which no mortal could have doubted--“I will not trifle; I
will not mince words. I know what you mean; and when I tell you, from
the uttermost depths of my heart, that your words have made me happier
than I was before--happier than I had thought I could ever be--when I
tell you that, you will know that I, too, have learned to love. Oh,
Percy, I have loved you from the first; and I believe it has been the
same with you.”

“Yes, yes. Oh, how I have loved you, Cordelia! But I had never dared to
dream of this. I can scarcely believe it even now. Shall I awake and
find it a dream?”

“If the dream makes you as happy as it makes me, dear Percy, I can only
say--dream on.”

“Aye! So I will. But--”

“But what?”

“The earl!”

“Look ye, my own dear love,” said the brave girl, without a break or a
quiver in her voice, “let the earl rest for the present. Let us become
more used to our new-found joy. I have no wish to deceive the dear old
man, and at a proper time I shall tell him. I expect he will be
surprised; perhaps disappointed; but I can not believe he will be angry.
At all events no power on earth shall take our love from us nor separate
us.”

“Oh, Cordelia!”

“Percy!”

“God grant that our love may prosper! Something whispers to me that I
may hope.”

“Yes, dear love, hope, and trust in me. I will forsake you never,
never!”

Just then they heard the footfall of the maid drawing near, and Cordelia
turned to speak with her.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER VII.

                    A SPECTER IN THE MONKS’ CHAPEL.

While Cordelia turned to speak with her maid, our hero, having shaken
himself to make sure that he was awake and in possession of his sober
senses, looked forward to see how far they were from the summit of the
crag.

It was close at hand--not a hundred yards distant. He was surprised. He
had supposed it still a long way off. But his surprise vanished when he
had consulted his watch--half-past four!

“Mercy! Dear lady! Do you know what time it is?”

“No. I have not thought of it.”

He told her; but she was not alarmed. Even though it should be dark when
they reached the castle, it would not matter.

“Not if the weather holds fair,” returned the guide. “I don’t like the
looks of those clouds rising away to the eastward.”

“I thought storm-clouds always came from the sea.”

“No, no. Clouds that give us long rains generally come from that
direction; but, if you will remember, I think you will find that our
severest storms are brewed on the other hand. But we will not complain
in advance. Ah!”

“Oh! Oh, is it not beautiful!” It was Mary Seymour who had thus
exclaimed.

Her mistress stood, drinking in the scene in awestruck silence. The
sublimity of the view was too great for her poor speech to do it
justice. And Percy was also silent. The single interjection had burst
from him as his eyes first took in the grand panorama, and that was all.

The sea; the many islands; the long stretch of rugged coast; the
beautiful park; the old castle; the forest; the silvery lakelets, and
the sparkling streams--altogether, it was a picture well worth climbing
to see. Cordelia gazed her fill--gazed until the first whelming emotions
of awe were past, and then pointed out certain points with regard to
which she wished for information. Her guide explained all he could--told
her all he knew; and at length suggested that they had better be
thinking of home.

“But the flowers! You promised me I should have them,” insisted
Cordelia. She was playful in her manner, yet earnest.

“Will you take time for that, lady? They are somewhat out of our way;
but you shall have them, if you say so.”

“Oh! never mind the time. A little twilight won’t harm us. Let’s have
the flowers.”

Evidently she was determined to prolong the walk, and, had it not been
for those threatening clouds, her guide would have liked it as well as
she.

“Dear lady--I tell you, truly, I do not like the looks of those clouds.
I’m afraid we shall have rain before we get home, unless we make all
possible haste.”

But the lady insisted; and the guide yielded. A detour was made to the
eastward and the flowers found and secured. Cordelia was happy.

She had wanted the sweet little treasures of scent and blossom for a
long time, and she could not thank her kind guide enough for his
goodness in getting them for her.

“Fifteen minutes of six!” said Percy, in a tone of hushed anxiety. “Oh!
what would I give for a good horse.”

“And, what would you do with a single horse, sir?” the lady demanded,
quickly.

“I would look to the girths, make sure all was secure, then lift you to
its back and start you homeward, my lady.”

“But, dear Percy, do you really feel so uneasy about the weather?”

“I do, truly, dear lady. Look for yourself. If there is not a goodly
store of electricity in those clouds, then I am much mistaken.”

“Well, we must hurry. You will let me take your hand.”

He put forth his hand, took hers in a warm, loving grasp, and they set
forward; but time had sped beyond the lady’s calculations, or beyond her
belief, for she had had no calculation about it.

By the time they had gained half the distance down the rugged slope cool
gusts of wind struck their cheeks; the clouds had become so dense and so
completely covered the firmament as to bring night on prematurely.

And that was not the worst. Pretty soon a vivid stream of fire shot
athwart the dark vault, and a crash of thunder followed almost
immediately.

“Courage, courage!” said Percy. “The old chapel is close at hand. We
shall find good shelter there.”

“Oh! Just think, dear lady,” said the maid, who had drawn nearer the
strong man since the lightning bolt. “We haven’t touched the luncheon I
have in the basket.”

“Oho, it grows heavy, does it, Mary?”

“No, no; that isn’t it. And yet,” she confessed, after a momentary
pause, “it is pretty heavy, come to carry it so far.”

“Well, we’ll empty it at the chapel.”

But Percy took the basket into his own hand, despite the maid’s earnest
protestations, and he found it heavier than he had thought. It was but
as a feather to him, but he could feel that it must have pulled on the
weak girl during so long a walk.

“Ho! There it is!”

“Aye, and here is the rain.”

It was the chapel which Cordelia had discovered, and they reached it
with not a moment to spare, for scarcely had Mary crossed the threshold
when the rain came down in a torrent. As the maid expressed it, with
more of truth than poetry--it came down “like they were pouring it out
of a tub.”

But they had found perfect shelter, though somewhat gloomsome. Percy
selected three of the most comfortable seats he could find, and he did
not have occasion to move them.

They were already in the corner farthest away from the storm--in a
corner between the arch of the vestibule and the first window on the
easterly side. And there in the deepening gloom Cordelia opened the
basket, and took out a portion of the provisions she had with her own
hands packed into it. She had brought but one drinking-cup, but it
answered every purpose.

“We can call it ‘the Loving Cup,’” suggested the maid, little dreaming
what chords she was touching to tuneful response in the bosoms of her
two companions.

But the others knew, as a hidden hand-grasp testified.

“Now, mark!” commanded the lady, as Percy began to express his regrets
at the unfortunate situation of the two women, “Mark what I say, and
remember, we will have not a word of fault-finding, not a word of
complaint. Here we are, and here we must make the best of it. It is all
my fault, every bit and grain of it, and I am willing to bear the blame;
but don’t blame me too severely.”

“Mercy! how it pours!” exclaimed the maid. “I am only thinking--how
shall we ever find the way home in pitch darkness?”

Percy said, cheerfully, he thought there would be no trouble about that.
“These sort of storms,” he went on, “are not of long duration. The
clouds will soon pass off when the rain is done falling, and then we’ll
have a moon within a day or two of its full to light us on our homeward
way. My only serious thought is of the good old earl.”

“Hush!” cried the law-giver, with a light laugh. “That is complaint, and
is forbidden. I will make it all right with dear old grandpa.”

The rain continued to fall in a torrent, ever and anon the lightning
gleamed and the thunder came crashing down upon the solid roof.

The adventurers had eaten their luncheon and Mary had carefully packed
the empty dishes back into the basket, by which time the darkness had
shut them in like a pall. The blackest midnight could not have been
darker.

Mary Seymour had found a seat at Percy’s feet, and, despite the terrific
voices of the storm, was inclined to sleep. The long walk, the weight of
the basket, and, moreover, the soporific influence of the atmosphere,
had completely overcome her, and, with the basket for a pillow, she was
ere long soundly asleep.

Percy held his watch in his hand, waiting for the next gleam of heaven’s
light, and when it came he saw that it was close upon seven o’clock.

The sun had been gone little more than half an hour. Cordelia nestled
close, held firmly in his loving embrace. And here, and thus, they
exchanged the first sweet, ecstatic kiss of love.

“Oh, Percy! What would life be without your dear companionship, without
your blessed love?”

“My love, darling, you will always possess. No power on earth can take
it from you. It is yours now and forevermore.”

“And your dear self with it, sweet love.”

“Heaven send it may be so.”

“Amen! and amen!”

After this they sat for a time in silence, their thoughts too deep for
words. Her head was pillowed on his bosom, and his strong arm encircled
her.

What need was there of further speech? The silence was eloquent; and the
crashing thunder, when it fell, was as grand music in their ears.

By and by the patter of the rain upon the roof grew less; but, as the
rain held up, the lightning seemed to come more frequently and with
increased brilliancy. Oh, how dark it was when the fire of heaven had
gone out!

Several minutes had passed thus after the rain had commenced to slacken,
and the furious blast that had accompanied the first flood had died
away, when our hero was startled and his heart caused to bound suddenly
by the unmistakable sound of a footfall without. It was the fall of a
human foot upon the surface of rock in front of the chapel!

“Hush!” he whispered, as he felt his companion start and nestle more
closely to him.

“Oh, Percy! What can it be? Is it somebody in search of us?”

“No; I think not. They would have scarcely had time since the storm
arose. Hush! Promise me, darling, that you will utter no cry of alarm,
let it be who or what it may. They may not discover us in this corner if
we keep perfectly quiet. Ah! Hush! Not a lisp!”

The footstep--a heavy one--was upon the threshold, and a faint glimmer
of light, seeming to come from the dingy lens of a dark lantern, shot
into the chapel with just power enough to render the surrounding
darkness visible.

A human figure entered; a figure tall, erect, and apparently bulky. The
lantern was carried in the right hand, with its lens turned toward the
rear of the place--toward the altar--in which direction the figure
moved.

Cordelia’s breath was almost hushed; and she clung to her dear lover
closely and with perfect trust.

Nothing like a cry--not even a loud breath--had escaped her.

The figure--only one had entered--had reached a point directly opposite
the place where our adventurers sat, when a terrific crash fell that
shook the structure from its massive roof to its foundation; and
following close upon it came a flood of light, filling the old chapel
with a blaze as of noonday; and the light enveloped the new-comer as in
a glowing halo.

And this is what Percy Maitland saw--saw it as plainly and clearly as he
ever saw anything in his life:

A man, tall and stalwart, in the robe of a gray friar, with the cowl
drawn only partially over his head. And the face--Oh! what did it mean?

It was his father’s face!--the face of Hugh Maitland, as he remembered
it, in its manly strength and vigor.

It was only for a moment--for two or three seconds--and then the
darkness fell again and the poor glimmer of the lantern appeared no more
than the glow of a fire-fly. Only for one poor moment; yet had he looked
for an hour he could not have seen it more distinctly.

If ever he saw his father’s face, he was sure he saw it then under that
gray cowl. Or it had been something so nearly resembling it that the
distinction could not be traced?

And still, with wildly beating heart, he listened. He heard the
footfall, and he saw the ghostly glimmer of the lantern; the gray friar
was approaching the altar.

Suddenly the light disappeared. A moment later the watcher heard a low,
rumbling sound, and then all was still.

By and by another bolt of thunder fell, and a flood of electric light
filled the chapel. Both Percy and Cordelia peered with all their might
into the far end of the place; but the friar had gone!

The altar was there and the solid wall behind it, and that was all. The
strange intruder had disappeared as though the stone pavement had opened
and swallowed him up!

“Percy!” whispered the trembling girl, as soon as she dared to trust her
voice above her breath, “What was it? Who was it?”

“Darling, I do not know. I am lost in wonder.”

“But where did he go? I certainly saw him, close by the altar. I saw the
lantern when it cast its feeble rays on the dark rock. Where could he
have gone to?”

“Dear girl, I can not imagine. But we may henceforth be able to better
understand the peasants’ earnest stories of the place being haunted. You
have heard them?”

“Yes, yes, often; and have laughed at them. But,” after a pause, “is not
the solution a greater puzzle than were the ghosts?”

“Verily, dear girl, it is even so. Aye, it is a puzzle; and it must, I
fear, remain a puzzle, until we can gain more light than we are likely
to receive to-night.”

He would not tell her of the greatest marvel of all to himself. What to
think of it he did not know. His mind was in a whirl.

He must have time to consider. He knew his father was dead; for he had
sat by his dying bed, and had held his hand while he breathed his last,
and had seen the mortal body buried in its mother earth.

So, it could not be his father in the flesh he had seen roaming in that
old chapel, with a dark lantern in his hand. As to its being his
father’s ghost or spirit, that was to him simply monstrous.

Even admitting that the return of a spirit could be possible, the spirit
of his father would have been engaged in no such nocturnal escapade.

Could there be another man--a man amongst the living--with his father’s
face? A wonderful likeness, like that, offered the most satisfactory
solution of the marvel. But who could it be? If such a man lived, and
was familiar with that part of the country, why had he never seen him
before?

But--where was the use? Puzzle and conjecture as he would, he could come
no nearer to the truth. The only thing to do was to take time; keep his
eyes and ears open, and search. And one thing which he meant to search
was this very chapel.

Almost before they were aware of it the rain had ceased to fall, and a
low murmur of thankfulness fell from Cordelia’s lips as she saw a stream
of silvery moonlight on the chapel floor.

Aye, the clouds were rolling away and the bright moon, near its full,
looked forth right cheerily from the eastern sky, casting light enough
through the three tall windows on that side to illumine the chapel very
clearly. At all events, the stone altar was plainly visible, and all the
adjacent wall.

“Cordelia, the man whom we saw--the gray friar--must have found a way
out somewhere near the altar. Shall we look?”

“You do not think he can be lurking near?” she asked.

“No, no; there can be no danger of that. Be sure, he was seeking a place
of hiding when he entered here. Darling!” he added, after a considerable
pause, during which he had appeared to be thinking deeply, “I think I
can tell you something new. It has come to me since we saw the moonbeam
on the pavement.

“Listen; I remember--but I had forgotten it completely--I remember, when
I was but a small boy--certainly not more than eight or ten years
old--of hearing my father, in conversation with his chief mate, old
Donald Rodney, mention the Monk’s Chapel; and I am very sure that at
that time he was trying to persuade Donald to go with him and explore.
Of course, I can’t remember their words, nor anywhere near thereto; yet
I am confident that I am not mistaken about the object my father had in
view.

“Cordelia, he believed there were secret crypts beneath the old pile,
fashioned when it was built, and he wished very much to find them; but I
am very sure he never did it. He probably searched, and had to give it
up. If he had found them I should have known it. Aye, as sure as you
live, there is a hidden way beneath where we stand, and, I tell you, I
will find it if the finding is possible.”

“Oh, you will be careful, Percy! What would become of me if harm should
come to you?”

“Have no fear. Ah, Mary is awake. I think we had better not tell her of
what we have seen.”

“No, we will tell nobody, until we have gained further knowledge. Shall
it be so?”

“Yes. We will leave it at that. And now for home. The way will be damp,
but I think we shall survive.”

The maid, when she had collected her scattered senses, and had called to
mind the situation, was agreeably surprised upon finding the storm at an
end, and the moon brightly shining. She picked up her basket, and was
soon ready, with the others, to set forth upon the homeward way.

They encountered several pools of water over which Percy was obliged to
carry the two girls in his arms; but nothing serious interposed to
render the return at all unpleasant. Fortunately the path through the
woods was broad and open, and lay in such direction that the moonlight
fell full upon it for most of the distance.

They had reached very near to the southern extremity of the wood, and
our hero had just borne his two companions across the last pool, when
their ears were saluted by loud cries and shouts of distress and alarm,
and a little later the glare of a dozen torches, in full blaze, burst
upon them.

“Oh, my precious lady, are you alive? Are you safe? Oh! how frightened
we have been.” So exclaimed the stout old steward, Michael Dillon, when
he had seen his young mistress in the flesh before him. And the glad
acclaim of the party, when they knew that Cordelia was alive and well,
told how deeply and truly she was loved by the household of the castle.

There were twelve men in the party which our adventurers had thus met;
and two other parties had gone in other directions; but they were small.

The larger number had come this way, because this had been the path hit
upon as most likely to be the true one.

As soon as old Michael had made sure that all was well with the dear
young lady, he ordered two heavily charged muskets to be fired, which
had been brought for that purpose, to inform the other parties that the
lost one had been found.

He next dispatched a swift runner to the castle, with information to the
earl of the happy ending of the search; and then, with a curious
mingling of joy and pomposity, he issued his order for the homeward
march.

                                -------


                             CHAPTER VIII.

                             LORD OAKLEIGH.

On the morning following her strange adventure in the chapel, our
heroine arose with the lark, not a whit the worse for her passage
through the storm.

The old earl had suffered terribly when the tempest and the night had
come, and his darling was known to be absent in the forest, or on the
wild crag; but when the swift messenger had brought him the glad
intelligence of her safety, his fears departed; and when he had finally
held her in his arms, and had then held her off that he might gaze into
her beautiful face and know that all was well with her, then his joy was
great indeed.

When it was all so happily over he was almost thankful it had happened,
for it had told him over again how dearly he loved her and what a
treasure she was to him!

On this morning the girl put on her hat, with a light mantle over her
shoulders, thinking to take a walk in her garden before breakfast. The
air was fresh and pure after the storm and not at all chilly, and the
autumnal flowers were in full bloom.

She had reached the place--an inclosure within the outer walls of the
castle--and was slowly and thoughtfully walking in one of the graveled
paths, when she was startled by the sound of a quick, heavy footfall
behind her, and on turning she found herself face to face with Matthew
Brandon--by courtesy Lord Oakleigh.

He was not a pleasant man to look at, and yet many might have called him
good looking--perhaps handsome. If he had any beauty it was of the
Mephistophelean order. He was tall and strong, and dressed in a costly
garb of embroidered velvet and satin.

He wore a large diamond in his shirt-front, he had fine rings on two or
three fingers, and his gold watch-chain was conspicuous.

His complexion was dark, even to swarthiness; his hair black and quite
short, with a pair of eyes now, as in his boyhood, set very near
together and deeply sunken in their sockets.

He had a good nose but his lips were heavy and sensual, his mouth large,
and his lower jaw broad and strong. He wore no beard, but his cheeks and
his chin and his upper lip, where the razor did its work, betrayed the
possibility of a beard, black and luxuriant, had he been willing to let
it grow.

A friend had once asked him how it was that, with such a chance for a
beard, he could be content to sacrifice it.

“Oh!” he had answered with a laugh, “I am black enough as it is; should
I add a coal-black beard, I should be blackness incarnate.”

“Cordelia,” he said, when the usual salutations of the morning had been
exchanged, “I have a few words to say to you; and I have come out here
this morning to say them. I might not have time after breakfast, as I
must return to Oxford to-day.”

The girl had stopped in her walk and stood facing him. A tremor, which
she could not repress, shook her frame; for she knew very well, or she
believed she knew, what he wished to speak about.

“I am listening, Lord Oakleigh.”

“Bah! Why do you eternally ‘lord’ me? I don’t like it, at least from
your lips.”

“My lord, I give you the title respectfully, because it is yours. I can
call you by your Christian name, if you wish it.”

“I do wish it: and I wish you to remember it. It will do very well for
the servants to dub me ‘lord’ and for my grandfather when he is in the
mood; but I don’t want it from you.” He paused and looked around.

“Haven’t you a seat anywhere about here?”

“If you are weary, you will find a very comfortable seat in yonder
grape-arbor.”

“I’m not weary, my dear lady; but it is sometimes weary work to converse
on one’s feet. Come with me to the arbor. I won’t keep you long. Bless
me! I hope you’re not afraid of me.”

She was afraid of him; but she would not confess it. There was a
coarseness in his manner; a lowness in his speech, his clipping and
contracting words more like a private trooper than like an English
gentleman, that disgusted her; and there was a look in his gleaming,
sunken black eyes that made her afraid.

She presently saw that he would take her hand if she hesitated longer;
so, without further remark, she turned and led the way to the arbor she
had pointed out.

It was a small affair a framework of wood, over which the closely
interwoven branches and tendrils of a number of stout grape-vines formed
a complete covering, with plain wooden seats on three of its sides.
Cordelia waited until Lord Oakleigh was seated; and she then sat down on
the opposite side. She had struggled bravely to compose herself, being
determined that nothing he could say should cause her to forget herself
or to lose her temper.

“Matthew, it is nearer to the breakfast hour, perhaps, than you think.”

“Oh! don’t worry. I won’t take long to say the little I have in mind.”
He paused here, and looked at her curiously. Presently he went on.

“Cordelia--you remember I once told you that when I should be ready to
speak on a certain subject I should speak plainly, and in few words; and
you will confess that from that time I have given you your own way, so
far as I have been concerned. I have not sought to interfere with you in
any way, neither in regard to your acts nor your choice of companions.
’Pon my word! I think, all things considered, that I’ve done pretty
well, don’t you?”

“Really, my lord, I can not imagine to what circumstance you have
reference--what things you would have considered.”

“Can’t you?”

“Indeed, I can not.”

“Well, look here. You know very well that it was the earnest desire of
your parents, of your father and of mine, that you and I should grow up
to be husband and wife. That you know.”

“That I--do--not--know!” the girl replied, speaking slowly and with
strong emphasis.

“What! You don’t know?” cried Oakleigh, feigning great surprise. “But
you do know. You can not help knowing. I tell you--”

“Stop!” commanded the young lady, holding up her hand. “Let us not
dispute. Your grandfather knows if my father ever expressed any desire
of that kind. Let him decide between us.”

“Look ye, Cordelia!” Matthew exclaimed, with the flame of anger in his
sunken eyes, “do you mean to throw me over now? After all these years of
patient waiting, do you fancy that I am to be cast aside, like a
worn-out boot? By the Host! you’ll find it a sorry work to do.”

“Lord Oakleigh!” said the proud girl starting to her feet, her face
flushed and her eyes burning with deep indignant fire, “you have no
authority--no right--for speaking to me in that manner. Let me tell you,
once for all, I never had, I have not now, nor can I ever have a thought
of becoming your wife. Let me hope that you will never broach the
subject again.”

“My dear lady,” returned the suitor, attempting a sneer, his hot wrath
simmering beneath, “you talk foolishly. Do you fancy I shall give up the
cherished hope and plan of a lifetime to suit a whim of yours? I tell
you, before your father left India he conversed with my father on this
subject, and it was arranged between them that you and I should be
married. Why do you suppose I have held my tongue so long? I’ll tell
you. Simply because I regarded the whole thing as settled.”

“Have you said all you had to say, my lord?” the girl asked as calmly as
possible.

“That depends upon how you take what I have said. What I had to say was
this: Our marriage will take place before the present year is at an
end.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“I would like to have you tell me what you think of it?”

“I have said all that I have to say on that subject, Lord Oakleigh. If
you did not understand me, I beg that you will understand me now. I
shall never be your wife.”

“But I say, you will.”

“I can not prevent you from saying what you please; but, surely, over my
own fate I should be allowed to hold an opinion. Breakfast will be
waiting.”

“Stop! By --!” starting up with a fierce oath and grasping her by the
arm. “You do not leave me in that fashion. Before you go you must hear a
word I have to say. If you will marry me quietly of your own free
will--Hush!--keep still till I have said my say!”

She had attempted to break away and leave him, when he had thrust her
back upon the seat from which she had arisen.

“There!” he went on, hissing out his words madly. “Sit you there and
listen: If you will marry me quietly, as it is your duty to do, all may
be well. I will do by you, for your good and comfort, all that any man
could do. I will be a true husband to you, kind and loving. But if you
refuse me, if you persist in your stubborn will not to be my wife, if
you hold out against me and persuade my grandfather to join you, if you
do this I will make your life a living torture! I will strike you down
so that you shall cry to me for mercy! Aye, the time shall come when you
will beg of me to take pity on you and make you my wife! How do you like
the picture?”

“Lord Oakleigh! Let me go! I have no more to say.”

“I ask you, how do you like the picture I have drawn?”

“And I ask you to let me go.”

“Won’t you answer me?”

“You need no answer. You do not wish for an answer. If you can find
delight in torturing me I suppose I must submit until I can break from
you.”

“Why don’t you call me, Monster!--as I see it plainly in your mind to
call me?”

“Simply, sir, because I prefer that you should characterize yourself.”

“Cordelia! By --! I would give a thousand pounds if you could be a man
for just one poor minute! It is a wonder that I do not strike you where
you sit.”

“And yet you ask me to become your wife! I can scarcely understand you.”

“My dear lady, you will understand me better before you are four months
older; for I swear, by the heaven above me! that you shall be my wife!
Do you hear that? Hold! Just a moment more.” And he looked down upon her
with an expression on his dark, passion-wrought face that startled her
anew.

“Do you think I do not know which way your fancy is tending?” he
demanded, his terrible wrath causing the last drop of blood to leave his
face. “As I live, I believe you would marry that smuggler’s brat
to-morrow, if your guardian would suffer it! Oh it makes you wince, does
it? I think I will see the gentleman.”

“Monster! let me go!” And thus exclaiming she sprang from him, and
leaped away. He jumped to catch her; but, at that moment, two
men-servants approached the place, and he gave it up, and drew back into
the arbor.

“By --!” He muttered to himself a horrible oath, and went on: “I believe
she really does love the fellow! What in the world can the old man have
been thinking of to allow it? By heavens! if he don’t put a stop to it,
I will. I’ll have the girl for my own, if I have to force her to it!
Mercy on us! she’s been allowed to associate with young Maitland as
though he’d been an own brother to her! No! we’ll put a stop to that. If
it can not be done in one way, it can in another!”

With this he smoothed his wrinkled front as well as he could, and left
the arbor. He was not in the mood for sitting at the breakfast-table
with his grandfather and Cordelia; so he took a turn away toward the
river, prolonging his walk for an hour.

On his return to the castle he found that the meal had been kept for
him. The others, he was informed, had eaten. He was further informed
that the earl desired much to see him.

But he did not have to search. His grandfather came into the
breakfast-room while he was eating, and took a seat near him.

“I want to ask you, my dear boy,” the old man said, in his pleasant,
cheery way, “when you thought of returning to Oxford.”

“Why, I thought you knew,” the grandson replied with seeming frankness,
“that I had planned to go to-day. However, I may put it off till
to-morrow. Had you anything of business to propose?”

“Well, my boy,” the earl answered, with an earnest, yearning look into
the dark face before him, “you do not forget that you have passed the
age of proper youth--that you are now a free and independent man. Let’s
see--you were twenty-one--”

“On the first of June last,” Matthew put in, while his grandfather
hesitated.

“Exactly. And I had supposed that your term at college would have been
at an end.”

“So it would have been had I not taken an extra pull at some of my
studies. But it will be over shortly. I shall come home and take a short
rest, and then, I think, I’ll take a run for a year or two on the
continent.”

“All right, Oakleigh. I am happy to know that you have a settled plan.”

“Hark ye, my lord,” said the young man, after a brief pause, looking up
with a wine-glass in his hand, “I have to say to you, that one of my
settled plans has been considerably upset this morning.”

“Ah, how is that?”

“Let me answer by asking a question: Was there ever, between my father
and Sir William Chester, a settled plan that Cordelia and I should
marry?”

The old man started, and an expression of pain settled upon his
countenance.

“You know, don’t you?” Matthew added, as his grandfather did not speak.
“Was it not a settled plan between the two fathers, before Sir William
and his child left India, that Cordelia and I should become man and
wife?”

“My dear boy,” the earl replied, speaking slowly and earnestly and with
evident pain, “I know all about it; I know all that was said, and all
that was done. Have you ever believed that such an arrangement was
made?”

“I certainly have.”

“What reason had you for the belief? Surely I never told you so.”

“Perhaps you never did; but you have gone on, allowing me to--”

“Hush! Hush, my boy. You surely can have no cause of complaint against
me. Never before have you spoken to me on the subject.”

“At all events,” insisted the youth, “you should have known that I was
likely to fall in love with the beautiful girl and to want her for my
wife.”

“Well, and what then? If you honestly love her, and will solemnly swear
to be to her a true and loving husband, you shall have my consent, with
God’s blessing.”

“Aye, but suppose the girl should refuse me?”

“Then, of course, that would be the end.”

“And you would put up with it, would you?”

“What do you mean, Matthew, by that?”

“You would allow the girl to have her own way? You would not make an
effort to influence her?”

“To influence her to what?”

“To accept your grandson for a husband.”

The old man started and a perceptible shudder shook his strong frame. He
looked again into the dark face before him, and thought of the precious
darling who looked to him for care and protection.

“Did you understand me?” Lord Oakleigh asked, with a show of temper, as
his grandfather continued to gaze upon him in silence.

“Yes, Matthew, I understood you but too well. I am surprised that you
should put such a question to me.”

“In Heaven’s name! why surprised? Is it surprising that I should wish to
make Cordelia Chester my wife?”

“Not at all; but I am surprised that you should for one moment suppose
that I would urge her to marry against her will. In fact, my boy, I gave
to her father, when he lay dying, a solemn promise that I would never do
any such thing. She should not be asked to marry without love.”

“Oho-ho-oo!” The angry man laughed coarsely and contemptuously. “If you
stick to that you’ll be likely to send your fair ward to a grand market!
Do you know whom she will marry if she weds with the man of her heart’s
desire?”

“Boy! What do you mean?”

“Upon my word! I believe you know very well what I mean. Don’t you know
which way the girl is drifting? If you do not, it is time you opened
your eyes!”

“Matthew,” said the earl, drawing himself up proudly, and looking his
grandson straight in the face, “I will not profess to misunderstand you.
You are speaking, or thinking, of Percy Maitland. I am only sorry that
he is not of gentle blood; for I tell you frankly, were he so, I should
not hesitate an instant to bestow upon him Cordelia’s hand, provided
they both wished it.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you would not give that hand to me?”

“If you will have it, boy, I answer you just as frankly, yes.”

“By --! I begin to understand you!” the young lord exclaimed, prefacing
the words with an imprecation the like of which had not been uttered in
the earl’s presence for years. “And let me tell you, old man--”

“Hush! Oh, boy! boy! have you no heart?”

“-- --!” Another oath, and then, “You treat me as though I had none. I
approach my gentle Lady Cordelia; and she receives me as though I were
infected. I ask her if she will be my wife, and she almost spits on me.”

“Ah! Then you have spoken with her?”

“Yes; this very morning. It was her treatment of me that took away my
appetite for an earlier breakfast. If I had been a pariah, she could not
have treated me more contemptuously. A fine home-coming, truly!”

“Matthew,” said the old man, rising as he spoke, and gazing upon his
grandson with mingled feelings of sadness and indignation, “I have but a
few words to say, and those I speak to you from my heart though you may
try to think otherwise. For the refusal of Cordelia, and for any harsh
words she may have spoken, you have yourself to thank. If you spoke to
her as you have spoken to me I wonder not that she took quick offense.”

“And how, if I may ask, have I spoken to your lordship?”

“The tone in which you now speak is enough for answer. Add to that the
gross profanity which fell from your lips but a few moments since, and
the measure of my endurance is reached. Oh, boy! boy! why will you do
so? You do not know how I could have loved you, had you but allowed me
to do it. For the love of Heaven! will you not try to do differently?
Who shall say what might have been had you been pure and good?”

“Which is equivalent to saying, if I understand the king’s English, that
I am not pure and good?”

“Neither pure, nor good, nor truthful, Matthew! Alas! that I should live
to say it, and that you should live to deserve it.”

“Thanks! Many, many thanks, dear grandpapa! You’ll excuse me if I go out
and get a bit of fresh air after this.” And, thus speaking the wretch
turned away, with a sneer on his lips and a look of defiance in his
eyes, and left the room. And the aged grandsire, when the distant door
had been closed and he was left alone, sank into a seat, and burst into
tears.

And so, a little later, Cordelia found him.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER IX.

                             A COMPROMISE.

“Dear, dear grandpa! Has he been making you unhappy, too? What has he
done? What has he been saying to you? Tell me all about it.”

The earl felt two warm, loving arms around his neck, and a dear,
treasured head pillowed on his bosom. By and by he looked up, and met
the earnest, beseeching gaze of his beautiful ward--his grandchild of
his heart--the one true, enduring love left to him in all the world.

“Oh, Cordelia, my sweet child! God and all the good angels keep and
bless thee!”

And then, with many pauses, and many tears, he told the story of his
interview with his grandson--all save that part of it which had
reference to the smuggler’s son. Of that he spoke not yet.

When this had been told, Cordelia gave a truthful account of the
interview in the arbor; but she did not dwell upon it. She hurried
through with it as rapidly as possible, and then broached a new subject.

“Grandpa,” she said, with a world of eager inquiry in look and tone,
“you have heard stories told of the old chapel of the Monks, on the
crag--about its being haunted, and so on, haven’t you?”

“Yes, darling. Those stories are older than I am.”

“Well, what do you think about it? What did you ever think? Of course,
you have had your thoughts.”

“Really, my dear child, you puzzle me. I hardly know how to answer. I
must have had a great many thoughts during all the years since, in my
boyhood, I heard the first stories of the ghosts of the old chapel. And
there was one thing curious. For many years--for almost two-score, I
should say, those stories died out.

“Of late, however, within ten or a dozen years, they have revived. I
remember, it was during the very week of your father’s death, a number
of our servants were frightened by a ghost--the ghost, they said, of a
gray friar--wandering about the old ruin. But--but--it was, of course,
the veriest nonsense.”

Cordelia looked up into the old man’s face searchingly. She looked so
sharply, and with so much of meaning in the look, that he shrank away
from it, and his eyes, usually so honest and true, wavered.

“Grandpa! grandpa! There is something you do not tell me. What is it?
Come, you surely can have nothing that you would wish to hide from your
darling.”

“Child! child! why are you so eager? Ah! tell me, were you in the chapel
through the storm? Why of course you were. You told me so. Did you see
anything?”

“Grandpa, I want you to answer me first. You ought to. You are the
oldest, and should take the lead. Tell me, what was it you kept back
from me?”

Once more, after a little further hesitation, the frank, steady, and
straightforward look came back to the old earl’s eyes; and he said,
first casting a swift glance around:

“Cordelia, the story I am going to tell you I have never told to
anybody. It has puzzled me; and I have tried to solve the mystery
involved; but I have kept it to myself.

“You will remember, shortly before your father’s death, his old
attorney, John Chudley, came up to make the papers necessary to prove my
appointment as your guardian, and to make the will, and so on. You will
remember also that his son Charles came with him. Charles was at that
time somewhere near twenty years old; and he was observant and reliable,
as was his father.

“Well, one day, while they were here, after the legal business had all
been done, those two, the Chudleys, went off up the river after fish, a
sport of which they were fond, and of which they got little at home.
They fished through the greater part of the day, and on their way home
they took a fancy to climb Witch’s Crag. Suffice it to say--they went
up--”

“Oh!--and got lost!” broke in the eager listener. “I remember the night,
and how frightened everybody was. Just such another night as it was last
night. Am I not right?”

“Entirely so, darling. They went up the crag, and on their way down they
lost the path. The storm and darkness came and found them in sight of
the chapel, and there they sought shelter. They had found some stone
seats away in one corner, where they sat down and waited for the storm
to pass, or at least for the rain to hold up a bit.

“And now comes the wonderful part. While they thus sat they were
startled by the sound of somebody walking outside, and presently
afterward they were sure somebody had entered the chapel. As luck would
have it, a few seconds later there came a stream of lightning that made
the place as light as day, and they plainly saw a human figure, tall and
large, enveloped in the robe and cowl of a gray friar! Strangely enough,
not more than three seconds had passed when another flash came, and this
time they saw the friar close by the altar. The third flash came in a
few seconds more, and the friar had vanished.

“The mystery was, what could have become of the strange intruder? They,
father and son, could both swear that he had not gone out by the door.
He could not have done it and they not know it. The windows were beyond
the reach of any man unless he had a ladder or a tall stepping-place of
some kind to help him. And yet he had gone--vanished, as into thin air.

“On the next day they went to the chapel; and I went with them; and they
there told the story over, at the same time pointing out the different
localities--the course which the figure took--and the point at the altar
where he stood before he disappeared.

“That is the story, Cordelia. And I am free to confess it has puzzled
me. That a person in the guise of a Franciscan monk, or gray friar,
entered the chapel on that evening I am confident. Also, I can not doubt
that he made his way out without going by the vestibule or through a
window.”

“And now, my dear grandpa, what do you think of it? How do you think it
was done?”

“To tell you the truth, dear child, I have thought there must be,
somewhere near that altar, a secret trap--an entrance, in some way, to
hidden vaults or crypts below.”

“But you never found anything?”

“No. I have searched at every possible point. I have closely examined
every seam and every crevice, but nothing have I been able to find--not
a trace, not a sign.”

“Now, grandpa, if I will tell you something, you will keep it to
yourself, won’t you--at least till I tell you otherwise?”

“Certainly, darling, if there is good reason for it.”

“Well, there is the very best of reasons. We agreed--Percy and I--that
we wouldn’t speak of it until he had time to investigate; but, since you
know so much, you ought to know this, too.”

And thereupon she went on, excitedly and vividly, yet very clearly and
succinctly, to tell the story of the adventure of the previous evening.

“Oh!” she cried, when she had concluded the narrative, “I am glad it was
Percy. If there is anything to be found, be sure he will find it.”

“Cordelia!”

The girl started. There was something in the tone--in the manner in
which her name had been thus abruptly pronounced, that sounded strangely
to her. It seemed to her as though she could detect pain in it.

“Cordelia! You think a great deal of Percy Maitland?”

What in the world did he mean? Had he read her secret? Did he know or
did he suspect, that she loved him, loved him with all the love of her
heart? Ah! Matthew had spoken. His word had given the earl’s thoughts
direction. She had hoped that the secret might be Percy’s and hers for a
time longer; and it would be an easy matter to deceive her questioner,
even now.

But, could she do it? Could she, in this hour, when a holy love had
sanctified and beautified her life, take her first step in falsehood?
Oh, no! no!

“My dear child!--darling!” reaching out and taking her hand, when a full
minute had elapsed and she had not spoken. “You are not afraid of your
dear old grandpa. Will you not trust him fully?”

“Yes, yes!” the noble girl answered. She started to her feet, and threw
her arms around his neck and kissed him; then having resumed her seat,
she looked frankly, trustfully up, and added: “Ask me what you please,
dear grandpa, and I will answer if I can.”

“Cordelia! your generous tone, your entire readiness to answer, tells me
that I, too, should be generous and confess to you my source of
information. It was Matthew who put the thought into my mind, and he did
it most unkindly.”

“I knew it, dear grandpa. He taunted me, or he meant to do so, and he
made terrible threats, but they do not frighten me. They did at first,
but they do not now. Dear, dear old grandpa,” she cried impulsively,
after a short silence, at the same time grasping his arm with both her
hands, “would you, could you ask me to marry with Lord Oakleigh?”

“Oh, my soul, no!”

“Did my father ever express a wish that I should marry with him?”

“No; he never did.”

“Do you believe he would have allowed such a thing had he been living?”

“I know very well he would not have allowed it. So, my child, do you
borrow no trouble because of your refusal of his suit.”

“Grandpa, do you believe he loves me?”

“Alas! I can not believe that a true love of the heart--a pure,
unselfish love--is possible to his nature! But let him pass. Tell me of
this other--of Percy Maitland. What is he to you? You know what I mean.”

She had thought to answer promptly, but when the moment came her heart
was bounding too strongly for coherent speech. She bent her head and
pressed her hands over her bosom, and by and by she had gained control
of her emotions; or, at least, of those that had overcome her. She
looked up, with a warm, radiant light in her truthful eyes, and a rich,
rosy glow on her earnest, lovely face.

“Dear grandpa, don’t be frightened; don’t have any fear; and I pray you,
don’t blame me until you have taken a good long time for thought and
observation; for I tell you, in the outset, while you live and need me,
I will not leave.”

“Bless you, darling, for that!”

“And now, I must confess to you, I love Percy Maitland with all my
heart, and all my strength. I love him as I never loved another--as I
never can love another--with a love that would be my death if he were
taken from me. We never knew till yesterday.”

And then, in her frank bubbling manner, with the ice thus broken, she
went on and told the story of the love-passage on the crag; and of how
their love had been sealed in the old chapel.

The old man was deeply interested. He felt his own youth come back, with
the one great love of his lifetime; and he lived over again the ecstasy
of the long ago.

And another thing--the character and the behavior of the low-born youth
stood out in flattering colors. The earl could not put away his
admiration for him; he could not help respecting and esteeming him.

And again he found himself wishing, “Oh! that Matthew had been like
him!” Yet there was another and sterner side to the subject. Could he
allow the lady daughter of one of England’s proudest, wealthiest knights
to marry with the son of a smuggler?

But even here the old earl, his tender, loving heart, could find
argument on both sides. He called to mind the dying words of Sir
William. His gentle daughter should never be urged to wed without love,
and he--the earl--had solemnly promised that he would never even ask her
to do such a thing.

He remembered with a start how earnestly and feelingly the dying father
of his fair ward had spoken of the misery that came from loveless
marriage.

And here was the girl with a love in her heart that had become so much a
part of her life that the loss of it would kill her.

Were the man the son of a landed proprietor--of an humble esquire--or
even of a wealthy farmer, of good family, he might have hesitated;
but--the son of an obscure seaman--aye, in truth, the son of an outlaw!
Oh! it was too much!

“Cordelia? My blessed child, do you not see--do you not understand--this
must not be. Think of it. You know how I love you. I do not exaggerate
when I say, I would willingly die for you. Then, oh, then, you will
believe I have only your best good at heart. Think who and what this man
is. Think of his family--his parentage. Do you not see?”

“Grandpa, I can not quite understand it. Here am I with a heart capable
of loving. In my brief span of life I have become acquainted with two
men, and have been thrown more or less into their companionship. In fact
my relations with these two have been such that their friendship could
not have been otherwise than valuable and very pleasant to me, provided
I had found them worth confidence and esteem. One of those men was born
the child of a smuggler. He could not help it, could he? The question
with me is, what sort of a man has the smuggler’s son grown to be?

“The other man, dear grandpa, was born the son of--”

“Stop! stop! Oh, I know what you would say. Aye, and what sort of a man
has he grown to be? Oh, Heaven have mercy!”

“Dear grandpa!” rising to her feet and once more winding her arms around
his neck, “let us say no more about the matter at this time. You will
not forbid me to associate with Percy as I have heretofore done. Think
what he has been to me--my teacher and guide through all these years!
And what a teacher! Could there have been a nobler, truer, or purer
guide? You need not fear that I shall marry him without your knowledge,
and, I am almost ready to say, without your consent. But let it be for
now. You may talk with my lover if you like; but mind, you shall not
blame him. Mine is the blame if you have any to lay upon us.

“There!” giving him another kiss, “now go and be as happy as you can. Be
sure your darling will do nothing to give you pain if she can help it.
Shall it not be so?”

Poor, fond, foolish old man! He could not find it in his heart to say
her nay. And, if the truth were told, he felt greatly relieved that the
matter had been thus pleasantly disposed of.

He told himself things would simply be as they had been. If he would win
his ward from the unfortunate love, he would not do it by beginning now
to make her miserable and unhappy. He would wait. Who should say what of
good the future might bring? He kissed her and blessed her, and the
conference ended.

While this scene had been transpiring in the breakfast-room of the
castle, another, of a somewhat different character, had been taking
place in the wood by the river, not a great way off.

Lord Oakleigh had left his grandfather feeling about as angry--as
thoroughly mad with rage and passion--as a naturally perverse and
passionate man could be.

He went first to the butler’s room and got a bottle of brandy, which he
took with him to his own apartment, where he drank freely.

Then he buckled on his sword and took his hat and went out. He had no
particular aim in view, though his thoughts, which he muttered aloud as
he gained the open park, were of the smuggler’s son. He could not
believe that his grandfather would allow Cordelia to marry with the
outlaw’s offspring; but there was no telling what the girl herself might
do. So far as true love--or real love of any kind--was concerned, he
felt not a particle of it in his heart for his grandfather’s fair ward.
But he had never seen a girl he had liked better; and, surely, he had
never seen one more beautiful.

In truth, he did not believe there was a more beautiful woman in the
kingdom. At some time he would be earl of Allerdale; and he would want a
mistress to preside over his household; and Cordelia Chester was the one
woman of all the world upon whom his choice had been fixed.

So it would not answer to suffer this young smuggler to bewitch her. He
was forced to acknowledge to himself that young Maitland was about the
handsomest young fellow he had ever met--just the man, he told himself,
for an impressionable young girl like Cordelia to go crazy about. “Upon
my soul,” he muttered on, “I believe she would run away with him in a
moment, if she were crossed. And just so long as the fellow is in the
neighborhood, just so long will the old earl allow her to associate with
him. Poor old fool! He don’t know what he is doing. But I think I’ve put
a flea in his ear. Yet, for all that, the girl can befool him. She can
coax and wheedle him into anything, I don’t care how monstrous it is.

“By --! There’s one thing I can do! Aye, and if the need shall come, I
will do it. Ha! I was talking of him; and here he is.”

Brandon had entered the wood at the edge of the park, and was now in the
path that ran along upon the shore of the river.

He had been muttering to himself, as we have heard, when, on raising his
eyes, he beheld not far away the very man of whom he had been thinking
and speaking, coming toward him.

When Percy lifted his eyes on hearing an approaching footstep, and
beheld Lord Oakleigh, his first thought was to avoid him; and he had
half turned, for the purpose of striking into the wood, when it occurred
to him that the act would not only appear cowardly, but the young lord
might take it as an affront.

At all events his second thought, which he obeyed, led him straight on,
and pretty soon they were face to face. Maitland had swerved to the
right, intending to pass; but the other had stepped directly in front of
him, thus preventing the passage.

Percy looked up in surprise--surprise and indignation. He saw that his
lordship had been drinking, and there was mischief in his black, sunken
eyes.

But the well-disposed youth would avoid trouble if the thing were
possible; and, to that end, he turned to the left, making a movement to
pass in that direction. And again the young lord stepped in front of
him, thus interposing a second time.

                                -------


                               CHAPTER X.

                 A BROKEN HAND--A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

Our hero looked straight into the face of the man before him, and he saw
there not only the unmistakable signs of drink, but he saw, too, a
fierce, ungovernable anger. The dark, sinister face was the face of a
madman.

And there was still mischief in the eyes. They sent forth a malevolent,
vengeful gleam not to be mistaken. What did the man mean?

What could have possessed him? It occurred to Maitland at once that his
wrath had been aroused before this present meeting. The sight of himself
might have set it boiling over, but that had not been the sole cause of
it.

Instinctively Percy thought of his means of defense against attack.
Oakleigh was armed with a good sword, and was angry enough to draw it
upon the slightest provocation. Indeed, it was more than possible that
his intent was in that direction. Fortunately our hero was armed. He had
in his hand a leopard-wood staff--a common walking-cane--a stick that
Donald Rodney had brought from one of the Pacific islands and given him
as a present. It had a head of solid silver, and was, taken all in all,
as serviceable a weapon as he could have wished for.

“Lord Oakleigh! why do you thus impede my progress? If you have anything
to say, I am ready to hear it.”

“Oho! you’ve found your tongue, have you? Well, my gay young spark, I
have something to say, and you may find it of importance. I have to
inform you that you have made yourself about as familiar at the castle
as will be good for you. Henceforth you will give that place as wide a
berth as possible. To come to the point, you will have nothing more to
say to the Lady Cordelia. I think you can understand that, and I can
assure you, you had better take heed.”

“Is that all, my lord?”

“Is--that--all! Isn’t it enough? Do you intend to obey me?”

“Lord Oakleigh, I answer you frankly--I do not recognize your right to
command me.”

“You don’t, eh?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then, by --! I’ll give you a taste of my quality. I give you fair
warning. I command you to cease all intercourse with Cordelia Chester!
And I give you fair warning that if you do not, here and now, give me
your promise to that effect, I will punish you! Aye, I will put it
beyond your power to trouble her more! If you can not put that into
plain English I shall not translate it for you. I’ll expound it in a way
you’ll be likely to remember while you live! What say you? Shall I have
your promise?”

“Lord Oakleigh, you have no right to speak--”

“Silence! Will you promise?”

“Lord Oakleigh, have you come hither on purpose to assassinate me?”

“Will you give me the promise?”

“I will not!”

“Then (the oaths he muttered in his mad rage were horrible) I’ll show
you for I am here! Take that!”

The first movement he made and he made it furiously, told his fell
purpose.

He had drawn his sword, a heavy infantry sabre, of the pattern worn by
the higher officers when on active service, and his first movement,
following immediately upon the words he had spoken, was a direct,
powerful lunge at the other’s bosom.

But our hero had been on his guard and was prepared. Probably there was
not a better swordsman in Headlandshire than was he.

With a downward and outward sweep of his heavy staff he struck the blade
aside, and his lordship’s own impetus, with the expected resistance thus
removed, came near to sending him prone upon the earth. But he quickly
recovered himself and came on again.

And again did Percy beat his blade aside,--and again; and by and by he
gave his lordship a rap on the knuckles that made him groan aloud in his
pain.

“Oakleigh! if you do not desist, I will break your arm; or I will lame
it for you so that you will not wield a sword again for a time at least.
Beware!”

If Matthew Brandon had been in any degree sober, and in possession of
his reason, he would have seen that he had no show against the
antagonist he had chosen.

The staff was like iron in weight, and impervious to the cutting edge of
the sword; and in the hand of its owner it was really a dangerous
weapon. With only a jaunty velvet cap to protect Lord Oakleigh’s head,
his antagonist could, had he willed so to do, have brought his stick
down upon it with force enough to crack it; and more than once had the
opportunity been offered.

At length, when Brandon had become so mad and furious as to lose all
control of himself, when only an insane purpose to kill urged him on in
his blind, headlong attack, Percy determined to put an end to the scene.

Twice, without particular effort, he struck aside the blade, and then,
as the opening was given, he brought his heavy staff down upon the back
of his lordship’s right hand with a force that closed the strife.

The sword dropped to the earth, and Lord Oakleigh fairly shrieked with
pain.

“You’ve broken my hand! You’ve broken my wrist!”

“Thank me that I did not break your head, which I might have done half a
dozen times!”

“You shall pay for this! Oh, you shall pay for it!”

“Lord Oakleigh, you attacked me with the intent to kill me. You meant it
from the first; I saw it in your face, and you did the same as to swear
you would do it. Listen, now, my lord: four separate times, at least,
your life was at my mercy. I could have delivered a blow on your skull
that would have crushed it like an egg-shell; but I spared you. I may
say to you, however, don’t depend upon my sparing you should you make a
second attempt upon me, because I might not do it. And now, noble sir,
you had better go home and have your hand properly cared for.”

“You’ve broken every bone in it! Oh, you shall suffer for it, be sure of
that!”

“I can only say to you once more, my lord, thank me that I did not break
your head.” And with this our hero, who had changed places with his
antagonist during the conflict, turned on his heel and walked swiftly
away.

Lord Oakleigh watched him till a bend in the path had hidden him from
view, and then burst forth into a torrent of oaths and imprecations and
threats of vengeance, dire and deadly.

By and by, when he had regained sense enough to realize the needs of his
situation, he bethought him of what he had better do. He was confident
his wrist was broken. His best plan would be to see the village surgeon,
whom he knew as a man of skill and judgment.

He managed to pick up his sword with his left hand and return it to its
scabbard, after which he set forth for the village, distant less than a
mile.

He was fortunate enough to find the surgeon at home, an elderly man, and
really skillful in the way of his profession. He knew the young lord by
sight, and was ready, and even eager, to be of service; but with not a
particle of servility. He would have been just as earnest to help the
poorest man in the town.

Oakleigh told him he had received a kick from a horse. And the surgeon,
when he examined it, decided that it had been a pretty furious kick, and
it was curious that the remark should have fallen from his lips, “Be
thankful, my lord, it was not your head. You would never have come to me
to fix it for you.”

His lordship winced, and, doubtless, felt like swearing, but he
contained himself. The surgeon informed him that two of the metacarpal
bones were fractured and dislocated at their point of articulation with
the carpus.

“You are an Oxford man,” said the doctor, smilingly, “so, of course, you
know what all that means.”

“Certainly,” the sufferer answered; but he lied, and the old man
suspected as much, but he made no further remark. The dislocation was
reduced, and the two central bones of the hand were properly set, and a
couple of light splints bound on to hold them in place while they
healed.

“I must go to Oxford at once,” said Oakleigh, when the surgeon had
spoken of his calling again. “You can tell me how I must manage.”

“When do you start?”

“This very day.”

“Then keep your hand in a good, firm sling; have your servant do your
undressing and dressing for you, and as soon as you reach Oxford call on
Dr. Cartwright and let him look at it. Mark you, don’t attempt to use
that hand, and don’t you let either of those splints get out of place
till you have seen the Oxford surgeon.”

His lordship promised obedience with a nod, paid the fee, and departed:
his hand--and his whole arm, for that matter--giving him an exquisite
sense of pain.

He did not think of wishing that he had kept clear of Percy Maitland. In
that direction his thoughts were only of vengeance; and the imprecations
that fell from his lips were terrible.

Meantime our hero had kept on up the river path. He was bound for the
old chapel, having determined to make a search for the secret which he
firmly believed had existence there. He had thought of calling on
Cordelia to accompany him, knowing that she would be anxious to do so,
did she know of his purpose, but he could not do it. After the adventure
of the preceding evening, his calling her out would loosen people’s
tongues; and even she might deem it an unwarrantable liberty.

Ah! he would not have felt this way four-and-twenty hours before. The
whole world had changed to him in that time. A great joy had entered
into his lowly life, uplifting and sanctifying it, a joy which must be
kept hidden from the world until it could be published with safety to
his darling.

Henceforth the end and aim of his existence would be to care for and
bless the dear one who had so frankly and nobly trusted him; and for the
present, for her comfort and well-being, their love must be known only
to themselves.

Ah! he would be very careful that he did not give any one cause for
suspicion. He could not be quite so free as he had been. He would go on
his present excursion alone, and Cordelia should decide for herself how
it should be thereafter.

It was near noon when Percy reached the old chapel. He entered and
looked around. All was as they had found it on the previous day.

He went to the corner where the stone cubes were, and sat down where he
had sat on the evening before. For a little time he gave himself up to
thoughts of the blissful moment that had come to him amid storm and
tempest. He lived them over again; and, naturally enough, his mind ran
on into the future. What should it bring? Would he ever be permitted to
make the daughter of an English nobleman his wife?

“But she loves me! She loves me!” he cried in tones of rapture; “and
with her dear love I will be content. If darkness and disaster must
come, I will not court it. I will love her while life is mine, and love
shall be my joy. Oh! that can not be taken from me! That is a part of
myself that will endure while I live, and can only die when I am done
with earth.”

Shortly after this he gave his attention to the business on which he
came. He looked first and calculated the direction in which the spectral
figure had gone after passing the center of the chapel.

It had been directly toward the altar, and there, very nearly at the
right-hand corner of the huge block of stone as he stood facing it, the
figure had last been seen.

He now approached the altar and looked around upon the pavement in its
neighborhood. It--the pavement--was composed of flags of a bluish-gray
stone, square in form and fully three feet across, laid in cement. He
got down upon his knees and with the strong blade of his pocket-knife
sought to find a crack or a crevice of any kind between the stones of
the floor.

But his search was vain. Fully half an hour was spent thus, and to no
effect. The pavement over that whole part of the chapel was as intact,
as firm and solid as though it had been a single mass, without break or
flaw.

Where could it be? He examined the altar itself. Certainly there was no
possible opening in any part of that. It was a single block of stone,
without flaw or blemish.

The explorer looked around at the open windows. Not by any one of them
could the seeming monk have gone. That was decided at once. Where then?

Had the whole thing been a wild, fantastical hallucination? Only a
dream? Could it be possible that they had seen nothing?

Could it be that the very excursion itself, together with what he had
deemed the most rapturous event of his life--could that have been but a
baseless vision of his distempered brain?

He looked down, and his eyes rested upon his poor staff--its beautiful,
evenly spotted and highly polished surface, erstwhile so smooth and
fair, now marred and cut, and bruised and hacked by its rough contact
with the edge of Lord Oakleigh’s sword. Ah! that had been real at all
events, and he very soon told himself that all that had gone before had
been real.

Yes--the gray friar had certainly vanished from sight at that altar.
There had been no deception; no hallucination--the departure had been a
fact; and that was the end.

He had given up, and had turned, in deep dejection, toward the vestibule
for the purpose of departing, when suddenly a new thought came to him,
under the influence of which he stopped, and presently went back to the
altar.

Was it cemented to the pavement? Was it secured in its place in any way?
Again he went down on his knees, with his pocket-knife in his hand.

He commenced at the rear wall, at the end of the huge block where the
specter had stood, and examined the point of connection between it and
the pavement.

Ah! he found places where he could insert the knife-blade. He arose, and
went outside and cut a small twig from a bush near by, the wood of which
was tough and elastic. This he shaved down to a long, thin strip, and
returned to his work.

He commenced again at the rear wall, brushing away the accumulated dust,
and probed with the new implement. And so he went entirely around the
altar; and at no point had it any further connection with the pavement
than simply to rest upon it.

He was gazing upon the line, between the lower edge of the block and the
floor, when something caught his eye that caused him to start.

It was a series of marks--abrasions--extending out from the edge of the
altar, with a circular sweep, entirely across one of the broad stone
flags. What did it mean? What could have done it?

A critical examination, with a little calculation, showed him that
exactly such an abrasion as that would have been made by the swinging
outward of the altar, away from the wall.

Suppose the huge block could swing on a pivot fixed at the corner next
to the wall, at its eastern end--the end on the left hand, as one stood
facing it. With a pivot at that point, a swinging outward of the giant
cube would produce exactly the marks he had discovered.

And why were they on that one flag, and no where else? Simply because
that flag was an eighth of an inch higher than its mates.

He stood back and looked. He felt that he had made an important
discovery.

Somewhere, out of sight, was mechanism by which the altar, ponderous as
it was, could be moved out of place; and there, beneath it, would be
found an entrance to regions below. He was as sure of it as he could be
of anything which his eyes had not absolutely beheld. And further, there
must be some very simple and ready way of setting the mass free, and
moving it from the wall. Enormous weights with easily working pulleys
operating beneath might do it.

In fact, the explorer as he contemplated the scene could imagine several
ways in which the end might be accomplished. But that did not help him.
Where was the point of connection outside?

That was the thing now, and the only thing. It must be very simple,
wherever it was. The friar had accomplished the work of opening and
closing the way very quickly, and with but little noise. Our adventurer
looked around once more, and once more stood and reflected, with his
head bent and his hands folded.

Again he went down upon his knees, and with his probe went entirely
around the altar a second time, closely examining the line of separation
between the cube and the floor. And this time he noticed something which
he had not noticed before.

On the left-hand--easterly--end of the altar, the space between it and
the pavement was marked. At the other end the huge block of stone sat
firmly upon the flagging, there being places where even the thinnest
probe he could fashion would not enter; but on that left-hand end it was
different.

There the stone of the altar came in direct contact with the pavement at
no single point!

And he found another thing: from the outer corner on that left-hand end
to a point midway on the front side, that line of separation continued.

It was very slight--not more than an eighth of an inch in width--and
would never be detected by a person while standing erect. He would have
to stoop to find it. Was there any meaning to this? Could the ponderous
block possibly be tilted over toward that easterly end?

Just half its bulk at bottom appeared to be free from resting upon the
floor beneath, so there might be just that eighth of an inch play in
case it could be moved.

Percy looked the ground over once more, and then went around to the
opposite--the westerly--end of the altar. That was where the spectral
monk had last been seen.

Could the massive block be jostled? He laid his hands upon the upper
edge, then stooped slightly, so as to lift at the stone when he should
put forth his strength, and then made the trial. He did not apply his
full force in the outset. It was an experiment, and he wished to note
particularly the result.

With his two hands fixed in place, and his lower limbs firmly braced, he
lifted, lightly at first, and then with renewed force.

By and by, acting upon the impulse of the moment, he gave a sudden
upward pressure with all his might. The result was wonderful.

First, he felt the heavy mass yield; next, he heard a dull thud followed
by a rattling, grating sound beneath the floor; and, a moment later, the
ponderous cube, starting away from its rest against the rear wall of the
chapel, swung outward for a distance equal to its own depth, perhaps a
little more.

And there, exposed to his view, was an opening in the pavement seemingly
as long and as broad as the altar would safely cover; and on looking
down he saw the head of a ladder resting against the side nearest to
him.

His first thought was of the mechanism by which this wonderful result
had been wrought; and for the purpose of discovering that he went part
way down the ladder. He examined thoroughly, and found it very nearly as
he had thought. A system of enormous weights, slung in chains of copper,
the chains working in easily running blocks, were so arranged that upon
setting the weights free the stone would be moved, as we have seen. The
huge stone itself swung upon a pivot, at the inner, eastern corner, and
at the other end underneath were small trucks on which it traveled over
the flagging, and which had caused the abrasions which had attracted the
explorer’s attention.

The tipping of the rock backward set the spring free, and our hero
remembered that he had instinctively applied his force towards moving
the stone away from the wall until it had stopped, and then he had heard
a sharp click, as though another spring had been caught.

Would tipping the stone again cause it to resume its former position
against the wall? He thought so.

The next question he asked himself was, Should he unarmed and without a
light, attempt to explore the wonderful place he had so curiously
discovered?

                                -------


                              CHAPTER XI.

                          IN THE SECRET CRYPT.

Having discovered so much, our hero could not be content to leave the
place without knowing something more. He did not expect that he could
explore to any great extent without the aid of artificial light; but he
could see the manner of place it was immediately below him, and he might
be able to determine something of its depth and general character.

Of course there was a way or means of closing and opening the trap from
below; but he did not care then to stop for the investigation of that
part of the problem.

So he went out and took a survey around to make sure that no one else
was in sight, then returned and made ready for the descent into the
unknown regions.

He had no weapon save his battered leopard wood staff; but that had
served him once, and it might serve him again should the need present
itself.

He took one more look around, then put his foot upon the ladder and
began the descent. The distance was not far, perhaps twelve to fourteen
feet, at the end of which he alighted upon a bottom of rock and quite
rough.

As nearly as could be judged with the aid of the light he had, he
concluded the crypt to be mostly the work of nature. Evidently the old
monks or whoever had built the chapel, had found the cavern beneath and
had thus utilized it.

It was irregular in form, its greatest width at the point where he now
stood being nine full paces, not far from twenty-seven feet.

As soon as he had become more used to the gloom he moved on ahead, very
soon making a new discovery, and one of importance.

At the point where he had landed from the ladder the cavern had been
entirely bare, the only things to attract his attention, besides the
jagged walls, being the somewhat complicated and bulky machinery by
which the altar was moved to and fro; but he had not advanced many steps
into the place before he came in contact with things that opened his
eyes and sharpened his understanding.

Piled against the walls on either hand were barrels and casks and boxes,
some of which appeared to have been there a long time, while others were
evidently of more recent deposit. A little further on the cave narrowed,
and was buried in darkness, but he believed there was a widening again
further on. In this narrower part were a few boxes, and a lot of ship’s
rigging--ropes, blocks, and old sails.

Ah! Another thing struck the explorer; and it struck him forcibly. It
was a strong draught of air fresh from the sea! He was too well used to
the atmosphere of the sea to mistake it when it came full in his face,
and filled his nostrils and his lungs.

And now he could understand. In the slope of the crag towards the shore
of the bay were several caves, two of which were of considerable size.

One of these latter--he thought he knew which one it was--had a secret
opening into a passage leading to the place where he now stood; and the
smugglers had discovered it and were making use of it.

Many things which had heretofore puzzled him were clear to him now. His
father, he was confident, had known nothing of this cavern.

During his father’s lifetime he had known how all the goods landed at
the Cove were disposed of; but it had not been so since his death.

Of late--within the three years last past--there had to his certain
knowledge been many things brought in that had never been taken further
inland, to be disposed of among the people there residing.

One occasion, in particular, he called to mind. It happened a year
previously. He had gone on board the brig one evening, and had seen a
number of boxes brought up from the hold and deposited on deck.

On the following morning he had been called on board again, when he
found the boxes gone; yet he knew that no team had left the landing, and
that no boat had gone up the river.

But it was all clear now. The goods had been landed at night at the foot
of the crag, and taken up to the cave. When the secret had been first
discovered by the smugglers he could not imagine; nor could he tell by
whom, though he strongly suspected that Ralph Tryon had been the first
to make use of it as a depository of contraband, and, perhaps, for
pirated goods.

Having discovered so much, and having further determined that the space
ahead was wrapped in total darkness, Percy concluded to leave further
explorations to another and more favorable opportunity.

Furthermore, he determined that he would acquaint the earl with the
discovery he had made and leave future proceedings to his direction. It
would be proper so to do, and it would be right.

Thus thinking he turned about and started to retrace his steps. He had
gone but a short distance on his return when his eye caught an object he
had not before seen. The fact was, his eyes had become used to the dim
light, and he saw things more distinctly.

Standing on the stone bottom, just under the head of one of the casks--a
cask that had been set up on two small boxes--he espied a drinking cup.

He stooped and picked it up and made sure it was of silver and heavy at
that. He further observed that in the head of the cask, close to the
lower chine, was a wooden faucet.

The fancy possessed him to see what the cask contained; so, stooping
down, he gave the tap of the faucet a turn, and speedily a liquid
trickled out. He gave another turn and held the cup under it.

The first drawn he used to rinse the drinking-vessel with, and with it
filled a second time he arose and stepped to where he had more light.

The liquid, as the fumes had told him, was wine, and there could be no
mistaking its character or quality. It was old port, very strong, yet
smooth as oil. It must have been old when first deposited in its present
place of rest, and now the taster decided it to be the finest wine of
the kind he had ever put to his lips.

Being well assured that no harmful ingredient could have found its way
into the cask, he drank the potion and felt the better for it, but he
wanted no more. Much wine of that quality would give to his head a
buzzing not at all desirable.

Up the ladder, once more on the pavement of the chapel, our hero looked
around. Everything was as he had left it. And now to move the altar back
to its original place. With his hands on the upper edge, as before, he
put forth his strength, this time at once and quickly. He heard the
sharp click, as before, and immediately the ponderous mass swung back
against the wall, with not a sign left to tell that a strange hand had
been tampering with the mystery of the old chapel.

One mystery had been solved; but, in some respects, a greater yet
remained in the dark. He had discovered how the seeming monk had made
his exit from the chapel, but he had not discovered the meaning of the
face that monk had worn. He knew not how many times he had recalled the
scene, how many moments he had spent in thinking of it; he only knew
that the more he reflected the more sure he became that his eyes had not
played him false.

Beneath that gray cowl he had as surely seen a face like his father’s as
he was sure that he had seen the figure at all. But he had seen it in
profile. Perhaps could he see that same face in full front view it might
appear different to him.

Yet, it was marvelous; and he could not think of it without wonder. He
could only hope that the time might come when he could look upon the
gray friar under other circumstances.

If he was one of the smugglers, or was engaged in their business on
shore, he might yet be trapped. Who should say?

Upon leaving the chapel our adventurer took his way at once towards the
castle, being resolved that the earl should be made acquainted with his
discovery in the outset. He had no fear of Lord Oakleigh. It would not
be over and above pleasant to meet him; yet he would not go out of his
way, or, at least, he would not discommode himself to avoid him. How his
lordship would account for his lame hand he could not guess; but he
doubted very much the telling of the truth.

He thought he might at some time relate the incident to Cordelia; but
under no circumstances would he tell the story to the earl, unless he
should be asked; and he did not think that likely, as he had no idea
that the grandson would let out the secret of his ruffianism.

Arrived at the castle, the first person whom he met was the very one
whom he was most eager to see--the old steward, Michael Dillon.

“Michael, I have had nothing to eat since early morning, and I have had
a long hard walk.”

“Bless my soul! And bless you, too, Master Percy! You couldn’t have come
at a more fortunate time. When the old lord is alone with no company, he
likes his dinner early; and we’re just after carrying it in. So come
along to my room and eat with me--unless you prefer to try the upper
table.”

“What! with the earl?”

“To be sure.”

“Mercy, no! What should put such an idea into your head?”

“Why, it wouldn’t be the first time, not by a number; and, besides, I
have a fancy that the old lord rather likes it.”

“But never when Lord Oakleigh is at the castle.”

“Oho, he isn’t here! Thank fortune he’s gone.”

“Gone! Are you sure?”

“Aye, that I am--bag and baggage--he and his rascally valet with him.”

“When did he go and how?”

“He came home at noon with his arm in a sling. He said a horse had
kicked him and hurt him sorely, and he had his things packed up and a
trap to take him over to Burton, where I believe he said he was going to
spend the night with a friend. He is off for Oxford to-morrow.”

“Was the earl very sorry to have him go?”

“I should say not. He makes the good old man very unhappy when he is
here; and yet I sometimes think he hates to see him going, being so sure
that he’s going to new mischief. Ah, he’s a bad lot! I’m sure I don’t
know who he takes after. His father was one of the finest gentlemen I
ever knew, and handsome as well; and his mother was a born angel. There
couldn’t be a sweeter, purer, or a nobler woman than she was, though she
was a bit proud. When I tell you that she was just as beautiful as is
Lady Cordelia, and just as good, you’ll understand what I mean. Who in
the world there ever was in the old earl’s family, on either side, like
him, I’m sure I don’t know. It’s one o’ them marvels, Master Percy, that
you’ve got to take as they come, and make the best of ’em.”

They went in to dinner; and our hero made a hearty meal and enjoyed it.
The conversation of the steward was entertaining and interesting.

He had been in the earl’s employ, boy and man, more than half a century,
having been born on the estate little more than three score years
before.

“By the way,” the old man said towards the close of the meal, “it’s
curious that we’ve never seen anything of the new captain of the
smugglers at the castle. Your father, my boy, used to come up quite
often; and a few of us were glad enough to purchase a few creature
comforts that he had to dispose of. Of course, the earl never traded
with him; but, for all that, more than one bottle of wine from his
cargo, and more than one chest of tea, found their way into his
lordship’s larder and upon his table. From what I hear, I should judge
the new captain--Tryon--to be rather a poor sort of a stick.”

“Then you never saw him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He is a bad man, Michael--a man that I keep clear of.”

“Yes, I’ve heard so. They don’t speak well of him anywhere. Even the old
landlord of the Allerdale Arms don’t like him; and when Martin Vanyard
turns against a smuggler you may be sure there’s a reason for it.”

“I was not aware, before,” said Percy, “that Captain Tryon had never
shown himself at the castle. However, he doesn’t appear to spend much of
his time in this section any way. As soon as his vessel gets in he is
sure to be off. Where he goes I do not know; and, to tell the truth, I
care less. There is something about the man that puzzles me, and for
that I would like to gain a more intimate acquaintance. I would like to
follow him on one of his journeys and see what he does with
himself--where he goes, and in what guise he appears when there.”

“Eh! D’ye fancy he’s playin’ a kind of hide and seek?--that he’s got
another character?”

“Yes. I am sure of it, and I intend to unmask him one of these days. In
fact, the time may not be far distant.”

“Well, if he’s as big a rascal as I’ve heard it whispered, I hope he may
be nabbed very soon.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the youth, with a slight start, and a curious look into
the old man’s face, “what sort of whispers have you heard, Michael?”

The steward hesitated. After gazing for a time into his glass, and
taking a swallow of wine, he said:

“Really, Percy, I don’t know as I ought to speak; but then it’s no
secret, and it’s whispered pretty loudly, too. They say--I’ve heard old
Martin at the inn say--that there was more carried on by the new captain
of the Staghound than smuggling. I s’pose you know what that means?”

“Yes. I know. Has it come to the earl’s ears?”

“I’m not sure; but I think it has. Mebbe, Percy, you know about it.”

“Michael, whatever I may know with regard to a change in the character
of the brig has come to my knowledge within eight-and-forty hours. I
shall myself speak with the earl on this subject; so you and I will
discuss it no more.”

“But you’ll tell me some time, my boy?”

“Yes; you shall know all about it, just as soon as there is something
tangible discovered.”

Shortly after this the meal came to an end, and the young man made his
way to one of the smaller drawing-rooms, where Cordelia was in the habit
of sitting, and where he had given her his instruction while acting in
the capacity of private tutor.

He found the lady there, and with her was the old earl. She arose
instantly on his entrance, and approached him with her hand
outstretched.

She smiled, as she always smiled on meeting him; but to him there was a
new flush on her lovely face; a new warmth in her greeting, and a new
light in her radiant eyes.

“Percy, I am glad you have come. You can tell dear grandpa all about
what we saw in the old chapel last night.”

“My lord,” said the visitor, turning to the earl, after he had responded
to Cordelia’s greeting, “I have come on purpose to speak with you. I
think I have something to tell that will interest you.”

Now Lord Allerdale had made up his mind--had firmly resolved--that the
next time he should meet with young Maitland he would treat him
respectfully, and not unkindly; but he would make him feel that he must
know his place and keep it.

He would never unbend to him again--never again give his hand as a
friend. It would not answer.

And this was the next meeting. The old man had arisen when his
grandchild spoke, and as he turned and rested his gaze upon the handsome
face, and ran his eyes over the fine, manly form, and met the warm,
generous smile, and heard the rich, frank, truthful voice, his poor
resolutions vanished into forgetfulness, and the old love and
admiration, together with the old trust and confidence, came back to
him.

He put forth his hand without knowing it--put it forth as it had been
his wont to do, and smiled benignantly, almost paternally, as he said in
a frank, genial tone and manner so natural to him:

“Percy, I am glad to see you. Sit right down here, and let’s have your
wonderful story. If you can hold your own with Cordelia I shall give you
full credit.”

“I will not presume, my lord,” said the young man, “to tell over again
anything that your granddaughter may have told you; for I know she must
have done full justice to her subject. I suppose,” turning to the lady,
“you have told all about what we saw in the old chapel?”

“Yes. I’ve told everything I could think of; but you might remember
things that I have forgotten.”

“No fear of that, dear lady. But listen: I have been to the chapel
to-day.”

“What! And never told me?”

“Hush, darling!” interposed the old nobleman, as the girl broke in. “Let
the young man speak. I can see by his look that he has something of
importance to tell us.”

“I have indeed, my lord.” And thereupon, clearly and concisely, and with
real dramatic elegance and force, he went on and told the story of his
wonderful discovery of a few hours before.

He told how he had reached the chapel, and how he had pondered and
studied, and how he had finally discovered the secret of moving the
ponderous block of stone forming the altar.

And then he told of the crypt beneath, of what he had found in it, and
how he had determined that the secret vault was connected with one or
more of the caves on the long slope of the Witch’s Crag, towards the
bay.

Cordelia had contained herself with difficulty during the recital, and
at its conclusion she was eager to burst forth in her impulsive way.

She was greatly disappointed that he should have gone without her; but a
look which he bent upon her after he had closed, together with several
glances which he had given her while he had been speaking, told her why
he had not come to her. She understood and was content. Be sure,
however, she was determined that the next visit would not be made
without her.

The earl had listened patiently, but eagerly, to the end. Not a word
escaped him, nor an intonation.

“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, warmly and gratefully, “you do not know
what a favor you have done me. The whole thing is now plain to me and my
duty clear. Of course, I may depend upon your assistance.”

“You may, my lord, depend upon me for everything within my power to do.”

“What put it into your head to think of that particular way of moving
the altar?”

The young man explained by pointing to a square-topped table that stood
near. He told how he had found the end where the huge stone was clear of
the pavement, while at the other end it rested on it; and how that had
led him to make the trials which had proved successful.

“And to think that all these years I have searched in vain! Well, the
credit is yours, my boy; and I am glad you have found it. If I am not
mistaken, we have an important work before us.” At this point the earl
bent his head upon his hand, and remained for a considerable time buried
in a profound meditation.

“Grandpa!” called his fair ward, becoming restless and impatient in the
dead silence, “what are you thinking about?”

He started quickly and raised his head. Twice he passed his hand to and
fro across his eyes, and finally, with a look of deep anxiety on his
frank, honest face, he spoke.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER XII.

                        AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION.

“Maitland,” said the earl, with a look upon the youth full of confidence
and esteem, “the time has come when I must speak frankly with you; and I
shall trust that you will be equally frank with me.”

“Lord Allerdale,” Percy returned, with a depth of feeling that imparted
a perceptible tremor to his voice and to his frame, “say to me what you
will--ask me what you will--and I will reply to you as I can. I will
answer everything within my power to answer; and if I offer a suggestion
or a remark of any kind it shall be frankly and truthfully done.”

“I believe you, my boy. I will not hesitate to say I have perfect
confidence in you.” He paused a few seconds, and then went on:

“You have no doubt, I suppose, that the cavern which you so wonderfully
discovered is, at the present time, used by the crew of the smuggler
brig, the Staghound?”

“I am confident that such is the case, my lord.”

“Percy, I am now going to ask you a question which you will answer as
you think proper. What is your candid opinion of the present character
of the crew of that vessel?”

“I would divide the crew into two classes, my lord,” answered the youth,
promptly, and with a bold frank look into the old man’s earnest eyes.
“There are men of that crew who are good and true--men who are outlawed,
I know, but who have much excuse for the course of life into which they
have been led. Another part of the crew, including the chief, I believe
to be about as bad--as wicked--as it is possible for men to be.”

“Do you think, my boy,” the earl pursued, greatly excited, “that
they--the bad men--are--have been guilty of piracy on board that brig?”

“My lord, had you asked me that question two days ago, I could not have
answered it as I can answer it now. To accommodate old friends--to save
from possible disaster those who had been kind to me, and loving, in my
boyhood, in the absence of the chief, I went out and piloted the brig
in. While on board I saw that which surprised me; and I questioned one
whom I knew I could trust.

“I will not speak his name. I will only say of him further, he and a
score and more with him have resolved that the piratical brig shall know
them no more. By no consent of theirs, but against their earnest
protest, the iniquitous work has been carried on.

“Yes, my lord--those bad men, with the chief at their head, have been
guilty of piracy. The brig is even now fresh from a piratical venture. A
portion of her cargo may have been honestly purchased, to be dishonestly
disposed of in England; but I verily believe the bulk of the property
she has on board was robbed from other vessels.”

“And the brig is at this moment in the cove?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea of what they are doing with the cargo?”

“I do not think any of it has yet been moved. They are waiting for the
return of their chief, who is at present away.”

“Percy, who is this chief?”

“Have you seen him, my lord?”

“He was pointed out to me once at the village. I can only remember that
he reminded me of a big brown bear, though more of the color of a lion.”

“Lord Allerdale, I can tell you nothing of the man that would inform
you. He is an enigma to me. I only hope we may have the opportunity for
a closer acquaintance ere long. I know him to be a villain; if there is
any good in his composition, it is unknown to me.”

The earl regarded his youthful companion for a time in silence, seeming
the while to be debating with himself. At length, with the passing of a
cloud from his brow, he said:

“Maitland, we must engage in this matter with a thorough understanding
of each other, and, should you lend me your aid, I should naturally
depend upon you to take the lead. You know the ground; I do not. You
also know the persons, while scarcely one of them is known to me; in
fact, I may say not one, for were Tryon to appear in a garb different
from that in which I saw him I should not recognize him from an utter
stranger.”

“Well, my lord,” said the youth having waited a time for the other to
proceed, “I think you had more in your mind that you wished to say.”

Allerdale started and changed color.

“Yes,” he replied, “I will tell you. As I have just remarked, if you
engage in this work, I shall have to depend upon you; and, even though I
should have the assistance of the king’s officers, I should still expect
you to lead. And now, my young friend, I don’t want you to place
yourself in an unpleasant position for me. If you would prefer not to
openly raise your hand against these men, I will certainly excuse you.”

Our hero saw the drift of the old man’s thoughts, and he was grateful,
though there was a touch of disappointment that he had not been weighed
more correctly.

Still, judging by the past--by his parentage, and the associates of his
childhood, he could not deem it strange that his lordship should have
held a lingering thought that he might feel a grain of sympathy even now
for the crew of the vessel which his father had so long commanded, and
many of whom had been his warm and loving friends.

But he--the earl--did not quite understand. Percy answered, frankly and
kindly, and with truth in every word:

“Lord Allerdale, I thank you for your kind consideration. I have to
inform you, however, that you do not quite understand me. With regard to
the sin of smuggling I will not speak, unless, indeed, I may be
permitted to say that nothing in the world, not even starvation, would
induce me to place myself in the position of an outlaw.

“But there are a certain number of the old crew of the brig--men who
sailed with my father--who, as I have before remarked, would not, I am
confident, commit what they believed to be a crime. In fact they can
not, in the very nature of the case, of the facts surrounding them, look
upon themselves as great criminals.

“They know that the great majority of the poor people are with them, and
at heart uphold them. While they really harm no private individual
living farther than the competition in trade may go, they have the
feeling that thousands of honest people bless them.

“But, my lord, what shall I say of the man who goes upon the high seas,
a pirate? There is something in the word, in the very thought, that
strikes a horror to my soul; something that sets every fiber of feeling
within me to crying out in vengeance against them. Wait one week.

“I do not think Captain Tryon will return before that time; and we must
make no move until he is on the ground. Should we do so, he would be
sure to take the alarm and escape us; and he can do it, be sure. I never
knew a man--never heard of a man--who had such a capacity for secreting
himself. Let him leave his vessel, with a few hours the start, and no
mortal can find him anywhere. There are men on board the brig who
declare that he vanishes into pure air. However, when he is once more on
the spot--when I know that he has joined the brig--there is no doubt
that we can capture him.”

“You think he will be back in a week?”

“Not far from that. I should say it will not be before that time; but if
he should return sooner, I should know it, and will at once communicate
with you.”

“Percy, I haven’t told you all. Word of this matter--of these pirates in
my neighborhood--has come to the ears of the admiralty, and they have
sent to me, not only for information, but they wish to know what I can
do to help them. They remind me that I am senior justice in this county,
and intimate pretty strongly that I am expected to lead in the work of
capturing the culprits. They have sent one sloop of war to look after
the pirate and will send more if necessary. Also, just as soon as I will
inform them what I want and when I want it they will send a land force
to operate with me. Now, my boy, what shall I do? What answer shall I
return to the admiralty and what to the commissioners?”

“What do the commissioners say?”

“They expect me to call on my chief constable and his forces, and if
more help is wanted they will send it.”

“How many men can your constable raise, and what sort of men are they?”

“Oh, he can raise all we can possibly want, and plenty of them are good
and reliable.”

“Very well. And now, my lord, I will answer your question. Write to the
admiralty that they need not send any more vessels of war after the
pirate. He will, in all probability, never put to sea again. Write to
the commissioner of police that you will not need their help. With
regard to the constable of Headlandshire, let him be prepared; but be
sure that he makes no open movement until further orders. If you will
trust to my guidance, I think you will not be disappointed.”

“You will keep me informed--you will--”

“My lord,” said the young man as the earl hesitated, “you need be under
no anxiety. I will keep my eyes open, and you shall know just what is to
be done and when.”

The old nobleman was greatly relieved, more so, perhaps, than he would
have acknowledged, and his thanks were warmly given.

A few more questions on the subject of the pirate chief, for such they
did not hesitate to call him, were asked and answered, after which
Cordelia, who had been an interested listener--particularly interested,
because she saw her noble guardian deferring most respectfully to her
dear lover--claimed to be heard. She was eager to know when they would
visit the old chapel.

“If you refer it to me for decision,” said Percy, as he found his host’s
gaze fixed inquiringly upon him, “I say the sooner the better. I wish
there could have been time this afternoon, but to-morrow will answer.
The goods that are now being removed from the brig are going back into
the country. They are proper contraband articles, and were purchased in
France and Spain and at the Azores, without the help, I believe, of
Captain Tryon. The last of those goods will probably be out to-morrow,
or on the day following, and after that they will be moving things into
the cavern. So you understand why we need to be expeditious.”

“Suppose, then, we call it to-morrow morning?” suggested the earl.

And so it was arranged. Percy promised that he would be on hand at an
early hour; and he suggested that not a word should be spoken on the
subject to others.

“Only to Mary,” said our heroine, earnestly. “I will be responsible for
her circumspection.”

“Certainly,” returned Percy. “You shall not go without your trusty
attendant. But you will caution her in advance.”

The girl promised that she would exercise all possible caution, and
shortly thereafter the young man took his leave.

The morning of the following day dawned clear and bright, and by the
time the sun was two hours high the party was ready for the excursion to
the old chapel.

By previous arrangement Percy had brought his old fowling-piece with
him; and the earl likewise took one, thus giving to the inquiring
servants the impression that they were going out simply for shooting.

Cordelia often accompanied her old guardian on his woodland rambles, gun
or no gun; and more than once Percy Maitland had been called to go with
them; so the arrangement of the party caused no surprise.

On referring to his watch, when they had reached their destination, the
guide found it to be only a few minutes past eight o’clock. They were in
good season, and he felt very confident that they had nothing to fear
from other parties in the cavern.

Cordelia was in a flutter of excitement as they approached the altar.
Percy first pointed out to them the peculiarities of the huge stone.

He found his wooden probe which he had fashioned on the previous day,
and with the aid of that he very soon explained the various points, the
discovery of which had led him to the grand discovery of all.

This done, he went to the right-hand end of the block, and laid his two
strong hands fairly on its upper edge.

“Now, my lady,” he said, with a happy smile, “if you will keep your eyes
open you will behold a wonderful thing.”

A weaker man than he could have set the rock in motion. He put forth his
strength gradually, for the purpose of testing the matter, and he had
exerted not more than a moiety of it when he felt the ponderous mass
give, and heard the sharp click of the spring beneath.

A moment later the end of the stone where they stood began to move--to
swing outward, away from the wall--and in a few seconds the aperture
underneath was exposed to view.

Never mind the loud astonishment of the lady, nor the more quiet
surprise of the maid. The earl himself was filled with wonderment, and
did not hesitate to acknowledge it. The whole thing was a wonder, not
only the finding of the subterranean chamber and the marvelous mechanism
by which the altar was controlled, but the very existence of the place.

“Evidently,” he said, when Percy had asked him his opinion of the origin
of the crypt, and its secret mode of entrance, “it was constructed by
the monks a great many years ago. We have a record of a fraternity of
Franciscans here, with a monastery somewhere near the site now occupied
by the castle, probably on that self-same spot, as many of the
foundation stones of the present structure show unmistakable signs of
having been used before.

“For instance, there is a stone near the southeastern corner of the old
keep, close down by the sward, which we know must once have served as
the keystone of a strong, massive arch. And there are others near it,
which came from the same arch. However, that has nothing to do with this
chapel. My opinion is this: At the time when those old monks lived here
there were frequent incursions on the coast from piratical hordes, and
those pirates were in the habit of making churches and monkish
establishments their especial game. We may suppose that the friars first
found this cave; also its connection with other caves, at a distance,
towards the sea. How natural that it should occur to them what a capital
means of escape all this would be if they only had a way of entering the
cave secretly--unseen by their enemies the pirates. And then, you see,
as a natural sequence, came the chapel with its wonderfully constructed
altar. Of course, it’s only supposition; but it will answer till we can
find a better solution.”

“Which, I think,” said the young man frankly and honestly, “would be
difficult to find. In fact, your solution appears not only plausible,
and entirely reasonable, but, come to think the matter all over, I can
find no room for any other. We may suppose, of course, that the
machinery beneath for working the ponderous trap has been renewed. But
anybody with mechanical skill might have done that.”

After that they prepared to go down. The earl and the guide had each a
brace of good pistols, and each a sword. Also, they had brought with
them two good lanterns which could be utterly darkened should occasion
require. Percy produced flint and steel, by means of which he set on
fire a piece of punk wood, then lighted a brimstone match, and very
shortly the lanterns were alight.

The muskets and the basket of provisions they ventured to leave behind,
on top of the altar, and presently Percy put his foot upon the ladder
and went down. Cordelia followed next, then came the earl, with Mary
Seymour bringing up the rear.

We can imagine the wonder of the girls and their various exclamations;
but their interest was not greater than was that of the earl. And even
the guide himself found more to interest him than he had found before.

He had light now to help him, and the whole scene was open to his view.
He could now see that the cavern was entirely the work of nature. If the
hand of man had done anything it had been only the breaking off of a few
jagged points and projections from the walls, with an occasional
leveling of the floor.

They went on a considerable distance beyond where the guide had gone on
the previous day. He had stopped where the cave had narrowed down to a
simple passage not more than four or five feet wide.

And here they felt the fresh air from the sea--quite a strong draught of
it. This passage extended, perhaps, a distance of a hundred yards, at
which point it widened into another chamber, very nearly as large as the
first; and here were found more articles of merchandise--a considerable
bulk of it--a portion of which was comparatively new.

This second chamber was, in its widest part, eight to nine yards across,
by full thirty long; its roof near the center being very high--full
fifty feet--as nearly as they could estimate.

At the far end it narrowed again to a passage not more than four feet
wide, the sides rough and broken, with many places where it could be
seen that serious impediments had been removed by the setting maul and
chisel. And here it was found that the way began to descend very
perceptibly.

“About where are we now?” the earl asked, as they reached the passage.

“We must be very nearly beneath the point where the abrupt portion of
the crag--the proper Witch’s Head--terminates, and the more gradual
slope begins. We have come a considerable distance. Will you go
further?”

“Let us see where this narrow pass will lead us.”

They went on, Cordelia resting her hand in her lover’s warm grasp when
she could; the way descending quite abruptly, for the distance of a
hundred yards, or more, when they came to a point where the way widened
again, and the floor became level; but it was not a proper chamber.

It continued thus, widening gradually, for the distance of ten yards, or
thereabouts, when it came to a sudden termination against a seemingly
solid wall.

Above, at the height of thirty or forty feet, there was a broad opening,
through which the sea breeze came freely, but it was entirely beyond
reach from where they stood, and, of course, could never be used as a
pass by the smugglers.

At length, however, Percy discovered a small aperture through which he
was able to look upon what lay beyond; and the moment he saw he knew
where they were. Directly before them, only shut away by a partition
wall, was a cave which he had visited hundreds of times. It was not far
from half way down the foot-slope of the crag.

Of course there was somewhere--and they could probably find it if they
tried--a means of passage through this wall; but would it pay to attempt
to discover it at the present time?

“Will it pay to run the risk of detection?” was our hero’s chief
thought.

And the earl thought, decidedly not. So, after a brief conference, they
turned about and began to retrace their steps, well satisfied with the
result of their exploration.

Happy was our hero on the way back, as he walked with his darling’s hand
clasped in his own! And happy was Cordelia, trusting with all her heart
in the strength and goodness of her dear lover!

Ah! little dreamed they of the darkness coming! Not a thought--not the
faintest suspicion--came to them of the vengeful enemy that lurked in
their path!

                                -------


                             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.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER XIV.

                         AN ATTEMPT AT MURDER.

What Percy had discovered on the supper-table, standing near to his own
plate, was only a wine bottle. But it was a very peculiar bottle--that
is, in his eyes. It might not have been so in the eyes of another.

Two circumstances in connection with it came to his mind; first, he was
very sure there had been no such bottle as that in the cottage when he
had left it that morning. In the very nature of the home arrangement it
would have been next to impossible for a bottle of wine to stand in the
dwelling without his knowledge, and he had no knowledge of that.

The next circumstance was startling. The bottle was of an entirely new
pattern, the glass of a color such as he had never seen in a bottle but
once before, and that once before had been in the cabin of the
Staghound, during his late conference with Donald Rodney!

It had been exactly such a bottle that the old man had produced when he
had offered him the finest old wine that was ever tasted. How came the
bottle here? That it had been brought during the day he was confident.

As his mother had turned away to the buffet, so he now turned away to a
window, and did not come back until he had put away the last outward
sign of his misgivings.

“I don’t suppose the old earl loves that grandson of his over and above
much, does he?” Margery remarked, looking at her son keenly after they
had taken their seats and she had lifted the pot to pour out the tea.

“I can not presume to judge of that matter, mother,” Percy replied, in
an easy, natural tone. “I know that the young man tries his
grandfather’s patience somewhat; and I have no doubt that the old man
wishes he were different. However, I know but little about him.”

“I suppose you have spoken with the young lord?”

“Yes. I have spoken with him, and that is about all.”

“It strikes me, Percy, if I was in his place I should ask you to make
yourself a little less familiar at the big house.”

The youth looked at his mother in surprise. What was she driving at? Was
she seeking to pry into his relations with Cordelia?

“Mother, I do not quite understand you. What the world should Lord
Oakleigh have to do with my familiarity at the castle?”

“Why, doesn’t he intend to marry with the Lady Cordelia Chester?”

For the life of him our hero could not keep back the start, nor the
flush that mounted to his brow and temples; but not a sign of the
emotion appeared in his voice when he spoke.

“I know nothing of the young lord’s intentions.”

“But,” pursued the woman, seeming desirous of gaining information, “so
long and so intimate, as you have been at the castle, you ought to know
what the general idea is, what the plan is in that respect. How does the
old earl regard the matter? Of course he wants the girl to marry with
his own son’s son.”

“Perhaps he does.”

“What do you think about it? Do you believe he wishes it?”

“No, I do not!” Percy answered plumply.

“Then you don’t think he would influence the girl to marry with
Oakleigh?”

“He never will try to influence her in any way in regard to her
marriage. That I know.”

“And perhaps you know that the girl wouldn’t have him for a husband on
any consideration?”

“Yes,” answered the youth, and, thus driven, he answered somewhat
warmly, “I know just that!”

“Poor young man! I’ve heard he loved her dearly.”

“Then you’ve heard more than ever I did; for I candidly believe the man
can love no living thing save himself!--There, mother, I think we had
better drop this subject. The affairs of those people can be nothing to
us, and we will let them rest.”

Percy saw the smile that curled his mother’s lips, and he saw the sneer;
but he made no further remark, nor did she, on that subject.

The meal was drawing toward its close, and Percy had not offered to
touch the wine. Usually he had drunk a few swallows when commencing to
eat. He was watching his mother narrowly.

He saw that her eyes often rested upon the bottle, and then turned
toward himself; and more than once he was confident he detected a cloud
of anxiety on her brow. Finally she spoke.

“Percy, won’t you try the wine?”

“Certainly. I’ll drink with you, mother.”

The thought had come to him as he had spoken it, impulsively and not
with premeditation, but the effect on the woman was quick and
remarkable.

She gave a start like one frightened, and she looked into the speaker’s
face as though she would look him through. Very soon, however, she
overcame the emotion, and said, with a poor attempt at a smile:

“Indeed, boy, you know I never drink wine in the evening.”

“And it is seldom that I take it with my supper,” the youth returned,
pleasantly.

“But this is very fine.”

“Ah,” taking up the bottle and holding it between his eye and the blaze
of the nearest candle, “where did this come from?”

“From France, I suppose; though it is of Italian vintage.”

“I mean, how came it here? How did you get it?”

“It must have come from one of the brig’s crew, of course. Very likely
old Rodney brought it up, or it may have been Stephen Harley. I only
know it is a very fine old wine, the like of which we do not often see.”

Percy was strongly tempted to drive his mother to the wall, then and
there; but second thoughts told him to hold his peace. If there should
be any collusion between her and Ralph Tryon, he must know it; and to
betray himself now would defeat his end and serve no good purpose.

First, if possible, he would discover if the wine which had been thus
pressed upon him had been tampered with. He was very sure it had. Tryon
himself had brought that wine to the cottage--had brought it with an
object; and that object was his own--Percy’s death!

Good heavens! could his mother be knowingly concerned in this? He did
not wish to believe it. Yet, if he should find the wine poisoned, how
could he doubt it?

Ha! A happy thought occurred to him. On the premises was a cat--it had
been a little kitten when Hugh Maitland died--which the smugglers, when
on shore and stopping at the cottage, had taught to lick up wine as it
did milk, and more than once had poor puss been reduced to a state of
utter inebriety in furnishing sport for the seamen.

“I’ll tell you what I will do, mother,” said our hero, after a little
thought. “Sometimes I am thirsty in the night. Suppose I take the bottle
up to my chamber.”

“Do so,” responded Margery, quickly. “And let me once more assure you,
you’ll find it about the finest wine you ever tasted. At all events, I
found it so. You will see a part of it has been consumed.”

That was true, but it proved nothing. The young man, when he had arisen
from the table, took the bottle and carried it up to his room, together
with a goblet.

Later he came down and took a look out of doors. There was a small shed
in the rear of the cottage, with a cowhouse and sheepfold close by.

In this shed he found the cat, which he took in his arms, and carried to
the front door of the dwelling; and, as good fortune would have it, as
he passed the windows of the sitting-room he saw his mother on her way
to the kitchen, with the last of the supper dishes in her hands.

To glide up to his own room, unseen, with the cat in his arms, was now
easy; and it was accomplished without mishap. In his chamber, he put the
cat on the floor, then gently turned the key in the lock of his door,
and then reflected.

He hesitated. If his mother had done this thing, did he wish to know it?
The query was very soon answered. His own safety--his life perhaps,
demanded it.

And even then he held back. The thought of sacrificing the poor cat was
really painful to him. He looked upon it--so trustful and so contented
in his company, so full of life and sport, the puss he had played with
and fondled and fed for so long a time--for years. Could he kill it? He
hoped he would not. Perhaps, after all, the wine was as innocent as the
dew of heaven.

He had in his room a cup and saucer. The saucer he took, and into it
poured a little of the wine. He touched his tongue to it, but could
perceive no unpleasant taste--Ah!--Wait!--By and by he was sensible of a
puckering effect, together with a slight prickling, which he had not
experienced at first. In fact, he was very sure that he might have drunk
a full goblet of it without tasting the false tang.

However, he placed the saucer on the floor, and the cat came to it at
once and began to lap it up. It lapped up not quite half of it, and
stopped. Presently it lapped a little more; then stopped again and went
away and lay down.

Had puss drunk enough, or was the taste of the beverage unpleasant?
After a time Percy took the saucer and set it down close to the cat’s
nose, but she would not touch it. When he found that pussy could not be
persuaded to drink any more he took up the vessel, and, by the exercise
of a little care, succeeded in pouring the wine that remained in it back
into the bottle.

He had done this and was in the act of setting the bottle away on the
mantel, when a low, painful wail from the cat attracted his attention,
and on looking down he saw the poor creature already in spasms. But it
did not suffer long, for which the experimenter was profoundly thankful.
Within a minute from the time of the first symptom of trouble its life
was at an end.

Percy Maitland stood looking upon the dead cat, and thought. What should
he do? That an attempt had been made to destroy--to murder him--he
simply knew; and he knew, too, that his mother had been knowing to it.
Aye, she had actively lent her hand to aid in its accomplishment.

Why--why--was Ralph Tryon so bitter toward him? Why did he hate him with
such deadly hatred?

“It can not be because he thinks I will betray him,” the youth thought
aloud. “He has hated me from the first. The first time I ever set eyes
on him, when he saw how I watched and studied him--when he saw perhaps
that his appearance had puzzled me--even then he hated me and could have
killed me, I verily believe, with a good relish.”

And then he gave thought again to his mother. What should he do? Should
he let her know of the dreadful discovery he had made? He had not the
heart to do it. He knew not how he should meet her.

Yet she must know it, sooner or later. It could not be kept from her a
great while. Of course he must leave the cottage. It could be no longer
a home for him. Also, he must see old Donald, and make an arrangement
with him for the immediate transmission of intelligence of the return of
Tryon.

An hour later, when he knew that his mother had retired, he removed his
shoes, and noiselessly carried the dead cat downstairs and out of doors,
throwing it down among some bushes, where it might appear that the poor
thing had there parted with life.

Back in his room, Percy locked his door, and set a table against it, and
then went to bed, and finally to sleep. On the following morning he was
up with the sun; and by the time he had performed his ablution, and
completed his toilet, he had resolved fully upon the course he would
pursue.

He would make no complaint to his mother; he would tell her nothing of
what he had discovered, unless she should push him.

Yet he meant to put the laboring oar into her hand. She could demand
what of explanation she pleased.

He possessed but little personal property. All the furniture in the
cottage was the property of his mother, though a portion of it he had
purchased. He had his clothing, a few valuable weapons--three swords,
half a dozen pistols of different sizes and patterns, a fine rifle, and
three fowling-pieces, or one of them was a proper king’s-arm musket.

This property he collected--not together, but so arranged it that it
could handily and quickly be taken in hand and carried away. He then
went below, with the bottle in his hand, finding Margery just out from
her sleeping-room, which was on the ground floor.

He met her eye as he entered the living-room, and saw that she was
shaken. A tremor shook her from head to foot. Her countenance was not
that of a happy woman.

Evidently she was not proud of what she had done, nor quite satisfied
with it.

“Mother,” he said, in his usual pleasant tone, but with a tinge of
sadness in it, “I have brought back the wine.”

“You--you did not drink any of it?” she said interrogatively, as she
took the bottle from his hand. She certainly had not looked to see if
any of the contents were gone.

“No--I did not care to.”

“You were not afraid of it, I hope.”

“Not particularly afraid of it, because I knew it could not harm me if I
did not taste it. We are all of us, more or less, the creatures of our
fancy; and I am willing to confess to you that I took a very strong
fancy that it would be best for me not to drink from this bottle.”

“Percy! What do you mean? I hope you--I hope--pshaw! If you’re afraid of
being poisoned here you’d better go up to the castle and make your home
there. I’ve no doubt they would welcome you with open arms. Oh, what a
word I could whisper in that old--”

She stopped suddenly, in full career, as though struck dumb. She looked
for a moment longer into the young and handsome face before her; then
turned on her heel, and went out into the kitchen, taking the wine
bottle with her.

Percy watched her until the closing door behind her had shut her from
his view; then he put on his cap; buckled on his sword--a light, but
valuable weapon; took a light cloak over his arm, and went forth,
determined within himself that he had slept his last sleep, and eaten
his last meal, in the old cottage--the home of his boyhood--the only
home he had ever known.

He took his way directly toward the shore of the Cove, determined to
have speech with old Donald at all events.

And he could not see where would be the danger, unless Tryon had
succeeded in stirring up his immediate friends more bitterly against him
than he could think possible.

However he was saved all trouble--most agreeably saved. Little more than
half the distance through the wood had he gone when he met both Donald
Rodney and young Guy Carroll.

“Dear old man! I was coming to see you. I had determined to brave the
danger, if any there might be.”

“Mercy on us! I’m glad ye didn’t come, my dear boy. The cap’n’s laid in
with a dozen or so of his own men, if ye do come aboard, to play some
sort of a rough trick on ye. I don’t know what it is, but it may cost ye
yer life.”

“Donald, I don’t see how you can endure it.”

“I aint agoin’ to endure it, my boy, not a bit longer than it takes me
to get what belongs to me. I don’t forget that a part of the brig is my
own property. I’ll get that, and then I’m off, and this blessed boy with
me. And now, Percy, what’s up? I can’t be here but a few minutes.”

“Only this, Donald: I want you to let me know the moment Ralph Tryon
gets back. That’s all. Just give me the intelligence.”

“I’ll do it, Percy. Shall I find ye at the cottage?”

“No. At the inn--the Allerdale Arms.”

“Eh! Are ye goin’ to cut yer cable, my boy?”

“For a time, yes. Ah, old friend, the warning you sent me may have saved
my life. At all events, I shall so regard it.”

“I knew there was something in the wind, Percy. I’m blamed if I can
understand it. How she can do it is beyond me. But I don’t s’pose you
care to talk about it.”

“I would rather not, Donald. But it is due to you that I should tell you
this: You were not mistaken. There was deadly mischief meant to me; and
the pair of them were engaged in it. There! let it rest at that. Now,
tell me, Guy said something about the captain’s being set upon by
officers of the constablery. How badly was he hurt?”

“Oh, not very bad. He had a bullet through his right arm, below, and
another higher up. It don’t prevent him from traveling.”

“Isn’t he afraid of being again recognized by officers of the law?”

“He don’t appear to be. Howsumever, that’s his lookout. I don’t care how
quick he gets overhauled. He’s a black-hearted wretch!”

“I agree with you, old man. You don’t know when he will return?”

“I haven’t the least idea anything about it. I don’t know where he’s
gone, nor when he’ll come back.”

After this arrangements were perfected--made sure--for the conveying to
our hero of intelligence of Tryon’s reappearance at the Cove; and then
they separated, Donald and his nephew returning to the landing, while
Maitland took his way toward the village, and the inn.

Martin Vanyard, fifty years of age, fat, rosy and robust, loved the
handsome son of Hugh Maitland almost as though he had been of his own
flesh and blood; and he declared he’d heard nothing for years that had
pleased him so much as had Percy’s proposal to take up his quarters
beneath his roof.

“Bless yer dear heart! I’ll make ye as comfortable as a prince! Ye’ll
come to-day?”

“Yes. We’ll begin with this morning’s breakfast.”

Toward the middle of the forenoon Margery Maitland was considerably
surprised by the appearance of a cart, drawn by a single horse, before
her door; and a few moments later Percy entered the room where she
stood.

“Percy! What does this mean?” She was trembling at every joint, and her
face had turned pale.

“It means, mother,” the son promptly answered, “that I have at length
carried into execution a plan which I have for several weeks
contemplated.”

“You’re going to leave me?”

“Yes. I have engaged quarters with Vanyard at the village inn. I got my
breakfast there.”

“Percy! You needn’t tell me! This is thought of suddenly. You didn’t
dream of it when you came home last evening.”

“Never mind, mother. I dreamed of it during the night and this morning
resolved to act.”

“Percy! You--”

He advanced and laid a hand on her shoulder, and looked straight into
her shrinking, cowering eyes.

“Margery Maitland! if you will leave the cause between us exactly where
it is, I will do the same. If you force me to speak further, I shall
speak that which you will not care to hear. Be wise and let it rest as
it is. Be sure of one thing, if ever you suffer harm in life, if
calamity of any kind shall befall you, it shall not be from me. I can
not forget you are my mother. Mother! Mother! My last word to you shall
be, from the very depths of my heart, God bless and keep you now and
evermore!”

Half an hour later the cart had gone, bearing away Percy and all his
personal possessions; and Margery Maitland, having gazed after it until
it had gone from sight, for the first time since her husband died sat
down and wept bitter tears.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER XV.

          CONSTERNATION AT THE CASTLE--FRIGHT AT THE LANDING.

Two days passed after our hero’s removal to the inn, and not a sign from
old Donald. Percy had visited the castle and reported progress to the
earl. He told how the pirate chief had been arrested, and how he had
made his escape with two bullets in his arm.

“He must have had help,” said the old nobleman, “or the officers who
took him did not wish to keep him. The story sounds to me like a fable
of his own invention. You say he is trying to make his men your
enemies?”

“Yes, my lord. He is leaving no stone unturned that can work to my
injury.”

“Then, depend upon it, the story of the arrest is all a sham, and so are
his wounds. I know our Headlandshire constables better than that. But
wait till we have him in sight.”

“It can not be long, my lord.”

“I pray it may not be.”

Late on the evening of this second day, so late that Percy had retired
to his chamber at the inn for the night, as he sat by his small table
reading, he was disturbed by a rap on his door, and upon bidding the
applicant to enter, the door was opened by the rosy-faced host, who
ushered into the room Donald Rodney.

“My dear old friend!” as soon as the landlord had gone and closed the
door, “what now? You know I am glad to see you under any circumstances,
but something unusual must have happened to bring you hither at such an
hour.”

“Something unusual has happened, Percy, and I thought you’d like to
know. This evenin’, along about eight, or just when it was fairly dark,
a boat from the landing came alongside with Abel Jackman in it. He, ye
know, is Cap’n Tryon’s servant. He came aboard with orders for three
men--Gurt Warnell, Bryan Vank, and Jack Dormer--to come with him and
join the cap’n on shore. P’raps ye know, and p’raps ye don’t, them is
three of the very worst--the bloodiest villains of the lot. Well, they
went ashore with Jackman, but where they’ve gone or what it all means
I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon. All is, I made an excuse
that I’d got business ashore that couldn’t be put off, and here I am.”

“You don’t know whether Tryon is here in town or not?”

“No, I’m not sure anything about it; but the fancy kind o’ strikes me
that he is. Something that Abel Jackman said give me the idea that he
couldn’t be a great way off.”

“And you know nothing more about him?”

“Not a thing, my dear boy. If anything comes to my knowledge, you shall
hear of it.”

Percy called for a bowl of punch, which the old seaman preferred to
wine, and after a social chat on various matters, but chiefly on the
subject of the pirate chief, and his possible intentions for the future,
the visitor took his leave.

Our hero, when left alone, paced to and fro in his chamber, far from
satisfied with the appearance which matters connected with Ralph Tryon
had assumed. He did not like it at all. Why had the villain thus come
back under cover of night? And why had he sent off his servant to the
brig, instead of going himself? And, further still, what did he want
with those three men? He remembered them very well. They were
comparatively young men, young in years, but evidently old in crime.

They were strong, muscular, brutish fellows, in all probability from the
slums of the metropolis. These were the men whom the chief had called to
his aid. Once more, what did he want with them?

For a full hour the young man remained up, a prey to various and
conflicting emotions, and not until he had become too worn and weary to
think further did he seek his pillow.

On the morning of the following day he was up with the sun, and he asked
of the landlord that he might have an early breakfast.

He had promised Cordelia that he would come up to the Castle, and go
with her to the river if the day was fair. He had run his best boat up
to the Park landing, as it had been their intention to enjoy a sail. He
feared now, however, that they might have to postpone it. The news he
had received of the presence in the neighborhood of Ralph Tryon made a
difference.

He did not feel that he ought, for any length of time, to be beyond easy
reach of Donald Rodney. But he would go to the castle, as he had
promised, and explain the situation; and he had no doubt that the
proposed sail would be given up cheerfully.

After that he would see the earl, and inform him what had happened; and
then he might return to the village and await further intelligence from
his friends of the brig. About this, however, he could not decide until
he had seen Cordelia and the earl.

Good Martin had his young guest’s breakfast ready for him about as soon
as he was ready to sit down; and, as a matter of sociality, ate with
him. But he found not a very entertaining companion. There was too much
in the youth’s mind--too much that was perplexing and harrowing--to
admit the introduction of new topics to his thoughts.

The old publican understood, and gave him full sympathy; so the meal
passed off very cheerfully after all.

And then, away for the castle. He went on foot; but many horses would
have gone more slowly. He covered the ground as does one who walks for a
wager, or on whose speed depends momentous results. In fact, he was very
anxious; and there was no particular reason, known to him, why he should
be.

He knew very well that his darling would not complain at the loss of her
sail, when she came to know the cause of its postponement. Yet he was
anxious.

It was not eight o’clock when he reached the castle. His watch said, ten
minutes of it.

“Ho, Master Percy! the young lady and her maid have been gone this
half-hour. Her ladyship said we were to tell you that they’d be found at
the landing, where your boat is, or so near by that you can’t miss ’em.”

So said old Michael, the steward, who was the first person our hero saw
on his arrival.

“You are sure she said to the landing, Michael?”

“Of course I am. I put up the luncheon for ’em; and she told me how she
was going when I gave it to Mary.”

“She knows which landing it was that I left my boat at?”

“She said the Park landing, and there is but one that I know of by that
name.”

“That is so,” the young man nodded, and then, without stopping for
further remark, he turned about and started toward the river.

His course was in a northerly direction, and the distance to the landing
three-quarters of a mile. Not quite two-thirds of the way was down the
gentle slope of the open, velvety park, and beyond was a belt of woods,
but entirely free from wildwood or the tangle of underbrush.

The trees, however, were of the old forest growth, standing near
together, forming a solitude grand and imposing. The woods extended to
the river’s bank, and the path which Percy was following led directly to
the landing.

He began to look for his darling and to call her by name as soon as he
had entered the strip of forest, but he saw nothing nor did he receive
any answer.

Pretty soon he was at the landing--a platform of chestnut plank, built
out to deep water, so that vessels of goodly draught could lie alongside
it.

His boat was there as he had left it, but empty.

He looked up the bank and down, and he called aloud, in the end shouting
with all his might--and his voice was powerful--but no response did he
receive.

At length he thought of looking for the girls’ footsteps, and he found
them very soon. At only a short distance from the river was a place
where a bed of fine yellow sand had been spread entirely across the
path, and here, as plain and distinct as could be, were the footprints
of the two girls, and freshly made. He compared them with the prints
which his own feet had made on the previous day, when he had brought up
his boat, and then with those which he had made on this present
crossing. The result convinced him that the girls had crossed only a
short time before.

And they had not gone back! No; they had gone down toward the river, as
their footprints showed, but there was no sign of their feet going in
the other direction.

Where could they have gone? He went back to the landing, and there
shouted once more. Then he started upon a swift run up the stream. On
the way he happened to think that there were spots where tracks would be
found if they had gone in that direction. He looked, and found none.

Then he went down the shore, and with the same result. Not anywhere
could he find a sign beyond the landing. The girls had certainly made
their way to that point. Aye, he found their tracks close to its inner
edge. He stood upon the outer edge of the platform, looking about him,
when his eye chanced to droop, and suddenly he caught sight of a white
object like a bit of fine lace or linen fluttering upon one of the posts
below.

He got down to it as quickly as possible and brought it up. It was a
fine, lace-bordered handkerchief with the monogram worked with crimson
silk in one corner--“C. C.”

Merciful heaven! What did it mean? Had she fallen into the flood? Had
one of them fallen in, and the other nobly followed to save her
companion? Again he searched in the new direction.

The current in the river was not rapid. He could row his boat against it
without great labor. Yet it was sufficient to sweep a human body away if
its owner could not swim.

The anxious, half-frenzied man now cast free his boat, and floated down
the stream until he knew there could be no use in his going further, and
he had seen no sign either in the water or on the bank.

Slowly he pulled back and made his boat fast again. What could he now do
better than to return to the castle? Perhaps he would find them there.
Something might have frightened them and sent them back; or Cordelia
might have felt unwell and gone home for that cause.

If he did not find them he could give the alarm and set the servants of
the household upon the search. And the sooner that was done the better.

So back to the castle he went. It was near ten o’clock when he arrived.
Had Lady Cordelia come home? was his first question. The old steward
looked at him in wonder. How did he expect her to come home, when she
had gone away on purpose to sail with him in his boat? No. She hadn’t
come.

While they were speaking--they were in the main hall--the earl joined
them. He had heard, and recognized, young Maitland’s voice, and he was
anxious to know what had brought him back so soon, and, he was sure,
alone. The story was quickly told.

The old man was in agony. That some direful calamity had befallen he was
sure.

“Oh, Percy! Percy! We must find her! You will not forsake me in this
great need?”

“Forsake you, my lord; I would give my life at this moment, were she in
danger, to rescue her from it! My hand and my heart are yours until she
shall be found. We shall find her, sir. I am sure we shall find
her--though it may take time. Oh, no one could harm her! Who could have
the heart?”

“Oh, Percy, those dreadful pirates! They know that I have been ordered
to put forth my hand against them; and this may be a means they have
adopted for gaining a powerful hold upon me!” And from that moment the
earl seemed to look upon the smuggler’s son as his one stay and support.

Percy’s thoughts took a different direction from those of the earl. He
was inclined to regard Lord Oakleigh as the villain whose hand had thus
been laid upon them.

Look at it in what way he might, he could not put away the belief. Not
only the young lord’s character--his heartlessness, his recklessness,
and his desire to possess the lady--pointed him out as the probable
culprit; but he had made threats--he had sworn to the girl herself, with
a horrible oath--that he would make her his own very soon.

Yes. Percy believed Lord Oakleigh to be the man; but he would not say so
yet. Time should show. First, however, they must gain some sign--some
token of the whereabouts of the missing ones.

The servants had collected and a general interchange of opinions had
taken place--as weak and aimless as such interchanges usually are--when
the earl, after a time of painful thought, looked toward the smuggler’s
son, and finally went up to him and laid his trembling hand on his
shoulder.

“Percy Maitland, find my darling! I am old; I am shaken. I am not what
once I was. Oh, find her! find her!” And he then turned to the servants
and instructed them that to Maitland they were to look for direction,
and he charged them to obey him in every particular. And so the search
commenced, the earl himself going with them. He could not lead, nor
could he remain behind.

Meantime where were Cordelia and Mary Seymour?

On that morning Cordelia arose with the sun. Percy had promised her, if
the weather should be propitious, that he would have his boat at the
Park landing, and take her, with Mary, to sail on the river.

She arose and looked forth; and never had she beheld the promise of a
more beautiful day. She called her maid, and bade her go to the steward
and have a basket filled with a proper lunch for three persons, after
which she repaired to the apartment of the cook and asked for breakfast.

She wanted it at once--for herself and Mary--because she was going away.
She was not particular about much cooking. She had eaten cold victuals
before, and could do it again.

Everything went to please her, and by the time the sun was two hours
high she was ready to set forth. She went in to kiss her grandpa, but he
had not arisen; so she left word for him where she was going and with
whom. The hands of the old clock in the hall were pointing to
quarter-past seven as the two girls passed through, and ere long they
were beyond the castle walls, tripping merrily along one of the graveled
walks of the park, but the fresh, cool breeze of night had prevented the
fall of dew, so they took the velvety sward when the fancy struck them.
Percy had said on the previous evening that he would come to the castle
for them; but she was confident he would come by way of the river bank
and the landing, so it could make no difference, only in this, they
would gain so much more time for the sail. If he had not reached the
landing on their arrival at that point they would wait there for him.

They had crossed the open slope of the park and entered the woodland
path when they heard voices away upon their left--the voices of men, as
in ordinary conversation. They stopped for a time and listened. Mary
suggested that they should turn back; but her mistress bade her to wait
and listen. They stood thus for several minutes, hearing not another
sound.

“Ho!” cried Cordelia, in her brave confidence, “what should harm us
here? Why! this is a part of the park.”

“But there were men, certainly,” said the maid; “and of course they must
have been strangers.”

“Honest men, you foolish girl, who have been out thus early to catch a
few fish for breakfast.”

“Then they must be poachers, my lady; and I’m sure they are not honest
men.”

Cordelia laughed merrily at her companion’s witty retort, and shortly
afterward they started on again toward the river. They reached the
landing, where they found the boat in waiting, but no boatman.

“Percy is not here!”

“You did not expect to find him here, did you, lady?”

“Why, no; but I thought we should surely meet him. However, he will soon
be here. It is past the time he set.”

“For meeting us at the castle, lady, not here.”

“Pshaw! What do you take me up so quickly for, Mary? You make me quite
nervous.”

“Dear lady, pray do not pay any attention to what I say. I suppose I am
a little timid. At all events, I can not help wishing we had not come
here alone.”

“Well, to tell the plain truth, Mary, I begin to wish so myself. But it
is too late to cry now. He will not be long after this. Ah! What’s that?
A man! A stranger!”

Yes, as the last words addressed to her companion fell from her lips she
was startled by a quick footfall behind her; and on looking around she
beheld a man advancing rapidly toward her, and presently she saw that he
was not alone.

There was another, and another; aye, and still another, four of them in
all; and a more rough and villainous set she had never seen.

In fact, the foremost man--he who seemed to be the leader of the
others--was the very worst-looking, the most wicked and cruel looking
human being she had ever set eyes upon.

He was a man tall and stout, dressed in the garb of the sea, though the
material was rich and costly.

The velvet was of the finest; the silk and satin seemingly of the
softest; a massive gold chain around his neck was attached to his watch,
while a large diamond of purest water sparkled in the silken kerchief
loosely knotted at his throat.

His face reminded her of a wild beast, and nothing else. His full beard,
long, thick and shaggy, and the mass of hair that covered his head, were
like the mane of a lion in color and character. His eyes, gleaming
beneath the overhanging brows, were bright like fire and black as coals.

In an instant Cordelia thought of Ralph Tryon, the pirate chief. Percy
had described him to her minutely, and here he certainly was.

With a low, faint cry, and with her two hands clasped over her bosom,
she started back, but she could not move far in that direction, as the
edge of the platform was directly behind her.

“Sweet lady,” the man said, his voice hoarse, as voices are apt to be
that have been long used to rising above the roar of the tempest, “I
trust you are not afraid of me.”

He bowed as he spoke, and looked at her with an expression which she
could not translate, though it appeared to her one of cruel malevolence.

She noticed now that he carried his right hand pushed inside the bosom
of his vest, and she remembered what she had heard of his being wounded
in that arm.

“Lady!” he pursued, after a lengthy pause, “have you no word for me? May
I not be permitted to hear the sweet music of your voice?”

“Sir!” our heroine returned, struggling with all her might to speak
calmly, or at least coherently--“who are you? Why have you thus placed
yourself in my way? What would you with me?”

At this point, and before the chief could reply to the lady’s demand,
one of those behind--a dark-visaged, low-browed, villainous-looking
man--came to his side and whispered something in his ear. His words
Cordelia could not distinguish, but she had no difficulty in
distinguishing the response.

“Aye, Gurt, you’re right,” the tawny chief said. “The sooner we haul our
wind out o’ this the better it may be for us. Bryan! Jack! This way, and
lend a hand. Mind now, no roughness! Handle them as lightly as you can.”

And the three men, thus commanded, moved forward.

                                -------


                              CHAPTER XVI.

                           A TERRIBLE MOMENT.

As our heroine heard the address of the chief to his comrades, and then
saw the latter move toward her, she looked to see a possible way of
escape, but there was none. There was but one hope, and that was in
help. She whispered to Mary, who was clinging closely to her side:

“Scream!”

And a scream--two of them--that seemed to split the welkin, broke upon
the startled air. With a fierce oath the chief himself sprang upon
Cordelia, throwing his left arm around her shoulders, at the same time
pressing his right hand over her mouth. The maid was likewise secured
and her mouth stopped.

Cordelia was both brave and strong. With all her might she struggled,
and quickly succeeded in freeing her right hand, which she instantly
raised and clasped upon the wrist of the hand over her mouth, wrenching
it away and at the same time sending forth another scream for help.

But her cry was not more startling nor more frantic than was the howl of
pain and agony that burst from Ralph Tryon’s lips--for we know him by
this time--when the grasp of the girl was laid upon his wrist, and the
furious wrench given it.

“Gurt! Gurt!--she’s broken my arm again! Seize her and stop her noise!”

By this time the maid had been so far secured that one man could care
for her, which left two of the ruffians to care for the mistress, the
chief having moved aside to nurse his aching limb.

Cordelia’s hands were quickly bound behind her, and a thick large
bandanna was bound over her mouth for a gag, effectually preventing any
more calling for help.

After this the chief, whom the lady now knew was none other than Ralph
Tryon, started on ahead, directing his men to follow as rapidly as
possible.

He took his course down the river’s bank, keeping close to the water,
and at the distance of a hundred yards and a little more they came to a
small cove wherein lay a boat.

The two captives had been led at a pace that forced them more than once
to break from a walk into a run, but they had not been used roughly.

Into the boat they were lifted without ceremony, and carried aft to the
stern-sheets, where they were caused to sit on one of the sides; and
presently the chief came aft and sat down directly opposite.

Then the head-fast was cast off, and the last man sprang in and came to
the tiller, the other two taking the oars, and very soon the boat, which
appeared to be a common long-boat, such as is carried by coasting
vessels, shot out into the stream, with her head toward the sea, and
sped rapidly on. The oarsmen were strong and skillful, and they had the
current in their favor.

The distance from the park landing, where the capture had been made, to
the bay was little more than two miles, and to the village not more than
a mile and a half.

Cordelia knew that the smuggler--now the pirate--brig lay in King’s
Cove, and she wondered if she was to be taken there. She hardly thought
it.

Too many of the crew would be opposed to it; and, again, those strange
men would sympathize with her, and, if they dared, seek to help her. No,
she was not to be taken there. Where then?

But another thing began to claim her attention. Her breathing was
becoming labored and painful. And so it was with the maid. They looked
at each other, and then looked across at the man opposite. He saw
plainly the torture they were suffering.

“Ah, my dear lady!” he said, with a curious look at our heroine, “you
appear to be suffering a slight discomfort just now, but it can’t be
much like the twinge you gave me a little while ago. Upon my word, if
you’d been a man I think I should have shot you where you stood. I
thought you’d broken the bone again, which the surgeon at Burton set for
me; but you hadn’t, so I’ll forgive you. And now, say, if I’ll take off
that gag will you give me your word not to cry out for help?”

She hesitated. She knew if she should give her word that she would not
break it. No matter what opportunity might present itself, she could not
take advantage of it, should she give such a promise.

“It makes not a particle of difference to me,” the chief added, after a
considerable pause, finding that the lady did not speak. “If you are
comfortable as you are, keep on the bandanna by all means, though I must
confess it is not very becoming to you, nor does it look like a thing
that I should take particular comfort in. Exercise your own pleasure, my
lady.”

This added cruelty of sarcasm almost caused the girl to put up with her
suffering rather than accept a favor at the wretch’s hands; but the
torture was becoming insupportable. She could not endure it; and, by and
by, she signified that he had her promise.

“You promise, mind you--if I remove this gag from your mouth that you
won’t offer to cry out, nor make any disturbance of any kind?” She
silently promised; and Mary did the same.

“Well, my lady,” after looking her straight in the eye for full ten
seconds--a look which she returned without flinching--“Who do you think
I am?”

“I know who you are, sir,” she replied promptly. He started; but quickly
recovered himself.

“Well, who am I?”

“You are Captain Tryon of the brig Staghound.”

“Upon my word! Your gallant knight must have given you a pretty sharp
description of me.”

Cordelia’s first impulse was one of anger at this slur; but she thought
how foolish it would be, and straightway resolved that nothing his
tongue could frame should cause her to betray or forget herself.

She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then, with a tinge in her
tone which paid him back in full, she said:

“Captain Tryon, if you will look into a mirror when you next see one I
think you will discover a face not likely to be forgotten when once
seen, and not at all difficult to describe.”

“Will you tell me how you would describe it?”

“No, sir. I will not.”

“Why not?”

“You would be angry.”

“Oho! Am I so ugly?”

“I prefer not to tell you what you are.”

“Well I’m sorry for that. Do you know, dear lady, I had almost made up
my mind to ask you to be my wife.”

She did not start; the speech did not frighten her, for she had not the
least thought that he meant anything more than simple badinage. So it
was for a little time; by and by, as the man continued to eye her
sharply, she asked herself--why had he done this thing?

Merciful heaven! Was it possible that he had seen her, and that he had
conceived a passion to possess her for his own? The thought came to her
like a bolt of thunder from a clear sky.

“Captain Tryon, for what purpose have you laid ruffianly hands upon me
and dragged me away with yourself in this manner?”

“Wait for a little time, dear lady. I will explain by and by. We must
land here.”

They had gone down to a point near to the village, but shut away from it
by intervening woods, where, on the side of the stream opposite to that
from which they had set forth, was another small inlet, into which the
boat had been steered.

There was an easy, natural landing, on a bit of bold shore, where a
table of rock came out into the water, against the edge of which the
boat lay without difficulty.

The girls were here helped out, and conducted a short distance up into
the woods. Cordelia knew that the sloping foot of Witch’s Crag was not a
great way off, and a few moments later, when they had stopped, and Tryon
told them they must be blindfolded, she was able to give a pretty close
guess as to their destination.

“Why should you wish to blind us?” she asked. “Have you a secret which
you are afraid we might discover?”

“Never mind my reason. I choose that you shall be hoodwinked. It will
not hurt you; and I promise you no indignity shall be offered while you
are in that situation.”

For one brief moment our heroine’s thoughts were deep and rapid; the
result was she submitted without opposition and without further remark.

The kerchiefs which had been before bound over their mouths were now
bound tightly over their eyes, after which they moved on; and ere long,
as she had anticipated, they emerged from the wood upon the rough and
ragged slope of the crag.

They found a very good path, however, and were able to proceed without
difficulty. Up--up--up, the gradual slope, Cordelia judged, very nearly
half a mile--and then they stopped; and from the change in the feeling
of the air she was confident they had entered one of the caves, which
she had several times visited in company with Percy Maitland.

She wondered could it be that into which she and her friends had looked
a few days before from the end of the subterranean passage they had
explored. If it should so prove, then she might be taken into a place
not unknown to her. She was destined, however, to a disappointment of
which she had not dreamed.

She heard words spoken between her captors, and presently she heard a
sound as of the very slight creaking of a heavy door on its hinges.

She knew that a passage had been opened before her by the sudden
sweeping of a current of air on her face; and a few moments afterward,
she was again led forward, being caused to stoop as she advanced.

If she could have whispered, unheard by others, to Mary, she would have
said: “We are passing through an aperture in the wall where we stopped
on our recent voyage of discovery. This is the very wall in which we
found the crevice through which we looked into the outer cave.”

When they had all passed through she distinctly heard the way closed
behind them; and shortly thereafter they moved on again, Cordelia
smelling the fumes of a burning candle or lamp.

She was confident--she felt that she knew--that they were now in a place
which she had visited once before; yet, ere long, she met with something
that confounded her.

They had gone perhaps a hundred yards beyond the point where she had
stooped in passing, when they came to a halt, and pretty soon she heard
on the left hand another sound, like the swinging of a ponderous mass on
hinges or on a pivot, and there was, moreover, a peculiar grating sound
as though one surface of stone had come in contact with another in
motion.

“Now, my lady, this way. You will have to stoop a little.” They had
turned squarely to the left, and, as he spoke, Tryon placed his hand on
Cordelia’s head, causing her to stoop considerably lower than before.
She made no resistance whatever, but kept her ears open and every sense
she could use keenly alert.

She heard the closing of the way behind her, and when she next stood
erect she felt that she was treading on something like a carpet.

At all events it was not the bare rock. She was conducted a short
distance further, then caused to sit, and the hoodwink was removed from
her eyes.

The light of two or three small waxen tapers was not sufficient to
dazzle her sight; but sufficient to reveal to her what manner of place
she was in.

It was a cavern, very nearly square in form; the walls seamed and
uneven, but not ragged; the roof very high and quaintly arched, that is,
it was a one-sided arch, like the half of a ship-roofed house.

The floor, which appeared to be comparatively level and smooth, was
covered with a sort of Turkish matting, very soft and easy to the feet.
Moreover, there was considerable furniture in the place, several chairs,
a chest of drawers, a large oaken cabinet and a good sized table. In one
corner was a fireplace, and on looking at the roof the observer could
detect an aperture where smoke might escape.

Another thing Cordelia saw: an opening into another cave, a chamber
beyond this. Tryon saw that she had discovered it, and he bade her to
come with him and look.

He did not offer to lay a hand upon her. She followed him, and soon
entered another apartment, not so large as the first, but much like it.
Here was more furniture, and here was a bed, seemingly clean and freshly
made.

“My dear lady, here you will tarry until to-morrow. You will here be
safe. No harm can possibly come to you. You shall have plenty to eat;
yonder bed is sweet and clean; and you may rest in it without dread.”

“Ralph Tryon! What is your intention toward me? Why have you done this
cruel, wicked thing? What end have you in view?”

“Lady, you shall be fully informed on the morrow, and when you have
heard all I shall have to say you may not be so greatly surprised that I
have done what you are pleased to call a cruel, wicked thing. Wait,
wait, my dear girl, and you shall know everything. It would not be well
that you should know my purpose without knowing, at the same time, the
causes that have moved me, and those I must keep from you a little
longer. Have patience. The morrow will soon be here.”

“Oh, Captain Tryon!” She had sprung forward and sank upon her knees
before him with her clasped hands upraised.

He stopped her with an oath, and lifted her bodily to her feet and set
her back in her chair.

“Lady Cordelia Chester, were all the wealth of all the world at your
command, and you could offer it to me for mine own, for it all I would
not suffer you to put one of your feet beyond the outer door of yonder
cavern until I am ready to take you out on my own terms. Is that plain
to you?”

A moment she gazed into his face, a great horror--a nameless, shapeless
dread--weighing her down like an incubus, and then she sank back and
covered her face with her hands. When she next looked up she was alone
with Mary Seymour.

“Where is he?”

“He has gone, dear lady. Oh, this is dreadful! What shall we do? Dear
mistress, what does he mean?”

“Sh! Are they not in the other cavern?”

“I think not. I will look.” And the brave girl took a candle and looked
out into the larger apartment--that which they had first entered--and
found it empty.

“Oh, dear mistress! Who is that man? What--”

“Hush! Let me think. Or--let us look around, Mary, and determine where
we are.”

By a little effort the stricken lady collected her mental and physical
forces, and started, with her companion, on a tour of investigation.

She went around the larger cave, examining every part; but the point of
entrance claimed her special care. She was able to detect the section of
stone that was movable.

The distance she had been forced to stoop aided her in determining this;
and, further, the instruction she gained from Percy, during their
exploration of, she firmly believed, a cavernous passage of which this
was a branch.

“Mary,” she said, when she had seen all there was to be seen, “you
remember the wall which stopped our further progress on the day when we
came with Percy to the Old Chapel--the wall in which we found a crevice
through which we looked forth into another cave beyond?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Well, this is a branch of that passage. Did you notice how we ascended
the slope of the crag, and how we were led into the first cave; and then
how we came to a wall, where we stooped in passing through? That was the
same wall, only we had approached it from the other side.”

“I have thought the very same, lady. Of course we must have passed the
entrance to this place on that day.”

“Certainly; but having had no intimation of its existence Percy did not
think of looking for it. I venture to say, with the information which we
now possess, Mr. Maitland would find it without much trouble. At any
rate he would find it.”

They talked longer on the same subject, and made further examination;
and the more they considered the stronger became their faith in the fact
that they were in a place separated only by the thickness of a wall from
the passage they had traversed under the guidance of Percy Maitland.

Cordelia had worn her watch, and by and by she thought of it.

Twelve o’clock! Noon! Where was Percy? Where the earl? Where were they
looking? What did they think? Oh, could Percy in any possible way
discover where they were? If he could, they would be delivered!

An hour passed--and another. Mary found a box in which were plenty of
wax tapers. So they would not be left in the dark.

It was toward the latter part of the afternoon when a noise beyond the
outer wall arrested their attention, and presently a section of it--the
very stone Cordelia had selected--swung slowly inward, revealing an
aperture about four feet wide, and the same in height.

Into the cave came two of the men who had been with Tryon in the
morning. They brought between them a large basket, in which, they said,
were food and drink sufficient for a small garrison.

The men looked so repulsive, so hard and brutish and cruel, that neither
of the girls cared to ask them a question; and they would have been
likely to receive no answer had they done so.

“There, my beauties,” said the biggest and most piratical looking of the
twain, after they had set the basket down and looked around, “I guess
ye’ll be all right now. Rather cosy quarters, aint they? One thing ye
ken be sure on--nobody can’t break in, an’ rob ye! Ho! ho! ho!”

The two men laughed and then departed. No attempt was made to conceal
from the captives the locality of the entrance, as the knowledge, in all
probability, could be of no help to them.

The day passed, and the evening. Together the two girls sat, not yet
quite hopeless, though how help was to reach them they could not
imagine.

At length, when weariness had so far overpowered them that they could
keep awake no longer, they ventured to trust themselves in the bed. It
was, as their captor had said, clean and sweet, or freshly aired, and it
was soft and grateful to lie upon. They prayed in unison, and very soon
thereafter slept.

Once during the night Mary awoke, and her movement awoke her mistress.
The former got out of bed and lighted two fresh tapers, and from that
they slept soundly until morning. They found plenty of water, and having
washed and dressed, they set out the food and drink for breakfast.

It was then, by Cordelia’s watch, seven o’clock. Two hours had passed
when she consulted the watch again. Oh, what should come next?

Half an hour later, perhaps more--they could not surely judge--the sound
of the moving stone once more fell upon their ears.

Slowly it swung inward--further and further--until the way was open
wide. And then entered the pirate chief, Ralph Tryon, dressed in the
rich and costly garb of an English nobleman! And behind him, coming two
abreast, followed six men of his crew dressed in holiday attire.

But that was not all. Last--was it real or but a wild fancy of her
overwrought brain?--last came a man in the somber robes and bearing in
his hands the missal of a Catholic priest!

What did it mean?

                                -------


                             CHAPTER XVII.

                       A SURPRISE FOR ALL HANDS.

Through the long and weary day and far into the night Percy and the earl
worked hard and unremittingly in the search for the missing ones.

During the afternoon the former ventured down to the shore of the cove,
at the point where he had once been in the habit of keeping a boat of
his own, and there remained until he had succeeded in attracting the
attention of Donald Rodney.

It was a considerable time before the old smuggler could get away from
the keen and suspicious watch of Ralph Tryon’s partisans; but his
patient endeavors were finally rewarded.

He took a boat and pulled to the shore, ostensibly for the purpose of
responding to a signal, which he professed to have received from Margery
Maitland.

“In mercy’s name!” he ejaculated, when he met the agonized look of his
young friend, “what has happened?”

“Donald, where is Ralph Tryon?”

“I believe he is somewhere in the neighborhood of Burton, and I rather
think there is mischief afoot. Leastwise, one of our friends heard Abel
Jackman, when he was talking with Gurt Warnell, say something about a
lord’s house over there which they intended to visit.”

“Do you really believe he is away from here, Donald?”

“Why shouldn’t I? He certainly sent for those men to go away with him on
a job of some kind; and, as I just said, one of our men--it was Tom
Bidwell--overheard Jackman talkin’ about Burton. Yes, I think he’s
there.”

After a little reflection Percy told to his friend the story of the
wonderful disappearance of Lady Cordelia Chester and her maid.

Rodney was deeply affected, but he did not believe Tryon had anything to
do with it. If such a thing had been in the wind he was sure he would
have detected some signs of it. But one thing the old man promised. He
would return to the brig, and he would not rest until he had found out
all that could possibly be discovered in that quarter.

“And, my dear boy,” he added, earnestly, “nothing shall prevent me from
giving you information as soon as it comes to me. I will either come
myself or send Guy to-morrow morning at all events, whether I have news
or not.”

It was not very satisfying; but the interview, and the bringing it
about, had used up two pain-laden hours, besides giving him something
more to think of and look forward to.

He had taken to himself a hope that old Rodney would bring him something
of importance in the morning, if not before. It was very slight--very
slight indeed; but a ray of light came with it, nevertheless.

Leaving the shore of the cove, our hero made his way to the inn at the
village, where he was to have a new direction given to his thoughts--or,
rather, an aforetime thought was to be revived.

“Ah, Maitland! the very man I’ve been wishing for,” the host exclaimed,
as our hero made his appearance in the tap-room. “That horse has come.
Just step around this way with me, and you shall have a look at him.”

Percy knew this to be simply a blind for closing the eyes of the few
loungers in the room. He followed the good man out through the bar into
a little parlor beyond, where with the doors closed they were safe from
intrusion.

“Maitland, you asked me, this noon, about Lord Oakleigh; and I told you
I knew nothing about him. Well, I can tell ye more now. Dan Corbett came
in half an hour ago and told me he met the young lord over at Saybrook,
at Seth Arnold’s inn, last evening.”

“He knows it was Lord Oakleigh?” interrogated the youth, much excited.

“Bless ye, yes! He knows Lord Oakleigh as well as he knows you or me.”

“Last evening?”

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“It must have been somewhere between eight and ten o’clock.”

“Does he know what he was doing there, or anything about what he
intended to do?”

“He could make out only this: His lordship was in a great flurry, with
his right arm in a sling, Dan said; and seemed to be waiting for
somebody--Dan thought his servant--who was to take him away from there;
but where he was bound or what he was about, I couldn’t find out.”

Percy asked a few more questions, and then, having thanked the landlord
for his kindness, he left the inn and made all possible haste to the
castle. He was well armed, and he kept a sharp lookout around as he
wended his way through the bit of woods he had to traverse, for he well
knew that he had deadly enemies, and there was no telling where nor when
they might strike. At the castle he found the earl, pacing to and fro,
suffering intensely.

“Percy, dear boy! what have you found?”

“Will you sit down, my lord, and listen to me for a few moments?” The
old man did as requested, and the youth went on:

“Lord Allerdale, I am going to surprise you--to wound you; but you must
bear it as best you can. When it was first known to me that Lady
Cordelia had been taken away--as we know she must have been--my
suspicions fell upon--Lord Oakleigh. I believed he was more likely to be
the abductor than any other man; and now I am sure of it.”

“Oh, Percy! Don’t say it!”

“My lord, where do you think is his lordship at the present time?”

“He is at Oxford.”

“He was at the Saybrook inn at nine to ten o’clock last evening, my
lord. That I know.” And thereupon the young man went on and related all
that he had learned from old Rodney, at the Cove, and from Martin
Vanyard at the inn. He was sorry to say it, but he was confident that
Oakleigh was the offending party.

“My lord,” he pursued, “did Cordelia tell you what Lord Oakleigh said to
her on the occasion of their late interview in the garden?”

“She did not tell me all, but I know he was very unkind.”

“Aye,--and he used threats. He bade her beware of him; and--but, my
lord, I need not tell you any more.” He had come to the point where his
own name had entered into the discussion, and of this he cared not to
speak.

However, the earl was satisfied that his young friend might be right,
and he finally confessed that his own suspicions had run in that
direction, but he had fought them down with all his might.

Half an hour later, our hero, with a trusty servant of the castle in
company, was on his way to Saybrook, a small town five miles away toward
the south.

He had a smart horse, and a light, easy-going vehicle, and the passage
was speedily made. There at the inn, he found the host--Seth Arnold,
who, when he knew the messenger had come from the old earl, was ready to
give all the information he could; but that was not much, although it
was something.

Lord Oakleigh had been at the inn--the Stag and Hounds--on the preceding
evening, and had appeared to be in a great hurry, walking nervously
about, with his arm in a sling, cursing and swearing to himself. At
about ten o’clock his servant had arrived with a light dog-cart, into
which he had gone and been driven away; and the landlord had seen
nothing more of him.

“Which way did they go?”

“Back toward your way, Allerdale.”

A few more questions, and Percy started on his return to the castle,
where he arrived at about nine o’clock in the evening.

The earl, on hearing the report, surrendered his last doubt. He was now
convinced that his grandson was the villain. Oh, what would he do?

“Let us not think,” said the younger man. “Let us find them and set the
lady free.”

“Heaven send that we may do it!”

Percy went again to the village, where he made further inquiries; but
nothing of importance was learned. He had promised the earl that he
would spend the night at the castle; so at midnight he returned, finding
the old nobleman up waiting for him.

It seemed almost wrong to go to bed and to sleep while the dear one was
lost to them, but the demands of nature were not to be denied. The earl
read a prayer, the youth prayed fervently from his own heart, and then
they sought their rest.

It was near the hour of eight o’clock on the following morning, and our
hero had been to the village and back again to the castle, and was on
his way to the village once more, when he was met by the boy, Guy
Carroll, his face flushed and his blue eyes fairly blazing.

“Guy! What is it?”

They were in the edge of the wood, and free from observation. The boy
cast a quick, eager glance around and then--

“Oh, Mr. Maitland! It is Cap’n Tryon after all!”

“What of him? What? What?” Percy exclaimed, catching the boy by the arm,
with an anxiety that was torturing.

“It’s he, sir, that has run off with the lady from the castle!
Yesterday--late in the afternoon--Bryan Vank and Gurt Warnell--they were
two of them that had been sent for by the cap’n--they came aboard the
brig and carried away a big basket full of provisions; and late at night
Uncle Donald found out all about it. He wouldn’t tell me who told him;
but it seems Vank let it leak out while he was waitin’ for the basket to
be filled. The provisions were for two women--two young girls--that the
cap’n’d got stowed away in one of the caverns on the slope of the Crag.”

Percy started as though he had been shot. It was like the bursting of a
thunderbolt over his head from a clear sky. In his wild imaginings he
had several times had a picture in mind of his darling shut up in that
place; but he had given it no serious thought.

Could it be Ralph Tryon, and not Lord Oakleigh, who had spirited away
the two girls? It must be.

He questioned Guy closely, and was, in the end, perfectly assured there
could be no mistake. The pirate chief himself had stolen away the dear
one, and now had her shut up in the cavern of the Crag.

“Guy, do you know where that cave is?”

“I only know, sir, that it is just about half-way from the shore of the
bay to the point where the head of the Crag shoots up steeply. I was
never there. But Uncle Donald says there’ll be no use in your attemptin’
to get at ’em in there, for there’s a secret entrance which nobody can
find only them as knows it. Uncle knows it, but he can’t tell it.
Leastwise I don’t believe he’d want to break such an oath as he’d have
to break if he did it. He says you’ll watch till they come out--the
cap’n and the lady--and then, p’raps, you’ll be able to catch him. Oh, I
hope you will!”

“You are sure Ralph Tryon will be in that cavern this forenoon?”

“Yes, sir. He’s there, now, somewhere. I should think, from what I’ve
heard, that it was a big place with lots of odd nooks and corners in it.
I heard old Ben Popwell say once, when he didn’t know ’at I was
listenin’, ’at it would be a great place for blind-man’s buff.”

The startled, electrified youth waited for no more. He thanked the lad
kindly, promising him that he should never seek his good offices in
vain; then he said:

“Tell Uncle Donald that the rat is in more of a trap than he dreams of!”
And with this he hurried away, keeping on to the village, as he had
first intended; but with his purpose changed. His first call was on the
chief constable, who there resided, named Allan Tisdale. He was a man of
middle age; large and powerful of frame; bold and fearless in the line
of his duty, yet kind, affable, and gentlemanly.

He had been intimate with our hero for a long time and esteemed him
highly.

“Well, Maitland, have you anything new?”

The visitor was not a great while in telling him. He told all that he
had learned from old Donald’s nephew.

“And now, what?” the constable demanded, open-eyed. He was nervous and
excited. He could not see his way. “We know where the man is; but how
are we to reach him? Ah! and that reminds me; I saw a squad of seamen--a
dozen or more--not half an hour ago, landing from a boat at the foot of
the rocky slope. In all probability they are to do guard duty up at the
cave.”

“How many good, reliable men can you raise at once?” Percy asked.

“I can muster twenty in half an hour, perhaps; if I should call upon the
villagers, I might make it thirty.”

“Very well--will you take with you five of your best men--those in whom
you have the most confidence, and come with me? I will lead you into
that cavern by a way that will astonish you.”

“Ha!--Maitland!” exclaimed the officer, with a quick start and a look of
intense eagerness. “Is it at the Old Chapel? Have you found it?”

“Yes, Mr. Tisdale, I have succeeded. You will see a strange place. But
speak not a word to another. My soul! it must not leak out until we are
ready to strike the blow. You will be circumspect.”

“Trust me. Ah, you’ve found the secret of the ghosts. The haunted chapel
is haunted no more, save by spirits in flesh and blood! Good! But this
isn’t work. Come with me and give me your help. We’ll very soon have our
men ready for duty.”

Everything worked favorably. The men wanted were found without
difficulty; and the stout artisans and laborers of the village, when
they had been told of the business on hand, were not only willing but
eager to join.

In little more than half an hour from the time of their setting forth
the work was done. Tisdale had selected the five men who were to
accompany him, while his lieutenant--Martin O’Brien--a faithful and
reliable officer, at the head of four-and-twenty more, all well armed,
was to proceed up the face of the Crag--not to go to the cave--but to
stop at a point where they would be sure to intercept any who should
attempt to escape from the cave in that direction.

Thus, Percy believed, they would be able to capture the whole party--all
of the pirates whom the chief had called to his assistance--and he
thought there might be twelve to fifteen of them. When these
arrangements had been perfected, and they were sure that O’Brien
understood his part exactly, Percy and the constable, with the five
helpers--strong, experienced officers, every one--took their way to the
castle, where they found the earl anxiously waiting for intelligence.

When the old nobleman had heard the story, when he knew that his darling
had been found, or the same as found, and he was assured that he should
ere long behold her, when it had all been made clear to him, his joy was
beyond his power of language to express it.

“Percy! Percy! My noble boy!” he cried, regarding the youth with loving
trustful looks, “you must take the lead. You know all about it. You are
the man. I am sure Mr. Tisdale will not be offended.”

“Pooh! pooh! Maitland is the man to lead, my lord. We all understand
it.”

“Let me give my humble help, as best I can,” said Percy, not at all
discomposed by the encomiums thus passed upon him. “Where I can lead, be
sure I will; and when I can follow I will do so with all my heart. And
now, my lord, how many of your men are we to take with us?”

“Here is Michael. He will muster them. There should be ten, at least.”

“Twelve, my lord, counting me. Of course you’ll let me go.”

“Yes, you may go. Now hurry and collect the men and get out the arms.
Oh, do be expeditious!”

Now was the time and the need when our hero showed the quality that was
in him. Under his calm, quiet, prompt guidance, with a power of command
natural to him, the force of the castle was mustered, armed, and
organized in less than twenty minutes, and in half an hour after the
arrival of himself and the constable at the castle the party, twenty in
number, counting the earl, was ready to set forth.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The appearance of a man in priestly robes, following behind the pirate
chief and his comrades, at first struck Cordelia with a paralyzing
horror. The significance of the scene was not to be mistaken. It was the
voice of Ralph Tryon that roused her to indignation and gave her
strength.

The chief, in his gorgeous raiment of velvet and gold, advanced to the
center of the cavernous apartment; his six comrades, in broadcloth and
silk, filing in behind him, where they took position in a well-dressed
line. Then the pretended priest, with slow, even step, moved to a place
on Tryon’s left hand and a little in front.

“Now, fair lady,” said the master of the situation, “I have come to
fulfill my promise. I will set you free from this place, but you will go
with me as my wife. Do you understand me?”

Something in the man’s voice--something new and strange--gave to our
heroine a start of wonder. It had lost much of its huskiness and had put
off its roughness; it sounded no more like the voice of the sea. She
looked at him sharply, looked long and earnestly, and presently she saw
a smile curling about his deep black eyes, a smile so wicked and
malevolent and so vengeful that it aroused her beyond her endurance.

“Man! Demon! Fiend! Whatever you call yourself, I tell you, in your
teeth, you speak falsehood! You have no power to make me your wife! Lay
a hand upon me, and I will kill you if I can! Were this man in
sacerdotal robe a true priest, he would know he can not do the wicked
deed. It would be but mockery--an empty form. If he be a true man, he
will not attempt it.”

“Holy father,” said the chief, turning to the pretended priest, without
paying any heed whatever to the hot and angry words of the girl, “you
hear what she says. Now what say you?”

“I say, my lord, if the situation is as you have represented it--if such
has been the general understanding, and if the lady’s lawful guardian
consents, I could marry you, and the bond would be too strong for man to
break.”

“Now, Cordelia.” He had put his hand to his head, and appeared to be
loosing something behind his ear, when a quick, sharp cry of alarm from
one of the men behind him caused him to look toward the entrance.

On his way to the cave, as we might judge from what the constable had
that morning seen, Tryon had been accompanied by a strong force of his
sworn friends and adherents.

Ten stout men, well armed, he had left at the mouth of the outer cave,
and the six who had come in with him he had brought for witnesses, being
determined that the ceremony should not lack in that respect.

With regard to danger inside his cavernous retreat, the pirate had not
dreamed of such a thing. He would as soon have thought of finding the
sunlight streaming into its uttermost recesses.

Hence he had entered the chamber, leaving the others to follow, never
once thinking of closing the way behind him.

Now, upon hearing the note of alarm, he looked toward the entrance and
there beheld a sight that confounded and bewildered him.

He saw Percy Maitland, and by his side the constable, Allan Tisdale,
just entering the place, or rather he saw them leap quickly in, and
directly behind them came the old earl, with seemingly a score of men at
his back.

“In the king’s name,” shouted the constable, “surrender!”

“Not until I have made my mark here,” the pirate chief replied; and
quick as thought he snatched at a pistol in his bosom, and drew it
forth, his purpose being to shoot young Maitland.

But two other persons were as quick as he; though they might not have
been had not his lame hand bothered him.

Before he could cock the weapon, Cordelia, who had heard and understood
his words, struck up his hand, causing him to utter an audible groan of
pain; and at the same moment the earl, full sure in the heat and
excitement of the moment, that the life of his brave young friend was in
peril, raised the pistol in his hand and fired.

The pirate pressed his hand over his bosom and sank back, coming in
contact with the pretended priest as he did so. The latter, thinking the
wounded man would fall, caught him to uphold him, and in doing so his
fingers became entangled in the thick, heavy beard of the face,
and--pulled it away.

The chief had cast loose the principal fastening of his disguise while
speaking with Cordelia--the speech which had been interrupted by the
appearance of the new-comers and the note of alarm from the startled
seamen.

Yes, the disguise came away just as the last of the pirate gang had been
overcome and secured--the tawny beard and hair--revealing the swart face
of Matthew Brandon, Lord Oakleigh!

At first those who beheld refused to believe the evidence of their own
senses. It did not seem possible that one and the same man could have
filled both characters.

But they were forced to believe in time. And now Percy Maitland knew
what it was in the looks of Ralph Tryon that had so puzzled and
perplexed him from the first.

                                -------


                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                   MARGERY’S REVELATION--CONCLUSION.

The aged earl, when he had come to a realizing sense of the horror of
the situation, sank back with a groan of the deepest, bitterest agony,
and covered his face with his hands as though to shut from his sight the
terrible thing before him.

And then arose the voice of the pirate, coarse, brutal and cruel, even
though the hand of death lay heavily upon him.

“Oho! my dear grandpapa! You will have a happy thought--a beautiful,
blissful memory--through the remnant of your life. Your own hand took
your grandson’s life!”

“Oh, Heaven have mercy!” the stricken old man groaned. “It needed but
this to fill the cup of my misery to the brim!”

“Aye,” pursued the wretch, with a withering sneer, “and you killed me to
save the beggarly life of a smuggler’s brat! Oho! may the memory give
you joy! Oh, I am burning up!”

“Dear, dear grandpa!” Cordelia exclaimed, hastening to her guardian’s
side and winding her arms about his neck. “Oh, do not notice him. Look
to us who love you, and who--”

“Love one another!” Oakleigh broke in, madly. “Oho! Aha, old man! what
did I tell you? A thousand guineas to a pewter sixpence you give your
consent yet to the marriage of the baronet’s daughter with the spawn of
the--oh, how it burns!”

The priest, a man whom Oakleigh had been able to buy, after confession
to him who and what he was, proved to be a handy surgeon, and he at once
proceeded to examine the wound. It was in the left side, toward the
breast and near the heart, and it was very quickly pronounced fatal,
though the clerical leech said the patient might live several hours. If
he was to be moved, the sooner it was done the better.

“Let me die at the castle,” said the wounded man. “If I am to live for
hours, let my good, kind grandfather be blessed with the sight of his
handiwork!”

At this point Percy and Cordelia, who had found opportunity for a word
together--she had sprung to him at the very first, in the fullness of
her heart, to bless him for having come to save her. “Oh,” she had
cried, “I knew you would come!”--these two came to the old man’s aid and
led him away.

“The man is mad,” said Maitland. “You shall not suffer the cruel torture
more.”

“Come, dear grandpa! Come with us.”

They led him to the entrance, where he promised to go with his darling,
after which Percy returned and attended to the arrangements for moving
the wounded man; but he finally gave the work into the hands of old
Michael, the priest having promised to accompany them to the castle.

Meantime Mr. Tisdale, with two of his men, had gone on to the outer
cave, toward the face of the slope, where he was just in season to meet
others of his men, who informed him that they had captured ten of the
pirate crew outside. And this completed the work. They believed they had
taken all who had left the brig.

Under these circumstances, as the constable could not be wanted at the
castle, he returned to the cave with a few of his men and took in charge
all the prisoners, saving only the wounded chief; and while the servants
of the earl conveyed him forth, by way of the old chapel, he and his
force would take the others down over the slope of the crag, outside.

On their way through the long and devious subterranean passage Matthew
Brandon did not once open his lips; but when they had reached the
chapel, and he saw our hero start to move the altar back against the
wall, thus uncovering the secret pass, he burst forth, though weakly:

“Oho! So it’s you? Viper! You have found the secret. Oh, may the fiends
of--” He stopped, with a shoot of pain in his side, and was forced to
hold his tongue for a time.

Cordelia was strongly tempted to tell him that the sight of himself, one
stormy evening, entering the chapel, and disappearing beneath the altar,
had led to the discovery. But Percy told him the same later, and he
confessed that he had come in on that night wearing a monk’s robe.

And then in astonishment Percy looked at what had never before attracted
his attention. In profile the face of Lord Oakleigh was an exact pattern
of what Hugh Maitland’s face had been.

Sure, it was curious; and yet not at all wonderful that he had not
before noticed it. With the full beard of Ralph Tryon on his face, his
profile was hidden; while with the face of Matthew Brandon he had not
been familiar. On that stormy evening he had not worn his beard nor his
wig.

A very good litter had been found in the chamber beneath the chapel, and
on this the wounded man was placed and so conveyed to the castle. And
there a new surprise awaited them.

Standing in the court in company with old Donald Rodney was Margery
Maitland, looking pale and wan--not the Margery of the olden time. In
truth she looked like a woman not long for this lower life.

Percy, when he saw her, felt his heart bound with a thrill of
regret--almost of remorse.

Had his forsaking her caused this sad change? He could not believe it.
She had never loved him deeply enough for that. Yet he hastened to her
and put forth his hands.

“Mother! Oh, why are you--”

“Hush, boy! You know not to whom you speak. Where is the other--Ralph
Tryon? Where is he?”

“Mother! Oh, did you know? Of course you did. There he is,
wounded--dying.”

“Dying! dying, did you say?”

“Yes. He was shot in the flurry of capture.”

“Shot in attempting your life, was he not?”

“You are right. Whoever told you, told the truth.”

“Nobody told me, boy. My own instinct so impressed me. Ah, he is on
yonder litter! Oh, this is judgment! This is the vengeance of heaven!
Matthew Brandon!” going to the side of the litter, “your hand was not
red enough with pirating, but you must steal defenseless girls away from
their homes!--Oh, boy! boy--your crimes have found you at length!”

“How now, beldam! What do ye here?” cried the wounded man. Presently,
with a fiendish gleam in his eye, he added: “Oh, Margery, give yonder
old man joy! His hand it was that shot me down! aye! he shot me to save
the life of the smuggler’s spawn! What d’ye think of it?”

“Was it the earl’s hand that did it?”

“Aye, verily.”

“And to save--”

“The smuggler’s brat! the spawn of an outlaw!” the wretch broke in upon
her.

“Fool! Fool! How long can he live?” she suddenly asked, turning from the
litter to the priest, who stood nearest.

“Not many hours.”

“Then carry him in, and I must go with him. I have that to say which he
must hear.”

“Ho! ho! Will ye tell them how ye tried to do the very work they shot me
for attempting, Margery?”

“Yes, I’ll tell with all my heart. Don’t think I fear.”

“Don’t let her come! Don’t let her come!” the fallen chieftain howled.
And he tried to speak further, but his strength failed him and pain
overcame him.

Something in the woman’s look, in her manner, and in the sound of her
voice attracted the earl’s attention and interested him, and he
determined that she should have her way.

At any rate it should be as Percy said, and so he told her. And she
besought her son to suffer her to go in with them, and he could not find
it in his heart to refuse her.

They bore the litter to the foot of the steps of the main vestibule, and
thence took the wounded man in their arms.

They carried him into the great hall and into the principal
drawing-room,--took him in there because there was in the apartment the
largest and softest sofa in the castle, and upon that sofa they laid
him, and then brought pillows for his head and pillows for his
shoulders.

The pseudo-priest, really a surgeon, having found a suitable instrument
for a probe, thought to find the location of the bullet, but the pain he
caused was so great, with a threatened flow of blood, that he desisted,
deciding at once, with perfect assurance, that it could do no good to
find the missile and might hasten the fatal end.

“How long do you give me to live?” the patient asked, when he had
recovered from the pain that had been given him by the probe.

“You may live an hour; you may live longer, and you may not live so
long.”

“Oh! Aha! ha! ha! Where’s the earl? Ha! old man! Don’t forget the joy
that is to be yours in the memory of this day’s work! Say--did you love
my father?”

“Oh, boy! boy! Why were you not like him?”

“Ha! He was a saint, was he? Well, if I should chance to meet him in the
great hereafter--and who shall say what may happen?--I may meet him, you
know. If I do, be sure I’ll tell him who shot me. Aye, and I’ll tell him
for why his own father shot his boy. It was to prevent him from dealing
out justice to a traitor! Ay!” the pirate shouted in a sudden outburst
of fury and mad passion, “where is the traitor?--the low-lived,
false-hearted spawn of a low-lived, outlawed smuggler. Where is he? Ho!
Earl of Allerdale, will ye mate your fair ward with the--”

“Hush!--Poor fool! You know not what you say.” So spake Margery
Maitland, advancing to the mad man’s side, and laying her hand over his
mouth. She saw that his own weakness would keep him quiet for a time;
and she brought a chair and sat near him.

And so she sat for a full minute, and during that time the only sound
that broke the air was the stertorous breathing of the wounded man. At
length she raised her head and looked around, her eyes presently resting
upon our hero.

“Percy,” she said, her voice low and tremulous. “I have but little to
say, especially to you. I did--I did, with my own hands attempt your
life! I offered you the death which another had prepared--you know
him--let us call him Ralph Tryon. No, I’ll call him by his true name--”

At this point the man to whom she had thus alluded offered to interrupt
her, as he did several times later; but his weakness and his pain held
him quiet.

“Matthew Brandon is his name. He had gained a hold upon me, and he knew
it. As you are aware, he made the acquaintance of my husband little more
than a year before his death; and he sailed with him in three or four
trips to France--sailed thus while they at the castle thought him safely
at Oxford at school. You know how, at length, he joined the brig and
finally took command, having taken another name, together with a
disguise so cunningly contrived that no one could detect or mistrust it.
So he came to the command, and he contrived to keep the momentous secret
safe. He worked upon me. He sought my confidence. He flattered me. He
appeared to be kind to me. You will wonder how it could be. That I will
explain by and by.

“Percy, not long ago he came to me and solemnly swore that you had
entered into an agreement with the officers of the law to deliver up--to
betray--himself and the brig and the whole crew into their hands. At
first I refused to believe it, but he swore so solemnly and I saw you
coming here, and I knew how your heart was not with us--that finally, I
came to accept it as a fact, and then I felt bitter toward you. What
would become of me, if the smuggling was stopped? And so, when he
brought to me the wine, and bade me to give it to you, swearing that if
I did not he would clear out and never look upon me again,--then I
yielded.

“Oh, Percy! On that morning when you went away--when you blessed me and
left me--then, Percy, my eyes were opened, and I felt in my heart what
you had become to me. I felt then all the difference between you and
him; and I sat down and wept--wept as I had not wept before since my own
Hugh left me. After that I saw Matthew Brandon again, and he had the
face to ask me to help him get Lady Cordelia Chester away from the
castle, that he might marry her. If he had asked me that six months ago
I might have listened; but other feelings had come to me. I told him no;
and I told him further, if he persisted in the purpose evil would come
of it; but he laughed at me, and went his way. This morning I saw Donald
Rodney, and asked him what was being done; and when he knew how I
felt--when he had seen the desire of my heart--he told me all; and then
I persuaded him to come up here with me, being sure that Brandon would
be taken.

“I will say nothing about his piracy, only I assure you that I fought
against it as long as I could, feeling sure that it could end but in one
way. But he was headstrong, and he conquered. Percy, do you believe me?”

“Yes, mother, with all my heart.”

Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes, but she put them back; and again there
was silence, the significant breathing of the sufferer on the sofa
becoming more and more weak and labored. By and by she looked up again,
this time turning to the earl. She gazed upon him for a few moments,
evidently in deep thought, and at length spoke.

“Lord Allerdale, please do not interrupt me. I have a strange story to
tell to you--one that I think will interest you. Will you let me tell it
in my own way?” She paused for a little time, looking at him curiously,
and then glancing toward the sofa, and, anon, toward where Percy and
Cordelia sat near together. Finally she went on:

“My lord, you have not forgotten when I was a servant in your family.
Ten years--from the age of twelve to two-and-twenty--I was a member of
your household. I see that you remember.

“You remember too, that when your son George, then Lord Oakleigh,
brought his young and beautiful wife home I was detailed to wait upon
her, and I became, after a time, her especial servant. I had no other
duties but to wait on her. She was kind; and she was, in her own way,
just, but she was proud, and a strict observer of what she deemed the
proprieties of life.

“I had served Lady Oakleigh not quite a year when she discovered that I
was soon to become a mother. She asked me who was my husband. At first I
hesitated, and she misunderstood me; and finally, when I told her that I
had been lawfully married to Hugh Maitland, she would not believe me.

“But that was not all. She broke out into a harsh and bitter
denunciation of my lover, as she called him. He was a smuggler and an
outlaw, liable at any time to be gibbeted; and she would suffer me no
longer to remain in her service. She cast me out, coldly, and, I felt,
cruelly.

“You, my lord, were away at the time, traveling on the continent. Had
you been here I should have appealed to you, and I believe you would
have taken pity on me, but there was no pity in the bosom of my lady;
and her husband would not have crossed her for his life; for she, too,
was about to become a mother.

“And now, my lord, a curious thing happened. When I had been turned
away, my lady, being so near to her motherhood, wanted a wet nurse in my
place, and she found one; and who do you think it was?

“My own sister!--the only relative of blood I had in the world. She was
a widow; her husband dead only a few months; and was living in Burton.
Huldah--that was her name--Huldah came; and the mistress liked her. She
was plump, and strong, and healthy, with rosy cheeks and bright black
eyes.

“She was obedient, and meant to do her duty; but she was indignant at
the way in which I had been treated; and, to make the matter worse, Lady
Oakleigh so far forgot herself as to denounce me and terribly abuse my
husband. It so happened that Hugh was a favorite with Huldah; and when
she heard her lady so berate him she was very angry.

“And now, my lord, you may be able to understand what followed. It was
evident that her ladyship and I would become mothers at very nearly the
same time; and my sister joined me willingly in a plot not only for
vengeance, but for placing a child of our blood on the way to rank and
station. If the children should happen to be of the same sex there would
not be much trouble.

“Do you ask me if I had not a mother’s heart of love for her own
offspring? I answer you--by the plan we proposed I should be near my
child all my life. Should it be a boy, which I was sure it would be, I
should find real joy and pride in seeing him grow up, rich, proud,
noble, and honored. But, oh, heavens! what a fall of all my glowing
anticipations have I found in the reality!

“My lord, everything happened to help on our plan. The children were
born within six hours of each other and were both boys. My child was
born in your woodman’s cottage, just in the edge of the walnut grove, at
six o’clock in the evening, Lady Oakleigh’s six hours later.

“The old physician left me and went to her. He left the castle at two
o’clock; and the only human being who had fairly examined the infant was
the nurse, Huldah.

“An hour later, my lord, when the nurse had got rid of the last
hanger-on, and her ladyship had gone to sleep under the influence of an
opiate, Huldah took the infant in her arms, wrapped snugly in warm
blankets, and brought it to me; and she carried my child--the child of
Hugh Maitland and Margery his wife--back to the castle, back to the arms
of Lady Oakleigh; and the cheat was not discovered--was never
mistrusted.

“When the daylight came, those who saw the infant nestling in the
nurse’s arms, or resting on her ladyship’s bosom, wondered where it got
such black eyes and such black hair; but it was a fine, healthy child,
and they were proud of it.

“Ah! my lord, it was a healthier, heavier child than was brought to me;
and I verily believe had Lady Oakleigh been permitted to keep her own
offspring, she would not have reared it to even early youth.

“The free air of our woodland cottage; the out-of-door sports; the
sailing; and the rough-and-tumble; and, above all else, the plain,
substantial food, gave health and strength and vigor; and he grew up as
pure and beautiful in mind as he was in body.

“I may remind you here that my husband--Hugh Maitland--smuggler though
he was, was a Christian gentleman; and from him the boy never received a
precept nor an example that was not good, setting aside, of course, the
one matter of his profession.

“And now, my lord, do you ask me why I did not love the child--the
beautiful boy--with all my heart? I will tell you.

“I was jealous of him! I had robbed him of rank, and wealth, and high,
brilliant life, and given, as I had fondly believed, those things to my
own son. But look at the result! I looked upon the boy under my roof,
and saw him all that Heaven itself could ask a perfect boy to be.

“Then I looked upon the boy to whom I had given every opportunity for
high and noble life, for wealth and luxury and power, and what did I
see? I looked upon the child of my own blood, in whose greatness I had
promised myself so much pride and joy, and what did I find? Alas! my
evil deed had recoiled upon myself. I saw my boy, him to whom I had
given all the world at the cost of my own soul, going down, down, down,
a poor worthless stick! Had I kept him to myself and thrown him at an
early age upon his own resources for a livelihood, he might have been
different. But I can not complain.

“Percy! Percy!” turning to the half-stupefied youth, with tears starting
down her shrunken cheeks. “On that morning when you blessed me--when,
after I had raised my hand against your life, and you knew it, you asked
God to give me blessing, now and ever more--in that hour, Percy, I
resolved that you should be restored to your rights; that, so far as I
could effect it, you should, for the time to come, enjoy the rank and
wealth that is lawfully your own.

“I can not speak more. Yet--one word--Oh, my lord!--Lord Allerdale! look
upon this boy--look into his face--and tell me what you see. Oh, how
have you been so blind? He is his own father over again! Do you not see?
Ah, your heart has told you! You have loved him, even when you thought
him the smuggler’s child.”

“Percy! Oh, I will always call you so! Can you doubt the truth of this?”
So asked the old earl, holding the handsome youth by the shoulders and
gazing eagerly, through bright tear-drops, into his face.

“My lord,” Percy answered, trembling at every joint, “how can I doubt
it? I do certainly believe it true.”

“Doubt!--Believe!” cried Margery, springing to her feet with arm
outstretched. “Look at that face--the face on those pillows! Oh, Heaven,
have mercy! Is it not my own face made masculine, and hardened and
brutalized? Your face, boy, is the face of your father. Had it been your
mother’s, I do not think I should have endured you. Forgive me! I will
say no more.”

At this point the pirate chief, who had been thus far held in check by
the surgeon, started to a sitting posture, with fury in his face and a
literal flame in his sunken eyes. He raised his maimed right hand toward
Margery, and his lips moved. He gasped, and flecks of foam started out,
but he did not speak. Another effort resulted in a low gurgling howl,
and he sank back on his pillows--dead.

Margery stood for a time at the sofa side and gazed down upon the swart,
dead face. By and by she turned toward the earl.

“Lord Allerdale,” she said, with a steady, earnest look into his
watchful eyes, “I will tell you how you can prove to me your undoubting
faith in the story I have told you. Give to the men whom I shall send,
this body, and allow me to bury it by the side of the grave wherein I
laid the mortal remains of his father. Will you do it?”

The earl looked at the stark form on the sofa and shuddered. The sight
was a horror to him. Then he turned and looked upon the other--the truly
noble, handsome, gallant lad, who had already, against heavy odds, found
the way to his heart.

A single moment he gazed upon that face--Oh, so like the face of his
dead son--and then he turned back to the woman.

“Yes! yes! Take it, for I know it is yours! And may the Father of us
all, in His infinite mercy, give you peace and comfort for the remainder
of your life! Heaven bless you, Margery, for the restitution you have
this day made!”

“I am glad I have made it. I feel better--I feel less of unhappiness
than I have felt for years. The gain is mine as well as yours. Percy
could have been never any more to me, while to you he will be a new joy,
a new life.”

“And now, my lord, before I leave you, I have an earnest petition to
offer. There are, of the brig’s crew, a full score of men--I think
two-and-twenty of them--at all events, Percy can give you their names.”

“I know them,” said the young man, as she hesitated and glanced toward
him.

“They are men, my lord,” she went on, “who never willingly committed
crime. I have to beseech you, that when you come to lift the sword of
justice against the pirates, these men may be spared. They--”

“My good Margery,” interrupted the earl, with a benignant, happy look on
his aged face, “I am pleased to tell you that the promise you ask I have
already given to another. The only consideration on which Percy would at
first agree to assist me in capturing the chief of the pirates was that
I would give free passage, whithersoever they would go, to the men of
whom you have spoken. Rest you easy, for I give you my word, not one of
them--not one, in short, who can prove that he possesses your avouchment
for his character--shall be molested.”

Margery bowed low as she thanked him; then turned and left the room.
Percy followed her out, but she had nothing more to say to him.

“Go back, boy, to those who have a right to your love and your care.
Yes, Percy, you are indeed and in truth that old man’s grandson. Go back
to him, and let your love make some little return of joy to him for the
many, many hours of pain and grief my sin has cost him.”

The youth murmured a fervent blessing upon her, and left her. She found
old Donald in the hall, and with him she returned to her cottage.

An hour later four stout men, with a written order from her hand,
appeared at the castle for the body of Ralph Maitland. That was the name
which the mother had written.

It was delivered to them, and they bore it away; and the whole castle,
in every part, and the whole household, seemed brighter and better when
it was gone.

With the coming of evening a calm and tranquil joy had settled upon the
household of the castle; for there was not a servant on the broad estate
who did not heartily rejoice in the knowledge that the brave and
handsome youth, whom they had so long esteemed and loved for himself
alone, was indeed and in truth their young lord and master.

“Ah,” said the old earl, later in the evening, as he took the hand of
his beautiful ward and gave it into the loving grasp of his grandson,
“If your parents are permitted to look down from the celestial abode,
and can behold the things we do here on earth, I believe, in my deepest
heart, they will bless me for that which now I do!”




                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           Transcriber’s note

Silently corrected typographical errors and inconsistencies; retained
non-standard spelling.

Italic text in the original is delimited by _underscores_.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Smuggler of King's Cove, by Sylvanus Cobb