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.
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.”
“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.”
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.