CHAPTER XIII.

HELPLESS.

Rain and wind passed away in the course of the night, and next morning the sun shone softly brilliant. After a hastily demolished breakfast Burgo took his stick and portfolio--the latter in his assumed _rôle_ of a wandering artist--and sallied forth. He retained sufficient recollection of the geography of the place to know in which direction Garion Keep lay, and thereby spare himself the necessity of an appeal to a native. But, first of all, he strolled down the one straggling street of the village to the little harbour, with its miniature jetty, at the extreme end of which was a tiny wooden erection, the harbour-master's office, to wit, surmounted by a lamp which turned a blood-red eye seawards during the dark hours. Everything was on a small scale, for Crag End was one of those places which never grow. As it was now so it had been as far back as the memory of its oldest inhabitant could stretch, and so it would continue to be. This morning the little harbour wore quite a deserted look, for its boats had gone northward, following in the wake of the herrings, and were not expected back for an uncertain time to come.

The hamlet nestled cosily in its narrow valley, which, in point of fact, was nothing more than a gully, or break in the sea frontage of the line of low cliffs which shut it in on the north and south. It was to the south cliff that Burgo presently addressed himself, climbing it by means of a zigzag footway which led almost directly from the harbour. Scarcely had he set foot on the short and slippery turf which crowned its summit when he saw looming before him, at a distance of a mile and a half, the grey weather-worn tower, scarred with the storms of more winters than men could reckon, because its age was known to none, which was all that now remained of the ancient Border stronghold, of which at one time it had formed a component part, known as Garion Keep.

As his eyes fell on it Burgo paused, less to gather breath after his climb than because he could no longer delay answering a certain awkward question which till now he had found no difficulty in putting aside. The question which thus intrusively thrust itself to the front was: "And now that I am here, within a mile of my uncle, what am I to do next? In what way am I nearer him than I was when I stood at the door of his London house and was refused admittance? Lady Clinton, having once succeeded in getting rid of me, will take very good care that I am never allowed to cross my uncle's threshold again, either in town or country." He had told himself that when he should once have succeeded in finding his uncle, he must let himself be guided by circumstances as to what his future course should be. But what if there were no circumstances to guide him? It would be the easiest thing in the world for Lady Clinton to set him and all his plans and schemes at defiance. Never had he realised his helplessness so clearly as at that moment.

He strolled slowly on in the direction of the Keep in a thoroughly downcast mood, till he was within a quarter of a mile of it. There, on a big rounded boulder, half embedded in the soil, and not improbably a relic of the ice period, he sat down to rest, for his ankle still pained him. From where he now was he had not only a near-at-hand view of the tower itself, but also of the more modern building (said to date no further back than the era of William and Mary), which was divided from it by a space of, some fifty or sixty yards, and had lately been renovated and made habitable by Sir Everard's orders.

Although the two structures were entirely distinct from each other they were both classed together, and had never been known by any other title than that of Garion Keep.

The modern building, which was long and low, being only two storeys in height, was constructed of large, roughly-hewn blocks of a stone indigenous to the district. The walls were of great thickness, and the high-pitched roof was covered with what looked less like slates than heavy flagstones; but on that coast the winter storms are often terrific in their force and fury, and people are wise enough to build accordingly. Although to an outsider it presented a somewhat gloomy and repellent appearance, Burgo called to mind that the interior, even as it was when he saw it, had pleased him far better than the exterior, and there was no doubt that only taste and the means were needed in order to convert it into a very charming home during the summer months. What it would be like as a dwelling-place in winter was another matter. On the landward side the house was shut in by a high wall with wrought-iron gates, enclosing a gravelled carriage sweep and a court paved with small round pebbles, and ornamented with a number of laurels and rhododendrons in green tubs. On the opposite side, between the drawing-room windows and the edge of the cliff, from which the house stood some way back, there stretched a pleasant space of lawn, interspersed with fancifully-shaped beds of the gayest flowers. Sir Everard's improvement to-this part of the house was a bow window with glass doors opening directly on the lawn.

Burgo was still seated on the boulder, trying in vain to hit upon some means of communicating with his uncle, his eyes bent vacantly on a distant steamer, when, happening to turn his head, he saw, to his surprise, the landlord of the "Golden Owl" advancing along the footpath over the cliff as if coming direct from the inhabited part of the Keep. In one hand he carried a small basket.

"Good-morning, sir," he said to Burgo, carrying a finger to his forehead as he came up. "Going to sketch the old tower, I presume. Never a summer goes by without somebody doing the same thing. There must be a lot of likenesses of it up and down the country. I've just left the Keep, sir. Her ladyship is glad to take all the eggs I can coax my hens into laying. My boy Teddy brings 'em over every morning, only to-day he happens to be a bit out of sorts, which is the reason you see me here, sir, when I ought to be doing my cellar work at home."

He paused to take off his hat and dab his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Talking about the Keep," he presently went on, "reminds me that when I was telling you about it last night I forgot to mention one curious circumstance, which is, that while the workmen were engaged on the repairs I told you about, they came across an underground passage right through the body of the cliff, connecting what is now commonly called the Keep with the old tower. Nobody seems to know not merely when the passage was made, or why, but when and by whom it was ordered to be bricked up. However, Sir Everard caused it to be opened up afresh, and had a strong oak door fixed at either end--not, I suppose, that the passage will ever be made use of from one year's end to another."

"There must have been a use for it once on a time," said Burgo, "when people did not live such quiet lives as we do. By the way, I suppose the interior of the tower is in an altogether ruinous condition?"

Both his uncle and he had contented themselves with an outside view of it on the occasion of their brief visit some years before.

"No, sir, it's not quite as bad as that," replied Tyson; "and as I've been over it on two occasions, I ought to know. It is, I believe, a fact that Mr. Josselyn, who owned the tower before it came into the hands of Sir Everard, never made any use of it, but _his_ uncle--so I've heard say, for it was before my time--used, if all accounts of him are true, almost to live in it. It seems that he was a great man for chemistry and experiments of various kinds, and a bit of an astronomer into the bargain. So he had the place fitted up to suit himself, and would shut himself up in it for weeks at a time--his meals being brought him from the Keep by his old housekeeper--among all the queer things he had got about him to help him in what he wanted to find out. Report has it that the country folk were afraid of him, and that's the reason why, even nowadays, they as often as not speak of the place as the 'Wizard's Tower.' The end of it was that the old man was found dead on the floor of the upper room, and the story goes that he was choked by the fumes of some deadly mixture he had been trying experiments with. Anyhow, there are his rooms to this day, pretty much, I daresay, as he left them, except, of course, that all his rubbish has been carted away long ago!"

"But how are the rooms lighted?" queried Burgo. "Two sides of the tower are visible from where we are, but there are no windows in either of them."

"There is only one window to each room, and they all front the sea."

"If you are going towards home, I think I will turn and walk with you," said Burgo, presently. "My ankle is rather painful this morning, and I'm in no humour for sketching."

"Pleased to have the pleasure of your company, sir," was the landlord's reply.

They had reached the village, and were slowly making their way up the hilly, badly-paved street in the direction of the "Golden Owl," when Tyson, in a guarded tone, suddenly exclaimed, "Ah! here comes the siggnor with his dogs--her ladyship's brother--him that I told you about last night."

They were going up the street and he was coming down, carrying a dog-whip in one hand, while his two muzzled brutes ranged close upon his heels. As he passed them he bent on Burgo a keenly persistent stare. It was not the stare either of idle curiosity or of covert insolence; rather what it seemed to convey was, that, whensoever or wheresoever he might see Burgo again, he should not fail to recognise him.

But the latter did not fail to eye him closely in return. Tyson's account of him had excited his curiosity; but Burgo's stare was that of the trained man of the world which reveals nothing and implies nothing, which seems to take note of nothing while yet allowing nothing to escape it.

Burgo at once detected the Italian's marked likeness to his sister of which Tyson had made mention, coupled with a certain something at once sinister and malign, which, in her case, was merely latent, peeping out at odd times in her glance or her smile, but which in his had acquired the stamp of permanence. To those who had eyes to discern, it revealed him--that is to say, his inner self--after a fashion of which he was wholly unconscious. But how many of us, without being aware of it, reveal ourselves to our fellows in much the same way!

Said Tyson, half a minute later, after a backward glance: "By Jove! Mr. Lumsden, if the siggnor ain't standing stock still and staring after you. It must be after you, because he's seen me many a time afore--as if--well, as if you might just have escaped out of a menagerie, sir."

"He's welcome to stare as long as he likes," remarked Burgo, lightly. "There's no charge for the show." But the landlord's remark had the effect of opening up a new and disturbing train of thought.

What if Lady Clinton, suspicious that, notwithstanding all her precautions, she might be traced and followed, had described him, Burgo, to this brother of hers, with a request to him to keep a sharp look out, and at once report his arrival on the scene to her ladyship? If such were not the case, why should the mere sight of a stranger in the village have betrayed the Italian into such an excess of curiosity? It had been altogether contrary to his wishes and designs that Lady Clinton should become aware of his presence at Crag End. She would be more on her guard than ever, and even more determined than before, if such a thing were possible, that all channels of access to his uncle should be hopelessly barred against him. He felt unequivocally annoyed, but that in no wise altered the facts of the case.

From that time he felt nearly sure that he was being watched and his footsteps dogged wherever he went. There was a shabbily-dressed, slouching fellow, who looked half labourer and half fisherman, but who probably was something very different from either, of whom he caught glimpses in the distance a dozen times a day; who seemed never wholly to lose sight of Burgo in whichever direction his walks might take him, and who, when the latter was indoors, would lounge by the hour together at the corner of a side alley half-way down the street, whence he could take note of every one who entered or left the tavern of the "Golden Owl." The fellow never ventured within talking distance, and whenever Burgo made as though he would approach him, he slunk away more or less rapidly, never failing to maintain a respectful distance between himself and the dark, stern-faced young man, who looked fully capable of administering the thorough thrashing which he probably felt that he richly deserved.

By the time Burgo had been three days at Crag End it was impossible for him any longer to doubt that he was being "shadowed."

In the interim he had seen nothing further of the Italian.

Meanwhile day was succeeding day without advancing him one iota nearer the attainment of the object which had brought him so far; neither, cudgel his brains as he might and did by day and night, was any scheme or suggestion forthcoming which would serve to help him a single step on the way he wanted to go. For anything he could see to the contrary, he might just as well take the next train back to town. His journey had been utterly futile of results. His uncle was beyond the power of any help from without. He (Burgo) had no grounds for interference. Such evidence as he could have brought to bear against her ladyship was wholly inferential, and would certainly never have been accepted by any one in authority as sufficient to warrant the arm of the law in intervening between husband and wife. No; his uncle was a doomed man--doomed to slowly fade and grow weaker day by day, till at length the flame of life, reduced to a mere glimmer, would flicker out of its own accord. He was at the mercy of a vampire, who knew not the meaning of the word, and who would never let go her hold on him while there was a breath left in his body. Burgo's consciousness of his helplessness half maddened him. It was as an ever-present nightmare from which it was hopeless to rid himself. It tortured him during the dark hours, and mocked him when the sun was high. There were times when he was so wrought up that it would have been bad for her ladyship to be within reach of his hands. At such moments he could have strangled her without compunction. And by this time the 12th of October was drawing ominously near.

The afternoon of the fifth day brought heavy rain, but with the rising of the moon the wind rose and swept the heavier clouds out to sea, leaving nothing but a thin filmy lacework where they had been, as though in their hurried flight they had left a portion of their garments behind them. Burgo felt stifled indoors. The lower part of the tavern was filled with men drinking and smoking rank tobacco, the fumes of which seemed to permeate every corner of the place. Taking up his hat and stick, he went quietly downstairs, and let himself out by the side door unknown to any one, leaving the candles alight in his sitting-room. Taking no heed which way he was going, he found himself before long, after climbing out of the hollow in which the village was built, at a point where the road from Oakbarrow station debouched into the Coast Road, as it was called, which latter, a little way further on, left Garion Keep a hundred yards or more on its right, and keeping a tolerably straight course for several miles further, finally lost itself in the outskirts of a town of some importance.

After pausing for a moment at the sign-post, Burgo decided on keeping to the Coast Road. He would stroll on as far as the Keep, and see how the old house looked by moonlight. It was between nine and ten o'clock, and at that hour the country road was as lonely as a churchyard. Since leaving the last house of the village he had neither met nor seen a creature, and yet more than once it had seemed to him as if he were being dogged at a distance by some one who was desirous of remaining unseen. When, however, he turned to look, it was only to see the empty road behind him as in front; but the moonlight was too faint and diffused to permit of his distinguishing anything at a greater distance than twenty or thirty yards. All he could do was to shrug his shoulders and keep on his way, while telling himself that if anybody was following him, it must be that "skulking hound" whom he had already detected watching him, and who had doubtless been set on purposely to spy and report on all his comings and goings.

A little way further, and he came in full view of the Keep, that is to say, of the land front of it. As already stated, it stood somewhat back from the road, a short carriage drive, fringed on either side by an ornamental plantation of young firs and larches, leading up to the wrought-iron gates which gave admission to the courtyard.

It was the first time since his arrival at Crag End that Burgo had been so close to the Keep, his previous points of view having been from the cliff beyond the tower, but his memory retained a good general recollection of the outward appearance of the house during the years which had intervened since he had seen it last. He had strolled up the drive, which was open to the high road, and was gazing through the scroll-work of the gates, trying in the indistinct light to make out the different features of the building, when the sudden deep-mouthed baying of a couple of dogs warned him that his presence had become known to those faithful guardians. Without a doubt they were the dogs he had seen following the Italian, which Tyson had told him were always left loose and unmuzzled during the night.

As it seemed unlikely that they would cease their baying so long as he remained where he was, and as he had no desire to disturb the household, he turned and began slowly to retrace his steps. In the press of other thoughts he had forgotten all about his notion that he was being followed, nor, now that he had turned to go back, was there anything to recall it to his mind. At the point where the drive merged into the high road he halted, while he took one last look at the Keep. Dark, gloomy, and forbidding it looked, fit home for the slow tragedy which, he could hardly doubt, was at that very moment advancing by stealthy, but imperceptible degrees, to its preordained catastrophe. His heart bled for the old man who was being gradually done to death behind those sombre walls; yet here stood he, Burgo Brabazon, burning to rescue him, but as powerless to do so as a newborn babe. Oh, it was horrible, horrible!

A groan broke from his lips, he flung up his arms for a moment as if appealing to Heaven, then his head drooped forward on his open palms. "Is there no way--none?" he cried aloud, despairingly.

He was standing with his back to one of the plantations which lined the drive. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the sound of stealthy footsteps behind him, nor was he aware of two figures which crept out from the shadows of the trees, till the hard breathing of one of them betrayed their presence. He turned quickly, but it was too late. In the very act of doing so, he fell headlong to the ground, struck down by a crashing blow on the back of his skull.