Chapter 4

"Then why did you keep such information so carefully to yourself?"

"Because when I woke up I found we were here--that is, as I supposed--at Boyd's Island. Both the steward and the first officer told me so. My only doubt when I went to bed was about our getting here. And this morning here we were. It had come out all right, so far as I knew."

With a curl of her lip that expressed a world of incredulity, she dropped into one of the chairs behind the table, and rested her chin upon her hand.

In a lower tone, he continued:

"I have never been here before, and had no idea how it looked. Why didn't Father Burke tell you this was not the place? He knows our island."

"It was foggy. Nobody could see it; and he knew nothing of the warning you were keeping to yourself."

Beneath this avalanche of contempt, Pats's feeble knees almost let him to the floor.

"Miss Marshall, at least do me the justice to believe--"

"Would you mind leaving me for a time?"

Into his hollow cheeks came a darker color, and he closed his eyes. Then, with a glance of resentment, he took a step or two in her direction as if to speak. But instead of speaking, he turned toward the open door and walked slowly out.

For a long time she remained in the same position, boiling with resentment, yet keeping back her tears. She knew this coast was wild, almost uninhabited, neither to the east nor west a sign of life: behind them, northward, the unending forest. And the owner of this mysterious habitation,--what manner of man was he? Perhaps there were several. And she, a woman, alone with these men! From such bitter reflections she was recalled, slowly, by the realization that her eyes were resting upon a little portrait about twice the size of an ordinary miniature--a woman's face--confronting her from across the table. It hung against the back of the opposite chair, on a level with her own eyes, and was suspended by a narrow black ribbon,--an odd place for a portrait, but in glancing at the table in front of her she thought she guessed the reason. Before the place in which she had thrown herself she noticed for the first time a plate, a pewter mug, a napkin, and a knife and fork. Evidently the host expected to eat alone, for there were no other dishes on the table. And the portrait, of course, must be his wife, or his mother, perhaps, or daughter. It proved a pleasant face as it, in turn, regarded her from the little oval frame,--rather plump and youthful, with a curious little mouth and large dark eyes, with a peculiar droop at the outer corners. The hair was drawn up, away from the forehead; the shoulders were bare, and a string of pearls encircled the neck. She was dark, with good features, not strictly beautiful, but gentle and somewhat melancholy, in spite of the mirthful eyes.

So this was the romance of their mysterious host! She of the miniature, whatever her title--wife, mother, daughter, or sweetheart,--was ever present at his table, looking into his eyes across the board.

The American girl felt a quickening interest in this host. Was it love that drove him to the wilderness? And why did he bring into it such a wealth of household goods?

As she leaned back in the old-fashioned chair, her eyes wandering over the various objects in this unaccountable abode, her imagination began to play, giving a life and history to the people in the tapestries and portraits. The outside world was almost forgotten when she was recalled to herself by the chimes of an enormous clock behind the door. This triumph of a previous century, after tolling twelve, rambled off with a music-box accompaniment into the quaint old minuet attributed to Louis XIII. Before it had finished, two other clocks began their midday strike.

Elinor looked about in alarm, under a vague impression that the various objects in the room were coming to life. Then, with the reaction, she smiled and thought:

"Our friend is methodical with his clocks."

But still, in this atmosphere, she was not at ease; there was an excess of mystery, too much that needed explanation. And now that it was midday, the host might return at any moment and find her there, alone. So she went out; and to avoid any appearance of pursuing Mr. Boyd, she followed a little path behind the house that led among the pines. Hardly had she entered the wood, however, when she saw, off to her right and not many yards away, the man she was trying to escape. He was lying at full length along the ground, one arm for a pillow, his face against the pine-needles. In this prostrate figure every line bore witness to a measureless despair.

In her one glance she had seen that Solomon, as he sat by his master's head, was following her with his eyes. And these eyes seemed to say: "We stand or fall together, he and I. So go about your business."

She also saw that a warning from the watcher had aroused the downcast figure; for it raised its head and looked about. Mortified and angry with herself, and still angrier with him, she averted her eyes and passed coldly on; but with the consolation of having witnessed some indication of his own misery and repentance. However, it was an empty joy. Of what avail his remorse? The evil was done; her good name was forever compromised.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, she halted suddenly, and with a shock. At her feet, across the little path she had unconsciously followed, stretched an open grave. It was not a fresh excavation, for on the bottom lay a covering of pine-needles. And the rough pile of earth alongside was also covered with them. Projecting into the grave were several roots, feeders sent out by the great trees above; and from the stumps of other and larger roots it was evident that he who dug the grave had been driven to use the axe as well as the shovel. Close beside this grave was a mound with a wooden cross at the head.

"There," she thought, "rests the lady of the miniature--perhaps." This mound was also covered with pine-needles, as if Nature were helping some one to forget.

The silence of this spot, the murmuring of the wind among the branches high above, all tended to a somewhat mournful revery; and she wondered how this empty grave had been cheated of its tenant. With reverence she gazed upon the primitive wooden cross, evidently put together by inexperienced hands. Then she looked upward, as if to question the voices in the boughs above. But of the empty grave and its companion the whispering pines told nothing.

Approaching footsteps gave no sound in this forest, and she was startled by a cough behind her. It was only Pats, not wishing to startle her by a sudden presence. His face seemed flushed, and even thinner than before; and about his mouth had come a drawn and sensitive look. But her eyes rested coldly upon him as they would rest upon any repugnant object that she despised, but did not fear.

Smiling with an effort, he said: "Excuse my following you, but it is nearly one o'clock and time for food. I am sure we can find something in that cottage."

"I am not hungry."

"Did you have breakfast on the boat?"

"No."

"Then you _must_ be hungry."

"I do not care to eat." And she turned away.

"Excuse me, Miss Marshall," and he spoke more seriously, "pardon my giving you advice, but you have had a hard morning and you will feel better, later on, for a little food. As for me, I have had nothing since yesterday, and shall collapse without it. Suppose I go to the house and scrape up some sort of a lunch. Won't you come there in a few minutes?"

Her eyes travelled frigidly from his face to his feet. But before she could reply, he added:

"Besides, the owner may come back, now, at any minute, and if he finds us together it will save time in our getting off."

Turning away to resume her walk she answered, indifferently: "Very well, I will be there soon."

VI

THE SECRET OF THE PINES

At one o'clock the lunch was served.

Pats had placed before the lady a portion of a ham, a plate of crackers, some marmalade, and a bottle of claret.

"There are provisions in the cellar," he said, "to last a year: sacks of flour, dried apples, preserved fruits, potatoes, all sorts of canned things, and claret by the dozen."

As he spoke, he laid his hand upon the back of the chair that held the miniature,--the seat opposite her own.

"Don't sit there!" she exclaimed. "We must respect the customs of the house."

"Of course!" and he drew up another seat.

Food and a little wine tended to freshen the spirits of both travellers. Pats especially acquired new life and strength. The arrival of a glass or two of claret in his yearning stomach revived his hopes and loosened his tongue. Noticing that her eyes were constantly returning to the little portrait that faced her, he said, at last:

"By the way, there is something in the cellar that may throw some light on this lady, or on that empty grave back there." And he nodded toward the pines.

"What is that?"

"A coffin."

He smiled at her surprise and horror. In a low voice, she murmured:

"It is empty, of course!"

"Yes, I raised the lid."

"What can it mean?"

"I have no idea, unless some one disappointed somebody else by remaining alive, when he--or she--ought to be dead. That sometimes happens."

"It is very mysterious," and she looked into the eyes of the miniature as if for enlightenment.

"Very, indeed; but on the other hand, certain things are pretty evident. Such as the character of our host, and various points in his career."

"You mean that he is a hermit with a history?"

"Yes, and more specific than that!" Then, turning about in his chair and surveying the room: "He is an aristocrat, to begin with. These works of art are ancestral. They are no amateur's collection. Moreover, he left France because he had to. A man of his position does not bring his treasures into the wilderness for the fun of it. And when he settled here he had no intention of being hunted up by his friends--or by his enemies."

Elinor, with averted eyes, listened politely, but with no encouraging display of interest.

"But let us be sure he is not within hearing," Pats added, and he stepped to the door and looked about. "Not a sail in sight."

At this point Solomon renewed his efforts to get his master to follow him, but in vain.

"Why don't you go with him?" said Elinor. "He may have made an important discovery, like the graves, perhaps."

"More likely a woodchuck's hole, or a squirrel track. Besides," he added, with a smile, as he dropped into his chair again, "these broomsticks of mine have collapsed once to-day, and I am becoming cautious. It has been a lively morning--for a convalescent."

With a look that was almost, but not quite, sympathetic, she replied: "You have done too much. Stay here and rest. I will go with him, just for curiosity."

She went out, preceded by the bounding Solomon. Through the open door Pats watched them, and into his face came a graver look as he followed, with his eyes, the graceful figure in the gray dress until it disappeared from the sunlight among the shadows of the forest.

That he and she were stranded at a point far away from his own home he had little doubt. No such extraordinary house as this could have existed within fifty miles of Boyd's Island without his hearing of it. Moreover, he keenly regretted on her account his own physical condition. Since rising from his bed of fever he had carefully avoided all fatigue, according to his doctor's injunction. But now, after this morning's efforts, his legs were weak and his head was flighty. Things showed a tendency to dance before his eyes in a way that he had not experienced heretofore. When he lay upon the ground an hour ago he did it, among other reasons, to avoid tumbling from dizziness and exhaustion.

The lady's situation was bad enough already. To have a collapsible man upon her hands was a supreme and final calamity that he wished to spare her. He leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the heavy carving beneath the table. How good it was, this relaxation of all one's muscles!

The pompous rooster, with a few favorites of his seraglio, came and stood about the open door, eying him in disapproval, and always muttering.

In looking idly about Pats found himself becoming interested in the huge tapestry extending across the room at his right,--the one that served as a screen to the bed-chamber. While no expert in no such matters, he recognized in this tapestry a splendid work of art, both from its color and wealth of detail, and from the quality of its material. The more he studied it, the deeper became his interest--and his amusement. The scene, a formal Italian garden of the sixteenth century, of vast dimensions, showed fountains and statues without limit, and trees trimmed in fantastic shapes, with a château in the background. But the central group of figures brought a smile to his face. For, while the gardens were filled with lords and ladies of the court of Henri III., those in the foreground being nearly the size of life,--all clad in their richest attire, feathers in their hats, high ruffs about the neck, and resplendent with jewels, the ladies in stiff bodices and voluminous skirts,--there were two figures in the centre in startling contrast with their overdressed companions. These two, a man and a woman, wore nothing except a garland of leaves about the hips.

Pats smiled and even forgot his fatigue, as he realized that he was gazing upon a serious conception of the Garden of Eden. And the bride and groom showed no embarrassment. The groom was pointing, in an easy manner, to anything, anywhere, while the bride, in a graceful but self-conscious pose, ignored his remarks.

And all the lords and ladies round about accepted, as a matter of course, the nakedness of this unconventional pair. While still fascinated by the brazen indifference of this famous couple, and pleasantly shocked by their disregard for all the rules of propriety, he was aroused by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Elinor Marshall. She had evidently been hurrying. There was excitement in her voice, as she exclaimed:

"He is here! He has come back!"

"The owner?"

"Yes, he is taking a nap on a bench, on the other side of the point."

In another moment Pats was beside her, both walking rapidly through the wood. Approaching the western edge of the point, they saw, between the trees, a figure sitting upon a bench, overlooking the water, his back toward them. With one elbow upon an arm of the rustic seat, his cheek resting on his hand and his knees crossed, he seemed in full enjoyment of a nap.

Pats took a position in front of the sleeper, at a respectful distance, then said, in a voice not too loud:

"I beg your pardon, sir."

There was no responsive movement. When it became clear that he had not been heard, Pats stepped a very little nearer and repeated, in a louder tone:

"I beg your pardon, sir."

Still the sleeper slept.

Pats glanced at Elinor Marshall, who smiled, involuntarily. Pats also smiled, as he realized that this ceremonious and somewhat labored greeting had a distinctly comic side, especially when so completely thrown away. However, he was about to repeat the salutation and in a louder voice, when he was struck by the color of the hand against the cheek. He went nearer and, stooping down, looked up into the sleeper's face. A glance was enough.

Slowly he straightened up, then reverently removed his hat.

Elinor, with a look of awe, came nearer and whispered:

"Dead! Is it possible!"

For a moment both stood in silence, looking down upon the seated figure. It was that of an elderly man, short, and slight of frame, with thick gray hair, and a beard cut roughly to a point. The face, brown, thin, and bony, was unduly emphasized by a Roman nose, too large for the other features. But the face, as a whole, impressed the two people now regarding it as almost handsome. He was clad in a dark gray suit, and a soft felt hat lay upon the seat beside him.

"How long has he been here, do you think?" asked Elinor, in a low voice.

"A day or two, I should say. His clothes are a little damp, and there are pine-needles on his shoulders and on his head."

"But how dreadfully sudden it must have come! Not a change in his position, or in his expression, even."

"An ideal death," said Pats. "I have helped bury a good many men this year, both friends and enemies, but very few went off as comfortably as this."

He took out his watch, seemed to hesitate a moment, then said, reluctantly:

"This is bad for us, you know, finding him dead this way."

"Why?"

"It means there is no boat to get away with."

A look of alarm came into her face.

"We may as well face the situation," he continued, looking off over the water. "This man lived here alone, as we know from what we have seen in his house. And he evidently selected this place, not wishing to be disturbed. We are at the end of a bay at least ten miles deep, with no settlement in sight. There is nothing whatever to bring a visitor in here. The traffic of the gulf is away out there, perhaps thirty miles from here."

She made no reply. Venturing to glance at her face, he saw there were no signs of anger, only a look of anxiety.

"I will tell you just what I think, Miss Marshall, and you can act accordingly. I shall, of course, do whatever you wish. But, as nearly as I can judge, we are prisoners until we can get away by tramping through the wilderness."

He indicated, with a gesture, the broad current at their feet, washing the western edge of the point. "That river we can never cross without a boat, or a raft; and in that direction--I don't know how many miles away--is Boyd's Island. In the other direction, to the east, there is nothing but wilderness for an indefinite distance. That is, I think so. Now, if you prefer, I will go up this bank of the river at once, tie some logs together and try for a passage; then push on as fast as possible for our place, or the nearest settlement, and come back for you. Or, I will stay until we can go on together. Whatever you decide shall be done."

He had spoken rapidly, and was ill at ease, watching her earnestly all the while.

As for her, she was dismayed by his words. She had been listening with a growing terror. Now, she turned away to conceal a tendency to tears. But this was repressed. With no resentment, but with obvious emotion, she inquired:

"Can you get across the river?"

"Very likely."

"If you fail, or if anything happens to you, what becomes of me?"

"You would be here alone, and in a very bad plight. For that reason I think I would better stay until we can start together."

A slight gesture of resignation was her only reply. There was a pause; uncomfortable for Pats from his consciousness of her low opinion of him. However, he continued, in a somewhat perfunctory way, turning to the silent occupant of the bench.

"Now, as we take possession of this place, the least we can do is to give the owner a decent burial. Fortunately for us a grave is dug and a coffin ready."

"Yes, _his_ grave and _his_ coffin," and she regarded with a gentler expression the sitting figure. "And I think I know why he dug the grave."

"To save somebody else the trouble?"

"To be sure of resting beside his companion."

"Of course! that explains it all. He knew that strangers might bury him in the easiest place; that they would never chop through all those roots."

He stepped around behind the body, placed his hands under the arms, and made an effort to raise it, but the weight was beyond his strength. Looking toward his companion with an apologetic smile, he said: "I am sorry to be so useless, but--together we can carry him, if you don't mind."

At this suggestion Elinor, with a look of horror, took a backward step.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "for suggesting it. I have been doing so much of this work that I had forgotten how it affected others."

"What work?"

"Burying people. In the Transvaal. One morning, with a squad, I buried twenty-eight. Nine of them my own friends. So, if I go about this in the simplest way, do not think it is from want of sympathy."

"I shall understand."

"Then I will bring that wheelbarrow I saw behind the house."

He started off, then stopped as if to say something, but hesitated.

"What is it, Mr. Boyd?"

"I am afraid that coffin is too heavy for me. Would you mind helping with it?"

"No. And I can help you with the body, too, if necessary." And together they returned to the cottage.

* * * * *

Never, probably, did simpler obsequies befall a peer of France.

Sitting up in the same position as on the rustic bench, his cheek upon his hand, his elbow on the side of the barrow, the hermit was wheeled to his final resting-place beneath the pines. Beside him, with a helping hand, walked Elinor Marshall, shocked and saddened by these awful incongruities.

Behind came Solomon.

Among the pines, in the solemn shade of this cathedral, grander and more impressive than any human temple, moved the little procession.

No requiem; only the murmuring in the boughs above, those far-away voices, dearer to him, perhaps,--and to his companion in the grave beside,--than all other music.

VII

THE CLOUDS GATHER

The supper that evening was late.

After the simple repast--of crackers, tongue, and a cup of tea--Pats and Elinor strolled out into the twilight and sat upon a rock. The rock was at the very tip of the point, overlooking the water to the south.

On the right, off to the west, the land showed merely as a purple strip in the fading light, stretching out into the gulf a dozen miles or more. Behind it the sinking sun had left a bar of crimson light. To the east lay another headland running, like its neighbor, many miles to the south. These two coasts formed a vast bay, at whose northern extremity lay the little point at which Miss Elinor Marshall and Mr. Patrick Boyd had been landed by the _Maid of the North_. In the gathering gloom this prospect, with the towering forest that lay behind, was impressive--and solemn. And the solemnity of the scene was intensified by the primeval solitude,--the absence of all sign of human life.

Both travellers were silent, thoughtful, and very tired. It had been a long day, and then the misunderstanding in the middle of it had told considerably upon the nerves of both. To Pats the most exhausting experience of all had been the business of the baggage,--its transportation from the beach below to the house above. Elinor's trunk, being far too heavy for their own four hands, Pats had suggested carrying the trays up separately; and this was done. Certain things from his own trunk he had lugged off into the woods, where, as he said:

"There's a little outbuilding that will do for me. Not a royal museum like this of yours, but good accommodations for a bachelor."

She did not inquire as to particulars. The gentleman's bed-chamber was not a subject on which she cared to encourage confidences.

Her fatigue had merely created a wholesome desire for rest,--the sleepiness and indifference that come from weary muscles. But Pats's exhaustion was of a different sort. All the strength of his body had departed. Every muscle, cord, and sinew was unstrung. His spine seemed on the point of folding up. A hollow, nervous feeling had settled in the back of his head, and being something new it caused him a mild uneasiness. Moreover, his hands and feet were cold. Dispiriting chills travelled up and down his back at intervals. This might be owing to the change in temperature, as a storm was evidently brewing.