“‘If we did not get the gold, he was to have eighteen dollars a month for the time he sailed with me, and if we got safely back, I would give him his share of what I had already secured. He was quite sure that Burke would make the same agreement, and we telegraphed him to come immediately. I am going to be very careful about Burke, however, and sound him well before I tell him anything.
“‘Yesterday we found our vessel. She arrived in port a few days ago, and is now unloading. She is a small brig, and I think she will do; in fact, she has got to do. By the time Burke gets here I think we shall be ready to sail. Up to that time we shall be as busy as men can be, and it will be impossible for me to go to San Francisco. I must attend to the shipping of the treasure I have stored in the City of Mexico. I shall send some to one place and some to another, but want it all turned into coin or bonds before I start. Besides, I must be on hand to see Burke the moment he arrives. I am not yet quite sure about him, and if Shirley should let anything slip while I was away our looked-for fortune might be lost to us.’
“And that,” said Edna, “is all of the letter that I need read, except that he tells me he expects to write again before he starts, and that his address after he sails will be Wraxton, Fuguet & Co., American bankers in Paris.”
CHAPTER XXVII
EDNA MAKES HER PLANS
When she had finished reading the many pages of the letter, Edna leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Ralph sat upright in his chair and gazed intently before him.
“So we are not to see the captain again,” he said presently. “But I suppose that when a man has a thing to do, the best thing is to go and do it.”
“Yes,” said his sister, “that is the best thing.”
“And what are we to do?”
“I am now trying to decide,” she answered.
“Doesn’t he say anything about it?”
“Not a word,” replied Edna. “I suppose he considered he had made his letter long enough.”
About an hour after this, when the two met again, Edna said: “I have been writing to Captain Horn, and am going to write to Mrs. Cliff. I have decided what we shall do. I am going to France.”
“To France!” cried Ralph. “Both of us?”
“Yes, both of us. I made up my mind about this since I saw you.”
“What are you going to France for?” he exclaimed. “Come, let us have it all–quick.”
“I am going to France,” said his sister, “because Captain Horn is going there, and when he arrives, I wish to be there to meet him. There is no reason for our staying here–“
“Indeed, there is not,” interpolated Ralph, earnestly.
“If we must go anywhere to wait,” continued his sister, “I should prefer Paris.”
“Edna,” cried Ralph, “you are a woman of solid sense, and if the captain wants his gold divided up, he should get you to do it. And now, when are we going, and is Mrs. Cliff to go? What are you going to do with the two darkies?”
“We shall start East as soon as the captain sails,” replied his sister, “and I do not know what Mrs. Cliff will do until I hear from her, and as for Cheditafa and Mok, we shall take them with us.”
“Hurrah!” cried Ralph. “Mok for my valet in Paris. That’s the best thing I have got out of the caves yet.”
Captain Horn was a strong man, prompt in action, and no one could know him long without being assured of these facts. But although Edna’s outward personality was not apt to indicate quickness of decision and vigor of purpose, that quickness and vigor were hers quite as much as the captain’s when occasion demanded, and occasion demanded them now. The captain had given no indication of what he would wish her to do during the time which would be occupied by his voyage to Peru, his work there, and his subsequent long cruise around South America to Europe. She expected that in his next letter he would say something about this, but she wished first to say something herself.
She did not know this bold sailor as well as she loved him, and she was not at all sure that the plans he might make for her during his absence would suit her disposition or her purposes. Consequently, she resolved to submit her plans to him before he should write again. Above everything else, she wished to be in that part of the world at which Captain Horn might be expected to arrive when his present adventure should be accomplished. She did not wish to be sent for to go to France. She did not wish to be told that he was coming to America. Wherever he might land, there she would be.
The point that he might be unsuccessful, and might never leave South America, did not enter into her consideration. She was acting on the basis that he was a man who was likely to succeed in his endeavors. If she should come to know that he had not succeeded, then her actions would be based upon the new circumstances.
Furthermore, she had now begun to make plans for her future life. She had been waiting for Captain Horn to come to her, and to find out what he intended to do. Now she knew he was not coming to her for a long time, and was aware of what he intended to do, and she made her own plans. Of course, she dealt only with the near future. All beyond that was vague, and she could not touch it even with her thoughts. When sending his remittances, the captain had written that she and Mrs. Cliff must consider the money he sent her as income to be expended, not as principal to be put away or invested. He had made provisions for the future of all of them, in case he should not succeed in his present project, and what he had not set aside with that view he had devoted to his own operations, and to the maintenance, for a year, of Edna, Ralph, and Mrs. Cliff, in such liberal and generous fashion as might please them, and he had apportioned the remittances in a way which he deemed suitable. As Edna disbursed the funds, she knew that this proportion was three quarters for herself and Ralph, and one quarter for Mrs. Cliff.
“He divides everything into four parts,” she thought, “and gives me his share.”
Acting on her principle of getting every good thing out of life that life could give her, and getting it while life was able to give it to her, there was no doubt in regard to her desires. Apart from her wish to go where the captain expected to go, she considered that every day now spent in America was a day lost. If her further good fortune should never arrive, and the money in hand should be gone, she wished, before that time came, to engraft upon her existence a period of life in Europe–life of such freedom and opportunity as never before she had had a right to dream of.
Across this golden outlook there came a shadow. If he had wished to come to her, she would have waited for him anywhere, or if he had wished her to go to him, she would have gone anywhere. But it seemed as if that mass of gold, which brought them together, must keep them apart, a long time certainly, perhaps always. Nothing that had happened had had any element of certainty about it, and the future was still less certain. If he had come to her before undertaking the perilous voyage now before him, there would have been a certainty in her life which would have satisfied her forever. But he did not come. It was plainly his intention to have nothing to do with the present until the future should be settled, so far as he could settle it.
In a few days after she had written to Captain Horn, informing him of the plans she had made to go to France, Edna received an answer which somewhat disappointed her. If the captain’s concurrence in her proposed foreign sojourn had not been so unqualified and complete, if he had proposed even some slight modification, if he had said anything which would indicate that he felt he had authority to oppose her movements if he did not approve of them,–in fact, even if he had opposed her plan,–she would have been better pleased. But he wrote as if he were her financial agent, and nothing more. The tone of his letter was kind, the arrangements he said he had made in regard to the money deposited in San Francisco showed a careful concern for her pleasure and convenience, but nothing in his letter indicated that he believed himself possessed in any way of the slightest control over her actions. There was nothing like a sting in that kind and generous letter, but when she had read it, the great longing of Edna’s heart turned and stung her. But she would give no sign of this wound. She was a brave woman, and could wait still longer.
The captain informed her that everything was going well with his enterprise–that Burke had arrived, and had agreed to take part in the expedition, and that he expected that his brig, the _Miranda_, would be ready in less than a week. He mentioned again that he was extremely busy with his operations, but he did not say that he was sorry he was unable to come to take leave of her. He detailed in full the arrangements he had made, and then placed in her hands the entire conduct of the financial affairs of the party until she should hear from him again. When he arrived in France, he would address her in care of his bankers, but in regard to two points only did he now say anything which seemed like a definite injunction or even request. He asked Edna to urge upon Mrs. Cliff the necessity of saying nothing about the discovery of the gold, for if it should become known anywhere from Greenland to Patagonia, he might find a steamer lying off the Rackbirds’ cove when his slow sailing-vessel should arrive there. The other request was that Edna keep the two negroes with her if this would not prove inconvenient. But if this plan would at all trouble her, he asked that they be sent to him immediately.
In answer to this letter, Edna merely telegraphed the captain, informing him that she would remain in San Francisco until she had heard that he had sailed when she would immediately start for the East, and for France, with Ralph and the two negroes.
Three days after this she received a telegram from Captain Horn, stating that he would sail in an hour, and the next day she and her little party took a train for New York.
CHAPTER XXVIII
“HOME, SWEET HOME”
On the high-street of the little town of Plainton, Maine, stood the neat white house of Mrs. Cliff, with its green shutters, its porchless front door, its pretty bit of flower-garden at the front and side, and its neat back yard, sacred once a week to that virtue which is next to godliness.
Mrs. Cliff’s husband had been the leading merchant in Plainton, and having saved some money, he had invested it in an enterprise of a friend who had gone into business in Valparaiso. On Mr. Cliff’s death his widow had found herself with an income smaller than she had expected, and that it was necessary to change in a degree her style of living. The hospitalities of her table, once so well known throughout the circle of her friends, must be curtailed, and the spare bedroom must be less frequently occupied. The two cows and the horse were sold, and in every way possible the household was placed on a more economical basis. She had a good house, and an income on which, with care and prudence, she could live, but this was all.
In this condition of her finances it was not strange that Mrs. Cliff had thought a good deal about the investments in Valparaiso, from which she had not heard for a long time. Her husband had been dead for three years, and although she had written several times to Valparaiso, she had received no answer whatever, and being a woman of energy, she had finally made up her mind that the proper thing to do was to go down and see after her affairs. It had not been easy for her to get together the money for this long journey,–in fact, she had borrowed some of it,–and so, to lessen her expenses, she had taken passage in the _Castor_ from San Francisco.
She was a housewife of high degree, and would not have thought of leaving–perhaps for months–her immaculate window-panes and her spotless floors and furniture, had she not also left some one to take care of them. A distant cousin, Miss Willy Croup, had lived with her since her husband’s death, and though this lady was willing to stay during Mrs. Cliff’s absence, Mrs. Cliff considered her too quiet and inoffensive to be left in entire charge of her possessions, and Miss Betty Handshall, a worthy maiden of fifty, a little older than Willy, and a much more determined character, was asked to come and live in Mrs. Cliffs house until her return.
Betty was the only person in Plainton who lived on an annuity, and she was rather proud of her independent fortune, but as her annuity was very small, and as this invitation meant a considerable reduction in her expenses, she was very glad to accept it. Consequently, Mrs. Cliff had gone away feeling that she had left her house in the hands of two women almost as neat as herself and even more frugal.
When Mrs. Cliff left Edna and Ralph in San Francisco, and went home, nearly all the people in the little town who were worth considering gathered in and around her house to bid her welcome. They had heard of her shipwreck, but the details had been scanty and unsatisfactory, and the soul of the town throbbed with curiosity to know what had really happened to her. For the first few hours of her return Mrs. Cliff was in a state of heavenly ecstasy. Everything was so tidy, everything was so clean, every face beamed with such genial amity, her native air was so intoxicating, that she seemed to be in a sort of paradise. But when her friends and neighbors began to ask questions, she felt herself gradually descending into a region which, for all she knew, might resemble purgatory.
Of course, there was a great deal that was wonderful and startling to relate, and as Mrs. Cliff was a good story-teller, she thrilled the nerves of her hearers with her descriptions of the tornado at sea and the Rackbirds on land, and afterwards filled the eyes of many of the women with tears of relief as she told of their escapes, their quiet life at the caves, and their subsequent rescue by the _Mary Bartlett_. But it was the cross-examinations which caused the soul of the narrator to sink. Of course, she had been very careful to avoid all mention of the gold mound, but this omission in her narrative proved to be a defect which she had not anticipated. As she had told that she had lost everything except a few effects she had carried with her from the _Castor_, it was natural enough that people should want to know how she had been enabled to come home in such good fashion.
They had expected her to return in a shabby, or even needy, condition, and now they had stories of delightful weeks at a hotel in San Francisco, and beheld their poor shipwrecked neighbor dressed more handsomely than they had ever seen her, and with a new trunk standing in the lower hall which must contain something.
Mrs. Cliff began by telling the truth, and from this course she did not intend to depart. She said that the captain of the _Castor_ was a just and generous man, and, as far as was in his power, he had reimbursed the unfortunate passengers for their losses. But as every one knows the richest steamship companies are seldom so generous to persons who may be cast away during transportation as to offer them long sojourns at hotels, with private parlors and private servants, and to send them home in drawing-room cars, with cloaks trimmed with real sealskin, the questions became more and more direct, and all Mrs. Cliff could do was to stand with her back against the captain’s generosity, as if it had been a rock, and rely upon it for defence.
But when the neighbors had all gone home, and the trunk had to be opened, so that it could be lightened before being carried up-stairs, the remarks of Willy and Betty cut clean to the soul of the unfortunate possessor of its contents. Of course, the captain had not actually given her this thing, and that thing, and the other, or the next one, but he had allowed her a sum of money, and she had expended it according to her own discretion. How much that sum of money might have been, Willy and Betty did not dare to ask,–for there were limits to Mrs. Cliff’s forbearance,–but when they went to bed, they consulted together.
If it had not been for the private parlor and the drawing-room car, they would have limited Captain Horn’s generosity to one hundred dollars. But, under the circumstances, that sum would have been insufficient. It must have been nearly, if not quite, two hundred. As for Mrs. Cliff, she went to bed regretting that her reservations had not been more extended, and that she had not given the gold mound in the cave more company. She hated prevarications and concealments, but if she must conceal something, she should have concealed more. When the time came when she would be free to tell of her good fortune, even if it should be no more than she already possessed, then she would explain everything, and proudly demand of her friends and neighbors to put their fingers on a single untruth that she had told them.
For the next day or two, Mrs. Cliff’s joy in living again in her own home banished all other feelings, and as she was careful to say nothing to provoke more questions, and as those which were still asked became uncertain of aim and scattering, her regrets at her want of reticence began to fade. But, no matter what she did, where she went, or what she looked at, Mrs. Cliff carried about with her a millstone. It did not hang from her neck, but it was in her pocket. It was not very heavy, but it was a burden to her. It was her money–which she wanted to spend, but dared not.
On leaving San Francisco, Edna had wished to give her the full amount which the captain had so far sent her, but Mrs. Cliff declined to receive the whole. She did not see any strong reason to believe that the captain would ever send any more, and as she had a home, and Ralph and Edna had not, she would not take all the money that was due her, feeling that they might come to need it more than she would. But even with this generous self-denial she found herself in Plainton with a balance of some thousands of dollars in her possession, and as much more in Edna’s hands, which the latter had insisted that she would hold subject to order. What would the neighbors think of Captain Horn’s abnormal bounteousness if they knew this?
With what a yearning, aching heart Mrs. Cliff looked upon the little picket-fence which ran across the front of her property! How beautiful that fence would be with a new coat of paint, and how perfectly well she could afford it! And there was the little shed that should be over the back door, which would keep the sun from the kitchen in summer, and in winter the snow. There was this in one room, and that in another. There were new dishes which could exist only in her mind. How much domestic gratification there was within her reach, but toward which she did not dare to stretch out her hand!
There was poor old Mrs. Bradley, who must shortly leave the home in which she had lived nearly all her life, because she could no longer afford to pay the rent. There had been an attempt to raise enough money by subscription to give the old lady her home for another year, but this had not been very successful. Mrs. Cliff could easily have supplied the deficit, and it would have given her real pleasure to do so,–for she had almost an affection for the old lady,–but when she asked to be allowed to subscribe, she did not dare to give more than one dollar, which was the largest sum upon the list, and even then Betty had said that, under the circumstances, she could not have been expected to give anything.
When she went out into the little barn at the rear of the house, and saw the empty cow-stable, how she longed for fresh cream, and butter of her own making! And when she gazed upon her little phaeton, which she had not sold because no one wanted it, and reflected that her good, brown horse could doubtless be bought back for a moderate sum, she almost wished that she had come home as poor as people thought she ought to be.
Now and then she ordered something done or spent some money in a way that excited the astonishment of Willy Croup–the sharper-witted Betty had gone home, for, of course, Mrs. Cliff could not be expected to be able to afford her company now. But in attempting to account for these inconsiderable extravagances, Mrs. Cliff was often obliged to content herself with admitting that while she had been abroad she might have acquired some of those habits of prodigality peculiar to our Western country. This might be a sufficient excuse for the new bottom step to the side door, but how could she account for the pair of soft, warm Californian blankets which were at the bottom of the trunk, and which she had not yet taken out even to air?
Matters had gone on in this way for nearly a month,–every day Mrs. Cliff had thought of some new expenditure which she could well afford, and every night she wished that she dared to put her money in the town bank and so be relieved from the necessity of thinking so much about door-locks and window-fastenings,–when there came a letter from Edna, informing her of the captain’s safe arrival in Acapulco with the cargo of guano and gold, and inclosing a draft which first made Mrs. Cliff turn pale, and then compelled her to sit down on the floor and cry. The letter related in brief the captain’s adventures, and stated his intention of returning for the gold.
“To think of it!” softly sobbed Mrs. Cliff, after she had carefully closed her bedroom door. “With this and what I am to get, I believe I could buy the bank, and yet I can only sit here and try to think of some place to hide this dangerous piece of paper.”
The draft was drawn by a San Francisco house upon a Boston bank, and Edna had suggested that it might be well for Mrs. Cliff to open an account in the latter city. But the poor lady knew that would never do. A bank-account in Boston would soon become known to the people of Plainton, and what was the use of having an account anywhere if she could not draw from it? Edna had not failed to reiterate the necessity of keeping the gold discovery an absolute secret, and every word she said upon this point increased Mrs. Cliff’s depression.
“If it were only for a fixed time, a month or three months, or even six months,” the poor lady said to herself, “I might stand it. It would be hard to do without all the things I want, and be afraid even to pay the money I borrowed to go to South America, but if I knew when the day was certainly coming when I could hold up my head and let everybody know just what I am, and take my proper place in the community, then I might wait. But nobody knows how long it will take the captain to get away with that gold. He may have to make ever so many voyages. He may meet with wrecks, and dear knows what. It may be years before they are ready to tell me I am a free woman, and may do what I please with my own. I may die in poverty, and leave Mr. Cliff’s nephews to get all the good of the draft and the money in my trunk up-stairs. I suppose they would think it came from Valparaiso, and that I had been hoarding it. It’s all very well for Edna. She is going to Europe, where Ralph will be educated, I suppose, and where she can live as she pleases, and nobody will ask her any questions, and she need not answer them, if they should. But I must stay here, in debt, and in actual want of the comforts of life, making believe to pinch and to save, until a sea-captain thousands and thousands of miles away shall feel that he is ready to let me put my hand in my pocket and spend my riches.”
CHAPTER XXIX
A COMMITTEE OF LADIES
It was about a week after the receipt of Edna’s letter that Willy Croup came to Mrs. Cliff’s bedroom, where that lady had been taking a surreptitious glance at her Californian blankets, to tell her that there were three ladies down in the parlor who wished to see her.
“It’s the minister’s wife, and Mrs. Hembold, and old Miss Shott,” said Willy. “They are all dressed up, and I suppose they have come for something particular, so you’d better fix up a little afore you go down.”
In her present state of mind, Mrs. Cliff was ready to believe that anybody who came to see her would certainly want to know something which she could not tell them, and she went down fearfully. But these ladies did not come to ask questions. They came to make statements. Mrs. Perley, the minister’s wife, opened the interview by stating that, while she was sorry to see Mrs. Cliff looking so pale and worried, she was very glad, at the same time, to be able to say something which might, in some degree, relieve her anxiety and comfort her mind, by showing her that she was surrounded by friends who could give her their heartfelt sympathy in her troubles, and perhaps do a little more.
“We all know,” said Mrs. Perley, “that you have had misfortunes, and that they have been of a peculiar kind, and none of them owing to your own fault.”
“We can’t agree exactly to that,” interpolated Miss Shott, “but I won’t interrupt.”
“We all know,” continued Mrs. Perley, “that it was a great loss and disappointment to you not to be able to get down to Valparaiso and settle your affairs there, for we are aware that you need whatever money is due you from that quarter. And we understand, too, what a great blow it was to you to be shipwrecked, and lose all your baggage except a hand-bag.”
Miss Shott was about to say something here, but Mrs. Hembold touched her on the arm, and she waited.
“It grieves us very much,” continued the minister’s wife, “to think that our dear friend and neighbor should come home from her wanderings and perils and privations, and find herself in what must be, although we do not wish to pry into your private affairs, something of an embarrassed condition. We have all stayed at home with our friends and our families, and we have had no special prosperity, but neither have we met with losses, and it grieves us to think that you, who were once as prosperous as any of us, should now feel–I should say experience–in any manner the pressure of privation.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Cliff, sitting up very straight in her chair. “Privation? What does that mean?”
“It may not be exactly that,” said Mrs. Perley, quickly, “and we all know very well, Mrs. Cliff, that you are naturally sensitive on a point like this. But you have come back shipwrecked and disappointed in your business, and we want to show you that, while we would not hurt your feelings for anything in the world, we would like to help you a little, if we can, just as we would hope you would help us if we were in any embarrassment.”
“I must say, however–” remarked Miss Shott; but she was again silenced by Mrs. Hembold, and the minister’s wife went on.
“To come straight to the point,” said she, “for a good while we have been wanting to do something, and we did not know what to do. But a few days ago we became aware, through Miss Willy Croup, that what was most needed in this house is blankets. She said, in fact, that the blankets you had were the same you bought when you were first married, that some of them had been worn out and given to your poorer neighbors, and that now you were very short of blankets, and, with cold weather coming on, she did not consider that the clothing on your own bed was sufficient. She even went so far as to say that the blankets she used were very thin, and that she did not think they were warm enough for winter. So, some of us have agreed together that we would testify our friendship and our sympathy by presenting you with a pair of good, warm blankets for your own bed; then those you have could go to Willy Croup, and you both would be comfortable all winter. Of course, what we have done has not been upon an expensive scale. We have had many calls upon us,–poor old Mrs. Bradley, for one,–and we could not afford to spend much money. But we have bought you a good pair of blankets, which are warm and serviceable, and we hope you will not be offended, and we do not believe that you will be, for you know our motives, and all that we ask is that when you are warm and comfortable under our little gift, you will sometimes think of us. The blankets are out in the hall, and I have no doubt that Miss Willy Croup will bring them in.”
Mrs. Cliff’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted to speak, but how could she speak! But she was saved from further embarrassment, for when Willy, who had been standing in the doorway, had gone to get the blankets, Miss Shott could be restrained no longer.
“I am bound to say,” she began, “that, while I put my money in with the rest to get those blankets,–and am very glad to be able to do it, Mrs. Cliff,–I don’t think that we ought to do anything which would look as if we were giving our countenances to useless extravagances in persons, even if they are our friends, who, with but small means, think they must live like rich people, simply because they happen to be travelling among them. It is not for me to allude to hotels in towns where there are good boarding-houses, to vestibule cars and fur-trimmed cloaks; but I will say that when I am called upon to help my friends who need it, I will do it as quick as anybody, but I also feel called upon by my conscience to lift up my voice against spending for useless things what little money a person may have, when that person needs that money for–well, for things I shall not mention. And now that I have said my say, I am just as glad to help give you those blankets, Mrs. Cliff, as anybody else is.”
Every one in the room knew that the thing she would not mention was the money Mrs. Cliff had borrowed for her passage. Miss Shott had not lent any of it, but her brother, a retired carpenter and builder, had, and as his sister expected to outlive him, although he was twelve years younger than she was, she naturally felt a little sore upon this point.
Now Mrs. Cliff was herself again. She was not embarrassed. She was neither pale nor trembling. With a stern severity, not unknown to her friends and neighbors in former days, she rose to her feet.
“Nancy Shott,” said she, “I don’t know anything that makes me feel more at home than to hear you talk like that. You are the same woman that never could kiss a baby without wanting to spank it at the same time. I know what is the matter with you. You are thinking of that money I borrowed from your brother. Well, I borrowed that for a year, and the time is not up yet; but when it is, I’ll pay it, every cent of it, and interest added. I knew what I was about when I borrowed it, and I know what I am about now, and if I get angry and pay it before it becomes due, he will lose that much interest, and he can charge it to you. That is all I have to say to you.
“As for you, Mrs. Perley, and the other persons who gave me these blankets, I want you to feel that I am just as grateful as if–just as grateful as I can be, and far more for the friendliness than for the goods. I won’t say anything more about that, and it isn’t necessary, but I must say one thing. I am ready to take the blankets, and to thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I will not have them unless the money Miss Shott put in is given back to her. Whatever that was, I will make it up myself, and I hope I may be excused for saying that I don’t believe it will break me.”
Now there was a scene. Miss Shott rose in anger and marched out of the house. Mrs. Perley and the other lady expostulated with Mrs. Cliff for a time, but they knew her very well, and soon desisted. Twenty-five cents was handed to Mrs. Perley to take the place of the sum contributed by Miss Shott, and the ladies departed, and the blankets were taken up-stairs. Mrs. Cliff gave one glance at them as Willy Croup spread them out.
“If those women could see my Californian blankets!” she said to herself, but to Willy she said, “They are very nice, and you may put them away.”
Then she went to her own room and went to bed. This last shock was too much for her nerves to bear. In the afternoon Willy brought her some tea, but the poor lady would not get up. So long as she stayed in bed, people could be kept away from her, but there was nowhere else where she could be in peace.
All night she lay and thought and thought and thought. What should she do? She could not endure this condition of things. There was only one relief that presented itself to her: she might go to Mr. Perley, her minister, and confide everything to him. He would tell her what she ought to do.
“But,” she thought, “suppose he should say it should all go to the Peruvians!” And then she had more thinking to do, based upon this contingency, which brought on a headache, and she remained in bed all the next day.
The next morning, Willy Croup, who had begun to regret that she had ever said anything about blankets,–but how could she have imagined that anybody could be so cut up at what that old Shott woman had said?–brought Mrs. Cliff a letter.
This was from Edna, stating that she and Ralph and the two negroes had just arrived in New York, from which point they were to sail for Havre. Edna wished very much to see Mrs. Cliff before she left the country, and wrote that if it would be convenient for that lady, she would run up to Plainton and stay a day or two with her. There would be time enough for this before the steamer sailed. When she read this brief note, Mrs. Cliff sprang out of bed.
“Edna come here!” she exclaimed. “That would be simply ruin! But I must see her. I must tell her everything, and let her help me.”
As soon as she was dressed, she went down-stairs and told Willy that she would start for New York that very afternoon. She had received a letter from Mrs. Horn, and it was absolutely necessary to see her before she sailed. With only a small leather bag in her hand, and nearly all her ready money and her peace-destroying draft sewed up inside the body of her dress, she left Plainton, and when her friends and neighbors heard that she had gone, they could only ascribe such a sudden departure to the strange notions she had imbibed in foreign parts. When Plainton people contemplated a journey, they told everybody about it, and took plenty of time to make preparations; but South Americans and Californians would start anywhere at a moment’s notice. People had thought that Mrs. Cliff was too old to be influenced by association in that way, but it was plain that they had been mistaken, and there were those who were very much afraid that even if the poor lady had got whatever ought to be coming to her from the Valparaiso business, it would have been of little use to her. Her old principles of economy and prudence must have been terribly shaken. This very journey to New York would probably cost twenty dollars!
When Mrs. Cliff entered Edna’s room in a New York hotel, the latter was startled, almost frightened. She had expected her visitor, for she had had a telegram, but she scarcely recognized at the first glance the pale and haggard woman who had come to her.
“Sick!” exclaimed poor Mrs. Cliff, as she sank upon a sofa. “Yes, I am sick, but not in body, only in heart. Well, it is hard to tell you what is the matter. The nearest I can get to it is that it is wealth struck in, as measles sometimes strike in when they ought to come out properly, and one is just as dangerous as the other.”
When Mrs. Cliff had had something to eat and drink, and had begun to tell her tale, Edna listened with great interest and sympathy. But when the good lady had nearly finished, and was speaking of her resolution to confide everything to Mr. Perley, Edna’s gaze at her friend became very intent, and her hands tightly grasped the arms of the chair in which she was sitting.
“Mrs. Cliff,” said she, when the other had finished, “there is but one thing for you to do: you must go to Europe with us.”
“Now!” exclaimed Mrs. Cliff. “In the steamer you have engaged passage in? Impossible! I could not go home and settle up everything and come back in time.”
“But you must not go home,” said Edna. “You must not think of it. Your troubles would begin again as soon as you got there. You must stay here and go when we do.”
Mrs. Cliff stared at her. “But I have only a bag and the clothes I have on. I am not ready for a voyage. And there’s the house, with nobody but Willy in it. Don’t you see it would be impossible for me to go?”
“What you need for the passage,” said Edna, “you can buy here in a few hours, and everything else you can get on the other side a great deal cheaper and better than here. As to your house, you can write to that other lady to go there and stay with Miss Croup until you come back. I tell you, Mrs. Cliff, that all these things have become mere trifles to you. I dare say you could buy another house such as you own in Plainton, and scarcely miss the money. Compared to your health and happiness, the loss of that house, even if it should burn up while you are away, would be as a penny thrown to a beggar.”
“And there is my new trunk,” said Mrs. Cliff, “with my blankets and ever so many things locked up in it.”
“Let it stay there,” said Edna. “You will not need the blankets, and I don’t believe any one will pick the lock.”
“But how shall I explain my running away in such a fashion? What will they all think?”
“Simply write,” said Edna, “that you are going to Europe as companion to Mrs. Horn. If they think you are poor, that will explain everything. And you may add, if you choose, that Mrs. Horn is so anxious to have you, she will take no denial, and it is on account of her earnest entreaties that you are unable to go home and take leave in a proper way of your friends.”
It was half an hour afterwards that Mrs. Cliff said: “Well, Edna, I will go with you. But I can tell you this: I would gladly give up all the mountains and palaces I may see in Europe, if I could go back to Plainton this day, deposit my money in the Plainton bank, and then begin to live according to my means. That would be a joy that nothing else on this earth could give me.”
Edna laughed. “All you have to do,” she said, “is to be patient and wait awhile, and then, when you go back like a queen to Plainton, you will have had your mountains and your palaces besides.”
CHAPTER XXX
AT THE HOTEL BOILEAU
It was early in December,–two months after the departure of Edna and her little party from New York,–and they were all comfortably domiciled in the Hotel Boileau, in a quiet street, not far from the Boulevard des Italiens. This house, to which they came soon after their arrival in Paris, might be considered to belong to the family order, but its grade was much higher than that of the hotel in which they had lived in San Francisco. As in the former place, they had private apartments, a private table, and the service of their own colored men, in addition to that of the hotel servants. But their salon was large and beautifully furnished, their meals were cooked by a French chef, every one, from the lordly porter to the quick-footed chambermaid, served them with a courteous interest, and Mrs. Cliff said that although their life in the two hotels seemed to be in the main the same sort of life, they were, in reality, as different as an old, dingy mahogany bureau, just dragged from an attic, and that same piece of furniture when it had been rubbed down, oiled, and varnished. And Ralph declared that, so far as he knew anything about it, there was nothing like the air of Paris to bring out the tones and colorings and veinings of hotel life. But the greatest difference between the former and the present condition of this little party lay in the fact that in San Francisco its principal member was Mrs. Philip Horn, while in Paris it was Miss Edna Markham.
This change of name had been the result of nights of thought and hours of consultation. In San Francisco Edna felt herself to be Mrs. Horn as truly as if they had been married at high noon in one of the city churches, but although she could see no reason to change her faith in the reality of her conjugal status, she had begun to fear that Captain Horn might have different views upon the subject. This feeling had been brought about by the tone of his letters. If he should die, those letters might prove that she was then his widow, but it was plain that he did not wish to impress upon her mind that she was now his wife.
If she had remained in San Francisco, Edna would have retained the captain’s name. There she was a stranger, and Captain Horn was well known. His agents knew her as Mrs. Horn, the people of the _Mary Bartlett_ knew her as such, and she should not have thought of resigning it. But in Paris the case was very different. There she had friends, and expected to make more, and in that city she was quite sure that Captain Horn was very little known.
Edna’s Parisian friends, were all Americans, and some of them people of consideration, one of her old schoolmates being the wife of a secretary of the American legation. Could she appear before these friends as Mrs. Captain Philip Horn, feeling that not only was she utterly unable to produce Captain Horn, but that she might never be able to do so? Should the captain not return, and should she have proofs of his death, or sufficient reason to believe it, she might then do as she pleased about claiming her place as his widow. But should he return, he should not find that she had trammelled and impeded his plans and purposes by announcing herself as his wife. She did not expect ever to live in San Francisco again, and in no other place need she be known as Mrs. Horn.
As to the business objects of her exceptional marriage, they were, in a large degree, already attained. The money Captain Horn had remitted to her in San Francisco was a sum so large as to astound her, and when she reached Paris she lost no time in depositing her funds under her maiden name. For the sake of security, some of the money was sent to a London banker, and in Paris she did not deposit with the banking house which Captain Horn had mentioned. But directions were left with that house that if a letter ever came to Mrs. Philip Horn, it was to be sent to her in care of Mrs. Cliff, and, to facilitate the reception of such a letter, Mrs. Cliff made Wraxton, Fuguet & Co. her bankers, and all her letters were addressed to them. But at Edna’s bankers she was known as Miss Markham, and her only Parisian connection with the name of Horn was through Mrs. Cliff.
The amount of money now possessed by Edna was, indeed, a very fair fortune for her, without regarding it, as Captain Horn had requested, as a remittance to be used as a year’s income. In his letters accompanying his remittances the captain had always spoken of them as her share of the gold brought away, and in this respect he treated her exactly as he treated Mrs. Cliff, and in only one respect had she any reason to infer that the money was in any manner a contribution from himself. In making her divisions according to his directions, her portion was so much greater than that of the others, Edna imagined Captain Horn sent her his share as well as her own. But of this she did not feel certain, and should he succeed in securing the rest of the gold in the mound, she did not know what division he would make. Consequently, this little thread of a tie between herself and the captain, woven merely of some hypothetical arithmetic, was but a cobweb of a thread. The resumption of her maiden name had been stoutly combated by both Mrs. Cliff and Ralph. The first firmly insisted upon the validity of the marriage, so long as the captain did not appear, but she did not cease to insist that the moment he did appear, there should be another ceremony.
“But,” said Edna, “you know that Cheditafa’s ceremony was performed simply for the purpose of securing to me, in case of his loss on that boat trip, a right to claim the benefit of his discovery. If he should come back, he can give me all the benefit I have a right to claim from that discovery, just as he gives you your share, without the least necessity of a civilized marriage. Now, would you advise me to take a step which would seem to force upon him the necessity for such a marriage?”
“No,” said Mrs. Cliff. “But all your reasoning is on a wrong basis. I haven’t the least doubt in the world—I don’t see how any one can have a doubt–that the captain intends to come back and claim you as his wife; and if anything more be necessary to make you such, as I consider there would be, he would be as ready as anybody to do it. And, Edna, if you could see yourself, not merely as you look in the glass, but as he would see you, you would know that he would be as ready as any of us would wish him to be. And how will he feel, do you suppose, when he finds that you renounce him and are going about under your maiden name?”
In her heart Edna answered that she hoped he might feel very much as she had felt when he did not come to see her in San Francisco, but to Mrs. Cliff she said she had no doubt that he would fully appreciate her reasons for assuming her old name.
Ralph’s remarks were briefer, and more to the point.
“He married you,” he said, “the best way he could under the circumstances, and wrote to you as his wife, and in San Francisco you took his name. Now, if he comes back and says you are not his wife, I’ll kill him.”
“If I were you, Ralph,” said his sister, “I wouldn’t do that. In fact, I may say I would disapprove of any such proceeding.”
“Oh, you can laugh,” said he, “but it makes no difference to me. I shall take the matter into my own hands if he repudiates that contract.”
“But suppose I give him no chance to repudiate it?” said Edna. “Suppose he finds me Miss Edna Markham, and finds, also, that I wish to continue to be that lady? If what has been done has any force at all, it can easily be set aside by law.”
Ralph rose and walked up and down the floor, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“That’s just like a woman,” he said. “They are always popping up new and different views of things, and that is a view I hadn’t thought of. Is that what you intend to do?”
“No,” said Edna, “I do not intend to do anything. All I wish is to hold myself in such a position that I can act when the time comes to act.”
Ralph took the whole matter to bed with him in order to think over it. He did a great deal more sleeping than thinking, but in the morning he told Edna he believed she was right.
“But one thing is certain,” he said: “even if that heathen marriage should not be considered legal, it was a solemn ceremony of engagement, and nobody can deny that. It was something like a caveat which people get before a regular patent is issued for an invention, and if you want him to do it, he should stand up and do it; but if you don’t, that’s your business. But let me give you a piece of advice: wherever you go and whatever you do, until this matter is settled, be sure to carry around that two-legged marriage certificate called Cheditafa. He can speak a good deal of English now, if there should be any dispute.”
“Dispute!” cried Edna, indignantly. “What are you thinking of? Do you suppose I would insist or dispute in such a matter? I thought you knew me better than that.”
Ralph sighed. “If you could understand how dreadfully hard it is to know you,” he said, “you wouldn’t be so severe on a poor fellow if he happened to make a mistake now and then.”
When Mrs. Cliff found that Edna had determined upon her course, she ceased her opposition, and tried, good woman as she was, to take as satisfactory a view of the matter as she could find reason for.
“It would be a little rough,” she said, “if your friends were to meet you as Mrs. Horn, and you would be obliged to answer questions. I have had experience in that sort of thing. And looking at it in that light, I don’t know but what you are right, Edna, in defending yourself against questions until you are justified in answering them. To have to admit that you are not Mrs. Horn after you had said you were, would be dreadful, of course. But the other would be all plain sailing. You would go and be married properly, and that would be the end of it. And even if you were obliged to assert your claims as his widow, there would be no objection to saying that there had been reasons for not announcing the marriage. But there is another thing. How are you going to explain your prosperous condition to your friends? When I was in Plainton, I thought of you as so much better off than myself in this respect, for over here there would be no one to pry into your affairs. I did not know you had friends in Paris.”
“All that need not trouble me in the least,” said Edna. “When I went to school with Edith Southall, who is now Mrs. Sylvester, my father was in a very good business, and we lived handsomely. It was not until I was nearly grown up that he failed and died, and then Ralph and I went to Cincinnati, and my life of hard work began. So you see there is no reason why my friends in Paris should ask any questions, or I should make explanations.”
“I wish it were that way in Plainton,” said Mrs. Cliff, with a sigh. “I would go back there the moment another ship started from France.”
So it was Miss Edna Markham of New York who took apartments at the Hotel Boileau, and it was she who called upon the wife of the American secretary of legation.
CHAPTER XXXI
WAITING
For several weeks after their arrival, the members of the little party had but one common object,–to see and enjoy the wonders and beauties of Paris,–and in their sight-seeing they nearly always went together, sometimes taking Cheditafa and Mok with them. But as time went on, their different dispositions began to assert themselves, and in their daily pursuits they gradually drifted apart.
Mrs. Cliff was not a cultivated woman, but she had a good, common-sense appreciation of art in its various forms. She would tramp with untiring step through the galleries of the Louvre, but when she had seen a gallery, she did not care to visit it again. She went to the theatre and the opera because she wanted to see how they acted and sang in France, but she did not wish to go often to a place where she could not understand a word that was spoken.
Ralph was now under the charge of a tutor, Professor Barre by name, who took a great interest in this American boy, whose travels and experiences had given him a precocity which the professor had never met with in any of his other scholars. Ralph would have much preferred to study Paris instead of books, and the professor, who was able to give a great deal of time to his pupil, did not altogether ignore this natural instinct of a youthful heart. In consequence, the two became very good friends, and Ralph was the best-satisfied member of the party.
It was in regard to social affairs that the lives of Edna and Mrs. Cliff diverged most frequently. Through the influence of Mrs. Sylvester, a handsome woman with a vivacious intelligence which would have made her conspicuous in any society, Edna found that social engagements, not only in diplomatic circles and in those of the American colony, but, to some extent, in Parisian society, were coming upon her much more rapidly than she had expected. The secretary’s wife was proud of her countrywoman, and glad to bring her forward in social functions. Into this new life Edna entered as if it had been a gallery she had not yet visited, or a museum which she saw for the first time. She studied it, and enjoyed the study.
But only in a limited degree did Mrs. Cliff enjoy society in Paris. To be sure, it was only in a limited degree that she had been asked to do it. Even with a well-filled purse and all the advantages of Paris at her command, she was nothing more than a plain and highly respectable woman from a country town in Maine. More than this silks and velvets could not make her, and more than this she did not wish to be. As Edna’s friend and companion, she had been kindly received at the legation, but after attending two or three large gatherings, she concluded that she would wait until her return to Plainton before she entered upon any further social exercises. But she was not at all dissatisfied or homesick. She preferred Plainton to all places in the world, but that little town should not see her again until she could exhibit her Californian blankets to her friends, and tell them where she got the money to buy them.
“Blankets!” she said to herself. “I am afraid they will hardly notice them when they see the other things I shall take back there.”
With society, especially such society as she could not enjoy, Mrs. Cliff could easily dispense. So long as the shops of Paris were open to her, the delights of these wonderful marts satisfied the utmost cravings of her heart; and as she had a fine mind for bargaining, and plenty of time on her hands, she was gradually accumulating a well-chosen stock of furnishings and adornments, not only for her present house in Plainton, but for the large and handsome addition to it which she intended to build on an adjoining lot. These schemes for establishing herself in Plainton, as a wealthy citizen, did not depend on the success of Captain Horn’s present expedition. What Mrs. Cliff already possessed was a fortune sufficient for the life she desired to lead in her native town. What she was waiting for was the privilege of going back and making that fortune known. As to the increase of her fortune she had but small belief. If it should come, she might change her plans, but the claims of the native Peruvians should not be forgotten. Even if the present period of secrecy should be terminated by the news of the non-success of Captain Horn, she intended to include, among her expenses, a periodical remittance to some charitable association in Peru for the benefit of the natives.
The Christmas holidays passed, January was half gone, and Edna had received no news from Captain Horn. She had hoped that before leaving South. America and beginning his long voyage across the Atlantic, he would touch at some port from which he might send her a letter, which, coming by steamer, would reach her before she could expect the arrival of the brig. But no letter had come. She had arranged with a commercial agency to telegraph to her the moment the Miranda should arrive in any French port, but no message had come, and no matter what else she was doing, it seemed to Edna as if she were always expecting such a message. Sometimes she thought that this long delay must mean disaster, and at such times she immediately set to work to reason out the matter. From Acapulco to Cape Horn, up through the South Atlantic and the North Atlantic to France, was a long voyage for a sailing-vessel, and to the time necessary for this she must add days, and perhaps weeks, of labor at the caves, besides all sorts of delays on the voyage. Like Ralph, she had an unbounded faith in the captain. He might not bring her one bar of gold, he might meet with all sorts of disasters, but, whenever her mind was in a healthy condition, she expected him to come to France, as he had said he would.
She now began to feel that she was losing a great deal of time. Paris was all very well, but it was not everything. When news should come to her, it might be necessary for her to go to America. She could not tell what would be necessary, and she might have to leave Europe with nothing but Paris to remember. There was no good objection to travel on the Continent, for, if the _Miranda_ should arrive while she was not in Paris, she would not be so far away that a telegram could not quickly bring her back. So she listened to Mrs. Cliff and her own desires, and the party journeyed to Italy, by the way of Geneva and Bern.
Ralph was delighted with the change, for Professor Barre, his tutor, had consented to go with them, and, during these happy days in Italy, he was the preceptor of the whole party. They went to but few places that he had not visited before, and they saw but little that he could not talk about to their advantage. But, no matter what they did, every day Edna expected a message, and every day, except Sunday, she went to the banker’s to look over the maritime news in the newspapers, and she so arranged her affairs that she could start for France at an hour’s notice.
But although Edna had greatly enjoyed the Italian journey, it came to an end at last, and it was with feelings of satisfaction that she settled down again in Paris. Here she was in the centre of things, ready for news, ready for arrivals, ready to go anywhere or do anything that might be necessary, and, more than that, there was a delightful consciousness that she had seen something of Switzerland and Italy, and without having missed a telegram by being away.
The party did not return to the Hotel Boileau. Edna now had a much better idea of the Continental menage than she had brought with her from America, and she believed that she had not been living up to the standard that Captain Horn had desired. She wished in every way to conform to his requests, and one of these had been that she should consider the money he had sent her as income, and not as property. It was hard for her to fulfil this injunction, for her mind was as practical as that of Mrs. Cliff, and she could not help considering the future, and the probability of never receiving an addition to the funds she now had on deposit in London and Paris. But her loyalty to the man who had put her into possession of that money was superior to her feelings of prudence and thrift. When he came to Paris, he should find her living as he wanted her to live. It was not necessary to spend all she had, but, whether he came back poor or rich, he should see that she had believed in him and in his success.
The feeling of possible disaster had almost left her. The fears that had come to her had caused her to reason upon the matter, and the more she reasoned, the better she convinced herself that a long period of waiting without news was to be expected in the case of an adventure such as that in which Captain Horn was engaged. There was, perhaps, another reason for her present state of mind–a reason which she did not recognize: she had become accustomed to waiting.
It was at a grand hotel that the party now established themselves, the space, the plate-glass, the gilt, and the general splendor of which made Ralph exclaim in wonder and admiration.
“You would better look out, Edna,” said he, “or it will not be long before we find ourselves living over in the Latin Quarter, and taking our meals at a restaurant where you pay a sou for the use of the napkins.”
Edna’s disposition demanded that her mode of life should not be ostentatious, but she conformed in many ways to the style of her hotel. There were returns of hospitality. There was a liveried coachman when they drove. There was a general freshening of wardrobes, and even Cheditafa and Mok had new clothes, designed by an artist to suit their positions.
If Captain Horn should come to Paris, he should not find that she had doubted his success, or him.
After the return from Italy, Mrs. Cliff began to chafe and worry under her restrictions. She had obtained from Europe all she wanted at present, and there was so much, in Plainton she was missing. Oh, if she could only go there and avow her financial condition! She lay awake at night, thinking of the opportunities that were slipping from her. From the letters that Willy Croup wrote her, she knew that people were coming to the front in Plainton who ought to be on the back seats, and that she, who could occupy, if she chose, the best place, was thought of only as a poor widow who was companion to a lady who was travelling. It made her grind her teeth to think of the way that Miss Shott was talking of her, and it was not long before she made up her mind that she ought to speak to Edna on the subject, and she did so.
“Go home!” exclaimed the latter. “Why, Mrs. Cliff, that would be impossible just now. You could not go to Plainton without letting people know where you got your money.”
“Of course I couldn’t,” said Mrs. Cliff, “and I wouldn’t. There have been times when I have yearned so much for my home that I thought it might be possible for me to go there and say that the Valparaiso affair had turned out splendidly, and that was how I got my money. But I couldn’t do it. I could not stand up before my minister and offer to refurnish the parsonage parlor, with such a lie as that on my lips. But there is no use in keeping back the real truth any longer. It is more than eight months since Captain Horn started out for that treasure, and it is perfectly reasonable to suppose either that he has got it; or that he never will get it, and in either one of these cases it will not do any injury to anybody if we let people know about the money we have, and where it came from.”
“But it may do very great injury,” said Edna. “Captain Horn may have been able to take away only a part of it, and may now be engaged in getting the rest. There are many things which may have happened, and if we should now speak of that treasure, it might ruin all his plans.”
“If he has half of it,” said Mrs. Cliff, “he ought to be satisfied with that, and not keep us here on pins and needles until he gets the rest. Of course, I do not want to say anything that would pain you, Edna, and I won’t do it, but people can’t help thinking, and I think that we have waited as long as our consciences have any right to ask us to wait.”
“I know what you mean,” replied Edna, “but it does not give me pain. I do not believe that Captain Horn has perished, and I certainly expect soon to hear from him.”
“You have been expecting that a long time,” said the other.
“Yes, and I shall expect it for a good while yet. I have made up my mind that I shall not give up my belief that Captain Horn is alive, and will come or write to us, until we have positive news of his death, or until one year has passed since he left Acapulco. Considering what he has done for us, Mrs. Cliff, I think it very little for us to wait one year before we betray the trust he has placed in us, and, merely for the sake of carrying out our own plans a little sooner, utterly ruin the plans he has made, and which he intends as much for our benefit as for his own.”
Mrs. Cliff said no more, but she thought that was all very well for Edna, who was enjoying herself in a way that suited her, but it was very different for her.
In her heart of hearts, Mrs. Cliff now believed they would never see Captain Horn again. “For if he were alive,” she said to herself, “he would certainly have contrived in some way or other to send some sort of a message. With the whole world covered with post routes and telegraph-wires, it would be simply impossible for Captain Horn and those two sailors to keep absolutely silent and unheard of for such a long time–unless,” she continued, hesitating even in her thoughts, “they don’t want to be heard from.” But the good lady would not allow her mind to dwell on that proposition; it was too dreadful!
And so Edna waited and waited, hoping day by day for good news from Captain Horn; and so Mrs. Cliff waited and waited, hoping for news from Captain Horn–good news, if possible, but in any case something certain and definite, something that would make them know what sort of life they were to lead in this world, and make them free to go and live it.
CHAPTER XXXII
A MARINER’S WITS TAKE A LITTLE FLIGHT
When Captain Horn, in the brig _Miranda_, with the American sailors Burke and Shirley, and the four negroes, left Acapulco on the 16th of September, he might have been said to have sailed “in ballast,” as the only cargo he carried was a large number of coffee-bags. He had cleared for Rio Janeiro, at which port he intended to touch and take on board a small cargo of coffee, deeming it better to arrive in France with something more than the auriferous mineral matter with which he hoped to replace a large portion of discarded ballast. The unusual cargo of empty coffee-bags was looked upon by the customs officials as a bit of Yankee thrift, it being likely enough that the captain could obtain coffee-bags in Mexico much cheaper than in Rio Janeiro.
The voyage to the Peruvian coast was a slow one, the _Miranda_ proving to be anything but a clipper, and the winds were seldom in her favor. But at last she rounded Aguja Point, and the captain shaped his course toward the coast and the Rackbirds’ cove, the exact position of which was now dotted on his chart.
A little after noon on a quiet October day, they drew near enough to land to recognize the coast-line and the various landmarks of the locality. The negroes were filled with surprise, and afterwards with fright, for they had had no idea that they were going near the scene of their former horrible captivity. From time to time, they had debated among themselves the intentions of Captain Horn in regard to them, and now the idea seized them that perhaps he was going to leave them where he had found them. But, through Maka, who at first was as much frightened as the rest, the captain succeeded in assuring them that he was merely going to stop as near as possible to the cave where he had stayed so long, to get some of his property which it had been impossible to take away when the rest of the party left. Maka had great confidence in the captain’s word, and he was able to infuse a good deal of this into the minds of the three other negroes.
Captain Horn had been in considerable doubt in regard to the best method of shipping the treasure; should he be so fortunate as to find it as he had left it. The cove was a quiet harbor in which the small boats could easily ply between the vessel and the shore, but, in this case, the gold must be carried by tedious journeys along the beach. On the other hand, if the brig lay too near the entrance to the caves, the treasure-laden boats must be launched through the surf, and, in case of high seas, this operation might be hazardous; consequently, he determined to anchor in the Rackbirds’ cove and submit to the delay and inconvenience of the land transportation of the gold.
When the captain and Shirley went ashore in a boat, nothing was seen to indicate that any one had visited the spot since the last cargo of guano had been shipped. This was a relief, but when the captain had wandered through the place, and even examined the storehouse of the Rackbirds, he found, to his regret, that it was too late for him to visit the caves that day. This was the occasion of a night of wakefulness and unreasonable anxiety–unreasonable, as the captain assured himself over and over again, but still impossible to dissipate. No man who has spent weeks in pursuit of a royal treasure, in a vessel that at times seemed hardly to creep, could fail to be anxious and excited when he is compelled to pause within a few miles of that treasure.
But early in the morning the captain started for the caves. He took with him Shirley and Maka, leaving the brig in charge of Burke. The captain placed great confidence in Shirley, who was a quiet, steady man. In fact, he trusted every one on the ship, for there was nothing else to do. If any of them should prove false to him, he hoped to be able to defend himself against them, and it would be more than foolish to trouble his mind with apprehensions until there should be some reason for them. But there was a danger to be considered, quite different from the criminal cupidity which might be provoked by companionship with the heap of gold, and this was the spirit of angry disappointment which might be looked for should no heap of gold be found. At the moment of such possible disappointment, the captain wanted to have with him a man not given to suspicions and resentments.
In fact, the captain thought, as the little party strode along the beach, that if he should find the mound empty,–and he could not drive from his mind that once he had found it uncovered,–he wished to have with him some one who would back him up a little in case he should lower his lantern into a goldless void.
As they walked up the plateau in the path worn principally by his own feet, and the captain beheld the great stone face against the wall of rock, his mind became quieter. He slackened his pace, and even began to concoct some suitable remarks to make to Shirley in case of evil fortune.
Shirley looked about him with great interest. He had left the place before the great stone face had been revealed by the burning of the vines, and he would have been glad to stop for a minute and examine it. But although Captain Horn had convinced himself that he was in no hurry, he could not allow delay. Lighting a lantern, they went through the passageway and entered the great cave of the lake, leaving Maka rummaging around with eager delight through the rocky apartments where he had once been a member of a domestic household.
When they reached the mound, the captain handed his lantern to Shirley, telling him to hold it high, and quickly clambered to the top.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “The lid is just as I left it. Come up!”
In a moment Shirley was at his side, and the captain with his pocket-knife began to pick out the oakum which he had packed around the edges of the lid, for otherwise it would have been impossible for him to move it. Then he stood up and raised the lid, putting it to one side.
“Give me the lantern!” he shouted, and, stooping, lie lowered it and looked in. The gold in the mound was exactly as he had left it.
“Hurrah!” he cried. “Now you take a look!” And he handed the lantern to his companion.
Shirley crawled a little nearer the opening and looked into it, then lowered the lantern and put his head down so that it almost disappeared. He remained in this position for nearly a minute, and the captain gazed at him with a beaming face. His whole system, relieved from the straining bonds of doubt and fear and hope, was basking in a flood of ecstatic content.
Suddenly Shirley began to swear. He was not a profane man, and seldom swore, but now the oaths rolled from him in a manner that startled the captain.
“Get up,” said he. “Haven’t you seen enough?”
Shirley raised his head, but still kept his eyes on the treasure beneath him, and swore worse than before. The captain was shocked.
“What is the matter with you?” said he. “Give me the lantern. I don’t see anything to swear at.”
Shirley did not hand him the lantern, but the captain took it from him, and then he saw that the man was very pale.
“Look out!” he cried. “You’ll slip down and break your bones.”
In fact, Shirley’s strength seemed to have forsaken him, and he was on the point of either slipping down the side of the mound or tumbling into the open cavity. The captain put down the lantern and moved quickly to his side, and, with some difficulty, managed to get him safely to the ground. He seated him with his back against the mound, and then, while he was unscrewing the top of a whiskey flask, Shirley began to swear again in a most violent and rapid way.
“He has gone mad,” thought the captain. “The sight of all that gold has crazed him.”
“Stop that,” he said to the other, “and take a drink.”
Shirley broke off a string of oaths in the middle, and took a pull at the flask. This was of service to him, for he sat quiet for a minute or two, during which time the captain brought down the lantern. Looking up at him, Shirley said in a weak voice:
“Captain, is what I saw all so?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “it’s all so.”
“Then,” said the other, “help me out of this. I want to get out into common air.”
The captain raised Shirley to his feet, and, with the lantern in one hand, he assisted him to walk. But it was not easy. The man appeared to take no interest in his movements, and staggered and leaned upon the captain as if he were drunk.
As soon as they came out of the utter darkness and had reached the lighter part of the cave, the captain let Shirley sit down, and went for Maka.
“The first mate has been taken sick,” said he to the negro, “and you must come help me get him out into the open air.”
When the negro saw Shirley in a state of semi-collapse, he began to tremble from head to foot, but he obeyed orders, and, with a great deal of trouble, the two got the sailor outside of the caves and gave him another drink of whiskey.
Maka had his own ideas about this affair. There was no use telling him Mr. Shirley was sick–at least, that he was afflicted by any common ailment. He and his fellows knew very well that there were devils back in the blackness of that cave, and if the captain did not mind them, it was because they were taking care of the property, whatever it was, that he kept back here, and for which he had now returned. With what that property was, and how it happened to be there, the mind of the negro did not concern itself. Of course, it must be valuable, or the captain would not have come to get it, but that was his business. He had taken the first mate into that darkness, and the sight of the devils had nearly killed him, and now the negro’s mind was filled with but one idea, and that was that the captain might take him in there and make him see devils.
After a time Shirley felt very much better, and able to walk.
“Now, captain,” said he, “I am all right, but I tell you what we must do: I’ll go to the ship, and I’ll take charge of her, and I’ll do whatever has got to be done on shore. Yes, and, what’s more, I’ll help do the carrying part of the business,–it would be mean to sneak out of that,–and I’ll shoulder any sort of a load that’s put out on the sand in the daylight. But, captain, I don’t want to do anything to make me look into that hole. I can’t stand it, and that is the long and short of it. I am sorry that Maka saw me in such a plight–it’s bad for discipline; but it can’t be helped.”
“Never mind,” cried the captain, whose high spirits would have overlooked almost anything at that moment. “Come, let us go back and have our breakfast. That will set you up, and I won’t ask you to go into the caves again, if you don’t want to.”
“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Shirley, setting off. “I’d rather get my mind down to marlin-spikes and bilge-water.”
As the captain walked back to the cove, he said to himself:
“I expect it struck Shirley harder than it did the rest of us because he knew what he was looking at, and the first time we saw it we were not sure it was gold, as it might have been brass. But Shirley knew, for he had already had a lot of those bars, and had turned them into money. By George! I don’t wonder that a poor fellow who had struggled for life with a small bag of that gold was knocked over when he saw a wagon-load of it.”
Maka, closely following the others, had listened with eagerness to what had been said, and had been struck with additional horror when he heard Shirley request that he might not again be asked to look into that hole. Suddenly the captain and Shirley were startled by a deep groan behind them, and, turning, saw the negro sitting upon the sand, his knees drawn up to his face, and groaning grievously.
“What’s the matter?” cried the captain.
“I sick,” said Maka. “Sick same as Mr. Shirley.”
“Get up and come along,” said the captain, laughing. He saw that something was really ailing the black fellow, for he trembled from head to foot, and his face had the hue of a black horse recently clipped. But he thought it best not to treat the matter seriously. “Come along,” said he. “I am not going to give you any whiskey.” And then, struck by a sudden thought, he asked, “Are you afraid that you have got to go into that cave?”
“Yes, sir,” said Maka, who had risen to his feet. “It make me pretty near die dead to think that.”
“Well, don’t die any more,” said the captain. “You sha’n’t go anywhere that you have not been before.”
The pupils of Maka’s eyes, which had been turned up nearly out of sight, were now lowered. “All right, cap’n,” said he. “I lot better now.”
This little incident was not unpleasant to the captain. If the negroes were afraid to go into the blackness of the caves, it would make fewer complications in this matter.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE “MIRANDA” TAKES IN CARGO
The next day the work of removing the treasure from the caves to the vessel began in good earnest. The Miranda was anchored not far from the little pier, which was found in good order, and Shirley, with one negro, was left on board, while the captain and Burke took the three others, loaded with coffee-bags, to the caves.
For the benefit of the minds of the black men, the captain had instructed Maka to assure them that they would not be obliged to go anywhere where it was really dark. But it was difficult to decide how to talk to Burke. This man was quite different from Shirley. He was smaller, but stout and strong, with a dark complexion, and rather given to talk. The captain liked him well enough, his principal objection to him being that he was rather too willing to give advice. But, whatever might be the effect of the treasure on Burke, the captain determined that he should not be surprised by it. He had tried that on Shirley, and did not want to try it again on anybody. So he conversed freely about the treasure and the mound, and, as far as possible, described its appearance and contents. But he need not have troubled himself about the effect of the sight of a wagon-load of gold upon Burke’s mind. He was glad to see it, and whistled cheerfully as he looked down into the mound.
“How far do you think it goes down?” said he to the captain.
“Don’t know,” was the reply. “We can’t tell anything about that until we get it out.”
“All right,” said Burke. “The quicker we do it, the better.”
The captain got into the mound with a lantern, for the gold was now too low for him to reach it from above, and having put as many bars into a coffee-bag as a man could carry, he passed it up to Burke, who slid it down to the floor, where another lantern had been left. When five bags had been made ready, the captain came out, and he and Burke put each bag into another, and these were tied up firmly at each end, for a single coffee-bag was not considered strong enough to hold the weighty treasure. Then the two carried the bags into the part of the cave which was lighted by the great fissure, and called the negroes. Then, each taking a bag on his shoulder, the party returned to the cove. On the next trip, Shirley decided to go with the captain, for he said he did not care for anything if he did not have to look down into the mound, for that was sure to make him dizzy. Maka’s place was taken by the negro who had been previously left in the vessel. Day by day the work went on, but whoever might be relieved, and whatever arrangements might be made, the captain always got into the mound and handed out the gold. Whatever discovery should be made when the bottom of the deposit was reached, he wanted to be there to make it.
The operations were conducted openly, and without any attempt at secrecy or concealment. The lid of the mound was not replaced when they left it, and the bags of gold were laid on the pier until it was convenient to take them to the vessel. When they were put on board, they were lowered into the hold, and took the place of a proportionate amount of ballast, which was thrown out.
All the negroes now spoke and understood a little English. They might think that those bags were filled with gold, or they might think that they contained a mineral substance, useful for fertilizer; but if by questioning or by accidental information they found out what was the load under which they toiled along the beach, the captain was content. There was no reason why he should fear these men more than he feared Burke and Shirley. All of them were necessary to him, and he must trust them. Several times when he was crouched down in the interior of the mound, filling a bag with gold, he thought how easy it would be for one of the sailors to shoot him from above, and for them, or perhaps only one of them, to become the owner of all that treasure. But then, he could be shot in one place almost as well as in another, and if the negroes should be seized with the gold fever, and try to cut white throats at midnight, they would be more likely to attempt it after the treasure had been secured and the ship had sailed than now. In any case, nothing could be gained by making them feel that they were suspected and distrusted. Therefore it was that when, one day, Maka said to the captain that the little stones in the bags had begun to make his shoulder tender, the captain showed him how to fold an empty sack and put it between the bags and his back, and then also told him that what he carried was not stones, but lumps of gold.
“All yourn, cap’n!” asked Maka.
“Yes, all mine,” was the reply.
That night Maka told his comrades that when the captain got to the end of this voyage, he would be able to buy a ship bigger than the _Castor_, and that they would not have to sail in that little brig any more, and that he expected to be cook on the new vessel, and have a fine suit of clothes in which to go on shore.
For nearly a month the work went on, but the contents of the mound diminished so slowly that the captain, and, in fact, the two sailors, also, became very impatient. Only about forty pounds could be carried by each man on a trip, and the captain saw plainly that it would not do to urge greater rapidity or more frequent trips, for in that case there would be sure to be breakdowns. The walk from the cove to the caves was a long one, and rocky barriers had to be climbed, and although now but one man was left on board the vessel, only thirty bags a day were stored in its hold. This was very slow work. Consultations were held, and it was determined that some quicker method of transportation must be adopted. The idea that they could be satisfied with what they already had seemed to enter the mind of none of them. It was a foregone conclusion that their business there was to carry away all the gold that was in the mound.
A new plan, though rather a dangerous one, was now put into operation. The brig was brought around opposite the plateau which led to the caves, and anchored just outside the line of surf, where bottom was found at a moderate depth. Then the bags were carried in the boats to the vessel. A line connected each boat with the ship, and the negroes were half the time in the water, assisting the boats backward and forward through the surf. Now work went on very much more rapidly. The men had all become accustomed to carrying the heavy bags, and could run with them down the plateau. The boats were hauled to and from the vessel, and the bags were hoisted on board by means of blocks and tackle and a big basket. Once the side of the basket gave way, and several bags went down to the bottom of the sea, never to be seen again. But there was no use in crying over spilt gold, and this was the only accident.
The winds were generally from the south and east, and, therefore, there was no high surf; and this new method of working was so satisfactory that they all regretted they had not adopted it from the first, notwithstanding the risk. But the captain had had no idea that it would take so long for five men to carry that treasure a distance of two miles, taking forty pounds at a time.
At night everybody went on board the brig, and she lay to some distance from the shore, so as to be able to run out to sea in case of bad weather, but no such weather came.
It was two months since the brig had dropped anchor in the Rackbirds’ cove when the contents of the mound got so low that the captain could not hand up the bags without the assistance of a ladder, which he made from some stuff on board the brig. By rough measurement, he found that he should now be near the level of the outside floor of the cave, and he worked with great caution, for the idea, first broached by Ralph, that this mass of gold might cover something more valuable than itself, had never left him.
But as he worked steadily, filling bag after bag, he found that, although he had reached at the outer edge of the floor of the mound what seemed to be a pavement of stone, there was still a considerable depth of gold in the centre of the floor. Now he worked faster, telling Shirley, who was outside, that he would not come out until he had reached the floor of the mound, which was evidently depressed in the centre after the fashion of a saucer. Working with feverish haste, the captain handed up bag after bag, until every little bar of gold had been removed from the mound.
The bottom of the floor was covered with a fine dust, which had sifted down in the course of ages from the inside coating of the mound, but it was not deep enough to conceal a bar of gold, and, with his lantern and his foot, the captain made himself sure that not a piece was left. Then his whole soul and body thrilled with a wild purpose, and, moving the ladder from the centre of the floor, he stooped to brush away the dust. If there should be a movable stone there! If this stone should cover a smaller cavity beneath the great one, what might he not discover within it? His mind whirled before the ideas which now cast themselves at him, when suddenly he stood up and set his teeth hard together.
“I will not,” he said. “I will not look for a stone with a crack around it. We have enough already. Why should we run the risk of going crazy by trying to get more? I will not!” And he replaced the ladder.
“What’s the matter in there?” called Shirley, from outside. “Who’re you talking to?”
The captain came out of the opening in the mound, pulled up the ladder and handed it to Shirley, and then he was about to replace the lid upon the mound. But what was the use of doing that, he thought. There would be no sense in closing it. He would leave it open.
“I was talking to myself,” he said to Shirley, when he had descended. “It sounded crack-brained, I expect.”
“Yes, it did,” answered the other. “And I am glad these are the last bags we have to tie up and take out. I should not have wondered if the whole three of us had turned into lunatics. As for me, I have tried hard to stop thinking about the business, and I have found that the best thing I could do was to try and consider the stuff in these bags as coal–good, clean, anthracite coal. Whenever I carried a bag, I said to myself, ‘Hurry up, now, with this bag of coal.’ A ship-load of coal, you know, is not worth enough to turn a man’s head.”
“That was not a bad idea,” said the captain. “But now the work is done, and we will soon get used to thinking of it without being excited about it. There is absolutely no reason why we should not be as happy and contented as if we had each made a couple of thousand dollars apiece on a good voyage.”
“That’s so,” said Shirley, “and I’m going to try to think it.”
When the last bag had been put on board, Burke and the captain were walking about the caves looking here and there to take a final leave of the place. Whatever the captain considered of value as a memento of the life they had led here had been put on board.
“Captain,” said Burke, “did you take all the gold out of that mound?”
“Every bit of it,” was the reply.
“You didn’t leave a single lump for manners?”
“No,” said the captain. “I thought it better that whoever discovered that empty mound after us should not know what had been in it. You see, we will have to circulate these bars of gold pretty extensively, and we don’t want anybody to trace them back to the place where they came from. When the time comes, we will make everything plain and clear, but we will want to do it ourselves, and in our own way.”
“There is sense in that,” said Burke. “There’s another thing I want to ask you, captain. I’ve been thinking a great deal about that mound, and it strikes me that there might be a sub-cellar under it, a little one, most likely, with something else in it–rings and jewels, and nobody knows what not. Did you see if there was any sign of a trap-door?”
“No,” said the captain, “I did not. I wanted to do it,–you do not know how much,–but I made up my mind it would be the worst kind of folly to try and get anything else out of that mound. We have now all that is good for us to have. The only question is whether or not we have not more than is good for us. I was not sure that I should not find something, if I looked for it, which would make me as sick as Shirley was the first time he looked into the mound. No, sir; we have enough, and it is the part of sensible men to stop when they have enough.”
Burke shook his head. “If I’d been there,” he said, “I should have looked for a crack in that floor.”
When the brig weighed anchor, she did not set out for the open sea, but proceeded back to the Rackbirds’ cove, where she anchored again. Before setting out, the next day, on his voyage to France, the captain wished to take on board a supply of fresh water.
CHAPTER XXXIV
BURKE AND HIS CHISEL
That night George Burke went off his watch at twelve o’clock, and a few minutes after he had been relieved, he did something he had never done before–he deserted his ship. With his shoes and a little bundle of clothes on his head, he very quietly slipped down a line he had fastened astern. It was a very dark night, and he reached the water unseen, and as quietly as if he had been an otter going fishing. First swimming, and then wading, he reached the shore. As soon as he was on land, he dressed, and then went for a lantern, a hammer, and a cold-chisel, which he had left at a convenient spot.
Without lighting the lantern, he proceeded as rapidly as possible to the caves. His path was almost invisible, but having travelled that way so often, he knew it as well as he knew his alphabet. Not until he was inside the entrance to the caves did he light his lantern. Then he proceeded, without loss of time, to the stone mound. He knew that the ladder had been left there, and, with a little trouble, he found it, where Shirley had put it, behind some rocks on the floor of the cave. By the aid of this he quickly descended into the mound, and then, moving the foot of the ladder out of the way, he vigorously began to brush away the dust from the stone pavement. When this was done, he held up the lantern and carefully examined the central portion of the floor, and very soon he discovered what he had come to look for. A space about three feet square was marked off on the pavement of the mound by a very perceptible crevice. The other stones of the pavement were placed rather irregularly, but some of them had been cut to allow this single square stone to be set in the centre.
“That’s a trap-door,” said Burke. “There can’t be any doubt about that.” And immediately he set to work to get it open.
There was no ring, nor anything by which he could lift it; but if he could get his heavy chisel under it, he was sure he could raise it until he could get hold of it with his hands. So he began to drive his chisel vigorously down into the cracks at various places. This was not difficult to do, and, trying one side after another, he got the chisel down so far that he could use it as a lever. But with all his strength he could not raise the stone.
At last, while working at one corner, he broke out a large piece of the pavement, eight or nine inches long, and found that it had covered a metal bar about an inch in diameter. With his lantern he carefully examined this rod, and found that it was not iron, but appeared to be made of some sort of bronze.
“Now, what is this?” said Burke to himself. “It’s either a hinge or a bolt. It doesn’t look like a hinge, for it wouldn’t be any use for it to run so far into the rest of the pavement, and if it is a bolt, I don’t see how they got at it to move it. I’ll see where it goes to.” And he began to cut away more of the pavement toward the wall of the dome. The pieces of stone came up without much trouble, and as far as he cut he found the metal rod.
“By George!” said he, “I believe it goes outside of the mound! They worked it from outside!”
Putting the ladder in place, he ran up with his lantern and tools, and descended to the outside floor. Then he examined the floor of the cave where the rod must run if it came outside the mound. He found a line of flat stones, each about a foot square, extending from the mound toward the western side of the cave.
“Oh, ho!” he cried, and on his knees he went to work, soon forcing up one of these stones, and under it was the metal rod, lying in a groove considerably larger than itself. Burke now followed the line of stones to the western side of the cave, where the roof was so low he could scarcely stand up under it. To make sure, he took up another stone, and still found the rod.
“I see what this means,” said he. “That bolt is worked from clean outside, and I’ve got to find the handle of it. If I can’t do that, I’ll go back and cut through that bolt, if my chisel will do it.”
He now went back to a point on the line of stones about midway between the side of the cave and the mound, and then, walking forward as nearly as possible in a straight line, which would be at right angles with the metal rod, he proceeded until he had reached the entrance to the passageway which led to the outer caves, carefully counting his steps as he went. Then he turned squarely about, entered the passage, and walked along it until he came to the door of the room which had once been occupied by Captain Horn.
“I’ll try it inside first,” said Burke to himself, “and then I’ll go outside.”
He walked through the rooms, turning to the right about ten feet when he came to the middle apartment,–for the door here was not opposite to the others,–but coming back again to his line of march as soon as he was on the other side. He proceeded until he reached the large cave, open at the top, which was the last of these compartments. This was an extensive cavern, the back part being, however, so much impeded by rocks that had fallen from the roof that it was difficult for him to make any progress, and the numbering of his steps depended very much upon calculation. But when he reached the farthest wall, Burke believed that he had gone about as great a distance as he had stepped off in the cave of the lake.
“But how in the mischief,” thought he, “am I to find anything here?” He held up his lantern and looked about. “I can’t move these rocks to see what is under them.”
As he gazed around, he noticed that the southeast corner seemed to be more regular than the rest of the wall of the cave. In fact, it was almost a right-angled corner, and seemed to have been roughly cut into that shape. Instantly Burke was in the corner. He found the eastern wall quite smooth for a space about a foot wide and extending about two yards from the floor. In this he perceived lines of crevice marking out a rectangular space some six inches wide and four feet in height.
“Ha, ha!” cried Burke. “The handle is on the other side of that slab, I’ll bet my head!” And putting down the lantern, he went to work.
With his hammer and chisel he had forced the top of the slab in less than two minutes, and soon he pulled it outward and let it drop on the floor. Inside the narrow, perpendicular cavity which was now before him, he saw an upright metal bar.
“The handle of the bolt!” cried Burke. “Now I can unfasten the trap-door.” And taking hold of the top of the bar, he pulled back with all his force. At first he could not move it, but suddenly the resistance ceased, and he pulled the bar forward until it stood at an angle of forty-five degrees from the wall. Further than this Burke could not move it, although he tugged and bore down on it with all his weight.
“All right,” said he, at last. “I guess that’s as far as she’ll come. Anyway, I’m off to see if I’ve drawn that bolt. If I have, I’ll have that trap-door open, if I have to break my back lifting it.”
With his best speed Burke ran through the caves to the mound, and, mounting by means of the stone projections, he was about to descend by the ladder, when, to his utter amazement, he saw no ladder. He had left it projecting at least two feet through the opening in the top of the mound, and now he could see nothing of it.
What could this mean? Going up a little higher, he held up his lantern and looked within, but saw no signs of the ladder.
“By George!” he cried, “has anybody followed me and pulled out that ladder?”
Lowering the lantern farther into the mound, he peered in. Below, and immediately under him, was a black hole, about three feet square. Burke was so startled that he almost dropped the lantern. But he was a man of tough nerve, and maintained his clutch upon it. But he drew back. It required some seconds to catch his breath. Presently he looked down again.
“I see,” said he. “That trap-door was made to fall down, and not to lift up, and when I pulled the bolt, down it went, and the ladder, being on top of it, slipped into that hole. Heavens!” he said, as a cold sweat burst out over him at the thought, “suppose I had made up my mind to cut that bolt! Where would I have gone to?”
It was not easy to frighten Burke, but now he trembled, and his back was chilled. But he soon recovered sufficiently to do something, and going down to the floor of the cave, he picked up a piece of loose stone, and returning to the top of the mound, he looked carefully over the edge of the opening, and let the stone drop into the black hole beneath. With all the powers of his brain he listened, and it seemed to him like half a minute before he heard a faint sound, far, far below. At this moment he was worse frightened than he had ever been in his life. He clambered down to the foot of the mound, and sat down on the floor.
“What in the name of all the devils does it mean?” said he; and he set himself to work to think about it, and found this a great deal harder labor than cutting stone.
“There was only one thing,” he said to himself, at last, “that they could have had that for. The captain says that those ancient fellows put their gold there keep it from the Spaniards, and they must have rigged up this devilish contrivance to work if they found the Spaniards had got on the track of their treasure. Even if the Spaniards had let off the water and gone to work to get the gold out, one of the Incas’ men in the corner of that other cave, which most likely was all shut up and not discoverable, would have got hold of that bar, given it a good pull, and let down all the gold, and what Spaniards might happen to be inside, to the very bottom of that black hole. By George! it would have been a pretty trick! The bottom of that mound is just like a funnel, and every stick of gold would have gone down. But, what is more likely, they would have let it out before the Spaniards had a chance to open the top, and then, if the ancients had happened to lick the Spaniards, they could have got all that gold up again. It might have taken ten or twenty years, but then, the ancients had all the time they wanted.”
After these reflections, Burke sat for a few moments, staring at the lantern. “But, by George!” said he again, speaking aloud, though in low tones, “it makes my blood run cold to think of the captain working day after day, as hard as he could, right over that horrible trap-door. Suppose he had moved the bolt in some way! Suppose somebody outside had found that slab in the wall and had fooled with the bar! Then, there is another thing. Suppose, while they were living here, he or the boy had found that bar before he found the dome, and had pulled out the concern to see what it was! Bless me! in that case we should all be as poor as rats! Bat I must not stop here, or the next watch will be called before I get back. But one thing I’ll do before I go. I’ll put back that lid. Somebody might find the dome in the dark, and tumble into it. Why, if a wandering rat should make a slip, and go down into that black hole, it would be enough to make a fellow’s blood run cold if he knew of it.”
Without much trouble Burke replaced the lid, and then, without further delay, he left the caves. As he hurried along the beach, he debated within himself whether or not he should tell Captain Horn what he had discovered.
“It will be mighty hard on his nerves,” said he, “if he comes to know how he squatted and worked for days and weeks over that diabolical trap that opens downward. He’s a strong man, but he’s got enough on his nerves as it is. No, I won’t tell him. He is going to do the handsome thing by us, and it would be mean for me to do the unhandsome thing by him. By George! I don’t believe he could sleep for two or three nights if he knew what I know! No, sir! You just keep your mouth shut until we are safe and sound in some civilized spot, with the whole business settled, and Shirley and me discharged. Then I will tell the captain about it, so that nobody need ever trouble his mind about coming back to look for gold rings and royal mummies. If I don’t get back before my watch is called, I’ll brazen it out somehow. We’ve got to twist discipline a little when we are all hard at work at a job like this.”
He left his shoes on the sand of the cove, and swam to the ship without taking time to undress. He slipped over the taffrail, and had scarcely time to get below and change his clothes before his watch was called.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE CAPTAIN WRITES A LETTER
On the afternoon of the next day, the Miranda, having taken in water, set sail, and began her long voyage to Rio Janeiro, and thence to France.
Now that his labors were over, and the treasure of the Incas safely stored in the hold of the brig, where it was ignominiously acting as ballast, Captain Horn seated himself comfortably in the shade of a sail and lighted his pipe. He was tired of working, tired of thinking, tired of planning–tired in mind, body, and even soul; and the thought that his work was done, and that he was actually sailing away with his great prize, came to him like a breeze from the sea after a burning day. He was not as happy as he should have been. He knew that he was too tired to be as happy as his circumstances demanded, but after a while he would attend better to that business. Now he was content to smoke his pipe, and wait, and listen to the distant music from all the different kinds of enjoyment which, in thought, were marching toward him. It was true he was only beginning his long voyage to the land where he hoped to turn his gold into available property. It was true that he might be murdered that night, or some other night, and that when the brig, with its golden cargo, reached port, he might not be in command of her. It was true that a hundred things might happen to prevent the advancing enjoyments from ever reaching him. But ill-omened chances threaten everything that man is doing, or ever can do, and he would not let the thought of them disturb him now.
Everybody on board the Miranda was glad to rest and be happy, according to his methods and his powers of anticipation. As to any present advantage from their success, there was none. The stones and sand they had thrown out had ballasted the brig quite as well as did the gold they now carried. This trite reflection forced itself upon the mind of Burke.
“Captain,” said he, “don’t you think it would be a good idea to touch somewhere and lay in a store of fancy groceries and saloon-cabin grog? If we can afford to be as jolly as we please, I don’t see why we shouldn’t begin now.”
But the captain shook his head. “It would be a dangerous thing,” he said, “to put into any port on the west coast of South America with our present cargo on board. We can’t make it look like ballast, as I expected we could, for all that bagging gives it a big bulk, and if the custom-house officers came on board, it would not do any good to tell them we are sailing in ballast, if they happened to want to look below.”
“Well, that may be so,” said Burke. “But what I’d like would be to meet a first-class, double-quick steamer, and buy her, put our treasure on board, and then clap on all steam for France.”
“All right,” said the captain, “but we’ll talk about that when we meet a steamer for sale.”
After a week had passed, and he had begun to feel the advantages of rest and relief from anxiety, Captain Horn regretted nothing so much as that the _Miranda_ was not a steamer, ploughing her swift way over the seas. It must be a long, long time before he could reach those whom he supposed and hoped were waiting for him in France. It had already been a long, long time since they had heard from him. He did not fear that they would suffer because he did not come. He had left them money enough to prevent anything of that sort. He did not know whether or not they were longing to hear from him, but he did know that he wanted them to hear from him. He must yet sail about three thousand miles in the Pacific Ocean, and then about two thousand more in the Atlantic, before he reached Rio Janeiro, the port for which he had cleared. From there it would be nearly five thousand miles to France, and he did not dare to calculate how long it would take the brig to reach her final destination.
This course of thought determined him to send a letter, which would reach Paris long before he could arrive there. If they should know that he was on his way home, all might be well, or, at least, better than if they knew nothing about him. It might be a hazardous thing to touch at a port on this coast, but he believed that, if he managed matters properly, he might get a letter ashore without making it necessary for any meddlesome custom-house officers to come aboard and ask questions. Accordingly, he decided to stop at Valparaiso. He thought it likely that if he did not meet a vessel going into port which would lay to and take his letter, he might find some merchantman, anchored in the roadstead, to which he could send a boat, and on which he was sure to find some one who would willingly post his letter.
He wrote a long letter to Edna–a straightforward, business-like missive, as his letters had always been, in which, in language which she could understand, but would carry no intelligible idea to any unauthorized person who might open the letter, he gave her an account of what he had done, and which was calculated to relieve all apprehensions, should it be yet a long time before he reached her. He promised to write again whenever there was an opportunity of sending her a letter, and wrote in such a friendly and encouraging manner that he felt sure there would be no reason for any disappointment or anxiety regarding him and the treasure.
Burke and Shirley were a little surprised when they found that the captain had determined to stop at Valparaiso, a plan so decidedly opposed to what he had before said on the subject. But when they found it was for the purpose of sending a letter to his wife, and that he intended, if possible, barely to touch and go, they said nothing more, nor did Burke make any further allusions to improvement in their store of provisions.
When, at last, the captain found himself off Valparaiso, it was on a dark, cloudy evening and nothing could be done until the next morning, and they dropped anchor to wait until dawn.
As soon as it was light, the captain saw that a British steamer was anchored about a mile from the _Miranda_, and he immediately sent a boat, with Shirley and two of the negroes, to ask the officer on duty to post his letter when he sent on shore. In a little more than an hour Shirley returned, with the report that the first mate of the steamer knew Captain Horn and would gladly take charge of his letter.
The boat was quickly hauled to the davits, and all hands were called to weigh anchor and set sail. But all hands did not respond to the call. One of the negroes, a big, good-natured fellow, who, on account of his unpronounceable African name, had been dubbed “Inkspot,” was not to be found. This was a very depressing thing, under the circumstances, and it, almost counterbalanced the pleasure the captain felt in having started a letter on its way to his party in France.
It seemed strange that Inkspot should have deserted the vessel, for it was a long way to the shore, and, besides, what possible reason could he have for leaving his fellow-Africans and taking up his lot among absolute strangers? The crew had all worked together so earnestly and faithfully that the captain had come to believe in them and trust them to an extent to which he had never before trusted seamen.
The officers held a consultation as to what was to be done, and they very quickly arrived at a decision. To remain at anchor, to send a boat on shore to look for the missing negro, would be dangerous and useless.