The Watchers Part 22

So Helen Mayle's instinct was right. Out of the five men there was one who waited for Cullen's coming with another object than to secure the diamond cross. Would he continue to wait? I could not doubt that he would, when I thought upon his last vehement burst of pa.s.sion. Tortue would wait upon Tresco, until, if Cullen did not come himself, some word of Cullen's whereabouts dropped upon his ear. It was still urgent, therefore, that Cullen Mayle should be warned, and if I was to go away in search of him, Helen must be warned too.

I walked back again towards Merchant's Point with this ill news heavy upon my mind, and as I came over the lip of the hollow, I saw Helen waiting by the gate in the palisade. She saw me at the same moment, and came up towards me at a run.

"Is there more ill-news?" I asked myself. "Or has Cullen Mayle returned?" and I ran quickly down to her.

"Has he come?" I asked, for she came to a stop in front of me with her face white and scared.

"Who?" said she absently, as she looked me over.

"Cullen Mayle," I answered.

"Oh, Cullen," she said, and it struck me as curious that this was the first time I had heard her speak his name with indifference.

"Because he must not show himself here. There is a reason! There is a danger still!"

"A danger," she said, in a loud cry, and then "Oh! I shall never forgive myself!"

"For what?"

She caught hold of my arm.

"See?" she said. "Your coat-sleeve is frayed. It was a rope did that last night. No use to deny it. d.i.c.k told me. He saw that a rope too had seared your wrists. Tell me! What happened last night? I must know!"

"You promised not to ask," said I, moving away from her.

"Well, I break my promise," said she. "But I must know," and she turned and kept pace with me, down the hill, through the house into the garden. During that time she pleaded for an answer in an extreme agitation, and I confess that her agitation was a sweet flattery to me. I was inclined to make the most of it, for I could not tell how she would regard the story of my night's adventures. It was I after all who caused old Adam Mayle's bones to be disturbed; and I understood that it was really on that account that I had shrunk from telling her. She had a right to know, no doubt. Besides there was this new predicament of Tortue's stay. I determined to make a clean breast of the matter. She listened very quietly without an exclamation or a shudder; only her face lost even the little colour which it had, and a look of horror widened in her eyes. I told her of my capture on the hillside, of Tortue's intervention, of the Cross and the stick in the coffin. I drew a breath and described that scene in the Abbey grounds, and how I escaped; and still she said no word and gave no sign. I told her of their futile search upon St. Helen's, and how I had witnessed their departure from the top of the Castle Down. Still she walked by my side silent, and wrapped in horror. I faltered through this last incident of Tortue's stay and came to a lame finish, amongst the trees at the end of the garden. We turned and walked the length of the garden to the house.

"I know," I said. "When I guessed the stick held the plan, I should have held my tongue. But I did not think of that. It was not easy to think at all just at that time, and I must needs be quick. They spoke of attacking the house, and I dreaded that.... I should not have been able to give you any warning.... I should not have been able to give you any help ... for, you see, the slab of stone was already removed in the shed."

"Oh, don't!" she cried out, and pressed her hands to her temples. "I shall never forgive myself. Think! A week ago you and I were strangers. It cannot be right that you should go in deadly peril because of me."

"Madam," said I, greatly relieved, "you make too much of a thing of no great consequence. I hope to wear my life lightly."

"Always?" said she quickly, as she stopped and looked at me.

I stopped, too, and looked at her.

"I think so," said I, but without the same confidence. "Always."

She had a disconcerting habit of laughing when there was no occasion whatever for laughter. She fell into that habit now, and I hastened to recall her to Tortue's embarra.s.sing presence on the island.

"Of course," said I, "a word to the Governor at Star Castle and we are rid of him. But he stood between me and my death, and he trusts to my silence."

"We must keep that silence," she answered.

"Yet he waits for Cullen Mayle, and--it will not be well if those two men meet."

"Why does he wait? Do you know that, too?"

I did not know, as I told her, though I had my opinion, of which I did not tell her.

"The great comfort is this. Tortue did not make one upon that expedition to the Sierra Leone River, but his son did. Tortue only fell in with George Glen and his gang at an ale-house in Wapping, and _after_--that is the point--after Glen had lost track of Cullen Mayle.

Tortue, therefore, has never seen Cullen, does not know him. We have an advantage there. So should he come to Tresco, while I go back along the road to search for him, you must make your profit of that advantage."

She stopped again.

"You will go, then?"

"Why, yes."

She shook her head, reflectively.

"It is not right," she said.

"I am going chiefly," said I, "because I wish to recover my horse."

She always laughed when I mentioned that horse, and her laughter always made me angry.

"Do you doubt I have a horse?" I asked. "Or rather _had_ a horse?

Because Cullen Mayle stole it, stole it deliberately from under my nose--a very valuable horse which I prized even beyond its value--and he stole it."

The girl was in no way impressed by my wrath, and she said, pleasantly:

"I am glad you said that. I am glad to know that with it all, you are mean like other men."

"Madam," I returned, "when Cullen Mayle stole my horse, and rode away upon it, he put out his tongue at me. I made no answer. Nor do I make any answer to the remark which you have this moment addressed to me."

"Oh, sir!" said she, "here are fine words, and here's a curtsey to match them;" and spreading out her frock with each hand, she sank elaborately to the very ground.

We walked for some while longer in the garden, without speech, and the girl's impertinence gradually slipped out of my mind. The sea murmured lazily upon the other side of the hedge, and I had full in view St.

Helen's Island and the ruined church upon its summit. The south aisle of the church pointed towards the house, and through the tracery of a rude window I could see the sky.

"I wonder who in the world can have visited the Abbey burial-ground and rifled that grave?"

The question perplexed me more and more, and I wondered whether Helen could throw light upon it. So I asked her, but she bent her brows in a frown, and in a little she answered:

"No, I can think of no one."

I held out my hand to her. "This is good-bye," said I.

"You go to-day?" she asked, but did not take my hand.

"Yes, if I can find a s.h.i.+p to take me. I go to St. Helen's first. Can I borrow your boat; d.i.c.k will bring it back. I want to see that east window in the aisle."

A few more words were said, and I promised to return, whether I found Cullen Mayle or not. And I did return, but sooner than I expected, for I returned that afternoon.