MRS. FROST'S RECOLLECTIONS OF A FRENCH EXILE
MRS. FROST'S RECOLLECTIONS OF A FRENCH EXILE
After the long day of fruitless search and enquiry for the vanished Nancy, supper being over and Tom having gone outside, Dan joined his mother in the blue parlour.
Mrs. Frost was weary with waiting and anxiety, but as Dan threw himself on a couch near her chair, she watched him patiently.
"There is no clue, Dan?" she ventured at last.
"No clue, mother, not the slightest. Nancy seems to have vanished as completely as if she had dissolved into air. As you know, the house has been thoroughly searched; the servants carefully questioned; and enquiries have been made at every conceivable place in Monday Port. I have been to the House on the Dunes, and to the farmhouses on every road round about. No one has seen or heard of her. She has taken French leave, but for what reason I can't imagine."
"Nancy has not been happy for some time, Dan," said Mrs. Frost.
"No, I have fancied that she was not. But why? Do you suppose she has left us deliberately? or—". He paused uncertain whether or not to give voice to his suspicions.
"Or what?" asked his mother.
"Or she has been forced away against her will."
"Against her will!" the old lady exclaimed. "Who could have forced her? and for what reason? Do you think she may have been kidnapped?"
"Either kidnapped or decoyed away."
"But who could have designs upon Nancy? It is more reasonable to suppose that she left of her own accord. I confess that would not altogether surprise me."
"I don't know, mother, but I have my fears and suspicions. There may be some one who has a deep interest in Nancy, who for reasons of his own, which I don't yet understand, may wish to control her movements. I wish you would tell me all you know of Nancy's origin. You have never told me;—you have never told her, I fancy,—who she really is and how you came to adopt her as your own child. I have never been curious to know, in fact I have not wanted to know, for she has always been to me precisely what a sister of my own blood would be. But now, it may help me to understand certain strange things that have happened in the last few days."
For a moment Mrs. Frost was silent. "No, I have never spoken to you or to Nancy of her early history, Dan; simply because, to all intent she has been our own. I have always wished that she should feel absolutely one with us; and I think she always has, until this winter. But of late I have noticed her discontent, her growing restlessness, and I have sometimes wondered if she could be brooding over the mystery of her early years. But she has never asked me a direct question; and I have kept silent."
"I think now, mother," Dan replied, "it is your duty to tell me all you know."
"I have no reason, my dear, to keep anything from you. I should have told you years ago, if you had asked me. There is not much to tell. You may remember when you were a boy about six or seven years old, a French exile came to the Inn, a military gentleman, who had left France in consequence of the fall of the great Napoleon."
"Yes, I remember him distinctly," said Dan. "He used to tell stories to Tom and me of his adventures in the wars. Tom was speaking of him only the other day."
"Well," continued Mrs. Frost, "this gentleman called himself General Pointelle. I learned afterwards it was not his real name. Who he actually was, I have not the slightest idea. He brought with him a little girl two years old, a sweet little black-eyed girl, to whom I, having lost your only sister at about that age, took a great fancy. The General also had two servants with him, a valet, and a maid. The maid, a pretty young thing, took care of the child. They arrived in mid-summer, on a merchantman that plied between Marseilles and Monday Port. I do not know why General Pointelle came to this part of the country, or why he chose to stay at the Inn; at any rate he came, and he engaged for an indefinite period the best suite of apartments in the old north wing. He had the Oak Parlour—"
"The Oak Parlour!" exclaimed Dan.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Frost, "that was part of the suite reserved usually for our most distinguished guests. The general used that for a sitting-room and the adjoining chamber as a bed-room. The maid and child occupied connecting rooms across the hall. The valet, I believe, was in some other part of the house. General Pointelle proved himself a fascinating guest, and his little daughter Eloise was a favourite with all the household. The maid, pretty as she certainly was and apparently above her station, I somehow never trusted. I have always believed that the relations between the general and herself were not what they should have been. But Frenchmen look at such things differently, I am told; and it was not to our interests to be over-curious.
"They had been with us about two months when one fine morning we awoke to find that General Pointelle, his valet, and the charming Marie had disappeared, and little Eloise was crying alone in her big room. You have probably guessed the child was Nancy."
"Yes," Dan agreed, "but do you mean that the father actually abandoned her?"
"Practically. He left a note for me and a little bag of gold amounting to two thousand dollars to be used for the child. If you will hand me that old secretary there, I will show you the letter."
Dan placed the old-fashioned writing-desk on the table beside her, and waited anxiously while she fumbled in her pocket for the key. She unlocked the desk, and after searching a few moments amongst innumerable papers, drew out an old letter. This she unfolded carefully and handed to Dan. It was written in English, in a fine running hand. He read it attentively.
"The Inn at the Red Oak, Deal:
"14 October, '814.
"Madame:
"Political circumstances over which I have no control, patriotic considerations which I cannot withstand, demand my immediate return to France. In the conditions into which I am about to be plunged the care of my dear little daughter becomes an impossibility. Inhuman as it must seem to you, lacking in all sense of Christian duty as it must appear to you, I entrust, without the formality of consulting you, my beautiful little Eloise to your humane and tender care. With this letter I deposit with you the sum of two thousand dollars in gold, which will go a little way at least to compensate you for the burden I thus unceremoniously, but of necessity, thrust upon you. I appeal to and confide in the goodness of your heart, of which already I have such abundant testimony, that will take pity upon the misfortune of a helpless infant and an equally helpless parent. May you be a mother to the motherless, and may the Heavenly Father bless you for what you shall do.
"I embark, madame, upon a dangerous and uncertain mission. Should that mission prove successful and restore the fortunes of my house, I will return and claim my daughter. Should fate overwhelm me with disaster, I must beg that you will continue to regard her and love her as your own. The issue will have been decided within five years. Permit me to add but one thing more,—in the event that I fall in the cause I have embraced, I have made arrangements whereby communications shall be established with you, madame, that will redound to your own good fortune and that of the little Eloise.
"All effort to thwart my plans or to establish my identity in the meantime, will, I must warn you, be fruitless.
"Adieu, madame: accept the assurance of my gratitude for all that you have already done to sweeten exile and of my earnest prayer for the blessing of God upon your great good heart.
"I remain, madame, for the present, but always, under whatever name,
"Your grateful and sincere servant,
"GASTON POINTELLE,"
As Dan, with gathering brows, concluded the reading of this extraordinary letter, Mrs. Frost resumed her story.
"We always imagined that the general and his companions had sailed in a French vessel that lay at that time in the Passage and left that morning at dawn. There was nothing to do but adopt little Eloise Pointelle for my own. I changed her name, at your father's suggestion, to Nancy Frost; knowing that Pointelle was not the general's real name. For five years we looked to see our guest return; and afterwards for years, we hoped to receive some communication that would prove, as he promised, of advantage to Nancy and ourselves. But from the night General Pointelle left our house to this day, I have not heard one word to show that he still existed or, indeed, that he ever had existed. We brought Nancy up as our own daughter, though, never concealing from her the fact that she was not of our blood. Indeed, Dan, I have loved her dearly."
"Certainly, you have always treated her with the greatest kindness. But this is quite extraordinary, Mother. I think it will throw light on Nancy's present disappearance."
"Do you think the father is alive, Dan? that he has communicated with her?"
"Not that, mother; I am really in the dark. But I believe that the Marquis de Boisdhyver has some connection with your General Pointelle, and that his stay with us this winter has something to do with Nancy."
In response to Mrs. Frost's questions, he told of the meetings of Nancy and the marquis, but decided to say nothing about the paper that he had found in the Oak Parlour.
"I want you to be careful, Mother, to give no hint to the Marquis that we suspect him in any way. Tom and I are trying to solve the mystery, and secrecy is of the greatest importance. It is a more complicated business than we imagined. I must go now and find Tom. May I keep this letter?"
"Yes, but keep it under lock and key. I have guarded it for sixteen years; and it is the only evidence I possess of Nancy's origin."
Dan returned to the bar, where he found the Marquis and Tom still reading their papers.
"Ah!" exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver, "I trust, Monsieur Frost, you bring us the good news at last of the return of Mademoiselle."
"Unfortunately, I do not, monsieur," Dan replied. "Our efforts to find out what has become of her have been entirely unsuccessful. I am very anxious, as you may imagine."
"And to what mishap do you attribute Mademoiselle's so unceremonious departure?"
"I do not attribute it to any mishap," replied Dan. "I think that my sister has gone off on a visit to some friends, and that her messages to us have been miscarried. I feel certain that to-morrow we will be completely reassured."
"Ah! I hope so with all my heart," exclaimed the Marquis fervently. "It is a matter of deep distress to me—monsieur. But if—to-morrow passes and still you do not hear—?"
"God knows, sir. We must do everything to find her."
"We shall find her," cried Tom, as he sprang to his feet, unable longer to repress his anxiety or his irritation. "And if we do not find her safe and well, woe to the man who has harmed her."
"Bravo!" cried the Marquis. "Permit me to adopt those words to express my own sentiments. I applaud this determination, monsieur,de tout mon coeur."
Tom glared at the little old man with an expression of illconcealed rage. He was about to blurt out some angry reply, when a warning gesture from Dan checked him. Without speaking, he flung himself out of the room.
"Poor Tom!" said Dan quickly, to cover Pembroke's attitude toward the Marquis, "this takes him especially hard. He is in love with Nancy."
"Eh bien! I sympathize with his good taste. It is that that accounts for his vigour of his expressions, so much moreemphatiquethan our good host."
"More emphatic, perhaps," said Dan, "though I do not feel less strongly."
The Marquis made a little bow, as he rose to retire. "If, chance, monsieur could require my assistance—"
"Thank you," said Dan quickly. "In that case, sir, I shall be only too happy to call upon you." He rose also, and courteously held the candle till the Marquis had reached the top of the stairs.
Tom waited his friend impatiently in their common chamber. And when at last, having closed the house for the night, Dan joined him, he told at once of the signals which he supposed had been exchanged between the Marquis at the Inn and someone at the House on the Dunes. In return Dan repeated what he had learned about Nancy from Mrs. Frost.
"There is no doubt in my mind," said Dan, "that the Marquis knows all about Nancy's disappearance and where she is, and further I believe that Nancy's disappearance is part of a plot with the Marquis here, Madame de la Fontaine at the House on the Dunes, and that schooner riding at anchor in the Cove. I have a plan, Tom."
"Go ahead for heaven's sake. If we don't do something, I'll go in and choke the truth out of that old reprobate. He applauds my sentiments, eh! Good God! If he knew them!"
"Yes, yes," said Dan. "But the time for choking has not come. You nearly gave yourself away to-night, you will ruin our plans, and involve Nancy in some harm. She is probably in that old villain's power. Now listen to me. The first thing to do is to discover Nancy's whereabouts. The second is to get at the bottom of the Marquis's plot and the secret of the torn scrap of paper. We will find the clew to both, I think, if we can discover the meaning of the signals between the Marquis and the lady in the House on the Dunes."
"Right!" cried Tom. "But how?"
"One of us must stay at the Inn and watch the Marquis to-night, and the other investigate the House on the Dunes. I have already been there and made the acquaintance of the lady, so I had better do that, and you stay here. Do you agree?"
"Yes, of course; though I envy you the chance to be out and doing."
"You will be doing something here. I want you to hide yourself in the hallway near the Marquis's door and watch all night—till dawn anyway. He cannot get out of his room without coming into the hall, and we must know what he does to-night. If the Marquis can spend a sleepless night, we can afford to do so. I don't know what I can do at the House on the Dunes but I shall take the pistol, and you can keep my gun. To-morrow I will get more arms, for I shouldn't be surprised if we needed them. Is everything clear?"
"Perfectly," said Tom. "I'll watch as soon as you are off."
"Good-night, old boy, good luck."
"Good-night," and Dan slipped out of the room and down the dark stairs.
MIDNIGHT VIGILS
MIDNIGHT VIGILS
As soon as Dan had gone Tom blew out his light and slipped into the hallway.
This portion of the Inn was simple in design. A long corridor ran through the middle of the house to meet a similar passage at the southern end extending at right angles to the main hall. The South Chamber, occupied by the Marquis de Boisdhyver, opened into the southwest passage, but the door was well beyond the juncture of the two corridors. It was Pembroke's intention to conceal himself in the bedroom next the Marquis's chamber, from the door of which he could look down the entire length of the main hall, and by stepping outside get a view of the branch hallway into which the door of this room and that of the Marquis actually opened. A further advantage was that the windows of this room, like those of the South Chamber, looked out upon the Dunes and the Cove.
As Tom stepped from his chamber, the house seemed utterly deserted; save for the roaring of the wind without and an occasional creak or crack in the time-worn boards, there were no sounds.
The night was not a dark one, although the wind was rising and rain was threatening; for a full moon lurked behind the thick veil of cloud and something of its weird weak light relieved the darkness even of the great corridor of the Inn.
Tom stole softly down the hallway and gained the room next the Marquis's. He took his position in a great chair, which he drew near the open door, and laid his gun on the floor near at hand. No one could enter the hall without his seeing him. Every few moments he would tiptoe to the doorway, thrust his head into the corridor, and listen intently for any sound in the South Chamber.
It was a lonely and unpleasant vigil. The night was wild, the storm was rising, the old Inn was moaning as though in distress; and, despite his natural courage, fantastic terrors and dangers thrust themselves upon his excited imagination. He would much have preferred, he felt, to be out in the open as Dan was, even facing real dangers and greater difficulties. Deeper than by these imaginary fears of the night, he was racked with anxiety to know what had become of the girl he loved. Had she been decoyed away by the evil genius of the place; was she in danger? Had she disappeared of her own free will; and didn't she really love him?
He was not in the least sleepy; but after a while the vigil began to tell upon his nerves. He found it almost impossible to sit still and wait, perhaps in vain. He made innumerable trips across the room to the windows to look out into the bleak night. The landscape was blotted out. Not a light showed from the House on the Dunes; only the two lamps on the schooner at anchor in the Cove gleamed across the night. Eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock struck solemnly from the old clock on the stairs.
Once as he was looking out of the window, it seemed to him that the green light on theSouthern Crosswas moving. But it was impossible that she should weigh anchor in the teeth of the rising storm. He was mistaken. Nay, he was sure. But it was rising, slowly, steadily, as though drawn by an invisible hand, to about the height of the masthead. There at last it stopped, and swung to the wind, to and fro, to and fro; high above its red companion, high above the deck.
And then, suddenly, as if to answer this mysterious manoeuvre, the green light, that earlier in the evening had glowed from a north window of the House on the Dunes, now flashed from an east window of the old farmhouse; flashed, then gleamed steadily. The light on theSouthern Crosswas lowered slowly, then raised again. The light in the House on the Dunes vanished; soon flashed again and then vanished once more. Slowly the light in the schooner descended to its normal position. A moment later the green light appeared on the north side of the House on the Dunes, where it had been earlier, and shone there steadily.
Was it a signal to the Marquis de Boisdhyver? Tom tiptoed to the partition between his room and the South Chamber, and put his ear to the wall to listen. Not a sound reached him. He turned to the door to go into the corridor, and stood suddenly motionless. For there, advancing ever so cautiously down the hall, carrying a lighted candle in his hand, was the old Marquis. He was clad in night dress and cap, with a gayly-coloured dressing-gown worn over the white shirt. Slowly, silently, pausing every instant to listen; he stole on, gun in hand, and Tom followed him as cautiously and as quietly. Instead of turning to the right at the partition that divides the north and south wings of the Inn and going down stairs, the Marquis turned to the left, into the short hall that led directly to the great chamber occupied by Tom and Dan.
By the time Pembroke in pursuit had reached the turn and dared to peep around the corner of the wall, the Marquis was at the door of Dan's room. He stood there, ear bent close to the panel, intently listening.
Tom waited breathless. Not satisfied, Monsieur de Boisdhyver turned about and went into an adjoining chamber, the door of which stood open. Pembroke was about to advance, when the Marquis emerged again into the corridor, having left his lighted candle in the empty room. This manoeuvre, whatever advantage it had for the Marquis, was fortunate for Pembroke, for it left the end of the little hall, where he stood watching, in deep shadow. He could now step boldly from behind the concealing wall without fear of immediate detection.
Again the Marquis stood and listened at the door of Dan's room, then cautiously turned the knob. The door yielded and opened an inch or so. Monsieur de Boisdhyver put his ear to the crack. Dissatisfied with the absolute silence that must have met him, he pushed open the door a little further and thrust his head inside. In a moment he disappeared within.
Tom realized that the Marquis would soon discover the fact that the room was empty. He looked about quickly for a place of concealment that would command a view of all the halls. Fortunately the partition that divided the long corridor between the north and south wings was hung with heavy curtains. Deciding instantly, Pembroke slipped behind them, and ruthlessly slit an opening in the thick green stuff, through which he could peek out. He was just in time, as the Marquis came out of their bedroom and softly closed the door. He stood irresolute; then, with even greater caution, re-entered the room in which he had left his candle. To Tom's chagrin, the candle was suddenly extinguished and the Inn left in darkness.
For some moments, there was absolute silence. Then Tom could hear faintly,—or feel rather than hear—the Marquis cautiously finding his way back. Luckily, the old Frenchman was groping his way next the other wall. Pembroke slipped from behind the curtains and stole softly in pursuit. As he reached the south end of the corridor, he heard the latch of the Marquis's door click softly. Alarmed by discovering that they were not in bed, thought Tom, he had abandoned whatever purpose he had in mind for his midnight prowl.
After waiting a little and hearing no more, Tom went again to the window. The rain had begun now and the wind was blowing a gale. Suddenly Pembroke discerned a light shining from the window next the very one from which he was peering into the darkness,—the steady glow of a deep red light.
"Another signal!" he murmured; then waited to see if it would be answered by the House on the Dunes. Perhaps fifteen minutes passed, and then, suddenly, there gleamed through the rain and dark, a tiny bit of red flame, just where the House on the Dunes must be. A little later the red lamp on theSouthern Crossperformed a fantastic ascension to what Pembroke took to be the masthead.
The red light in the neighbouring window was extinguished. Almost instantly the red spark on the Dunes disappeared, and in a few moments the schooner's lamp began its descent. Simultaneously they glowed again and the ship's light danced upward; then the two red lights on shore vanished and the lamp on theSouthern Crosssank to its proper place and stayed there.
Of one thing Tom was sure: The Marquis, the lady at the House on the Dunes, and the skipper of the schooner in the Cove, were in collusion. Of another thing he felt almost equally certain: the red light was a signal of danger, and the message of danger flashed across the night was the fact that he and Dan were not safe asleep in bed.
For a long time he watched, keen with excitement; listened patiently; started at every sound. But nothing more unusual did he hear that night than the roar of the wind, the dash of the brawling southeaster against the panes, and the groans of the old house, shaken by the storm. Toward morning he crept back to bed and fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
While Tom was thus watching and sleeping a somewhat different experience had fallen to the lot of Dan Frost. He had no definite plan in making a midnight visit to the vicinity of the House on the Dunes, but he hoped to discover some clue to the surrounding mysteries. From time to time during the day he had taken his field glasses to one of the upper rooms of the Inn, and scanned the countryside but nothing unusual seemed astir in the white world without. TheSouthern Crosshad lain on the surface of the little cove all day, swaying with wind and tide, no sign of activity upon her decks. It was after ten when he started forth. The night was not quite dark, for the full moon was shining somewhere behind the thick veil of clouds. Earlier in the evening Dan had intended to go boldly to the House itself and demand an interview with old Mrs. Meath; but he reflected that he would probably be met with the excuse that Mrs. Meath was ill, and he did not know how he could force himself in, particularly past the barrier of Madame de la Fontaine's charming manner.
It was an unpleasant walk with the wind in his face, and it was nearly eleven before he turned into the long dune road, which branched from the Port Road near the Rocking Stone and led directly to the old farmhouse on Strathsey Neck. To his chagrin it appeared that all lights had been extinguished as if the inmates of the house had gone to bed.
The old farmhouse loomed before him, dark and forbidding. On either side there were outhouses, and in the rear quite near the house a barn. There was not a tree on the place; indeed, there was little vegetation upon the entire Neck, save the grass of the middle meadows which in summer furnished scant nourishment for the cattle and a flock of sheep. Now all was bleak and covered with snow, and a freshening gale swept out of the great maw of the Atlantic.
Keeping close to the fence, Frost began to make a complete circuit of the farmhouse. As he turned a corner of the south end, or rear of the house, he was relieved to see a light burning in the kitchen. He stole cautiously to a position within the shadow of the barn from which he could get a glimpse of the interior. In the kitchen standing before a deal table, he saw a young woman—not Jane, Mrs. Heath's maid-of-all-work, but a stranger,—with her hands deep in a bowl of dough. Her back was toward him, but he guessed that she was Madame de la Fontaine's maid, whom he had seen in the morning. The door into the dining-room beyond stood open, and by craning his neck, Dan could see that the room was lighter, but he could not discover whether or not it were occupied. The shutters of the dining-room were so closely barred and the curtains so tightly drawn that not a ray of light penetrated to the outside.
The girl in the kitchen proceeded busily about her work. She was evidently engaged, despite the lateness of the hour, in mixing bread.
Once while he waited patiently, to what end he hardly knew, Madame de la Fontaine entered the kitchen. She was clad in black and held in her hands what Dan took to be a ship's lamp. She stood for a moment in the doorway and spoke to the servant maid. The girl stopped her work, and taking a strip of paper, ignited it at a candle and lighted the lamp, which Madame de la Fontaine held up for her. It glowed instantly with a deep green flame, such as Tom had described as shining from a window of the House on the Dunes in the early evening.
As soon as her lamp was lighted Madame de la Fontaine left the room. Supposing that she was about to give a signal, Dan's heart leaped at the prospect of some result to his eavesdropping, and he stole carefully around to the front of the house. Presently from an upper window in the east side of the house, not the north as he had expected, he saw the green light sending forth its message across the Dunes—to whom? Probably the signal could be seen from the Inn, but it more likely was intended for the schooner in the Cove. Sure enough, as he watched, Dan saw the phenomenon of the ascending lamp on theSouthern Cross, which at that identical moment Tom Pembroke was watching from his post of vantage in one of the south windows of the Inn.
A little later the signal was removed from the east window of the farmhouse and placed in a north window. Dan looked to see the answering gleam from the Inn at the Red Oak. But none came. Crouched in a corner of the fence, he waited perhaps for half-an-hour.
Suddenly a signal gleamed from the Inn, but this time it was not green as he expected, but red. In a few moments a form appeared in the window of the farmhouse, and a white hand, which he supposed was that of Madame de la Fontaine, took hold of the lamp and reversed it, so that now it showed red. The light in the Inn vanished, reappeared, vanished again. The same thing happened to the light in the House on the Dunes. And looking eastward, Dan saw the ship's red lamp perform its fantastic ascent and descent. Soon all was left in darkness. Frost slipped back to his post near the barn and looked again into the kitchen.
Madame de la Fontaine was standing in the doorway as before. The maid, turning away from the table, came at that moment to the window, and raised the sash, as though she were overheated. Presently, leaving the window open, she turned to her mistress, and Dan could hear the sharp staccato of her voice as she said something in what seemed to him her barbarous French.
Impelled by curiosity, he crept closer to the house. He was within six feet of the window, standing on the tip of his toes. Suddenly he felt himself pinioned from behind; his arms were gripped as in a vise, a hand grasped his throat and began to choke him, and a sharp knee was planted with terrific force in the small of his back. He made a gurgling sound as he went backward, but there was no opportunity for struggling. He recovered from the shock to find himself stretched at full length in the wet snow. Some one was sitting upon him, struggling to thrust a gag into his mouth; some one else was binding his hands and feet.
He could just distinguish, in the sickly moonlight and the dim rays of the candle from the kitchen, the faces of his assailants. One was the murderous looking Frenchman, the skipper of theSouthern Cross, the other he took to be a common seaman.
Attracted by the scuffle, the French maid had thrust her head out of the window and was addressing the combatants in vigorous French. Neither then nor later did Madame de la Fontaine appear. When Frost was safely bound and gagged, Captain Bonhomme arose, said a few words to his companion, and disappeared into the farmhouse. Dan's guard searched him rapidly, confiscated his revolver and knife, and then resumed his seat upon his legs. Inside the kitchen Dan could hear the sounds of an animated French dialogue, in which he imagined from time to time that he detected the silvery tones of Madame de la Fontaine's voice. Perhaps fifteen minutes elapsed. Captain Bonhomme came out of the house, strode to the spot where Dan was lying, and addressed him in excellent English.
"Monsieur; for purposes which it is superfluous to explain, it is decided to extend to you for a while the hospitality of my good ship theSouthern Cross—a hospitality, I may say, that your unceremonious eavesdropping has thrust upon you. I will release your feet; and then, monsieur, you follow my good Jean across the sands. If you are quiet, no harm shall come to you. If you resist,cher monsieur, it will be of painful duty that I entrust the contents of this revolver into—mais non! Vous comprenez, n'est-ce pas?—Bien!"
He gave a sharp order to the seaman. The handkerchief about Dan's ankles was untied, and he was roughly assisted to his feet.
"The snow is wet, eh! Yes, for the good wind is moist. Now,Allons!"
Jean led the way, and Dan, deciding that he had no choice in the matter, followed obediently. The captain brought up the rear. As they went out through the gate, Dan turned for a moment and looked back at the house. He could see the French maid still at the kitchen window. At the same moment Captain Bonhomme glanced back and ceremoniously raised his hat.
"Bonsoir, mam'zelle."
"Bonsoir, monsieur," was the sharp reply, and the window was lowered with a bang.
They went on in silence across the Dunes to the beach. There, drawn up above high water line, they found a skiff. The captain and Jean shoved off, sprang in, and the little boat plunged into the combing waves. They reached theSouthern Crosswithout misadventure. The captain blew a call upon a boatswain's whistle. A rope was lowered and Jean made the skiff fast to the ladder at the schooner's side. The captain took out his revolver and held it in his hand, while Jean unloosed the cords that bound Dan's wrists.
"Now up,mon ami."
For a moment Dan thought of risking a scuffle in the unsteady skiff, but discretion proved the better part of valour, and he climbed obediently on to the deck. The seaman stood close by till the captain and Jean had clambered up after him. A few words in French to his men, then Captain Bonhomme, beckoning to Dan to follow, led the way down the companion. He opened the door of a little cabin amidships and bade Frost enter.
"You will find everything required for your comfort, monsieur," he said, "and I trust you will make yourself at home, as you say; and enjoy a good night and a sound sleep. We can discuss our affairs in the morning."
And with the words, he closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and left Dan to his reflections.
THE SCHOONER IN THE COVE
THE SCHOONER IN THE COVE
THE SOUTHERN CROSS
THE SOUTHERN CROSS
Dan spent a miserable night. He had soon satisfied himself that escape was impossible. A child could not have squeezed through the port hole, and the stoutness of the door—barred, he fancied, as well as locked on the outside,—seemed to indicate that this particular cabin had been constructed for the purpose of keeping an enemy out of mischief.
Young Frost's reflections, as at length he stretched himself upon the bunk, were anything but agreeable. The reconnoitre at the House on the Dunes had established nothing but what they already practically knew—that the Marquis, the lady, and the captain of the schooner were working together. If they were responsible for Nancy's disappearance, as Dan was convinced, he had not succeeded in getting a scrap of evidence against them. And to cap the climax, he had stupidly allowed himself to be captured. The method of his capture seemed to him quite as ignominious as the fact.
He was not particularly alarmed for his own safety. He did not doubt that eventually he would escape, though at the moment he could not imagine how; or, failing in that, he supposed he would be released,—honorably discharged, as it were,—when it was too late for him to interfere with the designs of the conspirators. And this was the bitterest reflection of all: that a carefully-planned conspiracy was on foot, and no sooner had he and Tom realized it than through sheer stupidity he must not only make it clear to the Marquis and his colleagues that they were being watched, but must let himself fall into their power. Poor Tom! thought Dan ruefully as he tossed upon the little bunk, there must fall upon him now the brunt of whatever was to be done for Nancy's rescue, for the thwarting of whatever nefarious designs this gang of French desperados were concocting.
Escape! A dozen times and more he sprang from his bed to press his face against the thick glass of the little port and to rage futilely that he could not elongate his six feet of anatomy, and slip through. In vain he would throw his weight against the door, without so much as shaking it. And then he would sink back upon the bunk and determine to conserve his strength by snatching a bit of sleep. And he would wait—since he must wait—till morning.
The gale had lashed itself into a fury; the rain was pouring in torrents; and the ship rolled distressingly in the rising sea. It was near dawn before Dan succeeded in getting to sleep at all, but from then on for several hours he slept heavily. When he awoke the storm, like many storms that come out of the south, had exhausted itself. The rain had ceased, the wind had fallen, and it was evident from the motion of the ship, that the sea was going down. Dan sprang to the port hole and peered out, and was thankful to realize that the peep hole of his prison gave upon the shore.
Though it had stopped raining, the clouds were still grey and lowering, and the morning light was weak and pale. The Dunes, beyond the disturbed waters of the little cove, looked dirty and bedraggled. The snow had been washed off the hillocks, the little streams that here and there emptied into the Cove had swollen to the size of respectable brooks, and the high water of the night had strewn the beach with brown tangled seaweed. There was no sign of human life in evidence. Dan could just see the upper story of the House on the Dunes, but no other habitation save the deserted fisherman's huts that straggled along the beach.
His watch showed half-past seven when the evil-visaged Jean unbarred the door, opened it about a foot, and thrust in upon the floor a tray of food. Dan sprang forward and succeeded in getting his foot into the opening, so that Jean could not close the door. He was prepared to fight for his liberty. Despite Jean's superior strength, Dan had the advantage in that his own body acted as a lever, and for a moment it seemed that he was to be successful; but the Frenchman, with a violent execration, suddenly let go his hold on the knob, the door swung in, and Dan fell back on all fours upon the floor. By the time he had recovered himself for another dash, he was confronted by Jean, a disagreeable leer upon his unpleasant countenance and a cocked pistol in his hand.
Dan stood in his tracks. "I want to see Captain Bonhomme!" he demanded, making up in the tone of his voice for the vigor his movements suddenly lacked.
"Je ne parle pas englais," was the irritating reply, as Jean, menacing the prisoner with the pistol, reached for the door and closed it with a snap. Dan had the chagrin of hearing the key turn in the lock and the heavy bar fall into place across the panels.
He sat down ruefully, but after a moment or so took up the tray and placed it on the bunk before him. He made a bad breakfast off thick gruel, black bread and villainous coffee, and then kicked his heels impatiently for an hour or more.
Eventually Jean reappeared, this time pistol in hand, and behind him, to Dan's relief, Captain Bonhomme. The captain entered the little cabin, leaving the door open behind him while Jean stood in the passage on duty as guard. The swarthy unattractive face of Captain Bonhomme wore this morning an expression of sarcastic levity that was more irritating to Frost than its ferocious anger had been the night before.
"Bon jour, monsieur," said the captain in a tone of obnoxious pleasantry. "I trust the night has gone well with you."
"You will oblige me," snapped Dan for reply, "by omitting your hypocritical courtesy. I demand to know what you mean by this proceeding,—capturing me like a common thief and imprisoning me on this confounded ship?"
Captain Bonhomme's countenance quickly lost its factitious cheerfulness. "Monsieur," he replied sharply, "I did not come to you to bandy words. If you will reflect on the occupation you were indulging last night at the moment we surprised you, you will comprehend that it was certainly to be inferred that, if you were not a thief, you were an eavesdropper; which, to my way of thinking, is as bad. If you address me again in that insulting tone, I shall leave you till such a time as you may be willing to listen at least with common courtesy to what I have to say. You are, young gentleman, a prisoner on my ship and very much in my power. You have grossly offended a distinguished countrywoman who is under my protection in your barbarous country. Madame de la Fontaine, however, has been good enough to interest herself in your behalf and to beg that I shall not unceremoniously pitch you overboard to feed the fishes as you so richly deserve."
Dan bit his lips, but for the moment kept silent.
"I am come this morning," continued Captain Bonhomme, "not for the pleasure of entering upon a discussion, but to inform you that a little later in the morning, when this infernal wind of yours has blown itself out, Madame de la Fontaine proposes to come aboard. For reasons of her own, she does you the honor to desire a conversation with you. I have to ask that you will meet my distinguished patroness as the gentleman you doubtless profess to be, and that you will give me your word not to attempt to escape while Madame is on board the ship."
"I shall not give my word," protested Dan, "under any circumstances to a pirate such as I take you to be."
"Eh bien, monsieur; in that case, you will appear before Madame in irons. From your window, so admirably small, you will see at what hour Madame comes aboard. If in the meantime you have decided to give us your word of honour, well and good; if you continue to display your freedom of choice by the exercise of your stupidity, also, well and good. And now,an revoir." Captain Bonhomme smiled grimly, bowed again with insulting politeness, and left Dan alone in the cabin.
An hour, two hours passed. The wind had abated, the sun was struggling to dissipate the murky bank of cloud that hung from zenith to the eastern horizon. From his coign of vantage at the little port hole Dan saw Madame de la Fontaine pick her way across the Dunes and come upon the little beach. A small boat had put off from the schooner and was being rowed to shore by two seamen. The French lady gathered her skirts about her ankles, and stepped lightly into the skiff, as the men held it at the edge of the surf. The little boat was then pushed off and rowed briskly toward theSouthern Cross.
Half-an-hour passed before the door of Dan's cabin was opened again, and Captain Bonhomme, attended by the faithful Jean, reappeared. In the skipper's hand was a pair of irons.
"Monsieur," said the captain, holding up the irons, "Madame de la Fontaine does you the honour of desiring an interview in the saloon. May I venture to enquire your pleasure?"
The ignominy of appearing before his charming acquaintance of the day before manacled like a criminal, was too much for Dan's vanity. "I give you my word of honour," he said gruffly.
"Ah, monsieur," murmured the captain, "permit me to applaud your good taste. But let us be exact: until you are returned to this cabin and are again under lock and key, that is to say until Madame is safely upon shore again,—you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to make no attempt to escape?"
"Yes, yes," said Dan, striving to conceal his irritation. "But spare me, I beg, your explanations. As you know, I am practically helpless. We understand each other. I trust that Madame de la Fontaine will give me an explanation of the outrage that you have refused."
"Sans doute, sane doute!" exclaimed the captain. He waved his hand toward the door. "Aprés vous, monsieur. Our worthy Jean will lead the way."
Without more ado they left the little cabin that had served as Dan's prison and traversed a narrow passageway aft to the door of a little saloon.
In the saloon, seated in a deep arm chair by the side of the table, was Madame de la Fontaine. She was clad in some soft green gown, with furs about her neck and wrists, and a little bonnet, adorned by the gay plumage of a tropical bird, worn close upon her head. At first glance she was as bewitchingly beautiful, as entirely charming, as she had seemed to Dan the day before. He blushed to the roots of his hair and for the moment quite forgot the extraordinary predicament in which he was placed. Madame de la Fontaine rose, a bright smile beaming from her soft blue eyes, and waited for Dan to approach.
"Good morning, Mr. Frost. This is charming of you. And now, Captain Bonhomme, if you will be so kind,—" she turned with her delightful smile to the skipper. "Eh bien, Jean!" This last remark was uttered in a sharp tone of command, very different from the silvery accents in which she had spoken to Frost and the captain. Dan wondered at it.
The disagreeable impression was but momentary, for the lady turned again to Dan, engaged him with her frank and pleasant glance, and young Frost forgot everything in the presence of the most charming woman he had ever met.
Captain Bonhomme and his watchdog had disappeared, closing the saloon door behind them. Dan and Madame de la Fontaine were alone.
"Will you not seat yourself, monsieur?" she said. "We shall then talk so much more at our ease."
"Thank you," Dan murmured vaguely, and advancing a step or two nearer, seated himself in the first chair within reach.
"Ah, not there, Mr. Frost," the lady protested with a little laugh of amusement. "It will never be that we are able to talk at so great a distance." She indicated a more comfortable chair at much closer quarters.
Dan obediently changed his seat, and waited for Madame de la Fontaine to begin the conversation. But she continued for a moment silently to regard him with a naive air of interest and of unconcealed admiration.
"May I ask," said Dan at length, disturbed by this scrutiny, and rising to a courtesy that was in reality beyond him, "for what reason you have done me the honour to wish to speak with me?"
"Vraiment," replied Madame de la Fontaine; "after the events of last night there is need that we should have some conversation. You are very young and I have reason to be grateful to you for courtesy and kindness, so I have yielded to impulse, against my judgment, to interfere with Captain Bonhomme who has great anger with you."
"You are very kind, madame," Dan replied with dignity. "I am to infer then that my liberty or my further unwarranted imprisonment on this ship is to be determined by you?"
"Mais non, Monsieur. It is true only that I have a little influence with Captain Bonhomme. Last night you were watching me, so it interests me to know why."
"I was watching Mrs. Heath's house," Dan answered.
"Ah! but I and my maid were alone in the room into which you so unceremoniously looked, monsieur!"
"Yes, madame, but why should you infer that my motive in looking into that room was interest in your affairs?"
"I do not altogether assume that, Mr. Frost," the lady protested. "I infer simply—but, pardon! you were to say—?"
"Merely to ask you, madame, what Captain Bonhomme proposes to do with me, should you not be so good as to use your influence in my behalf?"
For reply the lady shrugged her shoulders a trifle. "I have fear, monsieur," she said after a moment, "that Captain Bonhomme will take you for a sail, perhaps a long sail, on theSouthern Cross."
"Then," said Dan, "since there is no doubt in my mind of your influence with the captain, I beg that you will have him release me."
"It is that that I desire, monsieur; and yet—?" Madame de la Fontaine paused and glanced at her companion with a charming little air of interrogation.
"And yet?" repeated Dan, flushing a little as he looked into the lovely blue eyes that met his so frankly.
"I confess, monsieur, I must first discover if you are really deserving of my efforts. I care to know very much why you watched me last night at the House on the Dunes. For what reason do you watch me at midnight? a stranger, a woman? Why is it that my affairs give you interest? I would know."
Her voice, her countenance expressed now only her sense of injury, an injury which, as it were, she was striving not to regard also as an insult. Under the persistent searching of her soft glance, Dan felt himself very small indeed.
"Answer me, if you please," she said. This time Dan detected just a trace of the sharpness with which she had dismissed the obsequious Jean. It gave him courage and a sense of protection from the fascination he knew that this strange woman was successfully exerting over him.
As he replied, his glance encountered hers with frankness. "Madame de la Fontaine, I told you yesterday morning, my sister, Nancy Frost, has disappeared. We searched for her all day in vain. Not a trace of her has been found. But certain strange events have led me to suspect that certain persons have had something to do with her disappearance and must know her whereabouts. I will be frank Madame. One of the persons whom I so suspect is yourself."
"I!—mon Dieu! and why is it that you believe this, Monsieur?"
"I suspect you, madame, because I suspect the Marquis de Boisdhyver."
"Ah! the French gentleman who is staying with you at the Inn at the Red Oak, is it not so?"
"Yes."
"But—why me?"
"Because, madame, I discovered that you and the Marquis de Boisdhyver have been in secret communication with each other."
"C'est impossible. Te me comprende pas, monsieur. Will you tell me why it is that you can think that this Marquis de Bois—what is the name?"
"De Boisdhyver."
"Merci. Why is it that you can think that the Marquis de Boisdhyver and I have been in secret communication?"
"Lights, green and red lights, have been used as signals; by the Marquis at the Inn; by you, madame, from the House on the Dunes; and by some one,—Captain Bonhomme, I suppose,—from this ship."
"Lights, you have seen lights?"
"Several times last night, Madame. My suspicions were aroused. I was determined to find my sister. I resolved to learn the meaning of those mysterious signals. My method was stupid: I blundered, and as you have several times so gently hinted, I am in your power."
For a moment Madame de la Fontaine was silent, then she looked quickly up; a half-vexed, half-amused expression curling her pretty lips.
"Look at me, monsieur," she said. "Do you know what you tell me? That I am an adventuress?"
Dan flushed suddenly as he met her steadfast gaze. "I have stated only a suspicion, madame, to account for my own stupid blundering. But if you think that my suspicions are extraordinary, don't you think that our present situation and conversation are also extraordinary, and that they might rather confirm my suspicions?"
Madame de la Fontaine dropped her eyes with a perceptible frown of displeasure; but again she looked up, smiling.
"C'est drole, monsieur, but I find you very attractive? You are at once so naive and so clever?"
Dan, finding nothing to reply to this unexpected remark, bit his lips.
"Will you not trust me?" she asked him suddenly, and putting out her hand she touched his own with the tips of her fingers.
Poor Frost tingled at this unaccustomed contact. "I—I—" he stammered awkwardly. "I have certainly no desire to distrust you, madame."
"And yet it is that you do distrust me."
"But what would you have me do?"
"Ah!" Her hand spontaneously closed upon his with a clasp that delighted and yet disconcerted him. "I hope that we shall make each other to understand."
"What would you have me do?" Dan repeated.
"Monsieur, let me make to you a confession. I understand your suspicions; I understand your desire to find if they are true. You have reason; Monsieur le Marquis de Boisdhyver and I have exchanged the mysterious signals that you have witnessed. Why should I deny that which already you know? Monsieur de Boisdhyver and I are occupied with affairs of great importance, and it is necessary that all is kept secret. But I believe, that it is that I can trust you, monsieur."
"And Nancy—?" exclaimed Dan.
"Pas si vite, pas si vite!" said the lady, laughing gayly, Dan's hand still in her friendly pressure. "All in good time,mon ami. It is necessary before I confide in you our little secret that I consult Monsieur le Marquis."
Dan's face betrayed his disappointment. "But you do know about Nancy," he insisted; "you will assure me—"
"Of nothing, dear boy,"—and she withdrew her hand. "But it had been so much better for us all if only Monsieur le Marquis had at the first confided in you."
Madame de la Fontaine had risen now and was holding out her hand to say good-bye.
"It is necessary that I return to the shore. I will see Monsieur le Marquis this afternoon, and immediately afterward—"
"But, madame, surely," Dan exclaimed, "I am to accompany you?"
"Ah! monsieur," she replied with a charming little smile, "for the present you must rest content to bemon captif. We must quite clearly understand each other before—well. But you are too impetuous, Monsieur Dan. For the moment I leave you here."
"But Madame de la Fontaine," cried Dan, "I cannot consent—"
"No! no!" she said, as with a gay laugh, she placed a cool little hand across his mouth to prevent his finishing his sentence.
What absurd impulse fired his blood at this sudden familiarity, Dan did not know; but, quite spontaneously, as though all his life he had been in the habit of paying such gallantries to charming ladies, he kissed the soft fingers upon his lips. Madame de la Fontaine quickly withdrew them.
"Ah,mon ami;" she said, "I expected not to find hereune telle galanterie."
"I have offended you," murmured Dan, blushing furiously.
"Ah,pas du tout!" said Madame de la Fontaine. "You are a dear boy, monsieur Dan, and I—well, I find you charming."
As she said this, to Dan's complete confusion, Madame de la Fontaine lightly brushed his cheeks with her lips, and passing him rapidly, went out of the door of the saloon.