| It
was just four o’clock on a certain afternoon late
in June. Young Oliver Prest had ascended the steps leading
from his office to the pavement of St. James Street,
when he was accosted by a man in whose air and aspect
there was something singular, something far removed
from the conventional life which crowded him in the
busy metropolitan street. He had the appearance of one
who had a friendship for ships and who had seen the
world from them. Although there was nothing absolutely
strange in the cut of his garments, they seemed outlandish,
and when he moved there was the roll of the sea in his
gait, and the air of strange harbors and alien coasts
seemed to play about his shoulders. He spoke to Oliver
Prest in English that smacked of other accents.
“If you are the
young man who can find out hidden things I would like
to speak to you.”
Oliver turned
and they went down into his office. “I have found
out things that were hidden, but I have not been infallible,
and there are yet many concealed.”
“I have
come to you with one of them. My name you will want
to know; call me, St. Pierre Miquelon. I will tell you
nothing about myself: all that is unimportant; one does
not talk as much about himself who has seen the world
as I have.”
Oliver began
to be fascinated by the deep eyes which regarded him.
“Is there
a place called Lacolle near here?” he asked abruptly.
“There
is; it is a village about forty miles from here, not
far from the Richelieu River.”
“On the
shore of that river there is a house called the Manor.
I’ve never seen it, but I have had it described
it to me often, and I think I could rebuild it anywhere,
I seem to know it so well.” Oliver began to wonder
whether it was the haunted house of the neighborhood
which he knew when he was a boy, and the next words
answered his questioning. [Page 89]
“Many
years ago the owner of that house disappeared suddenly,
mysteriously, and he has never been seen since. That
occurrence made a great difference in my life, and after
all these years I have come to look upon the house.
I want you to be my guide. When shall we start?”
“As soon
as you wish, to-morrow morning. I am fully at your disposal;
the train leaves the Bonaventure Depot about nine.”
“Well,
I will meet you there.” And so it was arranged.
That evening
Oliver had leisure to recall impressions of his home
on the banks of the Richelieu, and the old house in
the neighborhood which filled him with such awe and
terror. It stood on the bank of the river; the road,
a strip of turf bordered by large trees, and a few feet
of beach covered with flat stones, separated it from
the water. It was built of grey stone, and the main
door was covered by a porch or portico supported by
pillars; this was the only attempt at outward adornment.
Many years after the main house was finished two wings
had been projected by the owners; only one of these
had been completed. The other was roofed, but was without
windows or doors and lent a most melancholy aspect of
ruin to the whole structure.
Years before,
Oliver could remember the master of the house had disappeared.
He had set out for Montreal with a drove of fat cattle
and had sold them for a good round price; but after
he stepped from the ferry at Longueil no one had ever
set eyes upon him again. The surmise that he had been
murdered for his money grew into a certainty, and so
when Oliver became old enough to ask questions, this
was the story told him. After the disappearance, strange
things had happened. Two sons and two daughters were
left—the mother had died years before—and
before long they seemed to become possessed of more
money than they knew what to do with. They began to
enlarge the house, and, when one wing was finished and
the other was approaching completion, they dismissed
the workmen, and no one ever drove a nail on the place
again.
The family
name was Savona: there was Eric and Hugh, Irene and
Hortense[.] Eric was a perfect horseman, ruddy in the
face, and with wild, red hair. Hugh was small and dark
with evil intent lurking in his eye. Irene was fair
like Eric, and Hortense—but Hortense had dropped
out of the history so young that there is no need to
describe her. Shortly after her father’s disappearance,
it was said by the others that she had gone into a convent,
and, when years went by and she never came home, the
convent was said to be the Carmalite at Paris.
For some reason,
quite unaccountable to the neighbors, the Savonas gradually
separated themselves from everyone. Instead of their
new wealth bringing a free threshold and open hands,
it brought bad spirits and savagery. [Page 90]
That sounds a hard word, but something savage and unrestrained
grew into the manners of the two boys, and when they
took to drink it was something beyond credence, the
life that Manor saw. It was not long before the countryside
had the story that the place was haunted; and it was
not to be wondered at, for there were constant strange
noises which might have a cause in nature, but which
had the air of the supernatural.
Oliver could
never forget the sight he saw one night as he came down
the road. The moon was high and bright, and threw deep
shadows of the trees on either side of the Manor porch.
But this was in the soft light, and here lay Eric Savona,
his heels in the hall and his bulk sprawled on the floor
of the porch, just as he had thrown himself; and, in
the door, the tall shape of Irene holding a candle,
the small flame flitting against the hand with which
she was guarding it from the wind. She let out a low
shriek, and Oliver broke into a run, improving his speed
wonderfully, until he saw the lights gleam out from
the windows of his own home. Now, he was going back
to the old locality bent on unknown adventure.
St. Pierre
Miquelon was a silent old man, as silent as the sea
which never tells its secrets, and he hardly spoke as
the train carried them to Lacolle. Oliver was conscious
again of the strange air of change and seafaring that
hung about him, but to a question intended to set the
old man talking he only received the answer: “Yes,
I have wandered.” It did not take them long to
hire horses at Ellard’s, and, well mounted, they
proceeded down the leafy road which leads to the Richelieu,
where it draws out of Lake Champlain. It was a lovely
morning, full of dashes of sun and splendid shadows.
As they rode side by side, Oliver asked himself often,
upon what errand they were bent. Could his strange companion
be the Savona who had so many years ago slipped quietly
out of sight, absorbed like a ripple in the water? He
was as uncommunicative as the figurehead of a ship,
and to Oliver’s leading question as to the design
in visiting the Manor and the purpose in asking for
this company, he received the simple answer that they
must wait and see how the matter would fall out.
“It is
not far now to the house; after this hill we turn a
little to the left and have a sight of the river, then
three quarters of a mile will bring us to the door.”
He spoke these
words as they began the descent, and he had hardly finished
when his horse becoming startled at something in the
trees which lined the road, stumbled, and recovering
herself sprang blindly into the woods. The movement
was so sudden and unaccountable that Oliver had no time
to throw himself along her back and he crashed into
the maples. [Page 91] The next moment
found him lying senseless upon the ground, the blood
oozing from a gash in his head.
When he came
to himself, St. Pierre Miquelon was supporting his shoulders.
The horses had disappeared. They were alone by the roadside.
“You
have no bones broken” said Miquelon, “but
there is an ugly gash in the head. You struck the branch
of the tree.” Oliver could not move; there was
a turmoil in his head and a light springing before his
eyes.
“The
horses are gone,” he said feebly, his voice sounding
in his ears thin and far away.
“Yes,”
said Miquelon, “as soon as I dismounted, mine
followed yours into the woods.” The old man took
a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat and
proceeded to bind it about Oliver’s head. It was
woven of blue silk with a curious design in white, spreading
from the centre in intricate spirals and resolving itself
into a delicate ferny tracery at the edges. It was an
example of the subtle eastern fabrics which represent
the lives of generations in the perfection and beauty
of their construction.
He had hardly
finished the knot which bound it, when the sound of
horses[’] hoofs was blown down the road, and the
clash of men’s voices in angry discussion.
“This
may be someone from the Manor,” said Miquelon,
hastily. “I will conceal myself in the trees;
if they discover you and take you to the house it will
serve our purpose. Keep your eyes open. When you can
come away with safety you will find me here.”
Just as the
foremost horseman appeared at the top of the hill, Miquelon
stepped into the thicket and was out of sight. The leader
was Eric Savona. His face was swollen and coarse with
blotches of red, his eyes were sullen and hard. He seemed
firm in his saddle, although his appearance told of
a recent debauch. He was followed at a short distance
by Hugh, whose dark and evil eyes leaped at once upon
Oliver, as he lay, his face white in the shadow of the
trees, his head turbaned by the folds of the curious
handkerchief.
“Hello!”
he cried, “what have we here?” at the same
time reining in his beast. When they had halted, Oliver
explained his plight in a very few words, and there
was a consultation between the brothers. At length Eric
dismounted, and without a word, lifted Oliver into his
saddle. Every movement of the horse sent the blood bounding
to his head, often he reeled in his seat, and it seemed
an eternity before they halted at the door of the Manor.
When Eric and Hugh assisted him to dismount, the old
dancing light came into his eyes, there was a tumult
of deep waters in his ears, and he knew no more till
he awoke in a dark, cool room. [Page 92]
His clothes
had been removed, and he noticed at once that the scarf
with which St. Pierre Miquelon had bandaged his head,
had been taken off and a damp cloth lay upon his wound.
He felt a pleasant sense of ease and refreshment, but
when he raised his head from the pillows the room swam
before him. Then he was contented to lie still and observe
his surroundings. He made out from the shadows of the
trees, and the light sound of the ripple breaking on
the shore that he was in a room upon the ground floor,
and presently from the opening and shutting of a door,
and the tramp of feet, that it communicated with the
hall. He wondered how long he had lain there, and whether
Miquelon was still awaiting him in the wood. From the
gradual decrease in the light, he judged that the evening
was drawing near; but he reflected that for all he knew
he might have been lying as he was for many days.
Suddenly, through
the closed door rose the sound of a violent quarrel;
there were curses and heavy words. “I will go
in,” he heard Eric protesting, with an oath. “No,
you won’t, let Irene go; trust a woman for worming
anything out of a man.” It was Hugh’s voice.
Then he heard the low voice of a woman trying to quiet
them. Soon there came the noise of a scuffle and the
great thud of a body thrust against the wall. For a
moment there was silence and then the choking sound
of someone struggling for breath, and the grinding of
a head against the bottom of the door. Oliver sprang
up in bed, and with the force of the movement his head
ran full of blood, and everything went black before
him.
When he came
to himself the room was lighted by a candle, and a woman
was bending over him, and changing the cloth on his
forehead. The light of the candle was full upon her.
Her face was not young and she had masses of snowy hair
piled upon her head.
“You
have been wandering,” she said, in a sweet voice.
“How
long have I been here?” asked Oliver.
“This
is the second day,” she replied. “Try to
take some broth.”
Oliver felt
refreshed by the nourishment.
“My head
feels better,” he said, touching the cloth.
“How
did it happen?” she asked. Oliver remembered that
he must invent a story.
“I was
riding to Rouse’s Point,” he replied; “my
horse became frightened and carried me against the limb
of a tree. I do not remember anything else clearly.”
“You
bound up your head with the handkerchief?” she
said interrogatively. [Page 93]
Oliver remembered
the quarrel he had overheard, and Hugh’s remark,
that you could trust a woman for worming anything out
of a man. “Oh, yes,[“] he replied, “yes,
I remember now, I thought I would ride on, and the next
thing I recollect is the two men coming down the hill.
It seems a long time ago. You have been very kind to
me.”
“Is there
any one to whom we could send word?”
“No,
to-morrow I will be able to move; my horse must have
gone back to Lacolle.”
“Your
clothes are in the closet, but you must not try to move
yet. The handkerchief I have washed; it is a very curious
one. May I ask where you got it?”
Oliver closed
his eyes. He reflected that it would not do for him
to mention his companion. What would he say? “My
uncle gave it to me. It came from India years ago.”
“That
is strange,” she said; “but you must not
talk any longer.” With that she left the room.
Before long he heard voices in the hall. “Yes,
from India! That is true enough, but that his uncle
gave it to him is a black lie. There is only one man
in the world who could have given him that handkerchief,
and I will have the truth out of him.” There was
a rush for his door. “Irene, stand aside!”
“He is
asleep. Can you not wait? He cannot move hand or foot
for a week; there will be time enough.” With that
there was silence again, or the sound of conversation
which he could not understand. Oliver thought of the
woman guarding him from the rudeness of her brothers,
and his mind ran upon the many eerie stories which were
abroad concerning the house, and he thought of the legend
of the white figure which haunted the unfinished building
and sat weeping in its unglazed windows. Probably he
was the first stranger who had slept within the walls
for years. For what purpose had he been brought thither,
and how was St. Pierre Miquelon connected with this
nest of disordered spirits?
The broth which
Irene had given him made him drowsy, and when he next
awoke he was conscious of greater strength. He sat up
and felt his wounded head. There was pain where he touched
it, but his brain no longer reeled when he moved. The
moonlight was streaming into the room, and, as he had
before noticed, the pleasant sound of the shallow water
on the beach came lapping coolly on the light drift
of air that played at the window. As he gazed, in a
sort of dreamy half-consciousness, he was aware of a
slight figure stealing into the light. It was clothed
in white, and moved without a sound. It crossed the
casement and glided into the shadow, and [Page
94] the whiteness which it carried glimmered
there with an ashy grayness. He was not terrified; the
idea crossed his mind that he was again wandering and
that the figure was merely an hallucination bred by
the waking thoughts of the haunted house and its uncanny
occupants. Slowly the figure drifted back into the moonlight;
it stood there wringing its hands. Then it leant far
out of the open window.
A moment later,
while he was still lost in the novel discussion as to
whether he had a proper control of his faculties, there
was the sound of voices in the road, and soon the heavy
trampling of feet in the portico. Oliver heard the front
door thrown violently open. At the same moment the figure
vanished. In the hall there was a great confusion; curses,
calls for lights, and suddenly, quelling all, the sound
of a woman’s suppressed shriek.
Oliver, without
any further doubt that he was perfectly in his senses,
slipped out of bed. Whether the excitement under which
he labored lent him a fictitious power, or whether he
had recovered a great portion of his strength, he knew
not, but he found he could stand securely and move without
difficulty. The moon gave him sufficient light to distinguish
the objects in the room, and swiftly and noiselessly
he found the closet door, and thrust himself into his
clothes. In this interval the turmoil in the hall had
increased; the cries for lights were redoubled, and
there was the tramp of heavy boots upon the floor. Oliver
cautiously set his door ajar, and looked out into the
hall through which he had been carried unconscious.
Its proportions
were hardly revealed by the moonlight, but it seemed
to be a large oblong apartment. The door from which
Oliver peered was set in an alcove. To his right hand
the space was filled with a heavy piece of furniture.
He could distinguish that there was sufficient space
between it and the wall to admit his body. Cautiously
he slipped from the door, behind this protection. It
was a sort of buffet and, through the spaces in its
scrolled and carved back he could obtain a clear view
of the centre of the hall. Here was a table, massive
and large, with something dark thrown or heaped upon
it. In the dimness of the moonlight, which came faintly
through the transom and side lights of the hall door,
he could distinguish the bulk of two figures huddled
in chairs, and this amorphous shape stretched upon the
table. Then from the murk of the chamber rose anew the
volley of curses, the impatient stamping of feet upon
the floor, and an immoderate cry for candles. “Candles!
bring thousands of candles and light all about the table.
We went ahunting and we have caught my fellow’s
uncle, in good faith! By the brightness of God! trim
those tallow dips and let us see the game!” [Page
95]
This was in
Eric’s huge voice, and atop of it came the sharp
cry from Hugh, “Irene! Irene!” She came
in bearing two candles. They lit up her white face and
her blanched hair. “Place them round about. By
heaven let us have a ring of fire and see if my man
will dance in it.”
Slowly she
brought candles, two at a time, and placed them around
the confused indistinct shape on the table. The growing
light brought out the angles of the room and the figures
of the two brothers as they sat in their great backed
chairs. Eric, wild with drink, his eyes jutting and
staring, and Hugh’s face looking canine with an
uplifted lip, like a malediction in the flesh.
The growing
light brought out point after point in the figure stretched
upon the table, line after line in the garb of St. Pierre
Miquelon gloated over the curious blue handkerchief
dropped upon his face, and the last candle flashed a
beam of light from the cairngorm set in the hilt of
the dirk which was driven down deep into his heart.
[Part
Two]
When Oliver
Prest actually comprehended that he was gazing on the
body of the man who had, a few hours before, accosted
him and induced him to the affair which had already
developed into such a misadventure, he reeled, and would
have fallen if he had not suddenly recoiled from the
danger, collected himself, and grasped the solid support
which the buffet, behind which he was hidden, afforded
him. In a moment he had so far recovered his equanimity
that he could gaze again from his hiding-place.
There
had been no change in the scene before him, except that
Irene, after placing the last candle, had disappeared
and left the two men and their victim. They were immovable,
but Hugh showed some sign of life in a twitching mouth
and an eye which rose from the floor and dwelt awhile
at the level of the table and sank again. Eric did not
voluntarily move, but there was an apoplectic shiver
in his hand and arm, which were extended along the arm
of the chair. Oliver began to wonder whether he could
slip unobserved into his room again, when Eric appeared
suddenly to have realized something of the horror of
the scene before him, for he pulled himself to his feet
and, remaining unsteadily for a moment, plunged forward
on the table. He swept half the candlesticks to the
floor, and in the confusion which followed Oliver easily
reversed the movement which had placed him in his position
of vantage. [Page 96]
When
he again found himself in his room, he sat upon his
bed and endeavoured to collect his thoughts and decide
what he must do. He could hardly realize that what he
had just seen was not some ugly vision, and by effort
after effort he endeavoured to recall his senses, and
resume once more the captaincy of his spirit. But this
effort only brought the deeper conviction that he had
seen something real, and that he must act and not dream.
Quickly he went to the window. It was evidently nearly
morning. The moon had disappeared, and threw a wan light
upon the tops of the trees. A fresh wind sprang from
the river and rustled abroad in the woods. In a moment,
hardly without making a resolve, he sprang lightly to
the ground. He found himself in what had once been the
garden, and a few steps gave him shelter behind an arbor
thickly overgrown with vines.
As he stole
from the concealment which the close foliage afforded,
he glanced back at the house. There were hurried lights
flitting behind the windows, and from the one he had
just left a figure was leaning—a figure indistinct
and wraithlike in the obscured light of the moon. From
the old garden he made his way to the road, and was
soon walking in the direction of Lacolle as energetically
as if he had not, a few hours before, been babbling
incoherently upon his bed.
His intention
was to walk at once to the village and give the alarm,
but just as he was nearing the scene of his accident,
and the point where he had expected to meet St. Pierre
Miquelon, his foot struck something in the road. There
was sufficient light in the sky to disclose that it
was Miquelon’s cap. This circumstance led him
to reason that it might be wiser for him to delay until
the sun had risen, in order to collect any evidence
of the murder which the wood or road might hold, before
the Savonas had the opportunity to remove them. Acting
upon this idea, he went into the woods. Here the faint
moonlight had no power and the trees were massed in
shadow. Gradually, as from the descent of some subtle
liquid, he could begin to distinguish the nearest trees,
until, from the topmost twigs to the roots, they were
bathed in this illuminating fluid.
As soon as
the light grew strong enough, he made a thorough search
of the wood, and discovered the spot where the struggle
had occurred, for there were the traces of feet deeply
set in the soft mould, broken twigs, crushed ferns,
and, in the centre of the space, the blade of a small
sword, broken off at the hilt, half concealed like a
bright snake amongst the débris. Oliver
was a lad of great spirit, and his blood ran wild in
his veins at the thought of the encounter in the dark;
of the two ruffians set against the old man, in whom
he could not recollect one trait of violence, and he
resolved to avenge him and bring his murderers to their
deserved end. At the same [Page 97]
time, the feeling of unreality which had all along oppressed
him arose anew, and he questioned himself sharply in
the endeavor to reconcile his seeming vision with the
potency of his present emotions. While so engaged he
came out from the trees, and found himself at the very
place upon the side of the road where he had fallen
from his horse. This brought all the late occurrences
back into his mind with such a rush of conviction that
he sprang into the middle of the road and began the
ascent of the hill. All his uncertainty had vanished.
The morning
was now clear in the sky, and the east, above the cap
of the hill, was bright with a long cloud glowing with
cinnabar. His one thought was to reach Lacolle as speedily
as possible; he did not consider that there could be
any danger to avoid. During all his waiting in the wood
there had been no sound of pursuit; his escape from
the Manor had not been discovered. If the evanescent
shape which had appeared at his window was a thing of
human parts, either she had not noticed his flight or
had not given the alarm. He felt perfectly secure. He
proceeded without the least caution, bearing the cap
and broken sword-blade in his hand.
Just as he
reached the top of the hill, he saw a figure seated
by the roadside upon a heap of stones. He stopped, aghast.
It was St. Pierre Miquelon! He was perfectly quiet,
gazing intently upon the ground. His head was bare.
The early sunlight, falling clearly upon him, gave a
freshness to his worn garments. Oliver, when he could
realize what he saw, rushed forward with a cry. “Miquelon!
Miquelon!” The figure raised its head. The features
were those of St. Pierre Miquelon, but all the color
had vanished from his face. Instead of the bronze laid
on bronze, instead of the skin almost caloussed by wind
and hard weather, instead of a twinkling eye set in
a socket puckered to temper the sun, Oliver saw a pallid
mask, a moist, transparent countenance, and received
an irresolute, evasive glance.
The old man
spoke and smiled. “You thought they had killed
me? Well, you were wrong, as you see. It would take
more than a couple of boys to kill me. I see you have
found my hat.”
Oliver handed
it to him, and he placed it on his head. He was so overcome
he could hardly speak.
“You
are changed,” he ventured, “terribly changed.”
“Yes,
but then I have had cause to be since you saw me last.
I was on the way to Lacolle; in half an hour I would
have given the alarm.”
“Well,
there is no need now, we will go on together.”
The old man
rose and they walked side by side in the road.
They had not
gone ten steps when the conviction overcame Oliver that
this was not St. Pierre Miquelon. His altered countenance
and expression [Page 98] were possible
of explanation, but the absence of that strange charm
of sea-faring, the air of the rover, the clinging gait
of one who had paced a deck from Blomidon to Uclulet,
could not be explained.
“We set
out in this adventure together,” he said, abruptly;
“I plied you with no questions, but now I ask
you to explain.”
“There
will be plenty of time for that, young man,” he
answered.
“Well,
the present is as good a time as any.”
“But
it does not fit my mood.”
“Then
I go no further.”
This evidently
nonplussed his companion. “My dear young fellow,”
he said in a wheedling tone, “you need not be
so unaccommodating; when you hear what I have to say
you will be perfectly satisfied, and, in the meantime,
I ask you to forbear and come with me.”
“On one
condition,” said Oliver. “I last saw you
on your back with a dirk in your ribs; now you are clothed
as I saw you then; throw back your coat—over the
heart—there.”
They were standing
face to face. The old man shrank back, but Oliver, with
a dart of his arm, threw the coat back upon his shoulder,
and, before he could clasp his hand over his heart,
he saw the fissure which the dirk had made, its edges
ridged with the ooze of blood from the heart stricken
below.
Before Oliver
had time to move, the old man had whipped a dog-whistle
from his pocket and had blown it sharply. In a moment
Eric and Hugh rushed from their concealment in the woods,
and, after a short, violent scuffle, overpowered him.
They bound his hands behind his back, tied a handkerchief
across his mouth, and, while Eric guarded him, Hugh
went into the forest and soon reappeared leading a horse
which Oliver at once recognized as the one ridden by
Miquelon. They lifted him into the saddle and formed
a procession; Eric leading the horse, Hugh walking by
his side, and the old man bringing up the rear.
When they reached
the Manor, Oliver was thrust into a room which opened
from the large hall. It was built like a cell, the only
aperture, besides a hole for a stove-pipe in the ceiling,
being a small window high in the wall, heavily crossed
with iron; there was no furniture except a small oak
table, ornamented with some rude scroll work at the
ends, and a bench against the wall. Here Oliver sat
down. His feet were not pinioned, but the handkerchief
was still bound upon his mouth, and his hands were fastened
firmly behind his back.
There could
be no doubt in his mind for what fate he was reserved;
it was only, he thought, a question of the time and
the manner of his taking [Page 99]
off. In this extremity he did not think further of the
mysteries by which he was surrounded, or endeavor to
find a clue to them; his one thought was how he could
make some show of fight for his life. He carefully examined
his cell. The light from the window fell upward upon
the stove-pipe hole, and downward toward the door, but
he could expect succor from neither of these quarters.
At a first survey, he thought the walls were perfectly
smooth, but after a more careful scrutiny he discovered
a nail or spike about six feet from the floor. Standing
upon the bench he found that this spike was just even
with his face, and slipping its head under the upper
edge of the handkerchief which covered his mouth, he
gradually worked the bandage downward until it passed
his chin and left his mouth free.
This was an
incalculable relief, and it seemed to him that he could
actually think to more purpose when he could expand
his lungs to their fullest capacity. But after this
first glow had passed he could take no comfort from
his cogitations. A prolonged straining at his wrists
proved that the knots would hold against any effort
of his own. He passed the greater part of an hour chafing
the cords against the iron bound corner of the bench.
If he had been a Bastile prisoner, with a lifetime to
spend in such an occupation, he might have continued
with the hope of success after a decade, but he saw
that in his present need the task was hopeless. Suddenly
he felt faint and sank upon the bench so completely
exhausted that a sort of stupor crept upon him. He was
aroused from this by a slight tap upon the shoulder.
Starting up he looked around.
There swinging
to and fro like a pendulum was a good brave dirk. It
was suspended by a string through the hole in the ceiling.
He could distinguish no one there, but the action was
friendly, for when he turned so that the dagger struck
his back, it was lowered to a level with his hands.
With some difficulty he grasped it, and after a moment’s
consideration, he worked it carefully into one of the
holes in the scroll work of the table. This allowed
sufficient resistance, and after several wounds to his
wrists and hands, he succeeded in severing one of his
bonds. A moment later he was free. Not until then was
the cord released leaving the weapon under his control.
He now felt in a measure prepared for whatever might
befall, and braced by the excitement of his freedom
he became conscious of a nervous power sufficient to
match his prowess. It had not come too soon.
Eric and Hugh
had not delayed from any uncertainty as to their design,
but their valor had come after many years to partake
of the Dutch quality, and, partially sobered by the
morning air and sunshine, they required an interval
to renew their spirits. Oliver had scarcely found himself
free when he heard an advance of footsteps. Throwing
off his coat he wound it firmly [Page 100]
about his left forearm. He took the dirk between his
teeth, and lifting the bench, rested it upon the table.
Eric, always
the foremost, threw the door open. Hugh was behind him.
They were armed with short swords. They had expected
to make one wild rush upon a bound victim, and pierce
him like a sack of wool. When they saw Oliver alert
and ready to receive them, they were checked. Seizing
the opportunity he caught up the bench and using it
as a ram struck Eric over the heart with such force
that he went down through the doorway with a crash into
the hall. Following up his advantage he sprang forward
on Hugh, who gave way before him, and he found himself
in the hall. Casting down the bench which had served
him in such good stead, he caught Hugh’s first
lunge on his protected arm, and springing forward he
tried to reach him with the dirk; but his blow fell
short and he was not quick enough to avoid a stroke
which slashed his face. The wipe of the cold steel summoned
all his spirit, and he felt that the work must be short
if he was to carry his life out of the house. Eric lay
as still as death where he had fallen. Hugh fronted
him, glaring like a wolf, thrusting and slashing. Already
the sword edge had found the bone through the folds
of his coat. He waited his opportunity to spring within
the guard and strike. In a flash he advanced, driving
his enemy back toward the table. The rally came. He
caught the sword on his arm, threw it off, was over
his adversary, and the dirk poised one gleaming second
and fell.
At that moment,
as Oliver reeled, he thought he heard the sound of voices
and the opening of the door and the advance of succor,
but the impression went out in darkness. It was Ellard’s
men who had rushed into the hall. The horse which Oliver
had ridden had come into the stable the day before with
the saddle twisted and a general air of disaster. They
had waited for hours for some explanation and had then
set out to find the missing animal. They found him before
the door of the Manor, quietly ranging about, eating
the grass. He had been hobbled by Miquelon and limped
about feeding on the scant herbage in the woods until
Eric and Hugh had found him. Irene had summoned them
almost in time to see Oliver deal Hugh the fatal stroke.
Eric had never moved from where he fell. Oliver’s
blow had thrust him over the verge of the apoplexy upon
which he had so long hovered.
It was some
days before Oliver heard in full the explanation of
the mysteries into which he had fallen. Although it
was the topic of conversation at the moment, the world
soon forgets, and the story may be given here in Irene
Savona’s own words. [Page 101]
•
• •
My
grandfather was a London merchant in the India silk
trade. From what I have heard, he seems for many years
to have been unsuccessful; then there was a turn in
the tide of his fortunes, and he became quickly, almost
suddenly, rich. This good luck seems to have had a peculiar
effect upon him; he was naturally superstitious and
the acquisition of this great wealth he ascribed to
the intervention of a guardian spirit. This spirit he
held to be incorporated in an old Brahmin servant, and
when this servant died he was inconsolable, thinking
that he would at once lose everything that he had gained.
But he was reassured when his servant began to appear
to him in dreams, and his wealth, instead of diminishing,
began to increase. He had married early in life, but
his wife had not survived to enjoy his good fortune.
She bore him twin sons and before they had reached their
sixth year she died. The boys grew up side by side,
watched over by their father, who gave them everything
they wished for. When their education was finished he
took them into his business, and designed to give them
a thorough insight into all his affairs.
But here something
intervened. My father had told me that it was the old
Indian servant who wished, for some purpose of his own,
to sow discord. However that may have been, his affection
became unsettled, and although he had told his sons
frequently that he had made his will, giving them equal
shares of his great estate, when that document was read
after his death, they discovered that instead of straight
dealing, it contained most curious provisions, the first
will evidently having been destroyed.
The last will
devised that the sons should each receive a small annuity
until one of them died. After that event, the whole
estate, without any reservation, was to fall to the
heirs of the deceased. Not so much as a shilling was
to go to the survivor, and, moreover, even his paltry
annuity was to cease. In the event of the deceased having
no family, the annuity was to be continued to the surviving
son, but the bulk of the fortune was to go toward the
establishment and maintenance of a home for the widows
and orphans of officers who had died in the Indian service.
At first this
curious, whimsical will formed the subject of many a
jest between the lads. But when the subject of marriage
arose, there came a cloud between them. My father married
first. My uncle was not long in following his example;
but he was unlucky in everything and in nothing so greatly
unfortunate as in his marriage, for his wife died on
his wedding day. This calamity so put him out of conceit
of living that he turned against his brother violently;
there were repeated quarrels and at last he left England.
[Page 102]
My father’s
family was increasing, and when he found the four of
us at his table, the provisions of that will, which
seemed specially framed to foster jealousy and every
evil, began to work their spell. I cannot say whether,
before he left England, he had formed the plan which
he afterwards deliberately carried out. All I know is
that he came here, settled down, and began to farm on
a large scale. Shortly after we arrived my mother died.
After we had been here for about ten years, my father
received a letter from England which informed him that
his brother had married in Ceylon and had three children.
This hastened the carrying out of the plot which he
had already laid. We were all informed of its details
and schooled in our parts.
It was in January
that he received the letter; Easter was in April that
year, and he went to Montreal with cattle for the market,
and no one of the outside world ever saw him again until
Mr. Prest met him that morning at the top of the hill.
We concealed him in the house and by watchfulness we
were able to elude all observation and keep our secret.
Hortense was specially detailed to keep him constant
company, but the poor child’s mind gave way under
the monotony of her existence. My father became morose
and sullen, and between them and my brothers, who took
to drink, my life has been an affliction. This money
proved a terrible curse and misfortune. We heard after
years that my uncle had not married, that he was wandering
over the earth. Sometimes he would communicate with
our London solicitors, who gave him information about
the life we were living here. But we never had a message
from him until Mr. Prest was carried in unconscious,
his head bound with the curious handkerchief. My father,
as soon as it was shown to him, knew that it had belonged
to his father, and that his brother must be somewhere
in the vicinity. Eric and Hugh were so ruthless and
high-handed that they waylaid and murdered him and concealed
the body. It was at first planned to deceive Mr. Prest,
and my father, who was the image of his twin brother,
donned his clothes. If this deception could have been
carried out, the world might never have heard this curious
story, but my father was irresolute and in some way
suspicion was aroused. Then Mr. Prest was brought back
to the Manor, and had to fight for his life, aided by
the only assistance I could give him, until I called
in the men from Lacolle, who had come in search of the
horses.
•
• •
Not
a soul who was interested in this tragedy at the time
ever knew the sequel to the story. The provisions of
the will were carried out to the letter. As the Savona,
whom Oliver Prest had known as St. Pierre Miquelon,
had [Page 103] died first of the brothers and without
issue the whole of the immense fortune is devoted to
the home for the widows of officers who die in the service
in India. The small annuity remains to the surviving
Savonas.
Not
many years ago the inhabitants of Montreal were familiar
with the figure of an old man, led by a girl, in whose
face there was something wild and uncanny. Their favorite
walk was Sherbrooke Street and the Cote de Neige Road.
But the old man is dead. The girls have disappeared.
Not even Oliver Prest knows where they sojourn. [Page
104]
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