by W. W. Tarn
CHAPTER IV
THE URCHIN VANISHES
To most people there is some corner of the earth which means more thanall others; and there are two or three in the world whose holy placeis the old house on the sea-loch which the Student's humbler neighborscalled the "big house." An old square building of gray stone, thatmatches the gray sky and the gray sea, it has small claims to beauty;it was built in the days of blank windows, and every wind in theisland meets and screams round the battered iron balustrade whichleads up its steps to the door, and strives to tear down the tendrilsof ivy that cling to the east front. To the south front, lashed by thefull Atlantic gales, not even ivy can cling; only a few twisted eldersand stunted planes grow there, and take the first force of the winterwind; but the old lawn to the north bursts in summer into a cloud ofwhite marguerites, whose ethereal beauty at sunset is like the ghostsof the dreams that haunt the place. For to some of us the old house isfull of dreams, that cling to the dark passages and the uneven floors,and play in and out of the little windows that are still propped openwith wood, as they were a hundred years ago; dreams of the brightlights and the bright voices that greeted us, coming in out of theblinding rain; dreams of the dance and the song, songs of old lostcauses from which all bitterness has died away, leaving to-day nothingbut beauty behind them; dreams of faded joys and forgotten sorrows, ofloves that have passed elsewhere and of memories that abide; dreams offaces that are seen no more. Some day it will change ownership; itwill be sold to someone from whom understanding of these things hasbeen withheld, and who will see only the darkness of the oldcorridors, the shabbiness of the old doorway; and he will build newdoors, and porticoes and a wide verandah, and make it fair within andwithout, levelling the floors and trimming the lawns; and he will havedestroyed the old house and the fragrance of it, and it will neverreturn. But to-day it still stands as it has stood for many a longyear, clothed in the memories that never leave it and rich in all thatthe past has built into it; and to some who may never dwell thereagain it is yet ever present as the home of their hearts' desire, atrue house of faery.
The Student had let the old house to the Urchin's father. He was atall, thin man with a hooked nose, and he knew more about oneparticular family of Coleoptera than anyone living. He had taken theplace, not because he wanted it for its shooting, but because one ofthe beetles of his family was reputed to be plentiful in theneighborhood. He was never there long; he was never anywhere long. Forthirty years he had pursued his beetles over five continents; hismeasurements of their wing cases alone filled nine enormous MS.volumes. His great work on the variation of the length of the wingcase in beetles kept in captivity had become a classic. Scientific menhad nothing but praise for the book; several even read it. Themajority believed that he had re-founded Neo-Mendelism past anyoverthrowing; a small but persistent minority argued that, on thecontrary, he had utterly overthrown the Neo-Mendelians. All, however,agreed that the book was epoch-making, even though they differedutterly as to the sort of epoch which it made. The author himself wasa shy and modest person, who never lost his temper except when peoplesent him unpaid parcels from Timbuctoo or Khamchatka containingbeetles of other families in which he took no interest. On the rareoccasions when he could be induced to go into society, kind-heartedhostesses, who saw no reason why one crawling thing should not do aswell as another had been known to try to please him by starting aconversation about ladybirds or earwigs; and it was said to be worthforegoing one's cigar to hear him explain, with a chuckle, that thoughearwigs or ladybirds were no doubt meritorious creatures in theirseveral spheres, and possibly legitimate objects of study to others,they were not his subject; his subject was a particular family ofColeoptera. He and the Student had become great friends, and when hewas in the island he would often drop in to see the Student's bookroomafter dinner and there the two would sit, one on either side of thefire, each smoking at a tremendous pace and talking hard on his ownsubject. Neither ever expected an answer from the other; neither evergot one. But they had silently established an unwritten law that whenone had talked for three minutes by the clock on the mantelpiece hewas to stop and let the other have a turn; and when at last they saidgood night, each felt that they had both had a thoroughly enjoyableevening. And so they had.
Unlike to unlike. The Urchin's father had married the daughter of astockbroker, who, on her death, had left him two legacies; one was theUrchin, and the other was an occasional visitation from her brotherJeconiah. Mr. Jeconiah P. Johnson, the well-known promoter ofcompanies, was a short, stout man with a red face and a shifty blueeye, always immaculately dressed in broadcloth with a huge expanse ofwhite waistcoat, over which sprawled his double watch chain and histriple chin. There were possibly some good points even about Jeconiah,if anything so rotund could be said to have points; but there werecertainly not many. He was supposed by some to possess what is called"a high standard of business morality"; it would be truer to say thathis code was prehistoric. He had so far kept himself right with thelaw, because he had mastered the sordid maxim which proclaims thathonesty is the best policy; no other reason was likely to occur tohim. With some effort he had succeeded in formulating a rule ofconduct of which he was rather proud: Do good to yourself and yourfriends and evil to those who stand in your way. If anyone had toldhim that the philosophy of ethics took its rise, some twenty-twocenturies ago, in a reaction against a similar rule, he would haveremarked jocosely that he never studied back numbers. Of anything moreexalted than "policy," anything not to be reckoned in terms of L.s.d.,he was as ignorant as a hippopotamus.
He was never very fond of his right hand's knowing what his left handdid; for while the right hand promoted companies, the left hand, bymeans of a manager and a registered alias, carried on a very usefullittle money-lender's business. He was never averse to putting thescrew on, if there was anything to be got by it; and sometimes he gotrather funny things. Recently he had had a broken debtor on his hands,and had taken what he could get; among other things, an old bureaufull of papers. Jeconiah, being a methodical soul, had turned a clerkon to sort the papers; and the clerk had presently brought him thelong lost map of the Scargill cave, and a sheet of paper containingsomebody's rough explanation of what it was supposed to be. Jeconiah,who had heard the story, scented possibilities, and, it being a slacktime in the City, promptly invited himself to his brother-in-law'shouse to recover from an attack of influenza. That is how Jeconiahcomes into this story. It could not be helped, for he had the map. Thefinner had said he was too fat to count; but that is where the finnerwas wrong.
Jeconiah forthwith gave his mind, such as it was, to the subject ofcaves. Diffidence was not his failing, and he cross-examined everyperson he could find, concealing, of course, his real object. Hecollected a splendid amount of rubbish; but he was acute enough wherehis pocket was concerned, and out of the rubbish he presently draggedforth the fact of the haunted cave which no one would enter. WhereonJeconiah went over to Scargill to fish, and had a look at the lie ofthe island; settled with himself that it seemed a good enough placefor a wreck, and told the keeper to row him into the west cave. Butthe keeper, who had no particular liking for Jeconiah, refusedpoint-blank, and told him he would not find a man in the island whowould do it; and Jeconiah, who had suddenly lost interest in thefishing, went home in a bad temper. This happened the day after thetwo children were in the cave; and the day after that the Urchin'sfather received an excited cablegram from Brazil on the subject of hisbeloved beetles. He rushed down at once to see the Student.
"I am going to Brazil, I don't know for how long," he said. "And myboy can't go back to school for a month or more, as they have scarletfever in the village there. And I don't like to leave him with thehousekeeper, and I start in two hours. Will you take him?"
"Delighted," said the Student. "Fiona will look after him."
So the Urchin came, and with him came to Fiona a sense ofresponsibility for him. She couldn't help it.
But Jeconiah showed no intention of moving. On the co
ntrary, theafter-effects of influenza were still troubling him sorely, it seemed.At last the Urchin's father had to tell him to stay a week or twolonger, if he wanted to; the servants would be there anyhow. AndJeconiah thanked him and settled down to stay, as he had meant to doall along. But as soon as his brother-in-law was gone he took the carand went off for the day. The chauffeur said that he went to a lot ofplaces and talked to a lot of people; and a couple of days later twostrange men in a boat entered the bay and proceeded to camp out on apart of the shore which was not the Student's property. Jeconiah had,in fact, hired the boat, and found a couple of ne'er-do-wells from themainland who knew nothing of him and were ready to row him anywhere inpursuit of his business, which was understood to be photographing wildbirds for an illustrated paper.
Jeconiah had, however, made one great mistake. He was aware that youmust not neglect little things, and he had neglected quite a biglittle thing--the Urchin. He had never spoken to him about caves, ortaken the least notice of the boy's movements. And the Urchin on hisside had been hard at work. He had confessed to Fiona on the subjectof the footsteps, and she to him; and they had agreed, under the broadhealthy light of day, that probably they had been mistaken and afraidof the dark, and that with lanterns it would be all right. Theyagreed, however, that it was necessary to have a really good light,and the difficulty was to find one. It was the Urchin who came forwardas the saviour of society by proposing to win over Jones, thechauffeur, and get the loan of one of the big acetylene head-lampsfrom the car. Jones, a newcomer, had not yet heard about the cave,and, being English, he had not yet found his feet among his fellowsand was glad of any sort of diversion. The Urchin wound up atriumphant half hour of diplomacy by making Jones promise to lend himone of the headlights and show him how to work it. Then the Urchinfell, as many greater men have fallen; he was lifted up with pride,and told Jones that Fiona and he were going treasure-hunting. Jonesgrinned; but that evening he talked; and in due course Jeconiah heard.
* * * * *
Fiona was digging in her garden, or rather in the Urchin's, for shehad assigned him one bit of it, which she had to cultivate for him;otherwise it would have run waste, for all the work the Urchin putinto it. Her garden was one corner of the old walled garden of theStudent's house, which was not very well kept now. Once it had beengay with flowers and rich with fruit; but now few flowers grew theresave such as could look after themselves, and the fruit had come downto two gnarled old apple trees, in which Fiona had made her earliestexperiments in climbing. Most of the ground, so far as it was in use,was now given over to cabbages and potatoes; but in June the borderswere sweet with double white narcissus, and now in September there wasa revel of unpruned roses, their blooms growing smaller year by year,and a mass of the dark-red blossoms of the little west coast fuchsia,which knows how to live through the winter. One deserted corner wasgay with Turk's turban, which still had strength to push up throughthe ever-thickening tangle of weeds; and groups of winter crocus werecoming up in the borders, and among them a few Shirley poppies whichFiona had sown herself. Fiona had had thoughts of taking the garden inhand, but the space enclosed by the old walls was far too large forher to manage unaided; and as there was no money to pay a propergardener, she had had to content herself with clearing one corner.Here she had achieved a riot of color. She had made a little rockeryof oak-leaf and beech ferns brought down from the hill, sentinelled bytall pink foxgloves; the worn-out plum trees against the wall behindwere threaded and festooned with thick trailers of yellow and scarletnasturtium; and in front of the rockery, her especial pride, was agreat bed of velvet pansies, rich with every hue of the rainbow. Theywere flanked by simple annuals, filmy pink poppies, orange escholtziasand sweet-scented mignonette; and in a bed by themselves were the goldand crimson snapdragons which the Urchin had begged for her from thegardener at the big house.
She must needs dig up a centipede, one of the small yellow ones. Theywere her special dislike. The centipede did not like being dug upeither, and writhed himself into seven different sets of tangles atonce, as is the way of the smaller centipedes.
"You horrid little yellow beast," she said, forgetting that he couldunderstand, and made a dab at him with her spade, which, to herrelief, missed him. She felt she had done her duty by hitting at him,but did not hide from herself that she had really missed him onpurpose.
"Little's all right," said the centipede, "and yellow's all right; andthough I'm not really a beast, we will let it go at that. But I'm nota bit horrid."
"But I don't like you," said Fiona, "and you wriggle so."
"In the circles in which I move," said the centipede, "my wriggling ismuch admired. And the mere fact that you do not like me--which, I mayremind you, is only a subjective impression and has neither objectivevalidity nor permanent value--does not entitle you to call me names.You ought to have learnt better, with that bangle of yours. For allyou know, I may be a model of the more unselfish virtues."
"But you eat the roots of my flowers," said Fiona.
"That is the first I have heard of it," said the centipede. "But onelives and learns. It need not be the same one, though, who does both.So in the present case I propose that I should live and you shouldlearn."
"I wasn't going to kill you really," said Fiona.
The centipede bowed.
"A little courtesy does oil the creaking machinery of life, doesn'tit?" he said. "Please lift me up, for I have something to tell you,and your head is so far away. Shouting at you hurts my throat."
Fiona stooped down and took up the little yellow creature in her hand.
"Congratulations," said the centipede. "We _are_ getting on. Youwanted badly to shudder, and you didn't. We shall make something ofyou yet. My old friend the bookworm--who lives in your father'slibrary, by the way--has recently supplied me with a new quotationfrom the great poet Virgil, who had once, you may remember, quite areputation as a magician. It was to the effect that if you couldn'tget what you wanted by beginning at the top, you should start again atthe bottom. I am the bottom. I am not the _very_ bottom, but I am nearenough to it for your purpose. Now you see what you have gained bynot killing me."
"I don't see anything yet, I'm afraid," said Fiona.
"One must have patience with weaker vessels," said the centipede. "SoI will explain. My friend the bookworm, who supplies me with myquotations, has a cousin of the same profession in the library at thebig house. It was through him that I got the story I am going to tellyou about the fat man."
"Mr. Johnson!" exclaimed Fiona. "He has nothing to do with me." Shedisliked Jeconiah heartily, so far as she had given any thought tohim.
"Oh, yes, he has," said the centipede. "This is where I come in. Mybookworm's cousin, who is a great linguist and understands Englishperfectly, was at work in the library the other evening, and the fatman was having his coffee there. After coffee he lit a cigar and beganto walk up and down, and presently he started talking to himself outloud, as my informant says he often does when he is excited. And bypiecing his talk together, my informant made out that he had the mapof the Scargill cave, which one of your ancestors once gambled away,and that somehow or other he had found out that the cave of the map_was_ the Scargill cave, and that he was only waiting for a smooth dayto go and locate the treasure."
"Well?" said Fiona.
"Oh, come now," said the centipede, "it's no use pretending. We allknow that you are treasure-hunting--remember we can all understandeverything _you_ say, whether we are linguists or not--and my adviceto you is, to be quick about it, before the fat man can get his oarin."
"Thank you so much," said Fiona. "And I am so sorry I began by beingrude. Tell me, why have you told me all this when I began by beingrude?"
"Because I am a model of the more unselfish virtues, of course," saidthe centipede with a suppressed chuckle. "As a fact, I had anearth-phone from headquarters. But we are all backing you, you know.And now will you put me down, please; the upper air is chilly."
&nb
sp; He wriggled into a crack in the ground, and was gone.
That evening Fiona and the Urchin made their final preparations, incase the morrow should fall calm. That evening also Jeconiah heardthat he had rivals in the field. His language, as he walked up anddown the library, would have been very bad for the bookworm's moralshad that intelligent insect been able to understand it all; but thebookworm's English, though good, was literary, and much of the modernidiom employed by Jeconiah slid off its back. Jeconiah's plan had beento make sure that the gold was there, and then charter a launch fromGlasgow and take it straight to railway-head; he saw now that he couldnot afford the time, and that unless he could deal with the childrenin some way he might have to take the gold off in his boat, whichwould entail some risk, as well as cost him a heavy sum to buy his twoboatmen. Also he made up his mind that he must go the next morning,whatever the weather, if it were possible to launch the boat; he knewthat the children, with their little skiff, could only go to sea oncalm days.
Unfortunately for Jeconiah, the night fell calm, and though he roseearly, he had no notion of starting without a good breakfast. By thetime his boat was launched and he himself aboard, he had the pleasureof seeing through his glasses the children's boat off the east ornearer end of Scargill. The wealth of adjectives which he employed inthe circumstances filled his two loafers with awe and admiration.
Fiona, having the Urchin securely under her roof, had breakfastedbefore dawn, and as soon as it was light enough the children launchedtheir little boat. The Urchin had the precious headlight, readycharged, tied up in an old sack which would also serve to bring awaythe plunder; and round his waist he had twisted a length of cast-offrope. Its use was not apparent, but he thought it lookedbusiness-like. They saw that Jeconiah's boat was still drawn upashore, and in good heart they started on their long pull. They hadreached the island before Jeconiah had his boat out; having noglasses, they could not see if it was being launched or not. But offthe eastern end of the island, which is low and grassy, they had afright, for an empty boat was drawn ashore there. However, when theyrowed close in to look at it, Fiona recognized it.
"It's Angus MacEachan's boat," she said. "He has come to see after thesheep he has on the island. There he is, I can see him; he has got asheep that has hurt its foot." And indeed they could see Angus tendinga sick sheep.
"Fiona," said the boy, "we are too silly for anything. Of course thefootsteps we heard in the cave were Angus's. There is another way insomewhere, and he would be looking for a sheep."
Fiona said nothing. As they neared the cave, the problem of thefootsteps kept intruding itself more and more vividly upon her; butthe Urchin was happy in his theory, and she did not think it necessaryto remind him that the footsteps could not possibly have been those ofAngus, who walked with a limp. She began to feel a vague sense ofdisquiet, which she tried in vain to put aside.
They entered the cave, and the Urchin, with much pride, lit his greatlamp. The powerful burner threw a wonderful circle of light on toblack water and black walls, making them glow and sparkle with a softradiance till they looked like the very gateway of fairyland. Outsidethe circle everything became black as pitch. They paddled quietly upthe bright waterway, and grounded on the stones at the end. The Urchinwas hot after his long row, and helping to draw the boat up on thestones did not make him any cooler; he took off his jacket and pitchedit on to a thwart.
"Yes, it is hot, and stuffy," said Fiona. She recollected some storyshe had read about a coal mine, and sniffed. "I hope there is no gashere," she said.
The Urchin grinned.
"Oh, you girls!" he said. "Who ever heard of gas in a sea cave. Whatyou are smelling is the lamp."
Fiona took the lamp up.
"I'm going to take charge of this myself," she said. "You can carrythe treasure."
The Urchin picked up the sack and threw it over his shoulder.
"Go ahead, lady with the lamp," he said, and grinned again. He feltvery adventurous. He would rather have liked to be photographed.
With considerable caution, necessitated by the heavy lamp, theyclimbed the rock barrier and descended into the darkness of the innercave. The walking was better here; the rounded slippery boulders hadgiven place to a floor of pebbles and sand. Quite a short way from thebarrier the wall of the cave curved away in a semicircle on theright, its smooth surface forming a kind of small recess. Fiona sweptthe recess with her lamp, and on the sandy floor something gleamedback; the Urchin pounced on it and picked it up. It was a gold coin,not the least like any which the children had ever seen. It was, infact, a doubloon.
"This must be one of them," said the boy exultantly as he pocketed it;"one that got dropped. Come on, it can't be much farther."
But Fiona held the lamp steady and stared at the sand.
"Look at the marks on the sand," she said. "They are like the marks ofheavy boxes. The treasure has been here, Urchin, and it's not herenow. Someone has been here and taken it, and dropped one piece."
"I don't think so," said the Urchin. "We shall find them a bit fartheron."
So they went on, but not very far. For the light of the lamp suddenlyfell on a rock wall before them, the end of the cave. And it hadended, not as the other caves do, by the roof growing lower and lowertill it meets the floor; it had ended in this huge chamber of highrocky walls.
"So this is the cave that no one has ever reached the end of," saidFiona. "Why, it goes no distance at all."
They retraced their steps to the recess, and then back to the endagain, looking on this side and on that for openings, but it seemedquite clear that there were none.
"The boxes must have been carried off by sea," said Fiona.
But the Urchin had an idea.
"No one would try to carry great heavy boxes over the rock barrier,"he said. "They'd just take the gold out in sacks."
"The barrier may be a rock-fall," said Fiona. "The treasure may allhave been cleared out long ago."
And then there came to the Urchin the realization of the fact that hehad lost his gun. He turned very red.
"It's a shame," he said angrily, "an awful shame. It was given to me,and someone has taken it. Can't you think where it could be, Fiona?I'd go _anywhere_ to find it."
Whatever Fiona may have been going to say, her words tailed off intosudden silence. For from beyond the cave wall, as it seemed, soundedagain the footsteps which they had heard before; and this time theyknew that there was no cave there, and that It was walking throughsolid rock as if along a road. There was no question this time of anyconcealment or pretence; both frankly turned tail and made for therock barrier. Halfway there the Urchin tripped and fell heavily on hishead. Fiona put the lamp down and helped him up, dizzy and shaking.
"Can you go on, Urchin?" she said. "If not, I'll try and carry you."
The Urchin looked back into the blackness, unrelieved by any ray ofthe lamp, which faced the other way. The footsteps were steadilydrawing nearer, neither hasting nor staying. What the Urchin may havethought he saw Fiona could not guess; he gave one shriek, slid out ofher grasp, and bolted for the rock barrier as fast as his tremblingfeet would carry him.
For one moment Fiona all but followed him. Then it suddenly came toher that she was responsible for the boy's safety. She never knewafterwards how she managed to do what she did; but she turned, andwith the courage of utter desperation--the courage which enables thehen partridge to face the sparrow hawk--stood at bay, swinging up theheavy lamp to see and face whatever should come.
And into the circle of lamplight quietly walked the figure of the oldhawker.
The revulsion of feeling was too much for Fiona. She sprang forwardand caught the old man's hand and clung to it.
"Oh," she said, "I'm so glad it's you. We heard the footsteps and wewere so frightened." The relief of it all was overwhelming; she wasalmost crying, and went on saying anything, hardly knowing what shesaid, just for the mere human companionableness of it. "How did youcome here? I suppose you came over with Angus in his b
oat. Of courseyou would. Then there must be another way into the cave after all, andwe couldn't find it."
"And so I frightened you?" said the old man gently, making no effortto withdraw his hand. "Yes, there is another way in." He made noattempt to answer all her questions.
"Urchin," called Fiona, raising her voice. "Urchin, come back; it'sall right."
But there was no answer.
"Urchin," she shouted; "Urchin."
But there was no answer save the echoing of the empty cave.
"He was going down to the boat," she said, loyally repressing the factthat the Urchin had bolted. "We must go after him, for he had hurt hishead, and I am afraid of his falling again."
They climbed the rock barrier, and made their way to the boat. Theboat lay there as it had been left, half ashore, with the swellrippling against the stern, and over one thwart the Urchin's jacket,just as he had thrown it down. And the boat was as empty as the cave.
Into Fiona's eyes came a sudden fear.
"He must have fallen again, and be lying somewhere," she said.
They went back, searching every nook and corner of the cave, turningthe light into every crevice, under every rock, making a minuteexamination of the rock barrier; and there was no sign.
And then Fiona broke down.
"He is drowned," she said, and just sat and sobbed.
After a few moments the old man came and sat down beside her. In hisgentle voice he said that the Urchin could not possibly be drowned.The water was quite shallow at the edge, and he was a good swimmer,was he not? And even if he had not been, the swell would have rolledhim ashore. He himself had no doubt that all would come right.
Fiona ceased sobbing and turned on him.
"Do you know where he is?" she demanded bluntly.
"How would I know when you do not know?" said the old man. "Could Isee what you could not see?" And then "Listen."
Down the waterway came voices, and the sound of oars. It was in factJeconiah's boat entering the cave.
Fiona caught at the straw.
"He may have swum out to the other boat," she said.
But there was no one in the other boat but Jeconiah and his two men.They had powerful lanterns, and the boat was full of sacks. Jeconiahhimself was purple with suppressed rage and impatience. The moment hecould get ashore, he waddled up to Fiona and shook the map of the cavein her face, exclaiming, "Remember, if you have found anything itbelongs to me and I claim it."
Fiona had only one thought in her mind at the moment, and the foolishimpertinence of the little fat man was to her merely so muchunnecessary sound. Her answer was "Have you seen the Urchin? We havelost him. Did he not swim out to your boat?" She was almost sobbingagain.
"Confound the brat!" said Jeconiah roughly. "I've not come here toplay hide-and-seek with a parcel of children. Tell me at once whatyou've found."
Fiona straightened herself, and looked at Jeconiah as though he weresome noxious reptile.
"There was nothing here to find," she said. "And this cave belongs tomy father. And anything in it he gave to the Urchin."
"Well, he's not here," said Jeconiah brutally, "and I am. Who finds,keeps."
And calling to his men to bring the lights, he set off, betweenstumbling and crawling, for the rock barrier. One of the men had thedecency to stop a moment and tell Fiona that they had seen nothing ofany boy; Jeconiah turned and abused him for a laggard.
With a good deal of difficulty the two men hoisted and shoved Jeconiahover the rock barrier. Once over, he took a light himself, told themen to wait where they were, and after a good look at the map set outfor the recess where the Urchin had found the doubloon. Fiona followedhim; there was some vague idea in her mind of protecting the Urchin'sproperty; behind that there was still a faint subconscious hope thatin some way or other the Urchin would suddenly reappear, and laugh ather terrors.
Jeconiah reached the recess. He saw and understood the marks of theboxes on the sand. He swung round on Fiona with a snarl like that of ahungry wolf.
"You think you're clever, don't you, you and your father," he said. "Isuppose you've had the stuff moved. But I'll have it if I go to themiddle of the earth for it."
It was the old hawker who shouted. He had stood apart, a silentspectator of the scene. And at this moment he called out, in a voiceof surprising power for so frail a body:
"Look out above you. Jump."
Fiona, who had learned to obey, jumped back just in time. But Jeconiahhad never learnt to obey any orders but his own. He stood, stupidlystaring, as a bit of the roof of the cave bowed downward, gave way,and came cascading about him in a shower of earth and big stones, thatfilled the air with thick dust. When the dust cleared again, they sawJeconiah lying on his back in the middle of the cliff fall,motionless, and to all appearance dead.
But Fiona was not looking at Jeconiah. She was looking at the placewhere the roof of the cave had bowed itself before falling; and intoher mind came crowding dim forgotten legends, legends of fear andhope. And she was saying over and over again to herself, as though shemight miss its purport, that behind the cliff fall, as if impellingand directing it, she had seen a small brown elfin hand.
* * * * *
It was the old hawker who took charge of the situation. The two men,who at first had looked as if they would run, became amenable when hespoke to them. They carried Jeconiah's body to his boat, and laid itin the stern-sheets. One of the men pointed out that there was no markat all on his face or head, and that he did not believe he had beenstruck.
"Died of fright, I expect," he said curtly.
"Lucky we stood out for wages in advance," said his companion. Itlooked as if this might be Jeconiah's fitting epitaph.
The old man himself went with Fiona in her boat. But he was too feebleto row far, so he landed on the island and went in search of Angus. Indue course Angus came down and rowed Fiona home, saying that the oldman was going to look after his sheep for him till he returned. It didnot occur to Fiona, until they had gone too far to turn back, that itlooked as though the old man wished to avoid questions. Her mind wasin a helpless whirl in which everything seemed unreal, except theUrchin and that small brown hand. She could not give her father anyvery coherent account of what had happened; but he went out at once tofind a boat and men to search the cave.
Jeconiah was laid on his bed in the big house, and there was muchcommotion there; this one must go for the doctor and that one for theStudent; scared maids stood and whispered in the corridors; the twoloafers, heroes of the hour, feasted happily in the kitchen. Then thedoctor came, and went upstairs with a grave face, as befitted theoccasion; but he did not come down again, and surmise grew. Half anhour passed before the door opened, and the doctor, smiling andrubbing his hands together, came into the library, where the Studenthad just entered and was talking to the housekeeper.
"He's not dead at all," said the doctor. "It's catalepsy--suspendedanimation, you know. Like the frog in the marble. Had a shock, youtell me? Just so, just so. How long? Oh, he may be an hour, and hemay be a month; no one can ever say. Never had the good luck to see acase before. Not _very_ uncommon, no. Mustn't try to rouse him, youknow; might be dangerous. Just wait. Send for me at once if he comesto. Can get two nurses to watch him, if you like; just as wellperhaps. Sometimes they are odd when they wake; think they are someoneelse for a bit, you know, change their habits, and so on. Dualpersonality? Oh, yes, several well-attested cases; but I don't mean asmuch as that. Might arise this way, of course; but what I mean is morejust queer. But of course he need not be; might wake up as if he'dbeen asleep. If it lasts long, take away all the almanacs and things,in case he gets a shock. Well, good day, good day."
And the doctor went; and Jeconiah's body lay still on the bed, waitingtill his soul, if he had one, should return to it.
So the Student went home again; and on his way he met the old hawker,who stopped and spoke to him; and for a few moments the two walkedtogether, the old man talking rath
er quickly. Fiona, watching from thewindow of the bookroom, could see that her father first looked puzzledand then grave and then considerably relieved; in a dim kind of wayshe found herself thinking that Angus must have rowed back very fastto Scargill, if the old hawker were already landed. She was wonderingwho he really was and why her father talked to him.
"Tell Anne to get us something to eat--anything," said the Student."The boat will be here directly."
The Student, by straining what remained of old loyalty as far as hedared, had found half a dozen volunteers, good men, to face thehaunted cave, provided he went himself.
"Do you want to come, Fiona?" he said. Of course Fiona meant to come.
And while they waited, the Student questioned Fiona, and had the wholestory coherently, except the hand. That part Fiona felt she could nottell; there, in the cheerful bookroom, it seemed so impossible. Onceor twice he nodded, and said, "That would be so"; and at the end hepointed out that whatever had happened had happened when her back wasturned, as she faced the coming footsteps. She had not thought ofthat. What puzzled her, and hurt her a little, was that, though herfather seemed to feel for _her_, he did not appear to be particularlyconcerned about the Urchin. "I believe it will come right," was all hesaid.
The boat arrived, rowed by strong hands; the men worked with a will,and the distance to the cave seemed short. They had brought goodlights, and the Student had a powerful electric torch. High and lowthey searched the cave, and found nothing. One man, who was a goodswimmer, dived several times and found nothing there either. Trackingfootsteps was impossible; the sand, where there was any, had beenhopelessly trampled.
When nothing more could be done, the Student said that he wanted tolook for a thing himself which he had an idea of. He went down to theend of the cave with his torch and tapped the wall with a geologicalhammer. Fiona sat on the rock barrier and watched him; what he wasseeking she had no idea. He came slowly back down the cave, tappingthe wall, till he reached the recess where the Urchin had picked upthe doubloon. He went straight to the back of the recess and tappedthe wall there; and even as he did so a large piece of stone fell fromabove, and smashed the electric torch in his hand. He came back to therock barrier quite unperturbed, looking as if he had found what hesought.
"Not very safe, this cave," he said calmly; and told the men to pushoff the boat. "There is nothing more we can do," he said; "the boy iscertainly not here."
The men's courage was fast ebbing away; they were glad to get out ofthe haunted place.
Fiona sat in silence all the way home. It was dark before theyreached the house. She waited while Anne bustled over supper; shethought she would never see her father alone. At last supper was over,and he went into the bookroom and began to light his pipe; shefollowed him. Her words came out in a torrent.
"Daddy," she said, "what does it all mean? and why are you so strangeand unconcerned? What did that old man tell you? If I couldn't see,_he_ must have seen, for he was facing. What is it you know? And whyhave you told me nothing?"
"Sit down, little daughter," said the Student. He drew her beside hisknee, with her head on his arm. "I will tell you now what I can. Theold man gave me a sort of hint. He did not really see, for the lampwas the other way; I fancy he guessed. I wanted to test what he saidto me. I have tested it now with my hammer; it all agrees. I amabsolutely certain that no harm has come to the Urchin. But I can donothing for him myself. And I must not even tell you what I think;for if I do it ruins everything. All I may tell you is this, that youare the only person who can do anything. You will have to do it allyourself and by yourself, little daughter. I believe you have ways andmeans of your own of finding out. Are you going through with it,Fiona?"
"Of course I am, daddy," she said. "How can I do anything else? Ifonly I knew what it is I have to do to find him--how to begin even."
"I cannot even tell you that," said the Student. But his fingersplayed with the copper bangle on her wrist. And out of some dim cornerof subconsciousness she seemed to hear a small voice which said "Ifyou can't get what you want by beginning at the top you must startagain at the bottom." Her father, with his learning, was the top; thebottom . . . ?
Fiona went to bed less miserable than she had expected.