EIGHT -- The Perishing of the Pendragons
FATHER BROWN was in no mood for adventures. He had lately fallen illwith over-work, and when he began to recover, his friend Flambeau hadtaken him on a cruise in a small yacht with Sir Cecil Fanshaw, a youngCornish squire and an enthusiast for Cornish coast scenery. But Brownwas still rather weak; he was no very happy sailor; and though he wasnever of the sort that either grumbles or breaks down, his spirits didnot rise above patience and civility. When the other two men praised theragged violet sunset or the ragged volcanic crags, he agreed with them.When Flambeau pointed out a rock shaped like a dragon, he looked at itand thought it very like a dragon. When Fanshaw more excitedly indicateda rock that was like Merlin, he looked at it, and signified assent. WhenFlambeau asked whether this rocky gate of the twisted river was not thegate of Fairyland, he said "Yes." He heard the most important things andthe most trivial with the same tasteless absorption. He heard that thecoast was death to all but careful seamen; he also heard that the ship'scat was asleep. He heard that Fanshaw couldn't find his cigar-holderanywhere; he also heard the pilot deliver the oracle "Both eyes bright,she's all right; one eye winks, down she sinks." He heard Flambeau sayto Fanshaw that no doubt this meant the pilot must keep both eyes openand be spry. And he heard Fanshaw say to Flambeau that, oddly enough, itdidn't mean this: it meant that while they saw two of the coast lights,one near and the other distant, exactly side by side, they were in theright river-channel; but that if one light was hidden behind the other,they were going on the rocks. He heard Fanshaw add that his country wasfull of such quaint fables and idioms; it was the very home of romance;he even pitted this part of Cornwall against Devonshire, as a claimantto the laurels of Elizabethan seamanship. According to him there hadbeen captains among these coves and islets compared with whom Drake waspractically a landsman. He heard Flambeau laugh, and ask if, perhaps,the adventurous title of "Westward Ho!" only meant that all Devonshiremen wished they were living in Cornwall. He heard Fanshaw say there wasno need to be silly; that not only had Cornish captains been heroes, butthat they were heroes still: that near that very spot there was anold admiral, now retired, who was scarred by thrilling voyages fullof adventures; and who had in his youth found the last group of eightPacific Islands that was added to the chart of the world. This CecilFanshaw was, in person, of the kind that commonly urges such crude butpleasing enthusiasms; a very young man, light-haired, high-coloured,with an eager profile; with a boyish bravado of spirits, but an almostgirlish delicacy of tint and type. The big shoulders, black brows andblack mousquetaire swagger of Flambeau were a great contrast.
All these trivialities Brown heard and saw; but heard them as a tiredman hears a tune in the railway wheels, or saw them as a sick man seesthe pattern of his wall-paper. No one can calculate the turns of mood inconvalescence: but Father Brown's depression must have had a great dealto do with his mere unfamiliarity with the sea. For as the river mouthnarrowed like the neck of a bottle, and the water grew calmer and theair warmer and more earthly, he seemed to wake up and take notice likea baby. They had reached that phase just after sunset when air and waterboth look bright, but earth and all its growing things look almostblack by comparison. About this particular evening, however, there wassomething exceptional. It was one of those rare atmospheres in whicha smoked-glass slide seems to have been slid away from between us andNature; so that even dark colours on that day look more gorgeous thanbright colours on cloudier days. The trampled earth of the river-banksand the peaty stain in the pools did not look drab but glowing umber,and the dark woods astir in the breeze did not look, as usual, dim bluewith mere depth of distance, but more like wind-tumbled masses of somevivid violet blossom. This magic clearness and intensity in the colourswas further forced on Brown's slowly reviving senses by somethingromantic and even secret in the very form of the landscape.
The river was still well wide and deep enough for a pleasure boat sosmall as theirs; but the curves of the country-side suggested that itwas closing in on either hand; the woods seemed to be making broken andflying attempts at bridge-building--as if the boat were passing fromthe romance of a valley to the romance of a hollow and so to the supremeromance of a tunnel. Beyond this mere look of things there was littlefor Brown's freshening fancy to feed on; he saw no human beings, exceptsome gipsies trailing along the river bank, with faggots and osierscut in the forest; and one sight no longer unconventional, but insuch remote parts still uncommon: a dark-haired lady, bare-headed, andpaddling her own canoe. If Father Brown ever attached any importance toeither of these, he certainly forgot them at the next turn of the riverwhich brought in sight a singular object.
The water seemed to widen and split, being cloven by the dark wedge ofa fish-shaped and wooded islet. With the rate at which they went, theislet seemed to swim towards them like a ship; a ship with a very highprow--or, to speak more strictly, a very high funnel. For at the extremepoint nearest them stood up an odd-looking building, unlike anythingthey could remember or connect with any purpose. It was not speciallyhigh, but it was too high for its breadth to be called anything but atower. Yet it appeared to be built entirely of wood, and that in a mostunequal and eccentric way. Some of the planks and beams were of good,seasoned oak; some of such wood cut raw and recent; some again of whitepinewood, and a great deal more of the same sort of wood painted blackwith tar. These black beams were set crooked or crisscross at all kindsof angles, giving the whole a most patchy and puzzling appearance. Therewere one or two windows, which appeared to be coloured and leaded in anold-fashioned but more elaborate style. The travellers looked at it withthat paradoxical feeling we have when something reminds us of something,and yet we are certain it is something very different.
Father Brown, even when he was mystified, was clever in analysing hisown mystification. And he found himself reflecting that the oddityseemed to consist in a particular shape cut out in an incongruousmaterial; as if one saw a top-hat made of tin, or a frock-coat cut outof tartan. He was sure he had seen timbers of different tints arrangedlike that somewhere, but never in such architectural proportions. Thenext moment a glimpse through the dark trees told him all he wanted toknow and he laughed. Through a gap in the foliage there appeared for amoment one of those old wooden houses, faced with black beams, which arestill to be found here and there in England, but which most of us seeimitated in some show called "Old London" or "Shakespeare's England'.It was in view only long enough for the priest to see that, howeverold-fashioned, it was a comfortable and well-kept country-house, withflower-beds in front of it. It had none of the piebald and crazy look ofthe tower that seemed made out of its refuse.
"What on earth's this?" said Flambeau, who was still staring at thetower.
Fanshaw's eyes were shining, and he spoke triumphantly. "Aha! you've notseen a place quite like this before, I fancy; that's why I've broughtyou here, my friend. Now you shall see whether I exaggerate about themariners of Cornwall. This place belongs to Old Pendragon, whom we callthe Admiral; though he retired before getting the rank. The spirit ofRaleigh and Hawkins is a memory with the Devon folk; it's a modern factwith the Pendragons. If Queen Elizabeth were to rise from the graveand come up this river in a gilded barge, she would be received bythe Admiral in a house exactly such as she was accustomed to, in everycorner and casement, in every panel on the wall or plate on the table.And she would find an English Captain still talking fiercely of freshlands to be found in little ships, as much as if she had dined withDrake."
"She'd find a rum sort of thing in the garden," said Father Brown,"which would not please her Renaissance eye. That Elizabethan domesticarchitecture is charming in its way; but it's against the very nature ofit to break out into turrets."
"And yet," answered Fanshaw, "that's the most romantic and Elizabethanpart of the business. It was built by the Pendragons in the very daysof the Spanish wars; and though it's needed patching and even rebuildingfor another reason, it's always been rebuilt in the old way. The storygoes that the lady of Sir
Peter Pendragon built it in this place andto this height, because from the top you can just see the corner wherevessels turn into the river mouth; and she wished to be the first to seeher husband's ship, as he sailed home from the Spanish Main."
"For what other reason," asked Father Brown, "do you mean that it hasbeen rebuilt?"
"Oh, there's a strange story about that, too," said the young squirewith relish. "You are really in a land of strange stories. King Arthurwas here and Merlin and the fairies before him. The story goes that SirPeter Pendragon, who (I fear) had some of the faults of the piratesas well as the virtues of the sailor, was bringing home three Spanishgentlemen in honourable captivity, intending to escort them toElizabeth's court. But he was a man of flaming and tigerish temper, andcoming to high words with one of them, he caught him by the throat andflung him by accident or design, into the sea. A second Spaniard, whowas the brother of the first, instantly drew his sword and flew atPendragon, and after a short but furious combat in which both got threewounds in as many minutes, Pendragon drove his blade through the other'sbody and the second Spaniard was accounted for. As it happened the shiphad already turned into the river mouth and was close to comparativelyshallow water. The third Spaniard sprang over the side of the ship,struck out for the shore, and was soon near enough to it to stand up tohis waist in water. And turning again to face the ship, and holdingup both arms to Heaven--like a prophet calling plagues upon a wickedcity--he called out to Pendragon in a piercing and terrible voice, thathe at least was yet living, that he would go on living, that he wouldlive for ever; and that generation after generation the house ofPendragon should never see him or his, but should know by very certainsigns that he and his vengeance were alive. With that he dived under thewave, and was either drowned or swam so long under water that no hair ofhis head was seen afterwards."
"There's that girl in the canoe again," said Flambeau irrelevantly,for good-looking young women would call him off any topic. "She seemsbothered by the queer tower just as we were."
Indeed, the black-haired young lady was letting her canoe float slowlyand silently past the strange islet; and was looking intently up at thestrange tower, with a strong glow of curiosity on her oval and oliveface.
"Never mind girls," said Fanshaw impatiently, "there are plenty of themin the world, but not many things like the Pendragon Tower. As you mayeasily suppose, plenty of superstitions and scandals have followed inthe track of the Spaniard's curse; and no doubt, as you would put it,any accident happening to this Cornish family would be connected withit by rural credulity. But it is perfectly true that this tower has beenburnt down two or three times; and the family can't be called lucky,for more than two, I think, of the Admiral's near kin have perished byshipwreck; and one at least, to my own knowledge, on practically thesame spot where Sir Peter threw the Spaniard overboard."
"What a pity!" exclaimed Flambeau. "She's going."
"When did your friend the Admiral tell you this family history?" askedFather Brown, as the girl in the canoe paddled off, without showing theleast intention of extending her interest from the tower to the yacht,which Fanshaw had already caused to lie alongside the island.
"Many years ago," replied Fanshaw; "he hasn't been to sea for some timenow, though he is as keen on it as ever. I believe there's a familycompact or something. Well, here's the landing stage; let's come ashoreand see the old boy."
They followed him on to the island, just under the tower, and FatherBrown, whether from the mere touch of dry land, or the interest ofsomething on the other bank of the river (which he stared at very hardfor some seconds), seemed singularly improved in briskness. They entereda wooded avenue between two fences of thin greyish wood, such as oftenenclose parks or gardens, and over the top of which the dark treestossed to and fro like black and purple plumes upon the hearse of agiant. The tower, as they left it behind, looked all the quainter,because such entrances are usually flanked by two towers; and this onelooked lopsided. But for this, the avenue had the usual appearance ofthe entrance to a gentleman's grounds; and, being so curved that thehouse was now out of sight, somehow looked a much larger park than anyplantation on such an island could really be. Father Brown was, perhaps,a little fanciful in his fatigue, but he almost thought the whole placemust be growing larger, as things do in a nightmare. Anyhow, a mysticalmonotony was the only character of their march, until Fanshaw suddenlystopped, and pointed to something sticking out through the greyfence--something that looked at first rather like the imprisoned hornof some beast. Closer observation showed that it was a slightly curvedblade of metal that shone faintly in the fading light.
Flambeau, who like all Frenchmen had been a soldier, bent over it andsaid in a startled voice: "Why, it's a sabre! I believe I know the sort,heavy and curved, but shorter than the cavalry; they used to have themin artillery and the--"
As he spoke the blade plucked itself out of the crack it had made andcame down again with a more ponderous slash, splitting the fissiparousfence to the bottom with a rending noise. Then it was pulled out again,flashed above the fence some feet further along, and again split ithalfway down with the first stroke; and after waggling a little toextricate itself (accompanied with curses in the darkness) split it downto the ground with a second. Then a kick of devilish energy sent thewhole loosened square of thin wood flying into the pathway, and a greatgap of dark coppice gaped in the paling.
Fanshaw peered into the dark opening and uttered an exclamation ofastonishment. "My dear Admiral!" he exclaimed, "do you--er--do yougenerally cut out a new front door whenever you want to go for a walk?"
The voice in the gloom swore again, and then broke into a jolly laugh."No," it said; "I've really got to cut down this fence somehow; it'sspoiling all the plants, and no one else here can do it. But I'll onlycarve another bit off the front door, and then come out and welcomeyou."
And sure enough, he heaved up his weapon once more, and, hacking twice,brought down another and similar strip of fence, making the openingabout fourteen feet wide in all. Then through this larger forest gatewayhe came out into the evening light, with a chip of grey wood sticking tohis sword-blade.
He momentarily fulfilled all Fanshaw's fable of an old piraticalAdmiral; though the details seemed afterwards to decompose intoaccidents. For instance, he wore a broad-brimmed hat as protectionagainst the sun; but the front flap of it was turned up straight to thesky, and the two corners pulled down lower than the ears, so that itstood across his forehead in a crescent like the old cocked hat worn byNelson. He wore an ordinary dark-blue jacket, with nothing special aboutthe buttons, but the combination of it with white linen trousers somehowhad a sailorish look. He was tall and loose, and walked with a sort ofswagger, which was not a sailor's roll, and yet somehow suggested it;and he held in his hand a short sabre which was like a navy cutlass, butabout twice as big. Under the bridge of the hat his eagle face lookedeager, all the more because it was not only clean-shaven, but withouteyebrows. It seemed almost as if all the hair had come off his face fromhis thrusting it through a throng of elements. His eyes were prominentand piercing. His colour was curiously attractive, while partlytropical; it reminded one vaguely of a blood-orange. That is, that whileit was ruddy and sanguine, there was a yellow in it that was in noway sickly, but seemed rather to glow like gold apples of theHesperides--Father Brown thought he had never seen a figure soexpressive of all the romances about the countries of the Sun.
When Fanshaw had presented his two friends to their host he fell againinto a tone of rallying the latter about his wreckage of the fence andhis apparent rage of profanity. The Admiral pooh-poohed it at first asa piece of necessary but annoying garden work; but at length the ring ofreal energy came back into his laughter, and he cried with a mixture ofimpatience and good humour:
"Well, perhaps I do go at it a bit rabidly, and feel a kind of pleasurein smashing anything. So would you if your only pleasure was in cruisingabout to find some new Cannibal Islands, and you had to stick on thismuddy little rockery in a so
rt of rustic pond. When I remember how I'vecut down a mile and a half of green poisonous jungle with an old cutlasshalf as sharp as this; and then remember I must stop here and chop thismatchwood, because of some confounded old bargain scribbled in a familyBible, why, I--"
He swung up the heavy steel again; and this time sundered the wall ofwood from top to bottom at one stroke.
"I feel like that," he said laughing, but furiously flinging the swordsome yards down the path, "and now let's go up to the house; you musthave some dinner."
The semicircle of lawn in front of the house was varied by threecircular garden beds, one of red tulips, a second of yellow tulips, andthe third of some white, waxen-looking blossoms that the visitorsdid not know and presumed to be exotic. A heavy, hairy and rathersullen-looking gardener was hanging up a heavy coil of garden hose. Thecorners of the expiring sunset which seemed to cling about the cornersof the house gave glimpses here and there of the colours of remoterflowerbeds; and in a treeless space on one side of the house openingupon the river stood a tall brass tripod on which was tilted a big brasstelescope. Just outside the steps of the porch stood a little paintedgreen garden table, as if someone had just had tea there. The entrancewas flanked with two of those half-featured lumps of stone with holesfor eyes that are said to be South Sea idols; and on the brown oak beamacross the doorway were some confused carvings that looked almost asbarbaric.
As they passed indoors, the little cleric hopped suddenly on to thetable, and standing on it peered unaffectedly through his spectacles atthe mouldings in the oak. Admiral Pendragon looked very much astonished,though not particularly annoyed; while Fanshaw was so amused with whatlooked like a performing pigmy on his little stand, that he could notcontrol his laughter. But Father Brown was not likely to notice eitherthe laughter or the astonishment.
He was gazing at three carved symbols, which, though very worn andobscure, seemed still to convey some sense to him. The first seemed tobe the outline of some tower or other building, crowned with what lookedlike curly-pointed ribbons. The second was clearer: an old Elizabethangalley with decorative waves beneath it, but interrupted in the middleby a curious jagged rock, which was either a fault in the wood orsome conventional representation of the water coming in. The thirdrepresented the upper half of a human figure, ending in an escallopedline like the waves; the face was rubbed and featureless, and both armswere held very stiffly up in the air.
"Well," muttered Father Brown, blinking, "here is the legend of theSpaniard plain enough. Here he is holding up his arms and cursing in thesea; and here are the two curses: the wrecked ship and the burning ofPendragon Tower."
Pendragon shook his head with a kind of venerable amusement. "And howmany other things might it not be?" he said. "Don't you know that thatsort of half-man, like a half-lion or half-stag, is quite commonin heraldry? Might not that line through the ship be one of thoseparti-per-pale lines, indented, I think they call it? And though thethird thing isn't so very heraldic, it would be more heraldic to supposeit a tower crowned with laurel than with fire; and it looks just as likeit."
"But it seems rather odd," said Flambeau, "that it should exactlyconfirm the old legend."
"Ah," replied the sceptical traveller, "but you don't know how much ofthe old legend may have been made up from the old figures. Besides, itisn't the only old legend. Fanshaw, here, who is fond of such things,will tell you there are other versions of the tale, and much morehorrible ones. One story credits my unfortunate ancestor with havinghad the Spaniard cut in two; and that will fit the pretty picture also.Another obligingly credits our family with the possession of a towerfull of snakes and explains those little, wriggly things in thatway. And a third theory supposes the crooked line on the ship to be aconventionalized thunderbolt; but that alone, if seriously examined,would show what a very little way these unhappy coincidences really go."
"Why, how do you mean?" asked Fanshaw.
"It so happens," replied his host coolly, "that there was no thunderand lightning at all in the two or three shipwrecks I know of in ourfamily."
"Oh!" said Father Brown, and jumped down from the little table.
There was another silence in which they heard the continuous murmur ofthe river; then Fanshaw said, in a doubtful and perhaps disappointedtone: "Then you don't think there is anything in the tales of the towerin flames?"
"There are the tales, of course," said the Admiral, shrugging hisshoulders; "and some of them, I don't deny, on evidence as decent asone ever gets for such things. Someone saw a blaze hereabout, don't youknow, as he walked home through a wood; someone keeping sheep on theuplands inland thought he saw a flame hovering over Pendragon Tower.Well, a damp dab of mud like this confounded island seems the last placewhere one would think of fires."
"What is that fire over there?" asked Father Brown with a gentlesuddenness, pointing to the woods on the left river-bank. They were allthrown a little off their balance, and the more fanciful Fanshaw hadeven some difficulty in recovering his, as they saw a long, thin streamof blue smoke ascending silently into the end of the evening light.
Then Pendragon broke into a scornful laugh again. "Gipsies!" he said;"they've been camping about here for about a week. Gentlemen, you wantyour dinner," and he turned as if to enter the house.
But the antiquarian superstition in Fanshaw was still quivering, and hesaid hastily: "But, Admiral, what's that hissing noise quite near theisland? It's very like fire."
"It's more like what it is," said the Admiral, laughing as he led theway; "it's only some canoe going by."
Almost as he spoke, the butler, a lean man in black, with very blackhair and a very long, yellow face, appeared in the doorway and told himthat dinner was served.
The dining-room was as nautical as the cabin of a ship; but its notewas rather that of the modern than the Elizabethan captain. There were,indeed, three antiquated cutlasses in a trophy over the fireplace, andone brown sixteenth-century map with Tritons and little ships dottedabout a curly sea. But such things were less prominent on the whitepanelling than some cases of quaint-coloured South American birds, veryscientifically stuffed, fantastic shells from the Pacific, and severalinstruments so rude and queer in shape that savages might have usedthem either to kill their enemies or to cook them. But the alien colourculminated in the fact that, besides the butler, the Admiral's onlyservants were two negroes, somewhat quaintly clad in tight uniforms ofyellow. The priest's instinctive trick of analysing his own impressionstold him that the colour and the little neat coat-tails of these bipedshad suggested the word "Canary," and so by a mere pun connected themwith southward travel. Towards the end of the dinner they took theiryellow clothes and black faces out of the room, leaving only the blackclothes and yellow face of the butler.
"I'm rather sorry you take this so lightly," said Fanshaw to the host;"for the truth is, I've brought these friends of mine with the idea oftheir helping you, as they know a good deal of these things. Don't youreally believe in the family story at all?"
"I don't believe in anything," answered Pendragon very briskly, with abright eye cocked at a red tropical bird. "I'm a man of science."
Rather to Flambeau's surprise, his clerical friend, who seemed to haveentirely woken up, took up the digression and talked natural historywith his host with a flow of words and much unexpected information,until the dessert and decanters were set down and the last of theservants vanished. Then he said, without altering his tone.
"Please don't think me impertinent, Admiral Pendragon. I don't ask forcuriosity, but really for my guidance and your convenience. Have I madea bad shot if I guess you don't want these old things talked of beforeyour butler?"
The Admiral lifted the hairless arches over his eyes and exclaimed:"Well, I don't know where you got it, but the truth is I can't stand thefellow, though I've no excuse for discharging a family servant. Fanshaw,with his fairy tales, would say my blood moved against men with thatblack, Spanish-looking hair."
Flambeau struck the table with his heavy
fist. "By Jove!" he cried; "andso had that girl!"
"I hope it'll all end tonight," continued the Admiral, "when mynephew comes back safe from his ship. You looked surprised. You won'tunderstand, I suppose, unless I tell you the story. You see, my fatherhad two sons; I remained a bachelor, but my elder brother married, andhad a son who became a sailor like all the rest of us, and will inheritthe proper estate. Well, my father was a strange man; he somehowcombined Fanshaw's superstition with a good deal of my scepticism--theywere always fighting in him; and after my first voyages, he developed anotion which he thought somehow would settle finally whether the cursewas truth or trash. If all the Pendragons sailed about anyhow, hethought there would be too much chance of natural catastrophes toprove anything. But if we went to sea one at a time in strict orderof succession to the property, he thought it might show whether anyconnected fate followed the family as a family. It was a silly notion,I think, and I quarrelled with my father pretty heartily; for I was anambitious man and was left to the last, coming, by succession, after myown nephew."
"And your father and brother," said the priest, very gently, "died atsea, I fear."
"Yes," groaned the Admiral; "by one of those brutal accidents onwhich are built all the lying mythologies of mankind, they were bothshipwrecked. My father, coming up this coast out of the Atlantic, waswashed up on these Cornish rocks. My brother's ship was sunk, no oneknows where, on the voyage home from Tasmania. His body was never found.I tell you it was from perfectly natural mishap; lots of other peoplebesides Pendragons were drowned; and both disasters are discussed ina normal way by navigators. But, of course, it set this forest ofsuperstition on fire; and men saw the flaming tower everywhere. That'swhy I say it will be all right when Walter returns. The girl he'sengaged to was coming today; but I was so afraid of some chance delayfrightening her that I wired her not to come till she heard from me. Buthe's practically sure to be here some time tonight, and then it'll allend in smoke--tobacco smoke. We'll crack that old lie when we crack abottle of this wine."
"Very good wine," said Father Brown, gravely lifting his glass, "but, asyou see, a very bad wine-bibber. I most sincerely beg your pardon": forhe had spilt a small spot of wine on the table-cloth. He drank and putdown the glass with a composed face; but his hand had started at theexact moment when he became conscious of a face looking in through thegarden window just behind the Admiral--the face of a woman, swarthy,with southern hair and eyes, and young, but like a mask of tragedy.
After a pause the priest spoke again in his mild manner. "Admiral," hesaid, "will you do me a favour? Let me, and my friends if they like,stop in that tower of yours just for tonight? Do you know that in mybusiness you're an exorcist almost before anything else?"
Pendragon sprang to his feet and paced swiftly to and fro across thewindow, from which the face had instantly vanished. "I tell you there isnothing in it," he cried, with ringing violence. "There is one thing Iknow about this matter. You may call me an atheist. I am an atheist."Here he swung round and fixed Father Brown with a face of frightfulconcentration. "This business is perfectly natural. There is no curse init at all."
Father Brown smiled. "In that case," he said, "there can't be anyobjection to my sleeping in your delightful summer-house."
"The idea is utterly ridiculous," replied the Admiral, beating a tattooon the back of his chair.
"Please forgive me for everything," said Brown in his most sympathetictone, "including spilling the wine. But it seems to me you are not quiteso easy about the flaming tower as you try to be."
Admiral Pendragon sat down again as abruptly as he had risen; but he satquite still, and when he spoke again it was in a lower voice. "You doit at your own peril," he said; "but wouldn't you be an atheist to keepsane in all this devilry?"
Some three hours afterwards Fanshaw, Flambeau and the priest were stilldawdling about the garden in the dark; and it began to dawn on the othertwo that Father Brown had no intention of going to bed either in thetower or the house.
"I think the lawn wants weeding," said he dreamily. "If I could find aspud or something I'd do it myself."
They followed him, laughing and half remonstrating; but he replied withthe utmost solemnity, explaining to them, in a maddening little sermon,that one can always find some small occupation that is helpful toothers. He did not find a spud; but he found an old broom made of twigs,with which he began energetically to brush the fallen leaves off thegrass.
"Always some little thing to be done," he said with idioticcheerfulness; "as George Herbert says: 'Who sweeps an Admiral's gardenin Cornwall as for Thy laws makes that and the action fine.' And now,"he added, suddenly slinging the broom away, "Let's go and water theflowers."
With the same mixed emotions they watched him uncoil some considerablelengths of the large garden hose, saying with an air of wistfuldiscrimination: "The red tulips before the yellow, I think. Look a bitdry, don't you think?"
He turned the little tap on the instrument, and the water shot outstraight and solid as a long rod of steel.
"Look out, Samson," cried Flambeau; "why, you've cut off the tulip'shead."
Father Brown stood ruefully contemplating the decapitated plant.
"Mine does seem to be a rather kill or cure sort of watering," headmitted, scratching his head. "I suppose it's a pity I didn't find thespud. You should have seen me with the spud! Talking of tools, you'vegot that swordstick, Flambeau, you always carry? That's right; and SirCecil could have that sword the Admiral threw away by the fence here.How grey everything looks!"
"The mist's rising from the river," said the staring Flambeau.
Almost as he spoke the huge figure of the hairy gardener appeared ona higher ridge of the trenched and terraced lawn, hailing them with abrandished rake and a horribly bellowing voice. "Put down that hose," heshouted; "put down that hose and go to your--"
"I am fearfully clumsy," replied the reverend gentleman weakly; "doyou know, I upset some wine at dinner." He made a wavering half-turn ofapology towards the gardener, with the hose still spouting in his hand.The gardener caught the cold crash of the water full in his face likethe crash of a cannon-ball; staggered, slipped and went sprawling withhis boots in the air.
"How very dreadful!" said Father Brown, looking round in a sort ofwonder. "Why, I've hit a man!"
He stood with his head forward for a moment as if looking or listening;and then set off at a trot towards the tower, still trailing the hosebehind him. The tower was quite close, but its outline was curiouslydim.
"Your river mist," he said, "has a rum smell."
"By the Lord it has," cried Fanshaw, who was very white. "But you can'tmean--"
"I mean," said Father Brown, "that one of the Admiral's scientificpredictions is coming true tonight. This story is going to end insmoke."
As he spoke a most beautiful rose-red light seemed to burst into blossomlike a gigantic rose; but accompanied with a crackling and rattlingnoise that was like the laughter of devils.
"My God! what is this?" cried Sir Cecil Fanshaw.
"The sign of the flaming tower," said Father Brown, and sent the drivingwater from his hose into the heart of the red patch.
"Lucky we hadn't gone to bed!" ejaculated Fanshaw. "I suppose it can'tspread to the house."
"You may remember," said the priest quietly, "that the wooden fence thatmight have carried it was cut away."
Flambeau turned electrified eyes upon his friend, but Fanshaw only saidrather absently: "Well, nobody can be killed, anyhow."
"This is rather a curious kind of tower," observed Father Brown, "whenit takes to killing people, it always kills people who are somewhereelse."
At the same instant the monstrous figure of the gardener with thestreaming beard stood again on the green ridge against the sky, wavingothers to come on; but now waving not a rake but a cutlass. Behind himcame the two negroes, also with the old crooked cutlasses out of thetrophy. But in the blood-red glare, with their black faces and yellowfigures, they looked like devi
ls carrying instruments of torture. Inthe dim garden behind them a distant voice was heard calling out briefdirections. When the priest heard the voice, a terrible change came overhis countenance.
But he remained composed; and never took his eye off the patch of flamewhich had begun by spreading, but now seemed to shrink a little as ithissed under the torch of the long silver spear of water. He kept hisfinger along the nozzle of the pipe to ensure the aim, and attended tono other business, knowing only by the noise and that semi-consciouscorner of the eye, the exciting incidents that began to tumblethemselves about the island garden. He gave two brief directions to hisfriends. One was: "Knock these fellows down somehow and tie them up,whoever they are; there's rope down by those faggots. They want to takeaway my nice hose." The other was: "As soon as you get a chance, callout to that canoeing girl; she's over on the bank with the gipsies. Askher if they could get some buckets across and fill them from the river."Then he closed his mouth and continued to water the new red flower asruthlessly as he had watered the red tulip.
He never turned his head to look at the strange fight that followedbetween the foes and friends of the mysterious fire. He almost felt theisland shake when Flambeau collided with the huge gardener; he merelyimagined how it would whirl round them as they wrestled. He heard thecrashing fall; and his friend's gasp of triumph as he dashed on to thefirst negro; and the cries of both the blacks as Flambeau and Fanshawbound them. Flambeau's enormous strength more than redressed the oddsin the fight, especially as the fourth man still hovered near the house,only a shadow and a voice. He heard also the water broken by the paddlesof a canoe; the girl's voice giving orders, the voices of gipsiesanswering and coming nearer, the plumping and sucking noise of emptybuckets plunged into a full stream; and finally the sound of many feetaround the fire. But all this was less to him than the fact that thered rent, which had lately once more increased, had once more slightlydiminished.
Then came a cry that very nearly made him turn his head. Flambeau andFanshaw, now reinforced by some of the gipsies, had rushed after themysterious man by the house; and he heard from the other end of thegarden the Frenchman's cry of horror and astonishment. It was echoed bya howl not to be called human, as the being broke from their hold andran along the garden. Three times at least it raced round the wholeisland, in a way that was as horrible as the chase of a lunatic, both inthe cries of the pursued and the ropes carried by the pursuers; but wasmore horrible still, because it somehow suggested one of the chasinggames of children in a garden. Then, finding them closing in onevery side, the figure sprang upon one of the higher river banks anddisappeared with a splash into the dark and driving river.
"You can do no more, I fear," said Brown in a voice cold with pain."He has been washed down to the rocks by now, where he has sent so manyothers. He knew the use of a family legend."
"Oh, don't talk in these parables," cried Flambeau impatiently. "Can'tyou put it simply in words of one syllable?"
"Yes," answered Brown, with his eye on the hose. "'Both eyes bright,she's all right; one eye blinks, down she sinks.'"
The fire hissed and shrieked more and more, like a strangled thing, asit grew narrower and narrower under the flood from the pipe and buckets,but Father Brown still kept his eye on it as he went on speaking:
"I thought of asking this young lady, if it were morning yet, to lookthrough that telescope at the river mouth and the river. She mighthave seen something to interest her: the sign of the ship, or Mr WalterPendragon coming home, and perhaps even the sign of the half-man, forthough he is certainly safe by now, he may very well have waded ashore.He has been within a shave of another shipwreck; and would neverhave escaped it, if the lady hadn't had the sense to suspect the oldAdmiral's telegram and come down to watch him. Don't let's talk aboutthe old Admiral. Don't let's talk about anything. It's enough to saythat whenever this tower, with its pitch and resin-wood, really caughtfire, the spark on the horizon always looked like the twin light to thecoast light-house."
"And that," said Flambeau, "is how the father and brother died. Thewicked uncle of the legends very nearly got his estate after all."
Father Brown did not answer; indeed, he did not speak again, save forcivilities, till they were all safe round a cigar-box in the cabin ofthe yacht. He saw that the frustrated fire was extinguished; and thenrefused to linger, though he actually heard young Pendragon, escorted byan enthusiastic crowd, come tramping up the river bank; and might (hadhe been moved by romantic curiosities) have received the combined thanksof the man from the ship and the girl from the canoe. But his fatiguehad fallen on him once more, and he only started once, when Flambeauabruptly told him he had dropped cigar-ash on his trousers.
"That's no cigar-ash," he said rather wearily. "That's from the fire,but you don't think so because you're all smoking cigars. That's justthe way I got my first faint suspicion about the chart."
"Do you mean Pendragon's chart of his Pacific Islands?" asked Fanshaw.
"You thought it was a chart of the Pacific Islands," answered Brown."Put a feather with a fossil and a bit of coral and everyone will thinkit's a specimen. Put the same feather with a ribbon and an artificialflower and everyone will think it's for a lady's hat. Put the samefeather with an ink-bottle, a book and a stack of writing-paper, andmost men will swear they've seen a quill pen. So you saw that map amongtropic birds and shells and thought it was a map of Pacific Islands. Itwas the map of this river."
"But how do you know?" asked Fanshaw.
"I saw the rock you thought was like a dragon, and the one like Merlin,and--"
"You seem to have noticed a lot as we came in," cried Fanshaw. "Wethought you were rather abstracted."
"I was sea-sick," said Father Brown simply. "I felt simply horrible.But feeling horrible has nothing to do with not seeing things." And heclosed his eyes.
"Do you think most men would have seen that?" asked Flambeau. Hereceived no answer: Father Brown was asleep.
The Wisdom of Father Brown Page 9