by Helen Wells
Cherry stood for a minute gazing at the scene, then walked down the long hall, down the curving staircase, to the center hall below, where portraits of generations of Barclays looked down upon her. Some were grim and stern, others smiled aloofly. Meg resembled one of the ladies very much. The difference was in the dress which told Cherry that Meg would have had to be a hundred and fifty years old to have posed for the artist.
“This way, Miss Ames,” Higgins said, suddenly appearing in front of her. The butler was old-fashioned and formal without being stiff. He had served the Barclays since Meg’s father was a young man. And his father and his grandfather before him had been butlers to the Barclays. Higgins led Cherry across the hall, past the west drawing room and into the dining room, filled with heavy mahogany and teak furniture.
As he was serving her lunch, she asked, “Higgins, why is the cave in the cliff below my windows called Rogues’ Cave?”
“I heard from my grandda that it was once a hideout for smugglers, Miss Ames,” he answered.
“Oh! What did they smuggle?”
“Brandy and whisky for traders who exchanged them with the Indians for furs,” Higgins said, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Does anyone ever go spelunking? I mean, does anybody go exploring the cave?” asked Cherry, helping herself to more of the chutney for the lamb.
“Not that I know of, Miss Ames,” he replied. “Not far inside anyway since Sir Ian, that is, the old Sir Ian—the present Sir Ian’s father and Miss Meg’s grandfather—was a boy. My da said that the boy was lost for three days in Rogues’ Cave. Delirious when they found him on the beach, raving of gold and silver and crying ‘Open sesame!’ Of course, the boy’s head was filled with tales of adventure, for all he was a little scientist.”
“A scientist?” Cherry asked.
“Ay. My da was fond of telling me how little Sir Ian used the room at the top of the tower for his experiments,” Higgins told her. “He was always crushing stones and melting things down in his little furnace. At the same time, he liked to imagine himself a Barbary pirate, a prince of Araby, an Indian chief, or whatever struck his fancy when he wasn’t mixing and boiling and cooking his chemical formulas.”
“He must have been a very unusual and imaginative boy,” Cherry commented.
“He was that, Miss Ames,” Higgins agreed. “Then he would sit up there in the tower”—he motioned in the general direction of the square, stone tower at the end of the house—“writing in what he called his ‘Secret Journal’ by candlelight at night.”
“It would be fascinating to see what he wrote,” Cherry said. “Perhaps Sir Ian might let me look at the journal.”
“No one but the boy ever laid eyes on it to anyone’s knowledge,” replied Higgins. “He kept it hidden away. Then I dare say by the time he returned from schooling in Scotland he had forgot all about it, for my da told me that the master of Barclay House never spoke of it more, once he took up the management of the mines.”
“So no one ever saw it,” said Cherry. “That’s too bad.”
“Ay. But the tower room is almost the same now as when the old Sir Ian was a boy,” the butler told her. “The present Sir Ian never disturbed anything, for he was not interested in experiments. He was concerned only about operating the mines.”
Having finished her lunch, Cherry thanked Higgins for his interesting conversation and went upstairs. Through the open door of Sir Ian’s room, Meg’s and her father’s voices floated down the hall. The acoustics were such that the hallway acted as an amplifier and Cherry could hear more distinctly than if she were in the room with them.
“Da, dear, you mustn’t be cross with Aunt Phyllis,” Meg was saying. “I had the money, so I offered it to her. She’s terribly broke and in debt. It’s so frightfully expensive living in London and having the two boys off in school. She has a dreadful time; she just can’t make ends meet.”
“Never could. A sieve as far as money is concerned,” observed Sir Ian. “My sister Phyllis is the spoiled baby of the family. She’s been a widow long enough. Ought to get married again. Solve all her problems.”
Meg laughed. “Suppose she picked a poor man, then you would be in the soup, wouldn’t you? You’d have to support her husband, too.”
Sir Ian grunted. “And that younger brother of mine, your uncle George. You saw him in London. He wanted me to give him another advance on his income, no doubt,” he said.
“Well, Da, the mines haven’t been paying a great deal for several years,” Meg pointed out. “Uncle George has always been used to living like a gentleman of wealth and now he hasn’t enough income to cover his expenses. He keeps falling behind a little more each year, just like Aunt Phyllis.”
Sir Ian grunted again. “Your uncle George might quit living like a gentleman of wealth—a playboy to put it more accurately—and go to work,” he remarked dryly.
“I don’t suppose you could let Aunt Phyllis and Uncle George have some money to tide them over, could you, Da?” Meg pleaded.
“Not a penny,” her father said with finality. “Haven’t got it to give. They’ll have to whistle for it somewhere else this time.”
Although Cherry could not help overhearing their conversation, she did not like to be eavesdropping on the Barclays’ family affairs. Money problems were always embarrassing to people. Sir Ian’s younger brother and sister, she gathered, expected to live in luxury in England on income from their shares in the Balfour Mines.
Apparently out of the present Barclay family, the only one who was really interested in the mines was Lloyd. Meg had told her that Lloyd’s father and mother had lived at Barclay House until their death in an earthquake when they were on a trip to the Pacific islands six years before. Lloyd’s father was next in age to Sir Ian, who was the eldest in the family. The two brothers had divided the operation of the mines between them. They had made a wonderful team, and his brother’s death had been a terrible blow to Sir Ian.
“I admire his courage, trying to carry on alone,” Cherry thought. “Sir Ian’s brother and sister are actually dependent on his operating the mines, and they’re always wanting money. Goodness knows how many other difficulties the poor man has. I don’t wonder he has ulcers. Maybe Lloyd will be of help to him. If Sir Ian will let him—that’s the thing.”
Cherry entered her own room, and going into the bathroom, washed her hands, making a great splash of water so they would know that she had come upstairs. When she came out, Meg was just getting up from her chair in Sir Ian’s bedroom. “Here’s Cherry,” Meg said. “So I’ll run along to the library, Da. I promised to take over the story hour every afternoon. Is there anything you want me to bring you from the village?”
“Can’t think of anything,” replied her father. “Suppose you’re going to stop by the hospital, too.”
“Trying to make me blush, you old fraud,” cried Meg, making a face at him. “You know perfectly well Douglas Mackenzie, M.D., is coming here later and he’s staying on for dinner.” She blew a kiss to her father from the doorway and was gone.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Higgins brought Cherry tea about six o’clock. She had had lunch too late to eat anything, although the little cakes and sandwiches looked very tempting.
At six thirty Lloyd came upstairs to look in on his uncle. “How’s the old boy doing?” he whispered to Cherry.
“All right,” she whispered back. “He hasn’t complained of pain for some time.”
Lloyd regarded Cherry concernedly. “You must be worn out,” he observed. “You’ve lost all that lovely red in your cheeks. Don’t you want to lie down and get some rest before dinner? Because you’re going to have dinner with us downstairs. I’ve already asked Norah—she’s the housemaid—to look in on Uncle once in a while.”
“Bossy type, aren’t you, Lloyd Barclay?” Cherry teased him. “I’m perfectly fine, but I think I could do with some air. After I’ve seen the doctor, I will take a walk outside, if I’m not needed.”
; “Doc’s on his way up now,” Lloyd said.
A few minutes later Cherry had put on her brown suede jacket and gone outdoors, for Dr. Mackenzie had not kept her.
She had a chance to examine the big house. It sat near the edge of the cliffs on the east, but there were gardens at the back and a greenhouse. On the west side, there was a garage and more gardens. In front were lawns and shrubbery. Two gateposts, although there was neither gate nor fence, marked the entrance to the broad drive that curved before the front door. The house was three stories high. The tower was five stories. Meg had told her that the servants’ quarters were on the third floor toward the rear. The tower interested Cherry and she noticed that it could be entered from the outside. There was a tiny door, almost hidden by the masonry, in the north wall. On impulse, Cherry tried the door, but it was locked.
She walked idly up the hill toward the abandoned mine. Beyond was a little patch of balsam fir, but upon the rounded hill nothing grew but stiff grass, vines, and bushes among outcroppings of rock.
Cherry was halfway up the hill when, to her great surprise, a man rose from one of the outcroppings and confronted her.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
“My name is Cherry Ames. I’m Sir Ian Barclay’s nurse,” she answered. “I’m out for a walk, that’s all.”
He apologized gruffly. “I’m Jock Cameron,” he told her. “That name mean anything to you?”
“It certainly does,” Cherry assured him. “You’re the superintendent of the Balfour Mines and an old friend of Sir Ian. In fact, you and he grew up on Balfour.” She paused. “Now … let’s … see. Oh, yes! The Barclays and the Camerons came over with forty families to settle Balfour Island in 1750. The Camerons had been the trusted stewards of the Barclay lands for generations in Scotland. At first, Balfour Island was a fishing colony, then when iron was discovered in eighteen hundred and …”
“Stop, before the breath of ye goes out,” interrupted Jock Cameron, his manner becoming cordial. “Ye have heard of me, I see that weel.”
Jock Cameron was a short, stocky man, dressed in fisherman’s rough clothes. A canvas tote bag, which served as his creel, hung over his shoulder, although he had no other fishing gear with him. He regarded Cherry steadily for a bit. Then, with a quick gesture, he pushed his hat to the back of his head, revealing bushy, ginger hair.
“Tell me, nurse lass, how sick is he?” he asked suddenly.
“Sir Ian was desperately sick when they brought him into the hospital at Hilton,” Cherry said.
“He dinna tell me that in his letter,” Mr. Cameron said.
“I know he didn’t,” Cherry said. “I wrote that letter for him and mailed it.”
“He’s better now?” he asked.
Cherry nodded. “Yes, quite a bit better.”
“Good,” Jock Cameron said, nodding with satisfaction.
With that, he turned quickly and started away. Then, stopping and wheeling around, he came back. “Do not say to anyone—anyone at all—ye saw Old Jock Cameron on the hill this night,” he said softly. “Promise ye’ll not tell.”
His eyes searched her face, waiting for her answer. What there was about the man that made her trust him suddenly, Cherry did not know. But she heard herself saying, “I won’t tell.”
He seemed satisfied, and, turning once more, walked away out of sight over the crest of the hill.
Late that night Cherry was to wonder if she had not been too hasty.
Sir Ian was asleep. She had gone into her own room for a while.
She stood at the window, thinking how lovely it was outside. The fog had lifted. The sky was clear and the stars were out. A movement on the front lawn caught her eye.
At first she thought it was a large dog crossing the lawn close to the shrubbery. Upon reaching the wall near the corner of the house, the figure raised up and she realized it was a man who had been running crouched over. Now he ran along, hugging the wall, and was soon out of her range of vision. She had the impression, though, that the man was Jock Cameron.
CHAPTER VIII
The Sea Cave
NEXT MORNING, MEG LEFT FOR ST. JOHN’S TO DO SOME extensive marketing and shopping for the house. She expected to be gone a couple of days or so.
It took good management to keep a household the size of the Barclays’ running efficiently. Meg managed it so effortlessly that no one was aware of how much time and thought she spent in making everything operate smoothly. She had even taken on an extra maid—an older woman with some experience in practical nursing—for the few days she would be away, so that Cherry would have proper relief from duty.
Lloyd left early in the morning for the mines and did not return all day. It was late in the evening before he came in, tired, to go immediately to his room. Either in the morning or the evening, or both, he would peek in on his uncle to see how he was.
Cherry, who could not get the mysterious figure on the lawn out of her mind, would have asked Lloyd about it, but he was so absorbed in his work and always in such a hurry that she did not like to bother him.
Thus it was not until several days had passed that she had a chance to tell Meg about seeing the man in the moonlight.
Meg laughed. “You probably caught one of the fishermen going down to our private beach,” she told Cherry. “They aren’t supposed to use it. There are any number of other beaches, but once in a while one sneaks down.”
That explained someone crossing the lawn that night. Cherry’s impression that the man was Jock Cameron was, after all, she realized, only an impression.
The day after Meg got back from St. John’s, Sir Ian had a good morning. Lloyd came to the house for lunch instead of having it at the staff dining room at the Mine Office. He reported to his uncle that he expected No. Two mine to go into operation soon. No. Two was nearest the abandoned No. One Mine. McGuire agreed with Lloyd that No. Two, although well worked, could be profitably operated by modern methods.
Lloyd had really taken hold of his job as mining engineer. While his uncle had still been in Hilton Hospital, he had gotten under way a survey of the mines, the equipment, and facilities; studied the production and other reports; had assays made of ore from the different mines so that he would have a definite idea of the value. Now this news about No. Two was unusually good.
Sir Ian was as pleased as punch. It did him a world of good. He would not let on how happy it made him. He simply grunted and remarked to Cherry, “Young fellow’s full of beans today, isn’t he?”
Lloyd and Cherry grinned at each other.
“Yes, sir,” agreed Cherry emphatically. “And what’s more, I think Lloyd Barclay is having himself a whale of a good time.”
When Norah, the maid, came to stay with Sir Ian that afternoon, Meg came to ask Cherry if she could show her the beach and the sea cave. “The cave’s really quite fun,” Meg said.
Cherry replied that, of course, she would be delighted.
They put on warm jackets because Meg said it would be chilly and damp down there. The two girls went out the front of the house, followed the narrow gravel path that led to the tower, and continued along the edge of the cliffs to stone steps cut in the rock. The steps started from the brow of the cliff and descended by turns and inclines to the foot, a hundred feet below.
Cherry looked down over the edge to the sea and to where the waves were frothing about some black rocks a little distance from shore. The rocks formed a natural breakwater and, inside, the sea at low tide as it was then, was as still as a lagoon. She could see a patch of white where the cliff curved inward, forming a little bay with a stretch of sandy beach.
“It’s beautiful!” Cherry exclaimed.
“I think so,” said Meg. “On the other side of the rocks, the sea is very deep and there is good fishing. Shall we go on down?”
Cherry said she was ready. With Meg ahead, they started along the zigzag course that the steps made in the face of the cliff. Cherry felt almost as though she
were a fly walking on a wall, for the rocky crag rose almost straight upward from the sea floor. It was windy on the cliffs. Their hair was whipped about and they could feel the tingle of damp salt air on their faces.
Although Meg tripped gaily in front of her with the ease of long familiarity, Cherry was glad to have the guard chain to hold on to. It ran through stout iron balusters embedded in the rock.
As they went down, they disturbed the gulls that took off with much screaming and a thunderous flapping of wings.
When they reached the bottom, they stepped directly upon the white sand of the beach. At each end of the beach, a jumble of rocks extended like arms into the sea.
At the north end there was a considerable distance between the breakwater and the arm of rocks.
“Room enough for a good-sized boat to get through there,” Meg said, “when the tide is coming in. At the south end, the rocks jut far out into the sea and it’s too dangerous to try to get into the little bay. Lloyd and I used to wait for the tide and maneuver our ketch in and out through the north passage when we were kids.”
She started to walk up the beach. “Come along,” she said to Cherry. “I’ll show you the cave.”
A few yards away was Rogues’ Cave. Cherry and Meg looked up at the entrance that had been dug out by the action of the sea, and opened into the cavern. The archway was very high and wide.
“When the tide is in,” Meg was saying as they entered the dim interior, “you can bring a motor launch in here. Look!” she cried. “Someone has left a rowboat moored inside. Probably belongs to that mysterious character you saw the other night.” She laughed lightheartedly. “I’ve never known any of the fishermen to leave their boats before.”
The floor of the cave was on the same level as the beach. On one side, up about ten or eleven feet, was a broad ledge with several iron ringbolts secured in the rock. To one of these, the rowboat was tied by a rope just long enough to permit the boat to rest on the cave floor. When the tide came in, of course, the boat floated to the height of the ledge. Cherry could see the marks left by the last high tide like a ring around the walls.