Part 47 (1/2)

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

HOW THEY LAID TRAPS FOR THE DEVIL

The Doctor insisted on taking care of Gard. He took him into his own house at Dixcart, and began at once a course of treatment based on common-sense and the then most scientific attainment, and calculated to repair the waste of the Rock and build him up anew in the shortest time compatible with an efficient and permanent cure.

Even when Gard felt quite himself again and would have returned to his work, the genial autocrat would not hear of it.

”Just you stop here, my boy,” he ordered. ”An experience such as you have had needs some getting over. You can stand a good rest and some fattening up, and those ---- mines must wait.”

Meanwhile, the Island was in a smoulder of suspicion and superst.i.tion.

No one had yet ventured openly to point the finger at any reasonably possible doer of deeds so dark. Behind carefully closed doors of a night, indeed, here and there a whisper suggested that the Frenchwoman might be at the bottom of it all. But the mistake that had already been made, and the consequences that came so terribly near to completing it beyond repair, made them all cautious of open speech or action.

Gard's story explained the mystery of the dead stranger and relieved the public mind to that extent.

The Senechal was disposed to agree with his views on the matter.

”I never heard of those caves on L'Etat,” he said musingly, as they sat over their pipes one night; ”and I'm sure no one else knew of them. But there was much free-trading round here in the old times, and I've no doubt many a Customs man disappeared and was never heard of again, just like this one. All the Islands felt very sore about the new regulations, and our people stick at nothing when their blood is up.”

”They do not,” said Gard feelingly.

”I'd like to get into that inner cave,” said the Doctor longingly.

”You couldn't,” said Gard, looking at his size and girth. ”It's a mighty tight squeeze under the slab, and that tunnel would beat you. Unless you've been brought up to that kind of thing, you couldn't stand it. It would give you nightmares for the rest of your life.”

”That's a rare la.s.s, that little Nance,” said the Senechal. ”There's some good in Sark after all, Mr. Gard.”

”She was an angel to me,” said Gard with feeling. ”If it had not been for her, I could never have held out. Not for what she brought me, but the fact that she came. But it was terrible to me to think of her coming through that Race. I begged her not to, but she would have her way.

Three times she risked her life for me--”

”Three times!” said the Senechal. ”Ma fe, but she's a garche to be proud of!”

”Ay, and to be more than proud of,” said Gard. ”She has given me my life, and I will give it all to making her happy.”

”I wouldn't swim across to L'Etat for any woman in the world,” said the Doctor. ”Because, in the first place, I couldn't. She must have nerves of steel, to say nothing of muscles. In the dark, too! And you wouldn't think it to look at her.”

”It needed more than nerves or muscles,” said Gard quietly.

Not a man among the Islanders--much less a woman--would go anywhere near the Coupee after dark. Even Nance confessed to a preference for daylight pa.s.sages. And Gard, when he went down into Little Sark for a walk, as part of his cure, could not repress a cold s.h.i.+ver whenever he pa.s.sed the fatal spot where two men had gone over to their deaths.

All the old wives' tales were dug up and pa.s.sed along, growing as they went. Little eyes and mouths grew permanently rounded with horrors, and the ground was thoroughly well spaded and planted with st.u.r.dy shoots warranted to yield a noisome harvest of superst.i.tion for generations to come.

The occupants of Clos Bourel and Plaisance carefully locked their doors of a night now.

Old Mrs. Carre at Plaisance vowed she had heard the White Horses go past, on the nights before Tom Hamon and Peter were found. And every one knew that when the ghostly horses were heard, some one was going to die.

But as she had said nothing about it before, her contribution to the general uneasiness was received with respect before her face but with open doubt behind her back.

Old Nikki Never-mind-his-name--lest his descendants, if he had any, take umbrage at the matter--swore that he had not only seen the ghostly steed pa.s.s Vauroque in the dead of night, but that it bore a rider whose head was carried carefully in his right hand. Unfortunately, the headless one pa.s.sed so quickly that Nikki said he could not distinguish his features--having looked for them first in the wrong place--and so he could not say for certain who the next to die would be; but from the knowing wag of his head the neighbours were of opinion that he knew more than he chose to tell, and he gained quite a reputation thereby.