Part 26 (2/2)

I do not think that I should have paid great heed to his words, but something in his voice--an accent of alarm--roused me. I lifted my eyes and saw that he was watching me with a singular intentness.

”The sixth of October,” I repeated vaguely, and then I broke into a laugh, so harsh and hysterical that it seemed quite another voice than mine. ”Your news is false,” I cried; ”she is not dead! Why, I did not leave Tresco till the end of October, and she was alive then and no sign of any malady. The sixth of October! No, indeed, she did not die upon that day.”

”Are you sure?” he exclaimed.

”Sure?” said I. ”I have the best of reasons to be sure; for it was on the sixth of October that I first set foot in Tresco,” and at once Cullen Mayle sprang up and shook me by the hand.

”Here is the bravest news,” he said. His whole face was alight; he could not leave hold of my hand. ”Mr. Berkeley, I may thank G.o.d that I spoke to you to-night. 'Helen!'”--and he lingered upon the name. ”Upon my word, it would take little more to unman me. So you landed on the sixth of October. But are you sure of the date?” he asked with earnestness. ”I borrowed your horse but a few days before. You would hardly have travelled so quickly.”

”I travelled by sea with a fair wind,” said I. ”It was the sixth of October. Could I forget it? Why, that very night I crossed Castle Down to Merchant's Point; that very night I entered the house. d.i.c.k Parmiter showed me a way. I crept into the house, and slept in your bedroom----”

I had spoken so far without a notion of the disclosure to which my words were leading me. I was not looking at Cullen Mayle, but on to the ground, else very likely I might have read it upon his face. But now in an instant the truth of the matter was clear to me. For as I said, ”I slept in your bedroom,” he uttered one loud cry, leapt to his feet, and stood over against me, very still and quiet. I had sufficient wit not to raise my head and betray this new piece of knowledge. That sad and pitiful death on the sixth of October, of which he had heard with so deep a pain--he had never heard it, he had _planned_ it, and the plan miscarried. He knew why, now, and so was standing in front of me very still and quiet. He had seen Helen that night on Castle Down; there, no doubt, she had told him how in her will she had disposed of her inheritance; and he had persuaded her, working on her generosity--with what prepared speeches of despair!--to that strange, dark act which it had been my good fortune to interrupt.

It was clear to me. The very choice of that room, wherein alone secrecy was possible, made it clear. He had suggested to her the whole cunning plan; and a moment ago I had almost been deceived to believe his expressions of distress sincere!

”I told you I was nearly unmanned,” I heard him say; ”and you see even so I underrated the strength of my relief, so that the mere surprise of your ingenious s.h.i.+ft to get a lodging took my breath away.”

He resumed his seat, and I, having now composed my face, raised it full to him. I have often wondered since whether, as he stood above me, motionless and silent during those few moments, I was in any danger.

”Yes,” said I, ”it was no doubt surprising.”

This, however, was not the only surprise I was to cause Cullen Mayle that night.

He proposed immediately that we should cross to Tresco together, and on my objecting that we should get no one to carry us over--

”Oh,” said he, ”I have convenient friends in Scilly as well as inconvenient.” He looked out of the window. ”The tide is high, and washes the steps at the back of the inn. Do you wait here upon the steps. I will have a boat there in less than half an hour;” and on the word he hooked up his dress again and got him out of the inn.

I waited upon the steps as he bade me. Behind me were the lights and the uproar of the street; in front, the black water and the cool night; and still further, out of sight, the island of Tresco, the purple island of bracken and gorse, resonant with the sea.

In a little I heard a ripple of water, and the boat swam to the steps.

I was careful as we sailed across the road to say nothing to Cullen Mayle which would provoke his suspicion. I did not even allow him to see I was aware that he himself had been upon Tresco on the sixth of October. It was not difficult for me to keep silence. For as the water splashed and seethed under the lee of the boat, and Tresco drew nearer, I had to consider what I should do in the light of my new knowledge. It would have been so much easier had only Helen been frank with me.

Tresco dimly loomed up out of the darkness.

”By the way,” said Cullen Mayle, who had been silent too, ”you said that one of the watchers had remained. It will be George Glen, I suppose.”

”No,” I answered. ”It is a Frenchman, Peter Tortue,” and by the mere mention of the name I surprised Cullen Mayle again that evening. It is true that this time he uttered no exclamation, and did not start from his seat. But the boat shot up into the wind and got into irons, as the saying is, so that I knew his hand had left the tiller. But he said nothing until we were opposite to the Blockhouse, and then he asked in a low trembling voice:

”Did you say Peter Tortue?”

”Yes.”

There was another interval of silence. Then he put another question and in the same tone of awe:

”A young fellow, less than my years----”

”No. The young fellow's father,” said I. ”A man of sixty years. I think I should be wary of him.”

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