The Black Box 13
"Stay! whither go you?" cried my father.
"To seek this fellow out," I answered savagely. "To find him, and--to
kill him."
"Then save yourself the trouble," rejoined my father firmly. "Two
follies never made a wise thing yet, and never will. And this were
rankest folly. For, look you, this fellow Ammon will be far away by now;
aye, verily, perchance aboard ship, making for his master."
"Not so," said I, "for his master is already here in Lyme."
"What!" cried the old man, springing to his feet. "Ferguson in England?"
"Yes, he landed with Monmouth here to-night." And in a few hot,
breathless words I told him all that I had seen and heard that day;
while he paced to and fro, now stopping for a moment, now spreading out
his hands, and all the time casting wild, hunted glances round the room.
"Michael," he said when I had finished, "the bolt is shot, and nothing
now can save me from the gallows; nay, verily, I feel the noose about my
neck already."
"No, no!" I cried out in my desperation. "Say not that. I cannot bear
it. There is still hope that naught may come of it."
"There--is--no--hope," replied my father, slowly. "Whatever comes of
this rebellion, Ferguson will still have power to bring me to
account--to crush me! Nor will he stay his hand. I know him well. To
be avenged is very life to him. Yes, Ferguson the Plotter will have
vengeance! There is no hope! Oh, why is this? Why have I lived to see
this awful day?"
Clenching his hands, he raised them high above his head, and stood
before me thus--a haunting picture of despair and anguish, awful to
remember. It seemed as though the hands were raised to curse me; but it
was not so, for, as I stood there with bowed head, they came down gently
on my shoulders.
"Michael," he said, "take not this thing too much to heart. You spoke
truly--I have judged you harshly. The fault is mine, not yours; for had
I not first trafficked with this Ferguson, for the sake of usury, for
filthy lucre, this had not happened. Yes, yes, the fault is mine, and
whatever evil comes of it, no harm shall come to you. I swear it.
Forget my hasty words."
A curse had been much easier to bear than this.
"Nay, sir, I will not have it so," I almost shouted. "The fault is mine.
I have been faithless, as you said, and would now make amends for it.
What can be done?"
"Hush!" said my father gently. "Naught can be done--to-night. I would
think this matter over quietly, alone, here. Therefore, leave me,
Michael; go to rest. We may see clearer in the morning. Good-night, my
son!"
Our hands met in a long, firm grip, even as they had done in the early
morning of that selfsame day, when I had sworn strict secrecy concerning
that which now, alas! through my unfaithfulness had thus been turned
into a power of threatening danger.
Going over to the fatal, mischief-working window, I slowly closed the
tell-tale casement; then once more turned towards my father; and spite
of all his efforts at concealment, I read within his eyes the awful
words "Too late!" And so I left him.
*CHAPTER VII*
*The Plotters*
Such had been the throbbing interest and excitement of that eventful
day, that I had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink--I had not
thought of it--and now my only craving was for water. Of that I took a
long, cold draught, then went up to my lonely bed-chamber. But not to
rest; there could be no rest for me now!
Pacing the room I thought bitterly of the state of things, and how
different it might all have been but for my own surpassing carelessness;
thought, too, of the old man who sat lonely and disconsolate below; of
Tubal Ammon and his mischief-working master.
Thus to and fro I went, I know not for how long, while shame and
self-reproach hung close and heavy at my heels: but at every turn the
hopelessness and desperation of my mind increased, until at length I
could endure my thoughts no longer. The confines of that little chamber
seemed to grow smaller and more suffocating every moment, until they
were as those of some pestiferous dungeon in which I was a maddened
prisoner. I must do something--take action, no matter how preposterous
and wild--or lose my senses.
Going over to the open window I stood there looking out across the bay.
A cool sea breeze played most refreshingly upon my heated face; I drew
it in with thankfulness.
The tumult in the town had sunk to silence, the night was dark and still
as death. Far off I saw the bobbing lanterns of the three black ships
whose coming had so altered everything.
It all seemed like a dream or ugly nightmare, and I was thinking so when
suddenly I saw a tiny twinkling light upon the cliffs, it might be half
a mile away. On this--I know not why, unless it was presentiment--my
eyes became fixed in a fascinated stare. Who at such an hour (’twas now
close on midnight) had business in so desolate and wild a spot? Barely
had I asked the question, when another light, a trifle larger, blinked
forth in answer, some distance from the first one. Even as I watched,
they quickly drew together, got close enough to make them seem one
light, and then were lost to me.
Here, then, was what I craved for--chance of action! Some mystery was
afoot there on the cliffs. I would endeavour to make out the nature of
it.
Recking nothing of the risks I ran, careless of everything save blessed
movement, I stuck two loaded pistols in my belt, crept downstairs with a
noiseless stealth, and left the house.
If ever youth went forth blindfolded on a reckless, wild adventure, I
surely was that youth; if ever mind was nearly bursting with a
hare-brained folly, such certainly was Michael Fane’s as he passed out
into the darkness of that fateful night. Yet, had I been assured that
Death himself was waiting to embrace me in his icy clasp, ’tis certain I
would still have gone. Fate urged me on, nor did I need much driving.
As I have said, the night was dark, the moon being hidden by a mighty
bank of clouds: and naught was to be seen save here and there a
twinkling light among the distant houses of the town, where doubtless
some late sitters talked upon the happenings of that stirring day, or
those engaged upon rebellion laid their plans. Thus I had nothing more
than chance to guide me to the spot where the two tell-tale lights had
drawn so close together and then vanished.
Going full cautiously, stopping every now and then to listen, I crept
across the open space which lay between me and the cliffs. Bush and
bracken broke the ground at intervals, and thus, with no clear path
discernible in such a darkness, it behoved me to move warily, lest by
stumbling I might warn instead of catch.
Thus going in and out among the shrubs and ferns, and ever moving like
some beast of prey, I came at length upon the narrow path which runs
along the cliff-top. There, beaten, and inclined to curse my
foolishness, I stood straight up and listened.
A rabbit scuttered somewhere close at hand, the sea moaned plaintively
upon the shore below me, but not another sound was to be heard; it
seemed, indeed, as though the silence whispered of my folly!
Had, then, my eyes deceived me? Had a seething, maddened brain struck
lights where no lights were! It seemed so; or, if not, the bearers of
those lights had gone their way, for I was certain that I was not far
from where they had thus strangely met and disappeared. Yes, truly, I
was minded to call one Michael Fane a fool!
Stay, though, what was that? A hundred yards or so away, across the
scrub, I caught the sudden twinkle of a lantern. With bated breath I
watched it for a moment, then, dropping down upon the ground, moved
towards it like a slinking tiger. Scarcely had I started ere the light
vanished just as quickly as it came, but that did not stop me. On hands
and knees, feeling for every bush, I crawled on through the darkness.
The cracking of the tiniest twig seemed like a gunshot to my anxious,
straining ears, my tight-held breathing like the roaring of a grampus.
So slow and stealthy were my movements that a score yards took near half
as many minutes: and having covered double that without result except a
good array of scratches, I had again begun to doubt my eyes and mutter
at my folly, when, as I paused a moment to consider matters, a sound
like that of humming voices reached me from ahead.
Kneeling, I listened breathlessly, and with an eagerness as though my
very life depended on the act, and yet, for all I knew, it might have
been but poachers setting out their snares; therefore ’twould seem
indeed as though black fate and dread presentiment went hand in hand
that night.
As near as I could tell, the voices came from a spot not far away, and
straight ahead of me, but so low and muffled were they that ’twas no
easy matter to judge rightly on this point.
For a time I knelt there listening with all my might, first cocking this
ear and then that, but all in vain--not one word reached me: the buzzing
hum continued in a maddening fashion; indeed, it might have been a hive
of droning bees for all that I could make of it.
Down on all-fours I went again, and, with the sound to guide me, crawled
towards it.
Some twelve yards farther on I once more stopped to listen, and thus
discovered that the talkers were on the far side of a ridge or hillock
up which I had commenced to climb; and what was more, I made out that
which stiffened me with dread, and set my heart off thumping like a
hammer. For now I was near enough to separate the voices, low though
they were, and one of them spoke in broadest Scotch--’twas Ferguson’s;
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