Johnstone of the Border Part 27

"I'd rather stop, but I must go on," said Andrew grimly.

"Very well; we'll try to follow him."

They drove back, pa.s.sing the roadmender, who leaned upon his spade looking after them; and a little while later Whitney pulled up at a broken gate that hung open. A rough track, grown with gra.s.s, led away from it between loose stone walls.

"Not intended for automobiles!" Whitney remarked, as he cautiously steered between the ruts. "Williamson must have found it easier than we do."

Andrew nodded. His comrade's eyes were keen, for only a crushed tuft of gra.s.s here and there suggested the track of a bicycle tire. Farther along they stopped at a gate where the loaning forked. One branch ran on; the other turned off, and in the distance a lonely white house showed amidst a clump of bare, wind-bent trees.

"He would not have gone to the farm," said Whitney. "Jump down and open the gate."

They went on again carefully, but after a time the loaning got very rough and rushes grew across it where the ground was soft. After narrowly escaping an upset into the ditch on one side, Whitney stopped.

"I guess this is as far as she'll take us, and I see a peat-stack where we could leave her."

Lifting down a small fir that closed a gap in the wall, they pushed the motorcycle across a strip of heath and against a pile of turf; and then they stopped to look about.

The light was rapidly going and the wind was falling. In front lay a stretch of moor, seamed by black peat-hags, in some of which water glistened; beyond the moor rough heather-covered slopes ran up to the black hillcrest. A curlew whistled overhead, and the sharp cry of a grouse rose from the darkening heath. Except for this, it was very still and the landscape looked strangely desolate. Not far ahead a patch of roof showed faintly among some stunted ash-trees.

"A cothouse," said Andrew in surprise.

"We'll look at it," Whitney answered, and started for the building.

One end had fallen down, but half the thatch remained upon the bending rafters. The rest had gone, and it was plain that the cot had been abandoned for a long time. Crossing a ditch by a rotten plank, they stood knee-deep among withered nettles at the door, and the ruined walls struck a mournful note in the gathering dark.

"There's a track here," said Whitney. "I guess the sheep go in."

He struck a match as they entered, and, avoiding stones and fallen beams, they made for the door of an inner room. When they reached it, Whitney struck another match, and smiled as he held it up, for the light fell upon a single-cylinder motorcycle with a gun-case strapped to the carrier.

"Well," he said, "I expected this. If we cross the end of the hill going southeast, we would strike the sands somewhere abreast of the wreck?"

"Yes."

"How's the tide?"

"High-water's about one o'clock. That means it's a big tide and, of course, runs out a long way on the ebb."

"Then the sands will be dry and there'll be no gutters to cross. Well, I guess it's a long walk, but we've got to make it. Take your overalls off."

Three or four minutes later they left the cothouse and struck across the heath. There was no track, but Andrew headed for a knoll on the mountain's sloping shoulder. After they left the level, the heather grew tall and strong, brus.h.i.+ng about their knees and entangling their feet. Then there were awkward rabbit-holes and granite boulders scattered about, and they bruised their s.h.i.+ns as they laboriously plodded upward. The light had almost gone, and there was nothing visible but the stretch of shadowy hillside in front.

Whitney heard Andrew breathing hard, and imagined that his injured leg was giving him trouble.

"Are we rus.h.i.+ng it too much?" he asked.

"I can hold out until we get to the top, and I'll be all right then.

It's gripping the brae with the side of my foot that bothers me."

He went on without slackening speed, and the slope grew easier and the light breeze keener. Then the stretch of heather which had shut off their view suddenly fell away, and they looked down through the soft darkness on to a vast, black plain. There was nothing to distinguish land from sea; but a faint cl.u.s.ter of lights that p.r.i.c.ked the gloom like pin-points marked the English-sh.o.r.e, and farther off the flickering glare of blast-furnaces was reflected in the sky. In the middle distance, a twinkle showed where the Solway lights.h.i.+p guarded the fairway through the shoals; but there was no light near them, nor any sound except the distant murmur of the sea. They stood remote from the homes of men in the mountain solitude.

Andrew, stooping behind a ma.s.s of granite, struck a match and took out his watch.

"We haven't much time to spare. I wish I knew if the lights.h.i.+p yonder was still riding to the ebb," he said. "There's a burn somewhere below us and running water is generally a good guide down."

They went on, floundering through tangled heather and falling into rabbit-burrows, until the tinkle of water reached them softly. After that they wound downhill beside the growing burn, past brakes of thorn and hazel and over banks of stones, until a long wood led them to the road. Following the wood for a time they went down again through smooth pasture and turnip-fields and came to a wall that ran along the beach. The empty s.p.a.ce beyond it looked black and lonely, and the mournful crying of wildfowl came out of the gloom, but at some distance a beam from a lighthouse cast its reflection upon the sloppy sand.

"Can you hit the wreck from here?" Whitney asked.

"I'll try," said Andrew. "It's a long way, and the tide must be on the turn."

They took off their boots, and as they launched out across the dark level the sand felt sharply cold. Here and there they splashed through pools, but for the most part the bank was ribbed with hard ridges. The sh.o.r.e soon vanished; Criffell's black bulk grew blurred and shapeless against the sky; and they had only the misty beam from the lighthouse for guide. Whitney, however, imagined that Andrew was going straight, which was comforting, when they came to a wide depression where water glimmered. He thought this was the channel that had stopped them before, and he felt somewhat uneasy as he waded in. There was now no boat they could retreat to on the other side of the wreck.

The water, however, hardly covered their ankles; and some time afterward Andrew touched Whitney's arm as a dim, formless ma.s.s rose from the sand. It got plainer as they cautiously approached it, their bare feet falling noiselessly, and in a minute or two they stopped and listened beside the wreck. There was no sound but the drip of water, and Andrew, grasping a broken beam, swung himself up. Whitney followed, his nerves tense, his muscles braced; and he held his breath when he dropped into the forecastle. The next moment a pale light sprang up, and he saw Andrew holding out a match. The feeble glow spread along the wet planks and filled the forecastle before the match went out, and Whitney was more relieved than disappointed to see that n.o.body else was there.

"We have missed him," he said. "Take my box; they're wax and burn better than the wooden kind."

Andrew struck another light, and it burned clearer. The candle they had used and replaced on the last visit had gone, but two or three matches floated in a pool. He picked them up and Whitney examined them closely.

"These are quite fresh," he said. "Looks as if they'd just been struck, though we can't be sure of that. Extra thick wax, same make as mine; I got the best I could, because I wanted them to light the bicycle lamp."

Then the match burned low, and Andrew threw it down.

"It proves nothing except that the man who used them wanted a good article. The make is well known, but in this part of the country you couldn't find it except at a tobacconist's."

"That's a point. Anything is good enough for a fisherman or a sailor to get a light with. The fellow who came here must have meant to have the best."

"After all, the matches don't tell us who he is," Andrew said slowly.

"They don't, but they may help us later. And now we'll hustle for the beach. It would be awkward if we found the tide running up the gutter."

They set off across the sands and waded through the channel without trouble. Reaching land, they put on their boots and laboriously struggled up the dark hill. Both were tired when they floundered down through the heather on the other side, but they found the boggy heath, and came at last to the cothouse. As they expected, the motorcycle was no longer there. They trudged on to the peat-stack, and shortly afterward Whitney started his machine, and with some difficulty kept out of the ruts and ditches until he turned into the highroad.

CHAPTER XVII

THE MATCHBOX

The dead leaves were driving round Appleyard before a boisterous wind that lashed the granite walls with bitter rain. A fire had been lighted in the drawing-room, and Staffer sat talking to his sister.

Mrs. Woodhouse was a quiet woman, generally content to remain in the background; and the influence she exercised at Appleyard was, as a rule, negative. She rarely claimed authority, even over her daughter, or openly interfered, but the things she disapproved of were seldom done. Now her usually placid face was firm.

The drawing-room door was open, and she watched Williamson, who stood near Elsie in the hall. His pose was gracefully easy as he smiled at a remark of the girl's. He looked suave and well-bred, but Mrs.

Woodhouse's expression hardened.

"Will that man be here long?" she asked, when Williamson and Elsie moved away.

Staffer gave her a quick glance. It was desirable that his relations with Williamson should be cordial, but of late his guest had shown some reserve. It was so slight that Staffer, knowing of no cause for their disagreement, felt it instinctively rather than noticed it by any particular sign. For all that, something had come between them, and he wondered whether his sister was to blame for this.