The Hispaniola Plate

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE OWNER OF THE TREASURE

The white shark-for such it is which is the most terrible in these regions-that had taken both Alderly's legs off above the knee, so that he must have soon bled to death, had doubtless done so while his intended victim was escaping from the trap he had set for Reginald.

Each bite-for the brute must have given two-was as clean as though the limbs had been snipped-off by a pair of blunt scissors, and, as Reginald regarded the mangled trunk in the moonlight, he could not but thank his Maker that he had not been the next victim, for he recognised how narrow his own escape was. His experience as a sailor told him that where the sharks have found one prey they will, sometimes for weeks, hover about in expectation of another, and he could only wonder-while his wonder was tinged with devout gratitude-why he should not also by now be torn in half.

As he dragged the body up the slope of the shingle, meaning to cover it over with palm leaves until Barbara had seen the face-the lower part she must not be allowed to see-and then to bury it, a bundle of papers fell out of the pocket of the dead man's rough shirt, which he picked up and put in his own. It must be handed to Barbara, he reflected, who was now the last of the Alderlys, and consequently the heiress to all the wealth of the Key!

"Which is," reflected Reginald, "the very best thing that could possibly have happened. She will now be able to lead the life so beautiful a woman ought to lead, a life which she by her education and womanly ideas is fitted to lead. For her, nothing could be better than Alderly's death."

Yet, when he thought of her inexperience-had she not believed that Trinidad was the world! – and of how she was all alone now without kith or kin, he could not but wonder what would become of her.

"At least," he pondered, "I pray she may fall into the hands of no such an adventurer as this," and he glanced at Alderly's mangled body. "That would be too awful. Better anything than that, even to finding her fortune gone when we dig up the Key. Though that would be a strange climax, too, to all that has taken place. Gone! great heavens, what an idea! To think of it! To think that when we go to unearth it we may discover there is nothing to be got. The very thought makes my blood run cold. But-bah! it is nonsense. It must be there!"

His blood was running cold, though not from this idea which had come into his mind, but from the wetting he had received.

Therefore, as soon as the sun burst upon the island once more, he stripped himself of his clothes, and, laying them out to dry, proceeded to dry himself also by the old-fashioned method of running up and down the beach. Then, when but a short exposure of his garments to the sun had sufficed to render them once more wearable, he put them on again and set out for Barbara's home.

"Though," he said to himself, "it is no easy task to break such news to her. Alderly was not kind to her, and she knew his failings and despised him-yet he was her brother, and his death was awful. But it must be told."

He made his way with the usual difficulty through all the entanglement of the luxuriant vegetation that grew down to the beach, and at last reached the path leading to the hut. Indeed, he was eager to get there in spite of the fact that he had such dismal news to break to Barbara, since he was somewhat surprised that he had neither seen nor heard anything of her now. He had almost feared to denude himself of his clothes at daybreak, thinking that at any moment the girl might come down to him-it being her custom to rise at that time-and when an hour had passed, as it had now done, he was still more astonished at not seeing her. She must know by now that her brother was not in his house; she must, have known long ago that he had not sat up carousing far into the night as was his habit. Where was she? What could have happened?

His fears became intensified as her house came into sight. For he soon perceived that the jalousies were not opened, and that the door on the verandah was closed-a thing he had never known before to be the case, from daybreak until late night-nay, worse, more appalling than all to him, was to see that behind the slats of the jalousie of the front room there was a light burning-the light of the lamp that stood always on the table in the middle of the living-room.

Springing up the wooden steps leading to the verandah, he rattled the slats in great agitation, and called loudly, "Barbara! Barbara, are you there?" a summons which, he thanked Heaven, instantly produced a reply. He heard the bark of her dog, who knew him well now; but no answer came from her.

Unable to bear any further suspense, fearing the worst, namely, that her brother had murdered her before he set forth on his attempt to do as much for him, and remembering-fool that he was, as he called himself! – the shriek he had heard in the night and attributed to some of the disturbed denizens of the island, he tore the jalousie aside and entered the general room.

And then he knew why Barbara had not come to seek him at daybreak as was her wont.

She was lying on the lounge, or rude sofa, her hands bound in front of her, her feet tied together, and in her mouth a rude gag made of a coarse pocket-handkerchief. By her side was the dog, moaning and whimpering, but making, when he entered, an attempt to jump up and fondle him. It also was tied, to the foot of the couch.

"Oh! Barbara!" he exclaimed, rushing forward to her, while he saw with infinite thanks that her eyes were open, and that she seemed to have suffered no further brutality than being made a prisoner of. "Oh! Barbara! that he should have treated you so!"

Then in a moment he had taken the gag from her mouth and had set her free, while all the time he was speaking kindly and considerately to her, and pitying her for having been so treated. And her first words were:

"Thank God, you are alive! I have been picturing you to myself for hours as dead. Did he not try to kill you?"

"Yes, Barbara," he said, after a moment's pause, almost dreading to tell her the tale, yet recognising that he must do so. "Yes, he tried to kill me."

"How?"

"By drowning. He must have bored some holes in the yacht unknown to me, when I slept. Oh! Barbara! I know I promised to keep careful watch, yet I was so tired, and at last I fell asleep. When I awoke the yacht was full of water-was sinking. Then-" he hesitated to tell her of how he had been locked in the cabin-"I-I escaped-I swam for my life."

"And he?" she asked faintly, almost in a whisper. "What of him?"

"He is dead."

"Ah! yes," she replied, with a shiver. "I know. I heard the report of your revolver. Then I knew all. Oh! how I wish he had not died at your hands!"

"He did not die at my hands, Barbara. He was dr-; he died in the water."

"Tell me all," she said, still faintly. "Tell me all."

Therefore he told her the whole of the dreadful story, omitting only the most blackening act, the double treachery and attempt of Alderly to take his life without giving him one chance of escape.

"I never thought to see you again," she whispered, when his recital was finished. "Never, never. For," she went on, telling now her experiences, "I knew by midnight that what I had dreaded he would attempt was about to take place. At that hour he left off drinking, having taken much less than was usual all the evening, and rising he went to the cupboard, from which, though he thought I could not do so, I saw him take out his long knife. It was one he brought back from Uruguay, from Paysandu, where they slaughter the oxen wholesale. I have heard him say more than once that it was too good to slay beasts with, and more fit to use on men-and once he drew it upon father. So that I knew he meant ill to you. Then I tried to escape to give you warning, only he would not let me. He seized me, tied me as you saw, and gagged me, though I shrieked once, hoping to alarm you-indeed, he threatened to kill me. And, at last, after he had also tied the dog-he would have slain that too, I feel sure, had it uttered one cry-he left me to the horrors of the night. Without one word he went away, not even saying when he would return. And," the girl concluded, "when I heard your pistol shots I fainted from fear-fear of what was going on. Oh! thank God, thank God, that he did not murder you-that you were not obliged to take his life in self-defence."

"I am thankful, too," he said; "above all things, thankful for your sake." After which he added, "Now, Barbara, would it not be best for you to come with me and see his body? I must bury it, you know, and then I ought to go over to Tortola and tell the Commissioner. I suppose he should be informed of his death."

"I suppose so," she said. "Only-how are you to go? The yacht is lost."

"There is his own boat. Where is that?"

But Barbara could not tell him, and soon after he found out. But now he prepared to go back to the beach to bury her brother's body, and he was not altogether surprised when she refused to accompany him.

"You have told me he is dead and how he died," she said. "That is enough-what more can I need? And for himself-oh! why should I see him? He never cared for me as a brother should, his last act was one of cruelty to me, and he went forth to murder you. Moreover, he was callous about father's death, did indeed rejoice in it, I believe, because by it he became master of the place. No, I will not go and see him; I could not bear to look upon him again. And," she concluded, "my only regret is that you should have the task of burying him. It would have been better almost had he sunk to the bottom of the river."

Therefore Reginald went off upon this duty, but before he did so he gave to Barbara the water-soaked packet of papers which he had taken from Alderly's shirt-pocket.

"They fell out," he said, "after I had brought him ashore. There was nothing else. The knife you speak of must have sunk to the bottom; perhaps he even tried to defend himself against the shark with it in his last moments. We shall never know!"

Nor did he ever know how that long Uruguay knife had once been nearly thrust into his breast as he lay sleeping; nor that with the knife, which had, indeed, sunk to the bottom of the river, had also sunk the auger with which he had bored half-a-dozen holes (each of the circumference of an ordinary cork) in the bottom of the Pompeia. One thing did, however, strike him as strange as he meditated over it all, namely, that from the time when Alderly must have bored those holes in the yacht to the time when she sank a considerable period had undoubtedly elapsed. And he wondered if it was during that period that he had managed to get on board and close the cabin door. Then, as he was burying him, he knew; he found out that his would-be murderer had indeed visited the Pompeia.

For he was mistaken when he told Barbara earlier that there was nothing else on her brother's body. As he prepared to put the trunk into the hole he had dug for it-while still the fixed open eyes stared up at him, this time in the morning's sunlight, and still the beautifully white teeth gleamed in that light-he observed that, besides the papers which had dropped from his shirt, there were still some others that had remained within the pocket.

And drawing them out he saw that, all soaked as they were like the others, they were the narrative of Nicholas Crafer.

"So," he thought, while he felt faint and sick as he mused-"so he was in the cabin, after all! Heavens! he must have crept in while I slept, have rifled my pockets in the dark when the lamp had gone out, have-faugh! – had his foul hands all about me! Thank God! he must have come when the light had burnt out, otherwise he would have seen the pistol."

He never knew that the ruffian had, in truth, known the pistol was there, but had forgotten, or feared to use, it when in the cabin later on.

He tossed the remains into the hole he had dug, touching them with the greatest disgust and loathing, and then covered the spot up hurriedly and stamped the earth down over it, and took his way back to Barbara. And, as he went, he determined that he would not tell her of this further instance of villainy on her brother's part. Henceforth she should learn no more of the workings of that wicked heart and brain.

When he reached the hut he saw her on the verandah, seated in the usual chair and with tears in her eyes. The papers he had given her were stretched out on a table before her, and, as he mounted the steps, she held out one to him and bade him read it. A glance showed that it was a will made by her father, a will properly drawn up and attested at some lawyer's office in Tortola; a will by which everything was left to her, including the island and the treasure if ever found-indeed, all that he possessed.

"Because," he read, in the cramped legal hand of the person who had drawn it out, "of the cruelty, the greed and the evil temper of my son to me, as well as his ill-treatment of me and my dear daughter, Barbara, I give and bequeath to her all and everything of which I may die possessed, including Coffin Island, any buried treasure that may chance to be found," etc., etc., etc.

"Great heavens!" Reginald thought to himself, as he handed her back the will, "there was no end to the scoundrel's wickedness. How could this villain be Barbara's brother?"

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE APPROACHING SEARCH

Reginald found Joseph Alderly's boat on the same evening, when he was out on a tour about the coast of the island on the lookout for it. As he suspected, Alderly had brought it round to the neighbourhood of the river's mouth, preferring to get at him that way instead of by the path down from his house. His reasons for doing so might have been manifold, the young man knew very well-reasons that would, doubtless, at once occur to such a scheming brain as that of the dead ruffian. For, independently of the fact that he would have strongly wished to avoid any encounter with him on shore-and, for aught he knew, Reginald might be ashore at any period of the night-he might have brought his cutter to that neighbourhood so as to be able to get away from the island at once, after the sinking of the Pompeia had been accomplished.

For instance, had his plan succeeded he could have sailed to Anegada or Tortola within two or three hours from the time of the crime being committed, and, arriving at either place in the night, could have very easily induced the belief that he had anchored much earlier than he had actually done. In those spots very little, if any, notice is taken after dark of what boats are about-especially such boats as Alderly's, which are common all over the islands-and his alibi would consequently have held good when Reginald was reported missing. And even the report of his being missing would not have spread abroad for probably some time after the event. None but tourists came to Coffin Island, and Barbara would have been unable to get away from it; while, since the Pompeia would have disappeared for ever from human eyes, no one could have absolutely said that her temporary owner was dead. He might just as well have gone off with her to some other island as she have sunk to the bottom of the river, and Alderly could, therefore, have returned without his sister being able to advance one proof that Reginald Crafer had been made away with.

"Though," said Reginald to himself, as he mused over the matter while he inspected Alderly's own boat, "if I had been drowned after she heard the pistol shots, she would certainly have thought I had died trying to defend myself. And, had her scoundrelly brother managed to survive me, Barbara would, if I mistake not, have taxed him very plainly with my death."

He found the cutter anchored in about three fathoms of water, and had to get out to her in such a crazy, water-logged punt-in which Alderly must himself have come ashore-that he feared every moment the thing would sink under his weight, and expose him to the chance of a similar fate to that which had overtaken its owner. However, it was sounder than it looked, and, on inspecting the larger craft, he came to the conclusion that she would be navigable across to Tortola if she escaped bad weather-of which there were no signs now. The dead man had managed to patch her up in a manner very creditable to his knowledge of seacraft, and to set right the injuries she had received when cast ashore; so that, as far as the journey over to the Commissioner was concerned, he might start at once.

"Though," he pondered, as he inspected the cutter and found nothing inside her beyond her ordinary gear but a bottle of rum, some meat and coarse bread, and a pipe-"though there is no reason why I should hurry myself. We had better begin to dig up the treasure now, I think, and, meanwhile, this dog's hole of a boat will serve for my habitation as well as the poor Pompeia, though it's not quite so sweet and wholesome."

Whereon he hauled up her anchor, got her round to the river, and moored her as near as possible over the spot where the sunken yacht lay.

"I may have to pay Juby a good deal, for her," he mused, as he went up the path to Barbara's house. "However, we ought to find the wherewithal on the Key to do so. I suppose she will give me enough to do that." And he laughed to himself as the thought passed through his mind.

Barbara was eating her evening meal when he reached the hut, and he sat down to share it with her, telling her that henceforth she would have to keep him in food as long as they were together.

"I had loaded the Pompeia up with all sorts of good things such as are to be procured in the islands and at their stores," he said, trying to be gay and also to brighten her up, "but I might have saved myself the trouble. They are at the bottom of the river, and there they will stay until they are rotten. So, Barbara, I must live on you."

She gave him one swift glance from the sweet hazel eyes under the straight black eyebrows-eyes whose lids were red now from long weeping-and he understood it well enough. He knew that she would give him everything she possessed in the world, including her very life, as well as the fortune that was now to be hers-if old Nicholas had made no mistake, and if no one had ever lighted on the Key and its contents between the time of his departure and the coming of the other Barbara.

"By-the-bye," he said, as they ate their supper side by side, and Barbara tried to put such choice morsels of her poor plain food as there were on his plate, which attention he managed sometimes to avoid-"by-the-bye, we don't know after all what we are really going to discover. Nicholas managed to lose one of the most important parts of his manuscript, the list, as he calls it, of part of what he found. It is a good thing he didn't mislay the description of the Key and the measurements as well. If he had done that we should have been in a fix."

"But," said Barbara, "he has said what is in the long box. We know that, at any rate. Surely that's a fortune in itself?"

"What! six thousand pounds! Why, Barbara, when you go out into the world, the real world, London, the Continent, swagger German and Swiss places in the summer, and Rome and the Riviera in the winter, you'll find what a little bit of money six thousand pounds make. No! Nick's fifty thousand 'guineas' must be found for you before you become anything like a swell heiress with a romantic history, run after by all the men for your beauty and your wealth."

"Don't-don't talk like that!" the girl said. "It pains me to hear you joking like that. I know nothing of the places you mention, and as to men running after me-oh, don't, don't! And besides, you have forgotten-it is not mine."

"Every penny of it!" exclaimed Reginald, "except what Mr. Juby wants for the yacht if uninsured."

"No! no! no!" she said. "Remember, it is not in the island-my island, I suppose, now. The Keys are as much yours, or anyone else's, as mine. And if it had been on the island, and we had dug it up, I would not have taken it. If you would not have shared it with me-I-I-well, I would have thrown it into the sea."

"What a nice ending to poor old Nick's troubles and labours here in finding it, and at home in writing his long account in that queer fist of his! And also to all that your people have gone through, from your namesake downwards. No, no, Barbara! We won't throw it back into the sea, at any rate. And to-morrow we'll dig it up. Shall we?"