Castle Craneycrow

XXX. LOVE IS BLIND

“But Ugo can disprove it,” he said, after a moment's thought.

“Only by confessing his own duplicity,” she said, tranquilly.

“You will not marry him, Dorothy?”

She looked him full in the eyes, and no word could have answered plainer than the disdain which swept across her lovely face.

“What do you think of me, Phil?” she asked, in hurt tones, and he answered with his eyes because he could not trust his voice.

The longing to throw her arms about the man whose burning eyes had set her heart afire was almost uncontrollable; the hope that he would throw off restraint and cry out his love, drove her timidly into silent expectancy. His whole soul surged to his lips and eyes, but he fought back the words that would have made them both so happy. He knew she loved him; the faintest whisper from him would cause her lips to breathe the passion her eyes revealed. And yet he was strong enough to bide his time.

How long this exquisite communion of thoughts lasted neither knew nor cared. Through the leafy wood they drove, in utter silence, both understanding, both revealing, both waiting. He dared not look at the glorious, love-lit face, he dared not speak to her, he dared not tempt the heart that might betray his head. It was he who at last broke that joyous calm, and his voice was husky with suppressed emotion.

“You will not forget that some day I am coming to you as Phil Quentin and not in the mask of a bandit.”

“I shall expect you, robber, to appear before a certain tribunal and there explain, if you can, what led you to commit the crime that has shocked the world,” she said, brightly.

“I implore the leniency of the high court,” he said, tenderly.

“The court can only put you on probation and exact the promise that you will never steal another girl.”

“And the length of probation?”

“For all your natural life,” demurely.

“Then I must appeal to a higher court,” he said, soberly.

“What?” she cried. “Do you object to the judgment?”

“Not at all,” he said, earnestly. “I will merely appeal to the higher court for permission to live forever.” Both laughed with the buoyancy that comes from suppressed delight. “It occurs to me, Dorothy,” said he, a few minutes later, “that we are a long time in reaching the town Father Bivot told me about. We seem to be in the wilds, and he said there were a number of houses within five miles of Craneycrow. Have we passed a single habitation?”

“I have not seen one, but I'm sorry the time seems long,” she said.

“I wonder if we have lost the way,” he went on, a troubled expression in his eyes. “This certainly isn't a highway, and he said we would come to one within three miles of the castle. See; it is eleven o'clock, and we have been driving for more than two hours at a pretty fair gait. By the eternal, Dorothy, we may be lost!”

“How delightful!” she cried, her eyes sparkling.

“I don't believe you care,” he exclaimed, in surprise.

“I should have said how frightful,” she corrected, contritely.

“This isn't getting you on a train, by any manner of means,” he said. “Could I have misunderstood the directions he gave?” He was really disturbed.

“And the poor horse seems so tired, too,” she said, serenely.

“By Jove! Didn't we cross a stream an hour or so ago?” he cried.

“A horrid, splashy little stream? We crossed it long ago.”

“Well, we shouldn't have crossed it,” he said, ruefully. “I should have turned up the hill over the creek road. We're miles out of the way, Dorothy.”

“What shall we do?” she asked, with a brave show of dismay.

“I don't know. We're in a deuce of a pickle, don't you see?” he said.

“I can't say that I do see,” she said. “Can't we drive back to the creek?”

“We could if I could turn the confounded trap about. But how, in the name of heaven, can I turn on a road that isn't wide enough for two bicycles to pass in safety? Steep, unclimable hill on our left, deep ravine on our right.”

“And a narrow bit of a road ahead of us,” she said. “It looks very much as if the crooked and narrow path is the best this time.”

That narrow road seemed to have no end and it never widened. The driving at last became dangerous, and they realized that the tired horse was drawing them up a long, gradual slope. The way became steeper, and the road rough with rocks and ruts. Her composure was rapidly deserting her, and he was the picture of impatience.

“If we should meet anyone else driving, what would happen?” she asked, fearfully.

“We won't meet anyone,” he answered. “Nobody but a mountain goat would wittingly venture up this road. This poor old nag is almost dead. This is a pretty mess! How do you like the way I'm taking you to the train?”

“Is this another abduction?” she asked, sweetly, and both laughed merrily, in spite of their predicament. His haggard face, still showing the effects of illness, grew more and more troubled, and at last he said they would have to get down from the trap, not only to avoid the danger of tipping over the cliff, but to relieve the horse. In this sorry fashion they plodded along, now far above the forest, and in the cool air of the hilltops.

“There certainly must be a top to this accursed hill,” he panted. He was leading the horse by the bit, and she was bravely trudging at his side.

“There is a bend in the road up yonder, Phil,” she said.

When they turned the bend in the tortuous mountain road, both drew up sharply, with a gasp of astonishment. For a long time neither spoke, their bewildered minds struggling to comprehend the vast puzzle that confronted them. Even the fagged horse pricked up his ears and looked ahead with interest. Not three hundred yards beyond the bend stood the ruins of an enormous castle.

“It is Craneycrow!” gasped the man, leaning dizzily against the shaft of the trap. She could only look at him in mute consternation. It was Craneycrow, beyond all doubt, but what supernatural power had transferred it bodily from the squarrose hill on which it had stood for centuries, to the spot it now occupied, grim and almost grinning? “Is this a dream, Dorothy? Are we really back again?”

“I can't believe it,” she murmured. “We must be deceived by a strange resem—”

“There is Bob himself! Good heavens, this paralyzes me! Hey, Bob! Bob!”

A few minutes later a limping horse dragged his bones into the courtyard and two shame faced travelers stood before a taunting quartet, enduring their laughter, wincing under their jests, blushing like children when the shots went home. For hours they had driven in a circle, rounding the great row of hills, at last coming to the very gate from which they had started forth so confidently. They were tired and hungry and nervous.

“Did you telegraph your mother you were coming?” asked Dickey Savage.

“We did not even see a telegraph wire,” answered Dorothy, dismally.

“What did you see?” he asked, maliciously,

“You should not ask confusing questions, Richard,” reprimanded Lady Jane, with mock severity.

“Well, we'll try it over again to-morrow,” decided Quentin, doggedly.

“Do you expect me to let you kill every horse I own?” demanded Lord Bob. “They can't stand these round-the-world pleasure trips every day, don't you know. Glad to oblige you, my boy, but I must be humane.”

That evening Father Bivot came to the castle, just as they were leaving the dinner table. He brought startling news. Not an hour before, while on his way from the nearest village, he had come upon a big party of men, quartered on the premises of a gardener down the valley. It required but little effort on his part to discover that they were officers from the capital, and that they were looking for the place where Courant's body was found. The good Father also learned that detectives from Brussels were in the party, and that one of the men was a prince. The eager listeners in Castle Craneycrow soon drew from the priest enough to convince them that Ugo was at the head of the expedition, and that it was a matter of but a few hours until he and his men would be knocking at the gates.

“The prince did not address me,” said Father Bivot, “but listened intently, as I now recall, to everything I said in response to the Luxemburg officer's questions. That person asked me if Lord Robert Saxondale owned a place in the valley, and I said that his lordship dwelt in Castle Craneycrow. The men were very curious, and a tall Italian whispered questions to the officer, who put them to me roughly. There was no harm in telling them that his lordship was here with a party of friends—”

“Good Lord!” gasped Dickey, despairingly.

“It is all over,” said Quentin, his face rigid.

“What will they do?” demanded Dorothy, panic-stricken.

“I do not understand your agitation, good friends,” said the priest, in mild surprise. “Have I done wrong in telling them you are here? Who are they? Are they enemies?”

“They are searching for me, Father Bivot,” said Dorothy, resignedly.

“For you, my child?” in wonder.

“They want to take me back to Brussels, You would not understand, Father, if I told you the story, but I do not want them to find me here.”

A frightened servant threw open the door unceremoniously at this juncture and controlling his excitement with moderate success, announced that a crowd of men were at the gates, demanding admission.

“My God, Bob, this will ruin you and Lady Saxondale!” groaned Quentin. “What can we do? Escape by the underground passage?”

Lord Saxondale was the coolest one in the party. He squared his shoulders, sniffed the air belligerently, and said he would take the matter in his own hands.

“Frances, will you take Miss Garrison upstairs with you? And Jane, I suspect you would better go, too The secret passage is not to be considered. If we attempt to leave the place, after the information Father Bivot has given them, it will be a clean admission of guilt. We will face them down. They can't search the castle without my permission, and they can't trespass here a minute longer than I desire. Do you care to see the prince, Quentin?”

“See him? It is my duty and not yours to meet him. It means nothing to me and it means disgrace to you, Bob, Let me talk to—”

“If you intend to act like an ass, Phil, you shan't talk to him. I am in control here, and I alone can treat with him and the officers.”

“Please, sir, they are becoming very angry, and say they will break down the gates in the name of the law,” said the servant, reentering hurriedly.

“I will go out and talk to them about the law,” said Saxondale, grimly. “Don't be alarmed, Miss Garrison. We'll take care of you. Gad, you look as if you want to faint! Get her upstairs, Frances.”

“I must speak with you, Lord Saxondale,” cried Dorothy, clutching his arm and drawing him apart from the pale-faced group. Eagerly she whispered in his ear, stamping her foot in reply to his blank objections. In the end she grasped both his shoulders and looked up into his astonished eyes determinedly, holding him firmly until he nodded his head gravely. Then she ran across the room to the two ladies and the bewildered priest, crying to the latter:

“You must come upstairs and out of danger, Father. We have no time to lose. Good luck to you, Lord Saxondale!” and she turned an excited face to the three men who stood near the door.

“He shall not have you, Dorothy,” cried Quentin. “He must kill me first.”

“Trust to Lord Saxondale's diplomacy, Phil,” she said, softly, as she passed him on her way to the stairs.