Castle Craneycrow

by George Barr McCutcheon

  XXIV. THE WHITE FLAG

  After returning to her room later on, Dorothy eagerly devoured thecontents of the newspapers, which were a day or two old. Theydevoted columns to the great abduction mystery; pictured the griefof the mother and marvelled at her courage and fortitude; traced thebrigands over divers streets to the deserted house; gave interviewswith the bride's fiance, her uncle and the servants who were foundin the stables; speculated on the designs of the robbers, theirwhereabouts and the nature of their next move; drew vivid andterrifying visions of the lovely bride lying in some wretched cave,hovel or cellar, tortured and suffering the agony of the damned.Opinions of police officers disclosed some astonishing solutions tothe mystery, but, withal, there was a tone of utter bewilderment inthe situation as they pictured it. She read the long and valiantdeclaration of Prince Ugo Ravorelli, the frantic, broken-heartedbridegroom, in which he swore to rescue the fair one from thedastards, "whoever and wherever they might be." Somehow, to her, hiswords, in cold print, looked false, artificial, theatrical--anythingbut brave and convincing.

  She stared in amazement at the proclamation offering 100,000 francsfor her restoration. The general opinion, however, was that theabductors might reasonably be expected to submit a proposition togive up their prize for not less than twice the amount. To a man thepolice maintained that Miss Garrison was confined somewhere in thecity of Brussels. There were, with the speculations and conjectures,no end of biographical sketches and portraits. She found herselfreading with a sort of amused interest the story of how one of themaids had buckled her satin slippers, another had dressed her hair,another had done something and another something else. It was allvery entertaining, in spite of the conditions that made the storiespossible. But what amused her most of all were the wild guesses asto her present whereabouts. There was a direful unanimity of opinionthat she was groveling in her priceless wedding-gown on the floor ofsome dark, filthy cellar. The papers vividly painted her as haggard,faint, despairing of succor, beating her breast and tearing herbeautiful hair in the confines of a foul-smelling hole in theground, crying for help in tones that would melt a heart of stone,and guarded by devils in the guise of men.

  Then she came to the paragraph which urged the utmost punishmentthat law could inflict upon the desperadoes. The outraged populacecould be appeased with nothing save death in its most ignominious,inglorious form. The trials would be short, the punishment swift andsure. The people demanded the lives of the villains.

  For a long time she sat with expressionless eyes, staring at thewall opposite, thinking of the five persons who kept her a prisoner,thinking of the lives the people longed to take, thinking of death.Death to pretty Lady Jane, to Lady Saxondale, to Lord Bob, to DickeySavage--the hunted--and to Philip Quentin, the arch conspirator! Tokill them, to butcher them, to tear them to pieces--that was what itmeant, if they were taken before the maddened people. When Bakerbrought in the tea, Dorothy was shivering as one with a chill, andthere was a new terror in her soul. What if they were taken? Couldshe endure the thought that death was sure to come to them, or totwo of 'them, at least? Two of the men? Two Americans?

  During the next three days she refused to leave her room, coldlydeclining the cordial invitations to make one of a very merry houseparty, as Lady Jane called it. Her meals were sent to her room, andBaker was her constant attendant. Into her cheek came the dull whiteof loneliness and despair, into her eye the fever of unrest. Thevisits met with disdain, and gradually they became less frequent. Onthe third day of this self-inflicted separation she sat alone fromearly morn until dusk without the first sign of a visit from eitherLady Saxondale or Lady Jane.

  All day long she had been expecting them, and now she was beginningto hunger for them. A ridiculous, inconsistent irritation had beenbuilding itself in her heart since midday, and at dusk it reachedits limit in unmistakable rage. That they might be willing to ignoreher entirely had not entered her mind before. Her heart was verybitter toward the disagreeable creatures who left her alone all dayin a stuffy room, and in a most horrid temper to boot.

  From below, at different times during the afternoon, came the happylaughter of men and women, rollicking songs, the banging of a pianoin tantalizing "rag-time" by strong New York fingers, the soft boomof a Chinese dinner gong and--oh! it was maddening to sit away upthere and picture the heartless joy that reigned below. When Bakerleft the room, Dorothy, like a guilty child, sneaked--actuallysneaked--to the hall door, opened it softly, and listened withwrathful longing to the signs of life and good cheer that came toher ears. Desolate, dispirited, hungry for the companionship of eventhieves and robbers, she dragged herself to the broad window andlooked darkly down upon the green and gray world.

  Her pride was having a mighty battle. For three long days had shemaintained a stubborn resistance to all the allurements they couldoffer; she had been strong and steadfast to her purpose until thishour came to make her loneliness almost unendurable--the hour whenshe saw they were mean enough to pay her in the coin of her ownmaking. Now she was crying for them to come and lift the pall ofsolitude, to brighten the world for her, to drive the deadlysickness out of her heart. They had ignored her for a whole day,because, she was reasonable enough to see, they felt she did notwant them to be near her. Would they never come to her again? Pridewas commanding her to scorn them forever, but a lonely heart wasbegging for fellowship.

  "Baker!" she called, suddenly, turning from the window, her faceaglow, her breath coming fast, her heart bounding with a newresolution--or the breaking of an old one. Baker did not respond atonce, and the now thoroughly aroused young lady hurried impatientlyto the bedchamber in quest of her. The maid was seated in a window,with ears as deaf as a stone, reading the harrowing news from thelatest newspaper that had come to Castle Craneycrow. Dorothy hadread every line of the newest developments, and had laughedscornfully over the absurd clews the police were following. She hadbeen seen simultaneously in Liverpool and in London and in Paris andin Brussels. And by reputable witnesses, too.

  "Baker!"

  "Yes, Miss," and the paper rattled to the floor, for there was a newtone in the voice that called to her.

  "You may go to Lady Saxondale and say that I accept yesterday'sinvitation to dine with her and Lord Saxondale."

  "Yesterday's invitation--you mean to-day's, Miss--" in bewilderedtones.

  "I mean yesterday's, Baker. You forget that I have no invitation forto-day. Tell her that Miss Garrison will be delighted to dine withher."

  Baker flew out of the room and downstairs with the message, thepurport of which did not sift through her puzzled head until LadySaxondale smiled and instructed her to inform Miss Garrison that shewould be charmed to have her dine with her both yesterday andto-day.

  In the meantime Dorothy was reproaching herself for her weakness insurrendering. She would meet Quentin, perhaps be placed beside him.While she could not or would not speak to him, the situation wassure to be uncomfortable. And they would think she was giving in tothem, and he would think she was giving in to him--and--but anythingwas better than exile.

  While standing at the window awaiting Baker's return, her gaze fellupon a solitary figure, trudging along the white, snake-like road,far down among the foothills--the figure of a priest in his longblack robe. He was the first man she had seen on the road, and shewatched him with curious, speculative eyes.

  "A holy priest," she was thinking; "the friend of all in distress.Why not me? Would he, could he help me? Oh, good father, if youcould but hear me, if I could but reach your ears! How far away heis, what a little speck he seems away down there! Why, I believe heis--yes, he is looking up at the castle. Can he see me? But, pshaw!How could he know that I am held here against my will? Even if hesees my handkerchief, how can he know that I want him to help me?"She was waving her handkerchief to the lonely figure in the road. Toher amazement he paused, apparently attracted by the signal. For abrief instant he gazed upward, then dropped his cowled head andmoved slowly away. She watched him until the trees of
the valley hidhis form from view, and she was alone with the small hope that hemight again some day pass over the lonely road and understand.

  When the dinner gong rang, she was ready to face the party, butthere was a lively thumping in her breast as she made her way downthe steps. At the bottom she was met by Lady Saxondale, and amoment later Lord Bob came up, smiling and good-natured. There wasa sudden rush of warmth to her heart, the bubbling over of somequeer emotion, and she was wringing their hands with a gladness shecould not conceal.

  "I am so lonely up there, Lady Saxondale," she said, simply,unreservedly.

  "Try to look upon us as friends, Dorothy; trust us, and you willfind more happiness here than you suspect. Castle Craneycrow wasborn and went to ruin in the midst of feud and strife; it hasoutlived its feudal days, so let there be no war between us," saidher ladyship, earnestly.

  "If we must live together within its battered walls, let us hoist aflag of truce, pick up the gauntlet and tie up the dogs of war,"added bluff Lord Bob.

  Dorothy smiled, and said: "There is one here who is not and cannever be included in our truce. I ask you to protect me from him.That is the one condition I impose."

  "You have no enemies here, my dear."

  "But I have a much too zealous friend."

  "Last call for dinner in the dining-car," shouted Dickey Savage,corning down the stairs hurriedly. "I was afraid I'd be late. Gladto see you. I haven't had a chance to ask how you enjoyed that viewfrom the tower the other day." She had given him her hand and he wasshaking it rapturously.

  "It was glorious, and I haven't had the opportunity to ask if youhave explored the hills and forest."

  "I'm afraid of snakes and other creeping things," he said, slyly.

  They had gone to the dining-room when Quentin entered. He was palerthan usual, but he was as calm, as easy and as self-possessed as ifhe had never known a conscience in all his life. She was not lookingat him when he bowed to her, but she heard his clear voice say:

  "I am glad to see you, Dorothy."

  He sat across the table, beside Lady Jane, who was opposite Dorothy.If he noticed that she failed to return his greeting, he was nottroubled. To his credit be it said, however, he did not againaddress a remark to her during the meal. Within the sound of hisvoice, under the spell of his presence, in such close proximity tohis strong, full-blooded body, she could not but give a part of herthought to this man who, of all others, the mob would slay if theyhad the chance.

  She could not conceal from herself the relief she felt in minglingwith friends. A willful admiration grew full in the face ofresentful opposition, and there was a reckless downfall of dignity.They treated her without restraint, talked as freely of theiraffairs as if she were not there, boldly discussed the situation inBrussels, and laughed over the frantic efforts of the authorities.Helplessly she was drawn into the conversation, and, at last, to herdismay, joined with them in condolences to the police.

  "But some day they will find the right trail and pounce upon youlike so many wild beasts," she said, soberly. "What then? You may belaughing too soon."

  "It would be hard luck to have to break up such an awfully nicehouse party," said Dickey, solemnly.

  "And the papers say they will kill us without compunction," addedLady Jane.

  "It wouldn't be the first slaughter this old house has known," saidLord Bob. "In the old days they used to kill people here as a formof amusement."

  "It might amuse some people even in our case, but not for me,thanks," said Quentin. "They'd execute me first, however, and Iwouldn't have to endure the grief of seeing the rest of you tossedout of the windows."

  "Do you really believe they would kill poor little me?" demandedLady Jane, slowly, her eyes fastened on her brother's face.

  "Good Heaven, no!" cried Dorothy, at the possibility of such acalamity. "Why should they kill a helpless girl like you?"

  "But I am one of the wretches they are hunting for. I'm adesperado," argued Lady Jane.

  "I'd insist on their killing Lady Jane just the same as the rest ofus. It would be all wrong to discriminate, even if she is youngand--and--well, far from ugly," declared Dickey, decidedly.

  "You might try to save my life, Mr. Savage; it would be the heroicthing to do," she said.

  "Well I'll agree to let 'em kill me twice if it will do any good.They'd surely be obliging if I said it was to please a lady.Couldn't you suggest something of the kind to them, Miss Garrison?You know the whole massacre is in your honor, and I imagine youmight have a good bit to say about the minor details. Of course,Lady Jane and I are minor details--purely incidentals."

  "We are in the chorus, only," added Lady Jane, humbly.

  "If you persist in this talk about being killed, I'll go upstairsand never come down again," cried Dorothy, wretchedly, and thecompany laughed without restraint.

  "Dickey, if you say another word that sounds like 'kill' I'll murderyou myself," threatened Lord Bob.

  Lady Jane began whetting a silver table knife on the edge of herplate.

  That evening Dorothy did not listen to Dickey Savage's rag-timemusic from an upstairs room. She stood, with Lady Jane, beside thepiano bench and fervently applauded, joined in the chorus andconsoled herself with the thought that it was better to be a merryprisoner than a doleful one. She played while Dickey and Janedanced, and she laughed at the former's valiant efforts to teach theEnglish girl how to "cake walk."

  Philip Quentin, with his elbows on the piano, moodily watched herhands, occasionally relaxing into a smile when the laughter becamegeneral. Not once did he address her, and not once did she look upat him. At last he wandered away, and when next she saw him he wassitting in a far corner of the big room, his eyes half closed, hishead resting comfortably against the high back of the chair.

  Lord and Lady Saxondale hovered about the friendly piano, and therewas but one who looked the outcast. Conditions had changed. She waswithin a circle of pleasure, he outside. She gloated in the factthat he had been driven into temporary exile, and that he could notfind a place in the circle as long as she was there. Occasionallyone or the other of his accomplices glanced anxiously toward thequiet outsider, but no one asked him to come into the fold. In theend, his indifference began to irritate her. When Lady Saxondale rangfor the candles near the midnight hour, she took her candlestick fromthe maid, with no little relief, and unceremoniously made her waytoward the hall. She nervously uttered a general good-night to theparty and flushed angrily when Quentin's voice responded with theothers:

  "Good-night, Dorothy."