“Not as far as Andrea is concerned, if that is what you mean.” Madam frowned. “How a girl that I have trained can be such a blind little idiot—”
“We won’t discuss that,” Simon said peremptorily. “To return to Luke—you think, as I do, that he will try to kill me. Despite the fact that at heart he is a coward and this time he will not have a convenient scapegoat.”
“He is a coward,” Madam confirmed contemptuously. “But even with such as he, hatred can overcome cowardice.”
“So I have thought,” Simon observed. “Well?”
Madam twisted the sheet with tense, nervous fingers.
“Have you made a will, Simon?” she asked abruptly.
“I have. Why?”
“Luke knows of your feeling for Andrea. He will assume that you will leave all you have to her.”
“He will be wrong,” Simon said quietly. “With what Andrea has inherited from her stepfather and what I’ve left her of money that I earned at home, Andrea will never be in want. But as to what Leo left me ... I’ve bequeathed to each of the tenants his farm or cottage that he now rents—”
“Good, good!” Madam muttered, “And the rest?”
“The house and everything in it I’ve left to ... the income tax people.”
“Madam stared at him incredulously. Then she began to chuckle softly but with genuine amusement.
“Simon, Simon, who but you would have thought of that? Oh, but you are clever! I knew that from the moment you came here. You were able to run circles round my poor Leo. It was a long time before I guessed what I knew right from the beginning. And you have a sense of humor that he never had. This shows it.” She paused, her face suddenly sober. “Yes, you have planned well in the event of your death. But suppose Luke does not kill you?” Simon hesitated. He was essentially a realist—a man who curbed his imagination with a bit of common sense. And yet—”Madam, do you believe in presentiments?” he asked slowly. “In a conviction so strong it amounts to a certainty?”
“But of course!” Her eyes widened in surprise that he should have thought it necessary to ask the question. “They come to all of us at times. Leo had a presentiment about you. He told me that he believed your life and his were inextricably interwoven and that he could not avoid his fate any more than you could yours. So he sought your company rather than avoided it. That was Leo! You believe he was a wrongdoer, but at least give him his due—he was a man!”
“He was,” Simon said simply. “A man I could have loved, but for one thing...”
“Andrea, of course. That made you enemies.” Madam sighed deeply. “What a curse we women can be!”
Simon laughed quite spontaneously.
“Madam, you are truly unique! What other woman would say that of her own sex!”
“It is one of the compensations of age that one can speak the truth, even about one’s self,” she said whimsically. “Particularly when one is as near death as I am!”
“Madam, Madam!” Simon gathered her in his arms and held her close as if he defied anyone to take her from him.
Like a tired child, Madam lay there contentedly, smiling up into his face.
“Your arms are very strong and comforting, Simon. One day a younger woman than I will find great happiness in their shelter,” she said softly. “And I pray, for your sake, that it will be the right one. But as for me—” she released herself gently “—I am not afraid. When one has faced life as I have done, one does not cringe to death.”
There was something on Madam’s mind. To Andrea that was very clear. She was silent, morose and bad-tempered. She had been difficult before, but never as bad as this. Reduced almost to tears, Andrea suddenly reached the end of her tether.
“I’ll go and send Mary to you,” she said, dropping the shawl that Madam had at first refused and then, not two minutes later, had demanded with complaints that her wishes were never heeded. “Perhaps she will not annoy you as much as I do.”
“You will stay where you are!” Madam said hectoringly. “I have something to say to you.”
Andrea waited because, in this mood, Madam might do herself harm if she was crossed.
“Stand straight!” Madam snapped. “I will not have you lolling about like a doll with the sawdust running out. That is better! Now then ... I should not be telling you this if you were not a blind, stupid little fool, because it is something that any girl in your shoes ought to have seen for herself. Simon is in love with you.”
Andrea flinched as if she had been struck and her face blanched.
“No, Madam!” she said positively.
“Yes, Madam!” Madam mimicked mockingly. And then, as Andrea shook her head: “Stop being so stupid! I have it from his own lips. Not that it was necessary. He loved you from the first moment he saw you and he stayed on against his better judgment because he was afraid you were in danger!”
“I don’t believe it!” Andrea said flatly.
“You have only to wait a little and he will tell you ... if you give him the least encouragement,” Madam assured her calmly.
Andrea frowned. How could she believe it? Simon had been kind to her. He had been generous and she thought that he trusted her. But that was all. Madam must be mistaken ... and so, for that matter, must Leo have been. Certainly he had been suspicious...
“You see?” Madam had been watching her intently and had seen the conviction fade from the expressive face.
“If it is true,” Andrea said slowly. “Why didn’t you tell me before ... when you tried to make me marry Simon?”
“Little fool!” But there was almost a caressing note in the words. “Because then you would not have welcomed the knowledge. Now...”
Andrea felt a betraying wave of color rush to her cheeks, and Madam laughed.
“You see?” she said triumphantly.
Two days later, as if she felt that she had performed the very last task to which she had set her hand, Madam died very peacefully in her sleep. For the previous twelve hours those who watched had known that the end was very near, and when it came, Simon, taking his turn beside her, had found it difficult to know when one life had ended and another begun.
For a moment he stood looking down at the quiet face that had seen so much stress and strain. Then, very gently, he lifted one thin, elegant hand and, for the last time, kissed it.
“Goodbye, Madam!” he said softly, and went out to tell Andrea what had happened.
That morning the curtains were not drawn, and very quickly the news spread around St. Finbar. Almost immediately, flowers began to arrive. Not the formal, impersonal wreaths of the florist, but bunches of roses from the tenants’ gardens, little posies of wild flowers from the children. Andrea herself went out and picked deep red, velvety roses that perfumed the room with their spiciness as she laid them on the quiet pillow.
“I’ve always thought they were most like her,” she whispered to Simon, who nodded his agreement.
“I’m glad that I came—if for no one other reason than that I met her!” he replied softly.
Had they been anywhere else than where they were, Andrea might have found the courage to ask him if there was not any other reason why he was glad he had come ... but not here.
She was supremely conscious of Simon now. With what Madam had so recently said still burning in her heart, she would snatch quick glances at him whenever she thought it was safe, but she could see nothing there but kindliness and friendliness.
If she had been brokenhearted at Madam’s death, perhaps, in comforting her he might have said something. But she was not. One could not grieve for someone who was so desperately tired of life. Besides, though Madam had been one of the greatest influences in her life, she had not been the sort of woman who either wanted or won the love of another woman. It was to men—her son, her grandson and, perhaps, Simon—to whom she had given her heart and had gained theirs, it was strange, Andrea mused, that Simon, who had known Madam for so short a time, mourned her as she herself could not.
He gave orders that everyone employed in the house and gardens was to come to the church. He himself waited until everyone had left and closed the heavy door with an echoing thud that spoke of an empty house.
Because it was such a short distance to the church, they followed Madam on foot in the summer sunshine. Simon led the way and Andrea walked beside him.
An hour later they returned, the staff a discreet and sympathetic distance behind them. As they turned the last bend in the drive from which, not so very long ago, Simon had had his first glimpse of Galleon ‘House, he paused, and Andrea, with a quick glance at his entranced face, waited beside him.
How beautiful it was, its warm red bricks mellow in the sunshine. And how peaceful. Simon’s heart went out to it. At that moment the memory of that other home of his was very faint and distant. This was the perfect home. This, this alone held his loyalty and devotion.
And then, as they stood silent side by side, each deep in their own thoughts, something happened. From deep beneath them they heard a dull, muffled roar and the ground shuddered violently.
Instinctively Simon put his arm around Andrea and forced her to race with him back along the path by which they had just come. At last he stopped and with his arm still around her, they turned to stare in wide-eyed horror at what was happening.
Great cracks appeared in the ground. A whole flower bed sagged—and sank from view.
Incredibly, the house itself seemed to writhe and shiver like a live thing. A jagged crack split the tower from top to bottom. A few seconds later it toppled and fell. And now other walls were cracking.
Then, as if giant hands were tearing it to pieces, with cries and groans that seemed horribly human, Galleon House began to disintegrate before their eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Galleon House was dead. It was no more than a heap of rubble with here and there a gaunt, jagged finger of wall pointing defiantly upward.
Simon, remembering the honeycomb of caves in the headland beneath the house, realized what must have happened. For some reason yet to be discovered, the caves had fallen in and the house had not been able to stand.
But his chief concern was not with bricks and mortar but with the girl who clung to him so desperately as if there was no other refuge for her than in his arms. But had she turned to him as any woman might turn to any man in such appalling circumstances? Or—his heart gave a great leap—did it mean more than that? He must know!
“Andrea, Andrea, my darling!” He was dry lipped, his voice was only a thin thread of sound, but in it was all the pent-up longing and passion of months.
At first he thought she had not heard. Then, slowly, she stirred in his arms and turned a white, wonder-filled face up to his. He saw an unmistakable question in her eyes ... and something more.
“Yes!” he declared vibrantly. “Always! From the first moment I saw you, I’ve loved you!”
The lovely color strained back into her pale cheeks, the wonder deepened to sweet contentment. Then with a soft little sigh, Andrea laid her head confidently back against his shoulder, her cheek against his.
It was the supreme moment of Simon’s life but one that he could not prolong. For the first time he realized that they were the center of a hysterically excited crowd of servants and happiness must wait. He was still the master, whatever had happened to the house, and he must lead them.
“No one is to go any nearer,” he told them, raising his voice authoritatively. “Fortunately, there was no one in the house so there is no need to take risks. Most of you have relatives in the village. The women are to go to them or friends. You men will stay on as pickets and prevent anyone from approaching, no matter who they are. Is that quite clear?”
An acquiescent murmur rippled through the little crowd. The women separated from the men and with frequent, shocked looks over their shoulders, took the path that led to the village.
Simon posted a man at every path leading to the ruined house. Then he turned to Andrea.
“Darling, will you go to the Rectory, ask if we can stay for the night and then telephone through to the police and ask if they can lend a hand. Once this news gets out, we’ll have sightseers from all over the place, and it’s dangerous. It’s lucky there’s been no loss of life so far, and I want it to stay that way.”
Andrea nodded comprehendingly and hurried off on her errand. The Rectory was no more than a stone’s throw from the gates of the house and she was soon back. She found Simon deep in conversation with one of the fishermen who had come up from the village with the news that a great mass of headland had slid into Pay-Off Gove, practically obliterating it. And with the headland had gone much of the house. More than that, the fall had laid bare the treasure cave and it was possible to see a man lying in it.
“We’ll have to get to him,” Simon said grimly. “He may be alive—though it seems doubtful. The question is—shall we tackle it from above or below?”
He dropped on his hands and knees and crawled slowly and carefully over the broken ground to the new cliff edge. Andrea watched, her heart in her mouth. It was impossible for Simon to know where the ground was reasonably firm and where, treacherously, it would give suddenly beneath his weight. As he neared the brink of the cliff even his cautious movements started a fresh fall and he only just scrambled back in time. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands.
“That’s no good,” he commented matter-of-factly, and Andrea breathed a sigh of relief. “There’s nothing nearly firm enough to rig the tackle we’d need. We’ll have to try below.”
He tried to persuade Andrea to go to the Rectory and wait for him there, but she shook (her head.
“Please—I’m coming with you,” she said quietly, and Simon, seeing the fear in her eyes and knowing it was on his account, let her have her way. Now that she knew he loved her, she could not bear to let him out of her sight to take risks alone. She wanted to stand by him, to share his danger, and his heart swelled at the knowledge.
The only way now to approach the cove was by water. A small fleet of fishing boats was already lying offshore in the muddy water. The men were discussing means of getting up to the cave, but when Simon’s boat approached they fell silent and made a way through for him.
It was an appalling sight. They had been told that the cove hardly existed now, but even that had not prepared them for this. Masses of rock and earth had cascaded down, followed by at least half of the house, sometimes in large pieces, sometimes individual bricks. Shreds of torn curtains and carpets were everywhere and here and there broken pieces of furniture stuck grotesquely out of the avalanche. Incongruously perched on the top of a cracked chimney pot was a big, copper fish kettle, apparently undamaged.
But none of this could hold their attention when, in that yawning hole which had been the cave, they could see a still figure lying.
“Ladders,” Simon said crisply. “As many as you can get. And rope. A lot of it!”
After what seemed like an age, the first ladder was laid against the sloping, shifting mass. With his foot on the bottom rung, Simon turned to Andrea.
“It’s my job,” he said gently. “You know that, don’t you, Andrea?”
She nodded, white-faced but steady-eyed. She knew, as well as he did, that this was something he could not delegate to anyone because he was the master.
Simon turned to the group of silent men.
“You will take your orders from Miss Andrea,” he told them significantly.
Then, testing the stability of the ladder at every rung, he slowly mounted it. A second ladder was pushed up toward him,
and Simon, laying it in place above himself, lashed it to the top of the first one. Slowly, ladder by ladder, he approached the cave. Every now and again there would be a fresh fall and he would pause. Once a rock as big as his head bounced down and caught him a painful blow on one shoulder. But he kept doggedly on.
At last, crouching in what was left of the cave, he looked at the face of the man who lay there. It did not surprise him to see that it was Luke Polwyn. He was dead, and the reason why, as well as the reason for the fall of the headland, was clear. Luke had come to steal. He had blown open the door of the safe and, lacking expert knowledge, had used too great a charge of explosive. The rest had followed inevitably—the almost enclosed space, faulty rock, the honeycomb of caves—Luke had started something he could not control. As a result, he was dead.
Poor devil, perhaps it’s the best thing for him, Simon thought. He went through life with a chip on his shoulder—and small wonder!
It was almost dark when they went up to the Rectory in the only taxi which St. Finbar boasted, and with the driver of it able to hear every word they said, it was impossible for Andrea to ask the questions which were burning in her brain.
Simon, deadly tired, would have given anything to have turned in at once, but not unnaturally the Rector and Mrs. Peters wanted to hear all about it.
“Luke went to steal,” he explained, and Andrea felt her whole body grow tense. “There was a safe in that cave, you see.”
The Rector gave an exclamation of excitement.
“Then you mean to say that the old story about the Trevaine Treasure being hidden in the bowels of the earth was true?”
Galleon House Page 15
