PORTHCAWEL was at its best in the springtime. Its thatched, irregularly-built cottages were sheltered in the gully that slanted down to the sea, the many coloured creepers on their walls were putting forth tiny tentative tendrils long before there was any sign of life among the gardens for miles along the coast. The hardy daffodils made a golden glory of Porthcawel street before they were even in bud on the headland, where later on they would gleam like patches of sunlight.
Coming suddenly upon Porthcawel after some miles of bleak, uninteresting scenery, Sir Oswald Davenant with his newly-recovered eyesight thought it the prettiest place he had ever seen. He liked the picturesque freshness of the whitewashed fishermen’s cottages, the quaintness of the cobbled streets up which the donkeys were slowly drawing their loads of fish, above all he loved the glimpse of rippling water at the foot of the cliff and the rocky island that stood out beyond.
“Garth,” he said, turning to his companion, a bright-faced boy of twenty or thereabouts. “I think we will make this our headquarters for a day or two if we can find anywhere that will do for the car.
The recovery of his eyesight had worked wonders for Sir Oswald. He looked years younger, his face had regained its vitality and energy, he was much thinner and his figure looked alert.
More than a year had elapsed since the tragic disappearance of Elizabeth Martin from his house, and as far as he was concerned it remained inexplicable still. The detectives were nonplussed also, apparently. For months Sir Oswald had been afraid to open a paper lest it might contain the tidings of her arrest, but of late another dread had assailed him; he feared that in getting away from her pursuers the governess had come to some harm, fallen into some pool, or perhaps some disused coalpit, and that the body was lying there still undiscovered.
He had undertaken this motor tour with his cousin, Garth Davenant, partly in the hope of distracting his thoughts and attention from that one absorbing subject.
Of Sybil Lorrimer he had refused to hear anything since the discovery of her treachery. Her letters he returned to her unread.
There had been no renewal of the engagement between Barbara and Frank Carlyn. Barbara was still at Carlyn, and more than ever under the ban of Mrs. Carlyn’s displeasure, since three months before Frank had departed to Africa with a big game shooting expedition. His mother persisted in regarding him as broken-hearted and Barbara as the cause of it all, and sent the girl to Coventry accordingly. It was very hard upon the girl and she was growing pale and thin, a contrast to the Barbara who had visited the Priory in the first flush of her engagement.
Lady Davenant remained at the Priory. It had been impossible to conceal from her all that had occurred, and she had been greatly shocked and shaken at the time both by the discovery of Sybil’s treachery and Miss Martin’s duplicity. In a little while, however, with her usual sweetness, she would have forgiven them both and even welcomed Sybil’s return had Sir Oswald permitted it.
Another governess had replaced Elizabeth, but her little pupil was still loyal to Miss Martin’s memory. No fairy tales were quite as good as hers; no one knew how to make lessons quite so attractive.
Sir Oswald and his cousin got out of their car and looked around. The descent into Porthcawel was far too steep for any motor and there were few dwellings about; a little search, however, revealed a few labourers at work and one of them knew of a shed which might serve as a temporary garage. It turned out all that he promised, and Sir Oswald and Garth turned their attention to the exploration of Porthcawel itself. Its aspect pleased them more and more as they made their way down the rough, uneven steps of the one village street. There was no such thing as apartments to let in Porthcawel, but they were told that it was possible they might get rooms at the “Fisherman’s Rest,” a primitive inn facing the beach. It happened that the spare rooms were empty. The smiling landlady told them so as she took them upstairs to look at them; long low-raftered apartments with white dimity covered beds redolent of lavender and with the fresh sea air blowing in at the open window.
The two cousins felt that they were in luck as they sat down to their luncheon in the little bar parlour which was as clean and fresh as hands could make it, while the sea breeze gave them an excellent appetite for the fish and home-cured bacon with delicious butter and brown bread.
The landlady was quite a character evidently. She pottered in and out, waiting on them herself, giving them bits of local information the while.
Garth looked at the island, which seemed to rise like a rock sheer out of the sea; round its summit the sea-birds were flying and screeching.
“Is it possible to get over there?” he asked.
“Not that side, sir,” the landlady laughed. “I shouldn’t fancy there was foothold for a sparrow there, but round to the right of the bay it is different. That is Porthcawel Rock; you may have heard tell of it. They have had pictures of it in some of the papers time back. The house is old and rare they say.”
“House? Is there a house there?” Sir Oswald questioned in some surprise.
“Dear me, yes, sir.” The landlady answered, evidently astonished at his ignorance. “That is Porthcawel Hold, one of the biggest houses in the country. It belongs to the Treadstones.”
“To the Treadstones?” Sir Oswald echoed, struck by the name. “Why, Lady Treadstone, the widow of the late lord, had a house near us for some time. Awfully nice woman she was too,” he added. He had always liked Lady Treadstone. Her pleasant voice and manner had attracted him from the first and her evident liking for the lost Elizabeth had won his heart. But she had left Walton Grange some time before he recovered his sight, and he had heard nothing of her since.
“She is living at the Hold now, sir, my lady is,” the landlady went on volubly. It was evident from her tone that her respect for her new customer was considerably increased by his acquaintance with Lady Treadstone. “She has been there for the best part of the year, she and Miss Treadstone.”
“Miss Treadstone? Ah, I don’t know her. She wasn’t at Walton,” Sir Oswald said easily. “But I remember hearing Lady Treadstone speak of a daughter once.”
“Stepdaughter, sir,” the landlady corrected. “My late lord was twice married and he and Miss Treadstone used often to be at the Hold in the old days before my second lady was ever thought of. But she has done her duty by Miss Rosamond, my lady has,” she concluded judicially. “And I have heard Miss Treadstone herself say she was as fond of her as if she had been her mother really.”
Sir Oswald rose and strolled over to the window.
“I think I shall go over to the Hold and call on Lady Treadstone. I suppose there is some wry of getting there?”
“Only by the sea, sir. And, begging your pardon but her ladyship don’t see any visitors except by invitation. She and Miss Treadstone came here for perfect quiet.”
“Oh, well, then!” Sir Oswald shrugged his broad shoulders with an odd feeling of disappointment. “We must amuse ourselves in some other way, I suppose. What do you say to a sail, Garth?”
“Capital,” the young fellow exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm. “There are some decent boats over there too.”
“As good as you will find anywhere, sir,” the landlady told him with honest enthusiasm. “The Porthcawel fleet isn’t to be beaten easily.”
“Well, we will have a look at it,” Sir Oswald said, strolling to the door. But he was looking at Porthcawel Rock. It seemed to possess a sort of eerie fascination for him.
They got a rowing boat without much difficulty, though the boatman seemed a little doubtful about trusting them alone, and gave them a good deal of advice about his craft’s management and the direction of the currents, advice which somewhat amused Garth, who had rowed in his eight at college.
“If we were the greatest duffers going we couldn’t come to harm in a sea like this,” he laughed as they got in.
“It don’t do to trust too much to that, sir,” the old man said. “The wind is rising and we have some sudden storms at this time of the year. This is a nasty bit of coast, you know. But the boat is a good one and if you know how to manage her and humour her a bit you’ll do.”
He stepped back and Sir Oswald and Garth bent themselves to their oars.
They passed Porthcawel Rock and Sir Oswald saw that there was a little landing-stage, and caught a glimpse through the trees and rocks of the Hold itself. But there was something lonely and chill about it. He wondered that Lady Treadstone with her knowledge of the world, her wealth and many friends should live there. He wondered, too, what sort of a girl Miss Treadstone—the Miss Rosamond of whom the landlady had spoken—could be to shut herself up voluntarily in such seclusion.
But they were rowing in real earnest. Garth had made up his mind to get round a rock which formed the northern extremity of the little bay, and, though the tide was with them, Sir Oswald was aware that the under current was stronger than he had expected.
They had nearly reached the desired point when they became conscious that the sky, so clear and blue when they started, had suddenly clouded over. There were great dark banks of clouds on the horizon and the wind was rising until it threatened to become a hurricane. Evidently one of the storms of which the fisherman had spoken was upon them. Garth welcomed its coming with enthusiasm.
“Here is a chance to show what we can do,” he cried as they turned and the boat sprang forward beneath their hands like a living thing.
Sir Oswald did not answer. He bent to his oars with renewed energy. The tide was on the turn, the wind was catching them sideways. It seemed to him that they would need all their skill to bring them back to Porthcawel in safety. They were nearing the Rock when they found themselves caught in one of the hidden currents of which they had been warned. Now, with the raging wind and turning tide, what was always a dangerous bit of water even to the experienced became a veritable maelstrom to Sir Oswald and Garth. In vain they put forth all their strength, their skiff was little more than a cockle-shell in the grasp of the element. At last a great wave catching them broadside turned the boat over and both men found themselves in the water.
Sir Oswald struck out blindly. He was not much of a swimmer at the best of times, and during this long period of blindness his muscles had got out of condition, so that he was in no state to fight the waves. He battled on, however, thinking of Maisie and his mother and Elizabeth. He was conscious that Garth was shouting encouragement, other noises seemed to mingle with the dash of the waves and the roar of the wind, then the darkness closed in upon him and for a time he knew no more.
He seemed to have been unconscious an eternity, when a glimmering of light returned to him. He became aware that he was being moved—carried—that he was on land, no longer buffeting with the waters. He heard voices that seemed very far off, Garth’s and another, very soft and sweet, that he would have known among a thousand—Elizabeth’s. For a minute he thought that death had passed, that he was already in Paradise, and he was content to rest in dreamy semi-consciousness.
Then some thought of what was being said penetrated to his brain.
“I believe his eyelids flickered,” Garth was saying.
“Yes, I am sure I saw a movement,” the other voice said, the one to which Sir Oswald often had listened in his blindness.
So she was alive then! This was no shadow land, but blessed flesh and blood reality. He tried to speak.
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” His weak lips strove to form the name he loved. With a supreme effort he opened his eyes to gaze upwards into the loveliest face he thought he had ever seen—a woman’s face of purest oval, framed in masses of red-gold hair, with great, grey eyes that met his fully.
But Sir Oswald tried to look beyond for the face he wanted to see.
“Elizabeth! I want Elizabeth!” he said faintly, ere his head sank back and once more the darkness engulfed him.