The Hispaniola Plate

So the tale was told, and now the time had come for Reginald to tell his.

And as that night he took farewell of Barbara, he said-

"To-morrow I shall tell you why the treasure has never been found by your family. To-morrow I shall bring you a narrative left by that connection of mine, saying where the treasure is hidden. He knew Simon Alderly, and he found out the hiding-place."

"And was Simon indeed a pirate?" Barbara asked.

"Would it grieve you to hear he was?"

She thought a moment before replying, and then she said-

"No, for we have always thought him to be one. No, not if it will not make you think worse of me for having descended from him."

"I knew that was so," Reginald replied, "when you told me your name. And I do not think I showed by my manner that I thought any the worse of you."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE SOLITUDE IS INTERRUPTED

The weather had changed, and, as is always the case in the tropics, the change was extreme.

The wind blew now from the northeast, dashing the sea up in mountains on to the strip of beach around that quarter of Coffin Island, hurling it with a roar like great claps of thunder over the beach on to the vegetation beyond it, crashing down trees and saplings, and entirely obliterating for a time the three little Keys, in the middle one of which was Simon Alderly's treasure. This Key Reginald had gazed upon more than once since he had been in the island; he had even pointed it out to Barbara on the morning after she had told her tale, and had added the few missing links to the knowledge she already possessed; and he had also informed her that therein lay her fortune.

"So," the girl said on that morning, as she gazed down from the cliff on which they stood to where the already fast-rising waves were washing over the spot in question, "it is there they ought to have searched. It has laid there all the time! Yet no one ever thought of those little islets. Well! I am glad!"

"Why?" asked Reginald, as he looked round at her. He had given her his arm to steady her against the fierce wind blowing now under the purple, sun-coloured clouds rolling up from the northeast, and she had taken it. Yet, as she did so, she scarcely knew why she should accept that proffered arm. She was used to all changes of weather in this, her island; she could stand as easily upon the tallest crags that it possessed as any of her goats, or even the sea-birds that dwelt upon them, could do. Yet, still, she had taken it!

"Oh! I don't know," she replied in answer to his question; "yet-yet, I think I am. Because-" she paused again, and then went on. "Because, you see, if any of my people had found it before now-before you came here-why, you would have found nothing yourself when you arrived, after you had made so long a journey. And, we should have been gone-you and I would never have met."

Something in the sailor's nature tingled as she said those words in her simplicity-something, he knew not what. Still, in response, he turned his eyes on her, and gazed into those other clear eyes beside him, shaded with their long, jet-black lashes. Then he said-

"For us never to have met would have been the worst thing of all, Barbara."

It seemed absurd to call her Miss Alderly, here in this wild tropical garden inhabited only by themselves; to give her the stilted prefix that would have been required in the midst of civilisation. So, not for the first time, he had addressed her by her Christian name. And to her-who perhaps in her schooldays only, in Antigua, had ever known what it was to be spoken of as Miss Alderly-it appeared not at all strange that he should so address her.

"But," he went on, "as for the treasure, as for the finding of it-that might as well have happened fifty or a hundred years ago as now. It is yours and your family's; not a farthing of it belonged to my relative, nor belongs to me."

"That shall never be," she replied. "My father, although a rough, simple sailor, is an honest, straightforward man; he, at least, would never hear of such a thing as your not having your share. And for my brother-" but here she paused.

"Why," asked Reginald, after a moment had elapsed-"why do you hesitate at the name of your brother?"

"Because," she replied, "he is different. He is," and she buried her face in her hands for a moment and then uncovered it again-"he is a cruel, grasping man, selfish and greedy. He rules us more as if he were father than father himself, and he tyrannises even over him. He takes all the money they both earn while they are away together, and, generally, he spends it. When they went to Aspinwall, at the time they were so busy about the Canal, he took all they had both earned and spent it at the Faro and Monte tables, as they call them down there. And once he struck father before me, when they were both at home, because he wanted to go over to Porto Rico, where the Spaniards gamble day and night, and father would not give him the money for some goats he had sold to a Tortola dealer. Oh!" she continued, "he is terrible! and when he takes his share of what is in the Key, I dread to think of what he will do with it."

As she finished, the storm increased with such violence that it was necessary for them to leave the crag on which they stood-otherwise they would possibly be blown off it ere many moments had elapsed. Moreover, the hot rain was beginning now-and in these regions only a few moments elapse between the fall of the first drop and the drenching downpour of a tropical storm; it was time for them to seek the refuge of Barbara's home. The thunder, too, was very near now, so at once they hurried onwards, gaining the desired shelter before the worst of the storm had set in.

It was to-day-the day following Barbara's account of Simon Alderly-that Reginald had promised to read to her Nicholas's narrative. He had it in his pocket now; indeed he regarded it as too precious a thing to leave carelessly about, and consequently it was always with him, and to-day he proposed ere leaving her to get through some portion of it. He meant to read it all through, partly as a story that he thought would interest the girl, partly as a justification of Nicholas. For, he considered, if, since she already believed her ancestor to be a pirate, he proved to her that he was indeed such, then Nicholas must be acquitted in her mind for having himself removed and hidden away that which did not belong to him. So they, having reached the house, sat themselves down to the narrative, he to read and she to listen. They were no longer able to sit upon the verandah since the rain now beat down pitilessly and as though it never meant to cease, and the wind, even in the middle of the little island, was very boisterous. And so, when the jalousies had been fastened tightly to prevent the flapping they had previously made, Reginald began Nicholas's story, prefacing it with the account of how it had been found.

It was about ten o'clock in the day when this young couple, who had so strangely been brought together in this island, began that story-for they met and parted early; it was nearly nightfall when Reginald arrived at the description of how Alderly died singing his drunken song. And amidst the swift-coming darkness-a darkness made more intense by the heavy pall of clouds that hung above the island-there seemed to come over them both that feeling of creepiness, of melancholy horror, which Nicholas had described himself as becoming overwhelmed with.

The girl seemed far more overcome by this feeling than Reginald was. She started again and again at every fresh gust that shook the frail fabric in which she dwelt, her eyes stared fixedly before her as though she saw the spectre of her pirate ancestor rising up, and once she begged him to desist for a moment from his reading.

"It was below here," she whispered, "below the very spot where we sit, that that wretch, that murderous villain, died in his sin. Oh! it is horrible! horrible to think that we have all lived here so long, that I was born here. Horrible!"

"Barbara," said Reginald, "do not regard it so seriously. I was wrong to read you all I have-yet, think. Think! It is two hundred years since it all happened-we have nothing to do with that long-buried past."

"Yes, yes," she said. "I know that we have not. Yet-yet-this is the very spot-the very place. That makes it all so much more horrible, so much more ghostly. And to-night, I know not why, I feel as I have never felt before, nervous, frightened, alarmed, as though at some danger near at hand. Let me light the lamp ere you continue."

"It is the storm has made you nervous," he replied, trying to soothe her while he assisted her to arrange the lamp. "The air, too, is charged with electricity-that alone will unstring your nerves, to say nothing of the darkness and the noise of the tempest. I have done wrong, Barbara; I have selected the worst time for reading this horrible story to you. I should have chosen one of the bright days when we could sit on the crags and have nothing but the brilliant sun about and over us."

She glanced up at him with a smile in her clear eyes-the smile that never failed to make him think that he had lit on some woman belonging to another world than his, it was so full of innocence as well as a simple trust that would have well befitted a little child-and laid her hand upon his arm as though to assure him that he had done nothing to affright her. But, as she did so, there came a terrific flash of lightning which illuminated all the tropical wood outside-as they could see through the slats of the jalousie-and then a roar of thunder that made the girl scream and let fall the lamp just lighted.

But Reginald caught it deftly, and placing it on the table said with a smile-

"It would never do for another lamp to be overturned here as one was so long ago. Come, Barbara, cheer up, take heart! We will read no more to-night."

"Yes, yes," she exclaimed. "Read. Go on reading and finish your story. Besides, we must do something to pass the night-you cannot go to your yacht, and I-I-; for the first time in my life I fear to be alone. I dread, though I know not what. I have been alone night after night here for even weeks and months together, and never feared anything. Yet, now, I am afraid. Pray, do not leave me to-night."

He looked at her, admiring, almost worshipping her for the innocence she showed in every word she spoke, and then he said-

"Have no fear, I will not leave you if you wish it. But, Barbara, we must do something else to pass the hours away than read old Nicholas's story. What shall we do? Let us have a game of cards."

There were some packs in her house that they had played with before now-cards brought from other islands by her dissolute brother, with which to pass the long nights in, as she frankly owned, trying to get the better of his father; but she would not play now.

"No," she said. "Let us come to the end of the tale. I cannot rest until I have heard it all. Do, do finish it."

"Very well, if you will," he answered. "And, at any rate, the worst is told. There is nothing more to shock or affright you. Nothing but the burying of the treasure in the spot where it now lies, and where we will dig it up."

The jalousies rattled as he spoke-yet at this moment the wind had ceased, and nought was heard but the steady downpour of the rain.

But, perhaps because of the incessant noise the storm had made for some hours, neither of them noticed this peculiar incident, though Reginald glanced up as the blind stirred.

Then he began again, reading on through Nicholas's strange story, and doing so with particular emphasis, so that she might grasp every word of his description as he told how the measurements were to be taken in the middle Key. And Barbara sat there listening silently. Yet, as he turned a leaf-having now got to that part of the account where Nicholas was picked up by the Virgin Prize-he paused in astonishment at the appearance of her face.

For she was gazing straight before her at the jalousie, her eyes opened to their widest, her features drawn as though in fright, her face almost distorted.

"Look! Look!" she gasped. "Look at the blind."

And he, following her glance, was for the moment appalled too.

A large hand was grasping half-a-dozen of the slats in its clutch; between those slats a pair of human eyes were twinkling as they peered into the room.

As Reginald rose to rush at the intruder, whoever he was, Barbara gave another gasp and fell back fainting into her chair; and then, before her companion could ask the owner of those eyes what he meant by his intrusion, the blinds were roughly thrust aside, and, following this, there came a man of great size, from whom the water dripped as from a dog who had just quitted a river-a man whose face was all bruised and discoloured as though he had been badly beaten.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE ISLAND'S OWNER

"Who are you, and what do you want?" asked Reginald, confronting the intruder; while, as he spoke, he observed that the coarse and scanty clothes in which he was clad were drenched with more water than even the heavens could have poured on him.

He was a man of great bulk, young as himself, and with a mass of reddish-yellow hair that hung about his face, matted and dishevelled from the wet in which it was soaked; and as he advanced into the room the water dripped off him on to the floor.

"Want!" he replied, "want! What should a man want in his own house but rest and comfort after a storm? Master, this is my house! I had best ask what you want here? And at night-alone with my sister."

Yet he did not pause for an answer, but going up to where that sister lay back in the swoon that had overcome her, he shook her roughly by the shoulder and called out-

"Come, get over your fit. I have bad news for you."

"Be a little more gentle with her!" Reginald exclaimed. "We can bring her to in a better manner than that;" and as he spoke he went to the spirit flask he had brought up from the yacht, and moistened her lips with some of the whisky, and bathed her forehead with water from one of the calabashes.

"What the devil is the matter with the girl?" asked her brother. "She has never been used to indulging in such weaknesses-what does it mean?"

"It means," the other replied, "that the storm has frightened her."

"Bah! she has seen plenty of them since she was born. We are used to storms here."

"And also," Reginald went on, "she saw a man-you-outside, listening to us. She saw your hand on the blind and your face through the slats, but did not recognise you. It is not strange that she should be frightened."

But by this time Barbara was coming round-she opened her eyes as her brother spoke, then closed them again, as though the sight of him was horrible to her, and shivered a little. But, after a moment, she opened them once more, and, fixing them on him, said-

"You have come back. Where is father?"

"He is dead," he said, using no tone of regret as he spoke, and, indeed, speaking as he might have done of the death of some stranger. "He is dead not an hour ago. The storm drove us here, brought us home. But as we reached the shore, for we could not get round to the creek, the breakers flung our boat over, and us out of it. I was fortunate enough to scramble on land, but the old man had no such luck. He was carried out to sea again, and I saw no more of him."

Barbara had burst into tears at the first intimation of her father's death, and now she wept silently, her brother sitting regarding her calmly while he sipped at Reginald's flask as though it were his own! – and the latter felt his whole heart go out to her in sympathy. Yet-how could he comfort her? The one whose place it was to do that was now by her side, but being a rough, uncouth brute, as it was easy to see he was, he neither offered to do so, nor, it seemed probable, would he have done aught but mock at any kind words Reginald might speak.

"Father! Father!" the girl sobbed. "Oh, father! And I have been looking forward so much to your return-hoping so much from it. Thinking how happy we might be."

Her brother-who seemed to consider that, after having told her of old Alderly's death, no further remark on the subject was necessary, and who, if he knew what sympathy meant, certainly did not consider it needful to exhibit any-had by now turned his back to them and, going to a cupboard, was busily engaged in foraging in it. Reginald had seen Barbara take food out of this cupboard ere this, both for him and for herself-food consisting of dried goat's flesh, cheese and other simple things-and therefore he was not surprised at the man doing so now. But he was somewhat surprised at hearing Barbara, while her brother's back was turned, whisper to him-

"Say nothing at present about the Key."

He nodded, willing to take his line of action from her in anything she might suggest in the circumstances which had now arisen; yet he felt that his silence would make his presence there still more inexplicable But, also, his trust was so firm in the girl that without hesitation he determined to do as he was bidden.

Presently her brother turned away from the cupboard, coming towards them again and bearing in one hand a piece of coarse bread and, in the other, a scrap of meat he had found.

"Been here long keeping Barbara company?" he asked, while his twinkling eyes-how unlike hers! Reginald thought-glistened maliciously. "We don't often get visitors here."

"Indeed," Reginald replied; "I have heard differently. I was told in Tortola that curiosity about the strange history of your island brought many people here. And, having a little yacht which I have hired and being a sailor myself, I ventured to pay a visit."

"Sailor, eh? What line? American and-but, there, it's easy enough to see you're a Britisher. What is it? Royal Mail, eh?"

"I am in the Royal Navy. A lieutenant. And my name's Crafer."

"Crafer, eh? and in the Royal Navy? I don't think much of the Royal Navy myself. A damned sight too condescending in their ways, as a rule, are the gentlemen in your line-that is, when they take any notice of you at all. Well, if you're going to stay I hope you're not like that. And my name's Alderly-Joseph Alderly. That's good enough for me."

"I certainly did hope to stay a little longer. I am on leave and like cruising about."

"Your boat's in the river, you say?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you live in it instead of in this house, then? Or at Tortola, where there is a hotel? In some of the islands hereabouts my sister would get a bad name if it was known she was entertaining young English officers all alone."

At his words Reginald sprang to his feet, Barbara also rising, her hazel eyes, that were usually so soft and innocent, flashing indignant glances at her brutal brother.

"You don't know, you don't understand," she began; "if you did you would behave differently. Mr. Crafer has come-" But Reginald was speaking also.

"Mr. Joseph Alderly," he said, "this is the first night I have ever stayed in your house as late as this. I should not be here now were it not for the storm. However, I will trespass upon your hospitality no longer. Miss Alderly, I wish you 'Good-night.'" He touched her hand as he spoke-not knowing what her glance meant to convey, yet feeling sure that there must be much she would have said to him if she had had but the opportunity-and then he turned on his heel, passed through the jalousie, and so out on to the verandah.

The storm was ceasing as he went forth, the clouds were rolling away to the south; around him there were the odours of all the tropical flowers, their perfume increased threefold by the rain. He knew the path so well now from having traversed it many times backwards and forwards from the Pompeia, that it took him very little time even in the dark to reach the bank of the river, to unmoor the dinghy, and to get on board the craft. Then, lighting his pipe, he sat himself down in his little cabin to meditate on what this fresh incident-the arrival of Joseph Alderly-might mean.

"I should know better what to think," he mused, "if I only knew how long he had been behind the blind. The brute may have been there for sufficient time to have heard all the last instructions of old Nicholas about finding the treasure which I read out. Or he may have heard only enough to give him an inkling that I know where the treasure is. Let me see," and he put his hand in his pocket and drew forth his forerunner's narrative.

"Yes," he muttered, as he turned over the leaves, "yes, I had got far enough-having reached the rescue of Nicholas by the Virgin Prize-for him to have heard all if he was there. If he was there; that's it. Only-was he? or did he come later when there was nothing more to be overheard than the description of Nicholas leaving the island?"

Again he pondered, turning the arrival of Alderly over in his mind, and then he remembered how the jalousies had rattled at a time when the wind had lulled, though he had taken little heed of the fact beyond glancing up from the papers. Yet, as he racked his mind to recall what they had been saying, or he reading, at the moment, he remembered the words he had uttered-

"There is nothing to tell you now but the burying of the treasure in the spot where it lies and where we will dig it up."

These had been his words, or very similar ones. If Alderly had been there then-if he had arrived on the verandah by the time they were uttered-he knew all. He had heard the middle Key mentioned, he had heard how the measurements were to be taken, he knew as much as Reginald and Barbara knew. But-had he been there? was it his hand that shook the blind, or was it some light gust of air, a last breath of the storm? That was the question.

Still, independent of this-indeed, far beyond the thought of the treasure, which he had definitely decided he would take no portion of, since it was not, could not be, his by any right-his mind was troubled. Troubled about Barbara and her being alone with the savage creature who was her brother-"Heavens!" he thought, "that they should be the same flesh and blood!" – troubled to think of what form his brutality might take towards her if he suspected that she knew where all the long-sought wealth was hidden away.

"But," he said to himself, as he still sat on smoking, "no harm shall come to her if I can prevent it-if I can! nay, as I will. He may order me out of these moorings since the whole island is his-well, let him. If he does, I will find out Nicholas's cove and anchor myself there-or, better still, I will go and lie off the middle Key. And, by the powers! if he does know that the treasure is there and begins to dig for it, not a penny, not a brass farthing shall he take away without my being by to see that he shares fair and fair alike with his sister. He seems capable, from what I have seen of him and she has told me, of taking the whole lot off to Aspinwall or Porto Rico and losing it in one of his loathsome gambling dens, while he leaves her here alone!"

He went on deck of his little craft as he made these reflections, and, more from sailor-like habit than aught else-since no one ever came into the river-he trimmed his lights and arranged them for the night, and then went to his cabin and turned in. But before he did so, he cast a glance up to where Barbara's home was, and saw that on the slight eminence there twinkled the rays of the lamp through the now opened windows. All was well, therefore, for this night.

Yet he could not sleep. He could not rest for thinking of the girl up there with no one but that brutal kinsman for a companion; with no one to help her if he in his violence should attempt to injure her-a thing he would be very likely to do if he questioned her about aught he might have overheard, and she refused to satisfy him.

At last this feeling got too strong for him-so strong that he determined to go and see if all was well with her. Therefore, ashore he went again, and, making his way up quietly through the glade and the little wood, he came within sight and earshot of the hut. And there he soon found that, no matter how fierce and cruel a nature Alderly's was, he at least meant no harm to the girl herself.

She, he could see from the close proximity to the hut which he had attained, was lying asleep upon a low couch on which he had often sat, a couch covered with Osnaburgh cloth and some skins. Alderly was sitting at the table, drinking and smoking and occasionally singing. He had evidently found some liquor of his own-probably stowed away by him ere setting out on his various cruises-and was pouring it out pretty rapidly into the mug he drank from.