The Burning Bridge by Philip Verrill Mighels (books to read for 13 year olds TXT) 📖

year went by—two years, perhaps, or even more—and a ship should never come?"

"Do?" said Grenville. "Sail away."

"I know. But I mean, supposing we found no place to go—and had to come back every time."

"H'm!" said Grenville, rubbing the corner of his jaw, "you probably also mean to suppose we were always unmolested."

"Why, yes, of course. Who could come to molest us here?"

"Molesters," he said, "if anyone. But perhaps they never would."

He had given no answer to her question, which she hardly cared to repeat. It was one of the times, which frequently came, when she could not prevent herself from wondering if this strong, primal man she had once called a brute could have utterly forgotten the passionate declaration made on the steamship "Inca" the day before the wreck.

She wondered also, had he meant it at the time? Or had one of his many inscrutable moods possessed him, barely for the moment? She had never dared recently confess to herself what feelings might instantly invade her tingling nature should she learn he had only pretended, perhaps on some wager with Gerald, as a test of her faithfulness and love.

It was womanlike, merely, on her part, to desire to know his mind. No woman may long resent being loved by a strong and masterful man. And Elaine was delightfully typical of all her delightful sex.

"Well," she presently said, "we've been here now much longer than we ever expected that day when we arrived."

His gaze, which had been averted, now swung to a meeting with her own. She had never seemed lovelier, braver, more sweetly disposed than now. The moonlight deepened her luminous eyes till the man fairly held his breath.

"Elaine," he said, finally, glancing once more towards the silvered sea, "what is your notion of love?"

The shock of the word threw all her wits into confusion.

"My notion?" she stammered, helplessly, feeling the hot flames leap like floods of his molten metal to her neck, her face, and her bosom. "I don't believe—I have—any notions."

"Your convictions, then?" he amended. "Or, if you like, your principles?"

"My—my principles of—of all that—are—just about like—everyone else's, I suppose," she managed to answer, fragmentarily, "—being honest—and true—and faithful—unto death."

"To the one that you really love?"

"Why—certainly—of course." The heat in her face increased, so significant had she felt his words with that low even tone of emphasis.

He stared so long at the sea after that she began to suspect he had not even heard her reply. After a time she was tempted to play, just a trifle, with the fire. She added, "Why did you ask?"

"Wanted to know." Once more he fell dumb, and again she waited, afraid he would, and more afraid he would not, continue the delicate topic. Once again, also, she was tempted.

"And what," she inquired, "is your—notion?"

He did not turn. "Of love or crocodiles?"

"Of—of love—was what you asked me."

"I believe I did," he responded. "Oh, about the same as yours!"

Elaine had received but scanty satisfaction. After another long silence she ventured to say:

"We might have to be here a year—or even longer."

He turned to her directly. "Do you like it here, Elaine?"

She would not reply, and therefore demanded, "Do you?"

"I'm a savage," he admitted. "This sort of thing appeals to something in my blood."

"I know," she answered, understandingly, "—building up an empire with your naked hands, unaided—conquering metals and elements—wresting the island's dominion from the brutes. Naturally you love it!"

He reddened. "I can't make an apple dumpling and make it right! This island's dominion? Great Cæsar's frying-pan—this is a regular picnic-ground, with everything on earth provided!"

She smiled. "And things all made and ready, including tools and powder, not to mention a tiger-skin rug.... You refuse to admit you like it for itself?"

"Like it or not," he answered, "we must get away—and home."

"Home," she repeated, oddly. "Home.... I wonder if home will ever seem—— It certainly would be wonderful, a miracle, I think, to see a steamer really coming—and to go on board and have it take us back to—everything—somewhere home—— But we'd sometimes think of this—a little?"

"Probably."

To save his life, he could not banish thoughts of Fenton.

"I'm sure we would," murmured Elaine. She gazed away, to the jungle's softened shadows. She wanted to cry out abruptly that she loved it to-night, with a love that could never die. She wanted the comfort of something, she hardly dared wonder what. After another long silence, she finally said, with eyes averted and excitement throbbing in her veins:

"I know the name of this little place—do you?"

"No," he said, wondering what she might have discovered. "What do you think it is called?"

It seemed to Elaine her heart pounded out her reply.

"The Isle of Shalimar."

If Grenville knew the Indian name for Garden, he made no sign that she could read. He made no reply whatsoever, but gazed as before at the sea.

He was turning at last when a low, but distinctly briefer, recurrence of the island's haunting wails arose to disturb the wondrous calm—as well as his peace of mind. There could be no doubt the tidal phenomenon was gradually but steadily failing.

What might occur when it altogether ceased was more than the man could divine. He felt a vague dread of that approaching hour and of what it might develop.

"It must be after midnight," he said, at last, "—time for night's ordinary dreams."

Yet, when he was finally stretched on his bed, he did not lose himself in slumber. Instead he lay thinking of the island's haunting sounds and the cave somewhere underneath the headland.

He had meant to attempt an inspection of this place, if only to gratify a natural curiosity. The thought occurred to him now that, in case of dire necessity, it might afford such a shelter as was not to be found on any other portion of the island. It was not a thing to be neglected. He made up his mind that the following day he would make an exploration.

CHAPTER XXII A TOMB OF STONE

The ladder that Grenville constructed in the morning was not entirely new. He had found upon testing the original contrivance, made for his séance with the tiger, that, although the creepers had become quite dry, they were neither weak nor brittle.

He fortified the older section with additional material, however, to make absolutely certain it would not abruptly part and drop him into the sea. All morning he worked, while his smoldering fires continued to eat out the hollow for his boat, securing new length to the rungs already provided, since the distance down from the brink of the cliff was fully one hundred feet.

To Elaine he explained that he thought perhaps a cave might exist in the rock. The wailing sounds, it was easy to argue, would indicate some such cavity, which he felt it important to examine. If she somewhat divined the further fact that he hoped to discover a possible retreat, should unforeseen dangers threaten, she made no revelation of her thought.

It was not without considerable anxiety, however, that she finally discovered precisely what he meant to attempt. His ladder, she was certain, was far too frail for any such business as climbing down, above that boiling tide. One careless step, or a parting of the strands, and nothing on earth could save the man from death on the jutting rocks below. She had glanced at the waters under the cliff, and their crystal depths were not at all reassuring.

The thorough precautions against a mishap that Grenville finally completed considerably lessened her fears, yet she had no wish to watch him descend when at length he slipped over the edge. She was gazing with fixed and wide-open eyes at the heap of rocks in which he had fastened the ladder.

The matter to Grenville seemed simple enough. The brink overhung the wall itself, in consequence of which the ladder swung quite free, down the face of the scarp, till it touched at a jutting ledge below. It swayed to and fro and sagged a bit loosely at some of the rungs, but it could not be broken by his weight.

He made no attempt at a rapid descent, neither did he pause to enjoy the scenery. When the ledge was reached he rested, made certain no sharp-edged stone could impinge upon and perhaps cut into his twisted creepers, and again proceeded downward.

His course for a matter of two or three fathoms was rendered rather more difficult by the fact the ladder lay closely bent against the wall, instead of hanging free. The rock face was pitted and exceedingly rough, its indentations ill-arranged for footholds and far too treacherous for any such employment.

Grenville was nearly at the lower lip of this projection before he attempted a look below to determine what he was approaching. He discovered then it was undercut again—and likewise that his ladder was considerably short. Its lower end dangled about with irregular gyrations as he shifted his weight from rung to rung. It was fully two yards above the water. There was nothing in sight on which to plant his feet, so far as he could discern from the point then occupied.

He continued down the ledge. When he reached its base, his suspicions were immediately confirmed. It overhung a cavern, which was not, however, the cave. To the final rung but one of his ladder he descended, and there he rested to have a look about.

He was hanging directly before a massive pot-hole in the cliff—a huge, roughly rounded sort of chamber, the roof of which was arched. On the left, it shared its pitted wall with a second and smaller chamber. On the right, its edge was jaggedly broken against a yawning hole. This hole was undoubtedly the cave-mouth described by the documents found in the hidden tube.

From this point only, as Grenville could see, would its mouth be readily discovered. Thick curtains of greenery, draped from its neighboring walls of rock, would shield it from view from passing boats, unless they should nose to its portals. This, with a swirling and dangerous tide, no craft would be likely to attempt.

The shrubbery, hanging so thickly from the ledge, afforded Grenville a puzzle. He knew it could not be a seaweed, since the tide never rose to such a level. He presently realized it was simply an air plant of unusually luxuriant growth. Its roots had found lodgment in a crevice, where nothing would be likely to disturb it in its possession.

Concerning the possible contents of the cave, its extent, or immediate surroundings, there was nothing to be discovered from his ladder, twist as he might or crane his neck to stare in the cavern's mouth.

He had practically determined to return to the top, shift his ladder along, and once more make the descent, when he realized his effort would be wasted. A thick, broken shelf of the pitted tufa jutted many feet out above the cave, and even beyond the growing weed. Should he hang his ladder directly before the opening, he would find himself, when he came to its end, swung helplessly over the water.

He could see distinctly where the final base of the wall projected into the tideway. It would certainly be no less than ten feet removed from the nearest point he could possibly reach by this particular method.

It occurred to his mind he could lengthen his strands, drop himself off the ladder-end, and swim to the edge of the cave. But, even as he turned to examine the physical features afforded to a swimmer, a huge dark form loafed like a shadow through the crystal tide, to rise beyond and cut the sparkling surface with a blackish dorsal fin. There was no mistaking Mr. Shark.

Grenville nodded, grimly. "Thanks for the timely suggestion," he said, as the monster once more sank. He presently added, "It's a boat or no explorations." Somewhat disappointedly, he returned up the ladder to the top.

"The cave is there," he told Elaine, who promptly sat down, in sheer relief, when she saw him finally safe, "but it