A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Inn at the Red Oak

L >> Latta Griswold >> The Inn at the Red Oak




"Monsieur, I renew my gratitude for the hospitality of the Inn at the Red
Oak, so long enjoyed, so discourteously withdrawn. I require but the
presentation of my account for the time, I have trespassed upon your good
will, and I request the assistance of a servant to facilitate my
departure. But I do not take my farewell without protesting, _avec tout
mon coeur_, at the misunderstanding to which I am persistently subjected.
The inevitable bitterness in my soul does not prevent me even now to
forget the sweet hours of rest that I have enjoyed here. The
unwillingness on your part, monsieur, to comprehend my position, does not
interfere to stifle in my breast the consciousness but of honourable
purpose. I make my compliments to mesdames."

"Very good, marquis--and at what time shall I have a carriage
ready for you?"

The Marquis glanced nonchalantly at his watch, "In fifteen minutes,
monsieur."

"It will be ready, Marquis."

"Your very obedient servant; Monsieur Frost."

"Your obedient servant, Marquis de Boisdhyver."

The old gentleman bowed again with elaborate courtesy and, turning
sharply on his heel, left the room.

Somewhat disturbed by the turn affairs had taken, Dan stood for a moment
lost in thought. There was nothing for it, he supposed: Tom, who had
been in command, had given orders, and they should be obeyed; besides
there was no reason that he could see why the Marquis should be detained
at the Inn if he chose to leave it. So he sat down at a table, made out
the old gentleman's bill for the month, and then stepped to the door to
call for Jesse.

"Take this," he said when the man appeared in response to his summons,
"to the old Marquis. It is the bill for his board. If he pays you, well
and good; if not--in any case, treat him courteously, and do not
interfere with his movements. He is leaving the Inn for good. I want you
to have the buggy ready within half-an-hour and drive him where he wishes
to go. I fancy he will want his stuff put on the schooner in the Cove."

"All right, sir," replied Jesse. "Now that you and Miss Nance are back,
sir, I guess the sooner we get rid of the Marquis the better."

Jesse carried the bill to the Marquis, then came down and went to the
barn to harness the horse. A little later he drove round to the
courtyard, hitched the horse to a ring in the Red Oak, and ran upstairs
to fetch the Marquis's boxes.

Perhaps half-an-hour had passed when he returned to Dan in the Bar. "The
old gentleman's gone, sir," he said.

"Gone!--where?" cried Dan.

"Don't know, sir," Jesse replied. "To the schooner, I guess. He left this
money on his dressing-bureau."

Dan took the gold which Jesse held out to him. "Well, well," he murmured,
"quite on his dignity, eh? All right, Jess, take his stuff to the beach
and hail the schooner. He will probably have given directions. I hope
we've seen the last of him."




PART IV

THE ATTACK ON THE INN



CHAPTER XVIII

THE AVENUE OF MAPLES


The Marquis's belongings were sent after him to the schooner, where,
however, it appeared that they had not been expected, for it was some
time before Jesse could obtain an answer to his hail from the shore, and
still longer before he could make the men on the ship understand what it
was he wanted with them. Eventually Captain Bonhomme had rowed ashore,
and the Marquis's bags, boxes, writing-desk, and fiddle were loaded into
the small boat and taken off to _The Southern Cross_.

It appeared from Jesse's report that the Captain had been sufficiently
polite, and had attributed the misunderstanding of his men to their
inability to speak English. They had not gotten their orders for the
Marquis. He had asked no further questions about Monsieur de Boisdhyver
or about his recent prisoners, but had feed Jesse liberally, and
dismissed him, with his own and the Marquis's thanks.

"Well," said Tom, who had returned an hour before and had been
exchanging experiences with Dan, "that seems to be the end of him for
the present. I don't know that I did right in promising your French lady
that I should release him, but there seemed no other way to make sure of
getting you back."

"I am glad you promised," replied Dan. "It is a relief not to have him
under our roof. For the last week I've felt as if the place were haunted
by an evil spirit."

"So it has been, and so it still will be, I am afraid," was Tom's reply.
"If there is treasure here, you may be sure that gang won't sail away
without making a desperate effort to get it. I move that we beat them out
by hunting for it ourselves. Why not begin to-night?"

"Not to-night," protested Dan. "I am tired to death. You can imagine that
I didn't get much sleep cooped up on that confounded ship."

"No more have I, old boy. But I believe in striking while the iron is
hot. Every day's delay gives them a better chance for their plans, if
they mean to attack the Inn."

"I doubt if they'll do that. I don't think force is precisely their line.
You know, I believe that the story Madame de la Fontaine told isn't
altogether a fiction."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Tom. "I don't believe a word of it. Naturally they
wouldn't use force, if they could help it. But their plans have all been
upset, and a gang like that won't stop at anything."

"But we live in a civilized community, my boy. This isn't the
middle ages."

"We live in a civilized community, perhaps; but if you can find a more
isolated spot, a place more remote from help, in any other part of the
civilized world, I'd be glad to see it. We might as well be in the middle
of the Sahara desert. Find the treasure and get it out of harm's
way--that's my idea."

"All right, but to-morrow; I swear I'm not up to it to-night."

"To-morrow! Well, then to-morrow. Though for the life of me, I don't see
why you want to delay things. Jesse and Ezra can keep watch tonight."

"But we must get some sleep, Tom."

"The devil with sleep! However, you're the boss now. It's your inn, your
treasure, your sister, that are involved. I'll take a back seat."

"Come, come, Tom--don't let's quarrel. Give me to-night to--to get myself
together, and tomorrow I'll pull the Inn down with you, if you wish."

Perhaps Dan was right, he did need rest and sleep and a few hours would
restore him. They had their supper, then, apportioned the night into
watches, and Dan went upstairs for his first period of sleep.

His brain was a-whirl. All through the afternoon, during his talk with
the Marquis, and later during his talk with Tom, one idea had been
dominating his thought, dictating his plan of action, colouring his
judgment. The fascination which Madame de la Fontaine exerted over his
senses was too strong for him even to contemplate resisting it. She was
confessedly in league with a gang of adventurers upon a quest for
treasure. She had lied to him at first about the Marquis, she had lied
to him about Nancy, she had lied to him about his release; and when she
had left him under the pretext of arranging his return to the Inn, she
had in fact gone to Tom to bargain an exchange of him for the old
Marquis. Her lies, her subterfuges, her flatteries, had been evidently
designed but to get possession of the torn scrap of paper which was so
necessary to their finding the hidden treasure. All this Dan told
himself a hundred times, and then, quickly dispelling the witness of
these cold hard facts, there would flash before him the vision of her
wonderful eyes, of her strange appealing beauty, of her stirring
personality; he would feel once more the touch of her cheek and her lips
pressing his, intoxicating as wine; and delicious fires flamed through
his veins, and set his heart to beating, and made havoc of his honour
and his conscience. Whatever were the consequences, he would meet her
again that night as he had promised. It was his first experience of
passion and it was sweeping him off his feet.

Alone in his room Dan sat down at the table. He drew from his pocket the
torn paper, and as an act of justice to the friends he felt that he was
about to betray, he labourously made a copy of the difficult French
handwriting. This done, he locked the copy in his strong box and put the
original back in his pocket. Then, like the criminal he thought himself
to be, he crept cautiously down the stairs. The door into the bar was
open, and he stood for a moment, shoes in hand, peering into the
dimly-lit room. Tom sat by the hearth, reading, a pipe in his mouth and a
cocked pistol on the table by his side. A pang went through Dan's breast,
but he checked the impulse to speak, and stole softly across the hall and
into his mother's parlour. Ever so cautiously he closed the door behind
him, crossed the room, and raised the sash of one of the windows.

It was dark, but starlight; the moon had not yet risen. In a moment he
had slipped over the sill and stood upon the porch. Lowering the sash, he
crept across the band of light that shone from the windows of the bar,
and into the shadow of the Red Oak. There he buttoned his great coat
tightly about him, put on his shoes, and started softly down the avenue
of maples. Scarcely a sound disturbed the silence of the night, save the
lazy creaking of the windmill as it turned now and then to the puff of a
gentle breeze.

At every few steps, he paused to listen, fearful lest his absence had
been detected and he were followed by some one from the Inn. Then he
would start on again, peering eagerly into the darkness ahead for any
sign of her whom he sought. At last he reached the end of the avenue.
His heart was beating wildly, in a very terror that she might not come.
Nothing--no catastrophe, no danger, no disgrace,--could be so terrible
to him as that the woman he loved so recklessly and madly should not
come. She must not fail! He looked at his watch; it was already three
minutes past ten. If in five--then minutes she did not come, he would go
to seek her--to the House on the Dunes, aye, if must be to _The Southern
Cross_ itself.

Suddenly a dark figure slipped out of the gloom, and Claire de la
Fontaine was in his arms. For a moment she let him clasp her, let his
lips again meet hers; then quickly she disengaged herself. "Are we safe?"
she asked in a whisper. "Is it that we can talk here."

"We are perfectly safe," he answered. "Nothing can be heard from the Inn.
No one is about."

"You escaped without notice? Are you certain that no one follows you?"

"Absolutely. I am sure. And you?"

"I?--Oh, no, no--. There is no one to question me. I have been at the
House on the Dunes all the evening. Marie, my maid,--she thinks that I
am gone to the schooner. _Mon Dieu! cher ami_, what terrors I have
suffered for you. It had not seemed possible that Claire de la Fontaine
would ride and walk two so long miles in a desolate country to meet a
lover--It must be that we are gone mad."

"Madness then is the sweetest experience of life," said Dan, seizing her
hand again and carrying it to his lips.

"Ah _peut-etre, mon ami_. But now there are many affairs to discuss. Tell
me--the Marquis, he was released, as your friend has promised me he
should be?"

"Of course, didn't you know it?"

"I know nothing. Why then is it he has not left the Inn?"

"But he did leave--in the middle of the afternoon, half an hour after I
returned."

"And where is it that he has gone?"

"To the schooner, I suppose. He left alone, giving directions for his
things to be sent after him."

"Ah! to the schooner, you say? You are certain?"

"Yes--that is, I think he went there. Jesse took his boxes and bags down
to the shore, and Captain Bonhomme received them, and thanked him in the
Marquis's name,''

"_Mais non! Est-ce possible_?" For a moment she was silent, considering
deeply. "_Bien_!" she exclaimed presently. "It is as you say, of course.
And you, my friend?" She stopped suddenly, for they had been walking
slowly forward, and withdrawing her hand from his arm, she held it out
before him. "The paper?" she demanded.

"Here it is," murmured Dan, fumbling in his pocket, and pulling out the
scrap of paper. She took it eagerly from his hand and held it up before
her eyes as though trying to see it in the dark.

"This is it, really?" she asked.

"I swear it," he answered. "It is the piece of writing that I found in
the hidden cubby-hole of the old cabinet in the Oak Parlour. It is written
in French, you know."

"Yes, I know, I know," she assented absently. For a moment she was quite
still, and then, with a strange exclamation, she put the paper to her
lips. "_Quels souvenirs, d'autrefois_!" she murmured. "_Ah, mon Dieu,
mon Dieu_!"

"Dearest, what is it?" asked Dan.

"Nothing, nothing," she replied, withdrawing a little from his touch. "I
was unwell for the moment,--_ce ne fait rien_. No, no, you are not to
kiss me, please." Again she unloosed his arm from about her neck, slipped
the paper into her muff, and pressed a little forward. For a space they
walked slowly, silently, toward the Inn.

"But, dearest one," murmured Dan, "this proves to you my love, doesn't
it? You no longer doubt me. For your sake, I give my honour; it may be,
the safety of my friends. You must see how I love you with all my heart
and soul. Won't you,--"

Suddenly she stopped again quite still and faced him. "My poor boy," she
said gently, "you really love me?"

"Love you! My God, have I not proved it! What more would you have me do?"

"_Mais oui_," she answered quickly. "You have proved it, but I have
thought that it was not possible."

"And you--you do care--oh, tell me--"

"_Hélas, mon paurve ami_. I love as tenderly as it remains in me to love.
Ah, dear, dear boy, so sincerely, that I cannot have you to sell your
honour for the futile kisses of Claire de la Fontaine."

"What do you mean? Have I--"

"No, no, no! This--take the paper. You must not again give it me, I
desire that you will not." She drew the paper from her muff with an
impulsive movement and thrust it toward him. "Take it, I implore you."

"But why--?"

"Because that you shall not give your honour to a woman such as I am.
_Mai vraiment_, I love you. That is why you must take back the paper."

"But you must explain--"

"_Mon Dieu_! is it that I have not explained? There is time for nothing
more. I have fear, _mon ami_; a kiss, and it is necessary that I go. It
is good-bye."

"But you love me, you have said so. I cannot, I will not let you go."

"Listen to me, my friend," she said, her voice rising for the moment
above the whisper in which she had cautiously spoken heretofore. "From
the first I have deceived you, betrayed you, played upon your affection
but to betray you afresh. And now I find that I love you. I am not that
which you call good, but it is impossible that I injure you. Go back to
your friends."

"Never! I love you. What matters now anything that you have said or done?
And you love me. Ah dearest one, what can that mean but good?"

"_Bien-aimé_, what will you that I say?" she interrupted speaking
rapidly, "I am what you Americans call 'a bad woman',--the sort of woman
that you know nothing of. I was the woman who sixteen years ago stayed at
the Inn at the Red Oak with François de Boisdhyver, the woman your mother
called nurse, who cared for his little daughter. And now I have told you
all. Will you know from now that I am a thousand times unworthy? _Pour
l'amour de Dieu_, give it to me to do this one act of honour and of
generosity."



CHAPTER XIX

THE ATTACK


With these words she thrust the scrap of paper into his hands and turning
swiftly, started forward as though to escape his further importunities by
flight. But Dan was instantly by her side, trying to catch her hand in
the darkness.

Again she faced him passionately. "_C'est folie_," she cried hoarsely,
"have I not told you that we are in great danger? Go, go back to the Inn.
It is there only that you will be safe.--O, _mon Dieu!"_

A figure had sprung suddenly from the blackness of the trees. Dan felt a
sharp blow on his shoulder, and then he was grappling with a wiry
antagonist, striving to keep at safe distance a hand that clutched an
open knife. Locked in a close embrace, swaying from side to side of the
road, they fought desperately. Dan striving to get at the pistol which he
carried, his assailant trying to use his knife.

It seemed as if Dan could no longer hold the man off when two small
hands closed over the fist that held the gleaming knife and a clear voice
rang out in French. Dan felt his antagonist's grip loosen and he wrenched
himself free. Madame de la Fontaine had come to his rescue. "Quick,
quick--to the Inn. I am safe. You have but one chance for your life," she
cried. Already his assailant had put a boatswain's whistle to his lips
and was sounding a shrill blast.

As Dan hesitated, uncertain what to do, he heard a number of men come
crashing through the underbrush of the neighbouring field. Again Madame
de la Fontaine cried, "_Mon Dieu_! will you not run?" Then she turned and
disappeared in the darkness. Simultaneously came the crack of a pistol
shot, and a bullet whizzed by his ear. There was nothing for it but to
run; and run he did, shouting at the top of his voice the while to Tom in
the Inn. He probably owed his start to the fact that for the moment his
attacker, who had been held at bay by Madame de la Fontaine, was
uncertain whether to follow her or Dan. That moment's delay saved Dan's
life, for though, with a curse, the man started after him now, he had a
poor chance of catching him in the darkness. But on he came only a dozen
yards or so behind, and after him the thundering steps and harsh cries
of those who had responded to the call of the whistle.

At last Dan was at the door of the Inn, beating wildly upon it, and
calling, "Open, Tom; quick, for God's sake! It's Dan." As the door was
flung back, he sprang in and slammed it shut. Already the attackers were
in the courtyard, a volley of shots rang against the stout oak, followed
almost at once, by the flinging against it of half-a-dozen men. But the
great oaken beam had been slipped into place and held firmly. Dan was
none the worse for his experience, save for a graze on the cheek where
the knife had glanced, and a slit on his shoulder from a bullet.

"They're here!" he cried. "No time for explanations, Tom. I went
out--fool that I was!--was attacked. They're here in force."

By this time Jesse had rushed into the bar, attracted by the firing, and
soon Ezra Manners came running down from the floor above. After the first
impact against the door those without had withdrawn, evidently taking up
a position in the courtyard again, for almost at once there was a
fusilade of shots against door and windows, which luckily the heavy oak
was proof against.

"They're welcome to keep that up all night," said Tom. "Only a waste of
ammunition. How many are there?" He would liked to have asked Dan why he
had gone out, but there was no time for discussion.

"I don't know--half-a-dozen at least, I should guess," was Dan's reply.
"Bonhomme is at their head, I'm sure. It was he who tackled me in the
avenue. They may have the whole crew of the schooner here. That would
mean a dozen or more."

"Well," said Tom, "we're in for it now, I guess. We'll have to watch in
different parts of the house, for we don't know where they will attack.
Unless they are all fools, it won't be here."

"You're right. I'll stay and look out for the south wing. You go to the
north wing, Tom; Jesse to the kitchen, and Ezra to the end of the south
passage. That'll cover the house as well as we can cover it. They'll try
to force an entrance somewheres. Have you all got guns? Good. Leave the
doors open so that we can hear each other call."

Evidently the attacking party had concluded that they were wasting their
lead and their time in shooting at doors and window-shutters, for as Tom
had said, all was now quiet outside. Fifteen minutes, half-an-hour
passed, and nothing occurred to alarm or to relieve the tension on the
anxious watchers within. At length Dan stole upstairs to reconnoitre.

It was fortunate that he chose the precise moment he did, for as his
head emerged above the last stair, he saw that the great shutters at
the end of the south corridor were open, and a man stood before the
window, evidently on the top rung of a ladder, trying the sash. It was
locked to be sure, but at the instant Dan saw him, he raised his fist
and smashed it. He was about to leap through the opening, fringed
though it was with jagged glass, when Dan aimed his pistol carefully,
and fired. There was a cry, and the form at the window fell crashing to
the ground below. Dan rushed to the casement, and could hear in the
court beneath him the curses and exclamations of the surprised
assailants. Quickly he thrust the end of the ladder from the wall, then
seizing a fresh pistol from his belt, fired at random into the darkness
below. Another cry of pain attested to the fact that his chance shot
had taken effect. By this time Tom had rushed to his assistance, and
together they barred the window again.

Dan gave a brief account of the incident. "But, for heaven's sake, Tom,"
he concluded, "get back to the north wing. We are in danger there every
moment. I'll watch out here."

As Tom returned to his post in the cold corridor of the north wing, he
heard heavy crashes, as of a battering-ram, against the great door that
opened into the gallery. A shrill whistle brought Ezra Manners to his
assistance. "Watch here!" he commanded. "If the door crashes in, shoot,
and shoot to kill; then run into the bar and barricade the door between.
I've a plan."

He himself ran into the bar, blew out the candles, and risking perhaps
too much on the chance of success, cautiously opened the front door. He
could scarcely make out the group at the farther end of the gallery, as
he stepped out; but he could hear the resounding crashes against the door
into the north hall, each one of which seemed to be the last that even
that massive frame could hold out against. Leveling his pistol at the
group; he took aim, and fired; snatched another from his pocket, and
fired a second time. Again, by good luck, the defender's shots had told.
There was a thud on the gallery floor, and the besiegers scurried to
cover beyond the courtyard fence. Tom dashed safely back into the house,
and slipped the great beam into place.

Upstairs Dan's attention had been attracted by the commotion in front of
the inn. He opened a window on to the roof of the gallery, climbed out,
and crawled along on his belly till his head just abutted over the eaves.
For a few moments, after the firing, he could hear the attackers moving
about behind the fence across the courtyard. At length, a couple of them
stole across the court and up on to the gallery beneath him. In a moment
they returned carrying the dead or wounded comrade; then all of them
seemed to go off together up the dark avenue of maples. He waited till
they could be heard no more, then crept back into the house and ran down
to tell Dan of their temporary withdrawal. For an hour or more the four
defenders of the Inn kept themselves occupied parading the corridors and
rooms, on the watch for a fresh attack. But nothing happened. They felt
no security, however, and would feel none till daylight.

In the silent watching of that night Dan had ample opportunity to reflect
upon his extraordinary interview with Madame de la Fontaine. He loved
her. Good heavens how he loved her, but--had she been sincere in her
refusal at the last to keep the scrap of paper for the possession of
which she had so desperately intrigued? Had she decoyed him to the
rendezvous in the dark but to betray him to the bandits with whom she was
in league? At first it would seem so. And yet the paper was in his
possession; and, she it was who had rescued him from the assassin's
knife. Where was she now? What had become of her? What was to be the end
of this mad night's work? That she was the woman who had accompanied
General Pointelle--or the Maréchal de Boisdhyver--somehow did not
surprise him. And for the time the full import of what that implied did
not dawn upon him. But what mattered anything now that he loved her?

He determined at last to reconnoitre again from the roof of the gallery.
It still lay in shadow, but it would not be long before the moon, now
rising over the eastern hills beyond the Strathsey flooded it with light.
In a moment, he had opened the window, was over the sill, and, creeping
cautiously along the roof to the ledge, he worked his way toward the
great oak at the farther end.

All was still and deserted below as the Inn courtyard would have been in
the middle of any winter's night. While he stood peering into the
darkness, listening intently, the moon, just showing above the distant
tree tops, cast the first rays of its light into the courtyard beneath
him. At the instant the figure of a woman stole across the flagged
pavement and crept fearfully to the Red Oak. With a strange thrill he
recognized Claire de la Fontaine. Reaching the shelter of the great tree,
she stooped, gathered a handful of gravel from the road bed, and then
cast it boldly at the shutters of the bar, calling softly, "Dan, Dan."

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.