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  _JOHN CANN'S TREASURE._

  Cecil Mitford sat at a desk in the Record Office with a stained andtattered sheet of dark dirty-brown antique paper spread before him intriumph, and with an eager air of anxious inquiry speaking forth fromevery line in his white face and every convulsive twitch at theirrepressible corners of his firm pallid mouth. Yes, there was no doubtat all about it; the piece of torn and greasy paper which he had at lastdiscovered was nothing more or less than John Cann's missing letter. Fortwo years Cecil Mitford had given up all his spare time, day and night,to the search for that lost fragment of crabbed seventeenth-centuryhandwriting; and now at length, after so many disappointments and somuch fruitless anxious hunting, the clue to the secret of John Cann'streasure was lying there positively before him. The young man's handtrembled violently as he held the paper fast unopened in his feverishgrasp, and read upon its back the autograph endorsement of Charles theSecond's Secretary of State--"Letter in cypher from Io. Cann, the notedBuccaneer, to his brother Will'm, intercepted at Port Royal by hisMa'ties command, and despatched by General Ed. D'Oyley, his Ma'tiesCaptain-Gen'l and Governor-in-Chief of the Island of Jamaica, to me,H. NICHOLAS." That was it, beyond the shadow of a doubt; and thoughCecil Mitford had still to apply to the cypher John Cann's own writtenkey, and to find out the precise import of the directions it contained,he felt at that moment that the secret was now at last virtuallydiscovered, and that John Cann's untold thousands of buried wealth werepotentially his very own already.

  He was only a clerk in the Colonial Office, was Cecil Mitford, on abeggarly income of a hundred and eighty a year--how small it seemed now,when John Cann's money was actually floating before his mind's eye; buthe had brains and industry and enterprise after a fitful adventurousfashion of his own; and he had made up his mind years before that hewould find out the secret of John Cann's buried treasure, if he had tospend half a lifetime on the almost hopeless quest. As a boy, CecilMitford had been brought up at his father's rectory on the slopes ofDartmoor, and there he had played from his babyhood upward among therugged granite boulders of John Cann's rocks, and had heard from thefarm labourers and the other children around the romantic but perfectlyhistorical legend of John Cann's treasure. Unknown and incredible sumsin Mexican doubloons and Spanish dollars lay guarded by a strong oakenchest in a cavern on the hilltop, long since filled up with flints andmould from the neighbouring summits. To that secure hiding-place thegreat buccaneer had committed the hoard gathered in his numberlesspiratical expeditions, burying all together under the shadow of a pettyporphyritic tor that overhangs the green valley of Bovey Tracy. Besidethe bare rocks that mark the site, a perfectly distinct pathway is wornby footsteps into the granite platform underfoot; and that path, littleCecil Mitford had heard with childish awe and wonder, was cut out by thepacing up and down of old John Cann himself, mounting guard in thedarkness and solitude over the countless treasure that he had hiddenaway in the recesses of the pixies' hole beneath.

  As young Mitford grew up to man's estate, this story of John Cann'streasure haunted his quick imagination for many years with wonderfulvividness. When he first came up to London, after his father's death,and took his paltry clerkship in the Colonial Office--how he hated theplace, with its monotonous drudgery, while John Cann's wealth was onlywaiting for him to take it and floating visibly before his propheticeyes!--the story began for a while to fade out under the disillusioningrealities of respectable poverty and a petty Government post. But beforehe had been many months in the West India department (he had a smallroom on the third floor, overlooking Downing Street) a casual discoverymade in overhauling the archives of the office suddenly revived theboyish dream with all the added realism and cool intensity of matureryears. He came across a letter from John Cann himself to the ProtectorOliver, detailing the particulars of a fierce irregular engagement witha Spanish privateer, in which the Spaniard had been captured with muchbooty, and his vessel duly sold to the highest bidder in Port Royalharbour. This curious coincidence gave a great shock of surprise toyoung Mitford. John Cann, then, was no mythical prehistoric hero, nofairy-king or pixy or barrow-haunter of the popular fancy, but an actualgenuine historical figure, who corresponded about his daring exploitswith no less a personage than Oliver himself! From that moment forth,Cecil Mitford gave himself up almost entirely to tracing out theforgotten history of the old buccaneer. He allowed no peace to thelearned person who took care of the State Papers of the Commonwealth atthe Record Office, and he established private relations, by letter, withtwo or three clerks in the Colonial Secretary's Office at Kingston,Jamaica, whom he induced to help him in reconstructing the lost story ofJohn Cann's life.

  Bit by bit Cecil Mitford had slowly pieced together a wonderful mass ofinformation, buried under piles of ragged manuscript and weary reams ofdusty documents, about the days and doings of that ancient terror of theSpanish Main. John Cann was a Devonshire lad, of the rollicking, rovingseventeenth century, born and bred at Bovey Tracy, on the flanks ofDartmoor, the last survivor of those sea-dogs of Devon who had salliedforth to conquer and explore a new Continent under the guidance ofDrake, and Raleigh, and Frobisher, and Hawkins. As a boy, he had sailedwith his father in a ship that bore the Queen's letters of marque andreprisal against the Spanish galleons; in his middle life, he had liveda strange roaming existence--half pirate and half privateer, intent uponsecuring the Protestant religion and punishing the King's enemies byrobbing wealthy Spanish skippers and cutting off the recusant noses ofvile Papistical Cuban slave traders; in his latter days, the fierce,half-savage old mariner had relapsed into sheer robbery, and had beenhunted down as a public enemy by the Lord Protector's servants, or laterstill by the Captains-General and Governors-in-Chief of his Most SacredMajesty's Dominions in the West Indies. For what was legitimate warfarein the spacious days of great Elizabeth, had come to be regarded in thedegenerate reign of Charles II. as rank piracy.

  One other thing Cecil Mitford had discovered, with absolute certainty;and that was that in the summer of 1660, "the year of his Ma'tie'smost happy restoration," as John Cann himself phrased it, the persecutedand much misunderstood old buccaneer had paid a secret visit to England,and had brought with him the whole hoard which he had accumulated duringsixty years of lawful or unlawful piracy in the West Indies and theSpanish Main. Concerning this hoard, which he had concealed somewhere inDevonshire, he kept up a brisk vernacular correspondence in cypher withhis brother William, at Tavistock; and the key to that cypher, markedoutside "A clew to my Bro. John's secret writing," Cecil Mitford hadbeen fortunate enough to unearth among the undigested masses of theRecord Office. But one letter, the last and most important of the wholeseries, containing as he believed the actual statement of thehiding-place, had long evaded all his research: and that was the letterwhich, now at last, after months and months of patient inquiry, layunfolded before his dazzled eyes on the little desk in his accustomedcorner. It had somehow been folded up by mistake in the papers relatingto the charge against Cyriack Skinner, of complicity in the Rye HousePlot. How it got there nobody knows, and probably nobody but CecilMitford himself could ever have succeeded in solving the mystery.

  As he gazed, trembling, at the precious piece of dusty much-creasedpaper, scribbled over in the unlettered schoolboy hand of the wild oldsea-dog, Cecil Mitford could hardly restrain himself for a moment fromuttering a cry. Untold wealth swam before his eyes: he could marry Ethelnow, and let her drive in her own carriage! Ah, what he would give if hemight only shout in his triumph. He couldn't even read the words, he wasso excited. But after a minute or two, he recovered his composuresufficiently to begin deciphering the crabbed writing, which constantpractice and familiarity with the system enabled him to do immediately,without even referring to the key. And this was what, with a fewminutes' inspection, Cecil Mitford slowly spelled out of the dirtymanuscript:--

  "From Jamaica. This 23rd day of Jan'y, "in the Yeare of our Lord 1663.

  "My deare Bro.,--I did not think to have written you againe
, after the scurvie Trick you have played me in disclosing my Affairs to that meddlesome Knight that calls himself the King's Secretary: but in truth your last Letter hath so moved me by your Vileness that I must needs reply thereto with all Expedicion. These are to assure you, then, that let you pray how you may, or gloze over your base treatment with fine cozening Words and fair Promises, you shall have neither lot nor scot in my Threasure, which is indeed as you surmise hidden away in England, but the Secret whereof I shall impart neither to you nor to no man. I have give commands, therefore that the Paper whereunto I have committed the place of its hiding shall be buried with my own Body (when God please) in the grave-yarde at Port Royal in this Island: so that you shall never be bettered one Penny by your most Damnable Treachery and Double-facedness. For I know you, my deare Bro., in very truth for a prating Coxcomb, a scurvie cowardlie Knave, and a lying Thief of other Men's Reputations. Therefore, no more herewith from your very humble Ser'vt., and Loving Bro.,

  "IOHN CANN, Capt'n"

  Cecil Mitford laid the paper down as he finished reading it with a faceeven whiter and paler than before, and with the muscles of his mouthtrembling violently with suppressed emotion. At the exact second when hefelt sure he had discovered the momentous secret, it had slippedmysteriously through his very fingers, and seemed now to float away intothe remote distance, almost as far from his eager grasp as ever. Eventhere, in the musty Record Office, before all the clerks and scholarswho were sitting about working carelessly at their desks at meredilettante historical problems--the stupid prigs, how he hated them!--hecould hardly restrain the expression of his pent-up feelings at thatbitter disappointment in the very hour of his fancied triumph. Jamaica!How absolutely distant and unapproachable it sounded! How hopeless theattempt to follow up the clue! How utterly his day-dream had been dashedto the ground in those three minutes of silent deciphering! He felt asif the solid earth was reeling beneath him, and he would have given thewhole world if he could have put his face between his two hands on thedesk and cried like a woman before the whole Record Office.

  For half an hour by the clock he sat there dazed and motionless, gazingin a blank disappointed fashion at the sheet of coffee-coloured paper infront of him. It was late, and workers were dropping away one afteranother from the scantily peopled desks. But Cecil Mitford took nonotice of them: he merely sat with his arms folded, and gazedabstractedly at that disappointing, disheartening, irretrievable pieceof crabbed writing. At last an assistant came up and gently touched hisarm. "We're going to close now, sir," he said in his unfeeling officialtone--just as if it were a mere bit of historical inquiry he wasafter--"and I shall be obliged if you'll put back the manuscripts you'vebeen consulting into F. 27." Cecil Mitford rose mechanically and sortedout the Cyriack Skinner papers into their proper places. Then he laidthem quietly on the shelf, and walked out into the streets of London,for the moment a broken-hearted man.

  But as he walked home alone that clear warm summer evening, and felt thecool breeze blowing against his forehead, he began to reflect to himselfthat, after all, all was not lost; that in fact things really stoodbetter with him now than they had stood that very morning, before helighted upon John Cann's last letter. He had not discovered the actualhiding-place of the hoard, to be sure, but he now knew on John Cann'sown indisputable authority, first, that there really was a hiddentreasure; second, that the hiding-place was really in England; andthird, that full particulars as to the spot where it was buried might befound in John Cann's own coffin at Port Royal, Jamaica. It was a riskyand difficult thing to open a coffin, no doubt; but it was notimpossible. No, not impossible. On the whole, putting one thing withanother, in spite of his terrible galling disappointment, he was reallynearer to the recovery of the treasure now than he had ever been in hislife before. Till to-day, the final clue was missing; to-day, it hadbeen found. It was a difficult and dangerous clue to follow, but stillit had been found.

  And yet, setting aside the question of desecrating a grave, how all butimpossible it was for him to get to Jamaica! His small funds had longago been exhausted in prosecuting the research, and he had nothing onearth to live upon now but his wretched salary. Even if he could getthree or six months' leave from the Colonial Office, which was highlyimprobable, how could he ever raise the necessary money for his passageout and home, as well as for the delicate and doubtful operation ofsearching for documents in John Cann's coffin? It was tantalising, itwas horrible, it was unendurable; but here, with the secret actuallyluring him on to discover it, he was to be foiled and baffled at thelast moment by a mere paltry, petty, foolish consideration of twohundred pounds! Two hundred pounds! How utterly ludicrous! Why, JohnCann's treasure would make him a man of fabulous wealth for a wholelifetime, and he was to be prevented from realizing it by a wretchedmatter of two hundred pounds! He would do anything to get it--for aloan, a mere loan; to be repaid with cent. per cent. interest; but wherein the world, where in the world, was he ever to get it from?

  And then, quick as lightning, the true solution of the whole difficultyflashed at once across his excited brain. He could borrow all the moneyif he chose from Ethel! Poor little Ethel; she hadn't much of her own;but she had just enough to live very quietly upon with her Aunt Emily;and, thank Heaven, it wasn't tied up with any of those bothering,meddling three-per-cent.-loving trustees! She had her little all at herown disposal, and he could surely get two or three hundred pounds fromher to secure for them both the boundless buried wealth of John Cann'streasure.

  Should he make her a confidante outright, and tell her what it was thathe wanted the money for? No, that would be impossible, for though shehad heard all about John Cann over and over again, she had not faithenough in the treasure--women are so unpractical--to hazard her littlescrap of money on it; of that he felt certain. She would go and ask oldMr. Cartwright's opinion; and old Mr. Cartwright was one of thosepenny-wise, purblind, unimaginative old gentlemen who will never believein anything until they've seen it. Yet here was John Cann's money goinga-begging, so to speak, and only waiting for him and Ethel to come andenjoy it. Cecil had no patience with those stupid, stick-in-the-mud,timid people who can see no further than their own noses. For Ethel'sown sake he would borrow two or three hundred pounds from her, one wayor another, and she would easily forgive him the harmless littledeception when he paid her back a hundredfold out of John Cann'sboundless treasure.

  II.

  That very evening, without a minute's delay, Cecil determined to goround and have a talk with Ethel Sunderland. "Strike while the iron'shot," he said to himself. "There isn't a minute to be lost; for whoknows but somebody else may find John Cann's treasure before I do?"

  Ethel opened the door to him herself; theirs was an old engagement oflong standing, after the usual Government clerk's fashion; and AuntEmily didn't stand out so stiffly as many old maids do for the regularproprieties. Very pretty Ethel looked with her pale face and the redribbon in her hair; very pretty, but Cecil feared, as he looked intoher dark hazel eyes, a little wearied and worn-out, for it was hermusic-lesson day, as he well remembered. Her music-lesson day! EthelSutherland to give music-lessons to some wretched squealing children atthe West-end, when all John Cann's wealth was lying there, uncounted,only waiting for him and her to take it and enjoy it! The bare thoughtwas a perfect purgatory to him. He must get that two hundred poundsto-night, or give up the enterprise altogether.

  "Well, Ethel darling," he said tenderly, taking her pretty little handin his; "you look tired, dearest. Those horrid children have beenbothering you again. How I wish we were married, and you were well outof it!"

  Ethel smiled a quiet smile of resignation. "They _are_ rather trying,Cecil," she said gently, "especially on days when one has got aheadache; but, after all, I'm very glad to have the work to do; it helpssuch a lot to eke out our little income. We have so _very_ little, youknow, even for two lonely women to live upon in simple little lodgingslike these, that I'm thankful I
can do something to help dear AuntEmily, who's really goodness itself. You see, after all, I get very wellpaid indeed for the lessons."

  "Ethel," Cecil Mitford said suddenly, thinking it better to dash at onceinto the midst of business; "I've come round this evening to talk withyou about a means by which you can add a great deal with perfect safetyto your little income. Not by lessons, Ethel darling; not by lessons. Ican't bear to see you working away the pretty tips off those dear littlefingers of yours with strumming scales on the piano for a lot of stupid,gawky school-girls; it's by a much simpler way than that; I know of aperfectly safe investment for that three hundred that you've got in NewZealand Four per Cents. Can you not have heard that New Zealandsecurities are in a very shaky way just at present?"

  "Very shaky, Cecil?" Ethel answered in surprise. "Why, Mr. Cartwrighttold me only a week ago they were as safe as the Bank of England!"

  "Mr. Cartwright's an ignorant old martinet," Cecil replied vigorously."He thinks because the stock's inscribed and the dividends are payablein Threadneedle Street that the colony of New Zealand's perfectlysolvent. Now, I'm in the Colonial Office, and I know a great deal betterthan that. New Zealand has over-borrowed, I assure you; quiteover-borrowed; and a serious fall is certain to come sooner or later.Mark my words, Ethel darling; if you don't sell out those New ZealandFours, you'll find your three hundred has sunk to a hundred and fifty inrather less than half no time!"

  Ethel hesitated, and looked at him in astonishment. "That's very queer,"she said, "for Mr. Cartwright wants me to sell out my little bit ofMidland and put it all into the same New Zealands. He says they're sosafe and pay so well."

  "Mr. Cartwright indeed!" Cecil cried contemptuously. "What means onearth has he of knowing? Didn't he advise you to buy nothing but threeper cents., and then let you get some Portuguese Threes at fifty, whichare really sixes, and exceedingly doubtful securities? What's the use oftrusting a man like that, I should like to know? No, Ethel, if you'll beguided by me--and I have special opportunities of knowing about thesethings at the Colonial Office--you'll sell out your New Zealands, andput them into a much better investment that I can tell you about. And ifI were you, I'd say nothing about it to Mr. Cartwright."

  "But, Cecil, I never did anything in business before without consultinghim! I should be afraid of going quite wrong."

  Cecil took her hand in his with real tenderness. Though he was trying todeceive her--for her own good--he loved her dearly in his heart ofhearts, and hated himself for the deception he was remorsefullypractising upon her. Yet, for her sake, he would go through with it."You must get accustomed to trusting me instead of him, darling," hesaid softly. "When you are mine for ever, as I hope you will be soon,you will take my advice, of course, in all such matters, won't you? Andyou may as well begin by taking it now. I have great hopes, Ethel, thatbefore very long my circumstances will be so much improved that I shallbe able to marry you--I hardly know how quickly; perhaps even beforenext Christmas. But meanwhile, darling, I have something to break to youthat I dare say will grieve you a little for the moment, though it's foryour ultimate good, birdie--for your ultimate good. The Colonial Officepeople have selected me to go to Jamaica on some confidential Governmentbusiness, which may keep me there for three months or so. It's adreadful thing to be away from you so long, Ethel; but if I manage thebusiness successfully--and I shall, I know--I shall get promoted when Icome back, well promoted, perhaps to the chief clerkship in theDepartment; and then we could marry comfortably almost at once."

  "To Jamaica! Oh, Cecil! How awfully far! And suppose you were to getyellow fever or something."

  "But I won't, Ethel; I promise you I won't, and I'll guarantee it with akiss, birdie; so now, that's settled. And then, consider the promotion!Only three months, probably, and when I come back, we can be actuallymarried. It's a wonderful stroke of luck, and I only heard of it thismorning. I couldn't rest till I came and told you."

  Ethel wiped a tear away silently, and only answered, "If you're glad,Cecil dearest, I'm glad too."

  "Well now, Ethel," Cecil Mitford went on as gaily as he could, "thatbrings me up to the second point. I want you to sell out these wretchedNew Zealands, so as to take the money with me to invest on goodmortgages in Jamaica. My experience in West Indian matters--after threeyears in the Department--will enable me to lay it out for you at nineper cent.--nine per cent., observe, Ethel,--on absolute security oflanded property. Planters want money to improve their estates, and can'tget it at less than that rate. Your three hundred would bring you intwenty-seven pounds, Ethel; twenty-seven pounds is a lot of money!"

  What could poor Ethel do? In his plausible, affectionate manner--and allfor her own good, too--Cecil talked her over quickly between love andbusiness experience, coaxing kisses and nine per cent. interest,endearing names and knowledge of West Indian affairs, till helplesslittle Ethel willingly promised to give up her poor little threehundred, and even arranged to meet Cecil secretly on Thursday at theBank of England, about Colonial Office dinner-hour, to effect thetransfer on her own account, without saying a single word about it toAunt Emily or Mr. Cartwright. Cecil's conscience--for he _had_ aconscience, though he did his best to stifle it--gave him a bittertwinge every now and then, as one question after another drove him timeafter time into a fresh bit of deceit; but he tried to smile and smileand be a villain as unconcernedly and lightly as possible. Once onlytowards the end of the evening, when everything was settled, and Cecilhad talked about his passage, and the important business with which hewas entrusted, at full length, a gleam of suspicion seemed to flash fora single second across poor Ethel's deluded little brains.Jamaica--promotion--three hundred pounds--it was all so sudden and soconnected; could Cecil himself be trying to deceive her, and using hermoney for his wild treasure hunt? The doubt was horrible, degrading,unworthy of her or him; and yet somehow for a single moment she couldnot help half-unconsciously entertaining it.

  "Cecil," she said, hesitating, and looking into the very depths of histruthful blue eyes; "you're not concealing anything from me, are you?It's not some journey connected with John Cann?"

  Cecil coughed and cleared his throat uneasily, but by a great effort hekept his truthful blue eyes still fixed steadily on hers. (He would havegiven the world if he might have turned them away, but that would havebeen to throw up the game incontinently.) "My darling Ethel," he saidevasively, "how on earth could the Colonial Office have anything to dowith John Cann?"

  "Answer me 'yes' or 'no,' Cecil. Do please answer me 'yes' or 'no.'"

  Cecil kept his eyes still fixed immovably on hers, and without amoment's hesitation answered quickly "no." It was an awful wrench, andhis lips could hardly frame the horrid falsehood, but for Ethel's sakehe answered "no."

  "Then I know I can trust you, Cecil," she said, laying her head forforgiveness on his shoulder. "Oh, how wrong it was of me to doubt youfor a second!"

  Cecil sighed uneasily, and kissed her white forehead without a singleword.

  "After all," he thought to himself, as he walked back to his lonelylodgings late that evening, "I need never tell her anything about it. Ican pretend, when I've actually got John Cann's treasure, that I cameacross the clue accidently while I was in Jamaica; and I can lay outthree hundred of it there in mortgages; and she need never know a singleword about my innocent little deception. But indeed in the pride anddelight of so much money, all our own, she'll probably never think atall of her poor little paltry three hundred."

  III.

  It was an awfully long time, that eighteen days at sea, on the RoyalMail Steamship _Don_, bound for Kingston, Jamaica, with John Cann'ssecret for ever on one's mind, and nothing to do all day, by way ofoutlet for one's burning energy, but to look, hour after hour, at themonotonous face of the seething water. But at last the journey was over;and before Cecil Mitford had been twenty-four hours at Date Tree Hall,the chief hotel in Kingston, he had already hired a boat and sailedacross the baking hot harbour to Port Royal, to look in the dreary,sandy cemetery for any
sign or token of John Cann's grave.

  An old grey-haired negro, digging at a fresh grave, had charge of thecemetery, and to him Cecil Mitford at once addressed himself, to findout whether any tombstone about the place bore the name of John Cann.The old man turned the name over carefully in his stolid brains, andthen shook his heavy grey head with a decided negative. "Massa JohnCann, sah," he said dubiously, "Massa John Cann; it don't nobody buriedhere by de name ob Massa John Cann. I sartin, sah, becase I's sexton indis here cemetry dese fifty year, an' I know de grabe ob ebbery buckragentleman dat ebber buried here since I fuss came."

  Cecil Mitford tossed his head angrily. "Since _you_ first came, my goodman," he said with deep contempt. "Since you first came! Why, John Cannwas buried here ages and ages before you yourself were ever born orthought of."

  The old negro looked up at him inquiringly. There is nothing a negrohates like contempt; and he answered back with a disdainful tone, "Den Ican find out if him ebber was buried here at all, as well as you, sah.We has register here, we don't ignorant heathen. I has register in dechurch ob every pusson dat ebber buried in dis cemetry from de berrybeginnin--from de year ob de great earthquake itself. What year disMassa John Cann him die, now? What year him die?"

  Cecil pricked up his ears at the mention of the register, and answeredeagerly, "In the year 1669."

  The old negro sat down quietly on a flat tomb, and answered with a smileof malicious triumph, "Den you is ignorant know-nuffin pusson for abuckra gentleman, for true, sah, if you tink you will find him grabe indis here cemetry. Don't you nebber read your history book, dat all PortRoyal drowned in de great earthquake ob de year 1692? We has registerhere for ebbery year, from de year 1692 downward; but de grabes, and decemetry, and de register, from de year 1692 upward, him all swallowed upentirely in de great earthquake, bress de Lord!"

  Cecil Mitford felt the earth shivering beneath him at that moment, asverily as the Port Royal folk had felt it shiver in 1692. He clutched atthe headstone to keep him from falling, and sat down hazily on the flattomb, beside the grey-headed old negro, like one unmanned and utterlydisheartened. It was all only too true. With his intimate knowledge ofJohn Cann's life, and of West Indian affairs generally, how on earthcould he ever have overlooked it? John Cann's grave lay buried fivefathoms deep, no doubt, under the blue waters of the Caribbean. And itwas for this that he had madly thrown up his Colonial Officeappointment, for this that he had wasted Ethel's money, for this that hehad burdened his conscience with a world of lies; all to find in the endthat John Cann's secret was hidden under five fathoms of tropicallagoon, among the scattered and waterlogged ruins of Old Port Royal. Hisfortitude forsook him for a single moment, and burying his face in histwo hands, there, under the sweltering midday heat of that deadlysandbank, he broke down utterly, and sobbed like a child before the veryeyes of the now softened old negro sexton.

  IV.

  It was not for long, however. Cecil Mitford had at least one strongquality--indomitable energy and perseverance. All was not yet lost: ifneed were, he would hunt for John Cann's tomb in the very submergedruins of Old Port Royal. He looked up once more at the puzzled negro,and tried to bear this bitter downfall of all his hopes with manfulresignation.

  At that very moment, a tall and commanding-looking man, of about sixty,with white hair but erect figure, walked slowly from the cocoa-nut groveon the sand-spit into the dense and tangled precincts of the cemetery.He was a brown man, a mulatto apparently, but his look and bearingshowed him at once to be a person of education and distinction in hisown fashion. The old sexton rose up respectfully as the strangerapproached, and said to him in a very different tone from that in whichhe had addressed Cecil Mitford, "Marnin, sah; marnin, Mr. Barclay. Dishere buckra gentleman from Englan', him come 'quiring in de cemetryafter de grabe of pusson dat dead before de great earthquake. What forhim come here like-a-dat on fool's errand, eh, sah? What for him notlarn before him come dat Port Royal all gone drowned in de year 1692?"

  The new-comer raised his hat slightly to Cecil Mitford, and spoke atonce in the grave gentle voice of an educated and cultivated mulatto."You wanted some antiquarian information about the island, sir; somefacts about some one who died before the Port Royal earthquake? You haveluckily stumbled across the right man to help you; for I think ifanything can be recovered about anybody in Jamaica, I can aid you inrecovering it. Whose grave did you want to see?"

  Cecil hardly waited to thank the polite stranger, but blurted out atonce, "The grave of John Cann, who died in 1669."

  The stranger smiled quietly. "What! John Cann, the famous buccaneer?" hesaid, with evident delight. "Are you interested in John Cann?"

  "I am," Cecil answered hastily. "Do you know anything about him?"

  "I know all about him," the tall mulatto replied. "All about him inevery way. He was not buried at Port Royal at all. He intended to be,and gave orders to that effect; but his servants had him buried quietlyelsewhere, on account of some dispute with the Governor of the timebeing, about some paper which he desired to have placed in his coffin."

  "Where, where?" Cecil Mitford gasped out eagerly, clutching at thisfresh straw with all the anxiety of a drowning man.

  "At Spanish Town," the stranger answered calmly. "I know his grave therewell to the present day. If you are interested in Jamaican antiquities,and would like to come over and see it, I shall be happy to show you thetomb. That is my name." And he handed Cecil Mitford his card, with allthe courteous dignity of a born gentleman.

  Cecil took the card and read the name on it: "The Hon. Charles Barclay,Leigh Caymanas, Spanish Town." How his heart bounded again that minute!Proof was accumulating on proof, and luck on luck! After all, he hadtracked down John Cann's grave; and the paper was really there, buriedin his coffin. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped hisdamp brow with a feeling of unspeakable relief. Ethel was saved, andthey might still enjoy John Cann's treasure.

  Mr. Barclay sat down beside him on the stone slab, and began talkingover all he knew about John Cann's life and actions. Cecil affected tobe interested in all he said, though really he could think of one thingonly: the treasure, the treasure, the treasure. But he managed also tolet Mr. Barclay see how much he too knew about the old buccaneer: andMr. Barclay, who was a simple-minded learned enthusiast for all thatconcerned the antiquities of his native island, was so won over by thisdisplay of local knowledge on the part of a stranger and an Englishman,that he ended by inviting Cecil over to his house at Spanish Town, tostop as long as he was able. Cecil gladly accepted the invitation, andthat very afternoon, with a beating heart, he took his place in thelumbering train that carried him over to the final goal of his Jamaicanexpedition.

  V.

  In a corner of the Cathedral graveyard at Spanish Town, overhung by abig spreading mango tree, and thickly covered by prickly scrub of agaveand cactus, the white-haired old mulatto gentleman led Cecil Mitford upto a water-worn and weathered stone, on which a few crumbling lettersalone were still visible. Cecil kneeled down on the bare ground,regardless of the sharp cactus spines that stung and tore his flesh, andbegan clearing the moss and lichen away from the neglected monument.Yes, his host was right! right, right, right, indubitably. The first twoletters were IO, then a blank where others were obliterated, and thencame ANN. That stood clearly for IOHN CANN. And below he could slowlymake out the words, "Born at ... vey Tra ... Devon...." with anillegible date, "Died at P ... Royal, May 12, 1669." Oh, great heavens,yes. John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! Beyondany shadow or suspicion of mistake, John Cann and his precious secretlay buried below that mouldering tombstone.

  That very evening Cecil Mitford sought out and found the Spanish Towngravedigger. He was a solemn-looking middle-aged black man, with a keensmart face, not the wrong sort of man, Cecil Mitford felt sure, for sucha job as the one he contemplated. Cecil didn't beat about the bush ortemporise with him in any way. He went straight to the point, and askedthe man outright whether he would undertake to open Jo
hn Cann's grave,and find a paper that was hidden in the coffin. The gravedigger staredat him, and answered slowly, "I don't like de job, sah; I don't like dejob. Perhaps Massa John Cann's ghost, him come and trouble me for dat: Idon't going to do it. What you gib me, sah; how much you gib me?"

  Cecil opened his purse and took out of it ten gold sovereigns. "I willgive you that," he said, "if you can get me the paper out of John Cann'scoffin."

  The negro's eyes glistened, but he answered carelessly, "I don't tink Ican do it. I don't want to open grabe by night, and if I open him byday, de magistrates dem will hab me up for desecration ob interment. ButI can do dis for you, sah. If you like to wait till some buckragentleman die--John Cann grabe among de white man side in degrabeyard--I will dig grabe alongside ob John Cann one day, so let youcome yourself in de night and take what you like out ob him coffin. Idon't go meddle with coffin myself, to make de John Cann duppy troubleme, and magistrate send me off about me business."

  It was a risky thing to do, certainly, but Cecil Mitford closed with it,and promised the man ten pounds if ever he could recover John Cann'spaper. And then he settled down quietly at Leigh Caymanas with hisfriendly host, waiting with eager, anxious expectation--till some whiteperson should die at Spanish Town.

  What an endless aimless time it seemed to wait before anybody could becomfortably buried! Black people died by the score, of course: there wasa small-pox epidemic on, and they went to wakes over one another's deadbodies in wretched hovels among the back alleys, and caught theinfection and sickened and died as fast as the wildest imagination couldwish them: but then, they were buried apart by themselves in the pauperpart of the Cathedral cemetery. Still, no white man caught thesmall-pox, and few mulattoes: they had all been vaccinated, and nobodygot ill except the poorest negroes. Cecil Mitford waited with almostfiendish eagerness to hear that some prominent white man was dead ordying.

  A month, six weeks, two months, went slowly past, and still nobody ofconsequence in all Spanish Town fell ill or sickened. Talk abouttropical diseases! why, the place was abominably, atrociously,outrageously healthy. Cecil Mitford fretted and fumed and worried byhimself, wondering whether he would be kept there for ever and ever,waiting till some useless nobody chose to die. The worst of it all was,he could tell nobody his troubles: he had to pretend to look unconcernedand interested, and listen to all old Mr. Barclay's stories aboutMaroons and buccaneers as if he really enjoyed them.

  At last, after Cecil had been two full months at Spanish Town, he heardone morning with grim satisfaction that yellow fever had broken out atPort Antonio. Now, yellow fever, as he knew full well, attacks onlywhite men, or men of white blood: and Cecil felt sure that before longthere would be somebody white dead in Spanish Town. Not that he wasreally wicked or malevolent or even unfeeling at heart; but his wilddesire to discover John Cann's treasure had now overridden every betterinstinct of his nature, and had enslaved him, body and soul, till hecould think of nothing in any light save that of its bearing on his onemad imagination. So he waited a little longer, still more eagerly thanbefore, till yellow fever should come to Spanish Town.

  Sure enough the fever did come in good time, and the very first personwho sickened with it was Cecil Mitford. That was a contingency he hadnever dreamt of, and for the time being it drove John Cann's treasurealmost out of his fevered memory. Yet not entirely, even so, for in hisdelirium he raved of John Cann and his doubloons till good old Mr.Barclay, nursing at his bedside like a woman, as a tender-heartedmulatto always will nurse any casual young white man, shook his head tohimself and muttered gloomily that poor Mr. Mitford had overworked hisbrain sadly in his minute historical investigations.

  For ten days Cecil Mitford hovered fitfully between life and death, andfor ten days good old Mr. Barclay waited on him, morning, noon, andnight, as devotedly as any mother could wait upon her first-born. At theend of that time he began to mend slowly; and as soon as the crisis wasover he forgot forthwith all about his illness, and thought once more ofnothing on earth save only John Cann's treasure. Was anybody else ill ofthe fever in Spanish Town? Yes, two, but not dangerously. Cecil's facefell at that saving clause, and in his heart he almost ventured to wishit had been otherwise. He was no murderer, even in thought; but JohnCann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! What wouldnot a man venture to do or pray, in order that he might become thepossessor of John Cann's treasure!

  As Cecil began to mend, a curious thing happened at Leigh Caymanas,contrary to almost all the previous medical experience of the wholeIsland. Mr. Barclay, though a full mulatto of half black blood, suddenlysickened with the yellow fever. He had worn himself out with nursingCecil, and the virus seemed to have got into his blood in a way that itwould never have done under other circumstances. And when the doctorcame to see him, he declared at once that the symptoms were veryserious. Cecil hated and loathed himself for the thought; and yet, in ahorrid, indefinite way he gloated over the possibility of his kind andhospitable friend's dying. Mr. Barclay had tended him so carefully thathe almost loved him; and yet, with John Cann's treasure before his veryeyes, in a dim, uncertain, awful fashion, he almost looked forward tohis dying. But where would he be buried? that was the question. Not,surely, among the poor black people in the pauper corner. A man of hishost's distinction and position would certainly deserve a place amongthe most exalted white graves--near the body of Governor Modyford, andnot far from the tomb of John Cann himself.

  Day after day Mr. Barclay sank slowly but surely, and Cecil, weak andhardly convalescent himself, sat watching by his bedside, and nursinghim as tenderly as the good brown man had nursed Cecil himself in histurn a week earlier. The young clerk was no hard-hearted wretch whocould see a kind entertainer die without a single passing pang; he feltfor the grey old mulatto as deeply as he could have felt for his ownbrother, if he had had one. Every time there was a sign of suffering orfeebleness, it went to Cecil's heart like a knife--the very knowledgethat on one side of his nature he wished the man to die made him all themore anxious and careful on the other side to do everything he could tosave him, if possible, or at least to alleviate his sufferings. Poor oldman! it was horrible to see him lying there, parched with fever anddying by inches; but then--John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure!John Cann's treasure! every shade that passed over the good mulatto'sface brought Cecil Mitford a single step nearer to the final enjoymentof John Cann's treasure.

  VI.

  On the evening when the Hon. Charles Barclay died, Cecil Mitford wentout, for the first time after his terrible illness, to speak a few wordsin private with the negro sexton. He found the man lounging in the softdust outside his hut, and ready enough to find a place for the corpse(which would be buried next morning, with the ordinary tropical haste),close beside the spot actually occupied by John Cann's coffin. All therest, the sexton said with a horrid grin, he would leave to Cecil.

  At twelve o'clock of a dark moonless night, Cecil Mitford, still weakand ill, but trembling only from the remains of his fever, set outstealthily from the dead man's low bungalow in the outskirts of SpanishTown, and walked on alone through the unlighted, unpaved streets of thesleeping city to the Cathedral precinct. Not a soul met or passed him onthe way through the lonely alleys; not a solitary candle burned anywherein a single window. He carried only a little dark lantern in his hand,and a very small pick that he had borrowed that same afternoon from thenegro sexton. Stumbling along through the unfamiliar lanes, he saw atlast the great black mass of the gaunt ungainly Cathedral, standing outdimly against the hardly less black abyss of night that formed thesolemn background. But Cecil Mitford was not awed by place or season; hecould think only of one subject, John Cann's treasure. He groped his wayeasily through scrub and monuments to the far corner of the churchyard;and there, close by a fresh and open grave he saw the well-remembered,half-effaced letters that marked the mouldering upright slab as JohnCann's gravestone. Without a moment's delay, without a touch ofhesitation, without a single tinge of womanish weakness, he j
umped downboldly into the open grave and turned the light side of his littlelantern in the direction of John Cann's undesecrated coffin.

  A few strokes of the pick soon loosened the intervening earthsufficiently to let him get at a wooden plank on the nearer side of thecoffin. It had mouldered away with damp and age till it was all quitesoft and pliable; and he broke through it with his hand alone, and sawlying within a heap of huddled bones, which he knew at once for JohnCann's skeleton. Under any other circumstances, such a sight, seen inthe dead of night, with all the awesome accessories of time and place,would have chilled and appalled Cecil Mitford's nervous blood; but hethought nothing of it all now; his whole soul was entirely concentratedon a single idea--the search for the missing paper. Leaning over towardthe breach he had made into John Cann's grave, he began groping aboutwith his right hand on the floor of the coffin. After a moment's searchhis fingers came across a small rusty metal object, clasped, apparently,in the bony hand of the skeleton. He drew it eagerly out; it was a steelsnuff-box. Prising open the corroded hinge with his pocket-knife, hefound inside a small scrap of dry paper. His fingers trembled as he heldit to the dark lantern; oh heavens, success! success! it was, itwas--the missing document!

  He knew it in a moment by the handwriting and the cypher! He couldn'twait to read it till he went home to the dead man's house; so he curledhimself up cautiously in Charles Barclay's open grave, and proceeded todecipher the crabbed manuscript as well as he was able by the luridlight of the lantern. Yes, yes, it was all right: it told him withminute and unmistakable detail the exact spot in the valley of the Boveywhere John Cann's treasure lay securely hidden. Not at John Cann's rockson the hilltop, as the local legend untruly affirmed--John Cann had notbeen such an unguarded fool as to whisper to the idle gossips of Boveythe spot where he had really buried his precious doubloons--but down inthe valley by a bend of the river, at a point that Cecil Mitford hadknown well from his childhood upward. Hurrah! hurrah! the secret wasunearthed at last, and he had nothing more to do than to go home toEngland and proceed to dig up John Cann's treasure!

  So he cautiously replaced the loose earth on the side of the grave, andwalked back, this time bold and erect, with his dark lantern openlydisplayed (for it mattered little now who watched or followed him), todead Charles Barclay's lonely bungalow. The black servants were crooningand wailing over their master's body, and nobody took much notice of thewhite visitor. If they had, Cecil Mitford would have cared but little,so long as he carried John Cann's last dying directions safely folded inhis leather pocket-book.

  Next day, Cecil Mitford stood once more as a chief mourner beside thegrave he had sat in that night so strangely by himself: and before theweek was over, he had taken his passage for England in the Royal MailSteamer _Tagus_, and was leaving the cocoa-nut groves of Port Royal wellbehind him on the port side. Before him lay the open sea, and beyond it,England, Ethel, and John Cann's treasure.

  VII.

  It had been a long job after all to arrange fully the needfulpreliminaries for the actual search after John Cann's buried doubloons.First of all, there was Ethel's interest to pay, and a horrid story forCecil to concoct--all false, of course, worse luck to it--about how hehad managed to invest her poor three hundred to the best advantage. Thenthere was another story to make good about three months' extra leavefrom the Colonial Office. Next came the question of buying the landwhere John Cann's treasure lay hidden, and this was really a matter ofvery exceptional and peculiar difficulty. The owner--pig-headedfellow!--didn't want to sell, no matter how much he was offered, becausethe corner contained a clump of trees that made a specially prettyelement in the view from his dining-room windows. His dining-roomwindows, forsooth! What on earth could it matter, when John Cann'streasure was at stake, whether anything at all was visible or otherwisefrom his miserable dining-room windows? Cecil was positively appalled atthe obstinacy and narrow-mindedness of the poor squireen, who couldthink of nothing at all in the whole world but his own ridiculousantiquated windows. However, in the end, by making his bid high enough,he was able to induce this obstructive old curmudgeon to part with histriangular little corner of land in the bend of the river. Even so,there was the question of payment: absurd as it seemed, with all JohnCann's money almost in his hands, Cecil was obliged to worry and botherand lie and intrigue for weeks together in order to get that paltrylittle sum in hard cash for the matter of payment. Still, he raised itin the end: raised it by inducing Ethel to sell out the remainder of herpoor small fortune, and cajoling Aunt Emily into putting her name to abill of sale for her few worthless bits of old-fashioned furniture. Atlast, after many delays and vexatious troubles, Cecil found himself theactual possessor of the corner of land wherein lay buried John Cann'streasure.

  The very first day that Cecil Mitford could call that coveted piece ofground his own, he could not restrain his eagerness (though he knew itwas imprudent in a land where the unjust law of treasure-troveprevails), but he must then and there begin covertly digging under theshadow of the three big willow trees, in the bend of the river. He hadeyed and measured the bearings so carefully already that he knew thevery spot to a nail's breadth where John Cann's treasure was actuallyhidden. He set to work digging with a little pick as confidently as ifhe had already seen the doubloons lying there in the strong box that heknew enclosed them. Four feet deep he dug, as John Cann's instructionstold him; and then, true to the inch, his pick struck against a solidoaken box, well secured with clamps of iron. Cecil cleared all the dirtaway from the top, carefully, not hurriedly, and tried with all hismight to lift the box out, but all in vain. It was far too heavy, ofcourse, for one man's arms to raise: all that weight of gold and silvermust be ever so much more than a single pair of hands could possiblymanage. He must try to open the lid alone, so as to take the gold out, abit at a time, and carry it away with him now and again, as he was able,covering the place up carefully in between, for fear of the Treasury andthe Lord of the Manor. How abominably unjust it seemed to him at thatmoment--the legal claim of those two indolent hostile powers! to thinkthat after he, Cecil Mitford, had borne the brunt of the labour inadventurously hunting up the whole trail of John Cann's secret, two idleirresponsible participators should come in at the end, if they could, toprofit entirely by _his_ ingenuity and _his_ exertions!

  At last, by a great effort, he forced the rusty lock open, and lookedeagerly into the strong oak chest. How his heart beat with slow, deepthrobs at that supreme moment, not with suspense, for he _knew_ heshould find the money, but with the final realization of a great hopelong deferred! Yes, there it lay, in very truth, all before him--greatshining coins of old Spanish gold--gold, gold, gold, arranged in longrows, one coin after another, over the whole surface of the broad oakbox. He had found it, he had found it, he had really found it! After somuch toilsome hunting, after so much vain endeavour, after so manyheart-breaking disappointments, John Cann's treasure in very truth layopen there actually before him!

  For a few minutes, eager and frightened as he was, Cecil Mitford did notdare even to touch the precious pieces. In the greatness of his joy, inthe fierce rush of his overpowering emotions, he had no time to think ofmere base everyday gold and silver. It was the future and the ideal thathe beheld, not the piled-up heaps of filthy lucre. Ethel was his, wealthwas his, honour was his! He would be a rich man and a great man now andhenceforth for ever! Oh, how he hugged himself in his heart on the wisesuccessful fraud by which he had induced Ethel to advance him the fewwretched hundreds he needed for his ever-memorable Jamaican journey! Howhe praised to himself his own courage, and ingenuity, and determination,and inexhaustible patience! How he laughed down that foolish conscienceof his that would fain have dissuaded him from his master-stroke ofgenius. He deserved it all, he deserved it all! Other men would haveflinched before the risk and expense of the voyage to Jamaica, wouldhave given up the scent for a fool's errand in the cemetery at PortRoyal, would have shrunk from ransacking John Cann's grave at dead ofnight in the Cathedral precincts at Spanis
h Town, would have feared tobuy the high-priced corner of land at Bovey Tracy on a pure imaginativespeculation. But he, Cecil Mitford, had had the boldness and thecleverness to do it every bit, and now, wisdom was justified of all herchildren. He sat for five minutes in profound meditation on the edge ofthe little pit he had dug, gloating dreamily over the broad gold pieces,and inwardly admiring his own bravery and foresight and indomitableresolution. What a magnificent man he really was--a worthy successor ofthose great freebooting, buccaneering, filibustering Devonians of thegrand Elizabethan era! To think that the worky-day modern world shouldever have tried to doom him, Cecil Mitford, with his splendid enterpriseand glorious potentialities, to a hundred and eighty a year and aroutine clerkship at the Colonial Office!

  After a while, however, mere numerical cupidity began to get the betterof this heroic mood, and Cecil Mitford turned somewhat languidly to thevulgar task of counting the rows of doubloons. He counted up theforemost row carefully, and then for the first time perceived, to hisintense surprise, that the row behind was not gold, but mere silverMexican pistoles. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the fact wasunmistakable; there was only one row of yellow gold in the top layer,and all the rest was merely bright and glittering silver. Strange thatJohn Cann should have put coins of such small value near the top of hisbox: the rest of the gold must certainly be in successive layers downfurther. He lifted up the big gold doubloons in the first row, and then,to his blank horror and amazement, came to--not more gold, not moresilver, but--but--but--ay, incredible as it seemed, appalling,horrifying--a wooden bottom!

  Had John Cann, in his care and anxiety, put a layer of solid oak betweeneach layer of gold and silver? Hardly that, the oak was too thick. In amoment Cecil Mitford had taken out all the coins of the first tier, andlaid bare the oaken bottom. A few blows of the pick loosened the eartharound, and then, oh horror, oh ghastly disappointment, oh unspeakableheart-sickening revelation, the whole box came out entire. It was onlytwo inches deep altogether, including the cover--it was, in fact, a mereshallow tray or saucer, something like the sort of thin wooden boxes inwhich sets of dessert-knives or fish-knives are usually sold for weddingpresents!

  For the space of three seconds Cecil Mitford could not believe his eyes,and then, with a sudden flash of awful vividness, the whole terribletruth flashed at once across his staggering brain. He had found JohnCann's treasure indeed--the John Cann's treasure of base actual reality;but the John Cann's treasure of his fervid imagination, the John Cann'streasure he had dreamt of from his boyhood upward, the John Cann'streasure he had risked all to find and to win, did not exist, could notexist, and never had existed at all anywhere! It was all a horrible,incredible, unthinkable delusion! The hideous fictions he had told wouldevery one be now discovered; Ethel would be ruined; Aunt Emily would beruined; and they would both know him, not only for a fool, a dreamer,and a visionary, but also for a gambler, a thief, and a liar.

  In his black despair he jumped down into the shallow hole once more, andbegan a second time to count slowly over the accursed dollars. The wholemiserable sum--the untold wealth of John Cann's treasure--would amountaltogether to about two hundred and twenty pounds of modern sterlingEnglish money. Cecil Mitford tore his hair as he counted it in impotentself punishment; two hundred and twenty pounds, and he had expected atleast as many thousands! He saw it all in a moment. His wild fancy hadmistaken the poor outcast hunted-down pirate for a sort of idealcriminal millionaire; he had erected the ignorant, persecuted John Cannof real life, who fled from the king's justice to a nest of charteredoutlaws in Jamaica, into a great successful naval commander, like theDrake or Hawkins of actual history. The whole truth about the wretchedsolitary old robber burst in upon him now with startling vividness; hesaw him hugging his paltry two hundred pounds to his miserly old bosom,crossing the sea with it stealthily from Jamaica, burying it secretly ina hole in the ground at Bovey, quarrelling about it with his peasantrelations in England, as the poor will often quarrel about mere triflesof money, and dying at last with the secret of that wretched sum hiddenin the snuff-box that he clutched with fierce energy even in hislifeless skeleton fingers. It was all clear, horribly, irretrievably,unmistakably clear to him now; and the John Cann that he had oncefollowed through so many chances and changes had faded away at once intoabsolute nothingness, now and for ever!

  If Cecil Mitford had known a little less about John Cann's life andexploits he might still perhaps have buoyed himself up with the vainhope that all the treasure was not yet unearthed--that there were moreboxes still buried in the ground, more doubloons still hidden furtherdown in the unexplored bosom of the little three-cornered field. But thewords of John Cann's own dying directions were too explicit and clear toadmit of any such gloss or false interpretation. "In a strong oakenchest, bound round with iron, and buried at four feet of depth in thesouth-western angle of the Home Croft, at Bovey," said the document,plainly; there was no possibility of making two out of it in any way.Indeed, in that single minute, Cecil Mitford's mind had undergone atotal revolution, and he saw the John Cann myth for the first time inhis life now in its true colours. The bubble had burst, the halo hadvanished, the phantom had faded away, and the miserable squalid miserlyreality stood before him with all its vulgar nakedness in their place.The whole panorama of John Cann's life, as he knew it intimately in allits details, passed before his mind's eye like a vivid picture, nolonger in the brilliant hues of boyish romance, but in the dingy sordidtones of sober fact. He had given up all that was worth having in thisworld for the sake of a poor gipsy pirate's penny-saving hoard.

  A weaker man would have swallowed the disappointment or kept thedelusion still to his dying day. Cecil Mitford was made of strongermould. The ideal John Cann's treasure had taken possession of him, bodyand soul; and now that John Cann's treasure had faded into utternonentity--a paltry two hundred pounds--the whole solid earth had failedbeneath his feet, and nothing was left before him but a mighty blank. Amighty blank. Blank, blank, blank. Cecil Mitford sat there on the edgeof the pit, with his legs dangling over into the hollow where JohnCann's treasure had never been, gazing blankly out into a blank sky,with staring blank eyeballs that looked straight ahead into infinitespace and saw utterly nothing.

  How long he sat there no one knows; but late at night, when the peopleat the Red Lion began to miss their guest, and turned out in a body tohunt for him in the corner field, they found him sitting still on theedge of the pit he had dug for the grave of his own hopes, and gazingstill with listless eyes into blank vacancy. A box of loose coin layidly scattered on the ground beside him. The poor gentleman had beenstruck crazy, they whispered to one another; and so indeed he had: notraving mad with acute insanity, but blankly, hopelessly, and helplesslyimbecile. With the loss of John Cann's treasure the whole universe hadfaded out for him into abject nihilism. They carried him home to the innbetween them on their arms, and put him to bed carefully in the oldbedroom, as one might put a new-born baby.

  The Lord of the Manor, when he came to hear the whole pitiful story,would have nothing to do with the wretched doubloons; the curse of bloodwas upon them, he said, and worse than that; so the Treasury, which hasno sentiments and no conscience, came in at the end for what littlethere was of John Cann's unholy treasure.

  VIII.

  In the County Pauper Lunatic Asylum for Devon there was one quietimpassive patient, who was always pointed out to horror-loving visitors,because he had once been a gentleman, and had a strange romance hangingto him still, even in that dreary refuge of the destitute insane. Thelady whom he had loved and robbed--all for her own good--had followedhim down from London to Devonshire; and she and her aunt kept a smallschool, after some struggling fashion, in the town close by, where manykind-hearted squires of the neighbourhood sent their little girls, whilethey were still very little, for the sake of charity, and for pity ofthe sad, sad story. One day a week there was a whole holiday--Wednesdayit was--for that was visiting day at the County Asylum; and then EthelSutherland, dres
sed in deep mourning, walked round with her aunt to thegloomy gateway at ten o'clock, and sat as long as she was allowed withthe faded image of Cecil Mitford, holding his listless hand clasped hardin her pale white fingers, and looking with sad eager anxious eyes forany gleam of passing recognition in his. Alas, the gleam never came(perhaps it was better so), Cecil Mitford looked always straight beforehim at the blank whitewashed walls, and saw nothing, heard nothing,thought of nothing, from week's end to week's end.

  Ethel had forgiven him all; what will not a loving woman forgive? Nay,more, had found excuses and palliations for him, which quite glossedover his crime and his folly. He must have been losing his reason longbefore he ever went to Jamaica, she said; for in his right mind he wouldnever have tried to deceive her or himself in the way he had done. Didhe not fancy he was sent out by the Colonial Office, when he had reallygone without leave or mission? And did he not persuade her to give upher money to him for investment, and after all never invest it? Whatgreater proofs of insanity could you have than those? And then thatdreadful fever at Spanish Town, and the shock of losing his kindentertainer, worn out with nursing him, had quite completed the downfallof his reason. So Ethel Sutherland, in her pure beautiful woman's soul,went on believing, as steadfastly as ever, in the faith and the goodnessof that Cecil Mitford that had never been. _His_ ideal had faded outbefore the first touch of disillusioning fact; _hers_ persisted still,in spite of all the rudest assaults that the plainest facts could makeupon it. Thank heaven for that wonderful idealising power of a goodwoman, which enables her to walk unsullied through this sordid world,unknowing and unseeing.

  At last one night, one terrible windy night in December, EthelSutherland was wakened from her sleep in the quiet little school-houseby a fearful glare falling fiercely upon her bedroom window. She jumpedup hastily and rushed to the little casement to look out towards theplace whence the glare came. One thought alone rose instinctively in herwhite little mind--Could it be at Cecil's Asylum? Oh, horror, yes; thewhole building was in flames, and if Cecil were taken--even poor madimbecile Cecil--what, what on earth would then be left her?

  Huddling on a few things hastily, anyhow, Ethel rushed out wildly intothe street, and ran with incredible speed where all the crowd of thetown was running together, towards the blazing Asylum. The mob knew herat once, and recognized her sad claim; they made a little lane down thesurging mass for her to pass through, till she stood beside the veryfiremen at the base of the gateway. It was an awful sight--poor madwretches raving and imploring at the windows, while the firemen pliedtheir hose and brought their escapes to bear as best they were able onone menaced tier after another. But Ethel saw or heard nothing, save inone third floor window of the right wing, where Cecil Mitford stood, nolonger speechless and imbecile, but calling loudly for help, andflinging his eager arms wildly about him. The shock had brought him backhis reason, for the moment at least: oh, thank God, thank God, he sawher, he saw her!

  With a sudden wild cry Ethel burst from the firemen who tried to holdher back, leaped into the burning building and tore up the blazingstairs, blinded and scorched, but by some miracle not quite suffocated,till she reached the stone landing on the third story. Turning along thewell-known corridor, now filled with black wreaths of stifling smoke,she reached at last Cecil's ward, and flung herself madly, wildly intohis circling arms. For a moment they both forgot the awful death thatgirt them round on every side, and Cecil, rising one second superior tohimself, cried only "Ethel, Ethel, Ethel, I love you; forgive me!" Ethelpressed his hand in hers gently, and answered in an agony of joy, "Thereis nothing to forgive, Cecil; I can die happy now, now that I have oncemore heard you say you love me, you love me."

  Hand in hand they turned back towards the blazing staircase, and reachedthe window at the end where the firemen were now bringing theirescape-ladder to bear on the third story. The men below beckoned them tocome near and climb out on to the ladder, but just at that momentsomething behind seemed incomprehensibly to fascinate and delay Cecil,so that he would not move a step nearer, though Ethel led him on withall her might. She looked back to see what could be the reason, andbeheld the floor behind them rent by the flames, and a great gapspreading downward to the treasurer's room. On the tiled floor a fewdozen pence and shillings and other coins lay, white with heat, amongthe glowing rubbish; and the whole mass, glittering like gold in thefierce glare, seemed some fiery cave filled to the brim with fabulouswealth. Cecil's eye was riveted upon the yawning gap, and the corners ofhis mouth twitched horribly as he gazed with intense interest upon thered cinders and white hot coin beneath him. Instinctively Ethel felt atonce that all was lost, and that the old mania was once more upon him.Clasping her arm tight round his waist, while the firemen below shoutedto her to leave him and come down as she valued her life, she made onedesperate effort to drag him by main force to the head of the ladder.But Cecil, strong man that he was, threw her weak little arm impetuouslyaway, as he might have thrown a two-year-old baby's, and cried to her ina voice trembling with excitement, "See, see, Ethel, at last, at last;there it is, there it is in good earnest. JOHN CANN'S TREASURE!"

  Ethel seized his arm imploringly once more. "This way, darling," shecried, in a voice choked by sobs and half stifled with the smoke. "Thisway to the ladder."

  But Cecil broke from her fiercely, with a wild light in his big blueeyes, and shouting aloud, "The treasure, the treasure!" leaped withawful energy into the very centre of the seething fiery abyss. Ethelfell, fainting with terror and choked by the flames, on to the burningfloor of the third story. The firemen, watching from below, declarednext day that that crazy madman must have died stifled before he touchedthe heap of white hot ruins in the central shell, and the poor lady wasinsensible or dead with asphyxia full ten minutes before the flamesswept past the spot where her lifeless body was lying immovable.