CHAPTER X.

THE HOUSE BY THE SEA.

“The chill is in my bones.”

Calm water and the stoppage of the engines roused Andria from her first sleep after a wakeful night. It was daylight, and the sun was shining. She was on deck as soon as she could dress, but her very hurry made her take a long time.

The yacht lay in a small, almost landlocked, bay; the water was exquisitely blue, shoaling to green where it lapped on a white beach. A keen, heavy scent of wild orange-blossoms came from the high shores that looked an impenetrable tangle of thick woods; and behind, dark against the rose and gold of the morning sky, rose a high mountain, that cast a long, threatening shadow over the smaller slopes that ran to its feet.

Utterly puzzled, Andria stood staring, scarcely even noticing the warmth of the scented air. She turned as Beryl Corselas came to her side, pale and half-awake.

“Is this Bermuda?” she said pettishly. “Thank goodness, for I hate the sea! But I don’t see the house.”

“What house?” asked Andria sharply.

“Mr. Egerton’s, where you and I are to spend the winter with him. Didn’t you know?”

Andria was speechless, for the place looked a desert island.

“Look, there he is now!” she said, with surprise. “He must have been on shore.” Beryl pointed to one of the yacht’s boats that was pulling off to them from the white beach. It was certainly Egerton who sat in the stern.

“Beryl,” Andria said sharply, “I hate teaching you to be deceitful, but mind you don’t let him know you’ve ever heard of me before. I don’t know why, but I don’t trust him!”

“Neither do I. Yet but for him I might be back with Mother Felicitas.”

“I know, and I’d be starving. I was very poor when he found me. But I’ll tell you all that later on.”

“Not all,” she thought, as she moved from the girl as Egerton reached the yacht; “just enough. I wonder if I should have told her this isn’t Bermuda! I don’t see what good it would have done. Whatever it is, we can’t get away from it or him. There’s something queer, and Beryl’s the key to it. But I can’t do anything till I find out a little more. I wonder”--looking at the pale, indifferent face of her charge--“if she knows more than she pretends. All this may be clear as daylight to her, for all I know.”

For sullen reserve was written on the handsome, obstinate face, and Beryl had always been odd enough.

“So,” said Egerton lightly, as he joined the governess, “you have been making friends with your pupil. She is a queer mortal.”

Andria, looking at him, could hardly repress a start. She saw now what had been familiar to her in this man’s face. He was as like Beryl Corselas as middle age can be like youth, except about the mouth. Where the girl’s was sullen and timid, his was clear-cut, decisive. But the difference in the eyes was only in color; his were all but black; hers uncanny, tawny gold, like old wine; the shape of the eye-socket was exactly similar in both faces.

A queer compunction came over Andria. Perhaps the man was Beryl’s father! That would explain almost everything--except that senseless lie about Bermuda.

“We have made friends, yes,” she said slowly. “Miss Corselas tells me we are to stay here?”

He nodded, and watched her as she looked all round the tree-covered hills, where no houses were to be seen.

“You don’t see anywhere to live? My house is up there, a short distance from the shore,” said Egerton, pointing directly in front of him. “I have just been there to see that the servants were prepared; we are going on shore to breakfast. Please don’t turn pale, we will have some coffee before we go.”

As in a dream, Andria Holbeach--who had so short a time since been Andria Erle in a very different place, but with no better right--found herself being put on shore like cargo. There seemed no need for such haste, and she saw with wonder how quickly the sailors were getting out of the boats not only her own and Beryl’s boxes, but packing-cases of stores. But she had little time to watch them. The instant Mr. Egerton set foot on the firm, white sand, he led the way up a narrow path that could not be seen from the yacht.

“After me, please, Miss Holbeach,” he said, with a total change of manner. “And look out for the llanos.”

What llanos were she did not know, but she soon saw. Great ropes of some vine were thick across the neglected path, a very trap for unwary feet. Sharp edges of uneven rock cut her boots as she hurried after Egerton. The man, for his age, was getting over the ground marvelously.

High on each side of the path were wild orange-trees, pinky-white with blossoms and headily sweet. Scarlet hibiscus flaunted great flowers the size of her two hands; lilies sprang everywhere on the lower ground; pink and white heaths showered her with their tiny petals as she brushed past thickets of them.

“I can’t walk so fast,” said Beryl from behind her. “Tell him to wait.”

Egerton looked round.

“It is not a good place to loiter in, this low ground,” he observed; “the scents are heady in the early morning.”

Andria, to her surprise, saw that his hurry was not put on; he was glancing round him with real apprehension. And what could there be to fear in a paradise of flowers like this?

“Do you mean there is fever here?” she asked, catching up to him.

“No,” he answered shortly; “merely what I said. The flowers give one headache; the place is overgrown with them.”

It was to a certainty. Blossoms she had never heard of dangled sweet-scented tassels in her face; the soft, warm air was like a greenhouse. But she had no time to look as Egerton hurried on. The path, at times, was but a thread; she had to help Beryl over rocks and through thickets, for her head was still dizzy from the voyage. And all the while the anxiety on their guide’s face was plain; it shook Andria’s nerves in spite of herself.

Suddenly the rough path ended among great rocks, higher than a man’s head. Egerton led the way through them, and they emerged suddenly on an open space of coarse turf, with great trees scattered over it. Hot and breathless as she was, Andria saw that the apprehension was gone from Egerton’s face; whatever their danger had been, it was past.

“There is the house,” he said; and as they went slowly across the dewy grass an exclamation broke from her.

She had expected a low wooden bungalow. The house that they came on from behind a screen of trees was fit for a palace.

High and white it stood in the morning sun, built of creamy stone; all porticos and shady verandas. Green jalousies shaded the balconies, and behind the great pile the ground sloped upward, so that it stood against a background of flowering trees.

Yet something in the look of the place filled Andria with terror. She, who feared nothing since she had nothing left to dread, felt her blood turn cold. The house looked evil; evil and wickedness lurked in it as in a nightmare; the orange and scarlet creepers that decked the lower verandas flaunted like sins in the morning sun.

As she went up the broad, white steps and crossed the threshold into the hall, a shudder of unutterable fear took her. And yet there was nothing but luxury in the room she entered. She looked at Beryl. There was only weariness in the girl’s face as she sat down in the first chair she came to and looked listlessly about her.

An empty vestibule had led into a large room, lined, floored, and ceiled with polished wood. Gorgeous rugs, gorgeous silk cushions covered the plainness of the wickerwork furniture; tastelessly arranged flowers were everywhere, and even a piano stood against the wall.

Egerton, his face as calm and matter-of-fact as if he had never hurried them up that narrow path like a man in dread, pulled an old-fashioned bell-rope; a colored woman in spotless white stood in the doorway before the sound of the bell had ceased.

“Breakfast waiting, sir,” she said, gazing at the two strange ladies curiously.

He nodded.

“Here is your new mistress, Salome,” he said, turning to Andria. “Mind you take care of her and this young lady.”

“For de Lawd’s sake, sir,” said Salome, “dat’s certain. Don’t I always----”

Andria, behind Egerton’s back, knew that his eye had cut the woman short.