Cursed be the treasureDrake, H. B. (Henry Burgess)
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Cursed be the treasure
Drake, H. B. (Henry Burgess)
Adventure stories; England -- Fiction; Love stories; Mystery fiction; Treasure troves -- Fiction
For a while I lay low watching and listening, hoping that chance would
send Jenny my way. I was sentimental enough to wonder whether she would
instinctively divine my presence. I half expected her to come creeping
to me with my name on her lips. But either fate was very perverse or
Jenny's instinct very dull; for she didn't come. So it was for me to go
to her.
I ran across the bare space which divided me from the ruins, and was
soon in among shelter again, climbing and threading my way through
the tumble-down stonework to the main part of the building. I entered
through the archway at the top of the main stairs, for I found the
boarding loose as though some one had been there before me. But perhaps
it had never been properly replaced since it had been opened for
Worthing. I couldn't remember. I didn't stay to question the matter.
I was so near now to my goal that all my mind was concentrated on the
coming meeting. Jenny would be there, a room or two away, or perhaps
just downstairs at her supper. I listened, but couldn't hear a sound.
I decided I would break in upon her assuming her to be in her room. If
she were downstairs after all I would hide and wait for her.
I crept across the landing to her room and laid my hand on the
door-knob. It creaked, and I thought I heard a movement within. I
listened, but all was still again. But I dared not enter at once,
for the thought of what awaited me on the other side made my heart
leap stupidly. I could almost see Jenny standing there with wide eyes
waiting for the door to open. I was obliged to stand still to recover
my composure, for my brain seemed to reel and I felt half choked with
excitement, deafened by the beating of my heart. Why the meeting with
Jenny should throw me into such an unnerved trembling, I didn't know;
for I wasn't old enough to analyse my emotions. But there I stood,
fluttering like a rag, with all the strength ebbed out of my muscles,
and knowing full well that if I tried to speak I should merely stammer
like a booby. Also I was painfully aware of my disreputable clothes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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