With bitterness, as I pursued my way to camp, I realized that I was
not a heroine. Here was a mystery--it was the business of a
heroine to solve it. Now that I was safely away from the cave, I
began to feel the itch of a torturing curiosity. How, without
going into the terrifying place alone, should I find out what was
there? Should I pretend to have accidentally discovered the grave,
lead the party to it, and then--again accidentally--discover the
tunnel? This plan had its merits--but I discarded it, for fear
that something would be found in the cave to direct attention to
the _Island Queen_. Then I reflected that very likely the
explorers would work round the island far enough to find the
sea-mouth of the cave. This would take matters entirely out of my
hands. I should perhaps be enlightened as to the fate of Peter and
the last remaining bags of doubloons, but might also have to share
the secret of the derelict with the rest. And then all my dreams
of playing fairy godmother and showering down on certain
heads--like coals of fire--torrents of beautiful golden doubloons,
would be over.
On the whole I could not tell whether I burned with impatience to
have the cave discovered, or was cold with the fear of it.
And then, so vigorous is the instinct to see one's self in heroic
postures, I found I was trying to cheat myself with the pretense
that I meant presently to abstract Aunt Jane's electric torch and
returning to the tunnel-mouth plunge in dauntlessly.
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