Sir Christopher: A Romance of a Maryland Manor in 1644
by Maud Wilder Goodwin · English · Gutenberg #48294 · 508,114 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Sir Christopher: A Romance of a Maryland Manor in 1644
Author: Maud Wilder Goodwin
Illustrator: Howard Pyle
Release date: February 17, 2015 [eBook #48294]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR CHRISTOPHER: A ROMANCE OF A MARYLAND MANOR IN 1644 ***
Transcriber's Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=)
The web browser version of this book contains links to Midi, PDF,
and MusicXML files for the music scores on pages 94 and 319-320.
Additional Transcriber's Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
Sir Christopher
[Illustration]
Sir Christopher
_A Romance of a Maryland
Manor in 1644_
BY
MAUD WILDER GOODWIN
Author of "The Head of a Hundred," "White Aprons,"
"The Colonial Cavalier," etc.
_Illustrated by_
HOWARD PYLE, AND OTHER ARTISTS
[Illustration]
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1901
_Copyright, 1901_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Entered at Stationers' Hall
UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON
AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
TO
BLANCHE WILDER BELLAMY
AND
FREDERICK PUTNAM BELLAMY
Preface
On a bluff of the Maryland coast stand a church, a school, a huddle of
gravestones, and an obelisk raised to the memory of Leonard Calvert.
These alone mark the site of St. Mary's, once the capital of the
Palatinate.
It is near this little town, about the middle of the seventeenth
century, that my story begins, among the feuds then raging between
Catholic and Protestant, Cavalier and Roundhead, Marylander and
Virginian. The Virginians of that day were but a generation removed
from the pioneers who suffered in the massacre of 1622; and the sons
and daughters of those early settlers whose lives were traced in "The
Head of a Hundred"[A] appear in the present romance.
The adventures of Romney Huntoon, of the Brents, and, most of all, of
Christopher Neville and Elinor Calvert, furnish the material of my
story; but I venture to hope that the reader will feel beneath the
incidents and adventures that throbbing of the human heart which has
chiefly interested me.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Published 1895.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ROBIN HOOD'S BARN 1
II. ST. GABRIEL'S AND ST. INIGO'S 16
III. BLESSING AND BANNING 34
IV. THE LORD OF THE MANOR 49
V. PEGGY 72
VI. THE KING'S ARMS 90
VII. IN GOOD GREEN WOOD 108
VIII. A CLUE 130
IX. A REQUIEM MASS 144
X. THE ORDEAL BY TOUCH 159
XI. THE GREATER LOVE 172
XII. HOW LOVERS ARE CONVINCED 180
XIII. A CHANGE OF VENUE 196
XIV. IN WHICH FATE TAKES THE HELM 215
XV. DIGITUS DEI 223
XVI. LIFE OR DEATH 240
XVII. ROMNEY 256
XVIII. THE EMERALD TAG 274
XIX. THE ROLLING YEAR 292
XX. A BIRTHNIGHT BALL 309
XXI. A ROOTED SORROW 334
XXII. CANDLEMAS EVE 354
XXIII. "HEY FOR ST. MARY'S, AND WIVES FOR US
ALL!" 370
XXIV. THE CALVERT MOTTO 392
Illustrations
"'Let me go to him!' she shrieked, in her anguish
of soul" _Frontispiece_
_From a drawing by Howard Pyle_
"Stretch out thy rod, Cecil" _Page_ 58
_From a drawing by James E. McBurney_
"You are quite a courtier, Master Huntoon" " 116
_From a drawing by S. M. Palmer_
"This is love indeed" " 194
_From a drawing by S. M. Arthurs_
"He sang to the music of his lute, and she to the
accompaniment of her whirring wheel" " 301
_From a drawing by S. M. Palmer_
"As it is, I am satisfied. Go!" " 390
_From a drawing by James E. McBurney_
SIR CHRISTOPHER
CHAPTER I
ROBIN HOOD'S BARN
Through the January twilight a sail-boat steered its course by the
light of a fire which blazed high in the throat of the chimney at St.
Gabriel's Manor. Within the hall, circled by the light from the fire, a
Danish hound stretched its lazy length on the floor, and, pillowing his
head against the dog's body, lay a boy eight or nine years old.
He was a plain laddie, with a freckled nose, a wide mouth, and round
apple cheeks over which flaxen curls tumbled in confusion. His big
eyes, the redeeming feature of the face, were just now fixed upon the
shadows cast by the motion of his joined hands on the wall. At length
the lips parted over a row of baby teeth with a gap in the centre,
through which the little tongue showed blood-red, as the boy laughed
long and loud.
"Thee, Knut!" he lisped, with that occasional slip of the letter s
which was a lingering trick of babyhood and cost him much shame, "is
not that broad-shouldered shadow like Couthin Giles? And the tall
one,--why, 'tis the very image of Father Mohl! And the short one ith
Couthin Mary. Look how she bows as she goes before the father! And what
a fine cowl I have made of my kerchief!"
Unconscious of observation as the boy was, he was being closely watched
from two directions. In the shadow of the settle by the fire sat a
tonsured priest, holding before him a breviary over the top of which
he was contemplating the boy on the floor; opposite the priest, on the
landing of the stairs, a woman leaned on the balustrade, following
with absorbed interest every movement of the chubby hands, and every
expression of the childish face, which bore a burlesqued resemblance
to her own. After a moment the woman gathered her skirts closer about
her and stealing down the winding stair, crept up behind the boy and
clasped both hands playfully over his eyes.
"Who is it?" she asked gaily.
"Mother!" cried the child, wrenching himself free only to jump up and
throw himself into the arms outstretched to receive him. "Didst fancy
I was like to mithtake thy hands?" he asked. "No, faith! Father Mohl's
hands are long and cold, and Couthin Mary's fingers are stiff and hard,
no more like to thine than a potato to a puff-ball."
"Hush, Cecil! Hush, little ingrate!" whispered the mother, clapping
her hands this time over his lips. "I would not thy Cousin Mary heard
that speech for a silver crown." Nevertheless, she smiled.
Elinor Calvert, as she stood there with one hand on her son's shoulder
and the other bending back his face, looked like some sunshiny goddess.
Her dress well became her height. She wore a long petticoat of figured
damask, beneath a robe of green stuff. Her bodice, long and pointed,
fitted the figure closely, and the flowing sleeves of green silk fell
back from round white arms. Around her neck was a string of pearls,
bearing a heart-shaped miniature set also in pearls, and held to the
left side of her bodice by a brooch of diamonds. Her figure was tall,
and crowned by a head nobly proportioned and upheld by a white pillar
of throat. Her features were heavily moulded, especially the lips and
chin. The golden hair which swept her brow softened its marked width,
yet the impression conveyed by the face might have been cold had it not
been for the softness of the eyes under their fringe of dark lashes.
In spite of the flashes of gaiety which marked her intercourse with
her son, the prevailing expression of Mistress Calvert's face was sad.
Rumor said that there was enough to account for this in the story
of her brief married life in England, for Churchill Calvert was a
spendthrift and a gambler, who died leaving his widow with her little
son a year old, and no other support than the income of a slender dowry.
In those dark days of her early widowhood Elinor received a letter from
her husband's kinsman, Lord Baltimore.
"I know your pride too well," he wrote, "to offer you any help; but
you must not deny my right to provide for my godson. Money with me is
scarce, but land is plenty, and I offer you in Cecil's name a grant of
seven thousand acres in Maryland. It is covered with virgin forest.
Like the old outlaw you must needs store your grain in caves and stable
your horses and cattle under the trees; wherefore I shall counsel Cecil
to name his manor _Robin Hood's Barn_. Should you be willing to remove
thither, make up your mind speedily, for at the sailing of a ship now
in harbor, our cousins the Brents start for the new world, and would
rejoice to have you and Cecil in their keeping."
Baltimore was right in foreseeing the struggle in Elinor's mind between
pride and love for her child; but he was also right in predicting that
love would triumph, and Elinor thanked him and Heaven daily for this
asylum, where her boy could grow up safe from the temptations of London
which had wrecked his father's life.
As she bent over Cecil to-night, her heart was full of contending
emotions. She and her boy were safely sheltered under the roof of
her dear cousin, Mary Brent, Cecil would soon be old enough to take
possession of the manor at Cecil Point, the future was apparently
bright with promise; yet she was conscious of some unsatisfied hunger
of the heart, and, deeper than that, of a sense of some impending
grief; but she was a woman of shaken nerves easily sunk in melancholy.
"Hark!" cried Cecil, suddenly pulling himself away from his mother's
arms,--"I hear the sound of footsteps outside." At the same moment Mary
Brent came slipping down the stairs.
"Elinor," she said with a little nervousness, "Giles was expecting a
friend to-night."
"Ah?" said Elinor, indifferently.
"Yes; 'tis a pity he was called to St. Mary's in such haste, for the
friend comes on business."
"Perchance he may tarry till Giles returns."
"I hope so,--but, Elinor,--this business concerns thee."
"_Me!_"
"Ay, the new-comer is one who would fain have a lease of the manor at
Cecil Point."
"Robin Hood's Barn? Now, Mary, have I not told thee and Giles that
I would hear of no such plan? I am a woman of affairs and can well
manage till Cecil is old enough to take control. Another six months we
shall rest under your roof,--then, dear cousin, we must be gone to our
own."
Mary Brent laid her hand upon the younger woman's arm.
"Vex me not, Elinor," she said, "by speaking so. Let it be settled that
this is your home. 'Tis not kind to talk of leaving me. Besides, you
could not live upon your lands without an arm to protect you, stout
enough for defence and for toil."
"We will hire laborers."
"Common laborers are not enough. There must be a man with head to
direct as well as hands to work."
Cecil, who had stood by an eager listener, suddenly stripped up the
sleeve of his jerkin and bared his arm.
"Feel that!" he cried, doubling his elbow till the muscle stood out.
Mary Brent laughed as she laid her hand upon it.
"Truly, 'tis a pretty muscle. Yet will it be better for a few more
years of growth. Say, Elinor, wilt thou take this man for thy tenant?
Giles has left the lease already drawn for thee, as Cecil's guardian,
to sign when thou hast settled terms with the man. Giles says he is as
fine a fellow as hath yet set foot in Maryland. He is a gentleman,
moreover, and hath a title, having been knighted for gallant service in
that ill-fated Cadiz expedition some years since."
"Who is the man?"
"Neville is his name, Sir Christopher Neville."
"Christopher Neville!" repeated Elinor, slowly, but the shuffling
of snow-covered feet upon the stepping-stones outside put an end to
further speech. Knut began to bark.
"Give over barking, thou naughty dog! Hie away to the kitchen and make
way for thy betters!" said Mary Brent, making a feint at taking down
a stick from over the fireplace. The dog continued barking, and Cecil
began to laugh.
"Hush, Cecil," said his mother; "where are thy manners? Make haste to
open the door!"
Cecil ran to the door and flinging it wide let in a great gust of wind.
The light from within fell upon a man wrapped in a heavy cloak and
wearing a broad-brimmed cavalier hat with plumes at the side.
"Come in, good thir!" cried Cecil, "before you are frozen stiff;"
and he led the way to the fire, before which Mary Brent stood with
outstretched hand of welcome.
"My brother Giles is called to St. Mary's; but he left a welcome for
you, and bade us keep you without fail till his return."
The new-comer bowed low above Mistress Brent's hand. He was a
tall, plain man, approaching middle age, with keen eyes, and dents
in his face as if Time had nicked it with his sickle. Around his
firm-set mouth, hovered a smile that had summered and wintered many
disappointments.
"Elinor, let me make Sir Christopher Neville known to thee! My cousin,
Elinor Calvert, Sir Christopher, the mistress of Cecil Point."
With this, Elinor, who had stood still as a statue, moved slowly
forward and held out her hand. Neville kissed it.
The priest who had sat in the shadow of the settle, a silent observer
of the scene before him, rose, now that all eyes were turned toward the
stranger, and glided quietly out at the further doorway, murmuring,
"_Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium de manibus meis ad laudem et gloriam
nominis sui!_"
"Come, Cecil!" said Mary Brent. "Let us make ready the hot posset.
I have the ale on the fire a-heating and the milk and sugar and
spices ready, and with a sippet of bread 'tis wonderful sustaining.
Sir Christopher, you will find its sting comforting after your long
journey."
As she drew the child after her she whispered to Elinor, "To business,
Cousin! Tell him he may have the manor for the clearing of the land and
half the harvest!"
The door closed behind her. Elinor Calvert and Christopher Neville
stood looking at each other across the width of the fireplace. A long
silence followed, broken at last by Elinor's impulsive speech.
"Why art thou come hither?"
"Maryland is free to all."
"Why dost thou seek to become my tenant?"
"I have a fancy for the land at Cecil Point."
"Thy answers ring false. Tell me the real reason in a word."
"As well in one word as in a thousand, since the word is _Thou_."
The flush mounted to Elinor Calvert's brow and she stood playing with
the tassels of her girdle, finding nothing to say in answer.
"Yes," Neville went on, "for thy sake I am come hither out of England.
For thy sake I came this night that I might have speech of thee. For
this reason I would fain be thy tenant, that I might add one strong arm
for thy defence in the dangers which threaten."
"Thou art a friend indeed."
"Ay, a true friend, since thou wilt have me for naught beyond. It is
ten years since I asked thee wouldst thou have me for a husband, and
thou didst deny me, and wed Calvert. For four years I strove as an
honest man should to put thee out of my mind. I was fain to believe I
had succeeded, when the news of thy freedom reached me; then the old
love I had counted dead rose up stronger than ever, rose up out of the
grave where I had laid it as in a trance, rose up and bade me never
again cheat myself into the belief that I and it could be put asunder."
The man paused for breath, so shaken was he by the force of his passion.
Elinor Calvert looked at him in terror, unable to break by word or
movement the spell under which he held her. He made a stride closer,
and grasped her hand.
"What stands between us?" he asked, holding her eyes with his, those
penetrating eyes that had the power to pierce all disguises, to rend
all shams to tatters, "Norse een like grey goshawks." Most eyes only
look--Neville's _saw_. The woman before him felt evasions impossible,
subterfuges of no avail.
"Your faith," she answered.
"You cared a little for me, then, in the old days?"
"I did," she answered, like one in a trance bending to the will of
the questioner. As she spoke she unconsciously laid her hand upon the
diamond crescent at her breast.
His eyes followed her motion and he colored high, for he saw that it
was the brooch he had sent her at her marriage. She saw that he saw,
and she too blushed, a painful blush that stained her face crimson and
ran up to lose itself in the shadow of her hair.
"I know who have stood in the way of thy loving me; but let them no
longer come between thee and me, or their tonsured heads shall answer
for it to my sword."
Elinor frowned, and Neville saw that he was endangering his cause.
"Forgive my impetuous speech!" said he. "Forget that the words were
spoken."
"I cannot."
If Elinor had told the whole truth she would have added, "I do not wish
to."
"Then at least put them aside and deal with me in cold business terms
as though we were the strangers thy cousins believe us to be. Wilt thou
have me for thy tenant on shares--three quarters of the harvest to go
to thee and one quarter to me?"
"Tenant of mine thou shalt never be. I could not be so unfair, to let
thee give thy life for me and get nothing in return!"
"To let me do the thing I have set my heart on and get in return a
sight of thee once in the year. That is to make one three-hundred-and
sixty-fifth of every year blessed."
"My tenant," said Elinor, slowly, "thou canst not be."
Neville bent his head.
"But--"
"Blessed be but--! But what?"
"But--perhaps--Cecil's."
"Ay, that is better!" said Neville, smiling a little; "that will be
best, for then there will be no favor on either side, and as the lad
grows older he and I can deal together as man to man."
"Oh, it is such a relief to my mind!" sighed Elinor.
"And to mine," quoth Neville.
"It is not the same thing as being my tenant?"
"Not at all--quite different. And thou wilt come with Cecil to see how
the land fares from time to time?"
"Why, that were but business."
"Truly to do aught else were treason to thy son's interest, and by and
by when the house is built and the title of Robin Hood's Barn suits the
manor no more, thou and he will come to visit me there?"
"That could not be--"
"No, I feared that was asking too much," Neville said humbly, "but at
least thou wilt let me have the boy?"
"How good thou art!"
"_Good!_--I to thee? Shall I tell thee whose picture dwells in my soul
by day and night, Elinor?" There was a curious vibration in Neville's
voice, as if memory were pulling out the stops of an organ.
"Ay, tell me," said Elinor, tremulously, in a voice scarce above a
whisper.
"'Tis that of a girl in a robe of green like the one thou wearest this
night--ay, and floating sleeves like thine, whereby she caught the name
she bears in my heart."
A softness stole into Elinor's eyes and the flush of girlhood rose to
her cheek.
"Ah," Neville went on. "Dost thou remember that day in the Somerset
wood, and how I gave thee the name of Lady Greensleeves, and how I sang
thee the dear old ballad, thou sitting on the stone wall and I leaning
against the great chestnut-tree?"
"Nay, 'twas not a chestnut--'twas an oak, for I do recall the acorns
that lay about thy feet as I listened with my eyes cast down."
"And I stood looking at thy lashes, scarce knowing whether I would have
them lift or not, as they lay against the rose of thy cheek."
"How long ago it all was!" sighed Elinor.
"Yet when thou dost speak and look like that it seems but yesterday.
Oh, my dearest--"
Neville, carried beyond his prudence, drew nearer and was about to fall
upon his knees before her, when he saw the door open to admit Mistress
Brent, followed by a servant bearing a steaming bowl of posset.
How much of his speech had been overheard, he knew not. Manlike he
found it hard to steer his bark in an instant from deep waters into the
shallows of conversation; but Elinor took the helm and dashed into the
safe channel.
"Mary, thou art come in good time to help me to argue terms with a too
generous tenant."
Mary Brent came forward smiling, but a little bewildered.
Elinor took the goblets from the tray and filled them with the posset.
"Drink!" she cried gaily. "Drink both of you to the prosperity of Cecil
Manor, and I will drink a health to Cecil's tenant, Sir Christopher
Neville."
With this, she swept a deep courtesy, and rising, clinked her goblet
against Neville's.
At the same moment Cecil burst upon them from the stairs, his golden
curls topped by Master Neville's brown cavalier hat, and the heavy
cloak sweeping the floor after him as he walked.
"Good evening, madam!" he cried, sweeping off his hat before Mary Brent
with a droll imitation of Neville's manner.
"Small boys," said Elinor, "wax bold as bed hour draws near. Ask pardon
of Sir Christopher and be off to thy bed."
"Thou wilt come with me?"
"Not to-night, sweetheart; we have a guest--"
"Guest or no guest, I go not without thee," cried the child. "'Tis the
first time since our coming thou didst ever deny me. I should lie awake
and see bogies an thou didst not tuck in the counterpane about me with
thine own hands."
"I pray thee," said Neville, under his breath, "grant the boy his wish.
Let not his acquaintance and mine begin with misliking."
At this, Cecil, who till now had hung back and glowered at the stranger
from behind his mother's skirts, came forward with the grace of the
Calvert line, and stretching out his hand frankly to Neville, said: "I
thank you, thir; I am glad you are come to stay with us." As his mother
led him away to bed he turned on the landing and kissed his hand to the
new-comer. Then, with a sudden relapse into the barbarism of childhood,
he dropped on hands and knees and climbed the remaining stairs in that
fashion--growling like a wolf as he went. Ten minutes later the group
in the hall heard him chanting an evening hymn, and his voice had the
high, unearthly sweetness, the clear, angelic note of those who stand
before the Throne.
CHAPTER II
ST. GABRIEL'S AND ST. INIGO'S
When Elinor returned from Cecil's bedside, Neville detected traces of
weeping in the flush of her cheek and the heaviness of her eyelids; but
her manner was gracious and marked by a gaiety which would have led one
who did not know her well to believe that she was as light-hearted as
the boy upstairs.
The candles on the supper-table shone on a strangely assorted group.
At the head of the board sat Mistress Brent. She was a demure little
lady, like a sleek white cat, full of domestic impulses, clinging to
her hearthstone and purring away life, content to rub against the feet
of those whom she counted her superiors. Her placid face beamed with
joy at the thought that her roof was found worthy to shelter the holy
Fathers from St. Inigo's. Yet, even as she rejoiced, she remembered
with some misgivings a conversation she had held with her brother Giles
before his setting out. "Mary," he had said, "it is rumored throughout
the province that thy house is headquarters for the Jesuits."
"Brother," she had answered, "my house is open to all who seek its
shelter, and shall I shut its doors to the priests of our Holy Church?"
"There is no arguing with women," her brother had said, with a testy
shrug of his shoulders. "Thou must needs turn every question of policy
into an affair of pious sentiment. Baltimore is as good a Catholic as
thou; but he is first of all an Englishman, and second, the ruler of
this province, wherein he hath promised fair play to men of all creeds;
and he will not have the reins of control wrenched from his hands by
the Jesuits, who hold themselves free of the common law, and answerable
to none but the tribunals of the Church."
"I know naught of questions of policy, Giles, as thou sayst; but while
I have a roof over my head, I will take for the motto of my house the
words of Scripture: 'Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'"
When this motto is posted over the lintel there will never be a lack of
footmarks on the threshold. Many were the guests who came to try the
hospitality of St. Gabriel's Manor, and no visitors were more frequent
than the Jesuits, those brave men who for the sake of their faith had
crossed the sea, braved the perils of the wilderness, and planted a
mission near St. Mary's which they christened St. Inigo's.
On Mary Brent's right hand this evening sat one of these priests,
Father White, whose shrewd eyes shone with love to God and man, whose
heart yearned over the sinner as it bowed before the saint, and whose
life was at the service of the order of Ignatius Loyola. His features
were delicately cut, and the skin of a transparency which recalled the
alabaster columns at San Marco with the light shining through them. So
translucent to the soul behind seemed his fragile frame.
His mulatto servant, Francisco, stood at the back of his chair and
ministered to his wants with loving care.
Opposite Father White sat Christopher Neville, and one at least of the
company found him good to look upon, despite his square jaw and the
sabre-cut over the left eye. But for the particularity of his dress
he might have conveyed the impression of rude strength, but his black
velvet doublet fitted close and gave elegance to the heavily built
figure, and the shirt that broke out above the waist was adorned with
hand-wrought ruffles of an exquisite fineness.
Notwithstanding his plainness, his personality carried conviction.
The whole man made himself felt in the direct glance and the firm
hand-clasp. His words, too, had a stirring quality. People differed,
disputed, denounced; but they always listened. He often roused
antagonism, but seldom irritation. It is not those who oppose, but
those who fail to comprehend, who exasperate, and Neville had above all
the gift of comprehension. Yet with this intellectual perception was
combined a singular imperviousness to social atmosphere. So that in his
presence one had often the feeling of being a piece of china in a bull
pasture; but, in his wildest assault, the slightest droop of the lip,
the faintest appeal for sympathy reduced him to the gentleness of a
lamb.
"I would he were of our communion," thought Father White, studying him.
Near Neville sat a younger priest, the same who had watched Elinor
Calvert and her son from the shadow of the settle. His aspect was more
humble than that of his superior. He bowed lower as he passed the
crucifix rudely fastened to the chimney breast; his eyes were seldomer
raised, and he mumbled more scraps of Latin over his food; but all this
outward show of holiness failed to convince. It was like the smell of
musk which hints of less desirable scents, to be overpowered rather
than cleansed. His narrow gray eyes, cast down as they were, found
opportunity to scrutinize Elinor Calvert closely as she sat by the side
of Neville. Set a man, a priest, and a woman to watch each other--the
priest will catch the man; but the woman will catch the priest.
"Prithee try this wine, Father!" said Mary Brent to the venerable
priest on her right, holding toward him a cup of sparkling red-brown
wine. "'Tis made in our own press from the wild grapes that grow
hereabout, and Giles has christened it 'St. Gabriel's Blessing.'"
"Tempt me not!" said Father White, smiling but pushing the goblet away.
"I have not spent my life studying the _Spiritual Experiences_ of Saint
Ignatius without profiting by that holy man's injunction to regard the
mouth as the portal of the soul. The wine industry is important, but I
fear the effect of drinking on the natives. I have seen a chief take
blasphemous swigs of the consecrated wine at the sacrament, and at a
wedding half the tribe are drunken."
"Prithee, tell me more of these missions among the natives," Elinor
said to Father Mohl, bending the full splendor of her glance upon him;
"are they not fraught with deadly peril?"
"To the body, doubtless."
"'Twould be to the soul too if I were engaged in them, for I have such
hatred of hardship that I should spend my time bewailing the task I had
undertaken."
"Nay, daughter, for ere thou wert called to the trial thou wouldst
have faced the tests that do lead up to it as the _via dolorosa_ to
Calvary. Before we take the final vows we undergo three probations,
the first devoted to the mind, and the last a year of penance and
privation, that we may test our strength and learn to forego all that
hampers our spiritual progress; this is called _the school of the
heart_."
"Would there were such for a woman!"
"There is," said Neville from the other side; "but it is where she
rules instead of being ruled."
Elinor turned and looked at him with that lack of comprehension which
a woman knows how to assume when she understands everything. "He loves
her," thought the priest; "but she only loves his love."
Yet, knowing how many matches have been brought about by this state of
things, Father Mohl set himself to study Neville. He found him reserved
in general, with the suavity and self-command of a man of the world,
but outspoken under irritation.
"We must make him angry," thought the priest.
Seeing that Neville was a Protestant, he began relating the deeds
wrought by priests.
"Do you recall, Father White," he said, "how the natives brought their
chief to die in the mission house, and how Father Copley laid on him a
sacred bone, and how the sick man recovered, and went about praising
God and the fathers?"
"I do remember it well," Father White answered.
"Yes," continued the younger priest, "and I recall how Brother
Fisher found a native woman sick unto death. He instructed her in
the catechism, laid a cross on her breast, and behold, the third day
after, the woman rose entirely cured, and throwing a heavy bag over her
shoulder walked a distance of four leagues."
"Wonderful! wonderful!" murmured Mary Brent.
Neville was irritated, and thought to turn Father Mohl's tales to
ridicule. Whom the gods would destroy they first make droll.
"Did you ever hear of the miracle of the buttered whetstone?" he asked.
"Pray you tell it," said Father Mohl, with his ominous smile.
"Why, there was a friar once in London who did use to go often to the
house of an old woman; but ever when he came she hid all the food in
the house, having heard that friars and chickens never get enough."
If only Neville had looked at Elinor! but he steered as straight for
destruction as any rudderless bark in a storm on a rocky coast.
"This day," he went on, "the friar asked the goodwife had she any meat."
"'Devil a taste!' she said.
"'Well,' quoth the friar, 'have you a whetstone?'
"'Yes.'
"'Marry, I'll eat that.'
"So when she had brought the whetstone, he bade her fetch a frying-pan,
and when he had it, he set it on the fire and laid the whetstone in it.
"'Cock's body!' said the poor wife, 'you'll burn the pan!'
"'No! no!' quoth the friar; 'you shall see a miracle. It shall not
burn at all if you bring me some eggs.'
"So she brought the eggs and he dropped them in the pan.
"'Quick!' cried he, 'some butter and milk, or pan and egg will both
burn.'
"So she ran for the butter, and the friar took salt from the table and
threw it into the pan with butter and eggs and milk, and when all was
done he set the pan on the table, whetstone and all, and calling the
woman, he bade her tell her friends how she had witnessed a miracle,
and how a holy friar had made a good meal of a fried whetstone."
Father Mohl was now angered in his turn. Priests, having surrendered
the love of women, cling with double tenacity to their reverence.
"A merry tale, sir," said he, smoothly, "though better suited to the
ale-house than the lady's table, and more meet for the ears of scoffers
than of believers--Daughter," turning to Mary Brent, "you were amazed a
moment since at the wonders God hath wrought through the hands of His
chosen ones; but the judgments of the Lord are no less marvellous than
His mercies. There was a Calvinist settled at Kent Fort who made sport
over our holy observances."
Elinor Calvert colored and looked from under her eyelids at Neville.
But he went on plying his knife and fork. "If he were angry," she said
to herself, "he would not eat." But in this she mistook the nature of
man, judging it by her own.
"Yes," continued Father Mohl, "although, thanks to our prayers, the
wretch was rescued from drowning on the blessed day of Pentecost,
yet he showed thanks neither to God nor to us. Coming upon a company
offering their vows to the saints, he began impudently to jeer at these
religious men, and flung back ribald jests as he pushed his boat from
shore. The next morning his boat was found overturned in the Bay, and
he was never heard of more."
Neville looked up. "I am glad," he said, "to be able to supply a
happier ending to your story. The man, as it happens, was picked up by
an outward-bound ship, and is alive and well in England to-day."
"You knew the blasphemer, then?"
"I know the man of whom you speak--a fine fellow he is, and the foe of
all liars and hypocrites."
"Ah, I forgot," answered Father Mohl, smoothly, "you are not one of us."
"Not I," cried Neville, hotly; "I have cast in my lot with honest men."
"Say no more," said Mohl, satisfied, "lest thou too blaspheme and die!
_Misereatur tui, Omnipotens Deus!_" Having thus achieved the difficult
task of giving offence and granting forgiveness at the same time,
Father Mohl smiled and leaned back content.
Neville, on his side, was smiling too, thinking, poor fool, that the
victory lay with him; but looking round he saw Elinor raise her wine
cup to her lips, and looking closer he saw two tears rise in her eyes,
swell over the lids, and slip into the wine cup. Instantly he cursed
himself for a stupid brute. "Madam," he said, speaking low in Elinor's
ear, so that she alone could hear him, "thou art wasteful. Cleopatra
cast only one pearl into her wine-cup, and thou hast dropped two."
At the same moment a little white figure appeared in the doorway.
"May I come in for nutth?" asked a small voice.
"Cecil, for shame! Go back to bed this instant!" cried his mother; but
Neville drew a stool between him and Mary Brent, and silently motioned
to Cecil to come and occupy it.
"The child should be taught obedience through discipline," said Father
Mohl, looking with raised eyebrows toward Elinor. Cecil cowered against
the wall; but kept his eyes upon the coveted seat.
Neville crossed glances with the priest as men cross swords. "Or
confidence through love--
"Cecil," he continued, "beg thy mother to heed the petition of a guest
and let thee sit here by me for ten little minutes; I will bid thee eat
nuts,--so shalt thou practise Father Mohl's precepts of obedience."
Elinor smiled, Neville put out his hand, a strong, nervous hand, and
Cecil knew his cause was won.
"Lonely upstairs," he confided to Neville as he helped himself to nuts;
"makes me think of bears."
"Bears come not into houses."
"They say not, but the dark looks like a big black one, big enough to
swallow house and all. I do not like the dark, do you?"
"I did not when I was your age,--that's sure; but I have seen so many
worse things since then--"
"What?"
"Myself, for instance."
"That's silly."
"I think it is."
"Do not say silly things! Mother sends me to bed when I do."
"Is it not silly to fear the dark?"
"Mayhap, but I lie still all of a tremble, and then I seem to hear
a growl at the door, and then blood and flesh cannot stand it and I
scream for Mother. Three or two timeth I scream, and she comes running."
"Wouldst have the bear eat thy mother?"
"Nay, but sure 'nuff he would not. The Dark Bear eateth only little
boys."
"Oh, only little boys?"
"Ay, and he beginneth with their toes. Therefore I dare not kneel alone
to say my Hail Maries. The Dark Bear is not like God, for God careth
only for the heart. Thir Chrithtopher, why doth God care more for the
heart than for the head and legs?"
"Come, Cecil," said Elinor's warning voice, "thou art chattering as
loud as a tree-toad, and the ten minutes are more than passed. Run up
and hide those cold toes of thine under the counterpane!"
"If I go, wilt thou come up after supper to see me?"
"If I can be spared."
"Nay, no _ifs_--ay or no?"
Father Mohl smiled, and his smile was not good to see.
"Is this the flower of that confidence through love which you so much
admire, Sir Christopher?"
"No," answered Neville, "only the thorns on its stem; the blossoms are
not yet out."
"Ay or no?" repeated the child, oblivious of the discussion going on
around him.
"Oh, _ay_, and get thee gone!" cried his mother, thoroughly out of
patience with the child and herself and every one else.
Cecil ran round to her seat, hugged her in a stifling embrace, and then
pattered out of the room and up the stair, reassuring his timid little
heart by saying aloud as he went, "Bearth come not into houtheth!
Bearth come not into houtheth!"
Father Mohl sat with bent head, the enigmatic smile still playing round
his lips. At length, making the sign of the cross, he spoke aside to
Father White,--
"Have I leave to depart?"
"Go--and _pax tibi_!"
The company rose.
"Father, must thou be gone so soon?" Mary Brent asked, with hospitable
entreaty in her tones.
"I must, my daughter."
"This very night?"
"This very night."
"But the road to St. Mary's is dark and rough."
"Ay, but our feet are used to treading rough roads, and the moon will
show the blazed path as clearly as the sun itself."
"Farewell," said Father White. "Bear my greetings to my brothers at St.
Inigo's, and charge them that they cease not from their labors till I
come."
When Father Mohl passed Neville, Sir Christopher, moved by a sudden
compunction, held out his hand. "Hey for St. Mary's!" he exclaimed,
with a note of cordiality which if a trifle forced was at least civil.
Father Mohl ignored the outstretched hand, and with his own grasped the
crucifix at his breast. The sneer in his smile deepened, and one heard
the breath of scorn in his nostrils as he answered, with a meaning
glance at Elinor, "The latter part of the Marylanders' battle-cry were
perchance honester. Why not make it 'Wives for us all'?"
This passed the bounds of patience, and Neville cast overboard that
self-control which is the ballast of the soul. His outstretched hand
clenched itself into a fist.
"Sir!" he cried, very white about the lips, "if you wore a sword
instead of a scapular, we might easily settle our affairs. But since
your garb cries 'Sanctuary!' while your tongue doth cut and thrust
rapier-like, I'll e'en grant you the victory in the war of words.
Good-night, Sir Priest!"
For answer the father only folded his cloak about him and slipped out
of the door as quietly as though he were to re-enter in an hour.
Father White followed Mistress Brent to the hall, from the window of
which she strove to watch the retreating figure of Father Mohl. Neville
thus found himself alone with Elinor Calvert once more. He regarded her
with some anxiety, an anxiety justified by her bearing. The full round
chin was held an inch higher than its wont, the nostrils were dilated
and the eyelids half closed. A wise man would have been careful how
he offered a vent for her scorn; but to her lover it seemed that any
utterance would be better than this contemptuous silence.
"You are very angry--" ventured Neville, timidly.
"I have cause."
"--and ashamed of me."
"I have a right to be."
"Thank Heaven for that!"
"If you thank Heaven for the shame you cause you are like enough to
spend your life on your knees."
"I deprecate your scorn, madam. Yet I cannot take back the saying."
"Make it good, then!"
"Why, so I will. None feel shame save when they feel responsibility.
None feel responsibility for those who are neither kith nor kin save
where they--"
"Where they what?" flashed Elinor, turning her great angry eyes full
upon him.
"Save where they _love_, Mistress Calvert."
It was out now and Neville felt better. Elinor clenched her hands and
began an angry retort, and then all of a sudden broke down, and bending
her head over the back of the high oak chair, stood sobbing silently.
"I pray you be angry," pleaded Neville; "your wrath was hard to bear;
but 'twas naught to this."
"Oh, yes," answered Elinor between her sobs, "it is much you care
either for my anger or your grief, that the first proof you give of
your boasted love is to offend those whom I hold in affection and
reverence."
"'Twas he provoked me to it," answered Neville, sullenly, "with his
tales of my friend yonder, as honest a fellow as walks the earth. Is a
man to sit still and listen in silence to a pack of lies told about his
friend?"
"Say no more!" commanded Elinor. "I see a man is bound to bear all
things for the man to whom he has professed friendship--nothing for the
woman to whom he has professed love."
There was little logic in the argument, but it made its mark, for it
was addressed not to the mind but to the heart.
"Forgive me!" cried Neville--which was by far the best thing he could
have said.
If a woman has anything to forgive, the granting of pardon is a
necessity. If she has nothing to forgive, it is a luxury.
"I do," she murmured.
"Perhaps I was rougher of manner than need was."
"Yet 'twas but nature."
"Yes, but nature must be held in check."
Thus did these inconsistent beings oppose each other, each taking the
ground occupied a few minutes since by the other, and as hot for the
defence as they had been but now for the attack.
Neville seized Elinor's hand and kissed it passionately; then snatching
up his hat and cloak he exclaimed, "I will go after Mohl and make my
peace. Henceforth I swear what is dear to you shall be held at least
beyond reproach by me."
Elinor turned upon him such a glance that he scarcely dared look upon
her lest he be struck blind by the ecstasy of his own soul.
"At last!" he whispered as he passed out into the night.
Was it luck or fate that guided him? Who shall say? Luck is the pebble
on which the traveller trips and slides into quicksands or sands of
gold. Fate is the cliff against which he leans, or dashes himself to
death. Yet the pebble was once part of the cliff.
CHAPTER III
BLESSING AND BANNING
"Mother! Moth-_er_!"
It was Cecil's voice on the landing, and Cecil's white nightgowned
figure hanging over the balustrade.
"Yes, Poppet, what is it?"
"Thou didtht not come upstairs as thou didtht promise when the nuts
were served...."
"Dearest, I could not. I was in talk with Sir Christopher."
"But thou didtht promise, and how oft have I heard thee say, 'A promise
is a promise'?"
Elinor started from her chair to go toward the stair; but Father White
stayed her with uplifted finger.
"Let me deal with him," he said under his breath; "'tis time the lad
learned the difference between the failure which is stuff o' the
conscience, and that which is the fault of circumstances." Then aloud,
"Cecil, wilt thou close thine eyes and come down to me when thou hast
counted a hundred?"
"Ay, that will I."
"Without fail?"
"Why, surely! There is naught I would love better than toathting my
toeth by the great fire."
"Very well, then; shut thine eyes and begin!"
Cecil counted faithfully to the stroke of a hundred, and then springing
to his feet with a shout, started down the stair, but to his surprise
the priest was nowhere to be seen. Cecil searched behind the settle and
under the table as if one could fancy Father White's stately figure in
such undignified hiding-place! At length the child gave up the search
and called aloud,--
"Where art thou?"
"Here, in this little room," answered a muffled voice, and Cecil ran to
the door only to find it securely fastened by a bolt within.
"Come in," cried the voice.
"I cannot; it ith bolted."
"But you promised--"
"But the door ith fatht."
"What of that? '_A promise is a promise._'"
By this time Cecil, perceiving that jest and lesson were both pointed
at him, stood with quivering lip, ready at a single further word to
burst into tears; but the kind father, flinging wide the door, caught
him in his arms, saying, "We must not hold each other responsible, my
boy, for promises which God and man can make impossible of fulfilment.
We must be gentle and charitable and easy to be entreated for
forgiveness; and so good-night to mother, and I will lay thee again in
thy trundle-bed."
"Has Sir Christopher Neville left us also?" asked Mary Brent, as Father
White came down from Cecil's room and joined her and Elinor at the fire.
"He has."
"A strange man!" said Father White.
Elinor colored.
"Ay," answered Mary Brent; "I cannot make out why Giles hath taken such
a liking to him. To me he seems proud and reserved, with something in
his tone that suggests that he is turning the company into a jest.
For myself I did not see anything droll in his story of the fried
whetstone."
Elinor shrugged her shoulders.
"If every man were condemned that told a tale in which others could see
nothing droll, we should need a Tyburn Hill here in Maryland."
"Ay, but what's the use of telling a droll story if it be not droll? I
do not understand Sir Christopher."
"I don't think you do."
"I think _I_ do."
It was Father White who spoke, and his shrewd gray eyes were fixed
upon Elinor, who turned to the fire without a word.
Mary Brent sat tapping her foot on the floor.
"'Tis strange he should have left without a word," she said at last.
"Never fear, Mary! We have not lost him. He is too large to be mislaid
like a parcel. He did but go out to fulfil a behest of mine, and if
Father White understands him, as he says he does, he will have divined
that it was an errand of courtesy and good-will on which he set out."
A silence fell on the group. Then Father White, looking out, exclaimed:
"'Tis a bitter night and the snow is falling again! No wonder the
settlers grumble over such a winter in this land where they were
promised all sunshine and flowers."
"Yes," said Mary Brent. "If the weather is to be like this, we might as
well have settled on the bleak Massachusetts coast."
"It cannot last long. The natives all say they never knew such a
season. They fear to go abroad at night, there are so many half-starved
wild beasts prowling around."
Elinor rose and began to pace the floor uneasily.
"But," continued Father White, "there are more reasons than those of
climate for preferring Maryland to Massachusetts. How wouldst thou have
prospered in a Puritan colony?"
"I trust even there I should have been true to Mother Church, and
perchance converted some of the heretics from the error of their ways."
"Yet," interrupted Elinor, "they too are serving God in their own way."
Mary Brent shook her head. "I care not to talk of them. In truth had
I known this Neville was a Protestant, I had never urged him for thy
tenant at Robin Hood's Barn."
Elinor murmured something about "toleration."
"Toleration!" repeated her cousin scornfully. "I hate the word. He
that tolerates any religion against his own is either a hypocrite or a
backslider."
"Shall there be no liberty of conscience?"
"Ay, but liberty to think wrong is no liberty."
"These be deep matters, my daughters, and best left to the schoolmen,"
said Father White. "None doubt that Mistress Brent hath kept her
fidelity unspotted to the Church. Let Elinor Calvert pattern after her
kinswoman."
Thereafter Father White turned again to the subject of missions, and
the two women listened till the hour-glass had been turned and the
candles began to burn low in their sockets. At last Mary Brent grew
somewhat impatient. If she had a vice it was excess of punctuality. She
was willing to share her last crust with a stranger; but he must be on
hand when it came out of the oven. The hours for meals and especially
for bedtime were scrupulously observed in her household, and to-night
it irked her to be kept up thus beyond her usual hour for retiring.
Elinor, perceiving this and feeling some sense of responsibility for
the cause, said at last,--
"I pray thee, Cousin, wait no longer the coming of Sir Christopher,
whose errand has kept him beyond what I counted on, else I would not
have given my consent. Father White and I will sit up to await his
coming. Go thou to bed, and see that the counterpane is drawn high over
Cecil, for the howling of the wind promises a cold night."
"Poor little one!" said Mary Brent, rising and evidently glad of an
excuse for retiring, "I will see that he is tucked in warm and snug.
Sir Christopher is to sleep next Father White. I have had his bed made
with our new homespun sheets."
As Mistress Brent passed out of sight up the stairs, Elinor turned to
Father White with tears standing in her eyes,--
"How good she is!" she murmured.
"Ay, a good woman--her price is above rubies. I pray that by her
example and influence you may be held as true as she to your duties to
God and His Holy Church."
Elinor stirred uneasily. The movement did not escape the priest's
eye, accustomed to studying every symptom of the soul's troubles as a
physician studies the signs of bodily tribulations.
"My daughter," he continued, "is your heart wholly at peace--firmly
stayed upon the living rock?"
"No! no!" cried Elinor, "it is rather a boat tossed upon the waves at
the mercy of every tempest that sweeps the waters."
"How strange!" said Father White, speaking softly as to a suffering
child. "How strange that you thus of your own will are tossed about,
and run the risk of being cast upon the rocks; yea, of perishing
utterly in the whirlwind, when peace is waiting for you, to be had for
the asking."
"I would I knew how to find it."
"Even as St. Peter found it when he too was in peril of deep waters, by
calling upon the name of the Lord. Come, my daughter, come with me to
the altar, that we may seek it together!"
Taking a candle from the table he rose and led the way to the recess
at the end of the hall, which Mary Brent had piously fitted up as a
chapel, where before the altar burned the undying lamp of devotion.
"Here," said the priest, "peace awaits the storm-tossed soul. It shall
be thine. But first must thou throw overboard all sinful desires, all
guilty memories, all selfish wishes, and seek in simplicity of heart
that peace of God which passeth understanding. Kneel, my daughter, at
the confessional!"
So saying he seated himself in the great oaken chair, brought out of
England. Elinor fell upon her knees beside it and poured out the grief
and struggles of her tumultuous soul.
"Bless me, Father, because I have sinned." The voice trembled at first
so that the words could scarcely be heard, but grew firmer as she went
on in the familiar words: "I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary
ever Virgin, to Michael the archangel, to blessed John the Baptist,
to the holy apostles Peter and Paul, to all the saints, and to you,
Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed,
through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault."
"_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_" How the words ring down the
ages laden with their burden of human penitence and remorse! Still,
despite all the uses to which they have been wrested by hypocrisy and
levity, they remain infinitely touching in the link they furnish, the
bond of unity for the suffering, sin-laden souls of many races and many
generations.
When Elinor had finished the list of offences whereof she wished to
free her soul, and which even to the sensitive conscience of Father
White appeared over trivial for the emotion she had shown, the priest
asked softly: "Is there nothing else? Examine well thine heart. Leave
no dark sin untold to grow in the shadow and choke the fair flower of
repentance."
"No, Father, I know of no other sin."
"Nor any unworthy wish?"
"Nor any unworthy wish."
"Nor any carnal affection threatening to draw thy soul away from the
path of salvation?"
The shaft was shrewdly aimed. It struck home.
"Father, is it a sin to love?"
"It may be--a deadly sin."
"To love purely, with a high and unselfish devotion?"
"It may be."
"Prithee, tell me how, since God himself is love."
"There is indeed a Godlike love, stooping to the weakest, bending over
the lowest, yearning most over the most unworthy, such as the love of
the shepherd for his sheep, of the mother for her son, of the true
priest for his flock; but let a woman beware how she brings to the
altar such a love for her husband."
Elinor started.
"Yes," Father White went on tenderly, but as one who must probe the
wound that it may heal the sooner, "it is the nature of woman to look
up. She will do it, and if she cannot raise the one she loves she will
stoop to the dust herself, that from that abasement the man may still
seem to stand above her."
"Father," cried Elinor, casting aside all concealment, "the man I love
is not base."
"Do I know him?"
"You have seen him."
"This night?"
"This night."
"Can a man who knoweth not how to rule his own tongue rule a wife, and
above all a wife like thee, aflame one instant, the next melted to
tenderness, full of pity and long-suffering, yet quick of spirit and
proud as Lucifer?"
Elinor was silent.
"A captious temper is a grievous fault, yet it may be mended--if he is
of the true faith. But, oh, my daughter, tempt not thy fate by marrying
an unbeliever! Faults thou mayst conquer; sins thou mayst forgive or
win forgiveness for; but unbelief is a blight which fosters every vice
and destroys every virtue. Root up this passion, though it seem to
tear thy life with it. Think on thy boy! Durst thou expose him to the
influence of such an example?"
"Father," said Elinor, tremulously, "I cannot answer now--I must have
time to think. Who knows but my love may draw him into the right path?"
The priest shook his head; but as he was about to answer, the stamping
of feet was heard outside, and Father White dismissed his penitent with
a wave of his hand.
"Go, my daughter. But as thou dost value thy soul and the soul of thy
boy, entangle thyself no further till thou hast taken counsel once more
with me. And may Almighty God be merciful unto thee, and, forgiving
thee thy sins, bring thee to life everlasting!"
Elinor rose from her knees, and drawing aside the curtain passed out
into the hall, while Father White tarried for the candles.
Neville came in at the outer door, bringing with him a gust of wind and
cold. Knut rose from the hearth with a low growl and moved suspiciously
toward the stranger, then, drawn by some magnetic attraction, he nosed
about him and at last fawned upon him and rubbed against his legs,
seeking a caress. Neville bent over and patted his head. "Good dog!"
he said, "I would I had had you with me in the forest yonder. Belike
I had not been so long in finding my way out. Ah, Mistress Calvert,"
he added, peering into the shadow from which gleamed the shimmer of
Elinor's gown, "I am grieved to have kept the household awake so late,
and all for naught, since I failed as completely in the search for
Father Mohl as though he had vanished like a spirit in the air."
"Yet of old you were a swift runner. I have seen you chase a hare
across the fields at Frome and keep the pace."
"Ay, but that was over Somerset turf, and with the light of day to
guide me."
"I am much disappointed--"
Neville felt the chill in Elinor's tone.
"Not more disappointed than I," he answered. "'Tis the elements must
bear the blame. When I started out the moonlight shone full on the
path, and I could see my way for a quarter of a mile, but even then the
clouds were hanging round the moon like wolves about a sheep-fold. In
half an hour she was swallowed up, and then, to confuse me the more,
a light snow began falling, slowly at first, then faster and faster,
till, what with the wind in my face and the snow on the path, I lost
the trail somewhere near the cross-road. Before I knew it I was caught
in a thicket of brush and briar, and when I had struggled out there was
no hope of catching the priest."
Elinor looked closely at Neville. He was very white and breathing
heavily.
"You are hurt," she exclaimed, moving toward him with quick sympathy.
"See, your garments are pulled this way and that as if you had
struggled with worse foes than the wind."
"Only contact with a few brambles through which I forced my way back to
the road I had lost."
"But your jerkin is torn--"
"Ay, caught on a stray branch which hung too low."
"And there is blood on your boots--yes, and on your hands. Oh, tell me
what you have gone through while we sat here at our ease by the hearth!"
Neville drew near and spoke low: "For such sympathy I would have dared
far more than I met. If you will have the story, it fell out thus.
Having forgot to buckle on my sword as I went out, I found myself
scantily armed with my short poniard. Yet did I never think of danger,
till after I had turned about, and losing the blazed path, began to
scan each branch I passed, for some token that might lead me straight.
"Peering about me with my poniard in hand to cut the boughs, I was
aware of a rustling in the branches over my head as of something
heavier than bird or fowl. I jumped aside. The creature sprang and
missed me. My hope lay in a counter attack, and I in turn leaped upon
her, and buried my poniard in her neck. She must have been made of
something other than flesh and blood, else she had fallen dead at my
feet from that blow; but instead she made off at a bound, and with such
speed that I had no chance to discover her species, though in the dark
she looked about the size of a panther. The worst thing in the whole
adventure was the loss of my knife. It has helped me through many a
perilous place, and it goes hard with me to have lost it now. I suppose
I may count this the best service it has done me. But why do I dwell
at such length upon a trifle? I warrant there be few hunters who have
passed a night in our wilderness without some such taste of the manners
of wild beasts."
"Make not light of such an escape," murmured Elinor, breathlessly. "As
for me, I will give thanks for thee upon my knees in my closet. Father
White will show thee to thy chamber. 'Tis the one next his, and hath
the distinction of owning a bed with sheets in place of a deerskin."
Neville gazed at Elinor with some disappointment. He did not appreciate
that this was the way her quick wit chose to let him know that their
conversation was overheard. As he looked up at her words, he saw Father
White moving towards them. The candle in his hand shone upward and cast
a light on his white hairs, which gave them the effect of a halo around
his forehead. As he held up his fingers in token of benediction to
Elinor as she passed him, he seemed like some saint breathing serenity
and heavenly joy.
Despite his lifetime prejudices Neville felt himself vaguely stirred by
the half-unearthly vision of the saintly face framed in its snowy halo,
and the dark robes fading into the blackness of the hall beyond.
"Bless me too, Father!" he murmured, "for I have sinned." The priest
moved as if he were about to comply, then suddenly recalling himself,
he dropped his half outstretched arm and asked:
"Is it the blessing of Holy Church you crave?"
"No, faith!" cried Neville, suddenly emancipated from the thrall of his
first impression. "It was but the blessing of a good man I asked, which
to my thinking should have some value, with the backing of any church
or none; but since it must be bought with hypocrisy or begged on bended
knee I will have none of it. Good-night, madam," he added, bowing low
to Elinor; and helping himself to a candle from the table, he lighted
it at the fire.
"Good-night, my daughter!" the priest echoed, and added softly:
"_Concede misericors Deus fragilitati nostræ præsidium!_"
CHAPTER IV
THE LORD OF THE MANOR
The morning sun streamed into the bedroom where Cecil slept on his low
truckle-bed beside his mother's curtained couch. The brilliant rays
tugged at the boy's eyelids and lifted them as suddenly as the ropes
raise the curtain of a play-house, and indeed to this small observer
it seemed that a perpetual comedy was being acted in the world for his
special benefit. Better still, that it was his delightful privilege to
play the part of Harlequin in this rare farce of life and to make the
gravest grown-people the sport of his jests. The earliest manifestation
of humor, in the individual as in the race, is the practical joke;
so it was quite natural that as a fresh and delightful pleasantry it
occurred to Cecil, instantly on waking, to creep over to his mother's
bed and begin to tickle her ear with the tassel of the bed curtain. The
mere occupation was pleasure enough, but the sensation rose to ecstasy
as he watched the sleepy hand raised time after time to brush away
the supposed insect. At length the enjoyment grew too exquisite for
repression, and at the cost of ruining its own existence burst out into
a peal of laughter that roused the drowsy mother.
"Thou naughty implet! What hour o' the clock is it?"
"I know not the hour o' the clock; but o' the sun 'tis past rising
time, and Couthin Mary is stirring already."
"Then we must be stirring too; but first sit thee down here on the edge
of the bed and try to listen as if thou wert grown."
"I am, mother,--I am above thy waist."
"Ay," said Elinor, smiling, "but the question is, art thou up to my
meaning? Hearken! Dost thou know what a tenant is?"
"Ay,--'tis a man who farms thy land, giving thee half and keeping three
quarters for himthelf."
His mother laughed.
"Thou hast a good understanding for one so young, and the description
is apt enough for most tenants; but how sayst thou of one who would
give thee three quarters and keep only one for himself?"
"Why, 'twould not become a Calvert to drive such a bargain with such a
poor fool."
"Thou art not far wrong. Share and share alike is fair dealing 'twixt
land and labor, and so let it be between thee and Sir Christopher
Neville."
"Thir Chrithtopher Neville! The gentleman that came last night? Why, he
ith no laborer. He cannot be in need to work for a living."
"Nay, Cecil, 'tis a labor of love."
"There, mother, I knew he liked me, for all thou saidst my borrowing
of his sword and cloak did anger him. Every one likes me. Couthin Mary
says so."
"Vain popinjay! thou art too credulous of flattery."
"Would Couthin Mary tell a lie?"
"Never mind that question now, but don thy best clothing for the
ceremony of receiving the homage of thy tenant this morning."
"Hooray! Am I to wear my morocco shoes with the red satin roses?"
"Ay."
"And my thilver-broidered doublet?"
"Ay, little peacock."
"And my stockings with the clocks of gold? Oh, Mother, it makes me
feel so grand! I like being lord of the manor. And Thir Chrithtopher
Neville must kneel before me; and how if I tickle him on the neck when
he bends, and make him laugh out before them all?"
"Cecil, if thou dost disgrace me by any of thy clownish pranks, thou
and I will never be friends more. And give thyself no airs either with
this kind new friend. Say to thyself, when he bows before thee, that it
is strength bending to weakness, and pride stooping that it may help
the helpless."
"Do I stand on the platform at the end of the hall where Couthin Mary
stands when her tenants come in?"
"Yes, with Cousin Mary and me beside thee."
"I hope Thir Chrithtopher trips on the step. But I like him, for all he
hath the eyes of a hawk and the mouth of a mastiff."
"Well thou mayst like him! Friends like him are scarce enough anywhere,
and most of all in this new land. Now run away and make haste lest
we vex Cousin Mary by our tardiness, and so begin awry the day which
should open with all good omens. But, Cecil, I have a gift for thee,
something I gave thy father on our marriage. I did think to keep it
till thou shouldst be of age; but on the whole I would rather thou
hadst it to remember this day by."
So speaking, Elinor unlocked her jewel-chest of black oak bound with
brass, and drew from within a pomander-box of gold, the under lid
pierced with holes which permitted the fragrance to escape till it
nearly filled the room with the mingled odor of rose attar and storax,
civet and ambergris, the upper lid adorned with a miniature of Elinor
Calvert painted on ivory and set in pearls like the picture of Cecil
which she wore at her breast. The artist had worked as one who loves
his task, and the delicate tints of neck and arms shone half-veiled by
the creamy lace that fell over them. In the golden curls a red rose
nestled, and around the throat glistened a necklace of rubies.
"Mother!" exclaimed Cecil, "wert thou once as beautiful as that?"
Elinor smiled; but it was not quite a happy smile.
"Yes, once I was as fair as that, and in those days there were many
to care whether I was fair or not. Now there be few either to know or
care."
"Nay, to me thou art still fair, Mother, and there is another who
thinks so too."
"Who is that?"
"Thir Chrithtopher. I saw him looking at you last night, and, Mother,
dost not think, since he thinks to deal so generously with us, it would
be a fine thing for me to give him this portrait of thee to bind the
bargain?"
"Foolish baby, 'twill be time enough to think of that when he asks for
it."
"Then if he asks for it, I may give it--"
"A safe promise truly," said Elinor, smiling this time with beaming
eyes and cheeks, whose rose flush matched the coloring of the ivory
portrait. "Now hasten with thy dressing."
Cecil's head was so filled with thoughts of the pomander-box and his
own greatness that his mother was fully dressed while he sat mooning
over the lacing of his hose and breeches, and gazing with admiring
fondness at the red roses on his holiday shoes.
Three times Cousin Mary had called to him to make haste, and when at
last he entered the hall every one had finished eating, and he was sent
in disgrace to take his breakfast in the buttery. This was too great a
blow for his new-swollen pride, and he fell to howling lustily, while
the tears flowed into his cup of milk and salted it with their brine.
The day which an hour ago had been one glow of rose color all arranged
as a background for the figure of Cecil Calvert in his velvet suit and
gold-clocked stockings, had become a plain Thursday morning in which a
little boy was crying into his milk in a bare buttery hung with pails
and pans.
Suddenly he felt a strong arm thrown over his shoulder, and a kind
voice said in his ear: "I have been late more than once, Cecil; but it
will not do for pioneers, least of all for Little John or Robin Hood."
"Go away; I hate thee," answered the amiable child.
"Dost thou truly? and why?"
"Because were it not for thee I had not put on my best suit with the
troublesome lacings, and but for that I had not been late, and but for
that Couthin Mary had not been vexed, and but for that Mother had not
punished me."
"I see clearly it is I am to blame; and now if thou hast finished thy
bread and milk let us go and ask pardon for our--I mean my fault, and
perhaps we shall be forgiven."
Hand in hand the Lord of the Manor and his tenant sought the hall.
As they walked along the corridor, Neville's face wore a characteristic
smile. This smile of his seemed to begin in one corner of his mouth
and ripple along without ever quite reaching the other, which, to tell
the truth, would have required a goodly journey. There was a certain
fascination in the smile; but one who would fathom its meaning must
look for it, not in the lips at all, but in the pucker of the eyelids
and the gray twinkle of the eyes and the chuckle that lay hid somewhere
in the little creases that the years had drawn in diverging lines from
the point where the lids met.
If Neville was amused he felt no need of proclaiming the fact. A sense
of the ridiculous marks the noisy man, wit the talkative man; but humor
and silence have a strange affinity, and a smile needs no interpreter
to itself.
"Pray, Mistress Brent," said Neville, bowing before his hostess when
they reached the hall, "wilt thou forgive me for being the cause that
Master Cecil did put on his best suit with the troublesome lacings,
whereby he was late to breakfast?"
Mary Brent, being a literal soul, replied, "Why, 'twas not thy fault at
all."
"Then," said Neville, "let the offence become a fixed charge upon the
estate, which I as tenant must assume, and whereupon I promise to give
a breakfast party at Robin Hood's Barn to those here present on this
date each year in remembrance of this day's delinquency.
"As for thee, Sir Landlord, I will give thee an Indian bow and arrows,
that thou mayst play Little John, and when thou dost come a-hunting at
Robin Hood's Barn, thou mayst work havoc at thy will among the heron
and wild duck which I am told do specially abound on the shores of the
bay.
"How say you, Mistress Brent, are the terms accepted, and are we ready
for the ceremony of investiture?"
"I have already bidden in the household," said Mary Brent, and
following on her words there came filing in a train of men and maid
servants, white and black, all arrayed in holiday attire, till the
lower part of the long room was filled.
"'Tis a stately ceremonial thou hast planned," said Elinor, smiling at
her cousin.
"Well enough!" Mary Brent answered, veiling her satisfaction in
deprecation, "since thou hast as yet no tenants, and canst not hold a
court baron at Robin Hood's Barn. I would Giles and Leonard Calvert
were here, for in truth 'tis as goodly a show as we have held."
The tenantry were gathered.
On the dais stood Cecil, his eyes dancing under the page-cut hair which
fell like thatch over his forehead, and his curls tremulous with the
excitement, which would not let him be still for an instant. Elinor
stood beside him in a white dress with a golden girdle, and on the step
knelt Neville.
Elinor found leisure to note the elegance of the jewelled buckles which
he wore on his shoes, and that his collar was of Venice point. It
pleased her that he had taken as much trouble to array himself for his
investiture as he would have done for a court function.
Of what was Neville thinking as he knelt there on the step of the dais?
Was it of Cecil and his manor?
Not at all.
Of law and leases?
Still less.
Of what, then?
Why, of the tiny point of a lady's slipper under a white robe, a
slipper that tempted him to bend a little lower still and kiss it.
Would she feel it, he wondered? Would she chide him if she did? Men
kissed the foot of a saint without blame. If the adorable is to be
adored and the lovable to be loved, why was not the kissable to be
kissed? Besides,--only a slipper!
He was in the hem-of-the-garment stage of his passion, and fancied
himself humble in his desire.
"Stretch out thy rod, Cecil!" It was Elinor's voice that broke in on
Neville's indecision.
[Illustration]
The boy reached forth the stick of ebony tipped with silver which was
Baltimore's gift to Mary Brent on her coming out of England. Neville
grasped the other end, and smiling at Cecil, with a single upward
glance at Elinor bending over him, he said,--
"Hear you, my lord, that I, Christopher Neville, shall be to you both
true and faithful, and shall owe my fidelity to you for the land I hold
of you, and lawfully shall do and perform such customs and services as
my duty is to you, so help me God and all His saints."
"Amen!" said Father White.
"By the terms assigned I do promise to pay to you on taking possession
of the manor at Cecil Point ten Indian arrows and a string of fish,
and thereafter, when the land shall be cleared, to yield you three
quarters of the harvest yearly."
"Nay," interrupted Cecil, "'tis not the bond mother and I did agree
upon; 'twas to be share and share alike. Saidst thou not so in bed this
morning, Mother?"
Before Elinor could reply, Father White spoke as he stepped forward,--
"The case may be happily settled, my daughter, by the yielding of the
quarter in dispute to the revenue at St. Inigo's for the benefit of
Holy Church."
The mutinous blood rose in Neville's cheeks and his chin went out
quarter of an inch; but he held his peace and looked toward Elinor, who
also colored but spoke firmly,--
"Nay, Father, 'twere not well that the Church should profit by an
injustice. What duty Cecil hath to the Church is for thee and me
to settle later, but it must come from his share and not from Sir
Christopher's. Now, Cecil, 'tis thy turn to make thy promise to thy
tenant. Go on: 'I, Cecilius Calvert--'"
"Now, Mother," said the young landlord, shaking off the admonishing
hand from his shoulder with a petulance for which a young Puritan would
have been roundly punished, "if thou dost prompt me like that none will
believe I know my part, and I have learned it as well as thou, thus:
I, Cecilius Calvert, do hereby accept thee, Chrithtopher Neville, as my
tenant at Cecil Point, and promise to protect thee in thy rights to the
extent of the law, and if need be by the aid of my sword."
Neville smiled in spite of himself at the words, and a ripple of
laughter went round the circle of tenants as they noted the comparative
size of protector and protected; but Cecil was too full of his
new-fledged dignity to heed them. He called for the written deed and
the candle and the wax, and on the oaken table he scrawled his name
under those of his mother and Sir Christopher, and then taking off his
signet ring--'twas his father's and a deal too wide for his chubby
finger,--he pressed it firmly into the wax covering the seam of the
folded paper, and then stood looking with admiration at the print of
the crest; a ducal crown surmounted by two half-bannerets. "'Tis a
pretty device, is it not, Thir Chrithtopher? I would you had as pretty
a one. Mother, if Thir Chrithtopher Neville married thee would he bear
the Calvert crest?"
If one could slay one's child and bring him to life again after an
appropriate interval many of us might be tempted to infanticide. A
great flame of anger and shame rose to Elinor's cheek; but Neville came
to her assistance.
"Nay, little landlord," he said coolly, "no husband of thy mother
could bear thy crest. 'Tis for thee, as the only heir in this
generation, to bear it worthily before the world. Mistress Brent, is
the ceremony ended?"
"Ay, and most happily," said Mary, nervously, struggling between desire
to laugh and cry; "let us have in the cake and wine."
The servants went out to fetch the great trays of oaken wood with
rim and handles of silver which had been in the Brent family for
generations. As they re-entered in procession,--for Mary Brent dearly
loved form and ceremony, and kept it up even here in the wilderness,--a
knock was heard at the iron-studded door.
Being flung open it revealed the figure of a man, a tall, slender man
with Saxon flaxen hair and true blue eyes.
"Mistress Brent?" he said questioningly, looking from Mary to Elinor.
"I am she," said Mary, stepping forward and holding out her hand with
even more than her usual warmth of hospitality. "Can I be of service to
you?"
"The question is, rather, are you willing to allow my claim upon your
far-famed hospitality?"
"I think it has never yet been denied any one."
"I believe it well, but perhaps no one ever yet claimed it who lay
under such a shadow. If you consent in your goodness to shelter a
traveller, you must know that you are harboring the brother of Richard
Ingle."
Mary Brent started, for her brother had confided to her Richard Ingle's
treasonable speeches, and in her eyes treason ranked next to blasphemy
among the unpardonable sins. For an instant she hesitated and half
withdrew her hand, then stretching it out again she looked full at him
and said,--
"'Twere a pity frank truth-telling like yours should cost you dear. Let
me ask but one question, Do you hold with your brother in his treason?"
A pained look came into Ralph Ingle's eyes. "Lady," he said, "'tis
a hard matter to hear or speak evil of one's brother--one's only
brother." His lip trembled, but the voice rang clear and steady.
"Yet when the time comes to choose between brotherly affection and
one's duty to King and Commonwealth, the knot must be cut though the
blood flows. So I told Richard yesterday, there on the deck of _The
Reformation_, and hereafter we have sworn to forget that the same
father called us both son."
"You speak like a true man," said Mary Brent, "and shall be taken at
your word. You find us celebrating the tenancy of Sir Christopher
Neville yonder, who is taking up land of Mistress Calvert and her son.
"Elinor, this is Master Ingle. Judge him on his deeds--not his name!"
Ingle swept the ground with the plumes of his hat before Elinor as he
murmured,--
"Nay, rather judge me of your own gentleness, and let mercy temper the
verdict."
Neville stood, looking coldly at the intruder. He was jealous, for he
saw the light of a new interest dawning in Elinor Calvert's face, and
he saw the hot, passionate light of love at first sight as clear as day
in Ralph Ingle's eyes.
For the first time he was conscious with angry protest that he was
growing old. His cast-down glance fell upon his grizzled mustachios,
and he inwardly cursed the sign of age. "The conceited stripling!" he
muttered, as he looked at the bowing golden curls. "I know I am not
just. I have no ambition to be just. I hate him. Come, Cecil," he said,
crossing over to where the child stood holding a wine cup in one hand
and a distressingly large slice of fruit cake in the other, "thou and I
have no larger part to play here than the cock in Hamlet."
"What part did he play?" asked Cecil, crowding his mouth with plums,
while he held the remaining cake high above his head to escape Knut's
jumping.
"Oh, the important office was his to announce the daybreak and put an
end to the ghost's walking. Do ghosts walk nowadays dost thou think,
Cecil?"
"Sure."
"I think so too; I have seen them,--in fact, I feel sometimes as if I
were one of them."
"Art thou really?" Cecil's eyes were round as saucers.
"Well, never mind that question just now. Perhaps I am--perhaps I am
not; do thou drain thy wine, and let us be off outside to build a
snow-man in the road."
Nothing loath, the child slipped his hand into the big, muscular one
held out to him, and unobserved by the preoccupied group around the
fire, they slipped out.
Ralph Ingle turned as they passed him. "I must watch that man," he
thought. "He who takes a child by the hand takes the mother by the
heart."
"Wait," said Cecil at the door. "I must doff my finery, for who knows
when I may need it to receive another tenant?"
"Prudent lad! I will do the same, lest I catch the fever and then thou
must needs seek a new tenant. But, Cecil, promise me one thing."
"Ay, a dozen if you wish."
"Promise me that, whatever tenants thou mayst have hereafter, thou wilt
like me best."
"Why, so I will, especially if you give me the bow and arrows you
promised. I liked you right away last night, and mother likes you, and
Cousin Mary likes you, and Father White likes you a little; but I'll
tell you who doth not."
"Let us hear, then; who is he that has such poor taste in likings?"
"Father Mohl."
"Why do you think that?"
"He thmiled at you."
"Oh! Is that a bad sign with the reverend Mohl."
"You mutht not call him that--you mutht call him holy Father. But you
are right, it is a bad sign when he smiles that way. It is how he looks
when he complains to Mother of me, and gets me a whipping. Father White
smiles like a kind old pussy-cat; but Father Mohl smiles like a wolf."
"But thou wilt stand my friend even if Father Mohl like me not?"
"Pooh, that makes no difference!"
"And thou wilt help thy mother to go on liking me?"
"Yes. She does everything I ask her to, and I'll tell her you are going
to be my best friend."
"I thank thee."
"Well, you are, you know. Of course you are rather old and somewhat
plain, and I cannot promise not to think Master Ingle within there is
handsomer, but I shall always like you best, and beauty doth not count
when you know a person."
"No, but 'tis an amazing good letter of introduction. Now fly up and
change to thine old suit and we will build a snow-man as high as the
window and we will put curls on him as long as those on that jackanapes
inside--I mean as those of the beautiful young man who calls himself
Ralph Ingle."
When Cecil had changed to his every-day clothes he came down again
looking more comfortable in mind and body. "I think," he confided to
Neville, "that I could eat another piece of cake. The belt of this
doublet is so much looser than in my best."
"Ay, but there is dinner to come, and 'tis best to make allowance for
this future; besides, who is this at the wharf in the in-bound boat?"
"Why, 'tis Couthin Margaret."
"So it is. For a moment I thought her a man in that long cloak and
those heavy boots. Let us go down to meet her!"
When they reached the dock, the man in the ketch was already clewing
up the sails, while the woman on the wharf stood giving orders. At the
sound of approaching footsteps she turned.
Despite her rough attire and forty-odd years, Margaret Brent was
a woman worth looking at. Her personality was marked by a noble
largeness which obliterated detail, and cast a mantle of oblivion over
defects. The first impression made upon all who came in contact with
her was of her adequacy to the situation before her, whether it was a
rout or a riot. This it was which a few years later won her the thanks
of the Maryland Assembly for her prompt action in a political crisis,
which led her kinsman to leave her sole executrix of his great estate
with the brief instruction, "Take all--pay all!" and which, finally,
before her death made her the most famous woman in the colony.
Through all the vicissitudes of pioneer life she kept the air and
bearing of race. Even now, though a wave of gray wind-blown hair had
escaped from her hood, and her falling band was pulled awry, yet no
princess in full regalia could have been more the great lady than she
as she came forward to meet Cecil and his companion.
"Sir Christopher, I greet you. I would I had known of your coming
yesterday that I might have had your company and protection."
Neville bowed, smiling. "The advantage of both would have been on my
side, for Mistress Brent's prowess is a byword."
"Say they so indeed!" Margaret answered without attempt at disclaimer
and with a smile which showed her strong white teeth, "I am glad of
that, for I may need the repute in the near future. Sorry was I to hear
that you had thoughts of taking up land in this part of the country and
deserting Kent Fort. I count you the strongest man we have among us,
and since Claiborne's rebellious efforts we need all the help we can
claim. 'Tis in regard to this that I have followed my brother hither."
"I am sorry; but I fear you must meet disappointment. He has been
called to St. Mary's by troubles over Dick Ingle. He may return
to-morrow."
"Nay, if he comes not back to-day I must turn out the trainband on my
own responsibility. The matter will not keep."
"You should be made a captain."
"Not I! I am too wise for that. The captain must give place to the
colonel, and the colonel to the general; but the woman is above them
all, and what men would never yield of their obstinacy to equality,
they will oft give up of their courtesy to her weakness. Besides,
men never forget the obedience to women they learn at their mother's
knee--or over it--
"Is it not so, Father?" she went on, turning to Father White, who had
joined them. "Have I not heard thee say any one might have the training
of a child after seven if thou couldst have the teaching of him till
then?"
"Ay, 'tis so--though this boy may not do so much credit to my teaching
as I could wish;" and he pinched Cecil's ear, laughing.
"He is too busy keeping his body a-growing, I fancy, to pay much heed
to his soul. How say you, Cecil,--wilt thou lend me those cheeks of
thine for cushions?"
"No," answered the child, gravely, "elthe how could I keep my food
in when I eat? Let me go! I mutht tell Couthin Mary thou art come. I
dearly love to be the firtht to tell newth."
But this time he was too late, for Mary had caught sight of the group,
and came running down the path.
"Oh, Margaret, but I am glad to see thee! Bless thine heart, how thou
art blown! I have great need of thy counsel. I must have thee tell me
if the pickles want sweetening, and if the stockade be high enough, and
how many cattle I should order out of England--"
"Why hast not asked Giles all these things?"
"Why, Giles is so great a man he will give no heed to small things, but
puts them off with a 'Presently--presently--'"
"Ay, and if he have not a care, this 'Presently, presently' will cost
him dear. In a new land least of all can we afford to despise the day
of small things.--Ah! there is my Cousin Elinor!" She broke off,
seeing Mistress Calvert in the doorway.
The two women did not altogether harmonize. They were too much alike,
and neither cared for her own type. Both loved to dominate men, though
neither would have owned it. Elinor had early chosen the heart as her
sphere of influence, and Margaret Brent the mind. It was in the border
land that they clashed. Yet, had either been asked, especially when
separated, who was the noblest woman she knew, one would have said
"Elinor Calvert," the other, "Margaret Brent."
"Come in," said Elinor, as she kissed her cousin's cheek. "Come in and
share the feast set out in honor of Sir Christopher Neville, Cecil's
new tenant, at Robin Hood's Barn."
"I knew thou wouldst have him."
"Verily? then thou didst know more than I."
"No doubt--'tis the privilege of the looker-on. Besides, I knew thy
business head, which is better than one would think to watch thine
impulsive bearing, and none but a fool would let such a tenant as
Christopher Neville slip through her fingers."
Elinor reddened.
"Nay, now I see I have said somewhat amiss, but the time is too short
to find out what, so forgive my sins in the bulk, and believe that I
do love thee much for all we fit not always in our moods. Mary, if thou
hast something hot for the inner man, prithee let me have it, for I am
well-nigh starved and frozen."
To herself she said, "Neville is in love with Elinor Calvert--foolish
man! She means to use him--wise woman!"
Which proves that a clever observer may be too clever, and see both
more and less than there is to be seen.
Neville, after watching the women enter the house with Cecil hanging to
his mother's gown, strode down the path with head thrown back, and the
glint of a firm purpose shining from between his narrowed lids.
CHAPTER V
PEGGY
Giles Brent was not in an enviable frame of mind on this January
morning, after his visit to St. Gabriel's manor. The gold lace on
his coat, marking his rank as deputy-governor of Maryland, covered
an anxious heart, and as he walked along the path over the bluff in
the village of St. Mary's he twirled the gold-tipped lacings of his
doublet, and cursed his fate in being caught in this coil of colonial
politics, and wished his cousin Leonard Calvert would come home from
England and attend to his own business.
Why, all of a sudden, was his brow cleared of its furrows, and his mind
of its worries for the moment? Because he had caught sight at a window
of a girl's face,--a faulty, charming face with velvet brown eyes, and
hair that shook a dusky glamour over them,--the face of Peggy Neville.
This Peggy was a born coquette--not of the type that sets its cap
at a man as obviously as a boy casts the net for butterflies, but
a coquette by instinct, full of contradictory impulses, with eyes
that whispered "Come!" even while blush and frown cried "Halt!"--with
the gaiety of a flight of larks, alternating with pouts and tears as
sudden and violent as a summer thunder-shower. Such a girl has often a
peculiar charm for an older man, who looks on amused at her coquetries,
and finds her friendship as firm as her loves are fickle. Between
Governor Brent and Peggy Neville such a friendship was established,
and it was with a delight dimpling into smiles that she threw wide the
window, and leaning out into the frosty air, cried out joyously,--
"Good-morning, your Excellency! Do you bring any news of that
good-for-nothing brother of mine?"
The governor shook his sword at her.
"I will have you in the sheriff's hands if you speak so lightly of my
close friend," he answered. "Is your aunt at home?"
"No, but my aunt's niece is, and much exercised to hear the news from
Kent Fort. So prithee come in and rest awhile."
Brent entered at a door so low that he was compelled to bow his tall
head.
"The news of most interest to you," he said, seating himself by
the fire, "comes not from Kent Fort, but from St. Gabriel's Manor,
which I left just before the expected arrival of that aforesaid
good-for-nothing brother of yours, who is in treaty with me for the
manor at Cecil Point, which Baltimore christened Robin Hood's Barn when
he made a grant of it to Mistress Elinor Calvert. The lady is staying
with my sister Mary at present."
"You have just come from St. Gabriel's?" queried Peggy, "and just seen
Mistress Calvert? Then pray tell me all about her. She is very, _very_
handsome, they say--"
"Then for once they say truth. I have seen her enter the gallery at
The Globe when all the gallants on the stage rose to catch sight of
her, and I have seen the London street-sweepers follow her for a mile.
There's beauty for you!"
"And she is very wise too?"
"Ay, as good a head for affairs as mine, and I think no small things of
mine own abilities."
"And she is virtuous and tender and true?"
"The tenderest of mothers, and the loyalest of kinswomen."
Peggy cast down her long-fringed eyes and studied the pointed toes of
her red slippers. At length looking up timidly she asked,--
"Think you I could ever be like her?"
Giles Brent burst out into a great laugh.
"Oh--not in beauty!" Peggy rushed on, all in confusion--"not in beauty,
of course, nor in mind, but could I make my character like hers? You
see, Christopher has always told me how perfect she was, and said how
proud he should be to see me like her."
"Christopher!" exclaimed Brent.
"Oho!" he thought to himself, "so the wind blows from that quarter,
does it? That explains many things. But why under heaven did he conceal
the whole business from me?"
Aloud he said: "Never mind what Christopher tells you, pretty Peggy!
Take my advice and do not waste your time in trying to be like this one
or that,--not even my Cousin Elinor. You have gifts and graces all your
own. Make the most of them, and let the others go. Who is that outside
the door? I thought I knew every man in St. Mary's, at least by sight."
"That?" said Peggy, looking out at the window with a fine show of
indifference, and then moving hastily nearer the fire, "that is no
citizen of St. Mary's, but a young Virginian in command of the ketch
_Lady Betty_ from the York River."
"And his name?"
"Romney Huntoon."
"Huntoon--? I wonder who his father is. Know you anything of his
family?"
"No, save that his father was a physician once and won great reputation
somehow, and his mother was a daughter of Sir William Romney, and
heiress to a fortune, wherewith they bought wide tracts of land on the
York River, and live, 'tis said, in more state than any in Virginia
save Governor Berkeley himself."
"Ah, now I place him. He was head of Flower da Hundred at the time of
the massacre, and since has risen to be a member of the Virginia House
of Burgesses. I would like to speak with this young man. Is that his
knock at the door?"
"I--I think it may be," hesitated Peggy. "He brought a letter from his
mother to my aunt, who knew her in their youth at home in Devonshire."
Hard upon her remarks a young man entered the room, and stood
hesitating in the doorway as if loath to venture further without
assurance of welcome.
He was a colty youth, with long legs and slim body, and hands and feet
that had not learned the repose of maturity. He had also a shock of
dark curls, and under arching brows a pair of merry blue eyes that
danced when anything pleased him beyond the common, like the sun on
Easter morning, while under their surface mirth lay steadfast depths
which bade fair to endure when their dancing days were over.
Just now there was more of anxiety than mirth in them as they turned
toward the slip of a girl by the hearth, as timid a glance as if
she were the Shah of Persia and he a humble subject in terror of the
bowstring.
"Come in!" vouchsafed Peggy,--but with some impatience in her voice,
for she had not yet begun on the list of questions she had prepared for
her other visitor.
"Governor Brent, this is Master Romney Huntoon. Master Huntoon, I
have the honor to present you to Governor Brent." Both men bowed, the
younger man lower.
"I fancy," said Brent, "that I am not wrong in taking you for the son
of that Humphrey Huntoon whose good repute has travelled beyond the
limits of his own province, and become familiar to us dwellers across
the borders."
Romney Huntoon blushed with pleasure and secretly treasured up the
words to say over to his mother; but he received them with some
discomposure. To tell the truth, it is not an easy matter to meet
a compliment for one's relative; the disclaimers wherewith a man
may receive such for himself not quite fitting the situation, yet
consanguinity seeming to demand a corresponding degree of modesty.
"My father will feel deeply honored," he murmured, and lost the end he
had fashioned for his speech in watching a curl that had fallen forward
over Peggy Neville's ear.
Brent was too much occupied with his own thoughts to heed the break in
the young man's reply.
"You have been at St. Mary's for some days?" he asked.
"A week yesterday, your Excellency."
"And spent much time on the wharf?"
"The better part of every day, overlooking first the unloading of
the tobacco, and then the getting aboard of the farm implements and
household stuff I am to carry back to Romney."
"Hm! Perhaps, then, you were witness to the--the unpleasantness that
fell out betwixt Captain Ingle and Reuben Early."
"Ay, sir--I saw the blow struck."
"Of your kindness, tell me how it all fell out. The village folk are so
hot over the matter 'tis passing hard to get a clear story from any of
them. Was Richard Ingle drunk or sober?"
"Why, not fully the one or the other, I should say; but more as one
who has been in his cups overnight and is at odds with the world next
morning."
"And Reuben Early--was he in liquor too?"
"Truth, I think Early was a bit the worse for beer, for he was
continually dropping the sacks with which he was loading the vessel
under Ingle's direction, and when one slipped into the water, instead
of making excuse for himself, he threw up his silly cap and shouted,
"God save the King and Prince Rupert!"
"Fool!"
"Ay, 'twas enough to anger any man, and it seemed to drive Ingle mad
with passion. 'The King!' he cried; 'I'd have you know your King is no
king; and as for Prince Rupert, if I had him here he should be flogged
at the capstan!' Then turning to Early, whose mouth was agape at such
treasonable utterances, he let fly a bucket he had in his hand, and
hit Early full in the head, knocking him over like an ox. If Early had
picked himself up and returned the blow I'd had some sympathy for him,
but instead he went off whimpering and vowing he'd make complaint and
have Ingle under arrest before night."
"A pestilent fellow that Ingle!" muttered Brent; "I'd have him in
irons this day were it not for the trouble over seas; but with King
and Parliament at loggerheads we must be civil with both and Ingle
hath powerful friends in high places among the Roundheads. But of the
quarrel--did you see Richard Ingle after?"
"Nay, but I believe he is still on _The Reformation_, though some say
he was seen to board a ship that sailed yesterday for New Netherland,
and 'tis known the Ingles are on good terms with Governor Stuyvesant,
who hath the Dutch hatred of papists."
"For the matter o' that," said Brent, with some bitterness, "he need
not have gone further afield than across the river. He would have found
enough Catholic-haters in Virginia to protect him."
"We may be over zealous, your Excellency," the young man answered, "but
we do not countenance evil-doers, and 'twere hard to find in Maryland
a cavalier who has the King's cause more at heart than Sir William
Berkeley."
"You say truth, Master Huntoon, and do well to maintain the honor of
your province against all slander. My regards to Sir William Berkeley
when you return--and when is that to be?"
"In two or three days at furthest now. The ketch is already loaded and
I tarry only from hour to hour."
"May the ketch and all your other ventures come safe to shore!" said
Brent, rising and taking the hand of Huntoon.
"Mistress Neville, I will see you again before my return to St.
Gabriel's, and charge myself with any message you may wish to send."
With this adieu the Governor took his leave. The young people, who had
risen with him, still stood facing each other in silence, now that they
were alone.
"Why do you not take a chair once more?" asked Peggy, fingering the
border of her flowered lawn apron.
"I have not been asked," Huntoon responded.
"I feared to detain you from business of more importance," murmured the
little hypocrite.
"Mistress Neville," said Romney, "I have known you but seven days."
"Is it really so long?" asked Peggy, demurely looking out at him from
behind the protecting curtain of her long lashes.
"So long!" exclaimed the youth. He was only twenty, and the power to
receive and parry comes later to men than to girls.
Even Peggy Neville felt a twinge of compunction at his throwing himself
thus upon her mercy. "They have been pleasant days," she continued,
"and therefore by all the laws of life should have seemed short."
"Why, so they have!" the boy rushed on,--"short as a flash of lightning
in the passing, long as July sunlight in the thinking over; and now
they are drawing to an end, somehow a darkness seems to fall around
me. When I think of sailing down the river, away from the sight of the
huddle of cottages, from the great cross in the centre of the village,
from the glimpse of this little window that gives on the wharf, my
heart sinks."
"I wonder why," said Peggy; but this time she did not look at him.
"May I tell you?"
"No, no--of course not," the girl hastened to say in a quick,
business-like voice. "'Tis no affair of mine to pry into the feelings
of all the young men who come to St. Mary's. Besides, here comes my
aunt, and she will be more concerned to bring out wine and seed-cake
for your entertainment than to hear of your regrets at parting.
However," the tease went on wickedly, "if it would relieve your mind to
tell her I will bring the subject before her."
Romney stood still, and looked at her without a word. She had hurt him
beyond the power of speech. This first love of his, which he had been
cherishing by day and brooding over by night for a whole week, seemed
to him to overshadow the world, and that she, the lady of his dreams,
should be the one to make light of it was past bearing.
"'_All_ the young men who come to St. Mary's,'" he repeated to himself
as he strode down the street. "So to her I am no more than one of the
crowd of gallants who hang about the corners and cast eyes at the girls
in the little church o' Sundays. Oh, but I will make her give me a
serious thought yet! She shall know that it is not a ball she holds in
her hands, to be tossed about and caught and thrown away, but a man's
heart."
Then, as he recalled that dimpling face and those eyelashes sweeping
the rich red cheek, he smiled in spite of himself, and fell to
thinking of a little song his mother had sung to him years ago, a song
of another capricious damsel, mightily like this provoking Peggy,--
"He kissed her once, he kissed her twice,
Though oft she coyly said him nay;
Mayhap she let him kiss her thrice
Before she bade him go away--
Singing heigh-ho!
Whether or no,
Kiss me again before you go,
Under the trees where the pippins grow."
As he reached the widening of the street in front of the Indian wigwam
transformed into a little chapel and dedicated to Our Lady, he was
struck with the number of people standing and walking about. It was
like an ant-hill suddenly emptied of its toilers. Then he recalled that
it was market day at St. Mary's, and that the village was all agog over
Dick Ingle. Women stood at the door of their pioneer cabins, their arms
akimbo, and their heads bare regardless of the winter winds, giving
and getting the latest news. Governor Brent had come last night. That
was sure. He had ridden over from St. Gabriel's Manor, where he was
visiting his sister, and he had been seen this morning walking about
the town. A mighty secrecy had been observed about the object of his
coming; but no one doubted it had to do with Ingle.
"'Twill go hard with Dick," said one; "the Governor is a just man, but
a terror to evil-doers. I miss my guess if Dick and his brother Ralph
both know not the feeling of handcuffs ere nightfall."
"Not Ralph!" interrupted another. "What justice were there in punishing
the innocent with the guilty? Ralph Ingle is as frank and hearty-spoken
a gentleman as there is in Maryland. He comes into my cottage and plays
with the baby, and the boys run to the door as soon as ever his voice
is heard."
"Ay, but how comes it he is so friendly with that rascal brother of
his?"
"Why, blood is thicker than water--even holy water."
A laugh greeted this sally; but the laughers took the precaution to
cross themselves.
"You would none of you exercise yourselves much over the intimacy,"
said a third gossip, "had ye seen as I did the two brothers talking
on deck after the row with Early. Ralph told Dick he was quit of him,
tired of trying to make a gentleman of him, and wished they might never
meet again. He did indeed--I heard it with my own ears."
"That's the most wonderful part of it," said the first speaker; "most
of the things you tell you've heard through the ears of some one else."
Gossip number three turned red and opened her mouth to deliver a
crushing retort, when she discovered that the attention of her hearers
had been distracted by the arrival of a new-comer.
It was Reuben Early, whose wife had bound as big a bandage as possible
about his head. He came up to join the group, receiving on all sides
gratifying commiserations upon the wound he had been dealt by Richard
Ingle's hand; and though he had some difficulty in explaining why he
had not returned it, nor made any defence after all his bold talk, he
still continued to pose as a hero, and to make his townfellows feel
that in his humiliation they had received an individual and collective
insult.
"When the villain struck me," he explained, "I was encumbered with the
sack of grain I was bearing, and ere I could lay it down and reach my
weapon, the fellow had disappeared down the hatchway."
"Come, come, Reuben!" cried a sceptic near-by, "we all know you are
readier with your tongue than with either sword or musket; and I for
one am not sorry to have you taught a lesson, were it not that the
blow was struck at a citizen of St. Mary's, and therefore at us all. I
am for punishing Dick Ingle for the assault, yet lightly; but for the
treason he spoke he should be hung at the yard-arm of his own ship."
"Not hung perhaps; but surely put in custody of Sheriff Ellyson here,"
suggested another of the group, who stood in the morning sunlight
outside the log cabin which served for a hostelry.
"Aha!" laughed the man next him, "our innkeeper would not see the
number of drinkers of his good ale diminished by one. How say you,
Master Boniface, would it not be well to compel the traitor to drink
himself to death at the expense of the Lord Proprietary?"
All but two of the men laughed at this sally. The innkeeper naturally
failed to see the fun of a jest of which he was the butt, and the
sheriff took the suggestion into serious consideration.
"By the Saints, it were a good scheme and has much to commend it. It
may seem a pity to waste good wine on a bad man, when the one is so
scarce and the other so plenty; but it would mightily relieve the
authorities. 'Put him in the custody of the sheriff!' you say; and how,
pray, am I to hold him when I have no jail save my two hands? Can I lie
with him at night and eat and drink by day with my arm locked in his? I
would he were at the bottom of the sea!"
"If every man were at the bottom of the sea who has been wished there,
it would be hard to find a channel for the ships, and we might walk to
England dry-shod!"
It was Giles Brent who spoke, and the men, who had not seen him
approach and did not know how much he had overheard, looked somewhat
taken aback, for the discussion of public officers and their duties was
not looked upon with special favor.
"I tell you, my men," Governor Brent continued, returning their salute
with a wave of his hand, "this standing about the door of ale-houses
is a poor way of life for pioneers. It breeds idleness, and idleness
breeds discontent. Get you all in and drink the King's health at my
charge, and then off with you to work; and the more you use your mouths
to eat and drink withal, and the less for idle chatter, the better it
shall fare with you and your families."
The men, nothing loath to obey the behest, filed into the inn, cheering
alternately for the King, Lord Baltimore, Leonard Calvert, the Governor
now in England, and his deputy, Giles Brent, the last cheer being the
mightiest of all and only drowned by the gurgling of the great draughts
of October ale pouring down their throats.
"Hold, Ellyson," said Brent, as the sheriff passed in last of all. "I
want a word with you."
"Yes, your Excellency; you do me honor," said Ellyson, doffing his cap
of maintenance.
"Does Richard Ingle take his meals on board ship or ashore?"
"I'm not rightly sure, your Excellency; but I do think he takes his
supper here at the inn, and the other meals on his ship."
"Does he come alone?"
"Sometimes alone, but oftener with his brother."
"At what hour does he sup?"
"Oh, any time after the day's work is done, and then sits carousing
till all hours. I have seen him drunk enough to light his pipe at a
pump ere midnight."
"That is well. A man in his cups may be apprehended, even by a sheriff.
Here, read this. 'Tis a proclamation bidding him yield himself to your
custody before February first. That will put him off the scent, for
he will plan to finish loading and slip off at the end of the month.
But to let him do this were to encourage all evil-doers and enemies
of the Commonwealth; therefore it behooves us to get him under arrest
in short order. When he comes to-night, do you invite him to sit down
and sup with you. Give him all he will drink, and scrimp not yourself
either. Remember you both drink at my charge. Then, when the rest of
the drinkers are gone, do you serve your warrant on him, and hold him
at your peril till I call for him. Do yonder fellows know anything of
the prospect of the arrest?"
"They said nothing."
"Then they know nothing. I would I could be as sure that when they
know nothing they say nothing. Be you silent as the grave. You are a
close-tongued fellow enough save when the wine-cup loosens your tongue
and lets out your brains, and leaves you rolled up in a corner like a
filthy hogshead. But never mind--never mind; you are better than many
around you. I give you good-morning."
So the two parted, Ellyson entering the tavern and Brent turning into
the path that led to the house of Councillor Neale.
As he passed on his way, he thought to himself, "Pray Heaven he heeds
not that caution! If he be not well drunken this night our well-laid
plan falls to the ground, and then there's a pretty muddle."
CHAPTER VI
THE KING'S ARMS
It was already dark on the night after Giles Brent's talk with young
Huntoon, when Captain Richard Ingle entered the doorway of The King's
Arms. On the outside there was little to mark the difference between
the hostelry and the other log-cabins, except that at right angles both
to house and road hung a sign-board decorated with the name of the inn,
and bearing below in gaudy colors the standard of the Commonwealth.
Within, the long low-raftered room, despite its bareness, had that air
of good cheer which the devil knows how to throw around places where
men meet to drink themselves into his likeness.
With his swashbuckler air and swinging bravado of carriage, Ingle was
a not unattractive figure. His height was above the average, and he
wore his jerkin and slashed doublet jauntily. His face might have had
claims to beauty, but for its sinister expression, and to many of those
who looked at him this expression, combined with his reckless bearing,
constituted a certain fascination. The hall mark of the devil adds
value.
With the smell of the sea which hung about Dick Ingle was associated
an air of mystery, as of one who could tell much if he would, and the
dignity of a captain who from his quarter-deck might defy king, lords,
and commons; though justice might some day reach out its long arm for
him ashore, and sweep along with him any rash landsman who ventured on
too close an intimacy.
Just now, after his recent treasonable speeches aboard _The
Reformation_, any display of acquaintance was held to be specially
injudicious, and consequently, though all the men around the inn-board
looked up at Captain Ingle's entrance, none moved to make room for him
on the bench.
The room was so thick with tobacco smoke that the candles set in pine
knots for sockets at various intervals along the board (which was
literally a board, supported on horses of wood) cast only a glimmering
dimness around them. Ingle raised his hand to his eyes and stood a
moment, peering from under it at the table and the group seated around
it. As he took in the meaning of the sudden silence and the averted
glances, a smile of contempt settled about his mouth.
"Ah, friends," he cried jovially, "I am glad to find so many good
fellows met together. Councillor Neale, I will ask a word with you
later about the bill of goods consigned to you."
The councillor cast down his eyes as sheepishly as though all must know
the goods were of doubtful repute.
"Cornwaleys, _The Reformation_ sails in a day or two, and I advise you
to prepare your message of loyalty to the Lord General Cromwell without
delay."
Cornwaleys would have given a hundred pounds rather than that any
should know he had planned to make his future safe by riding two
horses, and making his submission to Parliament while he threw up his
cap for the King.
The other men about the board cowered. The whizzing of the lash was in
the air, and every back quivered with the expectation that it might
feel the next blow.
But having vented his spleen in these unpleasantries, the great man
grew affable, and turning to the wall where a large placard was posted,
he exclaimed,--
"Ha, Sheriff, here is a letter addressed to thee and me by our
worshipful Governor _pro tem_. Let us read it out for the benefit of
the company, who have not book-learning enough to decipher it for
themselves. 'Tis writ in a shaking hand, too, especially the word
'treason,' and in truth it is as well it should be a trifle vague, for
who shall write 'treason' firmly nowadays, when the war has left it
so dubious who is our lawful master that none can say but a year hence
the very name of this tavern shall be changed from _The King's Arms_ to
_General Cromwell's Legs_?"
A titter ran round the room.
"Hush, gentlemen! He who laughs makes himself sharer in the jest, and a
jest at royalty is treason--at least, so says our king-loving Governor.
Listen!"
And in a sing-song voice Ingle began to read aloud from the placard,--
"20th January.
"PROCLAMATION.
"I do hereby require, in his Majesty's name, Richard Ingle, mariner,
to yield his body to Robert Ellyson, sheriff of this county, before
the first day of February next, to answer to such crimes of treason
as on his Majesty's behalf shall be objected against him, upon his
utmost peril of the law in that behalf; and I do further require
all persons that can say or disclose any matter of treason against
the said Richard Ingle to inform his Lordship's attorney of it at
some time before the said court, to the end it may be then and there
prosecuted.
"G. BRENT.
"You see, gentlemen, the proclamation grants me till the first of
February to deliver myself up; therefore my good friend Ellyson yonder
must needs keep his hands off these ten days. Landlord, bring out your
ale, and all good fellows shall drink with me a health to--let me see;
shall it be Charles, or Oliver? And everlasting damnation to the
enemies of--shall we say the King, or the Parliament?"
The men who sat around were ready enough for a drink, but they had
no mind for such dangerous toasts, and great was the relief when one
shrewd fellow cried out, "Oh, quit your politics, Dick, and let us
drink to the next voyage of _The Reformation_. And now do you give us
a song, for there is none can sing like you when you can abstain from
swearing long enough. But first, here's to our town, and I give you our
rallying cry,--'Hey for Saint Mary's, and wives for us all!'"
Ingle joined with good-humor in the ringing cheer that followed. "Here
goes, then," he said, as the landlord brought in the tankards. "You
may guzzle while I sing, and for the benefit of you family men who are
so fond of shouting 'Wives for us all!' I'll make it a song of married
life. 'Tis sweetly entitled _The Dumb Maid_, and runs thus,--
[Illustration (music score)]
"'There was a country blade
Who did wed a pretty maid,
And he kindly conducted her
Home, home, home.
There in her beauty bright
Lay his whole delight;
But alack and alas, she was
Dumb, dumb, dumb.'
"Now, gentlemen, you might think this lucky husband would have been
content with his good fortune, and let well enough alone; but no, he
was for having a perfect wife--which was as if he would have had a
white blackbird or a moral courtier or a wise king; so--
"'To the doctor he did her bring
For to cut her chattering string,
And he let her tongue on
The run, run, run.
In the morning she did rise,
And she filled his house with cries,
And she rattled in his ears like a
Drum, drum, drum.'
"Now the stupid oaf began to discover his blunder,--but perhaps you've
had enough."
Cries of "Go on! Go on!"
"Well, then, listen to his fate and take warning,--
"'To the doctor he did go
With his heart well filled with woe,
Crying, "Doctor I am quite
Undone, done, done.
Now she's turned a scolding wife
And I'm weary of my life,
For I cannot make her hold
Her tongue, tongue, tongue."
"'The doctor thus did say--
"When she went from me away
She was perfectly cured of being
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
But it's beyond the art of man,
Let him do the best he can,
For to make a scolding woman hold
Her tongue, tongue, tongue."'"
Roars of applause greeted the ending of the performance. In the midst
of it Ingle crossed the room to the end of the table where Sheriff
Ellyson was seated.
"Come, Sheriff, since you and I are met, let us sit down at the
further end of the board where our conversation may not disturb these
gentlemen."
With this he drew up a stool for himself, and as the mugs of ale were
quaffed and the pipes emptied, one after another of the bibbers and
smokers reached for his cap, and moved out into the darkness with
a muttered good-night, till at last none were left but Neale and
Cornwaleys, two men in high standing in the colony and close friends of
Governor Brent.
Meanwhile Captain Ingle made vast inroads upon the mighty haunch of
venison which the landlord set before him with obsequious attention,
and a pasty with five small birds stewed together vanished into his
capacious stomach without appearing to diminish his appetite. "Let
us have prawns," he called to the landlord, "prawns and cheese to
finish with, and brown ale from one of the hogsheads I brought in
_The Reformation_. I always call for that," he added with a wink to
Cornwaleys, "when I want something extra good. When you drink what you
bring, you know what you get."
"Ay," responded Ellyson jovially, "trundle it up, landlord, cask and
all, and we will help ourselves. You may go to bed and welcome, for we
mean to make a night on't. Who gets the ale-cask needs no host."
"But who will lock the door?"
"Why, we, to be sure!"
"Faith!" cried the landlord with a shout of laughter, "I've seen ye
both after a night's drinking bout, and neither one of you could keep
your legs or lift hand to mouth, let alone turning key or drawing bolt."
"Then we'll stay till you are up in the morning," roared Ingle, "and
woe to the thief who dares intrude upon the majesty of the law as
represented by Sheriff Ellyson, or the rights of freemen supported by
the sword of Richard Ingle."
With this the freebooter drew his weapon and after waving it round his
head in token of what marauders might expect, laid it on the bench
beside him.
The innkeeper, overawed by the sight of such prospective prowess, began
to think what a fine thing it would be to substitute this gallant blade
for the pale little sheriff.
"I'll tarry at least till these other gentlemen are gone home,"
he said, and betook himself to the other end of the table. Neale
and Cornwaleys loitered a few minutes, then rose with a yawn and a
stretching of the arms and legs.
"Give you good evening, gentlemen!" Neale said to those at the end.
"Good-night, Sir Landlord, and thanks for your good fire and better
ale!" called Cornwaleys, following him lazily out at the door.
But outside their idle lounging ceased. They drew close together and
whispered anxiously. The watch passed. They only drew closer into the
shadow and let him go by. Then they pressed their faces to the hole in
the shutters, and stood gazing at the pair inside, who sat quaffing
tankard after tankard by the wavering light of the candles and the red
glow of the embers on the hearth.
A few moments later they were joined by a third man. A Monmouth cap was
pulled low over his eyes, and the collar of his cloak raised to meet
it so that none could see his features. Neale and Cornwaleys showed no
surprise at his approach, but seemed to be awaiting him.
"How goes it?" asked the new-comer in a whisper.
"To a charm so far," answered Neale.
"I confess I like not the part we are playing."
"Nor I either, but it must be played. The villagers are much roused
against Ingle, yet have a group of them been drinking at his cost at
the tavern to-night, and whatever is done by the authorities will give
offence in some quarter."
"Ay, and his punishment most of all. There be many that like him for
his dare-devil ways, and more that tolerate him for the sake of his
brother."
"Ralph is a fine fellow," said Cornwaleys, "and Dick himself is
open-handed."
"Ay, and open-mouthed," added Neale. "Some daring souls may whisper
touching matters of state; but he must needs shout out his opinions
louder than any Roundhead in Parliament."
"The fool!" muttered Brent (for it was he who had just come up).
"Fool he is," answered Neale; "who ever knew Dick Ingle other than a
fool? But who shall say it was not truth he spoke when he said the
King was no king."
"Well, well," Brent said impatiently, "waste no words on idle
speculations; but let us keep our wits to try how we may steer a safe
course between the devil and the deep sea. If we apprehend this man
'tis an affront to the Parliament to whom he swears allegiance. If we
apprehend him not, 'tis as good as to make ourselves partakers in his
_lèse-majesté_. So 'tis clear the only course is both to apprehend him
and to let him go. All the people will hear of the proclamation and
of my order of arrest. This will satisfy their sense of justice, and
so are we quit of our official duties. And afterward if the sheriff,
through some carelessness and neglect, let Richard Ingle go free and he
reach his own quarter-deck and set sail for England before ever he be
caught--why--"
"Sh!" whispered Cornwaleys, "speak softer, or all will fail. Neale, you
have your eye to the chink in the shutter?"
"Ay, and can see as if I were in the room. It is hard to say which is
drinking the harder."
"No man can keep his legs with that quantity of ale in his belly,"
answered Cornwaleys; "we shall find them in the morning on the tavern
floor."
"Hm!" reflected Neale, "there is some danger o' that and 'twill not
suit our plans neither. We'd best stir Ellyson a bit."
With this he shuffled his feet and moved the shutter back and forth.
The sound reached the ear of Ellyson. He paused with his mug half-way
to his lips, and then, setting his flagon down hard on the board, he
rose, and putting his hand into the breast of his jerkin drew forth
something white.
"The fun begins," whispered Neale, flattening his nose against the
shutter in the effort to lose no glimpse of what was going forward.
"We must be ready to rush in if Ingle uses him too hard," announced
Cornwaleys.
The two men watched with all their eyes, and this is what they saw:--
The giant, having the paper thrust in his face, grew red with rage
and strove to rise and reach for his sword, but only succeeded in
falling across the table, his hair trailing into the mug of ale. Then
the nimble little sheriff, who was perhaps less drunk than he had
feigned, whipped around the table and drawing a length of cord from
his capacious jerkin succeeded in binding the wrists of his adversary
before he could rise. Ingle roared out curses.
The landlord shouted from his bed to know what was the matter.
"Oh, 'tis naught. Give yourself no trouble in the matter. Captain
Ingle has had overmuch drink even for him, and I am taking him home."
"There seems to be a break in our fine plan," murmured Neale. "What if
Ellyson prove the better man of the two?"
"Rubbish! How can he?"
But a weak arm backed by a clear head can do more than mighty muscles
befuddled with beer. Ellyson rapidly made fast his cord, and drawing
out a stouter one tied that too, and tugging might and main pulled
the captain off his stool headlong to the ground, where he lay for an
instant grovelling, and then, gathering himself up, staggered a few
paces to the door.
"Thank ye for that, my fine fellow!" said Ellyson. "I could scarce have
got ye so far without your own help."
The next move of the little sheriff was a clever one. Hard by the door
stood a hand-car used for the moving of casks to the slant of the
cellar-way. Its wheels were made of sections of pine logs revolving on
rudely fashioned axles. This car Ellyson rolled directly in front of
the doorway, and then getting behind Ingle gave him a push which sent
him forward face first upon the car.
"What say ye now, Neale?" whispered Cornwaleys, pressing closer than
ever into the shadow.
"Say? I say the devil is let loose and helping the little sheriff. Let
us follow. His luck may have a turn."
Down the street went the four men, Ellyson grunting and sweating under
his burden, but full of the joy of conquest over an unequal foe, and
of the complacency born of a sense of duty fulfilled, combined with
the hope of preferment. Already he saw himself promoted to fat office,
perhaps to the Council itself. But at this juncture a strange thing
happened.
The night air had begun to cool Ingle's hot head and clear the
beer-befuddled brain. With a mighty effort he tore his arms loose from
the encircling cords, and reaching for the poniard in his breast sprang
from the car.
Luckily for Ellyson, Ingle's legs were still unsteady. As it was, the
doughty little man was consumed with terror at the sight of the giant
lunging about with his weapon gleaming in his hand, as he waved it
wildly and aimlessly about his head. In his terror Ellyson called aloud
for help; but excitement made his voice so weak it could scarcely be
heard a hundred feet away.
"The end has come," said Neale and Cornwaleys in a breath.
Then to their dismay, they saw the door of a cottage open and a young
man dash out half-clad, but with a loaded pistol in his hand.
"Who cried for help?"
"I, the sheriff! I hold an order from Governor Brent to arrest this
man, and I call upon you as a good citizen of Maryland to come to my
aid."
Ingle by this time had got his back against a tree, and stood there
waving his dagger and calling to his foes to come on if they dared.
"I am no citizen of Maryland," said Romney Huntoon; "I come from
Virginia, but I've no objection to bearing a hand in the arrest of this
man, for I heard his traitorous ranting, and I vowed then to do him a
bad turn if ever it came in my way."
"Your chance is come," muttered the sheriff. "Do you stand here and
cover him with your pistol, and I will go round behind the tree and try
if I may not bind him where he stands. Ingle," he added, turning to the
other, "if you move you are a dead man."
"_Hold! in the King's name!_"
The three men started as if a cannon had exploded in their midst. The
surprise even sobered Ingle. He looked up in speechless amazement as
Councillor Neale and Captain Cornwaleys strode up, and with all the
double weight of civil and military authority called out to Ingle to
surrender.
Seeing his position desperate he sullenly obeyed.
"March in front," commanded Cornwaleys. "Ellyson, do you walk beside
him. Master Huntoon, if you will favor us with your company and your
weapons, you will oblige us by your escort down the road as far as the
wharf where _The Reformation_ lies."
"_The Reformation?_" exclaimed Huntoon.
"I said so, I think," answered Cornwaleys.
"But--but--you do not understand," stammered Ellyson; "I am acting
by Governor Brent's command. I am by no means to lose sight of the
prisoner until further commands from him."
"You have fulfilled your commission," said Neale, "and stand discharged
of all responsibility. Master Huntoon, I charge you take notice that
Sheriff Ellyson is hereby relieved of all blame in this matter,
whatever the outcome, and that I do hereby take upon myself all the
burden of Governor Brent's displeasure if such there be."
"The Councillor has spoken," said Cornwaleys, "and with my approbation.
Forward, march!"
The walk down the hill to the wharf was covered in perfect silence.
Ingle walked between Ellyson and Cornwaleys, able to keep his feet with
occasional support from his escort. As the men halted on the wharf,
Neale stepped forward.
"Richard Ingle," said he, "are you drunk or sober?"
"Sober enough, as you shall some day learn that have put this affront
upon me."
"Then listen and give heed to the words I speak. Because of your
treasonable talk, your ill conduct, and your disturbance of the
peace, you do richly deserve the most that the laws of Maryland could
pronounce as your punishment."
"Ay, that he does!" murmured Huntoon.
"Then why not give it to him?" grumbled Ellyson, loath to see the prize
he had captured at such expense of difficulty and danger slip through
his fingers in the moment of triumph.
"Be silent, Sheriff! It is not in your province to criticise your
superiors. Ingle, we shall now put you aboard ship and give you
six hours to make good your departure. But if at dawn so much as a
topmast of _The Reformation_ be seen from St. Mary's, we will have her
overhauled and her captain strung up at the yard-arm."
Ingle's senses were returning fast, and he responded to the
Councillor's words with a smile, the cool impudence of which irritated
Neale beyond endurance. He saw that the sailors were gathering on the
deck, and that time was short.
"Seize him!" he cried suddenly to Huntoon and Cornwaleys; "seize the
cur and toss him on board his vessel as he deserves."
Huntoon and Cornwaleys, delighted at the chance to wreak even a portion
of their vengeance, needed no second bidding. Cornwaleys seized his
head and Huntoon his feet, and with a mighty swing they flung him
clear of the wharf and landed him in the middle of the deck amid a
circle of sailors half angry, half grinning.
"Remember!" cried Neale, warningly.
"A good riddance!" exclaimed Cornwaleys as they walked away.
"Yes, if he stays rid," answered Neale, doubtfully. "Ellyson, you are
to be silent on this night's doings."
"I know my duty," said Ellyson, sullenly, "even when I am not permitted
to do it. But I know not how I am to answer to Governor Brent for this
night's work."
Neale leaned over and whispered some words in his ear which seemed to
amaze him, the more so as something which showed under the struggling
moonbeams round and yellow and shining was slipped into his hand by
Cornwaleys on the other side.
"Master Huntoon, we trust to your honor."
"You may," Huntoon responded with some haughtiness; and he turned upon
his heel and strode back to his lodgings, thanking Heaven that he was a
Virginian.
CHAPTER VII
IN GOOD GREEN WOOD
"Now what say you, Mistress Peggy?"
"Say? What could I say to such an offer save that, if my aunt allows,
'twill give me more pleasure than aught else that could befall. I have
longed for months to see your sister Mary and St. Gabriel's, and now
to see them, and besides to have sight of my brother and of Mistress
Calvert--"
"To say nothing of a ride through the forest under escort of the
Governor of the province!"
"Why, to tell the truth, it is that only which gives me pause, for
I know well that he has grave matters of state on his mind, and
would fain perhaps be alone to think them over, whereas I am such a
chattering magpie, as my brother has often told me, that no man can
have a thought in his head when I am about."
"And how do you know, little Peggy, that that is not just the reason
why I have asked for your company? It is quite true that I am vexed and
worried and harried half out of my senses over recent affairs here
in St. Mary's,--affairs which call for anxious meditation and drastic
action; but for this one day I would fain forget that I am a grizzled
man weighed down with matters heavy enough to sink him, and make
believe that I am a light-hearted lad again wandering about the forest
with a maiden as care-free as he. We will have a merry ride of it, and
we will stop by the wayside and build a fire in the snow to cook our
noonday meal."
"But--but--I know not how to cook," Peggy confessed with much
embarrassment.
"Not know how to cook! For shame! and you a pioneer--I must have speech
of your aunt, and counsel her to take order with you at once till the
deficiency be mended. But for this once it will not matter, for I am
taking back with me to Kent Fort a lame servant, Anne by name, owned
by Sir Edmund Plowden and lent by him to my sister Margaret. She will
be of our party, and likewise Councillor Neale and Captain Cornwaleys.
So with them to guard us against foes without, and her to fortify us
against the worse enemy of hunger within, you and I may have good hopes
of coming safely to St. Gabriel's."
"O Aunt, Aunt!" Peggy called out, "his Excellency has asked me to ride
with him to St. Gabriel's. Only think of it--to St. Gabriel's, and this
very day!"
"Foolish child!" said her aunt, with reproof in her voice. "You can
think of nothing but the pleasure of the moment. How could you manage
your home-coming? And how do you know that Mistress Brent desires your
company?"
"If you will permit me to take upon myself the burden of answering your
questions, Madam, I think I can set your mind at rest on both points.
My sister Margaret has in mind a journey to St. Mary's from Kent Fort,
and will stop on her way to pick up your niece and bring her home to
you in safety. As for the other question, it could only be asked by one
who knew little of Mary Brent. Why, I have seen her eyes light up with
joy when a total stranger stopped at the door for a meal or a night's
lodging, and at a friend's coming she is clean daft with pleasure.
Between you and me too she has a particular and foolish fondness for
this saucy slip of a niece of yours, and will count it a red-letter day
when she sees the baggage jump off her donkey at the gate, and come
running in at the door. Oh, there will be great rejoicing at the manor
this night,--I can promise you that."
The Governor of Maryland was not lightly to be denied. So it was
settled that Peggy was to go, and the saddle-bags were filled on
one side with her clothing, since, even in the wilderness, a maid
must needs carry her bit of finery, and in the other side her aunt's
hospitable care had stored away an ample supply of bread and meat and
wine, with other eatables and drinkables to be heated in the ashes of
the noonday fire.
When the two donkeys stood at the gate and Mistress Peggy and the lame
serving-woman were mounted there was no happier or prouder maid in the
province than Margaret Neville. Giles Brent joined the procession at
the edge of the village. He was seated on Governor Calvert's horse, one
of the few in the colony, and his large frame with its red-lined cloak
showed well on the big black Flemish steed.
Behind him walked three men. Yes, Peggy distinctly counted three,
though Governor Brent had named only two. There was Councillor Neale,
with his heavy staff and big foreign boots, and Captain Cornwaleys,
brave in his military uniform with gilt trimmings; but who was the
third? Not--surely not--Oh, no, nothing could be more unlikely!--and
yet--Yes, there was no doubt of it; however the thing had come about,
the man who walked between them was Romney Huntoon. If there had been
any doubt in her mind at the first glance, it was set at rest as they
drew nearer, for the young man stepped forward close to the little
brown donkey, and sweeping off his hat laid bare his dark curls,
and then looked up at Peggy as though he had been the devoutest of
Catholics, and she his patron saint.
Now, I will not deny that Peggy Neville was good to look at; but never
did any one bear less resemblance to a saint than she as she sat
perched upon her mottled brown and gray donkey, her saucy, smiling
face peeping out from its scarlet hood, her cheeks as red as the
wool covering around them, and her brown eyes sparkling with fun and
health and girlish glee. Her first care was to give this youth fully
to understand that it was with no thought of him she had joined this
expedition. She took pains, therefore, to throw an extra amount of
surprise into her tone as she exclaimed,--
"Master Huntoon!--and pray how happens it that you are acting as escort
to the Governor of Maryland? Or is it but out of courtesy that you are
walking with us as far as the gates of St. Mary's?"
"As far and farther," answered the young man, proudly.
"Not to St. Gabriel's!"
"And why not, pray? Did you think you were the only person honored with
an invitation? May not I too be a bidden guest?"
"But you were to sail for the York River to-morrow or next day."
"Ay," answered Huntoon, with some embarrassment, "I was; but there have
arisen certain complications with which I chanced to be connected, and
I have received a request which was as near a command as befitted the
message of a Governor of one province to the subject of another, asking
me to tarry for a few days yet and to set out with him this morning for
St. Gabriel's. It was not till an hour ago," he added, "that I learned
what cause I should have to give thanks for my assent."
"Come, come, young people!" called Giles Brent; "my horse has more
sense than you, for he is pawing the ground and eager to be off. Since
we can move but at a snail's pace along the trail, which is harder than
ever to keep, with the snow on it, we'd best waste no time. I will ride
in front to prospect, and the women shall follow. Do you, Huntoon, walk
by Mistress Neville's bridle, and Neale and Cornwaleys shall follow as
a rear guard keeping a sharp look-out, for wolves and other wild beasts
are grown desperate with hunger in this cold weather, and may be met
when least expected."
The little procession took up its line of march along the narrow street
and out at the gate which gave upon the road leading across country.
As they wound up a hill that lay behind the town Peggy turned in her
saddle for a last look at the huddle of log cabins. Hers was one of
those tender hearts that can cling to bare walls, so they be hung with
associations.
The scene on which the girl's eyes rested was fair enough in itself to
need no associations to give it interest. From the height she could
look down upon the broad, placid river lying in a series of loops like
little lakes. For a distance of eight miles it stretched away blue
as the sky above it till it merged itself in the dimmer gray of the
Potomac. Across the river rose gently swelling hills, and there in
the foreground like a giant sentinel loomed the great mulberry tree
which had witnessed Calvert's dealings with the natives, which bore on
its trunk placard and proclamation, and, in short, served most of the
purposes of a town hall.
Peggy looked long over the enchanting prospect, then letting her eyes
fall upon the hamlet of St. Mary's she scanned the little group of
houses, the great cross in the centre, the smoke curling up from the
mud chimneys, the blue reach of the stream at the foot of the bluff.
Suddenly she gave an exclamation of amazement.
"Why, where is Captain Ingle's ship?" she asked, turning from one to
another of her companions.
No one answered.
"I saw it last evening at sunset," she went on. "I am sure of it, for
I went down to the wharf with our serving-man to buy grain, and I asked
Captain Ingle when he would be off, and he said, 'Not for some time;'
and that when he went he would fire a salute of five guns in my honor."
"'Tis like his insolence," muttered Huntoon between his teeth.
"Yes, but how is it that he is gone? Surely, you who are about the
village so much must have heard something of the matter."
The mysterious silence continued a moment longer. Then Giles Brent said
repressively,--
"Master Ingle sailed last night."
"Oh, so you _do_ know all about it," cried the irrepressible Peggy.
"I know nothing to speak of," answered Brent, in so significant a tone
that even Peggy could find courage for no rejoinder, but turned to
Huntoon and bade him walk a little faster, or the donkey would tread
upon his heels.
Huntoon strode on as perfectly happy as is often given to mortals to
be in this sadly mixed world. There is an elation in the solitude of a
wilderness at any time, a sense of freedom, of room for soul-expansion,
and there is a beauty in a snow-clad forest that summer cannot match.
The shadows lay in long blue patches on the snow, the pine trees held
a load of white on their wide-spreading branches, each clump of green
capped with glittering frost. The gaunt branches of oak and maple
etched themselves against the blue of the morning sky. Everything in
nature was radiant. Was it likely that the heart of the young man who
walked with the rein over his arm was less jubilant than the scene
around him?
One thing only troubled him.
He could think of nothing to say.
At last he saw a bunch of scarlet berries peeping out of the snow at
the roots of a great pine tree. He stepped aside and picked them. When
he came back he handed them to Peggy.
"What are these for?" she asked.
"I thought you might wear them."
"So I do not look well enough as I am?"
"I said not so."
"No, but you thought I could look better, and so I could not have been
perfect in your eyes."
"They hang offerings on the neck of the statue of the Madonna. It is
not that she may look better; but I suppose it brings her nearer to see
her wearing their gifts, be they never so humble."
[Illustration]
"You are quite a courtier, Master Huntoon," Peggy answered with a
nervous laugh; "you are thrown away upon these colonial wilds and
should betake yourself to Whitehall. The King would doubtless lend a
favorable ear to your silver tongue."
"Alas!" sighed Romney, in the folly of his youth, "what care I what the
_King_ might say, if the _Queen_ will not listen to me?"
What further softness he might have ventured on, no man knoweth, for
there is no setting limits to the weakness of lovers; but his speech
was interrupted by the crack of the fowling-piece from behind, and
looking back they saw Cornwaleys stooping to pick up a brace of quail
which his gun had just brought down; and which he straightway tossed
over the saddle of Anne, the serving-woman, bidding her pick them as
she rode.
The sun climbed higher and higher till its genial warmth began to
make itself felt. The icicles let fall drop after drop of water,
slowly trickling themselves away. The snow-banks melted into gurgling
streams, which ran along on the surface till they sank noiseless into
the softened ground. The air, balmy with the scent of pine trees and
mild with the bracing mildness of dry midwinter, pulsated in the
perpendicular rays of the noonday sunlight. "Come, friends," called
Giles Brent, reining in his horse and turning in his saddle to await
the arrival of the rest of his party, who could by no means keep the
pace he set, "I know not how it is with the rest of you, but one man
here hath an appetite which tells him that the dinner hour is come."
"Here is another!" cried Cornwaleys.
"Ay, and a third," came from Neale.
"How say you, Huntoon, has your walk given you a zest for an hour's
rest and a bite of good victual?"
"I?" stammered Huntoon. "Why, to say truth, I thought we had but just
set out."
At this Brent laughed and cast a meaning glance at Peggy, who colored
redder than the bunch of berries she had tucked into the front of her
cloak.
"There may be a magic in the bridle-rein of beauty to ward off hunger
and fatigue from him who touches it; but the rest of us poor mortals
have felt the pangs of both; so, as we are come to a clearing, with two
logs convenient for a seat, I counsel that we make a halt and build a
fire wherewith to test Anne's skill as a cook."
Peggy slipped from her saddle and opening the bags brought out the
bread and meat and wine. Cornwaleys spitted the birds upon his sword,
and Anne twirled them before the fire, seasoning them as they cooked.
The men sat on the logs, and Peggy laughed and sang and poured forth a
flood of mirth and gaiety which beguiled the anxious men about her from
all thought of care and worriment, while she herself was like a meadow
lark intoxicated with its own music.
"Is it all your fancy painted--this ride through the forest?" asked
Governor Brent, smiling as he seated himself beside Peggy.
"I should say so!--all and more--the very happiest day I have ever
known. I feel as if I were a snow-bird picking up crumbs here in the
desert. I think I will never live in a house more. I would we were all
going back together," added Peggy, after a little pause.
"But going back you will have my sister Margaret, and she is worth us
all."
"Shall I not be afraid of her?"
"No-o," answered Brent, conscious that he had known times when he was.
Then, loyal to kinship, he continued, "Margaret is a fine fellow. She
lives out the motto of Lord Baltimore, 'Deeds are masculine, words
feminine.'"
"Oh, I am sure I should be afraid with her!"
"No, you will not. Margaret's words have both weight and wit, and her
wit bites sometimes; but it is like a blooded dog and will not hurt a
friend. How often I have wished for her trenchant common-sense when we
were sitting round the council table and the men droning folly. If she
came in it would be like a north wind clearing the air of dulness."
"Ah, Huntoon is coming this way with a cup of sack. I like that youth.
There is meat in his discourse."
"Oh--ay--_veal_," answered Peggy, scornfully.
"Hush, you naughty girl! He will hear you. Here, Huntoon. Pass the cup.
Drink all of you to the happiest day Mistress Peggy has ever known, and
may there be many more like them!"
When the noonday meal was ended, the party took up the line of march
once more, but this time Neale walked by the governor's saddle.
"It is an ugly business--a very ugly business," Brent began.
"Ay, it could scarce have turned out worse."
"So many heard the row that the tale can scarce be suppressed, and
Ellyson is full of wrath over what he calls his wrongs."
"We will advise together yonder at St. Gabriel's. Neville is ever rich
in suggestions, and this young Virginian behind us has a ready wit of
his own. We must bring the matter before the Council; but they will be
sure to see it in the same light as we."
"They may, and they may not," answered Neale. "The chief business of
councils from the beginning of the world has been to find a scapegoat
and then to send him out, as the Hebrews did theirs, loaded with the
sins of the nation."
"Nay, take it not so to heart! You did but as I should have done in
your place, and if the Council resent the escape of Ingle and fear
to involve themselves in the King's displeasure they must deal with
me as well as you. We are both in the same boat. Faith," Brent added
as they came to a swampy place, "it would be well to have an actual
boat if we come to many spots like this. It should be one of the first
pieces of work done in the province to lay a road where a Christian may
travel without losing his way or wading to his chin. Climb up behind my
saddle, and my horse shall save your heels."
Neale did as he was bid, and they waited to see how the rest would
manage. Anne was transferred to a seat behind Mistress Neville, and
Huntoon and Cornwaleys mounted the maid's donkey. Their legs were so
long and the donkey's so short that they were forced to hold their
knees half-way to their chins, and cut so sorry a figure that the
others who were safely across stood shaking their sides with laughter.
Cornwaleys, being over thirty and a man of sense, joined in the
laughter; but Romney Huntoon, being twenty and in love, turned sulky,
and walked along in would-be dignified silence in his old place at
Peggy's bridle. As he grew solemn she grew lively, and entertained
him with rambling tales of her wild doings before ever she came out
of England, how she had ridden a horse after all the grooms had given
him up, how she had stolen away from home and gone down the lane at
midnight to get her future told by an old gypsy woman.
In spite of himself Huntoon's interest kindled.
"These gypsy horoscopes have something uncannily like truth in them,"
he said. "Tell me, did the old crone predict aught about--about your
marriage?"
"Oh, ay, to be sure. What gypsy would ever get her palm crossed with
silver twice by a maiden, if she failed to promise her a husband?"
"So she described him--"
"To the length of his shoe-string and the color of his doublet."
"Hm! What said she of his looks?"
Peggy cast a malicious look at the dark curls and the clean lip and
chin beside her.
"Oh, she set him off to the top of my satisfaction! He was to be like
a Viking of old, with fair hair and mustachios like that--" and Peggy
twirled her fingers off at either side of her dimples.
"I am glad to know the manner of man you do prefer," said Romney,
stiffly, and they went on in silence for several minutes, and Mistress
Peggy quite at her ease nevertheless. Finally she broke the pause,
saying, "Do you remember what night the last was?"
"Surely I do, for I noted it on Governor Brent's order for Ingle's
arrest posted on the tavern door. 'Twas the twentieth of January."
"Ay, the twentieth; and what night was that?"
"In truth I know not. Being no Papist I keep scant account of Saints'
days."
"Nor I either for the most part; but this was a very particular night
indeed." Then, with great impressiveness, "_It was the Eve of St.
Agnes._"
"And what of that?"
"Why, 'tis on that night every maid may see her future husband,--that
is, if she have the wit to go about it the right way."
"And did you go about it the right way?"
Peggy nodded.
"And after what fashion was that?"
"Why, after dusk I went to my chamber as usual, and I took off my
garter--you must, you know, or the charm will not work. It must be the
left garter too, so I took it, and knit three knots in it, and then
with my eyes shut I said the rhyme--"
"What rhyme?"
"Stupid! You don't seem to know anything. Why, this rhyme, of course,--
"'I knit this knot, this knot I knit
To know the thing I know not yet--
That I may see
The man that shall my husband be,
Not in his best or worst array
But what he weareth every day,
That I to-morrow may him ken
From among all other men.'"
"And then did you see him?"
"No, not yet. After I had said the charm I lay down and folded my hands
like St. Agnes, and sure enough as soon as I fell asleep a young man
appeared before me. There he stood, as large as life and as clear as
day."
"Yes," said Romney, eagerly; "and what like was he?"
"Why, there's the queer thing," answered Peggy, "his mouth and his
curls and his odd-shaped nose were the image of thine."
"What is wrong with my nose? I have always thought well of it--"
"Oh, 'tis a proper nose enough. No doubt an excellent and serviceable
nose for all practical purposes; but for pure beauty it might be better
without the little hump in the middle of the bridge, and with the
nostrils set closer--but no matter! such as it is, the vision bore it
too, and the eyes were like also and the brows. There was the whole
face and figure, so like that any seeing them would have cried out,
''Tis Master Huntoon to the life.'"
"Peggy!"
"But--"
"Nay, no buts--"
"I must, for 'tis the strangest of all--_but_ his doublet was as like
as two peas to the one Captain Cornwaleys wears this morning, and his
figure was the captain's too, height and all. Now, what is a poor maid
to do under such distracting confusions?"
"Mistress Neville, you are a coquette."
Peggy raised her eyebrows till they arched like a rainbow.
"I'd rather be a tailor and make coats for the moon than fit myself to
your humors."
"Every man knows best what trade fits him; and now you have spoken of
it, the goose doth seem your proper symbol.
"Yes," Romney went on, growing more and more nettled, "the moon changes
but every quarter, while to meet the changes of your whims a man must
be on tip-toe every hour."
"Tip-toe--ah, yes! now I do recall that the vision _was_ on tip-toe and
looking first at the moon and then at me, as though he knew not which
he liked the best."
"It is my belief you never saw any such vision."
"Perhaps I was mistook. Anyway, the charm has not come true, for it
said I was to meet the man I should marry to-day, and you see for
yourself he is not here. Now my limbs are weary sitting so long; I
think I will try walking."
With this she slipped from her saddle and walked on a few steps in
advance of Romney, humming as she went,--
"'I am as I am, and so will I be;
But how that I am, none knoweth truly;
Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free,
I am as I am, and so will I be.'"
There was a peculiar quality in Peggy's voice that made it an
interpreter of her personality. It had as many changes in it as her
moods. Now it sounded like a church bell over distant meadows, now like
a child praying at its mother's knee, and then would come a sudden
break of laughter like the trill of a bobolink shooting Parthian arrows
of song as he flies.
Huntoon followed her, watching the scarlet cloak against the green
background of the pines, and the stray curls that the wind blew
backward as she walked. Neale and Cornwaleys were far behind beyond
the turn in the road. At length he could bear it no longer. They were
alone. He drew closer and whispered something in her ear.
"Indeed! And pray what of it?" answered the girl, coolly.
"I will tell you what of it," said the young man between his teeth.
"I am not to be treated as I have seen you treat those tame gallants
in the town back there. When I tell you I love you, you may refuse
the love and you may say me nay; but you shall hear me out with
respect, and you shall give me a serious answer, as the true love of an
honorable man deserves whether it be returned or no."
Peggy did not turn, but she listened. This masterful note in his voice
was a new thing. She could scarcely have told whether she liked it or
resented it--perhaps a little of both. Certainly she was not inclined
to accept it meekly or without protest. As Huntoon finished speaking,
Peggy had just bent forward a pine bough that she might pass without
stepping in the mud. A wicked impulse seized the girl, and releasing
the branch suddenly she stepped aside, and the bough struck Huntoon
sharply in the face, his cheek reddening under the blow of its stiff
needles.
In an instant Peggy was sorry for her naughty trick, and turned with an
apology on her lips; but without a word Huntoon seized her in his arms,
and kissed her passionately.
A red spot of anger showed itself in Peggy Neville's cheek. She
stopped and stamped her foot.
"How dare you?" she exclaimed.
Romney made no answer--only stood looking at her. At last he said, "I
forgive you."
This was too much.
What Peggy might have said in answer can never be set down, for at this
moment the donkey, whose rein had slipped off Huntoon's arm, finding
himself free of restraint, kicked up his heels and set off at full
gallop along the path. Huntoon started after him at his fastest pace,
whilst Peggy could not to save her life refrain from bursting into a
fit of laughter at this undignified ending of a lovers' quarrel.
As the donkey, and Huntoon following after, rushed past Brent, the
Governor's horse shied so violently into the bushes that the rider had
hard work to keep his seat. In his vexation Brent called out,--
"I would there were as many donkeys in the province with four feet as
with two. Chase him, Huntoon! Not that way!--to the left--to the left!"
Huntoon had lost sight of the donkey; but now catching the last words,
he turned to the left, following the trail of the animal's feet in the
new-fallen snow. Brent paused a moment and then started after him, for
it was no light matter to be lost in the woods, and the path the young
man had taken was an unfinished one ending in a tangle, though a side
path connected it with the main road to St. Mary's.
The fallen leaves lying thick in the forest path crackled like brown
icicles as they crisped beneath the horse's hoofs, and Brent held a
tight rein to prevent his slipping. Huntoon's pace was swifter and he
was gaining rapidly; but before he had gone fifty rods, he stopped
suddenly.
"My God!" he cried. His breath came in deep gasps, and the sweat stood
out in beads on his forehead.
"Huntoon! Huntoon! Where are you?"
"Here."
"Where's your voice, man? I can scarce hear it. And how white you are,
like one who has seen a ghost."
"I have. LOOK THERE!"
CHAPTER VIII
A CLUE
At Huntoon's exclamation, Giles Brent dashed forward still faster, and
then he too stopped short and stood at gaze, for there in the centre of
the blazed path lay the body of a dead priest, his cloak and cassock
showing black against the whiteness around, his arms outstretched as if
on a cross.
The snow lay upon his breast in delicate, ruffling drifts; above him
circled a hawk with ominous, flapping wings; around, far as eye could
reach, stretched the interminable forest. Utter solitude! Complete
isolation from humankind! Yet from that solitary figure stretched
threads of destiny which should be found twisted close about the
heartstrings of many fellow-beings.
With a shock Brent recognized in the prostrate form the Jesuit priest
whom he had left at St. Gabriel's but two days since, the same man
against whose too constant visits he had found it necessary to caution
his sister; and now to meet him _thus_!
He rushed toward the body and knelt beside it. Tearing away cloak and
cassock and hair-shirt under all, he leaned his ear above the heart.
For a full minute he listened.
"He is dead," he said at last, "and must have been dead for hours."
"You know him?"
"Ay, he is one of the Fathers at St. Inigo's. He was staying with my
sister Mary at St. Gabriel's, and probably had started on the journey
back to the Hill when this overtook him;" and Brent began rapidly to
repeat a prayer for the dead.
Huntoon stood by in silence with bowed head. When Brent had finished
Huntoon said,--
"Did he--was death natural?"
Brent shook his head gloomily. "Look," he said; and as Huntoon stooped,
he drew aside the shirt and showed a wound on the left side above the
fifth rib. The clothing below it was dark and stiff with blood. No
words were needed to tell the tale.
"It must have been done by a native," said Huntoon.
"Ay, 'twas a deed of revenge or pure malice,--either of a native or,
perhaps, of some of the Protestants. To say truth, Father Mohl had
many enemies among them. He has been a great stirrer up of dissension
'twixt Catholic and Protestant, and 'tis partly on account of him and
his brethren that Leonard Calvert is gone home to consult with Lord
Baltimore. Father Mohl had ever a sneering way with him, and to look at
him one would say he had taken it with him to the next world."
"Ay, 'tis a ghastly smile! Think you could we draw the lips more
together and close the eyelids above that horrible stare?"
"You can try. Nay--'tis vain."
"Hulloa! Hulloa! Hulla-ho!"
The distant call brought back the two men for the first time to the
thought of their comrades. Huntoon looking round saw that the donkey
had entangled his reins in the low branches of a tree near by. As he
moved toward it Brent called out,--
"Nay, leave him there! We shall have need of him. Take my horse and
go back to the women, and prepare them for what they must see. Mount
Mistress Neville on Anne's donkey, then stay you with them and my
horse, and send Neale and Cornwaleys back to help me here."
The younger man bowed and turned back as he was bidden. At the joining
of the road he saw the four grouped where he had left them, Neale and
Cornwaleys talking in low tones, and Peggy feeding nuts to a wild
squirrel half tamed by the magic of her voice.
"Come, bunny! bunny! bunny! Here's fresh nuts gathered in the woods
this fall. Be not afraid! I'm as harmless as thou. I have no gun and
could not fire it if I had. Nay, do not cock thy head and turn thy
black eye toward Captain Cornwaleys! He reserves his fire for larger
game. Why, he will not even shoot a glance at me, for all I have on my
best bib and tucker."
The Captain, who for some time had been chafing under the too pressing
demands on his power of listening made by Neale, broke away now and
drew near Peggy.
"I am honored that Mistress Neville is willing to share her attention
between me and a squirrel, or perhaps, as I seem to have the minor
share, I might better say between a squirrel and me."
"That should be set down to my modesty. I felt more equal to the task
of amusing a squirrel than Sir Thomas Cornwaleys of Cross Manor."
"And to the same cause, perchance, I am to set down the gracious
pleasure wherewith you have received the devotion of that young gallant
from Virginia who has walked by your bridle-rein since ever we left St.
Mary's."
"'Twas the Governor's orders."
"Ay, and no doubt vastly displeasing to your ladyship."
"Oh, I enjoy talking to any one; the one thing I cannot abide is
solitude. Is not that a sign of a vacant mind?"
"Rather, I should say, of a mind filled with some one person--"
"Do I look like a love-sick maid?"
"No, but that condition doth oft lie hid under quips and smiles.
A girl will pick up her skirts and go lilting over hill and dale
light-hearted, the looker-on would think, as a milk-maid, and all the
while some love-sorrow eating into her heart like a canker-worm. Now,
a man is not so. He goes about biting his thumb and scowling at every
son of Adam that speaks to his sweetheart, and, for the matter of that,
often enough scowling at his sweetheart herself, as that callow boy has
been doing all day."
"Faith, I gave him cause."
"The more fool he to let you see that your teasing had met with such
success. However, I care little how he feels, so long as you are
heart-whole; but in the name of all the gallants of Maryland I do
protest against seeing Mistress Margaret Neville, on all hands allowed
to be the most charming damsel in St. Mary's, carried off by an
interloping Virginian. Troth, if the boys don't oust him I'll enter the
lists myself."
"Truly?"
"Try me and see!"
Peggy burst out into a merry ringing laugh, suddenly interrupted by
the sight of Romney Huntoon coming toward them with white, drawn face
and set teeth.
The talk and laughter died on the lips of the two who saw him.
"Oh, what is it?" said Peggy, running to meet him. "Sure, something
dreadful hath befallen! Governor Brent--is he killed?"
"No, he is well--he sent me hither; but--there has been an accident--"
"Are you hurt, that you look so white?"
"No, no; no one you know is injured--but a stranger, a priest, has been
struck with a knife and killed."
It was Peggy's turn to grow pale now. Here she had been laughing and
lightly jesting while this tragedy was brushing her so closely with its
sable wings.
"Master Neale," Huntoon said, turning to the Councillor, "you and
Captain Cornwaleys are to follow this path till you find Governor
Brent, and help him to lift the body of the priest to the donkey's
back; Mistress Neville, you are to ride before Anne on her donkey here."
"Could I not be of use if I went too to the Governor?"
"Hast thou ever looked on death?"
"Never, to remember it. My mother died when I was a little child and my
father at sea."
"Then do not look upon that corpse yonder. I have seen a dead baby and
it looked like a waxen lily, and I have seen a man shot by an Indian's
arrow and he looked grand and stern like a marble statue, but this
priest was ghastly, horrible. No, I am sure the Governor would not wish
you to see it. Mount, and we will ride on and prepare the household at
St. Gabriel's."
When Romney had left him Giles Brent stooped over the body of the
dead priest. "My God!" he murmured, "were not things in this unhappy
colony tangled enough without this new trouble? There is a deviltry
here that must be sifted to the bottom. We must mark this tree by which
the corpse lies. The distance must be two miles from St. Gabriel's and
within ten paces of the cross trail from the main path. If there is
any clue we must follow it. There should be footsteps; but the fresh
snow has covered them whichever way they turned. Death must have been
mercifully swift from such a wound."
As if to put an end to these disconnected thoughts, he stooped and
turned the body on its side. As he did so, something fell from the
folds of the cloak. Giles Brent looked at it, studied it more closely
with a gaze of fixed amazement, and then as he heard the sound of
approaching footsteps slipped it into his pocket. But his face was
ashen as he spoke to Neale, who was in advance.
"Come, Neale, do you lift on that side and I on this, while Cornwaleys
may bind him to the saddle with the rope he will find in my saddle-bag.
So--gently there--now steady him! Cornwaleys, take the bridle and lead
on gently. Thank Heaven, the distance is short!"
"Hast thou--is there any clue?" asked Neale.
"Nay, who shall say what is a clue? Heaven forbid I should even in
thought accuse an innocent man, but as God is my judge, if the guilt
be proven the murderer shall be punished, ay, though he were mine own
brother."
Slowly the men set forward,--Neale and Cornwaleys supporting their
terrible burden between them, Brent walking behind with his horse's
bridle-rein over his arm, and his head bowed as if with a burden too
heavy to be borne.
"Who could have thought it?" he murmured. "Who could have believed it
of _him_ of all men?"
Raising his eyes, he caught sight of the little party in advance, Peggy
in her scarlet cloak and Romney by her side. The sight seemed to give
rise to new and still more painful reflections.
"Poor child," he thought, "would it were possible to punish the guilty
without bringing down shame and sorrow on the innocent as well!"
On and on the caravan moved till the last bend in the road was reached,
and there, beyond the clearing, lay the manor house of St. Gabriel's.
The sun was setting behind the hills and touching the white tips of
the snow-covered trees with flame. The smoke curled from the kitchen
chimney and the fire on the hearth of the hall shone out merrily to
greet the travellers.
Giles Brent was expected, and he rarely came alone. His sister Mary,
who had all day been regretting that he could not be present at the
investiture of Elinor's tenant, was resolved that a noble supper should
console him for the loss. Venison pasty flanked by game graced the
head and foot of the table, and hot bowls of soup simmered before the
kitchen fire.
Cecil was stationed at the window to keep watch and bring early report
of the approach of the cloaked rider on his black Flemish horse.
Already they had been seen, for Cecil and Knut were tearing across the
snowy fields, and Mary Brent and Elinor were at the door with two men
by their side. Brent's heart rose in his throat and choked him as he
recognized Christopher Neville waving his hand in joyous welcome.
Oh, treachery! And who was that beside him--Ralph Ingle? Well, he
might be of use. 'Twas as well that he had come. Ah, now Peggy had
reached the door. She was telling the story. Brent's eye never moved
from Christopher's face while it went on, and he noted with grim
satisfaction that at least the man had the grace to shudder and turn
pale. But what was this?--instead of hiding himself as he should from
the gaze of honest men, he was coming forward toward him, toward _it_!
"This is a sad business, Brent!"
"_Sad_ is not the word; 'tis a _shameful_ business."
"Ay, full of shame for the doer, and sadness for the rest of us. Can I
help in lifting the body?"
"Nay, that is for those to do who, if they loved him not, yet bore him
no malice."
Neville started. How could Brent have heard of the quarrel when he was
absent?
"Not only am I one of those, but I sought this priest last night to beg
his pardon."
"Hush!" said Brent, hoarsely, "incriminate thyself no further!"
"INCRIMINATE!"--That one word cast a lurid light upon the situation. In
an instant Neville saw the pitfalls around his path, and the habit of
facing danger had taught him the habit of self-control.
"This," he said, looking Brent full in the face, "is neither the time
nor the place for the discussion of your words and all that they do
imply. I shall hold myself ready to meet you when and where you will,
to answer any and all charges, whether they come from friend or foe."
As Neville turned on his heel he was aware for the first time that
Ralph Ingle had been standing close beside him, and of necessity
overhearing all that was said. He in turn could not fail to catch
Ingle's words addressed to Brent:
"Surely, this judgment is over hasty. I have known Sir Christopher but
one day, yet am I loath--"
"Thou loath! and pray what dost think of me? Why, I had torn my heart
out rather than believe such a thing of my friend; but justice is
justice."
"Yet mercy is mercy."
"Ay, but mercy to one is injustice to another. And this deed is so
dastardly it puts the doer beyond the pale of clemency."
"And who is the doer of the deed?" It was Mistress Calvert's voice that
spoke, and both men started.
Elinor Calvert stood there before them in her dress of white and gold.
She who had come lightly walking across the snow-covered fields,
holding her head high and bidding her heart not to beat too joyously,
seemed now like some animal decked for the sacrifice, that has been
allowed to make merry on the journey to the altar, but now must bare
its breast to the sacrificial knife.
"Who is the doer of the deed?" Even as she put the question she knew
the answer, yet she stood her ground and gazed steadfastly at the men,
whose eyes fell before hers.
Ralph Ingle looked at the earth and began to stir with his foot a brown
branch of ground-pine which had pushed its way through the snow.
Brent stroked the donkey's ears for an instant, swallowed hard,
hesitated, then spoke impulsively, "Elinor, there is no use in
attempting to hide it. The man who did that foul murder is _Christopher
Neville_."
"NEVER!"
"Ay, so I would have sworn two hours since; but tell me one thing--did
he and the priest quarrel here at St. Gabriel's last night?"
"Ay--but--"
"Nay, no buts--plain facts tell their own story with no 'buts.' Did he
or did he not start out into the night after the quarrel with Father
Mohl?"
Elinor quivered as though the knife had entered her own heart.
"Oh, I will not answer! How can I when I know every word will be
twisted to one fell purpose?"
"Elinor, what is it to thee what befalls a man whom thou didst meet but
yesterday?"
"That is false. I knew him years ago in England. Years ago he loved me
and I loved him, and we would have wedded but for--"
"But for what, Elinor?"
"For his faith."
"Ah, thou hast said the word. Now we have the thread to guide us
through this dark maze. Neville loves thee still. He follows thee to
this country, he begs me to intercede with thee to accept him as thy
tenant, and all without a word of having known thee before; not a word,
you see, Ingle, even to me, this woman's natural guardian. Doth it not
smack of deceit and treachery?"
"I cannot deny it hath that appearance, yet beware how you do wholly
commit yourself to appearances!"
"Ay, if appearances were all, but listen how the story all fits
together. Faith, I can tell it as though I had seen all. This man comes
to St. Gabriel's, and finding Mistress Calvert alone he tells her of
his love. She, like the good Catholic she is, tells him in turn that
his faith still stands between them. He swears at the fanatical priests
who stand between her and him. Is not this all true so far, Cousin?"
No response; but the silence answers him.
"Next comes a quarrel 'twixt Neville and Father Mohl, how bred I
cannot say, though doubtless this lady could tell us if she would; but,
by my guess, at her behest her lover follows the priest to ask pardon;
then--then--the rest is known to God only, but the result we see lying
before us in mute and ghastly protest at the wrong done to humanity."
"Shame, Cousin Giles, that you are so ready to think evil of your
friend! What is all this tale of thine when sifted? A tissue of what
was, and what might have been. You have shown a possible motive, but
'tis a far cry from that to proving the deed."
And what say you, then, to this? As he spoke, Brent drew from his
pocket a poniard, with a handle curiously inlaid with silver and ivory,
and cut upon it the initial "_N_" sunk in a deep circle.
Elinor's only answer was a deep groan. Drawing her cloak close round
her, she turned and fled toward the house, her head bowed like some
wild creature that had got its death-wound.
CHAPTER IX
A REQUIEM MASS
Gloom lay on St. Gabriel's. In the little chapel at the end of the hall
stood a rude bier, and on it lay the figure of Father Mohl, his hands
crossed upon his breast. Near the bier knelt Elinor Calvert, telling
her beads, but absently, as though her thoughts were far away, and
on her face such a look of utter and unspeakable grief as would have
melted a heart of stone. Her golden hair was drawn back from her pale
forehead, and her lashes fell over deep shadowy circles which sorrow
had traced on her cheek. Grief's pencil works swiftly.
Gusts of chill wind swept along the uncarpeted floor in little eddies,
and stirred the heavy folds of her black dress.
Not far from her knelt Peggy Neville, miserably ill at ease in a
ceremonial unfamiliar and unsympathetic. She was too young to throw
herself into the spirit of other people's emotions, and found comfort
only in the society of those who threw themselves into hers. In spite
of her awe in the presence of death, her thoughts would wander ever
and anon to the scenes in the forest, to Romney's words, and, shame
upon her! she could not for her life help wondering if he were looking
at her now, and if her feet showed beneath her dress as she knelt. And
all the while the young man saw her as a vision of a saint kneeling in
the depth of the shadows.
From the altar sounded Father White's voice in the solemn rhythmic
cadences of the mass, and the voices below answered in their tremulous
responses,--
_Dominus vobiscum--_
_Et cum spiritu tuo._
_Benedicamus Domine!_
_Deo gratias._
_Fidelium animæ per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace._
_Amen._
As the candle-light shone on Mary Brent's face, it marked a curious
change wrought by these few hours. The placidity had stiffened into
obstinacy, as a water-drop stiffens into an icicle. The nostrils were
slightly pinched, and the lines which bigotry draws around the mouth
were already defining themselves in dim outline. No one can determine
to believe evil of another without planting in his own soul the
seeds of deterioration. Mary Brent had no sooner said in her heart,
"Christopher Neville is a murderer," than she began to desire his
punishment, and having banished him from the circle of her sympathy,
she was fain to justify herself by seeking, and secretly wishing proof
of his guilt. From this, it was but a step to suspicion of all his
acts; and after that came uncharitableness, and hatred cloaking itself
under love of justice and pious devotion to holy Church, which had been
thus outraged in the person of its priest.
Already the dark deed enacted in the forest was working, not only on
the lives, but on the character of those among whom it had fallen.
The men and women here at St. Gabriel's were being tried in the
crucible of destiny, and none could foresee which should emerge pure
gold, and which should be utterly consumed in the fire.
Still the priest's voice sounded from the altar, and the responsive
chant rose and fell on the still air.
An awe such as had never before touched her young life stole over Peggy
Neville as she listened, and crowded out the petty vanities which had
filled her mind at first. As she looked at the bier and the priest's
body stretched upon it, she seemed to see her own future strangely
intertwined by destiny with the fate of this rigid figure. How still it
lay! Oh, if it would only move! The mass came to an end. Dead silence
fell, and lasted. Peggy felt that she could bear it no longer. She must
cry out, scream, or perhaps by one of those strange, contradictory
emotions which assail the human soul at great crises, laugh aloud
with wild, unreal hilarity. At this instant she felt a touch upon her
shoulder, and her brother's voice said in her ear, "Get thy cloak and
hood and meet me outside the door."
His voice sounded grave and ominous.
With beating heart she stole away from the circle already breaking up
into whispering groups, and, having donned her cloak with the scarlet
berries still clinging to its breast, she made her way out at a side
door, and walked hurriedly down the path till she saw her brother
waiting for her beneath the shadow of the snow-laden trees.
At sight of him her tense mood broke suddenly, and bursting into tears,
she threw herself into his arms.
"Oh, Kit! Kit! Tell me about it! Who is he? What is he to us? Why dost
thou look so white and strange?"
Christopher Neville swallowed hard, and moved his lips without
utterance.
"My heart is troubled," he said, speaking to himself rather than Peggy,
and then fell to repeating the words of the psalm: "My friends and my
neighbors have drawn near and stood against me. And they that were near
me stood afar off."
With round eyes Peggy watched him sadly, sure that he was in a fever,
and wishing she had brought her aunt's medicaments of herbs and sweet
waters from St. Mary's. "Come, Christopher," she said gently, "come
into the house. There is naught amiss--thou art walking under the
shadow of a bad dream."
For an instant he faced her in silence. Then at last his words came
out, swift and compelled as if shot from a cannon.
"Little sister," he said, "a sudden trouble has fallen on my life, and
almost the saddest part of it is that it is like to darken thine too.
I would to God," he cried with sudden bitterness, "I had never brought
thee over seas."
"Am I in thy way?"
"No! no!--rather art thou the only comfort I have to turn to."
"Then," said Peggy with the characteristic stamp of her foot, "then why
say such hard things? I am not very old and I am not very wise; but I
think--I hope--I can be trusted, and I know I love thee dearly, and
would lay down my life to serve thee."
"Faithful little heart!" he murmured.
"But tell me," she said, speaking softly, as one does to those in
trouble,--"tell me what is this dark cloud which has fallen upon thee
since thou didst come all smiles to lift me from my saddle this very
day. Surely thou didst know of nothing then."
"No, a few short hours since I would have refused to change my lot with
any man in the province,--a few short hours, yet they may suffice to
blight a life."
"For the love of God, talk no more in riddles, but tell me plainly,
what is it has changed thee so? Cheer up, dear heart, and do not talk
as if thou didst stand accused of some terrible crime!"
"_I do._"
"For shame! 'tis no time for idle jesting."
"Never were words spoke less in lightness. If thou must have plainer
speech, know that I, Christopher Neville, thy brother, stand accused of
murdering yonder priest."
"What fools utter such imbecile slander?"
"Alas, they are no fools that utter, ay, and believe it."
"Why not go straight to Governor Brent and give them the lie?"
Neville staggered as if a blow had struck him.
"Peggy--"
"Brother--"
"_It is Brent who accuses me!_"
At these words Peggy turned pale, but she never flinched. "Some
villain has his ear," she cried. "Tell me who it is; I will face him
down,--yes, I, girl though I am, will show him what it is to lie away
the character, perhaps the life, of the best man in Maryland."
"How do you know it is a lie?"
Peggy Neville laughed--a nervous, hysterical laugh; but the sound was
music in her brother's ears. There was one person, then, to whom the
idea of his being a murderer was impossible--absurd. He smiled, but he
repeated the question; "How dost thou know it is a lie?"
"I know it as I know that water runs downhill, that fire burns. Shall I
swear by these and doubt the laws that rule a soul?"
Neville looked at his sister in a sort of trance of bewilderment. Could
this be the little girl he had played with and laughed at and teased
and loved as one loves a pet and plaything,--this pale young creature,
with eyes aflame with righteous wrath, with pity on her lips, and all
her heart bursting with sympathy and tenderness? Her brother took her
hand in his with a feeling akin to reverence.
"You will never know how much you have comforted me," he said. "I did
not do it, Peggy. I did not do it. Cherish that certainty as a support
in the hard, dark days thou wilt be called to pass through."
"Waste no time in telling me what I know already as well as thou. Let
us take counsel rather, while we may. Tell me first what do they say?
What reason have they? What have they found, seen, imagined?"
"Not much, but enough; they know that I followed Father Mohl out into
the night--that he was never seen after till he was found dead in the
wood yonder."
"But how couldst thou have joined in a death struggle and brought home
no trace of conflict?"
"When I came back I was torn with brambles and stained with blood--of a
beast, I told them--but who could know if I spoke truth?"
It was characteristic of Neville to see his adversary's case more
strongly than his own.
"This is all but a series of happenings. Any one might have met with
the same disaster, and come to his death by an arrow from the bow of
one of the natives."
"It was no arrow that did the deed. It was a knife--an English knife."
"Oh, I am so glad! now surely they can trace the murderer."
Neville gave a deep groan, and leaned his head upon his arm against the
tree.
"_Peggy, the knife was mine._"
"Thine!"
"Ay; Governor Brent found it hid in the folds of the priest's cloak.
He knew it for mine. Canst thou wonder that he accuses me?"
"Does--does any one else suspect thee?"
Neville said nothing, yet his sister was answered.
"Oh, cruel! cruel!" she cried. "How could she know thee so long, and
credit any such base slander? She is a--"
"Hush! Not a word of her. Whatever she does, says, thinks, is right and
forever beyond cavil."
"Monstrous!" groaned his sister, "the man is so daft that if this woman
tells him he has committed murder he will bow his head in meek assent.
Oh, be a man, be a man, I pray thee, and give her back scorn for scorn!"
"She has shown me no scorn,--only a sad, half-sick listlessness, as
though she too had got a death-wound at my hands. It is that which has
cut me to the heart as no pride or wrath or disdain had had power to
do."
Peggy shivered. Her brother noticed it. "What a brute I am," he
murmured, "to keep thee standing here in the cold night air. 'Tis
of a piece with my selfishness. Get thee in and know that thou hast
brought something like comfort to the heart of a sorrow-stricken man.
Good-night, and God bless thee!"
"I will go in as thou bidst me, for the night air waxes cold. But
thou--what wilt thou do?"
"I do not know; I have not thought. It matters little."
"Oh, yes, it matters very little whether thou dost catch thy death of
cold!"
"Would to God I could!"
"Well, as for that, it might serve thy turn, but it would be passing
hard for me!" Here she began to cry.
"By Heavens, thou dost speak truth! Listen, little one: for thy sake I
will take care of myself; for thy sake I will fight this thing to the
bitter end. And if by any chance I conquer, thou mayst have the joy of
knowing that but for thee it never had been done."
For the first time a ring of determination, of energy, of unconscious
hope sounded in his voice.
"Now art thou brave once more," cried Peggy, raising herself on tip-toe
to look into his eyes, which shone like cut steel in the moonlight.
"Never fear but all shall come right yet!"
As she tore herself away and hurried up the steps, she saw with
amazement that Ralph Ingle was pacing up and down the cleared space
before the door of the manor-house.
Stranger still, he carried a gun.
He saluted gravely as Peggy drew near, and would fain have passed on,
but she stopped before him.
"Wherefore abroad so early?" she asked.
"By order of Governor Brent," he answered.
The words struck a chill to her soul. So Christopher, her brother
Christopher, the idol of her childhood, the revered hero of her girlish
dreams, was being _watched_, like a criminal! A quick flame of rage
rose in her heart, and drove back the numbness of despair. "How dare
they?" she whispered to herself; but she hid her thoughts, and spoke no
word further.
As she passed through the hall to reach her chamber, she saw Elinor
still kneeling in the chapel, and the hot anger rose in her stronger
than ever. Was this the pattern of perfection she had wasted so many
thoughts upon,--this woman whose faith broke at the first trial?
Oh, paltry faith! Oh, travesty on confidence!
At the foot of the stair Giles Brent and his sister Margaret stood in
low-toned conversation. As Peggy drew near, Giles started and moved
aside a little, but Margaret stretched out a warm, comforting hand.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" sobbed Peggy, as breaking away she rushed
up stairs.
"Poor child, she hath a heavy load to bear!" said Brent, looking after
her.
"Giles, thou art a fool!"
A moment ago Brent had been ready to take his sister into his
confidence; but her frank speech angered him. Her great mistake lay in
answering appeals for sympathy with advice.
"Margaret, thou art too prone to think that wisdom will die with thee.
It is time thou didst take to heart the fact that I am Governor of this
province, and responsible to God and Calvert alone for my ruling."
"The more the pity that so great a trust is fallen to so little sense."
"Thou hast a shrewd tongue, Margaret, and I have felt its lash often;
but I think thou mightst spare it to-day. Surely, I have enough to try
me."
"Ay, without conjuring up new troubles of thine own imagining."
"'Tis easy said, but hath little meaning. Is the murder of yonder
priest of my own imagining?"
"No."
"Is Neville's knife falling from his garments my own imagining?"
"No."
"Then where comes in the point of thy words?"
"I mean that thou hast walked as fast to meet this trouble as thou
shouldst have walked away from it. Was any with thee when thou didst
find the knife?"
"No, 'twas between the going of Huntoon and the coming of the others."
"And didst show it to Neale or Cornwaleys?"
"No--I was half stunned and walked on in silence; but when Neville came
to meet me I was maddened by his impudent boldness, and I charged him
with the crime then and there."
"Were you two alone?"
"Ay, but for Ralph Ingle and Elinor."
"But for them! As well tell a secret to two hundred as to two. No flies
get through a shut door; but once open, it may as well be kept so, and
let them in and out at will. Therefore, as I said at the beginning,
thou art a fool."
"Thinkst thou I would defeat justice, and make myself sharer in such a
guilty secret as that?"
"I think thou art first of all Governor of this province, wherein the
chief danger lies in the hatred that Catholic and Protestant have for
each other. Now, once 'tis known,--nay, suspected, since for my single
self I believe it not, though I own the proof is strong,--but once, as
I say, let it be suspected that a Protestant hath murdered a Catholic,
and then all the dogs of war are loosed at once. How can it be that
thou who hadst the wit to deal with Ingle shouldst so have lost thy
head here?"
Brent was irritated by the explicitness of his sister's explanation,
as a deaf person is irritated by a tone a shade louder than necessary.
Really, he could take in her meaning without having it lined out to him
as if he were a schoolboy.
"Margaret, I have heard thee through because thou art my sister, and
because thou hast in times past been a faithful counsellor; but in this
I will be my own master, and I am in no humor to submit to orders from
thee. Therefore say no more."
"So be it, then, Brother! Thy folly be on thine own head; but bear in
mind that folly ofttimes claims a more usurious interest than sin. I go
back to Kent Fort at daylight, and shall do my best to quell the rising
discontent; but I know not what will follow the news of the arrest of
a Protestant, especially of such a Protestant,--a man like Christopher
Neville, loved and trusted of all men."
"There, Margaret, thou hast turned the knife in the wound as thou hast
a trick of doing. This is the very root of bitterness in my heart. I
too loved and trusted this man, and he hath betrayed me. He deceived me
about Elinor, whom it seems he hath known and loved for years back. He
deceived me about his wealth, letting me believe he had need to work
at Cecil Point, when in truth he has lands of value in England. And
now worst of all he has betrayed my hospitality by this unpardonable
villainy."
"Enough of this, Giles! It is useless for thee and me to argue this
matter, wherein we cannot see alike. Only do not thou deceive thyself
with talk of statecraft or public duty; these may be in thy mind, but
there is somewhat under them,--thou art jealous--"
Giles Brent started as if a lash had struck him.
"_I_--jealous!"
"Yes, Giles, the love of long ago still lives in thy memory."
"And what harm if it do?"
"No harm save as it drives thee to injustice. Beware! and trust not thy
judgment when thy heart holds the balance."
"Good-bye!" said Giles Brent, and turned upon his heel.
CHAPTER X
THE ORDEAL BY TOUCH
The second day after the murder had come, and still Father Mohl's body
lay in the centre of the great hall, the inscrutable smile still on his
lips, the fringe of hair streaked over the high, pale forehead. The
candles at his head and feet guttered and dripped in their sockets and
opposed their yellow flame to the grayness of the January day which
seemed to be peering in curiously at the scene in the hall, where all
the household of St. Gabriel's were gathered to watch the final test of
Christopher Neville's guilt or innocence.
The dwellers by Chesapeake Bay two hundred and fifty years ago had
not banished the influence of the supernatural from the conduct of
life in public or private affairs. If their easy toleration prevented
their taking satisfaction in the witch-burning practised by their
contemporaries in Massachusetts, they yet found nothing incredible in
witchcraft, for they too saw ghosts and felt the malign influence of
the evil eye.
To such a generation it was quite natural that a murderer should be
arraigned before the dead as well as the living.
"If the vile actors of the heinous deed
Near the dead body happily be brought,
Oft hath't been proved the breathless corpse will bleed."
It was a test based half on superstition, half on deep knowledge of
human nature; for how indeed could a murderer, brought face to face
with the still accusation in his victim's rigid form, fail to betray
himself before the hostile or coldly neutral eyes of the witnesses. And
as for the corpse showing signs of recognition of the assassin, why,
there were so many ready to swear that they had known that to happen
that it would have been flat scepticism to doubt it.
So the household of St. Gabriel's waited for Neville and his guard to
enter the room, a deep silence hanging over all.
Giles Brent, from his end of the long table, sat gazing at his sister,
and thinking how strangely her smooth, round face and domestic bearing
contrasted with the grim scene around her. It was as if some brown
thrush had been caught up from its nest in the bushes by the wind of
destiny, and suddenly enveloped in the black cloud of a tornado.
Mary Brent kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the portrait of Lord
Baltimore, painted by Van Dyck, and hanging on the wall on the turn of
the stairs.
She studied every detail of his costume,--the small clothes of blue
velvet, coat embroidered in gold, and doublet embroidered in silver,
the open sleeves with their azure lining, the breastplate of blue
inlaid with gold, and the sword-hilt studded with jewels, the powdered
wig that topped the whole, and the cocked hat, its flap looped and held
back with brilliants, which shone bright as real gems.
These seemed real while the figures around her receded from her sight
dim and blurred, wavering like figures in a dream. There was Mistress
Calvert on the settle below the bend of the stairs. Was she really
Elinor Calvert, or a corpse like the one which lay scarcely more white
in the middle of the room?
Elinor herself was almost as doubtful as her cousin whether she really
lived and breathed. It seemed rather as though she had already tasted
the bitterness of death, and now moved about, a pale, miserable ghost
in a land where all was ghastly and miserable. Even Cecil seemed
unreal, and that worried her more than all the rest. In the last three
days the touch of those little arms had in some way lost its power
to comfort, and the childish presence had grown irksome because
it forbade her giving way to the bursts of wild weeping which had
alternated with stony despair.
Just now Cecil was pressing close to her side and whispering in her
ear,--
"Mamma, did Thir Chrithtopher Neville kill the priest? Dost thou think
he did it?"
"Hush, Cecil!"
"But did he?"
"I know not."
"Father White thinks he did it."
Silence on Elinor's part.
"And Couthin Giles thinks so."
Still silence.
"And Couthin Mary thinks so; but I do not."
"And why?"
"Because he promised me a bow and arrowth and he knew thou wouldst not
let me take a gift from a murderer."
The quick stab of the word was intolerable. Elinor thrust the child
away from her side with a swift, tragic gesture; then, at sight of
the angry flush in his cheeks and the grieved wonder in his eyes, she
caught him to her heart again close, and bowed her head over his curls.
The only person who caught the meaning of the action was Peggy Neville,
who sat in a corner a little back of the Governor's chair. Heart reads
heart in crises like these, and sympathy is second sight. Her first
feeling was a quick thrill and a desire to run across the room and
kiss that cold proud face with the swollen eyelids. Then the blood of
the Nevilles, proud every whit as that of the Calverts, surged angrily
back to her heart. "She to dare to doubt him! Why, nobody thinks great
things of me, but I would never desert any one that I cared even the
least little bit about. I'd stick all the closer when people turned
against him, and as for evidence, what is the use of being a woman if
you are going to be influenced by such things as that!"
Oh, little Peggy! women do not own the only minds superior to evidence.
From across the hall a young man is watching every expression of your
face, feeling sure that your brother is innocent because you think
him so--confident that Governor Brent is a cold, hard man, eager to
believe evil of a friend, and vowing that as for him, Romney Huntoon,
his sword, his honor, his life itself are at the service of Christopher
Neville, with whom he has scarcely spoken, and of Christopher's sister
Peggy whom he has known for a matter of ten days.
A silence deeper than before falls on the company as the tramp of
feet is heard at the door and Neville enters between two guards. The
Coroner's inquest is formed after the fashion of the day, Giles Brent
as Chief-Justice and Chief Coroner of the province, under that charter
which in Maryland invested the governor with the _regia potestas_, on
the platform at the end of the hall.
Associated with him by courtesy is the lady of the manor, while on
either side are ranged Councillors Neale and Cornwaleys. All face the
central figure stretched rigid on the bier in the middle of the hall,
and as the prisoner walks the length of the room that lies between him
and the bier, all eyes are fixed upon him. To each person present his
bearing denotes a different thing. It is not beauty alone that is in
the eye of the gazer.
To Peggy Neville that bearing speaks lofty consciousness of innocence.
To Mary Brent it swaggers with the effrontery of brazen guilt.
To Giles Brent the face is an impenetrable mask.
To Elinor Calvert--but how describe the emotions that surge through her
soul, each obliterating the former like waves on a beach of sand!
Her first feeling, as she watched Neville stride up the room, was a
thrill of pride in his imperious personality as he towered taller by
a head than his guard, and in his bearing outranking all present in
courtliness.
Then came a longing to speak out before them all and claim him for her
true love; then, as her glance travelled upward to that pale set face,
the deadly chill of doubt and distrust struck cold upon her heart, and
she bowed her head upon her hands.
When she awoke to consciousness of what was passing around she heard
the voice of Giles Brent saying,--
"That all here present may understand the business which is going
forward, let me first set forth my duties under the law. 'A coroner of
our lord the King,' says the statute, 'shall go to the places where any
be slain, and shall summon the honest men of the neighborhood, and of
them shall inquire what they know touching the death; and if any person
is said to be guilty of the murder he shall be brought before the
coroner and his inquest, and shall be put upon his defence that he may,
if he can, purge himself of the charge.'"
"Oh, dear, how Giles doth love form! I believe he would see us all hung
if he might pronounce sentence in Latin." Elinor's foot kept time to
her angry thoughts, and that so loud that it caught Brent's ear and
brought a frown to his brow.
"Christopher Neville, you stand accused of a dastardly crime,--the
murder of Andrew Mohl, a priest of the Jesuit order, who lies here
before us, and who is known to have come to his death on the night of
January twentieth.
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