The Old Dominion

by Mary Johnston

  *CHAPTER XXXVII*

  *VALE*

  The overseer knocked the ashes from his pipe and stuck it in his belt."The master," he said curtly, getting to his feet as three cloakedfigures, followed by a negro bearing a torch, came up the hillside andinto the waste of stones beneath the crags. Advancing to meet them, hetook the torch from Regulus's hand and fired a mass of dead and leaflessvine depending from the cliff. In the bright light which sprang up,filling the rocky chamber and burnishing the face of the crags into thesemblance of a cataract of fire, the parties to the interview gazed atone another in silence.

  Colonel Verney was the first to speak. "I am sorry to see that you arewounded," he said gravely.

  "I thank you, sir,--it is nothing."

  The Colonel walked the length of the plateau twice, then came back tohis prisoner's side. "My daughter has told me all," he said somewhathuskily. "That you and the Susquehannock sought for her and found her;that you fought for her bravely more than once; that after the Indianwas slain you guided and protected her through the forest; that you havein all things borne yourself towards her faithfully and reverently, notinjuring her by word, thought or deed. My daughter is very dear tome--dearer than life. I am not ungrateful. I thank you very heartily."

  "Mistress Patricia Verney is dear to me also," said Sir Charles, comingforward to stand beside his kinsman. "I too thank the man who restoresher to her friends--to her lover."

  "And I would to God," said the third figure, advancing, "that we couldsave the brave man to whom so much is owed. If I were Governor ofVirginia--"

  "You could do naught, Carrington," broke in the Colonel impatiently."The man is convict--outside the pale! A convict, and the head of anOliverian plot! Scarce the King himself could pardon him! And if hedid, how long d' ye think the walls of the gaol at Jamestown would keephim from the rabble--and the nearest tree? No, no, William Berkeleydoes but his duty. And yet--and yet--"

  He began to pace the rocks again, frowning heavily, and pulling at thecurls of his periwig. "You are a brave man," he said at last, stoppingbefore Landless and speaking with energy, "and from my soul I wish Icould save you. I would gladly overlook all that is over and done with,would gladly free you, aid you, help you, so far as might be, toretrieve your past--but I cannot. My hands are tied; it isimpossible--you must see for yourself that it is impossible."

  "None can see that so clearly as myself, Colonel Verney," Landless saidsteadily. "I thank you for the will none the less."

  "To take you back with me," the other continued, beginning to stride upand down again, "is to take you back, bound, to certain death. Andthere is but one alternative--to leave you here in the wilderness. Yourpresence here is known only to those upon whose discretion I can depend.They would hold their tongues, and none need ever be the wiser. But theSettlements will be barred to you forever, and hundreds of leaguesstretch between this spot and the Dutch or the New Englanders.Moreover, your description hath been sent to the authorities of eachcolony. And you are wounded, and winter is at hand. It may be but achoice of deaths! I would to God there were some other way--but thereis none! You must choose."

  In the dead silence that ensued the Colonel moved back to the side ofthe Surveyor-General, and the two stood, thoughtfully regardant of theprisoner. The light from the partially consumed vines beginning towane, the overseer motioned to Regulus to collect and apply his torch toa quantity of the fagots with which the ground was strewn. The negroobeyed, and stood behind the light flame and curling smoke which he hadevoked, like the genie of an Arabian tale. Sir Charles, left standing inthe centre of the rocky chamber, hesitated a moment, then walked withhis usual languid grace over to where Landless leaned against a boulder,his eyes, shaded by his hand, fixed upon the ground.

  "Whichever you choose--Scylla or Charybdis--" said Sir Charles in hismost dulcet tones, "this is probably the last time you and I will everspeak together. There have been passages between us in the past, which,in the light of after event, I cannot but regret. You have justrendered me an inestimable service. I have learnt, too, that you savedmy life the night of the storming of the Manor House. I beg toapologize to you, sir, for any offense I may have given you by word ordeed." And he held out his hand with his most courtly smile.

  "It becomes a dying man to be in charity with the world he leaves," saidLandless, somewhat coldly, but with a smile too, "and so I do that whichI never thought to do," and he touched the other's fingers with his own.

  Sir Charles looked at him curiously. "You make a good enemy," he saidlightly. "Had it not been predestined that we were to hate each other,I could find it in my heart to desire you for a friend. You remain inthe forest, I dare swear?"

  "Yes," answered Landless, with his eyes upon the light in the gladebelow. "I choose the easier fate."

  "The easier for all concerned," said the other with a peculiarintonation.

  Landless glanced at him keenly, but the courtier face and theinscrutable smile told nothing. "The easier for myself, whom alone itconcerneth," said Landless sternly.

  Dragging himself up by the rock behind him, he turned to the two eldermen. "I have decided, Colonel Verney," he said slowly, "I will stayhere, an it please you."

  "You shall have all that we can leave you," said the Colonel eagerly andwith some emotion. "Ammunition in plenty, food, blankets, an axe--it'slittle enough I can do, God knows, but I do that little most willingly."

  "Again I thank you," said Landless wearily.

  Sir Charles caught the inflection. "You stand in need of rest," he saidcourteously, "and, this matter settled, our farther intrusion upon youis as unnecessary as it must be unwelcome. Had we not best descend,gentlemen?"

  "Ay," said the Colonel. "We have done all we could." Then, toLandless, "With the moonrise we drop down the river--from out your sightforever. I have told you frankly there is no hope for you amongst yourkind in the world to which we return. I believe there to be none. Buthave you thought of what we must needs leave you to? Humanly speaking,it is death, and death alone, in the winter forest."

  "I have thought," said Landless.

  "From my soul I wish that some miracle may occur to save you yet!"

  "An ill wish!" said the other, smiling, "with but little chance,however, of its fulfillment."

  "I fear not," said the Colonel with something like a groan, "but I wishit, nevertheless. Here is my hand, and with it my heartfelt thanks foryour service to my daughter. And I wish you to believe that I deeplydeplore your fate, and that I would have saved you if I could."

  "I believe it," Landless said simply.

  The Colonel took and wrung his hand, then turned sharply away, andbeckoning the overseer to follow, strode out of the circle of rocks.

  Sir Charles raised his feathered hat. "We have been foes," he said,"but the strife is over--and when all is said, we are both Englishmen.I trust we bear each other no ill will."

  "I bear none," said Landless.

  Sir Charles, his eyes still fixed upon the pale quiet of the other'sface, passed out of the opening between the rocks, and his place wastaken by the Surveyor-General.

  "I would have saved you if I could," he said in a low and troubledvoice. "I bow to a brave man and a gallant gentleman," and he too wasgone.

  In the glade below, the movement, the laughter and the song sankgradually into silence as the gentlemen adventurers, the rangers, Indianguides, and servants composing the rescuing party threw themselves down,one by one, beside the blazing fires for a short rest before moonriseand the long pull down the river.

  Among the crags, high above the twinkling watch-fires and the wash ofthe dark river, there was the stillness of the stars, of the white frostand the bare cliffs. In the northern heavens played a soft light, andnow and then a star shot. The man who marked its trail across thestudded skies thought of himself as of one as far withdrawn as it fromthe world of lower lights in the forest at his feet. Alr
eady he felt aprescience of the loneliness of the morrow, and the morrow, and themorrow, of the slow drift of the days in the waning forest, the hopelessnights, the terror of that great solitude--and felt, too, a feverishdesire to hasten that approach, to embrace that which was to behenceforth bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. He wished for theclash of oars in the dark stream below and for the rise of the moonwhich was to shine coldly down upon him, companionless, immerged in thatvast fortress from which he might never hope to emerge.

  The sound of cautious footsteps among the rocks brought his sick andwandering fancy back to the present. Raising himself upon his elbow andpeering intently into the darkness, he made out two figures, one talland large, the other much slighter, advancing towards him. Presentlythe larger figure stopped short, and, seating itself upon a flat rock atthe brink of the hill, turned its face towards the fires in the woodsbelow. The other came on lightly and hurriedly--another moment, andrising to his knees, he clasped her in his arms and laid his head uponher bosom.

  "I never thought to see you again," he said at last.

  "I made Regulus bring me," she answered. "The others do not know--theythink me asleep."

  She spoke in a low, even, monotonous voice, and the hand which she laidupon his forehead was like marble. "My heart is dead, I think," shesaid. "I wish my body were so too."

  He drew her closer to him and covered her face and hands with kisses."My love, my lady," he said. "My white rose, my woodland dove!"

  She clung to him, trembling. "Down there I was going mad," shewhispered. "But now--now--I feel as though I could weep." He felt hertears upon his face, but in a moment she was calm again. "Do youremember the bird we found the other day, all numbed with cold?" shesaid. "It had been gay and free and light of heart, but it had notstrength to flutter when I took it in my hands and tried to warm it--andcould not. I am like that bird. The world is very gray and cold, andmy heart--it will never be warm again."

  "God comfort you," he said brokenly.

  "They have told me that at moonrise we leave this place--and you. Theysay that it is all they can do for you--to leave you here. All!--Oh, myGod!"

  "They have done what they could," he said gravely. "I recognize that.And I wish you to do so too, sweetheart."

  She looked at him wildly. "I have been silent," she said, pressing herclasped hands against her bosom. "I have not told them. I have obeyedwhat I read in your eyes. But was it well? Oh, my dear, let me speak!"

  He took her hands from her breast and laid them against his own. "No,"he said with a smile, "I love you too well for that."

  From the woods across the river came the crying of wolves, then asilence as of the grave; then a whisper arose in the long dry grass andthe leafless vines, and a cold breeze lifted the hair from theirforeheads. The whisper grew into a murmur, prolonged and deep, a soundas of a distant cataract, or of the dash of surf upon a far awayshore--the voice of the wind in the world of trees. A star shot,leaving a stream of white fire to fade out of the dark blue sky. Fromthe forest came again the cry of the wolves. In the camp below thereseemed some stir, and the figure seated on the rock turned its headtowards them and lifted a warning hand.

  "You must go," said Landless. "It was madness for you to venture here.See, the light is growing in the east."

  With a low, desolate moaning sound she wrung the hands he released andraised her face to his. He kissed her upon the brow, the eyes and themouth. "Good-by, my life, my love, my heart," he said. "We were happyfor an hour. Good-by!"

  "I will be brave," she answered. "I will live my life out. I will prayto God. And, Godfrey, I will be ever true to you. I shall never seeyou again, my dear, never hear of you more, never know till my latestday whether you are of this world still, or whether you have waited forme a long time, up there beyond those lights. If it--if death--shouldcome soon, wait for me--beyond--in perfect trust, my dear, for I willcome to you--I will come to you as I am, Godfrey."

  He bowed his face upon her hands.

  The breeze freshened, and the sound of the surf became the sound ofbreakers. In the east the pale light strengthened. The figure belowthem stood up and beckoned.

  "The moon is coming," said Patricia. "Once before I watched for it--interror, with pride and anger in my heart. Then, when I thought of you,I hated you. It is strange to think of that now. Kiss me good-by."

  "I too will be strong," he said. "I will await the pleasure of theLord. Until His good time, my bride!"

  Rising to his feet he held her in his arms, then kissed her upon thelips and put her gently from him. For a moment she stood like a statue,then with a lifted face and hands clasped at her bosom, she turned, andslowly, but without a backward look, left the circle of rocks. Throughthe opening he saw the slave come up to her, and saw her motion to himto fall behind--another moment, and both dark figures had sunk below thebrow of the hill.

  Stronger and stronger blew the wind, louder and louder swelled the voiceof the forest. Below, the wash of the river in its reeds, the dullgroaning of branch grating against branch, the fall of leaf and acorn,the loud sighing of the pines, the cry of the owl, the panther and thewolf--above, the vast dome of the heavens and the fading stars. Aneffulgence in the oast: a silver crest, like the white rim of a giantwave, upon the eastern hills; a pale splendor mounting slowly and calmlyupward--a dead world,--all her passion, all her pain, all toil andstrife over and done with,--shining down upon a sadder earth.

  From beneath the shadowy banks there shot out into the middle of thebroad moonlit stream a long canoe, followed by a second and a third, andturning, went swiftly down that long, bright, shimmering, rippling path.

  In the last and smallest of the three boats a man rose from his seat inthe stern, and with his eyes upon the line of moon-whitened cliffs abovehim, raised his plumed hat with a courteous gesture, then bent and spoketo a cloaked and hooded figure sitting, still and silent, between himand a burlier form. This canoe was rowed by negroes, and as they rowedthey sang. The wild chant--half dirge, half frenzy--that they raised wassuited to that waste which they were leaving.

  The black lines upon the silver flood became mere dots, and the wailingnotes came up the stream faintly and more faintly still. For a whilethe echoes rolled among the folded hills and the tall gray crags, but atlength they died away forever.

  Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.