by Howard Pyle
“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 th
ey 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.