by Howard Pyle
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 hat
h 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?”