by Howard Pyle
“Father White was so pleased that the sacred vessels were untouched that he fell on his knees, giving thanks as though the whole affair were a great mercy; and for me, to tell the truth, when I found the ducks I did shoot for you were still there, I heeded no other loss.”
Elinor came nearer to a smile than the last month had witnessed. There was consolation in knowing that there was still some one to whom she was first, whose only thought was the gratification of her tastes and fancies.
“They are in the nick of time,” she said, “to garnish our supper to-night, when I do expect my cousin, Margaret Brent, who comes to spend some time under my roof. Perhaps you will join us.”
“Thanks, fair hostess; but Mistress Margaret Brent and I agree not as well as I and her brother and sister. Besides, I did promise the Governor to be back this night at St. Gabriel’s.”
“Master Ingle?”
“Yes, Cecil.”
“Will you pass by the road where Father Mohl was murdered?”
Ingle started. He loved not ghostly thoughts nor sad memories.
“Not I,” he said hastily; “but by the main road.”
“I am sorry.”
“Why?”
“I wanted so much to have you look in the branches of the tree and see if by chance you saw any scrap of cloth that did look like the cloaking of a witch.”
“Hush, Cecil!” cried Elinor, clasping her hands over the boy’s mouth. “Drop no hint that might spread another calumny. We who are suffering from that dread scourge should see to it that we lay not the lash to the back of another. Whoever the guilty one is, we must leave him to God, and I believe in my heart his suffering is greater than mine, or than any that ever Christopher Neville knew.”
“Think you all souls are as sensitive as thine?” asked Ingle, gazing with reverence into the face so near and yet so infinitely far away.
“I know not; but I can conceive no nature so base that it would not writhe to see its just censure borne by another; and to be so sunk in sin as to feel nothing, — why, that would be most pitiable of all.”
“It would,” answered Ingle, and stood musing a moment; then he moved slowly away, walking backward that he might keep Elinor in view till the last. “Good-bye,” he said finally, and turning strode hastily toward the gate nearest St. Gabriel’s.
Elinor stood long in the doorway gazing after him, and then when he had quite vanished, gazing on into vacancy like one who sees the unseen and holds converse with spirits.
“Come, Cecil,” she said at last, shaking off her lethargy with an effort, “fetch a pitcher, and we will go down to the Governor’s Spring and draw water fresher than that which flows in our well.”
Nothing loath, Cecil slipped one hand in his mother’s and with the other swung the earthen pitcher to and fro, to the imminent risk of its brown nose.
When they reached the spring the two seated themselves on the stone curb with which by Calvert’s orders the spring had been walled about. From the gravelly bank above, a group of tiny rivulets tumbled over each other in a laughing cascade. Held for a moment in the stone basin, they wandered onward to water the dell shaded by its thick growth of sycamores, elms, and holly-trees.
Spring was misting all the foliage with green, not the rich verdure of summer, but a tender yellow, deepening here and there into the full green glory of unfolded leaves.
Cecil leaned far over the curb, and laughed at his reflection in the spring.
“Do thou lean too, Mother, with thy cheek near mine, that I may thee if thou dotht in truth look ath much like me ath folk say.”
As he spoke Cecil gave a little tug at his mother’s sleeve and drew her to the margin, where she too stooped and looked down smiling at the golden curls and rosy cheeks of her boy looking up at her from the water.
An instant later she caught another reflection, the face of a red man peering from the bushes over her shoulder. With an inward start she realized that they were on a by-path and beyond call of help.
“Come, Cecil,” she cried, striving to speak lightly, though she was conscious that her voice shook. “Pick up thy pitcher, for we must be going. Make haste, too, lest Cousin Margaret be at the house before us.”
“Nay, Mother, ‘tith tho fair beautiful here,” began Cecil, turning toward his mother with pleading in his voice.
As he turned, his eyes too caught the Indian’s face even as it was withdrawn into the shadow.
“Why, ’tis the same native I did see on the wharf—”
“Never mind, Cecil, who or what it is, but make good speed for home and I will follow. There, give me the pitcher. Now, run!”
They reached the cottage door panting and out of breath just as Margaret Brent was dismounting from her donkey.
Elinor ran on still faster to greet her. It was the first time they had met since the midnight mass at St. Gabriel’s. The older woman took her in her arms.
“So you could not go on living with Mary? Neither could I. She is a good woman, better belike than either you or I, yet — well, different. And when she has once made her decision, angels and archangels could not move her. Never mind, we must win the fight without her.”
“Oh, Margaret, do you think there is any ray of light?”
“Foolish child, waste no energy in wondering when light will come; but stumble on in the darkness as best you may. I have several scouts from Kent Fort scouring the trail between St. Mary’s and St. Gabriel’s. So far they have met with little success, except for one trifle, — one tiny straw, — yet it may show the set of the wind.”
“What? Oh, what?”
“Why, Master Halfehead found by the side of the path, on the low bough of a bush not ten paces from where the priest’s body hung, the tag of a point such as men use to lace hose and breeches together. It had a bit of the green point hanging to it still.”
“But any might have worn that.”
“Not such a tag as this. It was made of wrought gold and had an emerald brilliant set at the tip’s end. That tiny green gem must be our guiding star.”
“But how to follow it?”
“Listen! where there is one point there are two, and each point has two tags; therefore, somewhere in this province, there must be three tags of wrought gold with a tiny emerald at the tip. It is our business to find them.”
“But if we find them, what then? Master Huntoon or Giles Brent or one of your scouts might have dropped this.”
“Nay, I’d stake my life that if we find the tag we find the murderer—”
“What gives you such assurance?”
“Why, ’tis clear as day. The point was of stout ribbon, somewhat broader than the ordinary lacing. Now that could have been torn off only by some one running and not without the knowledge of the runner. Being of some value, it was well worth picking up or going back to search for, unless the runner had some reason for haste which made him willing to sacrifice the tag rather than stay to look for it.”
“Oh, Margaret, how many shrewd ideas thou hast! Would I had a tithe of them!”
“Ideas come with wrinkles, my dear, and are bought at a cost of years beyond their value. As for shrewdness, ’tis a mean virtue at best, and not to be compared with warmth of heart like thine, that draws all toward thee like bees to the red clover. Yet shrewdness has its value. Therefore am I now full of interest in talk of points and lacings with every man I meet, and I leave not off the subject till I have learned with what manner of points the man and his brothers and his cousins and his wife’s relatives do lace together hose and breeches. There, that is the whole of my budget of news.”
“And thou art an angel to bring it; but having still some human nature, thou must needs eat, and Bride has set out the table with our best linen in honor of thy coming, and has cooked some rare ducks which Master Ingle did bring to the door this morning.”
“Does Ralph Ingle come here often?”
“Why, yes and no. Never to stay long, yet often in going and coming for a brief converse at th
e door.”
“Dost thou like him?”
“Faith, Margaret, I think I have no place in my heart warm enough for liking, save of old friends; but Cecil is overjoyed to see him, and Father White oft sends him here of an errand.”
“’Tis easy to see why.”
“Yes, thou art shrewd as ever, Margaret. Father White would be glad to see me wed now that he has returned to the bosom of Holy Church after long wandering. He accompanies the Father on his missions, and renders much service as interpreter. Ingle himself has given up all thought of marriage, but would fain be our true friend, and asked me this morning to consider of him as a tenant at Cecil Manor.”
“Be thine own tenant, Cousin. Trust me, ’tis safer.”
“Ay, so I think, and so I have decided. I am very ignorant, but the manor cannot be ready for habitation till next year, and ere a year is over I hope to learn much.”
“And I will help thee. Count upon me. Ah, Cecil, how fares it with thee?”
“I do well, Couthin Margaret, yet I like not St. Mary’s as well as St. Gabriel’s, and in the summer ‘twill be worth.”
“In the summer thou and thy mother are to come to me at Kent Island. What fine breeches thou dost wear, Cecil!”
“Ay, they are my best, and donned for thee.”
“And with such pretty points, knowst thou any other that wears points as fine?”
“Why, Couthin Giles hath points of azure silk with tags of silver, and Counthillor Neale wears rich ribbon points tipped with crystal, and the other day I saw an Indian, and on his blanket was fastened a single point of green silk, and — what think you? — the tag was of wrought gold with an emerald in the end. It made me laugh to see it worn like that. Oh, and, Mother, ’twas the same Indian we saw to-day in the butheth by the Governor’s Spring. ‘Twath that I strove to tell thee, but thou wouldtht not hear.”
The two women looked at each other and turned pale.
“This Indian — who was he — did ever you see him before?”
“Nay, ’twas on the wharf, and he was selling tobacco and shells; none knew him, for I asked.”
“Margaret, oh, Margaret, surely now we have found the guilty man.”
“Not so fast, Elinor! The Indian got that point of a white man. The question is, was it before or after the murder.”
The smile faded out of Elinor Calvert’s face, and she drew a deep sigh.
“Only another blind lead,” she murmured.
“Only another link in the chain,” said Margaret. “Be of good cheer. You and I are not women to fail in an undertaking into which we have put our whole hearts. Depend upon it, we shall trace the owner of the emerald tag yet.”
CHAPTER XIX. THE ROLLING YEAR
“IS HE BETTER to-day?”
“Better in body; but for the mind I can see little betterment.”
Elizabeth sighed at her husband’s words. Months had gone by since Christopher Neville was borne into the house on his litter. Winter had thawed into spring, spring had bourgeoned and bloomed itself into summer, and summer had dropped its green mantle and taken on the dusky sadness of autumn with its intervals of Indian summer’s hazy glory, and now winter was here again. Not last year’s icy winter with the cruel chill of the north bearing down on the unpreparedness of the south; but a genial, soft, out-of-doors winter with roses blooming to deck the burial of the old year and welcome the birth of the new, to hearten the struggling and revive the sick.
“Surely,” they said, “this weather must put new life into Neville.”
It was only in the inner circle that they named him. To the outer world he was “the guest,” or when need was, “Master John.” Often when alone Huntoon asked himself what would happen if Brent caught wind of Neville’s being alive, and made requisition upon Berkeley for his return. It would make an awkward entanglement, Huntoon admitted; but he vowed to himself that there should be a stiff fight before the prisoner was taken from Romney, and those who knew Huntoon’s character and the look of his upper lip would have been slow to undertake the capture.
In the first months under the doctor’s skilful treatment, the invalid had gained rapidly, and the household rejoiced. Then Nature cried a halt. The color came back to the pallid cheeks, strength to the limbs, but the old light in the eyes never returned. A lassitude marked all motions. A gentle thoughtfulness showed itself in word and deed; but they were as the words and deeds of a child dealing with the present alone. The blow from the bowsprit or the shock of the water or both together, falling on nerves so terribly overwrought, had unseated reason and dethroned memory, at least made a gap which the wandering mind was powerless to fill.
Neville dwelt much in the world of his childhood, fancied himself riding along English lanes, and pulling briar and eglantine in the valleys of Surrey and Somerset with Peggy by his side. Then his imagination led to a beautiful golden-haired girl who went robed in green holding herself like some stately palm.
He remembered watching her walking over close-cropped lawn, and dancing galliards on polished floors. It seemed to him that he had loved her in that strange far away world, and he could recall vaguely a pang of regret when he heard that she was married. Then a blank and nothing more till he found himself here in this hospitable home, with Peggy still beside him ministering to him without ceasing, and the circle of friendly faces about. He knew neither curiosity nor sadness. It was well with him, and he asked nothing but to stay as he was.
“That is the worst of the case,” said Master Huntoon to his wife. “If Neville were discontented or unhappy, it would show that there was some half-conscious memory at work in his mind; as it is, I have little hope. And such a man! Faith, Brent must have been mad to believe anything evil of that broad, open brow. I have seen many criminals in my time, Betty, and I know the look of them; but there is another look — the look of a man who might commit a crime if the motive were strong enough — I know that too; and then there is yet another face that God keeps for the man who is to play a man’s part in the world, to do and dare and bear bravely the worst Fate can lay upon him, and that is the face of Christopher Neville.”
“Alas that his mind should have died before the body!”
“Nay, Betty, let us not give it up so easily. Memory may be gone and judgment even, and yet the vital spark linger. Thought is the breath of the soul. While that lasts there is life, and Christopher’s thought is as beautiful and as pure as the heaven above us.”
“Ay, that’s God’s truth.”
“More than that, I have seen in him now and then a glimpse of recognition of earth as though the soul were shaking off its lethargy. Were the real world a less sad one for him, I might be tempted to try to call him back by mention of the Brents or Mistress Calvert.”
“Oh, that woman!” exclaimed Elizabeth; “not a word from her in all these weeks.”
“You forget. She counts him dead.”
“Ay, but she might have written to Peggy.”
“Yet when Peggy’s aunt wrote it did not suit thee.”
“I should say not. Such a letter! It was as well Christopher was dead, since he had brought such disgrace on the name, but Peggy might come back to her if she chose. Oh, but it was good to see the answer Peggy sent, and how she scorned aid or protection from any that doubted her brother’s innocence.”
“Perhaps Mistress Calvert feared a like rebuff, for she and Peggy did not part in love. Besides, thou must not forget that she has much to contend with. She is a Catholic and under the tutelage of Jesuit priests.”
“’Tis well I know what their influence is. If I were Lord Baltimore, I would harry them all out of the province.”
“Ay, but thou art not Lord Baltimore nor called upon for the Christian task of harrying out of the land a band of brave men.”
“Thou dost defend them?”
“Nay, there be few things in which they and I think alike; but this I do say: There is no chapter in her history to which the Church has better right to point with pride than th
is work of the Jesuits here in the West. At privations they have smiled, at danger they have laughed, at torture they have stretched out hands of blessing over their torturers. And who are they who have faced all these things for their religion? Not hardy pioneers full of love of adventure like many of our Virginia cavaliers, but delicately nurtured students, men for the chief part who prefer the cloister to the world, but have cheerfully sought these western wilds, moved only by love of God and man.”
“Humphrey, thou dost love to argue, but answer me one question, Dost thou put trust in them?”
Huntoon shrugged his shoulders.
“Why, for the matter of that,” he said, “the older I grow, the fewer men do I put full trust in. But, Betty, there is something else I have to talk of with thee.”
“Ay,” said his wife, laying down the purse she was netting, “and what is that?”
“Faith, I scarce like to speak of it lest it vex thee.”
“The sooner I hear it, the less ‘twill keep me on the rack.”
“Why, then, I do suspect that Romney is in love.”
“Verily!”
“Ay, verily, verily. At the first I thought ’twas but a boyish softness; but I have watched him close of late, and I fear it is a man’s passion.”
“Oh, mayhap ’tis thy fancy leads thee on to imagine all this. Romney is tougher than thou mayst credit. He can see a pretty face — ay, even for a year — and not lose his heart.”
“But, Betty—”
“Well!”
“What if the maid lose hers with looking at him? He is a well-favored lad.”
“Ay, he hath the look and bearing of the Romneys. But what hath put this fancy in thy head?”
“Oh, I have looked and listened and I am very swift to take in such things, swifter than thou, I dare venture; oft would I have spoken to thee of the matter ere this, but feared to stir lest thou take it too hard.”