Prisoners of Hope: A Tale of Colonial Virginia

by Mary Johnston

  CHAPTER IV

  THE BREAKING HEART

  Sir Charles was up with the two girls before they reached the garden;and they passed together through the gate and into the spicy wilderness.The dew was falling, and as they sauntered through the narrow paths,Betty held back her skirts that the damp leaves of sage and marjorammight not brush them; but Patricia, gathering larkspur andsweet-william, was heedless of her finery. At the further end of thegarden was a wicket leading into a grove of mulberries. The three walkedon beneath the spreading branches and the broad, heart-shaped leaves,until they came to a tree of extraordinary height and girth whose rootsbulged out into great, smooth excrescences like inverted bowls. Patriciastopped. "Betty is tired," she said kindly, "and she shall sit here andrest. Betty is a windflower, Sir Charles, a little tender timid flower,frail and sweet--are you not, Betty?" She sat down upon one of thebowls, and pulled her friend down beside her. Sir Charles leaned againstthe trunk of the tree. "Betty is a little Puritan," continued Patricia;"she would not wear the set of ribbons I had for her; and that hurt mevery much."

  "O Patricia!" cried Betty, with tears in her eyes. "If I thought youreally cared! But even then I could not wear them!"

  "No, you little martyr," said the other, with a kiss. "You would go tothe stake any day for what you call your 'principles.' And I honor youfor it, you know I do. Cousin Charles, do you know that Betty thinks itwrong to hold slaves?"

  Sir Charles laughed, and Betty's delicate face flushed.

  "O Patricia!" she cried. "I did not say that! I only said that we wouldnot like it ourselves."

  "'Pon my soul, I don't suppose we would," said Sir Charles coolly. "But,Mistress Betty, the negroes have neither thin skins nor nice feelings."

  "I know that," said Betty bravely; "and I know that our divines andlearned men cannot yet decide whether or not they have souls. And, ofcourse, if they have not, they are as well treated as other animals; butall the same I am sorry for them, and I am sorry for the servants too."

  "For the servants!" cried Patricia, arching her brows.

  "Yes," said Betty, standing to her guns. "I am sorry for the servants,for those who must work seven years for another before they can do aughtfor themselves. And often when their time is out they are bowed andbroken; and those whom they love at home, and would bring over, aredead; and often before the seven years have passed they die themselves.And I am sorry for those whom you call rebels, for the Oliverians; andfor the convicts, despised and outcast. And for the Indians about us,dispossessed and broken, and--yes, I am sorry for the Quakers."

  "I waste no pity on the under dog," said Sir Charles. "Keep himdown--and with a heavy hand--or he will fly at your throat."

  "Hark!" said Patricia.

  Some one in the distance was singing:--

  "Gentle herdsman, tell to me Of courtesy I thee pray, Unto the town of Walsingham, Which is the right and ready way?

  "Unto the town of Walsingham The way is hard for to be gone, And very crooked are those paths For you to find out all alone."

  The notes were wild and plaintive, and sounded sadly through thegathering dusk. A figure flitted towards them between the shadowy treetrunks.

  "It is Mad Margery," said Patricia.

  "And who is Mad Margery?" asked Sir Charles.

  "No one knows, cousin. She does not know herself. Ten years ago a shipcame in with servants, and she was on it. She was mad then. The captaincould give no account of her, save that when, the day after sailing, hecame to count the servants, he found one more than there should havebeen, and that one a woman, stupid from drugs. She had been spirited onboard the ship, that was all he could say. It's a common occurrence, asyou know. She never came to herself,--has always been what she is now.She was sold to a small planter, and cruelly treated by him. After atime my father heard her story and bought her from her master. She hasbeen with us ever since. Her term of service is long out; but there isnothing that could drive her from this plantation. She wanders about asshe pleases, and has a cabin in the woods yonder; for she will not livein the quarters. They say that she is a white witch; and the Indians,who reverence the mad, lay maize and venison at her door."

  The voice, shrill and sweet, rang out close at hand.

  "Thy years are young, thy face is fair, Thy wits are weak, thy thoughts are green, Time hath not given thee leave as yet, For to commit so great a sin."

  "Margery!" called Patricia softly.

  The woman came towards them with a peculiar gliding step, swift andstealthy. Within a pace or two of them she stopped, and asked, "Whocalled me?" in a voice that seemed to come from far away. She was notold, and might once have been beautiful.

  "I called you, Margery," said Patricia gently. "Sit down beside us, andtell us what you have been doing."

  The woman came and sat herself down at Patricia's feet. She carried astick, or light pole, wound with thick strings of wild hops, which shelaid on the ground. Taking one of the wreaths from around it, shedropped the pale green mass into Patricia's lap.

  "Take it," she said. "They are flowers I gathered in Paradise, long ago.They wither in this air; but if you fan them with your sighs, and waterthem with your tears, they will revive.... Paradise is a long way fromhere. I have been seeking the road all day; but I have not found it yet.I think it must lie near Bristol Town, Bristol Town, Bristol Town."

  Her voice died away in a long sigh, and she sat plucking at the fragrantblooms.

  Patricia said softly, "She talks much of Bristol Town, and she is alwaysseeking the road to Paradise. I think that once some one must have saidto her, 'We will meet in Paradise.'"

  "I know little of Paradise, Margery," said Sir Charles, good-naturedly;"but Bristol Town is many leagues from here, across the great ocean."

  "Yes, I know. It lieth in the rising of the sun. I have never seen itexcept in my dreams. But it is a beautiful place--not like this world oftrees. The church bells are ever ringing there, ... and the childrensing in the streets. It is all fair, and smiling and beautiful, all butone spot, one black, black, black spot. I will tell you." She sunk hervoice to a whisper and looked fearfully around. "The mouth of the Pit isthere, the Bottomless Pit that the Preacher tells about. It is a smallroom, dark, dark, ... and there is a heavy smell in the air, ... andthere are fiends with black cloth over their faces. They hold a draughtof hell to your mouth, and they make you drink it; ... it burns, burns.And then you go down, down, down, into everlasting blackness." She brokeoff, and shuddered violently, then burst into eldritch laughter.

  "Shall I tell you what I found just now while I was looking forParadise?"

  "Yes," said Patricia.

  "A breaking heart."

  "A breaking heart!"

  Margery nodded. "Yes," she said. "I thought it would surprise you. Ifind many things, looking for Paradise. The other day I found a brownpixie sitting beneath a mushroom, and he told me curious things. But abreaking heart is different. I know all about it, for once upon a timemy heart broke; but mine was soft and easy to break. It was as soft andweak as a baby's wrist, a little, tender, helpless thing, you know, thatmelts under your kisses. But this heart that I found will take a longtime to break. Proud anger will strengthen it at first; but one stringwill snap, and then another, and another, until, at last--" she swepther arms abroad with a wild and desolate gesture.

  "What does she mean?" asked Sir Charles.

  "I do not know," answered Patricia.

  Margery rose and took up her leafy staff.

  "Come," she said. "Come and see the breaking heart."

  "O Patricia!" cried Betty, "do not go with her!"

  "Why not?" asked Patricia resolutely. "Come, cousin, let us find outwhat she means. We will go with you, Margery; but you must not take usfar. It grows late."
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  Margery laughed weirdly. "It is never late for Margery. There is a starfar up in heaven that is sorry for Margery, and it shines for her,bright, bright, all night long, that she may not miss the road toParadise."

  She glided in front of them, and moved rapidly down the dim alley oftrees, her feet seeming scarce to touch the short grass, and the longgreen wreaths, stirred by the wind, coiling and uncoiling around herstaff like serpents. Patricia, with Betty and Sir Charles, followed herclosely. She led them out of the mulberry grove, through a smallvineyard, and into a patch of corn, beyond which could be seen the gleamof water, faintly pink from the faded sunset.

  "She is taking us towards the quarters!" exclaimed Patricia. "Margery!Margery!"

  But Margery held on, moving swiftly through the waist-deep corn. Bettylooked down with a little sigh at her dainty shoes, which were sufferingby their contact with the dew-laden leaves of pumpkins and macocks. SirCharles put aside the long corn blades with his cane, and so made a wayfor the girls. He felt mildly curious and somewhat bored.

  Suddenly they emerged upon the banks of the inlet, within a hundredyards of the quarters. Patricia would have spoken, but Margery put herfinger to her lips and flitted on towards the row of cabins.

  Before them stretched a long, narrow lane, sandy and barren, with apine-tree rising here and there. Rude cabins, windowless and with mudchimneys, faced each other across the lane. Half way down was an openspace, or small square, in the centre of which stood a dead tree with aboard nailed across its trunk at about a man's height from the ground.In either end of the board was cut a round hole big enough for a man'shand to be squeezed through, and above hung a heavy stick with leathernthongs tied to it, the whole forming a pillory and whipping-post, rude,but satisfactory.

  It was almost dark. The larger stars had come out, and the firefliesbegan to sparkle restlessly. The wind sighed in the pines, and a strongsalt smell came from the sea. Overhead a whip-poor-will uttered itsmournful cry.

  The long day's work, from sunrise to sunset, was over, and thepopulation of the quarter had drifted in from the fields of tobacco andmaize, the boats, the carpenter's shop, the forge, the mill, thestables, and barns. Hard-earned rest was theirs, and they were preparedto enjoy it. It was supper-time. In the square a great fire ofbrush-wood had been kindled, and around it squatted a ring of negroes,busy with bowls of loblolly and great chunks of corn bread. Theychattered like monkeys, and one who had finished his mess raised a chantin which one note was a yell of triumph, the next a long-drawnplaintive wail. The rich barbaric voice filled the night. A figure,rising, tossed aside an empty bowl, and began to dance in the redfirelight.

  The white men ate at their cabin doors, sitting upon logs of wood, or ingroups of three or four messed at tables made by stretching planks fromone tree-stump to another. It was meat-day; and they, too, made merry.From the women's cabins also came shrill laughter. Snatches of songarose, altercations that suddenly began and as suddenly ceased, a babelof voices in many fashions of speech. Broad Yorkshire contended with thethin nasal tones of the cockney; the man from the banks of the Tweedthrust cautious sarcasms at the man from Galway. A mulatto, the color ofpale amber, spoke sonorous Spanish to an olive-hued piece of drift-woodfrom Florida. An Indian indulged in a monologue in a tongue of a farawaytribe of the Blue Mountains.

  The glare from the fire and from flaring pine-knots played fitfully overthe motley throng, now bringing out in strong relief some one face orfigure, then plunging it into profoundest shadow. It burnished the highforehead and scalp lock of the Indian, and made to gleam intensely thegold earring in the ear of the mulatto. The scarlet cloth wound aboutthe head of a Turk seemed to turn to actual flame. Under the balefullight vacant faces of dully honest English rustics became malignant,while the negro, dancing with long, outstretched arms and uncouthswayings to and fro, appeared a mirthful fiend.

  The three gentlefolk and their mad conductress gazed from out the shadowand at a safe distance. Sir Charles Carew, a man of taste, felt strongartistic pleasure in the Rembrandtesque scene before him--the leapinglight, the weird shadows, resolving themselves into figures posed withsavage freedom, the dancing satyr, the sombre pines above, and, beyondthe pines, the stillness of the stars. Betty drew a little shudderingbreath, and her hand went to clasp Patricia's. The latter was lookingsteadily upward at the slender crescent moon.

  "Do not look, Betty," she said quietly. "I do not. It is a horror tome--a horror. I am going back," she said, turning.

  But she had reckoned without Margery, who caught her by the arm. "Come,"she said imperiously. "Come and see the breaking heart!" Patriciahesitated, then yielded to curiosity and the insistent pressure of theskeleton fingers.

  The cabins nearest them were deserted, their occupants having joinedthemselves to the groups further down the lane where the firelight beatstrongest and the torches were more numerous. With no more sound than amoth would make, flitting through the dusk, the mad woman led them tothe outermost of these cabins. Within five paces of the door she stoppedand pointed a long forefinger.

  "The breaking heart!" she said in a triumphant whisper.

  A man lay, face downwards, in the coarse and scanty grass. One arm wasbent beneath his forehead, the other was outstretched, the handclenched. It was the attitude of one who has flung himself down in dumb,despairing misery. As they looked, he gave a long gasping sob that shookhis whole frame, then lay quiet.

  A burst of revelry came down the lane. The man raised his headimpatiently, then let it drop again upon his arm.

  Patricia turned and walked quickly back the way they had come. Betty andSir Charles followed her; Margery, her whim gratified, had vanished intothe darkness of the pines.

  No one spoke until they were again amidst the wet and rustling corn.Then said Betty with tears in her voice, "O Patricia, darling! there isso much misery in the world, fair and peaceful as it looks to-night.That poor man!"

  "That 'poor man,' Betty," answered Patricia in a hard voice, "is acriminal, a felon, guilty of some dreadful, sordid thing, a gaol-birdreclaimed from the gallows and sent here to pollute the air we breathe."

  "It was the convict, Landless, was it not?" asked Sir Charles.

  "Yes."

  "But, Patricia," said the gentle Betty, "whatever he may have done, heis wretched now."

  "He has sowed the wind; let him reap the whirlwind," said Patriciasteadily.

  They went on to the house and into the great room where the myrtlecandles were burning softly, the dimity curtains shutting out the night.Mrs. Lettice was at the spinet, with Captain Laramore to turn the leavesof her song book, and the Governor, with the chess table out and thepieces in battle array, awaited (he said) the arrival of the Princess ofthe Castle in the Air.