THE NEWS NANETTE BROUGHT ME.
Through the night I rode, until the darkness began to pale, and the dawn
was heralded. Now and then, when the labored breathing of Kit told me
the pace was too heavy for her, I pulled up a bit. We passed by silent
cottages scattered over the country, here one alone, there several near
together.
I galloped until morning was fairly upon the land. Then I drew rein at a
white farmhouse, where I dismounted to get a bite to eat, and feed Kit.
The farmer looked at my mud-soiled clothes, at the mare’s rough coat,
and said:
“You’ve ridden far and hard, the night, neighbor.”
“Aye,” I answered, “there was some need of it.”
“Perchance some one pursued you?” he ventured.
“No one but myself,” I said.
With that he questioned no more, though he looked curiously at me, but
led the way into the house, where his wife was preparing breakfast. I
managed to make a hearty meal, and then I saw that Kit had her grain,
after which I rubbed her down. When I would have paid for the fodder and
my victuals the farmer would have none of my money, but bade me go on in
good luck, for which I thanked him.
I was soon on the road again. It was better going now, though the roads
were still heavy from the rain. Before another hour had passed I found
myself in Boston town.
People turned to stare at me, as I clattered through the streets,
wondering, I suppose, why I was abroad in such a rig so early. I headed
for a modest tavern I knew of. There, I thought, I would make some plan
for my future conduct. For I had set my mind upon leaving New England. I
had been through enough there, for one time.
I soon found the place I sought, and went in. The landlord knew me, and
gave me a little room by myself, the while he brought some good ale. I
drank a bit, feeling much refreshed, and then turned my mind to what I
had better do. I had heard of the Virginia colony, and that it was a
place where there was much of life and entertainment. There I might
follow my soldier trade with honor, fearing no witch trial, nor the
warrant held by Sir George.
In Virginia I could forget, and leave behind, many bitter memories--and
many sweet ones.
There I could forget Lucille.
Forget her?
No!
Not forget her. I never could do that. I might find other thoughts to
take her place--for a time.
Bah! What a fool I was. A fool twice. A fool for loving her, a fool for
giving her up so easily--giving up another man’s wife, forsooth, when I
knew that she loved me at that. Of a truth, if Dicky Hall ever heard of
this he would laugh me to scorn.
Well, let them laugh. The honor of the Danes could stand a little
merriment, and it was the honor of the Danes I was upholding, though I
lost my love for the honor.
“Well, here’s to the death of love, and the honor of my name,” I said,
softly, draining my last glass.
“Now for Virginia!”
As I set the mug down the sound of voices in the main room came to my
ears. One was that of the landlord, the other a woman’s, and it was
strangely familiar. She spoke part in French, with as much English as
she could.
“Now, now,” said the inn keeper, “don’t ye come botherin’ again,
mistress. I know nothin’ of Lucy nor Nancy either, though for that
matter every sailor who lands here has that name on his lips, one way or
another.”
“Not Lucy, m’sieur, not Lucy,” spoke the woman’s voice. “’Tis Lucille I
been look for.”
I started at the name.
“Nor Lucille, either,” said the tavern keeper, testily.
“But,” persisted the woman, “I have been tell zat she taked a bateau
near zis tavern, m’sieur.”
“Well, mayhap she did, lass; lots of folk do, but I have not seen her,”
and the landlord started away.
“You have no seen her, m’sieur? She was so much beautiful, my mistress,
Lucille. Now she been lost to me,” and there came a trace of tears into
the voice.
Where had I heard it before? The name--but then Lucille was a common
enough name. Yet my heart beat a little more quickly. I went to where I
could look in the room to see the woman. The landlord was on his way
out, and the face of his visitor was toward me.
It was Nanette, Lucille’s servant!
She saw me, and her face lighted up.
“Oh, m’sieur Captain!” she exclaimed, fairly running toward me, and
lapsing into rapid French. “You have found her then? Oh, I thought she
was lost.”
“Who?” I asked, coldly.
“Why, Lucille. Mistress de Guilfort; your--your--surely, Captain,
you----”
“You mean Mistress Keith, the wife of Sir George Keith,” I interrupted,
and was about to go away.
At the name of Sir George, Nanette gave a start.
“Is he here?” she cried, excitedly.
“Aye. Here or somewhere with his wife, I make no doubt,” I said.
“His wife, m’sieur?”
“Aye. His wife.”
“Never!”
“What?” I cried.
“Never!” repeated Nanette.
“Oh, the villain,” she went on. “Has he told you that lie?”
“Then it is not true?” I asked, trembling lest the answer would shatter
newly raised hopes.
“No more than that I am his wife, Captain!” came the quick reply, and I
could have hugged Nanette.
Here was a sudden and joyful change in my plans. There need be no
Virginia now. Yet there was much to learn, and, it seemed, also, to find
Lucille.
The tavern keeper was staring at us curiously, so I motioned Nanette to
come into the room I had, and, closing the door, I bade her tell me all
she knew. First I repeated, briefly, how I had met Sir George; though I
said nothing of the Royal warrant.
Then Nanette related how she had long been in the service of the de
Guilfort family. Some years before, while in Paris, Sir George Keith had
met Lucille, fallen in love with her, and they were engaged to wed. Then
came the disclosure of how lightly Sir George held the honor of his
promised wife. He had an affair with a notorious woman, and it was the
talk of the court, in the circle of which the de Guilforts moved. Stung
and ashamed at the effront, Lucille had quarreled with my lord, and,
with bitter words, the troth was broken. Then, smarting under the tongue
of gossip, M. de Guilfort, with his daughter and niece, had set sail for
the new land, and Nanette accompanied them.
“Then Lucille is not his wife?” I asked again, hardly able to believe
the good news.
“Never! Never! Never!” cried Nanette, with such earnestness that she
could scarce cease her “nevers.”
“But does she not love him?” I inquired, tortured by a new doubt.
“Voila!” burst out Nanette, with a shrug of her shoulders. “You must
know if she loves you, Captain, and that should be an answer enough for
any man.”
“It is,” I said, and I was as happy as I had been sad.
“But where is Mistress de Guilfort, now?” asked Nanette.
“Where?” I exclaimed. “How should I know? I have not seen her since the
day I sailed against St. Johns. You may have heard how, on the night of
my return from Pemaquid, I was taken for a witch. I met Sir George that
day, and learned from him that my promised wife was his wedded one.”
“Which was a lie,” broke in Nanette.
“Aye, so it seems.”
“Then you have not seen her in Boston?” went on Nanette.
“In Boston? Here? Why, how should I, having only just arrived? But what
would bring her here?”
“Listen,” began the woman, speaking rapidly. “She heard of your arrival
in Salem, and thought you would have come to her at once.”
“So I would, but for what Sir George told me,” I answered.
“She sat long that night, expecting you,” said Nanette.
I choked back an exclamation. Lucille had been waiting for me when I
looked in on her through the window, and whispered a good bye.
“The next morning,” Nanette continued, “word came of your arrest. My
mistress, knowing full well, from a bitter experience, the temper of the
witch-crazed people and that of the courts, wasted no time. She felt,
she said, that reason would not prevail, and that you would be
condemned, and so she resolved to go to Boston, and try to secure a
pardon for you, from His Excellency, Governor Phips. This would be of
more service than all the proofs of law, in freeing you from the
sentence. She found a farmer who was going from Salem to Boston that
day.
“So precious was the time,” proceeded Nanette, “that my mistress would
not even delay to go to the gaol and see you. She sent a letter,
however.”
“Where is it?” I asked, eagerly.
“I left it with the keeper for you.”
“And he never gave it to me. But go on. There is much mystery. Go on.
Talk faster, Nanette.”
“Patience, m’sieur. Well, Mistress de Guilfort, in great distress of
mind for you, started for Boston. She said she would return the next
day.”
“Did she?”
“Nay. That afternoon you were tried, and the sentence of death passed. I
was in sore heart at home, watching for the return of my mistress.
Toward night a messenger on horseback rode to the door and inquired for
her. Before I thought I told him she had gone to Boston. As he turned
away I caught a glimpse of the messenger’s face. It was Sir George
Keith. I knew him at once, though I had not seen him in five years.
“‘So my pretty Lucille has flown from me,’ he said, and I knew for the
first time that he had previously found her out in Salem, which
accounted for her strange terror at a certain time.”
“Go on!” I almost shouted. “I begin to see the end.”
“That is all,” said Nanette, stopping suddenly.
“All?” I cried, blankly. “Where is Mistress de Guilfort?”
“That is what I am half wild about, Captain. I have not seen her since
that day, three weeks ago, when she started for this place, after the
pardon for you.
“Yesterday I could stand the pain of waiting in idleness no longer, and
I came here.”
“Gone three weeks,” I murmured.
“Aye, and with that crafty villain, Sir George Keith, on her track,” and
Nanette’s eyes filled with tears.
“You have not found a trace of her, then, Nanette?”
“Not a sign, Captain, since the day she rode off in the farmer’s cart,
waving her hand good bye to me.”
Now I have had many hard knots, in life, to untie. I had been put to
much thought, at times, how to best approach an enemy, or how to escape
from one. But this was something I could not fathom. I have no mind for
book matters, nor am I handy with the pen. Yet there were certain points
with which I might make a start, as I have seen learned professors do,
when they draw strange squares and circles.
The first point was that Lucille had left Salem for Boston. The next
point, it would seem, should be to find if she arrived.
Nanette was watching me. When I had made what I might call a start to
solve the riddle of Lucille’s long absence, my face cleared a bit.
Nanette saw it, and cried:
“Then you can find her, Captain?”
“If any one can, I will,” I replied, and I felt the hope that comes from
making a beginning at a hard matter.
“But now, Nanette, you must go back to Salem,” I said.
“Oh, let me help you find her,” she implored.
“No. There is much to be done. I may have to ride far, by day and by
night. You could do no good. Go back, and, when I have found her, you
may come with us.”
“Then you will find her, Captain?”
“I will,” I said.