XV

I had not formed my plan of taking part in the coming insurrection

without many misgivings lest I should by so doing bring harm upon

the Cavendishes. But on discussing the matter in all its bearings

with Major Robert Beverly, whom I had ever held to be a man of

judgment, he assured me that in his opinion there could no possible

ill result come to such a household of women, especially when the

head of it was of such openly-avowed royalist leanings. Unless,

indeed, he admitted, the bringing over of the arms and the powder

was to be traced to Mistress Mary Cavendish. This he said, not

knowing the secret of his first wife's tomb, and I feeling, as

indeed I was, an arch deceiver. But what other course is left open

to any man, when he can shield the one he loves best in the whole

world only at the expense of some one else? Can he do otherwise but

let the other suffer, and even forfeit his sense of plain dealing? I

have lived to be an old man, and verily nothing hath so grown in the

light of my experience as the impossibility of serving love except

at a loss, not only to others, but to oneself. But that truth of the

greatest importance in the whole world hath also grown upon me, that

love should be served at whatever cost. I cared not then, and I care

not now, who suffered and who was wronged, if only that beloved one

was saved.

I went home that night from Barry Upper Branch riding a horse which

Dick Barry lent me, on learning that I had come thither without one,

though not in what mad fashion, and Sir Humphrey rode with me until

our roads parted. Much gaming was there that night after we left; we

leaving the Barrys and my Lord Estes and Drake and Captain Jaynes

and many others intent upon the dice, but Humphrey and I did not

linger, I having naught to stake, and he having promised his mother

not to play. "Sometimes I wish that I had not so promised my

mother," he said, looking back at me over his great boyish shoulder

as he rode ahead, "for sometimes I think 'tis part of the estate of

a man to put up stakes at cards, and to win or lose as beseems a

gentleman of Virginia and a cavalier. But, sure, Harry, a promise to

a man's mother is not to be broke lightly, and indeed she doth ask

me every night when I return late, and I shall see her face at the

window when I ride in sight of the great house; but faith, Harry, I

would love to win in something, if not in hearts, in a throw of the

dice. For sure I am a man grown, and have never had my own will in

aught that lies near my heart." With that he gave a great sigh, and

I striving to cheer him, and indeed loving the lad, replied that he

was but young, and there was still time ahead, and the will of one's

heart required often but a short corner of turning. But he was angry

again at me for that, and cried out I knew not for all I was loved in

return, the heart of a certain maid as well as he who was despised,

and spurred his horse and rode on ahead, and when we had come to the

division of the road, saluted me shortly, and was gone, and the sound

of his galloping died away in the distance, and I rode home alone

meditating.

And when I reached Drake Hill a white curtain fluttered athwart a

window, and I caught a gleam of a white arm pulling it to place, and

knew that Mistress Mary had been watching for me--I can not say

with what rapture and triumph and misgivings.

It was well toward morning, and indeed a faint pallor of dawn was in

the east, and now and then a bird was waking. Not a slave on the

plantation was astir, and the sounds of slumber were coming from the

quarters. So I myself put my borrowed horse in stable, and then was

seeking my own room, when, passing through the hall, a white figure

started forth from a shadow and caught me by the arm, and it was

Catherine Cavendish. She urged me forth to the porch, I being

bewildered and knowing not how, nor indeed if it were wise, to

resist her. But when we stood together there, in that hush of

slumber only broken now and then by the waking love of a bird, and

it seemed verily as if we two were alone in the whole world, a sense

of the situation flashed upon me. I turned on my heel to reenter the

house. "Madam," I said, "this will never do. If you remain here with

me, your reputation--"

"What think you I care for my reputation?" she whispered. "What

think you? Harry Wingfield, you cannot do this monstrous thing. You

cannot be so lost to all honour as to let my sister--You cannot,

and you a convict--"

Then, indeed, for the first time in my life and the last I answered

a woman as if she were a man, and on an equal footing of antagonism

with me. "Madam," I replied, "I will maintain my honour against your

own." But she seemed to make no account of what I said. Indeed I

have often wondered whether a woman, when she is in pursuit of any

given end, can progress by other methods than an ant, which hath no

power of circuitousness, and will climb over a tree with long labour

and pain rather than skirt it, if it come in her way. Straight at

her purpose she went. "Harry, Harry," she said, still in that sharp

whisper, "you will not, you cannot--she is but a child."

Then, before I could reply, out ran Mary Cavendish herself, and was

close at my side, turning an angry face upon her sister.

"Catherine," she cried out, "how dare you? I am no child. Think you

that I do not know my own mind? How dare you? You shall not come

between Harry and me! I am his before the whole world. I will not

have it, Catherine!"

Then Catherine Cavendish, awakening such bewilderment and dismay in

me as I had never felt, looked at her sister, and said in a voice

which I can hear yet: "Have thy way then, sister; but 'tis over thy

own sister's heart."

"What mean you?" Mary asked breathlessly.

"I love him!" said Catherine.

I felt the hot blood mount to my head, and I knew what shame was. I

turned to retreat. I knew not what to do, but Mary's voice stopped

me. It rang out clear and pitiless, with that pitilessness of a

great love.

"And what is that to me, Catherine?" she cried out. "Sure it is but

to thy shame if thou hast loved unsought and confessed unasked. And

if I had ten thousand sisters, and they all in love with him, as

well they might be, for there is no one like him in the whole world,

over all their hearts would I go, rather than he should miss me for

but a second, if he loved me. Think you that aught like that can

make a difference? Think you that one heart can outweigh two, and

the misery of one be of any account before that of three?"

Then suddenly she looked sharply at her sister and cried out

angrily:

"Catherine Cavendish, I know what this means. 'Tis but another

device to part us. You love him not. You have hated him from the

first. You have hated him, and he is no more guilty than you be.

'Tis but a trick to turn me from him. Fie, think you that will avail?

Think you that a sister's heart counts with a maid before her

lover's? Little you know of love and lovers to think that."

Then to my great astonishment, since I had never seen such weakness

in her before, Catherine flung up her hands before her face and

burst into such a storm of wild weeping as never was, and fled into

the house, and Mary and I stood alone together, but only for a

second, for Mary, also casting a glance at me, then about her at the

utter loneliness and silence of the world, fled in her turn. Then I

went to my room, but not to sleep nor to think altogether of love,

for my Lord Culpeper was to sail that day, and the next night was

appointed for the beginning of the plant cutting.