XX

It was six years and more since I had seen my half-brother, and I

should scarcely have known him, for time had worked great changes in

both his face and form. He was much stouter than I remembered him,

and wore a ruddy point of beard at his chin, and a great wig,

whereas I recalled him as smooth of face, with his own hair.

But he was a handsome man, as I saw even then, lying in so much pain

and weakness, and he came and stood over me, and looked at me more

kindly than I should have expected, and I could see something of our

common mother in his blue eyes. He reached down his hand and shook

the one of mine which I could muster strength to raise, and called

me brother, and hoped that I found myself better, and gave me very

many tender messages of our mother, and of his father likewise,

which puzzled me exceedingly, until matters were explained. Colonel

Chelmsford had parted with me when I left England with but scant

courtesy, and as for my poor mother, I had not seen her at all, she

being confined to her chamber with grief over my disgrace, and not

one word had I received from them since that time. So when John

Chelmsford said that our mother sent her dear love to her son Harry,

and that nothing save her delicate health had prevented her from

sailing to Virginia in the same ship to see the son from whom she

had been so long parted, I gasped, and felt my head reel, and I

called up my mother's face, and verily I felt the tears start in my

eyes, but I was very weak.

Then forth from her pocket Catherine drew a ring, and it flashed

green with a great emerald, and particoloured with brilliants,

before my eyes, and I was well-nigh overcome by the sight of that

and everything turned black before me, for it was my Lord Robert

Ealing's great ring of exceeding value, for the theft of which I had

been transported.

Straightway Catherine saw that it was too much for me, for she knelt

down beside me and called John to give her a flask of sweet waters

which stood on the table, and began bathing my forehead, the while

my brother looked on with something of a jealous frown.

"'Twas thoughtless of me, Harry," she whispered, "but they say joy

does not kill, and--and--dost thou know the ring?"

I nodded. It seemed to me that no jewels could ever be mined which I

would know as I knew that green star of emerald and those encircling

brilliants. That ring I knew to my cost.

"My Lord Ealing is dead," she said, "and thou knowest that he was a

kinsman of the Chelmsfords, and after his funeral came this ring and

a letter, and--and--thou art cleared, Harry. And--and--now I know

why thou didst what thou did, Harry, 'twas--'twas--to shield me."

With that she burst into a great flood of tears, even throwing

herself upon the floor of my cell in all her slim length, and not

letting my brother John raise her, though he strove to do so.

"'Tis here, 'tis here I belong, John," she cried out wildly, "for

you know not, you know not what injustice I have done this innocent

man. Never can I make it good with my life."

It is here that I shall stop the course of my story to explain the

whole matter of the ring, which at the time I was too weak and spent

with pain to comprehend fully as Catherine Cavendish related it. It

was a curious and at the same time a simple tale, as such tales are

wont to be, and its very simplicity made it seem then, and seem now,

well-nigh incredible. For it is the simple things of this world

which are always most unbelievable, perhaps for this reason: that

men after Eden and the Serpent, expect some subtlety of reasoning to

account for all happenings, and always comes the suspicion that

somewhat beside two and two go to make four.

My Lord Robert Ealing who had come to the ball at Cavendish Court

that long last year, was a distant kinsman of our family, and

unwedded, but a man who went through the world with a silly leer of

willingness toward all womenkind. And 'twas this very trait,

perhaps, which accounted for his remaining unwedded, although a

lord, though the fact that his estates were incumbered may have had

somewhat to do with it. Be that as it may, he lived alone, except

for a few old servants, and was turned sixty, when, long after my

transportation, he wedded his cook, who gave him three daughters and

one son, to whom the estate went, but the ring and the letter came

to the Chelmsfords. The letter, which I afterwards saw, was a most

curious thing, both as to composition and spelling and chirography,

for his lordship was no scholar. And since the letter is but short,

I may perhaps as well give it entire. After this wise it ran, being

addressed to Col. John Chelmsford, who was his cousin, though

considerably younger.

"Dear Cousin.--(So wrote my Lord Ealing.) When this reaches you

I shall be laid in silent tomb, where, perchance, I shall be more at

peace than I have ever ben in a wurld, which either fitted me not,

or I did not fit. At all odds there was a sore misfit betwixt us in

some way. If it was the blam of the world, good ridance and parden,

if it was my blam, let them which made me come to acount fo'rt. I

send herewith my great emruld ringg, with dimends which I suspect

hath been the means of sending an inosent man into slavery. I had a

mind some years agone to wed with Caterin Cavendish, and she bein a

hard made to approche, having ever a stiff turn of the sholder

toward me, though I knew not why, I was not willin to resk my sute

by word of mouth, nor having never a gift in writin by letter. And

so, knowin that mades like well such things, I bethought me of my

emruld ring, and on the night of the ball, I being upstair in to lay

off my hatt and cloak, stole privily into Catherin's chamber, she

being a-dancin below, and I laid the ring on her dresing table,

thinkin that she would see it when she entered, and know it for a

love token.

"And then I went myself below, and Caterin, she would have none of

me, and made up such a face of ice when I approached, that methought

I had maybe wasted my emruld ring. So after a little up the stare I

stole, and the ring was not where I had put it. Then thinkin that

the ring had been stole, and I had neither that nor the made, I

raised a great hue and cry, and demanded that a search be maid, and

the ring was found on Master Wingfield, and he was therefor

transported, and I had my ring again, and myself knew not the true

fact of the case until a year agone. Then feeling that I had not

much longer to live, I writ this, thinking that Master Wingfield was

in a rich country, and not in sufferin, and a few months more would

make not much odds to him. The facs of the case, cousin, I knew from

Madam Cavendish's old servant woman Charlotte who came to my sister

when the Cavendishs left for Virginia, having a fear of the sea, and

later when my sister died, to my wife, and died but a year agone,

and in her deathbed told me what she knew. She told me truly, that

she did see Madam Cavendish on the night of the ball go into

Caterin's chamber, and espying my emruld ring on her dressing-table,

take it up and look at it with exceeding astonishment, and then lay

it down not on the spot whereon I had left it, but on the

prayer-book on the little stand beside her bed, and then go down

stairs, frowning. Then this same Charlotte, having litle interest in

life as to her own affairs, and forced to suck others, if she would

keep her wits nourished, being watchful, saw me enter, and miss the

ring, and heard the hue and cry which I raised. And then she, still

watching, saw Master Harry Wingfield, who with others was searching

the house for the lost treasure, stop as he was passing the open

door of Caterin's chamber, because the green light of the emruld

fixed his eyes, and rush in and secrete the ring upon his person.

This Charlotte saw, and told Madam Cavendish, who bound her over to

secresy to save the honour of the family, believing that her own

granddaughter Caterin was the thief. This epistle, cousin, is to

prove to you that Caterin was no thief, but simply a cold maid, who

hath no love for either hearts or gems, but of that I complain not,

havin as I believe, wedded wisely, if not to please my famly, and

three daughters and a son, hath my Betty given me, and most exceedin

fine tarts hath she made, and puddens, and I die content, with this

last writ to thee, cousin to clear Caterin Cavendish, and may be of

an innosent gentleman likewise.

"No more from thy cousin,

"Ealing."

One strange feature was there about this letter, which the writer

had not foreseen, while it cleared me well enough in the opinion of

the family, to strangers it cleared me not at all, for who was to

know for what reason I had entered Catherine's chamber, and took and

secreted that ring of his lordship's? Strict silence had I

maintained, and so had Madam Cavendish all these years, and naught

in that letter would clear me before any court of law. Catherine

being the only one whose innocence was made plain, I could now tell

my story with no fear of doing her harm, but let those believe my

part of it who would! Still I may say here, that I verily believe

that I was at last cleared in the minds of all who knew me well, and

for others I cared not. My term expired soon after that date, and

though I chose to remain in Virginia and not return to England, yet

my property was restored to me, for my half-brother, John

Chelmsford, when confronted by any gate of injustice leapt it like

an English gentleman, with no ado. And yet after I heard that

letter, I knew that I was a convict still, and knew that for some I

would be until the end of the chapter, and when I grew a little

stronger, that wild hope that now I might have Mary, dimmed within

me, for how could I allow her to wed a man with a stain upon his

honour? And even had I been pardoned, the fact of the pardon had

seemed to prove my guilt.

It was three days after this, my brother and various others striving

all the time, but with no effect, to secure my release, that Mary

herself came to see me. Catherine, as I afterward discovered, had

unlocked her chamber door and set her free while her grandmother

slept, and the girl had mounted Merry Roger, and come straight to

me, not caring who knew.

I heard the key grate in the lock, and turned my eyes, and there she

was: the blessing of my whole life, though I felt that I must not

take it. Close to me she came and knelt, and leaned her cheek

against mine, and stroked back my wild hair.

"Harry, Harry," she whispered, and all her dear face was tremulous

with love and joy.

"Thou art no convict, Harry," she said. "Thou didst not steal the

ring, but that I knew before, and I know not any better now, and I

love thee no better now. And I would have been thine in any case."

"I am still a convict, sweetheart," I said, but I fear weakly.

"Harry," she cried out, "thou wilt not let that stand betwixt us

now?"

"How can I let thee wed with a convict, if I love thee?" I said.

"And know you not that this letter of my Lord Ealing's clears me not

legally?"

"That I know," she answered frowning, "because thy brother hath

consulted half the lawyers in England ere he came. I know that, my

poor Harry, but what is that to us?"

"I cannot let thee wed a convict; a man with his honour stained,

dear heart," I said.

Then she fixed her blue eyes upon mine with such a look as never I

saw in mortal woman. She knew at that time what sentence had been

fixed upon me for my share in the tobacco riot, but I did not know,

and then and there she formed such a purpose, as sure no maid,

however great her love for a man, formed before.

"Wait and see what manner of woman she is who loves thee, Harry,"

she said.