"Go to the great door. I will open to you in a moment. But make no
noise."
Landless nodded, and proceeded to follow his directions. Presently the
door swung noiselessly inward, and Carrington, appearing in the opening,
beckoned Landless within, and led the way, still in profound silence,
across the hall to the great room. Here, after softly closing the door,
he lighted candles, saw to it that the heavy wooden shutters were
securely drawn across the windows, and turned to face his visitor in a
somewhat different guise than the riding suit and jack boots, the mask
and broad flapping beaver, in which he had appeared in their encounter
in the hut on the marsh. His stately figure was now wrapped in a
night-gown of dark velvet, his bare feet were thrust into velvet
slippers, and a silken nightcap, half on and half off, imparted a rakish
air to his gravely handsome countenance. He threw himself into a great
armchair and tapped impatiently upon the table.
"Well!" he said dryly.
Landless standing before him began to speak with dignity and to the
point. Godwyn, the head of a great conspiracy, was dead, leaving him,
Landless, in some sort his successor. In a conference of the leading
conspirators held but a few nights before the murder, Godwyn had
announced that not only had he given to the son of Warham Landless his
complete confidence, but that in case aught should happen to himself
before the time for action, he would wish the young man to succeed him
in the leadership of the revolt. There had been some demur, but Godwyn's
influence was boundless, and on his advancing reason after reason for
his preference, the Oliverians had acquiesced in his judgment and had
given their solemn promise to respect his wishes. Three nights later,
Godwyn was murdered. Since that dreadful blow, Landless had seen only
such of the conspirators as were in his immediate neighborhood.
Confounded at the turn affairs had taken, and utterly at a loss, they
had turned eagerly to him as to one having authority. For his own
freedom, for the sake of his promise to the dead man, he would do his
utmost. He had come to-night to discover, if possible, Major
Carrington's intentions--
Carrington, who had listened thus far with grave attention, frowned
heavily.
"If my memory serves me, sirrah, I told you once before that Miles
Carrington stirs not hand or foot in this matter. I may wish you well,
but that is all."
"'T is a poor friend that cries 'Godspeed!' to one who struggles in a
bog, and gives not his hand to help him out."
"Your figure does not hold," said the other, dryly. "I have not cried
'Godspeed!' I have said nothing at all, either good or bad. I have
nothing to do with this conspiracy. You are the only man now living
that knows that I am aware that such a thing exists. And I hope, sir,
that you will remember how you gained that knowledge."
"I am in no danger of forgetting."
"Very well. Your journey here to-night was a useless as well as a
dangerous one. I have nothing to say to you."
"Will you tell me one thing?" said Landless, patiently. "What will
Major Carrington have to say to me upon the day when I speak to him as a
free man with free men behind me?"
"Upon that day," said the other, composedly, "Miles Carrington will
submit to the inevitable with a good grace, having been, as is well
known, a friend to the Commonwealth, and having always, even when there
was danger in so doing, spoken against the cruel and iniquitous
enslavement of men whose only offense was non-conformity, or the having
served under the banners of Cromwell."
"If he should be offered Cromwell's position in the new Commonwealth,
what then?"
"Pshaw! no such offer will be made."
"We must have weight and respectability, must identify ourselves with
that Virginia in which we are strangers, if we are to endure," said
Landless, with a smile. "A fact that we perfectly recognize--as does
Major Carrington. He probably knows who is of, and yet head and
shoulders above, that party in the state upon whose support we must
ultimately rely, who alone could lead that party; who alone might
reconcile Royalist and Puritan;--and to whom alone the offer I speak of
will be made."
Carrington smiled despite himself. "Well, then, if the offer is made, I
will accept it. In short, when your man is out of the bog I will lend
my aid to cleanse him of the stains incurred in the transit. But he
must pull himself out of the mire. I am safe upon the bank, I will not
be drawn with him into a bottomless ruin. Do I make myself plain?"
"Perfectly," said Landless, dryly.
The other flushed beneath the tone. "You think perhaps that I play but
a craven part in this game. I do not. God knows I run a tremendous risk
as it is, without madly pledging life and honor to this desperate
enterprise!"
"I fail to see the risk," said Landless, coldly.
The other struck his hand against the table. "I risk a slave
insurrection!" he said.
A noise outside the door made them start like guilty things. The door
opened softly and a charming vision appeared, to wit, Mistress Betty
Carrington, rosy from sleep and hastily clad in a dressing-gown of
sombre silk. Her little white feet were bare, and her dark hair had
escaped from its prim, white night coif. She started when she saw a
visitor, and her feet drew demurely back under the hem of her gown,
while her hands went up to her disheveled hair: but a second glance
showing her his quality, she recovered her composure and spoke to her
father in her soft, serious voice.
"I heard a noise, my father, and looking into your room, found it empty,
so I came down to see what made you wakeful to-night."
"'T is but a message from Verney Manor, child," said her father. "Get
back to bed."
"From Verney Manor!" exclaimed Betty. "Then I can send back to-night
the song book and book of plays lent me by Sir Charles Carew, and which,
after reading the first page, I e'en restored to their wrappings and
laid aside with a good book a-top to put me in better thoughts if ever I
was tempted to touch them again. I will get them, good fellow, and you
shall carry them back to their owner with my thanks, if it so be that I
can find words that are both courteous and truthful."
"Stop, child!" said her father as she turned to leave the room. "The
volumes, which you were very right not to read, may rest awhile beneath
the good book. This is a secret mission upon which this young man has
come. It is about a--a matter of state upon which his master and I have
been engaged. No one here or at Verney Manor must know that he has been
at Rosemead."
"Very well, my father," said Betty, meekly, "the books can wait some
other opportunity."
"And," with some sternness, "you will be careful to hold your tongue as
to this man's presence here to-night."
"Very well, father."
"You are not to speak of it to Mistress Patricia or to any one."
"I will be silent, my father."
"Very well," said the Major. "You are not like the majority of women.
I know that your word is as good as an oath. Now run away to bed,
sweetheart, and forget that you have seen this messenger."
"I am going now, father," said Betty, obediently. "Is Mistress Patricia
well, good fellow?"
"Quite well, I believe, madam."
"She spake of crossing to Accomac with Mistress Lettice and Sir Charles
Carew, when the latter should go to visit Colonel Scarborough. Know you
if she went?"
"I think not, madam. I think that Sir Charles Carew went alone."
"Ah! They have fallen out then," said Betty, half to herself, and with
a demure satisfaction in her wild flower face. "I am glad of it, for I
like him not. Thanks, good fellow, for your answering my idle
questions."
Landless bowed gravely. Betty bent her pretty head, and with a hasty,
"I am going, father!" in answer to an impatient movement on the part of
the Major, vanished from the room.
Carrington waited until the last light footfall had died away, and then
said, "Our interview is over. Are you satisfied?"
"At least, I understand your position."
"Yes," said Carrington, thoughtfully, "it is as well that you should
understand it. It is simple. I wish you well. I am in heart a
Commonwealth's man. I love not the Stuarts. I would fain see this fair
land freed from their rule and returned to the good days of the
Commonwealth. And I may as well acknowledge, since you have found it
out for yourself,"--a haughty smile,--"that I have my ambitions. What
man has not?" He rose and began to pace the room, his hands clasped
behind him, his handsome head bent, his rich robe trailing upon the
ground behind him.
"I could rule this land more acceptably to the people than can William
Berkeley with his parrot phrases, 'divine right,' and 'passive
obedience.' I know the people and am popular with them, with Royalist
and Churchman as well as with Nonconformist and Oliverian. I know the
needs of the colony--home rule, self taxation, free trade, a more
liberal encouragement to emigrants, religious tolerance, a rod of iron,
for the Indians, the establishment of a direct slave trade with Africa
and the Indies. I could so rule this colony that in a twelvemonth's
time, Richard Verney or Stephen Ludlow, hot Royalists though they be,
would be forced to acknowledge that never, since the day Smith sailed up
the James, had Virginia enjoyed a tithe of her present prosperity."
"''T is a consummation devoutly to be desired,'" said Landless, dryly.
"In the mean time, like the cat i' the adage--"
"You are insolent, sirrah!"
"When a stripling I served under one who took the bitter with the sweet,
the danger as well as the reward, who led the soldiers from whom he took
his throne."
"Cromwell, sirrah," said Carrington sternly, "led soldiers. You would
require Miles Carrington to lead servants, to place himself, a gentleman
and a master, at the head of a rebellion which, if it failed, would
plunge him into a depth of ignominy and ruin proportionate to the height
from which he fell. He declines the position. When you have won your
freedom he will treat with you. Not before."
"Then," said Landless slowly, "upon the day on which the flag of the
Commonwealth floats over the Assembly hall at Jamestown, then--"
"Then I will join myself to you as I have said, and I will bring with me
those without whom your revolution would be but short-lived--the Puritan
and Nonconformist element in the colony, gentle and simple."
"That is sufficiently explicit," said Landless, "and I thank you."
"I have trusted you fully, young man," said the other, stopping before
him, "not only because you cannot betray me if you would, seeing that
not one scrap of writing exists to inculpate me in this matter, and that
your word would scarce be taken before mine, but because I believe you
to be trustworthy. I believe also"--graciously--"that Robert Godwyn
(whose death I sincerely mourn) showed his usual wisdom and knowledge of
mankind when he chose you as his confidant and co-worker. I wish you
well through with a dangerous and delicate piece of work and in
enjoyment of your reward, namely, your freedom, and the esteem of the
Commonwealth of Virginia. I will myself see to it that any past
offenses which you are supposed to have committed (for myself, I believe
you to have been harshly used), shall not stand in your light."
"Major Carrington is very good," said Landless, calmly. "I shall study
to deserve his commendation."
The other took a restless turn or two through the room, stopping at
length before the younger man.
"You may tell me one thing," he said in a voice scarcely above a
whisper, and with his eyes bent watchfully upon the other's composed
face. "Had Godwyn set the day?"
"Yes."
"And you will adhere to it?"
"Yes."
"What day?"
"The thirteenth of September."
"Humph! Two weeks off! Well, my tobacco will be largely in, and I
shall send my daughter upon a visit to her Huguenot kindred upon the
Potomac. Good night."
"Good night," answered Landless.
*CHAPTER XV*
*THE WATERS OF CHESAPEAKE*
Patricia was ennuyee to the last degree. That morning Sir Charles had
ridden to Green Spring with her father; Mistress Lettice was in the
still room decocting a face wash from rose leaves, dew and honey; young
Shaw on his knees in the master's room, disconsolately poring over piles
of musty papers in search of a misplaced deed which the colonel had
ordered him to find against his return. It was a hot and listless
afternoon. Patricia read a page of "The Rival Ladies," tried her
spinet, had a languid romp with her spaniels, and finally sauntered into
the porch, and leaning her white arms upon the railing, looked towards
the dazzling blue waters of the Chesapeake. Presently an idea came to
her. She went swiftly into the hall, and called for Darkeih. When that
handmaiden appeared:--
"Darkeih, go down to the quarters, and tell the first man you meet to
find Woodson, and send him to me."
Darkeih departed, and in half an hour's time the overseer appeared at
the foot of the porch steps, red and heated from his rapid walk from the
Three-Mile field.
"What's wrong, Mistress Patricia?" he asked quickly.
Patricia opened her lovely eyes.
"Nothing is wrong, Woodson. What should be? I sent for you, because I
want to go to Rosemead."
"To Rosemead!" exclaimed the overseer.
"Yes, to Rosemead, and I want a couple of men to take me."
The overseer gave a short, vexed laugh. "I can't spare the men,
Mistress Patricia. You ought to have known that every man jack on the
plantation is busy cutting. If I had a known this was all that was
wanted! Fegs! I thought something dreadful was the matter."
"Something dreadful is the matter," said the young lady calmly. "I am
bored to death."
"Sorry for ye, missy, but I can't spare the men."
"Oh, yes, you can!" said Patricia with unruffled composure.
The overseer, knowing his lady, began to weaken.
"Anyhow, you would n't want two men. You might go on a pillion behind
old Abraham. I could spare _him_."
"I shall not go a-horseback. 'T is too hot and dusty. I shall go in
one of the sail-boats--the Bluebird, I think."
"Now, in the name of all that's contrary, what do you want to do that
for, Mistress Patricia?" cried the harassed overseer. "It's twice as
far by water."
"I 'll reach Rosemead before dark. The men can bring the boat back
to-night, and Major Carrington will send me home on a pillion
to-morrow."
"Have you forgotten that to-morrow is Sunday?" said the overseer
severely, and with a new-born anxiety for the proper observance of the
holy day. "Will you have the Colonel pay a fine for you?"
"I will go to service with the Carringtons then, and come home on
Monday," said the lady serenely.
"There 's a squall coming up this afternoon."
"There isn't a cloud in the sky," said his mistress with calm
conviction, looking straight before her at a low, tumbled line of creamy
peaks along the horizon.
"If the Colonel were here--"
"He would say, 'Woodson, do exactly as Mistress Patricia tells you.'"
This with great sweetness.
The overseer gave it up. "I reckon he would, missy," he said with a
grin. "You wind him and all of us around your finger."
"'T is all for your good, Woodson," with a soft, bright laugh. Then,
coaxingly, "Am I to have the Bluebird?"
"I reckon so, Mistress Patricia, seeing that you have set your heart
upon it," said the still reluctant overseer.
"That's a good Woodson. I want Regulus to be one of the boatmen. You
can send any other you choose. I shall take Darkeih with me."
"You can't have Regulus, Mistress Patricia," answered the overseer
positively. "He 's worth any two men in the field. I can't let him
go."
"Let him be at the wharf in half an hour. I will be ready by then."
"You can't have him, Missy."
Patricia stamped her pretty foot. "Am I mistress of this plantation, or
am I not, Woodson?"
"Lord knows you are!" groaned the overseer.
"Then when I say I want Regulus, I will have Regulus and no other."
The overseer sighed resignedly. "Very well, Mistress Patricia, I 'll
send for him."
Patricia danced away, and the overseer strode down the path, viciously
crunching the pebbles and bits of shell beneath his feet. At the wharf
he found a detachment of the infant population of the quarters busily
crabbing; all of whom, save two little Indians who fished stoically on,
scrambled to their feet, and pulled a forelock. The overseer touched
one urchin upon the shoulder with the butt end of his whip.
"You, Piccaninny, run as fast as your legs will carry you to the field
by the swamp, and tell Regulus to leave his work, and come to the big
wharf. Mistress Patricia wants to go a pleasuring."
Piccaninny's black shanks and pink heels flew up and out, and he was
away like a flash. The overseer kept on to the end of the wharf, where
were clustered the boats, some tied to the piles, some anchored a little
way out. "Haines was to send a man to caulk a seam in the Nancy," he
muttered. "Whoever he is, he 'll have to go in the Bluebird. I 'm not
going to take another man from the tobacco. What fools women are! But
they get their way,--the pretty ones at least." He leaned over the
railing, and called,--
"You there, in the Nancy!"