LANDLESS AND PATRICIA
For one moment the parties to this midnight encounter stared at each
other with starting eyeballs; the next, down came the curtain of
darkness between them.
With a cry of terror Patricia seized and clung to Landless's arm,
trembling violently, and with her breath coming in long, gasping sobs.
Exhausted by the previous terrors of the night, this last experience
completely unnerved her--she seemed upon the point of swooning. Divining
what would soonest calm her, Landless hurried her out of the wood and
down the shore to the bank, beneath which lay the sleeping slaves. Here
she sank upon the sand, her frame quivering like an aspen. "That
dreadful face!" she said in a low, shaken voice. "It is burned upon my
eyeballs. How came it there? Was it--dead?"
"No, no, madam," Landless said soothingly. "'Tis simple enough. The
murderer is in hiding within these woods, and we stumbled upon his
lair."
She gazed fearfully around her. "I see it everywhere. And may he not
follow us down here? Oh, horrible!"
"He is not likely to do that," said Landless, with a smile. "You may
rest assured that he is far from this by now."
She drew a long breath of relief. "Oh! I hope he is!" she cried
fervently. "It was dreadful! No storm could frighten me as did that
face!" and she shuddered again.
"Try not to think of it," he said. "It is gone now; try to forget it."
"I will try," she said doubtfully.
Landless did not answer, and the two sat in silence, watching out the
dreary night. But not for long, for presently Patricia said humbly:--
"Will you talk to me? I am frightened. It is so still, and I cannot see
you, nor the slaves, only that horrid, horrid face. I see it
everywhere."
Landless came nearer to her, and laid one hand upon the skirt of her wet
robe. "I am here, close to you, madam," he said; "there can nothing harm
you."
He began to speak quietly and naturally of this and that, of what they
should do when the day broke, of Regulus's wound, of the storm, of the
great sea and its perils. He told her something of these latter, for he
knew the sea; piteous tales of forlorn wrecks, brave tales of dangers
faced and overcome, of heroic endurance and heroic rescue. He told her
tales of a wild, rockbound Devonshire coast with its scattered fisher
villages; of a hidden cave, the resort of a band of desperadoes, half
smugglers, half pirates, wholly villains; of how this cave had been long
and vainly searched for by the authorities; of how, one night, a boy
climbed down a great precipice, scaring the seafowl from their nests,
and lighted upon this cavern with the smugglers in it, and in their
midst a defenseless prisoner whom they were about to murder. How he had
shouted and made wailing, outlandish noises, and had sent rocks hurtling
down the cliffs, until the wretches thought that all the goblins of
land and sea were upon them, and rushed from the cavern, leaving their
work undone. Whereupon, the boy reclimbed the cliff, and hastening to
the nearest village, roused the inhabitants, who hurried to their boats,
and descending upon the long-sought-for cave, surprised the smugglers,
cut them down to a man, and rescued the prisoner.
The man who told these things told them well. The wild tales ran like a
strain of sombre music through the night. His audience of one forgot her
terror and weariness, and listened with eager interest.
"Well--" she said, as he paused.
"That is all. The ruffians were all killed and the prisoner rescued."
"And the boy?"
"Oh, the boy! He went back to his books."
"Did you know him?"
"Yes, I knew him. See, madam, it has quite cleared. How the moon whitens
those leaping waves!"
"Yes, it is beautiful. I am glad the prisoner escaped. Was he a
fisherman?"
"No; an officer of the Excise--a gallant man, with a wife and many
children. Yes, I suppose he prized life."
"And I am glad that the smugglers were all killed."
Landless smiled. "Life to them was sweet, too, perhaps."
"I do not care. They were wicked men who deserved to die. They had
murdered and robbed. They were criminals--"
She stopped short, and her face turned from white to red and then to
white again, and her eyes sought the ground.
"I had forgotten," she muttered.
The hot color rose to Landless's cheek, but he said quietly:--
"You had forgotten what, madam?"
She flashed a look upon him. "You know," she said icily.
"Yes, I know," he answered. "I know that the perils of this night had
driven from your mind several things. For a little while you have
thought of, and treated me, as an equal, have you not? You could not
have been more gracious to,--let us say, to Sir Charles Carew. But now
you have remembered what I am, a man degraded and enslaved, a felon,--in
short, the criminal who, as you very justly say, should not be let to
live."
She made no answer, and he rose to his feet.
"It is almost day, and the moon is shining brightly. You no longer fear
the face in the dark? I will first waken the slaves, and then will push
along the shore, and strive to discover where we are."
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. "Wait," she said, putting out
a trembling hand. "I have hurt you. I am sorry. Who am I to judge you?
And whatever you may have done, however wicked you may have been,
to-night you have borne yourself towards a defenseless maiden as truly
and as courteously as could have done the best gentleman in the land.
And she begs you to forget her thoughtless words."
Landless fell upon his knee before her. "Madam!" he cried, "I have
thought you the fairest piece of work in God's creation, but harder than
marble towards suffering such as may you never understand! But now you
are a pitying angel! If I swear to you by the honor of a gentleman, by
the God above us, that I am no criminal, that I did not do the thing for
which I suffer, will you believe me?"
"You mean that you are an innocent man?" she said breathlessly.
"As God lives, yes, madam."
"Then why are you here?"
"I am here, madam," he said bitterly, "because Justice is not blind. She
is only painted so. Led by the gleam of gold she can see well enough--in
one direction. I could not prove my innocence. I shall never be able to
do so. And any one--Sir William Berkeley, your father, your
kinsman--would tell you that you are now listening to one who differs
from the rest of the Newgate contingent, from the coiners and cheats,
the cut-throats and highway robbers in whose company he is numbered,
only in being hypocrite as well as knave. And yet I ask you to believe
me. I am innocent of that wrong."
The moonlight struck full upon his face as he knelt before her. She
looked at him long and intently, with large, calm eyes, then said softly
and sweetly:--
"I believe you, and pity you, sir. You have suffered much."
He bowed his head, and pressed the hem of her skirt to his lips.
"I thank you," he said brokenly.
"Is there nothing?" she said after a pause, "nothing that I can do?"
He shook his head. "Nothing, madam. You have given me your belief and
your divine compassion. It is all that I ask, more than I dared dream of
asking an hour ago. You cannot help me. I must dree my weird. I would
even ask of your goodness that you say nothing of what I have told you
to Colonel Verney or to any one."
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "If I cannot help you, it were wiser not
to speak. I might but make your hard lot harder."
"Again I thank you." He kissed the hem of her robe once more, and rose
to his feet with a heart that sat lightly on its throne.
The day began to break. With the first faint flush Landless woke the
slaves, who at length yawned and shivered themselves into consciousness
of their surroundings. "What are we to do now?" demanded Patricia.
"We had best strike through that belt of woods until we come to some
house, whence we may get conveyance for you to Verney Manor."
"Very well. But oh! do not let us enter the forest here where we saw
that fearful face. Let us walk along the shore until the light grows
stronger. It is still night within the woods."
Landless acquiesced with a smile, and the four--he and Patricia in
front, the negroes straying in the rear--set out along the shore. The
air was chill and heavy, but there was no wind, and the unclouded sky
gave promise of a hot day. In the east the rosy flush spread and
deepened, and a pink path stretched itself across the fast subsiding
waters. The wet sand dragged at their feet, and made walking difficult;
moreover Patricia was chilled and weary, so their progress was slow.
There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her lips had a weary,
downward curve; her golden hair, broken from its fastenings, hung in
damp, rich masses against her white throat and blue-veined temples, and
amidst the enshrouding glory her perfect face looked very small and
white and childlike. The magnificent eyes carried in their clear, brown
depths an expression new to Landless. Heretofore he had seen in them
scorn and dislike; now they looked at him with a grave and wondering
pity.
As the sun rose, the shipwrecked party left the shore, and entered the
forest. A purple light filled its vast aisles. Far overhead bits of
azure gleamed through the rifts in the foliage, but around them was the
constant patter and splash of rain drops, falling slow and heavy from
every leaf and twig. There was a dank, rich smell of wet mould and
rotting leaves, and rain-bruised fern. The denizens of the woodland were
all astir. Birds sang, squirrels chattered, the insect world whirred
around the yellow autumn blooms and the purpling clusters of the wild
grape; from out the distance came the barking of a fox. The sunlight
began to fall in shafts of pale gold through openings in the green and
leafy world, and to warm the chilled bodies of the wayfarers.
"It is like a bad dream," said Patricia gayly, as Landless held back a
great, wet branch of cedar from her path. "All the storm and darkness,
and the great hungry waves and the danger of death! Ah! how happy we are
to have waked!"
Her glance fell upon Landless's face, and there came to her a sudden
realization that there were those in the world, to whom life was not one
sweet, bright gala day. She gazed at him with troubled eyes.
"I hope you care to live," she said. "Death is very dreadful."
"I do not think so," he answered. "At least it would be forgetfulness."
She shuddered. "Ah! but to leave the world, the warm, bright, beautiful
world! To die on your bed, when you are old--that is different. But to
go young! to go in storm and terror, or in horror and struggling as did
that man who was murdered! Oh, horrible!"
The thought of the murdered man brought another thought into her mind.
"Do you think," she said, "that we had better tell that we saw the
murderer at the first house to which we come, or had we best wait until
we reach Verney Manor?"
Landless gave a great start. "You will tell Colonel Verney that?"
She opened her eyes widely. "Why, of course! What else should we do? Is
not the country being scoured for him? My father is most anxious that he
should be captured. Justice and the weal of the State demand that such a
wretch should be punished." She paused and looked at him gravely as he
walked beside her with a clouded face. "You say nothing! This man is
guilty, guilty of a dreadful crime. Surely you do not wish to shield
him, to let him escape?"
"Not so, madam," said Landless in desperation. "But--but--"
"But what?" she asked as he stopped in confusion.
He recovered himself. "Nothing, madam. You are right, of course. But I
would not speak before reaching Verney Manor."
"Very well."
Landless walked on, bitterly perplexed and chagrined. The strife and
danger of the night, the intoxicating sweetness of the morning hours
when he knew himself believed in and pitied by the woman beside him,
had driven certain things into oblivion. He had been dreaming, and now
he had been plucked from a fool's paradise, and dashed rudely to the
ground. Yesterday and the life and thoughts of yesterday, which had but
now seemed so far away, pressed upon him remorselessly. And to-morrow!
He did not want Roach to be taken. Always there would have been danger
to himself and his associates in the capture of the murderer, but now
when the vindictive wretch would assuredly attribute his disaster to the
man to whom the lightning flash had revealed his presence on the shores
of the bay, the danger was trebled. And it was imminent. He had little
doubt that another night would see Roach in custody, and he had no doubt
at all that the scoundrel would make a desperate effort to save his neck
by betraying what he knew of the conspiracy--and thanks to Godwyn's
lists he knew a great deal--to Governor and Council.
Patricia began to speak again. "It imports much that men should see that
there is no weakness in the arm the law stretches out to seize and
punish offenders. My father and the Governor and Colonel Ludlow believe
that there is afoot an Oliverian plot-- What is the matter?"
"Nothing, madam."
"You stood still and caught your breath. Are you ill, faint?"
"It is nothing, madam, believe me? You were saying?"
"Oh! the Oliverians! Nothing definite has been discovered as yet, but
there is thunder in the air, my father says, and I know that he and the
Governor and the rest of the council are very watchful just now. But
yesterday my father said that those few hundred men form a greater
menace to the Colony than do all the Indians between this and the South
Sea."
They walked on in silence for a few moments, and then she broke out.
"They are horrible, those grim, frowning men! They are rebels and
traitors, one and all, and yet they stand by and shake curses on the
heads of true men. They slew the best man, the most gracious sovereign;
they trampled the Church under foot, they made the blood of the noble
and the good to flow like water, and now when they receive a portion of
their deserts, they call themselves martyrs! They, martyrs! Roundhead
traitors!"
"Madam," interrupted Landless with a curious smile upon his lips, "did
you not know that I was, that I am, what you call a Roundhead?"
"No," she said, "I did not know," and stood perfectly still, looking
straight before her down the long vista of trees. He saw her face change
and harden into the old expression of aversion. The slaves came up to
them, and Regulus asked if 'lil Missy wanted anything. "No, nothing at
all," she answered, and walked quietly onward.
Landless, an angry pain tugging at his heart, kept beside her, for they
were passing through a deep hollow in the wood where the gnarled and
protruding roots of cypress and juniper made walking difficult, and
where a strong hand was needed to push aside the wet and pendent masses
of vine. Regulus, fifty yards behind them, began to sing a familiar
broadside ballad, torturing the words out of all resemblance to English.
The rich notes rang sweetly through the forest. Down from the far summit
of a pine flashed a cardinal bird, piercing the gloom of the hollow like
a fire ball thrown into a cavern. Landless held aside a curtain of
glistening leaves that, mingled with purple clusters of fruit, hung
across their path. Patricia passed him, then turned impulsively. "You
think me hard!" she said. "Many people think me so, but I am not so,
indeed.... And there are good Puritans. Major Carrington, they say, is
Puritan at heart, and he is a good man and a gentleman.... And you saved
my life.... At least you are not like those men of whom I spoke. You
would not plot against the good peace which we enjoy! You would not try
to array servant against master?"
It was a direct question asked with large, straightforward eyes fixed
upon his. He tried to evade it, but she asked again with insistence, and
with a faint doubt lurking in her eyes, "If these men are plotting,
which God forbid! you know nothing of it? You have great wrongs, but you
would take no such dastard way to right them?"
Landless's soul writhed within him, but he told the inevitable lie that
was none the less a lie that it was also the truth. He said in a low
voice, "I trust, madam, that I will do naught that may misbecome a
gentleman."
She was quite satisfied. He saw that he had regained the ground lost by
his avowal of a few minutes before, and he cursed himself and cursed his
fate.
Soon afterwards they emerged from the forest upon a tobacco patch, from
the midst of which rose a rude cabin, in whose doorway stood a woman
serving out bowls of loblolly to half a dozen tow-headed children.
Half an hour later, Patricia, rested and refreshed, took her seat behind
the oxen, which the owner of the cabin had harnessed up, with much
protestation of his eagerness to serve the daughter of Colonel Verney,
emptied her purse in the midst of the open-mouthed children, and bade
kindly adieu to the good wife. Darkeih curled herself up in the bottom
of the cart, and Landless and Regulus walked beside it.
In two hours' time they were at Verney Manor, where they found none but
women to greet them, Rendered uneasy by the storm, Woodson had
despatched a messenger to Rosemead, who had returned with the tidings
that no boat from Verney Manor had reached that plantation. The overseer
had ill news with which to greet the Colonel and Sir Charles when at
midnight they arrived unexpectedly from Green Spring. Since then every
able-bodied man had deserted the plantation. There were no boats at the
wharf, no horses in the stables. The master and Sir Charles were gone in
the Nancy, the two overseers on horseback. A Sabbath stillness brooded
over the plantation, until a negro woman recognized the occupants of the
ox-cart lumbering up the road. Then there was noise enough of an
exclamatory, feminine kind. The shrill sounds penetrated to the great
room, where, behind drawn curtains, surrounded by essences, and an odor
of burnt feathers, with Chloe to fan her, and Mr. Frederick Jones to
murmur consolation, reclined Mistress Lettice. As Patricia stepped upon
the porch, Betty Carrington flew down the stairs and through the hall,
and the two met with a little inarticulate burst of cries and kisses.
Mistress Lettice in the great room went into hysterics for the fifth
time that morning.