THE LORD OF THE MANOR
The morning sun streamed into the bedroom where Cecil slept on his low
truckle-bed beside his mother's curtained couch. The brilliant rays
tugged at the boy's eyelids and lifted them as suddenly as the ropes
raise the curtain of a play-house, and indeed to this small observer
it seemed that a perpetual comedy was being acted in the world for his
special benefit. Better still, that it was his delightful privilege to
play the part of Harlequin in this rare farce of life and to make the
gravest grown-people the sport of his jests. The earliest manifestation
of humor, in the individual as in the race, is the practical joke;
so it was quite natural that as a fresh and delightful pleasantry it
occurred to Cecil, instantly on waking, to creep over to his mother's
bed and begin to tickle her ear with the tassel of the bed curtain. The
mere occupation was pleasure enough, but the sensation rose to ecstasy
as he watched the sleepy hand raised time after time to brush away
the supposed insect. At length the enjoyment grew too exquisite for
repression, and at the cost of ruining its own existence burst out into
a peal of laughter that roused the drowsy mother.
"Thou naughty implet! What hour o' the clock is it?"
"I know not the hour o' the clock; but o' the sun 'tis past rising
time, and Couthin Mary is stirring already."
"Then we must be stirring too; but first sit thee down here on the edge
of the bed and try to listen as if thou wert grown."
"I am, mother,--I am above thy waist."
"Ay," said Elinor, smiling, "but the question is, art thou up to my
meaning? Hearken! Dost thou know what a tenant is?"
"Ay,--'tis a man who farms thy land, giving thee half and keeping three
quarters for himthelf."
His mother laughed.
"Thou hast a good understanding for one so young, and the description
is apt enough for most tenants; but how sayst thou of one who would
give thee three quarters and keep only one for himself?"
"Why, 'twould not become a Calvert to drive such a bargain with such a
poor fool."
"Thou art not far wrong. Share and share alike is fair dealing 'twixt
land and labor, and so let it be between thee and Sir Christopher
Neville."
"Thir Chrithtopher Neville! The gentleman that came last night? Why, he
ith no laborer. He cannot be in need to work for a living."
"Nay, Cecil, 'tis a labor of love."
"There, mother, I knew he liked me, for all thou saidst my borrowing
of his sword and cloak did anger him. Every one likes me. Couthin Mary
says so."
"Vain popinjay! thou art too credulous of flattery."
"Would Couthin Mary tell a lie?"
"Never mind that question now, but don thy best clothing for the
ceremony of receiving the homage of thy tenant this morning."
"Hooray! Am I to wear my morocco shoes with the red satin roses?"
"Ay."
"And my thilver-broidered doublet?"
"Ay, little peacock."
"And my stockings with the clocks of gold? Oh, Mother, it makes me
feel so grand! I like being lord of the manor. And Thir Chrithtopher
Neville must kneel before me; and how if I tickle him on the neck when
he bends, and make him laugh out before them all?"
"Cecil, if thou dost disgrace me by any of thy clownish pranks, thou
and I will never be friends more. And give thyself no airs either with
this kind new friend. Say to thyself, when he bows before thee, that it
is strength bending to weakness, and pride stooping that it may help
the helpless."
"Do I stand on the platform at the end of the hall where Couthin Mary
stands when her tenants come in?"
"Yes, with Cousin Mary and me beside thee."
"I hope Thir Chrithtopher trips on the step. But I like him, for all he
hath the eyes of a hawk and the mouth of a mastiff."
"Well thou mayst like him! Friends like him are scarce enough anywhere,
and most of all in this new land. Now run away and make haste lest
we vex Cousin Mary by our tardiness, and so begin awry the day which
should open with all good omens. But, Cecil, I have a gift for thee,
something I gave thy father on our marriage. I did think to keep it
till thou shouldst be of age; but on the whole I would rather thou
hadst it to remember this day by."
So speaking, Elinor unlocked her jewel-chest of black oak bound with
brass, and drew from within a pomander-box of gold, the under lid
pierced with holes which permitted the fragrance to escape till it
nearly filled the room with the mingled odor of rose attar and storax,
civet and ambergris, the upper lid adorned with a miniature of Elinor
Calvert painted on ivory and set in pearls like the picture of Cecil
which she wore at her breast. The artist had worked as one who loves
his task, and the delicate tints of neck and arms shone half-veiled by
the creamy lace that fell over them. In the golden curls a red rose
nestled, and around the throat glistened a necklace of rubies.
"Mother!" exclaimed Cecil, "wert thou once as beautiful as that?"
Elinor smiled; but it was not quite a happy smile.
"Yes, once I was as fair as that, and in those days there were many
to care whether I was fair or not. Now there be few either to know or
care."
"Nay, to me thou art still fair, Mother, and there is another who
thinks so too."
"Who is that?"
"Thir Chrithtopher. I saw him looking at you last night, and, Mother,
dost not think, since he thinks to deal so generously with us, it would
be a fine thing for me to give him this portrait of thee to bind the
bargain?"
"Foolish baby, 'twill be time enough to think of that when he asks for
it."
"Then if he asks for it, I may give it--"
"A safe promise truly," said Elinor, smiling this time with beaming
eyes and cheeks, whose rose flush matched the coloring of the ivory
portrait. "Now hasten with thy dressing."
Cecil's head was so filled with thoughts of the pomander-box and his
own greatness that his mother was fully dressed while he sat mooning
over the lacing of his hose and breeches, and gazing with admiring
fondness at the red roses on his holiday shoes.
Three times Cousin Mary had called to him to make haste, and when at
last he entered the hall every one had finished eating, and he was sent
in disgrace to take his breakfast in the buttery. This was too great a
blow for his new-swollen pride, and he fell to howling lustily, while
the tears flowed into his cup of milk and salted it with their brine.
The day which an hour ago had been one glow of rose color all arranged
as a background for the figure of Cecil Calvert in his velvet suit and
gold-clocked stockings, had become a plain Thursday morning in which a
little boy was crying into his milk in a bare buttery hung with pails
and pans.
Suddenly he felt a strong arm thrown over his shoulder, and a kind
voice said in his ear: "I have been late more than once, Cecil; but it
will not do for pioneers, least of all for Little John or Robin Hood."
"Go away; I hate thee," answered the amiable child.
"Dost thou truly? and why?"
"Because were it not for thee I had not put on my best suit with the
troublesome lacings, and but for that I had not been late, and but for
that Couthin Mary had not been vexed, and but for that Mother had not
punished me."
"I see clearly it is I am to blame; and now if thou hast finished thy
bread and milk let us go and ask pardon for our--I mean my fault, and
perhaps we shall be forgiven."
Hand in hand the Lord of the Manor and his tenant sought the hall.
As they walked along the corridor, Neville's face wore a characteristic
smile. This smile of his seemed to begin in one corner of his mouth
and ripple along without ever quite reaching the other, which, to tell
the truth, would have required a goodly journey. There was a certain
fascination in the smile; but one who would fathom its meaning must
look for it, not in the lips at all, but in the pucker of the eyelids
and the gray twinkle of the eyes and the chuckle that lay hid somewhere
in the little creases that the years had drawn in diverging lines from
the point where the lids met.
If Neville was amused he felt no need of proclaiming the fact. A sense
of the ridiculous marks the noisy man, wit the talkative man; but humor
and silence have a strange affinity, and a smile needs no interpreter
to itself.
"Pray, Mistress Brent," said Neville, bowing before his hostess when
they reached the hall, "wilt thou forgive me for being the cause that
Master Cecil did put on his best suit with the troublesome lacings,
whereby he was late to breakfast?"
Mary Brent, being a literal soul, replied, "Why, 'twas not thy fault at
all."
"Then," said Neville, "let the offence become a fixed charge upon the
estate, which I as tenant must assume, and whereupon I promise to give
a breakfast party at Robin Hood's Barn to those here present on this
date each year in remembrance of this day's delinquency.
"As for thee, Sir Landlord, I will give thee an Indian bow and arrows,
that thou mayst play Little John, and when thou dost come a-hunting at
Robin Hood's Barn, thou mayst work havoc at thy will among the heron
and wild duck which I am told do specially abound on the shores of the
bay.
"How say you, Mistress Brent, are the terms accepted, and are we ready
for the ceremony of investiture?"
"I have already bidden in the household," said Mary Brent, and
following on her words there came filing in a train of men and maid
servants, white and black, all arrayed in holiday attire, till the
lower part of the long room was filled.
"'Tis a stately ceremonial thou hast planned," said Elinor, smiling at
her cousin.
"Well enough!" Mary Brent answered, veiling her satisfaction in
deprecation, "since thou hast as yet no tenants, and canst not hold a
court baron at Robin Hood's Barn. I would Giles and Leonard Calvert
were here, for in truth 'tis as goodly a show as we have held."
The tenantry were gathered.
On the dais stood Cecil, his eyes dancing under the page-cut hair which
fell like thatch over his forehead, and his curls tremulous with the
excitement, which would not let him be still for an instant. Elinor
stood beside him in a white dress with a golden girdle, and on the step
knelt Neville.
Elinor found leisure to note the elegance of the jewelled buckles which
he wore on his shoes, and that his collar was of Venice point. It
pleased her that he had taken as much trouble to array himself for his
investiture as he would have done for a court function.
Of what was Neville thinking as he knelt there on the step of the dais?
Was it of Cecil and his manor?
Not at all.
Of law and leases?
Still less.
Of what, then?
Why, of the tiny point of a lady's slipper under a white robe, a
slipper that tempted him to bend a little lower still and kiss it.
Would she feel it, he wondered? Would she chide him if she did? Men
kissed the foot of a saint without blame. If the adorable is to be
adored and the lovable to be loved, why was not the kissable to be
kissed? Besides,--only a slipper!
He was in the hem-of-the-garment stage of his passion, and fancied
himself humble in his desire.
"Stretch out thy rod, Cecil!" It was Elinor's voice that broke in on
Neville's indecision.
[Illustration]
The boy reached forth the stick of ebony tipped with silver which was
Baltimore's gift to Mary Brent on her coming out of England. Neville
grasped the other end, and smiling at Cecil, with a single upward
glance at Elinor bending over him, he said,--
"Hear you, my lord, that I, Christopher Neville, shall be to you both
true and faithful, and shall owe my fidelity to you for the land I hold
of you, and lawfully shall do and perform such customs and services as
my duty is to you, so help me God and all His saints."
"Amen!" said Father White.
"By the terms assigned I do promise to pay to you on taking possession
of the manor at Cecil Point ten Indian arrows and a string of fish,
and thereafter, when the land shall be cleared, to yield you three
quarters of the harvest yearly."
"Nay," interrupted Cecil, "'tis not the bond mother and I did agree
upon; 'twas to be share and share alike. Saidst thou not so in bed this
morning, Mother?"
Before Elinor could reply, Father White spoke as he stepped forward,--
"The case may be happily settled, my daughter, by the yielding of the
quarter in dispute to the revenue at St. Inigo's for the benefit of
Holy Church."
The mutinous blood rose in Neville's cheeks and his chin went out
quarter of an inch; but he held his peace and looked toward Elinor, who
also colored but spoke firmly,--
"Nay, Father, 'twere not well that the Church should profit by an
injustice. What duty Cecil hath to the Church is for thee and me
to settle later, but it must come from his share and not from Sir
Christopher's. Now, Cecil, 'tis thy turn to make thy promise to thy
tenant. Go on: 'I, Cecilius Calvert--'"
"Now, Mother," said the young landlord, shaking off the admonishing
hand from his shoulder with a petulance for which a young Puritan would
have been roundly punished, "if thou dost prompt me like that none will
believe I know my part, and I have learned it as well as thou, thus:
I, Cecilius Calvert, do hereby accept thee, Chrithtopher Neville, as my
tenant at Cecil Point, and promise to protect thee in thy rights to the
extent of the law, and if need be by the aid of my sword."
Neville smiled in spite of himself at the words, and a ripple of
laughter went round the circle of tenants as they noted the comparative
size of protector and protected; but Cecil was too full of his
new-fledged dignity to heed them. He called for the written deed and
the candle and the wax, and on the oaken table he scrawled his name
under those of his mother and Sir Christopher, and then taking off his
signet ring--'twas his father's and a deal too wide for his chubby
finger,--he pressed it firmly into the wax covering the seam of the
folded paper, and then stood looking with admiration at the print of
the crest; a ducal crown surmounted by two half-bannerets. "'Tis a
pretty device, is it not, Thir Chrithtopher? I would you had as pretty
a one. Mother, if Thir Chrithtopher Neville married thee would he bear
the Calvert crest?"
If one could slay one's child and bring him to life again after an
appropriate interval many of us might be tempted to infanticide. A
great flame of anger and shame rose to Elinor's cheek; but Neville came
to her assistance.
"Nay, little landlord," he said coolly, "no husband of thy mother
could bear thy crest. 'Tis for thee, as the only heir in this
generation, to bear it worthily before the world. Mistress Brent, is
the ceremony ended?"
"Ay, and most happily," said Mary, nervously, struggling between desire
to laugh and cry; "let us have in the cake and wine."
The servants went out to fetch the great trays of oaken wood with
rim and handles of silver which had been in the Brent family for
generations. As they re-entered in procession,--for Mary Brent dearly
loved form and ceremony, and kept it up even here in the wilderness,--a
knock was heard at the iron-studded door.
Being flung open it revealed the figure of a man, a tall, slender man
with Saxon flaxen hair and true blue eyes.
"Mistress Brent?" he said questioningly, looking from Mary to Elinor.
"I am she," said Mary, stepping forward and holding out her hand with
even more than her usual warmth of hospitality. "Can I be of service to
you?"
"The question is, rather, are you willing to allow my claim upon your
far-famed hospitality?"
"I think it has never yet been denied any one."
"I believe it well, but perhaps no one ever yet claimed it who lay
under such a shadow. If you consent in your goodness to shelter a
traveller, you must know that you are harboring the brother of Richard
Ingle."
Mary Brent started, for her brother had confided to her Richard Ingle's
treasonable speeches, and in her eyes treason ranked next to blasphemy
among the unpardonable sins. For an instant she hesitated and half
withdrew her hand, then stretching it out again she looked full at him
and said,--
"'Twere a pity frank truth-telling like yours should cost you dear. Let
me ask but one question, Do you hold with your brother in his treason?"
A pained look came into Ralph Ingle's eyes. "Lady," he said, "'tis
a hard matter to hear or speak evil of one's brother--one's only
brother." His lip trembled, but the voice rang clear and steady.
"Yet when the time comes to choose between brotherly affection and
one's duty to King and Commonwealth, the knot must be cut though the
blood flows. So I told Richard yesterday, there on the deck of _The
Reformation_, and hereafter we have sworn to forget that the same
father called us both son."
"You speak like a true man," said Mary Brent, "and shall be taken at
your word. You find us celebrating the tenancy of Sir Christopher
Neville yonder, who is taking up land of Mistress Calvert and her son.
"Elinor, this is Master Ingle. Judge him on his deeds--not his name!"
Ingle swept the ground with the plumes of his hat before Elinor as he
murmured,--
"Nay, rather judge me of your own gentleness, and let mercy temper the
verdict."
Neville stood, looking coldly at the intruder. He was jealous, for he
saw the light of a new interest dawning in Elinor Calvert's face, and
he saw the hot, passionate light of love at first sight as clear as day
in Ralph Ingle's eyes.
For the first time he was conscious with angry protest that he was
growing old. His cast-down glance fell upon his grizzled mustachios,
and he inwardly cursed the sign of age. "The conceited stripling!" he
muttered, as he looked at the bowing golden curls. "I know I am not
just. I have no ambition to be just. I hate him. Come, Cecil," he said,
crossing over to where the child stood holding a wine cup in one hand
and a distressingly large slice of fruit cake in the other, "thou and I
have no larger part to play here than the cock in Hamlet."
"What part did he play?" asked Cecil, crowding his mouth with plums,
while he held the remaining cake high above his head to escape Knut's
jumping.
"Oh, the important office was his to announce the daybreak and put an
end to the ghost's walking. Do ghosts walk nowadays dost thou think,
Cecil?"
"Sure."
"I think so too; I have seen them,--in fact, I feel sometimes as if I
were one of them."
"Art thou really?" Cecil's eyes were round as saucers.
"Well, never mind that question just now. Perhaps I am--perhaps I am
not; do thou drain thy wine, and let us be off outside to build a
snow-man in the road."
Nothing loath, the child slipped his hand into the big, muscular one
held out to him, and unobserved by the preoccupied group around the
fire, they slipped out.
Ralph Ingle turned as they passed him. "I must watch that man," he
thought. "He who takes a child by the hand takes the mother by the
heart."
"Wait," said Cecil at the door. "I must doff my finery, for who knows
when I may need it to receive another tenant?"
"Prudent lad! I will do the same, lest I catch the fever and then thou
must needs seek a new tenant. But, Cecil, promise me one thing."
"Ay, a dozen if you wish."
"Promise me that, whatever tenants thou mayst have hereafter, thou wilt
like me best."
"Why, so I will, especially if you give me the bow and arrows you
promised. I liked you right away last night, and mother likes you, and
Cousin Mary likes you, and Father White likes you a little; but I'll
tell you who doth not."
"Let us hear, then; who is he that has such poor taste in likings?"
"Father Mohl."
"Why do you think that?"
"He thmiled at you."
"Oh! Is that a bad sign with the reverend Mohl."
"You mutht not call him that--you mutht call him holy Father. But you
are right, it is a bad sign when he smiles that way. It is how he looks
when he complains to Mother of me, and gets me a whipping. Father White
smiles like a kind old pussy-cat; but Father Mohl smiles like a wolf."
"But thou wilt stand my friend even if Father Mohl like me not?"
"Pooh, that makes no difference!"
"And thou wilt help thy mother to go on liking me?"
"Yes. She does everything I ask her to, and I'll tell her you are going
to be my best friend."
"I thank thee."
"Well, you are, you know. Of course you are rather old and somewhat
plain, and I cannot promise not to think Master Ingle within there is
handsomer, but I shall always like you best, and beauty doth not count
when you know a person."
"No, but 'tis an amazing good letter of introduction. Now fly up and
change to thine old suit and we will build a snow-man as high as the
window and we will put curls on him as long as those on that jackanapes
inside--I mean as those of the beautiful young man who calls himself
Ralph Ingle."
When Cecil had changed to his every-day clothes he came down again
looking more comfortable in mind and body. "I think," he confided to
Neville, "that I could eat another piece of cake. The belt of this
doublet is so much looser than in my best."
"Ay, but there is dinner to come, and 'tis best to make allowance for
this future; besides, who is this at the wharf in the in-bound boat?"
"Why, 'tis Couthin Margaret."
"So it is. For a moment I thought her a man in that long cloak and
those heavy boots. Let us go down to meet her!"
When they reached the dock, the man in the ketch was already clewing
up the sails, while the woman on the wharf stood giving orders. At the
sound of approaching footsteps she turned.
Despite her rough attire and forty-odd years, Margaret Brent was
a woman worth looking at. Her personality was marked by a noble
largeness which obliterated detail, and cast a mantle of oblivion over
defects. The first impression made upon all who came in contact with
her was of her adequacy to the situation before her, whether it was a
rout or a riot. This it was which a few years later won her the thanks
of the Maryland Assembly for her prompt action in a political crisis,
which led her kinsman to leave her sole executrix of his great estate
with the brief instruction, "Take all--pay all!" and which, finally,
before her death made her the most famous woman in the colony.
Through all the vicissitudes of pioneer life she kept the air and
bearing of race. Even now, though a wave of gray wind-blown hair had
escaped from her hood, and her falling band was pulled awry, yet no
princess in full regalia could have been more the great lady than she
as she came forward to meet Cecil and his companion.
"Sir Christopher, I greet you. I would I had known of your coming
yesterday that I might have had your company and protection."
Neville bowed, smiling. "The advantage of both would have been on my
side, for Mistress Brent's prowess is a byword."
"Say they so indeed!" Margaret answered without attempt at disclaimer
and with a smile which showed her strong white teeth, "I am glad of
that, for I may need the repute in the near future. Sorry was I to hear
that you had thoughts of taking up land in this part of the country and
deserting Kent Fort. I count you the strongest man we have among us,
and since Claiborne's rebellious efforts we need all the help we can
claim. 'Tis in regard to this that I have followed my brother hither."
"I am sorry; but I fear you must meet disappointment. He has been
called to St. Mary's by troubles over Dick Ingle. He may return
to-morrow."
"Nay, if he comes not back to-day I must turn out the trainband on my
own responsibility. The matter will not keep."
"You should be made a captain."
"Not I! I am too wise for that. The captain must give place to the
colonel, and the colonel to the general; but the woman is above them
all, and what men would never yield of their obstinacy to equality,
they will oft give up of their courtesy to her weakness. Besides,
men never forget the obedience to women they learn at their mother's
knee--or over it--
"Is it not so, Father?" she went on, turning to Father White, who had
joined them. "Have I not heard thee say any one might have the training
of a child after seven if thou couldst have the teaching of him till
then?"
"Ay, 'tis so--though this boy may not do so much credit to my teaching
as I could wish;" and he pinched Cecil's ear, laughing.
"He is too busy keeping his body a-growing, I fancy, to pay much heed
to his soul. How say you, Cecil,--wilt thou lend me those cheeks of
thine for cushions?"
"No," answered the child, gravely, "elthe how could I keep my food
in when I eat? Let me go! I mutht tell Couthin Mary thou art come. I
dearly love to be the firtht to tell newth."
But this time he was too late, for Mary had caught sight of the group,
and came running down the path.
"Oh, Margaret, but I am glad to see thee! Bless thine heart, how thou
art blown! I have great need of thy counsel. I must have thee tell me
if the pickles want sweetening, and if the stockade be high enough, and
how many cattle I should order out of England--"
"Why hast not asked Giles all these things?"
"Why, Giles is so great a man he will give no heed to small things, but
puts them off with a 'Presently--presently--'"
"Ay, and if he have not a care, this 'Presently, presently' will cost
him dear. In a new land least of all can we afford to despise the day
of small things.--Ah! there is my Cousin Elinor!" She broke off,
seeing Mistress Calvert in the doorway.
The two women did not altogether harmonize. They were too much alike,
and neither cared for her own type. Both loved to dominate men, though
neither would have owned it. Elinor had early chosen the heart as her
sphere of influence, and Margaret Brent the mind. It was in the border
land that they clashed. Yet, had either been asked, especially when
separated, who was the noblest woman she knew, one would have said
"Elinor Calvert," the other, "Margaret Brent."
"Come in," said Elinor, as she kissed her cousin's cheek. "Come in and
share the feast set out in honor of Sir Christopher Neville, Cecil's
new tenant, at Robin Hood's Barn."
"I knew thou wouldst have him."
"Verily? then thou didst know more than I."
"No doubt--'tis the privilege of the looker-on. Besides, I knew thy
business head, which is better than one would think to watch thine
impulsive bearing, and none but a fool would let such a tenant as
Christopher Neville slip through her fingers."
Elinor reddened.
"Nay, now I see I have said somewhat amiss, but the time is too short
to find out what, so forgive my sins in the bulk, and believe that I
do love thee much for all we fit not always in our moods. Mary, if thou
hast something hot for the inner man, prithee let me have it, for I am
well-nigh starved and frozen."
To herself she said, "Neville is in love with Elinor Calvert--foolish
man! She means to use him--wise woman!"
Which proves that a clever observer may be too clever, and see both
more and less than there is to be seen.
Neville, after watching the women enter the house with Cecil hanging to
his mother's gown, strode down the path with head thrown back, and the
glint of a firm purpose shining from between his narrowed lids.