A REQUIEM MASS
Gloom lay on St. Gabriel's. In the little chapel at the end of the hall
stood a rude bier, and on it lay the figure of Father Mohl, his hands
crossed upon his breast. Near the bier knelt Elinor Calvert, telling
her beads, but absently, as though her thoughts were far away, and
on her face such a look of utter and unspeakable grief as would have
melted a heart of stone. Her golden hair was drawn back from her pale
forehead, and her lashes fell over deep shadowy circles which sorrow
had traced on her cheek. Grief's pencil works swiftly.
Gusts of chill wind swept along the uncarpeted floor in little eddies,
and stirred the heavy folds of her black dress.
Not far from her knelt Peggy Neville, miserably ill at ease in a
ceremonial unfamiliar and unsympathetic. She was too young to throw
herself into the spirit of other people's emotions, and found comfort
only in the society of those who threw themselves into hers. In spite
of her awe in the presence of death, her thoughts would wander ever
and anon to the scenes in the forest, to Romney's words, and, shame
upon her! she could not for her life help wondering if he were looking
at her now, and if her feet showed beneath her dress as she knelt. And
all the while the young man saw her as a vision of a saint kneeling in
the depth of the shadows.
From the altar sounded Father White's voice in the solemn rhythmic
cadences of the mass, and the voices below answered in their tremulous
responses,--
_Dominus vobiscum--_
_Et cum spiritu tuo._
_Benedicamus Domine!_
_Deo gratias._
_Fidelium animæ per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace._
_Amen._
As the candle-light shone on Mary Brent's face, it marked a curious
change wrought by these few hours. The placidity had stiffened into
obstinacy, as a water-drop stiffens into an icicle. The nostrils were
slightly pinched, and the lines which bigotry draws around the mouth
were already defining themselves in dim outline. No one can determine
to believe evil of another without planting in his own soul the
seeds of deterioration. Mary Brent had no sooner said in her heart,
"Christopher Neville is a murderer," than she began to desire his
punishment, and having banished him from the circle of her sympathy,
she was fain to justify herself by seeking, and secretly wishing proof
of his guilt. From this, it was but a step to suspicion of all his
acts; and after that came uncharitableness, and hatred cloaking itself
under love of justice and pious devotion to holy Church, which had been
thus outraged in the person of its priest.
Already the dark deed enacted in the forest was working, not only on
the lives, but on the character of those among whom it had fallen.
The men and women here at St. Gabriel's were being tried in the
crucible of destiny, and none could foresee which should emerge pure
gold, and which should be utterly consumed in the fire.
Still the priest's voice sounded from the altar, and the responsive
chant rose and fell on the still air.
An awe such as had never before touched her young life stole over Peggy
Neville as she listened, and crowded out the petty vanities which had
filled her mind at first. As she looked at the bier and the priest's
body stretched upon it, she seemed to see her own future strangely
intertwined by destiny with the fate of this rigid figure. How still it
lay! Oh, if it would only move! The mass came to an end. Dead silence
fell, and lasted. Peggy felt that she could bear it no longer. She must
cry out, scream, or perhaps by one of those strange, contradictory
emotions which assail the human soul at great crises, laugh aloud
with wild, unreal hilarity. At this instant she felt a touch upon her
shoulder, and her brother's voice said in her ear, "Get thy cloak and
hood and meet me outside the door."
His voice sounded grave and ominous.
With beating heart she stole away from the circle already breaking up
into whispering groups, and, having donned her cloak with the scarlet
berries still clinging to its breast, she made her way out at a side
door, and walked hurriedly down the path till she saw her brother
waiting for her beneath the shadow of the snow-laden trees.
At sight of him her tense mood broke suddenly, and bursting into tears,
she threw herself into his arms.
"Oh, Kit! Kit! Tell me about it! Who is he? What is he to us? Why dost
thou look so white and strange?"
Christopher Neville swallowed hard, and moved his lips without
utterance.
"My heart is troubled," he said, speaking to himself rather than Peggy,
and then fell to repeating the words of the psalm: "My friends and my
neighbors have drawn near and stood against me. And they that were near
me stood afar off."
With round eyes Peggy watched him sadly, sure that he was in a fever,
and wishing she had brought her aunt's medicaments of herbs and sweet
waters from St. Mary's. "Come, Christopher," she said gently, "come
into the house. There is naught amiss--thou art walking under the
shadow of a bad dream."
For an instant he faced her in silence. Then at last his words came
out, swift and compelled as if shot from a cannon.
"Little sister," he said, "a sudden trouble has fallen on my life, and
almost the saddest part of it is that it is like to darken thine too.
I would to God," he cried with sudden bitterness, "I had never brought
thee over seas."
"Am I in thy way?"
"No! no!--rather art thou the only comfort I have to turn to."
"Then," said Peggy with the characteristic stamp of her foot, "then why
say such hard things? I am not very old and I am not very wise; but I
think--I hope--I can be trusted, and I know I love thee dearly, and
would lay down my life to serve thee."
"Faithful little heart!" he murmured.
"But tell me," she said, speaking softly, as one does to those in
trouble,--"tell me what is this dark cloud which has fallen upon thee
since thou didst come all smiles to lift me from my saddle this very
day. Surely thou didst know of nothing then."
"No, a few short hours since I would have refused to change my lot with
any man in the province,--a few short hours, yet they may suffice to
blight a life."
"For the love of God, talk no more in riddles, but tell me plainly,
what is it has changed thee so? Cheer up, dear heart, and do not talk
as if thou didst stand accused of some terrible crime!"
"_I do._"
"For shame! 'tis no time for idle jesting."
"Never were words spoke less in lightness. If thou must have plainer
speech, know that I, Christopher Neville, thy brother, stand accused of
murdering yonder priest."
"What fools utter such imbecile slander?"
"Alas, they are no fools that utter, ay, and believe it."
"Why not go straight to Governor Brent and give them the lie?"
Neville staggered as if a blow had struck him.
"Peggy--"
"Brother--"
"_It is Brent who accuses me!_"
At these words Peggy turned pale, but she never flinched. "Some
villain has his ear," she cried. "Tell me who it is; I will face him
down,--yes, I, girl though I am, will show him what it is to lie away
the character, perhaps the life, of the best man in Maryland."
"How do you know it is a lie?"
Peggy Neville laughed--a nervous, hysterical laugh; but the sound was
music in her brother's ears. There was one person, then, to whom the
idea of his being a murderer was impossible--absurd. He smiled, but he
repeated the question; "How dost thou know it is a lie?"
"I know it as I know that water runs downhill, that fire burns. Shall I
swear by these and doubt the laws that rule a soul?"
Neville looked at his sister in a sort of trance of bewilderment. Could
this be the little girl he had played with and laughed at and teased
and loved as one loves a pet and plaything,--this pale young creature,
with eyes aflame with righteous wrath, with pity on her lips, and all
her heart bursting with sympathy and tenderness? Her brother took her
hand in his with a feeling akin to reverence.
"You will never know how much you have comforted me," he said. "I did
not do it, Peggy. I did not do it. Cherish that certainty as a support
in the hard, dark days thou wilt be called to pass through."
"Waste no time in telling me what I know already as well as thou. Let
us take counsel rather, while we may. Tell me first what do they say?
What reason have they? What have they found, seen, imagined?"
"Not much, but enough; they know that I followed Father Mohl out into
the night--that he was never seen after till he was found dead in the
wood yonder."
"But how couldst thou have joined in a death struggle and brought home
no trace of conflict?"
"When I came back I was torn with brambles and stained with blood--of a
beast, I told them--but who could know if I spoke truth?"
It was characteristic of Neville to see his adversary's case more
strongly than his own.
"This is all but a series of happenings. Any one might have met with
the same disaster, and come to his death by an arrow from the bow of
one of the natives."
"It was no arrow that did the deed. It was a knife--an English knife."
"Oh, I am so glad! now surely they can trace the murderer."
Neville gave a deep groan, and leaned his head upon his arm against the
tree.
"_Peggy, the knife was mine._"
"Thine!"
"Ay; Governor Brent found it hid in the folds of the priest's cloak.
He knew it for mine. Canst thou wonder that he accuses me?"
"Does--does any one else suspect thee?"
Neville said nothing, yet his sister was answered.
"Oh, cruel! cruel!" she cried. "How could she know thee so long, and
credit any such base slander? She is a--"
"Hush! Not a word of her. Whatever she does, says, thinks, is right and
forever beyond cavil."
"Monstrous!" groaned his sister, "the man is so daft that if this woman
tells him he has committed murder he will bow his head in meek assent.
Oh, be a man, be a man, I pray thee, and give her back scorn for scorn!"
"She has shown me no scorn,--only a sad, half-sick listlessness, as
though she too had got a death-wound at my hands. It is that which has
cut me to the heart as no pride or wrath or disdain had had power to
do."
Peggy shivered. Her brother noticed it. "What a brute I am," he
murmured, "to keep thee standing here in the cold night air. 'Tis
of a piece with my selfishness. Get thee in and know that thou hast
brought something like comfort to the heart of a sorrow-stricken man.
Good-night, and God bless thee!"
"I will go in as thou bidst me, for the night air waxes cold. But
thou--what wilt thou do?"
"I do not know; I have not thought. It matters little."
"Oh, yes, it matters very little whether thou dost catch thy death of
cold!"
"Would to God I could!"
"Well, as for that, it might serve thy turn, but it would be passing
hard for me!" Here she began to cry.
"By Heavens, thou dost speak truth! Listen, little one: for thy sake I
will take care of myself; for thy sake I will fight this thing to the
bitter end. And if by any chance I conquer, thou mayst have the joy of
knowing that but for thee it never had been done."
For the first time a ring of determination, of energy, of unconscious
hope sounded in his voice.
"Now art thou brave once more," cried Peggy, raising herself on tip-toe
to look into his eyes, which shone like cut steel in the moonlight.
"Never fear but all shall come right yet!"
As she tore herself away and hurried up the steps, she saw with
amazement that Ralph Ingle was pacing up and down the cleared space
before the door of the manor-house.
Stranger still, he carried a gun.
He saluted gravely as Peggy drew near, and would fain have passed on,
but she stopped before him.
"Wherefore abroad so early?" she asked.
"By order of Governor Brent," he answered.
The words struck a chill to her soul. So Christopher, her brother
Christopher, the idol of her childhood, the revered hero of her girlish
dreams, was being _watched_, like a criminal! A quick flame of rage
rose in her heart, and drove back the numbness of despair. "How dare
they?" she whispered to herself; but she hid her thoughts, and spoke no
word further.
As she passed through the hall to reach her chamber, she saw Elinor
still kneeling in the chapel, and the hot anger rose in her stronger
than ever. Was this the pattern of perfection she had wasted so many
thoughts upon,--this woman whose faith broke at the first trial?
Oh, paltry faith! Oh, travesty on confidence!
At the foot of the stair Giles Brent and his sister Margaret stood in
low-toned conversation. As Peggy drew near, Giles started and moved
aside a little, but Margaret stretched out a warm, comforting hand.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" sobbed Peggy, as breaking away she rushed
up stairs.
"Poor child, she hath a heavy load to bear!" said Brent, looking after
her.
"Giles, thou art a fool!"
A moment ago Brent had been ready to take his sister into his
confidence; but her frank speech angered him. Her great mistake lay in
answering appeals for sympathy with advice.
"Margaret, thou art too prone to think that wisdom will die with thee.
It is time thou didst take to heart the fact that I am Governor of this
province, and responsible to God and Calvert alone for my ruling."
"The more the pity that so great a trust is fallen to so little sense."
"Thou hast a shrewd tongue, Margaret, and I have felt its lash often;
but I think thou mightst spare it to-day. Surely, I have enough to try
me."
"Ay, without conjuring up new troubles of thine own imagining."
"'Tis easy said, but hath little meaning. Is the murder of yonder
priest of my own imagining?"
"No."
"Is Neville's knife falling from his garments my own imagining?"
"No."
"Then where comes in the point of thy words?"
"I mean that thou hast walked as fast to meet this trouble as thou
shouldst have walked away from it. Was any with thee when thou didst
find the knife?"
"No, 'twas between the going of Huntoon and the coming of the others."
"And didst show it to Neale or Cornwaleys?"
"No--I was half stunned and walked on in silence; but when Neville came
to meet me I was maddened by his impudent boldness, and I charged him
with the crime then and there."
"Were you two alone?"
"Ay, but for Ralph Ingle and Elinor."
"But for them! As well tell a secret to two hundred as to two. No flies
get through a shut door; but once open, it may as well be kept so, and
let them in and out at will. Therefore, as I said at the beginning,
thou art a fool."
"Thinkst thou I would defeat justice, and make myself sharer in such a
guilty secret as that?"
"I think thou art first of all Governor of this province, wherein the
chief danger lies in the hatred that Catholic and Protestant have for
each other. Now, once 'tis known,--nay, suspected, since for my single
self I believe it not, though I own the proof is strong,--but once, as
I say, let it be suspected that a Protestant hath murdered a Catholic,
and then all the dogs of war are loosed at once. How can it be that
thou who hadst the wit to deal with Ingle shouldst so have lost thy
head here?"
Brent was irritated by the explicitness of his sister's explanation,
as a deaf person is irritated by a tone a shade louder than necessary.
Really, he could take in her meaning without having it lined out to him
as if he were a schoolboy.
"Margaret, I have heard thee through because thou art my sister, and
because thou hast in times past been a faithful counsellor; but in this
I will be my own master, and I am in no humor to submit to orders from
thee. Therefore say no more."
"So be it, then, Brother! Thy folly be on thine own head; but bear in
mind that folly ofttimes claims a more usurious interest than sin. I go
back to Kent Fort at daylight, and shall do my best to quell the rising
discontent; but I know not what will follow the news of the arrest of
a Protestant, especially of such a Protestant,--a man like Christopher
Neville, loved and trusted of all men."
"There, Margaret, thou hast turned the knife in the wound as thou hast
a trick of doing. This is the very root of bitterness in my heart. I
too loved and trusted this man, and he hath betrayed me. He deceived me
about Elinor, whom it seems he hath known and loved for years back. He
deceived me about his wealth, letting me believe he had need to work
at Cecil Point, when in truth he has lands of value in England. And
now worst of all he has betrayed my hospitality by this unpardonable
villainy."
"Enough of this, Giles! It is useless for thee and me to argue this
matter, wherein we cannot see alike. Only do not thou deceive thyself
with talk of statecraft or public duty; these may be in thy mind, but
there is somewhat under them,--thou art jealous--"
Giles Brent started as if a lash had struck him.
"_I_--jealous!"
"Yes, Giles, the love of long ago still lives in thy memory."
"And what harm if it do?"
"No harm save as it drives thee to injustice. Beware! and trust not thy
judgment when thy heart holds the balance."
"Good-bye!" said Giles Brent, and turned upon his heel.