THE ROLLING YEAR
"Is he better to-day?"
"Better in body; but for the mind I can see little betterment."
Elizabeth sighed at her husband's words. Months had gone by since
Christopher Neville was borne into the house on his litter. Winter
had thawed into spring, spring had bourgeoned and bloomed itself into
summer, and summer had dropped its green mantle and taken on the dusky
sadness of autumn with its intervals of Indian summer's hazy glory, and
now winter was here again. Not last year's icy winter with the cruel
chill of the north bearing down on the unpreparedness of the south; but
a genial, soft, out-of-doors winter with roses blooming to deck the
burial of the old year and welcome the birth of the new, to hearten the
struggling and revive the sick.
"Surely," they said, "this weather must put new life into Neville."
It was only in the inner circle that they named him. To the outer
world he was "the guest," or when need was, "Master John." Often when
alone Huntoon asked himself what would happen if Brent caught wind
of Neville's being alive, and made requisition upon Berkeley for his
return. It would make an awkward entanglement, Huntoon admitted; but he
vowed to himself that there should be a stiff fight before the prisoner
was taken from Romney, and those who knew Huntoon's character and the
look of his upper lip would have been slow to undertake the capture.
In the first months under the doctor's skilful treatment, the invalid
had gained rapidly, and the household rejoiced. Then Nature cried a
halt. The color came back to the pallid cheeks, strength to the limbs,
but the old light in the eyes never returned. A lassitude marked all
motions. A gentle thoughtfulness showed itself in word and deed; but
they were as the words and deeds of a child dealing with the present
alone. The blow from the bowsprit or the shock of the water or both
together, falling on nerves so terribly overwrought, had unseated
reason and dethroned memory, at least made a gap which the wandering
mind was powerless to fill.
Neville dwelt much in the world of his childhood, fancied himself
riding along English lanes, and pulling briar and eglantine in the
valleys of Surrey and Somerset with Peggy by his side. Then his
imagination led to a beautiful golden-haired girl who went robed in
green holding herself like some stately palm.
He remembered watching her walking over close-cropped lawn, and dancing
galliards on polished floors. It seemed to him that he had loved her
in that strange far away world, and he could recall vaguely a pang of
regret when he heard that she was married. Then a blank and nothing
more till he found himself here in this hospitable home, with Peggy
still beside him ministering to him without ceasing, and the circle of
friendly faces about. He knew neither curiosity nor sadness. It was
well with him, and he asked nothing but to stay as he was.
"That is the worst of the case," said Master Huntoon to his wife.
"If Neville were discontented or unhappy, it would show that there
was some half-conscious memory at work in his mind; as it is, I have
little hope. And such a man! Faith, Brent must have been mad to believe
anything evil of that broad, open brow. I have seen many criminals
in my time, Betty, and I know the look of them; but there is another
look--the look of a man who might commit a crime if the motive were
strong enough--I know that too; and then there is yet another face that
God keeps for the man who is to play a man's part in the world, to do
and dare and bear bravely the worst Fate can lay upon him, and that is
the face of Christopher Neville."
"Alas that his mind should have died before the body!"
"Nay, Betty, let us not give it up so easily. Memory may be gone and
judgment even, and yet the vital spark linger. Thought is the breath of
the soul. While that lasts there is life, and Christopher's thought is
as beautiful and as pure as the heaven above us."
"Ay, that's God's truth."
"More than that, I have seen in him now and then a glimpse of
recognition of earth as though the soul were shaking off its lethargy.
Were the real world a less sad one for him, I might be tempted to try
to call him back by mention of the Brents or Mistress Calvert."
"Oh, that woman!" exclaimed Elizabeth; "not a word from her in all
these weeks."
"You forget. She counts him dead."
"Ay, but she might have written to Peggy."
"Yet when Peggy's aunt wrote it did not suit thee."
"I should say not. Such a letter! It was as well Christopher was dead,
since he had brought such disgrace on the name, but Peggy might come
back to her if she chose. Oh, but it was good to see the answer Peggy
sent, and how she scorned aid or protection from any that doubted her
brother's innocence."
"Perhaps Mistress Calvert feared a like rebuff, for she and Peggy did
not part in love. Besides, thou must not forget that she has much
to contend with. She is a Catholic and under the tutelage of Jesuit
priests."
"'Tis well I know what _their_ influence is. If I were Lord Baltimore,
I would harry them all out of the province."
"Ay, but thou art not Lord Baltimore nor called upon for the Christian
task of harrying out of the land a band of brave men."
"Thou dost defend them?"
"Nay, there be few things in which they and I think alike; but this
I do say: There is no chapter in her history to which the Church has
better right to point with pride than this work of the Jesuits here in
the West. At privations they have smiled, at danger they have laughed,
at torture they have stretched out hands of blessing over their
torturers. And who are they who have faced all these things for their
religion? Not hardy pioneers full of love of adventure like many of our
Virginia cavaliers, but delicately nurtured students, men for the chief
part who prefer the cloister to the world, but have cheerfully sought
these western wilds, moved only by love of God and man."
"Humphrey, thou dost love to argue, but answer me one question, Dost
thou put trust in them?"
Huntoon shrugged his shoulders.
"Why, for the matter of that," he said, "the older I grow, the fewer
men do I put full trust in. But, Betty, there is something else I have
to talk of with thee."
"Ay," said his wife, laying down the purse she was netting, "and what
is that?"
"Faith, I scarce like to speak of it lest it vex thee."
"The sooner I hear it, the less 'twill keep me on the rack."
"Why, then, I do suspect that Romney is in love."
"Verily!"
"Ay, verily, verily. At the first I thought 'twas but a boyish
softness; but I have watched him close of late, and I fear it is a
man's passion."
"Oh, mayhap 'tis thy fancy leads thee on to imagine all this. Romney is
tougher than thou mayst credit. He can see a pretty face--ay, even for
a year--and not lose his heart."
"But, Betty--"
"Well!"
"What if the maid lose hers with looking at him? He is a well-favored
lad."
"Ay, he hath the look and bearing of the Romneys. But what hath put
this fancy in thy head?"
"Oh, I have looked and listened and I am very swift to take in such
things, swifter than thou, I dare venture; oft would I have spoken to
thee of the matter ere this, but feared to stir lest thou take it too
hard."
"Good Master Blind-as-a-Bat, once before I called thee by that name,
and thou hast got no better eyes since. I have known this wondrous news
of thine these twelve months more or less."
"And never told me?"
"Oft would I have spoken," answered Elizabeth, mockingly, "but feared
lest thou take it too hard."
"The same old Betty!" cried Humphrey Huntoon, laughing, yet a trifle
vexed, for the most amiable of men loves not to be made a jest of. "But
there must be some deeper reason why thou shouldst have held thy peace
on a matter touching us both so nearly. Faith, thou art like the fish
Walton tells of, that closeth its mouth in August and openeth not till
spring."
"Why, Humphrey, 'twas the first night of the Nevilles' coming, Romney
did make a clean breast of his love for Peggy, and the next day we
talked of it again. He told me all,--how he had asked her to marry him
and got no answer; that is, none that suited him, for he swore she
cared no more for him than for any gallant of St. Mary's save as he
had befriended her brother; 'but, Mother,' he said, 'I spoke with her
since she came to Romney and told her the matter was not to be opened
for a year, that we were both too young, and meanwhile we were to be
friends, and if she made any show of not being at ease with me, I would
take myself off for the whole year, and that would be a great grief to
you and my father.'"
"Ah!" said her husband, "the boy has the blood of the Huntoons in him.
'Twas spoken like a man, and Peggy--what said she?"
"She said nothing, only stretched out both hands and looked up at him
in a way she has which would make a man in love with her that was cold
before, and make her lover ready to live or die for another like it.
Ever since they have been fast friends, though 'tis to thee rather than
Romney she shows favor, and 'tis well I am a woman above jealousy."
While they were talking Neville entered.
"Is it not a pity, my good host, to be shut indoors when the sunshine
lies on the river bank and the air is like mellow wine?"
"Hast thou spent the morning in the open?"
"Ay, Romney and I and Peggy have been sitting by the river bank. We
made wreaths for her while she bound our wrists with withes and
laughed to see us struggle with them. I did break mine full easily; but
Romney could not for his life till Peggy did herself undo them."
"Where did you leave the two?" asked Elizabeth.
"They came up from the river with me, but turned in at the barn where
the spinning-wheel stands. There! I ought not to have told, for Peggy
was fain to surprise thee with a great skein of smooth flax."
"She is more like to surprise me with a knotted skein, and a snarl on
the spindle that will take a week to unwind. Never was there such a
careless, heedless, captivating being."
"Since the days of Elizabeth Romney," said Huntoon, who would listen to
no word spoken in detraction of Peggy. His wife smiled and thrust out
her chin at him.
"I must go and try if it be yet too late to rescue the poor wheel," she
said, and passed out at the door and down the path which led to the
barn.
At the entrance of the barn she paused and stood looking in at the
picture which the doorway framed. Leaning against the rough wall stood
Romney, his fingers idly sweeping the strings of a lute, while his eyes
were fixed upon Peggy as she sat by the flax-wheel in the corner. Her
little foot pressed the treadle, her round arms swayed this way and
that with the moving skein, and her supple fingers hovered over distaff
and spindle.
The last year had left time's mark on the young man. In youth these
marks are generally an improvement, and before thirty, the years add
more than they take away. It was hard to define the change which the
passing months had brought to Romney, but where a year ago the passing
stranger saw the lingering boyhood, to-day he marked the coming
manhood. The mouth shut closer, the brows drew a little together as if
set in a purpose known only to themselves. If the smile were rarer, it
was also sweeter, for it had learned to show itself only when another
smile appeared to call it forth. Just now it was playing freely about
his lips as he watched the figure at the wheel.
When two are alone together, and a third is present, his name is Love.
Peggy's mood was merry, and her mouth had lost for the time the wistful
sadness that had hung round it ever since her coming to Virginia. Now
it curved into the old-time dimples at the corner as she tossed back
and forth the refrain of an old song of which Romney, in teasing humor,
had begun the first verse. He sang to the music of his lute and she to
the accompaniment of her whirring wheel.
[Illustration]
With a mocking smile he thrummed and sang:
"'Pray, what are women like unto?
Believe me, and I'll tell you true:
Wine, wine, women and wine,
They are alike in rain or shine.'"
Peggy bridled, and Romney, still smiling, went on,--
"'Woman's a witch who plies her charm
As doth the wine to work man harm,
And when she sees his heart is sore,
She smiles and sparkles all the more.'"
Peggy dropped her lashes, leaned a bit more over the wheel till the
curls shaded the round of her cheek as she took up the word,--
"'It is not woman is the wine,
But love, but love, oh, sweetheart mine!
Drink deep, and drinking thou shalt prove
How heart'ning is the draught of love.'
Is't not a silly verse?"
"Peggy! 'Tis a year last week since thou didst come to Romney."
"Ay--"
"And then we did forswear all talk of love for a twelvemonth. But the
twelvemonth is ended. May I talk of it now?"
Peggy colored rose-red.
"Dost know what manner of thing love is?"
Peggy looked up but sidewise, and so looking took in a glimpse of
Mistress Huntoon, and she ran to her as to a refuge.
"Come, thou dear hostess," she said, drawing her in at the wide door,
"thou art just in time to answer a question of thy son's, 'What manner
of thing is love?'"
Elizabeth Huntoon colored almost as red as Peggy had done but now.
It was as though the question had turned back life's dial-point and
her youth was before her again. She saw Humphrey bending over her in
the window-seat at James City. She could recall the trembling of his
fingers as they fastened her necklace. She could almost hear again the
beating of her own heart. So real did all this seem that she stood
stock still with her finger on her lips, like a statue of Memory,
smiling to its own image in the past.
"Love!" she said at last, rousing herself, "why, I am fain to think the
beauty of love is that none can describe it because it is different to
each soul; nay, that it is different each hour to the same soul."
"Does it bring happiness?"
"In that it is like life,--brilliant as a field of poppies one day, sad
as a grove of yew-trees the next."
"But how can one tell when one is--is in love?"
"Because when one is--is in love," mocked Elizabeth, "Love tells one."
"Wert thou _sure_?"
"Nay, I was of the blow hot, blow cold sort. When Humphrey shunned me,
I fell a-dying for him; but when he sat casting sheep's eyes at me, I
yawned in his face. I wanted to own him; yet I had no yearning to bear
bonds myself. But sometimes storms clear the air better than sunshine;
and when we met at the gate of death, as it seemed, in the massacre at
Flower da Hundred yonder, I knew that in life or death he was mine and
I his."
"Master Huntoon," cried Peggy, turning to Romney with a merry eye but
a trembling lip, "thinkst, then, thou couldst get up a massacre? 'Tis
evident nothing less will show a woman what manner of thing love is!
Yet that would not serve either, for in such like times 'tis only the
great things of life that we heed. If I could keep thee for such, thou
wouldst suit me to the Queen's taste, but oh dear me! life is made up
of such little things! When thou dost trip over the root of a tree, I
hate thee for thy clumsiness; when thou dost turn a compliment, I long
to take it from thy lips and say it to myself,--I know so well what
manner of speech a girl would like."
"And I what answer a man would go on his knees for."
"Ah, there thou art again. When thou didst kneel, I saw thee first dust
the floor with thy kerchief."
"I never did, Peggy, I swear I never did, though I had on my peach-blow
breeches and blue hose."
"Well, 'twas as bad, for thou didst look as if to see where the dust
was least. Oh, I could scarce help bursting into laughter."
"The devil!" exclaimed poor Romney, looking toward his mother with
despair in his eyes, but his mother only smiled.
"Tell me, thou dear, wise Mistress Huntoon, can a woman truly love and
yet be fain to laugh at herself and her love and her lover?"
"Some women can, Peggy, women like thee and me; and, truth to tell, I
believe their laughing love is as well worth having as the sighs of
those who must pull a long face and grow pale and go about solemnly
breathing out prayers and poems; but if thou wilt have my judgment in
thy case, little one, I think thou art as one who uses the beads of a
rosary to play marbles before the world, yet in the closet will string
them once more and murmur Pater Nosters and Ave Marias as piously as
any nun.
"Never mind! By and by thou wilt make a little shrine for them and they
will grow more sacred, and then little by little thou wilt forget that
thou couldst once laugh and make merry over them. Kiss me and say, dost
not feel it so?"
No answer.
"But Romney must wait patiently for the stringing of the beads and the
building of the shrine, and not try to bless the rosary till the play
is over. As for thee, Peggy, trouble not thy head over the future, and
for the present cease to twitch at that skein which thou art snarling
past all hope of disentangling."
"How stupid of me! and I was going to make it such a lovely skein
for a surprise," and Peggy's nervous fingers began to work with the
refractory thread.
"I came to talk of lighter things when I was drawn into this discourse
of love," said Elizabeth. "I wanted to tell thee, Peggy, of a plan
we have for a day not far off when this graceless boy of ours comes
to man's estate. If we were at home in England we should keep this
twenty-first birthday of his with state and ceremony, but here in the
wilds our festivities must needs be primitive. We have thought of a
barbecue in the forest for the tenants and a dance in the house for
the friends and neighbors. For a dance, folk twenty miles away count
themselves neighbors."
"A dance!" Peggy's eyes lighted and then fell with a sudden sadness
upon her black dress. Romney's glance followed hers and he said
quietly,--
"Let us not attempt it, Mother. We are none of us in the mood."
"Perhaps we all need it the more on that account. Even to the world
Peggy's year of mourning is over, and there will be less questioning if
she takes her place in the world once more; and among ourselves, where
it is a question of Christopher, surely the best service we can do him
is to bring what gayety of heart we can into his life."
"You speak wisdom, Mistress Huntoon; but your words bring home to
me something I have often of late wished to speak of with you.
I--we--cannot longer trench upon even your inexhaustible hospitality."
"Hush!" said Elizabeth, interrupting her with the quick impulsive
tears starting to her eyes. "Little Peggy, it has been the one drop of
sadness in our cup that we have had no daughter. Now we happen to have
taken a fancy to you, though you do snarl flax. Nay, never blush and
look at Romney; it is a daughter we want, though she be not our son's
wife. We love you for yourself, and we love Christopher for himself. So
speak no word further of parting, but rather play the daughter of the
house and help me in planning the dance."
"Oh, may I really? Do you think I ought?"
"I do indeed think you both may and ought. It is more than any one
woman can undertake alone. I must go into the house at once to begin."
"And I will follow as soon as this is unsnarled," said Peggy.
"And I will wait to practise kneeling to the Queen's taste," said
Romney, with a look which brought a surge of red to Peggy's cheek.
"Heigh-ho!" sighed his mother as she walked toward the house, "it is
one thing to sigh for the moon; another to get it."