HOW SIR MAURICE KEPT HIS WORD
Night, with a rising moon, and over all things a great quietude, a
deep, deep silence. Air, close and heavy, without a breath to wake the
slumbering trees; an oppressive stillness, in which small sounds
magnified themselves, and seemed disproportionately loud.
And presently, as I went upon my way, I forgot the old man sleeping so
peacefully with the rusty staple clasped to his shrunken breast, and
thought only of the proud woman who had given her life into my keeping,
and who, henceforth, would walk with me, hand in hand, upon this Broad
Highway, over rough places, and smooth—even unto the end. So I strode
on, full of a deep and abiding joy, and with heart that throbbed and
hands that trembled because I knew that she watched and waited for my
coming.
A sound broke upon the stillness—sudden and sharp—like the snapping
of a stick. I stopped and glanced about me—but it had come and
gone—lost in the all-pervading calm.
And presently, reaching the leafy path that led steeply down into the
Hollow, I paused a moment to look about me and to listen again; but the
deep silence was all unbroken, save for the slumberous song of the
brook, that stole up to me from the shadows, and I wondered idly what
that sudden sound might have been. So I began to descend this leafy
path, and went on to meet that which lay waiting for me in the shadows.
It was dark here among the trees, for the moon was low as yet, but,
every now and then, she sent a kindly ray through some opening amid the
leaves, so that as I descended the path I seemed to be wading through
small, limpid pools of radiance.
But all at once I stopped—staring at something which lay at the edge
of one of these pools—a white claw—a hand whose fingers, talon-like,
had sunk deep and embedded themselves in the turf. And, beyond this
gleaming hand, was an arm, and beyond that again, something that bulked
across my path, darker than the shadows.
Running forward, I stood looking down at that which lay at my feet—so
very still; and stooped suddenly, and turned it over that I might see
the face; and, seeing it, started back in shuddering horror. For, in
those features—hideous with blood, stained and blackened with powder,
I recognized my cousin—Sir Maurice Vibart. Then, remembering the
stick that had snapped, I wondered no more, but a sudden deadly
faintness came upon me so, that I leaned weakly against a tree near by.
A rustling of leaves—a shuddering breath, and, though I did not raise
my head, I knew that Charmian was there.
"Oh, Peter!" she whispered, "oh, Peter!" and that was all, but, moved
by something in her tone, I glanced up. Her eyes were wide and
staring—not at me, but at that which lay between us—her face was
pallid; even her lips had lost their color, and she clasped one hand
upon her bosom—the other was hidden in the folds of her gown hidden as
I remembered to have seen it once before, but now it struck me with a
horrible significance. Wherefore I reached out and caught that hidden
hand, and drew the weapon from her nerveless fingers, holding it where
the light could play upon it. She started, shivered violently, and
covered her eyes, while I, looking down at the pistol in my hand, saw
that it had lately been discharged.
"He has kept his word!" she whispered; "he has kept his word!"
"Yes, Charmian—he has kept his word!"
"Oh, Peter!" she moaned, and stretched out her hands towards me, yet
she kept her face turned from that which lay across the path between
us, and her hands were shaking pitifully. "Peter?" she cried with a
sudden break in her voice; but I went on wiping the soot from the
pistol-barrel with the end of my neckerchief. Then, all at once, she
was beside me, clasping my arm, and she was pleading with me, her words
coming in a flood.
"No, Peter, no—oh, God!—you do not think it—you can't—you mustn't.
I was alone—waiting for you, and the hours passed—and you didn't
come—and I was nervous and frightened, and full of awful fancies. I
thought I heard some one—creeping round the cottage. Once I thought
some one peered in at the lattice, and once I thought some one tried
the door. And so—because I was frightened, Peter, I took that—that,
and held it in my hand, Peter. And while I sat there—it seemed more
than ever—that somebody was breathing softly—outside the door. And
so, Peter, I couldn't bear it any more—and opened the lattice—and
fired—in the air—I swear it was in the air. And I stood there—at
the open casement—sick with fear, and trying to pray for you—because
I knew he had come back—to kill you, Peter, and, while I prayed, I
heard another shot—not close, but faint—like the snapping of a twig,
Peter—and I ran out—and—oh, Peter!—that is all—but you
believe—oh!—you believe, don't you, Peter?"
While she spoke, I had slipped the pistol into my pocket, and now I
held out my hands to her, and drew her near, and gazed into the
troubled depths of her eyes.
"Charmian!" said I, "Charmian—I love you! and God forbid that I should
ever doubt you any more."
So, with a sigh, she sank in my embrace, her arms crept about my neck,
and our lips met, and clung together. But even then—while I looked
upon her beauty, while the contact of her lips thrilled through
me—even then, in my mind, I saw the murderous pistol in her hand—as
I had seen it months ago. Indeed, it almost seemed that she divined my
thought, for she drew swiftly back, and looked up at me with haggard
eyes.
"Peter?" she whispered, "what is it—what is it?"
"Oh, Charmian!" said I, over and over again, "I love you—I love you."
And I kissed her appealing eyes, and stayed her questioning lips with
my kisses. "I love you more than my life—more than honor—more than
my soul; and, because I so love you—to-night you must leave me—"
"Leave you?—ah no, Peter—no—no, I am your wife—I must stay with
you—to suffer and share your troubles and dangers—it is my right—my
privilege. Let us go away together, now—anywhere—anywhere, only let
us be together—my—husband."
"Don't!" I cried, "don't! Do you think it is so easy to remain here
without you—to lose you so soon—so very soon? If I only loved you a
little less! Ah! don't you see—before the week is out, my description
will be all over England; we should be caught, and you would have to
stand beside me in a court of justice, and face the shame of it—"
"Dear love!—it would be my pride—my pride, Peter, to face them
all—to clasp this dear hand in mine—"
"Never!" I cried, clenching my fists; "never! You must leave me; no
one must know Charmian Brown ever existed—you must go!"
"Hush!" she whispered, clasping me tighter, "listen—some one is
coming!" Away to the right, we could hear the leaves rustling, as
though a strong wind passed through them; a light flickered, went out,
flickered again, and a voice hailed faintly:
"Hallo!"
"Come," said Charmian, clasping my hand, "let us go and meet him."
"No, Charmian, no—I must see this man—alone. You must leave here,
to-night—now. You can catch the London Mail at the cross roads. Go to
Blackheath—to Sir Richard Anstruther—he is my friend—tell him
everything—"
She was down at my feet, and had caught my hand to her bosom.
"I can't!" she cried, "I can't go—and leave you here alone. I have
loved you so—from the very first, and it seems that each day my love
has grown until it is part of me. Oh, Peter!—don't send me away from
you—it will kill me, I think—"
"Better that than the shame of a prison!" I exclaimed, and, while I
spoke, I lifted her in my arms. "Oh!—I am proud—proud to have won
such a love as yours—let me try to be worthy of it. Good-by, my
beloved!" and so I kissed her, and would have turned away, but her arms
clung about me.
"Oh, Peter!" she sobbed, "if you must go—if you will go, call me—your
wife—just once, Peter."
The hovering light was much nearer now, and the rustle of leaves
louder, as I stooped above her cold hands, and kissed their trembling
fingers.
"Some day," said I, "some day, if there is a just God in heaven, we
shall meet again; perhaps soon, perhaps late. Until then, let us dream
of that glorious, golden some day, but now—farewell, oh, beloved wife!"
With a broken cry, she drew my head down upon her breast, and clasped
it there, while her tears mingled with her kisses, and so—crying my
name, she turned, and was lost among the leaves.