Sir Christopher: A Romance of a Maryland Manor in 1644

As the door closed after her, Elinor felt that a strong presence had passed out and she shivered. Now she caught the sharp clash of combat at the gate and the rival cries, —

"Ingle! Ingle! Claiborne and Ingle!"

Then, louder still, —

"Hey for St. Mary's, and wives for us all!"

Her heart failed her as she looked at Cecil, and she thought of the powerful arm that might have been near to protect both her boy and her. She breathed a deep sigh.

"Mother," whispered Cecil, "I will guard thee; do not fear!" But he crowded closer against her skirt.

"Sweet one, 'tis for thee I fear most. Run thou within and hide thyself while thou canst."

"Mother!" cried the boy, "I am a Calvert. Dost think Cousin Giles would ever speak with me again if I deserted thee? Why, I am almost a man. See, up to thy shoulder already. I can, at least, throw a stone;" and he picked one up from the road.

"We can at least die together," Elinor murmured, "and it may be soon."

"But perhaps we sha'n't die," Cecil whispered consolingly. "Thou knowst to-day is the festival of Candlemas. I remember, when we were gathering the greens and taking them down from the chapel last night, some one bade me see that no leaf was neglected, for as many as I left, so many goblins should I see. And so I went back and picked up the very last, and then Father White blessed two great candles and gave them me and bade me burn them on the shrine of St. Michael, because he was my patron saint and I was born on his day."

"And didst thou?"

"Ay, Mother, when I came home and saw the image in my room, – thou knowst the one of the saint, with his foot on the devil's head, – I thought, for safety's sake, I would offer one to the devil, too, for who knew when it might come his turn to befriend one. Now I will go in and light the candles, and I will pray to Michael and beg him to come and set his foot on Dick Ingle's neck. Ingle must look a deal like Lucifer; and Michael – Mother, dost not think Michael must look rather like Master Neville?"

Elinor started as if a bandage had been torn from some hidden wound. She gave a little gasp; but the nearer trampling of feet called her thoughts back to the pressing needs of the present moment. In truth, they were urgent. Already the fighting mob was surging through highway and byway lighted by the glare of the burning church. They fought, not like an army, but in little detached groups, without order or leadership. Here the enemy gained ground, here the townsfolk.

What was this the men were bearing to her door? Her heart sank as she recognized Giles Brent.

"Oh, Giles! Cousin! – art thou hurt?"

"A scratch, – a mere scratch, on my honor;" but he whitened as he spoke.

"Bear him in," said Elinor to the two men on whose shoulders he was leaning, "bear him in, and I will make a bed ready for him."

As she watched the men following her bidding, her mind leaped back to the last time she had seen Brent, – the day when he told her of Neville's death, and when she had sworn never to own kinship or speak with him again till he took back his accusation. "I have broken my vow," she said to herself. "God forgive me! Yet not so much the breaking as the making."

Then she turned to follow him in; but as she moved, she felt her wrist grasped from behind, softly but with the irresistibleness of a handcuff of iron.

Looking round, she caught sight of a sleeve of russet cloth bound about with a green ribbon with gold and emerald tags, and turning she found herself face to face with Ralph Ingle.

Instinctively she struggled to free herself, then perceiving that her strength was no match for his, she stood still.

"I am thy slave still," he whispered. "Give me one kind word, one glance to kindle hope in my heart, and my sword is thine for offence and defence. Nay, 'tis in my power to save thy kinsman, whom I have just seen borne in at thy door. I saw him fall and followed his bearers, sure that they would bring him here."

"'Tis a fair return thou art making for his hospitality."

"I wonder not at thy surprise."

"Surprise! I feel none. 'Tis what I should look for in one of thy name and race. If I was once deceived in thee, I know thee now for what thou art."

"What am I?"

"A traitor."

"Harsh words, my lady! Couldst not choose some gentler name?"

"Nay, if I called thee aught else, 'twould be murderer."

Ingle turned pale.

"By what token?"

"By that Iscariot badge on thine arm."

The man looked down in bewilderment.

"Ay, that point convicts thee. 'Tis as though the finger of the Lord were laid upon that emerald tag, and His voice said, 'Thou art the man.'"

"Who told thee?"

"No man told me; but murder will out, though the deed be wrought in the blackness of midnight and the body of the victim lie hid in the shadows of the forest."

"'Tis false. Thou dost but babble to gain time."

"'Tis true. Thy very pallor and trembling proclaim it true. Thou didst slay an unarmed man, alone and unprotected in the wilderness. Worse than that, thy victim was a priest of Holy Church, whose very garb should have been sacred to thee."

Ingle reddened and spoke more sullenly.

"There be many sins heavier than the taking off of a Jesuit."

"Ay, there be heavier sins. Shall I name thee one?"

"An it please thee."

"Then I count it a heavier sin than the committing of a crime to let another be charged with thy deed, and still baser when thou thyself dost egg on his accusers. Thou Judas!"

Ingle's look darkened, and he grasped her wrist still more firmly.

"Thou hast had thy say. Now I will have mine. I will teach thee to call me by a new name."

Elinor's lip curled with scorn.

"Yes," he went on, "I will show thee what I am, and first of all I am thy master."

"A moment since thou wert my slave."

"Ay, both slave and master in one; and I am come to take thee with me to a place where thou shalt know me under both guises."

"Never!"

With her left hand Elinor Calvert pulled a dagger from her belt; but before she had time to use it, Ingle loosed her other hand and seizing Cecil cried, "When thou wouldst see thy boy again, seek the world through for Ralph Ingle."

He was gone before Elinor could utter a word; and when she would have rushed after him her limbs seemed made of lead, her outstretched arms fell nerveless at her side, her knees tottered under her, and with her child's shriek of terror ringing in her ears, his pleading eyes still straining toward hers, she fell to earth in a dead swoon.

As she fell, Margaret Brent turned the corner of the street, and seeing her believed her wounded, and rushed toward her with open arms, while from the other side Richard Ingle advanced, brandishing a pistol in one hand and a torch in the other. He and Margaret Brent met above the prostrate form.

"So you are here," he said; "I thought you were at Kent Fort, and I meant to seek you there. I killed that precious brother of yours."

Margaret Brent paid no more heed to him than if he had been a fly in her path. She knelt by Elinor's side, and finding the pulse beating still drew a breath of relief. Once more, however, she bent over lower still, and when she rose it was with a cocked pistol, which she pointed full at Ingle's head.

"If you move so much as a finger, I fire!"

So amazed was the invader that he made no attempt to stir, but stood looking at the woman before him with ashen face and dropped jaw.

"Dick Ingle," said Margaret, still with pistol levelled, "you have pursued me for years, first with your unwelcome love and then with malignant hate; you have lied about me to Thomas White; you have tried to ruin my life. Now you say you have killed my brother. Is there any reason why I should not kill you? Nay, do not move so much as a hair, or you are a dead man. I know how to shoot, and I have no hesitation in taking life. Answer me. Have you not deserved death at my hands?"

"The devil take my soul! – I have."

"I like you for owning it. I like you for appealing to the devil, whom you love and serve, instead of to God. If you had denied your deviltries, I swear I would have put a bullet through your heart. As it is, I am satisfied. Go!"

She lowered her pistol and stood looking at him, alone, helpless, unprotected. So he had seen her in imagination many times. So he had vowed he would have no mercy. Now she had shown mercy. She had held his life in her hand, and had spared it. This was the worst of all the wrongs she had done him. The thought galled him beyond endurance. Quick as lightning, he raised his pistol and fired, then covered his eyes with his arm. God forgive the wretch! He loved this woman still.

When he looked again the vision stood there yet, the eyes still dominating him, a cool smile on the haughty lips.

"Coward!" was all she said; but it was enough. Ingle, the redoubtable, the terror of the seas, the conqueror in fifty combats with desperate men, turned and ran as though the fiends were after him. The groups of his men that he passed, seeing a sight never before witnessed, – their leader fleeing with a look of terror on his face, – joined in the retreat toward the steps which led down the bluff, crying as they went, "To the ships! to the ships! Ingle! Ingle!"

Cornwaleys, who had hastily gathered a band of followers from neighboring plantations, came rushing after and fancied that it was he and his men who had routed Ingle. So he told the story afterward at the tavern. So the villagers all believed.

Only Margaret Brent knew.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CALVERT MOTTO

"Put me down! Put me down!" screamed Cecil.

"I put thee down? I'll see thee roasted first!"

"I hate thee!"

"Very like; but wait, thou little imp, till I have thee safe in the ship!"

"In St. Michael's name!" cried the child, and beat Ralph Ingle lustily about the head; but Ingle swept down his chubby arms as though they had been gnats, and ran on toward the nearest gate.

When he reached the Governor's Spring, he noticed that the waters ran red with blood. By its margin two men were cutting and thrusting with sword and cutlass, while a third with hand clasped to his throat lay along the curb, his head hanging lifeless over the water.

"Help, Ralph!" came in Claiborne's voice from the group.

As he called out he retreated a step, that he might free the weapon which his adversary held engaged.

His opponent, who fought with his back to Ingle, took advantage of the retreat, and making a lunge forward, drove his sword into Claiborne's side, crying out, —

"Take that for the death of Philpotts!"

Claiborne fell, wounded.

"Wait till I get some one to hold this wriggling brat, and I'm with you."

So far Ingle had gone in his speech when the foeman turned, and Ingle saw that in front of him which made his cheek blanch and his heart fail and his knees totter under him, for there stood a dead man waving a sword and making ready for a thrust at his heart, while Cecil shouted aloud with joy, —

"Thir Chrithtopher! help! help! He is taking me from my mother!"

No words answered. From a ghost none were to be looked for; but the steel flashed in air, and when it drew back it left a trail of blood. Ingle felt a quick intolerable pain at his heart, and the arm around Cecil slackened its hold till the child dropped to the ground.

"So you are come to take me to Hell, are you?" he muttered between set teeth, then swayed, reeled, and fell to earth with eyes fixed. Neville stood over him with vengeance in his glance.

"Are you from the charnel-house or from Hell itself?" asked Ingle.

"Is not this enough like Hell?"

"Ah, you have come from Hell, and know what it is like. Did the devil tell you? I meant to thwart Satan himself by confessing just before I died."

"If you have a confession to make, best be quick, for your last hour is come."

"A priest!" he murmured, for years of indifference could not quite obliterate the memory of Pater Nosters lisped at his mother's knee; "or no, a priest would be harder than any, they stick so close by one another."

"If you do indeed desire to free your soul of a confession," said Neville, touched in spite of himself by the look of death on Ingle's face, "speak to me and in the presence of this child whom you have wronged."

"Do you think I could so escape Hell?"

"'Tis no business of mine," answered Neville; "but for myself I'd not like to die with a sin on my soul."

"No business of yours! Then – the – devil – did – not – tell – you."

The words came slower now, with little gasps between. Suddenly his glazing eye brightened a little. "A priest! a priest!" he repeated. Looking round, Neville saw Father White passing up and down rendering help and solace to the wounded. "Run and fetch him, Cecil!" he said.

The child plucked the good priest by the cloak. "Father, come, Father!" he said. "Ralph Ingle hath need of thee. He is dying and would fain confess."

Father White dropped the cup of water he was carrying, and coming to the side of the dying man knelt beside him.

"I think, after all, I won't tell," Ingle whispered. "Even this dead man had not heard it, and perhaps the devil himself has caught no word."

"Think not to escape so," said the priest; "the moments of time for thee are short, but the years of eternity are long, and through them all comes no chance such as lies before thee now to make some scant atonement by confession, and earn, perhaps, if not Heaven at least Purgatory, in place of Hell."

"Bah!" said Ralph Ingle, rousing himself to a touch of his old-time boldness, "'tis no use to strive to fright me with your ghostly threats. Perhaps the devil will send me up like Master Neville here to do his work on earth; that would be rare sport, to cut and thrust and be beyond the power of wounds." Here his head sank, and for a moment it seemed as he were gone, then the eyes opened again and the boyish smile curved his lips.

"Besides, 'tis no such great matter to kill a priest; there are so many of you, you know."

"So it was you!" cried Neville, with new interest in his voice and stooping he wet Ingle's lips with brandy from his flask. "Now," he said, "if you have the least spark of manhood in you, speak out. You killed Father Mohl?"

Ralph Ingle moved his head in assent.

"How?"

"Speak!" exhorted Father White; "though thou be the chief of sinners, speak and trust in the mercy of the Lord who died to save such."

"But I'm – not – the – chief – of – sinners – 'Twas the knife did it – the knife in the panther's throat."

"You found it?"

A nod.

"You were on your way from St. Mary's to St. Gabriel's?"

Nod.

"What for?"

"To stay with Brent – I promised Dick."

Father White spoke low: "At least he was true to some one. Remember it, O Lord, when thou dost count up the sum of his transgressions!"

"Ay, 'twas Dick suggested it, so he and I feigned a quarrel before the gossips on the deck, and then I set out alone – More brandy – I cannot speak."

Again Neville knelt beside him and poured the brandy down his throat. Under the stimulant Ingle revived and moved as if he would sit up, but Father White stayed him.

"Waste not an inch of thy strength," he said, lifting his head, "but use it to save thy soul. Didst thou quarrel with Father Mohl?"

"Ay, 'twas his fault – I was singing a tavern song to cheer me, when I met old shaven-crown – Nay, God forgive me, the holy father —

"'Good evening,' says I.

"'God have mercy on your soul!' saith he.

"'That's between Him and me,' says I, and then he must needs answer back in Latin – I had borne to be damned in English and never raised a finger; but to be called names in an outlandish foreign tongue was too much!"

"Thou art sinning away the hour of mercy," said Father White, sternly; "speak of thyself and thy crime."

"Ay, but I want God to know why I did it.

"'Hold your tongue,' said I.

"'Pax tibi,' said he, near as I could catch.

"'Another word, and I'll have your life!' said I, raising the knife.

"'Dominus tecum!' he answered, out of spite, as the ugly, ugly smile of him showed, and that finished him.

"The knife came down, and ere I could pull it out I heard steps near by and did run for my life – "

"Whither didst run?"

"To St. Gabriel's; and, seeing lights still up, I would fain have entered, but thought better of it, and rested in an out-house till morning."

"Traitor!" exclaimed Father White, "was thy conscience so dead thou didst feel no pricks at accepting hospitality, – thou, a murderer?"

"Not a prick; only a mighty satisfaction that the devil looks so well after his own – or – hold – art thou going to tell all this to God? For then I must say it all different."

"Speak truth! If anything could save thy guilty soul, 'twere that."

"Then if I'm damned for the business, I'll own that I was glad when I thought myself safe, glad when I saw this man, Neville, accused, glad when I saw him sink in the river yonder. There, go back and tell that to the devil, will you?"

"Faith, you can tell him soon enough yourself," muttered Neville, as he watched the laboring heart and the eye, which now glazed faster than ever.

"Is this all?"

It was Father White who spoke. Ingle pointed to Cecil, opened his lips, gasped out, "Elinor!" and fell back dead.

Father White lifted his eyes to heaven, praying:

"Judge him not according to his demerit, but through the infinite multitude of Thy mercies, and extend Thy grace and pardon in the name of Thy dear Son."

When he rose from his knees he turned and would have clasped Neville's hand, but he and Cecil had vanished together in the direction of Mistress Calvert's cottage.

"Mother must be dead," panted Cecil, as they hurried along; "else had she surely followed me."

A deadly fear struck on Neville's heart, cold as a hailstone on an opening rose. Had he so nearly reached the goal to fail at last?

"Look!" cried Cecil. "There she is!"

Neville dropped the child's hand and rushed forward to where Elinor lay stretched, corpse-like, upon the ground, Margaret Brent chafing her cold hands. He fell upon his knees beside her and rained hot kisses on the cold fingers.

"O Death," he muttered, "you must not, shall not cheat me now! Not till she knows. Oh, not till then!"

"This is not death," said Margaret Brent, "but a heavy swoon. Hast thou brandy?"

For answer Neville pulled his flask from his jerkin, poured out some of the liquid and forced it between Elinor's lips, while Margaret ran to the Governor's Spring for water, taking Cecil with her to help carry the ewer.

Left alone thus with the woman he loved, the only woman he had ever loved, Neville knelt on, and watched and waited, – waited as it seemed to him for hours, though in reality it was but minutes, to catch the first flicker of those white lids, the first tremulous movement of those chiselled nostrils.

Two minds there were within him: one intent upon that still form, gazing in an agony of terror upon its immobility; the other living over the past, – that past which for him began and ended with Elinor.

How radiant she had looked at St. Gabriel's that first night, when he came in out of the cold and darkness and saw her standing like a goddess of sunshine with her yellow hair gleaming above her green robe!

How graciously she had smiled upon him when he made friends with Cecil; how tenderly she had looked at him when he offered to seek Father Mohl and beg his pardon! Here came a swift pang as the bitterness of those dark days that followed the priest's death swept over him. His lips framed the word "Unjust!" Then lifting his head he shook back the hair, and looking up cried aloud, —

"No, though it were with my last breath, and though she should never breathe again, I vow to God, I thank Him for it all, justice and injustice alike, else had I never known how she loved me."

Up and down the street to the edge of the bluff the fight still raged around them, as one group of stragglers met another of the opposing force. None could say which had lost or won.

As for Neville, he had no care for what passed around him. All the world held for him lay there on the ground. Oh, God! would those dark-fringed eyes never open? Would those pallid lips never again redden to their old-time warmth, nor curve into their old-time tender wistfulness, nor open in the old-time gracious speech?

For one awful moment, Neville felt that this was indeed the end, and bowing his head he murmured, "It has – been – worth – while!"

The first sensation Elinor knew after her fall was a rushing of water over face and neck, a gurgling in her ears and a gasping as of some dying animal near by, then a curious realization that the gasping animal was herself, and that a sound of voices rang far and vague around her. Gradually through her closed lids gathered a dim light which, as she opened her eyes, grew to a glory dazzling as though it streamed from the great white Throne, and shadowed against it was the outline of a familiar face, long dear to memory and of late enshrined in her heart of hearts, – the face of Christopher Neville.

"So," she murmured, "this is Heaven that lies beyond. I always said death would be nothing if we could be sure of that."

Then the black curtain fell again, and the next sound that struck her consciousness was Cecil's voice calling, —

"Mother! Mother! Wake up! Dick Ingle is fled, and the broidery on my coat is torn, and the Church of Our Lady is burned to the ground, and we are very hungry, and there is but corn meal in the house – oh! and Ralph Ingle – "

"Softly, little man, softly!" spoke Neville's voice. "Run into the house and fetch pillows for thy mother's head."

Slowly Elinor's mind awakened to the scene around. So this, after all, was not the pale reflection of earth cast upon the clouds of a shadowy after-life, but Heaven itself come down to earth. Love and life lay before, not behind. Too weary to question the causes of the miracle, she accepted it and thanked God.

"My dear!" she said simply, raising her arms and laying them about Neville's neck. The effort of speech was too much for her strength, and she fell back exhausted and so white that Neville laid his hand anxiously upon her heart.

"Tell me all!" she murmured.

Neville laughed, a natural hearty laugh, for the first time since that terrible day in January. "So," he said, "'tis curiosity alone can prick thee back to life. Well, thou shalt have the story. All there is to tell, as soon as thou canst bear it. Now, let us in." And raising her in his arms he carried her to the settle where Cecil was piling the cushions.

As she sank into them, she laid her hand on the rebellious curls of her boy.

"Poor baby!" she whispered.

"Baby! 'Tis no baby thou hadst thought me, Mother, hadst thou seen me wrestling with Ralph Ingle? But he would not fight fair, and he had my arms pinioned when Thir Chrithtopher met us."

"So, in addition to all my other debts, 'tis to thee I owe my son," said Elinor, turning with a new tenderness in her eyes to Neville.

"Why, in a fashion, yes."

"In all fashions, Mother. Why, 'twas like this – "

"Hush, Cecil, I can make naught of thy prattle. 'Tis too fast and too broken. Prithee, let Sir Christopher tell me the whole story."

"Art sure thou hast strength to hear it?"

"I am sure I have not strength to do without it longer. Tell me, in Heaven's name, how it comes that thou whom all men counted dead art returned alive to be the saving of us all."

"Thank God, I was in time!"

"But how, when, where?"

"Nay, 'tis too long a story, and thou art still too weak."

"Not I," said Elinor scornfully, making an effort to sit up, but failing pitifully and sinking back again.

"There, see, thou hast no more strength than I when I fell against the gate of St. Mary's last night, and they pulled me in like a log. 'Twas well Philpotts had kept his breath and could cry the warning. I think the villagers took me for a ghost, for they looked at me with dazed eyes and did my bidding as though I were something beyond nature. Sheriff Ellyson lent me his sword. I owe him much thanks, else had we not this valiant little warrior with us now."

Elinor shivered and clasped Cecil close about the shoulders. "Go on, go on!" she whispered breathlessly.