Sir Christopher: A Romance of a Maryland Manor in 1644

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.

CHAPTER X

THE ORDEAL BY TOUCH

The second day after the murder had come, and still Father Mohl's body lay in the centre of the great hall, the inscrutable smile still on his lips, the fringe of hair streaked over the high, pale forehead. The candles at his head and feet guttered and dripped in their sockets and opposed their yellow flame to the grayness of the January day which seemed to be peering in curiously at the scene in the hall, where all the household of St. Gabriel's were gathered to watch the final test of Christopher Neville's guilt or innocence.

The dwellers by Chesapeake Bay two hundred and fifty years ago had not banished the influence of the supernatural from the conduct of life in public or private affairs. If their easy toleration prevented their taking satisfaction in the witch-burning practised by their contemporaries in Massachusetts, they yet found nothing incredible in witchcraft, for they too saw ghosts and felt the malign influence of the evil eye.

To such a generation it was quite natural that a murderer should be arraigned before the dead as well as the living.

"If the vile actors of the heinous deedNear the dead body happily be brought,Oft hath't been proved the breathless corpse will bleed."

It was a test based half on superstition, half on deep knowledge of human nature; for how indeed could a murderer, brought face to face with the still accusation in his victim's rigid form, fail to betray himself before the hostile or coldly neutral eyes of the witnesses. And as for the corpse showing signs of recognition of the assassin, why, there were so many ready to swear that they had known that to happen that it would have been flat scepticism to doubt it.

So the household of St. Gabriel's waited for Neville and his guard to enter the room, a deep silence hanging over all.

Giles Brent, from his end of the long table, sat gazing at his sister, and thinking how strangely her smooth, round face and domestic bearing contrasted with the grim scene around her. It was as if some brown thrush had been caught up from its nest in the bushes by the wind of destiny, and suddenly enveloped in the black cloud of a tornado.

Mary Brent kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the portrait of Lord Baltimore, painted by Van Dyck, and hanging on the wall on the turn of the stairs.

She studied every detail of his costume, – the small clothes of blue velvet, coat embroidered in gold, and doublet embroidered in silver, the open sleeves with their azure lining, the breastplate of blue inlaid with gold, and the sword-hilt studded with jewels, the powdered wig that topped the whole, and the cocked hat, its flap looped and held back with brilliants, which shone bright as real gems.

These seemed real while the figures around her receded from her sight dim and blurred, wavering like figures in a dream. There was Mistress Calvert on the settle below the bend of the stairs. Was she really Elinor Calvert, or a corpse like the one which lay scarcely more white in the middle of the room?

Elinor herself was almost as doubtful as her cousin whether she really lived and breathed. It seemed rather as though she had already tasted the bitterness of death, and now moved about, a pale, miserable ghost in a land where all was ghastly and miserable. Even Cecil seemed unreal, and that worried her more than all the rest. In the last three days the touch of those little arms had in some way lost its power to comfort, and the childish presence had grown irksome because it forbade her giving way to the bursts of wild weeping which had alternated with stony despair.

Just now Cecil was pressing close to her side and whispering in her ear, —

"Mamma, did Thir Chrithtopher Neville kill the priest? Dost thou think he did it?"

"Hush, Cecil!"

"But did he?"

"I know not."

"Father White thinks he did it."

Silence on Elinor's part.

"And Couthin Giles thinks so."

Still silence.

"And Couthin Mary thinks so; but I do not."

"And why?"

"Because he promised me a bow and arrowth and he knew thou wouldst not let me take a gift from a murderer."

The quick stab of the word was intolerable. Elinor thrust the child away from her side with a swift, tragic gesture; then, at sight of the angry flush in his cheeks and the grieved wonder in his eyes, she caught him to her heart again close, and bowed her head over his curls.

The only person who caught the meaning of the action was Peggy Neville, who sat in a corner a little back of the Governor's chair. Heart reads heart in crises like these, and sympathy is second sight. Her first feeling was a quick thrill and a desire to run across the room and kiss that cold proud face with the swollen eyelids. Then the blood of the Nevilles, proud every whit as that of the Calverts, surged angrily back to her heart. "She to dare to doubt him! Why, nobody thinks great things of me, but I would never desert any one that I cared even the least little bit about. I'd stick all the closer when people turned against him, and as for evidence, what is the use of being a woman if you are going to be influenced by such things as that!"

Oh, little Peggy! women do not own the only minds superior to evidence. From across the hall a young man is watching every expression of your face, feeling sure that your brother is innocent because you think him so – confident that Governor Brent is a cold, hard man, eager to believe evil of a friend, and vowing that as for him, Romney Huntoon, his sword, his honor, his life itself are at the service of Christopher Neville, with whom he has scarcely spoken, and of Christopher's sister Peggy whom he has known for a matter of ten days.

A silence deeper than before falls on the company as the tramp of feet is heard at the door and Neville enters between two guards. The Coroner's inquest is formed after the fashion of the day, Giles Brent as Chief-Justice and Chief Coroner of the province, under that charter which in Maryland invested the governor with the regia potestas, on the platform at the end of the hall.

Associated with him by courtesy is the lady of the manor, while on either side are ranged Councillors Neale and Cornwaleys. All face the central figure stretched rigid on the bier in the middle of the hall, and as the prisoner walks the length of the room that lies between him and the bier, all eyes are fixed upon him. To each person present his bearing denotes a different thing. It is not beauty alone that is in the eye of the gazer.

To Peggy Neville that bearing speaks lofty consciousness of innocence.

To Mary Brent it swaggers with the effrontery of brazen guilt.

To Giles Brent the face is an impenetrable mask.

To Elinor Calvert – but how describe the emotions that surge through her soul, each obliterating the former like waves on a beach of sand!

Her first feeling, as she watched Neville stride up the room, was a thrill of pride in his imperious personality as he towered taller by a head than his guard, and in his bearing outranking all present in courtliness.

Then came a longing to speak out before them all and claim him for her true love; then, as her glance travelled upward to that pale set face, the deadly chill of doubt and distrust struck cold upon her heart, and she bowed her head upon her hands.

When she awoke to consciousness of what was passing around she heard the voice of Giles Brent saying, —

"That all here present may understand the business which is going forward, let me first set forth my duties under the law. 'A coroner of our lord the King,' says the statute, 'shall go to the places where any be slain, and shall summon the honest men of the neighborhood, and of them shall inquire what they know touching the death; and if any person is said to be guilty of the murder he shall be brought before the coroner and his inquest, and shall be put upon his defence that he may, if he can, purge himself of the charge.'"

"Oh, dear, how Giles doth love form! I believe he would see us all hung if he might pronounce sentence in Latin." Elinor's foot kept time to her angry thoughts, and that so loud that it caught Brent's ear and brought a frown to his brow.

"Christopher Neville, you stand accused of a dastardly crime, – the murder of Andrew Mohl, a priest of the Jesuit order, who lies here before us, and who is known to have come to his death on the night of January twentieth."

"Who are mine accusers?"

Brent turned and whispered first to Neale and Cornwaleys, then to his sister, and finally, turning again toward the prisoner, he said, —

"'Twill serve no good turn to press that question."

"I stand upon my rights."

"Is it not enough that there be a dozen here who are convinced of thy guilt?"

"I stand upon my rights. I will have the name."

"Then, since thou dost demand the name of him who lodged the charge, 'tis that of Father Fisher, come hither to-day from St. Mary's."

"Father Fisher? The head of the Jesuit colony at St. Inigo's?"

"Ay; yet he makes his charge not as a priest, but a citizen."

"No doubt."

"Sneers, sir, will not help your case, with which we will now go on. What plea are you fain to enter, 'guilty' or 'not guilty'?"

"Not guilty."

"Master Neale, kindly act as secretary and record the plea. Sir Christopher, will you hear the evidence against you?"

"I will."

"On any disputed point you shall confront witnesses; but that we may not waste time, let us settle first that whereon we agree. First, you are a Protestant."

Neville bowed assent.

"Second, here in this house you did quarrel with the dead priest touching matters of faith and doctrine."

"We had words, certainly."

"And angry words, as I am told."

"I was angry. Belike he was angry, too."

"He admits that he was angered. Put that down," whispered Mary Brent to Neale.

"Tell us what happened after your talk with Father Mohl."

"He rose and started to walk to St. Mary's."

"And what did you then?"

"I followed him."

"For what purpose?"

"To beg his pardon."

"Ah! Now we have it. You felt you had done him wrong."

"I did not."

"Then why ask his pardon?"

"Because I had wounded other hearts than his, and, moreover, I had offended against Mistress Brent's hospitality."