"What, then? Try and tell me about it, Lucy. See, you are all crumpled up. Come out of this horrid place, and tell me about it. Come, now—come."
It was seldom that Lucy Trevor would have refused such persuasion, for she was a gentle little thing, and loved to be led. Now, however, she resisted all Deborah's kindly efforts to help her to rise, and only crouched closer in her corner, shaking with grief. Finally Deborah knelt and took the little dishevelled figure in her arms. Lucy had clung to her for a second, when a new voice interrupted them.
"Lucy—are you here?"
Virginia stood in the doorway. Lucy made no answer, but Deborah said: "Lucy's here, Virginia. What has happened?"
The elder daughter of the Trevors came forward and stood looking down at the two figures on the ground. "The Reverend George Rockwell has asked for Lucy's hand. She should be most proud. Come, Lucy, supper is standing, and the wedding's not till to-morrow. Why do you bear yourself like a child? Good God, Lucy, do you fancy a woman ever gets the man she loves?"
The commissioners left Annapolis for Lancaster on the 18th day of June, which was three days earlier than had been originally planned. After their departure Governor Bladen sighed with relief, packed up his black satins and official orders, and hied him to his country-place to recuperate for the fall sessions. By the 1st of July Annapolis was deserted. All of the old families had gone to their summer houses up the river or down the bay, and it was remarked that Dr. Carroll, who chose to stay in town, and Rockwell, whom he sincerely hated, must bear each other company through the summer. But Dr. Charles was not yet reduced to the companionship of a Church-of-England clergyman. He had taken an immense fancy to Claude de Mailly, of whom he saw as much as Claude would let him. Indeed, he had given the Frenchman more than one invitation to leave the tavern of Miriam Vawse to make a permanent abode in his own house, and could not quite understand why he had been refused. But Claude was well satisfied where he was; and had there the indispensable feeling of independence. Few guests ever came to the little tavern after the close of the spring assembly; and, when an occasional traveller did stop overnight, monsieur ate in his room, went to the coffee-house, or remained to make acquaintance of the stranger, as he chose.
On sailing for the English colonies it had been Claude's idea to travel through them, when he arrived, as rapidly as possible, courting what adventure and danger he could, and to keep his thoughts enough occupied to crush, as best he might, his hopeless homesickness. But, after living in Annapolis for a week, he found that it might be a very endurable thing to exist in Annapolis for a year. The air was different, in this new land. New thoughts and new occupations had come, after his illness, and he ended at last by making a very pleasant salute to the Fate which had cast his lines in these places, determining to take the goods which the gods and Miriam Vawse provided (at moderate cost), and remain in the little city till discontent again knocked upon his door. Certainly, he was not lonely. Through Dr. Carroll and Vincent Trevor he had made acquaintance with every gentleman, young or old, in the town. They received him extremely well, though, it must be confessed, some of them balked at his title. "Bah! Every Frencher's a count!" he heard Mr. Chase cry out one morning at the market, and thereafter he requested to be presented simply as M. de Mailly to what men he chanced to meet. Through the influence of Sir Charles he had been given the freedom of the coffee-house, which was really the gentlemen's club; and he was asked to the last assembly of the season, which had taken place just before the departure of the commissioners, and which he did not attend.
Upon an afternoon of the first week of July, Charles Fairfield, wofully bored with the weather and the lack of something to do, rode into town at an early hour with intent to amuse himself at any cost, and a pruriency towards a stiff sangaree as the beginning of matters. The second want drove him down Church Street to the coffee-house. On arriving at the jockey-club-room he found its only occupant to be George Rockwell. The Queen's clergyman greeted him with great urbanity. How well would Rockwell have loved his brethren had all of them been knights, and the eldest sons of wealthy families! The sangaree was quickly forthcoming. He drank with Sir Charles, and Sir Charles drank with him, and they drank together, till the weather was of less importance and spirit acted upon spirit with delightful effect. Then it was that the divine opened a more intimate conversation.
"Charles—my dear Sir Charles—were you aware—ah—of the fact that it is my hope and my intention—my intention, sir—to have the honor, at some day not far distant, of becoming, when two events shall have taken place, your—ah—brother-in-law, as it were?"
"What the—oh yes! Ha! ha! ha! Oh yes! You're after Lucy. To be sure, I recollect. Lucy! Well, George, I wish you well—you know that. But she won't have you."
"Won't have me?—Um. Madam Trevor has all but promised her."
"The more fool Madam Trevor.—Oh, I beg pardon. No offence, sir. But, as I hear, the affections of the lady in question are already engaged."
"Engaged?" The rector looked startled for an instant. Then he recovered himself. "You have reference, I presume, to that Puritan psalm-singer, John Whitney. Oh, I'll engage to cure the pretty child of him! She is coy with me now; excuses herself when I call, has vapors when her mother insists; refuses to permit me to salute her hand. But I have no fear, Sir Charles. Consider my position. I shall get her, have no fear."
"Still, I have observed that she attends your rival's church," remarked Sir Charles, maliciously.
The rector emptied a glass. "If you'd but help me there," he said.
"I help you! Damme, what can I do, George?"
"Since Benedict Calvert left the city 'tis Mistress Virginia, your future wife, who takes her sister to the Puritan meetings. Now, Fairfield, if you—if you would be so monstrous obliging as to speak a word to your young lady in—ah—my favor, I'd be forever beholden to you."
Sir Charles laughed unpleasantly. "Lord, Master Rockwell, d' ye think I'm married yet? What possible right have I to address my cousin on any subject but—the one I most avoid with her?"
"The one you most avoid? And what, pray, is that?"
"The tender matter of love, George. Love and Virginia are—well—strangers in my heart."
"Good Heavens! Are you not, then, to wed the lady?"
"Damme, my good fellow, I don't know! I would to Heaven I did know—the state of another person's affections."
"Another! Oho! Aha! Another—truly this is gallantry! In my ear, I beg, whisper the name."
"The name? There's only one woman's name in the world," cried Sir Charles, dramatically, a little overbalanced with the sangaree. "Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! 'Tis she, the fairest petticoat in the colony. D'ye hear?"
"I've heard that she was dangerous," responded Rockwell, chuckling with interest. "But is it true, is it possible, Charlie, that you are bewitched enough by this young—hum—Pomona—by this young Pomona, to be indifferent to the more glittering charms of Miss Trevor?"
Sir Charles sat him down in a chair and sighed. It was a true love-sigh, such as there could be no mistaking in those days. "I love her to distraction," was his inadequate observation.
"Now I wonder," reflected the rector, aloud, "I wonder if, in such case, distraction and marriage are terms synonymous?" He lifted his head, scratched his large neck delicately with his finger-nail, and regarded the young man from that height with humorous serenity.
"Devil take me—how can I, George? They expect me to take the other—Virginia. And there's the dower—and my aunt's favor—and my own dependence—and, egad, I don't know!"
"Then you won't marry her, eh?"
Fairfield grew a little red. "I must. She's a kind of cousin, too, you know."
"Oh, tut! A difficult matter. Hum!—Ha!—When—a—you are prepared to assist me in getting Mistress Lucy, my services, or, rather, one of them, is at yours."
"The marriage? Oh—St. Quentin 'ud do that. He—"
"Not St. Quentin's service, or—one that he would not perform."
"Eh? What are you getting to, Rockwell?"
The divine advanced with large solemnity to where the young man sat, bent over him, and said, in a broad whisper: "Now look you, Fairfield, there's a certain ceremony of which the law takes no count, certain words being left out.—A lady would accept it—" He stepped back a pace. "When you desire such a service, terms might be got at between us. Once in England with your bride, the marriage growing cold—" he waved his hand, shook his head, and so finished the proposition.
Sir Charles gave him a long look. The color had left his face. He rose slowly, turned his back for a moment, and took a pinch of snuff. As he faced the other again he remarked, without much expression: "What a cool-headed beast you are, Rockwell."
"Sir!"
"Yes. But don't fight me to-day. That service—" he stopped, unwilling to go on.
"You may want it yet," finished the rector, insinuatingly.
But Fairfield did not commit himself. Before he had a chance to reply a servant of the house opened the door.
"Beg pardon, sirs, but young Mr. Carroll and Mr.—the Frencher, are below, and, not being regulars—"
"Yes, yes, show them up at once," cried the lieutenant, with relief in his tone.
The servant disappeared, and George Rockwell turned upon his heel. He was not a little irritated at the result of the foregoing conversation, and he remained silent till quick steps sounded on the stairs outside, the door reopened vigorously, and young Charles, with de Mailly at his shoulder, gayly entered the room, bringing with them a new atmosphere.
"Good-day, Fairfield! Good-day, Mr. Rockwell!—Faith, you both look wofully! Is the sangaree ill made?"
The boy was in a gale of spirits, and ran about the room tasting of the liquor, looking down out of the window, and laughing at the three others. Claude saluted the gentlemen more quietly, observing to Sir Charles:
"I perceive that we have interrupted you. I crave pardon. I sent the man to see if you were disengaged."
"You are mistaken, monsieur. I assure you, in my turn, that your arrival could not have been more agreeable.—Confound it, Charles, have you a megrim or a frenzy? Where have you been, sir?"
"To a cock-fight in the Prince George Street pit. You should have been with us. Captain Jordan's bird against Jack Marshe's. Jack's died. The secretary will be in a rage. I won three pounds, though."
"You see, it was the first I had witnessed," explained de Mailly.
"Devil take me, why didn't you hunt me out, Charles? I've been eternally bored for a week.—You lost to him, de Mailly?"
Claude nodded. "As he said, a small bet—seventy-five francs."
Fairfield looked at him curiously. Three pounds did not seem to him small for a cockpit wager; but he would not have voiced this idea to the foreigner for double the amount. He turned again to young Charles.
"Odds my life, Charlie, you've been drinking. What's it mean? Where's your tutor?"
Carroll laughed joyously. "Shooting plover in the west marsh with father. I've a holiday, and M. de Mailly is making it with me."
Rockwell frowned rather ill-humoredly, as though a preachment lay upon his tongue, and Sir Charles was about to speak again, when from below came the trampling of horses' hoofs and a little chorus of voices, while Carroll cried from the window: "Vincent Trevor, William Paca, and Carleton Jennings! They've stopped here."
"Ah—they'll be up presently. Rockwell, will you risk another tankard? They'll have apple-brandy and Madeira. Vincent scorns rum."
The rector shrugged, vouchsafing no active consent, and after a moment or two the three young gentlemen clattered into the room. There was a chorus of greeting, and Trevor introduced young Paca to Claude, who had not seen him before. Jennings flung himself into a chair, flicking the dust from his coat-sleeves with a riding-crop. Paca sat upon the long table; and Vincent, after drawing off his gloves and flinging them, with his hat and whip, upon a chair, went to the door and called lustily for a decanter of Madeira with glasses.
"I ordered a sangaree when we were down," observed Jennings to Paca. "Trevor's thirst is aristocratic, but too small."
"And we'll all drink with you both," put in Fairfield, with sociable impudence, while Rockwell smiled approval.
"And now for the affair in hand," pursued Jennings, when the party were seated. "We've a race in prospect, Fairfield, that will take four months' pay to back."
"Eh! What's that? I back the winning side, of course."
Trevor laughed. "Nay, then, Charlie, will you desert me?"
"Egad, Vin, you're never going to take to racing! You've no stables."
"Castor needs none."
"Castor! Oh! By my life, Vincent, he might do. Vastly fine points, gentlemen. Rough-bred; but where you'd find a better—"
"He's pledged already, then," observed Jennings to Paca, smiling.
"Why, who will you run against, sir?" asked Rockwell, interested, despite his ill-humor; for, of all things, he loved the turf.
"Paca's filly, Doris. She's young for my two-year-old; but Will is to enter her for the fall cup, and wants to give her practice."
"Pretty beast, Doris. I stake on her, I think. Are the dates fixed?"
"No, deuce take it! there's the bother. Trevor has no jockey. Castor will carry weight, and there's not a rider in town over four and a half stone. Five would ride him; no less—eh, Vincent?" queried Paca, and Trevor nodded.
There was a short pause, in the midst of which a servant with the wine and sangaree appeared. The room drank with Trevor, and two or three afterwards turned to the pewter mugs which held the planter's favorite beverage. Claude had been listening intently to the talk concerning the race, and, his ear being well accustomed to the colonial accent, he had gathered the gist of all that was said.
"My man, Tom Cree, might know of some fellow who would do for you, Vincent. I think you could trust him if you cared to look about in that way," suggested Paca, after some hesitation.
Vincent bowed. "Certainly I'd trust your man, Will. But I've some objections to that course. I've no intention of starting stables. I run Castor merely to try your Doris and test my own animal. I don't want to be known as deeply interested in the turf. Get a professional rider fastened to you even by one race, and—poof! You all know what it means."
The group nodded. Vincent Trevor was a man highly respected by all of them. He was quiet, silent, of excellent judgment, a little given to over-Toryism, no prig, but holding fast to strong principles. His friends knew his manner of life, and never expected him to step beyond its bounds. In the present case they all perceived his position, and his silence was rather dubious, till Claude de Mailly most unexpectedly broke it.
"This race—it would not be in public?"
"Oh no. Certainly not," responded Sir Charles.
"It would be—on a track, or through the country,à l'anglais?"
"Oh, track, of course—not a steeple-chase—eh, Trevor?" queried Jennings, and Vincent nodded, looking to de Mailly for more.
"And the leagues—miles, I mean—how many?"
"Track's a mile and a quarter. Shall it be twice round?"
"Castor will hold twice, but would you try Doris so?"
"Tut, tut, Vincent! Doris isn't china. She'll not break so vastly easy. Egad, we'll make it three rounds, if you like!"
Vincent smiled. "I did not mean to offend you, Will," he said.
Paca began an apology at once, when Claude interrupted: "If you would permit me, Mr. Trevor, I will ride your horse for you."
The five men and Charles Carroll sat perfectly still and stared. De Mailly, beholding their amazement, and not understanding it, burst into an infectious laugh, at which Sir Charles immediately caught.
"A fine joke, damme, an excellent joke!" he cried.
Claude stopped his laughter at once. "Indeed, gentlemen, it was not a jest. I was quite in earnest, I beg you to believe," he declared.
"Pray, sir, then why did you laugh? I see nothing to laugh at in so serious a matter," remarked Rockwell, with an air of injured dignity.
"'Twas my fault, parson," retorted Fairfield, still smiling; for his humor, though English, was still not yet of the colonial type.
"Then you really make a serious offer to ride Castor in the race?" demanded young Carroll, curiously.
"I offer. It is for Mr. Trevor to refuse me, if he wishes."
"'Tis not that, monsieur, but you see—it is vastly strange form for a gentleman to ride a track against a jockey. To be plain, M. de Mailly, since you are a stranger to our customs—none of us would do such a thing."
Claude smiled and shrugged. "Thank you, sir, I was aware of the English custom in this case. But I am here to amuse myself. I make you an offer, sir. Examine my weight and my build, and try my riding before you refuse it."
He stood up for the small group to judge his weight, and this they proceeded to do with calm assurance and unsparing observation.
"Not much over five stone, I stake my oath!" remarked Jennings, measuring the slender figure with his eye.
"A shade over. Might train a little," commented Paca.
"Not much strength," whispered Fairfield, dubiously, to Vincent.
"I shall not be pulling the horse in after the first half-minute," observed Claude, quietly.
"Ahum—can you ride?" grunted Rockwell, when there came a pause.
De Mailly flushed. "There is a story that when M. de Voltaire was in London he was asked by a lady if he had ever tried writing verses when he was in love, as was the custom among English gentlemen."
"Well—what then?" retorted the reverend, irritably.
Claude turned and stared at him with such a mixture of scorn and laughter in his eyes that Trevor hastily broke in:
"Of course M. de Mailly rides, and, no doubt, excellently. But perhaps it might not be amiss if he would come out to the plantation in the morning to try my horse. And if you'll all be there to-morrow by—eleven o'clock, we'll examine Castor and give him a mount in my paddock to—"
"To see whether my riding is fit for such a speed," added the proposed jockey, with a mixture of wounded vanity and sarcastic pride. He was beginning to regret rather bitterly his impulsive and wholly generous offer. In time he might become accustomed to English manners. Just now they hurt him more than he would have confessed. His whole early life had been one which had fostered his natural buoyant impulsiveness of spirit, and had made him young beyond his years. It had been called his "pose." But that pose, which was more than half nature, was a singularly unfortunate thing for a man thrown upon the world, in a strange country, among new manners, through which he must find his way. And just now, while the Englishmen concluded various arrangements for their plan, he was struggling with his temper, and only won the battle when Trevor and Rockwell finally rose to depart. Vincent was returning to the plantation, and the clergyman, with Lucy in his mind, purposed accompanying him.
"Coming, Charles?" asked his cousin.
Fairfield hesitated. The plantation held out no special inducement to him. His blood had been heated, and he was eager for some excitement after a long period of inertia. "I think not, Vincent, since you have company. If Jennings, here, cannot put me up for the night, I'll go up to Mrs. Miriam's, or to Reynolds'."
"I'll ride with you, Trevor. I can cross the river at King's Ferry. My people will expect me to-night. Our town house is shut."
"Very well. I leave you, then, Charles. You'll ride out in the morning with M. de Mailly and Carleton."
"Ay, and me, too," called young Carroll after him. "I'll see Castor rode with the rest of you, and, egad, I'll go to the race as well!"
"We shall be delighted, Charles," replied Vincent, as he left the room.
"Until to-morrow, then. Good-day, sir," said Paca, bowing with courtly politeness to Claude, who liked him thenceforth.
The four who remained in the jockey-club-room sat silent together for some moments after they had been left alone. Then Claude, looking at young Charles, rose.
"Come, Mr. Carroll, since we are making your holiday together, let us go and finish it with a supper at my inn. You will forgive me, messieurs"—he turned to Sir Charles and Jennings—"you will forgive me that I do not propose a party of four. After the excitement of the cock-fight this afternoon, and my ride for to-morrow, we will make our evening quiet. You might be perhaps—how do you say—ennuyé—by it. Where shall we join you to-morrow?" He smiled gently as he beheld the lieutenant regarding him with knitted brows. Indeed, to Fairfield it seemed that the Frenchman had read his mind, and was bound to thwart his hopes of arranging a gentleman's night in Jennings' company.
"Come, come, monsieur, be more lenient. Dine with us at the 'Blue Balls' and join us in a game ofécartélater."
"Eh, yes!" cried young Charles, eagerly. "'Twould be vastly more fun!" He pulled de Mailly's sleeve.
"No, no, Charles, not you! It—your father—damme, you ain't out of school yet, you know," stammered Jennings, voicing Fairfield's thought.
Carroll flushed hot with anger, and Claude bit his lip before he answered, quietly: "It is impossible that I should dine with you to-night, gentlemen, though I thank you for your kindness. Mr. Carroll is my guest."
Young Charles looked at him with sulky admiration. He was furious with Jennings, mortally ashamed of his youth, but still appreciative of de Mailly's tact. Fairfield, seeing nothing for it but to accept his disappointment gracefully, rose, seized Jennings by the arm, waved anau revoirto de Mailly, and with a, "Be at the 'Blue Balls' with your beasts at ten in the morning, and we'll ride out together," drew his willing companion away to their favorite night-haunt.
De Mailly looked after them as they passed through the door, and then stood still for an instant, considering. When he turned again to young Charles, the boy's face wore a new expression.
"I'm very sorry, monsieur, if I've spoiled your night. I should have gone home without you."
Claude started forward impulsively, and drew the boy's arm through his own. "En avant!" he cried, gayly. "Why, Charles, I'd rather you a thousand times over than any other blood in Annapolis. 'Tis a good race, yours. Your father is as gallant a gentleman as I have met, and you are his son. Come then, Charles, we'll drink to you both, to-night, in the oldest Madeira that Mistress Vawse will sell."
At a quarter to eleven o'clock on the following morning a party of three drew rein at the portico of the Trevor house. Young Carroll's holiday was over, and, despite his words to Vincent, he was again under St. Quentin's pleasant sway. Fairfield and Jennings bore visible traces of their manner of spending the previous night; but Claude's eyes were as bright as a bird's, his hand was steady on the bridle, and his nerves had been toned for the coming trial by a sound night's sleep. A group consisting of Vincent, the four ladies of his household, Will Paca, and George Rockwell, who, to Lucy's dismay, had stopped overnight with his host, greeted the new-comers merrily from the portico. When they had dismounted, and a black had taken their horses, the whole party proceeded leisurely to the rear of the house, past the small barn, the quarters, and the tobacco-houses, to the long, narrow stables, where the many horses for work and pleasure were kept. In front of these stables was a four-acre paddock, fenced off from the general grounds, and only to be entered through a wide gate to the south. Two hundred yards behind this paddock the tobacco-fields began, and the first of them was bounded by a broad ditch full of water, to be used for irrigation in dry seasons.
As the group passed the slave-quarters, Thompson, the overseer, came towards them with the key to the stables. And while Trevor, Paca, and Claude went with him round to the stalls, the rest entered the field itself to wait. The ladies, all of them more or less curious to watch this test of de Mailly's horsemanship, stood still in the open gateway, nervous lest the horse should come too near. In the interval of waiting Rockwell was devoting himself to Lucy, who received his attentions with a coldness all but rude; young Jennings talked with Virginia and her mother, who stood a little to one side; and Fairfield seized the opportunity of conversing in a low tone with Deborah, who, dressed in yellow and blue, was as pretty as the morning itself. She stood leaning close against the fence, all ears for Sir Charles, but not turning her eyes from the closed door of the stable, responding now and then, half absently, to the very personal remarks of her cavalier. She did not perceive a sudden, slow rustle at her side, along the very ruffle of her dress; but suddenly the lieutenant darted forward.
"Good God, Deborah!—Move—"
"What is it?" she cried, startled at his tone.
He was peering along the grass in front of them. "I'd stake my oath—'twas a water-moccasin," he muttered, half to himself.
The girl lifted her petticoats with both hands and shrank close to him. "A water-moccasin! Surely not here—" She stared nervously at the turf, but saw nothing. The snake, if there had been one, was gone.
"Nay—'tisn't there. Don't be frightened. It was a fancy," he rejoined, suspicious of his own eyes.
Deborah might have said more or retreated to Madam Trevor, but for the fact that, at this moment, the stable doors slid open and Castor, with de Mailly on his back, trotted into the field. Will Paca and Vincent followed him on foot and made their way over to the party in the gateway.
Castor, first-born of twin foals, and the one who had all the strength and beauty alike of the two, was an enormous jet-black animal, seventeen hands high, with a long, swinging step and three paces got from no blooded ancestors, but merely through one of those accidents sometimes permitted by the gods. He was an animal fiery enough of temper, and particular about his riders. Vincent Trevor, indeed, had been dubious about the Frenchman's ability even to mount him; but as Claude swung into the saddle and took the reins from the shining black neck, all doubts were forgotten. Castor turned his head, glanced at the man who sat him so easily, and neighed with satisfaction. As they trotted together into the paddock Claude rode in the French fashion, as though he were part of the horse, never rising in the saddle.
"Egad, he knows how!" observed Rockwell to Madam Trevor, as Castor came round the field towards them.
"I vow I've seen nothing so pretty," assented that lady, good-humoredly. "Eh, Lucy?"
"I much prefer the English fashion," retorted Lucy, irritably.
"How d' ye like him, Vincent?" asked his cousin, as the horse broke into a canter.
"Very well."
"The fellow knows his business, I think," observed Will Paca, dryly.
"His business!—You don't think—" Trevor raised his brows.
Paca shrugged.
"I protest, Will!" cried Charles Fairfield, warmly. "The man is a gentleman. I stake my oath on it. I've played with him, and I know."
"Oh—I ask pardon. I did not know your acquaintance was intimate," rejoined the other at once, with a proper manner, and Fairfield was satisfied. At the same time he felt a light touch on his arm, and, turning, he found Deborah looking at him with a light in her eyes.
"I'm so glad you said it," she whispered. "He is a gentleman."
But, while Fairfield carried her hand to his lips, he felt, in some way, that her speech had not brought him unmitigated pleasure.
Meantime Claude, who had lost all consciousness of an audience in his joy at being again upon the back of a fine animal, was increasing the pace of his steed. The long, light steps multiplied in number, the black hoofs flew faster yet, till the on-lookers marvelled at the ease of the tremendous speed, and Will Paca shook his head as he thought of his Doris and her rider.
"I'll give you three lengths start on the track, Will," cried Trevor, as de Mailly flew by for the fourth time, never moving a hair's-breadth in the saddle.
"Egad, he'll need it!" put in Sir Charles.
Deborah, her cheeks slightly flushed, moved to one side where she could watch without interruption. She saw Claude pass the stable and reach the far corner of the paddock. There something happened. A thing which looked, at the distance, like a black thread, shot suddenly up from the ground and struck at Castor's leg as he passed. The horse gave a quick, terrified plunge, which made de Mailly reel in the saddle, and then the animal, maddened with fear, started forward like a whirlwind. He had reared completely about and was running frantically towards the open gateway. At the beginning there had been a slight scream from Lucy, and now the men, their faces very pale, pulled the women quickly away from the opening. Deborah moved of her own accord, her eyes fixed fast on the horse, for she had seen what started its flight. In an instant horse and rider had flashed, comet-like, out at the gate, and, as they passed, Deborah knew that de Mailly had looked at her, and she had seen something very like a smile cross his set lips. Beyond the gate the horse veered again and made towards the south, in the direction of the tobacco-fields.
"HORSE AND RIDER HAD FLASHED OUT AT THE GATE""HORSE AND RIDER HAD FLASHED OUT AT THE GATE"
Claude saw, with relief, that he had an apparently unobstructed space before him. It was all that he could do now to keep himself on the horse, who no longer went at an even gait, but varied his gallop with leaps and plunges caused by pain. He was utterly beyond all control. Claude lay over on his back, both hands twisted in the long mane, his eyes half closed, breathing with some difficulty, but quite sure of himself so long as his way was clear. Suddenly, however, as he caught a glimpse of the fields beyond, his heart rose into his throat, and then sank again with a sensation which made him dizzy. A hundred yards ahead was a twenty-foot ditch of water, which no living horse could clear. If Castor saw it, and had still sense of his own, he might turn off. If not, the horse was lost, and Claude himself must take desperate chances. Many things flashed through his mind in the ensuing seconds. Most vividly of all the figure of Deborah, as he had seen her a moment before, stood out before him. Then for one more instant his mind was a white blank. They were ten yards from the stream now, and the horse was moving straight on. Mechanically, Claude took his left foot from the stirrup and swung it over Castor's back. For one frightful instant he lay full along the animal. Then, not very much aware of what he was doing, he had let himself over the side, felt solid ground whirl under his feet, and knew that all was well with him. A moment later he vaguely heard the heavy splash and the human-like scream that told of the good animal's death. Not very long after that he was looking into Vincent's face, and, as a brandy flask was held out to him, he murmured, with as much feeling as he was capable of just then:
"Monsieur, I shall never be able to express to you my regret. I have not an idea how it occurred. Believe me—"
But Vincent was actually laughing as he replied: "My dear sir, when a poisonous snake sends its fangs into your horse's leg, its rider need offer no excuse for being run away with. And, 'pon my soul, for the sake of learning how to ride as you have done, I'd sacrifice every beast that ever was stalled on this place.—Eh, Charlie?"
And from behind came Fairfield's voice, crying heartily, "Egad, when I am released from the colonies, I'll go and live in a French training-school till I do learn!"
It was an hour later, and the excitement was over, when the Reverend George Rockwell ventured to address Will Paca on the same subject: "To tell the truth, my dear sir, I confess that I believe there must have been some truth in your suggestion in the field that our—French friend knew more than a gentleman does of horses."
Paca turned slowly about and looked at him. There was no answer made in words; but at times looks are expressive of inexpressible things.
According to the laws of colonial hospitality, Claude stayed all day and overnight at the Trevor house. To tell the truth, he was scarcely fit for removal, for the reaction from his nervous strain sent him, early in the afternoon, to the chamber prepared for him, from which he emerged at ten o'clock next morning with many apologies for tardiness on his tongue. He saw no one, however, to whom to deliver them. The house was deserted. Finding his way, after a search through the empty hall and parlor, into the sunny breakfast-room, he discovered there a single place set at the table, and Adam lounging in the doorway. The slave straightened and saluted him upon his entrance.
"Sit down, sah—sit down. I'll bring yo' breakfast right away."
Upon this, he darted from the house and disappeared down the path towards the kitchen, to return in two or three minutes with a large tray upon which stood a variety of smoking dishes. This he set before the guest, who proceeded to discuss them with a light appetite. While he ate he pondered, uneasily, on how he was expected to take his departure. In this matter Adam came presently to his assistance.
"Pa'don, Mas' de Mailly, but Mas' Vincent wait this mo'n till nine t' see you, den he ride out to the fields an' tell me t' say t' he be back fo' dinne' at noon; ask yo' health den."
"So I'm to stay till this afternoon?" asked Claude, in some surprise.
"Yes, sah," responded the slave, and his prompt tone settled the matter.
Claude, who had quite finished his meal, rose and strolled idly to the door which looked out upon the garden. At the far end of this, among her roses, was Madam Trevor. De Mailly did not recognize her at the distance, but he turned suddenly to the slave who was clearing the table.
"Can you tell me, Adam, where Mistress Travis will be at this hour?"
"Miss Deb? Oh, she's mos' like at de still-room." He went over to the door. "See li'l house dere cross the ya'd? She's mos' like dere."
"Thank you." Claude nodded to the man and went out of the house, around the terrace, and so through the yard towards the small building whose surrounding lilac-bushes were all in seed. Here on the step, alone and disconsolate, sat Sambo, Deborah's favorite little darky.
Sambo was very forlorn this morning. A strong appreciation of the woe of this wretched life had come to his spirit under the guise of an empty stomach. All of three hours ago Thompson, the overseer, discovered him in the climacteric moment of a glorious charge on the chickens in the runs. An entire flock of fat, white pullets were in full flight before this single son of Ethiopia, whose triumphant war-cry had unfortunately reached the quarters. Thereupon Thompson, who had no soul for the sublime, seized the conqueror by the tail of his tow-linen toga and dragged him from the field to his parental cabin, where, in the presence of Chloe, his mother, a most telling rebuke was administered. The mother's heart hardened towards the small sinner, and he had been driven outside in the very face of bacon spluttering over the fire and beans baking fragrantly in the embers. After an unhappy wandering, he at last sought the homely protection of Deborah and the still-room. Deborah, too, had left him, with the promise, however, of getting him something to eat when she returned. So here, in melancholy resignation, sat Sambo, as Claude approached.
"Can you tell me where Mistress Deborah is?" repeated de Mailly.
"She'm gone to Huckleberry Swamp," vouchsafed the stoic.
"Um—" Claude reflected. Huckleberry Swamp sounded definite, but he was unfamiliar with the country. "Where is that?" he inquired, meekly.
Sambo swept a black thumb over one shoulder, back of his head. "Dat way."
Again Claude hesitated, finally venturing the request: "Could you, perhaps, show me a little of the way?"
"You'm goin' fin' Miss Deb?"
Claude bowed.
"I'll come."
The small figure rose suddenly, descended from his dais, and put one small black fist trustfully into de Mailly's. Claude looked down into the childish face, with its round pate covered with black, woolly, hair, and a gentle light came into his eyes. He was fond of children.
The swamp appeared to be some distance away. The child's steps were short, and Claude would not hurry him. At last, however, they came upon a narrow, grassy lane, bordered on either side by a tangle of vines and bushes, at the end of which was the so-called swamp—a marsh nearly dry at this season, save for a pool in its very centre. Upon the edge of this they paused. Before them was a waste wherefrom sprang a few saplings, some young willows, a tangle of flaming tiger-lilies, and a host of those plants which grow in damp places. Claude saw no sign of a human being, but Sambo presently sprang forward.
"Deh she is!" he cried, running into the brush. Claude followed rapidly, coming at last in sight of her whom he sought.
Deborah knelt upon the damp ground, bending over a plant which she was minutely examining. Claude had seen it and its flower often enough, he thought. The stem was perhaps three feet high, with long, narrow, spotted leaves, and clusters of small purplish flowers. These were what Deborah was studying, and on her flushed face was an expression which Claude had not beheld before. Startled by Sambo's appearance, she looked up.
"Oh, good-morning!" she said, rising, and extending her hand.
"One finds you in curious places," he observed, bending over it.
"It is my work. Has Dr. Carroll come this morning?"
"He had not when I left the house."
"He will, though, I think. Are we to go back now?"
"Not until you are quite ready, mademoiselle."
"I'm ready. I must take this with me." From a little bag hanging at her side she drew a small pruning-knife and two pieces of cotton cloth. Having cut the stem of the plant before her, she wrapped about it one square of the cloth and took it up in her left hand.
"Permit me to carry it for you."
"Hold it, then, where the cloth is."
"Why? Surely it is not unsafe to touch?" He looked at her curiously.
"I don't know. Some things are. This is a spotted-hemlock. I fancied it a water plant, but 'tis another variety. I will test it to-day, if the doctor doesn't come. Oh! Here is something more to take home." Down in the soil at their feet grew two large fungi, which bore a slight resemblance to table mushrooms, but were far more beautiful than they. The umbrella-shaped cups were of a brilliant scarlet color, fading inwards, in gracefully curving lines, to a pale centre. A faint acrid odor emanated from them as Deborah knelt and cut them deftly at the ground's edge. Taking them up in her cloth, she held them a little away from her face.
"What's dose, Miss Deb?" inquired Sambo, eying them admiringly.
"A sort of mushroom, Sambo. Oh, a most excellent dinner dish they'd make!" she added, laughing.
And hungry Sambo heard her. Were these pretty things good to eat? He had seen not a few of them in the grass about the roads and fields. Here was a breakfast ready for him. He considered a little, the idea of cooking not entering his head. Neither Deborah nor de Mailly knew when he ceased to follow them, it merely occurring to them by the time they reached home that Sambo had not been with them for some time. Claude, who had found the way long in coming, deemed it only too short on the return. And Deborah, demurely realizing that she was perfectly happy, continued to talk to him in that tranquil manner which, from its apparent indifference and self-possession, seemed such an anomaly, considering her youth.
"May I ask the use of this?" asked de Mailly, curiously, holding out the spray of spotted-hemlock.
"I don't know its use. 'Tis what I am going to try to find out if the doctor does not come this morning. I am ignorant if it is as poisonous as water-hemlock. I will try to learn."
Claude bit his lip. "And if the doctor does come?"
"It will be most interesting. We are to try the effect of two alkaloids in one system, and I must note the different symptoms, the combined result, and the complications which ensue from the interaction."
"You give these—poisons—to some beast. Is it not so?"
Deborah hesitated for a little, finally replying, quietly, "A cat."
"And he will no doubt die?"
"No—perhaps not. That is our hope, monsieur. If we could discover one thing which might counterbalance the effect of another, can you not see that it might some time serve to save men's lives? It is unbecoming in me to speak of it, but did you not know that the liquid given you as medicine for your fever I distilled from the plant called monkshood? And did not that medicine help to restore you to health? And yet, sir, it was a virulent poison, ten drops of which would kill an animal."
De Mailly looked at the girl in surprise. She was certainly unlike any woman that he had ever met. "Forgive me," he said, earnestly. "I did not understand you. I do admire and respect this work of yours. My gratitude—how shall I express it? There is, indeed, little that one can say to the preserver of his life—"
"Please, don't!" she cried, impulsively, and then stopped. He was regarding her so earnestly, and his look said so much more than his tongue had ever done, that she found no words at her command. So they fell into silence as once more they approached the house.
Dr. Carroll, returning on the day before from his shooting, and, wearied by the dulness of Annapolis in mid-summer, kept his promise and came out to see Deborah. He found her, ignorant of his arrival, preparing her retort for the distillation of the water-hemlock, while Claude, willingly pressed into service, had gone to the kitchen to obtain a lighted coal for the tripod of charcoal. An addition to the equipment of the room had recently been made. Beside the cupboard in the corner stood a good-sized cage, its top and bottom made of pine boards held together by narrow wooden slats nailed upon all four sides. Within this prison of the condemned sat a half-grown tortoise-shell tabby, presented yesterday to the establishment by Sambo. As Deborah took up her hemlock and with careful hands began to strip away its leaves and blossoms, she glanced now and then at her prisoner with an expression half of pity and half of speculative interest. The animal looked very comfortable on its bed of grass, its toilet just completed, with slow eyes blinking at the light; never a suspicion in its head of a possible swift death at the hands of the slender girl at the table yonder. The stillness was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor.
"Good-morning to you, Mistress Debby! At work, eh? Oho! Water-hemlock!"
"No. This isMaculatum. See the leaves—spotted. Is this as poisonous as the other, do you think?"
The doctor chuckled. "Thou'rt a born botanist, Debby. This poisonous? 'Tis historic. Socrates died by it. 'Tis as well obtained by crushing in alcohol, though. Did you bring the root? Now that was carelessness. The root is most virulent—delightfully virulent. You should be sent back to get it, only that I am not here to distil this morning.—Ah, Monsieur Claude! Good-day! Are you turned neophyte?"
Claude, with a shovelful of embers, had halted in the doorway. At Carroll's question he smiled and came forward. "I should be glad if I might stay and look on. I am wofully ignorant in these matters."
Deborah took the shovel from his hands, emptying its contents carefully into the tripod. "Thank you. Be seated, if you care to watch us."
"By all means, sit yonder, de Mailly, and look on. Miss Travis is preparing someConium maculatumfor distillation, though she will get a poor result from the mere leaves and flowers. And behold in me, monsieur, the conscienceless wretch about to destroy life in that hapless pussy, for the mere gratification of criminal instinct.—What's this, Deborah?"
The doctor's change of tone was so sudden and so marked that the girl turned quickly about to behold him standing over the fungi which she had placed at the far end of the table.
"That? Madam uses it sometimes for fly-poison. I purposed inquiring of you if the alkaloid could be extracted."
Carroll shook his head gravely. "It doesn't need extraction. The whole thing is replete with poison. 'Tisamanita muscaria, the deadliest of all fungi. Have you seen the symptoms?"
Deborah shook her head.
"Then you shall. I mind me I had a case of them many years ago—a family ate them at supper. All four died.* There was no help that I or any one else had to give. Such agony I have never seen. The effect is not apparent for from four to nine hours after eating, though internal dissemination of the poison must begin at once. After the case I mentioned, I experimented a good deal with them. Time does not seem to affect their power. After four months' keeping I knew one of them to cause death to a dog in ten hours. Would you care to try this to-day on your cat there, Deborah, in conjunction with one of the liquids?"
* This case is taken from a medical journal of 1877.
Deborah did not reply at once, and Claude hoped that she would decline the proposition. Her answer was a question: "Will you stay, doctor, till the fungus acts? I couldn't distinguish the different symptoms alone."
The doctor reflected. "'Tis eleven now. By four the thing should be under way. I'll get home by six. Yes, I'll stay."
"Then let us give it at once."
"Very well. What will you combine with it?"
Deborah went to the cupboard and surveyed her array of phials. Finally, selecting one filled with a clear, white liquid, with less sediment at the bottom than most of her mixtures contained, she brought it over to Dr. Carroll.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It is from nightshade. I made it a week ago."
"Atropine. Symptoms? Can you give them?"
Claude looked at her closely as she made reply:
"I gave forty drops to a cat. It seemed to be quiet for about three-quarters of an hour. Then it tried to mew, but that was hard for it. The muscles of its throat were strained. After a little it began to bite at things in the cage. Its eyes were large, and the pupils full, as if it were in the dark. It drank all I would give it, but could not swallow easily. Then there came spasms. Finally it fell asleep, and died three hours after the dose."
The doctor nodded with satisfaction, but Deborah, glancing at de Mailly from beneath her lids, saw him look at her in strong displeasure. Instantly she flushed and her head straightened defiantly back.
"Monsieur, I do not think that you will enjoy our experiments here this morning. Will you be so obliging as to join my cousins, Virginia and Lucy, in some pleasanter occupation?"
There was a note of piqued command in the tone which Claude, who knew women well, would have disobeyed in any other case. Now, however, he made no reply, but rose in grave silence, bowed to her, and left the room.
"On my life, that was not a gallant thing," observed Carroll, placidly, when their sensitive guest had crossed the yard.
Deborah made no answer. She was more deeply hurt than she would have believed possible, and she did not choose that her voice should betray her. Crossing again to the cupboard, she took from its lowest shelf a deep-bowled horn spoon, with which she knelt before the cat's cage. In the mean time the doctor had been occupied in cutting the fungus into small cubes. These, together with the atropine, he took over to his pupil, who was now on the floor with the cat in her lap. She took theamanitaquietly from her companion's hands, placed one piece in the creature's mouth, and manipulated its throat till it swallowed convulsively.
"How much should it have?" she inquired, grimly.
"About six pieces to a spoonful of this," returned her mentor, holding up the atropine.
Unflinchingly Deborah finished her task, and then, hastily replacing the prisoner in its cage, she fastened the little door. Carroll, who had looked on without comment, helped her to rise from the floor, and silently noted the fact that her hands were very cold.
"Come now to the house and rest," he said, with quiet persuasion.
She looked a little surprised. "Surely not. I will stay here and watch. Besides, there is the hemlock;" she nodded towards the little heap of flowers and leaves by the retort. "I will distil that. The fire is ready."
"No, Debby. You're tired. Hark you, the poisons will certainly not show for half an hour, if they do then. It is probable that themuscariawill retard the action of the atropine for a much longer time. Then you must have your full wits about you, for 'twill be the most interesting thing we've done. Come now, as your physician, I insist."
But though Charles Carroll's will was strong, that of Deborah Travis was stronger. He tried persuasion, command, and entreaty, finally becoming angry, and so losing the battle; for, having called her a stubborn hussy, there was nothing for it but to march off alone to the house. The girl saw him go with a sore heart, and then, doggedly determined, returned to her work, the pleasure of it gone for the first time in her life. When, after a while, Sambo strolled thoughtfully in from the fields, she greeted him with positive delight.
The little boy seated himself, Turk-fashion, beside the tripod, to watch the water just beginning to bubble in the body of the retort. It was an occupation which he dearly loved, and in the observation of which he was a privileged mortal, for Deborah allowed but few in her work-room. During the process of distillation she was regarded by Sambo as some one who had risen for the time to supernatural heights. She was quite a different person from the Miss Deb whom he knew ordinarily out-of-doors. On every occasion, however, he had been wont to talk unceasingly either to her or to himself when in her company. To-day she wondered at his silence. His interest in the action of the retort was as great as ever, but every effort to draw him into conversation failed. So, after a time, Deborah, her closest attention demanded by the approaching end of the distillation, when the purest alkaloid would come from her plant, ceased also to speak, and, indeed, almost forgot his presence. The liquid had been filtered, bottled, and set aside for its second vaporizing, when she suddenly recollected that in the morning she had promised to get something for the little negro to eat. It was sufficient cause for his silence.
"Oh, Sambo! Indeed I'm sorry! How hungry you must be! Come, I'll make Chloe give you some of our dinner to-day."
Sambo's big eyes opened wide and he slowly shook his head. "Had somf'n, Miss Debby. D' wan' no mo'."
With his words came the sound of the dinner-horn from the quarters. He turned. "Goin' home," he said, wearily, trudging out of the room; while the girl, wondering who had fed him, proceeded to restore order in her immaculate little domain. When she had finished the doctor reappeared.
"Madam Trevor despatched me," he explained. "Dinner is ready. You're tired, Debby. Come in."
"Yes, sir, at once, when this sleeve is down." She pulled at the short elbow-sleeve which she had pushed to the shoulder to be rid of its ruffles.
"How's the cat?" asked Carroll, walking over to its cage.
The creature lay upon the bed of grass blinking nonchalantly, after a luncheon of milk.
"Perfectly well, eh? Note, Deborah, that the action of the atropine is already retarded half an hour beyond its time. Most interesting, on my word!"
"When do you think it will begin?"
"That is difficult to say. By two or three o'clock at the outside. Then death will probably be rapid. Ready now? Madam is a little impatient, but she'll not show it before de Mailly. There—the horn sounds at last."
Dinner was gone through with tediously, and at three o'clock the entire family, with the guests, sat upon the portico, drowsy with heat and the effort of talking. The doctor, perceiving Deborah's growing impatience, was about to dare Madam Trevor's high displeasure by carrying her off to the still-room to watch their cat, when suddenly around the corner of the east wing dashed a negro, hysterical with fear.
"Blessed Ma'y be praised! Docto' Ca'l, come quick! Sambo's dyin'! Gib him somf'n fo' he go off, fo' Christ's sake!"
Before the last words were spoken the doctor had jumped from the porch, and the rest of the party rose anxiously.
"Sambo? Sambo dying, Joe? Surely not! I'll come at once."
"Which cabin, man? Show us the way," commanded Carroll, energetically.
Madam Trevor had run into the house to get an apron for her gown, and Deborah, seizing the opportunity, flew across the portico, leaped down on the east side, and caught up with the doctor.
"I shall come, too," she said. And Carroll's silence gave consent.
The cabin in which Sambo and his parents lived was on the northeastern corner of the quarters, and, as the doctor, with his conductor and Deborah, approached it, a group of negro women about its door hailed them with expressions of relief and praise. Not heeding the pious ejaculations, the three passed into the tiny hut, where, upon the mattress in a corner, covered with tattered blankets, lay Sambo. Beside him, her apron over her head, sat the mother, Chloe, rocking to and fro in absolute terror.
Carroll knelt at once beside the mattress and glanced sharply into the child's face. Sambo was lying deathly still, breathing heavily, his eyes wide open, his black skin dripping with sweat. The doctor felt the child's pulse, opened his mouth, and gave a sharp exclamation as he perceived the tongue to be heavily coated with a thick, grayish matter.
"Sit here, Deborah, and hold his hands. He'll not be quiet long."
Deborah took her place at the child's head and clasped the little burning hands in her own, while Carroll, in a low voice, began to question Chloe. Sambo noticed Deborah, and smiled faintly as she leaned over him. In a moment more a swift spasm of agony passed over the small features, and he uttered a guttural cry of pain. Carroll ran to his side, while the colored woman, wringing her hands, sank helplessly on the floor. The paroxysm was violent. The child's body twisted and writhed. He rolled over and over upon the bed, moaning like an animal, or shrieking in a delirium of torture. Deborah, very pale, and Carroll, silent and stern, held him so as to prevent as much exhaustion of strength as was possible. When he began to grow more quiet, Madam Trevor came in, looking angrily at her cousin, who, however, scarcely saw her.
"It is possible that you do not need me, doctor," she said, in her most offended tone.
Carroll paid small attention to her manner. "If you will send out some old linen, pepper, mustard, and salt from the house, it will be all that we can use. To be frank," he added, in a low tone, "there is little hope now."
Madam Trevor looked aghast, and her manner softened instantly. "Little hope! What do you mean? What shall we do?"
"What I ask, if you please. Linen, salt, mustard, and pepper. Chloe, you must heat some water in the kettle there." And Carroll turned about again as Madam Trevor, without another word, hurried out of the cabin on her errand.
The girl, meantime, bent over Sambo, questioning him.
"What was it, Sambo? Have you eaten anything? What have you done?" she asked, caressingly.
Sambo, panting from weakness, answered, just audibly: "Done eat nuf 'n 't all but mushrooms you picked 's mo'n wiv Mas' Frenchman. You say dey good fo' dinne'."
"My God!"
"What is it?" asked the doctor, quickly, seeing her face grow gray.
"He has eaten themuscaria," she whispered, tremulously.
"I know it."
"And it was my fault—my fault! Good Heavens! What shall I do?"
With a quick sob she caught the child, who suddenly sprang to her in a new spasm of pain. The muscles of his body grew rigid with contraction beneath her grasp. Sambo clutched and opened his hands wildly in the air. New sweat poured out upon his cold flesh, his eyes started from their sockets, and Chloe, catching sight of him, screamed with despair. At this moment Madam Trevor, bearing those things which the doctor had commanded, re-entered the cabin. While Carroll worked over Sambo's body, Deborah suddenly left her place, turned blindly about and ran out of the cabin through the terror-stricken group at the door, and across the sunny yard to the still-room. Without an instant's hesitation she flung herself against the closed door and turned its handle with her shaking fingers. Presently she found herself standing dizzily before the cage of the poisoned animal. Twice she opened and shut her eyes to make sure that her vision was not deranged. No. There was the cat making its afternoon toilet with foppish precision, stopping occasionally to regard her solemnly with its bright green eyes.
Deborah was not long there. When she was sure her hope had been realized, she turned to the cupboard, snatched a bottle from its shelf, and ran at full speed out of the room and back towards the cabin. Upon the bed Sambo's body lay now outstretched, quiet save for an occasional little quiver of the muscles, and over it Madam Trevor, with grave tenderness, and Dr. Carroll, with hopeless skill, worked. Some hot gin had been forced down the child's throat, and across him were spread linen cloths soaked in water so near to boiling that they had scalded Chloe's hands; yet Sambo paid no attention either to them or to the mixture with which they were rubbing his limbs. When Deborah returned, Carroll left off chafing the little black arms and went to her where she stood by the door.
"What to do, Debby?" he whispered, helplessly.
"There's no hope?" she asked.
Carroll shook his head. "He is passing into the coma now. That is the end."
"You will let me try something?" she asked, quickly.
"Anything in the world. Nothing can harm him now."
"Where is a cup?"
"What have you?" he cried.
Madam Trevor started and looked around. Deborah put a tremulous finger to her lips, and shook her head. The doctor instantly understood, and let her go to the shelf in a corner, where, her back being to the others, she poured half the contents of her bottle into a tin cup. With this, slowly and resolutely, she approached the bed. Chloe stepped suddenly in her way:
"What yo' got?" she asked, in no friendly tone.
"Medicine for Sambo," was the steady reply.
"Of your own making, Deborah?" came Madam Trevor's sharp voice.
"Yes, yes. You are wasting precious time. Chloe—let me pass."
"No, Miss Deb'. You ain' goin' give Sambo nuf'n from still-house."
"Dr. Carroll!" There was a desperate appeal in her tone, and the man came instantly to her aid.
"Listen, Chloe! Unless your child in some way gets the help that I cannot give, he must die. He is poisoned, as I supposed, fatally. Miss Deborah believes that she can save his life. You cannot let him die without the attempt."
The colored woman paid no attention to the words, and still menacingly barred the way. A new idea was taking possession of her: that Deborah had poisoned the boy. Carroll, who was watching her narrowly, saw the sudden squaring of her shoulders, darted quickly in front of her and seized her about the body just as she had been about to fling herself upon the girl. Deborah, keyed to the highest pitch, watched her opportunity, slipped like a cat around to the bedside, raised Sambo's head upon her arm, and, to Madam Trevor's terror, pressed her fingers on the child's throat, and forced him to swallow the contents of the cup. At once he was seized with a violent coughing fit. Deborah lifted him upright at once, pressed her hands upon his temples and the back of his neck, and kept him from that retching which would have been fatal to her experiment.
Meantime Carroll had forced Chloe, screaming and struggling, from the cabin, and, after calling Thompson to keep order in the group outside, he closed and barred the door. Madam Trevor then rose from her place.
"Charles Carroll, you are permitting my ward to murder this child. I cannot remain here as witness to such a deed. When you will accept the assistance that I have to give, and will order this girl away, you may send word to the house."
And, with these words, Antoinette Trevor rose in strong anger, shook out her flounces, unfastened the door for herself, and, without more ado, left the cabin and the dying child alone to the care of the doctor and his mad protégée.
Carroll witnessed the departure without a word, and it was with an expression rather of relief than chagrin that he turned to Deborah.
"What did you give him?" he asked, quietly.
"Atropine. Four times more than enough to kill him."*
* Atropine is to-day considered the best antidote for cases of poisoning by theamanita muscariaor theamanita phalloides. At the period of the story (1744) its efficacy was unknown.
"The cat—"
"Lives."
"Good God, Deborah! We must save him now!"
Deborah set her teeth. "We—I will save him," she said, with slow precision. "Or else—they will bury me with him."
Madam Trevor, upon her return to the house, said not a word of the scene in the cabin. It was a relief to her to find that de Mailly had tactfully departed and that the family was alone. Lucy and Virginia beset her with questions, for the child was a pet with them all. It was something of a shock, then, when their mother turned upon them, saying sharply: "Sambo will die," and forthwith retired to her own room. The girls looked at each other for a long moment in amazement, and then Lucy cried quickly:
"Let us go to see him at once."
Virginia would have assented, but her brother shook his head.
"Deborah and the doctor both are there. If you are needed, you will be sent for. Otherwise I forbid you to go."
And so the Trevor family lived dismally through the afternoon, waiting for the supper-hour, when the watchers would appear. But Adam blew the horn in vain. No word came from the cabin, and Madam Trevor, burning with curiosity and anxiety, flatly refused to send any one to ask news of the child.
The sun set, and dusk deepened to evening. Candles were lighted in the sitting-room, but Vincent alone made any pretence of reading. The three women moved about restlessly, the girls not daring, and their mother unwilling to speak on the subject which occupied all their thoughts. The silence had become unbearable, and Vincent at last started to put away his book, with a resolve to go to the quarters, when the door flew open and Dr. Carroll strode into the room, carrying Deborah's body in his arms. He laid her down upon the brocaded sofa, while the girls rushed to her side.
"She fainted as we came across the yard," explained the doctor, wearily.
"The child is dead, then?"
"Sambo will live. The girl saved his life. She is a genius, madam; and—for God's sake, get me a glass of wine!"