An hour later those who had been such deadly enemies sat at peace together, engaged in a consultation. In a circle, side by side, were the sachems and sagamores of the tribe, the settlers of Pomfret who had come forth with me to rescue our friends, the late prisoners themselves, and Joice seated by me. Apart, and taking no share in the proceedings, were Kinchella and Mary Mills; above, and seated in Senamee's great chair, was Anuza, now chief over all. Farther off were the late bondsmen and many other of the Indians, while in the centre of them was Buck, showing a variety of cheats and delusions, and endeavouring to teach them how to perform them themselves--though this they seemed unable to do.
And now an old paw-wah, or sachem, passed the pipe he had been smoking to another sitting by his side, and spake as follows:
"Chiefs and braves of the tribe who are ever now allies, and you, the pale faces who dwell to the east of us, hearken unto me. For ere the sun sets to night it shall be, perhaps, that peace is settled between us for ever; ay! until the sun shall rise no more and the moon shall be darkened always."
"Speak," said one of the tribe, while others gave the peculiar grunt of the Indian and those of our party also bade him speak.
"It is good," he answered, "and I will speak of the far-off days when first the pale face came amongst us, though not then as a foe, until even now when, if the great Spirit so wills it, he shall never more be one. For the wrongs that have been done by the one to the other may be atoned for ever now."
He paused a moment to collect his thoughts, as it seemed, and then again he went on: "When first the great waterhouses brought the pale face to our land they brought not enemies but friends. This all know. They came among us and they were welcome. We gave them of the fish of our streams and the beasts of our forests and the fruits of the earth, and in return they gave us the fire-weapons with which to slay the beasts. They taught us also how to prepare them in better ways than we knew, they showed us how to build houses that should be more secure against the sun's heat and the winter's cold than those we made of the red cedar's bark. All was well between us; we were friends. Nay, as all know, we were brothers. We lay on the white man's hearth and he cherished us; he slept in our cabins and wigwams and he was safe. Why remained it not so? Hear me, and I will tell you.
"The white man spake not always truth to us. He told us that our lands were worthless, and he bought them from us for nothing, unless it was the accursed fire-drink which made us mad, or for fire-weapons that in our hands would slay nothing. Yet the lands thrived in his grasp and he possessed them and we had lost them. And when we reproached him he used fire-weapons that slew us without failure, and our prisoners whom he took he sent away for ever across the deep waters.[5]So he took our lands and our men, and got all, and we had nothing. And the Indian never forgets. Thus, while we drew away from where the pale face dwelt, some coming to these mountains and some going even farther towards the unknown land of the setting sun, we had naught to cherish but our revenge, and naught to comfort us but the exercise of that revenge."
"Yet," interrupted young Mr. Byrd, "in the days of my grandfather you made a peace with us, and took gifts from us, and fire-weapons that would kill of a surety, and agreed to attack us no more. But even that peace you did not keep, though you made no raids upon us such as this you have now made."
"Yet were we never the aggressors," the sachem replied. "Never was an attack made by us until evil was done to us. But the Indian forgives not. If one of our race was slain by one of the white race then must one of his kin be slain by us; if our women were outraged, as has often been, or insulted, then must a white woman or a child be carried away by us. It is the law of our gods; it must be obeyed. For a life a life, for a hand a hand, for an Indian woman's honour a white woman's, or the carrying off of children."
"But," said Gregory, "there was naught to inspire such desire for revenge as to cause this last attack. None in Pomfret have harmed you or yours for many moons. What had she," pointing to Joice, "done; she, this innocent woman, scarce more than a girl even now, that thus you should attack and ruin her and seek her life and that of those by whom she was surrounded?"
The sachem was about to answer when whatever he would have said was interrupted by Anuza, who, speaking quickly, said:
"Because we were deceived by a lying, false, medicine man it was done. Because he told us lies, even as he has lied to us ever since he dwelt amongst us. And for those lies he shall die. He cannot escape us long. Yet, since it is due to the white men that they should know how that crawling snake worked upon us, so that we believed in him and did his bidding and attacked their houses, tell them all--tell them all," and he motioned to the sachem as he spoke.
That all of us were eager to hear this recountal, you may be well sure, for there was scarcely one amongst us who had not known the wretch. The gentlemen had met him as an equal--for all believed his tale--he had caroused with the (now freed) bondsmen, and he had even gone a-hunting with the backwoodsmen and trappers. So we bent our ears to the narrative and listened greedily.
"He was found," said the paw-wah, "lying in the forest by Lamimi, the young daughter of Owalee, a chief of the Powhattans, and she, because her heart was tender, succoured him. But because Owalee hated the pale faces with a great hatred she kept him secret from her father for many days, hiding him in a cave she knew of and going to visit him often. Yet she believed him to be no pale face, but rather a god sent from another world, so wonderful were his doings. Food he refused at her hands, making signs to her (and knowing, too, some words of her tongue, as she knew some of his, by which they conversed) that meat was brought to him by some unseen power. And of this he gave her proof, showing her bones of fishes and of animals and birds which he had devoured. Later on she learnt that he could marvellously snare all creatures, making them captive to him even though he had no weapons, but this she told us not until to-day. Nor told she until to-day--when she, who had been his squaw and loved him, learned that she was to be cast out and the white maiden here and her dark sister made to take her place--of all his own deceptions and crafts. But, to-day, because she hates him now as once she loved him, she has told all--all! She it was who taught him the history of our braves and their deeds and the deeds of their forefathers, which we thought the Sun God only could have taught him so wonderful did his knowledge seem. She it was who carried to him the news of what the tribes were deciding on doing, either in war with other tribes, or in hunting, or in sacrificing, so that, when he told us that he had learned all our future intentions, again we believed that his father, the Sun, gave him the knowledge. Fools! fools that we were! Yet we never thought of the girl, Lamimi, though we knew she was his squaw. Nor would she have told him all she did had he not ruled her by terror as much as by love. For he made her believe that he could cause her to vanish for ever off the earth, even as he made things to vanish from his hands and be no more seen; or as he made stones to fly into the air and descend no more. Yet now she knows, as we know, that all was but trickery, and that many others can do the same, even as that one there," pointing to Buck, "who says he is the child of no god, can do such things.
"So the false one worked upon us, doing that which no medicine man had ever done before; and so, at last, he got supreme control over us, making us obey his every word. And ever did he tell us that, if we would please the great Sun God, then must we make war upon and destroy all the pale faces who dwelt between these mountains and the waters, directing more particularly our vengeance towards the spot where you, ye white people, live. This we at first would not do, because for many moons there had been peace between us with neither little nor great war; yet, as moon followed moon, and leaf was followed by barrenness and then withered and fell to the earth, still did he press us. When the thunder rolled and the lightning blasted our cattle, he told us the Sun was angry because we obeyed him not; when many of our horses were killed by reptiles and venomous insects he said ever the same; when our women bore dead children still spake he of the Sun God's anger. And yet we would not hearken unto him, for since the pale faces no longer came against us we went not against them.
"But lo! one day, when all the earth was dark, yet with no cloud beneath the sky, he stood forth here on this spot where now we sit, and, stretching out his arms which were bare, he said that ere long upon his hands should appear a message from the Sun telling us of the god's anger. And soon the message came, though now we know that it was a cheat. Upon his open palm, which had been empty ere he clenched it, there appeared a scroll of skin with, on it, mystic figures which none could decipher but he. And the figures said, he told us, that never more should the heavens be light again and that there should be darkness over all the land, if we would not make war upon the white men and save ourselves. For they, he said, were arming to attack us, from over the deep waters their great king, who dwelt beyond them, was sending more fearful fire-weapons than we had known with which to destroy us for ever, and, ere another moon had passed, they would have come. So, at last, in the darkness of the day, and with great fear in the hearts of all the warriors and braves of the tribe, they said if he would cause the Sun God to show his face again, then they would promise to make the war. And so he stretched his hands to the Sun and spake some words, and slowly his rays came forth again one by one and light appeared again upon the world. Yet this we also know now was false, and that the rays would have come and also the light even though the promise had been withheld. I have spoken."
At first none of us uttered a word when the sachem concluded. In truth, all were surprised that, even among these poor, ignorant savages, such credulity could have existed. And, I think, most of us were pondering on what they would have done to the impostor had the promise not been forthcoming by the time that the eclipse--for it was, naturally, of such a thing the sachem spake--had passed away.
Yet a spokesman had to be put forward on our part, and so we drew away a little to consult. And having chosen one, which was Kinchella, we returned and he addressed the Indians thus:
"Warriors, braves, and people of the assembled tribes. We have thought upon all your sachem has said, and we wish that the only true God had inspired your hearts so that you should not have listened to the false prophet who deceived you. Yet, since you have done so, and have made war upon those who in their generation have never harmed you, what reparation can you offer us?"
"Ask what you will," said Anuza, "and if it is in our power it shall be given."
"'Tis well. Listen, therefore. These are our demands. Firstly, all those who dwell with you and have our blood, the blood of the white men, in their veins, shall be brought here, so that we may speak with them and implore them to return with us to their own people. Also that I, who am a humble minister of the true God, may endeavour to bring them back to His service and, if I can prevail upon them, then you shall let them accompany us."
"If you can prevail upon them," said Anuza, "they shall accompany you. But that you cannot do," and the tone in which he spoke seemed to us one of most marvellous confidence.
"At least we will attempt it. Next, we call upon you all here assembled to make vows, the most solemn to which you can pledge yourselves, that never again shall you make war upon the white man, or his houses or property, nor attempt aught against him until he first attacks you, and that none of your tribes shall come within a day's ride of our lands either by stealth or openly."
"Children of these our tribes," exclaimed Anuza, "you hear this demand. Will you agree to it so that evermore there shall be unbroken peace between them and us? Answer."
To this there were many who cried out that they would agree to it, while one, an older man than Anuza, coming forward, said:
"A peace is no peace unless it binds both alike who agree to it. Will the pale faces agree also that, if we advance not into the lands they have possessed themselves of, they will come no further into ours? Will they do this?"
All of our side said they would promise this, while they recalled to the Indians that 'twas more than fifty summers and winters since they had made any encroachments on the Indians' territories, or taken one rood of land from them except by barter at a price agreed upon. And so at last the compact was made--the peace (which hath ever since that day, so far as my knowledge serves, been kept in His Majesty's loyal colony of Virginia) was entered into. It was ratified by the white men calling upon heaven to witness their agreement to it, and by the Indians swearing upon their wounds and scars, and calling upon their gods to inflict most dreadful vengeance on them, and their children afterwards, if they failed in their part. And also was it sealed by the passing round of a pipe of peace, at which all smoked silently for a few moments. But still one other promise was extorted from them--the promise that the sacred symbol of our faith, the Cross, should be taken down and nevermore used for the horrid rites to which hitherto it had been put. This we saw done ere we left them.
Now, as we sat smoking gravely with those who had so lately been our bitter foes, there came in the Indians who had been sent to find the villain Roderick, who reported that nowhere could any traces of him be discovered. He had vanished as mysteriously as he had come--all trace and trail of him was lost.
And what disturbed these grave savages almost as much--nay, I think, more, was that Lamimi, the daughter of Owalee, who had been Roderick's squaw and had loved him once, was gone too. And white and red man both asked themselves the same question--had that love awakened once more in her bosom and forced her to fly with him; or--dreadful thought!--had he in some way been able to wreak his vengeance on her for having told the story of his imposture to her own people?
We were soon to know.
One thing there was to be done ere we quitted the Indian encampment. It was to try and bring away with us those who, alas! poor souls, had come there as white prisoners and had remained of their own free will, becoming savages in all but complexion. We knew that it would be hard to tear them from those to whom they had attached themselves. We knew that girls, who should have grown up to become the wives of sturdy English colonists or trappers, had stayed willingly with the Indians to become their squaws and the mothers of their dusky children. We remembered Anuza's air of confidence when he told us how he doubted of our being able to persuade them to return with us. Yet we hoped. How our hopes succeeded you shall see.
We had remarked from our first arrival that there were no signs of any white people amongst the Indians of the various tribes who dwelt here together. Yet they had been eagerly sought for. Men from Pomfret and the small holdings round about it had scanned the stained and painted faces they gazed down upon while the fight between Anuza and Senamee had been taking place, in the hopes--perhaps, in some cases, the fears--that underneath those dreadful pigments the might recognise the features of some long lost kinsman or kinswoman. And even I, knowing the stories of those who had been carried off at various periods and had never returned, had whispered to Joice, asking her if she could see any whom she had ever known as children dwelling near her? But she had only shaken her head and answered that she could see none, and that she almost prayed she should not do so. And I knew why she thus hoped none would be forthcoming; I knew that, to her tender heart, it would be more painful to see these renegades than to gaze upon those who were born savages and had never known the blessings of dwelling in a Christian community.
Yet now she had to see them.
At a sign from Anuza an Indian servant went forth amongst the tents and wigwams, returning presently followed by three women--white! Yes, white, in spite of the stained skin, the Indian trappings of fringed moccasins and gaiters, of quills and beads and feathers, and of dressed fawn-skin tunics. Who could doubt it who saw above two of their heads the fair yellow hair of the northern European woman--was it some feminine vanity that had led them to keep this portion of their original English beauty untampered with?--and above that of the other the chestnut curls which equally plainly told that in her veins there ran no drop of savage blood.
As they stepped towards us, casting glances of no friendly nature at those of their own race, one of the women, young and comely and leading by her hand a child, went directly towards Anuza and, embracing him, disposed herself at his feet while the child played with the great hand that, but a few hours ago, had slain Senamee. Her form was lithe and graceful--in that she might have been Indian born--upon her head glistened her yellow hair which the Bear softly stroked; her garb was rich though barbaric. It consisted of a fawn-skin, bleached so white that it might have been samite, that reached below the knee, and it was fringed with beads and white shells. Her leggings were also of some white material but softer; her moccasins were stained red and fringed also with shells.
She turned her eyes up at Anuza--we saw that they were hazel ones, soft and clear--and spake some words to him in a whisper, and then was heard his answer:
"My beloved," he said, "those whom you see around us are of your race, and we have sworn but now eternal peace with them--a peace that must never more be broken. Yet to ensure that peace we have granted one request to the pale faces; we have consented that, if those who dwell with us, yet are of their land, desire to leave us and go back with them, they are free to do so. Do you desire thus to return?"
"To return!" she said, looking first with amazement at him and then at us, "to return and leave you? Oh! Anuza, Anuza! My heart's dearest love!" while, as she spoke, she embraced the knee against which she reclined.
"You see," he said to us, "you see. And as it is with her so will it be with the others. Yet make your demand if you will."
Alas! all was in vain. In vain that Joice and Miss Mills pleaded with them as women sometimes can plead with their sisters for their good--what could they hope to effect? If they implored them to return to their own people they were answered that they could not leave their husbands, for so they spoke of the chiefs to whom they were allied. If they asked them to return to Christianity the reply was that their husbands' faith was their faith. It was hopeless, and soon we knew it to be so. The lives they led now were the only lives they had any knowledge of--their earlier ones at home, amongst their own people, were forgotten if they had ever understood them; their very parents, they told us, were but the shadow of a memory.
"Why, therefore," asked the fairest complexioned of them all, she who was the squaw of the Bear and the mother of his child, "should we go back to those we know not of, even though they be still alive? Will your faith, which preaches that a woman shall leave all to cleave unto her husband, ask me to leave mine and my child and go back to I know not what?"
"In truth," I heard one old colonist whisper to O'Rourke, who stood by his side, "there would be none for her to go back to. I do think she is the child of Martin Peake, who was stolen when a babe, and, if so, her father has been long since dead. Her mother lived until a year ago hoping ever that she might return, looking up the lane that led to the woods with wistful eyes, as though she might perhaps see her coming back at last; even keeping her little room ready against her coming. Yet it was never to be, and she died with her longing ungratified," and the man dashed his rough hand across his eyes as he spoke, while I saw that those of the old adventurer also filled with tears as he listened. Then he said softly: "I can understand. I once had a daughter whom I loved dearly and--and she is dead and gone from me. Yet better so, far better than to be like this."
Therefore it was not to be! They refused to come with us, and set the love for their savage mates against all entreaties on our part. Nor could we find it in our hearts to blame them. We remembered other marriages that had taken place in earlier days between red and white; we recalled the union of John Rolfe with the Princess Pocahontas, as well as many more, and we knew that most of them had been happy. What could we do but cease to plead and go in peace?
Thus we set out again on our road to Pomfret, and, although some of the party were going back to ruined homes, I think that even so they were content. For, in so rich and wooded a land as this fertile Virginia, houses might soon be repaired and made whole again, crops easily brought to bear once more, and cattle replaced. And, against any loss that had been incurred, there was always the great set-off of peace with the Indians and security. All knew in that band--for well were they acquainted with their foes of old--that, during at least the present generation, the tribes would keep their word; if they made war again it would not be during our time. The Indian had not yet learned the art of lying--he was still uncivilised!
These did endeavour to offer some reparation for the wrong they had done the colony; they brought forth skins and furs, ornaments such as they deemed might prove acceptable, weapons, and, in some few instances, trinkets, gold, and precious stones--got we knew not whence--which they piled on the ground and bade us take, saying they had no more. But no man took aught from them, and so, after Kinchella had offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for our release and another that, if not now, at least at some future date, these poor heathens might be gathered into the true fold, we set forth. And never more did one of our party lay eyes upon any of those tribes again. As they had vowed, so the vow was kept.
As we rode on we could not but wonder what would be the fate of my wretched cousin, the author of all the woe that had recently befallen the, until now, happy little settlement.
"That they will find him and slay him," said Gregory, who knew much of their ways, "is certain. It is impossible he should escape or they forgive. Well, vile as he is, God help him!"
"Amen," said Joice, as she rode by my side. "Amen."
"Perhaps," said the old hunter, who had recognised Anuza's squaw, "he may strike the southern trail and make for the Seminoles; they hate all the Alleghany tribes like poison. If he could get them to listen to him, and promised to lead them up to their encampment, he might yet join on to them."
"Never," said Mr. Byrd. "He would have to join in the fight not shirk from it in the garb of a medicine chief. Amongst the Red Sticks[6]every man fights, and fighting is not his cue."
"What I can't fathom," remarked another, "is how the white girls never found him out. They should have known their own kind."
"It may be," Gregory said, "that he kept himself ever apart. His squaw was Indian, and, for his knowledge of our tongue, why! that he would attribute to a gift from his precious Sun God. Doubtless he told them he knew all tongues."
"And the girls," said Mr. Byrd, "were stolen when they were children. They could never have known--my God!" he exclaimed, breaking off, "what is that?" while, with his finger, he pointed to a sight that froze all our blood with horror.
We had reached the bend of a small river which joined, later on, the James, and were passing one side of it, a flat, muddy shore. On the other side there arose a stiff, almost perpendicular, bank, beneath which the river flowed; a bank that rose some seventy to eighty feet above the water's level. And here it was that we saw that which was so terrible to look upon.
Fixed into the earth was a long pole, or spar, of Virginian pine; attached to that pole was the naked body of a man--or was it the body of what had once been a man? It was bound to the staff by a cord of wampum, the arms were bound to it above the head by yet a second cord; plunged into the heart was an Indian knife, the hilt glistening in the rays of the evening sun. But worse, far worse to see than this--which we could do with ease since the stream was but a narrow one--was that the body was already nearly consumed with swarms nay, myriads--of huge ants that had crept up to it by the pole, and were already feeding on it so ravenously that, in a few more hours, there could be nothing left but the skeleton. Indeed, already our dilated eyes could see that the flesh of the lower limbs was gone--devoured; of the feet and legs there was naught left but the bones, while the body and the face were black with the host of venomous ants preying on them, so that the features could not be distinguished.
The women shrieked and hid their faces while the men sat appalled on their horses. Then with, as it seemed, one impulse, all but one of the latter dismounted and, wading through the stream that now, after the long drought, was but knee-deep, rushed at the steep bank and endeavoured to ascend it.
The impulse that so prompted all of us, except Kinchella, who remained with Joice and Miss Mills, was thatwe guessed who and what that awful figure had once been.
At first we could find no foothold by which to ascend; we strived in vain, we even endeavoured to dig out steps with our swords and hands; it was all unavailing. We should, indeed, have returned, desisting from our labour, had not at this moment one of the trappers espied, lower down, a slight path leading to the summit, a path doubtless used by the Indians when in the neighbourhood. And so, gaining that path, we reached the level above and drew near the horrid thing.
No need to ask who the creature had once been; all was answered by one quick glance. At the foot of the pole, at the foot of the thing itself, there lay a fawn-skin tunic and a silken cloak on which were wrought stars and moons and snakes, and a great blazing Sun, the insignia, or totems, of the false medicine man.
Yet, how had the deed been done? The Indians whom he had outraged and deceived lay far behind us in the mountains; they, therefore, could not have been his executioners. We had not far to seek ere this was discovered too. The crest of the bank was higher than the level behind it, which sloped downwards away from the river, and thus, when we stood on the other side, we could not see all that lay below that crest.
But now we saw, and, seeing, understood.
Near him, yet so far away that the venomous ants had not yet, at least, reached it, there was another body--the body of a woman. It lay on its back, the eyes staring up to the heavens, the tunic torn open at the left breast and in that breast another dagger buried, which still the right hand of the woman, an Indian, grasped and held as firm as when she struck herself her death blow.
So we knew all! We knew that he had escaped the vengeance of the tribe only to die at the hands of the woman who had loved him once, and whose love he had thought to replace--the hands of the woman who, having saved his life at the outset, had taken it from him when he was false to her.
And thus he perished, not by the hands of those from whom he was fleeing, but by those of Lamimi, his slighted and forsaken squaw.
It took not more than three months to put my house into a liveable condition once more, for, most happily, the injury which had been done to it in the Indian raid concerned more the woodwork and the fittings than aught else. Indeed, while this was a-doing, I also took occasion to have many improvements made in various portions of the manor that were sorely needed. Thus, in some of our upstairs rooms, our windows had in them nothing but oiled paper, while others were furnished with naught but Muscovy glass or sheets of mica, dating back from the time of the first Bampfyld who came to the colony. These I now replaced by crystal glass brought from England for the purpose.
Yet, in spite of changes and, I suppose, improvements, I could not restrain my tears when first I set eyes on my saloon again. Oh! how sad it was to see the spinet and the harpsichord broken to pieces--everything stood exactly as we had left it that night--to see also my choice Segodia carpets stained with the dried blood that had been shed, and to observe my window-sashes, with their pretty gildings, in splinters.
"Yet cheer up, sweetheart," my lord said to me, as, leaning on his arm, I looked round this ruin and let fall my tears. "It is not irreparable, and might have been worse. And, when we come back from England, we will bring such pretty toys and knick-knacks with us that you shall forget all you have lost. I promise you, sweet, you shall." After which he strove to kiss away my tears, though still they fell.
This took place directly after we had all ridden into the courtyard on our return from captivity. And when the gentlemen whose houses had also been attacked as mine had been (including poor Gregory, who seemed heart-broken at my having fallen in love, yet not with him), and the other colonists had dispersed to their own homes, or what remained of them, we had instantly begun to inspect the damage done. Of the negroes we could discover no signs, though Buck and young Lamb searched the whole house from the cellars to the garrets for them, the former roaring many terrible threats and strange ejaculations at their heads in the hopes they might be in hiding and, on hearing him, come forth; but all was of no avail. Nor, when they searched in the late slaves' and bond-servants' quarters were they any more successful. Christian Lamb, my own maid, soon, however, re-appeared, she having remained in the house the whole time, and though her brother swore at her for a chicken-hearted wench and called her many other hard names, such as traitress and deserter, I was most thankful to see her again, she being a good, faithful creature, though timorous.
From her we learned that after the departure of O'Rourke and my dear lord--the former of whom was now engaged in finding provisions for us, if any remained--the negroes had all sallied forth in a body towards the coast, some with the intention of escaping from their servitude and the others to find a home until I returned, if ever, of which they seemed most doubtful. After this, she told us, the house had been quite deserted, there being none in it but herself--the other white indented servant women having also betaken themselves to the village for safety. Yet she determined to remain until she heard some news of us and of the party that had set forth to rescue us. Moreover, her alarm was lessened by the fact that a squadron of the Virginian Light Horse, from Jamestown, had come into the village with a view of following us and effecting a rescue if possible, but, on learning that a considerable band had set out for the purpose, they had decided to remain where they were, for the present, at least, and to await results.
And now, when at the end of those months my house was once more fit for habitation, and when all signs of the horrible attack that had been made on it had been removed, Gerald, coming to me one evening when I was sitting by my wood fire--for the evenings were turning chilly--said:
"My dearest, are you ready? The time draws near."
"Must it be so soon?" I asked coyly, and with a blush upon my cheeks that was not caused by the blaze of the logs. "Must it be now?"
"In very truth it must," he answered. "I must away to England as swiftly as may be. See here, sweet, what I have found at Jamestown to-day." Then with one arm round my waist, he drew forth with his disengaged hand a packet of letters from his pocket and began to read them to me.
"The Marquis," he said first, "grows old, nay, has grown old; he is seventy-five if an hour. List what he says," and continued his reading of a letter from that noble kinsman:
"I would have you here ere I die so that I may publicly announce you as my heir, and this I will do in my own house when you return, though even then I can of no certainty promise that the Lords will enrol you as such immediately after my death, since they are not so easily persuaded as their brothers in Dublin. Yet come, I say, come as soon as may be. Your mother, too, grows more feeble, worn almost to her grave by the slanders which your uncle and the man Considine--who scruples not to say openly that you are none other thanhisson--puts about you; and in truth I do think these calumnies will kill her ere long. She rages terribly against them both, and calls on me and many of the peers in power to punish them; yet what are we to do?" "The vile wretches!" I exclaimed, as I nestled close to him. "Oh! the vile wretches! Oh! my darling, that thus your birthright should be so assailed."
"Yet will I have vengeance," he exclaimed, while his eyes glowed with resentment. "Yet shall the fellow Considine regret that he has ever dared to call me his son. His--his. God! My uncle's drunken pander!" and for a while his rage was terrible to witness.
Then, taking up another letter, he said, "This also I found at Jamestown to-day. It is from her, from my mother."
She, too, wrote saying how earnestly she desired that he might soon be able to return home, and more especially so as she heard that the fleet under Sir Chaloner Ogle was about to do so. Then, after mentioning somewhat the same news as the Marquis had done, she went on:
"Oh! my dearest child, can'st thou picture to thyself all the horrors that I have endured since first you were impressed and torn away from me again, after our short but happy meeting? I think it cannot be that you do so. For five years have I, with my wasted frame and ill health ever to contend against, pleaded your cause, worked hard to produce evidence of your birth, and was even so successful with the Marquis's aid as to defeat your vile uncle in the Irish courts and induce the Lords there to enrol you as Lord St. Amande. Yet, as I have thus striven, think of what else I have had to fight against. That most abhorred and execrable villain, Wolfe Considine, has thrown away the mask--if he ever wore it--and has now for two or three years boldly said--God! how can I write the words?--that when your erring father was petitioning the House of Lords for a divorce I was his, Considine's, friend, and that you are his son."
The paper shook in my loved one's hands as he read these words, and he muttered, "Considine, Considine, if ever you come within the point of my sword it shall go hard with you," and then went on with the perusal of the letter:
"That no one believes him--for none do so--matters not. The odium is still the same, and there are some in existence who remember how, at Bath and Tunbridge Wells, ere I had met your father, the wretch persecuted me with his attentions, which I loathed. Also, I remember that, on my becoming affianced to your father, he swore that I should rue it and regret it on my knees, even though he had to wait twenty years for his revenge. Alas! alas! I have rued it and regretted it again and again, though not as he intended. Yet, my child, and only one, if I could but see you properly acknowledged as the Marquis's heir and as such accepted, then would I forget my rue, then could I die happy--the end is not far off now. But ere that end comes, oh! my child, my child of many tears, come back to me, I beseech you. Let me once more clasp you to my arms and let me hear your kinsman proclaim you as his successor. It is for that I wait, for that I long unceasingly."
There was more in her letter saying, amongst other things, how Mr. Quin, whom afterwards I came to know and to respect most deeply, never slackened in his watchfulness over her; of how he was always in attendance on her and what services he performed for her. But what he had read was sufficient.
"You must go to England, Gerald," I said; "at all costs, you must go. Will the Admiral give you leave?"
He laughed aloud at this, saying: "Will the Admiral give me leave? Why, Joice, Sir Chaloner Ogle sailed a month ago, leaving me ere he went his consent to my being absent as long as necessary on urgent private affairs. He knows well how I stand, and wishes me well, too. And, dear heart, as you say, I must go--only I will not go alone."
I well understood his meaning yet could find no answer to his words. So again he went on whispering them in my ear. "No, not alone. My wife must go with me. And, Joice, to-night I will tell Kinchella to make all ready, to proclaim our banns, and to prepare to make us one. It shall be so, my sweet saint, my tender Virginian rose, my heart's best and only love; it shall be so, shall it not?"
What could I say but yes--what other answer make? No woman who had loved him as I had loved him (even ere I knew him, I think)--no woman who had dreamt of his sad story and then come to know him and see his beauty and grace and his fierce bravery exacted on her behalf, but must have answered yes, as I did. For he was all a woman's heart most longs for; all that she most aspires to possess; handsome and brave, yet gentle; fierce as the lion when roused, yet how tender and how true. So I whispered "Yes," and murmured my love to him and the compact was made; our fond troth plighted again with many a kiss.
It was in the old church, from the wooden tower of which the cannon had been fired so often on that dreadful night of death and horror, that we were married. As was the custom of the colony--though one, I think, that might well be changed--the minister took the first kiss from me, while my husband kissed my bridesmaid, Mary, and afterwards I had to submit to being kissed by every gentleman present, while all the while I wanted no other embrace than that of my dear lord. Yet it had to be borne, and one of the first to avail himself of this privilege was Gregory, who kissed me sadly, saying as he did so:
"Ah, Joice, 'twas otherwise I had hoped some day to kiss thy sweet brow. Yet 'twas not to be and so I must bear it as best I may," and he passed sadly down the aisle and away home, tarrying not for the drinkings nor merry-makings that afterwards set in. But, poor lad, he struggled with his love for me so well that at last he conquered it, and certainly his disappointment made no difference in his friendship for me or my husband. During our absence in England he managed my property as carefully as though it had been his own, and regularly sent us an exact account of all he had done, so that 'twas easy to see, and to admire in seeing, that his unaccepted love had not made an enemy of him.
Mr. Kinchella and Mary Mills we saw married a week after our own nuptials, so we left them also happy and content--which was a great joy to us to do. O'Rourke, too, we parted from as friends part from one another, he setting out for Savannah where he purposed to instal himself as agent of Mr. Oglethorpe and bidding us an affectionate farewell ere doing so. He also made an affidavit before an attorney at Jamestown of all he knew of the villainies of Robert St. Amande and the wretch Considine, and swore as well that, from the intimate knowledge he had of my lord's family, and also from having had him once in his charge, the Viscount St. Amande was most undoubtedly the lawfully born child of the late lord. Moreover, he also swore (and produced letters from Considine proving his oath, which letters he gave to Gerald) that, during the separation of Lady St. Amande from her husband, he, Considine, was living an outlaw at Hamburg with a price upon his head, so that he could never have even seen her during that time.
The overseers of the bond-servants being, like all the others, free men now, were provided with means whereby either to establish themselves in the colony or to go elsewhere, though they, in common with the others, elected to remain as hired hands on my estate during my absence. Buck, however, who seemed never to have lost his rollicking disposition, being also provided with some money wherewith to adventure on his own account, bought the lease of the tavern in the village, and changed its name from that of the King's Head to the St. Amande Arms. Lamb, who had once been a sailor, became again one, while his sister, Christian, took passage with us to England as my maid.
How shall I, brought up a plain colonial maiden, who had never seen anything more grand than the opening of our Virginian Assembly by the Governor, nor anything more of great life than an assembly ball or the meeting together of our first families at the races, dare to describe the wonders and splendours of London. For wonderful and splendid everything was, and marvellous to behold. From where we were at first installed until the Marquis could arrive in London from his country seat, namely, a busy inn called the Hercules Pillars, at Hyde Park Corner, a spot which my dear father had often told me was the centre of fashion, I saw so much going on that my head was ever in a whirl. Here from morn till night, under the balcony of our sitting-room windows, went on such a clatter and a dashing by of vehicles, including the fast coaches coming in and going out of London, and of huge carriages and carts and horses, that there was no peace, though, in dear truth, I loved to lean over that balcony and watch the turmoil. In the early November mornings--for 'twas that month ere we reached London--first would come lumbering by great carts piled high with vegetables, all of which, my lord said, London would have eaten up by nightfall--a thing not wonderful to understand, seeing that it was asserted that there were nearly half a million people in the town, or one-twelfth part of the whole country. Then great droves of beasts would pass, and sometimes--oh! sad sight--a wretched highwayman with his hands tied behind his back and escorted by the thief-catchers, while the passers-by hooted at him or beat at him with sticks and whips, or flung refuse at him.
"Such was Buck once," Gerald would say when he saw one of these; "and, perhaps O'Rourke, though I think he was more the spy. Ah! well, it is better to be honest men in Virginia or Georgia than like this."
Then, as the day went on, and a poor, thin sun struggled out of the mist, making some brightness around, there would ride forth gentlemen who were going a-hunting at Richmond, or Hampton, or Hounslow, very splendid in their coats. Others, too, would come down to ride in the park most beautifully dressed, and some would stroll along on foot, talking and laughing, and bowing to ladies in their chaises, or taking off their hats to a portly bishop who passed our inn every morning in a coach and six. And sometimes, too, a great lady or so would also go by in her coach and six, with, seated on the steps outside, a page, or sometimes a little black boy with a silver chain around his neck, and I never understood then why Gerald would pull me back into the room as though he wished me not to see these dames. Yet, when I learnt afterwards that one was the Countess of Suffolk and another the horrid woman, Melusina Schulemberg, I did comprehend his reason. And, even in the three days we lay at this inn, I learnt to hate the latter, for, going past one morning, she observed my handsome Gerald on the balcony and kissed her hand to him--as they say she did to any well-favoured gentleman she saw--and afterwards always peered out of the carriage as though seeking for him.
Soon, however, my pleasures of witnessing the bustle of this place came to an end. One dull November morning there drove up to the door of the Hercules Pillars a great coach and six, all emblazoned with coats-of-arms and decorated with rich hangings and much gilding, with, before it, three panting footmen, who, poor creatures, had always to run in front of it, and with, seated within it, a grave and soberly-clad gentleman.
"Why," exclaimed Gerald, who did not share my surprise at this gorgeous and, it seemed to me, sinfully extravagant spectacle--for why could not the gentleman travel as we do in Virginia, either a-horseback or on foot! "Why! 'Tis the Marquis. Joice, go, put on thy best dress--no! stay just as you are; faith, you are fair enough to charm any man." And then he ran downstairs to meet his kinsman and presently brought him to our parlour.
"This is my wife, my lord," he said, presenting me to him, "of the family of Bampfyld, of Virginia."
Whereon the Marquis bowed to me with most stately grace in reply to my curtsey, and, taking my hand, kissed it. "Madam," he said, "we are honoured by an alliance with you. There is no better English blood than that of the Bampfylds, and sure there can be no fairer woman than the Lady St. Amande. Are all women as fair as your ladyship in the colonies?"
I simpered and blushed and knew not what to say, when Gerald diverted his attention by exclaiming, with a smile:
"Her name is Joice, my lord. Will you not, as the head of our family, thus call her?"
"Indeed I will. Joice--Joice; 'tis a pretty name, and well befits its pretty owner. And so,Joice," turning to me and speaking as though he had known me from a child, yet all the time with a most courtly manner, "you have finally determined to throw in your lot with my young kinsman, in spite of his troubles?"
"Oh! sir," I said; "oh! my lord, what woman who had ever seen or known him could refuse to love him? And I owe him my life; I would lay it down for him now if he willed it. He fought for me and mine, ay! shed his dear blood for me. I have a dress at home all stained with it which I will never part with. He sought for me amongst my capturers and would have rescued me if they had not been mercifully disposed; he was as a god in my eyes, and now he is my husband and I love him more than aught else upon this earth. Oh! sir, I do love him so."
Both he and Gerald smiled gently at my ardour, which, indeed, I could not repress, and then he said:
"Doubtless, Joice, doubtless. 'Tis perhaps not strange. And, child, you wish to see him righted thoroughly; is it not so?"
"Indeed, indeed, my lord!" I cried, "such is ever my fervent prayer. Yes, morning, noon, and night. And, surely, since the Irish Lords have acknowledged his right to the title he bears, those in England will not refuse to regard him as your heir."
"We must do our best. Yet, even if they will not give him my title when I am gone, I can do much for him. Providence hath greatly benefited me. There is much I can bequeath to him, and, for the rest, I can provide that if he gets it not none other shall. Above all, the Scoundrel Robert shall never have it."
"God bless you!" my husband and I exclaimed. "God bless you!"
"Now, listen," he continued, "to what I propose. Your mother follows me but a few stages behind--poor Louise! she is marvellously stirred at the thought of seeing her son again--and when she is arrived in town this is what I will do. 'Tis what I intended five years ago, had not Sir Chaloner's men impressed you and made a sailor of you. I will have a meeting of many peers of my acquaintance--Sir Robert"--he meant the great Sir Robert Walpole--"has promised that he will come as well as some others who will be useful--and then I will publicly acknowledge you as my successor. But," he went on, "there is something else to be done."
Gerald looked enquiringly at him as though doubtful as to what he was about to say, when the Marquis again took up the word.
"The two scoundrels, Robert St. Amande and Wolfe Considine, must be brought to bay; above all, the latter must be made to retract the villainous falsehoods he has spread about your mother."
"Ay, retract!" interrupted Gerald, hotly, "retract. He shall, indeed, or I will tear his lying tongue----"
"Nay, nay!" said his kinsman, putting up his hand. "Nay, hear me."
"I ask your lordship's pardon."
"This is my plan, agreed to by your injured mother. They are both in London now, ever spreading their calumnies about, though I hear that none heed them, and Robert St. Amande endeavours unsuccessfully to borrow money on what he terms his succession. Now, we have decided to ask both these men to attend at my house on the same morning on which I intend to proclaim you--only they are not to know that there will be any other persons present but themselves. Thus, they will suddenly find that they are surrounded by auditors, as well as some witnesses who knew you in your childhood. There will be, also, the papers you have forwarded me signed and testified to by O'Rourke, and by these means we hope either to extort the truth from them, or at least so to strike terror to them, that they shall prevaricate and contradict their own lying statements. And, remember, there will be a strong array against them."
"The idea is most excellent," exclaimed Gerald. "Surely thus they must be beaten down. And will my mother be there, my lord?"
"Your mother will be there, but her presence will be unknown to them. Yet she vows that, if Considine does not deny before all assembled the wickedness of the slanders he has put about, she will come forward and confront him and dare him to utter them to her face.
"'Twill be a terrible ordeal for her," my husband said. "Heaven grant she may be able to endure it."
"She will endure it; she will so string herself up that none regarding her will be able to imagine her a weak woman who sometimes cannot raise herself even from her bed. Yet, since she has dwelt under my care----"
"For which I say again God bless you--for that and all the other luxuries and comforts you have surrounded her with."
"'Tis but little," replied the Marquis. "And she is desolate and the mother of my heir. 'Tis nothing. But, as I say, since she hath been with me I have seen some most marvellous moments of recovery with her, moments when she would suddenly exclaim that she was once more well and strong. And, to show me that she was so, she would lift some great weight or walk up and down her chamber a dozen times, yet ever afterwards there came directly a relapse when she would again sink into her chair helpless as a babe once more."
"Ay," said my husband thoughtfully, "so have I seen her too. Nor do I doubt that if she stands face to face with that craven hound, she will lack no strength to cow him."
In a little while you shall see that that strength was not lacking, you shall see how it was exerted against the miserable wretch who had blighted her life. But the place to tell it is not here.
And now the Marquis bade us prepare to accompany him to that great mansion of his in Lincoln's Inn Fields, of which my dear lord had told me; and, ere long, Gerald's servant and Christian Lamb between them had packed up our effects, we going in the gorgeous emblazoned coach and they following in a hackney. As we went I observed how great a man this noble kinsman of ours was, for many, both gentle and simple, raised their hats to the carriage as it passed along, and in the great square, which they call the Fields, there was quite a concourse to witness our arrival; the poor people shouting for the noble Marquis and cheering the Government, while his running footmen threw, by his orders, some silver pieces amongst them.
Oh, 'twas indeed a joyful day!--joyful in many ways--for, besides showing to us that which truly I had never had any doubts of, namely, that the Marquis of Amesbury was all for Gerald and determined, if he could, to right him, it brought together that poor mother and son who had so often and so long been parted. Nor could I restrain my tears, nor fail to weep for joy, as I saw them folded once more in each other's arms, and heard her whisper her love and fondness for him and murmur that, at last, they would never more be parted in this world.
"Never more be parted in this world." That was what she said. "Never more to be parted in this world." Verily she spake as a prophet, or as one who could divine the future.
And there was still one other meeting that took place which joyed my heart to see. 'Twas that of my husband and his faithful, old friend, Mr. Quin; the man who had sheltered him when he was a beggar, who had been as a father or an elder brother to him, and who, when 'twas no longer possible that he should serve Gerald, had transferred his honest, faithful allegiance to Gerald's mother. It pleasured me, I say, to see those two embrace each other, to hear my husband call him his old friend and protector, and to see the joy upon the other's face as he returned that embrace and told him how handsome he had grown and how noble-looking a man he had become.