CHAPTER XII MY LADY
I knew him the moment that I put my eyes upon his face, though I had not seen him in years. He was still the same as when I had seen him last—dull, watery, pale blue eyes, little and stupid like those of a pig; his lean face mottled by hard drinking; his peaked beard shot with gray. Ah! he was the same; a little older, that was all.
He knew me, too, despite the change in me, for even as I looked at him, a gleam of recognition came into his eyes, and he arose to his feet.
"So thou hast met thy deserts? Years ago when we were boys together, I prophesied that the gallows would be thy end. Thou didst laugh at me then, but it has come to pass even as I said," and he stood grinning at me.
"Peace, fool!" I answered, "or I will crack that empty pate of thine with a chair," and I made as though to seize one.
He dropped back into his seat in an instant, his face pale, for he was ever a coward.
"Sir Henry," he stammered, "I am thy guest, wouldst thou see me murdered before thine eyes?" and he cowered away from me.
"Tut, Sir Richard," rejoined the bluff old warrior. "What dost thou fear? Thou art as safe as though thou wert at Richmond Castle. But this cannot be Sir Thomas Winchester?" And he turned to me in astonishment.
"The same, Sir Henry," I answered. "Hadst thou been through but half what I have, thy hair would be as gray as mine."
"Sit thee down, and tell us about it," the good knight said, as he pushed a chair toward me.
"Another time, Sir Henry," I answered. "I am faint and weak from my wounds, and weary from the long voyage; some other time I will tell thee with pleasure. But one of the men had a note for thee, if I mistake not. He has been in such a hurry to swig down thy good wine, that he even forgot his errand."
"The rogue," he mumbled, and turning he strode to the wall and touched a great brass gong that hung there. "Thou didst speak of thy wounds," he said. "How camest thou by them; wert in the fleet that met the Spanish Armada?"
"Yes," I answered, "I was, then——"
"How did the fight go?" he eagerly interrupted me. "Do the Spaniards even now sail up the Thames to sack the city?"
"Hardly," I answered. "They are beaten and scattered, with Drake and Hawkins in hot pursuit."
"Good!" he shouted joyously. "But thou—why, we thought thee dead long ere this."
"'Tis a long tale," I replied, "and I will tell it to thee to-morrow."
"I forgot," he said hastily, with red cheeks, "and I beg thy pardon; for once curiosity got the better of my manners."
"Where is the note that the seaman had for me, Sam?" he asked, as the old man who had opened the door for us appeared.
"Here, thy honor," he said, as he handed a paper to Sir Henry. "The man begs thy pardon for not delivering it at once, but I dragged him away to drink a glass with me, to celebrate the defeat of the Spaniards, and I am sure that thou wilt forgive his remissness," and he smiled with the ease of an old favorite.
"Begone!" said Sir Henry. "I pardon thee at such a time as this, but let it not occur again."
"No, Sir," mumbled the old man, and he shambled quickly out of the door.
Sir Henry was reading the note, a frown upon his face, and as he finished he looked up.
"Right sorry I am to hear this, Sir Thomas," he said. "Thou shalt have such comforts as the place affords while thou art here, which I trust will not be long. I have a leech in the house who shall dress thy wounds. But come, I will show thee to thy cell," and rising, he took from his belt a large bunch of keys, and motioned me to follow him.
I did so, leaving Richard, his head bowed as though in thought, in his chair by the table.
Corridor after corridor we crossed; stair after stair we ascended and descended, winding in and out the long, silent halls as though we would never reach our destination. DeGray trod them with the ease of one who knows every nook and cranny by heart. We met only a few people, seemingly guards, and just as I had almost given up in despair, my guide halted in front of one of the innumerable doors, and fitting the key in the lock, opened it, motioning me to enter.
The windows were secured by a heavy grating, and there was only the simplest kind of furniture in the room, only a bed, a rough table, and a chair or two, that was all. The room was fairly large and clean though, but that was about all that could be said of it.
Old Sir Henry entered with me, and locking the door, seated himself on one of the chairs. He was a blunt, rough old fellow, but with a heart of gold, and he had thought much of me in the old days in Ireland. I had saved his life there once, when his horse had been cut down, and he had been left on the ground in the midst of the wild Irish. Seeing him thus, I had turned my horse and had ridden back, and catching him up across my saddle, had dashed forward to join our men, the savage kerns at my heels. He had not forgotten this, his first words told me that.
"It was fourteen years ago to-day that thou didst save my life at the risk of thine own, when the rest of the men had left me to the mercy of the Irish," he said thoughtfully, his eyes absently fixed upon me. "I have the scar with me yet, and will bear it to the grave," and he laid his finger upon a great seamed place on his neck, where a rough scar ran half-way around it.
"It was a close shave," I answered, as I threw myself upon the bed, "but yet thou didst pull through."
"Yes," he replied, "thanks to thee. But, lad, I hope that thou wilt pardon the curiosity of an old friend, and tell me why thou art here. It is not all curiosity, believe me, for perhaps I can be of assistance to thee," and he lowered his voice to a whisper, and glanced around cautiously at the door.
"Listen," I answered, "perhaps I will tell thee many things that thou wilt not believe. Thou hast asked for the truth, and thou shalt have it." And beginning from my abduction, I related the whole story of my captivity and adventures, omitting nothing, save only the part concerning my lady.
When I finished he gave a low whistle of astonishment.
"It is almost incredible," he exclaimed. "Had it not been thee, I would not have believed it. But why does this Dunraven wish to keep thee out of England?"
"The same reason that has inspired hatred since the beginning of time," I replied—"a fair lady."
"Ah!" he said, his shrewd old eyes upon my face. "And now I remember to have heard some talk of the rivalry for the favor of one of England's loveliest ladies. If she is as beautiful as they say, it is no wonder.
"It is a strange thing," he mused, his rough hand upon his head—"this love of a man for a maid. For her he will do all things; will shed innocent blood; will stoop to any low and ugly deed; would walk through hell bare-footed, as I once heard a gallant say. Many have I seen turn their back upon wealth, honor and fame, upon home, kindred and friends, and leave all to win a woman—'tis strange. It has grown to be an adage that, 'all's fair in love and war,' and the little god has missed but few victims.
"It is ten years since my wife died," he continued, in a low voice, his worn old face softening, "and yet I have not recovered from her death. I think each day that I miss her more and more, and there is an aching void in my heart that naught can fill. It was only a few days ago that I came upon a little piece of needlework that she had sewed upon and left unfinished, and though thou wouldst not believe it, I fell upon my knees in front of that bit of cloth, and burst into tears. Dear, patient Jane! It is only when we have lost the gem that we prize it most. A noble woman, my boy, is God's best gift to man, a bad one his worse curse. A woman, true and sweet, can raise a man's life towards heaven; can be a benediction to him that will last as long as life; and an unfaithful and nagging woman is as near a hell on earth as man ever gets.
"How stand thy chances with the maid?" he asked, raising his head with a smile upon his rugged face.
"She weds Lord Dunraven," I answered quickly, for he had touched a wound yet fresh and bleeding.
"Pardon me," he replied. "I would not have asked, had I known. But never give up, my lad, fight on until the last shot in the locker. 'None but the brave deserve the fair,' I have often heard, and if that be true thou wilt win her. If rumor can be believed, the lady is the fairest of Eve's daughters, and as for thyself, I know that thou art 'the bravest of the brave.'"
"Thou dost overrate me," I answered, with a gloomy laugh, which I endeavored to make cheerful.
"And what of the Spaniard?" he said. "Does he love the maid, too?"
"Yes," I answered. "He, too, is in the same boat."
He laughed as he arose and made ready to leave.
"I pity the maid," he said. "Between you she is in a pretty fix; whichever way she turns she must run into one of you—a pirate, a rascal, and a gentleman. Were I in her shoes, it would not take me long to make my choice," and he chuckled as he looked at me.
I smiled back at him.
"Would that thou couldst make up her mind for her," I said. "If that were the case, I would lose no sleep over the situation."
"Lose no sleep as it is," he answered; "'twill all come out right in the end. 'Truth is mighty and will prevail,' I once heard a wise man say, and he spoke truly—but I must go. Is there aught that thou dost wish?"
"Naught," I answered, "save if any of my friends should call to see me, I would wish to see them. Not that any of them will come," I said somewhat bitterly, for the lash will sting sometimes. "Thou knowest how the rats desert the sinking ship."
"Aye, my lad," he rejoined, "none know better than I. Have I not had my ups and downs, and been almost at the end of my tether? I know the traitor smile when the wind is fair, and the terrible frown when the gale blows hard. It's up with thee, when the sun shines brightly, and all stand ready to put their shoulder to the wheel and help thee up still higher, and it's down and a kick to help the cause, when the clouds hang heavy above. Ah! well I know them—a curse on their heads!" and with a growl he strode from the room.
Only a few moments elapsed, when the key grated and the door opened again to admit the prison leech. A pleasant-faced young fellow, who chatted like a monkey as he dressed the dozen flesh wounds that I had received.
"That was a rough cut, sir," he said, as he pointed to my shoulder, where I had a clip of a cutlass as I bore Oliver back to the cabin wall. "It must have pained considerably."
"Not much," I said rather gruffly, for I was weary, and his chatter grated upon me.
This silenced him somewhat, and I had an opportunity to think in peace. What was Richard doing below? No good, I knew. It might be that his friend Dunraven had told him that I would be here to-night, or it might be that it was only a trick of Dame Fortune that she had played me, though it seemed improbable. No, he had some scheme in being here to-night, I was sure; perhaps he would show his hand.
The leech had finished, and with a cheery good-night he opened the door and stepped outside. As he turned to lock the door, I heard the voice of Sir William Stone, and in a moment the old knight entered. His face was hot and angry, and flinging himself in a chair, he looked at me in silence.
"What news?" I asked.
"Bad," he answered. "I saw the Queen and told her of the defeat of the Armada, at which she was of course greatly pleased. Seeing that, I thought it a good opportunity to broach the subject of thyself, and putting into her hands the report Drake had made in thy favor, I begged that she would read that, and afterwards hear me. She did so, and then looking up at me, her eyes flashing, asked what I had to say. I knew not what to make of her face, and was going on to relate thy gallant conduct in the fight with the Spaniards, and to beg that she would free so valiant a gentleman, when she interrupted me.
"'Sir William!' she cried, 'had it not been for this noble fight for England, and that thou hast grown old in our service, and even now bring news of great joy, I would hang thee with him. What does Drake mean to send me such stuff as this? He shall answer for it when he returns;' and she tore the paper in pieces.
"'After this ruffian DeNortier has murdered my people and sacked my ships for five long years, then thou dost ask me to spare the life of his stanchest captain, who personally murdered one of my bravest gentlemen, Sir Samuel Morton, and who led these expeditions of blood and crime? Shame upon thee! He shall hang, though he were of royal blood! Get ye back to him, and say that on the day after to-morrow, he shall hang by the neck until he is dead. To-morrow is his to make his peace with God. Get thee out of my presence,' and I hurried away as fast I could, for in truth she is too much like her royal father, for it to be pleasant to be around when she is angry," and he groaned.
"It is but what I expected," I answered. "But I thank thee for the effort that thou hast made for me—from the bottom of my heart I thank thee." And I arose and gave him my hand.
He caught it and wrung it with both of his own.
"I would that I could have saved thee," he said hoarsely, "and I wish thee to know that I now believe that thy tale is true. It seems strange, incredible, but thou art a gentleman, and I believe thee. 'The truth is often stranger than fiction.'"
I was pleased at this sign of his trust in me.
"I thank thee, Sir William," I said, "and say again that I spoke only the truth. Should we not meet each other again upon this earth, I hope we shall meet in another sphere."
"God grant it, Sir Thomas!" he cried. "It is but a few more short years for me now, and the time is still shorter with thee. Somewhere beyond this world we will meet again, that I feel sure of—until then, farewell!" and the old soldier opened the door and passed out, locking it behind him.
Throwing myself upon the bed, I closed my eyes, and only awoke when the gray light of the morning was streaming into the rough cell. A man brought my breakfast, coarse though bountiful, and after eating, I walked to the window and looked out. Only the narrow court-yard met my view. I could see nothing beyond it. To-morrow morning at this time I would be standing upon the scaffold, preparing to make the last long journey into the beyond. A little more and the journey would be over.
The door opened again.
"A gentleman to see thee, sir," said the man who waited upon me.
I turned eagerly, perhaps it was Bobby Vane, or—no, only the crafty features of my brother Richard met my view as he limped into the cell.
"Get out!" I cried angrily. "Quick! Or I will dash thee against the wall. Art deaf?" and I moved toward him.
The jailer had already locked the door and left us.
"Listen, Thomas," he answered. "I have come to save thee, if thou wilt but listen to me a moment."
"Dost thou expect me to believe that?" I said. "Out with thee! Wouldst thou come in to annoy a dying man, and to distract his thoughts from his devotions? This is my last day—wouldst thou spoil it for me?"
"I would save thee," he replied, "if thou wilt but listen to me."
"Be quick then," I answered, "my time is short." And I seated myself opposite him, and leaning my elbow on the table, waited to hear what he would say.
"Our father is dead," he said, clearing his throat and speaking in a low voice.
"Is that so? Well, thou couldst not expect me to shed many tears over him, the way he has treated me. Thy news, while interesting, is not of sufficient moment to disturb me at this late hour."
"Wait a moment!" he cried. "He left me the estates and title, but thou art my brother, I cannot forget that, and I would deal generously by thee. Though thou hast no legal claim to the estate, if thou wilt but sign this paper, renouncing all right which thou mayst have to the estate, and also another trifling matter here, thou shalt have the Devonshire lands with the house, and I will see that thou dost go free," and his watery eyes glistened as he looked at me.
"Thou art promising too much," I replied. "Art promising what thou canst not perform, and——"
"Not so," he broke in eagerly. "I swear to thee that if I but say the word thou shalt go scot free."
"And what is the other trifling condition in the paper that thou speakest of?" I asked.
"That thou dost renounce all right and pretension that thou mayest have to the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll," he said.
I laughed scornfully.
"Thou hadst best save thy breath," I said.
"Thou hast no claim—no hope," he rejoined, rising to his feet. "The lady is about to become the bride of the Lord Dunraven. What difference can it make to thee if thou signest away the right to something that thou hast not, if by doing so, thou canst save thy life?"
"Why dost thou wish me to sign the paper, then?" I asked. "If the estates and title are already thine, and the lady Dunraven's?"
He hesitated a moment.
"There are reasons," he finally said. "Reasons that I cannot explain to thee, but sufficiently weighty for us to give thee thy life, if thou wilt sign this document. More than this I durst not say."
"Us," I repeated. "Why not say Dunraven and thyself? It would sound better thus."
"Well," he replied defiantly, "if thou dost wish it thus, have it thine own way. This much is certain: sign this paper and thou art free, a competency in thy hands sufficient to support thee in comfort—refuse, and thy head will pay the penalty," and he stood, his back to the door, leering at me.
"Get out of my sight!" I replied. "Or I will forget myself and do thee an injury," and I advanced on him.
With a yell, he turned and beat fiercely on the door with the hilt of his sword.
"Open!" he cried, "quick!"
The door opened so suddenly that he fell out into the hall at full length and sprawled upon the floor. The door was shut and fastened, and I heard his voice as he shrilly cursed the jailer for his carelessness. The voice died away, and I knew that he was gone.
The dull day dragged away. It was noon, the last I would spend on earth, and I lay upon the bed and wished for the morn. I was weary, and the slow hours wore upon me until finally I arose and began to walk the floor. They had all deserted me, left me like a rat in a trap to die. Of the many who had fawned upon me, there was not one to approach me with a kind word.
London was doubtless amusing herself with talk of me at this moment. The wine was going around the table, and the small talk, as light and frothy as their empty pates, was beginning to be heard; they would doubtless discuss me from the beginning to the end. "Poor Winchester! he used to be a right amusing fellow before he ran away to join the pirates. I wonder how he looks now?"
The little world of fashion—how I had grown to despise it! What cared I for its painted smile or frown; whether the fashion was silver buckles or bronze; whether they talked of me or not? I cared as little for it as I did for the chatter of the sparrows that hopped about the court-yard below.
Did the Lady Margaret Carroll think of one who had known and loved her? Did one sigh of pity come from her heart and darken those azure eyes; or had she serenely forgotten my very existence? And Bobby—this was the most unkind cut of all. Bobby, whom I loved as I did a brother, and whose heart I thought was as true as steel; he, too, had turned his back and left me to my fate. Such was the way of the world.
Nine o'clock, and the dusk was beginning to fall, the long July day was ending. As I lay there I heard someone pause at my door, and then it swung open. I still lay there, my eyes fixed on the dingy ceiling. It was the jailer probably bringing my supper, for it was about time for him.
"Well, my friend," I said, "this is the last supper that thou wilt bring for me. To-morrow I will be where they do not eat, or at least not such stuff as this that thou dost bring."
"Sir Thomas!" a voice cried. "Is it thou?"
And springing to a sitting posture, whom should I see but Steele, whom I had last left on board the ship with the Spanish maid.
"Steele!" I cried, "Steele!" And leaping to my feet, I almost hugged him in my delight. "Then there is still one friend left to me."
He was as glad to see me as I was to see him; the great tears of joy rolled down his face as he answered:
"Yes, one friend who will stay with thee to the last. I have been out of London to my country place in Hampshire, and only returned to-day. As soon as I arrived I heard the news and came immediately, without stopping to change my clothes," and he pointed to the mud upon his boots.
"Sit down," I said, "and tell me about thyself. But first, what has become of the Spanish maid?"
He colored deeply beneath his ruddy skin. With a smile he answered:
"She is now Mistress Steele."
"Is it possible!" I cried in surprise. "Let me congratulate thee. She is a lovely girl, and I have no doubt is as amiable as she is beautiful. Dame Fortune has indeed smiled upon thee," and I shook his hand heartily.
"Thank thee," he replied. "We were thrown together a great deal during the voyage, and I grew to know and love her for her courage and beauty. We came a short distance in the pirate ship, and then they transferred us to a Spanish merchant vessel in which we went to Cadiz. I found there that I had lost something of value—my heart—and that a Spanish maiden was the finder. What could I do but ask her to give me back hers in exchange? She consented, and we were married there, and then we came on to England. She had a good deal of property, and with it we have bought a splendid home in the country, where we live most of the time, and I am as happy as a king.
"Often have we talked of thee, and have wondered whether thou wert still alive or not. Twice have I set sail to find thy whereabouts, and each time have been driven back. Once by shipwreck, in which I narrowly escaped with my life; the second time we sailed out into the west for two months, but finally we had to give up the search and come back, as I had no idea where thou wert."
"And where is Mistress Steele?" I said. "Is she in London?"
"No," he replied. "She is in Hampshire. I grieve that she is not here, for I know that she would wish to see thee."
"And didst thou give my message to the Lady Margaret Carroll?" I asked. "And if so, what did she say?"
"Yes," he replied, his face brightening. "I gave it into the hands of the fair lady herself. She blushed as prettily as the dawn, and wept when I told her the situation in which I had left thee; and her eye kindled as I related how thou hadst given thy life into the hands of the Count DeNortier that an unknown Spanish maid might go free. When I had finished, she said no word, only sat in silence for a moment, and then she raised her head, and I saw her bonny blue eyes were full of tears. 'He is the knightliest gentleman that I have ever known,' she said softly, and then she gave me this trinket." He took from the pocket of his doublet a little gold pin and held it out to me.
"I would ask a favor of thee," I said, as I took the little ornament in my hands. "Once thou didst think thyself under some little obligation to me. Wouldst thou cancel the debt?"
"If I could," he replied. "Ask anything in my power and I will do it."
"Tis a simple thing," I said. "I would only ask thee for this pin."
"It is thine," he replied. "I saved it for thee, should I ever see thee again, for I guessed that thou wouldst wish for it. The lady loves thee," he said, his eyes upon my face.
"Nay"—as I would have interrupted him, "do not raise thy hand. I have seen maidens before now. Did I not watch her as I told my story, and see the soft color come and go in her cheeks, and the tears in her beautiful eyes? A lady looks not thus but for one man, and that him whom she loves. Believe me, I have seen many damsels. This one loves thee," and he looked at me sagely.
I laughed bitterly.
"It may be so, Steele, and yet if she does she has a passing strange way of showing it. Why, even now, man, the rumor is that she weds Lord Dunraven! How dost thou account for that?"
He bent his head as though in thought for a moment.
"I know not," he said with a sigh. "Many strange things have I seen in my journey through this life, but the strangest of all, I think, my friend, is a maid. One mind to-day; another to-morrow. I had as lieve try to account for the storm, as to say what a lady would do to-day or to-morrow. I cannot say what the maiden will do—perhaps she will marry Dunraven, but this much I repeat, deep down in her heart she loves thee."
I mused a moment, my head upon my hands. Could it be possible?—but no; Steele was mistaken. The lady was interested in the fate of a friend; was perhaps touched that I still thought of her—that was all. And then I thought of a question that I had pondered on so often since Steele left me, and had determined to ask if I should ever see him again.
"What became of the women and children that were taken prisoners when DeNortier captured the galleon with the Spanish maid? I never saw them again, and have often wondered at their fate."
His face darkened with a frown as he replied:
"They went with us on board the ship, and when we had almost gotten to our destination, just before the lady and myself were transferred, we were hailed one day by an English merchant vessel, and the women and children were put aboard—to be sold as slaves to the Barbary pirates, a sailor afterwards told me."
"Didst thou catch the name of the ship?" I asked. "This should be put a stop to, once and for all."
"Yes," he replied, "'twas the 'Betsy' of London."
"It was the very same ship on which we were carried to the pirate's vessel," I said.
"The ruffian!" he answered indignantly, "he should be drawn and quartered. I sought high and low for some trace of the ship when I returned to England, but though I inquired in every city, nowhere could I hear of such a vessel. They told me there was no such ship. The name was probably a disguise."
At that moment there came a knock upon the door, and the rough jailer thrust in his head.
"Closing time, sir," he growled. "Thou must go."
Steele arose to his feet, and we clasped hands in one last, long grasp. The honest fellow was almost overcome by his emotion.
"God bless thee!" he said huskily. "I shall never forget thee, and what thou hast done for me and mine."
A great lump came into my throat. When all others had deserted me, there still remained one friend, who was with me to the last.
"I am glad that in my life I have been able to be of service to thee," I replied. "'Twill perhaps balance that long list of errors and harm that I have brought to many. The memory of it will be sweet to me at the last. Give my best wishes and regards to thy wife, and tell her that she has chosen well. Farewell!"
Stepping closer to me he looked around him; the jailer stood in the hall, fumbling impatiently with his keys.
"Do not despair," he whispered in my ear hurriedly. "Thy friends will not see thee die. Be watchful." And with this he hurried from the room; a wave of the hand to me, and then the great door creaked on its hinges, and I was alone.
I threw myself upon my bed. What did Steele mean when he said that my friends would not see me die? Perhaps they would make one more attempt to persuade the Queen to pardon me. They did not know her as I did, if they had the courage to try again. Her mind when once made up was as adamant, and they might probably go to the gallows for their pains; for Elizabeth was of an imperious temper, and brooked no restraint. He could only mean to use persuasion; they could do nothing by force, even though he could raise a band who were so reckless as to attack the Tower. Its walls were high and strong, and were garrisoned by hardy veterans commanded by a warworn general, who had only to hold them at bay for a few moments, until reënforcements arrived from the city. Perhaps he only meant to cheer my spirits, and to arouse me from the gloom into which I had fallen.
An hour passed; a man knocked at the door, but he bore only a message from old Sir Henry, saying that a priest waited below to pray with me, should I desire it.
"No," I answered, "tell him that I shall have no sniveling priest around me. If I die, it shall be like a man, undaunted and unafraid." And I turned my face to the wall.
Below in the courtyard I could hear the sound of hammer and saw, as they reared the gallows on which to-morrow I would take my last leap. The workmen with jest and laughter were discussing the execution. "He will meet it like a man," I heard one say, "for old Giles told me that he fought the Dons like a demon."
It availed me little now, I thought as I lay there; my life's book was about to be finished and closed, and they would forget that I had fought for my land, and risked my life in her cause.
Would that I might see the Lady Margaret Carroll once more, ere I closed my eyes forever. What though she had promised to be the bride of a ruffian and knave. If I could catch one more glimpse of her face, pure and sweet, but one sight of her dainty head, I would die content. It was too much to be in England, alone and forsaken, my life to-morrow to be forfeited, in the same city with her, to see the same sky and breathe the same air, and yet not be able to see her; and at the thought I arose and began to pace the floor in agony, the damp sweat of anguish upon my brow. My God! was I to go down into the grave and not catch one last glimpse of her face?
I could appreciate in that bitter moment the story that I had heard years ago from the lips of my old nurse—poor old Alice, she had been dust these many years!—of how the Son of God, alone and forsaken, in anguish and agony sweated great drops of blood, and at the last moment of pain cried out those heartrending words—"My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
The nails had torn the flesh of my hands, as I writhed in sufferings, and the blood from the bruises was dripping from my fingers upon the floor, as I paced to and fro in that accursed cell; my tongue, hot and dry, almost cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My very soul cried out in rebellion, that I should drink the cup of bitterness and anguish to the very dregs.
It seemed to me that I had felt the sting of all else, and this was the last and bitterest; earth could hold nothing more of torture for me. The morrow was as naught beside it. I could imagine how the damned must feel, as they writhe in agony in the burning flames of hell, and realize that they must suffer for countless ages; that there has gone from them all hope—that shining star that guides our groping feet through life's scenes of bitterest woe, and remains our brightest blessing from the cradle to the grave. When hope has fled, there is nothing left.
I must have walked thus for hours, for it was eleven o'clock of the night, when worn out and exhausted, I threw myself again upon the bed. I had reached the point where my tortured soul could suffer no more, and I was now comparatively resigned. The storm and struggle had left me weak and worn, but I had spent myself with its fury and now lay quiet and composed.
Another tap upon the door, and I heard it softly open. Perhaps it was old Sir Henry coming to cheer my drooping spirits. I did not turn my face from the wall; the candle was burning low upon the table, and cast its flickering light throughout the room. I lay there a moment, no sound came from the intruder; and then I became conscious of some faint, familiar perfume. Delicate and subtle, it penetrated my nostrils as though some far-famed wine, buoyant and life-giving.
I sprang to my feet in an instant; there was only one who used such perfume as this. There, standing by the table, wrapped in a dark cloak that concealed her face, one little jeweled hand resting upon the table, stood a lady. I could not see her face; but that radiant hair that sparkled like gold in the light, that proud bend of the head, the little foot that peeped out from the folds of her dress, they belonged only to one of earth's creatures, and she—Margaret Carroll.
"Margaret!" I cried. "Is it thou?" And I would have caught her in my arms in my delight.
But she drew back from me, the cloak falling from her as she did so, and raised her hand.
"Stop, sir," she said hurriedly. "Thou must think me bold and unmaidenly."
"Say rather divine!" I cried. "Like some ministering angel, to bless poor mortals," and I took a step nearer where she stood.
The faint color had deepened on her rose cheeks at my words.
"Stop," she said. "Thou dost misinterpret my visit, as I feared thou wouldst; but I knew not what else to do. There was no one I could trust, so I persuaded Sir Robert Vane to bring me. He awaits outside," and she turned as though to call him in.
"A moment, Lady Margaret," I said—"a moment before thou dost call him in. I have something of importance for thy ear alone. Wilt thou not hear me, before thou callest Sir Robert?"
She looked at me a moment doubtfully.
"No," she murmured. "Thou canst have naught for my ears that Sir Robert should not hear." And she turned again and took a step towards the door.
"Margaret!" I cried, "hast thou no pity for me? To-night is my last on earth, and thou wilt not hear me one moment. Is that all that thou dost think of one who knew and admired thee in the old days? To-morrow thou canst hear others, but if thou hear me not to-night, thou never wilt. I would tell thee of my strange adventures since I left London," I finished artfully, with an imploring look.
She turned, and then coming back towards me, seated herself upon one of the rough chairs near the table.
"I will hear thy tale," she said, a smile upon her lips. "But list to me, sir, the moment that thou dost digress from that I am gone, and thou mayst depend upon it.
"And what is this marvelous tale of thine?" she continued gently, her azure eyes upon my face. "Sir Robert, who was out of town, only returned this evening, and I immediately sent for him, and told him that thou wast here, condemned to die. He waited not a moment, but came at once with me here, and a time we had getting in I can tell thee," and she laughed, a little ringing laugh.
I said nothing, I was feasting my eyes upon her as she sat opposite; as the starving beggar looks with eager gaze upon the shop windows, filled with dainties, so I feasted my soul upon her and watched the light come and go upon her lovely face. She was more beautiful if possible, than when I had seen her last. There was an air of maturity, of the ripened fruit, that she had wanted in the days gone by. She was dressed for some ball or rout, in a clinging gown of shimmering pale blue stuff that set off her marvelous beauty to perfection. Around her white throat was clasped a sparkling necklace of diamonds, and the low cut of her gown revealed the soft beauty of her lovely neck. She looked as though she were a creature of some other world—too fair to be one of Mother Earth's daughters.
"Art dumb," she said, "that thou dost sit silent and gaze at me as though I were a ghost? Thou wert better company in the old days," and she looked up at me archly.
"In truth, my lady," I answered, "I did but marvel at thy wondrous beauty and——"
Up she arose in an instant.
"Did I not say that at the first hint of this I would go?" she cried. "I am as good as my word," and she would have gone.
"Margaret!" I cried in dismay, "I most humbly crave thy pardon. I did not mean to offend again."
"I do not trust thee," she answered with a frown. "Remember, sir, I shall not say a word, but at the first intimation of this again—out I go. Thou art changed," she said, and she hesitated.
"Thou meanest older, Margaret," I replied. "Yes, older—much older. I have been through much since thou didst see me last, and my sufferings have, I believe, made me a better man."
"I am glad," she said softly, tears in her eyes.
"Margaret," I said, "didst thou learn who was responsible for my captivity?"
"How long has it been Margaret?" she cried impatiently, tapping her little foot. "'Twas not Margaret when I saw thee last, and though I would not be hard upon thee, still I have overlooked it several times," and she looked up at me imperiously.
"I crave thy pardon," I said, coloring to my ears, for I had not been conscious until she spoke that I had called her by her given name. In my joy at seeing her again I had forgotten all else. "I did but call thee, in the confusion of the moment, as I had thought of thee so often. Habit, thou knowest, Lady Margaret, becomes a part of one," and I looked boldly at her.
The imperious look faded from her face; she met my admiring gaze, and dropping her eyes, she hid them behind her long lashes, and a deep blush mounted her cheeks.
"I see thou hast lost none of thy old boldness," she murmured, "and still art as persistent to gain thy point as ever."
"What I am about to say may seem strange to thee," I said—"incredible. But I have always told the truth to thee—have I not?"
"Yes," she answered gravely, raising her eyes, "I believe whatever thou mayest say."
"It was Dunraven who kidnaped me," I answered quietly.
She started, and I thought her face grew paler.
"Impossible!" she cried, her eyes wide open with astonishment.
"I stand too near death's door to lie to thee now, Margaret," I said, "did I wish to."
"Forgive me," she answered quickly. "I was astonished, though I never doubted what thou didst say. But Lord Dunraven—what motive could he have for so black a deed?"
"Margaret!" I cried, "look at me."
She raised her eyes to mine bravely, but the tell-tale color was in her cheeks.
"And thou dost ask me that?" I cried. "Thou knowest as well as I why Dunraven did this."
She did not reply, but bent her head over the table, so that I could not see her face.
"To-morrow," I said, "will end my career, and I——"
She interrupted me eagerly.
"Thou wilt not die to-morrow; thy friends will save thee."
"My friends can do nothing," I replied slowly. "I am beyond man's help now. I would ask thee one question and only one. Wilt answer me?"
"I will try," she replied, without raising her bent head. One little hand lay on the table near me, and I had hard work to keep myself from striding forward and closing my own over it.
"I would not wish thee to marry one unworthy of thee," I said. "Thou art too sweet and beautiful to be tied to such a man as this; he would be a blight upon thy young life, that would grow and deepen as the years go by. Such a soul as thine should be mated with one congenial, a man that thou couldst love and trust."
No answer; only silence, the beautiful head bent low over the table. She looked so young and helpless, as I looked at her, that my great love surged over all barriers, and swept everything before it, as the angry ocean beats down its puny bulwarks and breaks upon the land.
"I have a story to tell thee," I said, in a low voice—"one that I have treasured long."
"No!" she cried, lifting her head, and I could see her wet eyes and the tear stains upon her cheeks. "Spare me now—it is useless," she said hurriedly.
"I know it is, Margaret," I said sadly. "But it is because it is so useless that I wish thee to know it, it can harm no one. To-morrow I will have passed from thy life forever; will be as last summer's flowers faded and gone, and yet I wish thee to know of what thou hast been to me. How when I was tempted sorely, and ready to yield, thy pure, sweet face would rise before me, and I, strengthened, would overcome the temptation. How often in the watches of the night, when all was quiet, with none but the silent stars to keep me company, I would think of thee, glad that the same sky hung over both, that we breathed the same air, and that the same sun shone above us. Wilt thou not hear me?"
"How can I help myself," she moaned, "if thou wilt force me to hear thee. But I warn thee beforehand that it is useless."
"I had never been a lady's man in my youth," I said, rising and beginning to pace the floor. "I was ever too rough, too shy, to please little lasses. They laughed at me and mocked my uncouth ways. Even when I was a mere lad, when I would bring the small maid whom I admired my little presents, and offer them to her, I felt a great admiration for her that bound my tongue, and I could only hold them out awkwardly. She would take my gifts from me, and then would turn and mock my awkwardness among her playmates, until they shouted with glee. This taught me my first lesson of woman; that she would use thee while she could, and then cast thee aside like a worn-out garment.
"When I had grown larger I went to college, and finishing there, went out into Ireland, and stayed there a year or two in a brief campaign. When I returned to London I had not seen a woman of my own rank for years, but I plunged at once into the gay whirl of London society, and soon knew all the ladies of fashion. There I learned all the tricks of the men of fashion; learned how to play the flirt; how to regard woman as without heart or soul, her mind occupied only with the latest gown from Paris, or the last ball or rout; cold, heartless, only angling to entrap some gentleman, and after entangling him in her net, to calmly show him to the door when he clamored for something more than friendship. If she, to obtain rank or fortune, should finally marry him, it would be only a cold, matter-of-fact trade, a simple transaction of business—her beauty for his title or gold.
"I had seen these newly-wedded husbands remain at home for a few weeks, and then frequent the taverns more assiduously than ever; had heard them tell in their cups of the vixenish temper of Mary, or the nagging tongue of Jane. What wonder that I soon regarded all women as flirts and coquettes, bent only on enjoying themselves, no matter at what expense, and then away to some other flower to sip the honey. For ten years did I linger among them, the gayest of the gay, the petted and humored of the bright dames of fashion. I could cast the most languishing glances, whisper the most burning words into soft ears that bent to listen, and yet it was only Winchester—he was a witty fellow, but he meant nothing and was harmless.
"And then one day I met a maiden, beautiful, lovely; she lured me on by her very beauty, I grew to know her better from day to day; the admiration deepened as I saw her—pure, innocent, and true, never deceiving, never trifling with men's love, always noble, unselfish, and unaffected, never seeming conscious of her great beauty which turned the heads of men. As I knew her better I admired her more, until one day I awoke and found my admiration had ripened into love. Shall I tell thee what it meant to me?—how it brightened life's pathway; how if I could but see one bright face my heart was full to overflowing; how if one was absent from the room it was deserted for me, and how when I was by her side earth was heaven enough for me; how I watched the streets day and night to see her pass, and counted that day well spent when I had seen her face? I treasured her smile as the miser does his gold, and at night counted them over one by one.
"One morning as I arose early, I saw her out for a morning stroll with a companion, and watched her as she tossed a coin to a beggar upon the corner. I bought that coin from her, and now wear it next my heart," and I pulled a little gold chain from around my neck, and laid it upon the table.
No sound from the silent figure with her head upon the table.
"Margaret!" I cried, "I love thee. I know not how to express my love, I can only sing like the bird, only one song by night and day—I love thee."
"Don't," she said, "I am not worthy of such love as this."
"Not worthy!" I cried. "Why, a king upon his throne would step down gladly for thy love," and I bent toward her.
"No, no," she murmured, her shoulders rising and falling with her sobs.
"Margaret," I said, "dost thou love another?"
No sound save that of her low sobs.
At that moment I remembered the mirror in the crone's hut in that far-away island, and what I had seen in it. It was possible that it might be true after all. Bobby was by her side here in London, was constantly thrown in her company; would it be strange if he had grown to love her?
"Is it Sir Robert Vane?" I asked.
She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing through her tears.
"How darest thou?" she cried. "How darest thou ask me such a question as that? Who gave thee the right, sir?" and she gazed at me a moment in her anger, as though she would strike me down, and then, sinking into her chair, she cried as though her heart would break. "I hate thee," she wailed.
"Forgive me," I said gently. "I would not have asked thee, had I known. He is a gentleman, brave and true, and will make thee a kind and upright husband. Thou wilt be happy in the days to come, together. I trust thou wilt believe me, when I say that for thee I wish all good blessings. May thy future pathway be strewn with flowers, and may not a shadow fall athwart it to darken its happiness. Sometimes when thou art happy, leaning upon the strong arm of him whom thou dost love, wilt thou not give one thought to one who once knew and loved thee? And now—good-by!"
Bending my knee, I pressed that little white hand to my lips, and taking her arm I walked with her to the door and opened it—there, pacing the hall, was Bobby.
"I Pressed that Little White Hand to My Lips"
He turned when he saw me, and running forward, caught my hand.
"Thomas!" he cried, "I never thought to see thee alive again."
I returned his cordial grasp.
"Bobby," I said, "take Lady Margaret home, and then come back again, for I have something to say to thee. Care for her tenderly," I said to him, as with the weeping lady upon his arm he turned to go. "Thou hast won the loveliest and fairest woman that I have ever known. It is a priceless jewel, Bobby—guard it well. May God watch over both of you now and in the days to come!" And turning I opened the door of my cell, and passing inside, closed it behind me.