“Well, well, you shall cure me of all mine iniquities,” he said. “There will be a lifetime for it. Come, let us to the garden.”
“Wait,” she said. “I told you that I was a sinner, George; I want to tell you how.”
“Tell me nothing; let us both go and repent,” he rejoined, laughing, and he hurried her away. She had lost her opportunity.
Next morning she was married. The day was glorious. The town was garlanded, and there was not an English merchant or a Dutch burgher but wore his holiday dress. The ceremony ended, a traveller came among the crowd. He asked a hurried question or two and then edged away. Soon he made a stand under the trees, and, viewing the scene, nodded his head and said: “The abbe was right.”
It was Perrot. A few hours afterwards the crowd had gone and the governor’s garden was empty. Perrot still kept his watch under the tree, though why he could hardly say—his errand was useless now. But he had the gift of waiting. At last he saw a figure issue from a door and go down into the garden. He remembered the secret gate. He made a detour, reached it, and entered. Jessica was walking up and down in the pines. In an hour or so she was to leave for England. Her husband had gone to the ship to do some needful things, and she had stolen out for a moment’s quiet. When Perrot faced her, she gave a little cry and started back. But presently she recovered, smiled at him, and said kindly: “You come suddenly, monsieur.”
“Yet have I travelled hard and long,” he answered.
“Yes?”
“And I have a message for you.”
“A message?” she said abstractedly, and turned a little pale.
“A message and a gift from Monsieur Iberville.” He drew the letter and the ring from his pocket and held them out, repeating Iberville’s message. There was a troubled look in her eyes and she was trembling a little now, but she spoke clearly.