“But he should be forgiven. My father has strange seizures. He is good to me when his infirmity is not upon him.” She stopped suddenly. “I ought not to be talking like this to you who are a stranger.”
I did not feel that we were strangers, but I could not tell her so. On the way back to the manor-house a chance word recalled to me her innocence of her father’s crimes. I followed this clew and directed the conversation towards a revelation of herself.
Mistress Van Volkenberg was a woman of high spirit. Had I not seen her stand out against her angry parent in defense of Ruth? Yet she was gentle withal. In our conversation, she showed no bitterness against her father, who had so little claim to the honor which she bore him. He must have been dull indeed not to see his daughter’s worth; yet I wondered how she could be so blind to his defects. She soon told me more of his dealings with her.
“Father does not like to have me go to the city,” she said. “I wish he did not care, for I love to go. Yesterday morning was the first time for so long, and he bade me not to tarry. The merry scenes on market day before the fort, and the ships coming and going with all the strange new faces of their crews—one loves to watch such things. Ah, you should have been here in the old days when the pirates came freely into the port. I have seen old Blackbeard and the Painted Dwarf strutting along the Battery in silk and cloth of gold like any king. But the Earl has stopped all that.”
Her face had lighted up with innocent enthusiasm as she recalled the sights of the gorgeously appareled buccaneers; but the lightness died away with her last words, and she ended with a sigh.
We had nearly reached the manor when Mistress Van Volkenberg darted from my side. Almost in a moment she was some distance away, and kneeling in the grass.
“Poor little thing,” I heard her croon gently.
When I came to her she was stroking an unfortunate bird that had broken its wing and lay helpless on the ground. The kind-hearted girl nursed it tenderly till its little heart ceased to beat with fear, and it snuggled safely in her hand. As she carried it into the house, I could not help but think how little fit such a place was for the scenes I had witnessed in the last hour. The house where Ronald Guy had died, where they had stolen upon me in the dead of night to take my life, the house which sheltered the man who was responsible for my adventure at the tannery seemed no place for an innocent girl like Miriam, whose tender heart was all alive with sympathy at the sufferings of the poor bird she had found in the grass.
“Yes, yes,” she said, stroking it and talking gently as we walked along. “I shall take it home and nurse it till it can fly away. I cannot fly away either, so we shall play together.”
By this time we had nearly reached the house. For some moments I had been afraid lest this trip should occupy so much time that I should arrive at the manor-house after nine o’clock, the hour at which the patroon and Louis were to set out for the rock. As we neared the house, I espied a man who was leading their two saddle horses.