Much as he was affected by the friendship which prompted Phipps to assure him of this, Adam was not in the least concerned with thoughts of the treasure, nor influenced by this generous plan which his friend had formulated. But being a reasonable being, in some directions, and being perhaps unreasonably inclined in others, as for instance, toward Massachusetts, he saw the wisdom of the Captain’s arrangements, and therefore bade his friend an affectionate farewell, on the following day, and sailed for the north, with the beef-eaters close at his heels.
CHAPTER XX.
GARDE’S EXTREMITY.
Had prayers been able to reach him and summon him back to Boston, Adam would have been there long before the fever overtook him at Jamaica. Garde, more alone than she had ever been in her life, had appealed to the stars, to the wind, to the tides of the sea, to convey her yearnings to Adam and to bid him hasten to her side. She was alone because she, only, distrusted Randolph. She was alone because she felt no longer the slightest companionship with her grandfather, because even Wainsworth and Tootbaker respected the provisional betrothal she had made with Randolph and because not to Prudence nor even to Goody Dune had she felt she could confide her cares and the breaking of her heart, under the present painful circumstances.
Her distrust of Randolph had grown, despite the fact that, in a measure, the threats against the charter had ceased and a pseudo peace contented the patriots with the thought that their difficulties had been finally remedied by the alliance to which they all now looked forward with abnormal interest and confidence.
Garde had maintained her right of immunity from the attentions of Randolph, consistently and steadfastly. She had never given him the single glance, at Meeting, or elsewhere, for which he was becoming crazed. The light of malice that burned in his eyes was a thing that Garde felt, occultly. It was a threat to break her will, some day; it was tigerish in its animal hunger. No creature of prey ever lay in wait for its victim more ready to pounce, to overpower and to drag away to its den the coveted object of its greed and passion.
But the months had winged heavily away on their somber-colored pinions, and the moment for which Garde had hoped, when she set the one year’s time of probation had never come—the moment of Adam’s return. The second Christmas, so joyless with the Puritans, was far off, with the other departed days of winter. The snow had melted; the tender shoots of grass were returning, in hordes, like little green armies; the first buds were breaking the cold, dank soil and peeking forth, while still close wrapped, as if to say: “Is it time?” And only Garde would have pushed them back, only Garde, usually so joyous in the returning of warmth and beauty, would have held to the edge of the mantle of snow, to retain it where it lay.
Her heart was beating like a lead clapper, that tolled against the bell of her soul, day and night, for the fear that was on her of the coming week, when her year of respite would end. Already her grandfather looked at her with fanatical eagerness in his eyes, and rubbed his shaking hands with delight. He had no eyes to see that she was pale, that she started at sounds as she had never done before, fearing that Randolph had come a few days too soon, to claim and to carry her off. The old man’s one idea was the safety of the charter. To secure this, no sacrifice could have been too great. But as a matter of fact, David Donner had no conception of the sacrifice which he was requiring. Such zealots rarely have.
In despair, three days before her dreaded hour should arrive, Garde hastened like a child, afraid of an ogre, to Goody Dune. The evening was cold, for the sky was overcast, the wind was blowing from the north and a few scattered speckles of snow flew spitefully through the air.
“B-u-h-h—it’s cold! B-u-h-h—it’s cold!” said the jackdaw, when Garde came in at the door. The bird was echoing the past winter’s history of what poor old Goody had suffered, alone in her hut.