CHAPTER XVII

THE RED MAN

"How easily," said Lord St. Amande to me one summer night, two months later, as we sat upon the porch outside the saloon, "how easily may one be inspired with the gift of prophecy! Who, looking in at those two and knowing their characters, could not predict their future?"

He spake of Mr. Kinchella and Mary who were within, she sitting at the spinet while he, bending over her, was humming the air of a song he had lately written preparatory to her singing it.

"One can see," went on my lord, "all that that future shall be. They have told their love to one another, soon that love will blossom into marriage, even as I have seen your daturas and your roses blossom forth since first I came amongst you--that marriage will bring happiness of days and years to them, in which in honour and peaceful joys they will go on until life's close. Happy, happy pair--happy Kinchella to love and be beloved, to love and dare to tell his love."

And my lord sighed as he spoke.

"All men may tell their love, surely," I said. "Why should they not?"

"All men may not tell their love, Mistress Joice," he replied; "all men may not ask for love in return. Over some men's lives there is so deep a shadow that it precludes them from asking any woman to share their lot--sometimes it is best that those men go through life alone, unloved and with no other's lot bound up with theirs. But, hark, she is going to sing that song he wrote for her."

Through the warm air Mary's voice arose as he stood by her; through the quiet of the night when nought was heard but the distant barking of the dogs, which were strangely restless this evening, and nought seen but the fireflies, she sang his little song:

"If we should part--some day of days We might stand face to face again, And, dear, my eyes I scarce could raise To yours without a bitter pain. For memory then must backward turn To all the love that went before, While thoughts our hearts would sear and burn Making our meeting still more sore. So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no. Or shall we stay and still be true, Shall one remain--the other go, Or shall I still rest close to you?

"If we should part--could I rejoice If by some chance I saw your face? Or if you, too, should hear my voice Cold and without one plea for grace. Such as in days agone I sought Craving one whispered word from you; Would not your heart with grief be fraught Recalling all the love we slew. So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no. Or shall we stay and still be true, Shall one remain--the other go, Or shall I still rest close to you?

"Ah! best it is we never part, Better by far that we keep true, Clasp hand to hand, bind heart to heart, As in the past we used to do. So murmur, sweet, the words once more, Breathe them to me again, again, Whisper you love me as before, Proclaim Love's victory over pain. And we'll not part. Ah. No, Love, no. 'Tis best to stay for ever true. Since you remain, I cannot go, But ever must rest close to you."

Her voice ceased and we could see her fond face turned up to his and observe the look of love in her dark eyes. And my lord, sitting in the deep chair which had been my father's in other days, murmured to himself, "'If we should part! If we should part!' Ah, well! they need never part. Never, never."

I know not why, that evening, all our thoughts and talk had been upon that silly theme, Love. It had begun at supper--which, in Virginia, we generally took at seven in the evening--and had been continued afterwards in the garden and on the porch, and came, I think, from the fact that Lord St. Amande and Mr. Kinchella had that day been to see a ship which had come from England laden with furniture. His lordship lived with Mr. Kinchella in his minister's house in the village, and, although he generally spent his days with many of the other gentry dwelling around, amongst whom he was very welcome, he could sometimes induce his friend to give up one day to him when they would go off together for rides and walks, as they had done on this occasion when they had ridden to Norfolk. Their evenings they spent almost invariably at Pomfret Manor, as they were doing on this night. But, as I say, at supper this evening there had been much talk of what Mr. Kinchella had purchased from the trader for beautifying his house, such as a beautiful Smyrna carpet, some tapestry hangings, chimney glasses and sconces, a stone-grate and some walnut-tree chairs and East Indian screens, all of which were to be shown to us when they arrived by the waggon and were placed in his home. For their marriage-day was drawing near now, and was, indeed, settled for the beginning of September.

"So that," said his lordship, "when that time arrives, Mistress Joice," as he had come to call me, "must be left all alone in her great house."

"'Tis her own fault," exclaimed Mary; "many are the excellent offers she has had, yet she will take none. Her cousin Gregory has over and over again told her she should wed with him, their interests being similar and their estates adjoining, and two of the Pringles have asked her for wife. But, although in Virginia a maiden who is not married by twenty is deemed to have passed her day, she will not look at them. Oh! 'tis a shame. A Shame."

I had blushed at all this and reproved Mary for telling my lord my secrets; but now, on the porch, he referred to the subject again and asked why none of these gentlemen found favour in my eyes. "Only," I replied, "because in my heart there is no love for them. Surely no girl should wed with one she cannot love?"

"'Tis true," he answered, gravely, as he always spake; "'tis true. And the day will come when you will love someone. It must needs come."

Alas! I wonder that he did not know that already it had come. I should have thought, indeed, did often think, that I had betrayed myself and shown him that the love he spoke of had grown up in my heart for him. He must have seen that which I could not hide, try as I would; my eager looking for his coming in those soft summer evenings, my great joy in his company, my sympathy with him in all that he had known and suffered, and my tell-tale blushes whenever his eyes fell on me. Yet if he knew he gave no sign of knowing, and, although he ever sought my side and passed the hours with me, as those others passed theirs together, he said no word.

But now, as we sat there on the porch silent though, sometimes, our eyes would meet in the glow of the lamp from within, there fell upon the silence of the night the clatter of a horse's hoofs up the road, of a horse coming on at a great pace as though ridden by one who spurred it to its best efforts and sought its greater speed.

"Who can ride here at such a pace to-night?" I said, as still the clatter drew nearer and we heard the horse turn off from the road into our plantations, and so into the stables at the back, while a moment later a voice was heard demanding to see Mistress Bampfyld.

"That voice!" exclaimed Lord St. Amande, springing from his chair and reaching for his sword, which stood in a corner of the balcony. "That voice! Though I have not heard it for years I should know it in a thousand. 'Tis the villain, O'Rourke. Heaven hath delivered him into my hands at last. Now will I have a full revenge on him."

"Oh sir," I said, as he drew his blade, "Oh! sir, oh! my lord, take no revenge on him here, I beseech you. Stain not this house with his blood. No life has ever yet been taken in it since it was brought over. And, oh! remember, he came here before and was well received and hospitably treated--he cannot know that you should also have found your way here--he may well expect to receive the same treatment, the same hospitality again."

"It must be as you command in your house," my lord replied, "yet he shall not escape me, and, when he leaves this place, his punishment shall be well assured." Then he called softly to Kinchella, and, in a few hurried words, told him of who was without. But, ere the latter could express his astonishment--as, indeed, it was astonishing that these three should now be come together!--we heard O'Rourke's voice exclaiming:

"Lead me to her at once, I say. There is no moment to be lost. They may be here at any moment of the night. I have seen them, nay, barely escaped from them; they are on their way--hundreds of them."

"Great God!" exclaimed Mary, who had now come forth with her lover and heard his words, "'tis the Indians he speaks of. It can be no others."

"Indeed it must be," I answered. "Heaven grant that the village is well prepared. For ourselves we must take immediate steps. We must apprise the overseers below and bid them arm the servants and convicts--they will fight for us against the Indians, hate us though they may."

"First," said my lord, who was very cool, "let us hear the ruffian himself, the gallant 'captain.' But, since our presence might somewhat disturb his narrative, let him not see us yet, Kinchella," and as he spake he drew his friend back behind the shutters of the windows while we two went into the saloon.

And now the adventurer came into the apartment once again, though not as he had come before, his manner being very flustered and uneasy, his face covered with perspiration from hard riding on a summer night, and with his wig gone. While, without stopping for any salutation he, on seeing me, began at once:

"Madam, I have ridden hot haste to apprise you of a terrible fact which has come to my knowledge, and to offer you, if you will have them, my services. The Indians are out, madam; they are coming this way; I have seen them. Heavens and earth! 'twas an awful sight to observe the painted devils creeping through the woods, ay! and a thing to freeze one's blood, even on such a night as this, to hear them yell as they saw me. But, fortunately, they are not mounted, and thus I out-distanced their arrows and musket balls which they sent after me. And therefore am I here to warn you, and, since I know you have no men about but your bond-servants and negroes, to help you if I may."

"You mistake, sir," said his lordship, quietly, coming forward into the room with his drawn sword glistening in his hand, while behind him stepped Mr. Kinchella. "You mistake, sir. There are others besides yourself."

If a spectre had arisen before O'Rourke I know not if it could have produced a more terrifying effect on him. For a moment he gazed at his lordship, his lips parted and one hand raised to shield his eyes, as though that way they might see clearer, while on his face there came fresh drops of perspiration. And then he muttered hoarsely:

"Gerald St. Amande! Gerald here! Here! Here in Virginia!"

"Ay," said my lord, confronting him and with the point of his sword lowered to the ground. "Ay! Gerald St. Amande, none other. You execrable villain, we stand face to face at last as man to man, not man to boy as it once was. And what villainy are you upon now in this land? Answer me ere I slay you, as I intend to do ere long."

For reply the other said:

"'Tis so. We stand face to face at last. And the hour is yours. Your sword is drawn, mine is in its sheath, my pistols are unloaded since I fired them at the savages who pursued me. So be it. As well die by the hand of him I injured as by the torture or the weapons of those howling wolves who are on their way here----"

He paused a moment and then, loosening the cross-belt or scarf in which were two great pistols, he flung it and them at his lordship's feet, while at the same time he opened his waistcoat and tore aside his muslin ruffles.

"Now, Gerald St. Amande," he said, "as we stand face to face--'tis your own word--do your worst. If I have been a villain I am at least no coward. Do your worst."

'Twas indeed a strange scene--a fitting prelude to others still more strange that were to follow. This man, this robber--who when he first came among us we had deemed a courtly gentleman--stood there, tall and erect, with no muscle quivering, nay, almost with a look of scorn upon his face. In front of him, his sword still lowered, stood the other whom he invited to be his executioner, his eyes no longer flashing fire but dwelling upon his old enemy as though in wonder. Behind were Mary and myself trembling with apprehension and Mr. Kinchella whispering to his friend, "Gerald, forbear, forbear. Remember, vengeance is to the Lord. He will repay."

Though I felt no fear--since he had given me his promise--that his lordship would do justice upon O'Rourke now, I also took heart to whisper to him, "Is he beyond forgiveness, or at least so bad that he may not go in peace?"

But then Lord St. Amande spoke, saying: "That I should slay you now is impossible. In this house your life is sacred--at her prayer," and he pointed to me. "And, Since you are so bold a man, why such a villain? O'Rourke, seeing you as you are to-night I do believe you might have been worthy of better things. What had I, a helpless child, ever done to you that you should have sought my death as you did?"

"You had done nothing," the other replied, still standing in the same position as when he last spoke, "but your father was always my enemy, while your uncle was my friend. And I wanted money--when was there ever the time I did not want it until now, when I have taken honest service under Mr. Oglethorpe!--money for my sick daughter who is now dead so that I care not if I die too. Your uncle gave it to me largely to remove you."

"You swear that? If we should both live to reach England again would you swear that?"

"Both of us will never reach England again. I have said farewell to that country and to the old world for ever. Yet--yet--if it might be so done that I could keep my credit in Georgia and with my employers, if I might end my days there under the garb of an honest man, I could tell much that would help you to your rights."

"In return for your life being spared?" his lordship asked.

"No. I have not asked you to spare my life. Not in return for that, but as some mitigation of my past. But, come, we trifle time," and he picked up his cross-belt, and, adjusting it, drew forth his pistols and primed and loaded them. "You have had your opportunity of slaying me--that opportunity is past. Henceforth, except for the wrong I did you, we are equal. Now, madam," he said, turning to me, "I am at your disposal and ready to help you defend your house should it be surrounded. You received me as a gentleman when I first came to you";--he put a bitter emphasis on the word "gentleman";--"as a gentleman I will do my best to repay your courtesy."

"If you are a villain you are a bold one," said Lord St. Amande. "Ill luck take you for not being a better man."

"It would be best," said O'Rourke to me, ignoring his lordship, "to go call up the convicts, I think. There is one down there who, if he has not forgotten me--the man Peter Buck of whom you spoke once--will stand side by side with me whatever may happen. I knew him well in the past. And then, madam, the windows should be shuttered----"

"By your leave, sir," Lord St. Amande exclaimed now, "I purpose to undertake the defence of this house for----"

But, ere he could finish his speech, from Mary there came the most agonising scream while, with her eyes almost starting from her head she shrunk back to Mr. Kinchella, and, pointing with her hand to the lower part of the window, she shrieked, "Look! Look!"

And following the direction she indicated we saw the cause of her horror. For there, its almond-shaped eyelids half closed, though still enough open to show the glittering eyes within, its face hideously painted with white and red streaks, and its hair twisted into a knot on the top of its head, we saw the form of a savage crouched down on the porch and peering into the saloon.

In a moment O'Rourke had seen it, too, as she screamed and pointed, for, an instant later, there rang through the room the report of one of the pistols he had loaded, and, when the smoke cleared away, we saw the savage writhing on the porch while from his head gushed a great stream of blood.

"A fair hit," called out O'Rourke. "A fair hit. Od's bobs, my right hand has not forgot its cunning after all."