Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 13

Nearer came the singing while I stood, sword in hand, waiting; the song ended suddenly and the sweet voice called:

"O Marjorie, wake me betimes, I must be abroad with the sun to-morrow--good-night, sweet wench!"

I crouched in the curtains of the great bed as the latch clicked and the room filled with the soft glow of a candle; a moment's silence, then:

"O Marjorie, I'll wear the green taffety in the morning. Nay indeed, I'll be my own tirewoman to-night."

The light was borne across the room; then coming softly to the door I closed it and, setting my back against it, leaned there. At the small sound I made she turned and, beholding me, shrank back, and I saw the candlestick shaking in her hand ere she set it down upon the carved press beside her.

"Who is it--who is it?" she questioned breathlessly, staring at my bruised and swollen features.

"A rogue you had dragged lifeless to the pillory!"

"You?" she breathed. "You! And they set you in the pillory? 'Twas by no order of me."

"'Tis no matter, lady, here was just reward for a rogue," says I. "But now I seek Sir Richard--"

"Nay indeed--indeed you shall not find him here."

"That will I prove for myself!" says I, and laid hand on latch.

"Sir," says she in the same breathless fas.h.i.+on, "why will you not believe me? Seek him an you will, but I tell you Sir Richard sailed into the Spanish Main two years since and was lost."

"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I met her truthful eyes. "Lost, say you--how lost?"

"He and his s.h.i.+p were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."

"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed. "Taken--off--Hispaniola?"

And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it all (should this indeed be so) black anger seized me. "You lie to me!" I cried. "Ha, by G.o.d, you lie! An there be aught of justice in heaven then Richard Brandon must be here."

"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyed stare. "Who are you--so fierce, so young, yet with whitened hair, and that trembles at the truth? Who are you--speak?"

"You have lied to save him from me!" I cried. "You lie--ha, confess!"

And I strode towards her, the long blade a-glitter in my quivering grasp.

"Would you kill me?" says she, all unflinching and with eyes that never wavered. "Would you murder a helpless maid--Martin Conisby?" The rapier fell to the rug at my feet and lay there, my breath caught, and thus we stood awhile, staring into each other's eyes.

"Martin Conisby is dead!" says I at last.

For answer she pointed to the wall above my head and, looking thither, I saw the picture of a young cavalier, richly habited, who smiled down grey-eyed and gentle-lipped, all care-free youth and gaiety; and beneath this portrait ran the words:

MARTIN CONISBY, LORD WENDOVER. Aetat. 21.

"Madam," quoth I at last, turning my back on the picture, "Yon innocent was whipped to death aboard a Spanish gallea.s.s years since, wherefore I, a poor rogue, come seeking his destroyer."

"Sir," says she, clasping her hands and viewing me with troubled eyes, "O sir--whom mean you?"

"One who, having slain the father, sold the son into slavery, to the h.e.l.l of Spanish dungeon and rowing-bench, to stripes and shame and torment, one the just G.o.d hath promised to my vengeance--I mean Richard Brandon."

"Ah--mercy of G.o.d--my father! Ah no, no--it cannot be! My father?

Sure here is some black mistake."

"Being his daughter you should know 'tis very truth! Being a Brandon you must know of the feud hath cursed and rent our families time out of mind, the bitter faction and bloodshed!"

"Aye!" she murmured, "This I do know."

"Well, madam, five years agone, or thereabouts, my father falsely attainted of treason, died in his prison and I, drugged and trepanned aboard s.h.i.+p, was sold into the plantations, whence few return--and Richard Brandon, enriched by our loss and great at court, dreamed he had made an end o' the Conisbys and that the feud was ended once and for all."

"My lord," says she, proud head upflung, "I deny all this! Such suspicion, so base and unfounded, shameth but yourself. You have dared force your way into my house at dead of night, and now--O now you would traduce my absent father, charging him with shameful crimes--and this to me, his daughter! Enough, I'll hear no more, begone ere I summon my servants and have you driven forth!" and, seizing the bell-rope that hung against the panelling, she faced me, her deep bosom heaving tempestuous, white hands clenched and scorning me with her eyes.

"Ring!" says I, and seated myself in a chair beside her great bed.

"Have you no shame?"

"None, madam, 'twas all whipped out o' me aboard the 'Esmeralda'

gallea.s.s. Ring, madam! But I go not till I learn, once and for all, if Sir Richard be here or no."

Now at this she loosed the bell-rope very suddenly and, covering her face with her hands, stood thus awhile:

"G.o.d pity me!" says she at last in weeping voice. "I may not forget how you saved me from--" Here a tremor seemed to shake her; then she spake again, yet now scarce above a whisper. "Your face hath looked upon me night and morn these two years, and now--O Martin Conisby, were you but the man I dreamed you!"

"I'm a rogue new-broke from slavery!" says I.

"Aye," she cried suddenly, lifting her head and viewing me with new and bitter scorn, "and one that speaketh lies of an absent man!"

"Lies!" quoth I, choking on the word. "Lies, madam? Why then, how cometh my picture here--my coat of arms above the mantel yonder, the Conisby 'scutcheon on your gates? What do you at Conisby Shene?"

Now in her look I saw a sudden doubt, a growing dread, her breath caught and she shrank back to the panelled wall and leaned there, and ever the trouble in her eyes grew. "Well, my lady?" I questioned, "Have ye no answer?"

"'Twas said ... I have heard ... the Conisbys were no more."

"Even so, how came Sir Richard by this, our house?"

"Nay--nay, I--I know little of my father's business--he was ever a silent man and I--have pa.s.sed my days in London or abroad. But you--ah, tell me--why seek you my father?"

"That is betwixt him and me!"

"Was it--murder? Was it vengeance, my lord?" Here, as I made no answer, she crosses over to me and lays one slender hand on my shoulder; whereat I would have risen but her touch stayed me. "Speak!"

says she in a whisper. "Was it his life you sought?" Meeting the look in her deep, soft eyes, I was silent for a while, finding no word, then dumbly I nodded. And now I felt her hand trembling on my shoulder ere it was withdrawn and, looking up, I saw she had clasped her hands and stood with head bowed like one in prayer: "O Martin Conisby," she whispered, "now thank G.o.d that in His mercy He hath stayed thee from murder!" So she stood awhile, then, crossing to the carven press, took thence divers papers and set them before me. "Read!" she commanded.

So I examined these papers and found therein indisputable evidence that my journey here was vain indeed, that Sir Richard, sailing westward, had been taken by Spaniards off Hispaniola and carried away prisoner, none knew whither.

And in a while, having read these papers, I laid them by and rising, stumbled towards the open cas.e.m.e.nt.

"Well, my lord?" says she in strange, breathless fas.h.i.+on, "And what now?"

"Why now," says I, wearily, "it seems my vengeance is yet to seek."