Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 28

"Look you, Adam," says I, clenching my fists, "once and for all, I do not leave this s.h.i.+p, happen what may."

"Aye, but you will, s.h.i.+pmate."

"Ha, d'ye think to force me, then?"

"Not I, Martin, but circ.u.mstances shall."

"What circ.u.mstances?"

Here and all at once Adam started up as again there came a soft knocking at the door. "Who's there?" he cried. And then in my ear, "'Tis she, Martin, as I guess, though sooner than I had expected--into the bilboes with you." Thus whispering and with action incredibly quick, he clapped and locked me back in my shackles, whisked food, platter and bottle into a dark corner and crossed to the door. "Who's there?" he demanded gruffly. Ensued a murmur whereupon he turned the key, set wide the door and fell back bowing, bonnet in hand, all in a moment.

"Good Master Adam!" says she gently, "Pray you leave us awhile and let none intrude on us." At this Adam bows again very low with a whimsical glance at me, and goes out closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER XIX

CONCERNING THE PRINCESS DAMARIS

For a while she stood looking down on me, and I, meeting that look, glanced otherwhere yet, conscious of her regard, stirred uneasily so that my irons rattled dismally.

"Sir," says she at last, but there I stayed her.

"Madam, once and for all, I am no 'sir!'"

"Martin Conisby," she amended in the same gentle voice, "Master Penfeather telleth you refused the honourable service I offered--I pray you wherefore?"

"Because I've no mind to serve a Brandon."

"Yet you steal aboard my s.h.i.+p, Master Conisby, you eat the food my money hath paid for! Doth this suffice your foolish, stubborn pride?"

Here, finding nought to say, I scowled at my fetters and held my peace, whereat she sighed a little, as I had been some fretful, peevish child: "Why are you here in my s.h.i.+p?" she questioned patiently. "Was it for vengeance? Tell me," she demanded, "is it that you came yet seeking your wicked vengeance?"

"Mine is a just vengeance!"

"Vengeance, howsoever just, is G.o.d's--leave it unto G.o.d!" At this I was silent again, whereupon she continued, her voice more soft and pleading: "Even though my father had ... indeed ... wronged you and yours ... how shall his death profit you--?"

"Ha!" I cried, staring up at her troubled face, "Can it be you know this for very truth at last? Are you satisfied of my wrongs and know my vengeance just? Have ye proof of Sir Richard's black treachery--confess!" Now at this her eyes quailed before my look and she shrank away.

"G.o.d forgive him!" she whispered, bowing stately head.

"Speak!" says I, fiercely. "Have ye the truth of it at last?"

"'Tis that bringeth me here to you, Martin Conisby, to confess this wrong on his behalf and on his behalf to offer such reparation as I may. Alas! for the bodily sufferings you did endure we can never atone, but ... in all other ways--"

"Never!" says I, scowling. "What is done--is done, and I am--what I am. But for yourself his sin toucheth you no whit."

"How?" cried she pa.s.sionately. "Am I not his flesh--his blood? 'Twas but lately I learned the truth from his secret papers ... and ... O 'twas all there ... even the price he paid to have you carried to the plantations! So am I come pleading your forgiveness for him and for me ... to humble myself before you ... see thus ... thus, upon my knees!"

Now beholding all the warm beauty of her as she knelt humbly before me, the surge and tumult of her bosom, the quiver of her red lips, the tearful light of her eyes, I was moved beyond speech, and ever she knelt there bowed and shaken in her mute abas.e.m.e.nt.

"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought to forgive--I--that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoe ... Rise, I pray."

"And for--my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father--"

"Speak not of him!" I cried. "Needs must there be hate and enmity betwixt us until the end." So was silence awhile nor did I look up, dreading to see her grief.

"Your face is cut, Martin!" said she at last, very softly, "Suffer that I bathe it." Now turning in amaze I saw her yet upon her knees, looking up at me despite her falling tears: "Wilt suffer me to bathe it, Martin?" says she, her voice unshaken by any sob. I shook my head; but rising she crossed to the door and came back bearing a small pannikin of water. "I brought this for the purpose," says she.

"Nay, indeed, I--I am well enough--"

"Then I will make you better!"

"No!" says I, angrily.

"Yes!" says she patiently, but setting dimpled chin at me.

"And wherefore, madam?"

"Because I'm so minded, sir!" So saying she knelt close beside me and fell a-bathing my bruised face as she would (and I helpless to stay her) yet marvelling within me at the gentle touch of her soft hands and the tender pity in her tear-wet eyes. "Martin," says she, "as I do thus cherish your hurts, you shall one day, mayhap, cherish your enemy's--"

"Never!" says I. "You can know me not at all to think so."

"I know you better than you guess, Martin. You think it strange belike and unmaidenly in me that I should seek you thus, that your name should come so readily to my lip? But I have remembered the name 'Martin' for the sake of a boy, long years since, who found a little maid (she was just ten year old) found her lost and wandering in a wood, very woeful and frightened and forlorn. And this boy seemed very big and strong (he was just eleven, he said) and was armed with a bow and arrows 'to shoot outlaws.' And yet he was very gentle and kindly, laying by his weapons the better to comfort her sorrows and dry her tears. So he brought her to a cave he called his 'castle' and showed her a real sword he kept hidden there (albeit a very rusty one) and said he would be her knight, to do great things for her some day. Then he brought her safely home; and he told her his name was Martin and she said hers was Damaris--"

"Damaris!" said I, starting.

"Often after this they used to meet by a corner of the old park wall where he had made a place to go up and down by--for six months, I think, they played together daily, and once he fought a great, rough boy on her behalf, and when the boy had run away she bathed her champion's hurts in a little brook--bathed them with her scarf as thus I do yours. At last she was sent away to a school and the years pa.s.sed, but she never forgot the name of Martin, though he forgot her quite ... but ... you ... you remember now, Martin--O, you remember now?" says she with a great sob.

"Aye, I remember now!" quoth I, hoa.r.s.ely.

"It is for the sake of this boy, Martin, so brave, so strong, yet so very gentle and kindly--for him and all he might have been that I pray you forego your vengeance--I beseech you to here renounce it--"

"Never!" I cried, clenching my shackled hands. "But for my enemy this boy might now be as other men--'stead of outcast rogue and scarred galley-slave, he might have come to love and win love--to have known the joy of life and its fulness! Howbeit he must go his way, rogue and outcast to the end."

"No!" she cried, "No! The wrong may be undone--must--shall be--wounds will heal and even scars will fade with time."

"Scars of the body, aye--belike!" said I, "But there be scars of the mind, wounds of the soul shall never heal--so shall my just vengeance sleep not nor die whiles I have life!"

Here for awhile she was silent again and I saw a tear fall sparkling.

"And yet," said she at last and never stirring from her humble posture, "and yet I have faith in you still for, despite all your cruel wrongs and grievous suffering, you are so--young, headstrong and wilful and very desolate and forlorn. Thus whiles I have life my faith in you shall sleep not nor die, yet greatly do I pity--"

"Pity?" says I fiercely, "You were wiser to hate and see me hanged out of hand."

"Poor soul!" she sighed, and rising, laid one white hand upon my shackled fist. "And yet mayhap you shall one day find again your sweet and long-lost youth--meanwhile strive to be worthy a sorrowing maid's honest pity."

"Pity?" says I again, "'Tis akin to love--so give me hate, 'tis thing most natural 'twixt your blood and mine."

"Poor soul!" she repeated, viewing me with her great, calm eyes albeit their lashes were wet with tears, "How may I hate one so wretched?"