Lewis Rand Part 61

The wind again rushed up the gorge, a great stir of air that swayed the trees, and filled the ravine with a sound like the sea. Rand listened dully, staring down the steeps of pine and hemlock, giant trees that had dwelt there long. A desolation came upon him. The air appeared to darken and grow cold, the wind pa.s.sed, and the gorge lay very still. Rand bowed himself together, and at last, with a dull and heavy throb, his heart spoke. "What shall I do," it asked, "O G.o.d?"

The Absolute within him made answer. "The simple right."

The wind returned, and the trees of the forest shook to the blast. The simple right! Where was the simple right in so complex a wrong? Step forward, backward, to either side--harm and misery every way! And pride, and ambition, and love, and human company--to close the door, to close the door on all! "No," said Rand, and set his teeth. "No, no!"

The afternoon deepened in the gorge of the Blue Ridge. Now the wind swept it and now the wind was still. The sunlight touched the treetops, or fell through in shafts upon the early flowers. From the mould of a million generations stalk and leaf arose for their brief hour of light and life. When it was spent, they would rest for aeon, then stir again.

In the silence was heard the fall of the pine cone.

Rand lay, face down, upon the rock. In his mind there was now no thought of Cary, no thought of Jacqueline, nor of Fairfax Cary, nor of any other of the dead and living. It was the valley of the shadow of death, and his soul was at grips with Apollyon.

He lay there until all the sunlight was withdrawn from the gorge, and until Young Isham, frightened into disobedience, came and touched him upon the shoulder. He lifted a grey and twisted face. "Yes, yes, Young Isham, it is late! Go back, and I will come in a moment."

The negro went, and Rand arose from the rock, crossed the road, and stood looking down toward the hidden water. From somewhere out of the green gloom sounded the bird's throbbing note, then all again was quiet, dank, and still. He raised his arms, resting them and his face upon them against the red bark of a giant pine. The thought of death in the pool below came to him, but he shook his head. The door was open, truly, but it led nowhere. His soul looked at the chasm it must cross, shuddered, and crossed it. His arms dropped from the tree and he raised his eyes to the blue above. He was yet in a land of effort and anguish, but the G.o.d within him saw the light.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

M. DE PINCORNET

Malplaquet was a Cary place, leagued in friendship as in blood with Greenwood. For seven months it had esteemed itself in mourning for the kinsman who had ridden from its gates to a violent death. But there were young girls in the house, and now, in the bright May weather, it was hard not to put forth leaf and bud and be gay once more. Actual gayety would not do, the place felt that, and very heartily; but pleasure that was also education, pleasure well within bounds, and education insisted upon, this might now be temperately indulged in. There seemed no good reason why, in mid-spring, the dancing cla.s.s should not be held at Malplaquet, since it was the most convenient house to a large neighbourhood, and there were in the family three young girls.

The age esteemed dancing a highly necessary accomplishment, and its acquisition meant work, and hard work, no less than delightful play.

Half a dozen young people came to stay three days at the house; half a score more drove or rode over in the afternoons, going home after ten by moonlight or by starlight Their elders came with them, it was a business of minuets and contra-dances, painstakingly performed and solicitously watched A large old parlour gave its waxed floor, Mr Pincornet's violin furnished the music, and Mr Pincornet himself, lately returned to Albemarle from his season in Richmond, imparted instruction and directed the dance. The house was full from garret to cellar, neighbours' horses in the stables, neighbours' servants in the quarter. The long, low brick office standing under the big oaks in the yard made, according to custom, a barracks for the young men who, high of mettle, bold, and gay, rode in from twenty miles around, ready to dance from dusk till dawn, and then, in a bright garden and May weather, to pursue some bits of muslin throughout a morning. Malplaquet was in a state of sober glee when, inconveniently enough, the one Cary whose mourning had not lightened chanced, in ignorance of the dancing cla.s.s, to ride through the gates and up the hill.

It was his intention, it appeared, to spend the night which was fast falling, and to ride back to Charlottesville in the morning. The head of the Malplaquet Carys met him with affection and apology. "Young people will be young, Fair, and Molly and I thought it best to humour them in this no great thing! It's a mere lesson they're having. But I'm sorry, cousin--"

"You need not be, sir," said the other. "Ludwell would have been the last man on earth to wish their spirit less, or their pleasure less.

It's time and the weather, sir,--Malplaquet feels it with all the world.

You must not be troubled, and you must not disturb my cousins. I might ride on--"

"No, no, Fair! No, no!"

"Then I won't. Give me a room in the office--I see the house is full--and let Remus bring me supper there. If you'll come over later, sir, we'll talk Embargo, and I'll give you the up-county news. I'll to bed early, I think."

"I wish I could come! By George, it would be a relief to get away from all the bowing and sc.r.a.ping! You're sure you aren't hurt, Fair?"

"Quite sure," answered the other, with his old smile. "I'll go now to the office, if I may. No need even to tell them I am here."

Not to tell them was a thing more easily said than done. Time was when Fairfax Cary would have been hailed delightedly, drawn at once to the centre of things, and kept there by the quick glances of young women, the emulative gaze of neighbourhood gallants, and the approving consideration of the elder folk. His presence was wont to make itself felt. Now, when the news spread that he was at Malplaquet, there was a break in the dance, a pause, a hush. "What shall we do?" asked in distress the daughters of the house.

"Go on dancing," was the reply. "He'll have no difference made. But when the lesson's over, you'll remember, one and all, that he is here."

In the far room of the office, quiet, and with a porch of its own, Cary got rid of the dust of the road, then ate the supper, bountiful and delicate, brought by Remus and presided over by the mistress of the house, who talked to him of Greenwood and of his father. "The best dancer, Fair, and, after Henry Churchill, the handsomest man,--with _the_ air, you know, and always brave and gay and true as steel! They said he was a good hater, and I know he was a good friend. You take after him, Fair."

"Ludwell did."

"Yes, I know, I know--but you the most. Ludwell had much from your mother--that strength and patience and grace were Lucy Meade's. Well, well, I cry when I think of it, so I'll not think! Is there nothing more you'll have? Remus is to wait upon you--you hear, Remus? And now, Fair, I'll go back to the children"

Cary kissed her. "Give them all three my love, and tell little Anne to mind her steps. I've got a book to read, and I'll go to bed early."

He sat over his book until nearly ten, then extinguished his candles and stepped out upon the small, moonlit porch. From the house, a hundred yards away, came the sound of the violin, and of laughter, subdued but genuine. Cary drew a chair to the porch railing and sat down, resting his elbow upon the wood, his cheek upon his hand. The violin brought the thought of Unity. The laughter did not grate upon him. His nature was large, and the mirth at Malplaquet did no unkindness as it meant none.

He sat there quietly until the music stopped and the lesson came to an end. The pupils not staying overnight went away, as testified the sound of wheel and stamp of hoof, the laughing voices and lingering good-byes, audible from the front of the house. This noise died, then, after an interval, lights appeared in upper windows. Slender arms and hands, put far out, drew to the wooden shutters; clear, girlish voices said good-night, and were answered by fervent and deeper tones below.

The quiet proper to the hour drew on, the lighted windows darkened one by one, and presently there appeared at the office the master of the house, accompanied by two or three young men. These greeted Cary soberly, but with much kindness. "We've put," said the host, "all the talkative rattlepates away in the house, and given you three sensible men! Mr. Bland has the room at the other end, Jack Minor and Nelson the one next to him, and in the little room beside yours, Fair, we'll stow Mr. Pincornet. They've all danced themselves tired, and the whole place is to have a quiet night." The three sensible men went, after a little, to their several quarters, and the kinsman continued: "The cla.s.s ends to-night, Fair. To-morrow morning all go away except the Blands and the Morrises and George Harvie's little Dorothea. The house will be quiet, and you are not to ride away from us in the morning! Good-night--G.o.d bless you!"

Cary, left alone, watched the lights go out in the rooms of Mr. Bland, Mr. Minor, and Mr. Nelson. He thought, "I will go to bed and go to sleep"; then, so bright was the moonlight, so sweet and fragrant and now silent the night, that he stayed on upon the little porch, his arms against the railing, his eyes now on the moon, now on the quiet great house and the shadowy clumps of trees. Presently Mr. Pincornet, the moon whitening his old brocade and his curled wig, came from the house, crossed the gra.s.s, and mounted to the porch upon which his small room opened.

He started as he saw the figure by the railing. "Who is it?" he demanded, in his high, cracked voice; then, "Ah, I see, I see! A thousand pardons, Mr. Cary,--"

"We are to be neighbours to-night," said Cary. "It has been long since we met, Mr. Pincornet. I am glad to see you again."

"I have been in Richmond," said the dancing master, "since--since September."

Cary touched a chair near him with a gesture of invitation. "Won't you sit down? It is too beautiful a night to go early to bed, and I do not think we will disturb the others' slumbers. But perhaps you are tired--"

"The practice of my art does not tire me," answered Mr. Pincornet. "I will watch the moon with you for as long as you please. We had nights such as this near Aire, when I was young"

He sat down, leaning his chin upon his beruffled hand. The light falling full on his companion showed the dark dress and above it the quiet, much altered face. Mr. Pincornet sighed, and tapped nervously upon the railing with the fingers of his other hand. "Mr Cary, I have not seen you since--Pray accept my profound condolences, my sympathy, and my admiration."

His old pupil thanked him. "All my brother's friends and mine are most kind. I should guess that you have yourself seen many sorrows, Mr.

Pincornet."

The Frenchman's face twitched. "Many, sir, many. I have experienced the curse of fortune. Eh bien! one pays, and all is said! I have grieved with you, sir, I beg you to believe it. I admired your brother."

"He was worthy of admiration."

"In the south, near Mauleon, I lost such an one--brother not in blood but in friendship, a friendship pure as the flowers of spring and strong as the vintage of autumn. His own troops turned Jacobin and scoundrel, mutinied, shot him down--Ha!" Mr. Pincornet drew out his box and took snuff with trembling fingers. "Well! the King's side was uppermost for a while down there, and we had our revenge--we had our revenge--we had our revenge! But," he ended sadly, "it could not bring back my poor Charles."

"Did you think of it as revenge?"

"No. I thought of it as justice. It was that, sir. Those soldiers paid, but they owed the debt--every sou they owed it! He was," continued Mr.

Pincornet, "gallant and brave, a great lover, a great fighter. He was to my heart, though not of my blood--"

"The man that I have lost," said Cary, "was of my blood and to my heart.

I am left alone of an old house. And I pursue justice, Mr. Pincornet, I pursue justice, I pursue justice."

Mr. Pincornet looked at the face opposite him. "I think, sir, you will capture that to which you give chase. I have been in town, away from the country, but I hear the talk, and sometimes I read the papers. You have not taken the murderer?"

"No!"

"It is strange!" exclaimed the other. "And no one suspected?"

"I suspect," answered Cary sternly, "but the world in general does not, or suspects wrongly. You were not at the inquest which was held?"

The dancing master shook his head. "In your sorrow, sir, such matters were, naturally, not brought to your notice. I fell ill, in the first days of September, at Red Fields, of a cold upon the lungs. I gave up my art and lay at death's door. My head was light; I heard and I thought of nothing but the faces and the voices around about Aire where I was young. I recovered, and, in the stage, I went to Richmond. To ask who is it you suspect would be a question indiscreet--"