CHAPTER III

The Plantation

It was nearly four weeks since the _Baltimore_ had set sail on her return voyage to England. The June days were flying. Peach-blossoms had long since fallen; cherries were daily reddening; and the turkeys had been turned into the tobacco fields for their annual feast off the insect life so destroying to young plants. In nine days more the commissioners from Annapolis were to make their departure for Lancaster in Pennsylvania, for the purpose of settling the long-delayed matter of purchasing charter rights from the Indians. It was, moreover, a Monday afternoon, and very warm, when Virginia Trevor came languidly up from the rose-garden towards the wide and shady portico of the house. In her hand she held two magnificent red roses, which she now and then raised to her face, they being in perfect contrast to her white gown and petticoat of palest yellow.

The portico was furnished in the fashion of a room, for in summer the family were inclined to spend more time there than in the house. Upon it now, in one of the comfortable chairs that surrounded a wicker table, sat the solitary occupant of the portico--Sir Charles. He had been here for an hour or so, ever since dinner was over, half awake, bored, wishing for amusement, but without energy to go in search of it. On Virginia's approach he rose, bowed, and went to the edge of the porch to hand her up.

"Thank you," she said, smiling a little. "It was a condescension. You look very sleepy."

"And you are, as ever, pleased to make sport of me," he responded, good-humoredly. "Have you no pity for a man weary of himself, his very sportiveness, and most mightily tired of the silence of the trees, the shadows, the sun, and the river yonder?"

"Troth, you are in a bad way," responded the young lady, seating herself at the table and taking therefrom a reticule which held some silken knitting-work.

There was a pause before Fairfield observed, idly, "My aunt's roses must be highly successful this year."

"Yes. These are very perfect."

"And are you going to be so selfish as to keep the two of them, when not even one is needed to complete your beau--"

"No, no. Stop!"

Sir Charles looked at her in surprise.

"Take both the flowers if you like"--she tossed them over to him--"but forbear any remarks on my appearance. I--I am not in the mood."

He fastened the roses upon his waistcoat, helped himself to a pinch of snuff, dusted his coat with a large handkerchief, and leaned towards her. "How have I offended, O Virginia the fair?" he asked, half lazily, half curiously.

The young lady shrugged her shoulders. "In no way at all. This is a Monday. Have you never noticed that I am always vaporish on Mondays?"

"No, I had not noticed. Oh! as I remember it! Tell me, what did you think yesterday of M. de Mailly? Is't the first time you have seen him?"

"Yes. And I think him a gentleman, and that his English accent is good. He looked rather pale. For the rest--why should I think of him at all, since his eyes are only for Deborah?"

"Deborah!" echoed the man, too quickly. He recovered himself, however. "Ah, well--he has seen her before. You and Lucy were strange to him."

"He has seen her before?" repeated Virginia, surprised.

"Several times. Didn't you know? Carroll told me 'twas her doses--medicines--that probably saved his life."

"Ah! So that is what has made her so eager over Miriam Vawse." Virginia gazed thoughtfully out among the trees towards the river, of which a flashing glimpse was now and then to be caught through the feathery foliage.

"I thought you knew, cousin, or I would not have spoken. There was no wrong in the matter. Only Deborah is peculiar. She--"

"Oh, have no fear! I will not speak of the matter. But--I am not too fond of Deborah Travis; therefore I say nothing of her affairs. It might be better for her if I did."

"I think not," he answered, coolly. "Hark! There is some one coming up the road. Do you hear the beat of the hoofs?"

"Yes."

At that moment Jim, the groom from the stables, came running to the portico, and stood there expectantly facing the road, down which the sound of horses' hoofs was becoming plainly audible.

"Who is it, Jim?" asked Sir Charles.

"Mas' Thompson shout f'um road, minute ago, dat Mistah Rockwell ridin' up."

"Oh--Mr. Rockwell!" Virginia rose with a cold expression settling over her face, and Sir Charles shrugged indifferently as the visitor came in sight and presently halted his mare at the portico.

He was a florid, rotund, sandy-haired fellow, the rector of St. Anne's of Annapolis; conceited, a large eater, and a fair story-teller, but without brain enough to make himself obnoxiously disagreeable. He came up the two steps, wiping his face with an enormous handkerchief. His dress had been somewhat disturbed by the long gallop, and his bag-wig was awry. Before bowing to Virginia he stopped to adjust these matters, and then, having returned the slightly distant salute of the lieutenant, he observed, in a thin, non-clerical voice:

"Mistress Virginia, if it is not inconvenient, I am bent upon seeing your brother and Madam Trevor this afternoon."

"Vincent is in the fields, Mr. Rockwell. I will have him sent for."

"Pray do not do so, my dear young lady. I would not for the world put you to such trouble. No doubt he will be in later. I will see madam, your mother, first. If you could tell me where I may find her--"

"Will you step into the parlor, please? If Sir Charles will excuse me, I will call my mother at once."

The lieutenant bowed politely, and the two passed into the house, leaving Fairfield to sit down again with another shrug at the interruption that left him once more to his boredom. Presently, to his mild surprise, he perceived young Charles Carroll hurrying through the shrubbery in the distance, across the road.

"Carroll! Oh, Carroll!" shouted Fairfield; but, if the boy heard him, he made no reply, merely quickening his pace a little till he was out of sight.

As a matter of fact, young Charles did not want to hear. It was for Deborah that he had come to the plantation, and he was going to seek her in the spot where she was most likely to be found. Having happily escaped the continued notice of Sir Charles, he reached the back of the Trevor house, and there came upon the object of his search, seated, Turk-fashion, by the still-room door, surrounded by a group of black, wide-eyed pickaninnies, to whom she had been telling ghost-stories in their own dialect. It was one of her favorite forms of amusement when she was a little lonely; and the small mental effort required in concocting the endless tales was more than compensated for by the unwavering devotion to her of every black imp on the place. It was no great acquisition, perhaps, to one's acquaintance, but it was one of Mistress Travis' pleasures, and one not yet forbidden by Madam Trevor.

[Illustration: "SURROUNDED BY A GROUP OF PICKANINNIES"]

Young Carroll was close upon her before he was perceived; and when she beheld his expression, she burst into so sudden a peal of laughter that her audience jumped in terror, imagining it to be the latest demoniacal accomplishment of the ghost. At sight of Master Carroll, however, they realized that their afternoon was over, and all but one ran off to the quarters. This small fellow, Sambo by name, aged five, elegantly clad in a brown holland shirt that was many shades lighter than his skin, clung to Miss Debby's arm, pleading for more; for he was court favorite, and might do as he chose.

"I'm so glad you've come, Charles," she said, holding out a hand, which he clasped and shook as he might a man's.

"I have the pinnace. Can you come sailing now?"

"Oh yes! I've finished my spinning"--she made a little grimace--"and the knitting, and have crushed two bushels of rose-leaves for distilling, and have told three ghost-stories--and now I may sail, I think."

"Must I ask madam?" he queried, dubiously.

She laughed. "No. There now, Sambo, run away. No, I can go without asking her."

Very gently Deborah put away the child who still clung to her skirts, and started off, beside her companion, towards the river. Virginia and Sir Charles, from the portico, saw them pass the shrubbery. Fairfield repressed an exclamation. He would have given much to have been in the boy's place; and Virginia, catching a glimpse of his face, knew it, but was silent.

"I've got that Frencher--de Mailly--in the boat," observed Charles, as if offering a bit of off-hand information. "I like him, and he asked to come. What's the matter?"

Deborah had stopped short in her walk. "_He_ there!" she cried, looking anxiously at her rumpled dress, knowing that her hair was all awry, and beginning to pull down the sleeves that were rolled to her shoulders. "Oh, you might have told me! How could you have let me come looking so?"

"You didn't mind me, though," returned Charles, not over-pleasantly. "Come, let the sleeves stay up, and don't bother with your hair. You're a thousand times prettier so, if that's what you want."

Deborah looked up at the boy with a little, mischievous smile. "I know that I'm better so. That's why I let it stay--for you," she said; and Charles, near enough to manhood to make the inference, had a momentary impulse to fall then and there at her feet. He did not guess, however, why the added color had come into Deborah's cheeks, or that there was a quick tremor at her heart as they approached the boat.

The wharf belonging to the Trevor place was hidden from the house by the foliage of the peach-orchard on the river-bank. Claude de Mailly, waiting in the little pinnace, beheld the two figures approaching him among the trees, and made his way along the bowsprit that he might help the young girl into the boat. He bowed gravely as she came along the pier, regarding her dishevelment of attire in surprise as well as admiration. It was but yesterday noon that he had seen her in very different state, and had thought her charming then. But now--! She accepted his proffered hand, and stepped carefully past the boom and down into the pinnace, though Charles had never seen her do such a thing before. Usually she leaped past him and was at the tiller before he could cast the painter off.

"Better let me take the steering to-day, Deborah," observed Charles, as they swung away from the dock.

"Oh--does mademoiselle herself steer at times?" asked Claude, with the quaintly twisted s's and r's that Deborah loved to hear.

"Sometimes," she replied.

"River or bay, Deb?" inquired Carroll, bluffly.

"The river; and let us beat up along the other shore. 'Tis prettier."

"All right. Mind the sail now."

Deborah obediently ducked her head, but Claude, not understanding the observation, and being turned from the canvas, sat still as the heavy boom swung over. Charles shouted, and Deborah seized his arm, pulling him down just in time. When they were under way again, de Mailly sat straight and looked curiously at the sail.

"Ma foi comme j'étais bête!" he observed, smiling at the girl, who returned his glance. The incident had broken the little stiffness of her manner, a fact which the Frenchman perceived with relief. "You saved my unfortunate head another blow, Mistress Travis. I thank you for it."

"I am glad that I saw you," she answered. "Charles and I have both been knocked over with it. One does not always see."

"Faith, I should think not! I had Deborah senseless for a quarter of an hour here once--"

"Nonsense, Charles. It was not five minutes."

"Humph! It seemed half a day to me. There, are we near enough the bank now?"

"Yes. Let her out, and run free with the wind."

With this command, and a sigh of content, Deborah sank down at Carroll's feet, laid her head upon the seat, and said no more. Charles could feel a bit of her calico ruffle over his foot, and her shoulder close to his arm, and was perfectly happy in watching the sail and feeling the tiller quiver in his grasp. The stranger reclined on a cushion in the bottom of the boat, facing the stern, his eyes resting half the time upon Deborah, and half the time upon the silver wake of the little boat.

A more perfect afternoon the gods never contrived. The sun was by this time well on its descent, the west was a glare of glory, and the whole river caught its reflection and poured an endless golden ripple along the shores, upon whose deep velvet turf the yellow shadows were lengthening. From the bay, eastward, came a stiff salt breeze that stirred the lazy June air till it had revealed every flower-breath in the land, and was as rich as only June air can be. Farther up, the river narrowed and twined between its banks till Charles was obliged to tack in order to catch the wind. For the most part the shores were wooded and still; but every now and then came an opening through which one caught the glimpse of a red brick house with white windows and pillared portico gleaming through a mist of birch or willow branches. Occasionally a gull, just in from the ocean, would dart, arrow-like, into the water, churning it white with his dive, to reappear presently, holding a captive fish, scales flashing in the light, fast in his beak.

Claude de Mailly noted it all--all this natural beauty and perfumed silence that his life had lacked. It was entering into his nature at every pore of the flesh, and was to him as milk to a man dying of hunger and thirst. Only one unsatisfied desire was in his heart. And yet, was it easy to mourn, even for that, when, just before him, graceful, unconscious, careless, pure of brow, clear of eye, and with that mad hair clustering all about her neck, lay another woman, whose glance, every now and then encountering his own, would droop so swiftly that he could see the whiteness of her eyelids and the long, curling lashes that touched her delicately flushed cheeks? A new feeling was welling up in the courtier's heart--something that had never come before. He let it stay, nor tried to understand the reason for its being. But he knew that he was moved by the sight of Deborah, and instinctively he divined that his emotion was being echoed in her.

Deborah was cold, with a cold which the summer sun had no power to warm. But she had not found that chill in the salt, eastern wind. She knew and understood but half that was taking place this afternoon. She had waited for its like, without knowing what it might be, for a long time. Sir Charles had brought her something that emanated merely from himself; but here, at once, in the first glance ever given her by this other, while he had raved in fever, was all that she had dreamed of, and infinitely more. Had it been some weight that was crushing out her heart, she could only have opened wide her arms and fiercely welcomed it. It was not all de Mailly either, she thought, vaguely, as she felt Charles move the tiller. It was the whole day, the place, the sunlight, the river, even the imperturbable Carroll, who was silent for the sake of the air, and the water beneath the keel of his boat. The Severn was still swollen from heavy spring rains, and the shallows of later summer were covered now. Young Carroll presently ran the pinnace so close to the high north bank that a willow, growing in the water, sent out one pale, feathery arm that brushed Claude's head in passing. Deborah watched a long leaf draw over his neck, just below the ear. Taking the bough as it reached her, she pressed it half unconsciously to her forehead, looking up to find de Mailly smiling into her eyes. But when they emerged from the shadows he was looking beyond her, down the river, though the smile lingered still about his lips. Charles Carroll did not notice the incident. He was thinking of his pretty feat in steersmanship.

"Well, Deb," he said at last, "if I'm to get home for supper, we'll have to come about."

Deborah sighed, and acquiesced.

"Mind your head, then, sir," cried the boy, laughing.

And as de Mailly bent carefully over, he answered blithely: "Faith, sir, had you kept me out half an hour longer, I should so have lost my head that the boom could not have menaced it."

"Ay, the river's pretty."

"The most beautiful spot in the world--and seen with the most charming companions," returned the Count, bowing towards Deborah, but moving up to the high side as they came into the wind.

Deborah knew instantly that their afternoon was over, and she was chagrined that she had allowed him to be weary of her. Pushing Charles from the tiller, she suddenly took his place.

"There, now you shall rest, or unfasten the sheet and manage that while I wake myself up!" she said. And young Charles obediently moved up beside Claude and took unto himself the management of the sail, while Deborah, sitting straight to the freshening wind, shook herself out mentally, and fastened her thoughts upon the tiller. Now, indeed, as she brought the boat so close into the wind that the water swirled gently over the low side, de Mailly turned towards her again. He was willing to be upset if she liked; but he did not care to have an accident occur because he had made her absent-minded. Deborah, however, was not thinking of him at all. Her skilful hand was making the little vessel fly, and there would be no false moves on her part. When they came about upon the second tack the sail flapped for but one-quarter of a second. As it filled with a puff, the little yacht fairly leaped ahead.

"Jack me, Deb, if that wasn't the prettiest turn I ever saw!" cried young Charles, as he manipulated the sheet.

"'Twas half you, Charlie. I must have let her go had you not brought her up just at the right instant."

"And did Mistress Deborah learn the management of a boat under you, sir?" asked Claude.

"Mine and my father's."

Claude settled back and tried to bring his mind to other subjects; but for the moment Deborah had completely fascinated him. He could do nothing better than compare her to all those other women to whom she was indeed incomparable, to try to fathom the many expressions he had seen in her eyes, and seek to determine which was the normal one. And so they left behind the upper windings of the river and neared at last the wharf of the Trevor place. The sun hung low over the tree-tops as Deborah stepped from the boat and held out her hand to Charles.

"Indeed, I am beholden to you. We have never had so beautiful a sail."

"I trust, Mistress Travis, that it will not be the last in which I shall be permitted to join you?" put in Claude, hastily, as she courtesied to him, and would have been off.

"I trust not; but the pinnace is not mine. It is with Charles and Dr. Carroll that you must plead."

So, with that small politeness, Deborah turned towards the shore, wondering a little why she should have finished so perfect an afternoon in annoyance with herself and those who had been her companions. She passed slowly up through the orchard and across the road at the top of the bank. The plantation grounds seemed utterly deserted. The family must be at supper. Through the trees she caught a glimpse of the empty portico. Hurrying a little, she went close to the doorway of a small, vine-covered arbor which was but rarely used. Nevertheless, to-night, as she passed it, there came the sound of muffled sobs from within. Deborah halted, hesitated for an instant, and then entered the little place. Inside it was dusky, but she perceived at once the glimmer of something white in a corner.

"Who is it?" asked the girl, sharply.

The figure stirred, and perhaps made some attempt to reply; but the only result was another hoarse sob.

"Lucy! Lucy! what is it?" cried her cousin, running to her quickly. "Nay, now, pray don't cry so! Is't only Mr. Calvert's going with the commissioners, so that you mayn't have him to take you to Master Whitney's church? Listen! Virginia told me she'd go herself with you there."

"Oh, Debby dear, no, it's not that at all now," came more quietly.

"What, then? Try and tell me about it, Lucy. See, you are all crumpled up. Come out of this horrid place, and tell me about it. Come, now--come."

It was seldom that Lucy Trevor would have refused such persuasion, for she was a gentle little thing, and loved to be led. Now, however, she resisted all Deborah's kindly efforts to help her to rise, and only crouched closer in her corner, shaking with grief. Finally Deborah knelt and took the little dishevelled figure in her arms. Lucy had clung to her for a second, when a new voice interrupted them.

"Lucy--are you here?"

Virginia stood in the doorway. Lucy made no answer, but Deborah said: "Lucy's here, Virginia. What has happened?"

The elder daughter of the Trevors came forward and stood looking down at the two figures on the ground. "The Reverend George Rockwell has asked for Lucy's hand. She should be most proud. Come, Lucy, supper is standing, and the wedding's not till to-morrow. Why do you bear yourself like a child? Good God, Lucy, do you fancy a woman ever gets the man she loves?"