CHAPTER IX

The Rector, the Count, and Sir Charles

The day of the Governor's ball had been a dismal one for Claude. The few people whom he knew in the town were all agog over the prospect of the evening; and, since Governor Bladen had not heard of the residence of the Count de Mailly within his territory, the Count had very naturally received no invitation to the festivities. The hot day did not tempt Claude from his lodging. He stayed alone in his room, and in the evening, after a solitary walk, returned to it again, turning over an idea which had been growing on him for a week--that of leaving Annapolis. After all, its people were nothing to him. He would move on, as he should have done long before; and the girl, Deborah Travis, should occupy his thoughts no more. So thinking, with half his mind across the world, and his heart, did he but know it, all here, Claude sat, watching the hours, dreaming, as Fate had him do, from dusk into midnight with her moon and stars.

Down-stairs, in the common room of the peaceful ordinary, Miriam Vawse also kept a troubled watch, for the part that she was to play in the approaching scene began to appear to her as very doubtful in wisdom. As she sat alone in the warm night, beside her flickering candles, with the hours running relentlessly along, fear began to take possession of her. Half-past eleven struck from the steeple of St. Anne's. The moon was making the whole night luminous. Up Charles Street, presently, a flying shadow came, a dark, wavering thing, in round hood, flapping cape, and long, light, ruffled petticoats held up for running about two slender ankles. To the threshold of the tavern door the shadow passed, and there it halted. Claude, in his window above, saw and wondered, but did not stir.

There was a half inaudible tap upon her door. Miriam started and hearkened, half believing it her own nerves. Again the tap, more faintly than before; but now good Miriam ran to open the door.

"Good lack! Thou'rt come then, Debby!"

The hooded figure glided in and moved to the table, panting with the effects of the long run.

"Sit down--I will fetch some cordial."

Deborah sank into a chair, threw off hood and cape, and lifted a flushed face. When Miriam came to her with a cup of strong waters, she drank gratefully, and presently her expression softened to a smile.

"I'm here! I'm here! Think of it, Miriam!"

"And you'll leave my door again Lady Fairfield! Oh, Debby, Debby, is it right? Art sure I've done no wrong?"

"Oh, if there's any wrong, Miriam, 'tis mine." She was still for a moment, and then remarked: "Cousin Virginia was to marry him."

"I know. Madam told me long since."

"But he only asked for her two days ago--that is, madam and Vincent made him. And then--and then--"

"Then he told you," put in Miriam, glowing with romance.

"But where can he be? He was to come directly. He vowed he'd be here at once with George Rockwell. Oh, Miriam! If he shouldn't come!"

"Lord! How can you think of such things!" cried Mistress Vawse, hurrying to the window. Deborah followed her nervously.

"I'm sure he'll not come!" she cried, in sudden despair.

"He'll come. He'll come. Now sit down again quietly. There. That's comfortable. And so you love him dearly. How long has it been? All the summer? D'ye know, Debby, once I thought 'twasn't Sir Charles. I didn't know. I thought 'twas him."

Mistress Vawse swept her thumb mysteriously upward towards the stairs. Suddenly into Deborah's cheeks rose two vivid spots of color. She made no answer to the woman's questions. But, indeed, there was not time now. Footsteps were halting at the threshold, and there came a light, masculine tap at the door. Miriam flew to open it. Deborah rose unsteadily. Fairfield and Rockwell together entered the room.

Sir Charles went quickly to the girl's side, while the rector stayed behind to say a few words to Mistress Vawse, who was an ardent parishioner of his. Deborah remained passive as her lover caressingly lifted her hand to his lips, and looked at her with deep-seated feeling.

"Miss Travis, permit me to salute you for the second time this evening, and to congratulate you upon such a prospect of romantic happiness as is now opening to your vision," remarked Rockwell, with his most Johnsonian air, as he came forward.

"Since it is in your power alone to bestow that happiness, George, let us, for God's sake, be about it!" exclaimed Fairfield, in a passionately low voice.

Three members, at least, of the little party were growing extremely nervous. Deborah's courage, which had borne her in perfect quiet so far, was beginning to falter. Sir Charles was unreasonably fearful of some interruption. Miriam Vawse was in the same plight, her eyes being fixed continually on the fast-barred door. Rockwell alone was quite at his ease.

"Now then, Mistress Vawse, another candle or two. Charles will stand the expense; for I vow I must have light enough to tell the lady from her husband."

Deborah quivered at the last word, which, indeed, Rockwell had thrown at her.

There was a dead silence as Miriam placed three more candles on the table, and lit them at the flame of the first. Then the clergyman took from one of the pockets of his coat the prayer-book, and motioned the two to move back a little towards the empty fireplace. Deborah's heart had almost stopped beating, and her throat was so strained that she could not have spoken a word. Sir Charles, taking her arm, gently drew her to his side, and looked to Rockwell, who stood in front of them. He began to speak softly, omitting not a word of the service, even the address to the people assembled, now solely represented by Mistress Vawse, who was supporting herself against the table.

"'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God--'"

"Oh!" cried Sir Charles, with a sudden start, "we were to have had another fellow--a witness--that de Mailly--don't you know, George?"

"I am here," came in a low tone from the stairs.

"Lord!" cried Mistress Vawse, on the verge of collapse. Four pairs of startled eyes were lifted to where Claude, who had heard the sound of voices in his room and started to come down to learn more of the midnight arrivals, had halted in his descent, Rockwell's words in his ears.

After the sharp pause, the rector was first to speak: "Well, now that he's here, we'll go on. Come down, sir, and be witness to this marriage."

Claude was very white as he replied, with his slight accent: "I will remain here. I can see and hear quite perfectly, if I am necessary."

"Go on, then! Go on!" cried Sir Charles, wiping his brow.

"'--and in the face of this company to join together this man and--'"

"No--no--stop!"

In amazement, Rockwell obeyed the huskily whispered command. It was from Deborah, and Deborah now, her cheeks feverishly flushed, eyes brilliant, lips parted, and breath quickened, moved, as if drawn by magnetism, from Fairfield's side to the stairs. After a moment of confused silence, Fairfield said, with unnatural calm:

"What is it, Deborah? Come back."

"No."

"Come back."

"No."

"Don't you understand? What is the matter? What are you doing?"

"I--I'll not marry you."

"Deborah!"

After that cry from Fairfield there was silence. The rector, Sir Charles, and Miriam Vawse stood as if petrified, staring at the girl, who faced them with quiet, dogged resolution written in her face. Claude, from the stairs, looked down upon her, scarcely surprised, perhaps, but with a very gentle light in his eyes. His deliberate descent into the room was the first move made by any one. Going over to Rockwell's side, he laid a finger on the clergyman's arm:

"This wedding--it is--what you call--legal?"

"Perfectly!" snapped Rockwell, in anger.

"There's no license," remarked Deborah, slowly.

"Indeed, Miss Travis, I protest--it isn't necessary. This is perfectly legal. It is customary--quite customary. You will have the oaths of two witnesses; though, indeed, with Sir Charles's honor, those are not needed. Let us go on at once."

"Sure you must go on now, Miss Debby. Think of the time o' night!"

"Come--come, child," and Fairfield started towards her, with a little gleam of anger in his eyes.

Deborah shrank back against the stairs; but, lo! with an adroit movement, Claude was at her side, with evident intention of interposing.

"You shall not use force," he remarked, quietly.

"-- -- you! You French hound! Out of my way! I'll have you know your place!"

"I am aware of my place, Sir Charles Fairfield." He stepped quickly in front of Deborah. "If this lady is forced into any action contrary to her desire, it shall be because my sword is broken."

There was barely a second's pause, then came a little whipping sound as two blades were drawn. Claude sprang on guard as Fairfield lunged. There was a flash of steel. The Frenchman made the riposte, and his sword just pierced the white ruffled shirt of his opponent, breaking the skin. The lieutenant paid no attention to it. De Mailly returned into tierce, and parried the second attack with immaculate grace. Rockwell, his eyes wide with interest, dropped his book and came over to watch the duel. It did not endure, however. After Sir Charles' third unsuccessful attempt to break the French guard, he felt his sword-blade seized, lifted, and himself pushed back. Claude's blade dropped. Deborah had taken command of the situation. Drawing Sir Charles' sword out of his passive hand, she gave it to Miriam Vawse, who had sunk into a chair, on the verge of hysteria. In helpless amazement she received the rapier, finding strength nevertheless to rise and go with it towards the stairs as Deborah spoke to her in whispered imperative. Presently, then, Deborah was alone with the rector, the Count, and Sir Charles. All three paid tribute to her supremacy with expectant silence. Fairfield was sunk in desperate dejection, Rockwell merely amazed, Claude mentally reeling, for the horizon of his life was changed. It was a blank no longer. Many things were taking shape upon it. He was prepared, when Deborah took two or three hesitating steps towards him, and said, in a half-whisper:

"I must go back--to Dr. Carroll's. Will you--take me?"

With a glad light in his face, he came at once to her side. "I thank you, mademoiselle, for the honor you offer me. My life is yours."

"Let us go, then," she said, her voice low and trembling dangerously.

Suddenly Charles Fairfield rushed forward and, seizing both her hands, fell upon his knees. "Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! I love you! In the name of God Almighty, give me some hope! I meant everything honestly--honorably--do you hear? The marriage would have been legal. Rockwell will swear that to you. What right have you--Debby! Debby, you promised! Is it true that you don't care?"

Deborah drew away from him as far as she could. Her face was drawn and weary, and no light in her eyes answered his entreaties. Claude, who had watched her narrowly, now interposed. Grasping the other's hands, he forced them, with a single twist, from Deborah's helpless ones, and then, with that kind of brute strength that comes to all men at times, he lifted the Englishman bodily to his feet, thrust him back, took Deborah gently about the waist, and carried her to the door. Opening it, he turned around. Miriam Vawse, from the stairway, saw his face as she had never beheld it before, white, set, triumphant, his greenish eyes blazing like jewels as he cried out to Fairfield, who was stiff with fury:

"We will meet--where you like, when you like, how you like, but not in the presence of ladies, monsieur."

The door closed, and Claude and Deborah were alone together in the still, white moonlight. She walked herself, now, only clinging fast to his arm, and trembling with the strain of the long evening. They were half-way to the doctor's before either spoke. Then Deborah whispered, just audibly:

"You must not fight--for me. I am not worthy."

"I have fought for far slighter things than this. But do not be alarmed. There will not be much blood shed."

Deborah shuddered, but was silent. She longed unutterably to try to justify herself to this man, to explain the reason for her behavior; and, as if divining her thought, he presently asked, quietly:

"How, mademoiselle, did you come to do this thing? Do you love this Sir Charles? Did you think of the imprudence?"

Suddenly all thoughts but one fled from her. This one she voiced with quick eagerness: "I do not love Sir Charles! Indeed--indeed--believe me--I do not love him."

Instinctively Claude's arm tightened upon hers, but he said no more. He was too chivalrous a man to take any advantage of the time, the place, and their solitude. Deborah waited vainly for a word from him. When at last they stood at the doctor's gate, she whispered:

"I'll go in alone. I--can't thank you to-night. Good-bye."

One hand of hers he took, and the moonlight and the woodbine kissed each other as he touched it to his lips.

"Good-night," he said. And then, without more, he let her go, saw her pass up to the door, in her pale dress and light cloak, with hooded head bent low. He heard her knock, and presently saw the door opened by a sleepy servant. Then he turned away, back towards the tavern of Miriam Vawse.

Deborah felt no nervousness on entering the doctor's house. It had not occurred to her to dread lest the family had returned from the ball. In point of fact, the last reel was, at this moment, just beginning at the palace. The doctor's slave, therefore, received the young lady in dull surprise.

"I had a headache, Jeremiah," she explained, faintly. "I came home--with one of the Governor's house-blacks. Where's the candle?"

"Heah, Miss Travis. Yo' want su'th'n t' eat, p'haps?"

"Oh yes, yes, Jerry. Send Leah up with a cup of posset and some bread. That's all."

"Yes'm. Lor! Yo' done got headache fo' shuah!" he muttered, watching the candle that she held shake so that the flame was endangered, as she passed up the stairs to bed.