The Black Box 20

The Black Box 20

For a moment I was tempted to trust the fellow and tell everything, but

wisdom pointed otherwise.

 

"In fear of anyone!" I echoed with a mocking laugh. "Nay, save me that,

I pray you. ’Twas but an idle fancy, nothing else. I only wondered

(foolishly enough) if Stark could have been one of them."

 

"Stark!" cried Coram, springing back. "Now, by my life, how came you to

think that?"

 

"An idle fancy, as I said before, and nothing else. These fellows gave

the password of the night, and so were friends. They used my name; and,

pray, why not, when it is free to all? Enough, let’s say no more about

it." I stopped and looked at him, then put a last, most daring

question, saying: "I wonder if our godly chaplain knows Israel Stark or

Tubal Ammon (to give him both his names). Think you he does?"

 

On hearing this, John Coram drew away, and stared at me as though I had

gone daft; then, throwing back his head, laughed loud and long.

 

"Ho! ho! if that be not a merry jest, then show me one," cried he.

"Doth Master Ferguson know Israel Stark? Oh, by my life, ’tis

good--’tis passing good. But, look you, friend, I’ll answer it by asking

thee a question. Doth Satan mix with angels?"

 

"It seems to me it may be so," I answered darkly.

 

John Coram started back, and cast a swift, uneasy glance at me.

 

"What mean you by such words as those?" he asked.

 

"Naught," I answered quickly; "nor must I tarry longer. Remember, five

gold pieces if you bring me certain news of Tubal Ammon’s whereabouts;

and here, by way of token, is a crown-piece on account."

 

"Thou art a rare good fellow, friend," he murmured, staring at the coin;

"strange, indeed, but passing good. Nor will I fail thee. True, there

is much mystery in the matter, yet I ask no questions. We both want

Israel Stark--that’s quite enough for me. Yea, ’tis a handsome bargain,

friend, and I, John Coram, will stick unto it like glue."

 

He held a big rough hand out, and I grasped it tightly, for,

notwithstanding too much ale and a rather muddled pate, I looked upon

him as a kind of brother.

 

"Yes," said I, "’tis true there is some mystery in this affair; but, as

we have one end in view, that matters nothing. Let us not fail each

other, that is all."

 

"Aye, true," said he; "but, look you, friend, ’tis said the Duke rides

out of Lyme within a day or two from now. What then?"

 

"Ah! what then?"

 

"Well, go you with us?"

 

"I know not where I go," I answered, turning with my hand upon the

door-latch; "but much may happen ere the Duke rides forth. In the

meantime I will not lose sight of you; rely on that."

 

With that I would have gone, but Coram stopped me.

 

"Stay! one moment, friend," said he, raising his blinking eyes no higher

than my waist-belt. "That small affair about thy horse last night. Is

it forgiven me?"

 

"Forgiven and forgotten," I replied.

 

He heaved a mighty sigh; and I went forth to seek the "godly chaplain".

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XII*

 

*How I was Saved from Rashness*

 

 

Turning down a stone-flagged passage, I made for a small, snug parlour,

where I had oft held private converse with the landlord and his daughter

Miriam, especially the latter. I found the door wide open and the room

deserted, but that did not prevent my entering, for indeed the house had

ever been a sort of second home to me; and, as things were just then, I

did not crave for any company, and silence seemed a blessed thing.

 

So, standing with my hands behind me, and back towards the empty

fire-place, I took swift thought, if thought it could be called--for

what a medley filled my brain! John Coram’s words had let in such a

blinding light upon the question nearest to my heart that I was fairly

dazzled and bewildered by it. Thus, there was the mischief-working

demon with two names; his meeting on the previous night with Ferguson,

not a stone-throw from the spot where I was standing; their slinking by

the very man who was as zealous to kill Ammon as I was myself; and,

finally, the mocking thought that, in his ignorance, John Coram looked

on the murderous chaplain as a thing of spotless righteousness--fit

company for angels.

 

A bitter laugh escaped me when I thought of that, and what the

ale-soaked trooper would have said and looked like if I had told him all

I knew about his saintly reverence.

 

This led me to consider whether I could trust myself so far as to look

on Ferguson just then--supposing Coram had been right in stating he was

with the Duke. For might I not, in spite of cooler, better judgment, be

constrained to fire a pistol at him, and thereby bring swift death upon

me? Yes, in my then fierce, desperate state, it seemed most likely that

I should thus lose myself. What then? Why, to begin with, Tubal Ammon

would live on, unless John Coram found and settled with him--which I

doubted, for indeed there seemed in him no sort of match for Ammon’s

wriggling craftiness. Thus, in attempting to kill Ferguson (and such a

wild excited shot might easily miss its mark!) I should be foiled of

doing that which lay still nearer to my heart’s desire. Again, my

father must be buried on the morrow, and that he should be laid to rest

without his son to mourn him was unthinkable.

 

No, my life, barren and blighted though it was, must not be risked that

night, too much depended on it. For a time, at least, I must restrain

myself, meet craftiness with craft and guile with guile.

 

These thoughts, which were so strange a mixture of cold reckoning and

burning hate, left me where I had been. A hot and overmastering desire

was on me to watch Ferguson, gloat over him, and see how one who had so

vilely bargained for my father’s death could play the part of holiness

before Duke Monmouth and his followers. The very words with which he

had thus bartered life for gold rang in my ears; and once again the

vision of my father’s white set face rose up before me. And then I

muttered something, loosed my sword within its sheath, and cast a

hungering glance down at the pistols in my belt.

 

From close at hand there came the heavy tramp of those who went to join

the "Cause", while from the street beyond the cries of "Liberty and pure

religion!" rose and fell unceasingly.

 

With curling lip I listened for a space to what, for me, was now a

bitter mockery, by reason of one Ferguson the Plotter; then with

tight-clenched teeth I strode across the room, bent on I scarce know

what, though if ever man had thought of murder in his heart that had I

just then. But ere I reached the door there came the rustle of a dress,

and Miriam, the landlord’s daughter, stood before me.

 

It may have been the altered look upon my face, or simply great surprise

at seeing me, which was the cause of it, I know not; but with a little

cry she clasped her hands and started back, while I stood dumb as

Lucifer before an angel.

 

I tried to murmur something, but I could not; nor was there any need;

for now she came to me, took both my hands in hers, and looking up with

big sad eyes, said softly:

 

"Oh, Michael, I am very, very sorry for thee."

 

Her sweet voice trembled, and her pretty head was bowed.

 

Those were the gentlest, truest words that I had heard throughout that

awful day, and so there is no shame in saying that I could not answer

her. Instead I drew her close, and for a moment there was silence in

that little room. The setting sun shone in upon us; and, for a time at

least, I knew what power a woman has to save man from himself.

 

This is no tale of love, nor, if it were, would this be any place in

which to prate of it; but yet I should be something of a thankless

coward were I not to state that Miriam Hope was very dear to me. We had

been friends from childhood, and looking backward through the long, long

years I know how much I owe to her. And speaking of that night, she

saved me from I know not what mad act.

 

"And how came you here?" she asked, when we had talked a while of other

things.

 

"By the side door yonder," I replied.

 

"Ah, verily," sighed she, "the front is crowded like a fair. The

fearful din hath made my head ache sorely. How, think you, Michael, will

this sorry business end?"

 

"I fear in hanging for the most part, Miriam," was my answer.

 

"Ah, that is what my father says. ’Tis terrible to think of."

 

"And so the Duke is in the Great Room yonder?"

 

"Yes, and a very gracious, kindly gentleman he seems. His smile is very

sweet. Aye, ’tis a thousand pities that he ever landed on so wild a

business."

 

"Yes, ten thousand pities," I agreed, though not because I thought of

Monmouth’s peril.

 

"My father says he cannot win."