CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH FATE TAKES THE HELM

AS the three conspirators emerged from the companionway one after another, they made a forlorn picture of disappointment, so chapfallen were the faces of all. Philpotts stood still, his shaggy eyebrows drawn into a frown, and under them a pair of eyes that threatened resistance. 'Twas as if Sancho Panza had come to the end of his patience with Don Quixote, and thought it time that common-sense took control for the good of all concerned.

Romney twisted his cap and looked at Peggy, who bit her lips to keep back the tears which, in spite of her will, were gathering in her eyes, and standing large on the fringe of her lashes.

As Christopher watched her, he felt his courage ebbing so fast that he must either yield or smile. He chose the latter.

"Troth," cried he, "'tis as though you were condemned criminals and I the judge. For having connived at the escape of a prisoner, I do sentence you to a happy life forever after, but in the present case to be balked of your good intent. Wherefore I am bound for St. Mary's, there to surrender myself to Sheriff Ellyson; but 'tis no part of my plan to give you up too. So if you are minded to risk the trip across the bay without yonder shallop bobbing along behind us like an empty cork, I'll e'en borrow it, when we are within a mile of the town and then--" here he paused and swallowed hard for a minute, "then, tried friends and true, we'll say good-bye for a while and you must continue on your way."

"Let them go, then, since thou wilt have it so, and we will make our way safe to St. Mary's, thou and I."

It was Peggy who spoke, coming close to her brother and looking up at him with unwavering love in her eyes.

"Nay, nay, little sister," said Christopher, gathering her soft hand into his. "That will not content me neither. Thou art well-nigh a part of myself, and it will content me much, whate'er betides, to feel that one part at least is happy. I will not have thee go back where thou must be made wretched by hearing hard words of thy brother, and be looked down upon by all. Huntoon, thou hast in right manful fashion declared thy love for my sister Margaret here. I venture not to give her answer. That must thou win from her thyself, and perchance 'tis not yet ready for the giving; but I trust her in thy keeping. Take her back to thy mother! She will, I know, receive her tenderly, for I am familiar with the repute of Mistress Huntoon's hospitality."

Huntoon came swiftly forward and grasped Neville's other hand, which released its hold on the tiller as Philpotts took the helm. Tears stood in the lad's eyes.

"Be sure," he said, "that your sister shall be treated with that love and reverence which are her due, nor shall she be hurried to any decision she might after regret. To my mother she will be dear as a daughter of her own."

Men are prone to believe in a family welcome to their loves as warm as their own. It does not always fall out according to expectation, but Romney Huntoon knew his mother's heart, which was soft to a folly, especially to young and unhappy lovers; she herself having suffered much, 'twas said, in her youth.

"'Tis well," said Neville, clasping Huntoon's hand on his right almost as firmly as he held his sister's on the other side. "Thou art a man after my own heart; and if thou dost win this little sister of mine, be tender, be gentle to her whimsies, of which she hath a full assortment; but keep the whip hand, my friend, keep the whip hand! And now one more charge I pray thee accept for my sake. This good Master Philpotts,--he is not made for a roving life, as his sea-sickness but now did bear witness, yet hath he without a murmur left farm and implements and all means of earning a livelihood to help me out of this hard place."

"Yes, and if thou wert a wiser man, thou wouldst stay helped and not go throwing thyself back into the pit from which we ha' digged you."

"Have thy fling, good friend Philpotts! Having never laid claim to wisdom, I am not over-sensitive to the charge of lacking it; but what I would say to Master Huntoon was this, that if my lands at home in England be not confiscate, I do intend them as a dowry for my sister. I would counsel that they be sold and land taken up in Virginia, where Philpotts may have a farm and implements as many as he left and whatsoever more is needed."

Philpotts tried to speak, but could not. The tears choked him. He gulped and bent over the tiller. Peggy, too, was crying hard, and Huntoon sat with steady gaze fixed upon Christopher.

The silence that fell upon the little group continued long. So much must be said if that silence were once broken! So bowed down were their hearts that it seemed quite natural that the sunshine should fade out of the sky and a universal grayness slowly spread itself over the sea.

Philpotts was first to speak. "Look yonder, Captain!" he said, pointing Huntoon to the eastward; "is that yonder Watkins Point or a bank of fog?"

"That's the Point. No, it cannot be the Point either,--'tis too far south for that; besides, it looms as we look. It is drawing nearer, and the fogs do drift in with marvellous quickness in these waters. Give _me_ the helm!"

"'Tis unlucky," murmured Neville, "for 'tis not the easiest thing in the world in the brightest weather to make one's way past all these headlands, they are so much alike. What's that craft yonder by the wooded point?"

Huntoon made a glass of his two hands. "She hath the look of a packet sloop outward bound, somewhat heavy laden too, for she lies low in the water and goes slowly with a fair wind."

"How far away is she?"

"A matter of a mile, I should say."

"Ay," put in Philpotts, "and she hath seen the fog too, and is setting all sail to make what way she can before it strikes her."

The air grew colder as the sky clouded, and Huntoon brought Peggy's red cape from below and wrapped it close about her. She thanked him with a smile that he thought the sweetest and the saddest thing he had ever seen.

The fog was closing in on them now, and the wind dropped before it. The rail dripped with the chill dampness, and the sails flapped heavily as they swung over the deck whenever the vessel changed her course.

"Peggy dear, wilt thou not go below and keep warm?" said Christopher's voice.

"Nay, let me stay by thee whilst I can; and, Kit, if I obey thee in this, mind, 'tis only that I may help thee more. Romney--Master Huntoon--hath friends in the colony who are sure to sift this matter to the last. And it will go hard but we find some way to bring thee aid and comfort yet."

"Philpotts, can you see how we are heading?"

"No, faith, Master Huntoon, no more than if I were blindfold. The wind is dead ahead now; but whether it hath shifted or the boat hath run off its course, I know not."

"Hearken!" cried Peggy, putting her hand to her ear. "Did ye hear no noise? Methought I caught a sound as of a horn or a distant bell. Perchance 'twas the church bell ringing for noonday prayers. I heard them telling of some saint's day celebrated to-day."

All the men stood listening. Neville rose and running along the deck climbed to the bowsprit to listen again. Suddenly he cried out at the top of his voice, "Boat ahoy! Ahoy there!"

Too late! The three huddled together in the stern were aware of a large vessel looming up and up above them, rising with the rising wave, and then lunging forward full upon _The Lady Betty_. Huntoon clasped Peggy in his arms as though he could shield her thus from the inevitable crash. Philpotts dropped the helm and rushed forward to drag back Neville. Again too late. The two boats met with a shock.

By good luck when Philpotts dropped the helm, _The Lady Betty_ had veered away from the larger vessel, so that the packet's bowsprit, having crashed against her, bumped along against the side, knocking away rail and stanchion, and staving a hole in her, deep and dangerous but not instantly fatal. For one instant all drew a breath of relief at the deadly peril passed. Then, to their dismay, they heard Philpotts crying out, "He's overboard! The bowsprit hit him!"

"Overboard!" cried Peggy; "but he is a famous swimmer, surely he can reach the boat."

Even as she spoke, something white rose to the surface and sank again, and Peggy knew it for Christopher's face with death in it, and but for Romney's strong arm around her, she, too, would have thrown herself into that cold grave.

"Let me go to him!" she shrieked aloud in her anguish of soul. "O Kit! Dead! Dead!"

The words seemed to fall dully on the surrounding wall of fog. No sound; not even an echo answered. Away to the right a single sail flitted ghostlike, showing no hull to support it. On the left close at hand loomed the packet which had wrought so much harm.

Save for these the waters were bare of life, and the girl in the ketch sat looking with frozen gaze, as if she had seen the Gorgon's head, at that spot unmoved now by so much as a ripple, that silent grave which had opened and closed again over a life precious to her beyond aught else that earth held.

As she gazed, she was seized by a sudden madness, following hard upon the stony stillness.

"I will go! I will!" she screamed, struggling with Romney's grasp, which held like steel. She was as powerless in that clasp as a bird in a gauntleted hand.

Of her sense of powerlessness a new emotion was born, a nameless quivering thing that nestled in the heart of her desolation and in that moment of deepest despair struck a peace.