CHAPTER XXI

A ROOTED SORROW

Before the last guest had taken his departure from Romney the red sun came bobbing up across the river and shot his rays in at the window.

There is a sarcastic common-sense about the morning sun on such occasions. "Was it all worth while?" he seems to ask. "Consider the labor of preparation, the rushing about of the servants, the hours that my lady spent before her mirror with patch and powder-puff, the effort my fine gentleman expended upon his ruffles and falling bands. Then the occasion itself, the weary feet that trod the measure long after the toilsome pleasure had ceased to please, the lips that murmured sentiment knowing it was nonsense, the eyes that reversed the old moral maxim and strove to beam and not to see--Reflect upon all these and then sum up the aftermath,--the disordered rooms, the guttering candles, the faded flowers, the regretted vows, the heavy eyelids, the aching heads. Now, was it all worth while?"

The answer of the overnight revellers would doubtless depend chiefly on age and temperament. Young men and maidens would reply that it was none of the sun's business; that he had never been at a ball, and did not know what he was talking about, and for themselves they preferred to reserve their confidences for the sympathetic moon, who, being so much younger than the sun, could better understand youthful experiences and emotions.

Certainly that is what Romney Huntoon would have said. The commonplace day annoyed him. His mood was too sentimental for its searching light. He had slept little, and now at near noon hung about the foot of the stairway wondering at what time it would occur to Mistress Margaret Neville to come down.

When she did appear disappointment was in store for him. She seemed to have forgotten wholly that little scene on the terrace, and when he held out his hand with her ring, that blessed little ring upon it, she only courtesied and asked if his mother were yet down stairs.

At breakfast it was little better: she raved over Colonel Theophilus Payne, praised the bearing of Councillor Claiborne, said how she doted upon army men, commended the curls of one cavalier and the bearing of another,--all as if no such youth as Romney Huntoon had ever crossed her path.

Romney avowed his intention of spending the afternoon in his boat on the river. Peggy thought it an excellent plan, and purposed retiring to her room unless Mistress Huntoon had need of her.

Mistress Huntoon had _no_ need of her. In fact, in reviewing last night's events she felt that Peggy had treated her son rather badly, and she was inclined to make the culprit feel it, too. It must be admitted that justice is never so unrelenting as when Rhadamanthus has been up overnight. On another occasion excuses might have been found for the girl, but this morning she was pronounced unquestionably vain and presumably heartless,--in short, Elizabeth Huntoon was out of temper.

It was not much better with her husband. He was uneasy over the approaching visit of William Claiborne, and annoyed with himself that he had not had the wit to devise an excuse. He knew well Claiborne's insubordinate temper, and had no mind to be drawn into any of his schemes.

Peggy alone worked away at her stitching in exasperating content. At length Romney could bear it no longer. He rose, thrust his hands into his pockets and rushed out, opening the door with his head as he went, like a goat butting a wall.

Peggy smiled, and the smile brought a frown to the face of her hostess.

"Romney is not over well this morning, I fear," said his mother.

"I thought he was not behaving well--I mean not behaving as if he were well."

"He hath much to try him."

"That is hard to believe, in this beautiful home and with thee for a mother."

Elizabeth tapped the floor with her slipper.

"'Twere well for young men if a mother's love sufficed them."

"Ho! ho!" laughed Humphrey, roused from his abstraction by the tilt between the two women. "Faith, good wife, I felt the need of another love than my mother's, and I look not to see Romney more filial than I."

"Oh, you may make a jest of me," began Elizabeth, stiffly; but there was a catch in her voice which led Peggy to throw down her netting, and run across the room to kneel beside her. "_I_ need a mother's love more than any," she whispered.

Elizabeth's anger weakened.

"Tell me where Romney has gone and I will follow and strive to make my peace."

For answer Mistress Huntoon pointed through the window to where Romney sat on the edge of the wharf vexing the placid breast of the York River by a volley of pebbles, flipped between his thumb and forefinger.

As the boy sat thus idly occupied, his hand full of pebbles, his head full of bitter thoughts, his heart of a curious numbness, he felt a light touch on his shoulder, but he did not turn.

"Master Huntoon!"

No answer.

"Romney!"

"Ay."

"Of what art thou thinking?"

"Nothing."

"And what dost thou think of when thou art thinking of nothing?"

"A woman's promise."

"Hath some woman promised thee aught and failed thee?"

"Ay, it comes to the same thing. Eyes may speak promises as well as lips."

"Oh, yes, eyes may say a great deal, especially when they are angry eyes and look out from under drawn brows. I should scarce think any maid would dare wed a man with eyes that could look black when their color by nature is blue."

Clever Peggy to shift the ground of attack! Silly Romney to fall into the trap!

"I am not angry."

"Yes you are, and have been all the morning in a temper. I felt quite sorry for your mother, she was so shamed by it."

"What said she?"

"Oh, that you were not well, which is what mothers always say when their son's actions do them no credit."

"If my temper did me no credit, who drove me to it?"

Peggy raised her eyebrows, puckered her pretty lips, and looked straight up into the sky as if striving to solve a riddle.

"For my life I cannot guess," she said at last, "unless--unless it was that wretched woman who broke her promise."

"Thou hast keen insight for one of thy years."

"Then it was she!"

"It was no other."

"Tell me her name, that I may go to her and denounce her to her face."

"Strangers know her as Mistress Margaret Neville. To her friends she is plain Peggy. Now denounce her to her face if thou wilt."

Tripping to the edge of the bank, the girl bent over till she could catch the reflection of her curls and dancing eyes in the water.

"Plain Peggy," she said, shaking her finger at the image below with a wicked smile, "you must be a bad baggage. It seems you have broken your promise to marry a gentleman here, and such a perfect gentleman! he says so himself,--one who never gets angry, never butts with his head at doors, never shames his mother. Why, plain Peggy, you must be a fool to lose such a chance; but since you have thrown away such a treasure, I trust you will meet the punishment you do deserve, and that he will go away and never--_never_--NEVER speak--to you again!"

With this Peggy turned sharply on her heel, burning with curiosity to see the effect of her words. Poor, discomfited little maiden! Romney had withdrawn to the edge of the wharf, and there, close beside her, with his horse's bridle over his arm, stood Councillor Claiborne.

With no attempt at salutation Peggy clapped her hands over her burning cheeks, and ran, yes, ignominiously ran, toward the house. At the door she met Mistress Huntoon. "Councillor Claiborne is--is--coming," she stammered breathlessly.

"Why didst thou not stay to speak with him?" But Peggy attempted no answer, only fled on indoors.

When Humphrey had been left alone, by Peggy's exit to the wharf and his wife's withdrawal to the offices, his thoughts turned with renewed irritation to Claiborne, till Christopher's entrance shed its usual benison of tranquillity. The glimpse of the ball which Neville had caught from over the stairway had lingered in his mind as a charming vision. The lights cheered him, and the music had lulled him to sweet slumber, from which he had wakened at peace with the world, yet with a haze of the Indian-summer sadness over the serenity.

After breakfast, Neville and Huntoon sat by the open door smoking their pipes in that social silence so dear to men, so difficult to women.

"Neville," said his host at length, breaking the long quiet, "you look better to-day than at any time since you came to Romney."

"Oh, I am well enough."

"Your tone hath somewhat of discouragement in it."

"I do feel a certain sadness of late, as if I were ever grasping for something I could not see, much less reach. It doth often seem to me that I and you and all of us here at Romney are shut out from the world by a wall of fog, not dark, because it is ofttimes flooded by sunlight, but heavy, dense, dull. It is like a thick curtain with vague distances in it, like the distances between the sun and the earth, and through these spaces float familiar scenes and faces, and all the while I feel that if I could grasp one word it would prove a clue to guide me through the spaces from one scene to another; but the word--a name, I think it is--will not come, and when I think on it too hard I seem to hear an echo murmuring 'Far away, far away.' Then the whole vision fades, and I come back to you and Mistress Huntoon and the rest; and yet it is as if only half of me came back, and half were still wandering through these vague, gray spaces of mist, following the name. Think you I shall ever find it?"

Touched to the quick, Huntoon opened his lips to speak. "Is the name--"

At that point his attention was caught by a stranger's voice outside the door saying, "I am surprised to see you abroad so early after last night's mighty merry dance, Mistress Huntoon."

"I am honored that you found it so merry, Councillor," said Elizabeth.

"Ay, all counted it the most brilliant festivity yet given in Virginia, and as for the young Maryland beauty, she has turned the heads of half the cavaliers in York County."

"Some heads are set on pivots, and turn to each new face," answered Elizabeth, irritably conscious that Romney and Peggy were both within hearing.

"Perhaps, but many of these heads will find some difficulty in turning another way. Captain Snow raved all the way home over her charms, and Colonel Payne swore her coming had gone far to do away with his grudge toward Maryland; and by the way, the name reminds me that I came to see your husband on a matter of somewhat urgent business. Is he within?"

"I left him in the hall," Elizabeth replied, leading the way back to the house, and turning back after she had waved the new-comer to enter.

"Good-morning, Master Huntoon!"

"Ah, Claiborne, you look as though you had had even less sleep than I."

"I do suspect 'tis true, for I have been in the saddle since dawn."

"You must have pressing affairs on hand."

"Most pressing, and it is concerning them that I am come to consult with you privately."

A certain emphasis on the last word caused Huntoon to glance toward Neville, who was scrutinizing the inside of his pipe, and had scarcely noted the stranger's entrance.

"Go on," said Huntoon, "it is quite safe. I'll be warrant for the close mouth of my friend here. Besides," here he drew back behind Neville, and tapped his forehead significantly, "he is a stranger here, and neither cares nor knows anything of our entanglements."

"Then, Master Huntoon, I will make a clean breast of the matter that brought me hither. You are a Virginian, and a man of honor."

"Certainly the former, and I have some hopes of the latter."

"Then join us in our effort to wrest away the land which the perfidious Calverts have stolen under guise of royal grant from the Commonwealth."

"'Stolen' is a strong word, Councillor."

"Not too strong to fit the occasion. Was not the license to trade with the natives along the Maryland shore granted to me by the government of Virginia, and afterward by the King himself?"

"It was."

"Was it not under authority of Virginia that I made a settlement at Kent Island?"

"Yes, but--"

"Did not Kent belong to Virginia by right of a charter antedating the patent of that upstart, Calvert?"

"The Commissioners in England decided differently."

"Ay, of course wire-pulling will always move the wires."

Huntoon's only response was a non-committal smile.

"You may remember, Councillor Huntoon, that this same question came before the Virginia Council ten years ago, that I did ask the opinion of that honorable body as to whether I should yield to Baltimore's claims. The board answered that they wondered how any such question could be asked, that they knew no reason why they should give up their rights in the Isle of Kent more than any other formerly granted to Virginia by His Majesty's patent, and that I was in duty bound to maintain the rights and privileges of our colony."

"But that was before the decision of the Commission."

"Ay, but that goes for nothing. 'Twas unjust, unfair, and should be unrecognized."

"Who are concerned in your present plan?" asked Huntoon.

"Half the planters along the river."

"And who is to be the leader?"

"I believe they look to me; but I shall not be alone in the responsibility. My friend, Captain Ingle, is already anchored in the bay with his ship _The Reformation_."

"Richard Ingle?"

"The same, and a gallant spark he is. Last winter Governor Brent had him tossed on to his vessel like a bag of grain, and the ship ordered off in mad haste as though she had the plague aboard. Ingle swore revenge then; but matters were in too ticklish a stage at home 'twixt King and Parliament to admit of his proceeding too fast. Now things are clearer, and he has come back with ammunition, armed with letters of marque from Parliament, and purposes to make hot work in more senses than one at St. Mary's."

Neville stopped playing with his pipe and brushed his hand across his forehead.

"Then what you purpose is an immediate raid," said Huntoon.

"That's it. You're not one that takes long to grasp a situation, and so I told Ingle. We are to set sail to-morrow to a point in the bay where we look to find _The Reformation_ awaiting us, and then under cover of night we shall slip through the mouth of the Potomac River and be in the town ere daybreak. That, I fancy, will be a surprise indeed for Calvert, who, I hear, is lately come back from England, and fancies his little kingdom here secure from all invaders. Now, what say you? May we count on you and your son to be on the wharf with your firearms to-morrow, an hour or so past noon?"

"You may not."

Claiborne started.

"You are not ready, then, to hazard anything for the honor of Virginia."

"Pardon me; I never gave any man the right to say that, but neither gave I any man charge over my conscience to tell me what was needful to sustain my honor or that of the Commonwealth. For my part I see in this raid you do propose an outrage on the rights of a sister colony, an outrage sure to be resented and sometime revenged, and meanwhile to sow seeds of dissension among the little handful of civilized white men scattered along this unfriendly coast."

"Forgive me," sneered Claiborne; "I had quite mistook both your character and your inclination. My time is too short to listen to longer sermon-making, the more as I must seek further for brave men who have stomach for a fight."

Huntoon bowed coldly and made a step toward the door. Claiborne hesitated.

"I trust," he said, "I may at least depend upon your secrecy."

"As for that, I must settle it with my own conscience after more thought. I sought no confidence, and am bound to no silence which I count an injury to the colony; but as the enterprise is a private one, I see so far no reason for the Government's interfering, though for myself I tell you in all frankness I should count it strict justice if you and your precious friend, Ingle, found a noose awaiting you at your journey's end."

Claiborne laughed, and played with the hilt of his sword.

"Thanks, Master Huntoon, for your courtesy and good wishes, but we'll look after our own necks, and do you the same. We have no taste for hanging, and it behooves all of the name of Calvert to keep more than a rope's length from Richard Ingle and William Claiborne."

With an assumed jauntiness the visitor strode out at the open door and went whistling down the path.

Huntoon stood still plunged in thought, moving his foot about on the floor. When he looked up he was startled by the change in Neville's appearance. It was as if the soul had roused itself from its long trance and had taken command of the body once more.

"I heard and I understood," he said.

"Understood what?" said Huntoon, to test him.

"Everything. It was as if his words made a gap in that wall of fog I told you of this morning, and of a sudden I could see the world beyond. Dick Ingle is come back. He and Claiborne are to attack St. Mary's. Is that true?"

"It is true," sighed Huntoon.

"And what will you do about it?"

To Huntoon this spectre, raised suddenly, as from mental death, seemed like the embodiment of his own conscience risen to confront him.

"What can I do?" he asked.

Again Neville drew his hand across his forehead, as though he were striving to clear away the mist that still clouded his faculties.

"Ingle--Calvert--St. Mary's," he repeated, as though the words were talismans to prevent his mind from slipping away again.

"Ay, 'tis a coil--a grievous coil. I see not what I can do. I have no authority to act, and there is no time to call the Council together--"

"For you I know not. For me one thing is clear, I must go."

"Surely the Calverts and their friends have not treated you so well that you owe them either aid or warning."

"I must go." Neville seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Huntoon, and to fear most of all that he should lose the power that floated just before him, still tantalizingly beyond his grasp.

"Why must you go?"

"There is some one there who needs me. I cannot recall her name, but I seem to see her face and I hear her voice. I wish--I wish--I could call her by name." Piteously he turned to Huntoon, seeking aid.

"Is the name you seek _Elinor_--_Elinor Calvert_?"

"God bless you! Yes; _Elinor_. Say it again to me if my mind wanders. Elinor! Oh, I do love thee! That face of thine--it has hovered in my dreams, but I thought it was an angel's. I remember it now, and with that smile on it and those words of thine, 'I think if thou shouldst put thine arms around me and whisper it in my ear I should believe!' Oh, Elinor, my love! Dost thou love me, dear, still? But the wall still stands between us."

"What wall?"

"The smirch upon mine honor. She would have been mine in spite of it, but I swore an oath to God never to call her wife unless I could offer her a name as clear in the sight of men as in His."

The strong man bowed his face upon his arms and wept, silently at first, then with hard, heart-rending sobs, and Huntoon stood by awed and helpless. It was the birth-cry of a soul beginning life for the second time.

At length the sobs ceased, and Neville rose and stood upright, looking inches taller than before, as though a miracle had been wrought and thought had added a cubit to his stature. He smiled, and the smile was sadder than the tears.

"Help me, Huntoon," he said, "for I am as a little child, and I have a man's work before me."

Huntoon struck hands with him, and a force of vital will-power seemed borne on that electric current of sympathy. "Fear not!" he said. "If God has work for you, He will furnish strength to do it."

"Amen!" cried Christopher, bowing his head. When he lifted it again his face was as the face of an angel,--the angel of the sword.

Turning, Huntoon was aware that Romney and Peggy and Elizabeth were standing in the doorway and looking in bewilderment from him to Neville.

"We have had strange news, Neville and I. An attack is to be made upon St. Mary's, and Neville feels his Maryland blood thrilling to go to the rescue." Aside he said low to his wife, "Take no notice of the change, we are seeing a miracle,--the dead has come to life again."

Peggy grew white. "Christopher," she whispered, running up and laying her face against her brother's shoulder, "thou wilt not leave me!"

"Dear, I must; but I do not leave thee alone. Answer me, Peggy," and holding her face between his hands he gazed deep into her eyes, "Dost thou love Romney Huntoon?"

Peggy felt the same spell that had lain upon them all, the compelling force of an almost supernatural presence, before which her little doubts and hesitations vanished and her dimpling artifices faded into utter pettiness. She stood looking up at him, "in the eyes all woman, in the lips half child," till his earnest gaze forced an answer. "I do," she said, without blush or tremor.

"Come here, Romney," said Neville; and placing Peggy's hand in the young man's, "be good to her!" he said.

Then turning to where Elizabeth and Humphrey stood side by side, he took a hand of each.

"Kind friends,--and better no man ever had,--do me one more favor in accepting this little sister of mine as your daughter."

"Trust me!" said Humphrey; but Elizabeth said never a word, only moved across the room and threw her protecting motherly arms around Peggy.

Christopher smiled.

"I am answered. Now, where is dear old Philpotts?"

"Here, my master," spoke the faithful retainer, who had been holystoning the bricks of the great fireplace. To him Neville stretched out his hand. "It all comes back to me now,--what you have dared and suffered and lost for me. I thank you from my soul. Perhaps 'tis too much to ask, but could you find it in your heart to bear me company in one more troublous time, one more life-risk?"

"Ay, ay, I'll follow your lead to the death!"

"Then to the wharf and loose the little boat that lies there, the one that you have been building all summer. For the rest of you, good-bye, and God bless you, one and all!"

The little group stood on the dock and watched the boat as it stole out into the twilight, Philpotts at the helm, Neville before the mast, just as he had stood on that fatal day twelve months since, the sunlight streaming across his pale face.

"He is like Sir Tristan," thought Humphrey Huntoon, "'born to sadness and cradled in sorrow.' God grant him one glimpse of happiness before he goes hence forever!"