A TRICK OF PLAY-ACTING
Meals were not served in Captain d'Antons' cabin. The little settlement
possessed but one servant among all its workers, and that one was Maggie
Stone, Mistress Westleigh's old nurse. The care of Sir Ralph's
establishment was all she could attend to. So the men who had no
women-folk of their own to cook for them were fed by Dame Trigget and
her sturdy daughter Joyce, or by the Donnelly women. Kingswell and
D'Antons took their meals at Dame Trigget's table, and were served by
themselves, with every mark of respect. Ouenwa, Tom Bent, Harding, and
Clotworthy shared the Donnellys' board.
A few hours after Black Feather's rescue, Kingswell and D'Antons sat
opposite one another at a small table near the hearth of the Triggets'
living-room. A stew of venison and a bottle of French wine stood between
them. D'Antons took up the bottle, and made as if to fill the other's
glass.
"One moment," said Kingswell, raising his hand.
The Frenchman looked at him keenly and set down the vintage. The
Englishman leaned forward.
"Captain d'Antons," he said, scarce above a whisper, "a remark that you
made to-day seemed to imply that you considered me a braggart. Your
remark was in reference to the brushes between the _Pelican_ and a party
of natives during our cruise from the North. Before I take wine with you
to-night, I want you to either withdraw or explain your implication."
While Kingswell spoke, the other's eyes flashed and calmed again. Now
his dark face wore an even look of puzzled inquiry. His fine eyes, clear
now of the expression of cynicism which so often marred them, held the
Englishman's without any sign of either embarrassment or anger. His hand
returned to the neck of the bottle and lingered there. Lord, but the
drama lost an exceptionally fine interpreter when the high seas claimed
Pierre d'Antons! The thin, clean-shaven lips trembled--or was it the
wavering of the candle-light?
"My friend," he said, softly, "how unfortunate am I in my stupidity--in
my blundering use of the English language. Whatever my words were, when
I spoke of having already heard of your fights with the savages, my
meaning was such that no one would take exception to. Did I use the word
heroic, monsieur? Then heroic, noble, was what I meant. An Englishman
would have made use of a smaller, a simpler word, perhaps; or would have
refrained from any display of admiration. Ah, I am unfortunate in my
heritage of French and Spanish blood--the blood that is outspoken both
for praise and blame."
Poor, honest Kingswell was shaken with conflicting emotions. His heart
told him the man was lying. His eyes assured him that he had been
grievously mistaken, not only in the matter of the remark concerning the
skirmishes with the Beothics, but in his whole opinion of the Frenchman.
His blood surged to his head, and whispered that he was a young fool to
be hoodwinked so easily. His brain was sadly uncertain. A twinge of pity
for the handsome adventurer--for the love-struck buccaneer--went through
him. But it faded at remembrance of Sir Ralph's story. He knew the
fellow was playing with him.
"Wine, monsieur?" inquired D'Antons, softly, with a smile of infinite
sweetness and shy persuasion.
With a mumbled apology, the young Englishman pushed forward his glass,
and the red wine swam to the brim. And all the while he was inwardly
cursing his own weakness and the other's strength. He had not the
courage to meet the Frenchman's look when they raised their glasses and
clinked them across the table. Lord, what a calf he was!
Had he no will of his own? Did he possess neither knowledge of men nor
mother wit? Ah, but he rated himself pitilessly as he bent his flushed
face over his plate of stew.
When the meal was finished, Kingswell returned to Black Feather's couch,
and D'Antons went over to his own cabin. By this time Black Feather had
recovered consciousness and swallowed some of Dame Trigget's broth;
also, he had recognized Ouenwa and murmured a few words to the lad in
his own tongue. But, beyond that, he was too weak to disclose anything
of what had happened in Wigwam Harbour after the slaying of Soft Hand.
He lay very still, apparently lifeless, except for his quick, bright
eyes, which moved restlessly in questioning scrutiny of the strange
women and bearded men who sat about the room. Ouenwa held one of the
transparent hands and smiled assuringly.
For half an hour Kingswell sat beside the man he had rescued so
courageously from death by starvation. Then, feeling the heat of the
room and the confusion of his thoughts too much to entertain calmly, he
went out into the cold and darkness and paced up and down. All
unknowing, he kicked the snow viciously every step. He was still in a
perturbed state of mind and temper when William Trigget approached him
through the gloom and touched his elbow.
"Askin' your pardon, master," he said, standing close, "but what of that
Injun in there? Be he really sick, or be he playing a game?"
"He is surely sick, and he is just as surely not playing a game,"
replied Kingswell. "But why do you ask? The fellow is a friend of
Ouenwa's, and was one of old Soft Hand's warriors."
"Ay, sir, but maybe mun has changed his coat," said Trigget, "an' has
shammed sick just to get carried inside the fort. There be something
goin' on outside, for certain."
"What?" asked the other.
Then Trigget told how he had been startled, while standing under the
gun-platform, by a sound of scrambling outside the stockade. He had
crawled noiselessly up the ladder and looked over the breastworks about
the guns. He had been able to distinguish something darker than the
surrounding darkness crouched against the palisade under him. The thing
had moved cautiously. He had detached a faggot from one of the bundles
beside him, for lack of a better weapon, and had hurled it down at the
black form. There had sounded a stifled cry, and the thing had vanished
in the night.
"It were one o' they savages, I know," concluded Trigget.
Kingswell forgot his personal grievance in the face of this menace from
the hidden enemy.
"The guards should be doubled," he said. "But come, we must let Sir
Ralph know of it."
They crossed the yard to the baronet's cabin and knocked on the door.
Maggie Stone admitted them to the outer room, where Sir Ralph and
Mistress Beatrix were seated, the girl reading aloud to her father by
the light of one poor candle. But the great fire on the hearth had the
place fairly illuminated.
William Trigget, undismayed by fog and bad weather, cool in any risk of
land or sea, was too abashed at the presence of the lady to tell his
story. So Master Kingswell told it for him.
"The guards must be doubled," said Sir Ralph.
"They be that already, sir," replied Trigget, breaking the spell of the
bright eyes that surveyed him.
"That is well," answered the baronet. "There is nothing else to be done,
at least until morning, but sleep light and keep your muskets handy."
Kingswell and the master mariner returned to the darkness without.
"I will stake my word," said Kingswell, "that the place is surrounded by
the devils even now, and that they will try again to get a man over the
wall to unbar the gates."