ROMNEY
It was on the afternoon of the day after the collision with _The Lady
Betty_ that _The Reformation_ rounded the last headland that shut
Romney from the view. The river ran cobalt blue between its brown
banks, bare but for the patches of snow that lay here and there in
unsunned hollows. The sky arched above far and clear, save where a
group of fleecy clouds bunched together like a flock of white sheep on
the horizon.
The sunlight fell full on the western front of Romney as it stood in
stalwart bulk against the black forest behind it, its wings outspread
on either side like some wild bird sheltering its young. A stout
stockade enclosed house and grounds, and ended on either side of the
little wharf running out into the river.
In the doorway of the house stood a woman, her hand raised to shelter
her eyes as she scanned the river to the southward. Mistress Huntoon
was still beautiful, though the radiance of youth was gone. The
pencilled eyebrow and the transparent curve of the delicate nostril,
the lambent flame in the eyes, yet remained, and, above all, that
indefinable attraction which hovers about some women from the cradle to
the grave.
Just now she shivered a little as though she had been standing and
looking long. Then she drew closer about her the cloak of gray paduasoy
lined with yellow and held by carved clasps of polished marcasite.
"Will he never come?" she murmured. "'Tis nigh a week since he was
to have reached home, and I cannot help worrying, for all his father
laughs and bids me put away womanish fears and remember that the boy
is well-nigh come to man's estate and better able than either of us
to look after himself. Ah, what's that beyond the headland? A sail, a
sail, Humphrey! Do you hear? a sail in the river! It must be Romney's,
though it looks over large for _The Lady Betty_."
Her eager words brought her husband to her side, buttoning his doublet
close as he shut the door behind him.
"Poor, poor little mother!" he said, as he laid a comforting arm
about her shoulder, "we cannot let the lad go beyond the length of
her apron string again, if she is to lead me such a life as this of
last week. Why, we have had him die of seven separate deaths already.
Let me see," and he began counting soberly on his fingers: "first,
drowned in Chesapeake Bay; second, caught by pirates and carried off
to the Bermudas; third, languishing in prison, for taking the part of
Virginia in one of Master Claiborne's skirmishes between commonwealth
and palatinate; fourth, stabbed in the streets of St. Mary's on a dark
night and robbed of his gold; fifth, shot in a duel brought on by his
hot temper 'so like his father's;' sixth, frozen to death on some
lonely Maryland road; or last and worst of all, dead in love with some
designing maid, wife, or widow there at St. Mary's and wholly forgetful
of his duty to thee and me--ay, sweetheart?"
"Hush, Humphrey! Cease thy jesting and tell me is that _The Lady
Betty_, or is it not?"
"Why, no, as I make out, 'tis too large for the ketch, deeper built,
and with a prow more fit to buffet ocean waves. 'Tis more likely a
merchant packet plying a regular trade with James City or St. Mary's;
but come, let us signal her from the wharf and perhaps we may get some
news of Romney."
The wind was blowing cold as they reached the dock, and Huntoon wrapped
the gray cloak close about his wife, as they seated themselves under
the shelter of a pile of logs to watch the approaching vessel.
"Dost thou remember, Betty, the day I set sail from James City in _The
Red Fox_?"
"Ay, that I do, and I watching thee from the window of the Carys'
cottage, with my heart in my throat."
"And I that disappointed I could have cried like a schoolboy, because
thou camest not to see me off."
"I dared not."
"If I could only have known that!"
"Poor fool, too dull to ask what thou wast aching to know!"
"Ay, poor fool indeed, and much needless trouble my dulness and
diffidence together brought upon me, and on thee too; but in the end
all came out right, and I sometimes think we could not have loved each
other so well but for all the trials we went through."
For all answer Elizabeth Huntoon slipped her hand into her husband's.
"Yet such inconsistent creatures are we, I own I would not our boy
should suffer as I did."
"Never fear; Romney is a lad of spirit, and will never lose a girl for
lack of asking."
"Ay, but asking and getting are two different things. There was Captain
Spellman. He wooed thee with as much spirit as any woman could wish."
"The presuming coxcomb!"
"There it is. What is a poor man to do, when asking is presumption, and
not asking is dulness?"
"Do? Why, hold his tongue and use his eyes, to be sure."
"But, Betty, thou wert never twice alike."
"So shouldst thou have changed too. When I was hot, thou shouldst have
been cold. When I was cold, thou shouldst have turned to a furnace."
"Who loves, fears. I played the fool; but, Betty, 'twas the fool who
won. Pray Heaven Romney meets as kind a fate."
"But, Humphrey, what can be keeping him?"
"The old refrain; I have heard that question so often I could answer it
in my sleep. Thy boy is safe and sound, and will give a good account of
his absence, I'll be bound."
For all his light treatment of his wife's terrors, Master Huntoon had
his own fears for his son's safety, and realized better than she could
the many forms of danger and temptations that beset a home-bred youth,
setting out to do business or battle with the world. It was with a glad
leap of the heart and a curious catch in his throat that he recognized
the stalwart figure by the gunwale as the packet drew near the wharf,
though a moment later he realized that something must have gone wrong
with the ketch.
"All's well, Father," cried Romney; which meant, "There's the devil to
pay; but I'm alive."
Before the ship had made fast her first hawser, the boy was over its
side and in his mother's arms, with one hand held fast in his father's,
pouring forth a torrent of words so bewildering that his father finally
clapped his hand over his son's mouth, saying,--
"Softly, thou headlong stripling, or thou wilt split our ears in the
effort to hear, and our heads trying to take all in. Now let me put
the questions, and do thou say 'ay' or 'no,' and as little more as the
grace of God lets thee hold thy tongue for. Now, thou didst load at St.
Mary's?"
"Ay, sir."
"And cleared in safety?"
"Ay."
"And stopped at St. Gabriel's Manor?"
"Ay."
"What for?"
"How can I say 'ay' or 'no' to that?"
"Then explain more at length; but briefly."
"Prithee let that stand. Suffice it to say a man--a friend of mine--was
in mortal peril, and his sister and I resolved to save him."
"_Sister!_ Ah, I begin to see a light. Is she with you?"
"Ay, and I have promised her a welcome from thee and my mother fit to
heal her sore heart."
"Well, well, we'll come to that later. Now what befell the ketch?"
"Why, the fog befell us first, and then Dick Ingle befell us, and
then the devil befell us; but here we are in spite of all three; and,
Mother, thou _wilt_ be good to her, wilt thou not?"
The crisis had come to Elizabeth Huntoon, as it comes to every
mother--gradually to some, suddenly to others--when she realizes that
her supreme place is gone forever. Henceforth, for her, affection and
esteem and a comfortable suite of dowager apartments in her child's
heart; but the absolute sway, the power, the _firstness_ at an end.
The blood surged back from Mistress Huntoon's face, leaving it gray,
and for the first time with the touch of age upon it, so that one could
know how she would look as an old woman.
"Yes; I will be good. Where is she?" The lips formed the words which
sounded cold and formal in her own ears; but she saw with a new pang
that her son had no leisure for noting subtle shades of tone or meaning
in her voice.
"Here, Mother, here!" he exclaimed, turning to where his father was
already assisting Peggy Neville from the deck to the wharf. Now, had
Peggy been rosy and dimpling and happy as she was a fortnight ago, and
as she must needs have been to arrest the wandering fancy of Romney
Huntoon, his mother would have greeted her with as much coolness as
Virginia hospitality permitted; but seeing a pale, tearful little
face, weary and woe-begone, peeping out from the brown curls, the
older woman felt her heart touched by a keen remembrance of herself as
a young girl, a stranger in a strange land; and waiting no words of
presentation, she made one of her swift, characteristic strides toward
Peggy, and folding her arms close about her, kissed her on both cheeks.
"Poor child!" she said in her low caressing voice; "thou art fair tired
out and sadly in need of rest. Come with me to the little white chamber
next mine; there shalt thou bathe thy face with fresh water and rest
thy weary body in a warm bed."
"But my brother--he is very ill--"
"Leave him to my husband, who is counted the best physician in
Virginia. He and Romney can do more for him than thou or I. Romney,
receive our guests and do what is needful for their comfort! I will
join thee shortly in the hall."
"Captain Ingle, will you come ashore and try the quality of Romney
cheer?" said Humphrey Huntoon, as his son stood looking like one dazed
after the women on the path.
"I thank you; but my time is short, and I must have speech with Master
Claiborne, who is staying further up the river."
"Perhaps on your return you will stop and let me try to repay--" began
Huntoon, courteously; but the thought of _The Lady Betty's_ goods
stored in _The Reformation's_ hold pricked Ingle's conscience.
"I am already repaid," he answered stiffly, "and there is no call for
thanks on either side. Here, you men! Lift Sir Christopher Neville over
the railing there. Three of you go to this side; three to that. So!
easy there. One--two--three! Now lift!"
To give the devil his due, no man had such a gift as Richard Ingle for
giving orders.
It was scarcely quarter of an hour after _The Reformation_ touched the
wharf before she was away again, leaving four of her passengers and the
crew of _The Lady Betty_ on the wharf. When she was well out in the
river, Ingle ordered a salute of five guns, and then bade his men give
three cheers for the Mistress Peggy Neville, the handsomest girl that
ever trod the deck of a vessel.
"Here's to her!" he cried himself, "and may she have the luck to marry
a buccaneer when yonder stripling is dead and gone!"
Peggy smiled a watery, tearful smile as she heard the five guns. How
little, she thought, had she imagined under what circumstances that
salute would be fired when Captain Ingle lightly promised it at St.
Mary's!
But her hostess would give her no time for thought. She led her swiftly
up the winding stair to the little white bedroom, and in a trice she
had set black Dinah at work heating the sheets with the great brass
warming-pan. Susan was fetching water hot and cold, and she herself was
loosening the lacings with which Peggy's own numb fingers fumbled in
vain.
All the while she kept her eyes upon the wharf which lay below the
window. Already a litter had been improvised of boards that lay on the
wharf; four men lifted the figure over the ship's side and laid it
down gently. Then the litter was raised and borne toward the house,
Romney and his father walking on either side. Once or twice the figure
struggled and flung its arms wildly above its head. So violent did the
struggles become that at length Master Huntoon drew a phial from his
jerkin, and pouring out some drops forced them between the prostrate
man's lips. The head fell back, and quiet settled on the limbs so
suddenly that Mistress Huntoon uttered an involuntary exclamation of
terror.
Peggy caught her anxiety in a moment.
"What are they doing? Where is he? Oh, not--not dead!"
"Why, no, foolish child," answered Lady Betty, ready to pinch herself
for her ill-timed outcry. "Look for thyself. See, they are bearing him
up the walk, and they will have him undressed and put to bed in no
time. Go thou to rest likewise! I promise to bring thee tidings, should
there be need of thee in the sick room, and meanwhile let me sing thee
a little song that my mother sang to me in the old country, and I again
to Romney here in his babyhood."
Mistress Huntoon watched Peggy closely as she spoke Romney's name, but
no answering blush marked her words. The girl was so utterly worn out
that she scarcely took any heed of what was passing around her, but
sank upon the bed, closed her eyes, and dropped into sweet slumber to
the sound of a tender, preoccupied crooning of the old refrain,--the
same that Romney had hummed to himself on the hillside path at St.
Mary's,--
"Heigh-ho! whether or no,
Kiss me once before you go
Under the trees where the pippins grow."
In her dreams it seemed to Peggy that she was standing on a ladder in
an English orchard. Romney was shaking the tree and for every apple
that fell claiming a kiss, while she from her vantage ground of the
ladder pelted him with the red apples instead.
The dream brought a smile to the pale young lips.
"It is well," said Mistress Huntoon to herself, watching her; "she
sleeps and she smiles. Youth will do the rest." After bending an
instant over the sleeper she left her and slipped down the staircase
into the hall. Romney was walking up and down. At the foot of the
stairway he met his mother and kissed her hand, as had been his custom
from babyhood. They crossed the hall and sat down side by side on the
wide settle before the fire.
Then a silence fell between them.
"Alas," thought the mother, "when did ever my boy find it hard to speak
with me before?"
"She suspects something," thought her son.
This was not the truth; she did not suspect, she _knew_.
"Tell me now of all that hath befallen thee since ever _The Lady Betty_
touched at St. Mary's."
"Nay, tell me first if thou, like my father, hast forgiven the loss of
the dear old boat."
"Speak not of the loss of a boat though it had held half our fortune
when thy life was in the scale. Oh, my son, my son!"
The mother covered her face with her hands and fell to weeping, not so
much, to tell the truth, because her son might have been lost to her,
as because he _had_ been.
Romney, shrewd as he thought himself, never dreamed of what was passing
in her mind.
"Now then, little Mother, cheer up! What's the use of weeping when thou
hast me here safe and sound? As for my adventures, they have in truth
been many and wonderful. To begin at the beginning, I found St. Mary's
mightily dull till I did make acquaintance with Mistress Neville and
her niece who is with us here."
"Neville, so that is her name?"
"Why, of course, Neville,--Peggy Neville," Romney said the name slowly
as if it were music in his ears. "'T was at their house, Mother, I
met Governor Brent, and he did make particular inquiry for my father,
and said the fame of his courage and wisdom was spread beyond the
boundaries of Virginia."
This was a good feint on the boy's part and drew his mother's attention
for the moment.
"Said he so indeed? Why, 'twas right civilly spoke. I trust thou didst
return what courtesy thou couldst to the Governor."
"Yes, and no. I did him some small favors; but in the end I robbed him
of his prisoner."
"Romney!"
"Ay, that did I, and would do it again. The man was falsely accused."
"Accused of what?"
"Murder."
Elizabeth Huntoon's face fell. She dearly loved the atmosphere of
respectability, and had no mind to be mixed up with a felony. Her son
paid little heed to her expression.
"Oh, but 'twas shrewdly planned,--Peggy and I--"
"Peggy!"
Romney could have bitten his tongue out. The mischief was done. He
halted, stammered, and finally resolved to throw himself on his
mother's mercy, which he might better have done in the beginning.
"Yes, _Peggy_!--the sweetest name for the sweetest girl in the
colonies. When thou dost know her better, Mother, thou wilt say so too."
"Thou dost not seem to have needed long knowledge to find it out; but
thou must needs remember that all thou hast told me of her so far is
that she is sister to a murderer."
"Mother!" cried Romney, flinging off his mother's hand and jumping up
to pace the floor.
"It was thou who didst say the word."
"Not I. Am I like to speak such a foul falsehood of the man I honor
most in the world, next to my father! I said _accused_ of murder,--a
mighty different thing, as any but a woman would know."
It is a great relief to a man to vent upon the sex a charge which
courtesy and respect forbid his laying at the door of the individual.
"Perhaps it will be set down to the curiosity of my sex if I venture to
ask whom this high-souled gentleman is supposed to have put out of the
way."
God gave sarcasm to woman in place of sinewy fists. Poor Romney felt
his heart pommelled, but being in the right and knowing it, he kept his
temper.
"I'll tell thee as if thou hadst asked more kindly."
The shot told, for it was deserved.
"Sir Christopher Neville was accused of killing a Jesuit priest,--one
of those who dwell at St. Inigo's. The evidence against him was strong,
and Giles Brent credited it, though he had great liking for Neville.
But his sister is much under the influence of 'those of the Hill,' as
the Jesuits are called, and thou thyself, Mother, dost know how much
that order is to be trusted."
Cleverly aimed again, Romney! He knew that his mother had come to the
greatest griefs of her life through the machinations of a follower of
St. Ignatius; already she weakened a little, though her face did not
betray it.
"But why was it necessary that thou shouldst be caught in the toils?
Neither deed nor charge was any affair of thine. What was it all to
thee?"
"What was it to my father when thou wert in trouble yonder in James
City?"
Elizabeth Huntoon trembled.
"Oh, Romney, is it gone so far, in one little fortnight? Remember thy
father had known and loved me for years."
"Pshaw!" said Romney, striding up and down faster than ever, crowding
his hands deep into the pockets of his jerkin. "Is there any calendar
of love with directions, 'On such a day a man may take a liking, after
so many days he may admire, at the end of a month, or three, or six, he
may give rein to his fancy, and when a year is out he may love,--that
is, if his mother gives consent'?"
The lad was growing angry, and therefore letting down his guard.
Trust a woman for seeing the advantage and using it! Elizabeth poked
her little red boots out to the fire and looked at them as if they
interested her more than anything in the world. Then as though the
question were the most natural and casual one she asked,--
"When are you to marry?"
It was at once the cruellest and the kindest thing she could have said.
A huge sob rose in the boy's throat and choked him. Then he threw
himself on his knees and buried his head in his mother's lap, crying,--
"Don't! Don't! She does not love me!"
"Ask her!"
"I have asked her."
Let those who can, explain the workings of a woman's mind. Perhaps they
can tell why Elizabeth Huntoon, who five minutes before had set her
face like a flint against this love affair, of a sudden whiffed about
like a weather-cock and was set for it as if she had planned it herself
from the beginning. All she said was,--
"Then why did she ask thy help?"
"She did not; I offered it,--nay, forced it upon her; and for her
brother she would do anything. It's my belief he is the only human
being she does truly love."
"All the better. Love for a brother never yet blocked the way to any
other. But, hark! I hear her stirring. Belike she will be able to come
down for supper. Go thou, and don thy scarlet sash and the falling
band with lace edge. Oh, and don't forget the lace cuffs and the gold
lacings."
"Mother, dost take thy son for a baby or a popinjay?"
"Neither, but for the dullard he is, not to know that dress makes as
much difference in men as in women. Why, who knows but I would have had
thy father a year earlier, had he paid more heed to his attire! Go!
Go!--Suppose thou hadst never come!" Here words failed her, and she
caught her son to her heart, cried over him a moment, and then pushed
him toward the stairs.