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!"