by Howard Pyle
“You say truth, Master Huntoon, and do well to maintain the honor of your province against all slander. My regards to Sir William Berkeley when you return — and when is that to be?”
“In two or three days at furthest now. The ketch is already loaded and I tarry only from hour to hour.”
“May the ketch and all your other ventures come safe to shore!” said Brent, rising and taking the hand of Huntoon.
“Mistress Neville, I will see you again before my return to St. Gabriel’s, and charge myself with any message you may wish to send.”
With this adieu the Governor took his leave. The young people, who had risen with him, still stood facing each other in silence, now that they were alone.
“Why do you not take a chair once more?” asked Peggy, fingering the border of her flowered lawn apron.
“I have not been asked,” Huntoon responded.
“I feared to detain you from business of more importance,” murmured the little hypocrite.
“Mistress Neville,” said Romney, “I have known you but seven days.”
“Is it really so long?” asked Peggy, demurely looking out at him from behind the protecting curtain of her long lashes.
“So long!” exclaimed the youth. He was only twenty, and the power to receive and parry comes later to men than to girls.
Even Peggy Neville felt a twinge of compunction at his throwing himself thus upon her mercy. “They have been pleasant days,” she continued, “and therefore by all the laws of life should have seemed short.”
“Why, so they have!” the boy rushed on,— “short as a flash of lightning in the passing, long as July sunlight in the thinking over; and now they are drawing to an end, somehow a darkness seems to fall around me. When I think of sailing down the river, away from the sight of the huddle of cottages, from the great cross in the centre of the village, from the glimpse of this little window that gives on the wharf, my heart sinks.”
“I wonder why,” said Peggy; but this time she did not look at him.
“May I tell you?”
“No, no — of course not,” the girl hastened to say in a quick, business-like voice. “’Tis no affair of mine to pry into the feelings of all the young men who come to St. Mary’s. Besides, here comes my aunt, and she will be more concerned to bring out wine and seed-cake for your entertainment than to hear of your regrets at parting. However,” the tease went on wickedly, “if it would relieve your mind to tell her I will bring the subject before her.”
Romney stood still, and looked at her without a word. She had hurt him beyond the power of speech. This first love of his, which he had been cherishing by day and brooding over by night for a whole week, seemed to him to overshadow the world, and that she, the lady of his dreams, should be the one to make light of it was past bearing.
“‘All the young men who come to St. Mary’s,’” he repeated to himself as he strode down the street. “So to her I am no more than one of the crowd of gallants who hang about the corners and cast eyes at the girls in the little church o’ Sundays. Oh, but I will make her give me a serious thought yet! She shall know that it is not a ball she holds in her hands, to be tossed about and caught and thrown away, but a man’s heart.”
Then, as he recalled that dimpling face and those eyelashes sweeping the rich red cheek, he smiled in spite of himself, and fell to thinking of a little song his mother had sung to him years ago, a song of another capricious damsel, mightily like this provoking Peggy, —
“He kissed her once, he kissed her twice,
Though oft she coyly said him nay;
Mayhap she let him kiss her thrice
Before she bade him go away —
Singing heigh-ho!
Whether or no,
Kiss me again before you go,
Under the trees where the pippins grow.”
As he reached the widening of the street in front of the Indian wigwam transformed into a little chapel and dedicated to Our Lady, he was struck with the number of people standing and walking about. It was like an ant-hill suddenly emptied of its toilers. Then he recalled that it was market day at St. Mary’s, and that the village was all agog over Dick Ingle. Women stood at the door of their pioneer cabins, their arms akimbo, and their heads bare regardless of the winter winds, giving and getting the latest news. Governor Brent had come last night. That was sure. He had ridden over from St. Gabriel’s Manor, where he was visiting his sister, and he had been seen this morning walking about the town. A mighty secrecy had been observed about the object of his coming; but no one doubted it had to do with Ingle.
“‘Twill go hard with Dick,” said one; “the Governor is a just man, but a terror to evil-doers. I miss my guess if Dick and his brother Ralph both know not the feeling of handcuffs ere nightfall.”
“Not Ralph!” interrupted another. “What justice were there in punishing the innocent with the guilty? Ralph Ingle is as frank and hearty-spoken a gentleman as there is in Maryland. He comes into my cottage and plays with the baby, and the boys run to the door as soon as ever his voice is heard.”
“Ay, but how comes it he is so friendly with that rascal brother of his?”
“Why, blood is thicker than water — even holy water.”
A laugh greeted this sally; but the laughers took the precaution to cross themselves.
“You would none of you exercise yourselves much over the intimacy,” said a third gossip, “had ye seen as I did the two brothers talking on deck after the row with Early. Ralph told Dick he was quit of him, tired of trying to make a gentleman of him, and wished they might never meet again. He did indeed — I heard it with my own ears.”
“That’s the most wonderful part of it,” said the first speaker; “most of the things you tell you’ve heard through the ears of some one else.”
Gossip number three turned red and opened her mouth to deliver a crushing retort, when she discovered that the attention of her hearers had been distracted by the arrival of a new-comer.
It was Reuben Early, whose wife had bound as big a bandage as possible about his head. He came up to join the group, receiving on all sides gratifying commiserations upon the wound he had been dealt by Richard Ingle’s hand; and though he had some difficulty in explaining why he had not returned it, nor made any defence after all his bold talk, he still continued to pose as a hero, and to make his townfellows feel that in his humiliation they had received an individual and collective insult.
“When the villain struck me,” he explained, “I was encumbered with the sack of grain I was bearing, and ere I could lay it down and reach my weapon, the fellow had disappeared down the hatchway.”
“Come, come, Reuben!” cried a sceptic near-by, “we all know you are readier with your tongue than with either sword or musket; and I for one am not sorry to have you taught a lesson, were it not that the blow was struck at a citizen of St. Mary’s, and therefore at us all. I am for punishing Dick Ingle for the assault, yet lightly; but for the treason he spoke he should be hung at the yard-arm of his own ship.”
“Not hung perhaps; but surely put in custody of Sheriff Ellyson here,” suggested another of the group, who stood in the morning sunlight outside the log cabin which served for a hostelry.
“Aha!” laughed the man next him, “our innkeeper would not see the number of drinkers of his good ale diminished by one. How say you, Master Boniface, would it not be well to compel the traitor to drink himself to death at the expense of the Lord Proprietary?”
All but two of the men laughed at this sally. The innkeeper naturally failed to see the fun of a jest of which he was the butt, and the sheriff took the suggestion into serious consideration.
“By the Saints, it were a good scheme and has much to commend it. It may seem a pity to waste good wine on a bad man, when the one is so scarce and the other so plenty; but it would mightily relieve the authorities. ‘Put him in the custody of the sheriff!’ you say; and how, pray, am I to hold him when I have no jail save my two hands? Can I lie
with him at night and eat and drink by day with my arm locked in his? I would he were at the bottom of the sea!”
“If every man were at the bottom of the sea who has been wished there, it would be hard to find a channel for the ships, and we might walk to England dry-shod!”
It was Giles Brent who spoke, and the men, who had not seen him approach and did not know how much he had overheard, looked somewhat taken aback, for the discussion of public officers and their duties was not looked upon with special favor.
“I tell you, my men,” Governor Brent continued, returning their salute with a wave of his hand, “this standing about the door of ale-houses is a poor way of life for pioneers. It breeds idleness, and idleness breeds discontent. Get you all in and drink the King’s health at my charge, and then off with you to work; and the more you use your mouths to eat and drink withal, and the less for idle chatter, the better it shall fare with you and your families.”
The men, nothing loath to obey the behest, filed into the inn, cheering alternately for the King, Lord Baltimore, Leonard Calvert, the Governor now in England, and his deputy, Giles Brent, the last cheer being the mightiest of all and only drowned by the gurgling of the great draughts of October ale pouring down their throats.
“Hold, Ellyson,” said Brent, as the sheriff passed in last of all. “I want a word with you.”
“Yes, your Excellency; you do me honor,” said Ellyson, doffing his cap of maintenance.
“Does Richard Ingle take his meals on board ship or ashore?”
“I’m not rightly sure, your Excellency; but I do think he takes his supper here at the inn, and the other meals on his ship.”
“Does he come alone?”
“Sometimes alone, but oftener with his brother.”
“At what hour does he sup?”
“Oh, any time after the day’s work is done, and then sits carousing till all hours. I have seen him drunk enough to light his pipe at a pump ere midnight.”
“That is well. A man in his cups may be apprehended, even by a sheriff. Here, read this. ’Tis a proclamation bidding him yield himself to your custody before February first. That will put him off the scent, for he will plan to finish loading and slip off at the end of the month. But to let him do this were to encourage all evil-doers and enemies of the Commonwealth; therefore it behooves us to get him under arrest in short order. When he comes to-night, do you invite him to sit down and sup with you. Give him all he will drink, and scrimp not yourself either. Remember you both drink at my charge. Then, when the rest of the drinkers are gone, do you serve your warrant on him, and hold him at your peril till I call for him. Do yonder fellows know anything of the prospect of the arrest?”
“They said nothing.”
“Then they know nothing. I would I could be as sure that when they know nothing they say nothing. Be you silent as the grave. You are a close-tongued fellow enough save when the wine-cup loosens your tongue and lets out your brains, and leaves you rolled up in a corner like a filthy hogshead. But never mind — never mind; you are better than many around you. I give you good-morning.”
So the two parted, Ellyson entering the tavern and Brent turning into the path that led to the house of Councillor Neale.
As he passed on his way, he thought to himself, “Pray Heaven he heeds not that caution! If he be not well drunken this night our well-laid plan falls to the ground, and then there’s a pretty muddle.”
CHAPTER VI. THE KING’S ARMS
IT WAS ALREADY dark on the night after Giles Brent’s talk with young Huntoon, when Captain Richard Ingle entered the doorway of The King’s Arms. On the outside there was little to mark the difference between the hostelry and the other log-cabins, except that at right angles both to house and road hung a sign-board decorated with the name of the inn, and bearing below in gaudy colors the standard of the Commonwealth.
Within, the long low-raftered room, despite its bareness, had that air of good cheer which the devil knows how to throw around places where men meet to drink themselves into his likeness.
With his swashbuckler air and swinging bravado of carriage, Ingle was a not unattractive figure. His height was above the average, and he wore his jerkin and slashed doublet jauntily. His face might have had claims to beauty, but for its sinister expression, and to many of those who looked at him this expression, combined with his reckless bearing, constituted a certain fascination. The hall mark of the devil adds value.
With the smell of the sea which hung about Dick Ingle was associated an air of mystery, as of one who could tell much if he would, and the dignity of a captain who from his quarter-deck might defy king, lords, and commons; though justice might some day reach out its long arm for him ashore, and sweep along with him any rash landsman who ventured on too close an intimacy.
Just now, after his recent treasonable speeches aboard The Reformation, any display of acquaintance was held to be specially injudicious, and consequently, though all the men around the inn-board looked up at Captain Ingle’s entrance, none moved to make room for him on the bench.
The room was so thick with tobacco smoke that the candles set in pine knots for sockets at various intervals along the board (which was literally a board, supported on horses of wood) cast only a glimmering dimness around them. Ingle raised his hand to his eyes and stood a moment, peering from under it at the table and the group seated around it. As he took in the meaning of the sudden silence and the averted glances, a smile of contempt settled about his mouth.
“Ah, friends,” he cried jovially, “I am glad to find so many good fellows met together. Councillor Neale, I will ask a word with you later about the bill of goods consigned to you.”
The councillor cast down his eyes as sheepishly as though all must know the goods were of doubtful repute.
“Cornwaleys, The Reformation sails in a day or two, and I advise you to prepare your message of loyalty to the Lord General Cromwell without delay.”
Cornwaleys would have given a hundred pounds rather than that any should know he had planned to make his future safe by riding two horses, and making his submission to Parliament while he threw up his cap for the King.
The other men about the board cowered. The whizzing of the lash was in the air, and every back quivered with the expectation that it might feel the next blow.
But having vented his spleen in these unpleasantries, the great man grew affable, and turning to the wall where a large placard was posted, he exclaimed, —
“Ha, Sheriff, here is a letter addressed to thee and me by our worshipful Governor pro tem. Let us read it out for the benefit of the company, who have not book-learning enough to decipher it for themselves. ’Tis writ in a shaking hand, too, especially the word ‘treason,’ and in truth it is as well it should be a trifle vague, for who shall write ‘treason’ firmly nowadays, when the war has left it so dubious who is our lawful master that none can say but a year hence the very name of this tavern shall be changed from The King’s Arms to General Cromwell’s Legs?”
A titter ran round the room.
“Hush, gentlemen! He who laughs makes himself sharer in the jest, and a jest at royalty is treason — at least, so says our king-loving Governor. Listen!”
And in a sing-song voice Ingle began to read aloud from the placard, —
“20th January.
“PROCLAMATION.
“I do hereby require, in his Majesty’s name, Richard Ingle, mariner, to yield his body to Robert Ellyson, sheriff of this county, before the first day of February next, to answer to such crimes of treason as on his Majesty’s behalf shall be objected against him, upon his utmost peril of the law in that behalf; and I do further require all persons that can say or disclose any matter of treason against the said Richard Ingle to inform his Lordship’s attorney of it at some time before the said court, to the end it may be then and there prosecuted.
“G. Brent.
“You see, gentlemen, the proclamation grants me till the first of February to deliver myself up;
therefore my good friend Ellyson yonder must needs keep his hands off these ten days. Landlord, bring out your ale, and all good fellows shall drink with me a health to — let me see; shall it be Charles, or Oliver? And everlasting damnation to the enemies of — shall we say the King, or the Parliament?”
The men who sat around were ready enough for a drink, but they had no mind for such dangerous toasts, and great was the relief when one shrewd fellow cried out, “Oh, quit your politics, Dick, and let us drink to the next voyage of The Reformation. And now do you give us a song, for there is none can sing like you when you can abstain from swearing long enough. But first, here’s to our town, and I give you our rallying cry,— ‘Hey for Saint Mary’s, and wives for us all!’”
Ingle joined with good-humor in the ringing cheer that followed. “Here goes, then,” he said, as the landlord brought in the tankards. “You may guzzle while I sing, and for the benefit of you family men who are so fond of shouting ‘Wives for us all!’ I’ll make it a song of married life. ’Tis sweetly entitled The Dumb Maid, and runs thus, —
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“‘There was a country blade
Who did wed a pretty maid,
And he kindly conducted her
Home, home, home.
There in her beauty bright
Lay his whole delight;
But alack and alas, she was
Dumb, dumb, dumb.’
“Now, gentlemen, you might think this lucky husband would have been content with his good fortune, and let well enough alone; but no, he was for having a perfect wife — which was as if he would have had a white blackbird or a moral courtier or a wise king; so —
“‘To the doctor he did her bring
For to cut her chattering string,
And he let her tongue on
The run, run, run.
In the morning she did rise,
And she filled his house with cries,