by Howard Pyle
“Pity me!” — Ralph Ingle spoke low.
“I pity thee! Have I room in my heart for pity of any save myself?”
“Thou shouldst have for one more miserable than thou.”
“That cannot be; and why shouldst thou need pity?”
“Because thou art sorrowful, and I can give thee no help. Is not that reason enough?”
Elinor stopped and looked at him with wide, half-seeing eyes, striving to force herself to put aside her own trouble enough to realize that of another.
“Do not!” she cried, stretching out defensive hands, “do not tell me that I have made someone else wretched too! My life seems destined to be a calamity to all who fall within its fateful shadow.”
“No; speak no such sad words,” cried Ingle, falling on his knees before her. “To me your presence has been pure sunshine; but were life all shadow, I would rather live under the clouds with thee than in the light of heaven itself without thee.”
“Forgive me!” answered Elinor, wearily, brushing her hand across her eyes. “It is idle to talk thus. I loved — I love — Christopher Neville, and I cannot listen to any other.”
“My words were untimely; I spoke too soon.”
“Nay, for me there is no time any more, — only a waiting for eternity.”
“Think a moment, Elinor! I must call thee so once if nevermore. Wilt thou in good earnest condemn me to despair?”
“I condemn no one. If despair be thy portion, thou must needs drink the cup as I am draining mine. Farewell!”
“Farewell, then, Elinor Calvert! And on thy head be my soul’s ruin, and all that may befall me or thee hereafter!”
So absorbed in her own grief was Elinor that her ear scarcely caught his words, nor did her mind take note of his wild look and manner as he flung away into the forest. She quickened her pace and saw with relief the walls of the manor-house rising between the trees. A few more paces and she would reach the house, then if Fate were kind, her room, and then she could at least be alone with her despair; but no, she thought bitterly, even this poor comfort was to be denied her, for, as she drew near the house, she saw Father White standing in the doorway. She would have swerved from the path and sought entrance through the side room, but it was too late; she had been seen. Father White moved toward her like some strong merciful angel, holding healing and benediction in his outstretched hands.
“My daughter, thou art ill.”
“Ay, Father, so ill that I must needs with all speed seek rest in my chamber.”
“Is it indeed illness, or grief?”
“They are much alike.”
“Ay, but they may need differing treatment.”
“Rest and solitude are best for both.”
“Nay, for bodily sickness thou hast need of a physician of the body, and for soul sickness of a physician of the soul.”
“Father,” said Elinor, sinking on her knees before him, “I am past all help of medicine for body or soul — He is dead!”
The old priest raised his eyes to heaven, murmuring to himself, “Digitus Dei est hic. — Yes,” he added slowly, “surely it is the finger of God himself, and it is the Lord who has spoken.”
Aloud he said: “I know how troubles such as thine shake the soul till there is no power left to seek aid. Then the Lord sends the help the sufferer is too weak to reach out a hand for. If thou shouldst probe this wound of thine, thou wouldst find that its deepest hurt lay not in what hath befallen without, but from that which hath gone wrong within.”
“’Tis God’s truth thou speakest.”
“There lies no help in man.”
“None! None!”
“Then look above! Oh, my daughter, hast thou not before found comfort at the confessional, at the foot of the altar? Listen: I am a priest of God and charged with power to absolve sin and declare His pardon to weary, struggling souls like thine.”
With a wild cry Elinor threw up her arms above her head.
“Talk not to me of God’s pardon! Will that bring Christopher Neville to life? Will that save his poor heart one of the pangs my distrust dealt, or his faithful soul one hour of the weary years my cold disdain cost him? Nay, Father, save pardon and penance for those who can still use them! I tell you, it is I who cannot forgive myself, — I!”
CHAPTER XVI. LIFE OR DEATH
“HOLD HER, PHILPOTTS! Dead or alive, I must find him.”
With these words, as Philpotts laid his controlling hand on Peggy’s wrist, Huntoon threw off his coat, kicked away his boots, and springing to the taff-rail, plunged into the icy water. As he plunged, the body rose again, this time further away from the boat, and Huntoon struck out towards it.
Peggy shut her eyes and prayed.
One minute — two — three — went by. Then with fear and trembling, white as the sea-gull that wheeled above her head, the girl opened her eyes once more, and strained them toward the spot where Huntoon had plunged. Not there; so he too had gone. No, that dark object to the right must be his head; now she could see one strong arm cleaving the water, and surely, surely he was holding some person, some thing with the other. Yes, and now he is calling for a rope. Oh, fool, fool! not to have thought of that!
She turned to the cabin; but Philpotts was before her. He dashed down the companionway, and reappeared with a coil of rope in his hand. Bracing himself against the mast, he flung the coil with all his might. It flew straight as an arrow and fell within reach of Huntoon’s free hand.
“Bravo! Well done!” came from the crew of the packet, which had come about and stood by to render what help might be needed.
Philpotts, having made sure that his rope had carried, made the other end fast to a cleat, and then as Huntoon passed his end around Neville’s body, Philpotts and Peggy drew it in hand over hand, till the two in the water, the swimmer and his burden, were brought close to the boat.
Philpotts leaped into the shallop, brought it round, and together he and Huntoon succeeded in lifting Neville’s body into it. Huntoon’s teeth were chattering, and his limbs shaking with cold; but he gave no heed to himself.
“An ugly blow!” he muttered, looking at the great round swelling above the temple where the blood was already settling black. “Brandy, Philpotts, quick — from my flask in the cabin!” and falling on his knees in the shallop, he began to chafe Neville’s icy hands. At the same time he called aloud to the sailors on the packet to send their small boat to make examination of The Lady Betty, to take off the young lady if the danger were imminent, and to lend a hand at saving the cargo.
He and Philpotts rowed the shallop to the packet, and lifted Neville with the sailors’ help to the deck of the larger vessel. Then, and not till then, he looked about for the captain who stood facing him, and behold it was — Richard Ingle!
The best gift of the gods is prudence; the next best audacity. Romney Huntoon was handsomely dowered with the latter commodity, and he invoked it now in his awkward predicament. Walking up to Ingle with a smile, he stretched out his hand.
“You and I are quits,” he said; “I did you a bad turn yonder at St. Mary’s. You have done me a bad turn now by sinking my boat. Shall we wipe the slate and begin again?”
Huntoon’s opening was happily chosen. Had he apologized, all would have been lost; but the freebooter was pleased with the boy’s boldness. Yet that alone would scarcely have won the day. It was the bright eyes of Peggy Neville that lent a certain civility to his surly voice.
“If I’d known whose boat we were running down, I’d never ha’ given myself the trouble to come about, for I could ha’ seen you go down with her in great comfort; but since ye chanced to have this young lady aboard, I’m not sorry things fell out as they did. But that’s as far as I’ll go. And as for your cargo yonder, I warn you that all we save of that goes to Ingle and Company, to make good the damage to The Reformation.”
“A bit of paint—” began Huntoon, and then turned his back and stood looking over the rail, watching the death-struggle of The Lady B
etty. The little vessel rolled first this way and then that, shipping water in her hold at every turn.
There is a solemnity in watching a sinking ship akin to that of standing by a death-bed. As Huntoon looked, a wave of memories swept over him. He recalled the first journey he had taken aboard her, the pride of setting out with his father, the smell of tar on the ropes, as the sailors cast them loose, and the anxious face of his mother as she stood on the pier to wave a farewell. With this thought of his father and mother came the wonder how this disaster would strike them. He dreaded their consternation at the loss, but he felt sure of their sympathy. Blessed is the son who holds to that, let come what may.
Meanwhile, Neville lay on the packet’s deck, pale as death, with eyelids closed, and only the faint beating of his heart giving evidence that he still lived. Peggy sat beside him, holding sal volatile to his nostrils. The sailors stood around in a sympathetic circle, their Monmouth caps doffed, though the winter air was searching. None doubted that they were in the face of death, and the roughest sailor grows reverent in that august presence.
At length, however, the lowered lids quivered and lifted themselves first a crack, then wider and wider till the eyes — those long steel-gray eyes — rested with full recognition on Huntoon and Philpotts. His lips moved, and formed one half-audible word, “St. Mary’s!”
Huntoon looked questioningly at Ingle who answered as if he had spoken, —
“No, by the Lord! and any one who suggests turning about for so much as a mile, will be spitted like a pigeon on my sword here and flung into the sea.”
“As you will,” said Huntoon, coolly. “So far as I know, none has suggested it save this man who is raving in delirium from the cut in his head. For my part, I had far rather he did not get his wish, for we have but just saved him from Brent’s clutches.”
“How’s that? I thought they were as thick as thieves.”
“So they were; but time brings strange revenges. It was after you did set sail that the priest was murdered at St. Gabriel’s.”
“I’m right glad to hear of it whenever one of those black crows is put out of the way. No word of it reached me, though I have been hanging about the river here waiting for cargo.”
“That means spying on the land,” Huntoon thought to himself, but aloud he said, —
“Well, so it has fallen out, and because he had Neville’s knife in his breast, the Governor will have it that it was Neville did the murder. He was hot for punishment, and will be sore angered when he finds his prey has slipped through his fingers.”
This was shrewdly spoken. To spite Giles Brent, Ingle would have taken much trouble; but his suspicions were not yet set at rest.
“Then what for should Neville want to go to St. Mary’s?”
“’Tis a strange affection he hath. You would call it folly; some folks call it honor.”
Richard Ingle colored, and Huntoon hastened to change the subject: “Now, Captain Ingle, I have a proposition to make: In regard to the salvage of my cargo belonging to your crew, there might be two opinions; and if you took it without my leave, there might be awkward questions for you to settle when next you come to Virginia; but I’ll agree that you may have it as ferryage if you’ll take us four and our crew to Romney on the York River, which doubtless lies off your course.”
“S’ let it be!” growled Ingle, adding under his breath, “Damn the fool! I was going that way anyhow to have talk with Claiborne.
“Turn to, men! Have out the boats, and save what we can from yonder ketch, for by all the signs she will not last half an hour.”
Romney had no heart to watch the men at work nor the oars flashing over the water. He turned instead to where Neville lay.
“He’ll catch his death lying here in the cold,” he said; “let us carry him below, Philpotts!”
“Ay,” said Ingle, carelessly, “ye may lay him in the cabin next mine, and the third and last cabin I’ll have made ready for Mistress Neville. You’re to be queen o’ the ship while you’re aboard,” he added, turning to Peggy; “and when you land you shall have the salute of five guns I promised you at St. Mary’s.”
Peggy thanked the Captain with gracious courtesy, but Romney glowered and made as if to speak, then thought better of it, and lifting Neville with the help of Philpotts bore him down into the cabin, where they chafed feet and hands with brandy and wrapped the cold form in hot blankets.
To Huntoon’s strained sense it seemed hours, though it was only minutes, before the rapid tread of feet on the deck, the creaking of ropes, and the flapping of sails gave notice that The Reformation was once more under way. Hurrying on deck, he was just in time to see The Lady Betty rise for the last time on the crest of the wave, and then, with a final shiver, plunge downward in five fathoms of water. Tears rose to his eyes and a ball that seemed as big as an apple stuck in his throat; but he gulped it down and began to pace the deck with a manner as indifferent as he could make it.
“There’s ship’s biscuit and hot stuff in the cabin,” said Ingle. “You’d best come below and have some. You look as though you’d fasted near long enough.”
It was the first time the thought of food had crossed Huntoon’s mind, but he realized now that it was well on towards nightfall and he had not broken fast since seven in the morning. Yet when he was seated at the table despite his hunger he could scarce eat. Two things choked him: first, the thought of The Lady Betty lying on the sand five fathoms under water and her cargo on this pirate’s deck; and afterward, when he had conquered this bitterness and looked up, the anger in his heart at sight of the ogling attention Richard Ingle was bestowing upon Peggy Neville.
The girl herself was more than a little frightened, but she held her head high.
“Had I known we were to have a lady aboard, I had had the cabin decorated.”
“Bare walls go best with a sad heart, Captain Ingle.”
“Fill your goblet again and down with the Madeira!”
“None for me, I thank you.”
“Ho! ho! I see you are jealous. Wine and woman, the old saw says, make fools of all men. So belike you care not to take your rival to your heart.”
“I crave your permission to withdraw.”
“Ah, do those bright eyes feel the weight of sleep so early?”
Peggy bowed.
“Then must we do without them, though ’tis like turning out the light in the ship’s lantern. Your cabin, you know, lies between your brother’s and mine.”
“I shall sit with my brother the night.”
“And you so overcome with drowsiness,” mocked Ingle.
Huntoon started up; but Peggy checked him: “Master Huntoon, will you take me to my brother? I will detain him but a moment, Captain Ingle, and I thank you for your courtesy.”
It might have been a court lady who swept past Ingle to take Huntoon’s arm; but it was a trembling and much frightened little maid who entered Neville’s cabin.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“I don’t know how to say it.”
“I know. You fear Ingle.”
“I do.”
“And would like to have me sleep outside the door here.”
“No; that would make him angry, and we are all in his power.”
“I fear you speak only the truth.”
“But there is a way.”
“What?”
“Keep him talking all night.”
“I will try, and, Peggy, if worst comes to worst—”
“I know, and I trust you; but now hasten back.”
So he left her.
When Huntoon returned to the table, Ingle poured him out a huge bumper of Madeira and another for himself, though his flushed cheeks and glazed eyes showed that he had little need of more. Then leaving his seat he went to the little locker at the end of the cabin, and drawing out two carefully preserved treasures set them down with a thump on the table.
“Do ye know what those are?”
“Ay, drinking cups of a rare make. The last voyage but one of The Reformation we fell in with a ship and would have boarded her peaceably, as the crew were for letting us, but the captain and mate made a fight for it and cost me two of our best men. So angered was I by their obstinacy, I vowed if we won I’d have their skulls made into drinking cups, and here they are with the silver rims round ’em fashioned by a smith on board from a roll of silver on the ship. See, I’ll take the captain, and you shall drink from the mate. Now give us a toast.”
Huntoon paled and his heart thumped against his ribs, but he kept saying to himself, “Yes, Peggy, I will do it. I promised you, and I must not fail.”
At length, grasping the ghastly cup, he raised it and in a voice of strained gayety cried out, —
“Here’s to The Reformation! She’s a gallant vessel, as this day’s work has proved.”
“Ay, that she is, and fit to gladden the heart of any sailor in Christendom.”
“Were you bred to the sea?”
“Not I.”
“That’s strange. You walk the deck as if you had had sea legs on since you gave up going on all fours.”
“Ay, but that comes of natural bent and brains. Give a man brains enough and he can be anything from an admiral to a bishop. Now there was a time when I had thoughts of being a bishop myself.”
“You?”
“Oh, you may smile, and I own there’s not much in the cut of my jib to suggest its being made of the cloth, and this ring I wear being taken from the finger of a corpse in a merchantman would scarce do duty for the Episcopal symbol; but for all that I speak truth.”
“And what changed your purpose?”
“What always changes a man’s purpose? A woman. Here, pass over that Madeira. Do you know, I have more than half a mind to tell you the whole story.”
“Should I not feel honored by the confidence?”
“Well you may, for I’ve never yet told it to any one; but the sight of that girl and you in love with her — oh, never mind coloring up like that. I knew it the moment you set foot on the ship — the sight of you two, I say, brings it all back.”