by Howard Pyle
“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!”
CHAPTER XXII. CANDLEMAS EVE
“COUTHIN MARGET, DOST think the ground-hog can see his shadow when he comes out of his hole to-morrow?”
“I fear it, Cecil. See how bright the west is!”
It was Candlemas Eve at St. Mary’s. All day Cecil had been in the woods gathering snowdrops for the shrine of the Virgin, and binding bay-leaves into wreaths to decorate Our Lady’s Chapel. Now, at sunset, he was resting with his head against Margaret Brent’s knee under the great mulberry-tree on the bluff.
“Then the winter will be long?”
“So they say.”
“And hard?”
“That’s what all the grandames tell.”
“Is it a falsehood or a truehood?”
“True as most sayings belike.”
“Then, Marget.”
“Well?”
“I think I’d best be up ere sunrise, and roll stones before all the holes, and I know five wherein ground-hogs live.”
Margaret Brent laughed. “That’s just what Giles did once when he was little.”
“Wath Couthin Giles ever little — really little — like me?”
“Yes, Cecil, little like you; and he and I were wont to chase butterflies through the English meadows, and it’s small thought either he or I ever had that we should end our lives here in the wilderness.”
“End your lives!”
To Cecil it was as impossible to conceive of an end as of a beginning to these grown-up people who always had been, and, of course, always would be, the backbone of his world. After a pause given to meditation he resumed, —
“What makes folks die?”
“Oh! different things. They may be sick, or they may fall down stairs, or break their bones.”
“I see. Then they go up to God to get mended. — Marget!”
“Ay.”
“I wish Mother would get God to mend her smile.”
“What’s that?”
“She used to have such a pretty smile, and now she only smiles when I make her.”
“Then see that thou dost make her smile often. Perchance ’tis thus that God will mend it. Come, Cecil, she will be waiting for us even now, and we shall catch the rheum if we sit longer on this damp ground.”
Cecil, always glad to be in motion, jumped up, and led the way home, his yellow curls bobbing along the path, as good as a lantern in the gloaming, as Margaret Brent told herself.
At the cottage door Elinor stood bathed in the crimson light that flooded earth and sky. Her pale cheek had caught the rosy glow, and the damp February air had twisted her hair in soft clinging rings about her face. As she caught sight of Margaret and Cecil her lips parted in a welcoming smile, and she came down the path to meet them with arms outstretched.
“Look, Couthin!” cried Cecil, “God’s mending her already!”
“Pray Heaven He does!” answered Margaret, under her breath. Then, after seeing the boy clasped in his mother’s arms, she turned for a last look at the scene which she had left with reluctance, for it was one of the inconsistencies of Mistress Brent’s practical nature to love the poetry of the twilight, and to be willing to barter all the noon-day hour for that last swift dip of the red sun behind the hills.
To-night she stood with head thrown back and chest expanded, as though she were physically breathing in the beauty around her. The rose-purple of a moment since had narrowed to a single crimson bar, stretched above the opal barrier of the hills, athwart the deep yellow of the sky.
“The walls were of jasper, and the city was of pure gold like unto clear glass!”
“Supper, Couthin Marget! and wheaten porridge. Come in with speed!”
“Peace, poppet! Who talks of porridge in the New Jerusalem!”
“But this is not the New Jerusalem, only the ragged little village of St. Mary’s.” It was Elinor’s voice that answered, and Margaret rejoiced to catch a strain of oldtime lightness in it. Moreover, the promise of the voice was fulfilled as they sat at the supper-table, for Elinor was as one who has shaken off a burden. Her gown was of a rich red that might have been stolen from the sunset, and in her hair she had set a wing of the cardinal tanager. Around her neck hung a single ruby.
“Truth, Elinor, thou art like a flame to-night,” exclaimed Margaret as Cecil drew out a stool for her at the table.
“’Tis time, Cousin. Poor Cecil hath had too much of shadow in his little life. Now, I am fain to throw some brightness into it, if ’tis but a red gown and a tanager’s wing.”
“Hurrah! Now art thou thine old self once more, as I saw thee on the morning when I was Lord of—”
Margaret saw the gayety fade out of Elinor’s face as swiftly as a sunlighted sail is swallowed up by the gray mist.
“Dost thou mind, Elinor,” she said, quickly, “how we were wont to make merry on Candlemas Eve at home in England?”
“Ay, right well I remember how once, when I was a girl, I went through the woods gathering wax berries for the candles.” Here she paused, and added softly, with a mounting flush and a tender smile, “’Twas with Christopher Neville.”
Margaret Brent looked up astonished.
“Yes, Cousin, I can speak his name, and mean to talk often of him with Cecil, to make the boy, so far as I can, in his image, so tender and true, so steadfast and faithful to death.”
“Thou art a brave woman.”
“Nay, I have been till now a very foolish one. Even now, as thou didst see, Cecil’s words and all they called up cut to the quick like a two-edged knife; but this is wrong, and I know it. Sure, God did not give us memory to be a curse, but a joy. So far as I sinned toward Christopher I must bear the burden of sorrow; but I mean not that it shall blight all the past. We were happy together once — then sorrow swept between; but now that too has passed, and I am fain to live once again, though alone, the happiness we shared.”
“Art sure it will not try thine endurance too far to dwell so on the past?”
“Nay, for I love it, and ’tis so real, — far, far more real than the present. Why, I can smell again the fragrance of the waxen berries, and I can see Christopher as he stood pulling down the bushes and smiling at my eagerness to fill my pail. I think there never was a smile quite like his. ’Twas more in the eyes than the lips, and it seemed to have actual warmth in it, like the fire yonder.”
“Ay, ’twas clear wonderful to see what a change a smi
le could make in that stern face of his.”
“Oh, but in those days there was no sternness in his face, only a great gladness and gayety. I have seen him lie under the trees and whistle beneath the hat pulled over his face, till all the birds gathered round and wondered what strange new creature it was that had learned so merry a note.”
Elinor’s eyes grew dark and misty as she looked across the candle-light into the darkness beyond; but the smile still curved her lips, and an expression lay on her face as of one who listens and responds.
“Mother, wilt thou sing me a song as thou dost every Candlemas?”
“Cecil, I fear my voice will not follow my resolutions; but yes, — it shall. What wilt thou have me sing?”
“Oh, the song about the lady with the green sleeves.”
“Must it be that, Cecil? Surely some other would do as well.”
“No, ’tis my favorite of them all.”
Elinor paled a little; but she began bravely, and her courage and her voice rose together till at the end there came a triumphant burst that swelled beyond the narrow walls and could be heard out on the road, and the villagers stood still to listen, and nudged each other with wonder.
“Heard ye that? ’Tis Mistress Calvert singing, — Mistress Calvert!”
When the song was ended, Margaret took her turn at story-telling, and then Cecil must sing; and thus the time sped away so fast that they could scarce believe their ears when the curfew bell sounded for “lights out,” and Cecil well-nigh forgot the answer to the bell, that he had been taught in babyhood and repeated every night since he could speak: “Christ send us the lights of Heaven!”
“Off to bed with thee, Cecil,” said his mother, taking his face between her hands, as was her wont, and kissing him on both cheeks. “To bed, and sweet dreams attend thee!”
“Yet forget not to be up early,” added Margaret.
“No fear, I have all the candles to light for the Candlemas blaze, and Father White hath promised I may help him in the chapel of Our Lady.”
Leaning against his mother’s knee he looked up into her face, exclaiming, —