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"These are wild vows, Elinor, and will be repented when thou dost consider them. I would be well-nigh as glad as thou to see Christopher Neville acquitted of the charge of this terrible crime. To say truth, against all the evidence, against reason itself, I cherished faint hope that something might be unearthed even yet to show us that we had all been mistaken, but now that he hath skulked away under cover of darkness – why, 'tis the same as a confession."

"Ay, and for that reason he has never done it. Never —never—never! 'Tis not in his nature, not near so much as to have done the murder of which he stands accused. Giles, 'tis but a little while since thou didst urge my taking Christopher Neville for my tenant yonder at Cecil Manor; and why? Because, thou saidst, he was the boldest and the truest and the faithfullest man in Maryland. So he was and is. Thinkst thou a man's soul is changed in a day or two days or a week? Fie! thou hast not enough knowledge of human nature to be ruler of a county, much less a commonwealth."

Brent drew his brows together impatiently.

"'Tis all very well to rail like that, but it proves nothing. He is gone. That is a fact not to be gainsaid. What is it, then, but jail-breaking?"

"Ay, but he may not have gone of his free will."

"A likely story. Who, then, hath taken him by force?"

"How do I know? Some that have reason to profit by his accusation, yet fear to press the trial to the end. Perchance the fathers of St. Inigo's."

Giles Brent was furious, all the more that the same possibility had been floating dimly in his own mind. He answered coldly, —

"Since thou art so lost to all sense of dignity and decency in the cause of thy lover as to accuse Holy Church herself rather than admit what one who runs may read, that he hath done a dastardly deed and then hath run away to escape the consequences, why, I will waste neither argument nor entreaty, but when the day comes that all is made clear, thou wilt have a heavy account to settle."

"I know not how it may be in the future of this world, Giles; but when the day comes that the secrets of all hearts are laid open, I feel sure as that I stand here that Christopher Neville will have naught to fear. For myself my shame will be that I loved not too much, but too little. To love cautiously is not to love at all. For thee, thy punishment – the hardest, I believe, for a just man – shall be to see too late the wrong thou hast done; the friendship lightest held where it should have been strongest, the faith withheld where the hand should have been outstretched in aid, the life sacrificed that should have been a bulwark to the state, – all this will be laid at thy door – "

Then, – with a sudden break, – "God forgive me! What a hypocrite I am! My sin is heavier than thine. I knew him, I loved him, and I failed him. Death holds no bitterness like this."

Without another word she turned and left him.

Brent fell back, awed by the force of her passion, and stood still watching her as she swept on, a tall vision of Nemesis, vague and gray in the mist that clung about the long folds of her cloak. On she walked, slowly at first, then faster and faster till she was almost running. At the third bend of the path a man slipped out from behind the twisted pine, and fell in with her step so naturally that she was scarcely conscious of his companionship.

There was a softness in Ralph Ingle's silence, a soothing quality in his sympathy that made itself felt. Elinor's gait slowed, and she removed the hands that had been pressed to her temples, as if to quiet the intolerable throbbing pain.

"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 Betty. 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?"

"Drinking cups," said Huntoon, but he shuddered.

"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."

"You were in love once?"

"Ay, that I was, as deep as you or any other fool."

"Was the girl English?"

"Ay, and a tall, straight, handsome girl as ever you saw, in those days, – far handsomer than her sister, who is and always was a weakling, with no more expression than a basin of hasty pudding."

"She is living, then?"

For answer Ingle pointed with his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Kent Fort.

"Here, in Maryland?"

Ingle lurched half way across the table, and putting his hand to the side of his mouth whispered a name.

"No!" exclaimed Huntoon.

"Ay!" then jealously, "Perhaps you think she's too good for me?"

Huntoon thought it prudent to evade the question by another.

"Did you ever tell your love?"

"I tried to, and more than once, but I could never get her to listen. Curse the pride of those Brents!"

"They are proud," Huntoon assented.

"Ay, and Margaret proudest of all. Why, when I wrote her she sent back the letter, saying she could not read it for the spelling, and that I would be the better for a twelvemonth more of schooling. And when I spoke to her she bade me shut my mouth. And when I held her wrist and would make her listen, she said I was no gentleman."

"But how were you on the road to a bishop's see? Not surely by writing of misspelled letters and holding of ladies' hands against their wills."

"No, but in spite of it, for I had influence and the Archbishop was a friend of my father's, and I had his promise of preferment, which was good for its face value in those days, and I might have risen to anything; but when Margaret Brent cast scorn at me like that it maddened me – and what was she to hold herself above me? What are the Calverts themselves? Why, Leonard Calvert's grandfather was a grazier, and Leonard himself was a dolt when we were at school together."

Huntoon, not seeing exactly what answer was expected, wisely attempted none, but made a feint of helping himself from the jug at his elbow, and then shoved it across the table. Ingle shook it and finding it still heavy, set it down with a contented thump.

"Bide you there, my beauty!" he said jovially, "till I'm ready for you. I'll have you yet. Yes, and Margaret Brent too, for all her fine-lady airs. Who ever heard of the Brents till they sprang up like mushrooms in this new world? While the Ingles – my grandfather did oft tell me how all England took its name from them."

"Faith!" said Huntoon to himself, "your spelling is not much improved since the days when you wrote Mistress Brent." Aloud he said, "And did the disappointment drive you out of England, the country named after your forefathers?"

"It did," answered Ingle, with a hiccough, and fell into drunken weeping, "but perhaps I might have lost my head if I'd tarried, so maybe 'tis all for the best, and the life o' the sea is a merry one; but I've never forgotten nor forgiven, and for Margaret Brent's sake I've sworn an oath to make a hell of Maryland to all her kith and kin."

With this Ingle came to himself a little and feared the confidences he was making this stranger in his cups might have gone too far, so he burst into tipsy laughter and shook the jug, which was made of leather, and then poured its contents to the last dregs into his silver-rimmed skull, and finally waving it above his head burst out singing, —

 
"'Oh, a leather bottel we know is good,
Far better than glasses or cans of wood.
And what do you say to the silver flagons fine?
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine,
But I wish in Heaven his soul may dwell
That first devised the leather bottel!'
 

Huzza for the leather bottel! and huzza for the wine in it! Wine and woman they're a fine pair; I'll sing you a song about them – hic!"

Huntoon looked anxiously toward the door behind which Peggy was sitting, and he saw with satisfaction that the carousing Captain had promised more than he could perform, for when he started to sing his voice failed him, his arm fell at his side, and the whole man collapsed in a heap beneath the table.

"At last," murmured Huntoon, gratefully, "I think he can be trusted to stay where he is till morning," and escaping from the close cabin with its foul-smelling lantern he made his way to the deck.

The fog was gone, and the night stainlessly, brilliantly, radiantly clear. The stars twinkled a frosty greeting to him. The deep, dark blue of the sky calmed and soothed him. He took a dozen turns up and down the deck, then he went below, and stretching himself out before the door of Peggy's cabin fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.