Sir Christopher: A Romance of a Maryland Manor in 1644

CHAPTER XVII
ROMNEY

It was on the afternoon of the day after the collision with The Lady Betty that The Reformation rounded the last headland that shut Romney from the view. The river ran cobalt blue between its brown banks, bare but for the patches of snow that lay here and there in unsunned hollows. The sky arched above far and clear, save where a group of fleecy clouds bunched together like a flock of white sheep on the horizon.

The sunlight fell full on the western front of Romney as it stood in stalwart bulk against the black forest behind it, its wings outspread on either side like some wild bird sheltering its young. A stout stockade enclosed house and grounds, and ended on either side of the little wharf running out into the river.

In the doorway of the house stood a woman, her hand raised to shelter her eyes as she scanned the river to the southward. Mistress Huntoon was still beautiful, though the radiance of youth was gone. The pencilled eyebrow and the transparent curve of the delicate nostril, the lambent flame in the eyes, yet remained, and, above all, that indefinable attraction which hovers about some women from the cradle to the grave.

Just now she shivered a little as though she had been standing and looking long. Then she drew closer about her the cloak of gray paduasoy lined with yellow and held by carved clasps of polished marcasite.

"Will he never come?" she murmured. "'Tis nigh a week since he was to have reached home, and I cannot help worrying, for all his father laughs and bids me put away womanish fears and remember that the boy is well-nigh come to man's estate and better able than either of us to look after himself. Ah, what's that beyond the headland? A sail, a sail, Humphrey! Do you hear? a sail in the river! It must be Romney's, though it looks over large for The Lady Betty."

Her eager words brought her husband to her side, buttoning his doublet close as he shut the door behind him.

"Poor, poor little mother!" he said, as he laid a comforting arm about her shoulder, "we cannot let the lad go beyond the length of her apron string again, if she is to lead me such a life as this of last week. Why, we have had him die of seven separate deaths already. Let me see," and he began counting soberly on his fingers: "first, drowned in Chesapeake Bay; second, caught by pirates and carried off to the Bermudas; third, languishing in prison, for taking the part of Virginia in one of Master Claiborne's skirmishes between commonwealth and palatinate; fourth, stabbed in the streets of St. Mary's on a dark night and robbed of his gold; fifth, shot in a duel brought on by his hot temper 'so like his father's;' sixth, frozen to death on some lonely Maryland road; or last and worst of all, dead in love with some designing maid, wife, or widow there at St. Mary's and wholly forgetful of his duty to thee and me – ay, sweetheart?"

"Hush, Humphrey! Cease thy jesting and tell me is that The Lady Betty, or is it not?"

"Why, no, as I make out, 'tis too large for the ketch, deeper built, and with a prow more fit to buffet ocean waves. 'Tis more likely a merchant packet plying a regular trade with James City or St. Mary's; but come, let us signal her from the wharf and perhaps we may get some news of Romney."

The wind was blowing cold as they reached the dock, and Huntoon wrapped the gray cloak close about his wife, as they seated themselves under the shelter of a pile of logs to watch the approaching vessel.

"Dost thou remember, Betty, the day I set sail from James City in The Red Fox?"

"Ay, that I do, and I watching thee from the window of the Carys' cottage, with my heart in my throat."

"And I that disappointed I could have cried like a schoolboy, because thou camest not to see me off."

"I dared not."

"If I could only have known that!"

"Poor fool, too dull to ask what thou wast aching to know!"

"Ay, poor fool indeed, and much needless trouble my dulness and diffidence together brought upon me, and on thee too; but in the end all came out right, and I sometimes think we could not have loved each other so well but for all the trials we went through."

For all answer Elizabeth Huntoon slipped her hand into her husband's.

"Yet such inconsistent creatures are we, I own I would not our boy should suffer as I did."

"Never fear; Romney is a lad of spirit, and will never lose a girl for lack of asking."

"Ay, but asking and getting are two different things. There was Captain Spellman. He wooed thee with as much spirit as any woman could wish."

"The presuming coxcomb!"

"There it is. What is a poor man to do, when asking is presumption, and not asking is dulness?"

"Do? Why, hold his tongue and use his eyes, to be sure."

"But, Betty, thou wert never twice alike."

"So shouldst thou have changed too. When I was hot, thou shouldst have been cold. When I was cold, thou shouldst have turned to a furnace."

"Who loves, fears. I played the fool; but, Betty, 'twas the fool who won. Pray Heaven Romney meets as kind a fate."

"But, Humphrey, what can be keeping him?"

"The old refrain; I have heard that question so often I could answer it in my sleep. Thy boy is safe and sound, and will give a good account of his absence, I'll be bound."

For all his light treatment of his wife's terrors, Master Huntoon had his own fears for his son's safety, and realized better than she could the many forms of danger and temptations that beset a home-bred youth, setting out to do business or battle with the world. It was with a glad leap of the heart and a curious catch in his throat that he recognized the stalwart figure by the gunwale as the packet drew near the wharf, though a moment later he realized that something must have gone wrong with the ketch.

"All's well, Father," cried Romney; which meant, "There's the devil to pay; but I'm alive."

Before the ship had made fast her first hawser, the boy was over its side and in his mother's arms, with one hand held fast in his father's, pouring forth a torrent of words so bewildering that his father finally clapped his hand over his son's mouth, saying, —

"Softly, thou headlong stripling, or thou wilt split our ears in the effort to hear, and our heads trying to take all in. Now let me put the questions, and do thou say 'ay' or 'no,' and as little more as the grace of God lets thee hold thy tongue for. Now, thou didst load at St. Mary's?"

"Ay, sir."

"And cleared in safety?"

"Ay."

"And stopped at St. Gabriel's Manor?"

"Ay."

"What for?"

"How can I say 'ay' or 'no' to that?"

"Then explain more at length; but briefly."

"Prithee let that stand. Suffice it to say a man – a friend of mine – was in mortal peril, and his sister and I resolved to save him."

"Sister! Ah, I begin to see a light. Is she with you?"

"Ay, and I have promised her a welcome from thee and my mother fit to heal her sore heart."

"Well, well, we'll come to that later. Now what befell the ketch?"

"Why, the fog befell us first, and then Dick Ingle befell us, and then the devil befell us; but here we are in spite of all three; and, Mother, thou wilt be good to her, wilt thou not?"

The crisis had come to Elizabeth Huntoon, as it comes to every mother – gradually to some, suddenly to others – when she realizes that her supreme place is gone forever. Henceforth, for her, affection and esteem and a comfortable suite of dowager apartments in her child's heart; but the absolute sway, the power, the firstness at an end.

The blood surged back from Mistress Huntoon's face, leaving it gray, and for the first time with the touch of age upon it, so that one could know how she would look as an old woman.

"Yes; I will be good. Where is she?" The lips formed the words which sounded cold and formal in her own ears; but she saw with a new pang that her son had no leisure for noting subtle shades of tone or meaning in her voice.

"Here, Mother, here!" he exclaimed, turning to where his father was already assisting Peggy Neville from the deck to the wharf. Now, had Peggy been rosy and dimpling and happy as she was a fortnight ago, and as she must needs have been to arrest the wandering fancy of Romney Huntoon, his mother would have greeted her with as much coolness as Virginia hospitality permitted; but seeing a pale, tearful little face, weary and woe-begone, peeping out from the brown curls, the older woman felt her heart touched by a keen remembrance of herself as a young girl, a stranger in a strange land; and waiting no words of presentation, she made one of her swift, characteristic strides toward Peggy, and folding her arms close about her, kissed her on both cheeks.

"Poor child!" she said in her low caressing voice; "thou art fair tired out and sadly in need of rest. Come with me to the little white chamber next mine; there shalt thou bathe thy face with fresh water and rest thy weary body in a warm bed."

"But my brother – he is very ill – "

"Leave him to my husband, who is counted the best physician in Virginia. He and Romney can do more for him than thou or I. Romney, receive our guests and do what is needful for their comfort! I will join thee shortly in the hall."

"Captain Ingle, will you come ashore and try the quality of Romney cheer?" said Humphrey Huntoon, as his son stood looking like one dazed after the women on the path.

"I thank you; but my time is short, and I must have speech with Master Claiborne, who is staying further up the river."

"Perhaps on your return you will stop and let me try to repay – " began Huntoon, courteously; but the thought of The Lady Betty's goods stored in The Reformation's hold pricked Ingle's conscience.

"I am already repaid," he answered stiffly, "and there is no call for thanks on either side. Here, you men! Lift Sir Christopher Neville over the railing there. Three of you go to this side; three to that. So! easy there. One – two – three! Now lift!"

To give the devil his due, no man had such a gift as Richard Ingle for giving orders.

It was scarcely quarter of an hour after The Reformation touched the wharf before she was away again, leaving four of her passengers and the crew of The Lady Betty on the wharf. When she was well out in the river, Ingle ordered a salute of five guns, and then bade his men give three cheers for the Mistress Peggy Neville, the handsomest girl that ever trod the deck of a vessel.

"Here's to her!" he cried himself, "and may she have the luck to marry a buccaneer when yonder stripling is dead and gone!"

Peggy smiled a watery, tearful smile as she heard the five guns. How little, she thought, had she imagined under what circumstances that salute would be fired when Captain Ingle lightly promised it at St. Mary's!

But her hostess would give her no time for thought. She led her swiftly up the winding stair to the little white bedroom, and in a trice she had set black Dinah at work heating the sheets with the great brass warming-pan. Susan was fetching water hot and cold, and she herself was loosening the lacings with which Peggy's own numb fingers fumbled in vain.

All the while she kept her eyes upon the wharf which lay below the window. Already a litter had been improvised of boards that lay on the wharf; four men lifted the figure over the ship's side and laid it down gently. Then the litter was raised and borne toward the house, Romney and his father walking on either side. Once or twice the figure struggled and flung its arms wildly above its head. So violent did the struggles become that at length Master Huntoon drew a phial from his jerkin, and pouring out some drops forced them between the prostrate man's lips. The head fell back, and quiet settled on the limbs so suddenly that Mistress Huntoon uttered an involuntary exclamation of terror.

Peggy caught her anxiety in a moment.

"What are they doing? Where is he? Oh, not – not dead!"

"Why, no, foolish child," answered Lady Betty, ready to pinch herself for her ill-timed outcry. "Look for thyself. See, they are bearing him up the walk, and they will have him undressed and put to bed in no time. Go thou to rest likewise! I promise to bring thee tidings, should there be need of thee in the sick room, and meanwhile let me sing thee a little song that my mother sang to me in the old country, and I again to Romney here in his babyhood."

Mistress Huntoon watched Peggy closely as she spoke Romney's name, but no answering blush marked her words. The girl was so utterly worn out that she scarcely took any heed of what was passing around her, but sank upon the bed, closed her eyes, and dropped into sweet slumber to the sound of a tender, preoccupied crooning of the old refrain, – the same that Romney had hummed to himself on the hillside path at St. Mary's, —

 
"Heigh-ho! whether or no,
Kiss me once before you go
Under the trees where the pippins grow."
 

In her dreams it seemed to Peggy that she was standing on a ladder in an English orchard. Romney was shaking the tree and for every apple that fell claiming a kiss, while she from her vantage ground of the ladder pelted him with the red apples instead.

The dream brought a smile to the pale young lips.

"It is well," said Mistress Huntoon to herself, watching her; "she sleeps and she smiles. Youth will do the rest." After bending an instant over the sleeper she left her and slipped down the staircase into the hall. Romney was walking up and down. At the foot of the stairway he met his mother and kissed her hand, as had been his custom from babyhood. They crossed the hall and sat down side by side on the wide settle before the fire.

Then a silence fell between them.

"Alas," thought the mother, "when did ever my boy find it hard to speak with me before?"

"She suspects something," thought her son.

This was not the truth; she did not suspect, she knew.

"Tell me now of all that hath befallen thee since ever The Lady Betty touched at St. Mary's."

"Nay, tell me first if thou, like my father, hast forgiven the loss of the dear old boat."

"Speak not of the loss of a boat though it had held half our fortune when thy life was in the scale. Oh, my son, my son!"

The mother covered her face with her hands and fell to weeping, not so much, to tell the truth, because her son might have been lost to her, as because he had been.

Romney, shrewd as he thought himself, never dreamed of what was passing in her mind.

"Now then, little Mother, cheer up! What's the use of weeping when thou hast me here safe and sound? As for my adventures, they have in truth been many and wonderful. To begin at the beginning, I found St. Mary's mightily dull till I did make acquaintance with Mistress Neville and her niece who is with us here."

"Neville, so that is her name?"

"Why, of course, Neville, – Peggy Neville," Romney said the name slowly as if it were music in his ears. "'T was at their house, Mother, I met Governor Brent, and he did make particular inquiry for my father, and said the fame of his courage and wisdom was spread beyond the boundaries of Virginia."

This was a good feint on the boy's part and drew his mother's attention for the moment.

"Said he so indeed? Why, 'twas right civilly spoke. I trust thou didst return what courtesy thou couldst to the Governor."

"Yes, and no. I did him some small favors; but in the end I robbed him of his prisoner."

"Romney!"

"Ay, that did I, and would do it again. The man was falsely accused."

"Accused of what?"

"Murder."

Elizabeth Huntoon's face fell. She dearly loved the atmosphere of respectability, and had no mind to be mixed up with a felony. Her son paid little heed to her expression.

"Oh, but 'twas shrewdly planned, – Peggy and I – "

"Peggy!"

Romney could have bitten his tongue out. The mischief was done. He halted, stammered, and finally resolved to throw himself on his mother's mercy, which he might better have done in the beginning.

"Yes, Peggy! – the sweetest name for the sweetest girl in the colonies. When thou dost know her better, Mother, thou wilt say so too."

"Thou dost not seem to have needed long knowledge to find it out; but thou must needs remember that all thou hast told me of her so far is that she is sister to a murderer."

"Mother!" cried Romney, flinging off his mother's hand and jumping up to pace the floor.

"It was thou who didst say the word."

"Not I. Am I like to speak such a foul falsehood of the man I honor most in the world, next to my father! I said accused of murder, – a mighty different thing, as any but a woman would know."

It is a great relief to a man to vent upon the sex a charge which courtesy and respect forbid his laying at the door of the individual.

"Perhaps it will be set down to the curiosity of my sex if I venture to ask whom this high-souled gentleman is supposed to have put out of the way."

God gave sarcasm to woman in place of sinewy fists. Poor Romney felt his heart pommelled, but being in the right and knowing it, he kept his temper.

"I'll tell thee as if thou hadst asked more kindly."

The shot told, for it was deserved.

"Sir Christopher Neville was accused of killing a Jesuit priest, – one of those who dwell at St. Inigo's. The evidence against him was strong, and Giles Brent credited it, though he had great liking for Neville. But his sister is much under the influence of 'those of the Hill,' as the Jesuits are called, and thou thyself, Mother, dost know how much that order is to be trusted."

Cleverly aimed again, Romney! He knew that his mother had come to the greatest griefs of her life through the machinations of a follower of St. Ignatius; already she weakened a little, though her face did not betray it.

"But why was it necessary that thou shouldst be caught in the toils? Neither deed nor charge was any affair of thine. What was it all to thee?"

"What was it to my father when thou wert in trouble yonder in James City?"

Elizabeth Huntoon trembled.

"Oh, Romney, is it gone so far, in one little fortnight? Remember thy father had known and loved me for years."

"Pshaw!" said Romney, striding up and down faster than ever, crowding his hands deep into the pockets of his jerkin. "Is there any calendar of love with directions, 'On such a day a man may take a liking, after so many days he may admire, at the end of a month, or three, or six, he may give rein to his fancy, and when a year is out he may love, – that is, if his mother gives consent'?"

The lad was growing angry, and therefore letting down his guard. Trust a woman for seeing the advantage and using it! Elizabeth poked her little red boots out to the fire and looked at them as if they interested her more than anything in the world. Then as though the question were the most natural and casual one she asked, —

"When are you to marry?"

It was at once the cruellest and the kindest thing she could have said. A huge sob rose in the boy's throat and choked him. Then he threw himself on his knees and buried his head in his mother's lap, crying, —

"Don't! Don't! She does not love me!"

"Ask her!"

"I have asked her."

Let those who can, explain the workings of a woman's mind. Perhaps they can tell why Elizabeth Huntoon, who five minutes before had set her face like a flint against this love affair, of a sudden whiffed about like a weather-cock and was set for it as if she had planned it herself from the beginning. All she said was, —

"Then why did she ask thy help?"

"She did not; I offered it, – nay, forced it upon her; and for her brother she would do anything. It's my belief he is the only human being she does truly love."

"All the better. Love for a brother never yet blocked the way to any other. But, hark! I hear her stirring. Belike she will be able to come down for supper. Go thou, and don thy scarlet sash and the falling band with lace edge. Oh, and don't forget the lace cuffs and the gold lacings."

"Mother, dost take thy son for a baby or a popinjay?"

"Neither, but for the dullard he is, not to know that dress makes as much difference in men as in women. Why, who knows but I would have had thy father a year earlier, had he paid more heed to his attire! Go! Go! – Suppose thou hadst never come!" Here words failed her, and she caught her son to her heart, cried over him a moment, and then pushed him toward the stairs.