“No, Livy,” he said, parodying Captain Margaret’s manner towards an inferior. “No, Livy, dear. Don’t make it hard for me. We must never draw back from a noble cause, dear.” He thought that this would bring more tears, and force him to be brutal; he was not going to stand there while she snivelled on his shoulder. “A snivelling woman,” he always maintained, “is not a thing to be encouraged.” But to his surprise his answer checked her tears; she had never loved him more than when he placed his honour even above his love for her.
“There, Tom,” she said. “Forgive me. I won’t cry any more, dear. My nerves are upset. I won’t ask again, Tom. Of course, we’ll go to Darien. But I wasn’t thoughtless of your honour, Tom. You don’t think that? I wasn’t. I was only fidgety and frightened. Women are so silly. You don’t know how silly.”
“There, there,” he said. “There, there. What pretty ears you’ve got, Livy. Why in the world d’you wear earrings with ears like yours?”
“They’re only clip earrings, you old goose.”
“I shall bite them.”
“No, Tom. Not my ears now. My dear Tom. Do forgive me. You know I love you.”
“You’ve got the reddest lips I ever saw in a woman, Livy.”
“Oh. Do you notice women’s lips?”
“I notice yours. Almost the first thing I noticed of you was how red your lips were. What do you put on them?”
“Nothing. You put something on them sometimes.”
“What? A gag?”
“No. Your old silly mouth that asks so many questions.”
“I’ll get you some hot water for your eyes. You must bathe them.”
“How good and tender you are to me, Tom.”
As he walked to get a jugful of hot water he muttered to himself about her. “Bread and butter,” he repeated. “Bread and butter. A life of bread and butter. Forty years of it, good luck. Forty years of it to come. Batter pudding.” He met with Cammock in the alleyway; it occurred to him to be civil. “Captain Cammock,” he said, “will you join me in my smoking-room after dinner to-day? I’ve some Verinas tobacco. I’d like your opinion of it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cammock, wondering what had caused such sudden friendliness. “But which do you call your smoking-room?”
“That little tiny cabin just forward of the bath-room. It’s only big enough for a few chairs and a bookshelf.”
“Oh, the after-hospital,” said Cammock. “I’ll be very pleased, sir. But where did you speak with Verinas tobacco, Mr. Stukeley?”
“I spoke with it ashore,” said Stukeley, “of a Mr. Davis, whom I think you know.”
“Ah,” said Cammock. “Indeed? Well. After dinner, sir.”
Later in the morning, Stukeley tried his tobacco alone, on the cabin cushions, looking through the windows at the town. He added up the chances for and against himself, smiling with satisfaction at the kindly aspect of the planets. His chief fear had been an arrest on arrival. That fear had been proved to be groundless. Then there was the chance of arrest after the arrival of the summer fleet with the mails. That chance, though possibly dangerous, was not to be dreaded. Old Howard, the Governor, was a friend of Maggy’s, and Maggy had bribed him to obtain illegal rights of trade. He could put the Governor into some trouble, should he press for an arrest on the arrival of orders from the Board. But he wasn’t likely to press for an arrest. He would give a quiet hint for them to go. But even if the arrest were ordered, he had allies in theBroken Heart. He knew that Margaret and the others would do anything to shield and spare Olivia. They thought that she was going to have a child. Good Lord, they were a comical trio. They thought that an arrest would probably kill her. And Maggy, that stiff, shambling, stuck-up, conceited prig, Maggy who had been going to fight a duel with him. Swords and pistols, damme; swords and pistols, damme. Well. What had it all come to? Why, Maggy would stop him in the alleyway, taking him gently by the arm, as one takes the doctor by the arm, when he comes out of the sick-room. “How is Olivia, Stukeley? How is she this morning?” Bated breath, good Lord. Best doctor’s manner. And Perrin running ashore for fruit and fresh fish and eggs. And Cammock. Well, Cammock was a bit of a dark horse; so he would make much of Cammock for some days. Besides, that little ruined city, full of gold, might turn out to be worth looking for. As for Olivia, she would have to come to Darien, whether she cried or not. He rather liked living at free quarters, as cock of the walk. He wasn’t going to go ashore in Virginia to settle among the colonists. Besides, in Darien, there would be a bit of sport, by all accounts. There would be shooting; perhaps a little shooting at Spaniards; plunder to be made; good living generally. The only bitter sediment in this cup of pleasure was Mrs. Inigo. He had been very nearly caught with Mrs. Inigo. He knew that he had raised suspicions, that he would have to walk warily for some little time. He wished that he was married to Mrs. Inigo. All this talk of love, such talk as Olivia loved, this talk of trust and sacrament and the rest of it. He was sick of it. He thought that men were naturally polygamous. A few fools and perverts. What right had they to dictate to him? Mrs. Inigo would be just the sort of wife for him. She would understand. And she wouldn’t make him sick with talk about Beauty. She hadn’t mixed with the gang of twisters Olivia had known. Maggy was the boy for Beauty. There was where Olivia learned her beauty talk. Twisters. That was all that Maggy’s gang were. He would like to twist their necks. As for the colonials, the Virginian women didn’t please him. The garrison ladies were like all the garrison ladies known to him, silly little empty fools, without enough imagination to be vicious. They could just chatter, play cards, kiss their beastly lap-dogs, and wear their English clothes to church, so as to show off before the colonials. The colonial girls were not like women at all. They were like young horses, like young men. They would dance and romp, like colts in a hay-lot. But their idea of an evening’s amusement was to roll a man in a corn-crib, and smother him with pillows or flour. The colonial men bored him; he had always thought ill of farmers. Their talk was all of the tobacco crop, the duty, the burning of half the leaf, and the destruction of those plantations which were too productive. They had no wines. Their only drinks were rum and new cider. They did not play cards. Their chief amusement seemed to be riding to prayer-meetings. They would often ride forty miles to a prayer-meeting in the woods. He rather liked them for that. He would have ridden a hundred miles to avoid a Church service there, under a Virginian parson. “They pay their parsons in tobacco,” he said to himself. “They get the very sweepings of the Church. What souls they must have, when you can save five thousand of them for forty pounds a year.”
Thus his thoughts ran inside his skull, under his curly black hair, behind that red face so long the adoration of shop-girls. But after dinner, in the little room known as the after-hospital, when, stretched at ease in the bunk, he could see Cammock sitting upright in the chair, through the wavering tobacco-smoke, his thoughts ran upon other matters. He thought of the coming cruise to Darien.
“Good tobacco, captain?”
“Yes, sir. But it’s not Verinas. It’s too strong. Too red. This is some of that Mexican tobacco. It leaves that tang, like a metal. That’s how you can tell, sir. Just puff out, sir, and roll your tongue round. You taste what I mean?”
“Yes. But I bought it as Verinas. I paid four shillings the Spanish pound.”
“That gang of Davis’s saw you coming, sir.”
“Really? Well. It’s my turn to laugh next. You tell them that, captain.”
“They’re no friends of mine, sir,” said Cammock simply.
“Aren’t they? I thought they were particular friends of yours. You sailed with them?”
“I’ve sailed with a good many as I’m no friends with.”
“Really.”
“I say nothing against them,” said Cammock. “They’re very good seamen. Doing good as planters, too, sir. They’ve quite a lot of ground burnt off. I dare say you’ve seen it.”
“Yes. But I thought from what they said that they were particular friends of yours. Eh?”
“Indeed, sir. When did you see them?”
“I saw them yesterday, Captain Cammock.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“They said that you and Captain Margaret had just arranged to take about thirty of them, as a sort of company of soldiers. To have them aboard here. Eh? Men of war. Eh? Pretty nearly the whole village of them.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“You don’t like your little secrets to be known.”
“Ah? Oh. I forgot to ask, Mr. Stukeley. How is Mrs. Stukeley?”
“She’s very well, thanks. You didn’t think I’d learn your little secret about the men of war.”
“I didn’t think one way or the other. You’d have known some day sure enough. I needn’t disguise the fact. Yes. We’ve just got thirty of them, to join at an hour’s notice.”
“When we sail? When will that be?”
“We ought to a gone to-day. Only our foretopmast’s sprung. We have to wait for a new one. But you know yourself, sir. We may have to sail at an hour’s notice, spar or no spar.”
“Thank you for reminding me. You’re a person of great delicacy, Cammock. For one of your rank in life.”
“I believe I am, sir. Let it go at that.”
“Can we sail at an hour’s notice?”
“If the Governor, and that old frigate, the royalNonsuch, don’t object. I suppose we could if we had to, even without a topmast. But if our topmast ain’t aboard, we couldn’t run very fast. I reckon we could, sir.”
“Leaving all that tobacco ashore?”
“Yes. All except about fifty ton, which we’ve got aboard. That tobacco’ll go home in the summer fleet, if the fleet don’t want to cross home light.”
“I hear you’ve got all the pick of the crop.”
“You hear a lot of things, sir. Well-informed man, Ed Davis.”
“He knows what’s going on,” said Stukeley. “When you’re shut up with a couple of old sheep, like your two owners, you need a change.”
“So I believe, sir.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean just what I said.”
“Ah, yes. A simple, rugged nature. Eh? But how can we put to sea with so much cargo out of her?”
“We’re not too light, Mr. Stukeley. It ain’t as though we’d emptied her. We’ve taken in a lot of fresh water. A lot of scantling, too. A lot of this Virginia cider. Then there’s the new cables we bought from them Hog Islers. Besides the fifty odd ton of tobacco. Still, I don’t say but what she’ll cut up a bit of a dance, if she gets any weather going south.”
“I thought all her cargo was consigned to Virginia.”
“Did you, sir?”
“Surely. What’s the good of fencing? Good luck, captain. I’m not an old sheep, like your owners.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“You’re getting funny, captain. A wit. You ought to have been at the University.”
“That’s where they make gentlemen, sir.”
“Oh, you know that?”
“We’d one of them come with us in theTrinity. I know all about the universities.”
“He taught you, eh? Private tuition in the forecastle?”
“Yes. As you might say. One of the things he taught was—— Well. You were at one yourself. I don’t think he could have learned you much.”
“Don’t you? Could he have learned me (as you call it) that the reason you’ve not discharged your cargo here is that you’re going to try to trade along the Main?”
“Ned Davis knows a lot, it seems.”
“Don’t be so confounded smart and hippy. See? I know all your plans. I know all you can do, and all you’re going to try to do. And I know exactly where you’ll go wrong.”
“Then we shan’t have the trouble of telling you.”
“What d’you say to going up the river after Springer’s little city? Eh? There might be something in that.”
“I met a power of clever men in my time,” said Cammock. “I don’t say men of learning and that. I mean clever fellers. I been up rivers with ’em.”
“Looking for cities?”
“Cities sometimes. Sometimes it was gold mines. Then again it’d be Indians. Boys to spear fish and that. Or perhaps it was only a snatching-raid. The clever fellers was never any good at it. But, hear ’em talk. My.”
“I gather your intellect is trying to express the fact that you dislike me. I think I trace so much. I see your brain floundering towards it.”
“Huh,” said Cammock, snorting. “I think I see you floundering towards that little city. Man alive. Good heart alive. D’ye know what sort one of them rivers is, to go up? You’ve neither skill nor sense of it. You lie there bilged in your bunk like a barge at low tide, and you come the funny nigger, trying to get a raise. I’ll tell you what them rivers is like. See here, now. Listen to me. I’ll perhaps give you some idea of the land you’re bound for.”
“Really? I don’t know that I want to hear you.”
“No. But I want you to hear me, Mr. Stukeley. I’ll tell you where the golden city is.”
“Now you’re talking business.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Well. When you come in from the Samballoes, you’ll see the land ahead of you, like a wall of green. Just like a wall. Think. Dense. Then you come to two rivers, about thirty yards across. They’re the two mouths of the Conception River. You try to go up one of them in your boat. First thing you know is a thundering big bar. You’d be surprised how ugly them little bars get. Well. Suppose you get across. What’s next? D’ye know what a snag is?”
“A branch of alder or willow, fallen into the river.”
“Yes. Or a whole whacking big great oak, Mr. Stukeley, fallen right across, and rotting there. With its branches all jammed up with drift and drowned things. Hornets’ nests stuck in ’em. Great grey paper bags. So then you land, and take out your macheat, and cut a path around that tree, and drag your boat round. May take you an hour or more. Then into your boat again, after sliding down a mud-bank with eighteen inch of slime on top. Presently you come to a lot more trees. Out you get and cut another road. Perhaps you go back a half-mile to find a place where you can land. Oh. It’s death, going up one of them brooks. Then, there’s shallows where you wade. Rapids where you wade and haul, losing your footing and getting soused. By and by comes a cloud-burst somewhere in the hills above. Or perhaps a jam of logs bursts, a kind of a natural dam, a mile or two above you. Then. Woosh. You see a wall of water a yard high coming at you. If you’re slippy on your oars you get ashore from that. Maybe you hear it coming. It makes a roar like the tide. You drag your boat ashore.”
“Aren’t you rather laying it on for my benefit?”
“As for laying it on, Mr. Stukeley, I’ll make you judge for yourself as soon as we come on the coast. I tell you one thing. You’ll sing mighty small when you come to tackle such a country. That’s something you won’t have learned, where you learned your manners.”
Stukeley laughed. “Well. Go on with your yarn,” he said. “I like hearing of foreign parts.”
“No,” said Cammock. “I’m not going on. But there’s your city. It’s within twenty miles of the sea, and within five of the eastern Conception.”
“Will you come to look for it with me?”
“No, sir,” said Cammock. “I won’t. I don’t fancy your company.”
“I like you, captain.”
Cammock looked at him steadily for a moment, and then lit his pipe at the brazier.
“What are the women like in Darien?”
“You’re a married man, Mr. Stukeley.”
“Thank you. I know I’m a married man. I asked you what the women are like?”
“They’re mostly a rather duskish brown or copper colour.”
“So I think I know. Can a fellow have any fun with them?”
“They’re modest, merry creatures. Very kind, simple creatures. Another thing. They’re strong as colts. You see, they do most of the work. They’ll carry a man like you. I guess you’re one and a half hundred-weight. They’d carry you across a swamp. And they’re only very small, you know. As for fun, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Cammock, the chaste pirate.”
“Now go easy, Mr. Stukeley. I can take a lot, but I don’t take pirate of any man.”
“The virgin martyr.”
“We had one of our men a martyr, Mr. Stukeley. He tried to have a bit of ‘fun,’ as you call it, with one of the Samballoes women. Lemuel Bath his name was. They caught him, as it happened. And they done to him what they do to each other, if they try any ‘fun’ and get caught. That was ashore on the Main at the back of Sasardi there. I was ashore the next day, filling water at the ’Seniqua. We seen Bath come crippling down the beach, with his head back, and his hands tearing his chest all bloody. Tearing his chest into strips with pain. Naked, too. He died that evening. No, sir. Don’t you try it.”
“Thanks. Niggers aren’t in my line. I leave them to pirates.”
“That’s you. It’s time I was on deck, Mr. Stukeley. Adios, señor. Divertiete. That’s what we used to say to the Spaniards when their ransoms were paid.” He nodded to the head which watched him from the bunk. Turning on his heel, he passed from the cabin, pressing his thumb upon his pipe to kill the ember in the bowl. “I wonder if there’s many like him,” he said to himself. “I wonder what it is makes him like that. I’d like him in a watch. Oh, mommer.” As he muttered thus, in passing to the deck, Stukeley turned in his bunk, drawing the curtain. “Hulking boor,” he said to himself. “Hulking old savage. This is the sort of company we keep when we come to sea. Crusty he gets, when you bait him.” He thought of the little golden city and of the little brown women, with resolve to try them both. “Good luck,” he said; “I hope we’ll soon get out of here, before Olivia’s nerves go off again.” As he settled himself down for his nap he was roused by a noise in the sample-room, where Mr. Harthop broke in a caskhead with a tomahawk. He went to the alleyway-door to call down the passage to Margaret’s cabin.
“Margaret,” he cried, “can’t you stop that beastly noise for a bit? Olivia’s lying down.”
“I am sorry,” said Margaret, coming from his cabin. “I ought to have—— Mr. Harthop, will you please unhead your casks on deck? The noise upsets Mrs. Stukeley. Apologize for me, Stukeley.”
The noise ceased, and Stukeley slept like an infant, showing his strong white teeth in a smile. Harthop muttered and swore, wishing that a ship with a woman in her might sail the rivers of hell; for that was all she was fit for. He reproved the man who was working with him for suggesting the tomahawk. The man sulked and loafed for the rest of the afternoon, and then told a sympathetic fo’c’s’le that you got your head bit off if that pale judy in the cabin heard you so much as “hem.” Harthop, nursing his wrath till knock-off time, took it out of the boy who kept his cabin clean.
“Can’t you find some other place to stow your brass-rags, without putting them under my mattress?”
“Please, sir, they’re not the brass-rags. They’re the rags you stuff in the leaky seam, sir. In wet weather, sir.”
“My bed’s no place for them, you dirty young hound. What have you done with the molasses that was left?”
“You’d ate all your molasses, sir; from last week.”
“There was some left in the tin. You’ve been at it again.”
“No, sir. I swear I haven’t, sir.”
“How many times have I told you I won’t have you swear? Eh? Give me my supplejack.”
“Oh, sir, I won’t do it again. I won’t do it again.”
“There, my boy. Perhaps that’ll teach you another time. Now go and lay my supper. If you don’t stop howling I’ll give you another six.”
The boy went forward howling, to hide in the darkness of the hold, where he could cry by himself, choking with misery and shame, praying for death. If he had had a flint and steel he would have burnt theBroken Heartat her anchor. As he had none, he sobbed himself to sleep, careless of Mr. Harthop’s supper, full of the bleeding, aching misery which none save the wronged child can ever taste to the full. When it was dark and all had gone to bed, he crept aft to the ward-room, where the bread-barge and the case of spirits stood, just as the two mates had left them. He helped himself to bread and rum; for misery had made him reckless. Besides, having defied Mr. Harthop he might as well defy the two mates. So he ate and drank, looking at the light on the landing-stage, which made a golden track to dance. It trembled in yellow flakes on the water, a path of gold, to the blackness of the rudder eddies below him. He was not very sure if he could swim so far; but he did not care. He was too wretched to mind drowning. It was very dark in the wardroom. It was dark above him in the cabin. Below him, the ship’s shadow was dark. He was sure that the watchmen would not see him. They never walked on the poop. After a moment of groping he found the falls of the relieving-tackle, and unrove the raw hide till he had an end ten feet long. He hitched the tackle so that the block should not creak, and paid out the end through the chase-port. Then, as even the most miserable of us will, he felt the misery of leaving. This ship of wretchedness had been a home to him. He remembered the singing in the dog-watch. It was awful to have to go like that. In his wretchedness, a tear or two rolled down his cheek, to splash on the port-sill. A light footstep moved up and down above him. One of the stern-windows of the cabin opened with a little rattle. He heard Stukeley’s voice coming from the state-room drowsily. Then Mrs. Stukeley spoke from overhead.
“It’s such a beautiful night, Tom. Do come and see the stars. They’re wonderful. Wonderful. Come and see them, Tom dear.”
“You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“Bow-wow-wow. What an old bear. I shan’t. I’ve got on my dressing-gown.”
“Thanks. I prefer my bed.”
The listener in the wardroom smiled in spite of his misery; then trembled lest the lady should stay long. For suppose a watchman crept below to see if the mates had left any rum behind them? Suppose anybody came—Mr. Harthop, Mr. Ramage? He peered into the ’tween-decks, where all was dark and still, save for the cat’s eyes gleaming green, watching for a mouse, and the snores of Mr. Ramage in his hammock. Then, up above him, moved by the beauty of the night, the woman began to sing, in a voice of drowsy sweetness, in a little low voice that made each word a pearl, a round, lustrous pearl, a tiny globe that glowed in the mind, it was so perfect, so ripe, so tender. She was singing that old song of Campion’s about the woman who had played with love in the hour of her beauty. She was a woman who had played, and been played with; till her beauty withered just as she had learned the worth of love, just as life had made her worthy of love, at her coming to wisdom:—
Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?Whither are thy flatterers gone, with all their feigning?All fled, and thou, alone, still here remaining.. . . . . . . . . . .When thy story, long time hence, shall be perusèd,Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excusèd,“None ever lived more just, none more abusèd.”
Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?
Whither are thy flatterers gone, with all their feigning?
All fled, and thou, alone, still here remaining.
. . . . . . . . . . .
When thy story, long time hence, shall be perusèd,
Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excusèd,
“None ever lived more just, none more abusèd.”
The window closed amid murmured words; Stukeley, moved by the voice, had drawn his wife away. The boy sighed that it was over; then corked the rum-bottle and put it in his pocket. He would have taken some bread, had he been able to carry it dry. He thought of dashing to his chest in the half-deck for an extra shirt; but gave up the plan as being too risky. Very quietly and quickly he slid down the rope into the water, letting the tide take him, striking out now and again, towards the landing-stage. He was puzzled by the coming of the ripples; they hit him in the cheek before he judged that they were near. He got a mouthful once, and choked; but none heard. Very soon he was clambering up the landing, gulping rum with shudders. Then, after wringing out his jacket, he set out to run along the sandy track that was the street. The dogs barked as they heard his feet beat; but he kept on, for some three miles, till he dropped tired out among the wood. There he lay shivering in the scrub till the dawn, when, seeing a plantation near, he sought shelter of the planter, who hired him “for his keep,” glad of the chance. In the morning, when hue and cry was made for him, when boys and men called and crawled for him among the cargo of the ship, no one suspected that Stukeley was the indirect cause of his desertion. The mates swore when they found their rum gone. The other boys swore when they had to do the deserter’s work. Cammock swore at the watchmen for not barring in the chase-ports, while the watchmen swore that they had barred them. Mr. Harthop swore that if ever he caught that boy again he would give him cherriliccum pie. Thus the matter came to an end.
The shame and obloquy I leave thine own;Inherit those rewards; they’re fitter for thee.Your oil’s spent, and your snuff stinks: go out basely.The False One.
The shame and obloquy I leave thine own;
Inherit those rewards; they’re fitter for thee.
Your oil’s spent, and your snuff stinks: go out basely.
The False One.
Standingon the poop, looking seaward, the five cabin-dwellers watched the summer fleet come in. It came in haltingly, a scattered troop of ships, some with spars gone, one or two, fir-built, streaked white where a shot had struck; all seaworn. Cammock, watching them, sent his boat round to the “men of war” to order them aboard at once. Harthop had already been settled ashore, in charge of the tobacco, under the Governor’s eye. He would make good terms for the ship’s owners; the merchants at home could hardly lose on the venture.
“We’re all right, sir,” said Cammock to Margaret. “There’s probably a letter. But the Governor’s your friend. You needn’t worry.”
“I wish I could see things as you see them, captain,” said Margaret. “But I can’t. How is it you always have a plan? How do you discipline yourself? How is it you’re always ready?”
“I dunno, sir. I’ve only got a few things to think of, and I think ’em out. P’r’aps that’s it. But just step aft, sir. Look here, sir. We’re ready to sail. The new topmast’s aloft. We’re a little light, perhaps, but nothing to hurt. The thing is—are you going to give him up? You got to decide now.”
“I can’t. We must think of her child.”
“She can’t have a child on the Isthmus.”
“There’ll be time enough to arrange something else when we get there. But she must be spared the shock.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll send the long-boat in for all the fresh meat and fruit there is.”
“Oh, I know, captain. I know it’s not the rightest thing for her. A voyage to sea.”
“She’ll get that anyway, sir. Either way. Very good, sir. I’ll have all ready to sail. I’ve sent for the ‘men of war.’ They’ll join us either here, or between the Points. Well, Mr. Perrin. We’re off to-night, sir.”
“But we’re all dining with the Governor. You’ve surely not forgotten that, Charles.”
“Look there, Edward. There’s the summer fleet.”
“What if it is? We can’t throw the Governor over. We must dine with the Governor. What? You an Englishman and want not to dine with a lord?”
“How about our friend there?”
“No Englishman would arrest a guest at dinner. He values his digestion and his butler’s opinion too much. There’s no risk. Oh, we must go to the dinner. I’ve got a new American coat to go in.”
“No harm in it, sir,” said Cammock. “It might divert the lady, poor thing.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, sighing. “If it won’t tire her.” He crossed over to the Stukeleys. “Olivia,” he said, “Perrin has just reminded me that we’re dining to-night at the Governor’s. It won’t tire you?”
“Tire me? Of course it won’t.”
“You would like to go?”
“We both want to go. Tom’s going to sing ‘Twankydillo.’ We may have enough ladies for a dance.”
“We shall probably sail, directly we come aboard to-night.”
“Sail, Charles? Not for Darien?”
“Yes, Olivia. For Darien.”
“Ah-h.” She turned white. Little as she liked Virginia, she knew it, she had proved it. The unknown was before her now, close at hand, shapeless yet, ill-defined, a spectral country. For a moment she stared blankly at Margaret with the eyes of a frightened animal. “Isn’t it. Isn’t it rather sudden?” she asked.
“Yes. Rather sudden,” he answered in a hard voice. “But, of course, we may not go. You see, Stukeley. You see, Olivia. The summer fleet there may have letters for us. May have letters for us.” He groped about for an excuse. “My owners,” he went on. “My merchants may wish me to proceed at once. On the other hand, we may be told to trade at Charleston. Or trade rather longer here. Though we’ve done well here. It’s possible. You understand, Olivia. I told you the day we left Falmouth. Our whole aim was to have our work done before the summer fleet arrived. To buy up the tobacco crop before some of it is fully cured. And, to tell the truth, we’ve hurried all we could.”
“Don’t worry, old girl,” said Stukeley, drawing his wife aside. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.”
“Oh, Tom. Don’t go. Don’t let us go.”
“Oh, come, come,” he said, biting his lips. “It’ll be all right. Maggy. Come here, Maggy. If you meet a home-bound English ship on our way we may ask to be transhipped.”
“Oh,” said Olivia; “then why not go ashore now, Tom? Why go on to Darien?”
Stukeley muttered to himself about his folly. “Now we’re going all over it again,” he said to himself. “Remember, I’m pledged in honour, Livy,” he said.
“Then, Charles, you’ll release him from his pledge, won’t you? Let him come ashore. I want to go home.”
Margaret flushed, and then turned white. For a moment he wavered; she saw him waver.
“You will, Charles. Won’t you?”
“Olivia,” he answered. “I cannot. I’d like to. But he’s such a good Spanish scholar. He’s the only one of us who really knows Spanish. I’d grown to count on him. We all had.”
“But you could get Spanish talkers here, Charles. Couldn’t he, Captain Cammock?”
“No, ma’am. You couldn’t get gentlemen, Mrs. Stukeley. And you see the Dons is particular.”
“Yet you sailed from London without a Spanish talker.”
“Yes,” said Perrin. “But our plans were different then.”
“How were they different then? I’m going to cross-examine you all.”
“We decided to try to trade with some of the Spanish cities, Olivia; having so good an interpreter.”
“I thought you were going to fight with the Spanish cities. That’s what we decided in council.”
“My dear Livy,” said Stukeley. “You’re like a justice of the peace.”
“But I want——” She checked herself sharply, and looked at the incoming ships. The men also turned to look, as she had planned that they should.
“That’s a nice one, isn’t it, Captain Cammock?”
“The Dutch-built one, Mrs. Stukeley? No.”
“How do you know she’s Dutch-built?”
“How do you know whether to trust a man when you meet him, Mrs. Stukeley? You don’t rightly know. You have an instinct. I’ve an instinct for ships. There’s twenty things tells me she’s Dutch, long before I’ve time to examine them.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, only too glad of the diversion. “But I want you to tell us now what it is that makes you say she’s Dutch. It’s in her hull, isn’t it? What is it in her hull?”
“The Dutch, sir,” said Cammock, “are built for the India trade, and they give their ships a rather high sheer, and not quite so much camber as an English builder likes. Then they like a very flat floor, and a tuck that——” He wandered on into a swamp of sea terms, taking it for granted that his hearers understood him. Margaret and Perrin plied him close with questions as the ship loitered past them, rolling in the light wind, her men singing out at her cluelines. While they talked, Stukeley and Olivia went below to the cabin; Stukeley with the feeling that Olivia would now make no more fuss; Olivia with the sense that all was not well, that something was withheld from her.
“Tom,” she said suddenly, as soon as the cabin-door had closed, “you’re keeping something from me. What is it? Why am I not to know?”
“I’m not keeping anything back.”
“Tom, I think you’re being made a tool of. I think Charles has some scheme that isn’t quite right. Don’t be dragged into it, Tom.”
“Dragged into it, Livy?”
“You’ve a noble, trusting nature, Tom; and I love you for it. But. Oh, I feel sure Charles has some deep-laid scheme, that he’s afraid to tell you of. I don’t think he was telling the truth to me just now.”
“Oh, nonsense, Livy. He couldn’t tell a lie if he tried.”
“No, Tom, dear; but he was trying.”
“When?”
“He was trying to find a reason for the ship’s sailing to-night.”
“But it was the plan, Livy. We expected to sail as soon as the summer fleet came.”
“Why, Tom? Tell me that.”
“There may be letters ordering us to sail. My dear girl. Maggy’s got a whole firm of merchants to order him as they please. We had to be ready in case an order came from them. There may be no order.”
“But we weren’t ready, Tom. When the fleet was signalled we were in the midst of trading.”
“Yes. But my dear child. If there’s no order, we may trade again to-morrow.”
“You think it’s all right then, Tom? Do you?”
“Of course I do, Livy. You’ve got fine eyes, Livy. Did you know that?”
“But why should they alter their scheme of fighting the Spaniards? You promised to help the Indians against the Spaniards. Now you’re suddenly asked to help Charles’s merchants to make trade with the Spaniards. You never promised to do that. And I should never have let you. Never. Never. Oh, Tom, they’ve tricked us cruelly. They aren’t going to help the Indians, Tom. They’re going to make money, like common city-merchants. And they want my noble, generous Tom to help them. Don’t do it, dear. Don’t do it. I can’t bear it.”
“My dear Livy.”
“I can’t have you mixed up with merchants.”
“Look here, old girl. Aren’t you a little unreasonable? We’ve decided that we can help the Indians best by making some sort of agreement with the Spaniards.”
“You saywehave decided this. When was it decided? Why wasn’t I told?”
“We haven’t really decided. It was suggested last night. After you’d gone to bed.”
“Why wasn’t I told? What was suggested?”
“It’s a fine idea, Livy. Cammock suggested our going to one of the towns and proposing an agreement with the Governor.”
“What sort of an agreement?”
“The Governor to trade with us, just as if we were Spanish. The English to abstain from hostilities, and the Indians to be accounted English subjects. And they want me to interview the Governor.”
“It’s only an excuse to make money, Tom. To make money without the self-sacrifice of fighting. And what if the Spaniards refuse?”
“Then we should have some just excuse for proceeding as we’d planned.”
“Tom, I don’t think they’ve been straightforward with us. There’s something hidden. I’m sure of it.”
“But what can be hidden, Livy? My darling charmer. Eh? Besides, look here, my beauty-spot. I’m ambitious. I want to make my Livy proud. See? If I see these Governors, and bring off some arrangement. You see? It’s a big matter, Livy. It’s knighthood. It may be a seat on the Trade and Plantations Board. It may be all sorts of things.”
“Yes,” she said. “Tom, I quite see that. I’m ambitious for you, too. There, dear, I know you’ve set your heart on it. Oh, Tom, though, I hate the thought of it all. And I’m sure there’s something hidden. I’m sure there is. I wish I knew.”
“Nonsense,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Where’d you like to be kissed? I’m going to kiss your nose because you’ve got it turned up in the air to-day.”
“I haven’t, Tom.”
“Come here,” he said, catching her as she wriggled free. “None of your wriggles. Come and be kissed. You’re not going to dress till your nose is kissed.”
An hour later, they stood in the Governor’s house waiting for the Governor to receive them. They fidgeted about the large, cool, rather bare room; now staring through the window at the ships, now fingering the books, turning up the pictures to the light. Stukeley took a pistol from the wall, and examined the engraved silver of the butt. Olivia chatted with Perrin about the rambler roses trailing round the window.
“We must take some slips to Darien,” said Perrin. “But I don’t much like this dark red kind.”
“We have them at home,” she answered quietly. “I shall take home some slips from Darien; for everything will grow with us. I expect lots of things would transplant.”
“Yes, lots,” he answered.
“Olivia,” said Margaret, “have you seen this Rembrandt?”
“Why,” she said. “It’s the Hundred Guilder Print. It’s like meeting an old friend.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, peering. “It’s a very beautiful state, too. What’s the etching beyond you there, Edward?”
“One of Hollar’s.”
“Ah, yes,” said Margaret. “It’s interesting to put a Hollar beside the real thing. No artist can make a ship wonderful to us. A ship is a wonderful work of art without him. Just look at them there, Olivia.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, looking at the ships. “Why. TheBroken Heart’sunder sail.”
“Her topsails are on the caps. Ready for us to go.”
“In case we do go?”
“Yes. In case.” Olivia looked at him steadily, noting that, for all his self-control, he seemed uneasy at her look. The situation was saved by the entrance of an orderly, in the white coat and blue scarf of the Virginia troop. He saluted.
“The Governor presents ’s compliments ’n’ ’ll join you d’rec’ly.”
“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I suppose the mails have arrived? Do you know?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, as he stood in the doorway. “In the summer fleet, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“What have you got there, Tom?” said Olivia.
“A little pretty pistol,” he said.
“Nice silver chasing,” said Perrin.
“Spanish,” said Margaret. “They make those at Toledo.”
“Let me see,” said Olivia.
“Yes. Spanish,” said Stukeley. “Wheel-lock. Loaded. Priming-cup lidded. A very nice little gun. See the Spanish motto?”
“What does the Spanish mean?” asked Olivia. “Se nada, pero.I can’t read it.”
“It means, ‘I know nothing. But I talk well.’ I wonder if I’ve forgotten my pistol shooting. Eh? I used to be able to nail the ace of diamonds at a dozen yards. Let’s make Pilly back up against the wall, and do the William Tell act.”
“Tom, dear. Don’t play with that. It’s loaded. You might hurt somebody.”
“Yes. Put it down, Stukeley,” said Margaret. “It’s one of old Howard’s treasures. Put it down.”
“Put it down?” said Stukeley. “You’ve got a nerve to tell me to put it down. I want this little gun. I like it. I’m going to bag it. If anybody interferes with me at dinner, Livy, I shall just plug him. Pop. In between the eyes. You see if I don’t.” He slipped the pistol into his pocket.
Margaret smiled to see Olivia’s face of horror.
“Why,” said Stukeley. “Why, Livy, that’s what they do in this country. What are old what’s-his-name’s swords like? Look here, for a sword. Eh? There’s a temper. Look here. See?”
“That’s a fine piece of steel,” said Margaret. “Is it Milanese?”
“Milanese? Milanese? Milanese in your eye. Are you touched? It’s Spanish. Comes from a place called Toledo, if you’ve ever heard of it. Spanish motto like the other. Old Howard must collect Spanish things.”
“What is the motto?” Olivia asked.
“No me saques sin razon: well. Do not draw me without reason. Unless he spits in your face, for instance.No me envaines sin honor: Nor sheathe me till. Well. Till you’ve made sure.”
“Made sure?”
“Seen that the other fellow’s juice is pink. Stand still, Maggy, till I see if you’ve got red blood in you. I could prod you from here just under your fourth rib. Ping. Eh? This sword just suits me. Look, Olivia. Look how they’ve inlaid this hilt.”
“What beautiful work, Tom. And what a waste. To put all that beautiful work on to a sword.”
“A sword’s a knight’s weapon,” said Margaret. “How could we defend Olivia Stukeley if our swords weren’t worthily made.”
“There’s the question,” said Stukeley. “Look at old Pilly there. What book have you got there, Pilly? Read it out to us.”
“It’s a book of sick man’s meditations,” said Perrin. “I won’t read it out. Look at it. It’s all thumbed to dog’s ears.”
“Howard’s,” said Margaret. “What an extraordinary book for him to have.”
“Oh,” said Perrin, “that’s the secret of an Englishman’s success. He’s nothing better than a pirate, grabbing all he can get. Oh, I’m not English, myself. But the secret of his success is in this book here. He makes his peace with God as he goes on. The other people. I don’t know about the Dutch. They beat you; so they must be like you, only better. The other people try to make their peace before or after; and so they lose, either way. But you know, Olivia, you are——”
“The Dutch didn’t beat us,” said Stukeley. “We beat them. So you’re out of it there, little Taffy with the Leek.”
“How about the Medway? Look, Olivia. Look at Jamestown. This is the capital of our chief colony. Would any other nation in the world produce a capital of twenty wooden houses, a fort, a church, and a Governor’s mansion? This is the mansion. Look at it.”
“A better mansion than you’ve got at home,” said Stukeley. “What are you talking of?”
“Suppose the Dutch were here. Think what a city they’d have built.”
“What a hot head it is,” said Margaret gently. “I don’t agree with you a bit, Edward. You’re all wrong. The Dutch haven’t done much in the East.”
“At least, they’ve worked; and made the Indians work.”
“And the English here. Have they worked?”
“Not so much.”
“Isn’t that an argument against you? It tells just the other way. Work is often one of the most degrading things in the world. All work that gives no rapture of creation is degrading. That is why the merchant is poor company, and the professional a conservative. The Dutch built Batavia; but their system has ruined the spice trade. The Spaniards built San Domingo; but their system ruined the island. They’ve built Panama and Lima; but they’ve destroyed both Costa Rica and Peru. A city can only be the growth of a civilization. You can only build a colonial city by agreeing to ruin the colony. So here. There may be a time when all the trees in sight will have sailed out to sea. This harbour may be crowded with ships. Who knows? This place may be another Athens some day.”
“There’s not much Athens here now. The colonials aren’t much like Athenians.”
“I think they’re very like, Edward. They’re fond of liberty. They take a beautiful pride in their bodies. They are attached to the country. They’re very like Athenians. The world doesn’t alter much.”
“How about Plato and Sophocles?”
“They were not the world. They had wrought themselves to something finer than the world.”
“The Governor’s got a devil of a lot of letters,” said Stukeley. “There goes his secretary to him.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I pity the man who tries it,” Stukeley muttered, thinking of an arrest.
“Is this a very good harbour for ships?” Olivia asked.
“Yes; very good,” said Margaret. “Don’t you love to imagine the river here full of ships, the biggest and most beautiful kinds of ships? And then the banks here, and yonder, with a city. A city, built of marble. Marble cathedrals. And a great citadel on the hill there.”
“A great naval power is always on the brink of ruin,” said Perrin. “Athens was a great naval power, and had her navy smashed by a power without a navy. Carthage the same. Spain was greatest at the eighty-eight. There’s another instance.”
“Naval power is a very fine thing,” said Margaret. “You’re mixing up greatness, and the weakness which comes of overweening pride, or the defect of greatness.”
“That’s what you silly Celts are always doing,” said Stukeley.
At this moment the orderly reappeared, saluting.
“Beg pardon, sirs,” he said, “but which of you gents is Captain Margaret?”
“I am.”
“ ’Is lordship’s compliments, sir; ’n’ will you step this way?”
Margaret glanced at the faces of his friends. Stukeley sat down, nursing the sword, looking at the doorway and at the window. Perrin, who sincerely hoped he was about to see the end of Stukeley, enjoyed a mental vision of the Ephesian matron. His day-dream was of Olivia in black, in a darkened London room, and of himself, the comforter, come to console her, with platitude in low tone, sentiment speaking grief’s language. Olivia turned to the spinet. She tried one or two notes with her finger, making little wry mouths at the want of tune. “Is there any Virginian music, Edward?” she asked. “I heard some negroes singing in the tobacco fields the other day. It sounded very sweet. It came home to one strangely. All working songs come home to one, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Perrin. “They are so simple. They’re like a simple person speaking passionately. They leave the intellect untouched, of course.”
“Yes. But you and Charles are always blaming poultry, shall we say, for not being golden eagles. Poultry as poultry are very good. Don’t you think so? Won’t you sit down, Edward? This is the song the negroes sang. I think it’s so charming.”
While she touched the tune upon the spinet, Margaret stood in the presence of Howard, the Governor, a heavy-looking, weary-looking man with dark moustaches. His voice was hard and grating, an official voice. It jarred on Margaret, who expected bad news from it.
“Sit down, Margaret,” he said, picking up a letter. “I hope you’re well.”
“Thanks. Yes. You wanted to see me?”
“Do you know that I could lodge you all in prison?”
“So you’ve heard, then?”
“Read this letter.”
He glanced through the letter of instructions from the Board. It set forth Stukeley’s crime, the details of the escape from Salcombe, the necessity for the arrest of the whole party; it was not a pleasant letter. No one had ever before described Margaret as an abettor of felons; the sensation was new; and oppressive, like some contaminations.
“Well,” said Howard. “You seem to take it very coolly.”
“I’ve been preparing for this moment for a quarter of a year.”
“What is this Stukeley? He seems a boorish kind of fellow.”
“He’s an unpleasant man. A bad man.”
“I should call him a thorough scoundrel, from that letter.”
“He’s married to a charming woman. A woman I’ve known for years. You can see for yourself that she’s a lot too good for him.”
“Do you wish him to be arrested? You know the penalty, of course?”
“I suppose I could plead ignorance?”
“You? Yes. But he.Sus. per col.Eh?”
“I think, Howard, he ought to be cut off. But his wife’s going to have a child. I happen to know her, as I said. She believes in him. She doesn’t suspect. I’m afraid the shock would kill both her and the child.”
“You’d rather that I didn’t arrest?”
“For her sake, yes. And for the sake of the merchants concerned in the venture with me.”
“Your tobacco will keep them from loss. They’re all right. Do you know that your Darien scheme is known in Spain?”
“Ah. Then. Then the Government will curry favour with Spain by arresting us on this pretext, and claiming to have stopped us on her account?”
“That is, of course, possible. It depends on party needs at the moment. I know nothing of that.”
“It is something you ought to reckon, Howard.”
“Well. If I don’t arrest you. You’ve put me in such an awkward position. I can’t very well arrest my guests. It would bring me into disfavour, and my office into disrepute. I don’t know what to say. Are you ready to sail?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you sail two or three days ago? As soon as you’d made your voyage. Why in the world did you wait for the tobacco fleet?”
“We were kept waiting for our new topmast. We found our foretopmast sprung. It was only this morning that we finished setting up the rigging on the new spar.”
“You understand, Margaret, that at this moment you’re Stukeley’s judge. You’ve got power of life and death over him. You can turn it over in your mind, and then say, whether you wish me to arrest him, or not. You wish to spare the girl, his wife. Looking at it impartially, I should doubt whether you would spare her by sparing him. The man’s a scoundrel.”
“There’s the child, remember.”
“Yes. I was forgetting the child. Of course. There’s the child.”
“If you arrest us all and send us home, of course her people will look after her on arrival. Is that a possible solution to you?”
“Between you and me, Margaret, I don’t want to arrest you all. If I do, why, there’ll be a scandal here. ‘The Governor’s friends proved to be escaping felons.’ The cry will be everywhere. I don’t want that. On the other hand, the man’s a scoundrel. H’m. It’s a pretty problem.”
“You can arrest me in mistake for Stukeley. How would that do?”
“No,” said the Governor, shaking his head; “that won’t do. What are your plans for the lady in case I don’t arrest?”
“I suppose we shall have to leave her at Jamaica after a month or two in Darien.”
“Perhaps she’ll be better off there than in England. Has she a woman with her?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t, in your heart, wish me to proceed?”
“No, Howard; I want you to spare her.”
“Very well, then. You must sail this night. Sail directly you get on board.”
“Thank you, Howard. I will. You won’t get into trouble with the Board over this?”
“I shall say that you crept away in the night. No singing at the capstan, remember. No cheering. If you’re not gone by dawn I’ll arrest the whole pack of you. I can’t do more.”
“I’m very—— This is very kind of you, Howard.”
“Kind? A kind man has no business in politics. I’m shirking my duty.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “And I’m pleading with you, trying to make you shirk it.”
“Not a bit of it,” said the Governor. “There’s the gong. We’ll go down to dinner. By the way, there’s a letter for you. Where did I put it? Here it is.” He handed a sealed packet to Margaret, who glanced abstractly at the seal, and then, not recognizing the crest, put it in his pocket, and followed his host to the door. “Honour,” he repeated to himself. “Honour. My honour is a smirched rag. A smirched rag.”
The dining-room was a long, low, bare apartment. The whitewashed walls were hung with one or two prints by Dürer, the “Adam and Eve,” the “Justice,” and “The Man of Sorrows,” from the “Lesser Passion.” The table was heaped with a deal of silver, all of it very crudely designed. The dinner was mostly of fruit and vegetables; it was too hot for meat. The wine bottles lay outside the window in jackets of wetted flannel. Each guest had a palm fan at his side, for use between the courses.
The Governor sat at the end of the table with the door at his back. Olivia sat next to him, with Margaret beside her. Mrs. Prinsep sat next to Margaret, with Stukeley on her right, then Perrin, then an empty seat directly at the Governor’s left. During the dinner Howard asked the footman if Captain Lewin had arrived. The man told him, no.
“Captain Lewin is in command of the frigate there,” Howard explained to Olivia. “I asked him to join us, so that you could hear the news. By the by, I’m sorry to hear you’re sailing.”
Olivia noticed that he, too, looked at her with something of the shrewd, hard, medical gaze with which Perrin and Cammock sometimes looked at her. She resented the look as an impertinence, half wondering if there was something strange about her face—some sudden growth of eyelid or droop of hair.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry we’re going, too, for several reasons. But I hope we shall meet again in England. You must come and see us when we’re settled there.”
“That will be delightful. In what part do you think of settling?”
“In Devon. Near a place called Flaxley.”
“Oh yes. Indeed. Flaxley. That’s near the sea. I know Flaxley, Mrs. Stukeley. There’s a beautiful old house there. I once stayed a night there. What was the fellow’s name, now?”
“Then you know my uncle. Do you? Neston Pile.”
“Pile. Yes. Pile. Of course. So he’s your uncle, Mrs. Stukeley? What a fine old man he is.”
“Yes,” she said, with quiet indifference. “He is very much loved.” She would have given much to be back at Flaxley sitting in the great hall there. A Vandyck hung in the hall, the portrait of Sir Nicolas Pile, her great-uncle, once the king’s standard-bearer, who had been killed in the fight at Naseby. He looked down upon the hall in melancholy honour, a noble guardian, full of grave pride, helpful to those who sat there. Howard’s words gave her a longing to see that austere, sweet, thoughtful face looking down upon her, a longing all the more keen for the knowledge that perhaps she would never again see him, now that her uncle had been so horrid to Tom. The pang of homesickness went shrewdly to her heart; but she sipped her wine, her face unchanged, her smile ready.
“What brought you to Flaxley, I wonder?” she added. “I wonder if I was there then.”
“It was seven or eight years ago,” said Howard. “I had to go there about some Roman coins. I collect antiques, you know. Rather a dull subject for you. Your uncle had written a little pamphlet on the coins dug up at Hurst’s Castle, that old Roman Camp in Somerset.”
“Yes. He used to collect coins then. He’d a few very rare ones. Were you there in the summer? Did you see the rose-garden?”
“On a slope, somewhere at the back, rather exposed?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve a dim recollection of it. I was only there one night. You weren’t there then?”
“My brothers were alive then. I expect I was with them.”
“Is that old gate-keeper of yours alive still? An oldish woman. Rather a character?”
“Old Maggie? Oh, do you remember old Maggie? Poor old Maggie. She’s dead now. There was a shipwreck on the rocks beyond Flaxley, and she rowed out to the wreck with her idiot son. She was such a fine old woman. None of the men would go out; so she said she would go. She rowed and rowed. There’s a very strong current there, too. When she got to the wreck her boat was smashed against the side, so she had to stay there for nearly a day, I think, and she died soon afterwards from the exposure.”
“Indeed. She impressed me. A fierce old Roman.”
Perrin looked up to remark that the courage of a woman was as it were complementary to the courage of man. That women did things which men could not do; and that their courage was on the whole of a finer quality. Mrs. Prinsep, who may perhaps have thought that the compliment to her sex was designed subtly to please her, seemed to bridle.
“I think women would be proud to hear that,” she said contemptuously. She disliked Perrin; all common natures did.
“Yes,” said Margaret. “A woman’s courage comes from a quality of soul. A man’s comes more from a faculty of body. You can’t think of the two without feeling that in the woman you have something far finer.”
“They squeal if they see a mouse,” said Stukeley.
“Yes? If you will name the highest flight of man’s courage, I will prove to you that at that point woman’s courage begins.”
“A man’s courage is often indifference,” said Perrin. “When I was nearly drowned once, I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to die. Why am I not frightened?’ I wasn’t frightened. I was only tired of swimming and swimming, with the water against me.”
“You skedaddled from that dog the other day,” said Stukeley.
“What dog was that, Mr. Stukeley?” Mrs. Prinsep asked.
“Oh,” said Stukeley, with a chuckle. “A dog that flounced out at him from one of the houses here. Good luck. To see old Pilly run. Did he get you, Pilly, or did you get up the tree in time?”
“I was in time,” said Perrin, flushing, looking very uncomfortable.
“Are you very much afraid of dogs, Mr. Perrin?” Mrs. Prinsep asked.
“Yes,” he answered rudely. “So are you.”
At this moment Captain Lewin entered, so that the discussion came to an end before it had well begun, like most discussions of the kind.
Captain Lewin was a tall, grey, upright man, with a sharp, dictatorial manner that was somehow not authoritative, and therefore not offensive. He entered the room with his hands behind his back, snapping quickly from the nervous strain of being late. Howard greeted him and introduced him. He sat down nervously on his host’s left, looked round the room with the quick apprehension of an animal, much as he would have looked aloft on coming on deck, and began to apologize for his lateness.
“I dined before I left the ship,” he said. “That rascal, my purser, kept me. Very good claret, your Excellency. Who’s the man next but one on my left? I seem to know his face.”
“Stukeley. Thomas Stukeley, husband of the lady here,” the Governor answered in a low voice.
“I seem to have seen him somewhere. Wasn’t he in the rising in Beverley’s time?”
“No, captain.”
“Reminds me of that beauty who led us such a dance up the Delaware.”
“Oh, George Bond?”
“Yes. He was a beauty. I wonder what’s become of George Bond?”
“Yes. He kept us all alive here.”
“You have just come from England?” Olivia asked.
“Yes,” said the captain. “We sailed at the end of July. Your Excellency, I wouldn’t go down the river with such another convoy. Not if the King knighted me.”
Olivia was not quite sure of the technical terms, so she answered nothing, but smiled a smile of interested sympathy. She remembered suddenly that perhaps he had brought mails. She asked him.
“Mails? Yes, madam. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh I’ve brought the mails. They’re in his Excellency’s hands.”
“None for you, Mrs. Stukeley, I’m afraid,” said Howard. “Captain Margaret had one.”
“Captain Margaret?” said Lewin quickly. “Do you know a Captain Margaret here?”
Stukeley pushed back his chair, and seemed to fumble in his pocket. Margaret looked up quickly from the cracking of a nut.
“I am he,” he said quietly.
“You are he, are you? I missed your name just now,” said Lewin, putting his hand within his coat.
Perrin pushed back his chair so that his body covered Lewin from Stukeley.
“Ah,” continued Lewin, in his hard voice with its ring of jocularity, “I’ve a letter for you. I was to deliver it into your hands. You’ve got friends at Court, I think, sir. It came to me through the Secretary.”
Margaret kept a steady face, not daring to glance at Stukeley; for a wink to a blind horse may be as disastrous as a blow. His first thought was, “here it ends”; his second thought told him that Perrin was giving the show away, by pushing back his chair; his third thought took in the possibilities of the pistol. He filled his wine-glass composedly, so that he might have a missile handy, then poured a little claret into Olivia’s glass.
“Friends at Court, Captain Lewin?” he answered. “No. I don’t think so. Let me see this mysterious letter.” A sudden impulse urged him to keep Olivia’s eyes from her husband’s face. “Howard,” he added, “you never showed Mrs. Stukeley those experiments of yours on the maize-ear. Aren’t those some of the maize-ears just behind you?”
“Ah yes, Mrs. Stukeley,” said Howard, reaching behind him to the jar. “Let me explain them to you.”
Lewin selected a sealed packet from his pocket-book and handed it across the table. Olivia, reaching out her hand to pass the letter to Margaret, saw the superscription.
“Why,” she cried, “it’s from Uncle Nestor. How strange. We were just now talking of him.”
“So is this Sir Nestor’s hand?” said Margaret, putting the letter to one side. He asked because the letter in his pocket was addressed in the same hand.
“Yes,” said Olivia, looking down at it. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Read it,” said Stukeley in a strange voice.
Howard laid down his maize-cobs. The letter lay at Margaret’s side; everybody looked at it. Mrs. Prinsep, in her shrewd Scotch way, glanced at her neighbours, and saw that there was something wrong. “There is something wrong somewhere,” she said to herself. Olivia, looking at Perrin and at her husband, wondered if the heat had been too much for them. Their faces were so very curious. It struck her that the talk had gone to pieces. The host, waiting for her head to turn, so that he might expound his new science to her, held his peace.
“Everybody’s waiting for you, Charles,” she added.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Prinsep, guessing that Margaret disliked Olivia’s prompting. “Captain Margaret will tell us all the news.”
Captain Margaret asked Mrs. Prinsep if he might hand her a sapadillo.
“I’m anxious to hear the news,” she answered. “No, thank you.”
“Oh,” said Margaret lightly, as he put the letter in his pocket, “I won’t read the letter during dinner. I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mrs. Prinsep, how you keep domestic servants here, with such a scarcity of white women.”
“I’d rather hear what the letter says,” she answered, “than talk about servants. We get so little news here from England.”
“I don’t understand the craving for news,” said Perrin. “One carries the world in one’s head.”
“You must want a big head to do that,” said Mrs. Prinsep.
“It doesn’t matter what size it is, so long as it’s empty. Why read letters and gazettes when one can read imaginative work?”