Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  “Ay, a dozen if you wish.”

  “Promise me that, whatever tenants thou mayst have hereafter, thou wilt like me best.”

  “Why, so I will, especially if you give me the bow and arrows you promised. I liked you right away last night, and mother likes you, and Cousin Mary likes you, and Father White likes you a little; but I’ll tell you who doth not.”

  “Let us hear, then; who is he that has such poor taste in likings?”

  “Father Mohl.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He thmiled at you.”

  “Oh! Is that a bad sign with the reverend Mohl.”

  “You mutht not call him that — you mutht call him holy Father. But you are right, it is a bad sign when he smiles that way. It is how he looks when he complains to Mother of me, and gets me a whipping. Father White smiles like a kind old pussy-cat; but Father Mohl smiles like a wolf.”

  “But thou wilt stand my friend even if Father Mohl like me not?”

  “Pooh, that makes no difference!”

  “And thou wilt help thy mother to go on liking me?”

  “Yes. She does everything I ask her to, and I’ll tell her you are going to be my best friend.”

  “I thank thee.”

  “Well, you are, you know. Of course you are rather old and somewhat plain, and I cannot promise not to think Master Ingle within there is handsomer, but I shall always like you best, and beauty doth not count when you know a person.”

  “No, but ’tis an amazing good letter of introduction. Now fly up and change to thine old suit and we will build a snow-man as high as the window and we will put curls on him as long as those on that jackanapes inside — I mean as those of the beautiful young man who calls himself Ralph Ingle.”

  When Cecil had changed to his every-day clothes he came down again looking more comfortable in mind and body. “I think,” he confided to Neville, “that I could eat another piece of cake. The belt of this doublet is so much looser than in my best.”

  “Ay, but there is dinner to come, and ’tis best to make allowance for this future; besides, who is this at the wharf in the in-bound boat?”

  “Why, ’tis Couthin Margaret.”

  “So it is. For a moment I thought her a man in that long cloak and those heavy boots. Let us go down to meet her!”

  When they reached the dock, the man in the ketch was already clewing up the sails, while the woman on the wharf stood giving orders. At the sound of approaching footsteps she turned.

  Despite her rough attire and forty-odd years, Margaret Brent was a woman worth looking at. Her personality was marked by a noble largeness which obliterated detail, and cast a mantle of oblivion over defects. The first impression made upon all who came in contact with her was of her adequacy to the situation before her, whether it was a rout or a riot. This it was which a few years later won her the thanks of the Maryland Assembly for her prompt action in a political crisis, which led her kinsman to leave her sole executrix of his great estate with the brief instruction, “Take all — pay all!” and which, finally, before her death made her the most famous woman in the colony.

  Through all the vicissitudes of pioneer life she kept the air and bearing of race. Even now, though a wave of gray wind-blown hair had escaped from her hood, and her falling band was pulled awry, yet no princess in full regalia could have been more the great lady than she as she came forward to meet Cecil and his companion.

  “Sir Christopher, I greet you. I would I had known of your coming yesterday that I might have had your company and protection.”

  Neville bowed, smiling. “The advantage of both would have been on my side, for Mistress Brent’s prowess is a byword.”

  “Say they so indeed!” Margaret answered without attempt at disclaimer and with a smile which showed her strong white teeth, “I am glad of that, for I may need the repute in the near future. Sorry was I to hear that you had thoughts of taking up land in this part of the country and deserting Kent Fort. I count you the strongest man we have among us, and since Claiborne’s rebellious efforts we need all the help we can claim. ’Tis in regard to this that I have followed my brother hither.”

  “I am sorry; but I fear you must meet disappointment. He has been called to St. Mary’s by troubles over Dick Ingle. He may return to-morrow.”

  “Nay, if he comes not back to-day I must turn out the trainband on my own responsibility. The matter will not keep.”

  “You should be made a captain.”

  “Not I! I am too wise for that. The captain must give place to the colonel, and the colonel to the general; but the woman is above them all, and what men would never yield of their obstinacy to equality, they will oft give up of their courtesy to her weakness. Besides, men never forget the obedience to women they learn at their mother’s knee — or over it —

  “Is it not so, Father?” she went on, turning to Father White, who had joined them. “Have I not heard thee say any one might have the training of a child after seven if thou couldst have the teaching of him till then?”

  “Ay, ’tis so — though this boy may not do so much credit to my teaching as I could wish;” and he pinched Cecil’s ear, laughing.

  “He is too busy keeping his body a-growing, I fancy, to pay much heed to his soul. How say you, Cecil, — wilt thou lend me those cheeks of thine for cushions?”

  “No,” answered the child, gravely, “elthe how could I keep my food in when I eat? Let me go! I mutht tell Couthin Mary thou art come. I dearly love to be the firtht to tell newth.”

  But this time he was too late, for Mary had caught sight of the group, and came running down the path.

  “Oh, Margaret, but I am glad to see thee! Bless thine heart, how thou art blown! I have great need of thy counsel. I must have thee tell me if the pickles want sweetening, and if the stockade be high enough, and how many cattle I should order out of England—”

  “Why hast not asked Giles all these things?”

  “Why, Giles is so great a man he will give no heed to small things, but puts them off with a ‘Presently — presently—’”

  “Ay, and if he have not a care, this ‘Presently, presently’ will cost him dear. In a new land least of all can we afford to despise the day of small things. — Ah! there is my Cousin Elinor!” She broke off, seeing Mistress Calvert in the doorway.

  The two women did not altogether harmonize. They were too much alike, and neither cared for her own type. Both loved to dominate men, though neither would have owned it. Elinor had early chosen the heart as her sphere of influence, and Margaret Brent the mind. It was in the border land that they clashed. Yet, had either been asked, especially when separated, who was the noblest woman she knew, one would have said “Elinor Calvert,” the other, “Margaret Brent.”

  “Come in,” said Elinor, as she kissed her cousin’s cheek. “Come in and share the feast set out in honor of Sir Christopher Neville, Cecil’s new tenant, at Robin Hood’s Barn.”

  “I knew thou wouldst have him.”

  “Verily? then thou didst know more than I.”

  “No doubt— ’tis the privilege of the looker-on. Besides, I knew thy business head, which is better than one would think to watch thine impulsive bearing, and none but a fool would let such a tenant as Christopher Neville slip through her fingers.”

  Elinor reddened.

  “Nay, now I see I have said somewhat amiss, but the time is too short to find out what, so forgive my sins in the bulk, and believe that I do love thee much for all we fit not always in our moods. Mary, if thou hast something hot for the inner man, prithee let me have it, for I am well-nigh starved and frozen.”

  To herself she said, “Neville is in love with Elinor Calvert — foolish man! She means to use him — wise woman!”

  Which proves that a clever observer may be too clever, and see both more and less than there is to be seen.

  Neville, after watching the women enter the house with Cecil hanging to his mother’s gown, strode down the path with head
thrown back, and the glint of a firm purpose shining from between his narrowed lids.

  CHAPTER V. PEGGY

  GILES BRENT WAS not in an enviable frame of mind on this January morning, after his visit to St. Gabriel’s manor. The gold lace on his coat, marking his rank as deputy-governor of Maryland, covered an anxious heart, and as he walked along the path over the bluff in the village of St. Mary’s he twirled the gold-tipped lacings of his doublet, and cursed his fate in being caught in this coil of colonial politics, and wished his cousin Leonard Calvert would come home from England and attend to his own business.

  Why, all of a sudden, was his brow cleared of its furrows, and his mind of its worries for the moment? Because he had caught sight at a window of a girl’s face, — a faulty, charming face with velvet brown eyes, and hair that shook a dusky glamour over them, — the face of Peggy Neville.

  This Peggy was a born coquette — not of the type that sets its cap at a man as obviously as a boy casts the net for butterflies, but a coquette by instinct, full of contradictory impulses, with eyes that whispered “Come!” even while blush and frown cried “Halt!” — with the gaiety of a flight of larks, alternating with pouts and tears as sudden and violent as a summer thunder-shower. Such a girl has often a peculiar charm for an older man, who looks on amused at her coquetries, and finds her friendship as firm as her loves are fickle. Between Governor Brent and Peggy Neville such a friendship was established, and it was with a delight dimpling into smiles that she threw wide the window, and leaning out into the frosty air, cried out joyously, —

  “Good-morning, your Excellency! Do you bring any news of that good-for-nothing brother of mine?”

  The governor shook his sword at her.

  “I will have you in the sheriff’s hands if you speak so lightly of my close friend,” he answered. “Is your aunt at home?”

  “No, but my aunt’s niece is, and much exercised to hear the news from Kent Fort. So prithee come in and rest awhile.”

  Brent entered at a door so low that he was compelled to bow his tall head.

  “The news of most interest to you,” he said, seating himself by the fire, “comes not from Kent Fort, but from St. Gabriel’s Manor, which I left just before the expected arrival of that aforesaid good-for-nothing brother of yours, who is in treaty with me for the manor at Cecil Point, which Baltimore christened Robin Hood’s Barn when he made a grant of it to Mistress Elinor Calvert. The lady is staying with my sister Mary at present.”

  “You have just come from St. Gabriel’s?” queried Peggy, “and just seen Mistress Calvert? Then pray tell me all about her. She is very, very handsome, they say—”

  “Then for once they say truth. I have seen her enter the gallery at The Globe when all the gallants on the stage rose to catch sight of her, and I have seen the London street-sweepers follow her for a mile. There’s beauty for you!”

  “And she is very wise too?”

  “Ay, as good a head for affairs as mine, and I think no small things of mine own abilities.”

  “And she is virtuous and tender and true?”

  “The tenderest of mothers, and the loyalest of kinswomen.”

  Peggy cast down her long-fringed eyes and studied the pointed toes of her red slippers. At length looking up timidly she asked, —

  “Think you I could ever be like her?”

  Giles Brent burst out into a great laugh.

  “Oh — not in beauty!” Peggy rushed on, all in confusion— “not in beauty, of course, nor in mind, but could I make my character like hers? You see, Christopher has always told me how perfect she was, and said how proud he should be to see me like her.”

  “Christopher!” exclaimed Brent.

  “Oho!” he thought to himself, “so the wind blows from that quarter, does it? That explains many things. But why under heaven did he conceal the whole business from me?”

  Aloud he said: “Never mind what Christopher tells you, pretty Peggy! Take my advice and do not waste your time in trying to be like this one or that, — not even my Cousin Elinor. You have gifts and graces all your own. Make the most of them, and let the others go. Who is that outside the door? I thought I knew every man in St. Mary’s, at least by sight.”

  “That?” said Peggy, looking out at the window with a fine show of indifference, and then moving hastily nearer the fire, “that is no citizen of St. Mary’s, but a young Virginian in command of the ketch Lady Betty from the York River.”

  “And his name?”

  “Romney Huntoon.”

  “Huntoon — ? I wonder who his father is. Know you anything of his family?”

  “No, save that his father was a physician once and won great reputation somehow, and his mother was a daughter of Sir William Romney, and heiress to a fortune, wherewith they bought wide tracts of land on the York River, and live, ’tis said, in more state than any in Virginia save Governor Berkeley himself.”

  “Ah, now I place him. He was head of Flower da Hundred at the time of the massacre, and since has risen to be a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses. I would like to speak with this young man. Is that his knock at the door?”

  “I — I think it may be,” hesitated Peggy. “He brought a letter from his mother to my aunt, who knew her in their youth at home in Devonshire.”

  Hard upon her remarks a young man entered the room, and stood hesitating in the doorway as if loath to venture further without assurance of welcome.

  He was a colty youth, with long legs and slim body, and hands and feet that had not learned the repose of maturity. He had also a shock of dark curls, and under arching brows a pair of merry blue eyes that danced when anything pleased him beyond the common, like the sun on Easter morning, while under their surface mirth lay steadfast depths which bade fair to endure when their dancing days were over.

  Just now there was more of anxiety than mirth in them as they turned toward the slip of a girl by the hearth, as timid a glance as if she were the Shah of Persia and he a humble subject in terror of the bowstring.

  “Come in!” vouchsafed Peggy, — but with some impatience in her voice, for she had not yet begun on the list of questions she had prepared for her other visitor.

  “Governor Brent, this is Master Romney Huntoon. Master Huntoon, I have the honor to present you to Governor Brent.” Both men bowed, the younger man lower.

  “I fancy,” said Brent, “that I am not wrong in taking you for the son of that Humphrey Huntoon whose good repute has travelled beyond the limits of his own province, and become familiar to us dwellers across the borders.”

  Romney Huntoon blushed with pleasure and secretly treasured up the words to say over to his mother; but he received them with some discomposure. To tell the truth, it is not an easy matter to meet a compliment for one’s relative; the disclaimers wherewith a man may receive such for himself not quite fitting the situation, yet consanguinity seeming to demand a corresponding degree of modesty.

  “My father will feel deeply honored,” he murmured, and lost the end he had fashioned for his speech in watching a curl that had fallen forward over Peggy Neville’s ear.

  Brent was too much occupied with his own thoughts to heed the break in the young man’s reply.

  “You have been at St. Mary’s for some days?” he asked.

  “A week yesterday, your Excellency.”

  “And spent much time on the wharf?”

  “The better part of every day, overlooking first the unloading of the tobacco, and then the getting aboard of the farm implements and household stuff I am to carry back to Romney.”

  “Hm! Perhaps, then, you were witness to the — the unpleasantness that fell out betwixt Captain Ingle and Reuben Early.”

  “Ay, sir — I saw the blow struck.”

  “Of your kindness, tell me how it all fell out. The village folk are so hot over the matter ’tis passing hard to get a clear story from any of them. Was Richard Ingle drunk or sober?”

  “Why, not fully the one or the other, I should say;
but more as one who has been in his cups overnight and is at odds with the world next morning.”

  “And Reuben Early — was he in liquor too?”

  “Truth, I think Early was a bit the worse for beer, for he was continually dropping the sacks with which he was loading the vessel under Ingle’s direction, and when one slipped into the water, instead of making excuse for himself, he threw up his silly cap and shouted, “God save the King and Prince Rupert!”

  “Fool!”

  “Ay, ’twas enough to anger any man, and it seemed to drive Ingle mad with passion. ‘The King!’ he cried; ‘I’d have you know your King is no king; and as for Prince Rupert, if I had him here he should be flogged at the capstan!’ Then turning to Early, whose mouth was agape at such treasonable utterances, he let fly a bucket he had in his hand, and hit Early full in the head, knocking him over like an ox. If Early had picked himself up and returned the blow I’d had some sympathy for him, but instead he went off whimpering and vowing he’d make complaint and have Ingle under arrest before night.”

  “A pestilent fellow that Ingle!” muttered Brent; “I’d have him in irons this day were it not for the trouble over seas; but with King and Parliament at loggerheads we must be civil with both and Ingle hath powerful friends in high places among the Roundheads. But of the quarrel — did you see Richard Ingle after?”

  “Nay, but I believe he is still on The Reformation, though some say he was seen to board a ship that sailed yesterday for New Netherland, and ’tis known the Ingles are on good terms with Governor Stuyvesant, who hath the Dutch hatred of papists.”

  “For the matter o’ that,” said Brent, with some bitterness, “he need not have gone further afield than across the river. He would have found enough Catholic-haters in Virginia to protect him.”

  “We may be over zealous, your Excellency,” the young man answered, “but we do not countenance evil-doers, and ‘twere hard to find in Maryland a cavalier who has the King’s cause more at heart than Sir William Berkeley.”