IX.
A FAREWELL DINNER
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._
Standing on 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 say _we_ have 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. The _Broken Heart’s_ under 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?”
Mrs. Prinsep remarked with bitterness that she knew not what imaginative work meant, unless it was a kind of thing which she disliked very much. She half rose, catching Olivia’s eye. The two ladies left the room--Mrs. Prinsep to abuse Perrin and to apply crudely an examination; Olivia to suffer from home-sickness, thinking of her uncle’s letter. Mrs. Prinsep could draw little from her; for Mrs. Prinsep, while suspecting something wrong, naturally suspected a woman of finer beauty than her own of being a party to it. Her theory was that Olivia had run away from her home, and that, being beautiful, she was possibly not correctly married. She liked Stukeley; but she had her duty to herself to consider. She put Olivia through a conventional catechism, in the course of which she asked for particulars of the wedding. Olivia, seeing her drift, replied coldly, in monosyllables.
Meanwhile, in the dining-room, over the wine, Stukeley badgered Margaret to read the letter.
“Read it,” he kept saying. “Read it. Let’s hear what’s in it.”
Howard wondered at his tone; but as he knew something of Stukeley’s affairs, he drew Lewin out of the room, so that the voyagers might read the letter together undisturbed. When he had gone, Margaret opened the packet brought by Lewin. Stukeley picked up his wine-glass and crossed over towards Margaret, so that he, too, might read.
“What do you want, Stukeley?” Margaret asked him.
“I want to read that letter, of course. It’s about me.”
“Do you generally read the letters of others?”
“I’m going to read this.”
“Are you?” Margaret looked at him coolly, finished his letter, and started to read the other. As he had expected, the letters were alike. One had been brought by a merchantman, the other by the man-of-war. The letter was that saddest of all letters, the letter of the old man who asks humbly, knowing the selfishness of youth. That the old man wrote without hope seemed evident to Margaret from the appeal he made to chivalrous sentiment. “I am confident to write to you,” ran the un-confident words, “though we are little acquainted. I had the honour to serve with your father more than forty years ago.” Then there came a request that Captain Margaret would cause Stukeley to be arrested and brought home to trial, so that Olivia might again be under his care. There was also a moving prayer that he, the son of that old brother-in-arms who had ridden with the writer at Newbury forty odd years before, would let Olivia know what her husband had done. She was ignorant of her husband’s nature; but in England it was said that she was not so ignorant. In England her honour seemed smirched, for there were some who saw in her flight the ruse of a criminal and his doxy. It was right that she should know this, and very right that her husband should stand his trial, so that their honour might be cleared. The letter was bitter reading to Margaret. It made him feel that he had stained Olivia’s honour in staining his own, and all for the sake of a ruffian incapable of feeling the sacrifice. If the letter had come before his interview with Howard he would have pleaded differently, child or no child. He looked grave, helped himself to more wine, and handed a letter to Perrin.
“What’s the old boy say?” said Stukeley.
“That is surely not your business,” Margaret answered.
“I’ll make it my business. It concerns me. Isn’t it all about me? Eh?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it? I’ll soon see. Now then, Pilly. Hand over.”
“Leave Edward alone,” said Margaret. “The letter’s a private letter to myself. I prefer that you shall not read it, Stukeley.”
“Shall not. Eh? Blood. Eh? Shall not. Give it to me, Pilly.”
“Sit down, Stukeley,” said Margaret.
“Don’t you touch me, Stukeley,” said Perrin.
“Give me that letter.” He was within snatching distance; but Perrin twisted aside, so that he missed his mark. He sprawled across Perrin trying to reach his outstretched hand.
“Get out, you beast,” said Perrin, thrusting with his elbow.
“Temper, eh?” said Stukeley. He feinted quickly for Perrin’s nose; Perrin’s outstretched hand flew back to guard; the letter was seized with a whoop of triumph. Stukeley glanced contemptuously at Perrin, and began to read the letter, as Margaret quietly walked round the table to him.
Stukeley saw him coming, and kicked Mrs. Prinsep’s chair across his shins, checking his progress for an instant. As he kicked the chair, Perrin dashed at him, to snatch the paper. Stukeley flung him aside heavily, laughing at the fun of the tussle.
“You see what you get, little Pilly,” he said. “You see what you get. Eh?”
Margaret set aside the chair and advanced upon him. “Now, Stukeley,” he said, “that letter.”
Stukeley backed a pace to avoid him. Perrin, recovering, felt blindly along the table for a knife. At this moment the door opened, and Olivia entered.
“I’ve come to ask if I might read the letter. Uncle Nestor’s letter, Charles,” she said.
Perrin, in a voice which shook with the hysteria of wrath, told her that she had better ask her husband.
“There it is,” said Margaret quietly, indicating Stukeley.
Olivia glanced at the three men with surprise, even anxiety. Stukeley, who had not yet read the letter, looked to Margaret for a hint that the letter might be shown.
“There it is,” Margaret repeated.
“What is the matter with you three men?” Olivia asked. “You were fighting.”
“Pilly gets so excited,” Stukeley said.
“What were you doing, Tom?”
“Reading the letter,” Perrin said.
“What is in the letter?”
“There it is,” said Margaret.
Olivia walked softly to her husband. “May I see the letter?” she said, her eyes full of tears. “I may read the letter, Charles?”
“Yes. I wish you to read it.”
“There it is,” said Stukeley, handing it to her. “What did you two asses make such a fuss for?” He sat down, helped himself to wine, and lighted a roll of tobacco-leaf, a kind of primitive cigar. Between the puffs, he glanced at the two men, and at Olivia’s face. Something in Olivia’s face attracted him: the eyes seemed to burn; the eyes seemed to be her intelligence, now starting outward. He looked at Margaret, wondering if he had done rightly to give the letter; but Margaret stood there, grave, courteous, self-controlled, his face a mask. Olivia read the letter, turned the sheet to see if a postscript had been added, then read it through a second time, turning very white.
“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Have you read this, Tom?”
“No, Livy. Let’s see it.”
“I suppose I may show it to Tom, Charles?”
“Yes, Olivia.”
“You’ve read the letter, Charles?”
“Yes, Olivia.”
“Well. I don’t understand. What is Uncle Nestor thinking, Tom?”
Stukeley read the letter, with a desire to have Margaret’s throat in his hands, squeezing the life out of him. He looked savagely at Margaret. “You swine, to let me in for this,” he thought. Then he became conscious that Olivia was closely watching him.
“Strange,” he said, puckering his brows. He took a gulp of wine and looked at Margaret. “Hadn’t we better go aboard?” he added. “It’s not a thing we can discuss here. Old Howard might come in.”
“But we can’t go aboard, Tom. The ship is sailing.”
“All our things are on board.”
“Yes. But we must get them. We must go home. You see that, Tom, don’t you? We must go home to clear our names.”
“We can’t go, Livy, for the reason I told you before.”
“They’re saying these things about us, though.”
“Who is? Some tea-drinking old maids who’ve got at your uncle Nestor. He doesn’t like me, as you know, so naturally he believes them.”
“But, Tom, what could have started the old maids, as you call them?”
“Our hurried leaving, of course. What else?”
“Ah,” she said, turning very pale, as though a bitter thought had come to her. “Charles, Charles. Oh, why did not Uncle Nestor write to me, instead of you? He need not have told you the scandal.”
Margaret, who had gone to the window with Perrin, to look out over the darkened harbour, while the husband and wife talked together, now turned gravely towards her, too sad to answer.
“I didn’t mean that, Charles.” She looked from one face to another, searching for a key to the puzzle, for a way back to the peace of ten minutes ago.
“What were you doing, Charles, when I came in just now?”
“We were struggling for the letter, Olivia.”
“You had snatched the letter, Tom?”
“From me,” said Perrin.
“I did not wish your husband to read it, Olivia,” Margaret added.
“He told me it concerned me,” said Stukeley, “and naturally, in a playful way, I snatched it. In a playful way.”
“I told you no such thing,” said Margaret.
“And yet, Charles, you say you did not wish Tom, my husband, to read it?”
“I did not wish it.”
“And you could hand it on to Edward?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t understand. And you wished me to read it?”
“Yes, Olivia. I wished you to read it.”
“We can’t discuss it here, Livy,” Stukeley said. “Old Howard may come in. Let’s go on board.”
“Tom, we can’t go on board. I can’t enter that ship again. They’ve been calling us that for three months. Do think what it means, dear.”
“Only cackle,” he answered sullenly. “I’m not going to alter my plans for a little old wives’ cackle.”
“You think it’s only that, Tom?”
“Good luck. Yes.”
“But let’s go home and put an end to it. If we don’t it may grow. It may----”
The door opened. Howard entered. He looked round them with his air of weary boredom.
“Captain Margaret,” he said coldly, “your boat is waiting. Your captain is anxious not to lose the tide.”
“Well, we’ll go on board then. Edward, fetch Olivia’s wraps.”
“No,” Olivia said. “No. Not that. We’re not going, Charles. We’re going home. Oh, this letter is like a fire.”
“Come, Edward,” said Margaret, “we’ll be getting our cloaks.”
“I’ll get Olivia’s things,” Stukeley said.
“Tom,” she cried, “you aren’t going to run away like this, letting them think you guilty? You can’t, Tom. Go back. No. No. I can’t let you. Dear, we must face this. We must go home and face this.”
Margaret was at the door again, hooking the heavy silver cloak-clasp at his throat. He looked at her pitifully, saying nothing. He wished that he could help her, for the sake of her little one; but the letter had struck a jangle in him, and Stukeley had made him lose his temper. He thought that he had gone too far now, that he had shown Stukeley to be guilty. He could not bring himself to speak. He was worn out with the long anxiety of love. He was tired. Stukeley must fight his own battles, tell his own lies, maintain his own deceptions. He was too weary of it all to be sad, even when, after shaking the Governor’s hand and thanking him for his kindness, he turned to Olivia, with his hand outstretched.
“Well, Olivia,” he said.
“Well,” she said. “What d’you want, Charles?”
“Are you going home?” he asked bluntly.
“Of course I’m going home. Do you think that. Do you think I could live longer in that ship, eating, and lying down, and watching the sea, with this being said of me?”
“Yes,” said Stukeley, “I think you could. Put on your wraps, Livy, and come on.”
“Tom. Tom, dear.”
“I would go, Mrs. Stukeley, if I were you,” said the Governor. “You couldn’t leave the colony here much before November.”
“I am very sorry,” she answered. “But I don’t think you know the circumstances.”
“I’ve discussed them with Captain Margaret,” he answered.
“You discussed them, Charles?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Howard gives good advice, Olivia.”
“I don’t think my wife wants your advice,” said Stukeley. “Come, Livy. Here are your wraps. Come on. Don’t let’s have a scene.”
“Tom,” she said, holding out her hands, swaying a little, her eyes blind with tears. “Tom, I beseech you, let’s go home. What is your pledged word to--to what they are saying?”
“I’m going to keep my word,” he answered brutally. “Good-bye, Howard. Thanks for the pie-crust. I hope, next time I see you, you’ll have some decent wine. Your port is---- So long.” He turned to the other men. “Come on, Pilly. Come, Maggy.” As he walked to the door, he looked again at Howard. “So long, me lord,” he said.
“Good-bye, Mr. Stukeley,” said Howard.
“Shake hands.”
“No, thank you.”
Stukeley looked at him with some amusement.
“Oxford man. Eh!” he said, and passed out. Olivia stood swaying, looking after him, calling to him, through her tears.
“Will you come, Olivia?” Margaret asked her gently.
“Come with you, Charles? With you? You believe Tom guilty.”
“Olivia,” Perrin said, “this goes round your throat, doesn’t it? Then, here’s your glove. You mustn’t forget your glove.” He helped her with her things, evidently deeply pained.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, speaking as one stunned.
“Take my arm,” Perrin whispered. “Let’s get into the fresh air.”
She took a stumbling step forward, her hand on Perrin’s arm, then paused, and faced Margaret. “You think, Charles. You think, because. Because I’m not very happy. That I shall not notice. But I see. Oh, I see so well. You wish to poison me against Tom. You wish me to think. That. That. Him guilty.”
“Quiet, Margaret,” said Howard. “Mrs. Stukeley, it’s my duty to tell you that your husband is guilty. Better now than later,” he added to Margaret in a low voice. “She can’t have two scenes like this. It’d kill her. It is true, Mrs. Stukeley,” he continued. “If he returns to England, he will be hanged. Now you two, take her out. She’s stunned. Take her out before the flunkies notice. Get to sea. Don’t wait. Into the boat with her. Get to sea. Get to the devil.”
The two men supported the dazed creature to the boat. Howard watched them from his pleasaunce, with an air of weary boredom. “Like clubbing a kitten,” he said to himself. “But nervous women are. They are.”
He watched them pass away into the night, the oars grunting through the darkness, the voice of the coxswain sounding very clear. He noted it as a sign of rain. Afterwards he heard the feet tramping round the capstan, amid yells and screams and pistol-shots. “There are the men of war. The buccaneers,” he said cynically. “My reputation’s gone. I forgot them.” He stood amid his flowers, watching the fireflies, waiting for the end. He saw dimly the jib of the great ship cloaking a star. Then among the screams of many drunken men, with laughter, and shots, and oaths, the topsails jolted up, the parrels groaning, to a ditty about a girl in Paradise Street. The roaring chorus woke the ships in harbour. The crews answered, cheering, beating their bells. The bell of the _Broken Heart_ was rung like the alarm of fire. He smiled to hear them, repeating the phrases he had planned for his official report. “She stole away, unnoticed, in the night,” he repeated. “So that I could not give effect to the Honourable Board’s command.” “It’s getting chilly,” he said. “I must go in. She’s gone. She’s out of sight.” From very far away came the words of a chorus, the cat-fall chorus, sung by men so drunk that they had to take the cat-fall to the capstan:--
Blow, my bullies, blow For Springer’s Key, ay O. There’s plenty of gold, So I’ve been told, On the banks of the Rio Diablo.
It was the last of her farewells. Howard went indoors, to his game of cribbage with Mrs. Prinsep. “They have gone to found an empire,” he said to himself. “That song is an imperial hymn. Men of the Breed. Eh?”