The next morning Lady Moddyford brought them together, and, as soon as she gracefully could, left them alone.
Elizabeth looked fearfully at her cousin.
“You have done great, terrible things on the ocean, Captain Morgan—enough to freeze one thinking about them,” she said falteringly.
“The deeds were not great, nor very dreadful. Nothing is as good or as bad as the telling of it.”
And he thought, “I was wrong about her—very wrong. She is not supercilious at all. It must have been her father—the devil—who gave me a wrong impression of her. She is quite nice.”
“I am sure yours were great, if your modesty would let you admit it,” she was saying demurely. “Do you know, I used to tremble at the tales they told of you, and hope that you were not in need or trouble.”
“Did you? Why did you? I didn’t think you ever noticed me.”
Her eyes had filled with tears. “I have had trouble, too.”
“I know. They told me about your trouble, and I was sorry for you, little cousin Elizabeth. I hope you will let me help you in your trouble. Won’t you sit here beside me, Elizabeth?”
She looked shyly at him. “I’ll play for you, if you like,” she said.
“Ye-es—yes, do.”
“Now this is ‘The Elves’ Concourse.’ Listen! You can hear their little feet pattering on the grass. Everybody says it is very sweet and pretty.” Her fingers methodically worked at the strings.
Henry thought her hands lovely as they flew about. He forgot about the music in watching her hands. They were like little white moths, so delicate and restless. One would hesitate in touching them because handling might ruin them, and yet one wanted to stroke them. The piece was ending with loud bass notes. Now it was finished. When the last string had ceased its vibration, he observed:
“You play very—precisely, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I play the notes as they come,” she said. “I always think the composer knew his business better than I do.”
“I know, and it is a comfort to hear you. It is nice to know that everything is to be in its place—even notes. You have eradicated a certain obnoxious freedom I have noticed in the playing of some young women. That kind is very lovable and spontaneous and human, of course, but given to carelessness in the interest of passion. Yes, as I become older, I grow to be taking satisfaction in seeing the thing I expected come about. Unsure things are distracting. Chance has not the tug on me it once had. I was a fool, Elizabeth. I went sailing and sailing looking for something—well, something that did not exist, perhaps. And now that I have lost my unnamable desires, I may not be happier, but there is more content on me.”
“That sounds wise and worldly, and a little bit cynical,” she observed.
“But if it is wisdom, then wisdom is experience beating about in an orderly brain, kicking over the files. And how could I be otherwise than worldly. And cynicism is the moss which collects on a rolling stone.”
“That is clever, anyway,” she agreed. “I suppose you have known a great many of those young women you spoke of.”
“What young women, Elizabeth?”
“The ones who played badly.”
“Oh! Yes, I have met a few.”
“And did you—did you—like them?”
“I tolerated them because they were friends of my friends.”
“Did any of them fall in love with you? I know I am not delicate, but you are my cousin, and almost my—my brother.”
“Oh, some said they did—but I suspect they wanted my money.”
“Surely not! But I shall play for you again. This will be a sad piece—‘God Bears the Weary Soul to Rest.’ I always think it is better to have seriousness with the lighter music.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes; so it is.”
Again her fingers worked over the strings.
“It is very beautiful, and sad,” said Henry, when it was finished. “I liked it wonderfully well, but don’t you think, Elizabeth—don’t you think that sixth string from the end might be a little—tighter?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have it touched for the world!” she cried. “Before we came out from England, Papa had a man—a harp man—go over the whole thing thoroughly. I wouldn’t feel just right with Papa if it were tampered with. He hated people who fiddled with things.”
They sat silently after her outburst, but at length she looked pleadingly into his eyes. “You aren’t angry with me about the string, are you, Cousin Henry? I just have deep feelings like that. I can’t help it.”
“No, of course I am not angry.” She was so little and so helpless, he thought.
“Where will you be going, now that you are rich and famous and covered with honors?”
“I don’t know. I want to live in an atmosphere of sure things.”
“Why, that’s just the way I think,” she exclaimed. “We must be somewhat alike. Things come to you if you do not go looking for them, I say. And nearly always I know what is going to happen to me, because I hope for it and then sit still.”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Papa’s death was a great shock,” she said, and again the tears were in her eyes. “It’s a terrible thing to be left alone and nearly no—no relatives or friends. Of course, the Moddyfords have been lovely to me, but they couldn’t be like my own people. Oh, dear! I have been so lonely. I was glad when you came, Cousin Henry, if only because we are of one blood.” Her eyes were glistening with tears, and her underlip trembled violently.
“But you must not cry,” Henry said soothingly. “You will not need to worry any more, Elizabeth. I am here to take your trouble from your shoulders. I will help you and care for you, Elizabeth. I wonder how you bore the grief that fell on you. You have been brave to hold your head so high when misery was tugging at your spirit.”
“I had my music,” she said. “I could retire into my music when the grief was too bitter.”
“But now, Elizabeth, you need not even do that. You will come with me to England when I go, and you will be comfortable and safe with me for always.”
She had sprung away from him.
“But what are you suggesting? What is this thing you are proposing to me?” she cried. “Isn’t it some sin—some crime—for cousins to marry?”
“Marry?”
“Oh!” She blushed, and her eyes glittered again with her quick tears. “Oh! I am ashamed. You did mean marry, didn’t you? I am ashamed.” Her agitation was pitiful.
“After all, why not?” thought Henry. “She is pretty; I am sure of her family; and besides, she is rather a symbol of this security I have been preaching. I could be sure of never doing anything very radical if she were my wife. I really think I do want security. And besides,” his thought finished, “I really cannot let her suffer so.”
“Oh, surely I meant marry. What else could you have thought I meant? I am only clumsy and crude about it. I have startled you and hurt you. But, dear Elizabeth, there is no crime or sin about it. Many cousins marry. And we know all about each other, and our family is one. You must marry me, Elizabeth. Truly I love you, Elizabeth.”
“Oh!” she stammered. “O-oh! I cannot think of it. I mean, I am—ill; I mean—my head whirls. You act so suddenly, Henry—so unexpectedly. Oh, please let me go. I must talk about it to Lady Moddyford. She will know what to say.”
II
King Charles the Second and John Evelyn were sitting in a tiny library. A bright fire crackled on the hearth, throwing its flickerings on the books which lined the walls. On a table beside the two men were bottles and glasses.
“I knighted him this afternoon,” the King was saying. “He got pardon and a knighthood for two thousand pounds.”
“Well, two thousand pounds—” murmured John Evelyn. “Certain tradesmen will, perhaps, bless his knighthood.”
“But that’s not it, John. I could have got twenty. He took about a million out of Panama.”
“Ah, well; two thousand pounds—”
“I ordered him to come in here tonight,” said the King. “These sailors and pirates sometimes have a tale or two worth repeating. You’ll be disappointed in him. He is—lumpish, I think is the word. You get the impression that a great mass is planted before you; and he moves as though he pushed this own invisible cage ahead of him.”
“You might create a title,” John Evelyn suggested. “It seems wasteful to let a million get away without even trying.”
Sir Henry Morgan was announced.
“Step in, sir. Step in!” The King saw that he had a glass of wine in his hands. Henry seemed frightened. He gulped the wine.