The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter XV

CAPTAIN JOSIAH PEABODY was conversant with the usages of good society; at Malta during the Mediter­ranean campaign he had served a hard apprenticeship, and it was then, when national rivalries culminated in a series of duels between American and British officers, that he had learned that the stricter the regard for the conventions the easier it was to avoid trouble. Those weeks at Malta had actually rubbed the lesson in more effectively than years of living in cramped and crowded quarters on board a ship.

So that in the afternoon, after he had set one watch to work upon the ship, and made arrangements for shore leave for the other watch, he had Washington get out his second-best uniform coat; and he ordered his gig and went ashore to pay his "digestion" call upon the Gov­ernor, as good manners dictated. Always as soon as pos­sible after a dinner party or a ball one paid a personal call or at least left cards upon one's host, and in view of the fact that he would be representing all the five officers of his ship he decided it would be more fitting to call in person. That was what he himself honestly believed; it did not cross his conscious mind that he might be at all in­fluenced by the desire to see Mademoiselle Anne de Villebois again.

It might be pleaded for him that his usual keenness of mind was blunted by the fact that he had had no sleep for two nights, and that he had gone through a good deal of emotional strain during the past forty-eight hours. It was only yesterday morning that he had turned with the intention of fighting his last fight against the British squadron; it was only last night that he had kissed Anne; and since then there had been the two attempts to break out of the harbor. Adventures had come in a flood, as they always did at sea. And the heat of the bay was sticky and stupefying, and the light was blinding in its in­tensity; Peabody, as he was rowed ashore, knew that he felt dazed and not as clearheaded as usual.

He landed at the quay and walked up into the town; the two hundred liberty men of the Delaware seemed to fill every corner of the place. They were to be seen at all the out-of-doors drinking places, sitting at the little tables roaring remarks to each other, pawing the colored girls who waited on them. Half of them would be quietly drunk and some of them — who would be unfortunate — would be noisily drunk when they came on board again. Shore leave to them meant rum and women and subsequent punishment one way or another. Sailors were like that; Peabody knew it and made allowances for them. He had conquered drink himself and had never allowed lust to overmaster him, but he knew that others had not been as fortunate as himself. The only lack of sympathy he displayed was with regard to their drink­ing publicly at tables on the street — he simply could not understand that. To him it appeared axiomatic that drinking should be done privately, and as little public attention as possible called to it. He knew that if ever he started drinking again — although he never would — it would be secretly, with hurried intoxicating nips out of a private bottle which no one would ever know about.

The sentry outside the Governor's house saluted him smartly as he passed, and he raised his hat in acknowledg­ment. At the front door the colored butler recognized him and smiled. What the butler said, in reply to his in­quiry as to whether the Governor were at home, he did not understand in the least. He was aware that the butler changed from Martinique French to Martinique English, but it did not make him more intelligible. But the butler was certainly ushering Peabody inside, and so he fol­lowed. The transition from the dazzling sunlight out­side to the cool darkness within quite blinded him. He stumbled over something in his path, trod on a mat which slipped treacherously under his foot on the polished floor, retained his balance with difficulty, and heard as if in a dream Anne's voice saying "Good after­noon, Captain Peabody."

His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and the sudden mist which befogged them cleared away. There was Anne, in cool white, sitting gracefully in an arm­chair. He bowed and he mumbled; certainly his wits were not as clear as they should be. Something in Anne's attitude called his attention to another part of the room, and there was Davenant, newly risen from another arm­chair, and standing stiffly with his hat under his arm, and — possibly — feeling a little awkward, although there was no certainty about it. This meeting of one's country's enemies on neutral ground was embarrassing. But the suspicion that Davenant was not quite at ease was reassuring. Peabody was able to smile politely and bow formally in consequence.

"Very warm for this time of year," said Peabody, utterly determined not to be discountenanced.

"Yes," said Davenant. The way he pronounced it was more like "yas."

"But not as warm as it was last week," said Anne.

"No," said Peabody.

"No," said Davenant, and conversation wilted. Pea­body was momentarily distracted by the queer thought that if he met Davenant anywhere except on neutral soil it would be his duty to pull out his sword and fall upon him; that he would be liable to court-martial and to the severest penalties if he did not do his best to kill him as speedily as possible. He forced himself to abandon that line of thought.

"I have called to thank His Excellency on behalf of my officers and myself for the extremely pleasant eve­ning we enjoyed yesterday," he said.

"I'm glad to hear you enjoyed it," said Anne, com­posedly, but as she said it her eyes met Peabody's and the next moment there was red color flooding her cheeks and neck.

"Nice evenin'," said Davenant. "There were some pretty women, by George. None of 'em a patch on you and Madame your aunt, though."

"You are very kind, Sir Hubert."

As if the mention of her had brought her in, the Countess entered on the words.

"Good afternoon, Sir Hubert. Good afternoon, Cap­tain Peabody. I hope my niece has been entertaining you."

"Delightfully, I assure you, ma'am," said Davenant.

"His Excellency is still engaged with the Council," went on the Countess. "I was wondering if this would be a good opportunity, while it isn't raining, to show you my orchids which I was telling you about last night, Sir Hubert."

"Oh yes, of course," said Davenant.

"Sir Hubert is interested in orchids, you see, Captain Peabody," explained the Countess, "and His Excellency's predecessor in office, General Brown, made a most in­teresting collection. The British occupation of the island had its brighter side, we must admit."

"Surely," said Peabody.

"Anne," said the Countess, "will you offer Captain Peabody some tea?"

"Yes, Aunt Sophie."

"Until we meet again, then, Captain," said the Countess.

Next moment she was gone, through the glass door which Davenant opened for her and through which he followed her. The room was suddenly quiet, except for the faint whine of the fan in the ceiling — an ingenious arrangement by which a cord was taken over a pulley through a hole in the wall, so that a Negro child outside the room could keep the air in motion without intruding on the privacy within. Peabody admired the contrivance for some seconds as if it were as fascinating as a snake. As the Countess and Davenant were leaving the room he had suddenly felt that he could not, for some unexplained reason, meet Anne's eyes. He remained on his feet, his left hand on his sword hilt, sliding the blade half an inch in and out.

"You went away!" said Anne suddenly in the silence of the room.

He looked down at her, and she was looking up at him reproachfully.

"Anne!" he said, and he melted. There was never anything like this, like this unrestrainable surge of emo­tion. His head swam, and he came down on his knees at her side — he had never knelt to any woman before, but it was the most natural thing he had ever done in his life. She put her two hands into his, and they kissed; and when they drew back from each other he went on looking into her eyes.

"Anne!" was all he could say. He did not know what a volume of meaning he put into that monosyllable.

"I didn't mean what I said," explained Anne.

"I had to go," said Peabody, "I had to try to go. I didn't want to."

"I know, my dear," said Anne.

She kissed him again, and then her lips left his and strayed over his mahogany cheek, fluttering as she murmured something to herself, some endearment or other.

"What am I going to do with you?" said Anne. "This — this — I can't bear to have you out of my sight."

She took one of her hands from him and put it on her breast where the emotion surged. Peabody knew just how she felt. He sawed at his stock with his free hand in a struggle against the passion which threatened to choke him. It seemed to be the last straw that she should so frankly admit to her emotion.

"Darling!" he said.

Her lips were the lips of innocence, of a sweetness and which they conferred. There had never been anything like this in all his experience. Within him subconsciously stirred a twenty-year forgotten memory of his mother's tainted caresses, and he clung to Anne's hands and put his face to hers in the violence of the reaction.

"I couldn't bear it," said Anne. "You were gone. I thought I might never see you again."

He looked into her eyes, and he remembered that death was awaiting him outside the bay, just beyond the Diamond Rock. The realization shook him, and he tore himself from her and got to his feet.

"I'm a fool," he said. "I shouldn't ever have done this."

It was a second or two before Anne answered, the fear that she felt revealing itself in her face and in her voice.

"Why not?" she whispered.

"Because — " said Peabody, "because — oh — "

It was hard to put it all into words, the Delaware's homelessness, the peril in which he stood, the losing fight which he was going to wage against the mightiest sea power the world had ever seen. Ironically, the love he bore for Anne crystallized his determination not to survive the eventual inevitable destruction of the Dela­ware; he did not say so to Anne, but it showed through the halting sentences with which he tried to explain his situation.

"I understand," said Anne, nodding her head. It was odd, and yet it tore at Peabody's heartstrings, to see this very young woman contemplating problems of life and death, of war and peace.

"There is only this one week," said Peabody.

"One week," said Anne.

The little round chin under the soft mouth was firm for all its allure. Peabody had a moment's piercing in­sight: this was the sort of woman who would load her husband's long rifle while savages howled outside the log cabin, no more than twenty years old and yet willing to face anything beside the man she loved. He shook away the mental picture before his eyes.

"That's all," he said, simply. "I'm sorry."

But all Anne's twenty years of life had been spent in a world in a turmoil of war. She had learned to think clearly through it.

"My dear," she said, and her eyes met Peabody's un­flinching, "if we are lucky enough to have a week granted us, why should we waste it?"

Peabody's jaw dropped at that, and he looked at her with surprise. It was a view of the case which his far-seeing New England mind had not seen at all; he had paid so much attention to next week that tomorrow had escaped his notice.

"What do you mean?" he said, his voice choking a little as the explanation flooded in upon him.

Anne did not have the chance to explain, because the Marquis came in at that moment.

Peabody did not start at the sudden noise of the latch — his nerves were steady enough despite this present ordeal — and Anne retained her seat in the armchair with composure, but it would have been asking too much of them to expect that their attitudes should not reveal something of their preoccupation. The Marquis looked keenly from one to the other, and like a man of breeding he was prepared to pay no attention to the fact that his entrance had been at a difficult moment, but Peabody gave him no chance. He swung round on the Marquis, his brain laboring hard under the handicaps of strong emotion and recent sleeplessness.

"Good afternoon, Captain Peabody," said the Marquis.

"I want to marry your daughter," said Peabody, and even the Marquis's breeding was not proof against the surprise the statement occasioned. It was the sight of his discomposure which most helped Peabody to collect him­self. The Marquis looked at them both again, as if during the last two seconds their appearance had undergone some radical change, and he waited some time before he spoke; even if Peabody's abrupt statement had taken him sufficiently off his guard to make him change countenance, years of training had taught him not to make an unguarded reply, and in theory, if not in prac­tice, to count ten before he said anything decisive.

"The fact that you want to marry Mademoiselle de Villebois," he said fencing for time, "is a recommenda­tion of your good taste, if not of your knowledge of the world."

"Surely," said Peabody. Now that he was in this affair he was not going to flinch, not for all the Marquises and Excellencies in His Most Christian Majesty's dominions.

"I know very little about you, Captain," said the Marquis. "Please forgive me — I intend no rudeness — but the name of Peabody does not enter into my genea­logical knowledge. Can you tell me something about your family?"

"My father was a Connecticut farmer," said Pea­body, sturdily, "and so was his father, although he came from Massachusetts. And I don't know who his father

was."

"I see," said the Marquis. "You are not a man of great fortune, Captain?"

The question very nearly nonplused Peabody. He was almost at the head of his profession, and he enjoyed a salary of one hundred dollars a month in hard money — a salary quite large enough to maintain a wife with dignity in New York or Philadelphia. But it was only now that his attention was called to the fact that this income — imposing enough to him — was insignificant compared with European fortunes, and it called for an effort on his part not to allow the realization to unsettle him.

"I have my pay," he said with dignity.

"I see," said the Marquis again. "Mademoiselle de Villebois is a lady of fortune. She will have a very con­siderable dot — dowry, I think you call it. Did that in­fluence you in reaching this rather surprising deci­sion?"

"Good God!" said Peabody, completely thrown out of his stride this time. The idea had never occurred to him for a moment, and his face showed it. His astonishment was so genuine that it could hardly fail to make a favor­able impression upon the Marquis — the latter's experi­ences might have accustomed him to American unconventionality, but they had not been able to eradicate the Frenchman's natural tendency to look upon matri­mony as an occasion for financial bargaining.

"It is usual," said the Marquis, "when a marriage is being arranged, for the prospective bridegroom to match, franc for franc, his bride's fortune, in the matter of settlements. You apparently had no intention of doing that?"

"No," said Peabody. "I didn't know that Mademoiselle de Villebois had any money. I never thought about it, and I don't want it."

He was conscious that he had made a frightful hash of the pronunciation of Anne's name, and it did not improve his temper, which was steadily rising.

"Josiah," said Anne, quietly. As far as Peabody knew, that was the first time Anne had ever spoken his name. It quieted him a good deal, and he made himself speak reasonably.

"All Anne and I want to do," he said, "is to get mar­ried. In my country we do not think about money in that connection. And one free man is as good as an­other."

The Marquis suddenly became confidential.

"Do you know," he said, "it is my impression that just as many unsuccessful marriages result from the one system as from the other."

Peabody grinned.

"You don't think our marriage is going to be unsuc­cessful, Father?" asked Anne.

"How long have you known each other?" continued the Marquis. "You've seen each other twice — "

"Three times, sir," said Peabody deferentially.

"Three times, then — " said the Marquis, but he had been just sufficiently checked in the full flow of his argu­ment to cause him to stumble, and his final words were a little lame. "It's just madness, madness."

The glass door opened to admit the Countess with Davenant, and the Marquis swung round on his sister.

"These two ridiculous people want to get married, Sophie," he said.

"We are going to get married tomorrow, Aunt Sophie," said Anne.

The Countess expressed her surprise in French; Davenant's face bore such a comic expression, of mixed as­tonishment and envy at this American who had carried off a prize in this fashion, that Peabody was immensely comforted. He even began to enjoy himself. But Davenant was of stern stuff, and not for long would he ever allow himself to be discountenanced. If the right thing was there to be said, he was going to say it.

"I wish you joy, Mamselle," he said. "Sir, my heartiest good wishes and congratulations."

"Thank you, sir," said Peabody.

"But — " began the Marquis.

"You are very kind, Sir Hubert," said Anne, neatly interrupting him, and then she turned to her aunt with a torrent of French. The Countess's face softened, and she came towards her niece — Peabody had a clairvoyant moment, when telepathically he was aware of the senti­mental appeal an imminent marriage has for any woman. Probably aunt and niece were closer together spiritually than ever before.

"But — " said the Marquis again.

"Father," said Anne, turning from her aunt for a moment, "I'm sure the gentlemen are thirsty. Won't you pull the bell?"

Not even his disapproval of his daughter's marriage could weigh in the scale against a lifetime of training in hospitality, and the Marquis broke off his speech to walk across to the bell-pull.

"Now listen to me — " he began as he returned.

"The white gown will do if we use a veil," Anne was saying to her aunt, and Peabody was careful to pay the strictest attention to her, so that the Marquis had only Davenant to whom he could address his remarks, which naturally died away in undignified manner.

"Anne!" exclaimed the Marquis, exasperated. "Don't — "

The entrance of the butler was the culminating in­terruption. The Marquis swung round upon him, and was immediately engulfed in orders to him. He actually never succeeded in giving any voice to his objections to the marriage.