George Maria Wingfield, strolling from one port-hole to another, dreaming of the vast wealth which he intended to store up in this new land, overheard the speech of Kendall and stored it up for future use. He determined, as soon as they were well out to sea, that he would stir up the men against Smith and see what would come of it. His malignant nature could not bear to hear of the success of another.
Up on the deck Bartholomew Gosnold paced back and forth, unheeding the hail driving against his weather-beaten countenance. As he swept the vast rolling billows with his glass, he muttered to himself, “Why couldn’t they heed my advice, and pursue the track which I have discovered, instead of following the old route of Columbus?”
In the cabin of the Susan Constant sat John Laydon, a young carpenter, with his head buried in his hands. In mind he was back again in a rustic cottage in Devonshire. Roses clambered over it in summer and the hawthorn blossoms whitened the hedges enclosing it—a casket holding the jewel of his heart’s desire, pretty Anne Burras.
The dainty maiden has kept his honest heart in a state of constant turmoil with her coquettish wiles. He was never sure of her, and even now knew not whether she had returned his love.
Suddenly he clinched his brawny hands, and a deep scowl ploughed his forehead as he thought of that caitiff Wingfield, whose pretentious home lay only a short distance from Anne’s. Many a time John had caught sight of him riding down the lane and stopping at the gate of the cottage to whisper flattering words into the shell-like ears of Anne, and his honeyed words had dazzled her and perhaps touched her heart.
When the day’s work was done, John had gone to see her, and as they sat upon the porch with the moonlight filtering through the meshes of the vines he had remonstrated with her.
“Anne, you know that he is a gentleman, and will mate with one his equal in station. He is only trifling with you to pass the time. Better listen to an honest man’s love, who has your dearest interest at heart.”
Anne tossed her head, and with the wisdom inherited from Eve avoided giving a decided answer.
Perhaps if John returned with wealth from that distant land, she might listen to his suit—mind you, perhaps.
“You cannot be a fine lady, Anne. It was an unfortunate day when you took service with Mistress Forrest, for although she has been a kind mistress, your head has been turned by the compliments of the gentlemen who resort to her house. You dream of fine clothes, a coach to ride in, and a maid to wait upon you; but I tell you, only grief will come of it.”