William Trigget murmured something to the effect that his presence was required forward, and took his departure. Kingswell bit his lip and stared haughtily at the woman; but he was at a loss for words fully expressive of his feelings. His indignation brought a flush to his cheeks which even the dusk of evening could not hide.
"Ye may well redden," cried Maggie Stone. "Ay, ye may well redden, after sailin' away with an unprotected lass, an' near terrifyin' her old nurse into fits."
The gentleman recovered his power of speech. "My good girl," he said (and she was a full twenty years older than his mother), "your joy at hearing of your mistress's safety takes a wondrous queer and unseemly way of expressing itself. You seem to forget that you, the lady's servant, are addressing the lady's betrothed husband."
The old maid glared and drew her scanty skirts about her.
"Maybe so," she retorted. "'Twould never have happened in Somerset."
At that moment Mistress Beatrix appeared suddenly from the other side of the mizzen.
"How dare you!" she cried. "How dare you speak so to Master Kingswell!"
Anger—quick, scathing anger—rang in her voice. Standing there in her short skirt, high, beaded moccasins, and blue cloth jacket, she looked like an indignant boy, save for her coiled hair and bright beauty.
"I am ashamed of you," she added; and then, turning quickly, she flung herself into Kingswell's ever ready embrace.