Maggie Stone was flustered and somewhat awed by the sudden attack. She had not been spoken to so for years and years. Would she resort to tears again, or would she answer back? She was jealous of the girl's love for Kingswell—and yet she had thanked God many times that that love had been won by the young Englishman instead of by the swarthy D'Antons. She sniffed, and mopped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she changed her mind and bridled.
"What would the countess, your aunt, say to such behaviour?" she asked. "Her who watched over ye like a guardian angel in London town."
Beatrix turned, and, still holding her lover's hands, faced the carping critic.
"And who turned me out of her house at the last of it," she cried, scornfully. "Who is she, or who was she ever, to question my behaviour? And who are you, woman, to insult your mistress and the gentleman who saved you from the knives of the savages? Go back to the fort."
Maggie Stone saw that she had made a serious mistake,—a mistake which, perhaps, would alienate the lady's affection for ever. She turned, a pitiable figure, and made to descend the steep ladder which stood close to the starboard side of the ship, and led to the waist. Her foot caught in a loop of rope that had not been properly stopped up to its belaying-pin. She lurched against the line that ran from the break of the poop to the bulwarks below, made a blind effort to right herself, and pitched over into the shadowed water below. She did not even scream.
Kingswell dropped his sweetheart's hands, ran to the side and jumped after the foolish old woman. By that time the twilight had left the river. The current carried him swiftly down-stream, close under the side of the ship. The water was uncomfortably cold, and his thick clothes dragged at his limbs. He cleared his hair from his eyes. A disturbance appeared on the surface of the stream a few yards ahead. With a quick stroke or two, he reached it, and caught Maggie Stone by a thin shoulder. She struggled desperately, mad with fright. Both were pulled over the gunwale of the Pelican not a moment too soon.
CHAPTER XXXI. WHILE THE SPARS ARE SCRAPED
It is difficult to imagine the feelings of the skippers and crews of the good ship Plover and Mary and Joyce, when the gray light of dawn disclosed the fact that the Heart of the West had vanished completely. What a rubbing of eyes must have taken place! What a dropping of whiskered jaws and ripping of sea oaths!