So Kingswell decided that, if this should prove the real setting-in of winter, and if no objections were raised by any of the pioneers, he would share the colony's fortunes until the following spring. D'Antons expressed himself as charmed with the decision; but, for all that, Kingswell saw, by deeper and finer signs than most people would credit him with the ability to read, that his presence was really far from agreeable to the French adventurer.
When night closed about the little settlement, the snow was still falling, and ground and roofs shone with bleak radiance through the veil of darkness. The flakes of the storm were small and dry, and unstirred by any wind. They wove a curtain of silence over the unprotesting wilderness.
Kingswell and Ouenwa supped with the Westleighs. But before the meal, and before Mistress Beatrix appeared from her little chamber, the two gentlemen had an hour of private conversation.
"This Captain d'Antons—what of him?" inquired Kingswell.
"He is none of our choosing," replied the baronet. "Several years ago, before I had quite given up the old life and the old show, I met him in London. He was reported rich. He had sailed many voyages to the West Indies, and talked of lands granted to him in New France. I had sold Beverly, and Beatrix was with me in town. She was little more than a child, but her looks attracted a deal of attention. She had nothing else, as all the town knew, with her father a ruined gamester, and her dead mother's property gone, with Randon Hall and Beverly! Dear God, but here was a dower for a beautiful lass! Well, the poets made a song or two, and three old men were for paying titles and places for her little hand—and then the end came. We won back to Somerset, spur and whip, lashed along by fear. We hid about, in this cottage and that, while my trusted friend Trigget provisioned his little craft and got together all the folk whom you see here, save D'Antons. After a rough and tiring voyage of three weeks' duration, and just when we were looking out for land, we were met by a French frigate, and forced to haul our wind. A boat-load of armed men left the pirate—yes, that's what she was, a damn pirate—and there was Captain d'Antons seated in the stern-sheets of her, beside the mate. He had not been as long at sea as we had, and he knew all about my trouble, curse him! He left the frigate, which he said was bound on a peaceful voyage of discovery to the West Indies, and joined our expedition. I could not forbid it. I was at his mercy, with his cutthroats alongside and the gallows at the back of it. He has hung to us ever since; and he has acted civil enough, damn him. If he'd show his hoof now and again, I'd like it better—for then we would all be on our guard."
"But why does he stay? Why does he live in this place when he might be reaping the harvests common to such husbandmen?" inquired Kingswell. "Has he a stake in the colony?"
The baronet gazed reflectively at the young man. "The fellow has kept my secret, and shared our rough lot and dreary exile, and even expended some money on provisions," he replied, deliberately, "for no other reason than that he is in love with my daughter."
"He! A buccaneer!" exclaimed Kingswell, warmly.
"Even so," answered the baronet. "There, on the high seas, when he had us all in his clutch, when he might have seized by force that for which he now sues, he accepted my word of honour—mark you, he accepted what I had scarce the face to offer—that I would not withstand his suit, nor allow my men to do him any treasonable hurt so long as he kept my hiding-place secret and behaved like a gentleman."