The baronet's attitude toward Master Kingswell became more affectionate every day. He recognized the sterling qualities in the youth,—the honesty, courage, and loyalty, as well as the physical and mental gifts of quick eye and wrist and clear brain. He derived no little comfort from his presence in the fort. He felt that in this golden-haired son of the Bristol merchant-knight his daughter had a second guardian. He knew that the Kingswell blood, though not noble by the rating of the College of Heralds, was to be depended on as surely as any in England. In happier times he had known and enjoyed a certain amount of familiarity with the elder Kingswell, and had found the broad-minded merchant's heart as sound as his self-imported wines. He remembered the wife, too, as a person of distinction and kindliness.
For his own part, the baronet realized more surely, with the passing of each narrow day, that life offered no further allurement to him. The slight exhilaration that had followed the defiance and defeat of D'Antons was of no more lasting a quality than the flavour of a vintage. The Frenchman was harmless, poor devil, like the rest of them; and in as fair a way as himself to leave his bones in the wilderness. Yes, he felt a twinge of pity for him! He could understand that, to an adventurer like D'Antons, unrequited love was the very devil,—worse, perhaps, than the fever of the gaming-table. But of course he felt no regret for having put an end (as he believed) to the fellow's audacious suit. His regret—if, indeed, he entertained any concerning so recent an event in his career—was that he had not pricked the buccaneer's bubble of false power months before—despite the promise he had made him. But as things had turned out,—as Time had dealt the cards, to use his own words,—the other's behaviour had allowed him to strike without too flagrant a breach of his word of honour. He was thankful for that.
CHAPTER XIX. TWO OF A KIND
When Pierre d'Antons was able to move about again, he found himself shunned, without disguise, by every one of the inmates of the fort save Bernard Kingswell. The West Country sailors, no longer under orders to treat him with respect and obedience, simply grunted inaudibly and turned their backs when he addressed them. Of course, the door of Sir Ralph's habitation was closed against him. He spent almost all his time in his own cabin, with the captured and slowly convalescing Beothic for companion. He read a great deal, and thought more. Now and again, in a fit of chagrin, he would stamp about the room, cursing, crying out for a chance of revenge, with clinched hands uplifted. During such paroxysms, the Beothic would watch him closely, with understanding in his gaze. The savage was no linguist; but hate burns the same signals in eyes of every nationality.
D'Antons continued to suffer from his infatuation for Mistress Westleigh. The blow of the skillet had changed nothing of that. Whatever his passion lacked in the higher attributes of love, it lacked nothing in vitality. It was a madness. It was a bitter desire. How gladly he would risk death, fighting for her—and yet he would not have hesitated a moment about killing her happiness, to win his own, had an opportunity offered. Self-sacrifice, worshipful devotion, and tenderness were things apart from what he considered his love for the beautiful English girl.
In this state of mind he built a hundred wild dreams of carrying her away, and of ultimately imprisoning her, should she still be averse to his love, in a Southern stronghold. Then a realization of his position would come over him and set him stamping and raving. To Kingswell, despite the fire in his heart, he showed a contrite and friendly exterior. He wondered if he could not turn the young man to some use. He gave the matter his attention.
One evening D'Antons told a plaintive story to Kingswell. All through it the Englishman was itching to be gone; for he spent no more of his time than was absolutely necessary under the Frenchman's roof. But the narrator held him with a mournful eye. The tale was an alleged history of Pierre d'Antons' youth. It dealt with a great family that had fallen upon lean years; with a ruinous château, a proud and studious father, and a saintly mother; with a boyhood of noble dreams and few pleasures; with a youth of hard and honourable soldiering wherever the banners of France led the way; and with an early manhood of high adventure and achievement in the Western colonies.