"Yes," said Sir Ralph, harshly, "she is the daughter of a blackleg. She is the daughter of a criminal exile. She is the daughter of a broken gamester. Ay, Bernard, you do indeed look high,—you, the son of a humble merchant of Bristol."
Kingswell was dismayed for the moment. Then, with a hardy oath, he slapped his hand to his hip.
"Though she were the daughter of the devil himself," he began, and came to a lame stop. The baronet's smile passed unseen. It was a kindly smile, and yet a bitter one by the same tokens. Kingswell gave up all attempt at politic speech. He had his own feelings to express. "Your daughter, sir, is the best and the loveliest," he said, huskily. "Whatever your backslidings and misfortunes have been, they can reflect in no way on her sweetness, and wisdom, and virtue. But, sir, I do not mean to sit in judgment on any man, and last of all on the father of the most glorious woman in the world. I remember you in your strength,—the greatest man in the county and my father's noble friend. The world has taken a twirl since then, but you may be sure that, whatever betide, my heart is with you warmer than my worthy father's ever was."
CHAPTER XXIII. BETROTHED
That Bernard Kingswell had accepted the baronet's own estimation of his (the baronet's) character so frankly, in the heat of sentimental disclosure, did not trouble Sir Ralph by more than a pang or two. What else could he expect of even this true friend? He was a broken gamester and a criminal exile by all the signs and by the verdict of the law; but whether or not he was a blackleg was a matter of opinion and the exact definition of that word. He knew that Kingswell was well disposed toward him, and that he believed nothing vile or cowardly of him; but, best of all, he was sure that, in Kingswell's love, his daughter was fortunate beyond his hoping of the past two years. Should they get clear of the besieging natives and out of the wilderness, her future happiness, safety, and position would be assured. As Mistress Bernard Kingswell, she would live close to the colour and finer things of life again, gracing some fair house as a former Beatrix had done in other days—to wit, the great houses of Beverly and Randon. The mist blurred his eyes at that memory and dimmed his vision against the rough log walls around him.
Another thought came to the broken baronet, as he sat alone by the falling fire, after Kingswell's departure, and awaited his supper and the reappearance of his daughter. The thought was like a black shadow between his face and the comforting fir sticks—between his heart and the knowledge of a good man's love and protection for Beatrix. Knowing the girl as he did, he felt sure that she would never leave him, her exiled father, even at the call of a more compelling love; and, as a return to his own country meant prison or death to him, she would hold to the wilderness, thereby leaving the new-found happiness untouched. On the other hand, should death come to him soon, and in the wilderness,—by the arrows of the enemy, for choice,—his daughter's fetters would be filed for ever. He sank his face between his hands. The desire to live out one's time clings about a man's vitals against all reason. Even an exiled and broken gamester, stockaded in a nameless wilderness and hemmed in by savages, finds a certain zest in day and night and the winds of heaven. With nothing to live for—even with the scales decidedly the other way—Death still presents an uninviting face. It may be the inscrutable mask of him that fills with distrust the heart of the man who contemplates the Long Journey. In that inevitable yet mysterious figure, showing as no more than a shadow between the bed and the window, it is hard for the sinful mortal, no matter how repentant, to read clear the promise of eternal peace. What dark deed might not be perpetrated by the shrouded messenger between the death-bed and Paradise?
Sir Ralph bowed his head between his palms, and hid the commonplace, beautiful radiance of the hearth-fire from his eyes; and so, while he waited for his supper of stewed venison, he reasoned and planned for his daughter's future to the bitter end, seeing clearly that, should the chances of battle turn in favour of the little plantation, he must readjust his sentiments toward death. A man of lower breeding and commoner courage would have groaned in the travail of that thought, and cursed the alternative; but the baronet sat in silence until he heard his daughter at the door, and then stood up and hummed softly the opening bars of a Somerset hunting-song.
Beatrix tripped close to her father and raised her face to him. He bent and kissed her tenderly. For a little while they stood without speaking, hand in hand, on the great caribou skin before the hearth. Suddenly the girl pressed her cheek against his shoulder.