CHAPTER NINETEEN.
SORROW AND SYMPATHY--THE WIDOW BECOMES A PLEADER, AND HER SON ENGAGES INA SINGLE COMBAT.
There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable tobear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it;--times whenthe anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seemsenshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine inmockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.
Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return toSandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home,gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well asits position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied byhis lost child.
It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for thepeople of the settlement sympathised so deeply with their belovedpastor's grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed,except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away onthe night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They toldthat there were other mourners there that night--that the recent battlehad not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits ofwar. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut inSandy Cove.
Motionless--hopeless--the missionary stood amid the charred beams andashes, until the words "Call upon me in the day of trouble and I willdeliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me," descended on his soul likesunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, fallingon his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.
While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of thehuts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail.Mr Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significanceto him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, "There is comfort for _you_,for where life is there is hope; but here there is _death_."
Again the word of God came to his memory, "Weep with them that weep."Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, andhurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater partof the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and thewounded.
The cause of the pastor's grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrowitself was lightened by sympathy, and when he returned at a late hour tohis temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.
The widow's cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it Harry andhis mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread fortheir expected guest.
"Tom Armstrong will recover," said the missionary, seating himselfopposite the widow and speaking in a hurried excited tone. "His woundis a bad one given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. Iwish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended tosooner he might have lived, but so much blood has been already lost thatthere is now no hope. Alas! for his little boy. He will be an orphansoon. Poor Harry's wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband'sbody is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to lookupon, yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease toembrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will haveto be comforted. At present she must be left with God. No humansympathy can avail just now, but she must be comforted when she willpermit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, MrsStuart, won't you?"
As this was Mr Mason's first meeting with the widow since the Sundaymorning when the village was attacked, his words and manner shewed thathe dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understoodthis, but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and wouldnot allow him to have his way.
"But what of Alice?" she said, earnestly. "You do not mention her.Henry has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself--aboutAlice?"
"Oh! what can I say?" cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deepsob almost choked him.
"Can you not say that she is in the hands of God--of a loving _Father_?"said Mrs Stuart, tenderly.
"Yes, yes, I can say that--I--have said that, but--but--"
"I know what you would say," interrupted the widow, "you would tell methat she is in the hands of pirates, ruthless villains who fear neitherGod nor man, and that, unless a miracle is wrought in her behalf,nothing can save her--"
"Oh! spare me, Mary; why do you harrow my broken heart with such apicture?" cried Mr Mason, rising and pacing the room with quickunsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attemptto crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.
"I speak thus," said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and mannerthat almost startled her hearers, "because I wish to comfort you.Alice, you tell me, is on board the _Foam_--"
"On board the _pirate schooner_!" cried Henry almost fiercely, for theyouth, although as much distressed as Mr Mason, was not so resigned ashe, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived soterribly by the pirate.
"She is on board the _Foam_," repeated the widow in a tone so stern thather hearers looked at her in surprise. "And is therefore in the handsof Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, MrMason, that she is _perfectly safe_ in the hands of Gascoyne."
"Of the pirate Durward!" said Henry, in a deep angry voice.
"What ground have you for saying so?" asked the widow, quickly. "Youonly know him as Gascoyne the sandal-wood trader, the captain of the_Foam_. He has been suspected, it is true, but suspicion is not proof.His schooner has been fired into by a war vessel, he has returned thefire--any passionate man might be tempted to do that. His men havecarried off some of our dear ones. That was _their_ doing--not his. Heknew nothing of it."
"Mother, mother," cried Henry, entreatingly, "don't stand up in that wayfor a pirate; I can't bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe thepirate schooner's appearance in this room, and when he was attacked bythe _Talisman_ did he not shew out in his true colours, thereby provingthat he is Durward the pirate?"
The widow's face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, likeone who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, "That is not_positive_ proof, Henry. Gascoyne may have had some good reason fordeceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may havebeen a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to preventCaptain Montague from impressing his men."
"And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishingthat end, mother?"
"Mary," said Mr Mason solemnly, as he seated himself at the table andlooked earnestly in the widow's face. "Your knowledge of this man andyour manner of speaking about him surprises me. I have long thoughtthat you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be sointimate; for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspiciouscharacter, to say the best of him; and although _I_ know that you thinkyou are right in encouraging his visits, other people do not know that;they may judge you harshly. I do not wish to pry into secrets--but youhave sought to comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in thisman. I _must_ ask what knowledge you have of him. How far are youaware of his character and employment? How do you know that he is sotrustworthy?"
An expression of deep grief rested on the widow's countenance as shereplied in a sad voice--"I _know_ that you may trust Gascoyne with yourchild. He is my oldest friend. I have known him since we werechildren. He saved my father's life long, long ago, and helped tosupport my mother in her last years. Would you have me to forget allthis because men say that he is a pirate?"
"Why, mother," cried Henry, "if you know so much about him you _must_know that, whatever he was in time past, he is the pirate Durward now."
"I do _not_ know that he is the pirate Durward!" said the widow in avoice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorelyperplexed--yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would ratherdie than tell a deliberate falsehood.
The missionary was also comforted, for although his judgment told himthat the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, hewas impressed by the thoro
ughly confident tone of the widow and feltrelieved in spite of himself.
Soon after this conversation was concluded the household retired torest.
Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound ofsubdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid noattention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some oftheir native servants were moving about.
But presently the sound of his mother's voice induced him to listen moreattentively. Then a voice replied, so low that he could with difficultyhear it at all. Its strength increased, however, and at last it brokeforth in deep bass tones.
Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged thefront door of the house opened; and the speakers went out. A fewseconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing; then, seizing apistol, he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round he justcaught sight of the skirts of a woman's dress as they disappearedthrough the doorway of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poornative who had subsisted on the widow's bounty until he died. The doorwas shut immediately after.
Going swiftly but cautiously round by a back way, Henry approached thehut. Strange and conflicting feelings filled his breast. A blush ofdeep shame and self-abhorrence mantled on his cheek when it flashedacross him that he was about to play the spy on his own mother. Butthere was no mistaking Gascoyne's voice.
How the supposed pirate had got there, and wherefore he was there, werematters that he did not think of or care about at that moment. There hewas, so the young man resolved to secure him and hand him over tojustices.
Henry was too honourable to listen secretly to a conversation, whateverit might be, that was not intended for his ears. He resolved merely topeep in at one of the many chinks in the log hut for one moment tosatisfy himself that Gascoyne really was there, and to observe hisposition. But as the latter now thought himself beyond the hearing ofany one, he spoke in unguarded tones, and Henry heard a few words inspite of himself.
Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld thestalwart form of the sandalwood trader standing on the hearth of thehut, which was almost unfurnished--a stool, a bench, an old chest, atable, and a chair, being all that it contained. His mother was seatedat the table with her hands clasped before her, looking up at hercompanion.
"Oh! why run so great a risk as this?" said she, earnestly.
"I was born to run risks, I believe," replied Gascoyne, in a sad lowvoice. "It matters not. My being on the island is the result ofManton's villainy--my being here is for poor Henry's sake and your own,as well as for the sake of Alice the missionary's child. You have beenupright, Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you. Butfor that I should have been lost long ago--"
Henry heard no more. These words did indeed whet his curiosity to theutmost, but the shame of acting the part of an "eavesdropper" was sogreat that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back and pondered for amoment what he ought to do. The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne'sremark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofsthat he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heartagainst him. He argued that the mere fact of the man giving his mothercredit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was notsufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised againsthimself. Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother hisopinion of her to her face. And to call him "poor Henry," forsooth!This was not to be endured!
Having thus wrought himself up to a sufficient degree of indignation,the young man went straight to the door, making considerable noise inorder to prepare those within for his advent. He had expected to findit locked. In this he was mistaken. It yielded to a push.
Throwing it wide open, Henry strode into the middle of the apartment,and, pointing the pistol at Gascoyne's breast, exclaimed--"PirateDurward, I arrest you in the king's name!" At the first sound of herson's approach, Mrs Stuart bent forward over the table with a groan,buried her face in her hands.
Gascoyne received Henry's speech at first with a frown and then with asmile.
"You have taken a strange time and way to jest, Henry," said he,crossing his arms on his broad chest and gazing fixedly in the youth'sface.
"You will not throe me off my guard thus," said Henry, sternly. "Youare my prisoner. I know you to be a pirate. At any rate you will haveto prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a freeman. Mother, leave this place that I may lock the door upon him."
The widow did not move, but Gascoyne made a step towards her son.
"Another step and I will fire. Your blood shall be on your own head,Gascoyne."
As Gascoyne still advanced, Henry pointed the pistol straight at hisbreast and pulled the trigger, but no report followed--the priming,indeed, flashed in the pan but that was all!
With a cry of rage and defiance, Henry leaped upon Gascoyne like a younglion. He struck at him with the pistol, but the latter caught theweapon in his powerful hand, wrenched it from the youth's grasp andflung it to the other end of the apartment.
"You shall not escape me," cried Henry; aiming a tremendous blow withhis fist at Gascoyne's face. It was parried, and the next moment thetwo closed in a deadly struggle.
It was a terrible sight for the widow to witness, these two Herculeanmen exerting their great strength to the utmost in a hand-to-handconflict in that small hut like two tigers in a cage.
Henry, although nearly six feet in height, and proportionally broad andpowerful, was much inferior to his gigantic antagonist; but to thesuperior size and physical force of the latter he opposed the litheactivity and the fervid energy of youth, so that to an unpractised eyeit might have seemed doubtful at first which of the two men had the bestchance.
Straining his powers to the utmost, Henry attempted to lift his opponentoff the ground and throw him. In this he was nearly successful.Gascoyne staggered, but recovered himself instantly. They did not movemuch from the centre of the room, nor was there much noise createdduring the conflict. It seemed too close--too full of concentratedenergy--of heavy, prolonged straining--for much violent motion. Thegreat veins in Gascoyne's forehead stood out like knotted cords; yetthere was no scowl or frown on his face. Henry's brows, on thecontrary, were gathered into a dark frown. His teeth were set, and hiscountenance flushed to deep red by exertion and passion.
Strange to say, the widow made no effort to separate the combatants;neither did she attempt to move from her seat or give any alarm. Shesat with her hands on the table clasped tightly together, gazingeagerly, anxiously, like a fascinated creature, at the wild strugglethat was going on before her.
Again and again Henry attempted, with all the fire of youth, to throwhis adversary by one tremendous effort, but failed. Then he tried tofling him off, so as to have the power of using his fists or making anoverwhelming rush. But Gascoyne held him in his strong arms like avice. Several times he freed his right arm and attempted to plant ablow, but Gascoyne caught the blow in his hand, or seized the wrist andprevented its being delivered. In short, do what he would, Henry Stuartcould neither free himself from the embrace of his enemy nor conquerhim. Still he struggled on, for as this fact became more apparent theyouth's blood became hotter from mingled shame and anger.
Both men soon began to shew symptoms of fatigue. It was not in thenature of things that two such frames, animated by such spirits, couldprolong so exhausting a struggle. It was not doubtful now which of thetwo would come off victorious. During the whole course of the fightGascoyne had acted entirely on, the defensive. A small knife orstiletto hung at his left side, but he never attempted to use it, and henever once tried to throw his adversary. In fact it now became evident,even to the widow's perceptions, that the captain was actually playingwith her son.
All along, his countenance, though flushed and eager, exhibited no signof passion. He seemed to act like a good-humoured man who had beenfoolishly assaulted by a headstrong boy, and who meant to keep him in
play until he should tire him out.
Just then the tinkling of a bell and other sounds of the people of theestablishment beginning to move about were heard outside. Henry noticedthis.
"Hah!" he exclaimed, in a gasping voice, "I can at least hold you untilhelp comes."
Gascoyne heard the sounds also. He said nothing, but he brought thestrife to a swift termination. For the first time he bent his back likea man who exerts himself in earnest and lifted Henry completely off theground. Throwing him on his back, he pressed him down with both arms soas to break from his grasp. No human muscles could resist the forceapplied. Slowly but surely the iron sinews of Henry's arms straightenedout, and the two were soon at arm's length.
But even Gascoyne's strength could not unclasp the grip of the youth'shands, until he placed his knee upon his chest; then, indeed, they weretorn away.
Of course, all this was not done without some violence, but it was stillplain to the widow that Gascoyne was careful not to hurt his antagonistmore than he could help.
"Now, Henry, my lad," said he, holding the youth down by the two arms,"I have given you a good deal of trouble this morning, and I mean togive you a little more. It does not just suit me at present to be triedfor a pirate, so I mean to give you a race. You are reputed one of thebest runners in the settlement. Well, I'll give you a chance after me.If you overtake me, boy, I'll give myself up to you without a struggle.But I suspect you'll find me rather hard to catch!"
As he uttered the last words he permitted Henry to rise. Ere the youthhad quite gained his footing, he gave him a violent push and sent himstaggering back against the wall. When Henry recovered his balance,Gascoyne was standing in the open doorway.
"Now, lad, are you ready?" said he, a sort of wild smile lighting up hisface.
Henry was so taken aback by this conduct, as well as by the roughhandling which he had just received, that he could not collect histhoughts for a few seconds; but when Gascoyne nodded gravely to hismother and walked quietly away, saying, "Goodbye, Mary," the exasperatedyouth darted through the doorway like an arrow.
If Henry Stuart's rush may be compared to the flight of an arrow from abow, not less appropriately may Gascoyne's bound be likened to the leapof the bolt from a cross-bow. The two men sprang over the low fencesthat surrounded the cottage, leapt the rivulet that brawled down itssteep course behind it, and coursed up the hill like mountain hares.
The last that widow Stuart saw of them, as she gazed eagerly from thedoorway of the hut, was, when Gascoyne's figure was clearly definedagainst the sky as he leaped over a great chasm in the lava high up themountain side. Henry followed almost instantly, and then both werehidden from view in the chaos of rocks and gorges that rose above theupper line of vegetation.
It was a long and a severe chase that Henry had undertaken, and ably didhis fleet foot sustain the credit which he had already gained. ButGascoyne's foot was fleeter. Over every species of ground did thesandal-wood trader lead the youth that day. It seemed, in fact, as if aspirit of mischief had taken possession of Gascoyne, for his usuallygrave face was lighted up with a mingled expression of glee andferocity. It changed, too, and wore a sad expression, at times, evenwhen the man seemed to be running for his life.
At last, after running until he had caused Henry to shew symptoms offatigue, Gascoyne turned suddenly round, and, shouting "Good-bye, Henry,my lad!" went straight up the mountain and disappeared over the dividingridge on the summit.
Henry did not give in. The insult implied in the words renewed hisstrength. He tightened his belt as he ran, and rushed up the mountainalmost as fast as Gascoyne had done, but when he leaped upon the ridgethe fugitive had vanished!
That he had secreted himself in one of the many gorges or caves withwhich the place abounded was quite clear, but it was equally clear thatno one could track him out in such a place unless he were possessed of adog's nose. The youth did indeed attempt it, but, being convinced thathe was only searching for what could not by any possibility be found, hesoon gave it up and returned, disconsolate and crest-fallen, to thecottage.