“I melt, and am not of stronger earth than others.”
_Coriolanus_
The females received their visiter with a restraint which will be
easily understood when the subject of their recent conversation is
recollected. The sinking of Gertrude’s form was deep and hurried, but
her governess maintained the coldness of her air with greater
self-composure. Still, there was a gleaming of powerful anxiety in the
watchful glance that she threw towards her guest, as though she would
divine the motive of the visit by the wanderings of his changeful eye,
even before his lips had parted in the customary salute.
The countenance of the Rover himself was thoughtful to gravity. He
bowed as he came within the influence of the lamp, and his voice was
heard muttering some low and hasty syllables, that conveyed no meaning
to the ears of his listeners. Indeed, so great was the abstraction in
which he was lost, that he had evidently prepared to throw his person
on the vacant divan, without explanation or apology, like one who took
possession of his own; though recollection returned just in time to
prevent this breach of decorum. Smiling, and repeating his bow, with a
still deeper inclination, he advanced with perfect self-possession to
the table, where he expressed his fears that Mrs Wyllys might deem his
visit unseasonable or perhaps not announced with sufficient ceremony.
During this short introduction his voice was bland as woman’s, and his
mien courteous, as though he actually felt himself an intruder in the
cabin of a vessel in which he was literally a monarch.
“But, unseasonable as is the hour,” he continued, “I should have gone
to my cott with a consciousness of not having discharged all the duties
of an attentive and considerate host, had I forgotten to reassure you
of the tranquillity of the ship, after the scene you have this day
witnessed. I have pleasure in saying, that the humour of my people is
already expended, and that lambs, in their nightly folds, are not more
placid than they are at this minute in their hammocks.”
“The authority that so promptly quelled the disturbance is happily ever
present to protect us,” returned the cautious governess; “we repose
entirely on your discretion and generosity.”
“You have not misplaced your confidence. From the danger of mutiny, at
least, you are exempt.”
“And from all others, I trust.”
“This is a wild and fickle element we dwell on,” he answered, while he
bowed an acknowledgment for the politeness, and took the seat to which
the other invited him by a motion of the hand; “but you know its
character, and need not be told that we seamen are seldom certain of
any of our movements I loosened the cords of discipline myself to-day,”
he added, after a moment’s pause, “and in some measure invited the
broil that followed: But it is passed, like the hurricane and the
squall; and the ocean is not now smoother than the tempers of my
knaves.”
“I have often witnessed these rude sports in vessels of the King; but I
do not remember to have known any more serious result than the
settlement of some ancient quarrel, or some odd freak of nautical
humour, which has commonly proved as harmless as it has been quaint.”
“Ay; but the ship which often runs the hazards of the shoals gets
wrecked at last,” muttered the Rover “I rarely give the quarter-deck up
to the people, without keeping a vigilant watch on their humours;
but—to-day”——
“You were speaking of to-day.”
“Neptune, with his coarse devices, is no stranger to you, Madam.”
“I have seen the God in times past.”
“’Twas thus I understood it;—under the line?”
“And elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere!” repeated the other, in a tone of disappointment. “Ay, the
sturdy despot is to be found in every sea; and hundreds of ships, and
ships of size too, are to be seen scorching in the calms of the
equator. It was idle to give the subject a second thought.”
“You have been pleased to observe something that has escaped my ear.”
The Rover started; for he had rather muttered than spoken the preceding
sentence aloud. Casting a swift and searching glance around him, as it
might be to assure himself that no impertinent listener had found means
to pry into the mysteries of a mind he seldom saw fit to lay open to
the free examination of his associates, he regained his self-possession
on the instant, and resumed the discourse with a manner as undisturbed
as if it had received no interruption.
“Yes, I had forgotten that your sex is often as timorous as it is
fair,” he added, with a smile so insinuating and gentle, that the
governess cast an involuntary and uneasy glance towards her charge, “or
I might have been earlier with my assurance of safety.”
“It is welcome even now.”
“And your young and gentle friend,” he continued, bowing openly to
Gertrude, though he still addressed his words to the governess; “her
slumbers will not be the heavier for what has passed.”
“The innocent seldom find an uneasy pillow.”
“There is a holy and unsearchable mystery in that truth: The innocent
pillow their heads in quiet! Would to God the guilty might find some
refuge, too, against the sting of thought! But we live in a world, and
a time, when men cannot be sure even of themselves.”
He then paused, and looked about him, with a smile so haggard, that the
anxious governess unconsciously drew nigher to her pupil, like one who
sought, and was willing to yield, protection against the uncertain
designs of a maniac. Her visiter, however, remained in a silence so
long and deep, that she felt the necessity of removing the awkward
embarrassment of their situation, by speaking herself.
“Do you find Mr Wilder as much inclined to mercy as yourself?” she
asked. “There would be merit in his forbearance, since he appeared to
be the particular object of the anger of the mutineers.”
“And yet you saw he was not without his friends. You witnessed the
devotion of the men who stood forth in his behalf?”
“I did: and find it remarkable that he should have been able, in so
short a time, to conquer thus completely two so stubborn natures.”
“Four-and-twenty years make not an acquaintance of a day!”
“And does their friendship bear so old a date?”
“I have heard that time counted between them. It is very certain the
youth is bound to those uncouth companions of his by some extraordinary
tie. Perhaps this is not the first of their services.”
Mrs Wyllys looked grieved. Although prepared to believe that Wilder was
a secret agent of the Rover, she had endeavoured to hope his connexion
with the freebooters was susceptible of some explanation more
favourable to his character. However he might be implicated in the
common guilt of those who pursued the hazards of the reckless fortunes
of that proscribed ship, it was evident he bore a heart too generous to
wish to see her, and her young and guileless charge, the victims of the
licentiousness of his associates. His repeated and mysterious warnings
no longer needed explanation. Indeed, all that had been dark and
inexplicable, both in the previous and unaccountable glimmerings of her
own mind, and in the extraordinary conduct of the inmates of the ship,
was at each instant becoming capable of solution. She now remembered,
in the person and countenance of the Rover, the form and features of
the individual who had spoken the passing Bristol trader, from the
rigging of the slaver—a form which had unaccountably haunted her
imagination, during her residence in his ship, like an image recalled
from some dim and distant period. Then she saw at once the difficulty
that Wilder might prove in laying open a secret in which not only his
life was involved, but which, to a mind that was not hardened in vice,
involved a penalty not less severe—that of the loss of their esteem. In
short, a good deal of that which the reader has found no difficulty in
comprehending was also becoming clear to the faculties of the governess
though much still remained obscured in doubts, that she could neither
solve nor yet entirely banish from her thoughts. On all these several
points she had leisure to cast a rapid glance; for her guest, or host,
whichever he might be called, seemed in nowise disposed to interrupt
her short and melancholy reverie.
“It is wonderful,” Mrs Wyllys at length resumed, “that beings so
uncouth should be influenced by the same attachments as those which
unite the educated and the refined.”
“It is wonderful, as you say,” returned the other like one awakening
from a dream. “I would give a thousand of the brightest guineas that
ever came from the mint of George II. to know the private history of
that youth.”
“Is he then a stranger to you?” demanded Gertrude with the quickness of
thought.
The Rover turned an eye on her, that was vacant for the moment, but
into which consciousness and expression began to steal as he gazed,
until the foot of the governess was visibly trembling with the nervous
excitement that pervaded her entire frame.
“Who shall pretend to know the heart of man!” he answered, again
inclining his head as it might be in acknowledgment of her perfect
right to far deeper homage. “All are strangers, till we can read their
most secret thoughts.”
“To pry into the mysteries of the human mind, is a privilege which few
possess,” coldly remarked the governess. “The world must be often
tried, and thoroughly known, before we may pretend to judge of the
motives of any around us.”
“And yet it is a pleasant world to those who have the heart to make it
merry,” cried the Rover, with one of those startling transitions which
marked his manner. “To him who is stout enough to follow the bent of
his humour, all is easy. Do you know, that the true secret of the
philosopher is not in living for ever, but in living while you may. He
who dies at fifty, after a fill of pleasure, has had more of life than
he who drags his feet through a century, bearing the burden of the
world’s caprices, and afraid to speak above his breath, lest, forsooth,
his neighbour should find that his words were evil.”
“And yet are there some who find their pleasure in pursuing the
practices of virtue.”
“’Tis lovely in your sex to say it,” he answered with an air that the
sensitive governess fancied was gleaming with the growing
licentiousness of a free booter. She would now gladly have, dismissed
her visiter; but a certain flashing of the eye, and a manner that was
becoming gay by a species of unnatural effort, admonished her of the
danger of offending one who acknowledged no law but his own will.
Assuming a tone and a manner that were kind, while they upheld the
dignity of her sex, and pointing to sundry instruments of music that
formed part of the heterogeneous furniture of the cabin, she adroitly
turned the discourse, by saying,—
“One whose mind can be softened by harmony and whose feelings are so
evidently alive to the in fluence of sweet sounds, should not decry the
pleasures of virtue. This flute, and yon guitar, both call you master.”
“And, because of these flimsy evidences about my person, you are
willing to give me credit for the accomplishments you mention! Here is
another mistake of miserable mortality! Seeming is the everyday robe of
honesty. Why not give me credit for kneeling, morning and night, before
yon glittering bauble?” he added, pointing to the diamond crucifix
which hung, as usual, near the door of his own apartment.
“I hope, at least, that the Being, whose memory is intended to be
revived by that image, is not without your homage. In the pride of his
strength and prosperity, man may think lightly of the consolations that
can flow from a power superior to humanity: but those who have oftenest
proved their value feel deepest the reverence which is their due.”
The look of the governess had been averted from her companion; but,
filled with the profound sentiment she uttered, her mild reflecting eye
turned to him again, as, in a tone that was subdued, in respect for the
mighty Being whose attributes filled her mind, she uttered the above
simple sentiment. The gaze she met was earnest and thoughtful as her
own. Lifting a finger he laid it on her arm, with a motion so light as
to be scarcely perceptible, while he asked,—
“Think you we are to blame, if our temperaments incline more to evil
than power is given to resist?”
“It is only those who attempt to walk the path of life alone that
stumble. I shall not offend your manhood if I ask, do you never commune
with your God?”
“It is long since that name has been heard in this vessel, Lady, except
to aid in that miserable scoffing and profanity which simpler language
made too dull, But what is He, that unknown Deity, more than what man,
in his ingenuity, has seen fit to make him?”
“‘The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God,’” she answered, in
a voice so firm, that it startled even the ears of one so long
accustomed to the turbulence and grandeur of his wild profession.
“‘Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and
answer thou me. Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the
earth? Declare if thou hast understanding.’”
The Rover gazed long and silently on the flushed countenance of the
speaker. Bending his face in an unconscious manner aside, he said
aloud, evidently rather giving utterance to his thoughts than pursuing
the discourse,—
“Now, is there nothing more in this than what I have often heard, and
yet does it come over my feelings with the freshness of native air!”
Then rising, he approached his mild and dignified companion, adding, in
tones but little above a whisper, “Lady repeat those words; change not
a syllable, nor vary the slightest intonation of the voice, I pray
thee.”
Though amazed, and secretly alarmed at the request, Mrs Wyllys
complied; delivering the holy language of the inspired writers with a
fervour that found its support in the strength of her own emotions. Her
auditor listened like a being enthralled. For near a minute, neither
eye nor attitude was changed, but he stood at the feet of her who had
so simply and so powerfully asserted the majesty of God, as motionless
as the mast that rose behind him through the decks of that vessel which
he had so long devoted to the purposes of his lawless life. It was long
after her accents had ceased to fall on his ear, that he drew a deep
respiration, and once again opened his lips to speak.
“This is re-treading the path of life at a stride.” he said, suffering
his hand to fall upon that of his companion. “I know not why pulses,
which in common are like iron, beat so wildly and irregularly now.
Lady, this little and feeble hand might check a temper that has so
often braved the power of”—
His words suddenly ceased; for, as his eye unconsciously followed his
hand, it rested on the still delicate, but no longer youthful, member
of the governess Drawing a sigh, like one who felt himself awakened
from an agreeable though complete illusion he turned away, leaving his
sentence unfinished.
“You would have music!” he recklessly exclaimed aloud. “Then music
shall be heard, though its symphony be rung upon a gong!”
As he spoke, the wayward and vacillating being we have been attempting
to describe struck the instrument he named three blows, so quick and
powerfully, as to drown all other sensations in the confusion produced
by the echoing din. Though deeply mortified that he had so quickly
escaped from the influence she had partially acquired, and secretly
displeased at the unceremonious manner in which he had seen fit to
announce his independence again, the governess was aware of the
necessity of concealing her sentiments.
“This is certainly not the harmony I invited,” she said, so soon as the
overwhelming sounds had ceased to fill the ship; “nor do I think it of
a quality to favour the slumbers of those who seek their rest.”
“Fear nothing for them. The seaman sleeps with his ear near the port
whence the cannon bellows, and awakes at the call of the boatswain’s
whistle. He is too deeply schooled in habit, to think he has heard more
than a note of the flute; stronger and fuller than common, if you will,
but still a sound that has no interest for him. Another tap would have
sounded the alarm of fire; but these three touches say no more than
music. It was the signal for the band. The night is still, and
favourable for their art, and we will listen to sweet sounds awhile.”
His words were scarcely uttered before the low chords of wind
instruments were heard without, where the men had probably stationed
themselves by some previous order of their Captain. The Rover smiled,
as if he exulted in this prompt proof of the sort of despotic or rather
magical power he wielded; and, throwing his form on the divan, he sat
listening to the sounds which followed.
The strains which now rose upon the night, and which spread themselves
soft and melodiously abroad upon the water, would in truth have done
credit to far more regular artists. The air was wild and melancholy and
perhaps it was the more in accordance with the present humour of the
man for whose ear it was created. Then, losing the former character the
whole power of the music was concentrated in softer and still gentler
sounds, as if the genius who had given birth to the melody had been
pouring out the feelings of his soul in pathos. The temper of the
Rover’s mind answered to the changing expression of the music; and,
when the strains were sweetest and most touching, he even bowed his
head like one who wept.
Though secretly under the influence of the harmony themselves, Mrs
Wyllys and her pupil could but gaze on the singularly constituted being
into whose hands their evil fortune had seen fit to cast them. The
former was filled with admiration at the fearful contrariety of those
passions which could reveal themselves, in the same individual, under
so very different and so dangerous forms; while the latter, judging
with the indulgence and sympathy of her years, was willing to believe
that a man whose emotions could be thus easily and kindly excited was
rather the victim of circumstances than the creator of his own luckless
fortune.
“There is Italy in those strains,” said the Rover, when the last chord
had died upon his ear; “sweet, indolent, luxurious, forgetful Italy! It
has never been your chance, Madam, to visit that land, so mighty in its
recollections, and so impotent in its actual condition?”
The governess made no reply; but, bowing her head, in turn, her
companions believed she was submitting also to the influence of the
music. At length, as though impelled by another changeful impulse, the
Rover advanced towards Gertrude, and, addressing her with a courtesy
that would have done credit to a very different scene, he said, in the
laboured language that characterised the politeness of the age,—
“One who in common speaks music should not have neglected the gifts of
nature. You sing?”
Had Gertrude possessed the power he affected to believe, her voice
would have denied its services at his call. Bending to his compliment,
she murmured her apologies in words that were barely audible. He
listened intently; but, without pressing a point that it was easy to
see was unwelcome, he turned away, gave the gong a light but startling
tap.
“Roderick,” he continued, when the gentle foot step of the lad was
heard upon the stairs that led into the cabin below, “do you sleep?”
The answer was slow and smothered; and, of course, in the negative.
“Apollo was not absent at the birth of Roderick, Madam. The lad can
raise such sounds as have been known to melt the stubborn feelings of a
seaman. Go, place yourself by the cabin door, good Roderick, and bid
the music run a low accompaniment to your words.”
The boy obeyed, stationing his slight form so much in shadow, that the
expression of his working countenance was not visible to those who sat
within the stronger light of the lamp. The instruments then commenced a
gentle symphony, which was soon ended; and twice had they begun the
air, but still no voice was heard to mingle in the harmony.
“Words, Roderick, words; we are but dull interpreters of the meaning of
yon flutes.”
Thus admonished of his duty, the boy began to sing in a full, rich
contralto voice, which betrayed a tremour, however, that evidently
formed no part of the air. His words, so far as they might be
distinguished, ran as follows:—
“The land was lying broad and fair
Behind the western sea;
And holy solitude was there,
And sweetest liberty.
The lingering sun, at ev’ning, hung
A glorious orb, divinely beaming
On silent lake and tree;
And ruddy light was o’er all streaming,
Mark, man! for thee;
O’er valley, lake, and tree!
And now a thousand maidens stray,
Or range the echoing groves;
While, flutt’ring near, on pinions gay,
Fan twice ten thousand loves,
In that soft clime, at even time,
Hope says”——
“Enough of this, Roderick,” impatiently interrupted his master. “There
is too much of the Corydon in that song for the humour of a manner.
Sing us of the sea and its pleasures, boy; and roll out the strains in
such a fashion as may suit a sailor’s fancy.”
The lad continued mute, perhaps in disinclination to the task, perhaps
from utter inability to comply.
“What, Roderick! does the muse desert thee? or is memory getting dull?
You see the child is wilful in his melody, and must sing of loves and
sunshine or he fails. Now touch us a stronger chord my men, and put
life into your cadences, while I troll a sea air for the honour of the
ship.”
The band took the humour of the moment from their master, (for surely
he well deserved the name), sounding a powerful and graceful symphony,
to prepare the listeners for the song of the Rover. Those treacherous
and beguiling tones which so often stole into his voice when, speaking,
did not mislead expectation as to its powers. It proved to be at the
same time rich, full, deep, and melodious. Favoured by these material
advantages, and aided by an exquisite ear, he rolled out the following
stanzas in a manner that was singularly divided between that of the
reveller and the man of sentiment. The words were probably original;
for they both smacked strongly of his own profession, and were not
entirely without a touch of the peculiar taste of the individual
All hands, unmoor! unmoor
Hark to the hoarse, but welcome sound,
Startling the seaman’s sweetest slumbers.
The groaning capstan’s labouring round,
The cheerful fife’s enliv’ning numbers;.
And ling’ring idlers join the brawl,
And merry ship-boys swell the call,
All hands, unmoor! unmoor!
The cry is, “A sail! a sail!”
Brace high each nerve to dare the fight,
And boldly steer to seek the foeman;
One secret prayer to aid the right,
And many a secret thought to woman
Now spread the flutt’ring canvas wide,
And dash the foaming sea aside;
The cry’s, “A sail! a sail!”
Three cheers for victory!
Hush’d be each plaint o’er fallen brave;
Still ev’ry sigh to messmate given;
The seaman’s tomb is in the wave;
The hero’s latest hope is heaven!
High lift the voice in revelry!
Gay raise the song, the shout, the glee;
Three cheers for victory!
So soon as he had ended this song, and without waiting to listen if any
words of compliment were to succeed an effort that might lay claim to
great excellence both in tones and execution, he arose; and, desiring
his guests to command the services of his band at pleasure, he wished
them “soft repose and pleasant dreams,” and then coolly descended into
the lower apartments, apparently for the night. Mrs Wyllys and
Gertrude, notwithstanding both had been amused, or rather seduced, by
the interest thrown around a manner that was so wayward, while it was
never gross, felt a sensation, as he disappeared, like that produced by
breathing a freer air, after having been too long compelled to respire
the pent atmosphere of a dungeon. The former regarded her pupil with
eyes in which open affection struggled with deep inward solicitude; but
neither spoke, since a slight movement near the door of the cabin
reminded them they were not alone.
“Would you have further music, Madam?” asked Roderick, in a smothered
voice, stealing timidly out of the shadow as he spoke; “I will sing you
to sleep if you will; but I am choaked when he bids me thus be merry
against my feelings.”
The brow of the governess had already contracted, and she was evidently
preparing herself to give a stern and repulsive answer; but, as the
plaintive tones, and shrinking, submissive form of the other, pleaded
strongly to her heart, the frown passed away, leaving in its place a
mild reproving look, like that which chastens the frown of maternal
concern.
“Roderick,” she said, “I thought we should have seen you no more
to-night!”
“You heard the gong. Although he can be so gay, and can raise such
thrilling sounds in his pleasanter moments, you have never yet listened
to him in anger.”
“And is his anger, then, so very fearful?”
“Perhaps to me it is more frightful than to others, but I find nothing
so terrible as a word of his, when his mind is moody.”
“He is then harsh to you?”
“Never.”
“You contradict yourself, Roderick. He is, and he is not. Have you not
said how terrible you find his moody language?”
“Yes; for I find it changed. Once he was never thoughtful, or out of
humour, but latterly he is not himself.”
Mrs Wyllys did not answer. The language of the boy was certainly much
more intelligible to herself than to her young and attentive, but
unsuspecting, companion; for, while she motioned to the lad to retire,
Gertrude manifested a desire to gratify the curious interest she felt
in the life and manners of the freebooter. The signal, however, was
authoritatively repeated, and the lad slowly, and quite evidently with
reluctance, withdrew.
The governess and her pupil then retired into their own state-room;
and, after devoting many minutes to those nightly offerings and
petitions which neither ever suffered any circumstances to cause them
to neglect, they slept in the consciousness of innocence and in the
hope of an all-powerful protection. Though the bell of the ship
regularly sounded the hours throughout the watches of the night,
scarcely another sound arose, during the darkness, to disturb the calm
which seemed to have settled equally on the ocean and all that floated
on its bosom.