Meanwhile all was distress and confusion in the family of Sir Richard
Vines, who, indignant at the language of Richard Mather, and not
supposing his daughter in any immediate danger, had confronted her
accusers with a demand for the instant withdrawal of the offensive
words.
Mistress Vines had witnessed the attempt to arrest Hope, and was
hastening to her side when she beheld her running, as we have seen,
in the direction of the Pool. She now, with loud cries and frantic
gestures, joined her husband, and all descended the bank in search of
the lost child.
Following the side of the water, where the thick under-brush might
completely conceal a person beneath, they called Hope by every
expression of endearing tenderness, but no response came.
“She but hides herself, sweetheart; be comforted. She hides herself in
terror. She will soon be home.”
But his pale, anxious face gave the lie to his consoling words.
“Look here, dame--sweetheart, look! Here is a lock of her hair; we
shall soon find her.” And in his sudden sense of relief, he threw the
tress over the neck of John Bonyton. He continued, to the latter:
“Make ready for thy voyage, lad. All will be well. They dare not lay a
finger upon her precious head. I will defend her with all the power of
the colony, and call in the Indians if need be. Hope has not the heart
to say good-by. The dear lamb is terrified, and sick at heart. I will
avenge the indignity put upon us by these hypocrites! In faith, I will,
and we will all meet in England, dear John, and forget this day.”
Thus did the stout man strive to ease his own heart, and stifle back
its terrible misgivings.
The little ship, of scarcely two hundred tons, rocked in the offing,
and the not unmusical “Yo-heave-oh!” of the sailors, as they weighed
the anchor, and shook out the sails, admonished young Bonyton that it
was time for him to go on shipboard. The youth still lingered, and cast
many a wistful look at the high rocks and dense forests, in the vain
expectation of seeing Hope make her appearance.
“My mind misgives me that all is not well with Hope,” he whispered in
the ear of Sir Richard.
“Nay, my son, she has been frightened; she hides herself rather than
say farewell. Do not heed it. I will write thee that all is well by the
next ship. I would have thee away from this people, also,” he added, in
a lower tone.
The youth hardly noticed this kindly outbreak, which, at another time,
would have awakened affectionate gratitude, but he still lingered and
looked. He took the cap from his head, and shaded his eyes therewith.
The fine, freshening breeze lifted the curls from his brow, and showed
its whiteness; but now it was too pale, and contracted sharply, making
a heavy dent between the eyes.
The white sails were set, the anchor weighed, the wherry grated upon
the sand, and impatient voices urged him to embark; and yet John
Bonyton lingered. His foot was on the gunwale of the boat; the sailors
lifted their oars, when suddenly he started back, waved his hand for
them to go, and exclaimed:
“No, by heavens! I will not leave, uncertain of her fate!”
There were adjurations and remonstrances innumerable. The vessel
waited; Sir Richard implored; it was in vain.
“I will not go--stand off!” he at length cried, pushing the people
aside right and left, and making his way with long strides to the Vines
mansion.
Mistress Vines, in a burst of maternal tenderness, threw her arms about
his neck.
“Oh, my son! my beautiful boy! where is Hope? Where is Hope?” she cried.
The young man lifted her arms from his neck, and looked fiercely round.
“Have you hidden her away from me? Tell me truly. Let no one dare
deceive me.”
At this moment his sister Nancy appeared, and going up to him, said:
“I’m ashamed of you, John Bonyton, I am.”
The youth glanced at her. It was evident he was nearly beside himself.
He seized her by the arm, and shook her long, thin hands.
“I have heard your talk. I have heard you tell of the ‘witch test,’ on
the shoulder of Hope. Go to; if a hair of her head is injured, woe to
you and such as you!”
And he pushed her from the door.
In the mean time the vessel departed; the alarm for Hope spread; the
whole village was in arms, and people went here and there in wild
conjectures. Whatever might have been the feelings of Mistress Bonyton,
it was observed that she did not leave her high-backed, flag-bottomed
chair, but, with a handkerchief thrown over her head, leaned back, and
ever and anon she was heard to croon, in a quavering voice and dismal
tone:
“My heart is like a wilderness;
There the wild raven finds her nest,
And there the screeching owl.”
The door opened, and Dr. Mather and Mr. Partridge entered, and seated
themselves beside her. Gradually the room filled with the people of
the settlement, who regarded Mistress Bonyton as at the head of the
movement against Hope Vines.
While all conversed in a suppressed tone, Dr. Mather inquired as to
the habits of Hope and the probabilities of her whereabouts.
While thus engaged, John Bonyton stalked into the room, and stood in
the midst, eying the group with a stern glance. Through his clenched
teeth he addressed the two learned men, who so confidentially talked
with his mother.
“And so ye come a hundred miles or more to persecute a simple child--a
poor girl who has provoked the ire of these fiends in human shape!”
“Beware, young man, that you do not bring trouble upon yourself by this
intemperate speech,” answered Mather, with compressed lips.
“Oh! I understand your tiger thirst for blood.”
He strode across the room, and laying his hand upon his mother’s
shoulder, demanded, thus:
“Tell me where she is, mother. You and these men know; tell me where
you have hidden her. Oh, mother! mother! bring not my blood upon your
shoulders by concealing her from me, for, as true as there is a God in
heaven, if these men, these bloodthirsty hypocrites, whom you, you,
mother, have brought here to ruin Hope, harm a hair of her head, I will
visit my wrath upon them in a way that shall cause the stoutest heart
to faint. Speak, mother, speak, and tell me the worst.”
The mother could not resist this appeal. She sprung forward and fainted
in his arms.
There were ejaculations of pity, and cries of shame, and the ordinary
tumult sure to ensue when a woman faints, in the midst of all which
John Bonyton stood with folded arms. It was sad to see the work of a
few hours upon the face of the handsome youth; it had hardened into
that inexorable expression which time gives to those who have greatly
endured.
“Once more I ask, know you aught of Hope Vines? Speak but one word,
mother!”
“I know not where she is, John. For thy sake, I wish it were otherwise.”
Again John Bonyton went forth, and the people turned aside reverently
to let him pass, for they saw the great grief upon him. And now he
wandered along the pool, for many surmised that the poor child, in her
terror, might have perished there.
Thus days and nights passed away, and the unhappy youth traversed the
forest, and searched the sea; but found no more traces of Hope Vines.