SORROW AND SYMPATHY--THE WIDOW BECOMES A PLEADER, AND HER SON ENGAGES IN
A SINGLE COMBAT.
There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable to
bear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it;--times when
the anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seems
enshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine in
mockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.
Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to
Sandy 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 as
its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by
his lost child.
It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the
people of the settlement sympathised so deeply with their beloved
pastor'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 on
the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told
that there were other mourners there that night--that the recent battle
had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of
war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in
Sandy Cove.
Motionless--hopeless--the missionary stood amid the charred beams and
ashes, until the words "Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will
deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me," descended on his soul like
sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling
on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.
While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the
huts 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 significance
to 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, and
hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part
of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the
wounded.
The cause of the pastor's grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow
itself was lightened by sympathy, and when he returned at a late hour to
his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.
The widow's cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it Harry and
his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for
their expected guest.
"Tom Armstrong will recover," said the missionary, seating himself
opposite the widow and speaking in a hurried excited tone. "His wound
is a bad one given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. I
wish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended to
sooner he might have lived, but so much blood has been already lost that
there is now no hope. Alas! for his little boy. He will be an orphan
soon. Poor Harry's wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband's
body is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to look
upon, yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease to
embrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will have
to be comforted. At present she must be left with God. No human
sympathy can avail just now, but she must be comforted when she will
permit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, Mrs
Stuart, won't you?"
As this was Mr Mason's first meeting with the widow since the Sunday
morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner shewed that
he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood
this, but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would
not 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--about
Alice?"
"Oh! what can I say?" cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep
sob 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 me
that she is in the hands of pirates, ruthless villains who fear neither
God 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 a
picture?" cried Mr Mason, rising and pacing the room with quick
unsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attempt
to crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.
"I speak thus," said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and manner
that 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 the
youth, although as much distressed as Mr Mason, was not so resigned as
he, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived so
terribly by the pirate.
"She is on board the _Foam_," repeated the widow in a tone so stern that
her hearers looked at her in surprise. "And is therefore in the hands
of Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, Mr
Mason, 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. "You
only 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 the
fire--any passionate man might be tempted to do that. His men have
carried off some of our dear ones. That was _their_ doing--not his. He
knew nothing of it."
"Mother, mother," cried Henry, entreatingly, "don't stand up in that way
for a pirate; I can't bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe the
pirate schooner's appearance in this room, and when he was attacked by
the _Talisman_ did he not shew out in his true colours, thereby proving
that he is Durward the pirate?"
The widow's face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, like
one who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, "That is not
_positive_ proof, Henry. Gascoyne may have had some good reason for
deceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may have
been a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to prevent
Captain Montague from impressing his men."
"And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishing
that end, mother?"
"Mary," said Mr Mason solemnly, as he seated himself at the table and
looked earnestly in the widow's face. "Your knowledge of this man and
your manner of speaking about him surprises me. I have long thought
that you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be so
intimate; for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspicious
character, to say the best of him; and although _I_ know that you think
you 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 you
have sought to comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in this
man. I _must_ ask what knowledge you have of him. How far are you
aware of his character and employment? How do you know that he is so
trustworthy?"
An expression of deep grief rested on the widow's countenance as she
replied in a sad voice--"I _know_ that you may trust Gascoyne with your
child. He is my oldest friend. I have known him since we were
children. He saved my father's life long, long ago, and helped to
support my mother in her last years. Would you have me to forget all
this 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 a
voice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorely
perplexed--yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would rather
die than tell a deliberate falsehood.
The missionary was also comforted, for although his judgment told him
that the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, he
was impressed by the thoroughly confident tone of the widow and felt
relieved in spite of himself.
Soon after this conversation was concluded the household retired to
rest.
Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of
subdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid no
attention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some of
their native servants were moving about.
But presently the sound of his mother's voice induced him to listen more
attentively. Then a voice replied, so low that he could with difficulty
hear it at all. Its strength increased, however, and at last it broke
forth in deep bass tones.
Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged the
front door of the house opened; and the speakers went out. A few
seconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing; then, seizing a
pistol, he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round he just
caught sight of the skirts of a woman's dress as they disappeared
through the doorway of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poor
native who had subsisted on the widow's bounty until he died. The door
was shut immediately after.
Going swiftly but cautiously round by a back way, Henry approached the
hut. Strange and conflicting feelings filled his breast. A blush of
deep shame and self-abhorrence mantled on his cheek when it flashed
across him that he was about to play the spy on his own mother. But
there was no mistaking Gascoyne's voice.
How the supposed pirate had got there, and wherefore he was there, were
matters that he did not think of or care about at that moment. There he
was, so the young man resolved to secure him and hand him over to
justices.
Henry was too honourable to listen secretly to a conversation, whatever
it might be, that was not intended for his ears. He resolved merely to
peep in at one of the many chinks in the log hut for one moment to
satisfy himself that Gascoyne really was there, and to observe his
position. But as the latter now thought himself beyond the hearing of
any one, he spoke in unguarded tones, and Henry heard a few words in
spite of himself.
Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld the
stalwart form of the sandalwood trader standing on the hearth of the
hut, which was almost unfurnished--a stool, a bench, an old chest, a
table, and a chair, being all that it contained. His mother was seated
at the table with her hands clasped before her, looking up at her
companion.
"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 low
voice. "It matters not. My being on the island is the result of
Manton'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 been
upright, Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you. But
for that I should have been lost long ago--"
Henry heard no more. These words did indeed whet his curiosity to the
utmost, but the shame of acting the part of an "eavesdropper" was so
great that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back and pondered for a
moment what he ought to do. The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne's
remark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofs
that he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heart
against him. He argued that the mere fact of the man giving his mother
credit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was not
sufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised against
himself. Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother his
opinion 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 in
order to prepare those within for his advent. He had expected to find
it 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--"Pirate
Durward, I arrest you in the king's name!" At the first sound of her
son'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 a
smile.
"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's
face.
"You will not throe me off my guard thus," said Henry, sternly. "You
are my prisoner. I know you to be a pirate. At any rate you will have
to prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a free
man. 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 his
breast 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 young
lion. He struck at him with the pistol, but the latter caught the
weapon in his powerful hand, wrenched it from the youth's grasp and
flung it to the other end of the apartment.
"You shall not escape me," cried Henry; aiming a tremendous blow with
his fist at Gascoyne's face. It was parried, and the next moment the
two closed in a deadly struggle.
It was a terrible sight for the widow to witness, these two Herculean
men exerting their great strength to the utmost in a hand-to-hand
conflict in that small hut like two tigers in a cage.
Henry, although nearly six feet in height, and proportionally broad and
powerful, was much inferior to his gigantic antagonist; but to the
superior size and physical force of the latter he opposed the lithe
activity and the fervid energy of youth, so that to an unpractised eye
it might have seemed doubtful at first which of the two men had the best
chance.
Straining his powers to the utmost, Henry attempted to lift his opponent
off the ground and throw him. In this he was nearly successful.
Gascoyne staggered, but recovered himself instantly. They did not move
much from the centre of the room, nor was there much noise created
during the conflict. It seemed too close--too full of concentrated
energy--of heavy, prolonged straining--for much violent motion. The
great veins in Gascoyne's forehead stood out like knotted cords; yet
there was no scowl or frown on his face. Henry's brows, on the
contrary, were gathered into a dark frown. His teeth were set, and his
countenance 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. She
sat with her hands on the table clasped tightly together, gazing
eagerly, anxiously, like a fascinated creature, at the wild struggle
that was going on before her.
Again and again Henry attempted, with all the fire of youth, to throw
his adversary by one tremendous effort, but failed. Then he tried to
fling him off, so as to have the power of using his fists or making an
overwhelming rush. But Gascoyne held him in his strong arms like a
vice. Several times he freed his right arm and attempted to plant a
blow, but Gascoyne caught the blow in his hand, or seized the wrist and
prevented its being delivered. In short, do what he would, Henry Stuart
could neither free himself from the embrace of his enemy nor conquer
him. Still he struggled on, for as this fact became more apparent the
youth's blood became hotter from mingled shame and anger.
Both men soon began to shew symptoms of fatigue. It was not in the
nature of things that two such frames, animated by such spirits, could
prolong so exhausting a struggle. It was not doubtful now which of the
two would come off victorious. During the whole course of the fight
Gascoyne had acted entirely on, the defensive. A small knife or
stiletto hung at his left side, but he never attempted to use it, and he
never once tried to throw his adversary. In fact it now became evident,
even to the widow's perceptions, that the captain was actually playing
with her son.
All along, his countenance, though flushed and eager, exhibited no sign
of passion. He seemed to act like a good-humoured man who had been
foolishly 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 the
establishment beginning to move about were heard outside. Henry noticed
this.
"Hah!" he exclaimed, in a gasping voice, "I can at least hold you until
help comes."
Gascoyne heard the sounds also. He said nothing, but he brought the
strife to a swift termination. For the first time he bent his back like
a man who exerts himself in earnest and lifted Henry completely off the
ground. Throwing him on his back, he pressed him down with both arms so
as to break from his grasp. No human muscles could resist the force
applied. Slowly but surely the iron sinews of Henry's arms straightened
out, and the two were soon at arm's length.
But even Gascoyne's strength could not unclasp the grip of the youth's
hands, until he placed his knee upon his chest; then, indeed, they were
torn away.
Of course, all this was not done without some violence, but it was still
plain to the widow that Gascoyne was careful not to hurt his antagonist
more 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 to
give you a little more. It does not just suit me at present to be tried
for a pirate, so I mean to give you a race. You are reputed one of the
best 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 youth
had quite gained his footing, he gave him a violent push and sent him
staggering 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 his
face.
Henry was so taken aback by this conduct, as well as by the rough
handling which he had just received, that he could not collect his
thoughts for a few seconds; but when Gascoyne nodded gravely to his
mother and walked quietly away, saying, "Goodbye, Mary," the exasperated
youth darted through the doorway like an arrow.
If Henry Stuart's rush may be compared to the flight of an arrow from a
bow, not less appropriately may Gascoyne's bound be likened to the leap
of the bolt from a cross-bow. The two men sprang over the low fences
that surrounded the cottage, leapt the rivulet that brawled down its
steep course behind it, and coursed up the hill like mountain hares.
The last that widow Stuart saw of them, as she gazed eagerly from the
doorway of the hut, was, when Gascoyne's figure was clearly defined
against the sky as he leaped over a great chasm in the lava high up the
mountain side. Henry followed almost instantly, and then both were
hidden from view in the chaos of rocks and gorges that rose above the
upper line of vegetation.
It was a long and a severe chase that Henry had undertaken, and ably did
his fleet foot sustain the credit which he had already gained. But
Gascoyne's foot was fleeter. Over every species of ground did the
sandal-wood trader lead the youth that day. It seemed, in fact, as if a
spirit of mischief had taken possession of Gascoyne, for his usually
grave face was lighted up with a mingled expression of glee and
ferocity. It changed, too, and wore a sad expression, at times, even
when the man seemed to be running for his life.
At last, after running until he had caused Henry to shew symptoms of
fatigue, Gascoyne turned suddenly round, and, shouting "Good-bye, Henry,
my lad!" went straight up the mountain and disappeared over the dividing
ridge on the summit.
Henry did not give in. The insult implied in the words renewed his
strength. He tightened his belt as he ran, and rushed up the mountain
almost as fast as Gascoyne had done, but when he leaped upon the ridge
the fugitive had vanished!
That he had secreted himself in one of the many gorges or caves with
which the place abounded was quite clear, but it was equally clear that
no one could track him out in such a place unless he were possessed of a
dog's nose. The youth did indeed attempt it, but, being convinced that
he was only searching for what could not by any possibility be found, he
soon gave it up and returned, disconsolate and crest-fallen, to the
cottage.