"It's a puzzler," said Jo Bumpus to himself--for Jo was much in the
habit of conversing with himself; and a very good habit it is, one that
is often attended with much profit to the individual, when the
conversation is held upon right topics and in a proper spirit--"it's a
puzzler, it is; that's a fact."
Having relieved his mind of this observation, the seaman proceeded to
cut down some tobacco, and looked remarkably grave and solemn as if "it"
were not only a puzzler but an alarmingly serious puzzler.
"Yes, it's the biggest puzzler as ever I comed across," said he, filling
his pipe--for John, when not roused, got on both mentally and physically
by slow stages.
"Niver know'd its equal," he continued, beginning to smoke, which
operation, as the pipe did not "draw" well at first, prevented him from
saying anything more.
It was early morning when Bumpus said all this, and the mariner was
enjoying his morning pipe in a reclining attitude on the grass beneath
Alice Mason's favourite tree, from which commanding position he gazed
approvingly on the magnificent prospect of land and sea which lay before
him, bathed in the light of the rising sun.
"It _is_ wery koorious," continued John, taking his pipe out of his
mouth and addressing himself to _it_ with much gravity--"_wery_
koorious. Things _always_ seems wot they isn't, and turns out to be wot
they didn't appear as if they wasn't; werry odd indeed, it is! Only to
think that this here sandal-wood trader should turn out for to be
Henry's father and the widow's mother--no, I mean the widow's husband,--
an' a pirate, an' a deliverer o' little boys and gals out o' pirates'
hands--his own hands, so to speak--not to mention captings in the Royal
Navy, an' not sich a bad feller after all, as won't have his liberty on
no account wotiver, even if it was gived to him for nothin', and yet wot
can't git it if he wanted it iver so much; and to think that Jo Bumpus
should come for to lend hisself to--Hallo! Jo, back yer tops'ls!
Didn't Henry tell ye that ye wasn't to convarse upon that there last
matter even with yerself, for fear o' bein' overheard and sp'ilin' the
whole affair? Come, I'll refresh myself."
The refreshment in which Jo proposed to indulge was of a peculiar kind
which never failed him--it was the perusal of Susan's love-letter.
He now sat up, drew forth the precious and much soiled epistle, unfolded
and spread it out carefully on his knees, placed his pipe very much on
one side of his mouth, in order that the smoke might not interfere with
his vision, and began to read.
"`_Peeler's Farm_,' ah! Susan darlin', it's Jo Bumpus as would give all
he has in the world, includin' his Sunday clo'se, to be anchored
alongside o' ye at that same farm! `_Sanfransko_.' I misdoubt the
spellin' o' that word, Susan dear; it seems to me raither short, as if
ye'd docked off its tail. Howsomever--`_For John bumpuss_'--O Susan,
Susan! if ye'd only remember the big B, and there ain't two esses. I'm
sure it's not for want o' tellin' ye, but ye was never great in the way
ov memry or spellin'. Pr'aps it's as well. Ye'd ha' bin too perfect,
an' that's not desirable, by no means--`_my darlin' Jo_'--ay, _them's_
the words. It's that as sets my 'art a b'ilin'-over like."
Here Jo raised his eyes from the letter and revelled silently in the
thought for at least two minutes, during which his pipe did double duty
in half its usual time. Then he recurred to his theme, but some parts
he read in silence, and without audible comment.
"Ay," said he, "`_sandle-wood skooners, the Haf ov thems pirits_'--so
they is, Susan. It's yer powers o' prophecy as amazes me--`_an' The
other hafs no beter_'--a deal wus, Susan, if ye only know'd it. Ah! my
sweet gal, if ye knew wot a grief that word `_beter_' wos to me before I
diskivered wot it wos, ye'd try to improve yer hand o' write, an' make
fewer blots!"
At this point Jo was arrested by the sound of footsteps behind him. He
folded up his letter precipitately, thrust it into his left
breast-pocket, and jumped up with a guilty air about him.
"Why, Bumpus, we have startled you out of a morning nap, I fear," said
Henry Stuart, who, accompanied by his mother, came up at that moment.
"We are on our way to say good-bye to Mr Mason. As we passed this
knoll I caught sight of you and came up to ask about the boat."
"It's all right," said Bumpus, who quickly recovered his composure--
indeed he had never lost much of it. "I've bin down to Saunder's store
and got the ropes for your--"
"Hush! man, there is no need of telling me what they are for," said
Henry, with a mysterious look at his mother.
"Why not tell me all, Henry?" said Mrs Stuart; "surely you can trust
me?"
"Trust you, mother?" replied the youth with a smile, "I should think so;
but there are reasons for my not telling you everything just now.
Surely you can trust _me_? I have told you as much as I think advisable
in the meantime. Ere long I will tell you all."
The widow sighed and was fain to rest content. She sat down beside the
tree while her companions talked together apart in low tones.
"Now Jo, my man," continued Henry, "_one_ of our friends must be got out
of the way."
"Wery good; I'm the man as'll do it."
"Of course I don't mean that he's to be killed!"
"In coorse not. Who is he?"
"Ole Thorwald."
"Wot! the descendant o' the Sea Kings, as he calls himself?"
"The same," said Henry, laughing at the look of surprise with which
Bumpus received this information.
"What has _he_ bin an' done?"
"He has done nothing as yet," said Henry; "but he will, certainly thwart
our schemes if he hears of them. He has an inveterate ill-will to my
poor father;" (Henry lowered his voice as he proceeded,) "and I know has
suspicions that we are concocting some plan to enable him to escape, and
watches us accordingly. I find him constantly hanging about the jail.
Alas! if he knew how thoroughly determined Gascoyne is to refuse
deliverance unless it comes from the proper source, he would keep his
mind more at ease."
"Don't you think if you wos to tell him that Gascoyne _is_ yer father he
would side with us?" suggested Bumpus.
"Perhaps he would. I _think_ he would; but I dare not risk it. The
easier method will be to outwit him."
"Not an easy thing for to do, I'm afraid, for he's a cute old feller.
How's it to be done?" asked Bumpus.
"By telling him the truth," said Henry; "and _you_ must tell it to him."
"Well, that _is_ a koorious way," said Bumpus with a broad grin.
"But not the whole truth," continued Henry. "You must just tell him as
much as it is good for him to know, and nothing more; and as the thing
must be done at once, I'll tell you what you have got to say."
Here the young man explained to the attentive Bumpus the course that he
was to follow, and having got him thoroughly to understand his part, he
sent him away to execute it.
Meanwhile he and his mother went in search of Mr Mason, who at the time
was holding a consultation with the chiefs of the native village, near
the site of his burnt cottage. The consultation had just been concluded
when they reached the spot, and the missionary was conversing with the
native carpenter who superintended the erection of his new home.
After the morning greeting, and a few words of general conversation,
Mrs Stuart said--
"We have come to have a talk with you in private; will you walk to
Alice's tree with us?"
"Certainly, my friend; I hope no new evils are about to befall us," said
the missionary, who was startled by the serious countenances of the
mother and son, for he was ignorant of the close relation in which they
stood to Gascoyne, as, indeed, was every one else in the settlement,
excepting Montague and his boatswain, and Corrie, all of whom were
enjoined to maintain the strictest secrecy on the point.
"No, I thank God, all is well," replied Mrs Stuart; "but we have come
to say that we are going away."
"Going away!" echoed the missionary in surprise. "When?--where to?--
why? You amaze me, Mary."
"Henry will explain."
"The fact is, Mr Mason," said Henry, "circumstances require my absence
from Sandy Cove on a longer trip than usual, and I mean to take my
mother with me. Indeed, to be plain with you, I do not think it likely
that we shall return for a long time--perhaps not at all, and it is
absolutely necessary that we should go secretly. But we could not go
without saying good-bye to you."
"We owe much to you, dear Mr Mason," cried the widow, grasping the
missionary's hand and kissing it. "We can never, never forget you; and
will always pray for God's best blessings to descend on you and yours."
"This is overwhelming news!" exclaimed Mr Mason, who had stood hitherto
gazing from the one to the other in mute astonishment. "But tell me,
Mary," (here he spoke in earnest tones,) "is not Gascoyne at the bottom
of this?"
"Mr Mason," said Henry, "we never did, and never will deceive you.
There is a good reason for neither asking nor answering questions on
this subject _just now_. I am sure you know us too well to believe that
we think of doing what is wrong, and you can trust us--at least my
mother--that we will not do what is foolish."
"I have perfect confidence in your hearts, my dear friends," replied Mr
Mason; "but you will forgive me if I express some doubt as to your
ability to judge between right and wrong when your feelings are deeply
moved, as they evidently are from some cause or other, just now. Can
you not put confidence in me? I can keep a secret, and may perhaps give
good counsel."
"No, no," said Henry, emphatically; "it will not do to involve you in
our affairs. It would not be right in us _just now_ to confide even in
you. I cannot explain why--you must accept the simple assurance in the
meantime. Wherever we go, we can communicate by letter, and I promise,
ere long, to reveal all."
"Well, I will not press you farther, but I will commend you in prayer to
God. I do not like to part thus hurriedly, however. Can we not meet
again before you go?"
"We shall be in the cottage at four this afternoon, and will be very
glad if you will come to us for a short time," said the widow.
"That is settled, then; I will go and explain to the natives that I
cannot accompany them to the village till to-morrow. When do you
leave?"
"To-night."
"So soon! Surely it is not. But I forbear to say more on a subject
which is forbidden. God bless you, my friends; we shall meet at four.
Good-bye!"
The missionary turned from them with a sad countenance, and went in
search of the native chiefs; while Henry and his mother separated from
each other, the former taking the path that led to the little quay of
Sandy Cove, the latter that which conducted to her own cottage.