Beatrice Willoughby was seated, with her embroidery before her, in the
withdrawing-room of the old hall where her childhood's happier days had
been passed. Her dress showed that she had lost some near relative. In
truth, the Lady Willoughby, her mother, had been summoned to happier
realms, and she and Hugh were left orphans, alone in the world, all in
all to each other. Hugh had altered much for the better. He felt his
responsibilities--that his dear sister was greatly dependent on him--and
her happiness had become his chief care. She was not, however,
dependent for support on him, for she had a handsome dower, which would
enable her to live as became her rank. She was not alone; Hugh was
there, seated at a window, engrossed in a book of travels, for to see
the wide world had become the great desire of his heart. Unable himself
to wander forth to foreign lands, he obtained every book in his power
which described distant countries and the adventures of those who had
visited them.
Beatrice had a more sociable companion than her brother in sweet
Constance Raymond, who, having lost the old knight her father, had
lately taken up her abode with her friend. Both girls were mistresses
of themselves, and enjoyed no small satisfaction in feeling their
independence. Hugh no longer affected Mistress Constance. He had been
so long in her company that he had learned to look on her in the light
of a sister whom it was his duty to protect and support as he felt that
he should his own sister Beatrice. In truth, sweet Mistress Constance,
being a year or more older than Hugh, and of a somewhat vehement if not
imperious temper, had herself done much to cure him of the tender
sentiment which at one time seemed about to spring up in his bosom.
The young people were not, however, without one who acted the part of a
guardian, although he could not claim the legal right of being so. This
was honest John Langton--Captain John Langton--a devoted friend and
follower of their honoured father, Sir Hugh Willoughby. Sickness had
prevented him from going that fatal voyage from which the brave knight
never returned. Captain Langton was an experienced seaman; he had made
many voyages to various regions, and was a man of great judgment and
discretion. Although the snow of the winter of life had already
sprinkled his head, his health and strength were unimpaired, while the
spirit of adventure which had tempted him abroad in his younger days lay
smouldering within his bosom, ready to burn up should occasion blow upon
it. He lived in a small mansion close by the hall, where he was an
almost daily visitor.
It may be supposed that the very constant subject of conversation
between the two young maidens was the fate of him who had been so long
absent, and of whom since they had last received tidings more than two
years had passed--long, long years they had been to them. Still they
lived on in hope of hearing of Edward, or some day of seeing him walk
in, full of health and strength, and to hear him recount the adventures
he had gone through. As to the wealth he had coveted, it mattered
little to them whether he brought it or not, provided he was never again
tempted to go in search of it. There was another, too, in whose fate,
though he knew not of it, the lovely Constance was interested. When
Edward had written home he had spoken little of his own deeds, but he
had enlarged greatly on the gallantry of his friend Waymouth, and her
enthusiastic imagination adding lustre to his acts, she had pictured him
to herself as worthy of being a hero of romance, and had without
hesitation encouraged that sentiment towards him, which, if not love,
was nearly allied to it.
Hugh, who had come to the end of his book, and was gazing out of the
window, wondering when he should have the opportunity of visiting the
scenes described therein, suddenly exclaimed--
"There is a stranger coming along the paths. His dress, much the worse
for wear, betokens him to be a seafaring man, and his features are dark
and weather-beaten. Maybe he brings tidings from the distant Eastern
seas."
The hearts of his fair hearers beat quick as they heard these words.
Who could this weather-beaten stranger be? They in the same breath
entreated Hugh to hasten out and to bring in the seaman lest he should
pass by, not that it was likely he would so do without stopping to ask
an alms or the means of proceeding on his way. He was evidently
footsore and weary, and probably hungry and poor, and as such alone
claimed their compassion. Hugh gladly hurried out, and soon returned
with the wayfarer. He was a man of middle age, and, though his
countenance spoke of toil and torrid climes, he was stout of limb and
broad of shoulder, and had no lack of work in him; and, though his
garments were worn almost to tatters, they had once been of a rich
description. He doffed his battered beaver as he entered the hall, and
stood before the fair dames in a humble posture, waiting till they
addressed him.
"Whence come you, stranger, and what brings you into these parts?" asked
Beatrice in a gentle voice calculated to give encouragement to the
person she addressed.
She spoke not without hesitation, and in truth she had no great
expectation of hearing aught of him she loved.
"I come, lady, from far-distant regions; my calling is on the sea, my
birthplace near Gloucester; and landing at Plymouth without rhino in my
purse, food in my pouch, or friends to afford me any, I have been
working my way as best I could to that home where I hope to find rest
and quiet after all my toils," answered the stranger bluntly.
"What took you to those foreign lands?" asked Beatrice, somewhat
disappointed with the answer.
"My own folly, and, maybe, greed of gain," he replied in the same tone.
"I gained wisdom, and might have gained wealth had it not taken to
itself wings and flown away."
"But with whom did you sail to those far-distant realms? Surely you
went not alone?" said Constance in a tone which showed that she might
not be inclined to brook a saucy answer.
"Your pardon, fair ladies; I saw not the drift of your questions,"
replied the seaman. "I sailed in the company of a brave admiral,
Captain Lancaster, on board his tall ship the Red Dragon, with several
other goodly ships, the Serpent, the Lion, the Lion's Whelp--"
"Can you give us tidings of any on board the Lion?" exclaimed Beatrice,
eagerly interrupting him.
The stranger shook his head.
"Bad tidings only, I fear, sweet ladies," he answered with some feeling.
"Of all that gallant company, captains, and officers, and men, I am the
only one, to the best of my belief, who yet breathes the air of heaven--
except," he added, seeing the effect his words were producing on his
fair auditors, "one of the ships, storm-driven, found a haven of which I
know nothing; the remainder of the brave squadron I saw go down into the
ocean depths with all their gallant crews--"
"What--what was the name of the ship which may have escaped that
dreadful doom?" exclaimed both the fair girls at once in accents
scarcely articulate from agitation.
"The Lion was the ship, once commanded by Captain Wood, and, when he
became admiral, by Captain Antony Waymouth, as brave an officer as ever
held a sword," answered the seaman, evidently now wishing to speak to
the purpose. "We had long been parted from him, I being still on board
the Red Dragon, when a fierce tempest arose--so fierce I had never
before encountered. One by one we saw consorts, long battered by the
waves and shattered in battles innumerable, go down, all on board
perishing. Scarcely could the Red Dragon keep afloat, much less render
assistance to others. Her turn came. We had been driving to the east,
hoping to find a haven where we might repair our damages, when, even in
sight of land, the tempest still raging, a whole plank, it seemed,
started, for, without many minutes for preparation, the big ship began
to settle bodily down into the sea. There was no time to cut loose the
boats--no time to form a raft. I felt the deck sink under me; shrieks
and cries arose. I clutched a large spar which had been left unsecured
on deck, and found myself floating amid the foaming waves. My
companions in misfortune gradually disappeared. One by one they sank
down till I was alone. The storm subsided. For nearly, two days I
clung to the spar, and when my strength was well-nigh gone, a ship of
the Hollanders, sailing from land, took me aboard. The gale had but
sunk to rest for a season. It rose again, and the stout ship was driven
before it far to the east amid islands with which no one on board was
acquainted. We explored among them for a long time, but the hurricane
season was not over. Our captain observed signs of a coming storm, and
with a sagacity for which those Hollanders are justly famed he brought
up inside a reef, where, sheltered from the sea, we might lie safely at
anchor. While there, the gale continuing, I saw a ship approaching, and
feared greatly that she might be dashed on the reef. Anxiously I
watched her as she drew near. I knew her at once, having so long sailed
in her company. She was the once tall ship the Lion, now sadly
shattered and shorn of her beauty. She escaped the reef but by half a
cable's length, it seemed, and on she drove to the westward. As long as
I could see her from the mast-head, to which I ascended, escaping all
dangers, she drove in the same direction. Scarcely could I hope,
however, with the numberless islands which besprinkle that ocean, she
could drive clear of them all. Still she may have escaped. The gale
continued for many days. Sometimes the wind dropped, but the skipper
refused to leave the shelter of the reef, and sure enough before long
the storm raged again more furiously than ever. It was his opinion,
too, that the gale would continue blowing on towards the east, so that a
ship might be driven half round the world by it before she would again
find herself in a calm. But I weary you, fair ladies."
"Go on, go on, good friend!" exclaimed Beatrice, her bosom heaving with
agitation. "Didst ever gain further tidings of the Lion?"
"No, lady, not from that day to this," answered the seaman. "All I know
is that it was the Hollander's opinion if any of her company survive
they must be dwelling on one of the islands of the Pacific, on whose
shore, undoubtedly, the ribs of the good ship are lying."
"Beatrice! Hugh! let us go and search for them!" exclaimed Constance,
springing up with her eyes streaming, and her hands clasped in an
appealing attitude, first turning to one and then to the other.
"Stranger, could you guide a ship in the direction in which you think
they were driven? We would search every shore, we would visit every
island in that mighty Pacific, till we found them. It were a shame if
we were to allow my noble brother Edward and that gallant Captain Antony
Waymouth to perish on some desert isle without making an effort to save
them, and bring them back to their native shores. Hugh, the credit of
your manhood is at stake an' you decline to help us, and I know Beatrice
too well to doubt that she will bear me company, and go I will round and
round the world if I can find men to man the ship."
"I promise you, sweet coz, that if you go I will bear you company, and I
will answer for brother Hugh," said Beatrice, taking her friend's hand.
"I would, however, that good Master John Langton could have a word with
this stranger; he would understand far more of his account than, with
our small knowledge of sea affairs, we can do. What is thy name,
friend? We will ask Captain Langton to come up to the hall to see
thee."