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.
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