Gascoyne, The Sandal-Wood Trader: A Tale of the Pacific, R. M. Ballantyne [elon musk reading list .TXT] 📗

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 surprise 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 opened, and the speakers went out. A few seconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing him; 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 justice.

Henry was too honorable 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 but 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 sandal-wood 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 a 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, and 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 boldly into the youth's face.

"You will not throw 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 center 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 to 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 show 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-humored 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 were heard outside. Henry noticed this.

"Ha!" 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 arms' 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