 | CHAPTER VII. The Red Rover |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
“I melt, and am not of stronger earth than others.”—
Coriolanus.
The females received their visiter with a restraint,
which will be easily understood when the subject of
their recent conversation is recollected. The sinking
of Gertrude's form was deep and hurried, but her
governess maintained the coldness of her air with
greater self-composure. Still, there was a gleaming
of powerful anxiety in the watchful glance that she
threw towards her guest, as though she would divine
the motive of the visit by the wanderings of his
changeful eye, even before his lips had parted in the
customary salute.
The countenance of the Rover himself was thoughtful
to gravity. He bowed as he came within the influence
of the lamp, and his voice was heard muttering
some low and hasty syllables, that conveyed
no meaning to the ears of his listeners. Indeed, so
great was the abstraction in which he was lost, that
he had evidently prepared to throw his person on
the vacant divan, without explanation or apology,
like one who took possession of his own; though
recollection returned just in time to prevent this
breach of decorum. Smiling, and repeating his bow,
with a still deeper inclination, he advanced with perfect
self-possession to the table, where he expressed
his fears that Mrs Wyllys might deem his visit unseasonable,
or perhaps not announced with sufficient
ceremony. During this short introduction his voice
was bland as woman's, and his mien courteous, as
though he actually felt himself an intruder in the
cabin of a vessel in which he was literally a monarch.
“But, unseasonable as is the hour,” he continued,
of not having discharged all the duties of an
attentive and considerate host, had I forgotten to reassure
you of the tranquillity of the ship, after the
scene you have this day witnessed. I have pleasure
in saying, that the humour of my people is already
expended, and that lambs, in their nightly folds, are
not more placid than they are at this minute in their
hammocks.”
“The authority that so promptly quelled the disturbance
is happily ever present to protect us,” returned
the cautious governess; “we repose entirely
on your discretion and generosity.”
“You have not misplaced your confidence. From
the danger of mutiny, at least, you are exempt.”
“And from all others, I trust.”
“This is a wild and fickle element we dwell on,”
he answered, while he bowed an acknowledgment
for the politeness, and took the seat to which the
other invited him by a motion of the hand; “but
you know its character, and need not be told that
we seamen are seldom certain of any of our movements.
I loosened the cords of discipline myself
to-day,” he added, after a moment's pause, “and in
some measure invited the broil that followed: But
it is passed, like the hurricane and the squall; and
the ocean is not now smoother than the tempers of
my knaves.”
“I have often witnessed these rude sports in vessels
of the King; but I do not remember to have
known any more serious result than the settlement
of some ancient quarrel, or some odd freak of nautical
humour, which has commonly proved as harmless
as it has been quaint.”
“Ay; but the ship which often runs the hazards
of the shoals gets wrecked at last,” muttered the
Rover. “I rarely give the quarter-deck up to the
humours; but—to-day”—
“You were speaking of to-day.”
“Neptune, with his coarse devices, is no stranger
to you, Madam.”
“I have seen the God in times past.”
“'Twas thus I understood it;—under the line?”
“And elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere!” repeated the other, in a tone of
disappointment. “Ay, the sturdy despot is to be
found in every sea; and hundreds of ships, and ships
of size too, are to be seen scorching in the calms of
the equator. It was idle to give the subject a second
thought.”
“You have been pleased to observe something
that has escaped my ear.”
The Rover started; for he had rather muttered
than spoken the preceding sentence aloud. Casting
a swift and searching glance around him, as it might
be to assure himself that no impertinent listener had
found means to pry into the mysteries of a mind he
seldom saw fit to lay open to the free examination of
his associates, he regained his self-possession on the
instant, and resumed the discourse with a manner as
undisturbed as if it had received no interruption.
“Yes, I had forgotten that your sex is often as
timorous as it is fair,” he added, with a smile so insinuating
and gentle, that the governess cast an involuntary
and uneasy glance towards her charge,
“or I might have been earlier with my assurance of
safety.”
“It is welcome even now.”
“And your young and gentle friend,” he continued,
bowing openly to Gertrude, though he still addressed
his words to the governess; “her slumbers will not
be the heavier for what has passed.”
“The innocent seldom find an uneasy pillow.”
“There is a holy and unsearchable mystery in
that truth: The innocent pillow their heads in quiet!
Would to God the guilty might find some refuge,
too, against the sting of thought! But we live in a
world, and a time, when men cannot be sure even
of themselves.”
He then paused, and looked about him, with a
smile so haggard, that the anxious governess unconsciously
drew nigher to her pupil, like one who sought,
and was willing to yield, protection against the uncertain
designs of a maniac. Her visiter, however,
remained in a silence so long and deep, that she felt
the necessity of removing the awkward embarrassment
of their situation, by speaking herself.
“Do you find Mr Wilder as much inclined to
mercy as yourself?” she asked. “There would be
merit in his forbearance, since he appeared to be the
particular object of the anger of the mutineers.”
“And yet you saw he was not without his friends.
You witnessed the devotion of the men who stood
forth in his behalf?”
“I did; and find it remarkable that he should
have been able, in so short a time, to conquer thus
completely two so stubborn natures.”
“Four-and-twenty years make not an acquaintance
of a day!”
“And does their friendship bear so old a date?”
“I have heard that time counted between them.
It is very certain the youth is bound to those uncouth
companions of his by some extraordinary tie. Perhaps
this is not the first of their services.”
Mrs Wyllys looked grieved. Although prepared
to believe that Wilder was a secret agent of the Rover,
she had endeavoured to hope his connexion with
the freebooters was susceptible of some explanation
more favourable to his character. However he might
be implicated in the common guilt of those who
proscribed ship, it was evident he bore a heart too
generous to wish to see her, and her young and
guileless charge, the victims of the licentiousness of
his associates. His repeated and mysterious warnings
no longer needed explanation. Indeed, all that had
been dark and inexplicable, both in the previous and
unaccountable glimmerings of her own mind, and
in the extraordinary conduct of the inmates of the
ship, was at each instant becoming capable of solution.
She now remembered, in the person and countenance
of the Rover, the form and features of the
individual who had spoken the passing Bristol trader,
from the rigging of the slaver—a form which had
unaccountably haunted her imagination, during her
residence in his ship, like an image recalled from
some dim and distant period. Then she saw at once
the difficulty that Wilder might prove in laying open
a secret in which not only his life was involved, but
which, to a mind that was not hardened in vice, involved
a penalty not less severe—that of the loss of
their esteem. In short, a good deal of that which
the reader has found no difficulty in comprehending
was also becoming clear to the faculties of the governess,
though much still remained obscured in
doubts, that she could neither solve nor yet entirely
banish from her thoughts. On all these several points
she had leisure to cast a rapid glance; for her guest,
or host, whichever he might be called, seemed in
nowise disposed to interrupt her short and melancholy
reverie.
“It is wonderful,” Mrs Wyllys at length resumed,
“that beings so uncouth should be influenced by the
same attachments as those which unite the educated
and the refined.”
“It is wonderful, as you say,” returned the other,
like one awakening from a dream. “I would give
from the mint of George II. to know the private
history of that youth.”
“Is he then a stranger to you?” demanded Gertrude,
with the quickness of thought.
The Rover turned an eye on her, that was vacant
for the moment, but into which consciousness and
expression began to steal as he gazed, until the foot
of the governess was visibly trembling with the nervous
excitement that pervaded her entire frame.
“Who shall pretend to know the heart of man!”
he answered, again inclining his head as it might be
in acknowledgment of her perfect right to far deeper
homage. “All are strangers, till we can read their
most secret thoughts.”
“To pry into the mysteries of the human mind,
is a privilege which few possess,” coldly remarked
the governess. “The world must be often tried, and
thoroughly known, before we may pretend to judge
of the motives of any around us.”
“And yet it is a pleasant world to those who have
the heart to make it merry,” cried the Rover, with
one of those startling transitions which marked his
manner. “To him who is stout enough to follow the
beat of his humour, all is easy. Do you know, that
the true secret of the philosopher is not in living for
ever, but in living while you may. He who dies at
fifty, after a fill of pleasure, has had more of life
than he who drags his feet through a century, bearing
the burden of the world's caprices, and afraid to
speak above his breath, lest, forsooth, his neighbour
should find that his words were evil.”
“And yet are there some who find their pleasure
in pursuing the practices of virtue.”
“'Tis lovely in your sex to say it,” he answered,
with an air that the sensitive governess fancied was
gleaming with the growing licentiousness of a freebooter.
She would now gladly have dismissed her
that was becoming gay by a species of unnatural
effort, admonished her of the danger of offending
one who acknowledged no law but his own will.
Assuming a tone and a manner that were kind, while
they upheld the dignity of her sex, and pointing to
sundry instruments of music that formed part of
the heterogeneous furniture of the cabin, she adroitly
turned the discourse, by saying,—
“One whose mind can be softened by harmony,
and whose feelings are so evidently alive to the influence
of sweet sounds, should not decry the pleasures
of virtue. This flute, and you guitar, both call
you master.”
“And, because of these flimsy evidences about my
person, you are willing to give me credit for the accomplishments
you mention! Here is another mistake
of miserable mortality! Seeming is the every-day
robe of honesty. Why not give me credit for
kneeling, morning and night, before you glittering
bauble?” he added, pointing to the diamond crucifix
which hung, as usual, near the door of his own apartment.
“I hope, at least, that the Being, whose memory
is intended to be revived by that image, is not without
your homage. In the pride of his strength and
prosperity, man may think lightly of the consolations
that can flow from a power superior to humanity;
but those who have oftenest proved their value feel
deepest the reverence which is their due.”
The look of the governess had been averted
from her companion; but, filled with the profound
sentiment she uttered, her mild reflecting eye turned
to him again, as, in a tone that was subdued, in respect
for the mighty Being whose attributes filled her
mind, she uttered the above simple sentiment. The
gaze she met was earnest and thoughtful as her own.
Lifting a finger, he laid it on her arm, with a motion
asked,—
“Think you we are to blame, if our temperaments
meline more to evil than power is given to resist?”
“It is only those who attempt to walk the path of
life alone that stumble. I shall not offend your manhood,
if I ask, do you never commune with your
God?”
“It is long since that name has been heard in this
vessel, Lady, except to aid in that miserable scoffing
and profanity which simpler language made too dull.
But what is He, that unknown Deity, more than
what man, in his ingenuity, has seen fit to make
him?”
“ `The fool hath said in his heart, there is no
God,' ” she answered, in a voice so firm, that it
startled even the ears of one so long accustomed to
the turbulence and grandeur of his wild profession.
“ `Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand
of thee, and answer thou me. Where wast
thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare,
if thou hast understanding.' ”
The Rover gazed long and silently on the flushed
countenance of the speaker. Bending his face in an unconscious manner aside, he said aloud, evidently
rather giving utterance to his thoughts than pursuing
the discourse,—
“Now, is there nothing more in this than what I
have often heard, and yet does it come over my feelings
with the freshness of native air!” Then rising,
he approached his mild and dignified companion,
adding, in tones but little above a whisper, “Lady,
repeat those words; change not a syllable, nor vary
the slightest intonation of the voice, I pray thee.”
Though amazed, and secretly alarmed at the request,
Mrs Wyllys complied; delivering the holy
language of the inspired writers with a fervour that
found its support in the strength of her own emotions.
For near a minute, neither eye nor attitude was
changed, but he stood at the feet of her who had so
simply and so powerfully asserted the majesty of
God, as motionless as the mast that rose behind him
through the decks of that vessel which he had so
long devoted to the purposes of his lawless life. It
was long after her accents had ceased to fall on his
ear, that he drew a deep respiration, and once again
opened his lips to speak.
“This is re-treading the path of life at a stride,”
he said, suffering his hand to fall upon that of his
companion. “I know not why pulses, which in
common are like iron, beat so wildly and irregularly
now. Lady, this little and feeble hand might check
a temper that has so often braved the power of”—
His words suddenly ceased; for, as his eye unconsciously
followed his hand, it rested on the still delicate,
but no longer youthful, member of the governess.
Drawing a sigh, like one who felt himself
awakened from an agreeable though complete illusion,
he turned away, leaving his sentence unfinished.
“You would have music!” he recklessly exclaimed
aloud. “Then music shall be heard, though
its symphony be rung upon a gong!”
As he spoke, the wayward and vacillating being
we have been attempting to describe struck the instrument
he named three blows, so quick and powerfully,
as to drown all other sensations in the confusion
produced by the echoing din. Though deeply
mortified that he had so quickly escaped from the influence
she had partially acquired, and secretly displeased
at the unceremonious manner in which he
had seen fit to announce his independence again, the
governess was aware of the necessity of concealing
her sentiments.
“This is certainly not the harmony I invited,”
she said, so soon as the overwhelming sounds had
to favour the slumbers of those who seek their
rest.”
“Fear nothing for them. The seaman sleeps with
his ear near the port whence the cannon bellows,
and awakes at the call of the hoatswain's whistle.
He is too deeply schooled in habit, to think he has
heard more than a note of the flute; stronger and
fuller than common, if you will, but still a sound that
has no interest for him. Another tap would have
sounded the alarm of fire; but these three touches
say no more than music. It was the signal for the
band. The night is still, and favourable for their art,
and we will listen to sweet sounds awhile.”
His words were scarcely uttered before the low
chords of wind instruments were heard without,
where the men had probably stationed themselves by
some previous order of their Captain. The Rover
smiled, as if he exulted in this prompt proof of the
sort of despotic or rather magical power he wielded;
and, throwing his form on the divan, he sat listening
to the sounds which followed.
The strains which now rose upon the night, and
which spread themselves soft and melodiously abroad
upon the water, would in truth have done credit to
far more regular artists. The air was wild and melancholy,
and perhaps it was the more in accordance
with the present humour of the man for whose ear
it was created. Then, losing the former character,
the whole power of the music was concentrated in
softer and still gentler sounds, as if the genius who
had given birth to the melody had been pouring out
the feelings of his soul in pathos. The temper of
the Rover's mind answered to the changing expression
of the music; and, when the strains were sweetest
and most touching, he even bowed his head likone
who wept.
Though secretly under the influence of the harmony
themselves, Mrs Wyllys and her pupil could
but gaze on the singularly constituted being into
whose hands their evil fortune had seen fit to cast
them. The former was filled with admiration at the
fearful contrariety of those passions which could reveal
themselves, in the same individual, under so
very different and so dangerous forms; while the latter,
judging with the indulgence and sympathy of
her years, was willing to believe that a man whose
emotions could be thus easily and kindly excited
was rather the victim of circumstances than the
creator of his own luckless fortune.
“There is Italy in those strains,” said the Rover,
when the last chord had died upon his ear; “sweet,
indolent, luxurious, forgetful Italy! It has never
been your chance, Madam, to visit that land, so
mighty in its recollections, and so impotent in its
actual condition?”
The governess made no reply; but, bowing her
head, in turn, her companions believed she was submitting
also to the influence of the music. At length,
as though impelled by another changeful impulse, the
Rover advanced towards Gertrude, and, addressing
her with a courtesy that would have done credit to
a very different scene, he said, in the laboured language
that characterised the politeness of the age,—
“One who in common speaks music should not
have neglected the gifts of nature. You sing?”
Had Gertrude possessed the power he affected to
believe, her voice would have denied its services at
his call. Bending to his compliment, she murmured
her apologies in words that were barely audible. He
listened intently; but, without pressing a point that
it was easy to see was unwelcome, he turned away,
and gave the gong a light but startling tap.
“Roderick,” he continued, when the gentle footstep
into the cabin below, “do you sleep?”
The answer was slow and smothered; and, of
course, in the negative.
“Apollo was not absent at the birth of Roderick,
Madam. The lad can raise such sounds as have been
known to melt the stubborn feelings of a seaman.
Go, place yourself by the cabin door, good Roderick,
and bid the music run a low accompaniment to your
words.”
The boy obeyed, stationing his slight form so much
in shadow, that the expression of his working countenance
was not visible to these who sat within the
stronger light of the lamp. The instruments then
commenced a gentle symphony, which was soon
ended; and twice had they begun the air, but still
no voice was heard to mingle in the harmony.
“Words, Roderick, words; we are but dull interpreters
of the meaning of yon flutes.”
Thus admonished of his duty, the boy began to
sing in a full, rich contralto voice, which betrayed a
tremour, however, that evidently formed no part of
the air. His words, so far as they might be distin
guished, ran as follows:—
Behind the western sea;
And holy solitude was there,
And sweetest liberty.
The ling'ring sun, at ev'ning, hung
A glorious orb, divinely beaming
On silent lake and tree;
And ruddy light was o'er all streaming,
Mark, man! for thee;
O'er valley, lake, and tree!
And now a thousand maidens stray,
Or range the echoing groves;
While, flutt'ring near, on pinions gay.
Fan twice ten thousand loves.
In that softt clime, at even time,
Hope says”—
“Enough of this, Roderick,” impatiently interrupted
his master. “There is too much of the Corydon
in that song for the humour of a mariner. Sing
us of the sea and its pleasures, boy; and roll out
the strains in such a fashion as may suit a sailor's
fancy.”
The lad continued mute, perhaps in disinclination
to the task, perhaps from utter inability to comply.
“What, Roderick! does the muse desert thee?
or is memory getting dull? You see the child is wilful
in his melody, and must sing of loves and sun-shine,
or he fails. Now touch us a stronger chord,
my men, and put life into your cadences, while I
troll a sea air for the honour of the ship.”
The band took the humour of the moment from
their master, (for surely he well deserved the name),
sounding a powerful and graceful symphony, to prepare
the listeners for the song of the Rover. Those
treacherous and beguiling tones which so often stole
into his voice when speaking, did not mislead expectation
as to its powers. It proved to be at the
same time rich, full, deep, and melodious. Favoured
by these material advantages, and aided by an exquisite
ear, he rolled out the following stanzas in a
manner that was singularly divided between that of
the reveller and the man of sentiment. The words
were probably original; for they both smacked
strongly of his own profession, and were not entirely
without a touch of the peculiar taste of the individual.
Hark to the hoarse, but welcome sound,
Startling the seaman's sweetest slumbers,
The groaning capstan's labouring round,
The cheerful fife's enliv'ning numbers;
And ling'ring idlers join the brawl,
And merry ship-boys swell the call,
All hands, unmoor! unmoor!
Brace high each nerve to dare the fight,
And boldly steer to seek the foeman;
One secret prayer to aid the right,
And many a secret thought to woman!
Now spread the flutt'ring canvas wide,
And dash the foaming sea aside;
The cry's, “A sail! a sail!”
Three cheers for victory!
Hush'd be each plaint o'er fallen brave;
Still ev'ry sigh to messmate given;
The seaman's tomb is in the wave;
The hero's latest hope is heaven!
High lift the voice in revelry!
Gay raise the song, the shout, the glee;
Three cheers for victory!
So soon as he had ended this song, and without
waiting to listen if any words of compliment were
to succeed an effort that might lay claim to great
excellence both in tones and execution, he arose;
and, desiring his guests to command the services of
his band at pleasure, he wished them “soft repose
and pleasant dreams,” and then coolly descended
into the lower apartments, apparently for the night.
Mrs Wyllys and Gertrude, notwithstanding both had
been amused, or rather seduced, by the interest
thrown around a manner that was so wayward, while
it was never gross, felt a sensation, as he disappeared,
like that produced by breathing a freer air, after
having been too long compelled to respire the pent
atmosphere of a dungeon. The former regarded her
pupil with eyes in which open affection struggled
with deep inward solicitude; but neither spoke,
since a slight movement near the door of the cabin
reminded them they were not alone.
“Would you have further music, Madam?” asked
Roderick, in a smothered voice, stealing timidly out
of the shadow as he spoke; “I will sing you to sleep,
if you will; but I am choaked when he bids me thus
be merry against my feelings.”
The brow of the governess had already contracted,
a stern and repulsive answer; but, as the plaintive
tones, and shrinking, submissive form of the other,
pleaded strongly to her heart, the frown passed away,
leaving in its place a mild reproving look, like that
which chastens the frown of maternal concern.
“Roderick,” she said, “I thought we should have
seen you no more to-night!”
“You heard the gong. Although he can be so gay,
and can raise such thrilling sounds in his pleasanter
moments, you have never yet listened to him in
anger.”
“And is his anger, then, so very fearful?”
“Perhaps to me it is more frightful than to others;
but I find nothing so terrible as a word of his, when
his mind is moody.”
“He is then harsh to you?”
“Never.”
“You contradict yourself, Roderick. He is, and
he is not. Have you not said how terrible you find
his moody language?”
“Yes; for I find it changed. Once he was never
thoughtful, or out of humour, but latterly he is not
himself.”
Mrs Wyllys did not answer. The language of the
boy was certainly much more intelligible to herself
than to her young and attentive, but unsuspecting,
companion; for, while she motioned to the lad to
retire, Gertrude manifested a desire to gratify the
curious interest she felt in the life and manners of
the freebooter. The signal, however, was authoritatively
repeated, and the lad slowly, and quite evidently
with reluctance, withdrew.
The governess and her pupil then retired into
their own state-room; and, after devoting many
minutes to those nightly offerings and petitions which
neither ever suffered any circumstances to cause
them to neglect, they slept in the consciousness of
Though the bell of the ship regularly sounded
the hours throughout the watches of the night,
scarcely another sound arose, during the darkness,
to disturb the calm which seemed to have settled
equally on the ocean and all that floated on its bosom.
| CHAPTER VII. The Red Rover | |