 | CHAPTER IV. Ringwood the rover |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The cabin into which, with the break of day,
Ringwood descended, was, according to invariable
custom, situate in the extreme after part of the
vessel, so as to enjoy to the utmost the advantage
afforded by the stern lights for cheerfulness and
ventilation. In its other arrangements, however,
it differed not a little from the similar apartments
in ships of war of that or indeed any other day.
All the guns, which were carried by the low light
picaroon, were on her upper deck; which, somewhat
in advance of the marine architecture of the
times, was perfectly flush from stem to stern—by
this arrangement the whole interior of the vessel
was reserved, free from the encumbrance of the
batteries, for the ascommodation of the numerous
crew, and for the needful stores of food and war
munitions, and as its sub-divisions were not, as
has been said above, conformable to ordinary practice,
it will not be superfluous to give a brief description
of their fashion and appliances.
In the first place, then, be it observed, that the
cabin companion, instead of being situate abaft the
mizen, was placed about half way betwixt that
spar and the mainmast—the stairway which it
contained opening into a narrow space, between
two musket-proof bulkheads, perforated with loopholes
and creneles for shot of harquebuse or carbine.
In the forward of these partitions, which
ran entirely across the vessel, there was no aperture
whatever, except the shot-holes above mentioned—in
the centre of the other, however,
was a low steel-clenched door-way, before which
a sentinel stood on duty with his fire-lock loaded
night and day; while a second, similarly armed,
kept guard on deck by the companion hatch. This
portal, framed, like the bulkheads, of timber so
thick as to be musket proof, gave entrance to a
narrow passage, running fore and aft, between the
armorer's and gunner's store rooms, and through
another strong door to the ward-room or apartment
of the officers, under which general term were
included all the classes superior to the private marines,
with no distinction as to warrant or commission.
This was a large, low space, occupying
the whole width, and about twenty feet of the
length of the vessel, fitted with a long table in the
centre, above which there swung from the ceiling
a compass, a chronometer, and several lamps. The
sides were occupied by berths sufficiently commodious;
while a range of lockers, covered with
cushions of rich velvet, so as to wear the semblance
of a superb divan, ran round the whole apartment.
The light was admitted, not as is usual, through a
skylight, but by a range of small glazed apartures
pierced through the sides like port-holes, and like
them provided with massive shutters, which might
be battened down in rough and stormy weather,
or in time of action. When it is added to this,
that the deck which formed the floor was covered
by a splendid carpet from the Turkish loom—that
the curtains of the berths were of the richest arras
tapestry—that two large beauffets of some costly
Indian wood were decked with gorgeous plate,
flagons and goblets, covers, and cups, and tankards,
of gold and silver, carved and embossed with the
best art of Italy's best sculptors—and that, in
wondrous contrast to the luxurious decoration of
the room, offensive weapons of every shape and
every construction, were disposed ready to meet
the hand, wherever any vacant space was left for
their arrangement—a very fair idea may be formed
of the wild blending there displayed of almost regal
pomp with warlike preparation. Thus round
the mainmast was suspended, in a fair gilded rack,
a stand of partisans with shafts of ebony, and
blades, two feet in length, of brightly polished
steel. Upon the bulkheads, at each end of the
apartment, pistols and carbines, loaded and primed,
and ready for immediate service, and Turkish yatagans,
Damascus cimiters, blades of Bilboa and
Toledo, with Malay creases, Scottish dirks, and
poniards of Italian fabric, all glittering with
golden chasings, and bright gems were placed in
fantastical devices, of stars, and suns, and crescents,
reflecting every beam of light, and almost
rivaling in splendor the luminaries in whose forms
they had been modeled. Beside this common
stock, to every column, parting the sleeping
berths, was attached a complete panoply—with
fascinet, cuirass, and buckler, pistols and boarding
axe, and broadsword of the most choice material
and construction. It was apparent at a glance,
that this, the quarter of the officers, must also be
regarded as the stronghold, the citadel as it were,
of the ship. It might perhaps be conjectured likewise,
from the arrangements, that the occupants
of this magnificent apartment were not entirely
free from some touch of jealousy, if not apprehension,
as regarded the good faith of their subordinates.
The upper bulkhead, parting the captain's
cabin from the ward-room of his officers, was, like
door-way, as before, gave access to a
narrow vestibule or passage, arranged in this case
as the Rover's private armory, and communicating
by a hatch in the floor with the ship's magazine
and larger arm-room. From the ceiling of this
vestibule, which was not more than a yard in
width, was slung a lamp of silver with two burners;
beneath the clear broad glare of which a negro,
of gigantic stature and features singularly
handsome for his race, stalked to and fro with
shouldered carbine, and a whole armory of knives
and pistols in the broad belt that girded his white
linen caftan about his thin and sinewy flanks.
Another African, who both for bulk and comeliness,
might well have been twin-brother to the
sentinel, lay buried in deep sleep upon a velvet-covered
pallet, which occupied the whole space to
the left hand of the door-way, with all his weapons
round him. And never by day or by night
did those two grim life-guardsmen leave their appointed
post together—and singly, but at rare and
distant intervals—one sleeping while the other
watched—one feasting while the other fasted—
but both continually at hand, and ready on the
slightest signal to do their chieftain's bidding,
whether for good or evil.
On entering the last door-way, a scene of singular
beauty was presented to the eye of the
spectator. The cabin was perhaps twenty feet in
width, by half that depth, except that in the centre,
a recess of about ten feet square was formed
by the projection of two state-rooms, one on each
hand, into the chamber—this alcove, raised one
step higher than the cabin floor, was lighted by
two of the stern windows occupying its whole
breadth, and reaching almost from the ceiling to
the deck—the other two lights being cut off by
the state-rooms above mentioned. The alcove
was carpeted with a thick soft Persian rug, and
hung with seagreen velvet, fringed with broad
arabesques of gold; a divan covered with the
same stuff ran round it, while the centre was occupied
by a circular table of dark wood inlaid
with ivory and brass. Against the state-room
partitions there hung, on the one side, a set of
shelves filled with about a hundred books in costly
bindings; and on the other a portrait of a young
girl, seemingly not over seventeen years old—a
master-piece of the world's master painter, Antonio
Vandyk—with a long two-edged gold-hilted
broadsword, and a brace of large horseman's pistols,
of workmanship to match the rapier, fixed to
the panel under it, as if to guard the lovely treasure.
Upon the circular table there stood a crucifix
of gold, and a small vase of the same precious
metal, containing some choice flowers of
that tropical clime, while near them lay an open
volume of Italian poetry, a Spanish gittern, and
some manuscript music, partially covered by an
embroidered kerchief of white silk and gold.
The larger and lower portion of the cabin was
carpeted and decked with hangings of the same
color and material with those in the alcove. A
large square table filled the centre, on which lay
maps and charts, with books and instruments of
navigation. An antique cabinet of oak, with massive
ornaments of brass, a beauffet covered with
vessels of wrought gold and goblets of rock crystal,
another book-case, with perhaps two hundred
volumes, and several huge arm-chairs of oak, with
velvet cushions, completed the furniture. It must
not, however, be forgotten that here as in the
outer rooms the walls were farther decorated by
a superb collection of arms, offensive and defensive,
of every age and nation; the most costly
and most prominent of which was a complete suit
of tilting armor of blue Milan steel, all damascened
with gold, such as was worn in the fourteenth
century by every knight of name, and by
the most unhappy of the Stuarts, and some few of
his leaders even so late as the war of the English
Revolution. Such was the form and fashion of
the cabin into which, his long night-watch concluded,
Ringwood descended.
In the ward-room, as he passed, his second officer—a
young and handsome Englishman with a
fair skin, where it had not been bronzed by long
exposure to a tropical sky, laughing blue eyes,
and a profusion of light curly hair—was seated at
the table, busily engaged, with several fine looking
lads of various ages, from fourteen to twenty,
in discussing a morning meal as sumptuous as a
ship's store might furnish, with the addition of
fresh fish of several kinds, and a tureen of turtle;
which, though concocted only by the untaught
skill of the bright-skinned and clear mulatto, who
waited by the beauffet, resplendent in cap, hose,
and jerkin, of unsullied whiteness, was even thus
no despicable fare; as was attested by the frequent
applications to its dispenser, who seemed to
be in no small danger, while ministering to the
appetites of others, of losing his own breakfast.
At a smaller board, and a little way apart, the
armorer and gunner, two thick-set sturdy-looking
Britons of the Saxon race, contemning the effeminate
luxuries of potted game, broiled fish, and
turtle-soup, diluted by champagne and bordeaux,
were reveling in what they deemed the manlier
enjoyment of toasted cheese, black puddings and
fat ale. With a gay smile and some light jest,
the Rover declined the invitation of his officers to
join them at their festive board; and bowing with
an air of easy dignity passed onward, showing no
closing the door gently after him, as he entered
the small vestibule which led to his own cabin.
“You might as well have spared yourself the
trouble of that invitation, good master Falconer;”
said one of the juniors, who filled the place of
midshipmen in a more regular service—“a likely
thing it were that he should tarry here, for such
a poor temptation as meat and drink may offer,
with such a feast of charms wooing him yonder.
By St. George, well might the loveliness of that
pale, black-browed beauty overcome the virtue of
an anchorite!”
“Hold hard, there, Anson”—cried another—
“covet not thou, that which is sacred to thy betters.”
“Tush, man—tush!” answered the first speaker,
“I covet her not, by St. George; I love not
your delicate, coy damsels—better one Ariadne
fresh from the arms of the blithe wine god, than
twenty tearful Niobes. We shall have, by-and-by,
a goodly chorus of shrieks, yells, and lamentations,
I doubt not, to tell us how he prospers in
his wooings.”
But though a general burst of merriment hailed
this prophetic speech, and although every ear was
for a time on the alert to catch some indication of
the progress of events between the Rover and his
lovely captive, not a sound reached them, that
afforded any clue to their excited curiosity.
Closing the door, as has been said, gently behind
him as he left the wardroom, the Rover
turned the key, and dropped a massive bar farther
to guard against intruders.
“Let none disturb me, Pluto,” he said to the
sentinel, “on any pretext whatever—I am o'erdone
with watching, and shall betake me to my
cot till noon. And hark thee, sirrah; whatever
thou mayst hear within, HEAR IT NOT, if thou
wouldst have ears afterward, to hear withal!
Hear nothing thou, unless I call on thee—nor thy
twin devil yonder either!”
The sable functionary grinned, till he showed
his ivory teeth almost from ear to ear, as Ringwood
tutored him; and, when he had done speaking,
laid his broad hand upon his chest, and bowed
in silent acquiescence to his master's will.
Satisfied, apparently, that his attendants comprehended
and would implicitly obey his bidding,
the captain paused no longer, but entered his
apartment without farther waste of words, with
every sinew of his body strung, and every energy
of his strong mind resolved upon his savage
purpose. No clothing had been given to the
hapless prisoners, beyond the miserable relics of
their torn garments which had been spared in the
first moments of their capture; nor indeed, save
for the wants of delicacy, was any more required;
for the weather was extremely hot and sultry,
and the air of the small cabin, though all the windows
were thrown open to catch the favoring
breeze, was confined and oppressive. Little,
therefore, had it been in the power of those
wretched girls to do in aid of their offended modesty—little,
however, as it was; all, that the
utmost delicacy with their small means could
have effected, was performed. Teresa's hair had
been replaced, folded in massive wreaths about
her classic temples, decently ordered, but devoid
of the most simple ornament. Her single robe,
of thin and half transparent linen, had been arranged;
and the huge rent, which had displayed
all the voluptuous charms of her young bosom
and round ivory shoulders, repaired by such devices
as woman can alone contrive; so that the
beauties of her unrivaled form, though not concealed—for
how could one light fold of cambric
conceal the swelling outlines, the luxuriant
roundness, the unmatched symmetry of that shape,
delicately full, yet slight withal and sylphlike?—
were veiled at least from the too bold intrusion of
an unchaste eye. The stains, however, were still
there—the frightful stains of recent massacre—
the plain print of ensanguined fingers upon the
sullied surface of that virgin robe—and her small
feet and slender ankles, which might not be concealed
beneath her scanty draperies, were still
encrusted thickly with the unnatural taint of human
slaughter.
With the dark fringe of her long downcast
lashes drawn in distinct relief against a cheek as
colorless and cold as monumental marble—without
one ray of hope, one gleam of intellect, to
lighten up the dull and soulless gloom which
brooded over those glorious features, like a gray
storm-cloud overshadowing a lovely landscape—
her brow, too much oppressed to feel the agony
of its own inward aching, propped on one snowy
hand; while with the azure veins painted in fearful
vividness upon its deadly whiteness, the other
hung down by her side, motionless, lifeless and
unconscious—with scarce more sense of sorrow
or of pain than Niobe, when the last shaft had
flown and her last child lay dead before that stony
effigy which had but a moment since writhed with
the anguish of a mother's grief—silent, and cold,
and rigid, save when a quick convulsive shiver,
the only sign of life she had displayed for hours,
ran through her palsied form, shaking it for an
instant, and then leaving it still as the grave and
nearly as insensible—tearless, and mute in her
exceeding agony, Teresa sat erect in a huge oaken
chair placed almost in the centre of the cabin;
with the black girl, her sole attendant, lately her
common misery all past distinctions were abolished—crouching
on the rich carpet at her feet,
and clinging to the knees of her, in whom, so
deep set was her half-idolatrous veneration, she
could not but imagine some power must still reside,
some magic of authority that must compel
respect even from the world's outcast—the proud,
pitiless corsair.
Such was the picture that met Ringwood's eye,
as his foot crossed the threshold—a picture that
might well have called up sentiments of pity from
the most iron bosom! But in the breast of the
wild Rover pity, which spite his merciless trade
oft found a dwelling there, was for the time overpowered;
crushed as it were, and silenced by the
vast flood of fierce and fiery passions, which
swept across his soul, withering up and searing
every kind sentiment, as the hot lava scathes the
innocent flowers, when he beheld the child—the
heart, as it were, the more than heart—of his detested
foe, helpless, and courting, as it seemed, the
blow that should heap tenfold ruin on the object
of his undying hatred. The voice of memory
spoke trumpet-tongued within him — memory,
fresh from other days and distant climes!—memory,
busy with confidence unwillingly bestowed,
and brutally requited!—memory, full of wrongs,
and woes, and agony, and degradation! The
voice of memory spoke within him—spoke with
a thousand thunderous voices, whose every whisper
was of vengeance!—vengeance, delayed for
long, long years, but never for one hour forgotten!
—vengeance, which should exceed a thousand fold
the injury that woke it!—vengeance, with which
the universe should ring, and which the page of
history should hand down, as unrivaled, to the appalled
and shuddering ears of countless generations!
With such a prompter at his heart's core,
how should he pause to think of Ruth or of forgiveness!
He paused not!—an exulting smile
curled his lip!—curled it with an expression of
pride, malice, scorn, and triumph, that no word
but FIENDISH could convey, however faintly, to
the mind!—his breast swelled with an ecstasy almost
convulsive; his eye positively lightened
with excitement—the terrible excitement of ungovernable
passions, o'ermastering every obstacle
—fierce, furious excitement! rife with the concentrated
fire of every evil, every unholy impulse
implanted by the hand of nature in the breast of
man, bursting the bonds of reason, wild, remorseless,
and untameable. One glance he cast toward
the miserable pair, and cheering himself as if by
a sudden impulse—
“Without there”—he cried—“Ho! without!”
On the instant the door was opened, and the
black woolly head of the gigantic negro was
thrust into the cabin. At the first sound, however,
of the Rover's voice, the Spanish lady, whose
senses, overpowered by the dull torpor of despair,
had not informed her of his entrance, started upon
her feet, turning her clear cold gaze full on the
splendid person of the pirate chief; while down
to her knees clung the black maiden, with the
whites of her eyes dilated into glassy circles by
the intensity of her dismay.
“Take hence the slave girl—bestow her in the
hatch beside the greater arm room; keep her
close prisoner—but, as you love your life, do her
no wrong—not by a word, or look, if you would
scape my vengeance!—gently—away with her!”
A fearful spasm crossed the pale features of
Teresa, as the huge black drew nigh; and it
seemed as though her terrors would have found
vent in a piercing scream, but by a mighty effort
she restrained herself.
“Let go my robe, Cassandra,” she said at
length in tones which, though they faltered, no
terrors could deprive of their almost unearthly
sweetness—“Let go my robe, girl—seest thou
not that no present harm is meant thee?—and if
there were it would boot naught to struggle?
Let go—I say! minion, unloose thy grasp”—she
cried with increased agitation, as the pirate's minister
drew nearer—“wouldst have thy mistress'
person polluted by the touch of yon foul villain?
—nay! tremble not, thou silly one”—she added
kindly, as the terrified creature, relaxing the firm
clasp which she had fastened on her lady's dress,
fell prostrate and almost insensible before her
feet—“they can but kill us—the longest torments
—the direst cruelties—can only lead to that—can
only inflict DEATH!”
As she spoke, gaining courage herself from the
effort she made to cheer her fellow-sufferer's
spirits, Pluto had raised the half-inanimate and
shuddering girl in his strong arms, and was already
bearing her toward the vestibule; when
by a sudden jerk she almost extricated herself
from his embrace, and followed up the first attempt
by a succession of fierce rapid struggles and contortions,
panting and sobbing till it seemed that
her heart would have burst from her bosom,
glaring with her disturbed eyes, and foaming at
the mouth like a demoniac—till finding all her
efforts fruitless, exhausted even more by the violence
of her feelings, than by her terrible though
vain exertions, she sunk into a deep swoon; and
with her head hanging upon the massive shoulder of
the negro, and all her shapely limbs collapsed and
nerveless, was carried off insensible and unresisting.
Alone in that luxurious cabin, surrounded
with all that is most beautiful to the eye, alone
power of the merciless Rover. Both young—
both beautiful—but oh! how different in their
beauty! She, pale and wo-begone, and cold as
the white marble which alone could vie with the
pure splendor of her skin—hopeless, yet firm—
wretched, yet tearless in her misery! He, flushed
with fiery passions, burning with high hot hopes,
instinct with all the ardent energies, the quenchless
vigor, the indomitable power of animal existence!
She, th every image and ideal of perfect
and most lovely death! He, the unequaled type
of glorious and majestic life! With a slow step,
as if half doubtful of his purpose, the Rover neared
his captive—still she stood firm and motionless,
with her large bright eyes shining out, intensely
black and lustrous, from her fixed and hueless
features—fixed upon his with a cold, steady and
unblenching gaze, like that by which the leech is
said to awe his maniac patient, or man, the monarch
of creation, to quell the fiercest savage of
the wild. It seemed as if that frail and slender
girl had listened and believed the tale, `that a
lion will turn and flee from a maid in the pride of
her purity,' and had resolved to try the virtue of
the spell, but on a fiercer and more tameless
being. And in good truth for a second's space it
showed as though the charm were not all powerless—the
haughty spirit did—did for a moment
quail before that firm and fearless gaze!—the
strong brave man did hesitate, before the timorous
weak maiden! There is in truth nothing so
difficult as to approach, with hostile purpose, one
who opposes calm and passive fortitude to threatened
violence—one who shows nought of fear,
meditates nothing of resistance—who neither
courts nor shuns the peril. Man will hew down
the trembling fugitive, from the same natural impulse
which prompts the dog to tear whatever
flies from him—he will assault with all the pride
of defied valor and insulted strength the strong
one who resists him—but he will rarely—rarely
nerve himself to the attack of one who fears not
nor defies the outrage. At length, with a half
start—a start at his own unwonted hesitation—he
advanced, and laid his hand upon her shoulder,
while she still, moving not, nor speaking, maintained
that steadfast gaze, as if she would peruse
his soul; nor did the slightest change in her deportment
give any token that she had felt his lawless
touch, save that a bright flush darted over
brow, face and bosom, brilliant as the electric
flash, and scarce less rapid in its passage.
“This is well, fair one,” he said with a strange
sneer, curling his chiseled lip—“this is well. I
had looked for tears and outcries!—but you are
wise, my beauty; wiser in your generation, as
the scripture hath it, than the children of light!—
but why so mute, Teresa?—speak, girl, know
you the fortune that awaits you,” and he shook
her gently as he spoke, as if to force an answer.
“The lamb in the wolf's lair,” replied the
maiden, “requires no prophet to foretell her
doom.”
“You know it, then?—'fore God I had not looked
for such most sweet compliance!—you know it,
then, and deem it perchance a rare fortune. I
knew ere while you Spanish dames were gamesome,
and something light of love; but I deemed
not—the more fool I to fancy woman could be at
all, and not be wanton—but I deemed not a Spanish
damsel of thy blood and lineage should know
herself, and knowing rest content to be the paramour
of a robber—murtherer—pirate!”
“Nor do you know it now,” replied she, by a
violent effort maintaining that composure which
she deemed the most likely to procure forbearance—“nor
do you know it now—ten thousand
deaths would I die sooner—nor will I be the thing
thou sayest!”
“How wilt thou help it, sweet one?” he asked
sneeringly.
“By not consenting—and by dying!—force me
you may to your vile will by brutal and unmanly
violence—bow me you may, for the brief space
that is permitted you, to your dire passions—but
wrong is not dishonor, nor outrage disgrace! But
for a little time—a little time can you torment
me—the Lord hath given you the power, and you
must use it as you list—but only for a time.”
“Believe it not,” he answered; not unimpressed
by the cool majesty of her demeanor—“Believe
it not, my power upon you is forever—forever
at least here on earth! That which I make thee,
wilt thou remain till death deliver thee—hearest
thou, girl? I say, till death!”
“And I reply, not long!”
“To die, thou wouldst say, ay! to die by the
sudden sword-stroke is not difficult, nor long, nor
painful, worth the counting! Nor is the poison
cup, though slower and more torturing, too tedious
or too difficult for high and resolved spirits—
and such I do believe is thine, Teresa. Nor in
good truth, as thou didst say but now, are the
most cruel, most protracted means by which the
flesh can be compelled to quiver through a living
death—too much to be endured—to be endured so
long as they may last. But mark me, mark me,
maiden; to die is not so easy! an eye shall be on
you forever—no means vouchsafed while thy fit
lasts—and trust me use will reconcile thee to that
life, which thou deemest it no dishonor to enter
on compulsion—to die is not so easy!”
“Nothing is more so,” she replied, forcing herself
her energies. “Nothing is more so. The strongest
frame may not endure a fortnight without sustenance—and
neither thou, with all thy boasted
might, nor all thy mailed myrmidons, can force
one feeble girl to swallow one small mouthful,
save at her own good pleasure!”
“Brave words!” he answered, still with a sneer
—“Brave words, Teresa! but behold! here on
the walls around you hang fifty sheathless poniards,
fifty well-loaded pistols!—had the one feeble girl
been so resolved on death, she might have died
these three hours gone, and none the wiser!
Tush, girl, thou cheatest me not so!”
“Hear me,” she said, with an imploring gesture,
drawing herself a little back from him—
“Hear me at least, as thou dost hope for mercy—
as thou dost trust in God!”
“I do not hope for mercy—I do not trust in
God!” he answered, “Why should I? Mercy
was not for me or mine, when I implored it on
my knees with adjurations, unto which thy feeble
prayers are but as whispers to the sovereign thunder!
God heard not me when I called on him at
my most extreme need. Why should I, girl—
why should I? I do not hope for mercy—I do
not trust in God, yet will I hear thee—hear thee,
for that thou art a woman!”
“Hear me then, and believe my words—nor
think that I feel not, because I shudder not—that
I dread not, loathe not the infamy, because I make
my loathings subject to my will, and speak of
that most coolly which I will not endure and live.
When first I entered here, the thought did cross
my soul that freedom was at hand—the blade was
bared to win it—but suicide is deadly sin—or if
not deadly, allowable but in extremity. There
was a hope! one lingering, last hope then—nor
hath it quite flown now!—a hope that one so
strong, so mighty, and so brave as thou, wouldst
shame to harm a woman!—a woman whom all
men are bound to shelter and defend for that same
weakness which makes it easy—makes it most
base and sordid to assail their frailty. Till this
one hope is gone—I dare not rush unbidden on
eternity. I have thought much—thought coolly
on this matter!—the more, and the more coolly I
have thought, the more I am resolved, and the
more certain mayest thou be that my resolve is
changeless. Injure me, and I die! For some
brief days thou mayest—thou mayest riot, if such
be thy savage will, in the possession, the unmanly
forceful brute possession of frail resisting innocence—for
some brief days of agony to me—of
infamy to thee and of remorse hereafter! With
those brief days—thanks to the mighty Maker,
who made the subtle and immortal soul so sepa
rable from the gross mortal body!—with those
brief days thy power for good or ill—and mine
for agonized endurance, are at an end forever!
Cries, tears, and lamentations I know vain—therefore
I use them not!—but deem not thou shalt
win one favor of my weakness, till that by utmost
force and violence you have overpowered my
most true resistance!”
“One word—one whisper from my lips—and
thou wouldst fly as eagerly to my embrace,
Teresa, as now thou shunnest it,” he again answered,
with the same sneer upon his lip—and
she observed that his voice sounded calmly, and
no longer with the hoarse broken intonations of
overwhelming passion; and that the flush which
had lit up his features, with a light so unnatural and
appalling, had given place to the wonted tints of
his complexion.
“Not though that word would raise me into paradise—that
whisper plunge thee to the abyss of
hell!”
“What if I were to yield thee to the license of
my crew—to the lewd pleasure of yon loathsome
blackamoor!”
“'T is sin—vice—degradation—that is loathsome!
nought else—nought else. Compelled to
my dishonor, I may writhe hopelessly in anguish
—I may die here on earth, and dying live forever
in light, and bliss, and glory everlasting! Complying
I should loathe my very self—should die
each day I lived! and perish, body and soul—
perish now, and forever! But thou wilt not—
thou canst not—thou art a man—a feeling, fiery,
passionate, and it may be a vicious—yet a MAN!
Born of a woman, cradled upon a woman's bosom,
nursed from a woman's breast! thou hast
grown fair, and strong, and noble, reared by the
ministerings of a woman's love! thou didst learn
from a woman's tongue the very accents which
give voice to thy fell threatenings against a woman's
peace! thou hast—thou must have loved,
have sighed for, striven for, done gallant deeds to
win, a woman! and wilt thou—wilt thou now?
wilt thou? no! no! thou wilt not—canst not
wrong one so weak in her frailty—so strong in
her virtue—in her resolve as I! no! no! thine
eye is mild, and thy lip quivers—and—and—and
—thou wilt—wilt spare, protect—oh God! oh
God—thou wilt not wrong me,” and as she spoke,
she flung herself down at his feet; clasped his
knees tight, tight as the serpent's coil, with her
entwining arms; and turning up her pale wan face,
with those dark glorious eyes swimming, yet
overflowing not in outworn nature's agony, toward
the stern, observant, but no longer fierce or inflamed
visage of the Rover—“thou wilt not—for
thy mother's soul! for the sweet memory of
me!”
“Not now! not now at least, Teresa! But I
have heard thee—hear thou now me. I have a
tale to tell thee—of one as innocent—as beautiful
as thou, who prayed, as thou hast prayed, for pity
—who found it not, and died! This thou must
hear—and then thyself shalt say, if it can be that
I—I, the Rover—the world's scorn and hate and
terror—I, Reginald Ringwood, can pity, much
more spare Teresa de Aviles.”
| CHAPTER IV. Ringwood the rover | |