 | CHAPTER XXII. The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett Bay |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
Barbara Frankland was too little
skilled in the arts of coquetry, had too
little pride of wealth orstation, and possessed
too much genuine honest sincerity
to disguise the pleasure that the bold
but respectful words of the young man
gave her.
She betrayed her gratification in her
to see if the maiden, now that her son
had returned, was ready to abide by the
words she had uttered when both supposed
him lost.
“I am very happy to be remembered
by you,” she answered, when he had
done speaking, and looking more beautiful
from her pleased confusion than
she had ever looked in her life, “I
will be as frank as to say that I have
not only in my turn remembered you,
but I have preserved every one of the
shells you gave me with the greatest
care, but mark you,” she added, smiling
archly and feeling as if she had perhaps
confessed more than she ought to have
done, “but I say this to you because
you are Margaret's son, whom I greatly
esteem, for I should not speak so
freely to you were you a stranger.”
And she walked towards the door as if
to hide the beaming expression of her
face from him.
“I am most happy then, not to be
looked upon by you as a stranger,” he
answered with deep joy in his eyes.—
“I feel, lady, that I have been very
`bold, for I am but a seaman, and you-are,
I see, far superior in birth and station
to —”
“You have well guessed Martin,”
said his mother, interrupting him, “yet
she has no pride, as you see. But let
this pass, you will be friends, at least.”
“Mother, who is she?” asked Martin,
in a low tone. “Let me at least learn
the name of one whose image has been
engraven on my heart from the hour I
first met her.”
“She is Barbara Frankland, the
heiress.”
“Daughter of the rich merchant?”
“No less, my boy.”
“Then this meeting I would rather
had never taken place,” he answered
bitterly. “I have found her only to
lose her forever! This is a wretched
hour for me, my dear mother, even
with the joy of meeting you.”
“Nay, my son, courage and hope.
She is as generous and good as she is
rich. And I know loves—”
Here Margaret's words were interrupted
by Barbara, who being in the
door, saw the Free-Trader passing up
close to the shore under full sail, and
exclaimed:
“A ship!”
Both sprang to the door, and Martin,
after a moment's scrutiny, said:
“It is a brig.”
“Then it must be my father's,” said
Barbara. “I trust he is safe.”
“That is no doubt the vessel that this
Gaspee has been firing at, and she has
escaped her,” said Martin. “If so, I
rejoice from my heart, for this revenue
law should be resisted by all true men
of America, with their heart's best
blood if need be.”
“So speaks my father, Martin,” said
Barbara, with animation, “and I rejoice
to hear you utter the same sentiments.”
“My boy is a true colonist, maiden.
He is poor and lowly, but—”
“Speak not in this way of him, Margaret,
it is the same to me, whether he
be rich or poor. I esteem no one for
wealth or rank, thou art well apprised.
The brig is making rapidly towards the
town, I would that I knew my father
were safe.”
“Let me go and ascertain for you.
I know well the way, though it is so
long since I have walked the paths,”
cried Martin, moving forward. “I can
reach the wharves by the time the brig
does.”
“No, no, not to expose yourself to
danger. Your safety depends on concealment,
search of you. We must not lose
you so soon, must we, Mrs. Manwaring,”
said Barbara, smiling.
“I would not consent for him to go,
save for you, Barbara,” answered the
mother, as she held him by the hand.
“But he shall go for thee, for I know
he would risk his life for you.”
“Indeed, Iwould!” answered Martin,
warmly.
“You must remain here then, and
please me by obedience, Mr. Manwaring,”
said she, with playful firmness.
“Your safety must first be consulted.
I will go home and send to the pier for
news of my father. Margaret, see that
he does not expose himself rashly.”
“I will at once conceal him!”
“Unless you are sure that he will be
perfectly secure from any searching
party, I think you had best come to my
father's, for there they would not look
for him.”
“No, he must be kept with me here
He will be safe.”
“Then I leave you with him,” she
answered, “and I will see you early in
the morning; but on no account leave
your house, for it might be searched in
your absence.”
“Miss Frankland, I do not know how
to express my emotions of gratitude
that you should manifest such an interest
in me.”
“Did we not show it in you when
we first discovered you, not knowing
who you were, or whether you were
old or young, gentle or simple,” she
answered, playfully.
“True,” he answered, “true. I
have presumed too much,” he added,
sadly.
“No, do not despair. We shall at
least be friends,” she said in a marked
and kind manner, as she took his hand
in passing him. “Let us both hope the
the best. Good night! To-morrow
early, Margaret, thou shalt either see
or hear from me.”
“Good night, maiden,” said Mrs.
Manwaring, who from the first moment
of the discovery of her son had manifested
entire restoration to her former
sane state of mind, at which Barbara,
who could not but see the sudden and
great change in her, was astonished,
while her heart was filled with the deepest
gratitude, for she felt how bitter
would have been to Martin the hour of
his meeting with his mother, if he had
found in her the “mad Margaret,” who
for five years past had been the wild
wanderer and the common fortune-teller
of the colony. But now that in her
words, her looks, her deportment,
she once more beheld her clothed
in her right mind, she could not refrain
from tears of joy; for the fact
that she had discovered in Margaret
the mother of the youth who had given
her the shells, had enlisted her warmest
interest in her, and led her to sympathise
in all that befel her, whether of
good or evil.
“Miss Frankland,” said Martin, advancing
from the door to overtake her,
after she had left it to proceed homeward,
her bosom filled with the liveliest
fears for her father's safety, “I cannot
consent to let you go on this lonely
road alone.”
“Nor can I consent for you to accompany
me,” she answered, firmly.
“There is more than one interested in
your safety, Mr. Manwaring.”
“More than one!” he repeated, with
trembling joy.
“Yes, but perhaps I have said more
than I should have done. Return and
let me hasten on my way.”
“I obey you,” he responded turning
till she disappeared, and then re-entering
his mother's hut, was once more
clasped to her maternal bosom.
“I have been trying to realise that
my child is restored to me,” she said,
with tears, “but I cannot. It seems
like a dream to me, Martin. But these
tears are real, and I have not shed a
tear since the day you left me. All the
past has been like a fearful night-mare!”
“Speak not of it, mother. I am restored
to you, and my happiness is increased
in finding you alive.”
“I have been as one dead, though,
Martin, my child. You ought to know,
and will hear it, so I will first tell thee
the worst. I have been a mad woman,
but heaven has restored my reason in
restoring you.”
“Mad?”
“Yes, your loss overturned my poor
brain, but you see I am well now.”
“Mad!” he repeated, “my mother
been mad!”
“Not now! It is passed. Did you
not know, I took the boat and followed
you in the ship?”
“I saw you not, but they told me
afterwards you did. I was cast into
the lowest part of the ship, and remained
there three days because I refused
to work. They told me you followed
me, dear mother.”
“For ten leagues, till a storm drove
me ashore, and I was picked up by some
humane persons, but my reason was
gone, they told me.”
“My poor mother!”
“And so I have been ever since.
Sometimes I would gain my right mind
for a few days, and go to church to
hear the sweet gospel, which always
soothed me, but then I would soon after
be worse than ever. So I have been.
People have proved kind to me, but I
know I have been the sport and mock
of the unfeeling. They called me
“Mad Margaret,” and came to me to
tell their fortunes. But do not look
so sorrowful, my boy. Your return
has restored me to myself. I feel that
I am well now. But I have told thee
this, that you may not hear it first from
others, and be shocked!”
“My dear mother! This has all
been suffered for me. But I hope, as
you say, it is passed. And Miss Frankland,
has she been kind?”
“Let us talk of her, for it is good to
talk of the good, my son. She has been
an angel to me in my affiction. She
has relieved my wants, and her father
has been most charitable to me!”
“God bless them both!” How
strange that you two, the only two I love,
on earth, should have met me to-night
so providentially.”
“Her father has gone down to meet
a vessel to-night, and she came to see
him to his boat, and called in upon me
on her way home, and I talked of you
to her as I was walking homeward with
her, and I learned from her that—”
“That—?” he gasped, eagerly.
“That she loved you.”
“Loved me—me. Heaven be
thanked! Oh! my dear mother, mock
not the sweet hopes and fears of my years
of wanderings. Tell me truly all!”
“I know that my words are true,
Martin. She told me that she had never
ceased to think of you, and yet she
knew not who you were, when she told
me this.”
“But now that she knows—”
“She knew before we saw you on
the rock, for I told her that the lad she
loved to remember so fondly was my
boy—my lost, (but now found) child.”
“And what said she then?”
“It bound her at once to me, like a
daughter to her mother.”
“Oh, sweet words.”
“She said that I was dear to her
from that moment.”
“Noble maiden! She did not despise
me, then. Even when she knew
was of poor and humble origin.”
“No, Martin, I thought she seemed
pleased to learn that it was my son she
had so long loved.”
“Loved? Your confident words
amaze and overpower me.”
“Yet the maiden loves thee, Martin,
and the only fear and the only doubt that
at this moment lies at her heart, is that
you may not requite that love.”
“I? I have assured her as far as I
dared to, that she was dearer to me than
my life.”
“Then she will be happy. You know
you, Martin. She told me that she always
lived in the hope of one day seeing
you again, with whom she had had but
one interview, but in which one she
had lost to you her youthful heart.”
“Talk to me thus forever, my dear
mother.”
“Thus we were conversing, when I
heard you, my boy, swimming towards
the shore. Little did we suspect who
it was our sympathies were awakened
for, as we hastened to your relief.—
God rewarded our benevolence by giving
to me my son,—to the maiden, him
who had so long filled her heart.”
“Oh, what precious words drop from
your lips! I must dream, mother!—
This hour is too happy for waking life.
But I cannot dare hope. She will tomorrow
laugh at the sailor she has to-night
taken pity on, when he dares to
lift his eyes in devoted passion to her
face.”
“You know not of whom you speak,
Martin. Barbara Frankland has a soul
superior to every sordid consideration.
She loves you!”
“I am perfectly happy. I have
looked forward with wild dreams into
such a future as this; but never hoped
to realise it. How many an hour have
I passed in foreign seas, as I have paced
the deck in my lonely watch, framing
romances of love, of which the beautiful
shell-girl was the heroine; but this
hour surpasses them all. Dare I indeed
hope, my mother?”
“Hope, for she loves thee!”
“I dare not hope, till I learn from
her own lips my fate. It would be presumption
in me to hope—”
“Come with me, quickly! I hear a
shouting! Thy enemies may be upon
thee!”
| CHAPTER XXII. The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett Bay | |