University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE ROVER.

After scenes of great excitement there ever follows a sort of
listless languor; and, as in natural commotions the fiercest elemental
strife is oftentimes succeeded by the stillest calms, so
in the agitations of the human breast, the most tumultuous passions
are followed frequently, if not invariably, by a sort of
quiet which resembles, though it is not, indifference.

Thus it was, that day, in the household of William Allan.
Tranquil and peaceful at all times, in consequence of the reserved
and studious habits of the master of the house, and the
deep sympathy with his feelings and wishes which ruled the
conduct of his children — for Denzil was, in all respects save
birth, the old man's son — that house was not usually without
its own peculiar cheerfulness, and its subdued hilarity, arising
from the gentle yet mirthful disposition of the young girl, and
the high spirits of Denzil, attuned to the sobriety of the place.

But during the whole of that day its quietude was so very
still as to be almost oppressive, and to be felt so by its inmates.
Allan himself was still enveloped in one of those mysterious
moods of darkness, which at times clouded his strong and powerful
intellect, as marsh exhalations will obscure the sunshine
of an autumn day. Denzil was silent, reserved, thoughtful, not

gloomy or even melancholy, but — very unusually for him —
disposed to muse and ponder, rather than to converse or to act.
Theresa was evidently agitated and perturbed; and although
she compelled herself to be busy about her domestic duties, to
attend to the comforts of the strange guests whom accident had
thrown upon their hospitality, though she strove to be cheerful,
and to assume a lightness of heart which she was far from feeling,
she was too poor a dissembler to succeed in imposing
either on herself or on those about her, and there was no one
person in the cottage, from the old cavalier down to the single
femaleservant, with the exception of her father, who did not
perceive that something had occurred to throw an unwonted
shadow over her mind.

Jasper, alone perhaps of all the persons so singularly thrown
together, was himself. His age, his character, his temperament,
all combined to render him the last to be affected seriously
by anything which did not touch himself very nearly.
And yet he was not altogether what is called selfish; though
recklessness, and natural audacity, and undue indulgence, and,
above all, the evil habits which had grown out of his being too
soon his own master, and the master of others, had rendered
him thoughtless, if not regardless, of the feelings of those around
him.

All the consequences of his accident, except the stiffness and
pain remaining from his contusions, had passed away; and
though he was confined to his bed, and unable to move a limb
without a pang, his mind was as clear, and his spirit as untamed
as ever.

His father, who had been aroused from the state of indolence
and sedentary torpor, which was habitual rather than natural
to him, by the accident which had startled him into excitement
and activity, had not yet subsided into his careless self-indulgence;
for the subsequent events of the past evening, and his

conversation with Denzil on that morning, had moved and interested
him deeply — had set him to thinking much about the
past, and thence to ruminating on the future, if perchance he
could read it.

He by no means lacked clear-sightedness, or that sort of
wordly wisdom, which arises from much intercourse with the
world in all its various phases. He was far from deficient in
energy when aught occurred to stimulate him into action, whether
bodily or mental. And now he was interested enough to induce
him so far to exert himself, as to think about what was
passing, and to endeavor to discover its causes.

It was not, therefore, long before he satisfied himself, and
that without asking a question, or giving utterance to a surmise,
that an explanation had taken place between the young seaman
and Theresa, and that the explanation had terminated in the
disappointment of Denzil's hopes. Still he was puzzled, for
there was an air of tranquil satisfaction — it could not be called
resignation, for it had no particle of humility in its constituents
— about the young man, and an affectionate attention to his
pretty cousin, which did not comport with what he supposed to
be his character, under such circumstances as those in which
he believed him to stand toward her.

He would have looked for irritability, perhaps for impetuosity
bordering on violence, perhaps for sullen moodiness — the present
disposition of the man was to him incomprehensible. And
if so, not less was he unable to understand the depression of
the young girl, who was frequently, in the course of the day, so
much agitated, as to be on the point of bursting into tears, and
avoided it only by making her escape suddenly from the room.

Once or twice, indeed, he caught her eyes, when she did not
know that she was observed, fixed with an expression, to which
he could affix no meaning, upon the varying and intelligent
countenance of his son — an expression half-melancholy, half-wistful,

conveying no impression to the spectator's mind, of the
existence in hers of either love or liking, but rather of some
sort of hidden interest, some earnest curiosity coupled almost
with fear — something, in a word, if such things can be, that
resembled painful fascination. Once, too, he noticed, that not
he only, but Denzil Bras-de-fer likewise, perceived the glance,
and was struck by its peculiarity. And then the old cavalier
was alarmed; for a spirit, that was positively fearful, inflamed
the dark face and gleaming eyes of the free-trader — a spirit of
malevolence and hate, mingled with iron resolve and animal
fierceness, which rendered the handsome features, while it
lasted, perfectly revolting.

That aspect was transient, however, as the short-lived illumination
of a lightning flash, when it reveals the terrors of a
midnight ocean. It was there; it was gone — and, almost before
you could read it, the face was again inscrutable as blank
darkness.

The thought arose, several times that day, in the mind of
Miles St. Aubyn, that he would give much that neither he nor
his son had never crossed the threshold of that house; or that
now, being within it, it were within his power to depart. But
carriages, in those days, were luxuries of comparatively rare
occurrence even in the streets of the metropolis; and in the remote
rural counties, the state of society, the character of the
roads, and the limited means of the resident landed proprietors
rendered them almost unknown.

There were not probably, within fifty miles of Widecomb,
two vehicles of higher pretension than the rough carts of the
peasantry and farmers; all journeys being still performed on
horseback, if necessary by relays; even the fair sex travelling,
according to their nerves and capability to endure fatigue, either
on the side-saddle, or on pillions behind a relative or a trusty
servant.

Until Jasper should be sufficiently recovered either to set foot
in stirrup, or to walk the distance between the fords of Widecomb
and the House in the Woods, there was therefore no alternative
but to make the best of it, and to remain where they
were, relying on the hospitality of their entertainers.

Denzil's manner, it is true, partook in no degree of the coloring
which that transient expression seemed to imply in his
feelings; for, though unwontedly silent, when he did speak he
spoke frankly and friendly to the young invalid; and more than
once, warming to his subject, as field-sports, or bold adventures,
of this kind or that, came into mention, he displayed interest
and animation; and even related some personal experiences,
and striking anecdotes, of the Spanish Main and of the Indian
islands, with so much spirit and liveliness, as to show that he
not only wished to amuse, but was amused himself.

While he was in this mood, he suffered it to escape him, or
to be elicited from him by some indistinct question of the old
cavalier, that he intended ere long to set forth again on another
voyage of adventure to those far climes which were still invested
with something of the romance of earlier ages.

It was at this hint, especially, that Sir Miles St. Aubyn observed
Theresa's beautiful blue eyes fill with unbidden tears,
and her bosom throb with agitation so tumultuous, that she had
no choice but to retire from the company, in order to conceal
her emotion.

And at this, likewise, for the first time did William Allan
manifest any interest in the conversation.

“What,” he said, “what is that thou sayest, Denzil, that thou
art again about to leave us? Methought it was thy resolve to
tarry with us until after the autumnal solstice.”

“It was my resolve, uncle,” replied the young man quietly;
“but something has occurred since, which has caused me to
alter any determination. My mates, moreover, are very anxious

to profit by the fine weather of this season, and so soon as
I can ship a cargo, and get some brisk bold hands, I shall set
sail.”

“I like not such quick and sudden changes,” replied the old
man; “nor admire the mind which can not hold to a steady
purpose.”

The dark complexion of Denzil fired for a moment at the rebuke,
and his nether lip quivered, as though he had difficulty in
repressing a retort. He did repress it, however, and answered,
apparently without emotion:—

“You are a wise man, uncle, and must know that circumstances
will arise which must needs alter all plans that are
merely human. L'homme propose, as the Frenchman has it,
mais Dieu dispose. So it is with me, just now. The changed
determination which I have just announced does not arise from
any change in my desires, but from a contingency on which I
did not calculate.”

“It were better not to determine until one had made sure of
all contingencies,” said William Allan, sententiously.

“Then I think, one would never determine at all. For, if I
have learned aright, mutability is a condition unavoidable in human
affairs. But be this as it may, the only change, I can imagine,
which will hinder me from sailing on the Virginia voyage,
so soon as I can ship a crew and stow a cargo, will be a change
of the wind. It blows fair now, if it will only hold a week. One
other change there is,” he added, as his fair cousin entered the
room with a basket of fresh-gathered roses, “which might detain,
but that change will not come to pass; do you think it will,
Theresa?”

“I think not, Cousin Denzil,” she replied with a slight blush,
“if you allude to that concerning which we spoke this morning.”

The old knight looked from one to the other of the young
people in bewilderment. Their perfect understanding and extreme

control of their feelings were beyond his comprehension,
and yet he could not believe that he had mistaken.

“What, are you too against me, girl?” said her father quickly.
“Have you given your consent to his going?”

“My consent!” she replied; “I do not imagine that my consent
is very necessary, or that Denzil would wait long for it.
But I do think it is quite as well he should go now, if he must
go at all, particularly as he intends, if I understand rightly, that
it should be his last voyage.”

“I did not promise that, Theresa,” said the sailor, with a
faint smile — “although” —

“Did you not?” — she interrupted him quickly — “I thought
you had; but it must be as you will, and certainly it does not
much concern me.”

And with the words she left the room hastily, and not as it
appeared very well pleased.

“There! seest thou that?” cried her father — “seest thou
that, Denzil?”

“Ay! do I,” replied the young man with a good deal of
bitterness. “But I do not need to see that, to teach me that
women are capricious and selfish in their exigency of services.”

There was a dead pause. A silence, which in itself was
painful, and which seemed like to give birth to words more painful
yet, for William Allan knit his brow darkly, and compressed his
lower lip, and fixed his eye upon vacancy.

But at this moment Jasper, whose natural recklessness had
rendered him unobservant of the feelings which had been displayed
during that short conversation, raised himself on his
elbow, and looking eagerly at Denzil exclaimed:—

“Oh, the Virginia voyage! To the New World! My God!
how I should love to go with you. Do you carry guns? How
many do you muster of your crew?”

The interruption, although the speaker had no such intention,

was well timed, for it turned the thoughts and feelings of all
present into a new channel. The two old men looked into each
other's face, and smiled as their eyes met, and Allan whispered,
though quite loud enough to be audible to all present:—

“The same spirit, Miles, the same spirit. As crows the old
game-cock, so crows the young game-chicken!”

“And why not?” answered Denzil, with a ready smile, for
there was something that whispered at his heart, though indeed
he knew not wherefore, that it were not so ill done to remove
Jasper from that neighborhood for a while. “If Sir Miles judge
it well that you should see something of the world, in these
piping times of peace, it is never too soon to begin. You shall
have a berth in my own cabin, and I will put you in the way of
seeing swords flash, and smelling villanous saltpetre, in a right
good cause, I'll warrant you.”

“A right good cause, Denzil? and what cause may that be?”
asked his uncle in a caustic tone.

“The cause of England's maritime supremacy,” answered
the young man proudly. “That is cause good enough for
me. For what saith Bully Blake in the old song —

and he carolled the words in a fine deep bass voice, to a stirring
air, and then added — “That, sir, is the cause we fight for, on
the line and beyond it — and that we will fight for, here and
everywhere, when it shall be needful to fight for it. And now,
young friend, to answer your question. I do carry guns, eighteen
as lively brass twelve-pounders as ever spoke good English
to a Don or a Monsieur, or a Mynheer either, for that matter;
and then for crew, men and officers, I generally contrive to
pack on board eighty or ninety as brisk boys as ever pulled upon a
brace, or handled a cutlass.”

“Why you must reckon on high profits to venture such an

outlay,” said Sir Miles, avoiding the question of his son's participation
in the cruise.

“Ay!” answered Denzil, “if no gold is to be had for picking
up in Eldorado, there is some to be gained there yet by free-trading
— and once in a while one may have the luck to pick
up a handful on the sea.”

“On the sea, ay! how so?”

“Once I was going quietly along before the trades, with my
goods under hatches as peaceable and lawful a trader, as need
be, when we fell in with a tall galleon laveering. Having no
cause to shun or fear her, I lay my own course with English
colors flying, when what does she but up helm and after us.
In half an hour she was within range and opened with her bow
guns, in ten minutes more she was alongside, and —”

“Alongside, in ten minutes, from long cannon range!” exclaimed
Miles St. Aubyn — “what were you doing then, that
she overhauled you so fast?”

“Running down to meet her, Sir Miles, with every stitch of
canvass set that would draw, when I saw that she was bent on
having it; and — as I was about to say when you interrupted
me — in twenty more she had changed owners.”

“Indeed! indeed! that was a daring blow,” said the old soldier,
rousing at the tale, like a superannuated war-horse to the
trumpet, “and what was she?”

“A treasure-galleon, sir; a Spaniard homeward bound, with
twenty-six guns, and two hundred men.”

“And what did you do with your prize, in peace time? You
hardly brought her into Plymouth, I should fancy.”

“Nor into Cadiz, either,” he replied with a smile. “Her
crew or what was left of them, were put on board a coaster
bound for St. Salvador, her bars and ingots on board the good
ship `Royal Oak,' of Bristol, and she — oh! she, I think, was
sent to the bottom!”

“A daring deed!” said Sir Miles, shaking his head gravely
— “a daring deed, truly, which might well cost you all your
lives, were it complained of by the most Christian king!”

“And yet his supreme Christianity fired on us the first!”

“And yet, that plea, I fear, would hardly save you in these
days, but you would hang for it.”

“Amen!” replied the young man. “Better be hanged, `his
country crying he hath played an English part,' than creep to
a quiet grave a coward from his cradle. And now, what say
you, young sir, would you still wish to adventure it with us,
knowing what risks we run?”

“Ay, by my soul!” answered the brave boy, with a flashing
eye, and quivering lip, “and the rather, that I do know it.
What do you say, father? May I go with him? In God's
name, will you not let me go with him?”

“Indeed, will I not, Jasper,” said Sir Miles, with an accent
of resolve so steady, that the boy saw at once it was useless to
waste another word on it. “Besides, he is only laughing at
you. Why! what in Heaven's name should he make with such
a cockerel as thou, crowing or ere thy spurs have sprouted!”

“Laughing at me, is he!” exclaimed the boy, raising himself
up in his bed, actively, without exhibiting the least sign of the
pain, which racked him, as he moved. “If I thought he were,
he 'd scarce sail so quickly as he counts on doing.”

Here Denzil would have spoken, but the old cavalier cut in
before him, saying with a sneer:—

“It is like thou couldst hinder him, my boy, at any time;
most of all when thou art lying there bedridden.”

“The very reason wherefore I could hinder him the easier,”
replied Jasper, who saw by Denzil's grave and calm expression
that the meaning his father had attached to his speech, was not
his meaning.

“And how so, I prithee?”

“Had he, as you say he did, intended to mock me, or insult
me otherwise, I would have prayed him courteously to delay
his sailing until such time as my hurts would permit me to
draw triggers, or cross swords with him; and he would have
delayed at my request, being a gentleman of courage and of
honor.”

“Assuredly I should,” replied Denzil Bras-de-fer, “and you
would have done very rightly to call on me in that case. But
let me assure you, nothing was further from my intention than
to laugh at you. I sailed myself, and smelt gunpowder in earnest,
before I was so old as you are by several years; and I
was perfectly in earnest when I spoke, although I can now
well see that my offer, though assuredly well intended, could
not be accepted.”

Before Jasper had time to reply to these words, his father
said to him with a look of approbation:—

“You have answered very well, my son; and I am glad that
you have reflected, and seen so well what becomes a gentleman
to ask, and to grant in such cases. For the rest, you ought to
see that Master Denzil Olifaunt is perfectly in the right; and,
that having offered you courteously what you asked rashly, he
now perceives clearly the impossibility of your accepting his
offer.”

“I do not, however, see that at all,” answered the boy moodily.
“You carried a stand of colors, I have heard you say,
before you were fifteen, and you deny me the only chance of
winning honor that ever may be offered to me, in these degenerate
times, and under this peaceful king.”

“I do not think that it would minister very much to your
honor, or add to the renown of our name, that you should get
yourself hanged on some sand-key in the Caribbean sea, or
knocked on the head in some scuffle with the Spanish guarda
costas — no imputation, I pray you believe me, Master Olifaunt,

on your choice of a career, the gallantry and justice of which I
will not dispute, though I may not wish my son to adopt it.”

“I know not what you would have me do,” said the boy,
“unless you intend to keep me here all my life, fishing for salmon
and shooting black-cock for an occupation, and making
love to country-girls for an amusement.”

“I was not aware, Jasper,” answered his father more seriously
than he had ever before heard him speak, “that this latter
was one of your amusements. If it be so, I shall certainly
take the earliest means of bringing it to a conclusion, for while
it is not very creditable to yourself, it is ruinous to those with
whom you think fit to amuse yourself as you call it.”

“I did not say that I ever had amused myself so,” replied
Jasper, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke of his father —
“though if I am kept moping here much longer, Heaven only
knows what I may do.”

“Well, sir, no more of this!” said the old man sharply.
“You are not yet a man, whatever you may think of yourself;
neither, I believe, are you at all profligate or vicious. Although
as boys at your age are apt enough to do, you may think it
manly to affect vices of which you are ignorant. But to quit
this subject, when do you think you shall sail, Master Olifaunt?”

“I can not answer you that, Sir Miles, certainly. I purpose
to set off hence for Plymouth to-morrow afternoon, and, as I
shall ride post, it will not take me long ere I am on board.
When I arrive, I shall be able to fix upon a day for sailing.”

“But you will return hither, will you not, before you go to
sea?”

“Assuredly I will, Sir Miles, to say farewell to my kind
uncle here, who has been as a father to me, and to my little
Theresa.”

“And you will pass one day I trust, if you may not give us

more, with Jasper at the manor. We can show you a heron
or two on the moor, and let you see how our long-winged falcons
fly, if you are fond of hawking. It shall be my fault, if
hereafter, after so long an interruption, I suffer old friendship,
and recent kindness also, to pass away and be forgotten.”

“I will come gladly to see my young friend here, who will
ere then be quite recovered from this misadventure; and who,
if he rides as venturesomely as he fishes, will surely leave me
far behind in the hot hawking gallop; for though I can ride, I
am, sailor-like, not over excellent at horsemanship.”