Westward Ho! Or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, of Burrough, in the County of Devon, in the Reign of Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth

“Grand, good, and brave, like—”

Mrs. Leigh was about to have said the name of one who was lost to her on earth. His fair angelic face hung opposite upon the wall. She paused unable to pronounce his name; and lifted up her eyes, and gazed on the portrait, and breathed a prayer between closed lips, and drooped her head again.

Her pupil caught at the pause, and filled it up for herself—

“Like him?” and she turned her head quickly toward the window.

“Yes, like him, too,” said Mrs. Leigh, with a half-smile at the gesture. “Now, mind your book. Maidens must not look out of the window in school hours.”

“Shall I ever be an English girl?” asked Ayacanora.

“You are one now, sweet; your father was an English gentleman.”

Amyas looked in, and saw the two sitting together.

“You seem quite merry there,” said he.

“Come in, then, and be merry with us.”

He entered, and sat down; while Ayacanora fixed her eyes most steadfastly on her book.

“Well, how goes on the reading?” said he; and then, without waiting for an answer—“We shall be ready to clear out this day week, mother, I do believe; that is, if the hatchets are made in time to pack them.”

“I hope they will be better than the last,” said Mrs. Leigh. “It seems to me a shameful sin to palm off on poor ignorant savages goods which we should consider worthless for ourselves.”

“Well, it’s not over fair: but still, they are a sight better than they ever had before. An old hoop is better than a deer’s bone, as Ayacanora knows,—eh?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said she, who was always nettled at the least allusion to her past wild life. “I am an English girl now, and all that is gone—I forget it.”

“Forget it?” said he, teasing her for want of something better to do. “Should not you like to sail with us, now, and see the Indians in the forests once again?”

“Sail with you?” and she looked up eagerly.

“There! I knew it! She would not be four-and-twenty hours ashore, but she would be off into the woods again, bow in hand, like any runaway nymph, and we should never see her more.”

“It is false, bad man!” and she burst into violent tears, and hid her face in Mrs. Leigh’s lap.

“Amyas, Amyas, why do you tease the poor fatherless thing?”

“I was only jesting, I’m sure,” said Amyas, like a repentant schoolboy. “Don’t cry now, don’t cry, my child, see here,” and he began fumbling in his pockets; “see what I bought of a chapman in town to-day, for you, my maid, indeed, I did.”

And out he pulled some smart kerchief or other, which had taken his sailor’s fancy.

“Look at it now, blue, and crimson, and green, like any parrot!” and he held it out.

She looked round sharply, snatched it out of his hand, and tore it to shreds.

“I hate it, and I hate you!” and she sprang up and darted out of the room.

“Oh, boy, boy!” said Mrs. Leigh, “will you kill that poor child? It matters little for an old heart like mine, which has but one or two chords left whole, how soon it be broken altogether; but a young heart is one of God’s precious treasures, Amyas, and suffers many a long pang in the breaking; and woe to them who despise Christ’s little ones!”

“Break your heart, mother?”

“Never mind my heart, dear son; yet how can you break it more surely than by tormenting one whom I love, because she loves you?”

“Tut! play, mother, and maids’ tempers. But how can I break your heart? What have I done? Have I not given up going again to the West Indies for your sake? Have I not given up going to Virginia, and now again settled to go after all, just because you commanded? Was it not your will? Have I not obeyed you, mother, mother? I will stay at home now, if you will. I would rather rust here on land, I vow I would, than grieve you—” and he threw himself at his mother’s knees.

“Have I asked you not to go to Virginia? No, dear boy, though every thought of a fresh parting seems to crack some new fibre within me, you must go! It is your calling. Yes; you were not sent into the world to amuse me, but to work. I have had pleasure enough of you, my darling, for many a year, and too much, perhaps; till I shrank from lending you to the Lord. But He must have you. . . . It is enough for the poor old widow to know that her boy is what he is, and to forget all her anguish day by day, for joy that a man is born into the world. But, Amyas, Amyas, are you so blind as not to see that Ayacanora—”

“Don’t talk about her, poor child. Talk about yourself.”

“How long have I been worth talking about? No, Amyas, you must see it; and if you will not see it now, you will see it one day in some sad and fearful prodigy; for she is not one to die tamely. She loves you, Amyas, as a woman only can love.”

“Loves me? Well, of course. I found her, and brought her home; and I don’t deny she may think that she owes me somewhat—though it was no more than a Christian man’s duty. But as for her caring much for me, mother, you measure every one else’s tenderness by your own.”

“Think that she owes you somewhat? Silly boy, this is not gratitude, but a deeper affection, which may be more heavenly than gratitude, as it may, too, become a horrible cause of ruin. It rests with you, Amyas, which of the two it will be.”

“You are in earnest?”

“Have I the heart or the time to jest?”

“No, no, of course not; but, mother, I thought it was not comely for women to fall in love with men?”

“Not comely, at least, to confess their love to men. But she has never done that, Amyas; not even by a look or a tone of voice, though I have watched her for months.”

“To be sure, she is as demure as any cat when I am in the way. I only wonder how you found it out.”

“Ah,” said she, smiling sadly, “even in the saddest woman’s soul there linger snatches of old music, odors of flowers long dead and turned to dust—pleasant ghosts, which still keep her mind attuned to that which may be in others, though in her never more; till she can hear her own wedding-hymn re-echoed in the tones of every girl who loves, and sees her own wedding-torch re-lighted in the eyes of every bride.”

“You would not have me marry her?” asked blunt, practical Amyas.

“God knows what I would have—I know not; I see neither your path nor my own—no, not after weeks and months of prayer. All things beyond are wrapped in mist; and what will be, I know not, save that whatever else is wrong, mercy at least is right.”

“I’d sail to-morrow, if I could. As for marrying her, mother—her birth, mind me—”

“Ah, boy, boy! Are you God, to visit the sins of the parents upon the children?”

“Not that. I don’t mean that; but I mean this, that she is half a Spaniard, mother; and I cannot!—Her blood may be as blue as King Philip’s own, but it is Spanish still! I cannot bear the thought that my children should have in their veins one drop of that poison.”

“Amyas! Amyas!” interrupted she, “is this not, too, visiting the parents’ sins on the children?”

“Not a whit; it is common sense,—she must have the taint of their bloodthirsty humor. She has it—I have seen it in her again and again. I have told you, have I not? Can I forget the look of her eyes as she stood over that galleon’s captain, with the smoking knife in her hand.—Ugh! And she is not tamed yet, as you can see, and never will be:—not that I care, except for her own sake, poor thing!”

“Cruel boy! to impute as a blame to the poor child, not only the errors of her training, but the very madness of her love!”

“Of her love?”

“Of what else, blind buzzard? From the moment that you told me the story of that captain’s death, I knew what was in her heart—and thus it is that you requite her for having saved your life!”