It will not be necessary to dwell upon the feelings with which the female inmates of the vessel had witnessed the disturbances of that day; the conjectures and suspicions to which they gave rise may be apparent in what is about to follow. A mild, soft light fell from the lamp of wrought and massive silver that was suspended from the upper deck, obliquely upon the painfully pensive countenance of the governess, while a few of its strongest rays lighted the youthful bloom, though less expressive because less meditative lineaments, of her companion. The background was occupied, like a dark shadow in a picture, by the dusky form of the slumbering Cassandra. At the moment when we see fit to lift the curtain on this quiet scene of our drama, the pupil was speaking, seeking, in the averted eyes of her instructress, that answer to her question which the tongue of the latter appeared reluctant to accord.
“I repeat, my dearest Madam,” said Gertrude, “that the fashion of these ornaments, no less than their materials, is extraordinary in a ship.”
“And what would you infer from the same?”
“I know not. Still I would that we were safe in the house of my father.”
“God grant it! It may be imprudent to be longer silent.—Gertrude, frightful, horrible suspicions have been engendered in my mind by what we have this day witnessed.”
The cheek of the maiden blanched, and the pupil of her soft eye contracted, with alarm, while she seemed to demand an explanation with every disturbed lineament of her countenance.
“I have long been familiar with the usages of a vessel of war,” continued the governess, who had only paused in order to review the causes of her suspicions in her own mind; “but never have I seen such customs as, each hour, unfold themselves in this vessel.”
“Of what do you suspect her?”
The look of deep, engrossing, maternal anxiety, that the lovely interrogator received in reply to this question, might have startled one whose mind had been more accustomed to muse on the depravity of human nature than the spotless being who received it; but to Gertrude it conveyed no more than a general and vague sensation of alarm.
“Why do you thus regard me, my governess—my mother?” she exclaimed, bending forward, and laying a hand imploringly on the arm of the other, as if she would arouse her from a trance.
“Yes, I will speak: It is safer that you know the worst, than that your innocence should be liable to be abused. I distrust the character of this ship, and of all that belong to her.”
“All!” repeated her pupil, gazing fearfully, and a little wildly, around.
“Yes; of all”
“There may be wicked and evil-intentioned men n his Majesty’s fleet; but we are surely safe from them, since fear of punishment, if not fear of disgrace will be our protector.”
“I dread lest we find that the lawless spirits, who harbour here, submit to no laws except those of their own enacting, nor acknowledge any authority but that which exists among themselves.”
“This would make them pirates!”
“And pirates, I fear, we shall find them.”
“Pirates? What! all?”
“Even all. Where one is guilty of such a crime, it is clear that the associates cannot be free from suspicion.”
“But, dear Madam, we know that one among them, at least, is innocent; since he came with ourselves and under circumstances that will not admit of deception.”
“I know not. There are different degrees of turpitude, as there are different tempers to commit it! I fear that all who may lay claim to be honest, in this vessel, are here assembled.”
The eyes of Gertrude sunk to the floor, and her lips quivered, partly in a tremour she could not control and perhaps in part through an emotion that she found inexplicable to herself.
“Since we know whence our late companion came,” she said, in an under tone, “I think you do him wrong, however right your suspicions may prove as to the rest.”
“I may be wrong as to him, but it is important that we know the worst. Command yourself, my love; our attendant ascends; some knowledge of the truth may be gained from him.”
Mrs Wyllys gave her pupil an expressive sign to compose her features, while she herself resumed her usual, pensive air, with a calmness of mien that might have deceived one far more practised than the boy, who now came slowly into the cabin. Gertrude buried her face in a part of her attire, while the former addressed the individual who had just entered in a tone equally divided between kindness and concern.
“Roderick, child,” she commenced, “your eyelids are getting heavy. This service of a ship must be new to you?”
“It is so old as to keep me from sleeping on my watch,” coldly returned the boy.
“A careful mother would be better for one of your years, than the school of the boatswain. What is your age, Roderick?”
“I have seen years enough to be both wiser and better,” he answered, not without a shade of thought settling on his brow. “Another month will make me twenty.”
“Twenty! you trifle with my curiosity, urchin.”
“Did I say twenty, Madam! Fifteen would be nearer to the truth.”
“I believe you well. And how many of those years have you passed upon the water?”
“But two, in truth; though I often think them ten; and yet there are times when they seem but a day!”
“You are romantic early, boy. And how like you the trade of war?”
“War!”
“Of war. I speak plainly, do I not? Those who serve in a vessel that is constructed expressly for battle, follow the trade of war.”
“Oh! yes; war is certainly our trade.”
“And have you yet seen any of its horrors? Has this ship been in combat since your service?”
“This ship!”
“Surely this ship: Have you ever sailed in any other?”
“Never.”
“Then, it is of this ship that one must question you. Is prize-money plenty among your crew?”
“Abundant; they never want.”
“Then the vessel and Captain are both favourites. The sailor loves the ship and Commander that give him an active life.”
“Ay, Madam; our lives are active here. And some there are among us, too, who love both ship and Commander.”
“And have you mother, or friend, to profit by your earnings?”
“Have I”—
Struck with the tone of stupor with which the boy responded to her queries, the governess turned her head, to read, in a rapid glance, the language of his countenance. He stood in a sort of senseless amazement looking her full in the face, but with an eye far too vacant to prove that he was sensible of the image that filled it.
“Tell me, Roderick,” she continued, careful not to alarm his jealousy by any sudden allusion to his manner; “tell me of this life of yours. You find it merry?”
“I find it sad.”
“‘Tis strange. The young ship-boys are ever among the merriest of mortals. Perhaps your office! treats you with severity.”
No answer was given.
“I am then right: Your Captain is a tyrant?”
“You are wrong: Never has he said harsh or unkind word to me.”
“Ah! then he is gentle