"Trust you, mother!" replied the youth, with a smile. "I should think so; but there are reasons for my not telling you everything just now. Surely, you can trust me? I have told you as much as I think advisable in the meantime. Ere long I will tell you all."
The widow sighed, and was fain to rest content. She sat down beside the tree, while her companions talked together, apart, in low tones.
"Now Jo, my man," continued Henry, "one of our friends must be got out of the way."
"Wery good; I'm the man as'll do it."
"Of course I don't mean that he's to be killed!"
"In coorse not. Who is he?"
"Ole Thorwald."
"Wot! the descendant o' the Sea Kings, as he calls himself?"
"The same," said Henry, laughing at the look of surprise with which Bumpus received this information.
"What has he bin an' done?"
"He has done nothing as yet," said Henry; "but he will certainly thwart our schemes if he hears of them. He has an inveterate ill-will to my poor father (Henry lowered his voice as he proceeded), and I know has suspicions that we are concocting some plan to enable him to escape, and watches us accordingly. I find him constantly hanging about the jail. Alas! if he knew how thoroughly determined Gascoyne is to refuse deliverance unless it comes from the proper source, he would keep his mind more at ease."
"Don't you think if you wos to tell him that Gascoyne is yer father he would side with us?" suggested Bumpus.
"Perhaps he would. I think he would; but I dare not risk it. The easier method will be to outwit him."
"Not an easy thing for to do, I'm afraid; for he's a cute old feller. How is it to be done?" asked Bumpus.
"By telling him the truth," said Henry; "and you must tell it to him."
"Well, that is a koorious way," said Bumpus, with a broad grin.
"But not the whole truth," continued Henry. "You must just tell him as much as it is good for him to know, and nothing more; and as the thing must be done at once, I'll tell you what you have got to say."
Here the young man explained to the attentive Bumpus the course that he was to follow, and, having got him thoroughly to understand his part, he sent him away to execute it. Meanwhile he and his mother went in search of Mr. Mason, who at the time was holding a consultation with the chiefs of the native village, near the site of his burnt cottage. The consultation had just been concluded when they reached the spot, and the missionary was conversing with the native carpenter who superintended the erection of his new home.
After the morning greeting, and a few words of general conversation, Mrs. Stuart said: "We have come to talk with you in private; will you walk to Alice's tree with us?"
"Certainly, my friend; I hope no new evils are about to befall us," said the missionary, who was startled by the serious countenances of the mother and son; for he was ignorant of the close relation in which they stood to Gascoyne, as, indeed, was every one else in the settlement, excepting Montague and his boatswain and Corrie, all of whom were enjoined to maintain the strictest secrecy on the point.
"No; I thank God, all is well," replied Mrs. Stuart; "but we have come to say that we are going away."
"Going away!" echoed the missionary, in surprise. "When?—where to?—why? You amaze me, Mary."
"Henry will explain."
"The fact is, Mr. Mason?" said Henry, "circumstances require my absence from Sandy Cove on a longer trip than usual, and I mean to take my mother with me. Indeed, to be plain with you, I do not think it likely that we shall return for a long time, perhaps not at all; and it is absolutely necessary that we should go secretly. But we could not go without saying good-by to you."
"We owe much to you, dear Mr. Mason," cried the widow, grasping the missionary's hand and kissing it. "We can never, never forget you; and will always pray for God's best blessings to descend on you and yours."
"This is overwhelming news!" exclaimed Mr. Mason, who had stood hitherto gazing from the one to the other in mute astonishment. "But, tell me, Mary" (here he spoke in earnest tones), "is not Gascoyne at the bottom of this?"
"Mr. Mason," said Henry, "we never did, and never will deceive you. There is a good reason for neither asking nor answering questions on this subject just now. I am sure you know us too well to believe that we think of doing what is wrong, and you can trust us—at least my mother—that we will not do what is foolish."
"I have perfect confidence in your hearts, my dear friends," replied Mr. Mason; "but you will forgive me if I express some doubt as to your ability to judge between right and wrong when your feelings are deeply moved, as they evidently are, from some cause or other, just now. Can you not put confidence in me? I can keep a secret, and may, perhaps, give you good counsel."
"No, no," said Henry, emphatically; "it will not do to involve you in our affairs. It would not be right in us just now to confide even in you. I cannot explain why—you must accept the simple assurance in the meantime. Wherever we go, we can communicate by letter, and I promise, ere long, to reveal all."
"Well, I will not press you further; but I will commend you in prayer to God. I do not like to part thus hurriedly, however. Can we not meet again before you go?"
"We shall be in the cottage at four this afternoon, and will be very glad if you will come to us for a short time," said the widow.
"That is settled, then; I will go and explain to the natives that I cannot accompany them to the village till to-morrow. When do you leave?"
"To-night."
"So soon! Surely it is not—But I forbear to say more on a subject which is forbidden. God bless you, my friends; we shall meet at four. Good-by!"
The missionary turned from them with a sad countenance, and went in search of the native chiefs; while Henry and his mother separated from each other, the former taking the path that led to the little quay of Sandy Cove, the latter that which conducted to her own cottage.
CHAPTER XXX.
More Leaving—Deep Designs—Bumpus in a New Capacity
On the particular day of which we are writing, Alice Mason felt an unusual depression of spirits. She had been told by her father of the intended departure of the widow and her son, and had been warned not to mention it to any one. In consequence of this, the poor child was debarred her usual consolation of pouring her grief into the black bosom of Poopy. It naturally followed, therefore, that she sought her next favorite,—the tree.
Here, to her surprise and comfort, she found Corrie, seated on one of its roots, with his head resting on the stem, and his hands clasped before him. His general appearance was that of a human being in the depths of woe. On observing Alice, he started up, and assuming a cheerful look, ran to meet her.
"Oh! I'm so glad to find you here, Corrie," cried Alice, hastening forward; "I'm in such distress! Do you know that—Oh! I forgot papa said I was to tell nobody about it!"
"Don't let that trouble you, Alice," said Corrie, as they sat down together under the tree. "I know what you were about to say,—Henry and his mother are going away."
"How do you know that? I thought it was a great secret!"
"So it is, a tremendous secret," rejoined Corrie, with a look that was intended to be very mysterious; "and I know it, because I've been let into the secret for reasons which I cannot tell even to you. But there is another secret which you don't know yet, and which will surprise you perhaps, I am going away, too."
"You!" exclaimed the little girl, her eyes dilating