Westward Ho [307]
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
"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