CHAPTER X.IN VAIN.

Meanwhile all was distress and confusion in the family of Sir Richard Vines, who, indignant at the language of Richard Mather, and not supposing his daughter in any immediate danger, had confronted her accusers with a demand for the instant withdrawal of the offensive words.

Mistress Vines had witnessed the attempt to arrest Hope, and was hastening to her side when she beheld her running, as we have seen, in the direction of the Pool. She now, with loud cries and frantic gestures, joined her husband, and all descended the bank in search of the lost child.

Following the side of the water, where the thick under-brush might completely conceal a person beneath, they called Hope by every expression of endearing tenderness, but no response came.

“She but hides herself, sweetheart; be comforted. She hides herself in terror. She will soon be home.”

But his pale, anxious face gave the lie to his consoling words.

“Look here, dame—sweetheart, look! Here is a lock of her hair; we shall soon find her.” And in his sudden senseof relief, he threw the tress over the neck of John Bonyton. He continued, to the latter:

“Make ready for thy voyage, lad. All will be well. They dare not lay a finger upon her precious head. I will defend her with all the power of the colony, and call in the Indians if need be. Hope has not the heart to say good-by. The dear lamb is terrified, and sick at heart. I will avenge the indignity put upon us by these hypocrites! In faith, I will, and we will all meet in England, dear John, and forget this day.”

Thus did the stout man strive to ease his own heart, and stifle back its terrible misgivings.

The little ship, of scarcely two hundred tons, rocked in the offing, and the not unmusical “Yo-heave-oh!” of the sailors, as they weighed the anchor, and shook out the sails, admonished young Bonyton that it was time for him to go on shipboard. The youth still lingered, and cast many a wistful look at the high rocks and dense forests, in the vain expectation of seeing Hope make her appearance.

“My mind misgives me that all is not well with Hope,” he whispered in the ear of Sir Richard.

“Nay, my son, she has been frightened; she hides herself rather than say farewell. Do not heed it. I will write thee that all is well by the next ship. I would have thee away from this people, also,” he added, in a lower tone.

The youth hardly noticed this kindly outbreak, which, at another time, would have awakened affectionate gratitude, but he still lingered and looked. He took the cap from his head, and shaded his eyes therewith. The fine, freshening breeze lifted the curls from his brow, and showed its whiteness; but now it was too pale, and contracted sharply, making a heavy dent between the eyes.

The white sails were set, the anchor weighed, the wherry grated upon the sand, and impatient voices urged him to embark; and yet John Bonyton lingered. His foot was on the gunwale of the boat; the sailors lifted their oars, when suddenly he started back, waved his hand for them to go, and exclaimed:

“No, by heavens! I will not leave, uncertain of her fate!”

There were adjurations and remonstrances innumerable. The vessel waited; Sir Richard implored; it was in vain.

“I will not go—stand off!” he at length cried, pushing the people aside right and left, and making his way with long strides to the Vines mansion.

Mistress Vines, in a burst of maternal tenderness, threw her arms about his neck.

“Oh, my son! my beautiful boy! where is Hope? Where is Hope?” she cried.

The young man lifted her arms from his neck, and looked fiercely round.

“Have you hidden her away from me? Tell me truly. Let no one dare deceive me.”

At this moment his sister Nancy appeared, and going up to him, said:

“I’m ashamed of you, John Bonyton, I am.”

The youth glanced at her. It was evident he was nearly beside himself. He seized her by the arm, and shook her long, thin hands.

“I have heard your talk. I have heard you tell of the ‘witch test,’ on the shoulder of Hope. Go to; if a hair of her head is injured, woe to you and such as you!”

And he pushed her from the door.

In the mean time the vessel departed; the alarm for Hope spread; the whole village was in arms, and people went here and there in wild conjectures. Whatever might have been the feelings of Mistress Bonyton, it was observed that she did not leave her high-backed, flag-bottomed chair, but, with a handkerchief thrown over her head, leaned back, and ever and anon she was heard tocroon, in a quavering voice and dismal tone:

“My heart is like a wilderness;There the wild raven finds her nest,And there the screeching owl.”

“My heart is like a wilderness;There the wild raven finds her nest,And there the screeching owl.”

“My heart is like a wilderness;There the wild raven finds her nest,And there the screeching owl.”

“My heart is like a wilderness;

There the wild raven finds her nest,

And there the screeching owl.”

The door opened, and Dr. Mather and Mr. Partridge entered, and seated themselves beside her. Gradually the room filled with the people of the settlement, who regarded Mistress Bonyton as at the head of the movement against Hope Vines.

While all conversed in a suppressed tone, Dr. Matherinquired as to the habits of Hope and the probabilities of her whereabouts.

While thus engaged, John Bonyton stalked into the room, and stood in the midst, eying the group with a stern glance. Through his clenched teeth he addressed the two learned men, who so confidentially talked with his mother.

“And so ye come a hundred miles or more to persecute a simple child—a poor girl who has provoked the ire of these fiends in human shape!”

“Beware, young man, that you do not bring trouble upon yourself by this intemperate speech,” answered Mather, with compressed lips.

“Oh! I understand your tiger thirst for blood.”

He strode across the room, and laying his hand upon his mother’s shoulder, demanded, thus:

“Tell me where she is, mother. You and these men know; tell me where you have hidden her. Oh, mother! mother! bring not my blood upon your shoulders by concealing her from me, for, as true as there is a God in heaven, if these men, these bloodthirsty hypocrites, whom you, you, mother, have brought here to ruin Hope, harm a hair of her head, I will visit my wrath upon them in a way that shall cause the stoutest heart to faint. Speak, mother, speak, and tell me the worst.”

The mother could not resist this appeal. She sprung forward and fainted in his arms.

There were ejaculations of pity, and cries of shame, and the ordinary tumult sure to ensue when a woman faints, in the midst of all which John Bonyton stood with folded arms. It was sad to see the work of a few hours upon the face of the handsome youth; it had hardened into that inexorable expression which time gives to those who have greatly endured.

“Once more I ask, know you aught of Hope Vines? Speak but one word, mother!”

“I know not where she is, John. For thy sake, I wish it were otherwise.”

Again John Bonyton went forth, and the people turned aside reverently to let him pass, for they saw the great grief upon him. And now he wandered along the pool, for manysurmised that the poor child, in her terror, might have perished there.

Thus days and nights passed away, and the unhappy youth traversed the forest, and searched the sea; but found no more traces of Hope Vines.

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