"I'll send you up in a moment," said Robin, in a kind voice. "Your
daughter, Barbara----"
"Ay, that it is, that it is," muttered the Buccaneer; "my own, own
child!--the child of one who, I bless God, never lived to know that she
wedded (for I wedded her in holy church, at Dominica) a wild and wicked
rover. Our love was sudden and hot, as the sun under which we lived; and
I never left her but once from the time we became one. I had arranged
all, given up my ship and cargo,--and it was indeed a cargo of
crimes--at least, I thought so then. It was before the civil wars; or I
had again returned to England, or traded, no matter how. I flew to her
dwelling, with a light heart and a light step. What there? My
wife,--she who had hung so fondly round my neck and implored me not to
leave her,--was stretched on a low bamboo bed--dead, sir--dead! I might
have known it before I entered, had I but remembered that she knew my
step on the smooth walk, fell it ever so lightly, and would have met
me--but for death! And there too sat a black she-devil, stuffing my
infant's mouth with their vile food. I believe the hag thought I was
mad; for I caught the child in my arms, held it to my heart while I bent
over my wife's body, and kissed her cold, unreturning--for the first
time unreturning--lips; then flung myself out of the accursed
place,--ran with my burden to the shipowners, who had parted with me
most grudgingly,--and was scudding before the wind in less than twelve
hours, more at war with my own species than ever, and panting for
something to wreak my hatred on. At first I wished the infant dead, for
I saw her pining away; but at last, when she came to know me, and lift
up her innocent hands to my face--I may confess it here--many and many a
night have I sat in my cabin looking on that sleeping child, till my
eyes swam in a more bitter brine than was ever brewed in the Atlantic.
Particular circumstances obliged me to part with her, and I have never
regretted her being with poor Lady Cecil--only I should have liked her
to pray as her mother did. Not that I suppose it will make any
difference at the wind-up,--if," he added, doubtingly, "there be indeed
any wind-up. Hugh Dalton will never be really himself till he can look
that angel girl straight in the face, and ask her to pray for him, as
her mother used." Dalton was too much affected to continue, and both his
auditors respected his feelings too much to speak. At length he said,
"But this gloom will never do. Come, Robin, give us a song, and let it
not be one of your sad ones."