LEFT ALONE.
Yes, 'twill be over soon,--This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
--WHITE.
For fifteen years John Stevens and Blanche Holmes had lived on the
Island of Desolation, and in all that time not a sign of a sail had
appeared on the vast ocean. Not a sight of a human being had greeted
their eyes, and they had become somewhat reconciled to the idea of
passing their lives on this island. The soil in the valley was fertile
and yielded abundance to moderate tillage. John studied the seasons and
knew when to plant to receive the benefits of the rains. There was no
winter in this tropical clime, the rainy season taking the place of
winter. The sails and clothing which they had brought from the wreck had
been husbanded and made to last as long as possible; and then Blanche,
who was industrious, spun and wove cloth for both from the fibre of a
coarse weed like hemp. Her wheel and loom were rude affairs constructed
by John Stevens, who, thanks to his early experience as a pioneer, knew
how to make all useful household implements. When their shoes were worn
out he tanned the skins of goats and made them moccasins, and he even
wore a jacket of goat's skin.
For a covering for his head, he shot a fox and dressing the skin
fashioned himself a cap. In fact, the castaways lived as comfortably as
the pioneers of Virginia. John had his days of despondency, however. For
fifteen years he had climbed the hill and gazed beyond the reef-girt
shore at the broad sea in the vain hope of descrying a sail. He always
heaved a sigh of disappointment when he swept the sailless ocean with
his glass.
One morning when he had made his fruitless pilgrimage to his point of
observation, he sat down upon a stone and, passing his hand over his
eyes, brushed away a tear which came unbidden there.
"Alas, I am doomed to pass my life here. Never more can I see my home,
friends or kindred; but on this desolate shore I must end my existence.
Fifteen years have come and gone--fifteen long years since I left my
home. My wife, no doubt, believing me dead, has ceased to mourn for me.
Perhaps--but no, Dorothe never believed in it. God knows what they may
have suffered. I am powerless to aid them, and to His hands I
entrust them."
Heaving a deep sigh, he resumed his painful ruminations:
"It might be worse; yes, it might be worse. I might have perished with
the others, or I might not have been spared a single companion. God has
given me one, and with her I could almost be happy."
Returning to his humble cabin he was met by Blanche, who greeted him
with a sweet smile. Blanche seemed to grow in goodness and beauty. She
was his consoler in his hour of grief. When he was ill with a fever, she
held his burning head in her tender arms and soothed his pain. She
administered the simple remedies with which they were provided and
nursed him back to health. Once, when he was only half conscious, he
thought he felt her tears fall on his face and her soft warm lips press
his; but it might have been a dream.
"You saw no sail this morning, I know; but, there, don't despair, you
may yet go home," she said.
"No, Blanche, no; I have given up all hope of ever going home. We must
end our days here."
She looked at him with her great blue eyes so soft and tender, and
sighed:
"I am sorry for you."
"Are you not sorry for yourself?"
"No, no; I am not thinking of myself. I am all alone in the world, and
it makes little difference where I am." Her voice faltered, and he saw
that she was almost choking with grief, and John Stevens, feeling that
he had been too selfish all along, said:
"Blanche, forgive me. I have had no thought for any one save myself. I
have been cruel to neglect you as I have."
"Do not blame yourself," she sighed. "Your anxiety for your wife and
children outweighs every other consideration."
"But when I think how kind and how gentle you have been throughout all
these years, how, when the fever burned my brow, it was your soft hand
which cooled it and nursed me back to life and reason, and how I have
neglected and forgotten you, I feel I have been selfish. Surely you are
an angel whom God hath sent me in these hours of loneliness."
His natural impulse was to embrace the heroic woman; but he restrained
such unholy emotions, and she, with her heart overflowing, sat
weeping for joy.
In order to change the subject, he said:
"Blanche; I have thought that the time has come to explore the peak of
Snow-Top." (Snow-Top was the name they had given the tallest mountain in
the valley.) "It is the loftiest peak on the island, and from it we
might see other islands and continents, and with this glass, perchance,
we might get a view of a distant sail."
The exploration of this mountain had been the pet scheme for years. The
sides were steep and the ascension difficult. He had spoken of it
before, and she had approved of it.
"When do you think of going?" she asked.
"The day after to-morrow, if I can get ready."
"I will go with you."
"No, no, Blanche; the journey will be too great for you. You cannot go
that distance."
With a smile, she answered:
"Surely, as I have gone with you on so many perilous journeys, you will
not deny me this."
"Deny you, Blanche? I can deny you nothing; but I fear the journey will
overtax your strength."
"I can go wherever you do," she answered.
He made no further objection, and next day they prepared to scale those
heights which human feet had never trod. John had made for each a pair
of stout shoes, the soles of which were of a kind of wood almost as
elastic as leather and the tops of tanned goat-skins. Their shoes were
well suited for travel through the wilderness and in stony countries.
Knowing what a fatiguing journey lay before them, John travelled slowly
and at the end of the first day halted at the foot of the mountain,
where he built a fire, and they slept in perfect security.
The island was free from poisonous reptiles and insects, and since the
foxes had been nearly exterminated, there was not a dangerous animal on
the island. When morning came, they breakfasted and prepared to ascend
the mountain. At the base was a dense tangled growth of tropical trees
through which they pushed their way, sometimes being compelled to cut
their way through. The tall grass, the palms, the matted mangroves and
vines made travel difficult.
On and on, up the thorny steep they pressed. The palms and mangroves
gave place to scrub oaks, and they in turn to pine and cedar. As they
ascended, there was a change in soil, vegetation and climate.
At the base of the mountain grew only the trees and plants of the
tropics. Three hours' upward travel brought them into the regions of the
temperate zone, and they plucked wild strawberries such as grew in New
England. Pressing on up the steep side, scaling cliffs and rocks, which
at times almost defied their skill and strength, the air grew cooler.
The vegetation was less rank. The grass grew short and in places there
was none at all.
"Are you tired?" John asked.
"Not much."
"Let us sit and rest."
"The sun has almost reached the meridian, and we are not half-way up the
mountain."
"Yet you must have a few moments' rest, Blanche."
They rested but a moment and again pressed on. They had now reached a
great altitude, and the valley below looked like a fairy-land. They
found up here a species of mountain goats which they had not seen
before. They were very shy of the intruders and went bounding away from
cliff to cliff and rock to rock at a speed which defied pursuit.
John shot one. The report of his musket in this lofty region was so
slight as to be heard but a short distance, but the birds, soaring
aloft, screamed with fear and went still higher up the mountain sides.
Here they found squirrels more abundant than in the valley. The oaks and
hickory trees bore an abundance of nuts for them. Further on the
nut-bearing trees gave place to grass, and they found themselves on a
sloping plain.
Every hour seemed bringing them to new and unexplored regions. Old
Snow-Top, as they called the mountain, contained wonders. The trees had
dwindled to dwarfs, and the animals degenerated in proportion. Some
fur-bearing animals were found in these lofty regions, and the eyrie of
the eagle was in the cold, dark cliffs.
There was a perceptible change in the climate. The clothing suitable for
the valley was uncomfortably light in this region.
"Blanche, are you cold?" he asked.
She, smiling, answered:
"Never mind me, I can stand it."
"The air is chill."
"It always is so in ascending a lofty mountain."
"The ascent is more difficult than I supposed; behold the cliff before
us!"
"I see it."
"It seems almost perpendicular."
"So it does."
"I see no way to scale it from here."
"Yet, like all other ills in this world, the difficulties may disappear
at our approach."
When they advanced toward the cliff, fully two hundred feet in height, a
narrow rocky slope was seen ascending on the left, like a flight of
winding stairs, to the plateau above. Even with this aid the ascent was
difficult.
The rocks were rough, hard and sharp at the edges and corners, yet they
climbed on and on. Each succeeding ledge to which they mounted grew
narrower until scarce room for the foot could be found.
When the plateau was gained, it was but a bleak, desolate plain of four
or five acres of uneven ground, swept by the winds of eternal winter and
presenting a drear and melancholy aspect.
[Illustration: "OUR JOURNEY IS NOT ONE-HALF OVER."]
Close under a stone they sat down to partake of the noonday meal,
listening to the shrill winds sweeping over the dreary waste and gazed
at the cloud-capped peak above. The only cheerful object was a noisy
cataract thundering down the mountain, fed by the melting snows.
"Do you feel equal to the task?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Our journey is not one-half over."
"I know it."
"And the last half will be more trying than the first."
"I will go with you," she answered cheerfully.
To one living in a mountainless country the difficulties and fatigues of
mountain scaling is unknown. An ascent, which, to the unpractised cliff
climber, might seem the work of an hour, will consume an entire day.
Having finished their meal, they resumed the upward march. Reaching a
small cluster of stunted and gnarled pines, they pressed through it and
emerged on a great, bleak hillside, almost bare of vegetation. Only here
and there grew a tuft of stunted grass or a dwarfed shrub. The temperate
zone had given way to the regions of eternal winter. Again and again
they were compelled to pause for breath.
"Here it is," John cried, almost gleefully, as a snow-flake fell on his
arm.
A little further up, they found snow drifted under a ledge of the rock,
while little rivulets, running from the melting snow, joined mountain
torrents and cataracts that thundered down below. At last the great
summit was gained, and they paused to gaze afar on the land and sea
below. John drew his glass and swept the horizon. The slight clouds,
from which an occasional flake had fallen, cleared away at sunset, and
they had an excellent view as far as the eye could reach.
"Do you see any sail?" she asked.
"None."
"Then we must be in an ocean as unexplored and unknown as the great
south sea which Balboa discovered."
"I know not where we are."
The sun set, dipping into the sea and leaving a great, broad
phosphorescent light where it disappeared, which broadened and radiated
toward the east until it was lost in gloom.
"We cannot return home to-night," said Blanche.
"No; we will seek some suitable spot for passing the night further down
the mountain."
The mountain top was covered with snow, and they went down a mile or
more before they found the ground free from snow, slush, ice or water.
Here, on a mantle made of goat-skins, John induced the shivering Blanche
to lie down, while he gathered some stunted brush, small pines and dead
grass and built a fire to keep her warm. During the night the sky became
obscured, and a cold rain fell. Their condition was miserable enough,
for they were soaked to the skin and shivering. There was no shelter
near enough for them to reach it, and it was too dark to travel.
"I am freezing," said Blanche, through her chattering teeth. John tried
to muffle her in the robe of goat-skin; but it was wet and worse than no
covering. His soaked garments were placed about her; but she still shook
with cold, until he became alarmed and held her in his arms, endeavoring
to instill some warmth in her from his own body.
All things must have an end, and so did that dreary night. Day dawned at
last, and the rising sun chased away the clouds, and they saw, far, far
below them, the low, green valley which they called home. The morning
air was chill and piercing, and John began to fear for Blanche; but she
assured him that soon they would reach lower land and warmer
temperature. They did not wait for breakfast, but hurried down the
mountain just as soon as it was light enough to see. She was weak, and
he offered to carry her in his strong arms.
"No, no; I can walk," she said.
"But you are so chilled and so weak."
"Exercise will warm me and give me strength," she answered. It did, and
when they reached the valley she was quite herself again. It was the
middle of the afternoon when they entered the valley, and gazing back at
old Snow-Top, with his towering summit piercing the skies, they thanked
God for their deliverance. About the snowy peak there clung a rift of
vapor, as if some passing cloud had caught upon it and torn off
a fragment.
"I don't care to venture up there again," said John.
"Nor do I," sighed his companion. "So peaceful, so sweet and so dear is
our little home, that I am almost content with it."
"I am, likewise."
For two or three days no evil effects were perceivable from their
journey save a weariness on the part of Blanche, which John flattered
himself would pass away. He sat with her and talked more than had been
his custom. She seemed to grow better in his eyes, for he had seen how
uncomplaining she was, and how she nobly struggled to make his burden
lighter. She spoke encouraging words of Virginia, told him of his wife
and children, who had been described so often to her that she had a
faithful picture of them in her mind. She would say:
"Your little Rebecca is now sixteen years of age, quite a young lady.
She is beautiful, too. I know she is beautiful, for she has the dark
eyes and hair of her mother."
"Blanche, beauty is not confined to black eyes and hair alone," said
John.
She went on:
"And your little boy is a man now, twenty years of age, and he is no
doubt strong, brave, gallant and noble. Surely you must be proud of such
a son. Your wife has grown more wise with her distress, and she still
looks to the ocean for the return of one for whom she will wait until
the angel of death summons her to meet him in Heaven."
"Blanche, Blanche, how strangely you talk!"
"I fancy I can see them, and they are happy in their little home. The
son supports his mother. Oh, they are happy!"
"Blanche, Blanche, your cheeks are flushed, your eyes are unnaturally
bright; you have a fever."
She laughingly answered:
"It is only a slight cold, the result of our visit to the peak of old
Snow-Top."
He administered such simple remedies as they had at hand, tucked her up
warmly in bed and sat by her side until she was asleep. Then he made a
bed on the floor in the adjoining room, where he might be within call,
and lay down to sleep. Being wearied with the toils of the day, he was
soon asleep, and it was after midnight when he was awakened by a cough
from Blanche's bed. It was followed by an exclamation of pain.
In a moment he was at her side.
"What is the matter, Blanche?" he asked, uneasily.
"I have a pain in my side."
He stooped over her, put his hand on her face and was startled to find
it so dry and hot. Groping about he found a rude lamp, which he had
fashioned from an old pewter pot brought from the wreck. Within the lamp
was a wick made from the lint of wild hemp, fed with goat's fat. Seizing
his flint and steel he kindled a light and found Blanche in a
raging fever.
"Blanche, Blanche, you are ill!" said John.
"I am so hot, I burn with thirst," she answered.
"You shall have water." There was a spring of clear, cold water flowing
down from the mountain, and John took an earthen jar, and ran to
fill it.
"It is so good of you," the sick woman sighed, as he moistened her
fevered lips.
John Stevens was now very anxious about her, for she was growing rapidly
worse. He knew a little about medicine and had brought some remedies
from the ship; but the disease which had fastened itself on Blanche
defied his skill. She was at times seized with a fit of coughing which
almost took away her breath. When he had exhausted all his efforts, she
said sweetly:
"You can do no more."
"Blanche, Blanche," he almost sobbed, "Heaven knows I would give my life
to spare you one pang."
"I know it," she answered.
"What will you have me do?"
"Sit by my side."
He brought a stool and sat by her bedside.
"Hold my hand, I have such frightful dreams, and I want you near."
He took the little fevered hand in his own and for hours sat by her
side.
Morning came and went, came and went again, and she grew worse.
John never left her save to bring cold water to slake her burning
thirst, or prepare some remedy to check the ravages of the fever.
"Oh, God! to be left alone--to be left all alone! Can I endure it?" he
sighed. When he was at her side, he said:
"It was the journey to Snow-Top. It was too much for you, Blanche, I am
to blame for this."
"No, no, blame not yourself. I it was who insisted on going."
She rapidly grew worse, and John Stevens saw that she must die.
Occasionally she fell asleep, and then he thought how beautiful she was.
Once she murmured his name and sweetly smiled. She awoke and was very
weak. Raising her eyes, she saw him at her side, and with that same
happy smile on her face, she said:
"Oh, I had such a delightful dream. It may be wicked; but it was
delightful. I dreamed that I was she."
"Who?"
"Your wife--"
"Blanche!"
"Kiss me, brother--I am going--rapidly going."
He entwined his arms about the being who, for fifteen years, had been
his only companion, and pressed his lips to hers.
"Blanche, Blanche, you must not die; for my sake live."
"No, no; I will soon be gone; then you will be all alone. Don't leave me
until all is over."
"I shall not, Blanche; I shall not," cried Stevens, holding her tightly
clasped in his strong arms.
"It may be wrong--but we have been here so long--meet me in heaven,
brother."
"God grant that I may, poor girl."
"Pray with me."
He knelt at her side, and the lips of both moved in prayer. When he
rose, she laid her little hand, all purple with fever, in his and said:
"Brother--when I am gone, bury me in that beautiful valley near the
spring, where the wild flowers grow close by the white stone. On the
stone write: 'Here lies my beloved sister, Blanche Holmes.'"
An hour later John Stevens knelt beside a corpse. The gentle spirit had
flown.
Midnight--and the castaway, despairing, half-crazed with grief, still
knelt by the dead body, tearing his hair, and groaning:
"Alone--left alone!"