_Captain Mason Strengthens the Defense. The Extraordinary Behavior of
Beelo. Christopher Becomes a Savage. Hidden Motives Half Disclosed.
Hope._
FORSEEING the time when a visible danger would bring mob-madness to
the colony, Captain Mason gave his entire attention to strengthening
his control. To that end he kept every one engaged at something, laughed
away all fears and doubts, placed all on honor not to breed discontent,
and required that all discussions of the situation be with him alone.
He impressed the danger of leaving the camp limits except in large
parties organized under his authority. No spying savages were ever seen
in the forest backing the camp, but I frequently found the captain using
his keen eyes in that direction. The questions weighing on him were:
When would the king ask for the first member of the colony to be sent
away? What plan would be adopted in the selection? What would really
become of the persons so taken? What should be done when the first call
was made for deportation?
Christopher and I alone were in the president’s confidence. On the
second night he informed us that he had selected a spot which would
serve as a fortress if occasion rose, and instructed Christopher in the
art of making weapons, chiefly stone-headed clubs and blackjacks. This
work was done secretly in our cabin.
The daily teaching of Beelo developed a new interest in the fact that,
before I was aware, I was a pupil as well as a tutor, and that Beelo was
as assiduous in instructing Christopher as me; he was evidently anxious
that we should master the native language. I was glad to humor him,
especially as I suspected an intelligent purpose. Above that was my
growing affection for him. He perfected his poor English so rapidly that
I was put on my mettle to learn the island tongue.
It was a simple task, and we came to use it entirely. To my surprise,
Christopher learned it as readily as I. From the very start he had
helped Beelo to turn the teaching in that direction. The strangest
element of all this procedure was the quick and sure understanding that
sprang up between these two.
Beelo one day brought a large parcel. He was particularly happy, and as
full of play as a kitten.
“You can’t guess what I have for you,” he said with a mischievous look.
“No, Beelo--what?”
“You’ll see.” He was opening the parcel. “You and Christopher are going
to be Senatras.” Senatra was the name of the inhabitants.
He produced from the parcel two native costumes. In addition were a
basin and some brown powder. The boy was in glee as he separated the
articles into one array for Christopher and the other for me.
He ran to a little stream, fetched water in the basin, and with a
comical seriousness dissolved part of the powder.
“Your arm, Christopher,” he demanded. At times Beelo’s manner had a
touch of imperiousness that sat oddly with his youth.
Christopher obediently bared his powerful arm.
“Oh!” said Beelo in delight. “You have splendid muscles,--they are like
iron; and you are very strong,--that’s good.” His finger was timid as it
touched Christopher’s arm.
He dipped a cloth in the colored water, and rubbed the stain on
Christopher’s white skin. His care and gravity in comparing the tint
with the color of his own wrist, in shaking his head, in adding more
pigment to the water and trying again, and at last his delighted
satisfaction, were all very charming.
“Good!” he cried. “That’s the Senatra color. Now,” addressing me,
“I’ll go away a little while. You make a Senatra of Christopher.” To
Christopher: “Take off everything. Mr. Tudor will put the color all over
you. Then you put on Senatra clothes, and whistle for me.”
Patient Christopher would doubtless submit to any indignity that this
prankish boy might devise, but I proposed to put a stop to the nonsense.
Besides, how could I assume the ridiculous rôle that this young scamp,
in whom my indulgence had bred impudence, intended for me?
“Christopher will do nothing of the sort,” I peremptorily said.
The lad stopped short and looked at me curiously.
“I want to, sir,” Christopher interposed, much to my surprise.
“You do? You wish to submit to this foolishness?”
“Foolishness, sir?”
“Yes.”
He reflected a while, and then said:
“Perhaps it ain’t jest foolishness, sir.”
“Very well,” I agreed, willing to humor him; “But Beelo will stay here
and put the color on you himself.”
Alarm sprang to the boy’s face.
“I won’t!” he answered defiantly, and was turning away, but I caught him
by the arm.
“You will,” I said. “I’ll see that you do.”
He slipped from my grasp and stood away, laughing.
“I want to do it myself, sir,” meekly said Christopher.
Beelo precipitately fled.
Why not play with these children? A man who would not was a churl. So
Christopher was arrayed as a Senatra, and a whistle called Beelo back.
He danced delightedly round the pitiful figure that Christopher made.
It hurt me to see not only how patiently Christopher submitted, but
how wholly he entered into the spirit of the masquerade. His pale eyes
looked ghastly in his brown face. I called Beelo’s attention to that.
“Oh, that won’t be seen at night!” he exclaimed. The remark did not
impress me at the moment.
He put Christopher through numerous gaits and tricks of manner peculiar
to the Senatras, and praised him for his aptness. Finally, when he
taught his pupil the art of creeping stealthily and noiselessly, the man
was so terrible that I forgot his grotesqueness.
All through this singular performance, Beelo, even though half playful,
displayed astonishing perseverance and thoroughness, as if life itself
depended on the perfection of the drill. That might not have looked
so strange had it not been for the extraordinary care of Christopher
himself to accomplish a perfect imitation. Then the significance of it
all burst upon me.
I had vowed a thousand times since first knowing Christopher that never
again would I underrate his wisdom, yet over and over I found myself
doing so. While he never laughed in his romping with the children of the
camp, but went into their sports with his habitual tender melancholy,
he never showed with them the hidden eagerness, the almost desperate
determination, that marked his training under Beelo. Thus I came to see
that at the very beginning Christopher had discovered a vital meaning in
Beelo’s playing.
“And now,” cried Beelo, “you will be a Senatra, Mr. Tudor! Christopher
will dress you. Come!”
The boy’s eyes softened in a moment under the new light that he found in
mine.
“Beelo,” I said, taking his hand, “let’s sit down and talk.” I seated
myself, but he withdrew his hand and sat a little distance away. “No,” I
gently insisted; “here, facing me, and close.”
He twisted himself round to the spot I indicated, and in doing so tossed
Christopher a wry mouth. I noticed more clearly how fine his features
were, and with what grace his long lashes curved.
“Beelo, do you really wish Christopher and me to be Senatras?” I asked.
He nodded, and, turning to Christopher, told him to go to the runnel,
wash off the stain and put on his own clothes. Christopher meekly went.
Beelo began playing with twigs on the ground, and did not look at me.
“Did Lentala tell you to do this?”
He nodded again--a little irritatingly, for he had a tongue.
“Why?” I asked.
He raised his eyes and regarded me steadily. Then, perhaps not seeing
all that he sought, he made no answer, and returned to the twigs.
“I want to understand, Beelo, and you must trust me. Many things come to
me now. Your sister’s conduct at the feast meant that she wished us to
obey the king. She showed us sincere kindness in every look and act.
And her great difference from the other people,--her sweetness, her
grace, her beauty, her brightness of mind, her altogether adorable
charm,------”
Beelo blazed in a way that stopped my rhapsody. He had raised his face;
his lips were apart; his eyes glowed with a proud light that moved me
strangely.
“You like my sister?” he softly asked.
“Who would not?”
“But _you!_” The boy impatiently tossed his head.
The little gesture was so pretty that I involuntarily smiled. Beelo
misunderstood. He flashed angrily, and resumed the twigs. I could only
grope.
“I don’t understand why the king sent us here. We are prisoners, and
that is something which brave men won’t stand. We would rather die
fighting.”
Again he studied me, and again looked down.
“Why didn’t the king let us build boats, and leave?”
He gave no answer, but was very busy with the twigs. I wondered if I
were rash in some of the things I was saying. Clearly the moment of
confidence had not arrived. The boy was studiedly cautious.
“Beelo, go to your sister and beg her to come and see me. She will trust
me more than you do. I know she is our friend. She would tell us what
fate is awaiting us.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” firmly interposed the boy.
“She would, because she is sweet and kind.”
“No, she loves her people, and you might do them harm.”
“But she sends you here to disguise us as natives and to train us in the
art of deceiving and outwitting them.”
Had his smile not been so winning I could have slapped him for his
insolence; but it was soon evident that a mighty struggle was proceeding
under his assumed carelessness. If I could only guess at its nature I
might know how to proceed.
“Bring Lentala to me, Beelo. She would be safe with you, and she will
understand and will trust me.”
“Why? Her skin is brown. You would not trust her.” He was closely
observing me.
“What difference can her color make!” I impatiently retorted. “Lentala
is an angel.”
“But a brown skin means------” A look of horror swept over his face.
“Lentala is beautiful and kind and true. Tell her to come.”
Beelo was silent.
“Why should she not trust me?” I persisted. “How could I harm her?”
The boy, nervously arranging the twigs, spoke rapidly, but did not look
up:
“She’s afraid,--not for herself, but her people. They love her. She
would never betray them. Suppose she came,--you would be gentle to her;
you would tell her she was beautiful and--and all that nonsense. You
might try to get her to tell you things. And you would find out how
to------Yes, you might come back and plot with your men, and there would
be a great fight with my people and many would be killed. That would be
terrible.”
I dimly understood at last: Lentala would trust her brother, not
herself, in the mysterious plan that she was working out.
Christopher had returned. I beckoned to him to sit with us.
“Beelo,” I said, “look at me.” He complied. “If Lentala were here she
could read my heart. All that you have said means that she mistrusts
me. I understand more than you think I do. You have already shown your
confidence and Lentala’s by offering to train me as a native. A wise and
generous purpose is in that. By means of the disguise, you wish me to
learn some things that will benefit my people, but you are held back by
your fear that I will use the knowledge to injure you.”
“No,” he hastily interrupted; “only my people.”
“Very well. But you have already shown trust. You simply want more
assurance that I will keep faith with you. Tell me what you want. I will
put my life in pawn,--I will give it, if that is demanded.”
His deep eyes were profoundly fixed upon me. In that moment Beelo
disclosed a soul that had found maturity.
“You would do all for your people!” he impatiently cried. “You think
only of them! Lentala and Beelo may do everything for you, but you never
think what you might do for--Lentala and Beelo.”
The half-revelation in the passionate outburst brought me to my feet,
and the lad slowly came to his.
“Beelo!” I said, “I hadn’t thought it possible. You and she are the
favorites of the king and queen. You have everything you want. I don’t
understand. Trust me! I can be a friend.”
He was looking up at me with eyes in which a pathetic anxiety struggled
with fears. Instead of addressing me, he turned to Christopher and
confidently took his hand.
“Christopher,” he said, “do you like me--and Lentala?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Very much?”
Christopher solemnly nodded.
“If--if we want to go away with you and your people, would you take us?”
“Oh, yes!”
“And be kind to us?”
“Me?” He turned to me, and so did Beelo.
“Yes, Christopher.”
“_He_ will,” was the answer.
Beelo, seized with one of his unexpected whirlwinds, threw his arms
round Christopher, and laughed.
I turned him about, and, holding both his hands, looked smilingly into
his brilliant eyes.
“Show me the way to serve you and your sister, Beelo,” I said. “I alone,
or Christopher and I together, will obey any instructions from you; we
will do whatever you say, go wherever you direct,--cut ourselves off
from every protection except yours. Isn’t our trust complete?”
“Yes, Yoseph--Choseph,” he banteringly answered. Then, in a flash, “I
mean Mr. Tudor.”
“Joseph--to you,” I returned.
He put his mouth through contortions over the F, and finally, with a
restful gasp, blurted out:
“Choseph!”
His gentleness overwhelmed me, and I, being naturally affectionate, and
timid only with women, forgot my feeling of constraint toward him, and
caught him in my arms. But he did not have for me the pressure and the
laughter that he had given Christopher. On the contrary, he resisted and
then sprang away.
I wondered what thoughts were perplexing him as he stood off, regarding
me in his odd little quizzical fashion, and was astounded when he said:
“Lentala says that Annabel is beautiful and lovely.” I could not imagine
what had suggested Annabel to him at this particular moment, but I
hastily agreed. He seemed not altogether pleased, but went on:
“You like her very much?”
“Yes; very much indeed.”
He looked a little sullen, but soon recovered, and broke out in a very
rush of gay spirits. In a short time he suddenly became grave.
“I must go,” he said. With a gentle, pleading look at me, he asked:
“Won’t you be a Senatra? Christopher will help you.”
“Yes, Beelo,--anything you wish.”
“Very well. I will come every day for--maybe three days, and teach
Christopher. You will watch us. When you and Christopher are alone, he
will teach you. But you must dress every time as a Senatra!”
“Of course.” My relief was great. For some incomprehensible reason I
did not wish the boy to train me, for that would have necessitated a
disagreeable loss of dignity before him.
“Good! And in three or four days,”--an oddly embarrassed expression
rose in his face,--“would you like to go with me--you and dear old
Christopher--to see--the beautiful--the kind--the true--Lentala?” He was
mocking.
“Yes!” I answered, and made an effort to catch him; but he darted away,
showering a cascade of laughter behind him.
So I was right in supposing that Beelo had been preparing us to
penetrate the mysteries beyond the valley ramparts, and lift the veil
behind which our fate was hidden.
“Christopher!” I cried in my joy, seizing him by the shoulder; “do you
understand?”
“Yes, sir.”