BITTER REVELATIONS.
Here in the grand Australian woods are two tents--gunyahs,
Rough-and-Ready calls them--built of tea-tree bark, bound round by
vine creepers. They are in the form of a hive, and are wonderfully
picturesque and comfortable. Up to this time, the castaway dwellers in
these gunyahs have been undisturbed by savages, and this has been a
matter of surprise to all but Rough-and-Ready. "Wait till after the
rainy season," he has said a dozen times; "we shall have plenty of
them then." Rough-and-Ready has made this "rainy season" a pretext for
lingering near the spot where they first camped after their rescue. It
would be suicide, he told them, to attempt to move at present; they
would not be able to make their way through the country. But indeed
all of them, with the exception of Joshua, were content to remain
where they were; they dreaded to encounter the horrors of the wild
country through which they would have to pass. Joshua was the only one
who fretted at their life of inaction. It seemed to him the cruellest
thing to remain passive while Ellen and Dan and his parents were
waiting for him at home. But what could he do? Without the assistance
of Rough-and-Ready he was powerless; and that wise man of the woods
declared emphatically that it would be madness to start upon such an
expedition. So Joshua was compelled to wait for events to shape his
destiny, and fretted and worried because he could take no hand in the
direction of them. It was a good thing for him that he had plenty to
do; he might else have lost his reason. Rough-and-Ready was the best
of physicians; he would not allow any of his companions to be idle,
and he took care to supply them with more work than they could
conveniently accomplish. He derived a huge pleasure from this cunning
proceeding, and had many a sly laugh to himself because of it. The
building of the gunyahs was a matter in which he took especial
delight, and he and his mates labored at them for many days; when they
were finished, Rough-and-Ready declared that they were better than the
finest stone houses that ever were built. The women took delight in
them also, and decorated them with the prettiest creepers they could
find. During all this time they were not molested by Scadbolt and the
Lascar. In their rambles through the woods they occasionally came upon
traces of the two rascals and caught distant glimpses of them, but
they never came to close quarters. Once Scadbolt had attempted to
make overtures; but he was warned off with small ceremony by
Rough-and-Ready, who declined to parley with him.
On a certain moonlight night, not many nights ago, Rough-and-Ready
invited Joshua to accompany him on an expedition. Coming to a place
where the moon was shining over the tops of the gum-trees
Rough-and-Ready motioned Joshua to be still, and in a few minutes they
heard a call, half scream, half chatter. Presently Rough-and-Ready
raised his gun, pulled the trigger, and down came two animals shaped
like cats, with long brushy tails, sharp claws and something like
thumbs on their hind feet.
"'Possums," said Rough-and-Ready in explanation.
He had found out a haunt of these animals, and that night they brought
back more than a dozen, some ring-tailed, some silver. They could
only be shot on moonlight nights, said Rough-and-Ready, and are
chiefly found where the gum or peppermint-tree abounds. They had a
splendid harvest, and in a week they collected nearly a hundred,
Rough-and-Ready was mighty particular about the skinning of them, and
about rubbing the fleshy parts of the skins with fine wood-ashes
before fixing them on the trees to dry. They also caught a score or so
of the sugar-squirrel, whose fur is real chinchilla. Upon these skins
Minnie and Rachel are busy now with needle and thread, making caps for
the men. It is a strange sight to see such evidences of civilization
in the wild woods. The women had begged Rough-and-Ready to spare the
lives of two young opossums which were found alive in their mothers'
pouches, and he, knowing that they could be easily tamed, had readily
consented. They were the most docile and harmless little things, and
soon became domesticated, if such a word may properly be used in the
life I am describing. At the present time, one of them is hanging head
downwards, with its tail curled round the branch of a tree, in a state
of serene happiness and content. The other is with Little Emma, who is
sitting not far from the women, playing with it in the midst of a
great heap of wild flowers she has collected.
The females are not alone. Two of the men are away, but Joshua is in
sight, busy with his axe cutting up a tree for slabs. To tell truth,
Rough-and-Ready is not desirous of moving from the woods where they
are now camped, unless they are compelled to do so by the savages or
by unforeseen circumstances. They are camped upon high land, where
they are comparatively safe from floods; the country round about is
fairly stocked with game; and there is water in abundance--somewhat of
a rare circumstance, and, rarer still, the water is sweet. As for the
life itself, none could be more attractive to him. The slabs that
Joshua is cutting now are designed for a fence round their homestead.
"Even if Blacks come," thought Rough-and-Ready "and they are not
inclined to be friendly, we may frighten them away with our guns." He
is very sparing of their powder and shot, of which they have not too
large a store, and has taught his companions to make and lay many
kinds of cunning snares for game. He is a thorough bushman, and in his
present circumstances is certainly the right man in the right place.
The character of Rachel Homebush appears to have completely changed.
The trials she has gone through have softened her hitherto hard
nature. No stony-voiced exhortations to repent drop from her lips; she
is humanized and humbled. But a short time since she was intolerant,
arrogant, harsh, and proudly-insolent in her armor of sanctity; but
now she has doffed that armor, and has inward doubts of herself: She
believes in the goodness of others. She is less sanctified and more
godly.
Said Rough-and-Ready to Joshua, when they were talking of the women--
"Rachel Homebush is a different creature to what she was. She is not
so good as she was, and I think she's all the better for it."
Joshua smiled at this paradox, and said,--
"At all events she has a different opinion of you."
"Think so, mate?" asked Rough-and-Ready, a little anxiously. "I'm
sorry for it, in one way. There's only one woman"--
But he paused unaccountably in the middle of his speech, looked at
Minnie, who was a few yards away, looked at Joshua, and walked off
whistling.
Here is the picture. Two hives, bright with flowering creepers; Rachel
and Minnie sitting in the shadow of the hives, on stumps of trees,
making fur caps; a 'possum hanging by its tail, studying gravitation;
the little child, not far away, lying on the ground, surrounded by
wild flowers, playing with her pet; in the distance, Joshua busy with
his axe; surrounding and encompassing all, bright sky and lovely
forest. Rachel, raising her eyes from her work, looks at the child in
the midst of her garden, and a soft expression rests upon her face.
The child sees the look, and thrusting the 'possum in the bosom of her
frock, runs towards Rachel with a handful of flowers. Rachel kisses
the child, strokes the silky coat of the 'possum, and selecting a
piece of wild jasmine, places it in her breast. Then Little Emma goes
to the back of Minnie, and twines some of the brightest flowers in
Minnie's beautiful hair; and after falling back and admiring the
effect of her handiwork, whispers to Minnie to get up, for she wants
to show her something. Minnie smiles and rises, and they walk hand in
hand to where Emma's wild flowers are, but the child leads her farther
on, in the direction of Joshua. Made aware of the child's intention,
Minnie falters, and tries to release her hand gently; but Little Emma
clings to her, and laughingly strives to pull her along. Joshua's
attention is attracted to the gentle struggle, and, coming forward, he
asks the meaning of it. The child explains that she wanted Joshua to
see how pretty the flowers looked in Minnie's hair, and that Minnie
tried to run away. Joshua looks at Minnie, who stands trembling before
him, as if she were guilty of some deep offence. Her bosom is heaving,
her eyes are luminous with tears, her face is bright with blushes, and
the tell-tale blood dyes her fair neck. Surely he has never looked
upon a more beautiful picture! He says some kind words to her, and she
goes back to her place near Rachel, and he to his work. But, within a
few minutes afterwards, he swings his axe over his shoulder, and walks
away in deep thought. The bees are humming about him, many-colored
locusts and golden-green grasshoppers flit among the tangled
brushwood, gorgeous butterflies skim through the air; the gaudy beetle
creeps lazily along; the praying mantis, with its leaf-like wings,
darts before him; the tree-frog utters its strange cry; a great
lizard, with a frill round its neck, disappears at the sound of his
step. He walks past these and myriad other wonders of the woods, until
the character of the country changes, and he finds himself among rocky
gullies, with many a fissure in the stony ranges that lead down to
them.
The buzz of woodland life has ceased; unfathomable silence seems to
dwell in these rocky hills and valleys. But suddenly a sharp
shrill note sounds upon the air. It is a bird's note, but no mate's
voice replies. It is like himself; solitary in the midst of this
ungracious scene, which frowningly proclaims, "Love finds here no
dwelling-place." Again the note sounds, and as he makes his way toward
it, curious to see what kind of bird haunts so desolate a place, he
hears a faint echo answer--a voice with no soul in it, he thinks in
his then melancholy mood. He comes to the opening of a small cave, the
walls of which assume fantastic shapes in the dim light. And there,
uttering its wail, to which only mocking echoes make response, he sees
the Solitary Warbler standing alone in the centre of the cave, like
the Cain of its race. He sighs and walks on--over the rocky range,
into woodland again, where the ground dips, and where the rich soil is
teeming with new wonders; and coming to a great pool, he sits down by
its side. He has been to this spot before. Chancing upon it by
accident in one of his rambles, he was attracted by its beauty, and by
the singular effect of the shifting shadows upon the bosom of the
pool, whose surface is almost covered by lovely pink-and-white
water-lilies. He looks now into the water, and sees his haggard face
reflected between the beautifully-colored lilies. And singularly
enough he sees at the same time, with the eyes of his mind, the
picture of Minnie as she stood before him, with eyes downcast and the
flowers in her hair. It is because he was disturbed by thought of her
that he left his work. He knows her secret but too well. She loves him
with all her soul. She tells it in every look, in every word; every
little act of hers towards him is imbued with dangerous tenderness,
and yet she is unconscious of wrong. Every day she grows more
devoted--every day grows more beautiful. And it is a part of his great
misery to feel that her society gives him pleasure as well as pain. He
is storm-tossed by a conflict of feeling. In this conflict no
miserable vanity finds place, although it might be well excused in
most men in such a position; nor is he by a thought false to Ellen.
But Minnie is dependent upon him, lives upon his kindness, asks
nothing from him but gentle speech. Shall he deny her this? Shall he
be false to his nature, and be harsh where harshness would be
brutality? He is strong; she is weak. Her power is in her weakness;
his weakness is in his strength. She leans upon him for support, and
rules by submission.
Something stirs behind him. A sound so light that it might have been
produced by the fall of a leaf or by the swaying of a bough from which
a bird has flown. Joshua, whose senses have been quickened by his late
experience, turns rapidly, and meets the Lascar face to face. In the
woods thought and action are twin-like. Quick as lightning Joshua's
pistol is in his hand, and the muzzle is pointed straight at the
Lascar's breast.
"Stand!" cries Joshua, "if you value your life."
The Lascar stands motionless, his hands behind him.
"Show your hands and what is in them, or I fire."
The Lascar shows his hands--a large piece of rock in one. He had seen
Joshua sitting by the pool, and had intended to brain him with the
stone. At Joshua's command, he drops the stone. A bitter smile
wreathes Joshua's lips, and something like a savage instinct whispers
to him to shoot his enemy dead upon the spot. But the thought that it
would be nothing less than murder restrains him. The Lascar sees the
struggle in Joshua's face, and trembles; miserable wretch as he is he
has not conquered the fear of death. He is re-assured when Joshua
drops his hand and moves away, still facing him. At this, fear being
subdued, the venom in his nature begins to work. Shall he let his
enemy depart without a sting? He commences with a piece of bravado.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "you have robbed me, but you can't make up your
mind to murder me."
"Robbed you!" exclaims Joshua, forgetting for a moment. "Of what?"
"Of my knife. Give it me back. I can't hurt you with it. You are more
than a match for me with your pistols. How do you think I can live
without a knife?"
Joshua makes no reply to this appeal to his humanity, and moves off a
few steps, warily.
"I suppose you think yourself a manly sort of fellow," continues the
Lascar, moving step for step with Joshua, but keeping at a safe
distance nevertheless, "robbing people of their knives, threatening to
murder them, and running away with an innocent girl, and ruining her!"
"You villain!" exclaims Joshua, quivering at this reference to Minnie,
"do not make me forget myself!"
"So far as to shoot a man in cold blood!" sneers the Lascar. "But
don't forget that the first time you struck me it was for running
after a woman. What better are you than me? I ran after a woman, not
an innocent girl. Perhaps you'll say you didn't trick her from her
father's house, and make love to another girl, her friend, all the
while, and that girl the sister of the man you pretended such fondness
for! Going to be married to her too, I heard. But I can tell you
something you don't know. You were precious sly with your sweetheart,
Ellen Taylor, in Gravesend; she wouldn't suspect you, I dare say you
thought, if you had her down at Gravesend until the ship sailed--she
wouldn't have an idea then that your other sweetheart, Minnie Kindred,
with her face stained brown, was waiting for you on board the 'Merry
Andrew.' Ah! you played a cunning game, you pink of perfection, you
sailor-hero; but I outwitted you, I think, in a way you're not aware
of."
"How?" asks Joshua, constrained to listen.
"How? I watched you, and was paid for it. You little thought that, did
you? I'll tell you something more. The man who paid me for watching
had a fancy for your sweetheart Ellen: you've no need to ask me who he
is, for you'll not find out through me. I did my duty to him, and he
paid me for it. Why, directly I set eyes on that brown-faced
gypsy-maid aboard the 'Merry Andrew,' I says, 'Minnie Kindred, by
God!' and I set a trap for her, and she fell into it. Then what did I
do? I sent a letter to my master by the pilot, and told him to go to
Minnie Kindred's father, and to Dan, and to your mother and father,
and to your other sweetheart, Ellen, and let them know that you had
run away with the girl, that you parted from Ellen Taylor one minute,
and was courting Minnie Kindred aboard ship the next. Was that a good
game to play? Was I as cunning as you? Was that paying you for what
you first did to me? Do you remember what I said, when you called me a
dog of a Lascar? I told you that the Lascar dog never forgets--never,
never! Why, now I look into your face, I could hug myself to think
that we're wrecked, and that we shall die and rot here, every one of
us, and that your sweetheart (who's my master's sweetheart now, I'll
be sworn) and your friends know you for what you are--a mean false
hound! I put a cross against you once, and I swore to have your
heart's blood. Have I had as good? Think of it, and tell me if I have
had my revenge."
But he does not wait to be told. There is so dangerous a look in
Joshua's face, that he darts away and disappears in the bush. It is
well for him that he has escaped, for Joshua is maddened by what he
has heard. Truly the Lascar has struck at him with a cunning hand. The
agony of his soul is shown in the convulsive twitching of his
features, in his white lips, and in the veins of his strong hand,
which swell almost to bursting as he grasps a stout branch for
support. So he remains fighting with his agony with a bleeding heart,
for full half an hour. This knowledge that he has gained is more
bitter than all the rest. He knows the worst now. The evidence against
him is awful in its completeness. "Even the Old Sailor will believe me
guilty," he thinks, and groans aloud at the thought. But there is one
duty before him to do. He must tell Minnie. This last resolve comes
upon him when the force of his first passion is somewhat spent.
Between him and Minnie no word has ever passed of those at home; their
very names have been avoided. But Joshua now makes up his mind that
silence on this subject must be broken. It _must_; both for Minnie's
sake and his own.
It is past sundown. The day has been very hot, and the shadows of
night bring cooler breezes, grateful to the senses of the castaways.
Joshua has drawn Minnie a little apart from the others; she, yielding
to his slightest wish, accompanies him to a part of the forest where
they can talk unobserved. His first impulse is to ask her why she came
on board the "Merry Andrew" unknown to him, and why she had disguised
herself from him; but he spares her this pain, and takes from his
breast Ellen's portrait and her lock of hair, and Dan's Bible. He
hands Minnie the Bible.
"Do you know what this is?" he asks. "Yes," she answers; "it is the
Bible that Dan gave you."
"Read what is on the first page."
She reads the inscription: "From Dan to his dearest friend and
brother, Joshua. With undying love and confidence."
"You know the love that existed between Dan and me, Minnie?"
"I know. It is perfect. Why do you say existed? Surely it exists!"
"I don't know; I'm afraid to think. Your words are in some sort
comforting to me; for they prove you have acted in ignorance, and that
you have not wilfully wronged me."
She looks at him imploringly.
"You will understand presently," he says.
He takes Ellen's lock of hair, and presses it to his lips, and kisses
Ellen's portrait also. The hot blood flushes into Minnie's face, then
suddenly deserts it, and she clasps her hands convulsively. She is but
woman, after all. Yet she controls her agitation sufficiently to ask
in an unsteady voice,--
"Is it necessary to speak further of this, Joshua?"
"It is more than necessary," he replies; "it is imperative. My duty
and my honor demand it."
She bows her head; he pauses a while, and when he speaks again, it is
in a softer tone.
"Minnie, do you know that Dan loved you?"
"Loved me!"
"Ay, with all the strength of his constant heart."
"I did not know it. I thought he liked me, but I had no idea it was as
you say."
"He told me in confidence some time before I left. My heart bleeds as
I recall that conversation. No girl could hope to be more fondly, more
faithfully loved. When the 'Merry Andrew' left Gravesend, I said to
myself, 'When I return, Minnie will be Dan's wife,' for I could not
but believe that you would have learned to appreciate the worth of
such a love as his. But it was not to be."
"No, it was not to be," says Minnie sadly. "If I had known, it could
not have been; if I had remained at home, it could not have been. You,
who knew Dan so well, do you not know something of me also? I
understand the motive that impels you to speak to me of these things,
and I honor you the more for it. It is another proof of your goodness
and generosity"--
"Minnie, Minnie!" he cries, "do not speak to me like that!"
"I must; I cannot help myself. Have you so poor an opinion of me--do
you know so little of me--as to think I would marry a man I did not
love? Rather than that, I would choose for him I loved the bitterest
lot that life can offer--misery, shame, humiliation--and be content.
Dan is all that you say; but I did not love him, did not deceive him.
If he told you so, he told you what is false."
"He did not tell me so, but said that from your manner to him
sometimes, he hoped to win your love."
"Must I shame myself to justify myself?" she cries recklessly. "I
was happy in his company because he was your friend, and because he
loved you. I was happy in his company because he spoke of you, and
because--Joshua, have pity on me and forgive me! O my heart, my
heart!"
He catches her fainting form, for she is falling. Weeping, she turns
her face from him and hides it in her hair. Soft breezes play among
the branches of the trees, stirring them into worshipping motion, and
the more-pork, with its sad-colored plumage, flits by on noiseless
wings, uttering his melancholy note. Joshua waits until Minnie is more
composed; presently her sobs grow fainter and she leaves the shelter
of his arm, and stands a little apart from him, with her face still
averted.
"I do pity you," he then says, "and forgive you. What I have said and
what I have done springs from no feeling of unkindness to you, Minnie.
God knows, in such a strait as ours, such a feeling would be worse
than cruel. But there are certain things of which I am afraid you are
ignorant, that I must speak of and that you must hear. Do you know
that, before I left home, I was suspected of playing with your
feelings--of making love to you clandestinely, and so betraying the
friend whom I would have laid down my life to serve?"
"No, no Joshua, do not tell me that!"
"It is the truth; but I did not know it until after I had bidden
good-by to mother and father and Dan, in Stepney. Where were you on
that day?"
"I--I was not at home," she falters.
"You had left, then. I went to your father's room to wish you and him
good-by. He refused to see me. I asked to see you, and Susan told me
you were asleep. I was deeply grieved; and I can understand now what
caused Susan to beg me imploringly to be true to Ellen. What a
cowardly villain they must believe me to be! Your father suspected me;
Susan suspected me. If I had died that Christmas night at mother's
door, it would have been happier for me! Minnie I thanked you once for
saving my life; but I cannot thank you now, for you have made me the
unhappiest of men."
She does not answer him, but stands before him trembling and
suffering, as before a judge, enduring her punishment and admitting
the justice of it.
"It is part of my unhappiness," he continues, "that I have to speak
thus to you; it is part of my unhappiness that I have to show you the
consequences of your rash conduct. Listen: To-day I saw the Lascar; he
came behind me stealthily, to kill me, I believe; but I turned and saw
him in time. I could have shot him dead where he stood; indeed, some
savage prompting urged me to do so, but I held my hand and was spared
the crime. This man hates me, Minnie. In an encounter I had with him
before I first went to sea, I struck him and hurt him. He has had a
bitter revenge upon me. He saw you on board the 'Merry Andrew' before
the pilot left the ship, and recognized you, despite your disguise."
Minnie holds her breath. She remembers how the Lascar whispered her
name in her ear the first day she went aboard.
"He did a devilish thing then. He wrote a letter home, saying that I
had run away with you, and that we were together on board the 'Merry
Andrew.'"
She falls on her knees before him, and raises her bands
supplicatingly, and begs him again to forgive her, and to believe that
she knew nothing of this, and that if she had known--
"If you had known, Minnie," he says, gently raising her, "you would
not have done what you have. But you did not stop to consider, poor
child! You see the consequences of that letter, do you not? Suspecting
me, your father told me the story of his life, to warn me not to
betray you. Suspecting me, Susan implored me to be true to Ellen. Dan
confided to me his love for you, and I listened to and sympathized
with him. Well, what must he and all of them think, when they have
learned that you and I are together on board the 'Merry Andrew'? And I
have something to tell you more painful than all the rest."
He puts Ellen's portrait into her hand. "Do you know who this is?"
Her eyes are blurred by tears, and she sees Ellen's sweet face through
the sorrowful mist.
"It is Ellen's," she says.
"It is my wife!"
As Joshua utters these words, earth and heaven fade in Minnie's sight;
nothing is visible, nothing is palpable to her senses, but the
knowledge that flashes upon her, that her love, instead of being her
glory, is now her shame. "There is no earthly sacrifice that love will
not sanctify," her father had said. Could love sanctify such a
sacrifice as she had made--a sacrifice that had brought disgrace and
dishonor upon the man she loved? For the first time some slight
consciousness of her error breaks upon her, and she looks upon herself
as a shameful thing. As Joshua, witnessing her agony, moves a step
nearer to her, she cries, "No, no, do not touch me!" and with a wild
shudder sinks upon the ground. He, animated by sincerest compassion,
throws himself by her side, lays his hand upon her head, and raises
her face to his. She bows her head upon his shoulder, and sobs her
grief out there. By every means in his power--by gentle speech, by
tender act--he strives to soothe her, and succeeds. And then, true to
his purpose, he finishes his story--tells her what occurred between
him and the Old Sailor at Gravesend; how surprised he was to find
that the good old man, and even his own mother, had seen Minnie's
fancy for him, and had devised the cure for it; and how, prompted by
duty and by his love for Ellen (he dwelt much on that), he had married
her quietly at Gravesend, and had spent there the three happiest days
of his life. And when his story is finished, and she has learned all,
they sit hand in hand, very quiet and sore-smitten, until Minnie, in a
singularly-subdued voice, asks what she shall do: as if, having
committed this fault, and brought such terrible suspicion upon him, he
has only to tell her how to atone for it, and she will straightway do
it. Sadly he replies, "What can you do, Minnie? Nothing--nothing but
wait. There is, to my mind, not the barest chance of escape. We shall
make our graves in this wild forest; but we must live so--you and I,
my dear--that upon my deathbed I shall be able to think that I have
been true to my wife, true to my friend. Life is not the end of all
things."
Meekly she assents. He calls her "Sister," and kisses her; and then
they rejoin their companions, who are seated by the gunyahs, cooking
turtles' eggs found by Rough-and-Ready, the discoverer.