ground in his gunyah, amusing himself and Minnie with his birds. She
is reclining on her 'possum-skin rug, looking affectionately and
gratefully at Joshua, who has grown very wise in the different habits
and natures of the strange birds he has before him. With what care he
has collected them! Here is the quaint kingfisher, flitting about as
contentedly as it used to flit among the dead trees that lie on the
banks of creeks. Joshua, watching it one day, saw it suddenly dart
into the water with such eagerness that it was completely submerged;
he thought it was drowned, but the next instant it appeared above the
surface with a small fish in its mouth, with which it hopped,
exultant, into the woodland again. It is a handsome bird, and a
singular-looking one too, with its beak about a quarter as long as its
body, and its light crimson breast and azure back and shrewd brown
eyes. Here is the mountain bee-eater, the wondrous blending of colors
in whose plumage suggests the fancy that its feathers must have been
dyed in the glorious sunsets of the South, and that it first saw the
light when rainbows were shining. Here are the honeysuckers,
yellow-eared, blue-cheeked, and golden-crowned; and the
crimson-throated manakin, with its pleasant song; and the spotted
finch, with red eyes; and the scarlet-backed warbler and the pretty
thrush, black-crowned and orange-breasted, whose piping in the early
morning was the cheerfullest of all the birds; and the yellow-rumped
fly-catcher, fussing about, and chattering like a magpie. All these
are here, and many others; and Joshua often thinks how delighted Dan
would be with them. Joshua and Minnie are clothed completely in fur
garments; all their civilized clothes are gone. Joshua's hair has
grown so, that his face is quite covered with it.
"Would they know me at home, Minnie, if they could see me as I am?" he
asks.
"I doubt it," she replies; "but they would know your voice."
"Shall we ever see them again?" he asks, more of himself than of her.
She sighs, and does not answer. He may; she prays that he will. But
she! The breeze sighs with her, as she thinks that she will never
again look upon the faces of her friends. Well! perhaps it is better
so. She desires no happier lot than to die in Joshua's arms, with his
eyes looking kindly upon her. She has been growing weaker and weaker
every day; she does not complain, but he often regards her with
apprehensive looks, and prays that she may not be taken from him. They
live together as brother and sister; the love he bears for her is as
pure as the love he bears for his mother. He speaks to her often of
Dan, and she listens with sweet patience. But he does not understand
that her love for him is part of her very nature, and that it cannot
be transferred--that it cannot change. He does not understand it, does
not know it; he deludes himself with the hope that, if it should
mercifully chance that they should reach home, the dear hope of Dan's
life may be realized, and that Minnie's love and Dan's belief in her
purity may brighten the days of his friend. She knows that Joshua
entertains this hope, and does not pain him by telling him how false
it is.
So the days pass, and the seasons change. In accordance with Minnie's
wish, the tribe moves farther and farther southward, and is rewarded
by finding plenty of game in the woods, and fish in the rivers and
pools. Summer dies, and the beautiful autumn brings strength to
Minnie; but the succeeding winter strikes her down. Her savage friends
and worshippers are grieved to the heart at her weakness, and she,
true to her purpose and to Joshua, makes them understand that health
and strength for her lie southward, and urges them on towards the
settled districts.
"If we are saved," says Joshua, "I shall owe all my happiness to you,
Minnie. Once you gave me life; now perhaps you will give me what is
better than life."
A look of content rests in her eyes as he says this, and she muses
upon it for days afterwards, murmuring the words to herself before she
falls asleep. Speaking to her of her father at one time, he is
surprised to hear her say, "Father is dead, Joshua."
"How do you know?" he asks, startled.
"I feel it--here," pressing her hand to her heart; "I have dreamt that
I saw him and mother together. Some things come to us intuitively; we
do not need to be told."
"Do you know any thing else about those at home?" he asks, half awed
by her solemn tone.
"No; but one other thing I know that I ought not to keep from you."
He waits in silence for what is to come, dreading to speak. She takes
his hand; hers is hot with fever.
"Do not think me unkind," she says, "but for many weeks I have felt
impelled to tell you, and now that the time is drawing near, I must no
longer keep it from you. Can you guess what it is, my dear?"
"O Minnie! Minnie!" he cries, falling on his knees at her feet; "do
not tell me that you are going to leave me!"
"I cannot help it, dear," she says, tenderly. "Before the spring dies
I shall leave you. I shall spend my summer in another world." She
repeats the words, as though they conveyed to her some deeper meaning
than they implied. "Yes, I shall spend my summer in another world. My
heart has been wintered in this."
He strives to reason her out of her belief,--tells her that it is
fancy; but she gently checks him, with "Nay, dear Joshua. 'Tis but a
little time to spring. Let us talk of other things."
Soon the buds begin to come, and the leaves grow green. Minnie hides
her weakness, says that she feels stronger, and Joshua begins to hope.
But he does not know what motive she has in this; he does not know
that she puts on an appearance of strength, so that she may not retard
their course southward. In many of their marches she sustains her
fainting heart by strength, of love. "Nearer, nearer," she whispers to
herself; "he shall owe all his happiness to me."
Come there to the camp one day some members of another tribe, who
speak of having seen men of the color of Joshua and Minnie a couple of
hundred miles to the south, mounted on strange animals. These
aboriginal wanderers, indeed, are at variance with one another: some
say that men and animals are one; others, that they are distinct
creatures. Opara tells Joshua and Minnie, who are able by this time to
understand the native tongue, and to make themselves understood.
"What Opara says is good," says Minnie. "We will go towards these men.
They are our brothers. They will give me back my strength."
Opara being gone, Minnie asks Joshua what he thinks. Joshua, with
eager voice and sparkling eyes, cries that they are stockmen on
horses, as Rough-and-Ready had told them.
"All will yet be well," he says, his voice trembling with joyful
emotion; "in a few months perhaps we shall be among white people
again."
She listens in silence: and presently, in accordance with their
nightly custom, he takes his accordion from its bag of fur, and plays
the sweetest airs he knows. "Poor Tom Bowling" and "Bread-and-cheese
and Kisses" are his principal themes; and as he plays, the
newly-inspired hope stirs into life his dearest memories, and brings
before him those pictures of his boyish days that he most loves to
dwell upon.
CHAPTER XL.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
The river runs onward like a sparkling stream, now rushing between
high banks of forest land, dotted here and there with miniature
islands of rocks covered with lichens and shrubs, now settling into a
still-looking reach, its surface covered with delicate mauve-colored
water-lilies. Near to a great grove of palms upon the river's bank the
native camp is fixed; and not far from the spot the channel forms a
descent, more steep than abrupt, where it is cut up into hundreds of
brawling streams by islands of beautiful shrubs. The natives have
pitched their camp here, in accordance with Minnie's wish; they have
been marching southward for more than a week, and Minnie has borne up
bravely; but her strength has failed her at last, and she is compelled
to succumb. It is understood among them that their Star is sick, and,
the mintapas (doctors) are anxious to practise their healing arts upon
her, but their efforts are firmly and gently repulsed by Joshua. For
this, they look upon him with no friendly eye, and but for Opara his
life among them would not be so pleasant as it has been. He pays no
heed to them; his anxiety concerning Minnie engrosses all his thoughts
now.
She is sinking fast, and has grown so weak that he is obliged to carry
her about. The spot she most loves is where the river is still and
quiet; there she will lie for hours, with Joshua by her side, watching
the shifting shadows of the clouds in the water's depths. She says but
little; but every time her eyes turn to Joshua, they are filled with
gratitude and love. Once she expressed a desire to write something,
and Joshua makes a little ink with paint and gum-juice, and makes a
pen from a duck's quill; but paper he has none.
"Your Bible," says Minnie.
He gives it to her, and she writes a few lines on the blank page at
the end. Then she tears out the leaf, and folding it carefully says,
"This is for Dan, when you see him" (having a full faith that Joshua
and Dan will meet); "do not read it, but place it carefully by."
He puts it with Ellen's lock of hair in the bag he wears round his
neck.
That same night a change comes over Minnie. He has been away from the
hut for a few minutes, and when he returns he sees her sitting in a
listening attitude with her hand to her ear.
"Minnie!" he exclaims; but she holds up a warning finger, and says,--
"Hush, Joshua! I am listening to the singing of the sea. Is it not
sweet?"
His heart beats rapidly, and he takes her disengaged hand in his, and
asks her what she has in the hand she is holding to her ear.
"It is a shell," she says. She shows it to him and her face assumes
the exact childlike expression of pleasure and simplicity it wore in
the farewell interview he had with her before he first went to sea.
"You know me, Minnie?" he says, distressed.
"Yes, dear Joshua! What a question! But you must not be angry with me.
I took the shell--but I took it for you."
"Nay but, Minnie," he says, striving to arrest her wandering thoughts;
"listen to me"--
"Call me little Minnie," she pleads like a child, in the softest of
voices.
"Little Minnie!" he sighs, with an almost broken heart.
"Little Minnie! Little Minnie!" she repeats. "The shell is singing it.
Hush!" She remains silent for some time after this, and Joshua deems
it best not to disturb her. An hour may have passed when she calls to
him.
"Say that again, Joshua," she says. Wondering, he asks her what it is
she wishes him to repeat.
"Nay," she answers, "that is to tease me. But you must say it after
me, word for word: 'What you did, you did through love, and there
could not be much wrong in it.'" He recognizes his own words to her,
and in a troubled voice he repeats, "What you did, you did through
love, and there could not be much wrong in it."
"I am satisfied," she says; "you have made me happy. I shall try to
sleep now."
He covers her with a rug, and watches by her side during the night.
He has no heart for his birds, and were it not that she takes a
childish delight in them, and is glad to have them around her, he
would have taken them to the woods and set them free. She does not
recover consciousness of her true position; she believes that she and
Joshua are children together, and--it may be happily--all the horrors
through which she has passed have faded from her mind. Her great
delight is to play with the birds and listen to her shell. Sometimes
the fancy that he is at sea possesses her, and she talks to him of
himself, as she used to talk to Dan, and coaxes him to tell her the
story of the death of Golden Cloud and other incidents of his boyish
life. In this condition she remains for many days, until the time
comes when she awakes from a deep sleep, and says, in her weak voice,
"I have been dreaming, Joshua. I thought we were children again." Then
opening her hand with the shell in it, looks at it, blushing, and
says, "It is the old shell, Joshua. You remember."
"Do you feel stronger, Minnie?"
"No, dear; I shall not grow stronger. It will be as I told you a
little while ago. Spring is not gone yet; but it will be soon. Have
they asked about me?" meaning the natives.
"Yes, many times every day, Minnie; and have brought their choicest
food for you regularly."
"They have been very kind to us. Rough-and-Ready was not quite right
about them. I used to tremble with fear when he spoke of them. Poor
Rough-and-Ready and poor Tom! What has become of them, I wonder!"
They muse sadly over the memory of those two good friends.
"Some lives are very hard, Joshua," she continues. "His was, I am
sure. I suppose it was as he said, and that he has done bad things.
Yet how kind and gentle he was to us! It is hard to reconcile; but it
seems to me, my dear, that our lots are shaped for us. We can't help
our feelings; we don't make them; they come, and we must act as they
prompt us to act. Opara and the savages now: they couldn't help being
born savages, and they have had no good teaching. Don't think me
wicked for what I am going to say, my dear."
"No, Minnie; go on."
"Well, I can't help believing that a good deal of what is called wrong
is not wrong, and that bad is not always bad. I can't explain exactly
what I mean, but I feel it." She appears to think that she has got out
of her depth, and suddenly changes the subject. "Take me out, and let
me see Opara. You must carry me; I am not as heavy as I was."
He lifts her in his arms, and carries her, with her arm round his
neck, out of the hut towards the savages. They crowd round her, and
she speaks a few words to them, and smiles upon them. Then, by easy
stages, he carries her to her favorite spot by the river's side, and
there they rest.
"All rivers have currents, Joshua?"
"Yes, my dear."
"Even this, that looks so still and quiet?"
"Even this, my dear; the current is running, although you cannot see
it. But remember, the river is not so still everywhere. A very few
miles away it is full of life; it is rushing over the rocks, and is
never still for an instant day and night."
"Strange! So restless there, so quiet here! It has been so with me: so
restless there, so quiet here! Look! we can see the fish in the clear
depths. How beautifully the wild jasmine smells!"
He gathers a little for her, and a bunch of fringed violets, and she
puts them in her breast. Then she encourages him to talk of home, and
listens with sincere pleasure to his praises of Dan.
"It is good to be loved by such a heart," she muses.
"Ah, Minnie!" he ventures to say, "if it could have been with him as
he once hoped it would!"
"About me?" she replies unhesitatingly. "Does not that seem to be a
proof that our lots are shaped for us? Tell him that I was very, very
sorry, and that I begged him to forgive me."
But it is chiefly about Joshua's mother that she speaks, and wishes
that her mother had lived. In the midst of the conversation she falls
into a light slumber, and opening her eyes half an hour afterwards,
resumes from the point where they had left off, as if there had been
no interval of silence.
On another occasion they are together on the same spot, and Joshua is
telling her of a beautiful part of the river's bank which she had not
seen. "The river is narrow there, and even more peaceful than this,"
he says. "The trees on both sides bend over the water until the
topmost branches almost touch, so that the river is in shade. The sun
was peeping through the arch of branches, lighting up the water here
and there, and the golden light streaked the white leaves of the
lilies, over which the pretty lotus-bird was running with so light a
step as not to stir the flowers."
"How beautiful!" she says softly. "At night, when the moon is shining
on the water and the lily-leaves through the arch of branches, how
grand and peaceful it must be! Joshua, bend your head, my dear. When I
am gone, let me be buried there. Nay, don't cry; but promise."
In a broken voice he promises her, and she is content. Then she bids
him bring Opara to her; and the aged chief comes and sits by her side.
"Opara," she says, taking Joshua's hand and kissing it, "this my
brother and I are one. You understand?"
"I understand," he answers; and Joshua wonders what it is she is about
to say.
"You see how weak I have grown, Opara. Look at my hand; you can see
the light through it."
"Say, my daughter," asks Opara: "you who know the language of birds
and flowers,--you who know the mysteries of the Grand Vault,--can you
not make yourself strong?"
"No, Opara; I am wanted."
"Cannot our mintapas make you strong?"
"No, Opara; their skill is not for me. Tell them so; and tell them I
thank them, and will not forget them. Listen. Many moons ago, I walked
in the woods, where the leaves were singing to each other, and where
the wind whispered strange things as it travelled through the trees. I
heard a voice; I listened; and I was told that when the next summer
came, I should be wanted--There!"
Opara gravely followed the motion of her hand, as it pointed upwards.
"The summer is coming, and I must go. Do not disturb me then; my
brother will see to me; and tell your young men and women to let me
rest."
"I will tell them, and they will obey. Will our daughter return to
us?"
Minnie catches at this question eagerly, and clasps Joshua's hand with
a firmer clasp.
"I will return, if you will do one thing for me."
"Opara will do it."
"It will take many days to do."
"If it takes many moons to do, it shall be done."
"Opara's name shall be known in the Grand Vault," says Minnie in an
earnest tone. "Take heed of my words. Those men of the same color as
my brother, of which you were told some time ago, you have not seen
them?"
"They are southward. My brother has a message for them from me. He has
promised to deliver it to them; but he does not know the country. If
he goes by himself, bad men of other tribes may meet him and take him
with them. If you and some of your young men will accompany him south
until he sees the strangers, or is near to them, I will return to you
by and by, and your tribe shall never want food. The strangers will be
kind to you, and will give you good things. Will Opara do this, and
protect my brother?"
"Opara will do this, and will protect your brother."
"Good." She gives the old chief her hand, and he places it on his
eyes, and departs gravely.
Joshua for a time is too agitated to speak. This last proof of her
devotion is the crowning sacrifice of her life. She is the first to
break the silence.
"Joshua, my dear, I have made atonement?"
He can only say, "O my dear, my dear, how unworthy I am in my own
eyes!"
"Nay, nay," she says soothingly, "you are all that is good and noble.
A better heart, a purer, never beat. I have committed a great fault,
and have done you a great wrong--unconsciously, my dear, and without
thought; and, by the mercy of our Father, I have been able to atone
for it. Think of me as a child, my dear, who has loved you with all
her heart, despite her wilfulness. Take me in your arms as you would a
child, and say that you forgive me."
He takes her in his arms, and, to satisfy her, sobs out the words she
wishes to hear. Her face is close to his.
"This kiss for Ellen," she whispers; "this for your dear, kind mother;
this for Dan. Tell all of them of my fancy, that I wish to live in
their minds, not as a woman, but as a child as a child who erred
through love, and who had not been taught to understand what duty was.
Who said this, 'There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not
sanctify.'"
"Your father!" he whispers, amazed.
"I heard him; I was in the room when he blessed my mother for devoting
her life to him."
Presently she asks him to fetch his birds, and he runs and brings
them. He opens cage, and they hop about her contentedly. He gathers
some wild flowers, and places them by her side. Shortly afterwards she
directs his attention to the fringed violets, which do not live an
hour after they are gathered. "They are withering," she says. "Do not
pluck any more of the pretty things; let them live." He supports her
in his arms; and she watches the birds with glistening eyes, and
whispers that they remind her of dear Dan. Then she falls asleep, with
her face turned to Joshua. He does not disturb her. Every thing around
is very still and quiet. He thinks of the restless river a few miles
away, and of Minnie's words, "So restless there, so quiet here! It has
been so with me." The afternoon passes; the sun is going down, and the
heavens are filled with wondrous color. Minnie has been asleep for a
long while now. Shall he arouse her? Her fair face is perfectly still,
and a smile is on her lips. "Minnie!" he whispers. Her hand is on her
heart, and in her hand the shell. She does not speak; and a darkness
comes upon him, and his heart grows cold as he presses his lips to
hers. She has gone to spend the summer of her life in another world.
Opara holds the last words of Minnie sacred. To the expressed desire
of the doctors of the tribe to inter Minnie according to their rites,
he says, "Our daughter has spoken, and Opara has promised. Her brother
will see to her. Let her rest." So, on the following night, Joshua is
standing alone by Minnie's grave, which he has strewn with wild
flowers. In the rude coffin of bark, which he has cut and made with
his own hands, he places also the sweetest-smelling flowers he can
find. Her shell he leaves in her hand, and cuts a long tress from her
hair. "For Dan," he murmurs.
He buries her in the place he had described to her, and where she had
expressed a wish to be laid. It is just such a night as she pictured.
The moon is streaming through the interlaced branches on the beautiful
lilies and the peaceful water. He reads prayers from Dan's Bible, and
falls upon his knees; and, as he sobs there, the words of her father
recur to inn, and he repeats their sense prayerfully: "She is a wild
flower; the impulse of her mind is under the control of the impulse of
her heart. She is oblivious of all else, defiant of all else. Those of
her friends who have the consciousness of a higher wisdom than she
possesses, those of them who can recognize that the promptings of such
a heart as hers may possibly lead her into dangerous paths, must guide
her gently, tenderly. If any betray her, he will have to answer for it
at the Judgment-seat!"
"Judge me," he cries aloud, raising his arms to heaven, "and so deal
with me! This dear angel lies in her grave pure as at her birth. But
she will speak for me, dear, honored sister!"
In the distance, standing in the shadow of the trees, are the natives,
their bodies streaked with white. They do not intrude upon Joshua's
sorrow. Slowly he piles the earth upon the faithful heart, and kisses
the earth with passionate grief. When he is calmer, he reads his Bible
by the moon's light; and, as he reads, peace comes to him.
CHAPTER XLI.
JOSHUA AND THE OLD WIZARD.
For two weeks the natives mourned for Minnie. Their grief was sincere,
notwithstanding that it was expressed in barbarous fashion--such as
painting their bodies white with pipeclay, and inflicting painful
gashes upon their breasts and arms with shells and stones. They
observed Joshua gathering wild flowers to place upon her grave, and
every day after that, the women and children collected the prettiest
and rarest flowers they could find, and decorated Minnie's grave with
them. During this time a terrible feeling of desolation came upon
Joshua. If Opara failed to keep the promise he had given Minnie, what
would become of him? He thought of some words Dan had spoken to him in
one of their boyish conversations, when they were talking of Robinson
Crusoe. Dan had said he thought it strange that Robinson did not
forget how to speak his native language, and had wondered that he
didn't go mad. This remembrance was terrible to Joshua. At night, when
he was alone in his hut, he would speak to himself, and would tremble
at his voice; and stopping sometimes with half-uttered words upon his
tongue, would be seized with sudden terror as at an unfamiliar sound.
But at the end of a fortnight, Opara came to Joshua, and said, "Our
days of mourning are over; but the image of our daughter will dwell
forever in our hearts. To-night we hold a council. Shall we tarry yet
a while, or shall we prepare to depart?"
"I have a message for my brothers and hers," replied Joshua. "They
live southward. Is that the direction Opara will take?"
"Opara will do as he has promised," said the old chief with dignity,
"and will accompany you to the south."
"My sister will be glad if her message is delivered soon;" and
Joshua's heart beat quickly at the prospect of deliverance.
Opara gravely bent his head; and that night it was decided that twenty
young men and doctors of the tribe, including Opara, should start in a
couple of days, with Joshua, for the south. When Joshua was informed
of this, he went to Minnie's grave, and shed tears of joy, and
gathered a little of the earth, and placed it in the bag round his
neck which contained his most precious possessions. On the appointed
morning they started early, accompanied by the entire tribe; but by
noon all the stragglers had departed. In a few days their road lay
through very rough country, where, although fruits and birds were
plentiful (it being summer), Opara said they would not be able to live
in the winter. Their great difficulty was to obtain water, for the
creeks and watercourses were drying up; and Joshua was filled with
admiration at the resources of the natives, who found water in
places--digging it out of trees, indeed, very often--were a stranger
would never have dreamed of searching for it. When Joshua saw them
strike their stone weapons into a tree whence cold bright water
flowed, he could not help thinking of Moses striking the rock. A
favorite food with them was a species of shrubby plant which they
called Karkalla, and which yielded a rich luscious fruit; and they
ate, with intense relish, many species of grubs which they cut out of
the bark of trees.
Among the party was one famous wizard and doctor, who was not disposed
to look upon Joshua with the same friendly eye as the others did. When
Minnie was ill, he had been especially desirous of exercising his arts
upon her, and of restoring her to health, by which means his
reputation with the tribe would have been enormously increased; and
when Minnie died, he entertained the belief that he could have saved
her if he had been allowed. This doctor's name was Nullaboin, and he
had joined Joshua's escort because he thought that he might, by
watching Joshua's movements, obtain some kind of knowledge that might
be useful to him.
During the latter days of Minnie's illness Joshua had not played his
accordion, which, it must be borne in mind, the natives had never
seen. Joshua had kept it jealously concealed in its covering of fur,
and had never played it in sight of the natives. It was at the end of
the second week of their journey, when Joshua was looking out
anxiously for traces of white settlers, that a circumstance occurred
which boded him great danger. He had wandered, as he had been in the
habit of doing every night, a long distance from where the natives
pitched their camp. From time to time Opara and his party had met
natives of different tribes, with whom they had conversed (though
sometimes with difficulty, for their dialects differed) concerning the
white men; and on this morning a strange native had given them such
information as led Opara to tell Joshua that he believed he would soon
be able to deliver Minnie's message to her brothers. Interpreting by
this that the stranger they had met had seen something of Englishmen,
Joshua, in the night, wandered farther from the camp than usual, in
the vague hope that he might come upon traces of his countrymen. He
saw none, and yet thought they might be near. An idea struck him. "Why
should I not play my accordion?" he thought. "I might be within a
short distance of my deliverers, and not know it. The sound of
civilized music might reach their ears, and they would come to me." He
acted upon the thought without delay. For the first time for many
weeks, he took his accordion from its covering (it was slung round his
shoulders by a strap of dried skin), and walked through the woods,
playing, and swinging the instrument in the air, so that the sound
should travel far. He little dreamed of the effect he produced.
Nullaboin was tracking him--had tracked him every night in his
wanderings. Hitherto Nullaboin had learned nothing; but now directly
the music struck upon his ears, he was so amazed as almost to betray
himself. The idea that flashed through that cunning savage mind was as
singular as it was original. It was neither more nor less than that
Joshua held Minnie's spirit imprisoned in the strange instrument from
which the melodious sounds proceeded. They were the same as used to
proceed from Minnie's hut, when it was imagined she was speaking with
invisible shapes. What wonders might he not perform, could he obtain
possession of that power! The mysterious spirits of air and heaven
would speak to him, and would tell him strange things. But how could
he obtain it--how? Joshua was strong--too strong for him. He was an
old man--ay, he was an old man, and these spirits, if he could speak
to them in their language, might teach him how to become young again.
The courses of his blood quickened through the old wizard's veins at
the wild hope, and he picked up a stone and cut at his breast in his
excitement. He could not hope to wrest the magic power from Joshua
singly. He must enlist his companions on his side. His influence was
great, but Opara's was greater. He dreaded that aged chief. "If Opara
knows," was his cunning thought, "Opara will claim it for himself.
No, no; it is mine Nullaboin's. Here me, Pulyalanna! Strike Opara with
your thunder to-night! Strike him dead! He has lived long enough." But
as he thought, he started away in terror. Among the trees some twenty
yards away, he saw a crouching figure, which he took to be one of the
fabulous Purkabidnies, that roam through the woods at night to slay
black men. It was but the charred stump of a tree, but it was
sufficient to cause Nullaboin, the wizard, to fly from the spot in
direst terror, towards the camp. He lay awake until Joshua returned,
and noted with his lynx eyes that Joshua wore the magic instrument
strapped round his shoulders. The following day he took occasion to
speak to Joshua in a subtle manner, as thus: "Nullaboin dreamt last
night of his daughter the Star."
Joshua nodded.
"She spoke to me. Her voice was like the voice of the birds. I shall
see her soon."
Joshua gave him a startled look.
"Has her brother seen her?"
"No."
"Has she not spoken to him?"
"No."
"Nullaboin is a great mintapa, and his daughter knows his power."
All this was Greek to Joshua, and he did not encourage the old wizard
to continue his revelations. But during that day and the next,
Nullaboin was busy working upon the credulous minds of the younger
natives, and found but little difficulty in inflaming their curiosity.
Joshua's eagerness had become almost painful by this time; and when
they were travelling over plains, every speck on the horizon became a
horseman in his anxious eyes. Occasionally they had to make their way
through dense scrub, where there were but few trees; but for the most
part their road lay through the woods, where tall timber was abundant.
Under any other circumstances, Joshua would have found the life he was
leading wonderfully interesting, fatiguing as it was. Now they were
wending their way through a gully, the heights on each side of which
were so thickly wooded as almost to shut out the light of heaven; now
they were on a plain somewhat thinly dotted with trees when suddenly a
young savage would dart off in pursuit of a bee which his wonderful
sight had detected fifty feet high in the air. Away buzzed the bee
through the clear air, and, with his eyes fixed upon the tiny insect,
after it flew the savage joined by other young men of the party, the
older men following more leisurely. With unerring sight the hunters
ran until the bee settled upon a tree; and with wondrous speed the
bee-hunter, seeing the sugar-bags in the topmost branches, climbed the
trunk, cutting notches in the bark for his toes with his stone
hatchet, until he reached the sweet store, with which he loaded
himself, and then rejoined his companions. Now they caught an enormous
guana, more than five feet in length, upon which the natives feasted;
and saw strange specimens of the mantis, which looked like rotten
pieces of dead twigs until they were touched, when they crawled away
by the aid of their abundant misshapen limbs. Now they came to a place
where, surrounded by almost impenetrable scrub, in which patches of
wild bananas grew, were a number of fresh-water lagoons, filled with
reeds and weeds of every description, and abounding in screeching
cockatoos and beautifully-colored ducks. While Nullaboin was busy with
his scheme for obtaining the magic box in which he imagined Minnie's
spirit was imprisoned, some members of a strange tribe came to the
party, one of whom, to Joshua's amazement, was singing in imperfect
English a verse of the ballad, "He promised to buy me a bunch of blue
ribbons."[1] The singer knew no other words of English: but he
contrived to make Joshua understand that he had been among white men,
which, indeed, was sufficiently evident from his singing.
----------
[Footnote 1: A fact.]
----------
"Opara," said Joshua, with sparkling eyes, "my brothers are near."
"It is well," was Opara's simple reply. "Opara will have performed his
promise. When his daughter returns to her tribe, she will thank
Opara."
But by this time Nullaboin's plans were matured; and that night, when
Joshua wandered into the woods, his heart filled with grateful
feelings towards the faithful savages, he was followed stealthily by
Nullaboin, and a half-a-dozen braves who had joined in his plot.
"At last!" thought Joshua, visions of happiness to come floating
before his eyes--"at last! Perhaps to-morrow I shall see the faces of
my countrymen, and then, and then"-- But he could not think clearly;
for as the images of those dearest to him came before him, the false
face of Solomon Fewster seemed to cast a shadow upon his happiness. He
leaned against a silver-leaved gum-tree, and tried to calm himself,
and in a little while succeeded. Ellen was true to him, he was sure.
And Dan? "Is he training his birds still?" he thought "How has he
borne his great grief?" He saw before him the dear old kitchen in
Stepney, exactly as he had seen it last; every chair and every piece
of crockery was in its exact place. Every detail of those last few
minutes at home presented itself clearly to him: his yearning look at
the old familiar room; his walking up the stairs to the street-door
with his face hidden in his mother's neck, and she caressing him, as
she had done when he was a little child. Almost unconsciously he had
taken out his accordion, and his fingers were wandering over the keys,
playing softly those airs most in consonance with his thoughts. He
even murmured the words of "Tom Bowling:"
"Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew."
"Dear Old Sailor! How glad I shall be to see his honest face!" And he
saw the Old Sailor take a wedding-ring out of a piece of silver-paper,
with a triumphant expression upon his face, as he had done in that
memorable interview in Gravesend, when--whiz! Good God! what was
this? The sky seemed to come down upon the earth, and he sank through
it--down! down!--
Nullaboin, snatching the accordion from the falling man, hugged it to
his naked breast, and glided swiftly away, followed by his
confederates. They must have traversed full four miles before they
paused, and then they looked cautiously around, to assure themselves
that they were alone. The old wizard had kept the instrument tightly
pressed to his bosom during the flight, so that no sound had proceeded
from it; but now, when they paused, his grasp relaxed. His hand was on
the keys: and and as the accordion gradually distended itself, a slow
wail issued from it, which so terrified him that he let it fall to the
ground, so that the weak and plaintive sound was followed by a harsh
and sudden jangle of all the notes. Appalled at this angry cry, which
was to them full of fearful meaning, the younger savages, with
palpitating hearts and dismayed faces, flew from the spot, and left
Nullaboin alone with the terrible prize. He stood like a statue for
many minutes, although the thick beads of perspiration were rolling
down his face and beard, and then cautiously approached the prostrate
mystery. Encouraged by its silence, he stooped over it, and, after his
savage fashion, entreated it to speak to him. No answer came. What
should he do? A sudden light came into his eyes. Minnie's spirit was
imprisoned there, and she was angry. He would release her. He lifted
the accordion gently from the ground, and timidly pressed his finger
upon one of the higher keys. The response was gentle, almost piteous;
it was an appeal to him.
"O Star of the tribe!" he whispered, "Nullaboin will set you free.
Make him great!"
He took a small green-stone mogo (hatchet) from his girdle, and
carefully cut a long hole in the cloth. He held his hand over it to
grasp the spirit; but he saw nothing, heard nothing. He waited;
nothing came. He took it in his hand, and waved it up and down; no
sound issued from it. The spirit had fled, and the old wizard was left
despairing.
Joshua felt no pain. A delicious sense of rest was upon him. Of all
the memories that came to him in his dreams, the happy holiday he had
spent with Dan and Ellen on the Old Sailor's barge was the most vivid.
He lived once more through the whole of that happy day--stood in Dan's
room in his holiday clothes, with food for the birds which were to be
presented to the Old Sailor--went down to breakfast, and saw Ellen's
yearning look as they talked of the coming pleasures of the day--saw
her run out of the room and run in again, almost mad with delight
because Susan had obtained permission for her to accompany the
lads--rode in the creaking cart through dingy Whitechapel--saw Dan
swinging in the hammock and gazing at him affectionately while he was
rowing--heard every word of the Old Sailor's sea-stories over
again--sat on the deck in the twilight in a state of delicious
happiness by Ellen's side, and went down into the saloon, and heard
the Old Sailor sing, and then Ellen, her favorite song of
"Bread-and-cheese and Kisses." After that a darkness came upon him,
and he opened his eyes, and saw the stars shining in the heavens; but
they were shut out immediately afterwards, and he was standing on the
deck of the "Merry Andrew" the night the ship struck on the rocks;
holding Minnie in his arms; the dead faces of his shipmates crowded
upon him, rising from the cruel sea with the exact expression upon
their features that they wore when he last saw them; then came his
encounter with the Lascar in the woods; and that memory brought to him
the face of Solomon Fewster, which lingered long; but it faded in its
turn, and gave way to other fancies, the most enduring of which was
the river near which Minnie was buried, and the refrain of her words,
"So restless there, so quiet here!" dwelt in his mind through the long
night.
When he awoke it was daylight. He struggled to his feet, but could
scarcely stand for weakness. He had been struck by a boomerang on the
temple, and had lost a great deal of blood. He was so weak and
bewildered that, even now that he was awake the past incidents of his
life were strangely mingled in his mind. It was not until after long
mental pondering and sifting of incidents that the true knowledge of
his position and of what had occurred to him dawned upon his senses.
He looked round for his accordion; it was gone. Then he thought,
"Opara has betrayed me at the last moment. They have stolen my
accordion, and they have left me here for dead. But they may return at
any moment to strip me of what I have about me." Weak and faint as he
was he crawled cautiously towards the most thickly-wooded part of the
forest, and there concealed himself. "What now?" he thought. "Must I
wait for death?" For indeed he was too weak to walk. His heart almost
fainted within him.
"Now, when I was so near to deliverance," he groaned aloud, shedding
bitter tears, "to be thus dashed back to misery!" But even as he
uttered the words, he heard the crack of a stockman's whip. Crack! It
rang through the woods and through his heart. Not the mockery of a
whip-bird this time! No, no; it was too near; and it was followed by
the sound of horses' hoofs and by the sound of English voices. Thank
God! thank God!
CHAPTER XLII.
FAITHFUL HEARTS.
On a pleasant summer evening Dan and Ellen and George Marvel were
sitting in the shade of the veranda which surrounded three sides of
their house. The house was built of wood, and was all on one floor,
and there was a garden in the front and in the rear. George Marvel was
smoking his pipe as usual, and having by this time got used to the
short clays, which were the only ones he could now obtain, had just
declared that he enjoyed a short pipe as well as a long one; "though I
couldn't stomach them at first, Dan, as you know." Dan nodded in
acquiescence; he had no time to reply; for at that moment a great
shouting was heard, and the mail-cart was seen driving round the
corner towards them. The arrival of the mail-cart in the village was
an event of the utmost importance, and was always greeted with cheers
by the excited population. There was a mail-service once a fortnight,
and sometimes it would be a day or two behind, which was most
serviceable to the inhabitants of the village, as giving them
something to be anxious about and to talk about. The driver (who was
contractor for the mail, owner of the mail-cart, and driver of it, all
in one) had one invariable excuse when he was late; he had been
waiting for the birds. Now, when Dan first heard this, he, without
knowing its meaning, felt instantly attracted to the driver of the
mail, whose name was Ramsay; and when he had an explanation from the
lips of a neighbor to whom Ramsay had given a lift (he was always
giving kindly "lifts" to one and another), Dan was disposed to be
affectionately familiar with him. This feeling being reciprocated by
Ramsay, an intimacy sprung up between them, the consequence of which
was, that Ramsay, after delivering his mails to the postmaster (a
rheumatic old woman, deaf, and almost blind), came as regularly as a
clock to have a smoke and a chat with Dan and the Marvels. A curious
character was Ramsay; a man who had seen better days--who had, indeed,
once been very wealthy--who had been plundered and deceived from his
youth upwards--and who yet retained a kindliness to every living thing
with which he came in contact. Thus, his waiting for the birds: it was
whimsical, pretty childish, some said; consisting in stopping
whichever of his two steady old mares he was driving, immediately he
saw a bird on the bush track before him. "Get out of my way, little
bird," he would say in a singularly gentle voice, and he would give
his whip a flick at the back of his cart, which had not the slightest
effect in disturbing the little creature that blocked the road. But
Ramsay could no more drive past it than he could drive through a wire
fence; and he often found it necessary to descend from his cart, and
walk softly towards the bird, which, having probably by that time
finished its pecking, would jerk up its cunning head towards the
intruder, and leisurely take flight to the nearest tree, where it
would watch the lazy old mare trotting along and would receive perhaps
a comical "Good-morning, little bird!" from the gentle-hearted
mail-contractor.
When Ramsay had delivered his mail to the rheumatic old female
postmaster, he would look over the letters and newspapers (five
minutes was long enough to sort the lot of them) to see whether there
was any thing for Dan and Mr. Marvel. On this evening there was a
newspaper; and Ramsay, taking possession of it, walked leisurely to
the house of his friends. Ellen's child, Maggie, saw him, and ran to
him for a jump in the air, and he stopped to indulge her until he was
out of breath, when he was glad to deliver her into her mother's
charge, shaking his head laughingly in answer to her cries for "more!"
"Hi, Mrs. Wattles!" he shouted to a woman who was passing. "There's a
letter for you at the post-office." Which sent Mrs. Wattles off, in
eager haste, to receive her missive.
"You're a day late," said Dan, as Ramsay opened the gate.
"Waiting for the birds, Dan; couldn't get along for the creatures.
Here's a newspaper for you."
The newspaper had an English postage-stamp upon it, and there was
something marked inside.
"It's from the Old Sailor!" cried Dan, and pressed it to his lips and
so did Ellen, and all those simple foolish people, in turns, one after
another. The paragraph that was marked related how a ship, with all
hands, was reported lost ten years ago, and there was nothing more
heard of her until a week before the newspaper was printed, when into
the London Docks came a vessel from China, which had been driven out
of her course, luckily, and had in consequence picked up six men off
an island, who had been living there for many years; and how that
these men belonged to the crew who were supposed to have gone to the
bottom ten years before. You may imagine that they read this paragraph
half a dozen times at the least, having Joshua in their minds all the
time, and that Ellen and Mrs. Marvel disappeared for a few minutes to
have a cry together. While they were away, the men sat silent and
grave, Dan reading the newspaper, and George Marvel and Ramsay smoking
their pipes.
Now, once in every month--that is, by every other mail--Ramsay had to
deliver a mail-bag at a cattle-station known as Bull's Run. The
station was between forty and fifty miles distant from the village,
and Ramsay took two days for the journey, out of a merciful regard for
his old mare. As he had to start for Bull's Run early in the morning,
he did not stay late with his friends, but bade them goodnight at
about nine o'clock. When he was gone, the Old Sailor became the
subject of conversation, and every circumstance of their intimacy was
recalled and dwelt upon with loving affection. Every night they sat
together--Susan as well, although she never joined in the
conversation--talking of one thing and another. Time had softened
their grief, but it had not made them less constant; their hearts beat
as fondly and devotedly for Joshua as ever they had done.
Susan and Mr. and Mrs. Marvel had gone to bed; Ellen and Dan were
alone. Between these two an undefinable sympathy existed; they could
almost read each other's thoughts; and this night Ellen lingered when
the others had retired to rest, because she had read in Dan's face the
signs of something more than usually important in his mind. For a long
time they were silent; the stillness of every thing around impressed
them deeply. The nature of their thoughts and the stillness of the
night, in which there was something solemn, brought to both of them
the memory of another night, years ago, when they had sat alone as
they were sitting now, with Basil Kindred's unopened diary before
them.
"Ellen," said Dan, playing with her fingers thoughtfully, "I have
dreamed of Jo lately more often than usual, and to-night my thoughts
dwell upon him so strongly that I shall not go to bed for a while."
"I will sit up with you, my dear."
The windows in the room were folding windows, and reached to the
ground. Ellen opened them; and she and Dan were presently sitting
beneath the veranda, he upon a chair, she upon the ground, with her
head resting in his lap.
"Do you remember that Christmas night, Ellen, when Jo came home?"
"Yes, Dan."
"And the strange impression I had upon me that Jo was near us,
although I had no actual knowledge of it?"
"Yes."
"I can see the street as we saw it then, Ellen, with its covering of
snow, and that cruel black gash in it which the only man who passed
tore with his feet. It was like an ill-omen. You see nothing to
disturb the beauty of the scene, Ellen?"
"No; but why do you ask, my dear?"
"Because I have upon me to-night the same feeling that I had then;
because notwithstanding that it is almost madness to say it and
believe it, I believe that Jo is near us."
"Dan!"
"To no one else but you would I say this, my dear. Long dwelling upon
one subject fills the mind with singular thought concerning it, and it
may be that this feeling that is upon me now is but the creation of
the wildest fancy. Yet there are strange influences within us and
around us for which we cannot account, and which affect us in
mysterious ways. When I first knew that it was Jo's wish to be a
sailor, and that we should be parted, I tried with all my mind and
soul--it may be that it was a foolish, childish fancy, Ellen, but I
had it--to create such a heart sympathy between us that we could never
be parted in spirit. I had some wild ideas then of being able to dream
of what he was doing and seeing when he was thousands of miles away
from our little room in Stepney. Of course they came to nothing; but
it would be strange indeed, if this earnest striving of mine had not
produced some feeling within me which time only can test. You remember
what poor Minnie's father used to say: 'There are more things in
heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy.'"
So they sat together talking and musing, and it was past midnight
before they retired to rest.
Early in the morning, the whimsical mail-contractor was jogging along
towards Bull's Run; he had to stop so many times for the little birds
in the road, that his progress was slow; but he had reckoned upon
these impediments, and he arrived at the station not more than a
couple of hours after the usual time. That was the end of his journey;
the following day he had to make his way back to Dan's village. The
residence of the owner of Bull's-Run station was built of slabs split
from the bloodwood-tree; the roof was of shingle; and the interior of
the house was lined with rich dark-red cedar, which gave it quite a
cosey, comfortable appearance. The workmen's huts were built of
palm-tree slabs, and the roofs were thatched with strong sword-grass,
which grew in great profusion on the banks of a river within a few
miles of the homestead. Ramsay was always welcomed at Bull's Run; the
men and women on the station--for, primitive as it was, there were
women and children living on it--used to cluster round him and ask him
for news from the villages through which he passed, and the smallest
items were received with thankfulness, and eagerly listened to. On
this occasion, Ramsay had but little news to tell, and his budget was
soon exhausted. In return, they told him theirs: one of the bulls had
torn a man's arm open; a child had been lost for a whole night, and
all the men were out searching for it miles away, and it was found the
next morning within half a mile of the hut; three bushrangers,
splendidly mounted, passed the station last week at full gallop; one
of the shepherds had come in with a cock-and-a-bull story of gold
being found somewhere or other; another shepherd had gone mad;
Yellow-hammer Jack and his wife had had a row; and--but Oh! this was
the best bit of the lot!--a man had been brought in by two stockmen
who were looking for lost cattle, and had found him instead; he was
almost dead, and had been living a long time with the Blacks. He
seemed a decent kind of fellow, had been a sailor, he said, but was
strangely silent about himself--for good reasons, some of the
ill-natured ones said. Any ways, the man was better, although still very
weak, and intended to start the next morning for Sydney; nothing would
stop him.
"A long tramp for a weak man," said kind-hearted Ramsay; "if he's a
decent fellow, I'll give him a lift."
As he said this, there came towards the group, walking very slowly, a
strange-looking man, with a beard down to his breast, dressed in skins
and furs; he had a stick in his hand, and seemed to require its
support. They pointed to him, and said that was the man. Ramsay looked
at him keenly, and the air of melancholy that rested in the man's eyes
impressed the mail-contractor with a feeling of pity.
"A sailor, eh?" he thought; "and living with the savages. Wonder what
he lived with them for?" Then he thought of Dan's and Ellen's anxiety
concerning strange sailors and castaways, and that perhaps they would
be glad to see this man. He said nothing, however, but was up the next
morning early, and saw the man start on his road with slow and painful
steps. A few minutes afterwards the old mare was harnessed, and its
tail was turned to Bull's Run. Soon he came up to the man, and as he
did so, two purple-breasted robins pecking at a bit of honeysuckle
barred his progress. "Get out of my way, little birds," said the
mail-driver, pulling up his mare; and he gave a soft flick with his
whip in a direction where the robins were not. The words reached the
man's ears, and he turned his head in surprise, and saw the little
comedy. A gentle, sweet smile rested on his lips, and he looked at the
mail-driver almost gratefully. Ramsay smiled in return, and again bade
the little robins get out of his way; and presently they took flight,
each with a tiny piece of the sweet flower in its beak. Then the old
mare jogged lazily along, and the strange-looking man gazed wistfully
after the cart. Ramsay, looking back, saw the wistful expression, and
stopped at once. "Hi, mate!"
Joshua came slowly forward.
"Where you bound for?"
"Sydney."
"Going to walk all the way?"
"If I can," sighed Joshua; and could not help adding, "and if I don't
die on the road!"
"Jump up, mate; I can give you a lift for forty miles."
"I have no money," and Joshua turned away, with a sob.
"I don't want your money; I want your company. But how were you going
to live, if you've no money?"
"I should trust to the Providence that has so wonderfully delivered
me," thought Joshua, but made no reply aloud; though it could be seen
in his eyes, which were filled with tears.
"Jump in," said Ramsay, imperatively and kindly, "without another
word."
And without another word Joshua climbed into the cart.
"I dare say now," said Ramsay in the course of conversation, as the
old mare trotted steadily on the road, "that you wonder what made me
so anxious for your company. Well, I'll tell you. In the village where
I shall put up to-morrow afternoon, and which is forty odd miles on
the road to Sydney, live some people I'm very fond of, who had a
sailor friend that they've not heard of for a long while."
"Ah!" sighed Joshua; "I know, what their feeling must be. Did they
love him?"
"Love him! Well, you shall see for yourself; if, in return for the
lift I am giving you, you won't mind talking to them a bit."
"I shall be glad to; it may remind me of my own friends."
"Where are your friends?--Now, Dozy!" this to the old mare, who had
stopped suddenly short; "what d'ye stop for? The sense of the
creature!" he added proudly, pointing, to a bird some yards in front
of them. "Get out of my way, little bird!"
"When I first heard you say that," said Joshua, "I was sure you had a
kind heart."
"Fond of birds yourself, mate?"
"Very, very fond. The tenderest remembrances of my life are connected
with them."
Ramsay cast a sharp glance at the half-savage.
"Been long among the Blacks, mate? or isn't the story true?"
"It's true enough. Long among them? Ay--years, but I don't know how
long."
Joshua, indeed, had lost count of time.
"From choice?"
"No; but I've told my story to no one yet. It would scarcely be
believed. But tell me about your friends and the sailor."
"There's a mother there, that lost a son when she lost her
sailor"--Joshua pressed his fingers to his face, and sobbed
convulsively at the thought of his own dear mother, who had lost a son
when she lost her sailor; and the mail-driver felt a choking in his
throat, and had to wait a few moments before he could proceed. "And a
father that lost a son at the same time. And a wife that lost a
husband. And a friend that lost a friend. And a little child that can
hardly be said to have lost a father, for she never saw her father's
face."
"Merciful God!"
"What's the matter, mate?"
For Joshua was trembling--like a child; and great sobs came from his
chest--like a man.
"You remind me--you remind me," sobbed Joshua. "Don't think me
unmanly, don't think me mad. I have been sorely, sorely tried!"
Whereat Ramsay stopped the mare, and got out of the cart, and went
into the bush to look for birds. He must have had a great difficulty
in finding them, he was away so long; and the old mare stood perfectly
still and contented the while, twitching her tail to knock off the
flies, which was the only spirited action she was ever known to be
guilty of. When they were jogging along again, they did not speak a
word for a full hour, and then it was Joshua who spoke first, taking
up the thread where it had been dropped.
"The child who has never seen her father--a girl then?"
"Yes, mate."
"How was it that she had never seen him?"
"Married her mother; went away to sea, and never heard of since."
"How old is the child?"
"Five years, I should say."
"If you knew," said Joshua in a slow trembling voice, "what a chord
you have touched in my heart, you would pity me. Forgive me for my
strange manner, and answer me. The mother who has lost a son; describe
her."
"An angel. I'm not good at picking faces to pieces; but when I look at
her, she reminds me of my own mother, dead and gone this many a year.
Never thinks of herself; always putting herself out for other
people--bless her old face! And yet she's not so old, although her
hair is nearly white--that's from grief."
"The father who lost a son?"
"A fine fellow; a little self-willed and obstinate; a wood-turner."
A long, long silence. The mail-driver did not break it, nor did he
intrude upon his companion's thoughts. "Twit-twit-twit!" came from the
throats of some diamond sparrows, which were flitting among the
gum-tree branches and a flock of scarlet lowry parrots floated
through the bush that lined the road on either side, their
wonderfully-gorgeous plumage lighting up the dark trees with brilliant
light.
"The wife that lost a husband, and the friend that lost a friend?"
"Treasures both; brother and sister."
"One other question--where do they come from?"
"London. I don't know what part."
A mist floated before Joshua's eyes, and he remained like one in a
dream during the afternoon--wondering, hoping, fearing. When they were
near to the village the following afternoon, Joshua said,--
"It may be that you have rendered me one of the greatest services that
a man can possibly render another. If it be as I scarcely dare to
hope, we shall know each other for long after this. Complete the
service by doing one little thing more. Drive past the house where
your friends live and point it out to me, so that I may descend and
walk to it alone when we are at the end of your journey."
Ramsay nodded. It was about five o'clock when the mail-cart rattled
into the village. The contractor for the mails always made a great
clatter when he came in, as if he had been driving for his life--a
fiction which, although no one believed in, he thought it desirable to
keep up. "It looks government-like," he said.
Solomon Fewster is in the garden at the rear of the house, pleading
his suit to Ellen for the twentieth time. She stands silent until he
has finished a rhapsody, in which love and money are strangely
commingled.
"Think of the time I have waited, Ellen," he says; "think of the
constancy of my affection, and of the position I can offer you.
I am making money fast, and only wait for you to say yes, to buy a
house for us, which in three years will be worth three times what
they ask for it. What is the use of your wasting your life in this
out-of-the-way village when all the attractions of a city-life are
open to you? Come now, give me your hand, and reward the man who has
been your constant friend and lover, and who can make you rich."
But Ellen is insensible to the splendor of the offer; indeed, she is
weary of it and him, and she tells him so spiritedly, and yet cannot
repulse him. At length she says,--
"Mr. Fewster, there must be an end to this. I shall never, never marry
again; and even if I did," she adds, to put a stop to what has become
persecution, "I should not choose you;" and leaves him with this arrow
in his heart.
He stands amazed. Not choose him! Why, a thousand girls would jump at
him. Not here perhaps, for womankind was a scarce commodity; but at
home, or anywhere where girls were more plentiful. Not choose him! He
follows her into the house, wounded and mortified, and into Dan's
room, where Mr. Marvel and Dan are at work. Mr. Marvel has all his
tools, and does a great deal of wood-turning--having, indeed, more
than he can do--and is putting by money. He scarcely looks up as
Solomon Fewster walks in, somewhat defiantly; and as no one speaks to
him, an awkward silence ensues upon his entrance; broken by Mr.
Marvel, who, noticing Ellen's flushed face, observes,--
"Been teasing Ellen again, Mr. Fewster?"
"Teasing her, indeed!" exclaims Solomon Fewster loftily; "honoring
her, I should say."
The flush upon Ellen's face deepens at this, and she casts such a look
of aversion at Mr. Fewster that all the blood rushes into _his_ face,
and he says some injudicious words about ingratitude, and about what
one might expect if one condescended to lower himself as he had done.
Upon this George Marvel starts to his feet in a great heat, and
exclaims,--
"What do you mean by ingratitude, and by lowering yourself, Mr.
Fewster? What gratitude do we owe you?"
"Ask Dan," says Mr. Fewster,--"ask Dan who it was bought his birds to
keep you when you were starving, and when no one else would look upon
you. But it serves me right for noticing you and helping you, instead
of treating you as all your neighbors did. I ought to have known what
return I might expect."
"And I dare say you got your return," says George Marvel, "when you
sold Dan's birds at a good profit. As for Dan selling his birds to
keep us from starving, that was no business of yours, so long as you
got value for your money. That is a matter between Dan and me; and
Dan's satisfied with the way that account stands, or I'm mistaken in
him." Dan presses George Marvel's hand. "Thank you, Dan. Now, as to
lowering yourself, Mr. Fewster. Do you mean to tell me that you would
be lowering yourself if Ellen here was free to marry you, and would
accept you? You mean-spirited dog! I'm a good deal older than you are;
but if you were not in my house, I would thrash you for speaking as
you have done, as I've thrashed others in Stepney when they let loose
their lying tongues at us. Get out of the place, and never set foot in
it again!" Attracted by the loud voices, Susan and Mrs. Marvel, with
Ellen's child, have come into the room; and Mrs. Marvel now goes to
her husband's side and lays her hand upon his arm. "Nay, Maggie--let
be; I'm not going to hurt him; I wouldn't lay a finger upon him here;
and I don't want to anywhere else; only, don't let him cross me if he
says a word against us out of this house.--Dan!" he cries, "do you
want to see Mr. Fewster here again?"
"No, sir; I think it will be best if Mr. Fewster will keep away from
us."
"And you, Ellen? what do you say?
"I never wish to see him again. For the sake of what is past, I would
have been content to see him, if he would have ceased from persecuting
me; but after what he has said to you, I hope he will leave us in
peace."
"You hear," exclaims George Marvel; "we are happy enough without you.
Go, and never darken this door again!"
Solomon Fewster looks round, almost savagely; his face is white with
passion, and all the vindictiveness of his bad nature comes into play.
"You are happy enough without me!" he sneers, with his knuckles to his
mouth.
"Don't make too sure of that. I have been your friend hitherto. What
if I now make myself your enemy? What if, when I go from this house, I
spread about _my_ version of your reason for leaving London? What if I
tell your neighbors here of the real character of your sailor-hero,
and how, because of his villainy, all your friends turned their backs
upon you"--
But he has no time to say more; for the door, which has been partly
open, swings on its hinges, and Joshua enters.
Not one of them recognizes him. In his strange garb, with his fur-cap
pulled over his eyes, and with his face covered with hair, no trace of
Joshua is discernible; and yet they look at him spell-bound, waiting
for him to speak. He gazes at the forms of all the dear ones and
grasps the back of a chair to steady himself. He takes them all in at
a glance, and sees in one brief moment the changes in them that time
has made. His mother's white hair; the deepened wrinkles in his
father's face; Ellen more matronly than she was, but fair and pleasant
to look at as when she was a girl; Susan, like an old woman; Dan grown
a little stouter, and with the same dear boyish light in his eyes and
on his face--but the child, clinging to Ellen's apron and looking at
him wonderingly with Ellen's eyes and his!--
He had thought, before he entered, that he would be strong, but he has
no more control over himself for a few moments than a straw in a
fierce wind. Then muttering, "Justice first!" he turns upon Solomon
Fewster a glance of hate and scorn, and grasps him by the shoulder
with so powerful a grasp, that Fewster writhes with pain.
"I heard your last words," he says.
But directly he speaks, a thrill runs through them, and they are
running towards him with outstretched arms, when he cries,--
"Stand off! By what strange chance I find you, I can scarcely imagine.
But do not come nearer to me for a little while, or I shall fall dead
at your feet!"
Awe-struck and trembling they obey him.
"I would not touch one of your dear hands till you have heard me and
judged me, though death were the penalty for depriving myself of the
joy! I would not receive one kiss from your honored lips upon my cheek
till you have heard me and judged me, though I were sure that my
tongue would be paralyzed in the utterance of what I have to say! Some
part of your sufferings, some part of your pain, I know from my own
suffering and pain, and I will clear myself before your eyes, so help
me Thou! or go forever from my sight!"
Susan is running to him with cries of "Justice! justice!" and is about
to throw herself upon him, when George Marvel's arm restrains and
keeps her back. "Be still, madwoman!" he mutters sternly, and stands
by her side, watchful of her, and no less watchful and attentive of
every word that falls from his son's lips.
Joshua takes the cap from his head, and lets it fall to the ground,
still keeping his strong grasp upon Solomon Fewster, whose cowardly
blood grows thin as he writhes and listens.
"Justice!" echoes Joshua. "You shall have it, and so shall this base
dog, whose presence pollutes the air I breathe. Listen well. Of
another matter that we must speak of presently, and which is near and
dear to all our hearts, I will say nothing before him. But in the
'Merry Andrew' in which I sailed from Gravesend, and which is now at
the bottom of the sea, with many dear brave souls that were aboard
her, was a villanous sailor--a Lascar, from whose hands I once rescued
the woman who calls for justice, and who struck me down on that
dreadful Christmas-eve when I first came home from sea. He shrinks and
trembles beneath my grasp, this false friend, of whose bad heart I
warned my brother Dan before the 'Merry Andrew' sailed. At one time
during the voyage, when we were in danger, there was an attempt at
mutiny, and this Lascar was one of the cowardly wretches who
endeavored to spread dissatisfaction. When we were in dread peril,
this Lascar sailor and a mutinous mate, whom we had to put in irons,
strove hard to injure me and the captain--Heaven rest his soul--and,
happily, failed. The ship was wrecked, and we had to abandon her, and
take to a raft which we had made; and on that raft we suffered more
than six weeks hunger and thirst, and every species of misery. Out of
the entire crew and passengers only seven were saved, among them being
myself and this Lascar sailor and his confederate, the mutinous mate.
Before the captain died, he appointed me to succeed in the command,
and I have the record from the log-book about me now. We got ashore.
How we lived, you shall hear from me by and by; but once the Lascar
(whom we suspected of having killed his confederate) stole upon me,
and but that I turned my head in time, I should not be here now to
expose the villainy of this cowardly wretch. Foiled in his devilish
design, he told me then that he had been set to trap me, and was paid
for it. Some time after that, I found the Lascar dead in the forest;
and before I buried him--not wishing to leave a human creature
however vile, to be eaten by birds and beasts--I obtained evidence
which proved to me that the wretch who writhes now within my grasp was
the master who paid him to ruin, and perhaps to murder me."
"A clever lie," Solomon Fewster manages to say, though he is shaking
from terror.
"A lie! have the proofs. Be thankful that I have met you here among
those who are all that the world holds dear for ma. If I had met you
in the forest, in the midst of such scenes as I have witnessed lately,
I would not have answered for your life."
Joshua hurls Solomon Fewster from him with such force that he falls,
almost stunned, in the corner of the room. Then Joshua takes from his
neck the bag containing; his relics, and selects from them the silver
watch and the document which Fewster had given the Lascar, and after
reading aloud the document and the inscription on the watch, lays them
upon the table.
"Here are the proofs of your crime and your villainy," he says to
Fewster. "Be thankful if you are allowed to escape punishment. Go and
go quickly, and without a word!" He stands aside to let the man pass;
and Solomon Fewster, without a word or a look to any one there, passes
out of the room, and out of the village. And is never seen in it
again.
When they are alone, Joshua turns to Susan, and, in a softer voice,
says,--
"Susan, you cried for justice. Upon me!"
"Yes, upon you. Where is Minnie? What have you done with Minnie?"
The big tears roll down Joshua's beard at the mention of her name.
"You think I took her away?"
"You know you did."
"Then truly, if all of you believe as Susan believes, my life is
darker than the darkest night." With upraised hand he checks them,
from speaking; but he sees in their faces what gives him precious
comfort. "When I went away from Gravesend," he says in a soft and
gentle voice, "I had no knowledge that Minnie was aboard. When we got
to Sydney I did not know it. My duties occupied all my time. We sailed
from Sydney, and I was still in ignorance. But on the night the 'Merry
Andrew' struck on the rocks I heard her voice for the first time. I
suppose she thought that we were lost, and in her agony she made
herself known to me; but I did not see her--the night was too dark.
When I saw her the next day, I saw to my amazement that she had
stained her face, and that her hair was not so long as she used to
wear it. We were together on the raft. We were together on the shore.
She was one of the seven who were saved. We lived together like
brother and sister. When the savages discovered us, they had a strange
fancy respecting her, and she obtained great influence over them. She
used all her influence to protect me, and but for her I should have
lived and died where the tribe we fell amongst chiefly wandered--in
the north, many hundreds of miles from here." He takes from his bag
Ellen's portrait, the lock of her hair he had cut before he left
Gravesend, and Dan's Bible. He places these on one side. "What is
left, Dan, is yours. This tress, cut not many weeks ago; this paper,
which she desired me to give you, and which I have never read; this
earth, which I gathered from her grave Before she died, she sent you
all her dearest love, and a kiss for mother, Dan, and Ellen. She died
pure as she had lived, dear, faithful, mistaken heart! As I hope for
redemption, I speak the truth. If you believe me, take me to your
hearts again, and let me live in them as I know I once lived!"
As he once lived! as he had always lived! They cluster round him, and
kiss him, and sob over him. Had he not been saved from the deep--ay,
and from greater perils--to comfort them? And they put his little
daughter in his arms, who asks, hearing that he was her father, "Has
God sent my father back? God is very good."
O good faithful mother! can this great bearded man be your son? Not
often can such a cluster of loving hearts be seen--faithful to each
other, believing in each other's goodness and purity, in face of
terrible adverse circumstance. Their faithfulness is a proof of their
own worth. To the pure all things are pure. But hush! for Minnie's
last words; Dan is reading them aloud.
"I have learned, too late, the consequences of my fault. But I, and I
alone, am to blame. No one knew it; no one suspected it; no one aided
me in it. I am writing this upon a page of Dan's Bible, and it seems
to me like an oath. I cannot live long. I am dying. But a long-life's
devotion could not repay Joshua's brotherly care. All good angels
guard him and you! If Joshua is preserved to give you this--and I
believe he will be--think, while you read it, that my spirit is near;
and forgive me, dear Dan and Ellen. My love to you both, and to good
Mrs. Marvel and Joshua's father; and to Susan, who must have no bad
thoughts of Joshua. God bless you, and send you happiness!
"Minnie."
Dan and Joshua sit talking together until late in the night. Ellen and
Mr. and Mrs. Marvel are sitting up also, but in another part of the
house. They know that Dan wants to speak to Joshua of Minnie, and they
leave the friends undisturbed.
What is said to each other by the two faithful friends cannot be
written here; but it may be easily understood by those who have read
these pages. Joshua tells Dan as much as time will allow of his and
Minnie's lives, and is tender and indignant in turns, as Dan relates
to him the history of the family in Stepney after the sailing of the
"Merry Andrew." Be sure that the Old Sailor is not forgotten. I650f
tender speech and loving thought are worth any thing, the Old Sailor
is rich indeed.
Their eyes are wet with tears, and their hands are in each other's
clasp. Joshua has just finished his relation of Minnie's death, and of
her words about the river--"So restless there, so quiet here!"--when a
knock comes at the door and Ellen enters. He takes her in his arms,
and they sit, the three of them, and talk in a state of wondering
happiness.
Another knock at the door.--Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. The magnetism of love
has drawn them all together.
"It reminds me of the night before you first went to see, Jo," says
Dan. "Do you remember? The knocks at the door one after another."
"Josh," said George Marvel to his son, a fortnight afterwards, "what
are you going to do?"
"What do you mean, daddy?" asked Joshua in return.
"What do I mean? Well, you don't want to go to sea again?"
"No, I shouldn't like to leave Ellen and Dan and all of you again."
"Well, then, what are you going to do? You must do something."
Mrs. Marvel sat silent, and smiled a little smile, but very slyly, so
that no one should see it.
"You can get plenty of work as a wood-turner, daddy?"
"Yes, Josh, a good deal more than I can do--and well paid for it too."
"Well, daddy, I think"--
"Yes, Josh, you think"--
"I think I'll learn wood-turning, if you'll teach me."
Whereupon George Marvel, after the slightest amount of hesitation,
rose and kissed his wife.