moon passes without rain the island will have no more of our God or of
us.”
“What did you answer?” she asked.
“I told him,” and he smiled, “that I would dig in the earth and reveal
a place where God’s rain is buried. He scoffed at first, but finally
agreed to come with his warriors and help with the digging.”
“But, John,” she queried, “will you really be able to dig a well on
this island?”
“Of course, I can’t be certain,” he answered; “but I’ve been studying
the soil, and it seems probable. Anyway, it’s our one chance to appease
the old chief’s ire and continue our work.”
John Gibson Paton had come out to the New Hebrides some years before,
and settled on the cannibal island of Tanna.
He had begun at once to teach the people and had succeeded in greatly
improving their condition, when a trading vessel had brought measles to
the island. An epidemic followed, and the natives died like flies.
They were so bitterly angry against those who had brought the plague
that they became suspicious of all white men, even the missionary who
had always helped them, and he was finally obliged to flee for his life.
With great difficulty he escaped to a passing ship bound for Australia.
From Australia, he went to his homeland, Scotland.
He had a wonderfully happy time on this visit among his friends and
relatives, for he was married to the pretty Scotch lassie whom he had
learned to love.
He felt that life would be very hard for her on the island of Tanna,
and he decided to go, instead, to Aniwa, where the natives were less
fierce and more intelligent. Besides, they had asked that a missionary
be sent to them.
They were very glad when he came bringing his pretty wife, and they
tried to learn all he told them.
All went well until the traders who came to the South Seas for
sandalwood and cocoanuts and the rich tropical fruits, discovered that
the natives were becoming more intelligent, and could not be cheated or
swindled so easily since the missionaries were teaching them.
So the traders made up their minds to try to turn the blacks against
Doctor Paton and his wife, and his native helpers.
They had not been able to do much until the time of the long drought,
told about at the beginning of this story. You see, they depended
almost entirely upon rain for fresh water to drink.
Never before in the memory of living men had the islands been so long
without rain. The people were terrified and ready for any outbreak.
But the young missionaries, sitting silently under the palms, realized
that the traders might so excite the natives with their talk, and with
the rum, that they might become murderers and revert to cannibalism.
“Where will you dig the well, John?” Margaret asked at length.
“On the slope over there.” He nodded toward the opposite hill. “I shall
begin work to-morrow. Chief Namakei comes an hour after sunrise.”
“If you succeed in reaching fresh water, shall we be safe?”
“Yes, and if not, I hate to think of what may happen.”
“But anyway,” she declared, “I’m sure you will find God’s rain, John.”
Weary days and nights followed; days when the doctor and his band of
native helpers dug from dawn to dark in the sandy soil; nights when the
young white people, too anxious to sleep, sat under their palm trees
and watched while the moon sank into the sea, and the volcano of Tann,
“the lighthouse of the Pacific,” flung its blazing banners high against
the heavens.
Two weeks passed and the diggers found no water. Then one day the
continued drought left the old chief’s favorite water-hole quite dry.
On the same day the side of the new well caved in.
The two troubles coming together turned the interest of Namakei to
suspicion. When the digging began again he forbade his men to take part
in the work, and, though he still watched the other toilers, his beady
eyes had the look of a hawk’s just ready to pounce upon its prey.
The moon was full before the cave-in was repaired. The next morning the
two remaining helpers did not report for duty, and old Namakei told the
doctor that they would not come back.
“They are my prisoners,” he laughed. “If Missi Paton wish help in
finding the buried rain, let his God give it.”
“His God will give it,” the missionary replied, calmly.
And alone Doctor Paton went on with his undertaking.
Two days, three days, passed, and still no water. Namakei assumed a
more threatening attitude.
“The moon wanes!” he warned the missionary.
And then one morning when the doctor went down into the well he saw
something gleaming at his feet. He bent down, gazing with eager eyes.
It was water!
“But will it be fresh?” he asked himself, with fast-beating heart. On
so tiny an island the sea water might easily penetrate the soil.
Very slowly he dipped his finger into the now fast-rising water and
lifted it to his lips. And then suddenly he sank down in the dampness
and wept like a child. The water was fresh and pure and sweet, God’s
rain indeed.
By noonday the well was filled with the life-giving water, and from
every part of the island the natives gathered to behold the miracle of
the rain which had come up from the earth instead of down from the sky,
and to do honor to Missi Paton who had given it to them.
And when he assured them that it would always be there so long as the
island remained in the sea, and that drought would nevermore bring
suffering and distress among them, they kissed his hands in gratitude.
Never again did the evil words of the traders against their beloved
Missi have any weight with the natives of Aniwa, and never again did
they turn away from the Christian religion and the Christian God; and,
if you should visit the island to-day, you would be shown by the proud
people the well where John Gibson Paton found by faith and prayer and
labor the buried blessing so many years ago.
* * * * *
Again the Story People clapped their hands as the story ended, for they
love to hear of nothing better than a brave and an unselfish deed.
“That is a good story,” said Mary Frances.
“Yes,” said the Story King; “the stories of those who risk their lives
for others are the best of all our stories.”
“Yes,” agreed the Story Queen; “they are the best of all.”
“Now,” said the Story Lady, “we come to our fourth story.”
XXX
THE STRANGE GUEST
ON the summit of one of the heights of a wild country district along
the Rhine, there stood many years ago an old castle. In this castle
lived a beautiful maiden with her father and two elderly aunts.
Her father was a jolly old nobleman, very fond of his beer, and very
fond of hearing himself talk, too. He enjoyed his own jokes better than
anyone else, perhaps.
Even so, his dearest possession was his beautiful daughter, his only
child. He loved her as the apple of his eye, and wished to give her all
happiness.
She had little chance of being lonely, for there were always a large
number of poor relatives visiting the nobleman, and indeed they made
these visits so long that they sometimes stayed for years.
She often wondered, however, who might be living in the castle on the
heights across the valley. She could just see the outlines of the walls
and towers on clear days from the balcony outside her bedroom window.
“Father,” she said one day, “could we not ride over to that castle some
time? I’m forever dreaming stories about those who live within it.”
A heavy cloud settled over her father’s countenance.
“Never let me hear you make mention of it again, my daughter!” he
thundered.
And of course she said no more, but she spoke about it to one of her
aunts that evening.
“Dear aunt, why was my father vexed when I mentioned that castle this
morning?” she asked, pointing out of her window.
“Hush, my child,” replied her aunt. “There is a feud between the two
families.”
“A feud?” questioned the maiden. “A feud? Why, we do not even know
them! How can there be a feud?”
“It dates back to the time of our great-great-grandfathers,” her aunt
told her, “and no loyal member of this family would ever have anything
to do with a member of that family. Never mention the matter again!”
Then suddenly changing the subject, “Did you finish your embroidery
stint for to-day? How far have you worked? Let me see.”
The maiden blushed, arose, and brought a large sheet of unfinished
tapestry to her aunt, which she unfolded before her.
Her aunt put on her spectacles to examine the work.
“Wait!” she exclaimed. “I’ll call my sister.”
The other aunt was in the doorway, however, and joined her in examining
the work.
“I see a missed stitch here!” she commented.
“Ah, yes, and a loose end there!” added the other. “It is growing dark.
No knowing how many flaws we would find by daylight. To-morrow you will
do better, I hope.”
“I will try,” promised the niece.
And so the maiden grew. By the time she was eighteen, she could not
only embroider tapestries, and play a dozen airs on her guitar and
harp, but could write a short note, with not more than ten misspelled
words, and could sign her own full name without missing a letter.
These accomplishments, in that day, were considered quite a finished
education for a young lady.
On her eighteenth birthday the castle was in bustling excitement
because there was to be an affair of utmost importance. And this affair
was none other than a great family gathering to receive the intended
bridegroom of the maiden.
Her father had promised her in marriage to the son of an old nobleman,
a friend of his who lived in a distant province.
The parents had arranged all the details, and the young people were
engaged to be married without even seeing each other. The time was
appointed for the wedding, which was to take place at the home of the
maiden on her eighteenth birthday.
The bridegroom had already set out on his journey and was expected to
arrive at any moment.
The castle was in a tumult. The fair bride had been decked out with
uncommon care. Her aunts had quarreled about every article of her
dress, and while they were quarreling, she had made up her own mind
about each article she would wear. The result was that she looked as
lovely as a dream. The soft lustre of her eyes, the rose-petal hue of
her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her bosom, showed the excitement
in her heart.
Meanwhile her aunts gave her all kinds of directions as to her behavior.
“When you first see him, my dear niece,” advised one aunt, “lower your
eyes, as becomes a modest young lady.”
“Yes,” added the other aunt, “and when you courtesy, catch your skirts,
so,” and she made a deep old-fashioned bow.
The old baron was no less busy with preparations than the others.
Having, in fact, nothing to do but wait, he worried everybody else
about every detail. He wandered from the top to the bottom of the
castle, begging everybody to be diligent, and filling everybody with
anxiety. He was naturally a bustling little man, and he buzzed about in
every hall and chamber like a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer’s day.
In the meantime, things had been gathered together for the making of
a great feast. The forests had rung with the sound of the huntsman’s
horn. The kitchen was crowded with good cheer, and the castle was a
model of ancient hospitality.
The long tables had been spread with the handsomest trenchers and
dishes within the castle. The last finishing touches had been added to
the wedding gown, the bride waited trembling with anxious expectation.
Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest--but the guest
did not come.
Hour after hour rolled by. The sun began to set, and the baron mounted
for the eleventh time to the high tower, and strained his eyes in hope
of catching sight of the count and his attendants.
Once he thought he saw them, for there were a number of men seen
advancing slowly on horseback, but when they had nearly reached the
foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction.
The last rays of the sun departed. The bats began to flit by in the
twilight. The road grew dimmer and dimmer to sight, and nothing seemed
to be stirring in it except, now and then, a peasant lagging homeward
from his day’s labor.
While the old castle was in this nervous state, very different things
were happening to the bridegroom.
The young count was riding along on horseback in a jog-trot fashion
toward the bride he had never seen.
“There is no haste necessary,” he said to his attendants; “we will be
there all in good time. Let us enjoy the scenery.”
At the inn where he stopped for refreshment, he met another young
nobleman with whom he had been good friends several years before while
both were in the army.
“And which way do you travel?” asked the count’s friend.
“We go through the East pass, and upward through the mountain road,” he
replied.
“How fortunate!” exclaimed his friend. “I am going in the same
direction.”
So they agreed to travel together, and soon set off, the count leaving
word for his servants to follow and overtake him later.
“Now, tell what has happened in your life since we last met,” said the
count’s friend as their horses stepped out abreast. “Has your heart
been touched by the beauty of any maiden?”
[Illustration: ONCE HE THOUGHT HE SAW THEM]
Then the count told him about his coming wedding with a young lady he
had never seen, but who was said to be very lovely.
In this way they entered one of the loneliest and most thickly wooded
passes in the mountains.
All this happened in the days when bands of robbers lived in woods, and
when ghosts were said to haunt old castles.
As the count turned to speak to his companion, suddenly from out the
woods there sprang a small band of robbers who immediately attacked
them.
They made a brave fight, but were nearly overcome by numbers when the
count’s retinue of servants came riding up. The robbers fled at sight
of them, but not until they had given the count a dreadful wound.
He was carried back to the nearest town through which he had so
joyfully ridden such a short while before. A priest, who was also quite
a doctor, was brought to his bedside, but everyone knew that the poor
young count’s moments were few to live in this world.
He motioned his friend near, and whispered between gasping breaths,
“I--beg--you--to--go--to--the--castle--of--my--betrothed--and--tell--
why--I--did--not--keep--my--appointment.”
Then gathering strength, he added in a stronger voice, “Unless this is
done, I shall not sleep quietly in my grave!”
He spoke so solemnly that his friend gave his promise without
hesitating. This seemed to soothe him, and he closed his eyes as if in
sleep, but he soon began to talk wildly, and call for his horse, saying
he must hasten to the home of his bride, and thinking he was leaping
into the saddle, he suddenly drew his last breath.
His friend was deeply grieved. His heart was heavy within him. He
scarcely knew how to keep his promise, for he was the son of the
nobleman whose castle the maiden had been forbidden to mention; and,
because of the feud between the two families, he hated all the more to
be the bearer of such bad news. Still he thought that he would like
to see the lovely girl, and he felt that he must try to carry out the
promise he had made to his dying friend. So he made arrangements for
the poor count’s burial in the cathedral near the graves of his noble
ancestors, and set out on his journey.
It is now high time that we should return to the castle, where
everybody was hungrily awaiting the guest.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from
the high tower in despair.
“It is so dark that I can see nothing now,” he said. “There is no use
in watching longer.”
The banquet had been postponed from hour to hour. The cooks in the
kitchen were desperate. The meats were already overdone, and every one
was beginning to look as though it were a time of famine.
“We cannot delay longer,” the baron finally said. “I fear we must
proceed with the feast without our guest.”
All were seated at the table and on the point of commencing, when the
sound of a horn from outside the gate gave notice that a stranger was
approaching.
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes,
and was answered by the warden from the walls.
The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate.
He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a beautiful black steed.
His face was pale. He had a gleaming eye, and yet wore an air of
sadness.
The baron was a little embarrassed to think that he should come in so
simple a way without a retinue of friends and servants. He thought
that the young count did not show proper appreciation of the honor
of marrying his daughter, but he comforted himself by thinking, “He
has been so anxious to see his bride that he has hurried off without
waiting for attendants.”
“I am sorry,” began the stranger, “to break in upon you at such an
hour----”
“Oh, pray, do not worry,” interrupted the baron, “it is as nothing,”
and he continued with a world of compliment and greeting. For, to tell
the truth, the baron was very proud of his ability to make pretty
speeches.
He kept on talking so fast that the stranger was unable to put a word
in edgewise, and by the time he paused, they had reached the inner
court of the castle.
The stranger was again about to speak when he was once more interrupted
by a group of the baron’s relatives leading forth the blushing bride.
_The Wedding Feast_
The stranger gazed on her for a moment as one entranced. It seemed as
if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon her beauty.
One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear. She made an
effort to speak. Her moist blue eyes were timidly raised, gave a shy
glance at the stranger, and were cast again to the ground.
Her words died away, but there was a sweet smile playing about her
lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek showed that she was pleased to
meet so charming a person.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for talk. The
stranger attempted again to tell his sad news, but the baron would not
listen, and immediately led the way to the untasted banquet.
The feast was served in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls
hung the portraits of the bride’s ancestors, and the horns and tusks of
animals they had killed in the hunt. Armor and spears, and torn banners
hung next to jaws of wolves and tusks of boars, and spears and battle
axes. A large pair of antlers hung just over the head of the youthful
bridegroom.
The stranger took but little notice of the company or of the
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in
admiring the bride. He talked with her in a low tone that could not be
overheard. The bride’s color came and went, and she listened to him
with deep attention. Now and then she made some reply, but she was very
quiet most of the time, and when his glance was turned she looked at
him with much pleasure.
“They have fallen in love at first sight,” whispered one aunt.
“I felt that it would be so,” said the other.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all
blessed with large appetites.
The baron told his longest and best stories. If he told anything
marvelous, his hearers were lost in astonishment. If he told anything
funny, they laughed just loud and long enough to please him greatly.
Amidst all this frolic, the stranger seemed lost in thought. His only
conversation was with the bride, and seemed to grow more and more
earnest and mysterious. Clouds began to steal over her fair face, and
the guests noticed that she trembled.
Their gayety was chilled by such actions. The song and laughter grew
less and less frequent. There were pauses in the conversation.
Dismal stories were told by several people. The baron nearly frightened
some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the ghost
horseman that carried away the fair young woman, Lenora.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with great attention. He kept
his eye fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began
gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, to
the baron’s eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant.
The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a
solemn farewell of the company. They were all in amazement. The baron
was perfectly thunderstruck.
“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything is ready
for your reception; a room is ready for you if you wish to retire.”
The stranger shook his head mournfully and said: “I must lay my head in
a different place to-night.”
Then waving his farewell to the company, he stalked slowly out of the
hall.
The maiden aunts seemed turned to stone. The bride hung her head, and a
tear stole down her cheek.
The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where
the black horse stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.
When they reached the portal whose deep, high archway was dimly lighted
by a lantern, the stranger paused and spoke to the baron in a hollow
tone of voice.
“Now that we are alone,” said he, “I will tell you my reason for
leaving. I have an engagement in----”
“Why,” asked the baron, “cannot you send some one in your place?”
“I must keep this engagement myself--I must go myself----”
“Ay,” said the baron, “but not until to-morrow--to-morrow you shall
take your bride there.”
“No! No!” replied the stranger with greater solemnity. “My engagement
is with no bride. The grave awaits me! I must go back where I came
from!”
He sprang upon his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the
sound of the clatter of his horse’s hoofs was lost in the whistling of
the night’s blast.
The baron watched him until out of sight, then muttered, “He must have
been a ghost!”
He returned to the hall in great bewilderment, and related what had
just passed. Two ladies fainted; others sickened with the idea of
having banqueted with a spectre.
[Illustration: A TALL FIGURE STOOD AMONG THE SHADOWS OF THE
TREES]
The company tried to guess whose ghost it might have been. Some
talked of wood-demons and others of mountain sprites, but all was dim
uncertainty and mystery.
The next morning, however, put an end to guessing, for word came of the
death of the young count on his way to the castle, and every one felt
sure that the stranger of the night before was indeed his spectre.
You can imagine how dreadful the baron felt. He shut himself up in his
rooms. His guests stayed on, for they could not think of going when he
was in such trouble, and then, too, the remnants of the feast were to
be eaten and drunk!
But the poor bride was most to be pitied. To have lost a promised
husband before she was acquainted with him! And such a husband!
Everybody wept for her.
_The Midnight Music_
On the night of the second day after, she retired to her room with one
of her aunts who insisted upon sleeping with her.
The aunt was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all the land,
and in telling one of her longest, fell asleep in the midst of it.
The room was in a distant corner of the castle, and overlooked a small
garden. The niece lay gazing at the beams of the rising moon as they
shone on the trembling leaves of an aspen tree before the latticed
window.
The castle clock had just tolled midnight when a soft strain of music
stole up from the garden.
She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly to the window.
A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its
head, a beam of moonlight fell on its face. In a moment she knew
him--her promised bridegroom!
A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had
been awakened by the music and had followed her to the window, fell
into her arms.
When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared.
Of the two, the aunt required the more soothing. She was beside herself
with terror.
As for the young lady, she did not feel frightened. There was
something, even in the spectre of her lover, very charming.
The aunt declared she would never sleep in that room again. The niece
for once was determined to have her own way, and declared she would
not sleep in any other room. The consequence was that she had to sleep
there alone.
She begged her aunt to promise not to tell about this moonlight
visitor, for she said it was the only comfort she had in her great
disappointment, and the good old lady promised. How long she would
have kept her promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk about
mysterious happenings.