THEY SAW, UPON ONE OF THE NEAREST PEAKS, A MAN STANDING, WITH
SUNSET COLOURS ALL AROUND HIM.
We are in the land of a thousand hills. Height is piled upon height,
range upon range. The white crests of the mountains cut sharp lines in
the clear cold air, and the few trees that are dotted about stand like
sentinels on the watch. On one of the far heights, some trees,
standing in a line, look like soldiers that have halted for rest; and
the clumps of bush that lie in the valleys and on the sides of the
hills are like wearied regiments sleeping.
In dear old England the roses are blooming, and the sun is shining;
but here it is night, and snow-shadows rest on the mountains and
gullies. Among the seemingly interminable ranges, ice-peaks glitter
like diamond eyes. Round about us where we stand there is but little
wood growth; but in the far distance, beyond the eye's reach, are
forests of trees, from the branches of which garlands of icicles hang
fantastically; and down in the depths the beautiful fern-leaves are
rimmed with frosted snow. We are in the new world.
Creation might have been but yesterday. Even these white canvas tents,
lying in the lap of Night, in the centre of the forest of peaks, do
not dispel the illusion. They are clustered in the saddle of a gully
almost hidden from sight by jealous upland. But look within, and you
will see that the old world is marching on to the new. Sturdy men,
asleep upon canvas beds, are resting from their toil. Some are from
old Devon, England's garden land; some from the Cornwall mines; some
from the motherland's fevered cities. Rest, tired workers! Sleep for a
little while, strong, brown-bearded men! Over your spirits, as you
dream and sometimes smile, it may be that the eternal light of a new
childhood is slowly breaking!
Hark! What cry is this that reaches the ear? Come nearer. A baby's
voice! And now we can hear the soft voice of the mother, singing her
child to sleep with an old familiar nursery rhyme. Dear words! Dear
memories! Sweet thread of life! When it snaps, the world is dark, and
its tenderness and beauty have departed from our souls. The mother's
soft voice is like a rill dancing down a hill in the sun's eye. How
sweet it sounds!
What brings these men, women, and children here among the wilds? For
answer, take--briefly told--what is not a legend, but veritable
new-world history.
Two men, adventurers from the old world, attracted thence by the news
of gold discoveries, travelled into new country in search of an
eldorado which they could keep to themselves until their fortunes were
made. They travelled over mountain and plain, and searched here and
searched there, for weeks and months without success, until, almost
starving and penniless, they found themselves on the banks of a
swiftly-flowing river. This river, here wide, here narrow, here
confined between rocky precipices, here widening on the plains,
presented strange contrasts during the year. In the winter, the
mountain snows which fed it came tumbling furiously over the rocks;
then its waters rushed madly through the defiles and overflowed the
plains. In the summer, peace came to it; the warm sun made it drowsy,
and it fell asleep. It curled itself up in its bed, as it were, and
left its banks bare and dry. The snow-torrents from the mountains
brought with them something rarer than snow--gold. The precious metal
grew in the mountain rocks, and when the furious water tore it from
its home, and carried it to the river, it sank into the river's bed
and banks, and enriched every fissure and crevice in its stony bottom.
When the two adventurers camped by the river's side it was summer, and
the banks were dry. They tried for gold, and found it. In a few hours
they unearthed twenty ounces, and they looked at each other with wild
eyes. Not a soul was within many miles of them; only the birds and the
insects knew their secret. But they could not work without food. Some
twenty miles from the scene of their discovery was a sheep-farming
station. Thither they walked in the night, so that they might not be
observed, and slept during the day. Pleading poverty, they bought at
the station a little meat and flour, and walked in the daylight away
from the river. But when night fell, they warily retraced their steps,
and crept through the dark like thieves, until they came to the
precious banks. For weeks and months they worked in secret, and lived
like misers, never daring to light a fire, for fear the smoke might be
seen; the very wind was their enemy. Their flesh wasted, their faces
became haggard, their hair grew tangled and matted, they became
hollow-eyed; and when, after many months of suffering, they had
amassed as much pure gold as they could carry, they walked painfully
and wearily through bush and plain for a hundred and sixty miles,
until they came to a city with a few thousand inhabitants, where,
skeletons among men, they told their story, and for the first time
showed their treasure. Delirium seized the city; men became almost
frantic with excitement; and the next day half the inhabitants were
making preparations to journey to Tom Tiddler's ground. Surely enough
the river's banks proved a veritable gold-mine; and after a time fresh
discoveries were made. Came there one day a man, almost dead, from the
snow mountains, with lumps of gold in his pockets; but the perils of
those regions were great, and men thought twice before they ventured.
Life, after all, is more precious than gold. Some adventurers went
forth: and never returned to tell their story. Then it was said they
were killed by starvation, not by the perils of the weather; or
because they had no guns, and tents, and blankets with them. Said
some, 'Let us take food sufficient for months, and whatever else is
necessary.' They took more; they took wives, those who had them.
Believe me, woman was worth more than her weight in gold. So in the
summer they went into Campbell's Ranges, and pitched their tents
there. And those they left behind them, wrapt in their eager hunt for
gold, forgot them for a time. The town nearest to the Ranges was many
miles away; it was composed of a couple of score of tents and huts,
and perhaps two hundred persons lived there. Wandered into it, looking
about him strangely, wistfully--for old-world's ways were upon him,
and old-world thoughts were stirring in his mind--a man, tall,
blue-eyed, strong; No man is long a stranger in the new world, and
this wayfarer talked to one and another, and heard from a butcher the
story of the two adventurers working on the river's banks until they
were worn to skin and bone.
'But they got gold!' exclaimed the new-comer.
'Almost more than they could carry,' was the answer.
The man looked about him restlessly; the eager longing of his soul was
for gold, but in him it was no base craving.
'If one could get into the mountains now,' he said, 'where the gold
comes from!'
Said the butcher: 'Some went, and didn't come back.'
'They lie over there?' said the man, looking towards the hills.
'Ay,' replied the butcher, 'them's Campbell's Ranges, There's a party
prospecting there now, I've heard. They'll get gold, sure; but it
requires courage.'
'Courage!' exclaimed the man, not scornfully and arrogantly, but
sweetly and gently. 'Who dares not, deserves not. And when a great
thing is at stake!---- Thank you, mate. Good-day!'
And then he walked in the direction of Campbell's Ranges, stopping to
buy a little flour on his way. He could not afford much; his means
were very small.
The rough diggers often spoke among themselves of the manner of his
first coming to them. They were working in the gullies, which were
rich with gold; some were burrowing at the bottom of their mines, some
were standing by the windlasses, hauling up the precious dirt. They
had been working so from sunrise, and their hearts were light; for the
future was as glowing as the bright colours of the sun were when they
turned out to work--as glowing as the beautiful colours in the sky
were now. It was sunset. The gold-diggers standing in the sun's light,
with strong chests partly bared, with strong arms wholly so, were
working with a will. Now and then snatches of song burst from their
lips, now and then jests and good-humoured words were flung from one
to the other. The women were busy outside their tents, lighting fires
to prepare for supper; three or four children were playing with a goat
and a dog; a cat--yes, a cat!--stepped cautiously out of a tent, and
gazed solemnly about. And all around them and above them were the
grand hills and mountains, stretching for miles on every side. It was
a wonderful life amidst wonderful scenes. Close contact with the
grandeur of nature and with its sublime influences humanised many of
the rough men, and melted them to awe and tenderness. The hills were
full of echoes; when the thunder came the titanic hollows sent the
news forth and brought it back again: it was like God's voice speaking
with eternal majesty. As the diggers looked up from their work, they
saw, upon one of the nearest peaks, a man standing, with sunset
colours all around him.
MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD, PURER THAN DIAMONDS, ARE THESE SWEET
AND DELICATE WAYS.
Their first thought was, 'Is he alone? Are there more behind him?' for
they were jealous of being overwhelmed by numbers. He looked down upon
the busy workers, and with slow and painful steps came across the
hills, and down the valley towards them. Pale, patient-looking,
footsore, ragged, and with deep lines on his face, he stood in the
midst of them, a stranger among the hills.
'Are these Campbell's Ranges?' he asked humbly.
'Yes, mate.'
The man who answered him had just emptied a bucket of fresh-dug earth
on to a little hillock by the side of his mine. The stranger saw
specks of gold among it. There was no envy in the look that came into
his eyes. It was like a prayer.
'Where do you come from?' asked the gold-digger.
The stranger mentioned the name of the town.
'Did you come in search of us?'
'I heard that there was a party of men working in Campbell's Ranges,
and that there was plenty of gold here; so I came.'
'By yourself?'
'By myself. I know no one. I have been but a short time in the
colony.'
'You have no tent?'
'I had no money to buy one.' He murmured these words in so soft a tone
that the gold-digger did not hear them.
'No blankets?'
'For the same reason.'
Again he murmured the reply, so that the questioner did not know his
destitute condition.
'No pick or shovel?'
The stranger shook his head sadly, and was turning away, when the
gold-digger said:
'Well, mate, the place is open to all; but we want to keep ourselves
as quiet as possible.'
'I shall tell no one.'
[Illustration]
He turned from the worker, and sat himself upon the ground at a short
distance from the human hive, out of hearing. The gold-diggers spoke
to one another, and looked at him, but made no advance towards him.
The women also raised their heads and cast many a curious glance at
the stranger, who sat apart from them. He, on his part, sent many a
wistful glance in their direction, and watched the fires and the
children playing. Behind the hills sank the sun, and night drained the
fiery peaks of every drop of blood. Before the hills grew white, the
gold-diggers left off work, and contrary to their usual custom, took
their buckets and tools to their tents, and took the ropes from their
windlasses. There was a stranger near them.
'He seems decent,' said the women.
'You can never tell,' replied the men, shaking their heads in doubt.
Now and then they came from their tents to see if the stranger were
still there. He had not moved. It was from no want of humanity that
they did not call to him, and offer him food and a shelter. How did
they know that he did not belong to a party of bushrangers, whose
object was plunder? They let off their firearms and reloaded them.
But if they had known this man's heart and mind; if they had known
that he was penniless, friendless, that his feet were sore, and that
he had not tasted food since yesternight; if they had known the
trouble of his soul, and the dim hope which kept up his heart and his
strength--they would have played the part of good Samaritans without a
moment's hesitation. The darker shadows came down upon the valleys,
and wrapt the man and his misery from their gaze and comprehension.
They could see the faint outline of his form: nothing more. What were
his thoughts during this time? 'They suspect me; it is natural. If I
can keep my strength, I may find gold tomorrow, and then they will
sell me food perhaps. If not----there are women among them. I may be
able to touch their hearts.' He gazed around and above him--at the
solemn hills, at the solemn sky, and thought, 'For myself I should be
content to die here, and now. But for her--for her! Give me strength,
great God--sustain me!' He knelt, and buried his face in his hands;
and when the moon rose, as it did soon after, it shone upon his form.
A woman, standing at the door of her tent, was the first to see him in
his attitude of supplication. She hurried in to her husband, who was
nursing a little daughter on his knee.
'David,' she said, 'that man is praying. There can be no harm in him,
and he has no shelter. He may be in want of food.'
'Poor man!' said the little daughter.
The father lifted her gently from his knee, and went out without a
word. The touch of a hand upon his shoulder roused the stranger, and
he looked into David's face.
'What are you doing?' asked David.
'Praying.'
'For what?'
'For strength, for comfort I need both. Turn your face from me! I am
breaking down!'
A great sob came from the stranger's heart. David, with averted face,
stood steady and silent for full five minutes. Then placed his hand
upon the stranger's shoulder, and spoke:
'Come with me. I can give you a shelter to-night. My wife sent me to
you.'
'God bless her!'
'Amen. Come, mate.'
The stranger rose, and they walked together to the tent, where the
woman and child awaited them. The stranger took off his cap--it was in
tatters--and looked at the woman and her child, and stooped and kissed
the little girl, who put her hand on his face, and said pityingly:
'Poor man! Are you hungry?'
'Yes, my child.'
That the man and the woman should turn their backs suddenly upon him
and make a perfectly unnecessary clatter, and become unnecessarily
busy, touched the stranger's sensitive heart, and the unspoken words
were in his mind, 'God be thanked! There is much good in the world.'
More precious than gold, purer than diamonds, are these sweet and
delicate ways.
'Now, David,' cried the woman briskly, 'supper's ready.'
And David and his wife, notwithstanding that they had made their meal
an hour ago, sat down with the stranger, and ate and drank with him.
When supper was over, David said:
'We'll not talk to-night; you must be tired. You slept out last night,
I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'And without a blanket, I'll bet!'
'Yes.'
'A good night's rest will do you good.'
Upon this hint his wife brought some blankets, and gave them to the
stranger. She and her husband and child slept in the back part of the
small tent, the wall of division being strips of green baize. Before
turning in, David said:
'You had best have a look round you in the morning; I can lend you a
pick and shovel. My name's David.'
'Mine is Saul Fielding.'
* * * * *
By his patience and gentleness he soon made his way to the hearts of
the residents in this small colony. First, the children loved him; the
liking of the mothers followed naturally; and within a month every man
there was his friend. Love is not hard to win. Try, you who doubt.
Try, with gentleness and kindness, and with charitable heart.
* * * * *
It is full three months after Saul' Fielding's introduction to the
small settlement in Campbell's Ranges. Of human beings there are fifty
souls, all told. Four women--wives--seven children, and thirty-nine
men. Of other living creatures there are at least a dozen dogs--(what
is your gold-field without its dogs?)--three goats, wise, as all goats
are, in their generation, a large number of poultry (some of them in
the shell), and a cat. The shade of Whittington would rejoice if it
knew that this cat cost an ounce of gold--and a pinch over.
It is June and winter, and the snow-season is in its meridian. The
workers are snow-bound; the heights all around them are more than
man-deep in snow. But they have no fear. They have made wise
preparations for the coming of the enemy, and up to the present time
they have escaped hurt. They have wood and provisions to last them for
full six months. That they are cut off from the world for a time
daunts them not. Their courage is of the Spartan kind. They have been
successful far beyond their expectations, and nearly every man there
is worth his hundred ounces of gold. Some have more, a few less. Saul
has eighty ounces, and he keeps it next to his heart, sewn in his blue
serge shirt David's wife reproved him once for carrying the weight
about.
'It is nearly seven pounds weight, Saul Fielding,' she said; 'it must
weigh you down.'
'Weigh me down, David's wife! he replied, with a sweet look in his
eyes. 'It is a feather's weight. It bears me up! It is not mine; it
belongs to the dearest woman in the world. The little bag that
contains it contains my salvation!'
David and Saul were mates; they dug and shared, and he lived with the
father, mother, and child. The man he called David, the woman David's
wife, the child David's daughter. He said to David's wife one day:
'When I go home and join my dear woman, she and I every night of our
lives will call down a blessing for David and David's wife, and
David's daughter.'
He often said things to David's wife that brought tears to her eyes.
'We shall go home, too,' said David's wife, 'and we shall see her.'
'Please God,' returned Saul, and whispered, 'Come, happy time!'
How tender his heart grew during this time! How he blessed God for His
goodness! What beauty he saw in every evidence of the great Creator!
He made the rough men better, and often in the evening they would
gather round him while he read to them, and talked with them. The
Sabbath-day, from the time he came among them, was never passed
without prayer. And so they had gone on during the summer and the
autumn, digging and getting gold, singing songs to the hills while
they dug and delved; the men had built stronger huts for the women and
children, in anticipation of the winter, and they all lived happily
together. Then the snow began to fall. It came light at first, and
dropped softly to the ground round about the huts of the small
community, as if it were bringing to them a message of love from the
clear bright sky. They laughed when they saw it, for it warmed their
hearts with visions of the dear old land over the seas. It brought
back to them memories of their schoolboy days. 'After the snow,' they
said, 'the primroses;' and in their fancy they saw the old country's
sweet flower: The children played with it, and pelted each other with
snow-balls, and the men joined in the sport. The goats scampered up
the hills in mad delight, and sent snow-sprays in the air with their
hoofs. The women looked on lovingly, and the little gully was filled
with pleasant mirth; and the echoes laughed after them. At night they
clustered round their fires, and raised up pictures for the future.
They talked of their gold, not greedily, but gratefully; they blessed
the land which gave them its treasures willingly; and in their dreams
they dreamed of dear old England and of the dear faces at home--the
dear old faces which would smile upon them again by and by, please
God! And while they dreamt, and while their hearts were light, and
while within them reigned the peace which came from pleasant thought,
the soft snow fell and fell. Day after day passed, week after week,
and still it fell. After many weeks had thus passed, Saul woke in
terror one night. He did not know what, had occasioned the fear that
was upon him. Was it caused by a dream? He could remember none. He
felt as if a spirit's voice had spoken to him. He rose and listened.
He heard nothing. Everything around was wrapt in peace and silence.
Softly he dressed himself, so as not to disturb the sleepers, and went
out of the tent. The snow was falling fast. How white and pure were
the hills! In the far distance they and the sky seemed one. He took a
pole, and feeling his way carefully, walked across the near hills,
ankle deep, knee deep, waist deep, breast deep. And yet he had not
walked far, not five hundred yards. The terror that was upon him now
assumed a tangible shape. He was in a snow prison! Nature held him
fast; had built up barriers between him and Jane. Was it destined that
he should never get away from these snow-bound hills? Suppose the snow
continued to fall for weeks and months! 'Jane!' he cried. And the
echoes cried 'Jane! Jane!' dying away mournfully. The sound frightened
him, and he called no more. Then his reason came back to him. They
could keep the snow away from their tents; all they had to do was to
shovel it down; all they had to do was to be vigilant. He comforted
himself with this thought, and slowly, painfully, retraced his steps
to his tent, and crept among his blankets again. As he lay, he heard a
moan. How every little sound frightened him! It was but the wind.
But the moan grew louder, grew into a shriek, and rushed past the
tent, and over the hills, like an angry spirit. And it brought the
Snow-Drift with it! But he did not think of that, as he lay shivering.
He did not know the new danger that threatened him. 'God shield you,
dear woman!' he murmured, as he fell into a doze. 'God bring me to
you!'
All night long the wind shrieked and whistled through the tents; the
men, tired out with their exertions, did not wake. But the women did,
and lay and trembled. David's wife awoke.
'David!' she whispered, but he did not hear her.
'What's the matter, mother?' murmured her daughter.
'Nothing, child, nothing. It's only the wind. Hush! we mustn't wake
father. Go to sleep, darling!'
The sun rose late the next morning, and a dim blood-veil was in the
sky, which made some of them think that it was night still. The miners
found the snow round their huts to be three feet deep. They looked
anxious at this.
'We can master the snow,' they whispered to one another, 'but the
snow-drift will master us.'
Even as they spoke, the wind, which had lulled, began to moan again,
and before they had been working an hour shovelling away the snow, the
wind-storm, bringing the snow with it from the heights over which it
rushed, blinded them, and drove them into their tents for shelter.
They could not hold their feet. 'Let us hope it'll not last long,'
they said; and they took advantage of every lull to work against their
enemy, not like men, but like heroes.
'What makes you so downcast, Saul?' asked David; he had not begun to
lose heart.
Saul looked in silence at David's wife and David's daughter; they were
at the far end of the hut.
'You are not frightened, Saul, surely?' said David.
'Not for my self, David,' whispered Saul. 'But tell me. What kind of
love do you bear for your wife and child?' David's look was sufficient
answer. 'I have a perfect love for a woman also, David. If she were
here, as your wife is with you, I could bear it, and so could she.
David, we are beset by a terrible danger. Listen to the wind. I am
afraid we may never get out of this.'
David's lips quivered, but he shook away the fear.
'We mustn't lose heart, Saul, and we must keep this danger from the
wife and little one. There's men's work before us, and we must do
it--like men!'
'Trust me, David,' said Saul; 'my heart beats to the pulse of a
willing hand;' and said no more.
The wind-storm continued all the day with such violence, that it was
impossible for the men to work. As the day advanced, the blood-veil in
the sky died away, and when the night came, the moon's light shone
clear and cruel, bright and pitiless.
Worn out with hard toil and anxiety, Saul Fielding lay down that
night, and tried to sleep. 'I must have strength for to-morrow,' he
thought. The fierce wind had grown faint, and it moaned now among the
hills like a weak child. Saul smiled gladly, and accepted it as a good
omen. He hugged his gold close, and vowed that he would not risk
another season of such danger. 'If I do not get an ounce more,' he
thought, 'I will be content. What I have will be sufficient for the
home and for Jane. Jane, dear Jane!' Her name always came to him like
a prayer, and with 'Jane' on his lips, and 'Jane' in his thoughts, he
fell asleep and dreamt of her. He dreamt that he and the others had
escaped from their snow-prison, and that he was on his way home. Blue
waters were beneath him, bright clouds were above him, a fresh breeze
was behind him, and the ship dipped into the sea and rose from it,
like a light-hearted god. The sailors were singing, and he sang with
them as he lent a hand with the ropes. He looked across the sea and
saw Jane standing on a far-off shore, with glad face turned towards
him. 'I am coming, Jane! he cried, and she smiled, and held out her
arms to him. Nearer and nearer he approached to the haven of his
hopes; nearer and nearer, until, although they were divided by many
miles of water, he could speak to her, and hear her speak. 'See!' he
cried, and held out his bag of gold. As she raised her eyes with
thankfulness to the heavens, David's wife and David's daughter
appeared suddenly by his side. 'Here are the friends who saved me,
Jane,' he cried. 'David is below, asleep, and his wife is here,
knowing your story and mine. She insists upon saying that you are her
sister; she is a good woman. The shame of the past is gone.' As he
said these words, a sudden and terrible wind sprang up; and the dark
clouds, rushing down from the heavens, shut Jane from his sight. In a
moment everything was changed. The ship seemed as if it were being
torn to pieces; the waters rose; and the cries of the sailors were
indistinguishable amidst the roaring of the wind. 'My God!' he heard
David's wife cry, and at that moment he awoke, and rising swiftly to
his feet, saw a candle alight in the tent, and David's wife standing
in her nightdress on his side of the green baize which divided the
tent. Her face was white with terror. 'My God!' she cried again; 'we
are lost!' The storm that had arisen in his dream was no fancy. It was
raging now among the hills furiously.
'Go into your room,' said Saul hurriedly. 'I will be dressed in a
minute.'
In less than that space of time he was up and dressed, and then David
tore the green baize aside.
'Saul,' he said, 'this is terrible!' And stepping to Saul's side,
whispered, 'If this continues long, our grave is here.'
Saul went to the door of the tent, and tried to open it; he could not.
The wind had brought with it thousands and thousands of tons of snow
from the heights, and they were, walled up. Saul felt all round the
sides of the tent. The snow was man-high. Only the frail drill of
which the tent was made kept it from falling in, and burying them. In
an instant Saul comprehended their dread peril.
'The tree!' he cried, as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. 'The
tree!'
Just outside the tent, between it and the tent next to it, stood a
great pine-tree, the only tree among the tents. Many a time had it
been suggested to cut down this tree for firewood, but David had
prevented it. 'Wait,' he had said, 'until we want it; when firewood
runs short, and we can't get it elsewhere, it will be time enough.' So
the tree had been saved from the axe, and stood there like a giant,
defying the storm, Saul piled up the rough seats and the tables which
comprised the furniture of the tent, and climbing to the top of them,
cut a great hole in the roof of the tent. It was daylight above, and
the snow was falling fast Saul saw the noble tree standing fast and
firm in the midst of the storm. With a desperate leap he caught a
branch, and raised himself above the tent. And when he looked upon the
awful scene, upon the cruel white snow in which the tents all around
him were embedded, and nearly buried, his heart throbbed despairingly.
But this was no time for despair. It was the time for action. When he
had secured his position in the tree, he stooped over the tent.
'David!' he cried. David's voice answered him.
'This is our only chance,' he said loudly; he spoke slowly and
distinctly, so that those within the tent might hear him. 'Here we
maybe able to find safety until the storm abates and the snow
subsides. Listen to me, and do exactly as I say. Get some provisions
together and some water; and the little brandy that is left. Make them
up in a bundle. Tie rope and cord round it, and let me have it.
Quickly!'
Before he finished speaking, David's wife was busy attending to his
instructions.
'Answer me, Saul,' cried David. 'What do you see of our mates?'
Saul groaned, 'Do not ask me, David! Let us thank God that this tree
was left standing.'
David climbed on to the table in a few minutes, with the bundle of
provisions in his hands. He was lifting it for Saul to take hold when
the pile upon which he was standing gave way, and he fell heavily to
the ground.
At this moment, a movement in the tent nearest to the tree arrested
Saul's attention. One of the men inside had thought also of the tree,
and had adopted Saul's expedient of cutting through the roof of the
tent. His head now appeared above the rent. He saw Saul, but he was
too far away to reach the tree.
'Give me a hand, mate!' he cried. 'Give me a hand, for God's sake!'
'One moment,' replied Saul, deeply anxious for the fate of David, for
he heard the generous-hearted digger groan, and heard David's wife
sobbing. 'Keep your hold and stand firm for a little while. You are
safe there for a time. There is something here in my own tent I must
see to at once.' Then he called, 'David! David! Are you hurt?'
The voice of David's wife answered him with sobs and cries. 'He can't
move, Saul! He can't move! O, my poor dear David! He has broken his
leg, he says, and his back is hurt. What shall I do? O, what shall I
do?'
But although she asked this question, she--true wife and woman as she
was--was attending to the sufferer, not thinking of herself.
'God pity us!' groaned Saul, and raised his hand to the storm. 'Pity
us! pity us! he cried.
But the pitiless snow fell, and the soft flakes danced in the air.
Then Saul cried, 'David's wife! The child! the child!'
'Let me be, wife,' said David; 'I am easier now. Pile up those seats
again; make them firm. Don't hurry. I can wait I am in no pain. Lift
our little daughter to Saul, and the provisions afterwards.'
She obeyed him; she piled the seats one above another. Then brought
the child to David. He took her in his arms, and kissed her again and
again.'
'My pet! my darling!' he moaned. 'Kiss father, little one!'
And the rough man pressed this link of love to his heart, and kissed
her face, her hands, her neck, her lips.
'Now, wife,' he said, and resigned their child to her. David's wife
stood silent for a few moments with the child in her arms, and
murmured a prayer over her, and blessed her, and then, keeping down
her awful grief bravely like a brave woman, climbed to the height, and
raised her arms to Saul with the child in them. Only her bare arms
could be seen above the tent's roof.
'Come, little one,' said Saul, and stooping down, at the risk of his
life, clutched the child from the mother's arms, and heard the
mother's heart-broken sobs.
'Is she safe, Saul?'
'She is safe, dear woman.'
Other heads rose from other tents and turned despairingly about. But
no help for them was near. They were in their grave.
David's wife raised the provisions to Saul, and went down to her
husband.
'Wife,' said David, 'leave me, and see if you can reach Saul. It will
be difficult, but you may be able to manage it.'
[Illustration]
She looked at him tenderly.
'My place is here, David,' she said; 'I shall stay with you, and trust
to God. Our child is safe, in the care of a good man.'
He tried to persuade her, but she shook her head sweetly and sadly,
and simply said, 'I know my duty.' He could say no more, for the next
moment he swooned, his pain was so great. Then his wife knelt by him,
and raised his head upon her lap.
Meanwhile, the man in the next tent who had called to Saul to give him
a hand had not been idle. He found a plank and was raising it to the
roof, with the purpose of resting it upon a branch of the tree. As
with more than a man's strength he lifted the plank forward, Saul
heard a thud beneath him, and looking down saw that the walls of the
tent in which David and his wife were had given way, and that the snow
was toppling over. He turned his head; he was powerless to help them.
The tears ran down his face and beard, and he waited, awe-struck by
the terror of the time. He thought he heard the voice of David's wife
cry,
'Good-bye, my child! God preserve you!'
In a choking voice, he said solemnly to David's little daughter,
'Say, God bless you, mother and father!'
'The child repeated the words in a whisper, and nestled closer to
Saul, and said,
'I'm so cold! Where's mother and father? Why don't they come up?
Saul, with a shiver, looked down. Nothing of David or of David's wife
did he see. The tent was not in sight. The snow had covered it. And
still it fell, and still it drifted.
The digger who occupied the next tent had fined his plank; not a
moment was to be lost; his tent was cracking. Creeping along the
plank, with the nervous strength of desperation, clinging to it like a
cat, he reached the tree and was saved for a time. As he reached it,
the plank slipped into the snow. And still it fell, and rose higher
and higher. Men signalled to each other from tent to tent, and bade
God bless each other, for they felt that, unless the snowdrift and
snowfall should instantly cease, there was no hope for them. But still
it fell; fell softly into the holes in the canvas roofs and sides,
into the chambers below; crept up to them inch by inch; wrapt yellow
gold and mortal flesh in soft shrouds of white, and hid the
adventurers from the light of day.
Only three remained. Soul, and David's little daughter, in the
uppermost branches of the tree. The digger from the nearest tent
clinging to a lower branch.
This man was known by the name of Edward Beaver; a silent man at best,
and one who could not win confidence readily. His face was covered
with hair fast turning gray. Between him and Saul but little
intercourse had taken place. Saul had not been attracted by Beaver's
manner, although often when he looked at the man, a strange impression
came upon him that he knew the face. Saul spoke to Beaver once, and
asked him where he cane from; but Beaver answered him roughly, and
Saul spoke to him no more. In this dread time, however, Beaver's
tongue was loosened.
'This is awful,' he said, looking up at Saul.
Saul looked down upon the white face which was upturned to his, and
the same strange impression of its being familiar to him stole upon
him like a subtle vapour. An agonising fear was expressed in Beaver's
countenance; he was frightened of death. He was weak, too, having just
come out of a low fever, and it needed all his strength to keep his
footing on the tree.
'Do you think we shall die here?' he asked.
'I see no hope,' replied Saul, pressing David's little daughter to his
breast. The child had fallen to sleep. Saul's soul was too much
troubled for converse, and the morning passed almost in silence. Saul
lowered some food and drink to Beaver. 'I have very little brandy,' he
said; 'but you shall share and share.' And when Beaver begged for
more, he said, 'No, not yet; I must husband it. Remember, I have
another life here in my arms to care for.'
The day advanced, and the storm continued; not a trace of the tents or
of those who lay buried in them could be seen. The cruel white snow
had made a churchyard of the golden gully!
Night fell, and brought darkness with it; and in the darkness Saul
shuddered, with a new and sudden fear, for he felt something creeping
up to him. It was Beaver's voice creeping up the tree, like an awful
shadow.
'Saul Fielding,' it said, 'my time has come. The branches are giving
way, and I am too weak to hold on.'
'God help you, Edward Beaver,' said Saul pityingly.
And David's little daughter murmured in her sleep, 'What's that,
mother?' Saul hushed her by singing in a soft tender voice a nursery
rhyme, and the child smiled in the dark, and her arms tightened round
Saul's neck. It was a good thing for them that they were together; the
warmth of their bodies was a comfort, and in some measure a safeguard
to them.
When Saul's soft singing was over, he heard Beaver sobbing, beneath
him. 'I used to sing that once,' the man sobbed in weak tones, 'to my
little daughter.'
'Where is she now?' asked Saul, thinking of those he loved at home.
'Bessie! Bessie!' cried Beaver faintly. 'Where are you? O my God! if I
could live my life over again!'
Saul thought of George's Bessie as he asked, 'Where do you come from?
What part do you belong to?'
It was a long time before he received an answer, and then the words
crept up to him, faint and low, through the darkness, as though the
speaker's strength were waning fast.
'From London--from Westminster.'
'From Westminster!' echoed Saul, and Beaver's face appeared to his
imagination.
'I must tell you,' gasped the dying man; 'I must tell you before I
die. You may be saved, and you will take my message home.'
'I will, if I am spared,' replied Saul, in a voice which had no hope
in it.
'I have been a bad son and a bad father. My name is not Beaver--it is
Sparrow, and my father, if he is alive, lives in Westminster.'
'Old Ben Sparrow, the grocer!' cried Saul, in amazement 'I know him! I
saw him a few weeks before last Christmas. You are Bessie Sparrow's
father; I thought your face was familiar to me.'
'Bad son! bad father!' muttered the man. 'O my God! the tree is
sinking! the branch is giving way! Tell me, quickly, for mercy's sake.
My daughter--Bessie--she is alive, then? Tell me of her.'
'She was well when I saw her,' replied Saul, with a groan, thinking of
George and his lost hopes. 'She has grown into a beautiful woman.'
'Thank God! If you ever see her again, tell her of me--ask my father
to forgive me. Take the love of a dying man to them. I have gold about
me--it is theirs. Say that I intended to come home, and ask
forgiveness, but it has been denied me. God has punished me! I am
sinking!----'
A cry of agony followed, and the wind took it up, and carried it over
the hills. Then all was hushed, and the erring son and father spoke no
more.
Saul offered up a prayer for Bessie's father, and waited sadly for
_his_ time to come.
As the night waned, the fierce wind grew softer, and sighed and
moaned, repentant of the desolation it had caused. What a long, long
night it was! But at length the morning's light appeared, and then
Saul, looking down, saw that he and David's little daughter were the
only ones left. Stronger grew the light, until day had fairly dawned.
As Saul looked over the white expanse, he felt that there was no hope
for him, and his mind began to wander. Long-forgotten incidents of his
childhood came to him; he saw his father and mother, long since dead;
he saw a brother who had died when he himself was a child; he saw Jane
as she was when he first met her, as she was on that sad night when
she told him of the duty that lay before him; he saw George and the
lights on Westminster-bridge. All these visions rose for him out of
the snow. And fields and flowers came, and he wandered among them hand
in hand with Jane, as they had done on one happy holiday. It did not
seem strange to him that there was no colour in any of these things;
it caused no wonder in his mind that all these loved ones and the
fields and flowers, perfect in form and shape, were colourless, were
white and pure as the snow which stretched around him on every side.
They were dear memories all of them; emblems of purity. And in that
dread time he grew old; every hour was a year. But in the midst of all
the terror of the time he pressed David's little daughter closer and
closer to his breast, and committed their souls to God. So that day
passed, and the night; and the sun rose in splendour. The white hills
blushed, like maidens surprised. With wild eyes and fainting soul,
Saul looked around; suddenly a flush of joy spread over his face. Upon
a distant mount, stood Jane. 'Come!' he cried. And as Jane walked over
the snow hills towards him, he waited and waited until she was close
to him; then sinking in her arms, he fell asleep.