THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST.
Let us return to the castaways.
It was morning on the coast of Africa--Africa the mysterious, the
inhospitable Africa, _leonum arida nutrix_.
There was a little harbor into which flowed a shallow, sluggish river,
while on each side rose high hills. In front of the harbor was an island
which concealed and protected it.
Here the palm-trees grew. The sides rose steeply, the summit was lofty,
and the towering palms afforded a deep, dense shade. The grass was fine
and short, and being protected from the withering heat was as fine as
that of an English lawn. Up the palm-trees there climbed a thousand
parasitic plants, covered with blossoms--gorgeous, golden, rich beyond
all description. Birds of starry plumage flitted through the air, as
they leaped from tree to tree, uttering a short, wild note; through the
spreading branches sighed the murmuring breeze that came from off the
ocean; round the shore the low tones of the gently-washing surf were
borne as it came in in faint undulations from the outer sea.
Underneath the deepest shadow of the palms lay Brandon. He had lost
consciousness when he fell from the boat; and now for the first time he
opened his eyes and looked around upon the scene, seeing these sights
and hearing the murmuring sounds.
In front of him stood Beatrice, looking with dropped eyelids at the
grass, her arms half folded before her, her head uncovered, her hair
bound by a sort of fillet around the crown, and then gathered in great
black curling masses behind. Her face was pale as usual, and had the
same marble whiteness which always marked it. That face was now pensive
and sad; but there was no weakness there. Its whole expression showed
manifestly the self-contained soul, the strong spirit evenly-poised,
willing and able to endure.
Brandon raised himself on one arm and looked wonderingly around. She
started. A vivid flash of joy spread over her face in one bright smile.
She hurried up and knelt down by him.
“Do not move--you are weak,” she said, as tenderly as a mother to a sick
child.
Brandon looked at her fixedly for a long time without speaking. She
placed her cool hand on his forehead. His eyes closed as though there
were a magnetic power in her touch. After a while, as she removed her
hand, he opened his eyes again. He took her hand and held it fervently
to his lips. “I know,” said he, in a low, dreamy voice, “who you are,
and who I am--but nothing more. I know that I have lost all memory; that
there has been some past life of great sorrow; but I can not think what
that sorrow is--I know that there has been some misfortune, but I can
not remember what.”
Beatrice smiled sadly. “It will all come to you in time.”
“At first when I waked,” he murmured, “and looked around on this scene,
I thought that I had at last entered the spirit-world, and that you had
come with me; and I felt a deep joy that I can never express. But I see,
and I know now, that I am yet on the earth. Though what shore of all the
earth this is, or how I got here, I know not.”
“You must sleep,” said she, gently.
“And you--you--you,” he murmured, with indescribable intensity--“you,
companion, preserver, guardian angel--I feel as though, if I were not a
man, I could weep my life out at your feet.”
“Do not weep,” said she, calmly. “The time for tears may yet come; but
it is not now.”
He looked at her, long, earnestly, and inquiringly, still holding her
hand, which he had pressed to his lips. An unutterable longing to ask
something was evident; but it was checked by a painful embarrassment.
“I know nothing but this,” said he at last, “that I have felt as though
sailing for years over infinite seas. Wave after wave has been impelling
us on. A Hindu servant guided the boat. But I lay weak, with my head
supported by you, and your arms around me. Yet, of all the days and all
the years that ever I have known, these were supreme, for all the
time was one long ecstasy. And now, if there is sorrow before me,”
he concluded, “I will meet it resignedly, for I have had my heaven
already.”
“You have sailed over seas,” said she, sadly; “but I was the helpless
one, and you saved me from death.”
“And are you--to me--what I thought?” he asked, with painful vehemence
and imploring eyes.
“I am your nurse,” said she, with a melancholy smile.
He sighed heavily. “Sleep now,” said she, and she again placed her hand
upon his forehead. Her touch soothed him. Her voice arose in a low song
of surpassing sweetness. His senses yielded to the subtle incantation,
and sleep came to him as he lay.
When he awaked it was almost evening. Lethargy was still over him, and
Beatrice made him sleep again. He slept into the next day. On waking
there was the same absence of memory. She gave him some cordial to
drink, and the draught revived him. Now he was far stronger, and he sat
up, leaning against a tree, while Beatrice knelt near him. He looked at
her long and earnestly.
“I would wish never to leave this place, but to stay here,” said he. “I
know nothing of my past life. I have drunk of Lethe. Yet I can not help
struggling to regain knowledge of that past.”
He put his hand in his bosom, as if feeling for some relic.
“I have something suspended about my neck,” said he, “which is precious.
Perhaps I shall know what it is after a time.”
Then, after a pause, “Was there not a wreck?” he asked.
“Yes; and you saved my life.”
“Was there not a fight with pirates?”
“Yes; and you saved my life,” said Beatrice again.
“I begin to remember,” said Brandon. “How long is it since the wreck
took place?”
“It was January 15.”
“And what is this?”
“February 6. It is about three weeks.”
“How did I get away?”
“In a boat with me and the servant.”
“Where is the servant?”
“Away providing for us. You had a sun-stroke. He carried you up here.”
“How long have I been in this place?”
“A fortnight.”
Numerous questions followed. Brandon’s memory began to return. Yet, in
his efforts to regain knowledge of himself, Beatrice was still the most
prominent object in his thoughts. His dream-life persisted in mingling
itself with his real life.
“But you,” he cried, earnestly--“you, how have you endured all this? You
are weary; you have worn yourself out for me. What can I ever do to show
my gratitude? You have watched me night and day. Will you not have more
care of your own life?”
The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a soft light. “What is my life?” said
she. “Do I not owe it over and over again to you? But I deny that I am
worn out.”
Brandon looked at her with earnest, longing eyes. His recovery was
rapid. In a few days he was able to go about. Cato procured fish from
the waters and game from the woods, so as to save the provisions of the
boat, and they looked forward to the time when they might resume their
journey. But to Brandon this thought was repugnant, and an hourly
struggle now went on within him. Why should he go to England? What could
he do? Why should he ever part from her?
“Oh, to burst all links of habit, and to wander far away,
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day!”
In her presence he might find peace, and perpetual rapture in her smile.
In the midst of such meditations as these her voice once arose from
afar. It was one of her own songs, such as she could improvise. It spoke
of summer isles amidst the sea; of soft winds and spicy breezes; of
eternal rest beneath over-shadowing palms. It was a soft, melting
strain--a strain of enchantment, sung by one who felt the intoxication
of the scene, and whose genius imparted it to others. He was like
Ulysses listening to the song of the sirens. It seemed to him as though
all nature there joined in that marvelous strain. It was to him as
though the very winds were lulled into calm, and a delicious languor
stole upon all his senses.
“Sweet, sweet, sweet, god Pan,
Sweet in the fields by the river,
Blinding sweet, oh great god Pan,
The sun on the hills forgot to die,
And the lily revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream by the river.”
It was the [Greek: meligaerun opa], the [Greek: opa kallimon] of the
sirens.
For she had that divine voice which of itself can charm the soul; but,
in addition, she had that poetic genius which of itself could give words
which the music might clothe.
Now, as he saw her at a distance through the trees and marked the
statuesque calm of her classic face, as she stood there, seeming in her
song rather to soliloquize than to sing, breathing forth her music “in
profuse strains of unpremeditated art,” the very beauty of the singer
and the very sweetness of the song put an end to all temptation.
“This is folly,” he thought. “Could one like that assent to my wild
fancy? Would she, with her genius, give up her life to me? No; that
divine music must be heard by larger numbers. She is one who thinks she
can interpret the inspiration of Mozart and Handel. And who am I?”
Then there came amidst this music a still small voice, like the voice of
those helpless ones at home; and this voice seemed one of entreaty and
of despair. So the temptation passed. But it passed only to be renewed
again. As for Beatrice, she seemed conscious of no such effect as this.
Calmly and serenely she bore herself, singing as she thought, as the
birds sing, because she could not help it. Here she was like one of
the classic nymphs--like the genius of the spot--like Calypso, only
passionless.
Now, the more Brandon felt the power of her presence the more he took
refuge within himself, avoiding all dangerous topics, speaking only of
external things, calling upon her to sing of loftier themes, such as
those “_cieli immensi_” of which she had sung when he first heard her.
Thus he fought down the struggles of his own heart, and crushed out
those rising impulses which threatened to sweep him helplessly away.
As for Beatrice herself she seemed changeless, moved by no passion and
swayed by no impulse. Was she altogether passionless, or was this her
matchless self-control? Brandon thought that it was her nature, and that
she, like her master Langhetti, found in music that which satisfied all
passion and all desire.
In about a fortnight after his recovery from his stupor they were ready
to leave. The provisions in the boat were enough for two weeks’ sail.
Water was put on board, and they bade adieu to the island which had
sheltered them.
This time Beatrice would not let Brandon row while the sun was up. They
rowed at night, and by day tried to get under the shadow of the shore.
At last a wind sprang up; they now sailed along swiftly for two or three
days. At the end of that time they saw European houses, beyond which
arose some roofs and spires. It was Sierra Leone. Brandon’s conjectures
had been right. On landing here Brandon simply said that they had been
wrecked in the _Falcon_, and had escaped on the boat, all the rest
having perished. He gave his name as Wheeler. The authorities received
these unfortunate ones with great kindness, and Brandon heard that a
ship would leave for England on the 6th of March.
The close connection which had existed between them for so many weeks
was now severed, and Brandon thought that this might perhaps remove that
extraordinary power which he felt that she exerted over him. Not so. In
her absence he found himself constantly looking forward toward a meeting
with her again. When with her he found the joy that flowed from her
presence to be more intense, since it was more concentrated. He began to
feel alarmed at his own weakness.
The 6th of March came, and they left in the ship _Juno_ for London.
Now their intercourse was like that of the old days on board the
_Falcon_.
“It is like the _Falcon_,” said Beatrice, on the first evening. “Let us
forget all about the journey over the sea, and our stay on the island.”
“I can never forget that I owe my life to you,” said Brandon,
vehemently.
“And I,” rejoined Beatrice, with kindling eyes, which yet were softened
by a certain emotion of indescribable tenderness--“I--how can I forget!
Twice you saved me from a fearful death, and then you toiled to save my
life till your own sank under it.”
“I would gladly give up a thousand lives”--said Brandon, in a low voice,
while his eyes were illumined with a passion which had never before been
permitted to get beyond control, but now rose visibly, and irresistibly.
“If you have a life to give,” said Beatrice, calmly, returning his
fevered gaze with a full look of tender sympathy--“if you have a life
to give, let it be given to that _purpose_ of yours to which you are
devoted.”
“You refuse it, then!” cried Brandon, vehemently and reproachfully.
Beatrice returned his reproachful gaze with one equally reproachful, and
raising her calm eyes to Heaven, said, in a tremulous voice,
“You have no right to say so--least of all to _me_. I said what you feel
and know; and it is this, that others require your life, in comparison
with whom I am nothing. Ah, my friend,” she continued, in tones of
unutterable sadness, “let us be friends here at least, on the sea, for
when we reach England we must be separated for evermore!”
“For evermore!” cried Brandon, in agony.
“For evermore!” repeated Beatrice, in equal anguish.
“Do you feel very eager to get to England?” asked Brandon, after a long
silence.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know that there is sorrow for me there.”
“If our boat had been destroyed on the shore of that island,” he asked,
in almost an imploring voice, “would you have grieved?”
“No.”
“The present is better than the future. Oh, that my dream had continued
forever, and that I had never awaked to the bitterness of life!”
“That,” said Beatrice, with a mournful smile, “is a reproach to me for
watching you.”
“Yet that moment of awaking was sweet beyond all thought,” continued
Brandon, in a musing tone, “for I had lost all memory of all things
except you.”
They stood in silence, sometimes looking at one another, sometimes at
the sea, while the dark shadows of the Future swept gloomily before
their eyes.
The voyage passed on until at last the English shores were seen, and
they sailed up the Channel amidst the thronging ships that pass to and
fro from the metropolis of the world.
“To-morrow we part,” said Beatrice, as she stood with Brandon on the
quarter-deck.
“No,” said Brandon; “there will be no one to meet you here. I must take
you to your home.”
“To my home! You?” cried Beatrice, starting back. “You dare not.”
“I dare.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I do not seek to know. I do not ask; but yet I think I know.”
“And yet _you_ offer to go?”
“I must go. I must see you to the very last.”
“Be it so,” said Beatrice, in a solemn voice, “since it is the very
last.”
Suddenly she looked at him with the solemn gaze of one whose soul was
filled with thoughts that overpowered every common feeling. It was a
glance lofty and serene and unimpassioned, like that of some spirit
which has passed beyond human cares, but sad as that of some prophet of
woe.
“Louis Brandon!”
At this mention of his name a flash of unspeakable surprise passed over
Brandon’s face. She held out her hand. “Take my hand,” said she, calmly,
“and hold it so that I may have strength to speak.”
“Louis Brandon!” said she, “there was a time on that African island when
you lay under the trees and I was sure that you were dead. There was no
beating to your heart, and no perceptible breath. The last test failed,
the last hope left me, and I knelt by your head, and took you in my
arms, and wept in my despair. At your feet Cato knelt and mourned in his
Hindu fashion. Then mechanically and hopelessly he made a last trial to
see if you were really dead, so that he might prepare your grave. He put
his hand under your clothes against your heart. He held it there for a
long time. Your heart gave no answer. He withdrew it, and in doing
so took something away that was suspended about your neck. This was a
metallic case and a package wrapped in oiled silk. He gave them to me.”
Beatrice had spoken with a sad, measured tone--such a tone as one
sometimes uses in prayer--a passionless monotone, without agitation and
without shame.
Brandon answered not a word.
“Take my hand,” she said, “or I can not go through. This only can give
me strength.”
He clasped it tightly in both of his. She drew a long breath, and
continued:
“I thought you dead, and knew the full measure of despair. Now, when
these were given me, I wished to know the secret of the man who had
twice rescued me from death, and finally laid down his life for my sake.
I did it not through curiosity. I did it,” and her voice rose slightly,
with solemn emphasis--“I did it through a holy feeling that, since my
life was due to you, therefore, as yours was gone, mine should replace
it, and be devoted to the purpose which you had undertaken.
“I opened first the metallic case. It was under the dim shade of the
African forest, and while holding on my knees the head of the man who
had laid down his life for me. You know what I read there. I read of a
father’s love and agony. I read there the name of the one who had driven
him to death. The shadows of the forest grew darker around me; as the
full meaning of that revelation came over my soul they deepened into
blackness, and I fell senseless by your side.
[Illustration: “I THOUGHT YOU DEAD, AND KNEW THE FULL MEASURE OF
DESPAIR.”]
“Better had Cato left us both lying there to die, and gone off in the
boat himself. But he revived me. I laid you down gently, and propped up
your head, but never again dared to defile you with the touch of one so
infamous as I.
“There still remained the other package, which I read--how you reached
that island, and how you got that MS., I neither know nor seek to
discover; I only know that all my spirit awaked within me as I read
those words. A strange, inexplicable feeling arose. I forgot all about
you and your griefs. My whole soul was fixed on the figure of that
bereaved and solitary man, who thus drifted to his fate. He seemed to
speak to me. A fancy, born out of frenzy, no doubt, for all that horror
well-nigh drove me mad--a fancy came to me that this voice, which had
come from a distance of eighteen years, had spoken to me; a wild fancy,
because I was eighteen years old, that therefore I was connected with
these eighteen years, filled my whole soul. I thought that this MS. was
mine, and the other one yours. I read it over and over, and over yet
again, till every word forced itself into my memory--till you and your
sorrows sank into oblivion beside the woes of this man.
“I sat near you all that night. The palms sighed in the air. I dared not
touch you. My brain whirled. I thought I heard voices out at sea, and
figures appeared in the gloom. I thought I saw before me the form of
Colonel Despard. He looked at me with sadness unutterable, yet with soft
pity and affection, and extended his hand as though to bless me. Madder
fancies than ever then rushed through my brain. But when morning came
and the excitement had passed I knew that I had been delirious.
“When that morning came I went over to look at you. To my amazement,
you were breathing. Your life was renewed of itself. I knelt down and
praised God for this, but did not dare to touch you. I folded up the
treasures, and told Cato to put them again around your neck. Then I
watched you till you recovered.
“But on that night, and after reading those MSS., I seemed to have
passed into another stage of being. I can say things to you now which I
would not have dared to say before, and strength is given me to tell you
all this before we part for evermore.
“I have awakened to infamy; for what is infamy if it be not this, to
bear the name I bear? Something more than pride or vanity has been the
foundation of that feeling of shame and hate with which I have always
regarded it. And I have now died to my former life, and awakened to a
new one.
“Louis Brandon, the agonies which may be suffered by those whom you seek
to avenge I can conjecture but I wish never to hear. I pray God that
I may never know what it might break my heart to learn. You must save
them, you must also avenge them. You are strong, and you are implacable.
When you strike your blow will be crushing.
“But I must go and bear my lot among those you strike; I will wait on
among them, sharing their infamy and their fate. When your blow falls
I will not turn away. I will think of those dear ones of yours who have
suffered, and for their sakes will accept the blow of revenge.”
Brandon had held her hand in silence, and with a convulsive pressure
during these words. As she stopped she made a faint effort to withdraw
it. He would not let her. He raised it to his lips and pressed it there.
Three times he made an effort to speak, and each time failed. At last,
with a strong exertion, he uttered, in a hoarse voice and broken tones,
“Oh, Beatrice! Beatrice! how I love you!”
“I know it,” said she, in the same monotone which she had used before--a
tone of infinite mournfulness--“I have known it long, and I would say
also, ‘Louis Brandon, I love you,’ if it were not that this would be the
last infamy; that you, Brandon, of Brandon Hall, should be loved by one
who bears my name.”
The hours of the night passed away. They stood watching the English
shores, speaking little. Brandon clung to her hand. They were sailing up
the Thames. It was about four in the morning.
“We shall soon be there,” said he; “sing to me for the last time. Sing,
and forget for a moment that we must part.”
Then, in a low voice, of soft but penetrating tones, which thrilled
through every fibre of Brandon’s being. Beatrice began to sing:
“Love made us one: our unity
Is indissoluble by act of thine,
For were this mortal being ended,
And our freed spirits in the world above,
Love, passing o’er the grave, would join us there,
As once he joined us here:
And the sad memory of the life below
Would but unite as closer evermore.
No act of thine may loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenge have power
To disunite us _there_!”
On that same day they landed in London. The Governor’s lady at Sierra
Leone had insisted on replenishing Beatrice’s wardrobe, so that she
showed no appearance of having gone through the troubles which had
afflicted her on sea and shore.
Brandon took her to a hotel and then went to his agent’s. He also
examined the papers for the last four months. He read in the morning
journals a notice which had already appeared of the arrival of the ship
off the Nore, and the statement that three of the passengers of the
_Falcon_ had reached Sierra Leone. He communicated to the owners of
the _Falcon_ the particulars of the loss of the ship, and earned their
thanks, for they were able to get their insurance without waiting a
year, as is necessary where nothing is heard of a missing vessel.
He traveled with Beatrice by rail and coach as far as the village of
Brandon. At the inn he engaged a carriage to take her up to her father’s
house. It was Brandon Hall, as he very well knew.
But little was said during all this time. Words were useless. Silence
formed the best communion for them. He took her hand at parting. She
spoke not a word; his lips moved, but no audible sound escaped. Yet in
their eyes as they fastened themselves on one another in an intense gaze
there was read all that unutterable passion of love, of longing, and of
sorrow that each felt.
The carriage drove off. Brandon watched it. “Now farewell. Love,
forever,” he murmured, “and welcome Vengeance!”