LITTLE JACOB.
ISLA stood on the shore, with Jacob’s hand in hers, and watched the
schooner which bore away her new friend. She had seen the preacher
several times since that first interview, and they had talked much
together. She held now in her hand a precious gift, a letter to the
head of the Deaf and Dumb School, which, the preacher felt sure, would
insure Jacob’s admission. This kind woman had made a little map of
the streets, so that Isla might find her way without trouble through
the crowded city. She had offered, if Isla could only wait, to be her
guide, and take upon herself the task of presenting Jacob; but Isla
could not wait. She gave as her reason that the child was already
older than most of the beginners, from what the preacher told her;
moreover, that now was the time when the schools would soon be opening.
Other reasons there were which she did not give, but the preacher
accepted these, and gave her the note readily. Now the schooner was
out of sight, round the far point of the island, and Isla was her own
mistress. As Jacob danced and swung about, holding fast to her loving
hand, the girl was thinking hard. Her thoughts flew forward to that
strange, dreadful place, the city. Already she felt the stifling air,
and saw the walls close around her. It would take months, years, the
preacher said, before Jacob would learn to speak. If she could only
live so long! She had only half listened when the preacher told her
of all the pleasant things she would see and hear. She knew better
than that. Herons could not live in cities; Herons like her and Giles.
Jacob was so young, he would not know so well, perhaps, and would soon
forget—forget! The word went through the girl like a sharp pain. Under
all lay the dread, not spoken even to herself, shut out instantly when
it forced itself to her mind,—that she might not be allowed to stay
with her brother at the school. If all went as she had planned there
would be no danger, none at all. They would never know. Silence had
become the rule of her life. But there might be some mistake; some
emergency might arise that would force her to speak.
Then, if she were sent away from him, would Jacob forget? She grasped
the child’s hand so hard that he winced, and held up his face with a
little moan of pain. She bent down and took him in her arms, soothing
him so gently that he forgot the moment’s grief, and laughed again.
Isla smiled, the rare smile that made her whole face bright with inward
light; but she did not laugh. There was no one to hear her laugh, since
Giles died.
That afternoon she told Jacob that she must leave him for some hours.
He was to be happy, oh, so happy! for he might play on the stretch
of white sand where the gold-shells were, taking care not to go
below the rope of seaweed that marked their high-tide boundary. He
was so careful, she knew she might trust him. And she would bring
him an orange from the village, if there was one; sometimes the
captain brought a few over from the main, on his weekly trip with
the mail-schooner. At least she would bring him something, surely,
something good or pretty; and he was to play his best plays, and think
of her, and the time would go quickly, quickly, till she came back.
Jacob nodded and laughed, well content. He would never have Isla out of
his sight, if that might be; but he knew that these times must come,
and he was a patient child, and knew not the sense of being unhappy or
forlorn. Taking his clam-shell spade and his pails of birch-bark, he
trotted down to the strip of white shell-sand, and there built houses,
and rocks, and lighthouses, such as Isla had showed him. He had seen
the houses himself, but the tall tower he took on faith; there was
no tower in those days on the Wild Rocks. Tiring of his building,
he gathered a great heap of gold-shells, and watched the afternoon
sunbeams play on their delicate scales and turn them to ruddy gold,
where at first they were pale. Then he found a rock-pool, full of
brown shrimps; he lay on his stomach, and watched them scuttling in
and out of the rockweed fringe. Presently an unwary barnacle opened
his shell and put out his plume of feathers. Whisk! he was seized by a
crab, torn from his home, enveloped, swept away into the dark caverns.
Poor barnacle! Jacob shook his head in compassion; yet, having large
sympathies, was glad, too, that the crab had such a good supper.
A little chill struck him. The sand turned from brilliant to dead
white, and, turning, he saw that the sun had gone down behind the crest
of the sister island across the bay. It was time for Isla to come! The
red glow had faded from the gold-shells, too, and they looked pale and
cold. Cold! and they must stay out here all night, and then it would
be very cold indeed! Isla would make him a little fire, and cook his
supper, and they would be warm and comfortable at home, but the poor
things on the beach would be cold.
And now a bright thought came to Jacob; a thought that made him clap
his hands, and make little sounds of pleasure, such as a bird or a
young lamb might make.
Why should not he build a fire? Not in the house, but here, on the
shore? Isla would see it on her way back, and it would light up the
rocks and make them bright and cheerful, and she would know that he
was watching and waiting for her. And then it would last all night,
perhaps, and the poor shells and things would be warm for once. It
would be fine, fine! He cooed with joy. Isla should see how clever
he was, how well he could do things to help! He ran here and there,
picking up bits of driftwood, twigs and sticks and shingles. The light
faded, but Jacob’s face made a little brightness of its own. Soon he
had quite a pile collected; then he ran to the house for matches, and
soon the fire was leaping and crackling merrily. The warmth and glow
were heartening! The happy child bent above it, and spread out his
hands, and murmured pure pleasure. How soon would Isla come? Surely she
had never stayed so long before.
The tide was rising, and now murmured higher and higher on the stones;
but Jacob had no fear of the tide. The rope of seaweed was his
boundary, and that lay always dry, and he and his pretty fire were
well above it. The fire was very friendly, he thought. It was dancing
for him, making all sorts of pretty plays for him. He danced, too, to
show that he appreciated the courtesy; but, on the whole he liked best
to sit close beside it, with his palms spread to catch all the kindly
warmth.
Sitting so, his mind full of happy thoughts, sleep came softly to him.
It was past his bedtime, or perhaps it was only the heat, so close at
hand, that brought the drowsiness. He tried to brush it away, but it
came back. The evening grew dim, and only the fire glowed bright and
cheerful. Presently the curly head sank down on the warm seaweed; there
was a little sigh or two, of sheer comfort and content, and Jacob was
asleep.
The tide still rose quietly, and murmured softly on the stones. A beach
bird ran by, and did not fear to brush the child with its wing, he was
so still, and looked so gentle. A sea-gull came wheeling in over the
beach; hovered a moment on broad wings, then vanished, a white ghost
in the deepening gray. The fire smouldered, the brands fell away into
soft, gray heaps with a red coal at the centre; and still the child
slept, though now the air grew thin and cold, and a fog began to creep
in from the sea.
Now was it a thing of his dreams, or was there a flutter of broader
wings over the lonely shore? Were they real, the two figures that stood
dimly lovely in the waning light?
Surely they were speaking—
“See! he is sleeping, how soundly! He should be mine, not yours. He
hears now; he speaks now; and I will but loose him from the little dumb
thing that was the prison of him, and he shall hear and speak always,
forevermore. If I lay my hand on him, it will be only a touch, and not
so cold, only a soft coolness; and then! oh, the waking for him! Why
would you keep him from me? for it is to me that the word should come.”
And the other, the flame-winged spirit, could not answer; could only
keep her own warm hand on the child’s heart, and breathe on him with
her warm breath, and wait and listen in anguish, lest the word should
indeed come to her brother and not to her.
And if the word should come a moment late, and she had lost the faint
flutter of the little heart?
But how strange for the angel not to know, that there is no “too late!”
Hark! what sound is that?
A moment ago,—unless those shadowy forms were real indeed,—there
was only silence and the falling night, and the child asleep on the
shingle. But now, though no voice is heard—for who should cry aloud
to the deaf child?—yet the air is full of sound; it palpitates with
motion. The light shock of pebbles falling beneath hurrying feet, the
patter of those feet, hardly touching the sand as they flit past; then
round the point a figure flying, swift and silent, with outstretched
arms and hair streaming loose. Isla! Isla is coming!
Go thy way, good brother Death! not yet the child needs thee; not
yet is he to take thy kind, cold hand and go with thee. And thou,
flame-winged spirit, fold him yet closer in thy warm arms, for the
night falls chill.
Isla dropped on the beach and clasped the boy to her heart. The little
limbs were cold, but the breath came warm on her cheek, as she pressed
him close, and kissed and patted him. She dropped the orange beside
him. It was this that had made her late; going for it on board a vessel
where she heard the fruit might be had, and detained by the churlish
skipper, till night began to fall, while she was still at the further
end of the island. Would the child wake to see it?
Jacob opened his eyes, slowly, unwillingly, thinking the morning was
come too soon; and found night instead of the sun, but he felt his
Isla’s arms about him, and her warm face pressed to his, and knew that
his joy was come back to him. He nestled in the strong, tender arms,
and laughed, now wide-awake, and pointed to the fire, telling, with
eloquent gestures, what he had done. There was no doubt that his fire
had brought her back; happy Jacob! And Isla, kneeling on the sand,
holding him in her arms, promised to herself that never again in this
world would she and Jacob part. Alas for thee, Isla! Not for us are the
promises.