DISCOVERY.
THE trustee stood on the steps of the Deaf-mute School, and pulled
the bell. He had come to see his friend Isla, and his pockets were
full of oranges for Jacob. He had grown much attached to the stranger
children, and Isla especially had come very near his heart. He was a
childless man, and now and then the thought crossed his mind that some
day he might take the brother and sister home to his ample house, to
be his children, his very own. It would be a silent house, but he was
used to that. And he did not like noise. Besides, one never thought of
Isla’s silence, her eyes were such eloquent speakers of all lovely and
tender things. Wild, sometimes; it seemed to him now and then as if the
girl had some trouble, some secret, that was wearing her out. He had
tried to talk with her, to learn her history; but all she told in her
graceful sign-language was calm and happy, of the lovely island, the
care-free life till after her mother’s death, and then the desire to
learn speech, which overmastered everything else. But something there
was, the trustee felt more and more sure; and whatever the trouble
might be, it was increasing. Through the long winter the girl had been
quiet; almost apathetic, though her lovely smile never failed to
brighten at sight of her friends, never failed to make sunshine for
her little Jacob. Now, however, as the spring came on, a restlessness
seized her. She wandered from window to window, looking out, scanning
the houses across the street, as if she tried to see through and beyond
their solid walls. When taken out to walk with the other children, this
restlessness became almost uncontrollable. Every leaf, every blade of
grass, seemed to draw her as if by magic; she plucked them, cherished
them in her hands, took them home to her room. She would stand rapt,
watching the birds, till the teacher touched her arm, and motioned
her to go on. Then she would fling her arms out, with a gesture of
distress, of impatience; but next moment would come the downward look,
the pause, and then the sweet, patient smile, and the deprecating hand
laid on her friend’s arm.
“I declare,” said this young teacher, speaking to the principal one
day, “I can hardly believe, sometimes, that Isla does not hear. It is
not only that she watches the birds; she certainly seems to listen.
Do you think she can catch any vibrations of the air, when they are
trilling and twittering so far above her?”
The principal thought not, but owned that Isla puzzled her, too.
“Little Jacob is perfectly normal,” she said, “but how much less
interesting! Just a sweet, good little fellow, and that is all. Yet he
is learning fast to articulate, while Isla will not make the slightest
attempt. It is strange!”
Now, as the kind trustee stood waiting for James to open the door, he
heard footsteps behind him, and turning, saw a man coming up behind
him. Such a man the trustee had never seen before, though he had
travelled far. It was not that he was ugly, though that was enough; it
was not that he was clumsy, though that was enough; it was not even
that he looked as much like a fish as a man, if arms and legs could be
concealed; it was,—
“Ha!” said the trustee. “I have it! Caliban, with the addition of a
soul! Precisely! and may I be asked to resign if this is not James’s
pixy!”
These remarks were not audible to the strange man, who stood looking
intently at the gentleman, with bright blue eyes that were little in
keeping with the rest of his uncouth being.
He opened his mouth once or twice, with such suggestions of Jonah that
the trustee involuntarily recoiled a step or two; he tried to speak,
but found difficulty in doing so; at length,—
“You’re a gentleman!” said Caliban.
“Thank you!” said the trustee. “I think it highly probable that you are
another. What can I do for you this morning?”
Joe pulled off his hat with a gesture indescribably feudal.
“I know a gentleman when I see him,” he said, humbly. “Brazybones ain’t
never been gentlemen, but they knows ’em, ’count o’ bein’ along o’
Herons so long, you see. Yes, sir; Joseph Brazybone is my name: Sculpin
Joe, some calls me, on account of my style o’ featur, which is what
was give me at birth; and I’ve come to see my young Lady Heron, as is
stopping here a spell. You—bein’ a gentleman, you might know young Lady
Heron, mebbe, sir?”
“Isla Heron?” said the trustee. “Oh, yes; I know Isla very well, and
her little brother, too.”
Joe Brazybone turned away suddenly, and his round shoulders heaved once
or twice. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke it was slow and
brokenly.
“You—you’ll excuse me, gentleman,” he said. “It came kind o’ suddin,
that’s all is the matter with me. Old Joe’s had a hard winter of it, ye
see, never hearin’ a word of his young lady, let alone seein’ her, as
every day he done sence Giles was laid away, till this winter. He’s had
a hard time of it, Joe has, and all the way down he’s been thinkin’,
suppose somethin’ had happened to my young lady. She’s well, you said,
gentleman?” He turned suddenly, and his glance was like a sword. “No,
you didn’t say so, but yet you spoke as if—she’s well, Isly is?”
The trustee nodded quickly. “Yes, Joseph; she is perfectly well,” he
said. “A very lovely girl, your young lady, and we are all very fond
of her here. Now you want to see her, I am sure, and here is the door
opening. I will send for the children at once.”
The trustee would have liked to stay a few minutes to ask this queer
retainer a question or two about the Heron children and their people;
but the eagerness of the man was so piteous, his attempts to conceal
it so hopeless, that the kind trustee had mercy. Besides, James had
opened the door, only to fall into a kind of fit at sight of his goblin
of the past summer. He was now behind the door, holding it well between
him and the strange visitor, and admonishing his favourite saints, in a
terrified gabble, to stand by him now and save him from being pixy-rid.
But Joe had no eyes now for James, or anybody his like. He had found a
gentleman, and the gentleman was going to take him to his young lady;
this was enough to fill Joe’s world very full, and he only fixed, in
passing, a vacant stare on the unhappy porter, which sent cold shivers
down the latter’s back, and made him feel that he had got the evil eye
on him this time, and no mistake.
The trustee passed on up the wide staircase, Joe following humbly at
his heels, keeping step exactly, and standing motionless whenever he
paused for a moment. The man’s action was so exactly that of a good
dog, that the trustee turned round once or twice on the way up, to make
sure that his follower was indeed human. But suddenly Joe paused, with
a broken exclamation.
“There now! there now! I want to know if I forgot that! I want to know
if I did, after all my plannin’ and contrivin’.”
The trustee turned round, and saw his companion fumbling awkwardly in
his breast. He drew out a small object wrapped in coarse brown paper,
and held it out with a piteous look.
“See here! gentleman,” he said. “I meant to send this to Isly first;
that’s what I meant to do. I meant to send it in by the putty-faced
feller, and tell how the man that brought it was there, and had more
where that came from.” He unfolded the paper with trembling fingers,
and held out the goldstone brooch.
“That’s handsome, ain’t it?” he said, anxiously. “That’s handsome
enough for a young lady like Isly, ain’t it, gentleman? That’s what
ladies wear, round in city parts?”
The trustee examined the brooch gravely.
“A fine piece of goldstone, Joseph. I never saw a prettier piece; yes,
Isla will surely be pleased with that. But don’t you think it would be
just as well to give it directly to her? I think she might be better
pleased if you gave it to her yourself. Wait here a moment, and I will
bring both the children; or, there is Miss Stewart; I will ask her to
bring them.”
A few words told Miss Stewart the nature of the new arrival; after
a curious glance at the fish-like visitor, she sped away. The kind
trustee waited, saying a word now and then to Joe, trying to make him
feel at ease, pointing out this and that picture on the walls; but the
islander paid little heed. His eyes were fixed on the door; he sat on
the edge of his chair, turning the brooch absently in his fingers; he
was listening so intently that the trustee fancied he could almost see
his ears prick from under the wisps of sandy hair. Presently there came
a sound of feet on the stair, and Joe started up with an inarticulate
sound, between a whistle and a cry. The trustee heard three distinct
footfalls, but Joe heard only one.
“She’s comin’!” he cried. “Isly’s comin’!”
Was this Isla who came in? The trustee stared in amazement. Deadly
white, with brows drawn as if in pain, with lips set close, hands
pressed together, eyes full of fear,—was this Isla? The principal shook
her head, and signed her amazement. “I could hardly make her come,” she
whispered. “She fell into a sort of shuddering fit,—I fear there is
something wrong about it all. Hush!”
Both were silent, feeling the matter taken out of their hands. Joseph
Brazybone was at Isla’s feet, half kneeling, half crouching; he was
patting her dress, her hands, touching the ends of her long hair with
timid fingers. The trustee felt that he was needing a tail to wag,
and was sorry for him. Little Jacob threw himself on the islander,
with every sign of pleasure, but Joe hardly heeded him, only looked
up in Isla’s face with dog-like, beseeching eyes. The girl’s eyes
were like hard, bright stones, save for that watchful look of fear,
of expectation; but, presently, they softened. The old kindness, the
thought of her father and her home, flowed over her like a wave, shook
her like a wind. She smiled, and tried hard to make it her own smile;
she patted Joe’s shoulder with a friendly touch, and pointed to a
chair. But Joe still crouched on the floor gazing at her.
“Ye’re lookin’ well, Isly!” he said at length; and the two onlookers
started at the sound of his voice, so tense had the silence grown.
“Ye’re looking real well, and growed a perfec’ lady, as I always
knowed.” He paused a moment; then went on.
“Joe thought he’d come to see ye, y’ understand, young lady! Old Joe
thought he’d come. The winter’s been long enough on the island, and
come spring Joe says to himself, ‘She’ll be thinking about home,’ he
says, ‘and mebbe she’ll be glad to see a face as comes from home, even
if ’tis a ugly one. Joe ain’t never set up to be a beauty, ye know,
Isly.”
He tried a laugh, and it broke off in his throat.
“Ain’t ye glad to see the old man, Isly?” he said, after a pause.
“Ain’t ye goin’ to pass the time o’ day to old Joe, Joe Brazybone, as
he and Giles was boys together?”
Isla smiled, and pressed his hand kindly; her lips never moved, but
now she began to shake as if with an ague; pale flushes came and went
through her clear skin, and her breathing was hurried and broken. The
trustee touched Joe on the shoulder. “I fear you are distressing her!”
he said kindly, seeing the man labouring in anguish of perplexity. “You
forget Isla hears nothing, and she has not yet learned to read from the
lips.”
Joseph Brazybone started to his feet, and threw up his hands with a
strange gesture.
“What’s that you’re sayin’?” he asked. “What’s that you said,
gentleman, about Isly Heron?”
“I do not need, surely, to tell you that she is deaf and dumb,” said
the trustee. “You cannot speak to her by signs, as Jacob did when he
came!”
[Illustration]
“Deef!” cried Joe, and his voice rang through the room like a trumpet.
“Isly Heron deef? It’s a lie, whoever says so. Isly, why don’t you
speak to me? why don’t you speak to these folks, and tell ’em not to
call you out o’ your name?
“Isly Heron deef and dumb, her that sings like a bird, and talks like
angels in the sky? Why, gentleman, and you, lady stranger, you—you
don’t understand what you’re sayin’. I tell ye, if God only allowed one
voice on this airth, that voice ’ud be Isly Heron’s. And old Joe comes
to see his young lady, and she won’t speak to him. Oh, Isly, Isly, for
yer father’s sake, speak to old Joe just once, if ye never do again!”
He was down on the floor again, crouching at her feet. Isla looked
round the room, with wild eyes of a trapped creature that sees death
before it; she saw the grave wonder, the doubt and distress, in the
faces of the two spectators; she saw the agony of pleading in the
rugged, misshapen features of the fisherman. She looked,—ah! where
else should she turn now for comfort? In the face of her little Jacob;
Jacob, for whose dear sake she had borne and suffered all; to whom now,
perhaps, she was bringing shame, punishment for her sin; for she never
doubted its being a sin. Jacob was smiling, pleased and happy at seeing
a face that he remembered well in the old days at home. Those days were
growing dim now for Jacob, and the new life filled his little cup with
joy and comfort. He looked happily up at his sister, but met her eyes
all fierce and burning, saw her face drawn and distorted with pain.
Jacob did not understand pain, and Isla looked dreadful. He shrank
from her, and caught the hand that was next to him, the hand of the
principal of the school, and nestled in her gown.
When Isla Heron saw that, she threw out her arms, and cried aloud.
“God!” she cried in her extremity. “God! God! where are you?” Then,
with her bird-like motion, she swung out from among them, pushing aside
the hands that would have held her, avoiding the kind arms that sought
to stay her; out of the room, and down the stair, flying so light and
swift that no one missed the wings; out of the room and down the stair;
and, before any one could stir to follow her, they heard the front door
open quickly, close lightly,—Isla was gone!