"Let be, Maggie; if they're sorry for what they've said about Josh, the more shame for them for hurting us as they did. You can do as you like; I sha'n't mind your shaking hands with them. But for me, I've said I'll never forgive them, and I never will." When Susan was told that they were going to Australia, her dull vacant face suddenly lit up.
"We shall be near him," she muttered; "near Minnie too. Poor Minnie! where is she?"
The next moment her old manner was upon her, and she relapsed into vacancy again.
But there was one by whom the news of their intended departure was received with a chill of angry despair. Solomon Fewster could scarcely believe it when he was told. He hurried to the house, blaming himself for his stupidity in trying to starve Ellen into acquiescence.
"This would never have come about," he thought, "if they had not been driven to it by necessity. I ought to have shown myself a greater friend than ever to Dan. Gratitude would have made Ellen love me."
To obtain Ellen's love had become a mania with him. The farther she was removed from him, the stronger grew his desire. "Perhaps it is not yet too late," he thought. He broke into Dan's room in feverish haste, and cried,--
"Good news, Dan! I've got a customer for four birds, and he wants them at once."
"Here are two bullfinches and two canaries," replied Dan with a queer smile; "I thought you would have wanted them earlier. I have others ready, if you want more."
"I'll take them by and by," said Solomon Fewster; and then treated Dan to a long account of the late dulness and the expected revival of trade, and to the certain prospect of there being a great demand for Dan's birds presently. Dan listened in silence, and discomfited Solomon Fewster by charging a higher price than usual for the bullfinches and canaries. Solomon Fewster thought it would be fatal to hesitate, and he paid the money with apparent willingness; and Dan gave another queer little smile as he put the money in his pocket. Then Fewster referred to the rumor, and Dan said it was true.
"We shall sail in about a month," said Dan.
"But why go at all?" asked Fewster.
"We are not able to get a living here, sir," said Dan. He did not tell everybody of his fancy about Joshua.
"If that's your only reason," urged Fewster, "stop, and let me be your friend. I promise that you shall never want, especially if--if"--
But he could not get the intended reference to Ellen gracefully off his tongue.
"I understand you, sir," said Dan; "but nothing that you can say can keep us here."
At this point Mr. Marvel entered, and Fewster left. Between the two men there had been an utter absence of cordiality since Fewster's overtures respecting Ellen. Besides, Mr. Marvel had suspected why Fewster's commissions for birds had fallen off, and had made Dan acquainted with his suspicions; and this, indeed, was the reason why Dan, whose eyes were open to Fewster's meanness, had taken a secret pleasure in charging him a high price for his present purchase.
Solomon Fewster tried by every means to induce them to stay, but his efforts were unavailing. The passages were taken, the day was fixed. The Old Sailor made special arrangements for the accommodation of Dan's birds on board ship, and Dan bought a number of young songsters to train on the voyage out, although the Old Sailor shook his head and expressed grave doubts whether the birds would live. As the day of departure approached, the excitement in the neighborhood grew stronger, and public opinion veered steadily round in favor of the Marvels. The band of the remorseful ones received fresh recruits daily, until, when the day arrived, there were not a dozen of the neighbors who were not sorry for the judgment that had been pronounced against Joshua, and who did not, in one way or another, give expression to their sorrow. Mr. Marvel would not listen to them; the others did, and took pleasure in listening to apologies which were in some sort a vindication of Joshua's character. But Mr. Marvel declared bitterly that he would shake the dust from his shoes the day he left Stepney, and that he was only too thankful to escape from the nest of vipers.
"You women," he said, "are too soft-hearted for justice: if a scoundrel who has wronged you comes crying to you, you look kindly on him, and cry with him, out of the tenderness of your hearts. But for me, when I think of the many years we've lived here, with never a black mark against us--when I think of the good turns we've done for this one and that one, and of the manner in which they have returned our good offices, I'm fit to choke with passion. They tried to disgrace me, and would have seen us starve without offering us bit or sup. But now that we're going, well off as they think, they come whining round us, sorry for the mud they threw at us. The mud didn't stick, that's one comfort. I could dash my fist in their faces when I think of it!"
So matters went on until the morning came when they were to go aboard the ship at Blackwell. They had a few little odds and ends to take with them, and a cart was at the door to convey them to the docks. All the women and children in the neighborhood flocked round the cart to see the last of the emigrants. First Ellen, with her child, got in; the women kissed their hands to her, and murmured to each other that she looked older than her years. Ellen's eyes were blinded with tears as she looked up at the old house and at the familiar faces in the crowd. Susan was the next: she looked vacantly at the throng, and turned her eyes to her lap, taking no further heed of them. Dan followed with his birds, and listened gravely, and not without tenderness, to the farewells which greeted him. After him came Mr. and Mrs. Marvel.
"Good-by, my dear; God bless you! God take you safely over, my dear!"
In twenty different ways were these farewells and good wishes expressed, and Mrs. Marvel pressed her hand upon her heart, and sobbed till she could not distinguish a face in the crowd that surrounded her.
"Get in Maggie," said George Marvel; and then, deliberately and gravely, stooped and took off his shoes. He climbed into the cart in his stockings, and bending over the wheel, shook the dust from his shoes. "I'll take no dust from here with me," he said in a loud tone; "I leave that and your lying words behind me. I loved you once, and loved these streets; but I've hated you and them from the time you turned upon us and made our lives bitterer than misfortune had already made them. By and by, you can tell the men I've worked with and been kind to, that I was glad to go from the place where I was born, and that I shook the dust from my feet before I went away."
Then, amid a dead silence, the cart lumbered away from Stepney on to Blackwall. There they found the Old Sailor waiting for them. "I will keep with you until you are fairly off," he said. They were thankful enough for his company, and as he did what he could to cheer them, and they had plenty of work to do in their cabins, they soon became more cheerful and hopeful than they had been for many a day. Soon the ship was at Gravesend, a place fraught with sad and sweet memories--for Ellen especially. Mrs. Friswell, at whose house the wedding was celebrated, came aboard to see them, and admired the baby, and whispered to all of them in turns, that if there ever lived a man with a heart tender enough for twenty men, that man was the Old Sailor, and no other. No need to say with what heartiness they all indorsed this sentiment.
A surprise awaited them. On the morning of the ship's sailing, there came climbing up the side Solomon Fewster. He accosted them gayly.
"You were wondering, I dare say, why I hadn't been to wish you good-by."
"We thought you would be sure to come although at the last moment," answered Dan.
Solomon Fewster first rubbed his hands and then his chin.
"No need to say good-by," he said, with a conscious look at Ellen; "I am going with you."
They were too much astonished to reply.
"Yes," he continued; "when my best friends were going, I didn't like the idea of stopping behind. So I've sold my business upon capital terms--capital terms. A good sum down, and a share in the profits for the next ten years. Shall be able to make plenty of money in Australia, eh, Mr. Meddler?"
"No doubt, no doubt," said the Old Sailor, with a disturbed look.
Solomon Fewster, divining that his absence would be agreeable to them, hurried away to look after his boxes.
"I am sorry he's going," said Dan; "but it can't be helped. We must make the best of every thing not the worst."
In the tender conversation that ensued, consequent upon their parting from the Old Sailor, Solomon Fewster was forgotten.
"Write to me as often as you can," said the Old Sailor, "and I will do the same to you, though my old joints are getting stiff. You'll soon be settled down somewhere, and you can let me know. 'Tis a sad word--good-by. But I shall soon be saying good-by to all the world, my dears."
He sat among them until the last moment, and first wished Susan good-by.
Then said George Marvel, as he and the Old Sailor stood hand in hand, amidst the confusion of ropes and cases, "If there had been hearts like yours among our neighbors, my poor Josh's name would not have been blackened. Heaven will reward you. I couldn't honor my own father more than I honor you."
The Old Sailor quivered at the stroke; he could better have stood a hard knock. He kissed Ellen tenderly, and she him; and he put a ribbon round baby's neck with a little silver whistle at the end of it. "In memory of me, my dear," he said.
"I will teach her that it is the symbol of the heart of a good man, dear sir," said Ellen, her eyes full of tears; "and when she is an old woman--if she lives to be such--it may happen that she will show it to her children, and tell them her mother's sad story, and how her life was sweetened by the kindest, dearest, best"-- Sobs choked her voice.
The Old Sailor waited a while until she recovered, and then said, with exquisite tenderness,--
"If she will sound the whistle sometimes when she is a young woman, and I am in my grave, I shall hear her perhaps." He smiled thoughtfully at this conceit. And then folded Ellen in his arms, and saying, "God bless you, my lass!" released her and turned to Dan and Mrs. Marvel. She took his hand and kissed it; she could have knelt to him, her heart was so full--too full to speak.
"I know, I know, my dear," he said, and kissed her. "I asked you once if you would like to be a sailor, Dan; do you remember?" His arm was resting on Dan's shoulder, and Dan drew it round his neck and laid his face upon it. The action conveyed such tender meaning, that the tears rolled down the Old Sailor's cheeks.
"When I see Joe," said Dan, "I may tell him that you never doubted him?"
"Ay, Dan," replied the Old Sailor aloud; but thought, "I shall see him before you do, my lad." He would not disturb Dan's faith by uttering the thought.
"Do I remember your asking if I would like to be a sailor?" continued Dan. "Ah, yes! what of that day can I ever forget? You taught me to splice a rope, and I showed you Jo's heart and mine spliced, so that nothing could sever them. And the poor birds shipwrecked, as Jo is. We little thought then, did we, sir?" The Old Sailor grasped Dan's hand, and the next minute was in his boat; and the ship was swinging round, hiding him from the loving gaze of his friends.
Through the river that runs to the sea the ship makes its way slowly and grandly. In the ship's stern, looking with dimmed eyes over the bulwarks, are Dan and Ellen and Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. Good-by, dear friend! Good-by, dear heart! Smaller and smaller grows the ship in his eyes. Can they see him still? he is lost in the whirl of boats. No; he is standing up, cap in hand. Good-by, faithful simple heart, richer in your honest goodness than if you were endowed with all the jewels that lie concealed in earth's depths. He is lost to them now, and they shall see him no more--here!
Lost? No. He is with them every night in their prayers--he dwells in their hearts. To their dying days they think of him tenderly. Blessings on the dear Old Sailor!
CHAPTER XXXIX.
SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR.
"Minnie!"
"Yes, Joshua."
"That is all; I thought you were asleep."
"You are very kind to me, Joshua. I feel a little better to-day, I think."
"That's a good hearing, Minnie. Get strong, my dear, for my sake."
"Ah! If I could; but I fear--I fear." (This last to herself under her breath.) "Sit nearer, Joshua."
Many moons had passed, and with the exception that Minnie had grown very weak, only one event of importance had occurred since the departure of Rough-and-Ready and Tom the sailmaker. That event was the death of the Lascar; and the discovery made a deep impression on Joshua. It occurred within a few weeks of the parting of the tribes. The tribe of which Opara was the chief, observing that Minnie was drooping, resolved to return to the spot where they had found her. By easy stages they travelled near to the rocks where the castaways had landed, and rested there some days, in the belief that Minnie would regain her health. The mysterious influence she had over them was never weakened, and as she and Joshua were inseparable, he shared in the favor which was shown to her. She saw this, and would not allow him to quit her side, fearful lest harm should befall him. One evening she and Joshua had wandered from the native camp to the pool where the Lascar had stolen upon him, with the intention of killing him; and they talked together of the villain, and wondered what had become of him. They saw a wonderful sight as they sat and talked. From the distant woods rose an immense army of flying foxes, not less than four or five thousand in number, flying in a straight line to a distant pool. When they arrived over the water, they dipped down to drink in regular order, keeping their ranks, so that presently they presented the shape of a perfect curve. Joshua and Minnie watched the singular flight until the last of the animals had satisfied its thirst; shortly afterwards the entire flock disappeared. As they retraced their steps to the native camp, Joshua observed something unusual lying on the ground. It looked like a crouching animal, and Joshua drew Minnie aside fearing that it might be a dangerous creature; but it remained perfectly still, and Joshua, drawn thereto by an irresistible impulse, slowly approached the spot. To his horror he found that it was a human creature--dead; and turning the face recognized the Lascar. So! his enemy was dead, and this was the end of his animosity. The circumstances of the eventful meeting when he had rescued Susan from the Lascar's pursuit came to Joshua's mind as he looked upon the dead form. "His hate of me would not have lived so long," thought Joshua, "if it had not been fed by other means. Whom did he refer to when he spoke of his master the day he stole upon me with the stone? But that is past discovery now!" The dead man's face was distorted by agony, as if he had died in torture, and Joshua looked around for the cause of death. There were a variety of trees near the spot--among them some stinging trees. Joshua knew the fatal effect of the deadly tree, and divined that the Lascar had fallen from one of the higher trees, which he must have climbed in search of food, into the poisonous nettles, and so been stung to death. He could not have been dead above a few hours. Joshua turned away, and told Minnie.
"You will not leave him there unburied, Joshua?" said Minnie.
"No, Minnie, it would not be right. He was our enemy, but there is an end to all that now. Sit down on this trunk, my dear, and I will be kinder to him in death than he was to me in life." With his knife and a stout stick he removed sufficient soil to lay the dead man in; as he moved the body, a silver watch fell from a pocket. Joshua picked it up, and involuntarily opened it. There was an inscription on the case, roughly scratched in, and Joshua read, "From Solomon Fewster to his Lascar friend." Joshua's heart beat loudly as he read these words. He felt that he was on the eve of a discovery. "They knew each other," he thought in amazement; and then, like a flash, it came upon him that Solomon Fewster was the master for whom the Lascar said he was working. Eagerly he searched the Lascar's pockets for more evidence; and found it in the shape of the following document: "To my Lascar friend: I give you twenty-five pounds in gold, and a silver watch and two knives for services you have rendered me in connection with J. M. And I promise you twenty-five pounds more in gold, if; when you return in the 'Merry Andrew,' you have accomplished what has been agreed upon between us.--S. F."
Joshua read this document twice, and then looked round, as if in expectation of meeting Solomon Fewster face to face.
"Let me fix the villain's features in my mind," he thought; "I will raise him before me, so that when we meet, in this world or the next, I may bring his treachery home to him." With the eyes of his mind he saw Solomon Fewster's false face, and he dashed his fist into the air with a loud cry. "Fool!" he muttered, recovering himself; "am I growing as much a savage as those amongst whom I live? Was it Fewster or this villain who stabbed me when I came home?" He looked down, and seemed to find his answer. "It was your hand that struck the blow, and he employed you. He was too much of a coward to do it himself, and he paid you for your services as you have told me. And he wanted to get me out of the way, so that he might win the love of my Ellen." A bitter smile came to his lips, passed away, and a sweeter expression took its place. "To win the love of my Ellen! No, he can never do that; she is mine till death, and after it, and is as true to me as I am to her. Ellen, dear wife! hear me, and be comforted."
Concealed beneath his covering of fur, was a small bag, made of stout skin, well dried, containing Ellen's portrait, her lock of hair, Dan's Bible, and the page from Captain Liddle's log-book, appointing him captain. Into this bag he put the silver watch and Fewster's document.
"Rest there," he muttered. "When I am dead, chance may direct these relics into the hands of my friends. I will write a statement myself of certain things, and place it with these. Be merciful, O God! and keep firm the faith of my friends."
The appeal was like a prayer, and its utterance soothed him. He laid the Lascar's body in the shallow grave, and covered it as well as he could with earth and leaves and branches. Then he returned to Minnie, and they walked to the camp. He did not tell her of his discovery. It would have made her more unhappy.
On another occasion they were sitting together in the woods, in silence and resignation. They had sat so for full half an hour, and not a word had passed between them; their thoughts were with their friends, thousands of miles away. Suddenly there came to their ears the tinkle of a bell. They started, and looked at each other in wonder. A wild hope entered Joshua's heart. The sound was faint but distinct. It was like an evidence of approaching civilization. Presently it sounded again, and was followed by other bells of different tones, but each note being clearly uttered. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! till the woods were filled with music. Creeping slowly and softly in the direction of the sounds, they discovered the cause. The sounds were not produced, as they had hoped, by bells on the necks of cattle, but by a congregation of small birds of a greenish-yellow color, who, perched upon the branches of trees, in a spot where the trees formed a circle, were singing to each other their sweetest songs. Disturbed by the approach of footsteps, the birds hid themselves among the leaves, and were silent; but Minnie and Joshua remained perfectly still, and soon the sweet sounds were heard again, and the concert was resumed, to the delight of the hearers.
For many evenings after this Joshua and Minnie came to the spot to listen to the melody of the bell-birds. It was on one of these evenings that an idea in association with the birds presented itself to Joshua. Why should he not employ a little of his idle time in training some of the birds with which the beautiful woods abounded, as Dan and he used to do in their boyish days? He trembled with delight at the thought, and was eager to begin. It seemed to bring him nearer to Dan and the beloved ones at home. He told Minnie of his fancy, and she encouraged it. He would set about it at once; but first he must make a cage. He made one of wickerwork, sufficiently large to hold a score of birds; and in a very little while his cage was inhabited by birds as beautiful and almost as docile as any he had taught at home.
All this while they were allowed by the natives to do pretty well what they pleased. Food was supplied to them regularly, and they were not expected to work or hunt for it. Scarcely a night passed without Joshua played his accordion in the shade of their hut, and the singular fancy which the natives entertained respecting Minnie was strengthened by these mysterious melodious sounds. From time to time the natives shifted their camp, according to the seasons, and they invariably regulated their day's walking by Minnie's strength. Uncultured and savage as these ignorant creatures were, they were tender and kind to Minnie and Joshua, and showed them a thousand little attentions which could only have been prompted by the most delicate consideration. Joshua's fancy about the birds was quite a natural thing in their eyes. Minnie wanted the birds to talk to; she understood the mysterious voices of birds and trees. Their reverence for her was increased when they saw her one day with a golden-crowned honey-sucker upon her finger. This was one of the first birds which Joshua had tamed; he was careful to give it its favorite food,--the blossoms of the blue gum-tree when it was in flower, and at all times honey and sweet leaves, and had anticipated the effect it would produce upon the natives, when they saw it perching contentedly upon Minnie's finger.
"See!" said Opara, "the birds know our Star; she talks to them the language of the trees. From us they fly, and hide themselves in clouds; but she bids them come, and they rest upon her bosom."
Soon other birds were tamed and trained; and the wonder spread to distant tribes, who made long journeys to see the Star of Opara's tribe, who understood the voice of Nature, and talked with all the children of the Great Mother; for so the simple savages interpreted it.
But Minnie grew weaker and weaker. She concealed her weakness as much as possible from Joshua, who was very tender to her, very, very kind. He had quite forgiven her; no cloud disturbed the harmony of their strange lives. Bearing always in mind the advice which Rough-and-Ready had given them to endeavor to make their way southward, and knowing the one great wish of Joshua's heart, she had used all her influence with the tribe to induce them every time they shifted their camp to move in that direction, and had succeeded so far, that every season found them nearer to the settled districts. But, although three years had passed, they had not seen the slightest signs of civilization.
Once Joshua was in a terrible state of agitation. He was gathering sweet leaves for his birds, when "Crack!" went the sound of a whip. He uttered a joyful cry, and threw himself upon the ground with all his heart in his ears, for he had not caught the direction of the sound. "Crack!" went the whip again. He ran swiftly towards it, and listened again. Rough-and-Ready had told him many times to keep his ears sharp open for the crack of a whip, and here it was, at last, after weary, weary waiting.
"You will find most likely," Rough-and-Ready had said, "that it is a stockman looking after some stray cattle. Then you will be all right."
The thoughts that crowded upon Joshua's mind in the few moments that elapsed between the cracking of the whip would occupy an hour to describe; they may be summarized thus: "That is a stockman's whip. Thank God for it! I shall see him presently, and he will wait while I fetch Minnie. Then we will go to where his companions are, and I will get some presents for our kind friends the natives. Minnie will soon grow strong; thank God! We will go down to Sydney, and get passage home in the first ship. Then--then--O Ellen, Ellen! O Dan, dear friend! dear mother and father! All will come right--all will be set right. Thank God!"
"Crack, crack!" Nearer--nearer. He was close to it, but saw nothing. He looked round carefully, watchfully. "Crack!" Over his head. He turned his eyes to the clouds, and saw a bird--the whip-bird--flying over the trees, uttering its "crack!" as it flew, taking his hopes with it, and bearing them away to where perhaps he would never meet with them again.
And Dan is sitting in a wooden hut built near the banks of a beautiful river. Seas do not divide him from his friend. They both live on the same bit of land, ignorant of each other's whereabouts. The same continent holds those two faithful hearts. What is Dan doing? who are with him? what kind of a place is this where he and they reside?
A village in which dwell not more than a few hundred inhabitants. Not free from care, for care is human; but happier than inhabitants of great cities are. There is plenty of work for hands to do; more than there are hands to do it. What luxury there is, is the luxury of nature--rich fruits, bright flowers, clear atmosphere, sweet air, lovely skies, grand sunrises and sunsets, and sparkling watercourses whose banks teem with graceful shapes and lovely color. Here a city is to be formed, and they who live in it and are content shall see it grow up to strength--ay, to manhood--and shall have a share in its increasing wealth. First, tents of canvas to live in; now huts of wood; by and by houses of stone. But these last, though they be stronger, will not bring more enduring happiness. And here is Dan, with his birds, as usual. He earns money enough now. Not a hundred miles away, in the capital of the colony of which this little village is a speck, lives a dealer who comes regularly to Dan's wooden house, and buys such birds as he has trained, and pays handsomely for them. Not Solomon Fewster. He also is in that rising capital, and Dan will not sell him a bird. Not that Solomon Fewster needs them; for he is making money fast, and the miserly passion of accumulation is growing very strong in him. His business carries him often to Dan's village,--twice a month, perhaps; and regularly every two or three months he makes some kind of overture to Ellen, who shakes her head, and sometimes answers him, and sometimes evades the subject. Dan has remonstrated with him, and has begged him never to refer to the subject again. But he answers,--
"I cannot help it, Dan. If you knew what love was, you would know that a man can no more help loving than he can help feeling. It was love that first brought me to your house in Stepney. I didn't want the birds; but so that I might have the privilege of coming to the house--and of doing you and Ellen a good turn at the same time, mind, Dan--I took a deal of trouble to find dealers in birds who would buy them of me at the same price I paid you for them; and I shouldn't be telling an untruth if I said that I lost money by many of the birds I paid you for. One man I sold to failed, and I had to take a composition. Well, I didn't know then that Ellen loved Joshua; nothing was said between them; and when he first went away he wasn't old enough to know his own mind. He came back, and when he was ill I didn't show a bad spirit to him. After Ellen and he were engaged, I did not desert you; and I didn't annoy Ellen by forcing my attentions upon her. You spoke to me once about that unfortunate canary that died in my hand when I bade Joshua good-by. You can't think that I killed it purposely. But you may be able to form some idea of my feelings (which can't always be suppressed, Dan), and of the restraint I had to put upon myself when in the presence of the man who had taken from me the most precious thing in the world to me--Ellen's love--and you can put down the poor canary's death to that cause. I've no need to say any thing more. I've loved Ellen all along, and I've always treated her with respect and consideration. You mustn't debar me from the chance of being happy; Ellen may change her mind one day. It is many years now since I first saw her, a girl; and that I am content now to wait and hope ought to be sufficient proof of my disinterestedness and sincerity."
To such-like pleading Dan finds no reply, and so they go on as usual.
To Dan, as he sits with his birds, comes Ellen with her peaceful sad face. She has not found happiness, but she has found peace. Solomon Fewster is not her only suitor. Every single man in the village is enamoured of her, and would be glad to make her his wife. But she tells her story to all with a womanly purpose. She is married, and her husband went out as third mate of the "Merry Andrew," and the ship was lost and all hands, as it is supposed. But she cannot believe that her husband is dead; something tells her that he is alive--living upon some uninhabited shore mayhap, and looking forward to the time when, by the mercy of God, they shall be together again. Her story is repeated from one to another; and some kind souls who have been in the colony a few years come to her and Dan with little scraps of information concerning the "Merry Andrew," such as the finding of a piece of a figure-head which belonged to her husband's ship, and other similar evidence, which convince them that the "Merry Andrew" was lost off the Australian coast. "Is it not possible," asks Dan, "that some of the crew may have been saved, and may be dwelling now on some part of the uninhabited Australian coast?" "Quite possible," they answer: and they relate such instances as they know of vessels being wrecked, and of some of the sailors being saved and found years after they were supposed to be lost. Dan and Ellen derive much comfort from these narrations.
Ellen's little child Maggie is the pet of the village. At the present moment she is playing with her goat in the paddock at the back of the house, breathing in health with fresh air. To-night, when she says her prayers, she will pray that God will please send her father home--a prayer joined in by all of them every night.
Who is this? Susan. In no whit changed. With the same strange watchful manner upon her as in the old days in Stepney, but never uttering a word concerning Joshua. Sometimes she will go for days without speaking to a soul, and a smile never crosses her lips.
And this gentle woman, going about the house quietly, doing her work cheerfully, with a sweet smile for every one she comes across, and by whose side the little Maggie is content to sit in silence with her hands folded in her lap? This is Mrs. Marvel. You would know her if you had only seen her once, although her hair is nearly white now; for hers is one of the peaceful faces that dwell in your memory and remind you of your mother. As for her hair being nearly white--for the matter of that, so is Mr. Marvel's. It would not do for him to pay for every white hair that is pulled out of his head, as at the commencement of this story.
They sit together on this evening, as is their wont, and as they used to do in the dear old kitchen in Stepney, and talk of Joshua. And George Marvel smokes his pipe, and his wife darns--more slowly than in the old days, for her sight is not so strong as it was--and Dan trains his birds and reads to his friends. They have been sorely afflicted, but faith and love have banished despair.
On this very evening, hundreds of miles away, Joshua is sitting on the ground in his gunyah, amusing himself and Minnie with his birds. She is reclining on her 'possum-skin rug, looking affectionately and gratefully at Joshua, who has grown very wise in the different habits and natures of the strange birds he has before him. With what care he has collected them! Here is the quaint kingfisher, flitting about as contentedly as it used to flit among the dead trees that lie on the banks of creeks. Joshua, watching it one day, saw it suddenly dart into the water with such eagerness that it was completely submerged; he thought it was drowned, but the next instant it appeared above the surface with a small fish in its mouth, with which it hopped, exultant, into the woodland again. It is a handsome bird, and a singular-looking one too, with its beak about a quarter as long as its body, and its light crimson breast and azure back and shrewd brown eyes. Here is the mountain bee-eater, the wondrous blending of colors in whose plumage suggests the fancy that its feathers must have been dyed in the glorious sunsets of the South, and that it first saw the light when rainbows were shining. Here are the honeysuckers, yellow-eared, blue-cheeked, and golden-crowned; and the crimson-throated manakin, with its pleasant song; and the spotted finch, with red eyes; and the scarlet-backed warbler and the pretty thrush, black-crowned and orange-breasted, whose piping in the early morning was the cheerfullest of all the birds; and the yellow-rumped fly-catcher, fussing about, and chattering like a magpie. All these are here, and many others; and Joshua often thinks how delighted Dan would be with them. Joshua and Minnie are clothed completely in fur garments; all their civilized clothes are gone. Joshua's hair has grown so, that his face is quite covered with it.
"Would they know me at home, Minnie, if they could see me as I am?" he asks.
"I doubt it," she replies; "but they would know your voice."
"Shall we ever see them again?" he asks, more of himself than of her.
She sighs, and does not answer. He may; she prays that he will. But she! The breeze sighs with her, as she thinks that she will never again look upon the faces of her friends. Well! perhaps it is better so. She desires no happier lot than to die in Joshua's arms, with his eyes looking kindly upon her. She has been growing weaker and weaker every day; she does not complain, but he often regards her with apprehensive looks, and prays that she may not be taken from him. They live together as brother and sister; the love he bears for her is as pure as the love he bears for his mother. He speaks to her often of Dan, and she listens with sweet patience. But he does not understand that her love for him is part of her very nature, and that it cannot be transferred--that it cannot change. He does not understand it, does not know it; he deludes himself with the hope that, if it should mercifully chance that they should reach home, the dear hope of Dan's life may be realized, and that Minnie's love and Dan's belief in her purity may brighten the days of his friend. She knows that Joshua entertains this hope, and does not pain him by telling him how false it is.
So the days pass, and the seasons change. In accordance with Minnie's wish, the tribe moves farther and farther southward, and is rewarded by finding plenty of game in the woods, and fish in the rivers and pools. Summer dies, and the beautiful autumn brings strength to Minnie; but the succeeding winter strikes her down. Her savage friends and worshippers are grieved to the heart at her weakness, and she, true to her purpose and to Joshua, makes them understand that health and strength for her lie southward, and urges them on towards the settled districts.
"If we are saved," says Joshua, "I shall owe all my happiness to you, Minnie. Once you gave me life; now perhaps you will give me what is better than life."
A look of content rests in her eyes as he says this, and she muses upon it for days afterwards, murmuring the words to herself before she falls asleep. Speaking to her of her father at one time, he is surprised to hear her say, "Father is dead, Joshua."
"How do you know?" he asks, startled.
"I feel it--here," pressing her hand to her heart; "I have dreamt that I saw him and mother together. Some things come to us intuitively; we do not need to be told."
"Do you know any thing else about those at home?" he asks, half awed by her solemn tone.
"No; but one other thing I know that I ought not to keep from you."
He waits in silence for what is to come, dreading to speak. She takes his hand; hers is hot with fever.
"Do not think me unkind," she says, "but for many weeks I have felt impelled to tell you, and now that the time is drawing near, I must no longer keep it from you. Can you guess what it is, my dear?"
"O Minnie! Minnie!" he cries, falling on his knees at her feet; "do not tell me that you are going to leave me!"
"I cannot help it, dear," she says, tenderly. "Before the spring dies I shall leave you. I shall spend my summer in another world." She repeats the words, as though they conveyed to her some deeper meaning than they implied. "Yes, I shall spend my summer in another world. My heart has been wintered in this."
He strives to reason her out of her belief,--tells her that it is fancy; but she gently checks him, with "Nay, dear Joshua. 'Tis but a little time to spring. Let us talk of other things."
Soon the buds begin to come, and the leaves grow green. Minnie hides her weakness, says that she feels stronger, and Joshua begins to hope. But he does not know what motive she has in this; he does not know that she puts on an appearance of strength, so that she may not retard their course southward. In many of their marches she sustains her fainting heart by strength, of love. "Nearer, nearer," she whispers to herself; "he shall owe all his happiness to me."
Come there to the camp one day some members of another tribe, who speak of having seen men of the color of Joshua and Minnie a couple of hundred miles to the south, mounted on strange animals. These aboriginal wanderers, indeed, are at variance with one another: some say that men and animals are one; others, that they are distinct creatures. Opara tells Joshua and Minnie, who are able by this time to understand the native tongue, and to make themselves understood.
"What Opara says is good," says Minnie. "We will go towards these men. They are our brothers. They will give me back my strength."
Opara being gone, Minnie asks Joshua what he thinks. Joshua, with eager voice and sparkling eyes, cries that they are stockmen on horses, as Rough-and-Ready had told them.
"All will yet be well," he says, his voice trembling with joyful emotion; "in a few months perhaps we shall be among white people again."
She listens in silence: and presently, in accordance with their nightly custom, he takes his accordion from its bag of fur, and plays the sweetest airs he knows. "Poor Tom Bowling" and "Bread-and-cheese and Kisses" are his principal themes; and as he plays, the newly-inspired hope stirs into life his dearest memories, and brings before him those pictures of his boyish days that he most loves to dwell upon.
CHAPTER XL.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
The river runs onward like a sparkling stream, now rushing between high banks of forest land, dotted here and there with miniature islands of rocks covered with lichens and shrubs, now settling into a still-looking reach, its surface covered with delicate mauve-colored water-lilies. Near to a great grove of palms upon the river's bank the native camp is fixed; and not far from the spot the channel forms a descent, more steep than abrupt, where it is cut up into hundreds of brawling streams by islands of beautiful shrubs. The natives have pitched their camp here, in accordance with Minnie's wish; they have been marching southward for more than a week, and Minnie has borne up bravely; but her strength has failed her at last, and she is compelled to succumb. It is understood among them that their Star is sick, and, the mintapas (doctors) are anxious to practise their healing arts upon her, but their efforts are firmly and gently repulsed by Joshua. For this, they look upon him with no friendly eye, and but for Opara his life among them would not be so pleasant as it has been. He pays no heed to them; his anxiety concerning Minnie engrosses all his thoughts now.
She is sinking fast, and has grown so weak that he is obliged to carry her about. The spot she most loves is where the river is still and quiet; there she will lie for hours, with Joshua by her side, watching the shifting shadows of the clouds in the water's depths. She says but little; but every time her eyes turn to Joshua, they are filled with gratitude and love. Once she expressed a desire to write something, and Joshua makes a little ink with paint and gum-juice, and makes a pen from a duck's quill; but paper he has none.
"Your Bible," says Minnie.
He gives it to her, and she writes a few lines on the blank page at the end. Then she tears out the leaf, and folding it carefully says, "This is for Dan, when you see him" (having a full faith that Joshua and Dan will meet); "do not read it, but place it carefully by."
He puts it with Ellen's lock of hair in the bag he wears round his neck.
That same night a change comes over Minnie. He has been away from the hut for a few minutes, and when he returns he sees her sitting in a listening attitude with her hand to her ear.
"Minnie!" he exclaims; but she holds up a warning finger, and says,--
"Hush, Joshua! I am listening to the singing of the sea. Is it not sweet?"
His heart beats rapidly, and he takes her disengaged hand in his, and asks her what she has in the hand she is holding to her ear.
"It is a shell," she says. She shows it to him and her face assumes the exact childlike expression of pleasure and simplicity it wore in the farewell interview he had with her before he first went to sea.
"You know me, Minnie?" he says, distressed.
"Yes, dear Joshua! What a question! But you must not be angry with me. I took the shell--but I took it for you."
"Nay but, Minnie," he says, striving to arrest her wandering thoughts; "listen to me"--
"Call me little Minnie," she pleads like a child, in the softest of voices.
"Little Minnie!" he sighs, with an almost broken heart.
"Little Minnie! Little Minnie!" she repeats. "The shell is singing it. Hush!" She remains silent for some time after this, and Joshua deems it best not to disturb her. An hour may have passed when she calls to him.
"Say that again, Joshua," she says. Wondering, he asks her what it is she wishes him to repeat.
"Nay," she answers, "that is to tease me. But you must say it after me, word for word: 'What you did, you did through love, and there could not be much wrong in it.'" He recognizes his own words to her, and in a troubled voice he repeats, "What you did, you did through love, and there could not be much wrong in it."
"I am satisfied," she says; "you have made me happy. I shall try to sleep now."
He covers her with a rug, and watches by her side during the night.
He has no heart for his birds, and were it not that she takes a childish delight in them, and is glad to have them around her, he would have taken them to the woods and set them free. She does not recover consciousness of her true position; she believes that she and Joshua are children together, and--it may be happily--all the horrors through which she has passed have faded from her mind. Her great delight is to play with the birds and listen to her shell. Sometimes the fancy that he is at sea possesses her, and she talks to him of himself, as she used to talk to Dan, and coaxes him to tell her the story of the death of Golden Cloud and other incidents of his boyish life. In this condition she remains for many days, until the time comes when she awakes from a deep sleep, and says, in her weak voice, "I have been dreaming, Joshua. I thought we were children again." Then opening her hand with the shell in it, looks at it, blushing, and says, "It is the old shell, Joshua. You remember."
"Do you feel stronger, Minnie?"
"No, dear; I shall not grow stronger. It will be as I told you a little while ago. Spring is not gone yet; but it will be soon. Have they asked about me?" meaning the natives.
"Yes, many times every day, Minnie; and have brought their choicest food for you regularly."
"They have been very kind to us. Rough-and-Ready was not quite right about them. I used to tremble with fear when he spoke of them. Poor Rough-and-Ready and poor Tom! What has become of them, I wonder!"
They muse sadly over the memory of those two good friends.
"Some lives are very hard, Joshua," she continues. "His was, I am sure. I suppose it was as he said, and that he has done bad things. Yet how kind and gentle he was to us! It is hard to reconcile; but it seems to me, my dear, that our lots are shaped for us. We can't help our feelings; we don't make them; they come, and we must act as they prompt us to act. Opara and the savages now: they couldn't help being born savages, and they have had no good teaching. Don't think me wicked for what I am going to say, my dear."
"No, Minnie; go on."
"Well, I can't help believing that a good deal of what is called wrong is not wrong, and that bad is not always bad. I can't explain exactly what I mean, but I feel it." She appears to think that she has got out of her depth, and suddenly changes the subject. "Take me out, and let me see Opara. You must carry me; I am not as heavy as I was."
He lifts her in his arms, and carries her, with her arm round his neck, out of the hut towards the savages. They crowd round her, and she speaks a few words to them, and smiles upon them. Then, by easy stages, he carries her to her favorite spot by the river's side, and there they rest.
"All rivers have currents, Joshua?"
"Yes, my dear."
"Even this, that looks so still and quiet?"
"Even this, my dear; the current is running, although you cannot see it. But remember, the river is not so still everywhere. A very few miles away it is full of life; it is rushing over the rocks, and is never still for an instant day and night."
"Strange! So restless there, so quiet here! It has been so with me: so restless there, so quiet here! Look! we can see the fish in the clear depths. How beautifully the wild jasmine smells!"
He gathers a little for her, and a bunch of fringed violets, and she puts them in her breast. Then she encourages him to talk of home, and listens with sincere pleasure to his praises of Dan.
"It is good to be loved by such a heart," she muses.
"Ah, Minnie!" he ventures to say, "if it could have been with him as he once hoped it would!"
"About me?" she replies unhesitatingly. "Does not that seem to be a proof that our lots are shaped for us? Tell him that I was very, very sorry, and that I begged him to forgive me."
But it is chiefly about Joshua's mother that she speaks, and wishes that her mother had lived. In the midst of the conversation she falls into a light slumber, and opening her eyes half an hour afterwards, resumes from the point where they had left off, as if there had been no interval of silence.
On another occasion they are together on the same spot, and Joshua is telling her of a beautiful part of the river's bank which she had not seen. "The river is narrow there, and even more peaceful than this," he says. "The trees on both sides bend over the water until the topmost branches almost touch, so that the river is in shade. The sun was peeping through the arch of branches, lighting up the water here and there, and the golden light streaked the white leaves of the lilies, over which the pretty lotus-bird was running with so light a step as not to stir the flowers."
"How beautiful!" she says softly. "At night, when the moon is shining on the water and the lily-leaves through the arch of branches, how grand and peaceful it must be! Joshua, bend your head, my dear. When I am gone, let me be buried there. Nay, don't cry; but promise."
In a broken voice he promises her, and she is content. Then she bids him bring Opara to her; and the aged chief comes and sits by her side.
"Opara," she says, taking Joshua's hand and kissing it, "this my brother and I are one. You understand?"
"I understand," he answers; and Joshua wonders what it is she is about to say.
"You see how weak I have grown, Opara. Look at my hand; you can see the light through it."
"Say, my daughter," asks Opara: "you who know the language of birds and flowers,--you who know the mysteries of the Grand Vault,--can you not make yourself strong?"
"No, Opara; I am wanted."
"Cannot our mintapas make you strong?"
"No, Opara; their skill is not for me. Tell them so; and tell them I thank them, and will not forget them. Listen. Many moons ago, I walked in the woods, where the leaves were singing to each other, and where the wind whispered strange things as it travelled through the trees. I heard a voice; I listened; and I was told that when the next summer came, I should be wanted--There!"
Opara gravely followed the motion of her hand, as it pointed upwards.
"The summer is coming, and I must go. Do not disturb me then; my brother will see to me; and tell your young men and women to let me rest."
"I will tell them, and they will obey. Will our daughter return to us?"
Minnie catches at this question eagerly, and clasps Joshua's hand with a firmer clasp.
"I will return, if you will do one thing for me."
"Opara will do it."
"It will take many days to do."
"If it takes many moons to do, it shall be done."
"Opara's name shall be known in the Grand Vault," says Minnie in an earnest tone. "Take heed of my words. Those men of the same color as my brother, of which you were told some time ago, you have not seen them?"
"They are southward. My brother has a message for them from me. He has promised to deliver it to them; but he does not know the country. If he goes by himself, bad men of other tribes may meet him and take him with them. If you and some of your young men will accompany him south until he sees the strangers, or is near to them, I will return to you by and by, and your tribe shall never want food. The strangers will be kind to you, and will give you good things. Will Opara do this, and protect my brother?"
"Opara will do this, and will protect your brother."
"Good." She gives the old chief her hand, and he places it on his eyes, and departs gravely.
Joshua for a time is too agitated to speak. This last proof of her devotion is the crowning sacrifice of her life. She is the first to break the silence.
"Joshua, my dear, I have made atonement?"
He can only say, "O my dear, my dear, how unworthy I am in my own eyes!"
"Nay, nay," she says soothingly, "you are all that is good and noble. A better heart, a purer, never beat. I have committed a great fault, and have done you a great wrong--unconsciously, my dear, and without thought; and, by the mercy of our Father, I have been able to atone for it. Think of me as a child, my dear, who has loved you with all her heart, despite her wilfulness. Take me in your arms as you would a child, and say that you forgive me."
He takes her in his arms, and, to satisfy her, sobs out the words she wishes to hear. Her face is close to his.
"This kiss for Ellen," she whispers; "this for your dear, kind mother; this for Dan. Tell all of them of my fancy, that I wish to live in their minds, not as a woman, but as a child as a child who erred through love, and who had not been taught to understand what duty was. Who said this, 'There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not sanctify.'"
"Your father!" he whispers, amazed.
"I heard him; I was in the room when he blessed my mother for devoting her life to him."
Presently she asks him to fetch his birds, and he runs and brings them. He opens cage, and they hop about her contentedly. He gathers some wild flowers, and places them by her side. Shortly afterwards she directs his attention to the fringed violets, which do not live an hour after they are gathered. "They are withering," she says. "Do not pluck any more of the pretty things; let them live." He supports her in his arms; and she watches the birds with glistening eyes, and whispers that they remind her of dear Dan. Then she falls asleep, with her face turned to Joshua. He does not disturb her. Every thing around is very still and quiet. He thinks of the restless river a few miles away, and of Minnie's words, "So restless there, so quiet here! It has been so with me." The afternoon passes; the sun is going down, and the heavens are filled with wondrous color. Minnie has been asleep for a long while now. Shall he arouse her? Her fair face is perfectly still, and a smile is on her lips. "Minnie!" he whispers. Her hand is on her heart, and in her hand the shell. She does not speak; and a darkness comes upon him, and his heart grows cold as he presses his lips to hers. She has gone to spend the summer of her life in another world.