CHAPTER IV.—Behind a Laughing Mask.
Captain Mason Strengthens the Defense. The Extraordinary Behavior of Beelo. Christopher Becomes a Savage. Hidden Motives Half Disclosed. Hope.
FORSEEING the time when a visible danger would bring mob-madness to the colony, Captain Mason gave his entire attention to strengthening his control. To that end he kept every one engaged at something, laughed away all fears and doubts, placed all on honor not to breed discontent, and required that all discussions of the situation be with him alone.
He impressed the danger of leaving the camp limits except in large parties organized under his authority. No spying savages were ever seen in the forest backing the camp, but I frequently found the captain using his keen eyes in that direction. The questions weighing on him were: When would the king ask for the first member of the colony to be sent away? What plan would be adopted in the selection? What would really become of the persons so taken? What should be done when the first call was made for deportation?
Christopher and I alone were in the president’s confidence. On the second night he informed us that he had selected a spot which would serve as a fortress if occasion rose, and instructed Christopher in the art of making weapons, chiefly stone-headed clubs and blackjacks. This work was done secretly in our cabin.
The daily teaching of Beelo developed a new interest in the fact that, before I was aware, I was a pupil as well as a tutor, and that Beelo was as assiduous in instructing Christopher as me; he was evidently anxious that we should master the native language. I was glad to humor him, especially as I suspected an intelligent purpose. Above that was my growing affection for him. He perfected his poor English so rapidly that I was put on my mettle to learn the island tongue.
It was a simple task, and we came to use it entirely. To my surprise, Christopher learned it as readily as I. From the very start he had helped Beelo to turn the teaching in that direction. The strangest element of all this procedure was the quick and sure understanding that sprang up between these two.
Beelo one day brought a large parcel. He was particularly happy, and as full of play as a kitten.
“You can’t guess what I have for you,” he said with a mischievous look.
“No, Beelo—what?”
“You’ll see.” He was opening the parcel. “You and Christopher are going to be Senatras.” Senatra was the name of the inhabitants.
He produced from the parcel two native costumes. In addition were a basin and some brown powder. The boy was in glee as he separated the articles into one array for Christopher and the other for me.
He ran to a little stream, fetched water in the basin, and with a comical seriousness dissolved part of the powder.
“Your arm, Christopher,” he demanded. At times Beelo’s manner had a touch of imperiousness that sat oddly with his youth.
Christopher obediently bared his powerful arm.
“Oh!” said Beelo in delight. “You have splendid muscles,—they are like iron; and you are very strong,—that’s good.” His finger was timid as it touched Christopher’s arm.
He dipped a cloth in the colored water, and rubbed the stain on Christopher’s white skin. His care and gravity in comparing the tint with the color of his own wrist, in shaking his head, in adding more pigment to the water and trying again, and at last his delighted satisfaction, were all very charming.
“Good!” he cried. “That’s the Senatra color. Now,” addressing me, “I’ll go away a little while. You make a Senatra of Christopher.” To Christopher: “Take off everything. Mr. Tudor will put the color all over you. Then you put on Senatra clothes, and whistle for me.”
Patient Christopher would doubtless submit to any indignity that this prankish boy might devise, but I proposed to put a stop to the nonsense. Besides, how could I assume the ridiculous rôle that this young scamp, in whom my indulgence had bred impudence, intended for me?
“Christopher will do nothing of the sort,” I peremptorily said.
The lad stopped short and looked at me curiously.
“I want to, sir,” Christopher interposed, much to my surprise.
“You do? You wish to submit to this foolishness?”
“Foolishness, sir?”
“Yes.”
He reflected a while, and then said:
“Perhaps it ain’t jest foolishness, sir.”
“Very well,” I agreed, willing to humor him; “But Beelo will stay here and put the color on you himself.”
Alarm sprang to the boy’s face.
“I won’t!” he answered defiantly, and was turning away, but I caught him by the arm.
“You will,” I said. “I’ll see that you do.”
He slipped from my grasp and stood away, laughing.
“I want to do it myself, sir,” meekly said Christopher.
Beelo precipitately fled.
Why not play with these children? A man who would not was a churl. So Christopher was arrayed as a Senatra, and a whistle called Beelo back.
He danced delightedly round the pitiful figure that Christopher made. It hurt me to see not only how patiently Christopher submitted, but how wholly he entered into the spirit of the masquerade. His pale eyes looked ghastly in his brown face. I called Beelo’s attention to that.
“Oh, that won’t be seen at night!” he exclaimed. The remark did not impress me at the moment.
He put Christopher through numerous gaits and tricks of manner peculiar to the Senatras, and praised him for his aptness. Finally, when he taught his pupil the art of creeping stealthily and noiselessly, the man was so terrible that I forgot his grotesqueness.
All through this singular performance, Beelo, even though half playful, displayed astonishing perseverance and thoroughness, as if life itself depended on the perfection of the drill. That might not have looked so strange had it not been for the extraordinary care of Christopher himself to accomplish a perfect imitation. Then the significance of it all burst upon me.
I had vowed a thousand times since first knowing Christopher that never again would I underrate his wisdom, yet over and over I found myself doing so. While he never laughed in his romping with the children of the camp, but went into their sports with his habitual tender melancholy, he never showed with them the hidden eagerness, the almost desperate determination, that marked his training under Beelo. Thus I came to see that at the very beginning Christopher had discovered a vital meaning in Beelo’s playing.
“And now,” cried Beelo, “you will be a Senatra, Mr. Tudor! Christopher will dress you. Come!”
The boy’s eyes softened in a moment under the new light that he found in mine.
“Beelo,” I said, taking his hand, “let’s sit down and talk.” I seated myself, but he withdrew his hand and sat a little distance away. “No,” I gently insisted; “here, facing me, and close.”
He twisted himself round to the spot I indicated, and in doing so tossed Christopher a wry mouth. I noticed more clearly how fine his features were, and with what grace his long lashes curved.
“Beelo, do you really wish Christopher and me to be Senatras?” I asked.
He nodded, and, turning to Christopher, told him to go to the runnel, wash off the stain and put on his own clothes. Christopher meekly went. Beelo began playing with twigs on the ground, and did not look at me.
“Did Lentala tell you to do this?”
He nodded again—a little irritatingly, for he had a tongue.
“Why?” I asked.
He raised his eyes and regarded me steadily. Then, perhaps not seeing all that he sought, he made no answer, and returned to the twigs.
“I want to understand, Beelo, and you must trust me. Many things come to me now. Your sister’s conduct at the feast meant that she wished us to obey the king. She showed us sincere kindness in every look and act. And her great difference from the other people,—her sweetness, her grace, her beauty, her brightness of mind, her altogether adorable charm,———”
Beelo blazed in a way that stopped my rhapsody. He had raised his face; his lips were apart; his eyes glowed with a proud light that moved me strangely.
“You like my sister?” he softly asked.
“Who would not?”
“But you!” The boy impatiently tossed his head.
The little gesture was so pretty that I involuntarily smiled. Beelo misunderstood. He flashed angrily, and resumed the twigs. I could only grope.
“I don’t understand why the king sent us here. We are prisoners, and that is something which brave men won’t stand. We would rather die fighting.”
Again he studied me, and again looked down.
“Why didn’t the king let us build boats, and leave?”
He gave no answer, but was very busy with the twigs. I wondered if I were rash in some of the things I was saying. Clearly the moment of confidence had not arrived. The boy was studiedly cautious.
“Beelo, go to your sister and beg her to come and see me. She will trust me more than you do. I know she is our friend. She would tell us what fate is awaiting us.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” firmly interposed the boy.
“She would, because she is sweet and kind.”
“No, she loves her people, and you might do them harm.”
“But she sends you here to disguise us as natives and to train us in the art of deceiving and outwitting them.”
Had his smile not been so winning I could have slapped him for his insolence; but it was soon evident that a mighty struggle was proceeding under his assumed carelessness. If I could only guess at its nature I might know how to proceed.
“Bring Lentala to me, Beelo. She would be safe with you, and she will understand and will trust me.”
“Why? Her skin is brown. You would not trust her.” He was closely observing me.
“What difference can her color make!” I impatiently retorted. “Lentala is an angel.”
“But a brown skin means———” A look of horror swept over his face.
“Lentala is beautiful and kind and true. Tell her to come.”
Beelo was silent.
“Why should she not trust me?” I persisted. “How could I harm her?”
The boy, nervously arranging the twigs, spoke rapidly, but did not look up:
“She’s afraid,—not for herself, but her people. They love her. She would never betray them. Suppose she came,—you would be gentle to her; you would tell her she was beautiful and—and all that nonsense. You might try to get her to tell you things. And you would find out how to———Yes, you might come back and plot with your men, and there would be a great fight with my people and many would be killed. That would be terrible.”
I dimly understood at last: Lentala would trust her brother, not herself, in the mysterious plan that she was working out.
Christopher had returned. I beckoned to him to sit with us.
“Beelo,” I said, “look at me.” He complied. “If Lentala were here she could read my heart. All that you have said means that she mistrusts me. I understand more than you think I do. You have already shown your confidence and Lentala’s by offering to train me as a native. A wise and generous purpose is in that. By means of the disguise, you wish me to learn some things that will benefit my people, but you are held back by your fear that I will use the knowledge to injure you.”
“No,” he hastily interrupted; “only my people.”
“Very well. But you have already shown trust. You simply want more assurance that I will keep faith with you. Tell me what you want. I will put my life in pawn,—I will give it, if that is demanded.”
His deep eyes were profoundly fixed upon me. In that moment Beelo disclosed a soul that had found maturity.
“You would do all for your people!” he impatiently cried. “You think only of them! Lentala and Beelo may do everything for you, but you never think what you might do for—Lentala and Beelo.”
The half-revelation in the passionate outburst brought me to my feet, and the lad slowly came to his.
“Beelo!” I said, “I hadn’t thought it possible. You and she are the favorites of the king and queen. You have everything you want. I don’t understand. Trust me! I can be a friend.”
He was looking up at me with eyes in which a pathetic anxiety struggled with fears. Instead of addressing me, he turned to Christopher and confidently took his hand.
“Christopher,” he said, “do you like me—and Lentala?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Very much?”
Christopher solemnly nodded.
“If—if we want to go away with you and your people, would you take us?”
“Oh, yes!”
“And be kind to us?”
“Me?” He turned to me, and so did Beelo.
“Yes, Christopher.”
“He will,” was the answer.
Beelo, seized with one of his unexpected whirlwinds, threw his arms round Christopher, and laughed.
I turned him about, and, holding both his hands, looked smilingly into his brilliant eyes.
“Show me the way to serve you and your sister, Beelo,” I said. “I alone, or Christopher and I together, will obey any instructions from you; we will do whatever you say, go wherever you direct,—cut ourselves off from every protection except yours. Isn’t our trust complete?”
“Yes, Yoseph—Choseph,” he banteringly answered. Then, in a flash, “I mean Mr. Tudor.”
“Joseph—to you,” I returned.
He put his mouth through contortions over the F, and finally, with a restful gasp, blurted out:
“Choseph!”
His gentleness overwhelmed me, and I, being naturally affectionate, and timid only with women, forgot my feeling of constraint toward him, and caught him in my arms. But he did not have for me the pressure and the laughter that he had given Christopher. On the contrary, he resisted and then sprang away.
I wondered what thoughts were perplexing him as he stood off, regarding me in his odd little quizzical fashion, and was astounded when he said:
“Lentala says that Annabel is beautiful and lovely.” I could not imagine what had suggested Annabel to him at this particular moment, but I hastily agreed. He seemed not altogether pleased, but went on:
“You like her very much?”
“Yes; very much indeed.”
He looked a little sullen, but soon recovered, and broke out in a very rush of gay spirits. In a short time he suddenly became grave.
“I must go,” he said. With a gentle, pleading look at me, he asked: “Won’t you be a Senatra? Christopher will help you.”
“Yes, Beelo,—anything you wish.”
“Very well. I will come every day for—maybe three days, and teach Christopher. You will watch us. When you and Christopher are alone, he will teach you. But you must dress every time as a Senatra!”
“Of course.” My relief was great. For some incomprehensible reason I did not wish the boy to train me, for that would have necessitated a disagreeable loss of dignity before him.
“Good! And in three or four days,”—an oddly embarrassed expression rose in his face,—“would you like to go with me—you and dear old Christopher—to see—the beautiful—the kind—the true—Lentala?” He was mocking.
“Yes!” I answered, and made an effort to catch him; but he darted away, showering a cascade of laughter behind him.
So I was right in supposing that Beelo had been preparing us to penetrate the mysteries beyond the valley ramparts, and lift the veil behind which our fate was hidden.
“Christopher!” I cried in my joy, seizing him by the shoulder; “do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER V.—The Opening of a Pit.
Insolence and Rebellion in Camp. A Riot Averted. I Train for a Dangerous Rôle. Plotting Among Us for the Destruction of the Colony.
WHEN Christopher began my training and pursued it with such amazing thoroughness, my feeling of being ridiculous disappeared. My love of adventure in these preparations was mingled with other emotions,—the fascination of hazard, a ===wish to risk everything for the colony, and a strong desire to see Lentala and solve the mystery of her whole conduct. Beelo was a will-o’-the-wisp.
Complications arose in camp. Although I had taken care to exercise my authority in a bland way, it became necessary at times to be severe. My greatest difficulty was inability to find the source of a disaffection working insidiously among the young men. Captain Mason had not observed it, lacking my opportunity, and I decided to be more positive and to find evidence before laying the matter before him.
I was intimately thrown with the men by directing the work on the farm. The labor was exhausting on account of the heat. For this reason, and because some men could bear the work better than others, and liked it, I called out only volunteers; but selfishness on the part of some who shirked brought grumbling. At first I had supposed that this was the origin of the dissatisfaction, but presently a deeper cause appeared to be in operation. As a test, and to secure fairness, I adopted a system of levying on all the able-bodied men and requiring each to do his share in turn.
In that way I came down on Rawley, who had never volunteered. When I informed him one evening that his turn in the fields would come next day, he stared at me in insolent silence.
That incident alone was not significant, but it made me alert, and I instructed Christopher to keep a strict and secret watch on the camp. A present necessity was to force the issue with Rawley, whose bearing was a threat to the harmony and safety of the colony.
He had not taken the trouble to absent himself from the tables when I called out the tale of men for the fields next morning, but lounged at indolent unconcern. Annabel was not visible. Mr. Vancouver, sitting near Rawley, had a suspiciously waiting air.
The young man did not rise with the others and prepare to go, but merely stared at me. I went near and said in a low voice:
“These men will resent your refusal.”
“Are you threatening me?” he said under his breath.
“Give my remark whatever construction you please,” I answered.
He could not hide his anger and fear, for a glance showed him a disquieting expression in the faces of the forty men waiting. Mr. Vancouver looked surprised and irritated as he studied them. The men in whom rebellion was stirring were such as he had always directed and commanded,—artisans, mechanics, clerks, sturdy and spirited every one, and loving fair play.
“Save yourself further trouble,” Rawley drawled in an effort to be nonchalant. “I’ll go—if I feel like it, and when I’m ready.”
Although the men could not hear him, they understood, and a murmur arose. One of them angrily said: “He’s too good to work.”
Then came the outbreak.
“Put him under arrest! Duck him in the river! The snob!”
Annabel suddenly appeared. The men at once desisted, and she understood the situation at a glance. Her astonishment grew as her look of angry reproach at Rawley passed to her father and found him silent and pale, as though for the first time he had seen the spirit of the common American.
She came to me and said: “Don’t make trouble now. Be patient. You can find a way.”
I turned to the men.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “I must remind you that you have not been empowered by the colony to enforce its discipline. In this instance it is my task alone, and I propose to handle it as I think best, without your assistance, unless I call on you for it. Your attitude and remarks just now were rebellious, and, if allowed by those in authority, would disrupt us and place us at the mercy of savages. Leave this matter to me, and depend on me to see it properly adjusted. Mr. Vancouver needs Mr. Rawley today. Now to our work.” My speech affected the men in two quite different ways. Some, with a submissive glance at Mr. Vancouver who was watching me curiously, were instantly satisfied; others looked a little confused and rebellious, and were not cheerful in their obedience. They appeared a trifle uneasy, as though something might be afoot and they had not been informed. All of this sharpened my alertness.
After the day’s work I had doubts as to whether I should report the incident to Captain Mason, who had not been present. I felt that something of an underground nature was at work, and that Mr. Vancouver was its focus. I could make allowance for a man shattered by adversity, but I supposed that Mr. Vancouver might have gathered himself up during the weeks we had been held as prisoners.
It turned out that he had. When Christopher came to give me my drill in the forest near the camp that day he brought disturbing information. Mr. Vancouver and Rawley, in order to be alone, had gone into the forest after I left for the fields, and talked. All that Christopher could learn was that Mr. Vancouver was carrying on secret negotiations with the king, and that a messenger from the palace was expected at a certain place within the forest in an hour.
My lesson was short that day. I sent Christopher to Captain Mason to report what he had heard, and to say that I would take the place of the native in the interview, if possible, trusting to the completeness of my disguise as a Senatra. Christopher was to be near for an emergency.
Skirting the spot where Mr. Vancouver was to meet the native, I intercepted him. It sickened me to see the sly confidence with which he approached. Meanwhile, I was aware of the great danger of discovery by the genuine messenger, for I knew the trailing skill of the natives, even though I led Mr. Vancouver as far from the meeting-place as necessary. But Christopher, who had acquired the native slyness, would know how to handle any embarrassing situation.
The discovery of Mr. Vancouver’s seeming treachery had so disturbed me that I had some doubt of myself in the interview. The simple solution offered by strangling the man in the forest kept hammering at me with a dangerous persistency. We had taken it for granted that his interest in the colony was strong; no watch had been set on his liberty, which he had used in plotting.
I was measurably collected by the time we had seated ourselves on the ground. Being totally in the dark as to what had gone before, I was forced to extreme caution, and in addition was some danger of my betraying myself or of his discovering that I was not a native.
“Why didn’t the other man come?” he demanded in his old peremptory manner.
In confusion, not knowing what degree of proficiency in English to assume, I gave some answer in a lame speech, the inconsistency of which he might have detected had he been less absorbed.
“What is the king’s plan?” he asked.
“He wants to know yours first,” I answered.
I was prepared for his quick, half-suspicious look. “He knows what I want,” was the sharp return.
“The other native didn’t know. He couldn’t tell the king very well.”
“This is my plan,” went on Mr. Vancouver: “I make some good, strong men think that Captain Mason does nothing, but sits down and waits for us all to be killed. This is secret. A fellow named Hobart is my leader. The young men are ready to go with him out of the valley. The king will tell the guard to seize them and take them to the palace. That will get rid of the best fighters in the colony.”
“What will the young men think they go for?” I inquired.
“What difference does that make,” he testily demanded, “so long as they are out of the way?”
“The king must know.” I was solid and firm.
“I’ll make them think they can pass the guard; then they’ll find a way for the colony to escape, and will come back and tell me.”
“But they are not to come back.”
Mr. Vancouver was silent, and his impatience grew. “You will send them into a trap?” I persisted. Again his suspicious scrutiny. “Does the king want them to come back?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But he wants your plan.”
“If they don’t come back,” Mr. Vancouver explained, “Captain Mason will be blamed for not knowing they were to go. Then his power will be gone. The colony will break up.”
The ghastly perfection of the scheme overcame me for a moment, but I must learn what benefits Mr. Vancouver expected from this wholesale sacrifice.
“What do you want of the king?”
“I and my daughter and a young man named Rawley are to be taken care of, and——”
“You mean not killed?”
He writhed and reddened under the question, and under my sullen insistence.
Instead of answering, he hurried on: “I will show the king how to work the gold, silver, copper, diamond, and other mines, and how to make much money out of them. I will make treaties with other countries, and build forts, and make him a strong army. All this has to be done sooner or later, or the island will be taken.”
“What is to be done with the other white people?” I demanded.
“The king knows.”
“If I can’t tell him he’ll send me back.”
After a struggle with his anger, Mr. Vancouver said, “The king knows what he has done with other castaways.”
“What do you think he has done with them?”
He started at me in a struggle with his patience, and said nothing.
“Do you think they were sent away?” I returned.
His fury broke. “No!” he exclaimed, and then suddenly checked himself.
“Then you think they are here yet?” I drove in.
He rose in a passion. “Tell the king to send me a man who isn’t a fool!” he stormed.
“I will tell him,” I quietly said, rising and starting away; but he halted me.
“Why do you ask those questions?” he said more composedly.
“The king told me to. He wants to know if he can trust you. If you want these people sent away,——”
“I don’t! That would ruin everything. They’d send armies and war-ships, and——”
“Then, kept here—alive?”
“Certainly not! They’d kill me.”
I had known this to be the answer that I would wring from him; still the renewed impulse to strangle him was almost overpowering.
“I will tell the king,” I duly said, and was turning away, when another idea came. “Maybe he will first send for a man from your people. Which one do you want to go before the young men?”
“Tudor, Captain Mason’s assistant,” he answered with a vicious promptness. “Then, as soon as the young men are gone, I and my daughter and Rawley will go, and I will talk and plan with the king while the soldiers do their work here.”
The humor that I found in the turn, personal to me, which the situation had taken, lightened my spirit, and I thought of something else.
“Did the king send you any word about Lentala, his fan-bearer?”
“I talked with the man about her. I knew there was some mystery about her and that she was close to the king. I asked that she be sent to make the plans with me.”
His halt whetted my anxiety. “What did he say?”
“That she must know nothing about it, or she would break the plot.”
My heart choked me with its bounding. I had gained more than I had lost, but my heart was sore for Annabel.
“I must go,” I said. “Next time I come I will go to your hut in the night. Don’t come into these woods again. The soldiers——”
He understood, and looked relieved. After he had disappeared I sat down in a daze, trying to reason out the tangle. Rawley was in the plot, but Annabel was innocent.
A sound made me raise my head, and I saw Christopher and Captain Mason standing before me. Christopher’s face wore its customary vacancy, but Captain Mason’s had a startled look, as though he had beheld what is not good for a man to see. It appeared to have shriveled him.
“Before Christopher summoned me,” he dully said without any preliminary, “he found the native and sent him away. We have heard every word that passed between you and Mr. Vancouver.”
CHAPTER VI.—Witcheries in Hand.
A Dangerous Mood. Annabel’s Tangled Situation. Heroism in Humble Duties. The Miracle Worked by Gentleness. Traitors Are Threatened.
NOT a word was spoken after I had dressed and we were returning to camp, but Captain Mason’s walk lacked its usual firmness. What would he do? There is no accounting for the rashness of a man made suddenly desperate, and I remembered the temptation to strangle that had assailed me. Clearly, for the present, Christopher and I must not leave him alone for a moment. My imagination constructed this scene: Captain Mason, assembling the colony, telling them briefly that a man among them had been caught in the act of plotting to destroy us, turning upon Mr. Vancouver and pointing him out as the criminal, ordering me to tell off a squad and hang the knave in the presence of the crowd; and Annabel——Could Christopher and I stay the flood now while the dam was straining? I feared not; a finer hand was needed.
We went to our hut. Captain Mason seated himself on a stool. Christopher gave him some water, which was eagerly drunk. With a significant look at Christopher, I left the hut.
There was a good excuse for bringing Annabel now; I had promised Beelo that he should see her. It was necessary to secure Captain Mason’s assent, and I had no doubt that he would agree with me that a friendship between her and Lentala might go farther toward solving our problems than all our masculine wit and fighting ability.
I reflected on the extraordinary complications in which Annabel would be involved, and the softening pressure which she would assist in bringing upon Captain Mason. There was no immediate danger from Mr. Vancouver. He lay snugly in the hollow of my hand.
Annabel was busy about the camp.
“Where is Christopher?” she cheerily asked. “It is time for him to make the fire for supper.”
“Captain Mason has him,” I answered. “Won’t you come with me and call on our president?”
“I?” in surprise.
“Yes.”
A flush mottled her cheeks, but she hesitated only a moment.
“Father won’t care, I know,” she said, and started with me.
She was bareheaded, and the witcheries of the twilight drifted over her. In the distance sang the deep monotone of the waterfall. Drowsy twitterings announced that the busy little people of the trees were content after their day’s work. From the edges of the stream rose comfortable whispers between the water and the reeds. The lightly moving air swung odorous censers in the trees, and every flower poured out as perfume the sunshine which had filled its chalice. It was good to be thus again side by side with Annabel.
I explained tomorrow’s plan for her meeting with Beelo, and impressed upon her the importance of keeping it secret. She showed the glee of a quiet child in her acquiescence, but she must have wondered why her father was not to know.
“An adventure!” she exclaimed. “And mystery! It is delightful. Do you men with so much freedom know how depressing it is to be cooped up in this camp?”
I had not thought of it, and was surprised. Annabel had always been cheerful, and I had not observed the other women.
“Isn’t it life,” I asked, “for men to work and women to wait, for men to dare and women to endure?”
“Yes,” she answered, looking up at me with a smile, “but isn’t it a remnant of savagery?”
“Perhaps,” I returned. “Yet Lentala, the savage, appears in her independence to have solved some latter-day feminine problems. I hope you will meet her soon. Then you and she can formulate a code for your sex. We are going to see Captain Mason in order to secure his consent to your meeting her brother. So you must exercise your subtlest graces on our president.”
“I—I’m afraid of him,” she declared in some trepidation.
“Why?”
“Because he is stern and silent and cold and——”
“That is all on the surface. His sea-training has given it to him. Underneath he has a woman’s gentleness and kindness. Trust him. Look for the best in him and ignore the rest. Just now he is worried and needs all the sunshine that you know so well how to give.”
She smiled her thanks, but there was concern in her question:
“Worried! Has anything special happened?”
“Was anything special needed? His responsibilities are great.”
Annabel was silent,—not daring, I know, to ask more questions. She had unfolded to my comprehension what the women of our party had been suffering patiently and silently during the dreary weeks that they had been held in prison. Annabel must have borne more than any other; yet she had held up her heart and her head. Dread must have sat on her pillow through many a long hour of the night, but her soul walked forth with the sunrise.
Christopher was sitting on a bench outside the hut.
“Christopher!” she cried, “the fire isn’t made yet;” but there was no chiding in her rosy smile.
“No, ma’am,” he answered, rising, but standing still.
“Go and make it now, please,” she said.
“All well, Christopher?” I asked, low.
His slow nod held a doubt. There was always in Christopher’s manner a suggestion that speech was largely a silly indulgence, and that animals other than human beings made themselves intelligible without it.
He fetched a delicious drink which he had made from wild fruit, and served Annabel with quite an air. Her voice carried music in its thanks.
Annabel bubbled with raillery and chatter. Presently my anxious ear heard a stir within. I knew that the man nursing his hurt in the dusk was aware of the invasion, and that he understood and resented my ruse in bringing Annabel to disarm him.
“Christopher,” she said, handing him the calabash from which she had drunk, “please go and make the fire and start the supper. After that, find father; ask him to come here for me.”
Christopher mutely interrogated me, and I nodded. He shambled away.
“Come out and join us, Captain Mason!” I called.
It left him no choice. The darkness kindly falling veiled the grayness of his face. A touch of decrepitude lay on him as he stepped without and greeted Annabel with a stiff and stately courtesy, for he was shy with women of the higher world. The unsteadiness in his manner surprised Annabel, whose sympathies were keen and quick. I had prepared her, and, shocked though she evidently was, she met the situation bravely.
After some general talk, which was directed by me to show Annabel’s suffering, her courage and helpfulness, I saw that Captain Mason was softened. I then placed before him the plan concerning Annabel and Beelo. It took the breath out of his body, and he peered at me in amazement through the gloom. The perfect assurance with which I asked for his concurrence, a hint that her discretion might be trusted, and a casual remark that Christopher approved the idea, had effect. Annabel impulsively rose, seized both his hands, and pleaded:
“Please let me go, Captain Mason. Who knows what good may not come of it?”
I don’t think she noticed the catch in his throat. It was the final breaking up of the ice.
“Yes, you may go. But you’ll do nothing except as Mr. Tudor approves?”
“Nothing whatever, Captain Mason. Thank you.”
She released his hands and turned a beaming face to me. Pity for her welled within me. That she and her father, between whom there was so strong an attachment, should thus secretly proceed in opposite directions, each deceiving the other, was a terrible thing. No human perception could foresee the outcome, and, it gave me an uneasiness that she must have dimly seen.
“You don’t look glad!” she said in astonishment.
“I am too happy for mere gladness, my friend,” I replied; “and may all the good angels help you—and shield you!”
She heard the note of solemnity, and turned to Captain Mason.
“Is our situation so serious?” she asked him, a slight quaver in her voice.
“Life can have no serious dangers for so brave a heart as yours,” he answered.
Mr. Vancouver came up. I could feel a tigerish stealth in him. All danger from an immediate clash between him and Captain Mason had been banished by Annabel, but I knew that the future held dangers. I was glad that she and I had become partners in the secrets and exactions of defense. With such an ally as Christopher, and such a director as Captain Mason, we would give an account of ourselves.
The captain hardened when Mr. Vancouver came. That gentleman playfully scolded Annabel for running away, and was somewhat too affable toward the silent, unresponsive sailor. Soon he tucked Annabel’s hand under his arm and was leaving.
“Just a word, Mr. Vancouver,” said Captain Mason in a tone that stopped my breathing.
“Well?”
“I unintentionally witnessed a scene this morning that I didn’t like. I wish you to hear the order that I’ll give Mr. Tudor.” His voice was ominously quiet.
“Mr. Tudor,” he resumed, “order Rawley to fall in with the field squad tomorrow. If he shows the slightest hesitation, clap him in irons and send for me. There’s a rope for the neck of any man who undermines the discipline of this colony.”
Annabel started, and reeled where she stood. Her father’s nostrils were spreading with a sneering smile; but, seeing her state, he seized her arm, steadied her with a word, and in silence led her away.