"Opara," said Joshua, with sparkling eyes, "my brothers are near."
"It is well," was Opara's simple reply. "Opara will have performed his promise. When his daughter returns to her tribe, she will thank Opara."
But by this time Nullaboin's plans were matured; and that night, when Joshua wandered into the woods, his heart filled with grateful feelings towards the faithful savages, he was followed stealthily by Nullaboin, and a half-a-dozen braves who had joined in his plot.
"At last!" thought Joshua, visions of happiness to come floating before his eyes-"at last! Perhaps to-morrow I shall see the faces of my countrymen, and then, and then" – But he could not think clearly; for as the images of those dearest to him came before him, the false face of Solomon Fewster seemed to cast a shadow upon his happiness. He leaned against a silver-leaved gum-tree, and tried to calm himself, and in a little while succeeded. Ellen was true to him, he was sure. And Dan? "Is he training his birds still?" he thought "How has he borne his great grief?" He saw before him the dear old kitchen in Stepney, exactly as he had seen it last; every chair and every piece of crockery was in its exact place. Every detail of those last few minutes at home presented itself clearly to him: his yearning look at the old familiar room; his walking up the stairs to the street-door with his face hidden in his mother's neck, and she caressing him, as she had done when he was a little child. Almost unconsciously he had taken out his accordion, and his fingers were wandering over the keys, playing softly those airs most in consonance with his thoughts. He even murmured the words of "Tom Bowling:"
"Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew."
"Dear Old Sailor! How glad I shall be to see his honest face!" And he saw the Old Sailor take a wedding-ring out of a piece of silver-paper, with a triumphant expression upon his face, as he had done in that memorable interview in Gravesend, when-whiz! Good God! what was this? The sky seemed to come down upon the earth, and he sank through it-down! down! -
Nullaboin, snatching the accordion from the falling man, hugged it to his naked breast, and glided swiftly away, followed by his confederates. They must have traversed full four miles before they paused, and then they looked cautiously around, to assure themselves that they were alone. The old wizard had kept the instrument tightly pressed to his bosom during the flight, so that no sound had proceeded from it; but now, when they paused, his grasp relaxed. His hand was on the keys: and and as the accordion gradually distended itself, a slow wail issued from it, which so terrified him that he let it fall to the ground, so that the weak and plaintive sound was followed by a harsh and sudden jangle of all the notes. Appalled at this angry cry, which was to them full of fearful meaning, the younger savages, with palpitating hearts and dismayed faces, flew from the spot, and left Nullaboin alone with the terrible prize. He stood like a statue for many minutes, although the thick beads of perspiration were rolling down his face and beard, and then cautiously approached the prostrate mystery. Encouraged by its silence, he stooped over it, and, after his savage fashion, entreated it to speak to him. No answer came. What should he do? A sudden light came into his eyes. Minnie's spirit was imprisoned there, and she was angry. He would release her. He lifted the accordion gently from the ground, and timidly pressed his finger upon one of the higher keys. The response was gentle, almost piteous; it was an appeal to him.
"O Star of the tribe!" he whispered, "Nullaboin will set you free. Make him great!"
He took a small green-stone mogo (hatchet) from his girdle, and carefully cut a long hole in the cloth. He held his hand over it to grasp the spirit; but he saw nothing, heard nothing. He waited; nothing came. He took it in his hand, and waved it up and down; no sound issued from it. The spirit had fled, and the old wizard was left despairing.
Joshua felt no pain. A delicious sense of rest was upon him. Of all the memories that came to him in his dreams, the happy holiday he had spent with Dan and Ellen on the Old Sailor's barge was the most vivid. He lived once more through the whole of that happy day-stood in Dan's room in his holiday clothes, with food for the birds which were to be presented to the Old Sailor-went down to breakfast, and saw Ellen's yearning look as they talked of the coming pleasures of the day-saw her run out of the room and run in again, almost mad with delight because Susan had obtained permission for her to accompany the lads-rode in the creaking cart through dingy Whitechapel-saw Dan swinging in the hammock and gazing at him affectionately while he was rowing-heard every word of the Old Sailor's sea-stories over again-sat on the deck in the twilight in a state of delicious happiness by Ellen's side, and went down into the saloon, and heard the Old Sailor sing, and then Ellen, her favorite song of "Bread-and-cheese and Kisses." After that a darkness came upon him, and he opened his eyes, and saw the stars shining in the heavens; but they were shut out immediately afterwards, and he was standing on the deck of the "Merry Andrew" the night the ship struck on the rocks; holding Minnie in his arms; the dead faces of his shipmates crowded upon him, rising from the cruel sea with the exact expression upon their features that they wore when he last saw them; then came his encounter with the Lascar in the woods; and that memory brought to him the face of Solomon Fewster, which lingered long; but it faded in its turn, and gave way to other fancies, the most enduring of which was the river near which Minnie was buried, and the refrain of her words, "So restless there, so quiet here!" dwelt in his mind through the long night.
When he awoke it was daylight. He struggled to his feet, but could scarcely stand for weakness. He had been struck by a boomerang on the temple, and had lost a great deal of blood. He was so weak and bewildered that, even now that he was awake the past incidents of his life were strangely mingled in his mind. It was not until after long mental pondering and sifting of incidents that the true knowledge of his position and of what had occurred to him dawned upon his senses. He looked round for his accordion; it was gone. Then he thought, "Opara has betrayed me at the last moment. They have stolen my accordion, and they have left me here for dead. But they may return at any moment to strip me of what I have about me." Weak and faint as he was he crawled cautiously towards the most thickly-wooded part of the forest, and there concealed himself. "What now?" he thought. "Must I wait for death?" For indeed he was too weak to walk. His heart almost fainted within him.
"Now, when I was so near to deliverance," he groaned aloud, shedding bitter tears, "to be thus dashed back to misery!" But even as he uttered the words, he heard the crack of a stockman's whip. Crack! It rang through the woods and through his heart. Not the mockery of a whip-bird this time! No, no; it was too near; and it was followed by the sound of horses' hoofs and by the sound of English voices. Thank God! thank God!
CHAPTER XLII
FAITHFUL HEARTS
On a pleasant summer evening Dan and Ellen and George Marvel were sitting in the shade of the veranda which surrounded three sides of their house. The house was built of wood, and was all on one floor, and there was a garden in the front and in the rear. George Marvel was smoking his pipe as usual, and having by this time got used to the short clays, which were the only ones he could now obtain, had just declared that he enjoyed a short pipe as well as a long one; "though I couldn't stomach them at first, Dan, as you know." Dan nodded in acquiescence; he had no time to reply; for at that moment a great shouting was heard, and the mail-cart was seen driving round the corner towards them. The arrival of the mail-cart in the village was an event of the utmost importance, and was always greeted with cheers by the excited population. There was a mail-service once a fortnight, and sometimes it would be a day or two behind, which was most serviceable to the inhabitants of the village, as giving them something to be anxious about and to talk about. The driver (who was contractor for the mail, owner of the mail-cart, and driver of it, all in one) had one invariable excuse when he was late; he had been waiting for the birds. Now, when Dan first heard this, he, without knowing its meaning, felt instantly attracted to the driver of the mail, whose name was Ramsay; and when he had an explanation from the lips of a neighbor to whom Ramsay had given a lift (he was always giving kindly "lifts" to one and another), Dan was disposed to be affectionately familiar with him. This feeling being reciprocated by Ramsay, an intimacy sprung up between them, the consequence of which was, that Ramsay, after delivering his mails to the postmaster (a rheumatic old woman, deaf, and almost blind), came as regularly as a clock to have a smoke and a chat with Dan and the Marvels. A curious character was Ramsay; a man who had seen better days-who had, indeed, once been very wealthy-who had been plundered and deceived from his youth upwards-and who yet retained a kindliness to every living thing with which he came in contact. Thus, his waiting for the birds: it was whimsical, pretty childish, some said; consisting in stopping whichever of his two steady old mares he was driving, immediately he saw a bird on the bush track before him. "Get out of my way, little bird," he would say in a singularly gentle voice, and he would give his whip a flick at the back of his cart, which had not the slightest effect in disturbing the little creature that blocked the road. But Ramsay could no more drive past it than he could drive through a wire fence; and he often found it necessary to descend from his cart, and walk softly towards the bird, which, having probably by that time finished its pecking, would jerk up its cunning head towards the intruder, and leisurely take flight to the nearest tree, where it would watch the lazy old mare trotting along and would receive perhaps a comical "Good-morning, little bird!" from the gentle-hearted mail-contractor.
When Ramsay had delivered his mail to the rheumatic old female postmaster, he would look over the letters and newspapers (five minutes was long enough to sort the lot of them) to see whether there was any thing for Dan and Mr. Marvel. On this evening there was a newspaper; and Ramsay, taking possession of it, walked leisurely to the house of his friends. Ellen's child, Maggie, saw him, and ran to him for a jump in the air, and he stopped to indulge her until he was out of breath, when he was glad to deliver her into her mother's charge, shaking his head laughingly in answer to her cries for "more!"
"Hi, Mrs. Wattles!" he shouted to a woman who was passing. "There's a letter for you at the post-office." Which sent Mrs. Wattles off, in eager haste, to receive her missive.
"You're a day late," said Dan, as Ramsay opened the gate.
"Waiting for the birds, Dan; couldn't get along for the creatures. Here's a newspaper for you."
The newspaper had an English postage-stamp upon it, and there was something marked inside.
"It's from the Old Sailor!" cried Dan, and pressed it to his lips and so did Ellen, and all those simple foolish people, in turns, one after another. The paragraph that was marked related how a ship, with all hands, was reported lost ten years ago, and there was nothing more heard of her until a week before the newspaper was printed, when into the London Docks came a vessel from China, which had been driven out of her course, luckily, and had in consequence picked up six men off an island, who had been living there for many years; and how that these men belonged to the crew who were supposed to have gone to the bottom ten years before. You may imagine that they read this paragraph half a dozen times at the least, having Joshua in their minds all the time, and that Ellen and Mrs. Marvel disappeared for a few minutes to have a cry together. While they were away, the men sat silent and grave, Dan reading the newspaper, and George Marvel and Ramsay smoking their pipes.
Now, once in every month-that is, by every other mail-Ramsay had to deliver a mail-bag at a cattle-station known as Bull's Run. The station was between forty and fifty miles distant from the village, and Ramsay took two days for the journey, out of a merciful regard for his old mare. As he had to start for Bull's Run early in the morning, he did not stay late with his friends, but bade them goodnight at about nine o'clock. When he was gone, the Old Sailor became the subject of conversation, and every circumstance of their intimacy was recalled and dwelt upon with loving affection. Every night they sat together-Susan as well, although she never joined in the conversation-talking of one thing and another. Time had softened their grief, but it had not made them less constant; their hearts beat as fondly and devotedly for Joshua as ever they had done.
Susan and Mr. and Mrs. Marvel had gone to bed; Ellen and Dan were alone. Between these two an undefinable sympathy existed; they could almost read each other's thoughts; and this night Ellen lingered when the others had retired to rest, because she had read in Dan's face the signs of something more than usually important in his mind. For a long time they were silent; the stillness of every thing around impressed them deeply. The nature of their thoughts and the stillness of the night, in which there was something solemn, brought to both of them the memory of another night, years ago, when they had sat alone as they were sitting now, with Basil Kindred's unopened diary before them.
"Ellen," said Dan, playing with her fingers thoughtfully, "I have dreamed of Jo lately more often than usual, and to-night my thoughts dwell upon him so strongly that I shall not go to bed for a while."
"I will sit up with you, my dear."
The windows in the room were folding windows, and reached to the ground. Ellen opened them; and she and Dan were presently sitting beneath the veranda, he upon a chair, she upon the ground, with her head resting in his lap.
"Do you remember that Christmas night, Ellen, when Jo came home?"
"Yes, Dan."
"And the strange impression I had upon me that Jo was near us, although I had no actual knowledge of it?"
"Yes."
"I can see the street as we saw it then, Ellen, with its covering of snow, and that cruel black gash in it which the only man who passed tore with his feet. It was like an ill-omen. You see nothing to disturb the beauty of the scene, Ellen?"
"No; but why do you ask, my dear?"
"Because I have upon me to-night the same feeling that I had then; because notwithstanding that it is almost madness to say it and believe it, I believe that Jo is near us."
"Dan!"
"To no one else but you would I say this, my dear. Long dwelling upon one subject fills the mind with singular thought concerning it, and it may be that this feeling that is upon me now is but the creation of the wildest fancy. Yet there are strange influences within us and around us for which we cannot account, and which affect us in mysterious ways. When I first knew that it was Jo's wish to be a sailor, and that we should be parted, I tried with all my mind and soul-it may be that it was a foolish, childish fancy, Ellen, but I had it-to create such a heart sympathy between us that we could never be parted in spirit. I had some wild ideas then of being able to dream of what he was doing and seeing when he was thousands of miles away from our little room in Stepney. Of course they came to nothing; but it would be strange indeed, if this earnest striving of mine had not produced some feeling within me which time only can test. You remember what poor Minnie's father used to say: 'There are more things in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy.'"
So they sat together talking and musing, and it was past midnight before they retired to rest.
Early in the morning, the whimsical mail-contractor was jogging along towards Bull's Run; he had to stop so many times for the little birds in the road, that his progress was slow; but he had reckoned upon these impediments, and he arrived at the station not more than a couple of hours after the usual time. That was the end of his journey; the following day he had to make his way back to Dan's village. The residence of the owner of Bull's-Run station was built of slabs split from the bloodwood-tree; the roof was of shingle; and the interior of the house was lined with rich dark-red cedar, which gave it quite a cosey, comfortable appearance. The workmen's huts were built of palm-tree slabs, and the roofs were thatched with strong sword-grass, which grew in great profusion on the banks of a river within a few miles of the homestead. Ramsay was always welcomed at Bull's Run; the men and women on the station-for, primitive as it was, there were women and children living on it-used to cluster round him and ask him for news from the villages through which he passed, and the smallest items were received with thankfulness, and eagerly listened to. On this occasion, Ramsay had but little news to tell, and his budget was soon exhausted. In return, they told him theirs: one of the bulls had torn a man's arm open; a child had been lost for a whole night, and all the men were out searching for it miles away, and it was found the next morning within half a mile of the hut; three bushrangers, splendidly mounted, passed the station last week at full gallop; one of the shepherds had come in with a cock-and-a-bull story of gold being found somewhere or other; another shepherd had gone mad; Yellow-hammer Jack and his wife had had a row; and-but Oh! this was the best bit of the lot! – a man had been brought in by two stockmen who were looking for lost cattle, and had found him instead; he was almost dead, and had been living a long time with the Blacks. He seemed a decent kind of fellow, had been a sailor, he said, but was strangely silent about himself-for good reasons, some of the ill-natured ones said. Any ways, the man was better, although still very weak, and intended to start the next morning for Sydney; nothing would stop him.
"A long tramp for a weak man," said kind-hearted Ramsay; "if he's a decent fellow, I'll give him a lift."
As he said this, there came towards the group, walking very slowly, a strange-looking man, with a beard down to his breast, dressed in skins and furs; he had a stick in his hand, and seemed to require its support. They pointed to him, and said that was the man. Ramsay looked at him keenly, and the air of melancholy that rested in the man's eyes impressed the mail-contractor with a feeling of pity.
"A sailor, eh?" he thought; "and living with the savages. Wonder what he lived with them for?" Then he thought of Dan's and Ellen's anxiety concerning strange sailors and castaways, and that perhaps they would be glad to see this man. He said nothing, however, but was up the next morning early, and saw the man start on his road with slow and painful steps. A few minutes afterwards the old mare was harnessed, and its tail was turned to Bull's Run. Soon he came up to the man, and as he did so, two purple-breasted robins pecking at a bit of honeysuckle barred his progress. "Get out of my way, little birds," said the mail-driver, pulling up his mare; and he gave a soft flick with his whip in a direction where the robins were not. The words reached the man's ears, and he turned his head in surprise, and saw the little comedy. A gentle, sweet smile rested on his lips, and he looked at the mail-driver almost gratefully. Ramsay smiled in return, and again bade the little robins get out of his way; and presently they took flight, each with a tiny piece of the sweet flower in its beak. Then the old mare jogged lazily along, and the strange-looking man gazed wistfully after the cart. Ramsay, looking back, saw the wistful expression, and stopped at once. "Hi, mate!"
Joshua came slowly forward.
"Where you bound for?"
"Sydney."
"Going to walk all the way?"
"If I can," sighed Joshua; and could not help adding, "and if I don't die on the road!"
"Jump up, mate; I can give you a lift for forty miles."
"I have no money," and Joshua turned away, with a sob.
"I don't want your money; I want your company. But how were you going to live, if you've no money?"
"I should trust to the Providence that has so wonderfully delivered me," thought Joshua, but made no reply aloud; though it could be seen in his eyes, which were filled with tears.
"Jump in," said Ramsay, imperatively and kindly, "without another word."
And without another word Joshua climbed into the cart.
"I dare say now," said Ramsay in the course of conversation, as the old mare trotted steadily on the road, "that you wonder what made me so anxious for your company. Well, I'll tell you. In the village where I shall put up to-morrow afternoon, and which is forty odd miles on the road to Sydney, live some people I'm very fond of, who had a sailor friend that they've not heard of for a long while."
"Ah!" sighed Joshua; "I know, what their feeling must be. Did they love him?"
"Love him! Well, you shall see for yourself; if, in return for the lift I am giving you, you won't mind talking to them a bit."
"I shall be glad to; it may remind me of my own friends."
"Where are your friends? – Now, Dozy!" this to the old mare, who had stopped suddenly short; "what d'ye stop for? The sense of the creature!" he added proudly, pointing, to a bird some yards in front of them. "Get out of my way, little bird!"
"When I first heard you say that," said Joshua, "I was sure you had a kind heart."
"Fond of birds yourself, mate?"
"Very, very fond. The tenderest remembrances of my life are connected with them."
Ramsay cast a sharp glance at the half-savage.
"Been long among the Blacks, mate? or isn't the story true?"
"It's true enough. Long among them? Ay-years, but I don't know how long."
Joshua, indeed, had lost count of time.
"From choice?"
"No; but I've told my story to no one yet. It would scarcely be believed. But tell me about your friends and the sailor."
"There's a mother there, that lost a son when she lost her sailor" – Joshua pressed his fingers to his face, and sobbed convulsively at the thought of his own dear mother, who had lost a son when she lost her sailor; and the mail-driver felt a choking in his throat, and had to wait a few moments before he could proceed. "And a father that lost a son at the same time. And a wife that lost a husband. And a friend that lost a friend. And a little child that can hardly be said to have lost a father, for she never saw her father's face."
"Merciful God!"
"What's the matter, mate?"
For Joshua was trembling-like a child; and great sobs came from his chest-like a man.
"You remind me-you remind me," sobbed Joshua. "Don't think me unmanly, don't think me mad. I have been sorely, sorely tried!"
Whereat Ramsay stopped the mare, and got out of the cart, and went into the bush to look for birds. He must have had a great difficulty in finding them, he was away so long; and the old mare stood perfectly still and contented the while, twitching her tail to knock off the flies, which was the only spirited action she was ever known to be guilty of. When they were jogging along again, they did not speak a word for a full hour, and then it was Joshua who spoke first, taking up the thread where it had been dropped.
"The child who has never seen her father-a girl then?"
"Yes, mate."
"How was it that she had never seen him?"
"Married her mother; went away to sea, and never heard of since."
"How old is the child?"
"Five years, I should say."
"If you knew," said Joshua in a slow trembling voice, "what a chord you have touched in my heart, you would pity me. Forgive me for my strange manner, and answer me. The mother who has lost a son; describe her."
"An angel. I'm not good at picking faces to pieces; but when I look at her, she reminds me of my own mother, dead and gone this many a year. Never thinks of herself; always putting herself out for other people-bless her old face! And yet she's not so old, although her hair is nearly white-that's from grief."
"The father who lost a son?"
"A fine fellow; a little self-willed and obstinate; a wood-turner."
A long, long silence. The mail-driver did not break it, nor did he intrude upon his companion's thoughts. "Twit-twit-twit!" came from the throats of some diamond sparrows, which were flitting among the gum-tree branches and a flock of scarlet lowry parrots floated through the bush that lined the road on either side, their wonderfully-gorgeous plumage lighting up the dark trees with brilliant light.
"The wife that lost a husband, and the friend that lost a friend?"
"Treasures both; brother and sister."
"One other question-where do they come from?"
"London. I don't know what part."
A mist floated before Joshua's eyes, and he remained like one in a dream during the afternoon-wondering, hoping, fearing. When they were near to the village the following afternoon, Joshua said, -
"It may be that you have rendered me one of the greatest services that a man can possibly render another. If it be as I scarcely dare to hope, we shall know each other for long after this. Complete the service by doing one little thing more. Drive past the house where your friends live and point it out to me, so that I may descend and walk to it alone when we are at the end of your journey."
Ramsay nodded. It was about five o'clock when the mail-cart rattled into the village. The contractor for the mails always made a great clatter when he came in, as if he had been driving for his life-a fiction which, although no one believed in, he thought it desirable to keep up. "It looks government-like," he said.
Solomon Fewster is in the garden at the rear of the house, pleading his suit to Ellen for the twentieth time. She stands silent until he has finished a rhapsody, in which love and money are strangely commingled.
"Think of the time I have waited, Ellen," he says; "think of the constancy of my affection, and of the position I can offer you. I am making money fast, and only wait for you to say yes, to buy a house for us, which in three years will be worth three times what they ask for it. What is the use of your wasting your life in this out-of-the-way village when all the attractions of a city-life are open to you? Come now, give me your hand, and reward the man who has been your constant friend and lover, and who can make you rich."
But Ellen is insensible to the splendor of the offer; indeed, she is weary of it and him, and she tells him so spiritedly, and yet cannot repulse him. At length she says, -
"Mr. Fewster, there must be an end to this. I shall never, never marry again; and even if I did," she adds, to put a stop to what has become persecution, "I should not choose you;" and leaves him with this arrow in his heart.
He stands amazed. Not choose him! Why, a thousand girls would jump at him. Not here perhaps, for womankind was a scarce commodity; but at home, or anywhere where girls were more plentiful. Not choose him! He follows her into the house, wounded and mortified, and into Dan's room, where Mr. Marvel and Dan are at work. Mr. Marvel has all his tools, and does a great deal of wood-turning-having, indeed, more than he can do-and is putting by money. He scarcely looks up as Solomon Fewster walks in, somewhat defiantly; and as no one speaks to him, an awkward silence ensues upon his entrance; broken by Mr. Marvel, who, noticing Ellen's flushed face, observes, -
"Been teasing Ellen again, Mr. Fewster?"
"Teasing her, indeed!" exclaims Solomon Fewster loftily; "honoring her, I should say."
The flush upon Ellen's face deepens at this, and she casts such a look of aversion at Mr. Fewster that all the blood rushes into his face, and he says some injudicious words about ingratitude, and about what one might expect if one condescended to lower himself as he had done.
Upon this George Marvel starts to his feet in a great heat, and exclaims, -
"What do you mean by ingratitude, and by lowering yourself, Mr. Fewster? What gratitude do we owe you?"
"Ask Dan," says Mr. Fewster, – "ask Dan who it was bought his birds to keep you when you were starving, and when no one else would look upon you. But it serves me right for noticing you and helping you, instead of treating you as all your neighbors did. I ought to have known what return I might expect."
"And I dare say you got your return," says George Marvel, "when you sold Dan's birds at a good profit. As for Dan selling his birds to keep us from starving, that was no business of yours, so long as you got value for your money. That is a matter between Dan and me; and Dan's satisfied with the way that account stands, or I'm mistaken in him." Dan presses George Marvel's hand. "Thank you, Dan. Now, as to lowering yourself, Mr. Fewster. Do you mean to tell me that you would be lowering yourself if Ellen here was free to marry you, and would accept you? You mean-spirited dog! I'm a good deal older than you are; but if you were not in my house, I would thrash you for speaking as you have done, as I've thrashed others in Stepney when they let loose their lying tongues at us. Get out of the place, and never set foot in it again!" Attracted by the loud voices, Susan and Mrs. Marvel, with Ellen's child, have come into the room; and Mrs. Marvel now goes to her husband's side and lays her hand upon his arm. "Nay, Maggie-let be; I'm not going to hurt him; I wouldn't lay a finger upon him here; and I don't want to anywhere else; only, don't let him cross me if he says a word against us out of this house. – Dan!" he cries, "do you want to see Mr. Fewster here again?"