Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (the University of California)











Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scan source: Google Books
      https://books.google.com/books?id=yZ4pAQAAIAAJ
      (the University of California)
   2. [=e] indicates a macron over "e"





JOSHUA MARVEL.


BY

B. L. FARJEON,

AUTHOR OF "GRIF."



NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1872.






JOSHUA MARVEL.




CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING CERTAIN FAMILY CONVERSATIONS AND THEIR RESULT.


In the parish of Stepney, in the county of Middlesex, there lived,
amidst the hundreds of thousands of human bees who throng that
overcrowded locality, a family composed of four persons--mother,
father, and two children, boy and girl--who owned the surprising name
of Marvel. They had lived in their hive for goodness knows how many
years. The father's father had lived there and died there; the father
had been married from there; and the children had been born there. The
bees in the locality, who elbowed each other and trod upon each
other's toes, were poor and common bees, and did not make much honey.
Some of them made just enough to live upon; and a good many of them,
now and then, ran a little short. The consequence was, that they could
not store any honey for a rainy day, and were compelled to labor and
toil right through the year, in cold weather and in warm weather, in
sunshine and in rain. In which respect they were worse off than other
bees we know of that work in the summer and make themselves cosey in
the winter.

The bees in the neighborhood being common and poor, it was natural
that the neighborhood itself should partake of the character of its
inhabitants. But, common and poor as it was, it was not too common nor
too poor for love to dwell in it. Love did reside there; not only in
the hive of the Marvels, but in hundreds of other hives, tenanted by
the humblest of humble bees.

George Marvel had married for love; and, lest the reader should
suppose that the contract was one-sided, it may be as well to mention
that George Marvel's wife had also married for love. They fell in love
in the way, and they married in the usual way; and, happy and
satisfied with each other, they did not mar their enjoyment of the
then present by thinking of the sharp stones which, from the very
circumstances of their position, were pretty sure to dot the road of
their future lives. There are many such simple couples in the world
who believe that the future is carpeted with velvet grass, with the
sun always shining upon it, and who find themselves all too soon
stumbling over a dark and rocky thoroughfare.

It was not long before the Marvels came to the end of _their_ little
bit of carpet sunshine; yet, when they got upon the stones, they
contrived by industry and management to keep their feet. George Marvel
was a wood-turner by trade, and earned on an average about thirty-two
shillings a week. What with a little new furniture now and then, and a
little harmless enjoyment now and then, and a few articles of
necessary clothing now and then, and the usual breakfasts, dinners,
and teas, with a little bit of supper now and then, the thirty-two
shillings a week were pretty well and pretty fully employed. So well
and so fully were those weekly shillings employed, that it was often a
very puzzling matter to solve that problem which millions of human
atoms are studying at this present moment, and which consists in
endeavoring to make both ends meet. That they did contrive, however,
to make both ends meet (not, of course, without the tugging and
stretching always employed in the process), was satisfactorily
demonstrated by the fact that the family, were respected and esteemed
by their neighbors, and that they owed no man a shilling. Not even the
baker; for they sent for their loaves, and paid for them across the
counter. By that they almost always received an extra piece to make up
weight; and such extra pieces are of importance in a family. Not even
the butcher; for Mrs. Marvel did her own marketing, and found it far
cheaper to select her own joints, which you may be sure never had too
much bone in them. Not even the cat's-meat man; for the farthing a day
laid out with that tradesman was faithfully paid in presence of the
carroty-haired cat (who ever heard of a cat with auburn hair?) who sat
the while with eager appetite, looking with hungry eyes at the skewer
upon which hung her modicum of the flesh of horse.

Mrs. Marvel was a pale but not sad woman, who had no ambition in life
worthy of being called one, save the ambition of making both ends
meet, and of being able, although Stepney was not liable to floods, to
keep the heads of her family above water. But, because Mrs. Marvel had
no ambition, that was no reason why Mr. Marvel should not have any.
Not that he could have defined precisely what it was if he had been
asked; but that the constant difficulties which cropped up in the
constant attempt to solve the problem (which has something perpetual
in its nature) of making both ends meet, made him fretful. This
fretfulness had found vent in speech day after day for many years; so
that Joshua Marvel, the wood-turner's heir, had from his infancy
upwards been in the habit of hearing what a miserable thing it was to
be poor, and what a miserable thing it was to be cooped up, as George
Marvel expressed it, and what a miserable thing it was to live until
one's hair turned gray without ever having had a start in the world.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Joshua Marvel had
gathered slowly in his mind the determination not to be a wood-turner
all his life, but to start in the world for himself, and try to be
something better; never for one moment thinking there was the most
remote possibility of his ever being any thing worse. When, in the
course of certain family discussions and conversations, this
determination became known, it did not receive discouragement from the
head of the family, although the tender-hearted mother cried by the
hour together, and could not for the life of her see why Joshua should
not be satisfied to do as his father had done before him.

"And what is that, mother?" Mr. Marvel would ask. "What have I done
before him? I've been wood-turning all my life before him--that's what
I've been doing; and I shall go on wood-turning, I suppose, till my
dying day, when I can't wood-turn any more. Why, it might be yesterday
that I started as a boy to learn wood-turning. The first day I used
the lathe I dreamed that I had cut my thumb off; and I woke up with a
curious sensation in my jaw which has haunted me ever since like a
ghost. That was before I knew you, mother. And now it is to-day, and
I'm wood-turning still; and--How many white hairs did you pull out of
my head last night, Sarah?"

"Fourteen," replied Sarah; "and you owe me a farthing."

"Fourteen," said Mr. Marvel, quietly repudiating the liability, which
arose from an existing arrangement that Sarah should have a farthing
for every dozen white hairs she pulled out of his head; "and next week
it will be forty, perhaps; and the week after four hundred."

"White hairs will come, father," said Mrs. Marvel; "we must all get
'em when we're old enough."

"I'm not old enough," grumbled Mr. Marvel.

"And I don't see, father," continued Mrs. Marvel, "what the fourteen
white hairs Sarah pulled out of your head has to do with Joshua."

"Of course _you_ don't see, mother," said, Mr. Marvel, who had a
contempt for a woman's argument; "you're not supposed to see, being a
woman; but I _do_ see; and what I say is, wood-turning brings on white
hairs quicker than any thing else."

"Grandfather was a wood-turner," remarked Mrs. Marvel, "and he didn't
have white hairs until he was quite old."

"Well, he was lucky--that's all I can say; but, for all that, Josh
isn't going to be a wood-turner, unless he's set his mind upon it."

"I won't be a wood-turner, father," said Joshua.

"All right, Josh," said Mr. Marvel; "you sha'n't."

From this it will be seen that the voice maternal was weak and
impotent when opposed to the voice paternal. But Mrs. Marvel, although
by no means a strong-minded woman, had a will of her own, and a quiet
unobtrusive way of working which often achieved a victory without
inflicting humiliation. She did not like the idea of her boy leading
an idle life; she had an intuitive conviction that Joshua would come
to no good if he had nothing to do. She argued the matter with her
good man, and never introduced the subject at an improper time. The
consequence was, that her first moves were crowned with success.

"If Joshua won't be a wood-turner, father "--she said.

"Which he won't," asserted her husband.

"Which he won't, as you say," Mrs. Marvel replied, like a sensible
woman. "If he won't be a wood-turner, he must be something. Now he
must be something, father--mustn't he?"

This being spoken in the form of a question, left the decision with
Mr. Marvel; and he said, as if the remark originated with himself,--

"Yes; he must be something."

And with that admission Mrs. Marvel rested content for a little while;
but not for long. She soon returned to the attack; and asked her
husband what Joshua should be. Now this puzzled Mr. Marvel; and he
could not see any way out of the difficulty, except by remarking that
the boy would make up his mind one of these fine days. But "these fine
days"--in which people, especially boys, make up their minds--are
remarkably like angels' visits; and the calendar of our lives often
comes to an end without one of them being marked upon the record. To
all outward appearance, this was likely to be the case with Joshua;
and the task of making up his mind seemed to be so tardy in its
accomplishment, that George Marvel himself began to grow perplexed as
to the future groove of his son and heir; for Joshua kept himself
mentally very much to himself. Vague wishes and desires he had; but
they had not yet shaped themselves in his mind--which was most likely
the reason why they had not found expression.

Meanwhile Mrs. Marvel was not idle. She saw her husband's perplexity,
and rejoiced at it. Her great desire was to see Joshua settled down to
a trade, whether it were wood-turning or any other. Wood-turning she
would have preferred; but, failing that, some other trade which would
fix him at home; for with that keen perception which mothers only
possess with regard to their children--a perception which springs from
the maternal intellect alone, and which is born of a mother's watchful
anxious love--she felt that her son's desires, unknown even to
himself, might possibly lead him to be a wanderer from her world, the
parish of Stepney, in which she was content to live and die. In that
beehive she had been born; in that beehive she had experienced calm
happiness and wholesome trouble; and in that beehive she wished to
close her eyes; and to see her children's faces smiling upon her, when
her time came to say good-by to the world of which she knew so little.
With all a woman's cunning, with all a woman's love, she devoted
herself to the task of weaning the mind of her favorite child from the
restless aspirations which might drive him from her side.

"Until Joshua makes up his mind what he is going to be, father," she
said one night at candle-time, "it's a pity he should remain idle.
Idleness isn't a good thing for a boy."

"Idleness isn't a good thing for boy or man," said Mr. Marvel,
converting his wife's remark into an original expression of opinion by
the addition of the last two words. "But I don't see what we are to
do, mother."

"Suppose I get him a situation--as an errand-boy, perhaps--until he
makes up his mind."

"I'm agreeable," said Mr. Marvel, "if Josh is."

But Josh was not agreeable. Many a fruitless journey did Mrs. Marvel
make, trudging here and trudging there; and many an application did
she answer in person to written announcements in shop-windows of
"Errand-boy wanted." Joshua would not accept any of the situations she
obtained for him. She got him one at a watchmaker's; no, he would not
go to a watchmaker's: at a saddler's; no, he would not go to a
saddler's; at a bootmaker's, at a tailor's; no, nor that, nor that.
Still she persevered, appearing to gain fresh courage from every
rebuff. As for Joshua, he was beginning to grow wearied of her
assiduity. He was resolved not to go to any trade, but being of a very
affectionate nature he desired to please his mother, and at the same
time to convince her that it was of no use for her to worry him any
longer. So he set her, what he considered to be an impossible task: he
told her that he was determined not to go anywhere except to a
printing office. He felt assured that she would never be able to get
him within the sacred precincts of such an establishment. And even if
she did, there was something more noble, something more distinguished
and grander, in printing than in bootmaking, or tailoring, or
watchmaking, or wood-turning. There was a fascinating mystery about
it; he had seen watchmakers and tailors, and cobblers working, but he
had never seen the inside of a printing-office. Neither had any of his
boy-friends. He had been told, too, that there was an act of
parliament which allowed printers to wear swords in the streets. That
was a fine thing. How all the neighbors would stare when they saw him
walking through the narrow streets of Stepney with sword at his side!
Joshua had some sense of humor; and he chuckled to himself at the
impossible task he had set his mother.

He was therefore considerably astonished one day, when Mrs. Marvel
told him she had obtained a situation for him as errand-boy in a
newspaper-office. Did ever a woman fail, except from physical or
mental prostration, in the accomplishment of a certain thing upon
which she has set her mind? And if, in working for the accomplishment
of the desired result, she brings to her aid an unselfish, unwearying
love, _then_ did ever a woman fail? At all events Mrs. Marvel did not.
After much labor, fortune befriended her; and she heard that an
errand-boy was wanted at a certain printing-office where a weekly
newspaper was printed. Thither she hurried, and soon found herself in
a small dark office, in which the master sat.

He treated her in the most off-hand manner. Yes, he wanted an
errand-boy. Was he sharp, intelligent, willing? Oh, her son! Very
well. Let him come to-morrow. Wages, four shillings a week. Time, from
eight to eight. An hour to dinner, half an hour to tea. Good-morning.

Thus the matter was settled, and Joshua engaged. Mrs. Marvel went home
rejoicing.

With fear and trembling, a little pleased and a good deal dismayed,
Joshua made his way the next morning to the printing-office. Groping
along a dark passage he came to a door on which the word "Office" was
dimly discernible. The freshness of youthful paint had departed from
the word; the letters were faded, and they appeared to be waiting to
be quite rubbed out with a kind of jaded resignation. In response to
the sharply-uttered "Come in!" Joshua opened the door, and entered the
room. The person he saw before him had such a dissipated appearance,
that any stranger would have been warranted in coming to the
conclusion that he had not been in bed for a fortnight. The room was
full of papers, very dusty and very dirty; and looked as if, from the
day it was built, it had not found time to wash itself. Scarcely
raising his eyes from a long slip of paper, upon which he was making a
number of complicated marks, the occupant of the room said,--

"It's of no use bothering me. I sha'n't have any copy ready for half
an hour. Hallo! Who are you?"

"The new errand-boy, sir," said Joshua, humbly.

"Oh, very well! Take this proof up stairs and sweep the
composing-room; then come down and clean the street-door plate. Cut
along! Look sharp!"

Looking as sharp as he could, Joshua walked up stairs, and found
himself in the composing-room of the establishment. A number of men
and boys, decorated with aprons with large bibs, were playing a
mysterious game with hundreds and thousands of small pieces of lead,
which they clicked with marvellous rapidity, but without any apparent
meaning, against an instrument they held in their hands. He looked in
vain for the swords which he had heard printers were allowed to wear,
and he was covered with confusion at finding himself in the midst of
so large an assemblage, who one and all appeared as if they were
playing on a number of pianos without any tune in them. Going up to a
youth whose head, covered with a profusion of red hair, looked as if
it were in a blaze, Joshua asked to whom he should give the proof. "To
Snooks," was the prompt reply. For which piece of information he
received a slap on the side of his head from some person in authority;
who taking the proof from Joshua, directed him to sweep up the room.
While performing this task he surveyed the scene before him. There
were sixteen men and four boys at work. All the men had the same
dissipated look that he had observed upon the countenance of the
master. Their faces, otherwise, were very clean; but the tips of the
right-hand fore-finger and thumb of each were black with dirt, caused
by the types which they picked up with those extremities from the
boxes before them. Not a word was spoken, except what appeared to have
reference to the business, and the conversation proceeded somewhat in
this wise. One of the workmen, walking to a slab of iron placed in the
middle of the room, took therefrom a sheet of manuscript, and looking
at it negligently, shouted,--

"Number three!"

Another voice at the end of the room cried out,--

"Awful Collision!"

Joshua stopped in the midst of his sweeping, and waited for the shock.
But as none came, he proceeded with his work, and thought that the
second speaker was crazy. In the mean time the dialogue continued.

Speaker number one: "End a break."

Speaker number two: "All right," with a growl.

Speaker number one: "What type?"

Speaker number two, with another growl: "Minion."

At the word "minion," which Joshua considered was a term expressive of
any thing but respect, he expected speaker number one would walk up to
speaker number two, and punch his head. Instead of which the insulted
individual went into his corner again, and re-commenced playing his
tuneless piano in the meekest possible manner. The overseer then going
to a part of the room where long rows of type were placed in detached
pieces, asked,--

"How long will this Dreadful Suicide be before it's finished?"

"Done in five minutes, sir," was the reply, in a cheerful voice.

"Who's on the Inquest?" asked the overseer.

"I am, sir."

"Be quick and get it finished; you've been long enough over it. Now,
then, how long is this Chancery Court to remain open?"

"Close it up in two minutes, sir."

And Joshua gazed with a kind of wonder at the individual who spoke, as
if it were as easy to close the Court of Chancery as to close his
hand.

It was the day on which the paper was sent to press; the publishing
hour was three o'clock in the afternoon; and as the work was
behindhand, everybody was very busy. In the centre of the room was a
large iron slab, and at one time the hammering and beating on this
slab were terrific. Two, or three excited individuals, with mallets
and iron sticks in their hands, advanced towards the type, which was
laid upon the slab, with the apparent intention of smashing it to
pieces. They commenced to do this with such extraordinary earnestness,
that Joshua was on the point of rushing down stairs to the master to
inform him that his property was being wantonly destroyed; but as the
other workmen appeared to regard the proceeding as quite a matter of
course, Joshua checked himself and thought it would perhaps be as well
for him to say nothing about it. The overseer also continued to issue
his strange orders; and during a slight cessation in the hammering, he
peremptorily ordered the workman to "lock up that Escaped Lunatic, and
be quick about it." At another time he gave directions to lay the
Female in Disguise on the stone (meaning the iron slab), to unlock the
Old Bailey, and to correct the Chancellor's Budget. Joshua grew
perfectly bewildered. The information that there was an Escaped
Lunatic in the room did not so much astonish as alarm him; but as to
the Female in Disguise he could not identify her, and he waited in
amazement to see what disguise she wore and where she would be brought
from; at the same time entertaining the idea that to lay any female
upon a stone was a decidedly improper proceeding. While in this state
of mental perplexity, the overseer cried out,--

"Now, then, who has the Female in Disguise in hand?"

"I have, sir," a voice replied.

"Bring it here, then," ordered the overseer, "and finish the
corrections on the stone."

"All right, sir."

Joshua started and looked round to catch a sight of the female; in his
agitation he stumbled against a workman who held a column of type in
his arms. The type fell to the ground, and was smashed into thousands
of pieces. In an instant the whole office was in confusion.

"You've done it this time, youngster," the workman said in dismay,
looking at the scattered type on the floor.

Joshua did not exactly know what it was he _had_ done, but felt that
it must be something very bad. He soon received practical proof of the
extent of the mischief, for the master, rushing into the room, kicked
him down stairs and told him to go about his business. Which Joshua
did in a state of much bewilderment.

Thus all the good intentions of Mrs. Marvel were frustrated. Joshua
declared he would not take another situation, and his father sided
with him and encouraged him. It must be confessed that Mr. Marvel
continued to have his perplexities about Joshua's career, but to have
openly admitted them would have been handing the victory to his wife.
So he kept them to himself, and thus maintained his supremacy as
master of the house. Many of his neighbors were henpecked, and he used
to laugh at them. It would not have done to have given them the chance
to laugh at him. Therefore, as time progressed, Mrs. Marvel's protests
were less and less frequently made, and Joshua's determination not to
be a wood-turner gathering strength month after month, it soon came to
be recognized as quite a settled thing that he was to start in life
for himself, and was not to do as his father had done before him.
Pending his decision, Joshua continued to lead an idle life. But he
was by no means viciously inclined; and much of his time was spent in
the cultivation of two innocent amusements, both of which served him
in good stead in the singular future which was in store for him. One
of these amusements was a passion for music. He knew nothing of
musical notation, and played entirely by ear; yet he managed to
extract sweet melody from a second-hand accordion, of which, after
long and patient saving of half pence and pence, he had become the
happy purchaser. The other of his tastes grew out of a boyish love.
How he acquired it will be recounted in the following chapters.




CHAPTER II.
SHOWING HOW A PASSION FOR PUNCH AND JUDY MAY LEAD TO DISASTROUS
CONSEQUENCES.


There are few boys in the world who are without their boy-friends whom
they worship, or by whom they are worshipped, with a love far
surpassing in its unselfishness the love of maturer years. The memory
of times that are gone is too often blurred by waves of sorrowful
circumstance. Our lives are like old pictures; the canvas grows
wrinkled, and the accumulated dust of years lies heavy upon figures
that once were bright and fair. But neither dust nor wrinkles can
obliterate the memory of the love we bore to the boy-friend with whom
we used to wander in fields that were greener, beneath skies that were
bluer, than fields and skies are now.

Cannot you and I remember the time when we used to stroll into the
country with our boy-friend, and, with arms thrown lovingly around
each other's neck, indulge in day-dreams not the less sweet because
they were never to be realized? And how, when we had built our
castles, and were looking at them in the clouds, with our hearts
filled with joyful fancies, we wandered in silence down the shady
lane, sweet with the scent of the flowering May that shut us out from
view on either side; and across the field with its luxuriant grass up
to our ankles with everywhere the daisy peeping out to watch us as we
passed; and over the heath where the golden gorse was blushing with
joy; and down the narrow path to the well which shrunk from public
observation at the bottom of a flight of cool stone steps, hewn out by
the monks of a cloister which should have been hard by, but wasn't,
having been destroyed in a bloody battle which took place once upon a
time?

Not many such experiences as these did Joshua and his boy-friend
enjoy; for our Damon's Pythias, whose proper name was Daniel Taylor,
was lame, with both his legs so badly broken that, had he lived unto
the age of Methuselah and been fed upon the fat of the land, those
props of his body would have been as useless to him all through his
long life as if they had been blades of the tenderest grass.

The Taylors had three children: Susan, Ellen, and Daniel Ellen and
Daniel were twins, and when they were born Susan was ten years old.
The worldly circumstances of the Taylors were no better than those of
their neighbors; indeed, if any thing, they were a little worse than
those of many around them. The parents, therefore, could not afford to
keep a nurse-girl, and it was fortunate for them that they had
provided one in the person of their elder daughter, and had allowed
her to grow to a suitable age before they ventured to bring other
children into the world. Fortunate as it was for the parents, it was
most unfortunate for Daniel; for before he and his other half were
born, Susan Taylor had contracted a passion almost insane in its
intensity, to which her only brother was doomed to be a victim. That
passion was a love for the British drama, as represented in Punch and
Judy. All Susan's ambitions and yearnings were centred in the show;
and it was not to be supposed that she would allow so small a matter
as twins to interfere with her absorbing passion. How the liking for
Punch and Judy had grown with her years and strengthened with her
strength, it is not necessary here to trace. The fact remains, and is
sufficient for the tragedy of poor Daniel's life. Squeezed to their
sister's breast, Daniel and Ellen were condemned to take long journeys
after Punch and Judy, and to be nursed at street-corners by a girl who
had eyes and mind for nothing but the _dramatis personæ_ of that
time-honored play. In her scrambles after the show she often wandered
a long way from home, and tore her dress, and jammed her bonnet, and
mudded her stockings, and knocked her boots out at the toes, and got
herself generally into a disreputable condition. But in presence of
the glories of Punch and Judy, which were to her ever fresh and ever
bright, such discomforts sank into absolute insignificance. All paltry
considerations were forgotten in the absorbing interest with which she
watched the extraordinary career of the hero of the drama. She was
insensible to the cuffs and remarks of the acting-manager who went
round for contributions, which the on-lookers were solicited to drop
into a tin plate or a greasy cap. He naturally resented Susan's
presence at the exhibition, for she had never been known to contribute
the smallest piece of copper towards the expenses. But neither his
cuffs nor his resentful language had any effect upon Susan, who, in
her utter disregard of all adverse circumstances, proved herself to be
an ardent and conscientious admirer of the British drama. As a
consequence of her peregrinations, she often found herself in strange
neighborhoods, and did not know her way home. The anxiety she caused
her mother, who was naturally proud of her twins, almost maddened that
poor woman. She used to run about the neighborhood of Stepney,
wringing her hands and declaring that her twins were kidnapped. At
first the neighbors were in the habit of sympathizing with her, and of
making anxious inquiries of one another concerning the children; but
when, after some months of such uneventful excitement, they found that
Susan and her twins were always brought home in good condition as
regarded their limbs--although in a very disgraceful condition as
regarded their personal appearance: but dirt counted for nothing in
such a case of excited expectation--their ardor cooled, and they
withheld their sympathy from the distressed mother. Indeed, they
looked upon themselves in the light of injured individuals, because
something really calamitous had not happened to the children. At
length Susan became such a nuisance--not only at home, but at
many police-stations, where she was popularly known as "that dirty
girl again, with the twins"--that the mother was recommended to
lock her up. Despairing of being able to cure her daughter of her
Punch-and-Judy mania by any other means, the mother locked her up with
her infant charges in a room on the first floor.

That was a sad thing for poor Daniel. Susan very naturally sulked at
being locked up, and at being deprived of her favorite amusement. Life
had no joy for her without Punch and Judy. With Punch and Judy,
existence was blissful; without Punch and Judy, existence was a blank.
Regarding the twins as the cause of her imprisonment, she vented her
spleen upon the unfortunate couple, and was spiteful enough to leave
traces of yellow soap in their eyes when she washed them; and when
they cried because of the smart, and rubbed their eyelids with their
little fists to get rid of the unwelcome particles, she smacked them
on the tenderest parts of their persons, and made them cry the more.
But they were not destined to endure this kind of torture for more
than a couple of days.

On the third day of their imprisonment, Susan was sitting moodily on
the floor, sulking as usual, and biting her lips and fretting, when
suddenly the well-beloved "too-to-too-a-too" of the Punch-and-Judy
showman came floating through the window. Wild with delight, she
snatched up the twins, and, rushing to the window, bent her body
forward, and looked out. Yes; there it was--there was the show
Preparations were being made for the drama; the green curtain was
down, the crowd was collecting, and the acting manager was already
taking a critical survey of the persons who loitered, and was mentally
marking down those who would not be allowed to stroll or slink away
without being solicited for a fee. The front of the stage was not
turned towards the window out of which Susan was looking; and she
could only see part of the show. That was a terrible disappointment to
her; and her suffering was really very great when she found that the
gallows upon which Punch was to be hanged was erected just in that
corner of the stage of which she could not obtain a glimpse. She
stamped her foot upon the floor excitedly; and, bending her body still
more forward in her eagerness, poor Daniel slipped out of her arms on
to the pavement. For a moment Susan was so bewildered that she could
not realize what had occurred: but, when she heard the sharp cry of
agony to which Daniel gave utterance, and when she saw the crowd of
people rushing with frightened faces towards the spot where the little
fellow was lying, she ran into a corner of the room with the other
child in her arms, and throwing her frock over her head, cowered down
with her face to the wall, and began to cry. But little notice was
taken of her. Daniel was picked up and carried into the house. He was
not killed; but his two legs were badly broken, and were destined
never to be of any use to him. So, as he had to depend upon artificial
legs for support, Daniel began to learn the use of crutches almost
before he had begun to learn to toddle.

The love that existed between Joshua and Daniel sprang out of an
innocent flirtation which was indulged in by Joshua Marvel and Ellen
Taylor. The amatory youngsters exchanged vows when they were quite
little things, and pledged themselves not to marry any one else: "no,
not for the wide, wide world!" Innocent kisses, broken pieces of
crockery with which they played at dinners and shops on back-window
sills, and the building of grottoes when the oyster-season came round,
were the material bonds which united the youthful loves of Joshua and
Ellen.

In due time Joshua was introduced to the family; not exactly as the
accepted suitor of the little damsel, but in a surreptitious sneaking
manner, which older suitors would have considered undignified. Such a
mean position did he for sometime occupy in the house of his
affianced, that on several occasions when Mr. Taylor came home drunk,
Joshua was locked up in the coal-cellar, lest he should meet the eye
of the tipsy parent, who, when he was in his cups, did not possess the
most amiable disposition in the world. From that coal-cellar Joshua
would emerge low-spirited and grimy, and in a despondent mood; but
sundry marks of affection from Ellen, the effects of which were
afterwards visible in black patches on her nose and cheeks and cherry
lips, invariably restored him to cheerfulness. Such a courtship was
not dignified; but Joshua and Ellen were perfectly satisfied; and so
was Dan, who thoroughly approved of his twin-sister's choice of a
sweetheart.

As the children grew in years, the ties that united Ellen and Joshua
were weakened; while those that united the boys were strengthened,
until a very perfect and unselfish love was established between them.
Both the lads were in the same condition as regarded their time.
Joshua had his on his hands because he had not made up his mind what
he was going to be; and Daniel had his on his hands because he had
broken his legs. Each had his particular fancy. Joshua's was music;
Dan's was birds.

Condemned to a sedentary life from the nature of his affliction, and
not able to run about as other boys did--for when his sister had let
him fall from her arms out of the window the breaking of his legs was
not the only injury he had received--Dan turned his attention to a
couple of canaries which were part of his parents' household gods. In
course of time the birds grew to be very fond of him; and he trained
them to do such pretty tricks, and was himself of so gentle and
amiable a disposition, that good-natured neighbors made him occasional
presents of birds--such as a linnet, or a lark, or a pair of
bullfinches--until he had gathered around him a small collection of
feathered younglings. With these companions his life was as happy as
life could be. He did not mope or fret because his legs were useless,
and because he was compelled to use crutches; on the contrary, he
absolutely loved his wooden props, as if they were bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh.

"You are right not to be a wood-turner Jo," said Dan, when his friend
related to him the substance of the family discussions. "If my legs
were like yours, I wouldn't be."

Dan called his friend "Jo." It was not quite right for Joshua, he
said, but it sounded pretty. And so it did, especially from his lips.

"I wish your legs _were_ like mine, Dan," said Joshua.

"It's of no use wishing," replied Dan. "You know what mother says; it
takes all sorts to make a world."

"Sound legs and broken legs--eh, Dan?"

"Yes," answered Dan merrily; "and long ones and short ones, and thick
ones and thin ones. Besides, if I had the strongest and biggest legs
in the world, I don't think I should be happier than I am."

"But wouldn't you like to be a hero--the same as I am going to be?"
asked Joshua.

"We can't all be heroes. You go and fight with lions; I will stop and
play with birds. I couldn't tame lions; but I _can_ tame birds." Which
he could, and did.

Dan was fond of speaking about lions because his name was Daniel; and
many and many a time had he and Joshua read the wonderful story of
Daniel in the lions' den. Joshua did not know much of the Bible until
Dan introduced it to him, and read to him in his thin sweet voice the
marvellous romances in that Book of books.

"There was a hero for you!" exclaimed Joshua admiringly, referring to
the biblical "I wonder what made him so brave."

"Because he was doing what he knew to be right," replied Dan.

"I dare say," was the acquiescent rejoinder.

"And because he was not afraid to speak the truth even to Belshazzar;
and because, above all, he believed in God. So God delivered him."

"All because he was doing right," said Joshua.

"All because he was doing right," repeated Dan. "I'm not a bit brave;
that is because I am lame, perhaps. If I was thrown into a lions' den
I should die of fear--I am sure I should; but if I was thrown into a
birds' cage, full of strange birds, I would soon make friends with
them; they would come and eat out of my hand in no time."

Dan, indeed, was wonderfully learned about birds and their habits, and
possessed a singular power over them. He could train them to any thing
almost. And bear this in mind; he used no cruel means in his training
of them. What he taught them he taught them by kindness; and they were
subservient to him from love and not from fear. The nature of the
affliction which condemned him to a sedentary life, sharpened and
concentrated his mental faculties, and endued him with a surprising
patience. If it had been otherwise, he could never have trained the
birds so thoroughly. Never mind what they were--blackbirds, linnets,
larks, bullfinches, canaries--they were one and all his willing
slaves, and, in the course of time, performed the tasks he set them
with their best ability. Give Dan any one of these birds' and in a few
weeks it would hop upon his finger, dance at his whistle, come at his
call, fall dead upon the table, and jump up again at a given signal as
lively as a cricket. He made little carts for them to draw, little
swords for them to carry, little ladders for them to climb up, little
guns for them to fire off, little houses for them to go in at the
doors of and come out of the chimneys of. It was a sight worth seeing
to watch them go through their performances; to see the dead bird lie
on its back on the table, and watch cunningly out of a corner of its
left eye for the signal which allowed it to come to life again; to see
the family birds, after indulging in a little sensible conversation on
the doorstep, go into the house, the door of which closed with a
spring directly they got on the inside of it, and then presently to
see their heads pop out of the chimneys, as if their owners were
wondering what sort of weather it was; to see the first villain of the
company hop upon the cart in which the pop-gun was fixed, and hop upon
a slip of wood which in some mysterious manner acted upon the gun, and
caused it to go off--and then to see the desperado watch for dreadful
consequences which never followed; to see that cold-blooded and
desperate bird jump briskly down, as if it were not disappointed, and
place its neck in a ring in the shafts, and hop away to another
battle-field; to see the two military birds march up and down in front
of the house, holding little wooden swords in their beaks, as who
should say to an advancing foe, "Approach if you dare, and meet your
doom!" to see the climbing-bird hop up the steps of the ladder, and
then hop down again triumphantly, as if it had performed a feat of
which bird-kind might be proud; and to know that the birds enjoyed the
fun and delighted in it; were pleasant things to see and know, and
could do no one any harm. Of course there were hitches in the
performances; occasionally the birds were dull or obstinate; but, as a
rule, they were tractable and obedient; and if they did sometimes
bungle their tricks they might very well be excused, for they were but
feeble creatures after all.

So Dan passed his time innocently, and loved his pets, and his pets
loved him. Joshua grew to love them too. He learned all their pretty
little vocal tricks, and could imitate the different languages of the
birds in such a wonderful manner that they would stop and listen
to his warbling, and would answer it with similar joyful notes of
their own. And when Dan and he were in a merry mood--which was not
seldom--they and the birds would join in a concert which was almost as
good, and quite as enjoyable, as the scraping of fiddles and the
playing of flutes. Sometimes, in the evening, Joshua would play soft
music upon his second-hand accordion; and directly he sounded the
first note the birds would hop upon the table and stand in a line,
with their heads inclined on one side, listening to Joshua's simple
melodies with the gravity of connoisseurs, and would not flutter a
feather of their little wings for fear they should disturb the harmony
of sound.




CHAPTER III.
LIFE AND DEATH OF GOLDEN CLOUD.


There was one canary which they had christened Golden Cloud. It was
one of the two canaries that Dan had first trained; and for this and
other reasons Golden Cloud was a special favorite with the lads. Dan
used to declare that Golden Cloud literally understood every word he
spoke to it. And it really appeared as if Dan were right in so
declaring and so believing; it was certainly a fact that Golden Cloud
was a bird of superior intelligence. The other birds were of that
opinion, or they would not have accepted its leadership. When they
marched, Golden Cloud was at the head of them--and very proud it
appeared to be of its position; when the performances took place,
Golden Cloud was the first to commence; if any thing very responsible
and very particular were to be done, Golden Cloud was intrusted with
it; and if any new bird was refractory, it devolved upon Golden Cloud
to assist Dan to bring that bird to its senses. The birds did not
entertain a particle of envy towards Golden Cloud because it had
attained an eminence more distinguished than their own; and this fact
was as apparent, as it must have been astonishing, to any reflective
human being who enjoyed the happy privilege of being present now and
then at the performances of Dan's clever troupe. Even when old age
crept upon it--it was in the prime of life when Dan first took it in
hand--the same respect was paid to the sagamore of the company. Its
sight grew filmed, its legs grew scaly, its feathers grew ragged. What
matter? Had it not been kind and gentle to them when in its prime?
Should they not be kind and gentle to it now that Time was striking it
down? And was it not, even in its decrepitude, the wise bird of them
all?

Notwithstanding that it grew more and more shaky every hour almost,
the old sense of duty was strong in the heart of Golden Cloud; and it
strove to take part in the performances to the last. Golden Cloud had
evidently learned the lesson, that to try always to do one's duty is
the sweetest thing in life. In that respect it was wiser than many
human beings, who should have been wiser than it. It was a melancholy
sight, yet a comical one, withal, to see Golden Cloud lift a sword
with its beak, and try to hold it there, and hop with it at the head
of the company. It staggered here and there, and, being almost blind,
sometimes hit an inoffensive bird across the beak, which caused a
momentary confusion; but every thing was set right as quickly as could
be. The other birds bore with Golden Cloud's infirmities, and made its
labors light for it. Even the tomtit--that saucy, beautiful rascal,
with its crown of Cambridge blue, who had been the most refractory
bird that Golden Cloud ever had to deal with, who _would_ turn heels
over head in the midst of a serious lesson, and who _would_ hop and
twist about and agitate its staid companions with its restless
tricks--even the tomtit, whose greatest delight was to steal things
and break things, but whose spirit had been subdued and tamed by
Golden Cloud's firmness, assisted the veteran in its old age, and did
not make game of it.

One evening Joshua came round to Dan's room rather later than usual,
and found Dan in tears.

"What is the matter, Dan?" asked Joshua.

Dan did not reply.

"Do your legs hurt you, Dan?" asked Joshua tenderly.

Dan formed a "No" with his lips, but uttered no sound.

Joshua thought it best not to tease his friend with any more
questions. He saw that Dan was suffering from a grief which he would
presently unbosom. He took his accordion on his knee and began to play
very softly. As he played, a canary in a mourning-cloak came out of
the toy-house; another canary in a mourning-cloak followed; then a
bullfinch, and another bullfinch; then the tomtit and the linnets; and
then the blackbirds; all in little black cloaks which Ellen Taylor's
nimble fingers had made for them that day out of a piece of the lining
of an old frock. At the sight of the first canary, with its black
cloak on, Joshua was filled with astonishment; but when bird after
bird followed, and ranged themselves solemnly in a line before him,
and when he missed the presence of one familiar friend, he solved the
riddle of their strange appearance; the birds were in mourning for the
death of Golden Cloud.

They seemed to know it, too; they seemed to know that they had lost a
friend, and that they were about to pay the last tribute of respect to
their once guide and master. The bullfinches, their crimson breasts
hidden by their cloaks, looked, with their black masks of faces like
negro birds in mourning; the amiable linnets, unobtrusive and shy as
they generally were, were still more quiet and sad than usual; even
the daring blackbirds were subdued--with the exception of one who, in
the midst of a silent interval, struck up "Polly, put the kettle on,"
in its shrill whistle, but, observing the eyes of the tomtit fixed
upon it with an air of reproach, stopped in sudden remorse, with the
"kettle" sticking in its throat.

Dan had made a white shroud for Golden Cloud; and it was both
quaint and mournful to see it as it lay in its coffin--Dan's
money-box--surrounded by the mourners in their black cloaks. They
stood quite still, with their cunning little heads all inclined one
way, as if they were waiting for news concerning their dead leader
from the world beyond the present.

Joshua, with a glance of sorrow at the coffin, said,--

"Your money-box, Dan!"

"I wish I could have buried it in a flower-pot, Jo," replied Dan,
suppressing a sob.

"Why didn't you?"

"Mother said father would be angry,"--

Here the blackbird--perceiving that the tomtit was no longer observing
it, and inwardly fretting that it should have been pulled up short in
the midst of its favorite song; also feeling awkward, doubtless, with
a kettle in its throat--piped out, with amazing rapidity and
shrillness, "Polly, put the kettle on; we'll all have tea."

The blue feathers in the tomtit's tail quivered with indignation, and
its white-tipped wings fluttered reprovingly. Moral force was
evidently quite thrown away upon such a blackbird as that; so the
tomtit bestowed upon the recreant a sharp dig with its iron beak, and
the blackbird bore the punishment with meekness; merely giving vent,
in response, to a wonderful imitation of the crowing of an extremely
weak cock, who led a discontented life in a neighboring back-yard.
After which it relapsed into silence.

Dan, who had stopped his speech to observe this passage between the
birds, repeated,--

"Mother said father would be angry; he knows how many flower-pots we
have. So I used my money-box."

"But you would rather have a flowerpot, Dan?"

"I should have liked a flower-pot above all things; it seems more
natural for a bird. Something might grow out of it; something that
Golden Cloud would like to know is above it, if it was only a blade of
grass."

Joshua ran out of Dan's room and returned in a very few minutes with a
flowerpot with mignonette growing in it. He was almost breathless with
excitement.

"It is mine, Dan," he said, "and it is yours. I bought it with my own
money; and it shall be Golden Cloud's coffin."

"Kiss me, Jo," said Dan.

Joshua kissed him, and then carefully lifted the flower-roots from the
pot, and placed Golden Cloud in the soft mould beneath. A few tears
fell from Dan's eyes into the flowerpot coffin, as he looked for the
last time upon the form of his pet canary. Then Joshua replaced the
flower-roots, and arranged the earth, and Golden Cloud was ready for
burial.

"Play something, Jo," said Dan.

Joshua took his accordion in his hands, and played a slow solemn
march; and the birds, directed by Dan, hopped gravely round the
flower-pot, the tomtit keeping its eye sternly fixed upon the
rebellious blackbird, expressing in the look an unmistakable
determination to put an instant stop to the slightest exhibition of
indecency.

"I don't know where to bury it," said Dan, when the ceremony was
completed. "Ellen has been trying to pick out a flagstone in the yard,
but she made her fingers bleed, and then couldn't move it. And if it
was buried there, the stone would have to be trodden down, and the
flowers in the coffin couldn't grow."

"There's that little bit of garden in _our_ yard," said Joshua. "I can
bury it there, if you don't mind. I can put the flowerpot in so that
the mignonette will grow out of it quite nicely. It isn't very far,
Dan," continued Joshua, divining Dan's wish that Golden Cloud should
be buried near him; "only five yards off; and it is the best place we
know of."

Dan assenting, Joshua took the flowerpot, and buried it in what he
called his garden; which was an estate of such magnificent proportions
that he could have covered it with his jacket. He was proud of it
notwithstanding, and considered it a grand property. A boundary of
oyster-shells defined the limits of the estate, and served as a
warning to trespassing feet. In the centre of this garden Golden Cloud
was buried. When Joshua returned to Dan's room, the mourning-cloaks
were taken off the birds--who seemed very glad to get rid of them--and
they were sent to bed.

Dan was allowed to sit up an hour longer than usual that night, and he
and Joshua occupied those precious minutes in confidential
conversation. First they spoke of Golden Cloud, and then of Joshua's
prospects.

"You haven't made up your mind yet what you are going to be, Jo," said
Dan.

"I haven't made up my mind," replied Joshua, "but I have an idea. I
don't want you to ask me what it is. I will tell you soon--in a few
weeks perhaps."

"Where have you been to-day? You were late."

"I went to the waterside."

"To the river?"

"To the river."

"To the river that runs to the sea," said Dan musingly, with a dash of
regret in his voice. "What a wonderful sight it must be to see the
sea, as we read of it! Would you like to see it, Jo?"

"Dearly, Dan!"

"And to be on it?"

"Dearly, Dan!"

Dan looked at Joshua sadly. There was an eager longing in Joshua's
eyes, and an eager longing in the parting of his lips, as he sat with
hands clasped upon his knee.

"I can see a great many things that I have never seen," said Dan; "see
them with my mind, I mean. I can see gardens and fields and trees,
almost as they are. I can fancy myself lying in fields with the grass
waving about me. I can fancy myself in a forest with the great trees
spreading out their great limbs, and I can see the branches bowing to
each other as the wind sweeps by them. I can see a little stream
running down a hill, and hiding itself in a valley. I can even see a
river--but all rivers must be muddy, I think; not bright, like the
streams. But I can't see the sea, Jo. It is too big--too wonderful!"

Rapt in the contemplation of the subject, Dan and Joshua were silent
for a little while.

"Ships on the top of water-mountains," resumed Dan presently, "then
down in a valley like, with curling waves above them. That is what I
have read; but I can't see it. 'Robinson Crusoe' is behind you, Jo."

Joshua opened the book--it was a favorite one with the lads, as with
what lads is it not?--and skimmed down the pages as he turned them
over.

"'A raging wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern of us,'" he said.

"That is the shipwreck," said Dan, looking over Joshua's shoulder.
"Then here, farther down: 'I saw the sea come after me as high as a
great hill, and as furious as an enemy.' Think of that! Here picture."

The lads looked for the thousandth time at the rough wood-cut, in
which Robinson was depicted casting a look of terror over his shoulder
at the curling waves, ten times as tall as himself; his arms were
extended, and he was supposed to be running away from the waves;
although, according to the picture, nothing short of a miracle could
save him.

"Look!" said Joshua, turning a few pages back and reading, "'yonder lies
a dreadful monster on the side of that hillock, fast asleep.'"

"'I looked where he pointed,'" read Dan--it was a favorite custom with
them to read each a few lines at a time--"'and saw a dreadful monster
indeed, for it was a terrible great lion that lay on the side of the
shore, under the shade of a piece of the hill that hung as it were a
little over him. Xury, says I, you shall go on shore, and kill him.'"

"Could you kill a lion, Jo?" asked Dan, breaking off in his reading.

"I don't know," said Joshua, considering and feeling very doubtful of
his capability.

Dan resumed the reading:--

"I took our biggest gun, which was almost musket-bore, and loaded it
with a good charge of powder and with two slugs, and laid it down;
then I loaded another gun with two bullets; and the third (for we had
three pieces), I loaded with five smaller bullets.'"

"No, I couldn't kill a lion," said Joshua, in a tone of disappointed
conviction; "for I can't fire off a gun. But that occurred nearly two
hundred years ago, Dan. I don't suppose there are as many lions now as
there used to be."

"And ships are different, too, to what they were then, Jo," said Dan,
closing the book. "Stronger and better built. I dare say if it had
been a very strong ship that Robinson Crusoe went out in, he wouldn't
have been wrecked."

"I am glad he was, though; if he hadn't been, we shouldn't have been
able to read about him. It is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Beautiful to read," replied Dan. "But he was dreadfully miserable
sometimes; for twenty-four years and more he had no one to speak to.
It appears strange to me that he didn't forget how to speak the
English language, and that he didn't go mad. Now, Jo, supposing it was
you! Do you think, if you had no one to speak to for twenty years,
that you would be able to speak as well as you do now? Don't you think
you would stammer over a word sometimes, and lose the sense of it?"

Dan asked these questions so earnestly, that Joshua laughed, and
said,--

"Upon my word, I don't know, Dan."

But the time was to come when the memory of Dan's questions came to
Joshua's mind with a deep and solemn significance. "He had his parrot
certainly," continued Dan; "but what used he to say to it? 'Robin,
Robin, Robin Crusoe! Poor Robin Crusoe! How came you here? Where have
you been, Robin?' That wasn't much to say, and to be always saying;
and I am sure that if he kept on saying it for so many years, he must
have entirely forgotten what the meaning of it was. You try it,--say a
word, or two or three words, for a hundred times. You will begin to
wonder what it means before you come to the end."

"But he had his Bible; and you know what a comfort that was to him."

"Perhaps that was the reason he didn't go mad. I dare say, too, that
some qualities in him were strengthened and came to his aid because he
was so strangely situated. What qualities now, Jo?"

"I don't understand you, Dan."

"I _do_ say things sometimes you don't understand at first, don't I,
Jo?"

Joshua nodded good-humoredly.

"I am often puzzled myself to know what I mean. Leaving Robinson
Crusoe alone, and speaking of qualities, Jo, take me for an instance.
I am a cripple, and shall never be able to go about. And do you know,
Jo, that my mind is stronger than it would have been if I were not
helpless? I can see things."

"Can you see any thing now, Dan?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I can see something that will separate you and me, Jo."

"Forever, Dan?"

"No, not forever; we shall be together sometimes and then you can tell
me all sorts of things that I shall never be able to see myself."

"Don't you think your legs will ever get strong?" asked Joshua.

"Never, Jo; they get worse and worse. And I feel, too, so weak, that I
am afraid I shall not have strength to use my crutches much longer.
Every thing about me--my limbs, and joints, and every thing--gets
weaker and weaker every day. If it wasn't for my body, I should be all
right. My mind is right. I can talk and think as well as if my body
were strong. Stupid bits of flesh and bone!" he exclaimed, looking at
his limbs, and good-humoredly scolding them. "Why don't you fly away
and leave me?"

At this point of the conversation Mrs. Taylor called out that it was
time for Dan to go to bed, so the lads parted. That night Joshua
dreamed that he killed a lion; and Dan dreamed that Golden Cloud came
out of the flower-pot, and it wasn't dead, but only pretending.

Dan had good reason for speaking in the way he did of his body, for it
distressed him very much. Soon after the death of Golden Cloud, he
grew so weak and ill that he was confined to his bed. But his mind
scarcely seemed to be affected by his bodily ills, and his
cheerfulness never deserted him. He had his dear winged companions
brought to his bedroom, and they hopped about his bed as contentedly
as could be. And there he played with them and took delight in them;
and, as he hearkened to their chirrupings, and looked at their pretty
forms, a sweet pleasure was in his eyes, a sweet pleasure was in his
heart. And this pleasure was enhanced by the presence of Joshua, who
spent a great deal of time with his sick friend.

The tender love that existed between the lads was undefiled by a
single selfish act or thought. They were one in sympathy and
sentiment. Joshua was Dan's almost only companion during his illness.
Dan's mother tended him and gave him his physic, which could not do
him any good, the doctor said; but Mrs. Taylor's household duties and
responsibilities occupied nearly the whole of her time; she could not
afford to keep a servant, and she had all the kitchen-work to do.
Ellen--Dan's twin-sister and Joshua's quondam sweetheart--was often in
the room; but, young as she was, she was already being employed about
the house assisting her mother. She scrubbed the floors and washed the
clothes; and, although she was so little that she had to stand on a
chair in the tiny yard to hang the clothes on the line, she was as
proud of her work, and took as much pleasure in it, as if she were a
grown woman, who had been properly brought up. Notwithstanding the
onerous nature of her duties, she managed to spend half an hour now
and again with Josh and Dan, and would sit quite still listening to
the conversation. Her presence in the room was pleasing to the
boy-friends, for Ellen was as modest and tidy a little girl as could
be met with in a day's walk.

Susan, Dan's unfortunate nursemaid, was a young woman now. But she had
a horror of the sick-room. She entertained a secret conviction that
she was a murderess, and really had some sort of an idea that if
Daniel died she would be taken up and hanged. She was as fascinated as
ever with Punch and Judy; but the fascination had something horrible
in it. Often when she was standing looking at the show--and she was
more welcome to the showman than she used to be, for now she sometimes
gave him a penny--she would begin to tremble when the hangman came on
the scene with his gallows, and would then fairly run away in a
fright. Ever since she had let Daniel slip from her arms out of the
window, there had been growing in her mind a fear that something
dreadful was following her; and a dozen times a day she would throw a
startled look behind her, as if to assure herself that there was
nothing horrible there. She had been sufficiently punished for her
carelessness. For a good many weeks after it occurred, bad little boys
and girls in the neighborhood used to call after her, "Ah-h-h Who
killed her little brother? Ah-h-h!" If she ran, they ran after her,
and hooted her with the dreadful accusation. It took different forms.
Now it was, "Ah-h-h-h! Who killed her little brother? Ah-h-h!" And now
it was, "Ah-h-h! Who'll be hung for killing her little brother?
Ah-h-h-h!" Such an effect did this cruel punishment have upon her,
that she would wake up in terror in the middle of the night with all
her fevered pulses quivering to the cry, "Ah-h-h-h! Who'll be hung for
killing her little brother? Ah-h-h-h!" But time, which cures all
things, relieved her. The bad boys and girls grew tired of saying the
same thing over and over again. A new excitement claimed their
attention, and poor Susan was allowed to walk unmolested through the
streets. But the effect remained in the terror-flashes that would
spring in her eyes, and in the agonized looks of fear that she would
throw behind her every now and again, without any apparent cause.
These feelings had such a powerful effect upon her, that she never
entered Dan's room unless she were compelled to do so; and once, when
Dan sent for her and asked her to forgive him for being naughty when
he was a baby, she was so affected that she did nothing but shed
remorseful tears for a week afterwards.

One day, when Dan was playing with the birds, and no other person but
he and Joshua was in the room, he said,--

"Do you think the birds know that I am so weak and ill, Jo, dear?"

"Sometimes I think they do, Dan," answered Joshua.

"Dear little things! You haven't any idea how weak I really am. But I
am strong enough for something."

"What, Dan?"

"If you don't ask any questions, I sha'n't tell you any stories,"
replied Dan gayly. "Lend me your penknife."

Joshua gave Dan his penknife, and when he came the next day Dan was
cutting strips of wood from one of his crutches.

"O Dan!" exclaimed Joshua, bursting into tears.

Dan looked at Joshua, and smiled.

"O you cry-baby!" he said. But he said it in a voice of exquisite
tenderness; and he drew Joshua's head on to the pillow, and he laid
his own beside it, and he kissed Joshua's lips.

"I shall not want my crutches any more," he whispered in Joshua's ear
as thus they lay; "that is all. It isn't as bad as you think."

"You are not going to die, Dan?" asked Joshua in a trembling voice.

"I don't think I am--yet. It is only because I am almost certain--I
feel it, Jo--that I shall be a helpless cripple all my life, and that
I shall not be able to move about, even with the help of crutches."

"Poor dear Dan!" said Joshua, checking his sobs with difficulty.

"Poor Dan! Not at all! I can read, I can think, and I can love you,
Jo, all the same. I have made up my mind what I am going to do. I
shall live in you. You are my friend, and strong as you are, you can't
love me more than I love you. And even if I was to die, dear"--

"Don't say that, Dan; I can't bear to think of it."

"Why? It isn't dreadful. If I was to die, we should still be
friends--we should still love each other. Don't you love Golden
Cloud?"

Joshua whispered "Yes."

"But Golden Cloud is not here. Yet you love him. And so do I, more
than I did when pet was alive. I don't quite know how it is with
birds, but I do know how it is with us. If you was here, Jo, and I was
there, we should meet again."

"Amen, Dan!"

"And it is nice to believe and know--as you and I believe and
know--that if we were parted, we should come together again by and by;
and that perhaps the dear little birds would be with us there as they
are here, and that we should love them as we love them now. They are
so pretty and harmless that I think God will let them come. Besides,
what would the trees do without them?"

"What do you mean, Dan, by saying that you are going to live in me?"

"It is a curious fancy, Jo, but I have thought of it a good deal, and
I want you to think of it too. I want to be with you, although I shall
not be able to move. You are going to be a hero, and are going to see
strange sights perhaps. I can see farther than you can; and I know the
meaning of your going down to the riverside, as you have done a good
many times lately. I know what you will make up your mind to be,
although I sha'n't say until you tell me yourself. Well, Jo, I want
you to fancy, if I don't know what is happening to you--if you are in
any strange place, and are seeing wonderful things--I want you to
fancy, 'Dan is here with me, although I cannot see him.' Will you do
that, Jo, dear?"

"Yes; wherever I am, and whatever I shall see, I will think, 'Dan is
here with me, although I cannot see him.'"

"That is friendship. This isn't," said Dan, holding up a finger; "this
is only a little bit of flesh. If it is anywhere about us, it is
here;" and he took Joshua's fingers, and pressed them to his heart.
Then, after a pause of a few moments, he said, "So don't cry any more
because I am cutting up my crutches; I am making some new things for
the birds."

They had a concert after that; and the blackbird whistled "Polly, put
the kettle on," to its heart's content; and the tomtit performed
certain difficult acrobatic tricks in token of approval.

Dan recovered so far from his sickness as to be able to leave his bed.
But it almost appeared as if he was right in saying that he should not
want his crutches. He had not sufficient strength in his shoulders to
use them. He had to be lifted in and out of bed, and sometimes could
not even wash and dress himself. Ellen Taylor was his nurse, and a
dear good nurse she proved herself to be. A cross word never passed
her lips. She devoted herself to the service of her helpless brother
with a very perfect love; and her nature was so beautiful in its
gentleness and tenderness that those qualities found expression in her
face, and made that beautiful also. Dan had yielded to Joshua's
entreaties not to destroy his crutches. "You might be able to use them
some day," Joshua would say. To which Dan would reply by asking gayly
if Joshua had ever heard of a miracle in Stepney. However, he kept his
crutches, and Joshua was satisfied. In course of time Joshua began to
train a few birds at his own house, and now and then Dan's parents
would allow Dan to be carried to Joshua's house, and to stop there for
a few days. When that occurred, Dan and Joshua slept together, and
would tell stories to each other long after the candle had been blown
out--stories of which Joshua was almost always the hero. Joshua had
one great difficulty to overcome when he first introduced the birds
into his house; that difficulty was the yellow-haired cat, of which
mention has already been made. With the usual amiability of her
species, the domestic tigress, directly she set eyes upon the birds,
determined to make a meal of them, and it required all Joshua's
vigilance to prevent the slaughter of the innocents. But he was
patient, and firm, and kind, and he so conquered the tigerish
propensities of the cat towards the birds, that in a few weeks she
began to tolerate them, and in a few weeks more to play with them and
to allow them to play with her, and gradually grew so cordial with
them that it might have been supposed she had kittened them by
mistake.




CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH DAN GETS WILD NOTIONS INTO HIS HEAD, AND MAKES SOME VERY
BOYISH EXPERIMENTS.


If every farthing of the allowance of pocket-money which Joshua and
Dan received from their respective parents had been carefully saved
up, it would not have amounted to a very large sum in the course of
the year. Insignificant, however, as was the allowance, it sufficed
for their small wants, and was made to yield good interest in the way
of social enjoyment. The lads did not keep separate accounts. What
was Joshua's was Dan's, and what was Dan's was Joshua's. As there were
no secret clasps in their minds concealing something, which the other
was not to share and enjoy, so there was no secret clasp in their
money-box which debarred either from spending that which, strictly
speaking, belonged to his friend. Dan was the treasurer; the treasury
was the money-box which was to have been Golden Cloud's coffin. Dan's
allowance was two pence a week, which was often in arrears in
consequence of his father being too fond of public-houses; Joshua's
allowance was four pence a week, which he received very regularly. But
each of their allowances was supplemented by contributions from
independent sources. The motives which prompted these contributions
were of a very different nature; as the following will explain:--

"Something more for the money-box, Dan," said Joshua, producing a
four-penny piece, and dropping it into the box.

"From the same party, Jo?" asked Dan.

"From the same jolly old party, Dan. From the Old Sailor."

"Is he nice?"

"The Old Sailor? You should see him, that's all."

"You have been down to the waterside again, then?"

"Yes. Tuck-tuck-joey!" This latter to the linnet, who came out to have
a peep at Joshua, and who, directly it heard the greeting, responded
with the sweetest peal of music that mortal ever listened to. When the
linnet had finished its song the obtrusive and greedy blackbird,
determined not to be outdone, and quite ignoring the fact that it had
had a very good supper, ordered Polly to put the kettle on, in its
most piercing notes.

"Did you go on the river, Jo?" asked Dan.

"Yes. In a boat. Rowing. The Old Sailor says I am getting along
famously."

"I _should_ like to see the Old Sailor."

"I wish you could; but he is such a strange old fellow! He doesn't
care for the land. When I tell mother what I am making up my mind to
be--what I shall have _made_ up mind then to be--I will coax him to
come to our house. I want him to talk to mother about the sea, for she
is sure to cry and fret, and although the Old Sailor doesn't think
that women are as good as men, he thinks mothers are better."

Dan laughed a pleasant little laugh.

"That is queer," he said.

"He knows all about you, and he asks me every day, 'How is Dan?'"

"I am glad of that--very glad."

"So am I. I have told him all about the birds, and how, they love you.
You would never guess what he said to-day about you."

"Something very bad, I dare say," said Dan, knowing very well, all the
time, that it was something good, or Joshua would not tell him.

"Something _very_ bad. He said, 'He must be a fine little
chap'--meaning you, Dan--'or the birds wouldn't love him.'"

"Has he been all over the world, Jo?"

"All over the world; and O Dan, he has seen _such_ places!"

"I tell you what we will do," said Dan. "To-morrow you shall buy a
couple of young bullfinches, and you shall find out some tune the Old
Sailor is fond of; and I will teach the bullfinches to whistle it.
Then you shall give the birds to the Old Sailor, and say they are a
present from me and you."

"That will be prime! He will be so pleased!"

"Have you ever heard him sing, Jo?"

"Yes," answered Joshua, laughing; "I have heard him sing,--


   'Which is the properest day to drink,
     Saturday, Sunday, Monday?
    Each is the properest day, I think--
     Why should I name but one day?
    Tell me but yours, I'll mention my day,
     Let us but fix on some day--
    Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
     Saturday, Sunday, or Monday.'"


"I don't think that would do," said Dan, echoing Joshua's laugh.

"Here's another," said Joshua, and he played a prelude to "Poor Tom
Bowling," and sang the first verse,--


   'Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
     The darling of our crew;
    No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
     For death has broached him too.
    His form was of the manliest beauty,
     His heart was kind and soft,
    Faithful below Tom did his duty,
     But now he's gone aloft,
     But now he's gone aloft.'"

Joshua sang the words with much tender feeling, but Dan shook his
head.

"The birds would never be able to get the spirit of the song
into them," he said, "and the tune is nothing without that. Never
mind--we'll teach them something, and then the Old Sailor shall have
them."

"And I shall tell him they are a present from you alone."

"No," said Dan energetically; "that would spoil it all. They are from
you and me together. Can't you guess the reason why?"

"I believe I can," replied Joshua, after a little consideration. "The
Old Sailor likes me, and you want him to like you because of me, not
because of yourself alone; you want him to like me more because of
you--as I am sure he will when he knows you."

"That's it. I want him to know that we love each other, and that we
shall always love each other, whether we are together or separated. I
want everybody who likes you, Jo, to like me."

Joshua laid his hand upon Dan's, which rested on the table, and Dan
placed his other hand upon Joshua's playfully. Their hands were
growing to be very unlike. Dan's hand, as it grew, became more
delicate, while Joshua's grew stronger and more muscular. Dan laughed
another pleasant laugh as he remarked the difference between them.
"That is a proper kind of hand for a hero," he said. And then, in a
more serious voice, "Joshua, do you know I think we can see each
other's thoughts." And so, indeed, it appeared as if they could.

The next day the bullfinches were bought, and Dan began to train them.
They were a pair of very young birds, not a dozen days old, and the
air Dan fixed upon to teach them first was "Rule, Britannia."

So much for Joshua's supplemental contributions to the general fund.
Now for Dan's.

"Another sixpence in a piece of paper, Jo!"

"That makes eighteen pence this month, Dan. Poor Susan!"

"Poor Susan!" echoed Dan.

Susan was very much to be pitied. Looking upon herself as her
brother's destroyer, she endeavored, by offerings of sixpences as
often as she could afford them, to atone for the crime--for so she now
regarded it--by which she had made him a helpless cripple. These
sixpences were not given openly; they were laid, as it were, upon the
sacrificial altar in secret. Sometimes the altar was one of Ellen's
shoes, and Ellen, when she dressed herself, would feel something
sticking in her heel, and discover it to be a sixpence tightly screwed
up in a piece of paper, with the words, "For Dan; from Susan," written
on it; sometimes the altar was one of Dan's pocket-handkerchiefs,
and the sixpence was tied up in a knot; sometimes it was a bag of
bird-seed; sometimes Dan's cap. She was so imbued with a sense of
guilt, that she trembled when she met Dan's eye. He was as kind and
gentle to her, when he had the opportunity, as he was to all around
him; and divining her secret remorse, he tried by every means in his
power to lessen it. But the feeling, that, if Dan died, she was a
murderess, was too deeply implanted in her to be ever removed. She
lived in constant fear. She was afraid of the dark, and could not
sleep without a rush-light near her bedside. Often in the night, on
occasions when Dan was weaker than usual, she would creep down stairs,
and listen at his bedroom-door to catch the sound of his breathing. If
she did not hear it at first, the ghostly echo of the old terrible
cry, "Ah-h-h-h! who killed her little brother? Ah-h-h-h!" filled the
staircase and the passage with dreadful shadows; shadows that seemed
to thicken and gather about her as if possessed with a desire to
stifle her--and she would press her hands tightly upon her eyes so
that she should not see them. Then perhaps she would open Dan's door
quietly, and hearing him breathe, ever so softly, would creep up
stairs again, a little more composed; always closing her door quickly,
to prevent the shadows on the stairs from coming into her room.

The supplemental contributions from Susan and the Old Sailor were very
acceptable to Dan and Joshua, who were both fond of reading. What was
not spent in birds' food was spent in books. They subscribed to two
magazines, the "Penny Magazine" and the "Mirror," which came out
weekly; the subscription was a serious one for them, and made a great
hole in their pocket-money: it swallowed up three pence per week. The
addition of a new book to their modest library was one of the proudest
events in their quiet lives. "New" books is not a strictly correct
phrase, for the collection consisted of second-hand volumes, picked up
almost at random at old-book stalls. Although their library was a
small one, not numbering in its palmiest days more than fifty volumes,
it was wonderfully miscellaneous. Now it was a book of travels that
Joshua bought; now a book of poems; now an odd volume of a magazine;
now a book on natural history; now a speculative book which neither of
the boys could understand--not at all a weak reason in favor of its
being purchased. Over these books the boys would pore night after
night, and extract such marrow from them as best suited their humor.
The conversations which arose out of their readings were worth
listening to; Dan's observations, especially, were very quaint and
original, and gave evidence, not only of good taste, but of the
possession of reflective powers of a high order.

An old book on dreams which Joshua bought for a song, as the saying
is, proved especially attractive to Dan. The proper title of the book
was the "Philosophy of Dreams," an ambitious sub-title--the "Triumph
of Mind over Matter"--being affixed. Dan read and re-read this book
with avidity. In it the writer contended that a person could so
command and control his mental forces, as to train himself to dream of
events which were actually taking place at a distance from him, at the
precise moment they occurred. Space, said the author, was of the
smallest consequence. There was one thing, however, that was
absolutely necessary--that a perfect sympathy should exist between the
dreamer and the person or persons of whom he was dreaming. It was a
wildly-speculative book taken at its best, and contained much
irrelevant and ridiculous matter; but it was just the kind of book to
attract such a lad as Dan, and it set him thinking. "Perfect sympathy!
Such a sympathy," he thought, "as exists between me and Jo;" and he
proceeded to read with greater eagerness. The author, in support of
his theory, dragged in nearly all the sciences; and drew largely upon
that of phrenology. He explained where certain organs lay, such as
wonder, veneration, benevolence, destructiveness, and proceeded
somewhat in the following fashion: Say that a person is sleeping, and
that he is not disturbed by any special powerful emotion, arising
probably from strong anxiety connected with his worldly circumstances.
His mind must be at rest, and his sleep be calm and peaceful. Under
these circumstances, if a certain organ, say the organ of veneration,
be gently pressed, the sleeper will presently dream a dream, in which
the sentiment of veneration will be the quality most prominently
brought into play. And so with wonder, and benevolence, and
combativeness, and other qualities. Having stated this very
distinctly, the writer proceeded, as if the mere statement were
sufficient proof of its incontestability: say that between the sleeper
and the operator a strong and earnest sympathy existed; the operator,
selecting in his mind some person with whom they are both acquainted,
brings his power of will to bear upon the sleeper. (Here the writer
interpolated that the experiment would fail if the organs of
concentrativeness and firmness were not more than ordinarily large in
the operator.) With his mind firmly fixed upon the one object, he
wills that the sleeper shall dream of their mutual acquaintance; and
as he wills it, with all the intensity he can exercise, he gently
manipulates the sleeper's organ of tune--which, by the way, the author
stated he believed was the only one of the purely intellectual
faculties which could be pressed into service. The sleeper will then
dream of the selected person, and his sense of melody and the harmony
of sound will be gratified. Then, in a decidedly vague manner, as if
he had got himself in a tangle from which he did not know how to
extricate himself, the author argued that what one person could do to
another, he could do also to himself, and that the effect produced
upon another person by physical manipulation may be produced upon
one's self by a strong concentration of will. During our waking
moments he said, the affective faculties of our mind are brought into
play. Thus, we see and wonder; thus, we see and venerate; thus, we see
and pity. These faculties or sentiments are excited and make
themselves felt without any effort on our part. If, then,
circumstances, which previously did not affect us, can thus act upon
us without the exercise of voluntary effort to produce sensation; if
circumstances, in which we had no reason to feel the slightest active
interest, can cause us to venerate, to pity, to wonder--broadly, to
rejoice and to suffer--why should we not be able, by the aid of a
powerful sympathy and an earnest desire, to bring into reasoning
action the faculties which are thus excited by uninteresting and
independent circumstances?

Thus far the author: unconscious that he had fallen into the serious
error of confounding the affective with the intellectual faculties,
and not appearing to understand that, whereas an affective faculty can
be brought into conscious action by independent circumstances, an
intellectual faculty requires a direct mental effort before it is
excited. His essay was not convincing. He wandered off at tangents;
laid down a theory, and, proceeding to establish it, so entangled
himself that he lost its connecting threads; and had evidently been
unable to properly think out a subject which is not entirely unworthy
of consideration. However, he had written his book, and it got into
Dan's hands and into Dan's head. Joshua did not understand it a bit,
and said so; and when he asked Dan to explain it, Dan could scarcely
fit words to what was in his mind.

"Although I cannot explain it very clearly, I can understand it," said
Dan. "He means to say that a person can see with his mental sight"--

"That is, with his eyes shut," interrupted Joshua jocularly.

"Certainly, with his eyes shut," said Dan very decidedly. "Our eyes
are shut when we dream, yet we see things." Joshua became serious
immediately; the answer was a convincing one. "And that proves that we
have two senses of sight--one in the eyes, the other in the mind.
Haven't you seen rings, and circles, and clouds when you are in bed at
night, and before you go to sleep? I can press my face on the pillow
and say--not out loud, and yet I say it and can hear it--which shows
that all our senses are double." (In his eagerness to explain what he
could scarcely comprehend, Dan was in danger of falling into the same
error as the author of the "Triumph of Mind over Matter" had fallen
into, that of flying off at tangents: it was with difficulty he could
keep to his subject.) "Well, Jo, I press my head into the pillow, and
say, 'I will see rings,' and presently I see a little ball, black,
perhaps, and it grows and grows into rings--like what you see when you
throw a stone in the water--larger, and larger, all the different
colors of the rainbow; and then, when they have grown so large as to
appear to have lost themselves in space--just like the rings in the
water, Jo--another little ball shapes itself in the dark, and
gradually becomes visible, and then the rings come and grow and
disappear as the others did. When I have seen enough, I say--not out
loud again, Jo, but silently as I did before--'I don't want to see any
more,' and they don't come again. What I can do with rings, I can do
with clouds. I say, 'I will see clouds,' and they come, all colors of
blue, from white-blue to black-blue; sometimes I see sunsets."

"I have seen them too, Dan," said Joshua; "I have seen skies with
stars in them, just as I have seen them with my eyes wide open."

"Now, if we can do this," continued Dan, "why cannot we do more?"

"We can't do what he says in this book," said Joshua, drumming with
his fingers on the "Philosophy of Dreams."

"I don't know. Why should he write all that unless he knew something?
There is no harm in trying, at all events. Let me see. Here is a chart
of a head, Jo turning to a diagram in the book. Where is
combativeness? Oh! here, at the back of the head, behind the ear. Can
you feel it, Jo? Is it a large bump? No; you are going too high up, I
am sure. Now you are too much in the middle. Ah! that's the place, I
think."

These last sentences referred to Joshua's attempt to find Dan's organ
of combativeness.

"I don't feel any thing particular, Dan," he said.

"But you feel something, don't you, Jo?" asked Dan anxiously. "There
_is_ a bump there, isn't there?"

"A very little one," answered Joshua, earnestly manipulating Dan's
head, and pressing the bump. "Do you feel spiteful?"

"No," said Dan, laughing.

"There's a bump twice as large just above your fighting one."

"What is that bump?" said Dan, examining the diagram again. "Ah that
must be adhesiveness."

"I don't know what that means."

"Give me the dictionary;" and Dan with eager fingers turned over the
pages of an old Walker's Dictionary. "'Adhesive--sticking,
tenacious,'" he read. "That is, that I stick to a thing, as I mean to
do to this. Now I'll tell you what we'll do, Jo. I shall sleep at your
house to-morrow night, and when I am asleep, you shall press my organ
of combativeness--put your fingers on it--yes, there; and when I wake
I will tell you what I have dreamed of."

"All right," said Joshua, removing his fingers.

"You will be able to find the place again?"

"Yes, Dan."

"And you will be sure to keep awake?"

"Sure, Dan."

The following night, Joshua waited very patiently until Dan was
asleep. He had to wait a long time; for Dan, in consequence of his
anxiety, was longer than usual getting to sleep. Once or twice Joshua
thought that his friend was in the Land of Nod, and he commenced
operations, but he was interrupted by Dan saying drowsily, "I am not
asleep yet, Jo." At length Dan really went off, and then Joshua, very
quietly and with great care, felt for Dan's organ of combativeness,
and pressed it. Joshua looked at his sleeping friend with anxiety.
"Perhaps he will hit out at me," he thought. But Dan lay perfectly
still, and Joshua, after waiting and watching in vain for some
indication of the nature of Dan's sleeping fancies, began to feel very
sleepy himself, and went to bed. In the morning, when they were both
awake, Joshua asked what Dan had dreamed of.

"I can't remember," said Dan, rubbing his eyes.

"I pressed your combativeness for a long time, Dan," said Joshua; "and
I pressed it so hard that I was almost afraid you would hit out."

"I didn't, did I?"

"No; you were as still as a mouse."

"I dreamed of something, though," said Dan, considering. "Oh, I
remember! I dreamed of you, So; you were standing on a big ship, with
a big telescope in your hand. You had no cap on, and your hair was all
flying about."

"Were there any sailors on the ship?"

"A good many."

"Did you quarrel with any of them?"

"I didn't dream of myself at all."

"Did any of the sailors quarrel with me?"

"There wasn't any quarrelling, Jo, that I can remember."

"So you see," said Joshua, "that it is all fudge."

"I don't see that at all. Now I think of it, it isn't likely that I
should dream of quarrelling with any one or fighting with any one when
I was dreaming of you, Jo."

"Or perhaps you haven't any combativeness, Dan."

"Perhaps I haven't. It wouldn't be of much use to me if I had, for I
shouldn't know how to fight."

"Or perhaps your combativeness is so small that it won't act," said
Joshua sportively.

"Don't joke about it, Jo," said Dan. "You don't know how serious I am,
and how disappointed I feel at its being a failure. Will you try it
again to-night?"

Joshua, seeing that Dan was very much in earnest, readily promised;
and the experiment was repeated that night, with the same result.
After that the subject dropped for a time.

But if Dan's organ of adhesiveness--which, phrenologically, means
affection, friendship, attachment--was large, it was scarcely more
powerful than his organ of concentrativeness. His love for Joshua was
perfect. He knew that Joshua's choice of a pursuit would separate him
from his friend. When he said to Joshua, "I shall live in you, Jo,"
the words conveyed the expression of no light feeling, but of a deep
earnest longing and desire to be always with his friend--to be always
with him, although oceans divided them. If no misfortune had befallen
him, if his limbs had been sound and his body strong, Dan would have
been intellectually superior to boys in the same station of life as
himself. Debarred as he was from their amusements, their anxieties,
and their general ways of life he was thrown, as it were, upon his
intellect for consolation. It brought him, by the blessing of God,
such consolation that his misfortune might have been construed into a
thing to be coveted. There is good in every thing.

All Dan's sympathies were with Joshua. Dan admired him for his
determination, for his desire to be better than his fellows. It was
Dan who first declared that Joshua was to be a hero; and Joshua
accepted Dan's dictum with complacency. It threw a halo of romance
around his determination not to be a wood-turner, and not to do as his
father had done before him. The reader, from these remarks, or the
incidents that follow, may now or presently understand why the
wildly-vague essay on the "Philosophy of Dreams; or the Triumph of
Mind over Matter," took Dan's mind prisoner and so infatuated him.

Referring to the book again, after the failure of the experiments upon
his organ of combativeness, Dan found a few simple directions by which
the reader could test, in a minor degree, the power of the mind over
the sleeping body. One of the most simple was this: A person, before
he goes to sleep, must resolutely make up his mind to wake at a
certain hour in the morning. He must say to himself, "I want to wake
at five o'clock--at five o'clock--at five o'clock; I _will_ awake at
five o'clock--I will--I will--I will!" and continue to repeat the
words and the determination over and over again until he fell asleep,
with the resolve firmly fixed in his mind. If you do this, said the
writer, you will awake at five o'clock. Dan tried this experiment the
same night--and failed. He repeated it the following night, and the
night following that, with the same result. His sleep was disturbed,
but that was all. But on the fourth night matters were different. Five
o'clock was the hour Dan fixed upon, and nothing was more certain than
that on the fourth night Dan woke up at the precise moment. There were
two churches in the immediate neighborhood, and, as he woke, Dan heard
the first church-bell toll the hour. One, two, three, four, five. Each
stroke of the bell was followed by a dismal hum of woful tribulation.
Then the other church-bell struck the hour, and each stroke of that
was followed by a cheerful ring, bright and crisp and clear. Dan
smiled and hugged himself, and went to sleep again, cherishing wild
hopes which he dared not confess even to himself. He tried the
experiment on the following night, fixing on a different time,
half-past three. Undaunted by that and many other failures, he tried
again and again, until one night he awoke when it was dark. He waited
anxiously to hear the clocks strike. It seemed to be a very long
half-hour, but the church-bell struck at last. One, two, three, four.
With a droning sound at the end of each stroke, as if a myriad bees,
imprisoned in a cell, were giving vent to a long-sustained and
simultaneous groan of entreaty to be set free; or as if the bell were
wailing for the hour that was dead. Then the joyous church-bell struck
One, two, three, four. A wedding-peal in each stroke; sparkling,
although invisible, like stars in a clear sky on a frosty night.

Dan went to sleep, almost perfectly happy.

He repeated his experiment every night, until he had a very nearly
perfect command over sleep as far as regarded time, and could wake
almost at any hour he desired. Then he took a forward step. While
playing with his birds he said, "To-night I will dream of you." But the
thought intervened that he had often dreamed of the birds and that to
dream of them that night would not be very remarkable. So he said,
"No, I will not dream of the birds that are living; I will dream of
Golden Cloud." It was a long time now since Golden Cloud had been
buried, but Dan had never forgotten his pet. When he went to bed he
said, "I will dream of Golden Cloud--a pleasant dream." And he dwelt
upon his wish, and expressed it in words, again and again. That night
he dreamed of Golden Cloud, and of its pretty tricks; of its growing
old and shaky; of its death and burial. Then he saw something that he
had never seen before. He saw it lying quite contented and happy at
the bottom of its flower-pot coffin, and when he chirruped to it, it
chirruped in return.

He told his dream to Joshua.

"I have dreamed of Golden Cloud a good many times," said Joshua.

"But I made up my mind especially to dream of Golden Cloud," said Dan,
"and I dreamed of it the same night. At other times, my dreaming of it
was not premeditated. It came in the usual way of dreams."

"What do you want me to believe from all this Dan?

"That, as the author of that book says, you can dream of any thing you
wish. I scarcely dare believe that I shall be able to dream of what I
shall most desire by and by. By and by, Jo," he repeatedly sadly,
"when you and me are parted."

Joshua threw his arms around Dan's neck.

"And you are doing all this, dear Dan, because you want to dream of
me?"

"And because I want to be with you, Jo, and to see things that you
see, and never, never to be parted from you." The wistful tears ran
down Dan's cheek as he said these words.

"It would be very wonderful," said Joshua; "almost too wonderful. And
I shall think, 'Dan is here with me, although I cannot see him.'"

"Listen again to what he says, Jo," said Dan, opening the "Triumph of
Mind over Matter." "A person can so command and control his mental
forces as to train himself to dream of events that are actually taking
place at a distance from him, at the precise moment they occur."

"And that is what you want to do when I am away, Dan."

"That is what I want to do when you are away, dear Jo."

"I am positive you can't do it."

"Why? I dreamed of Golden Cloud when I wanted to."

"I can understand that. But how did you dream of Golden Cloud, Dan?
You dreamed of him as if he was alive"--

"At first I did; but afterwards I saw him in the flower-pot, dead."

"And Golden Cloud chirruped to you?"

"Yes, Jo."

"Think again, Dan. Golden Cloud was dead, and Golden Cloud chirruped
to you!"

"Yes, Jo," faltered Dan, beginning to understand the drift of Joshua's
remarks.

"That is not dreaming of things as they are, Dan," said Joshua gently,
taking Dan's hand and patting it. "If you could dream of Golden Cloud
as he is now, you would see nothing of him but a few bones--feathers
and flesh all turned to clay. Not a chirrup in him, Dan dear, not a
chirrup!"

Dan covered his eyes with his hand, and the tears came through his
fingers, But he soon recovered himself.

"You are right, Jo," he said: "yet I'm not quite wrong. The man who
wrote that book knew things, depend upon it. He was not a fool. _I_
was, to think I could do such wonders in so short a time."

Dan showed, in the last sentence, that he did not intend to relinquish
his desire. He said nothing more about it, however, and in a few
minutes the pair of bullfinches were on the table in a little cage,
whistling, "Rule, Britannia," the high notes of which one of the birds
took with consummate ease.




CHAPTER V.
JOSHUA MAKES UP HIS MIND TO GO TO SEA.


Who was the Old Sailor?

Simply an old sailor. Having been a very young sailor indeed once upon
a time, a great many years ago now, when, quite a little boy, he ran
away from home and went to sea out of sheer love for blue water. In
those times many boys did just the same thing, but that kind of boyish
romance has been gradually dying away, and is now almost dead. Steam
has washed off a great deal of its bright coloring. The taste of the
salt spray grew so sweet to the young sailor's mouth, and the sight of
the ocean--the waters of which were not always blue, as he had
imagined--grew so dear to his eyes, that every thing else became as
naught to him. And so, faithful to his first love, he had grown from a
young sailor to an old sailor. At the present time he was living in a
rusty coal-barge, moored near the Tower stairs; and, although he could
see land and houses on the other side of the water, there was a curl
in his great nostrils as if he were smelling the sweet salt spray of
the sea, and a staring look in his great blue eyes, as if the grand
ocean were before him instead of a dirty river. He was a short
thick-set man, and his face was deeply indented with small-pox;
indeed, so marked were the impressions which that disease had left
upon him, that his face looked for all the world like a conglomeration
of miniature salt-cellars. His name was Praiseworthy Meddler. The sea
was his world--the land was of no importance whatever. Not only was
the land of no importance in his eyes, but it was a place to be
despised, and the people who inhabited it were an inferior race. From
him did Joshua Marvel learn of the glories and the wonders of the
ocean, and from him came Joshua's inspiration to be a sailor.

For Joshua had settled upon the road which was to lead him to fame and
fortune. By the time that he had made up his mind what was to be his
future walk in life, most other lads in the parish of Stepney of the
same age and condition as himself were already at work at different
businesses, and had already commenced mounting that ladder which led
almost always to an average of something less than thirty-two
shillings a week for the natural term of their lives. Although, up to
this period of his life, Joshua's career had been a profitless one, as
far as earning money was concerned, his time had not been thrown away.
The tastes he had acquired were innocent and good, and were destined
to bear good fruit in the future. The boyish friendship he had formed
was of incalculable value to him; for it was undoubtedly due, in a
great measure, to that association that Joshua was kept from contact
with bad companions. He had not yet given evidence of the possession
of decided character, except what might be gathered from a certain
quiet determination of will inherited from his mother, but stronger in
him than in her because of his sex, and from a certain unswerving
affection for any thing he loved. A phrenologist, examining his head,
would probably have found that the organs of firmness and adhesiveness
predominated over all his other faculties; and for the rest, something
very much as follows. (Let it be understood that no attempt is here
being made to give a perfect analysis of Joshua's faculties, but that
mention is only being made of those organs which may help to explain,
if they be remembered by the reader, and if there be any truth in
phrenology, certain circumstances connected with Joshua's career, the
consequences of which may have been varied in another man.) Well,
then, adhesiveness and firmness very large; the first of which will
account for his strong attachment for Dan, and the second for his
determination, notwithstanding his mother's efforts, not to
take to wood-turning nor any other trade, but to start in
life for himself: Inhabitiveness very small; and as inhabitiveness
means a tendency to dwell in one place, the want of that faculty
will account for his desire to roam. All his moral and religious
faculties--such as benevolence, wonder, veneration, and
conscientiousness--were large; what are understood as the
semi-intellectual sentiments--constructiveness, imitation and
mirthfulness--he possessed only in a moderate degree; but one,
ideality, was largely developed. Four of his intellectual
faculties--individuality, language, eventuality, and time--call for
especial notice: they were all very small, the smallest of them being
eventuality, the especial function of which is a memory of events.
Mention being made that his organs of color and tune were large, this
brief analysis of Joshua's phrenological development is completed.

For the purpose of fitting himself for his future career, Joshua had
lately spent a great deal of his time at the waterside, and in the
course of a few months' experience in boats and barges on the River
Thames, had made himself perfectly familiar with all the dangers of
the sea. Praiseworthy Meddler had a great deal to do with Joshua's
resolve. His attention had been directed to the quiet well-behaved
lad, who came down so often to the waterside, and who sat gazing, with
unformed thoughts, upon the river. Not upon the other side of it,
where tumble-down wharves and melancholy walls were, but along the
course of it, as far as its winding form would allow him to do so.
Then his imagination followed the river, and gave it pleasanter banks
and broader, until he could scarcely see any banks at all, so wide had
the river grown; then he followed it farther still, until it merged
into an ocean of waters, in which were crowded all the wonders he had
read of in books of travel and adventure: wastes of sea, calm and
grand in sunlight and in moonlight; fire following the ship at night,
fire in the waters, as if millions of fire-fish had rushed up from the
depths to oppose the wooden monster which ploughed them through;
shoals of porpoises, sharks, whales, and all the wondrous breathing
life in the mighty waters; curling waves lifting up the ship, which
afterwards glides down into the valleys: blood moons, and such a
wealth of stars in the heavens, and such feather-fringed azure clouds
as made the heart beat to think of them; storms, too--dark waters
seething and hissing, thunder awfully pealing, lightning flashes
cutting the heavens open, and darting into the sea and cutting that
with keen blades of light, then all darker than it was before: all
these pictures came to Joshua's mind as, with eager eyes and clasped
hands, he sat gazing at the dirty river. He held his breath as the
storm-pictures came, but there was no terror in them; bright or dark,
every thing he saw was tinged with the romance of youthful imagining.
Praiseworthy Meddler spoke first to Joshua, divined his wish,
encouraged it, told the lad stories of his own experience, and told
them with such heartiness and enthusiasm, and made such a light matter
of shipwreck and such like despondencies, that Joshua's aspirations
grew and grew until he could no longer keep them to himself. And, of
course, to whom should he first unbosom himself in plain terms but to
his more than brother, Dan?

He disclosed his intentions in this manner: he was playing and singing
'Tom Bowling,' the words of which he had learned from old
Praiseworthy. He sang the song through to the end, and Dan repeated
the last two lines,--


    "For though his body's under hatches,
      His soul is gone aloft."


"_My_ body has been under hatches today, Dan," said Joshua, "although
I wasn't in the same condition as poor Tom Bowling. I dare say," with
a furtive look at Dan, "that I shall often be under hatches."

"Ah!" said Dan. He knew what was coming.

"The Old Sailor has been telling me such stories, Dan! What do you
think? He was taken by a pirate-ship once, and served with them for
three months."

"As a pirate?"

"Yes; he has been a pirate. Isn't that glorious? It was an awful
thing, though; the ship he was in--a merchantman--saw the pirate-ship
giving chase. They tried to get away, but the pirates had a ship twice
as good as theirs, and soon overhauled them. Then the grappling-irons
were thrown, and the pirates swarmed into the merchantman, and there
was a terrible fight. Those who were not killed were taken on board
the pirate-ship, the Old Sailor among the rest. There were three women
with them, and O Dan! would you believe it?--those devils, the
pirates, killed them every one, men and women too, and threw them
overboard--killed every one of them but the Old Sailor."

"How was it that he was saved, Jo?"

"That is a thing he never could make out, he says. It turned him sick
to see the pirates slashing away with their cutlasses, but when they
came to the women he was almost mad. He was bound to a mast by a
strong rope, and when he saw a woman's face turned to him and looking
at him imploringly, although her eyes were almost blinded by blood"--

"Oh!" cried Dan with a shudder, as if he could see the dreadful
picture.

"It was a woman who had had a kind word for every one on the
merchant-ship--a lady she was, and everybody loved her," continued
Joshua, with kindling eyes and clinched fists. "When the Old Sailor
saw her looking at him, he gave a yell, and actually broke the rope
that bound him. But a dozen pirates had him down on the deck the next
moment. He fought with them, and called out to them, 'Kill me, you
devils!' You should hear the Old Sailor tell the story, Dan! 'Kill me,
you devils!' he cried out, and he grappled with them, and hurt some of
them. You may guess that they were too many for him. They bound him in
such a zig-zag of ropes--round his neck and legs and back and
arms--that he couldn't move, and they kicked him into a corner. There
he lay, with his eyes shut, and heard the shrieks of his poor
companions, and the splashes in the water as their bodies were thrown
overboard. After that there was a great silence. 'Now it is my turn,'
he said to himself, and he bit his tongue, so that he should not
scream out. But it wasn't his turn; some of the pirates came about
him, and talked in a lingo he couldn't understand, and when he thought
they were going to slash at him, they went away, and left him lying on
the deck alive! He lay there all night, dozing now and then, and,
waking up in awful fright; for every time he dozed, he fancied that he
heard the screams of the poor people who had been killed, and that he
saw the bloody face of the poor lady he had tried to save. They didn't
give him any thing to eat or drink all night; all they gave him was
kicks. 'Then,' said the Old Sailor, 'they're going to starve me!' If
he could have moved, he would have thrown himself into the sea, but he
was too securely tied. Well, in the morning, the captain, who could
speak a little English, came and ordered that the ropes should be
loosened. 'Now's my time,' said the Old Sailor, and he felt quite
glad, Dan, he says; and he says, too, that he felt as if he could have
died happy if they had given him a chew of tobacco. 'Open your eyes,
pig of an Englishman!' cried the captain, for the Old Sailor kept his
eyes shut all the time. 'I sha'n't, pig of the devil!' roared the Old
Sailor; but, without meaning it, he did open his eyes. 'Look here,
pig,' said the captain, 'you are a strong man, and you ought to be a
good sailor.' 'I'd show you what sort of a sailor I am, if you would
cut these infernal'"--

"O Jo!" said Dan, with a warning finger to his lips.

"That is what the Old Sailor said, Dan," continued Joshua. "'I'd show
you what sort of a sailor I am, if you would cut these--you know
what--ropes, and give me a cutlass or a marlin-spike!' But the captain
only laughed at him; and said, 'Now, pig, listen. You will either do
one of two things. You will either be one of us'-- 'Turn pirate!'
cried the Old Sailor; 'no, I'll be--you know what, Dan--if I do!'
'Very well, pig,' said the captain; 'refuse, and you shall be cut to
pieces, finger by finger, and every limb of you. I give you an hour,
pig, to think of it.' The Old Sailor says that, if he had had a bit of
tobacco, he would have chosen to be killed, even in that dreadful
manner, rather than consent to join them. He never in all his life
longed so for a thing as he longed then for a quid, as he calls it. It
made him mad to see the dark devils chewing their tobacco as they
worked. 'Anyhow,' he thought, 'I may as well live as be killed. I
shall get a chance of escape one day.' So when the hour was up, and
the captain came, the Old Sailor told him that he would oblige them by
not being chopped into mince-meat, if they would give him a chew of
tobacco. They gave it to him, and unbound him; and that is the way he
became a pirate."

"And how did he get away, Jo?" asked Dan.

"That is wonderful, too," continued Joshua. "He was with them for
three months, and saw strange things and bad things, but never took
part in them. They tried to force him to do as they did, but he
wouldn't. And he made himself so useful to them, and worked so hard,
that it wasn't to their interest to get rid of him."

"I think the Old Sailor must be a little bit of a hero, Jo,"
interrupted Dan.

Joshua laughed heartily at this. "You will not say so when you see
him."

"Why? I suppose he is ugly."

Joshua raised his hand expressively.

"And weather-beaten, and all that"--

"And knows," said Joshua, still laughing, "'Which is Saturday, Sunday,
Monday?'"

"Still he may be a hero--not like you, Jo, because you will be
handsome."

"Do you think so?"

If by some strange chance a picture of Joshua, as he was to be one
day, had presented itself to the lads, how they would have wondered
and marvelled as to what could have been the youth of such a man as
they saw before them! Look at Joshua now, as he is sitting by Dan's
side. A handsome open-faced lad, full of kindly feeling, and with the
reflex of a generous loving nature beaming in his eyes. Honest face,
bright eyes, laughing mouth that could be serious, strong limbs, head
covered with curls--a beautiful picture of happy boyhood. But no more
surprising miracle could have occurred to Dan than to see Joshua, as
he saw him then sitting by his side, and then to see the shadow of
what was to come.

"Do you think so?" and Joshua laughingly repeated the question.

"Do I think so" said Dan, gazing with pride at his friend. "O Mr.
Vanity! as if you didn't know!"

Joshua, laughing more than ever, protested that he had never given it
a thought, and promised that he would take a good long look at himself
in the glass that very night. At the rate the lads were going on, it
appeared as if the Old Sailor's story would never be completed, and so
Daniel said, to put a stop to Joshua's nonsense.

"It is all your fault, Dan," said Joshua, "because you _will_
interrupt. Well, when the Old Sailor had been in the ship for three
months, it was attacked by a cruiser which had been hunting it down
for a long time. All the pirates were taken--the Old Sailor and
all--and sold as slaves at Algiers. They wouldn't believe his story
about his not being a pirate, and he was sold for a slave with the
rest of them. He worked in chains in the fields for a good many
weeks--he doesn't remember how many--until Lord Exmouth bombarded the
forts, and put a stop to Christian slavery. And that is the Old
Sailor's pirate-story."

"And now to return to what we were saying before you commenced," said
Dan. Joshua placed his hands at the back of his head, and interlacing
his fingers, looked seriously at Dan, and drew a long breath: "You
have something to tell me, Jo."

"I have," said Joshua. "I have made up my mind what I am going to be.
You can guess if you like."

"I have no need to guess, Jo, dear; I know, I have seen it all along."

"What is it, then?"

"You are going to sea," said Dan, striving to speak in a cheerful
voice, but failing.

"Yes, I shall go to sea;" and Joshua drew another long breath. "How
did you find it out, Dan the Wise?"

"How did I find it out, Jo the Simple? Haven't I seen it in your eyes
for ever so long? Haven't you been telling me so every day? It might
escape others' notice, but not mine."

"I told the Old Sailor to-day, and he clapped me on the back, and said
I was a brave fellow. But he knew it all along, too, he said. And he
took me into his cabin--such a cabin, Dan--and poured out a tiny glass
of rum, and made me drink it. My throat was on fire for an hour
afterwards."

"Have you told mother and father?"

"No."

"Tell them at once, Jo. Go home now, and tell them. I want to be left
alone to think of it. O Jo! and I am going to lose you!"

Dan had tried hard to control himself, but he now burst into a passion
of weeping; and it is a fact, notwithstanding that they were both big
boys, that their heads the next moment were so close together that
Dan's tears rolled down both their faces. Joshua's heart was as full
as Dan's, and he ran out of the room more to lessen Dan's grief than
his own.

Thus it fell out that in the evening, when the members of the Marvel
family, variously occupied, were sitting at the kitchen fire, Joshua
said suddenly to his relatives,--

"I should like to go to sea."

George Marvel was smoking a long clay-pipe; Mrs. Marvel was darning a
pair of worsted stockings, in which scarcely a vestige of their
original structure was left; and Sarah Marvel was busily engaged in a
writing-lesson, in the execution of which she was materially assisted
by her tongue, which, hanging its full length out of her mouth, was
making occasional excursions to the corners of her lips. George Marvel
took the pipe from his lips and looked at the fire meditatively; Mrs.
Marvel burst into tears, and let the worsted stocking, with the needle
sticking in it, drop into her lap; and Sarah Marvel, casting a
doubtful look at her writing-lesson, every letter in which appeared to
be possessed with a peculiar species of drunkenness, removed her eyes
to her brother's face, upon which she gazed with wonder and
admiration. So engrossed was she in the contemplation, that she put
the inky part of the pen into her mouth, and sucked at it in sheer
absence of mind.

"Don't cry, mother," said George Marvel. "What was that you said,
Josh?"

"I should like to go to sea, father."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Marvel thoughtfully, looking steadily into the
fire.

Joshua was also looking into the fire, and he saw in it, as plain as
plain could be, a fiery ship, full-rigged, with fiery ropes and fiery
sails, and saw himself, Joshua Marvel, standing on the poop, dressed
in gold-laced coat and gold-laced cocked-hat, with a telescope in his
hand. For Joshua, without the slightest idea as to how it was all to
come about, had made up his mind that he was to be a captain, dressed
as Nelson was in a picture which was one of Praiseworthy Meddler's
prize possessions, and which occupied the place of honor in the Old
Sailor's cabin. While this vision was before Joshua Mrs. Marvel
continued to cry, but in a more subdued manner.

"And so you want to be sailor, Josh?" queried Mr. Marvel.

"Yes. A sailor first, and then a captain."

The intermediate grades were of too small importance to be considered.

"I am sure, Josh," said Mrs. Marvel, crying all the while, "I don't
see what you want to go away for. Why don't you make up your mind even
now to apprentice yourself to father's trade and be contented? You
might get a little shop of your own in time, if you worked very hard,
and it would be pleasant for all of us."

"You be quiet, mother," said Mr. Marvel. "What do women know about
these things? I'm Joshua's father, I believe"--

"Yes, George, I believe you are," sobbed Mrs. Marvel.

"And, as Joshua's father, I tell you again, once and for all, that
he's not going to be a wood-turner. Here's the old subject come up
again with a vengeance! I wish a woman's clothes were like a woman's
ideas; then they would never wear out. A wood-turner! A pretty thing a
wood-turner is! I've been a wood-turner all my life, and what better
off am I for it?"

"I am sure, father, we have been very happy," said Mrs. Marvel.

"I am not saying any thing about that," observed Mr. Marvel,
expressing in his voice a very small regard for domestic happiness,
although, in reality, no man better appreciated it. "What I say is,
I've been a wood-turner all my life; and what I ask is, what better
off am I, or you, or any of us, for it? If Josh likes to be a
wood-turner, he can; I have nothing to say against it, except that
he's been a precious long time making up his mind. And if he likes to
be a sailor, he can; I have nothing to say against that. I'm Joshua's
father, and, as Joshua's father, I say if Josh likes to make a start
in life for himself as a sailor, let him. If I was Josh, I would do
the same myself."

"Thank you, father," said Joshua. "And, mother, if you only heard what
Mr. Praiseworthy Meddler says of the sea, you would think very
differently; I know you would."

But Mrs. Marvel shook her head and would not be comforted.

"My father was a wood-turner," said Mr. Marvel, "and he made me a
wood-turner. He never asked me whether I would or I wouldn't, and I
didn't have a choice. If he had have asked me, perhaps we shouldn't
have gone on pinching and pinching all our lives. Now Joshua's
different; he's got his choice: never forget, Josh, that it was your
father who gave you the world to pick from--and I think he's acting
sensibly, as I should have done if _my_ father had given me the
chance. But he didn't, and it's too late for a man with his head full
of white hairs to commence life all over again."

And Mr. Marvel fell to smoking his pipe again, and studying the fire.

"I've never seen the sea myself," he presently resumed; "but I've read
of it, and heard talk of it. There are better lands across the seas
than Stepney, for a youngster like Josh. There are lots of chances,
too; and who knows what may happen?"

"That's where it is, father," whimpered Mrs. Marvel; "we don't know
what might happen. Suppose Josh is shipwrecked; what would you say
then? You'd lie awake night after night, father--you know you
would--and wish he had been a wood-turner. I've never seen the sea,
and I never want to; I've been happy enough without it. It's like
flying in the face of Providence. And what's to become of us when we
are old, if Josh can't take care of us?"

"Just so, mother. Listen to me, and be sensible. Suppose Josh becomes
a wood-turner; he can't expect to do better than his father has done.
I am not a bad workman myself; and though Josh might make as good, I
don't think he'd make a better. Now what I say again is--and it's
wonderful what a many times a man has to say a thing before he can
drive it into a woman's head, if she ain't willing--although I'm a
good workman what better off am I for it? And what better off would
Josh be for it, when he gets to be as old as I am? We've commenced to
lay by a good many times--haven't we, Maggie?--but we never could keep
on with it. First a bit of sickness took it; then a bit of furniture
that we couldn't do without took it; then a rise in bread and meat
took it; and then a bit of something else took it. You've been a good
woman to me, Maggie, and you've pinched all you could for twenty
years; and what has come of all your pinching? There's that old teapot
you used to lay by in. It's at the back of the cupboard now, and it
hasn't had a shilling in it for I don't know when's the time. It would
be full of dust, mother, only you don't like dust; and a good job too.
But it ain't your fault that it isn't full of something better; and it
ain't my fault. It's all because I've been a wood-turner all my days.
And the upshot of it is, that we're not a bit better off now than we
were twenty years ago. We're worse off; for we've spent twenty good
years and got nothing for them."

"We've got Josh and Sarah," Mrs. Marvel ventured to say. The simple
woman actually regarded those possessions as of inestimable value--but
that is the way of a great many foolish mothers.

Her husband did not heed the remark. He took another pull at his pipe,
but drew no smoke from it. His pipe was out; but in his earnestness he
puffed away at nothing, and continued,--

"Who is to take care of us, you want to know, when we grow old, if
Josh don't. When Josh grows up, Josh will get married, naturally."

"So shall I, father," interrupted Sarah, who was listening with the
deepest interest to the conversation.

"Perhaps, Sarah," said Mr. Marvel a little dubiously. "Girls ain't
like boys; they can't pick and choose. Josh will get married,
naturally; and Josh will have children, naturally. Perhaps he'll have
two; perhaps he'll have six."

"Mrs. Pigeon's got thirteen," remarked Sarah vivaciously.

"Be quiet, Sarah. Where did you learn manners? Now if Josh has six
children, and, being a wood-turner, doesn't do any better as a
wood-turner than his father has done--and he's a presumptuous young
beggar if he thinks he's going to do better than me"--

"I don't think so, father," said Joshua.

"Never mind. And he's a presumptuous young beggar if he thinks he's
going to do better than me," Mr. Marvel repeated; he relished
the roll of the words--"what's to become of us then? Josh, if he's a
wood-turner with six children, can't be expected to keep his old
father and mother. He will have enough to do as it is. But if Josh
strikes out for himself, who knows what may happen? He may do this, or
he may do that; and then we shall be all right."

There was not the shadow of a doubt that in that house the gray mare
was the worse horse, in defiance of the old adage.

"And as to Joshua's being shipwrecked," continued Mr. Marvel, "you
know as well as I do, mother, that it would be enough to break my
heart. But I don't believe there's more danger on the sea than on the
land. There was Bill Brackett run over yesterday by a brewer's dray,
and three of his ribs broken. You don't get run over by a brewer's
dray at sea. And what occurred to William Small a month ago? He was
walking along as quiet and inoffensive as could be, when a brick from
a scaffold fell upon his head, and knocked every bit of sense clean
out of him. They don't build brick houses on the sea. Why, it might
have happened to me, or you, or Josh!"

"Or me, father," cried Sarah, not at all pleased at being deprived of
the chance of being knocked on the head by a brick.

"Or you, Sarah. So, mother, don't let us have any more talk about
shipwrecks."

"But if Josh _does_ get shipwrecked, father," persisted Mrs. Marvel,
"remember that I warned you beforehand."

"But Josh is not going to get shipwrecked," exclaimed Mr. Marvel,
slightly raising his voice determined not to tolerate domestic
insubordination; "therefore, hold your tongue, and say nothing more
about it."

There was one privilege for the possession of which Mr. Marvel, had
fought many a hard battle in the early days of his married life, and
which he now believed he possessed by right of conquest; that was the
privilege of having the last word. To all outward appearance Mrs.
Marvel respected this privilege; but in reality she set it at
defiance. It was a deceptive victory that he had gained; for if he had
the last audible word, Mrs. Marvel had the last inaudible one. Woman
is a long-suffering creature; she endures much with patience and
resignation; but to yield the last word to a man is a sacrifice too
great for her to make. There are, no doubt, instances of such
sacrifice; but they are very rare. Many precious oblations had Mrs.
Marvel made in the course of her married life; but she had not
sacrificed the last word upon the domestic altar. True it was always
whispered inly, under her breath; but it was hers nevertheless; and
she exulted in it. When a woman cannot get what she wants by hook, she
gets it by crook, depend upon it. For twenty years had the Marvels
lived together man and wife; and during all that time Mr. Marvel had
never known, that in every family conversation and discussion his wife
had invariably obtained the victory of the last word; although
sometimes a half-triumphant look in her eyes had caused him to doubt.

So, upon this occasion, notwithstanding the decided tone in which her
husband had closed the conversation, Mrs. Marvel bent her head over
her worsted stocking, and whispered to herself, half tearfully and
half triumphantly,--

"But if Josh _does_ get shipwrecked, father, don't forget that I
warned you beforehand."




CHAPTER VI.
THE ACTOR AND HIS DAUGHTER.


THAT night, as Joshua was lying half-awake and half-asleep, his mind
being filled with pleasant sea-pictures, he was surprised to hear his
bedroom-door creak. Without moving in his bed, he turned his eyes
towards the door, and, in the indistinct light, he saw his mother
enter the room. She opened the door very softly, as if fearful of
disturbing him, and she paused for a moment or two in the open space,
with her hand raised in a listening attitude. Joshua saw that she
believed him to be asleep, and he closed his eyes as she approached
the bed. Her movements were so quiet, that he did not know she was
close to him, until she gently took his hand and placed it to her
lips. Then he knew that she was kneeling by his bedside, and knew
also, by a moisture on his hand, that she was crying. His heart
yearned to her, but he did not move. He heard her whisper, "God
protect you, my son!" Then his hand, wet with his mother's tears, was
released, and when he re-opened his eyes, she was gone.

"Poor mother!" he thought. "She is unhappy because I am going to sea.
I will ask the Old Sailor to come and tell her what a glorious thing
the sea is. Perhaps that will make her more comfortable in her mind."

He acted upon his resolution the very next day, and his efforts were
successful. In the evening, he wended his way homewards from the
waterside, in a state of ineffable satisfaction because the Old Sailor
had promised to come to Stepney, for the express purpose of proving to
Mrs. Marvel how superior in every respect the sea was to the land, and
what a wise thing Joshua had done in making up his mind to be a
sailor.

The lad was in an idle happy humor as he walked down a narrow street,
at no great distance from his home. It differed in no respect from the
other common streets in the common neighborhood. All its
characteristics were familiar to him. The sad-looking one-story brick
houses; the slatternly girls nursing babies, whose name was legion;
the troops of children of various ages and in various stages of
dirtiness, one of their most distinguishing insignia being the yawning
condition of their boots, there not being a sound boot-lace among the
lot of them; and here and there the melancholy and desponding shops
where sweet stuff and cheap provisions were sold. Joshua walked down
this poor woe-begone street, making it bright with his bright fancies,
when his attention was suddenly aroused by the occurrence of something
unusual near the bottom of the street.

A large crowd of boys and girls and women was gathered around a
person, who was gesticulating and declaiming with startling
earnestness. Pushing his way through the throng, Joshua saw before him
a tall, spare man, with light hair hanging down to his shoulders. So
long and waving was his hair, that it might have belonged to a woman.
His gaunt and furrowed face was as smooth as a woman's, and his mouth
was large, as were also his teeth, which were peculiarly white and
strong. But what most arrested attention were his eyes; they were of a
light-gray color, large even for his large face, and they had a
wandering look in them strangely at variance with the sense of power
and firmness that dwelt in every other feature. He was acting the
Ghost scenes in "Hamlet;" in his hand was a wooden sword, which he
sheathed in his ragged coat, and drew and flourished when occasion
needed. His fine voice, now deep as a man's, now tender as a woman's,
expressed all the passions, and expressed them well. In the library
which Dan and Joshua possessed there was an odd volume of Shakspeare's
works, and when the street-actor said, in a melancholy dreamy tone,--


    "It waves me still:--go on, I'll follow thee,"


Joshua remembered (as much from the intelligent action of the actor as
from the words themselves) that it was a Ghost whom Hamlet was
addressing. The words were so impressively spoken, that Joshua almost
fancied he saw a Shade before the man's uplifted hand. Then, when
Hamlet cried,--


                           "My fate cries out,
    And makes each petty artery in this body
    As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
    Still am I called. Unhand me, gentlemen!"


(struggling with his visionary opponents and breaking from them, and
drawing his wooden sword)


   "By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!
    I say, away! Go on, I'll follow thee;"


Joshua experienced a thrill of emotion that only the representation of
true passion could have excited. As the man uttered the last words,
Joshua heard a shuddering sigh close to him. Turning his head, he saw
Susan, whose face was a perfect encyclopædia of wondering and
terrified admiration.

"Who is he following, Joshua?" she asked in a whisper, clutching him
by the sleeve.

"The Ghost! Hush!"

"The Ghost!" (with a violent shudder.) "Where?"

Joshua pressed her hand, and warned her to be silent, so as not to
disturb the man. Susan held his hand tightly in hers, and obeyed.

The Ghost that the actor saw in his mind's eye was standing behind
Susan. The man advanced a step in that direction, and stood with
outstretched sword, gazing at the airy nothing. Susan trembled in
every limb as the man glared over her shoulder, and she was frightened
to move her head, lest she should see the awful vision whose presence
was palpable to her senses. The man had commenced the platform-scene,
where Hamlet says, "Speak; I'll go no further;" and the Ghost says,
"Mark me!" when a tumult took place. At the words, "Mark me!" a
vicious boy picked up a piece of mud, and threw it at the man's face,
with the words, "Now you're marked;" at which several of the boys and
girls laughed and clapped their hands. The actor made no answer, but,
seizing the boy by the shoulder held him fast and proceeded with the
scene. The boy tried to wriggle himself away, but at every fresh
attempt the man's grasp tightened, until, thoroughly desperate, the
boy broke into open rebellion.


_Actor_. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched.

_Boy_ (_struggling violently_). Just you let me go, will you?

_Actor_. Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unaneal'd.

_Boy_ (_beginning to cry_). Come now, let me go will you? You're a
hurting of me! Let me go you--(_bad words_).

_Actor_ (_calm and indifferent_). No reckoning made, but sent to my
   account
With all my imperfections on my head.

_A girl's voice_. Pinch him, Billy!

_A boy's voice_. Kick him, Billy!

Billy did both, but the actor continued.

_Actor_. Oh, horrible! Oh, horrible! Most horrible!

_Billy_. Throw a stone at him, some one!

_Actor_ (_sublimely unconscious_). If thou hast nature in thee, bear
it not.

A stone was thrown; and as if this were a signal for a general attack,
a shower of stones was hurled at the actor. One of them hit him on the
forehead; hit him so badly that he staggered, and, releasing his hold
of Billy, raised his hand to his head, while an expression of pain
passed into his face. Hooting and yelling, "Look at the mad actor!"
"Hoo, hoo! look at the crazy fool!"--the crowd of boys and girls
scampered away, and left the man standing in the road, with only Susan
and Joshua for an audience. Joshua was hot with indignation, and
Susan, spell-bound by awe and fear, stood motionless by Joshua's side,
while large tears trickled from her eyes into her open mouth.

The blood was oozing from the wound in the man's forehead, and his
long fair hair was crimson-stained. His eyes wandered around
distressfully, and a sighing moan died upon his lips. The fire of
enthusiasm had fled from his countenance, and in the place of the
inspired actor, Joshua saw a man whose face was of a deathly hue, and
from whose eyes the light seemed to have departed. With his hand
pressed to his forehead, he staggered a dozen yards, and then leaned
against the wall for support.

"He is badly hurt, I am afraid," said Joshua.

Susan walked swiftly up to the man.

"Shall we assist you home?" she said. "Home!" he muttered. "No, no!
Money! want money!"

As he spoke he drooped, and would have fallen to the ground but for
Joshua, who caught the man on his shoulder, and let him glide gently
on to a doorstep. Susan wiped the blood from his face with her apron.
He looked at her vacantly, closed his eyes, and fainted.

"He is dying, Joshua!" cried Susan, her trembling fingers wandering
about the man's face. "Oh, the wicked boys! Oh, the wicked boys!"

A woman here came out of a house with a cup of cold water, which she
sprinkled upon his face. Presently the man sighed, and struggled to
his feet, murmuring, "Yes, yes; I must go home."

"Where do you live?" asked Joshua. "We will assist you."

He did not answer, but walked slowly on like one in a dream. Assisting
but not guiding his steps, Joshua and Susan walked on either side of
him, and supported him. Although he scarcely seemed to be awake, he
knew his way, and turning down a street even commoner than its
fellows, he stopped at the entrance to a miserable court. Waving his
hand as if dismissing them, he walked a few steps down the court, and
entered a house, the door of which was open. Impelled partly by
curiosity, but chiefly by compassion, Joshua and Susan followed the
man into a dark passage, and up a rheumatic flight of stairs, into a
room where want and wretchedness made grim holiday.

"Minnie!" he muttered hoarsely, and all his strength seemed to desert
him as he spoke--"Minnie, child! where are you?"

He sank upon the ground with a wild shudder, and lay as if death had
overtaken him. At the same moment there issued from the corner of the
room where the deepest shadows gathered, a child-girl, so marvellously
like him, with her fair waving hair, her large beautifully-shaped
mouth, her white teeth, and her great restless gray eyes, that Joshua
knew at once that they were father and daughter.

Minnie crept to the man, and sat beside him. She spoke to him, but he
did not reply. And then she looked at Joshua and Susan, whose forms
were dimly discernible in the gathering gloom.

"What is the matter with father?" she asked of them in a faint moaning
voice.

"Some bad boys threw a stone at him, and hit him on the forehead,"
Joshua answered. "He will be better presently, I hope."

Minnie did not heed what he said, but felt eagerly in her father's
pockets, and, not finding what she searched for, began to cry.

"No, no," she said, beating her hands together; "it is not that. He is
weak and ill because he has had nothing to eat. I thought he would
have brought home enough to buy some bread, but he hasn't a penny."

Joshua remembered the man's words, "Money! I want money!" and he
immediately realized that the poor creatures were in want.

"Are you hungry, Minnie?" he asked.

"I have not had any breakfast," she answered wearily. "No more has
father. Nor any dinner. We had some bread last night. We ate it all
up. Father went out to-day, hoping to earn a little money, and he has
come home without any. We shall die, I suppose. But I should like
something to eat first."

"How do you know he has had nothing to eat?" asked Joshua; the words
almost choked him.

Minnie looked up with a plaintive smile.

"If he had had only a hard piece of bread given him," she said in a
tender voice, "he would have put it into his pocket for me."

"Stop here, Susan," said Joshua, a great sob rising in his throat. "I
will be back in ten minutes."

He ran out of the room and out of the house. Never in his life had he
run so fast as he ran now. He rushed into Dan's room, and said, almost
breathlessly,--

"Where is the money-box, Dan? How much is there in it?"

"Fourteen pence," said the faithful treasurer, producing the box.
"What a heat you are in, Jo!"

"Never mind that. I want every farthing of the money, Dan. Don't ask
me any questions. I will tell you all by and by."

Dan emptied the money-box upon the table, and Joshua seized the money,
and tore out of the house as if for dear life. Soon he was in the
actor's room again, with bread and tea. Susan had not been idle during
his absence. She had bathed the man's wound, and had wiped the blood
and mud from his face and hair. He had recovered from his swoon, and
was looking at her gratefully.

Joshua placed the bread before him, and he broke a piece from the loaf
and gave it to Minnie, who ate it greedily.

"So fair and foul a day I have not seen,'" the man muttered; and both
Joshua and Susan thought, "How strangely yet how beautifully he
speaks!"

Susan made the tea down stairs, and she and Joshua sat quietly by,
while the man and his daughter ate like starved wolves. It was a
bitterly-painful sight to see.

"I think we had better go now, Susan," whispered Joshua.

They would have left the room without a word; but the man said,--

"What is your name, and what are you?"

"My name is Joshua Marvel, and I'm going to be a sailor."

"'There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,'" said the actor,
"'to keep watch for the life of poor Jack.'"

"That's what Praiseworthy Meddler says," said Joshua, laughing. "I
shall come and see you again, if you will let me."

"Come and welcome."

"Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, and God bless you, Joshua Marvel!"

Minnie went to the door with Joshua and Susan, and looking at Joshua,
with the tears in her strangely-beautiful eyes, said,

"Goodnight, and God bless you, Joshua Marvel!"

She raised herself on tiptoe, and Joshua stooped and kissed her. After
that, Susan gave her a hug, and she returned to her father, and lay
down beside him.

When he arrived home, Joshua told Dan of the adventure, and how he had
spent the fourteen pence. Dan nodded his head approvingly.

"You did right," he said,--"you always do. I should have done just the
same."

Then they took the odd volume of Shakspeare from the shelf, and read
the Ghost scenes in "Hamlet" before they said goodnight.




CHAPTER VII.
EXPLAINS WHY PRAISEWORTHY MEDDLER REMAINED A BACHELOR.


Here is Praiseworthy Meddler, sitting in the best chair in a corner of
the fireplace in the little kitchen in Stepney. In his low shoes and
loose trousers, and blue shirt open at the throat, he looks every inch
a sailor; and his great red pock-marked face is in keeping with his
calling. On the other side of the fireplace, facing Praiseworthy
Meddler, is Mr. George Marvel; next to Praiseworthy Meddler is Mrs.
Marvel; on a stool at her father's feet sits Sarah; and Joshua sits at
the table, watching every shade of expression that passes over his
mother's face. The subject-matter of the conversation is the sea; and
Praiseworthy Meddler has been "holding forth," as is evidenced by his
drawing from the bosom of his shirt a blue-cotton pocket-handkerchief,
upon which is imprinted a ship of twelve hundred tons burden, A 1 at
Lloyd's for an indefinite number of years. The ship is in full sail,
and all its canvas is set to a favorable breeze. Upon this blue vessel
Praiseworthy Meddler dabs his red face in a manner curiously
suggestive of his face being a deck, and the handkerchief a mop. When
he has mopped his deck, which appears to be a perpetually-perspiring
one, he spreads his handkerchief over his knee to dry, and says, as
being an appropriate tag to what has gone before,--

"There is no place on earth like the sea."

The Old Sailor was not aware that any thing of a paradoxical nature
was involved in the statement, or he might not have repeated it.

"There is no place on earth like the sea. Show me the man who says
there is, and I'll despise him; if I don't, I'm a Dutchman;" adding,
to strengthen his declaration, "or a double Dutchman."

The man not being forthcoming--probably he was not in the
neighborhood, or, being there, did not wish to be openly
despised--Praiseworthy Meddler looked around with the air of one who
has the best of the argument, and then produced a piece of pigtail
from a mysterious recess and bit into it as if he were a savage boar
biting into the heart of a foe.

"But the danger, Mr. Meddler," suggested Mrs. Marvel, in a trembling
voice.

"There is more danger upon land, lady."

"There, mother," said Mr. Marvel; "didn't I tell you so, the other
night?"

"You told her right," said Praiseworthy, with emphasis. "Danger on the
sea, lady! What is it to danger on the land? A ship can ride over a
wave, let it be ever so high; but a man can't step over a wagon.
Are carts and drays and horses safe? Are gas-pipes safe? And if
there is danger on the sea, lady--which I don't deny, mind you,
altogether--what does it do? Why, it makes a man of a boy, and it
makes a man more of a man."

"Hear, _hear_, HEAR!" exclaimed Mr. Marvel, rapping on the table.

"Look at me!" said the enthusiastic sailor. "Here am I--I don't know
how many years old, and that's a fact--I've lived on the sea from when
I was a boy; and I've been blown by rough winds, and I've been blinded
by storms and I've been wrecked on rocky coasts, and I've been as near
death, ay, a score of times, as most men have been. Lord love you, my
dear! All we've got to do is to do our duty; and when we're called
aloft, we can say, 'Ay, ay, sir!' with a brave heart. What better life
than a life on sea is there for boy or man? And doesn't Saturday night
come round?


   "'For all the world's just like the ropes aboard a ship,
       Each man's rigged out,
       A vessel stout,
   To take for life a trip.
   The shrouds, the stays, the braces,
       Are joys, and hopes, and fears;
   The halliards, sheets, and traces,
       Still as each passion veers,
       And whim prevails,
       Direct the sails.
   As on the sea of life he steers.
       Then let the storm
       Heaven's face deform,
   And danger press;
       Of these in spite, there are some joys
   Us jolly tars to bless;
       For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
   To drink to Poll and Bess.'"


Praiseworthy Meddler roared out the song at the top of his voice, as
if it were the most natural and appropriate thing for him to do just
there and then. The effect of his sudden inspiration was, that every
member of the Marvel family, without being previously acquainted with
the young ladies referred to, repeated in their honor the refrain of
the last two lines,--


    "For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
       To drink to Poll and Bess,"


with such extraordinary enthusiasm, that the carroty-haired cat rose
to her feet in alarm, debating within herself the possibility of the
Marvel family having suddenly caught a contagious madness from the Old
Sailor. Convinced that the matter required looking into, puss walked
softly to the door, with the intention of arousing the neighbors; but,
silence ensuing at the conclusion of the refrain, she became
reassured, and stole back to her warm space on the floor, and curled
herself up again, and blinked at the fire.

After this exertion, Praiseworthy Meddler took the twelve-hundred-ton
ship off his knee, and dabbed his face with it energetically.

"What does it amount to," he continued, "if the heart's brave? What
does it amount to when it is all over, and when one gets to be as old
as I am? I'm tough and firm;" and he gave his leg a great slap. "I'm
as young as a younger man; and I know that there's no place on earth
like the sea."

"And you can get promotion, can't you?" asked Joshua, eagerly. "A man
needn't be a common sailor all his life?"

"No, Josh; he needn't stick at that, if he's willing and able, and
does his duty. I know many a skipper who once on a time was only an
able-bodied seaman."

"Do you hear that, mother?" cried Joshua. "Now are you satisfied?" and
he jumped up and gave her a kiss.

"What is a skipper, Mr. Meddler?" asked Mrs. Marvel, with her arm
round Joshua's waist. She had a dim notion that a skipper was
connected with a skipping-rope, and that she might have been a skipper
in her girlhood's days. If that were the case, she could not see what
advantage it would be to Joshua to become one.

"A skipper's a captain, mother," whispered Joshua.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Marvel, but not quite clear in her mind on the point.
"Then, if I might be so bold, Mr. Meddler"--

But here Mrs. Marvel stopped suddenly, and blushed like a girl.

"Ay, ay, lady, go on," said the Old Sailor, encouragingly.

"If I might make so bold," continued Mrs. Marvel, with an effort, "how
is it that you never rose to be a skipper?"

"O mother!" cried Joshua.

"The question is a sensible one, Joshua," said Praiseworthy Meddler
slowly, "and a right one too; though, if all able-bodied seamen rose
to be skippers, there wouldn't be ships enough in the world for them.
I should have been promoted, I have no doubt; but I was born with
something unfortunate, which has stuck to me all my life, and which I
have never been able to get rid of."

"Is it any thing painful?" asked Mrs. Marvel with womanly solicitude.

Praiseworthy Meddler looked at her with a droll expression on his
face, and folded his twelve-hundred-ton ship into very small squares,
and laid it in the palm of his left hand, and flattened it with the
palm of his right, before he spoke again.

"It wasn't my fault, it was my misfortune. I couldn't help my father's
name being Meddler, and I couldn't help being a Meddler myself, being
his son, you see. My father didn't like his name any more than I did,
but he didn't know how to change it; he was born a Meddler, and he
died a Meddler. My being a Meddler is the only reason, I do believe,
why I am not a skipper this present day of our Lord; and I don't think
I am sorry that, when I die, I sha'n't leave any Meddlers behind me."

"You have never been married, Mr. Meddler?"

"No, lady; but I was very near it once, as you shall hear. It was all
because of my name that I wasn't. My father didn't like his name, as I
have told you. His Christian name was Andrew; he was a saddler. He got
along well enough to set up shop for himself, and one morning he took
the shutters down for the first time, and commenced business. Over his
window was the sign, 'A. Meddler, saddler.' There was a rival saddler
in the same town, whose name was Straight, and who didn't like my
father setting up in opposition to him; and he put in his window a
bill, with this on it: 'Have your saddles made and repaired by a
Straightforward man, and not by A. Meddler.' That ruined my father:
people laughed at him, instead of dealing with him; he soon had to
shut up shop, and go to work again as a journeyman. He had two
children; the first was a girl, the next was me. I heard that he was
very pleased when my sister was born, because she was a girl. 'She can
marry when she grows up,' he said, 'and then she will have her
husband's name.' When I was born, my father wasn't pleased: he didn't
want any more Meddlers, he said. But he couldn't help it; no more
could I. He did what he thought was the very best thing for me--he
gave me a fine Christian name to balance my surname he had me
christened Praiseworthy. Now that made it worse. If I was laughed at
for being a Meddler, I was laughed at more for being a Praiseworthy
Meddler. Once, when I was a young fellow, I did good service in a ship
I was serving in. When we came into port, the skipper reported well of
me, and the owners sent for me. I went to the office, thinking that I
should be promoted for my good services. The firm owned at least a
dozen merchant-ships; and I should have been promoted, if it hadn't
been for my name. The owners spoke kindly to me; and after I had
satisfied them that I was fit for promotion, the youngest partner
asked my name. I told him Meddler. He smiled, and the other partners
smiled. 'What other name?' he asked. 'Praiseworthy,' I answered;
'Praiseworthy Meddler.' He laughed at that, and said that I was the
only Praiseworthy Meddler he had ever met. They seemed so tickled at
it, that the serious part of the affair slipped clean out of their
heads; they called me an honest fellow, and said that they would not
forget me. They didn't forget me; they gave me five pounds over and
above my pay. If it hadn't been for my name, they might have appointed
me mate of one of their ships. I was so mad with thinking about it,
that I began to hate myself because I was a Meddler. If the name had
been something I could have got hold of, I would have strangled it. At
last I made up my mind that I would get spliced, and that I would take
my lass's name the day I was married. Being on leave, and stopping at
my father's house, I told him what I had made up my mind to do. He was
a melancholy man--it was his name that made him so, I do believe--and
he told me, in his melancholy voice, that it was the best thing I
could do, and that he wished he had thought of doing so before he
married. 'Wipe it out, my boy,' he said, 'wipe out the unlucky name;
sweep all the Meddlers out of the world. It would have been better you
had been born with a hump than been born a Meddler.' He talked a
little wild sometimes, but we were used to it. I began to look about
me; and one day I caught sight of a lass who took my fancy. My leave
was nearly expired, and I had to join my ship in a few days. I wanted
to learn all about the girl, and I was too bashful to do it myself,
which is not the usual way of sailors, my dear. So I pointed out the
lass to a shipmate, and told him I had taken a fancy to her, and would
he get me all the information he could about her. That very night, as
I was bolting the street-door, just before going to bed, I heard my
shipmate's voice outside in the street. 'Is that you, Meddler?' he
asked. 'Yes, Jack,' I answered. 'I thought I'd come to tell you at
once,' he cried; 'I've found out all about her. Her father's dead, and
her mother's married again, and the lass isn't happy at home.' 'That
makes it all the better for me,' I said. 'Has she got a sweetheart?'
'None that she cares a button for, or that a sailor couldn't cut out,'
he answered. 'Hurrah!' I cried; 'I will go and see her to-morrow.
Thank you, Jack; goodnight.' 'Goodnight,' he said, and I heard him
walking, away. Just then I remembered that I had forgotten the most
important thing of all--her name. I unbolted the door, and called
after him, 'What is her name, Jack?' 'Mary Gotobed!' he cried from a
distance. 'Mary what?' I shouted. 'Gotobed!' he cried again. I bolted
the door, and went."

Praiseworthy Meddler, pausing to take breath, cast another droll look
upon his attentive auditors.

"Gotobed!" he then resumed. "Why, it was worse than Meddler! I
couldn't marry a lass named Gotobed, and take her name; I didn't want
to marry and keep my own name; I couldn't put them together and make
one sensible name out of the two. Gotobed Meddler was as bad as
Meddler Gotobed. And the worst of it all was, that I liked the lass.
She was as pretty a lass as ever I set eyes on. She looked prettier
than ever when I saw her the next day; and forgetting all about the
names I spoke to her and lost myself."

"Lost yourself!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvel.

"Yes, my dear," said the Old Sailor, with a bashfulness that did not
set ill upon him. "I fell in love."

He said this in a confidential hoarse whisper to Mrs. Marvel, as if
the youngsters ought not to hear it.

"Oh, that!" said Mrs. Marvel with a smile.

"But directly she heard what my name was," continued the Old Sailor,
"she burst out laughing, and ran away. I had to go to my ship soon
after that; and when I came back again, she was married to some one
else. So I gave up the idea of marrying; and the name I was born to
has stuck to me all my life. And that is the reason why I never
married, and why I never became a skipper."

They made merry over the Old Sailor's story, and over other stories
that he told of the sea, and of the chances it afforded a youngster
like Joshua of getting on in the world. And towards the close of the
evening Mrs. Marvel fairly gave in, and promised that she would not
say another word against Joshua's determination to be a sailor. In
token of which submission a large jug of grog was compounded,
in honor of the Old Sailor; and when that was drunk, another was
compounded in honor of Joshua. Of both of which Praiseworthy Meddler
drank so freely, that he staggered home to his barge in a state of
semi-inebriation, singing snatches of sea-songs without intermission,
until he tumbled into his hammock and fell asleep.




CHAPTER VIII.
A HAPPY HOLIDAY.


In after years, when Joshua was many thousands of miles away from
Stepney, Dan loved to linger over the memory of one especially happy
day which he, and Joshua, and Ellen and the Old Sailor spent together.
Upon that day the sun was rising now; and Dan, lying in bed, was
waiting impatiently for the solemn and merry church-bells to strike
the hour of seven. His Sunday clothes were smoothly laid out upon a
chair, close to his bed. Had the day not been an eventful one, he
would not have been allowed to wear his best suit in the middle of the
week. When Joshua makes his appearance in Dan's bedroom, it will be
seen that he will also be dressed in his best clothes. The secret of
all this is, that the lads had received permission from their parents
to spend the day with the Old Sailor at the waterside, and were to be
taken in a cart to the Old Sailor's castle--the barge near the Tower
Stairs. Twenty times at the least had Dan said to Joshua, "I should so
like to see the Old Sailor, Jo!" And Joshua, in the most artful
manner, had fished for the invitation, which would have been very
readily given had the Old Sailor been aware of Joshua's desire. But
Joshua, like a great many other diplomatists who think themselves wise
in their generation, went to work in a subtle roundabout way, and so
gave himself a vast deal of trouble, which would have been saved had
he come straight to the point at once. At length, one day, when the
Old Sailor had said, "And how is Dan, Josh?" and Joshua had answered
that he thought Dan was beginning to grow strong, he ventured to add,
with inward fear and trembling: "And he would so much like to see you,
sir, and hear some of your sea-stories! When I tell them they don't
sound the same as when you tell them. There's no salt in them." Artful
Joshua! "Well, my lad," the Old Sailor had said with a chuckle (he was
not insensible to flattery, the old dog!), "why not bring him here to
spend the day?"

"When shall it be, sir?" asked Joshua secretly delighted.

"Next Wednesday, Josh," said the Old Sailor. So next Wednesday it was.
And Joshua ran to Dan's house wild with delight, and coaxed Dan's
parents in to giving their permission.

It was on this very Wednesday morning that Dan was lying awake,
waiting for seven o'clock to strike. He awoke at least two hours
before the proper time to rise; and those hours appeared to him to be
longer than hours ever were before. The ride itself would be an event
in Dan's life; but it was not to be compared with what was to come
afterwards--the spending of a whole day and night in a house on the
water. During the past week Dan had been in a fever of pleasurable
anticipation, and in a fever of fright also, lest it should rain upon
this particular day. The previous night it _had_ rained; and Dan,
lying awake for a longer time than usual, had prayed for the rain to
go away. Ellen--standing at the window in his bedroom, after she had
got out his clean shirt and Sunday clothes, and brushed and smoothed
them, and taken up a stitch in them here and there, as women (and
girls after them) say--had seen the spots of rain falling, and,
joining her prayer to his, had begged very earnestly to the rain to go
away and come again another day.

And now the day was dawning; and Dan, opening his eyes, clapped his
hands in delight to see the sun shining so brightly upon the broken
jug which stood upon the window-sill, and in which was a handful of
the sweet-smelling humble wall-flower. The pair of bullfinches which
Joshua had bought for the Old Sailor were busily at work in their
cage, which was hanging at the window, and were as conscious of the
beauty of the morning as the most sensible human being could possibly
be. Dan was so delighted that he whistled "Rule, Britannia! Britannia
rules the waves!" And one of the bullfinches, after abstracting the
last hemp-seed from the glass containing their morning meal,
immediately piped out with fervid patriotism, "For Britons never,
_never_, NE-_ver_ shall be slaves!" From this episode the reader will
learn that the education of the bullfinches was completed. "Rule,
Britannia," was not their sole vocal accomplishment. They could
whistle "And did you not hear of a jolly young waterman?" in a very
superior manner. On that day the bullfinches were to be presented to
their new master--to whom not a hint had been given of the pleasant
surprise in store for him; which made it all the more delightful.

While the patriotic bullfinch was asserting in the most
melodiously-persuasive notes that "Britons never, _never_, NE-_ver_
shall be slaves," its mate was engaged drawing up water in the tiniest
little bucket in the world--another of the accomplishments (coming,
presumably, under the head of "extras")which patient Dan had taught
the birds in order to win the heart of the Old Sailor. The industrious
bullfinch had a remarkably rakish eye, which flashed saucily and
impatiently as the music fell upon its ears. The slender rope which
held the bucket being in its beak, it could not join in the harmony;
but directly the bucket was hauled up and secured, it whetted its
whistle, and piped out in opposition,--


   "And did you not hear of a jolly young waterman,
     Who at Blackfriars-bridge used for to ply?
   He feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity,
     Winning each heart and delighting each eye;"


repeating, as was its wont, the last line, "Winning each heart and
delighting each eye," so as to produce a greater effect. I do not
assert that the bullfinch actually uttered the words, but I _do_
assert positively that it sang the music of them with the most
beautiful trills that mortal ever heard.

But there was the solemn church-bell striking seven o'clock in tones
less solemn than usual, and there was the joyous church-bell following
suit. And as if the sound had conjured him up, there was Joshua,
dressed in his best, and looking so fresh and handsome with his
holiday-face on, that Dan might well be proud of him. He had his
accordion under his arm, and in one hand was a bunch of flowers which
Dan was to give to the Old Sailor, and in the other a glass containing
some rape-seed soaked in canary-wine for the birds. They knew as well
as possible--knowing little bullfinches!--that Joshua had something
nice for them; and as he approached the cage they came as close to him
as they could, and, to show their appreciation of his kindness,
greeted him with a gush of the sweetest melody. What better beginning
could there be for a happy holiday!

When Dan was dressed the lads went into the kitchen to have breakfast.
And there was Ellen, as fresh as a daisy. The breakfast things were
laid; and there was a clean cloth (not damask, mind!) on the deal
table, and there, absolutely, were two new-laid eggs, one for Joshua
and one for Dan, which Ellen had bought and paid for with her own
money the day before, without saying a word about it. Ellen stooped
and kissed Dan, and as she raised her head Joshua looked at her, and
felt a huge longing to take her face between his two hands and kiss
her, as he used to do in the time when they played sweethearts
together. But he hadn't the courage. Yet he could not help looking at
Ellen again and thinking, What a pretty girl Ellen is! and then,
seeing Ellen's eyes fixed upon his, he turned away his head and
blushed. And Ellen smiled at that, and, if she had been asked, really
could not have told the reason why. Surely never was such a happy
commencement to a holiday, and never was such a happy couple as Dan
and Joshua! After all, are not simple pleasures the best? Are not
those the sweetest pleasures that cost the least?

What put it into Joshua's head? Was it the sentiment of perfect
happiness that actuated the wish? Or was it a passing shadow, lighter
than the lightest cloud, that passed over Ellen's face, as the lads
were talking of the coming delights of the day? It was there but a
moment, but Joshua saw it, or thought he did, and thought also that
there was regret in it. Or was it Ellen's pretty face, or the little
piece of blue ribbon that she had put round her neck, the puss? For
Ellen was fair, and knew what colors best suited her complexion.
Whatever it was that actuated it, there was Joshua saying, just as
they had sat down to breakfast and Ellen was pouring out the
milk-and-water--you may imagine that there was not a great deal of tea
drank in Stepney--there was Joshua saying,--

"Ellen, I wish you were coming with us."

Ellen's hand shook so that she spilt some of the milk-and-water, and a
spasm rose in her throat, for she had wished the same thing fervently,
but had never spoken of it. She checked the spasm, hoping that her
emotion would not be noticed, and answered not a word. But she looked.
Such a look!

Dan was biting into a slice of bread-and-butter, but directly he heard
Joshua's wish, and saw the yearning, look that sprang into Ellen's
eyes, he ceased eating, and leaned his head upon his hand.

"I think I am very selfish," he said, and hot tears gushed into his
eyes.

In an instant Ellen was by his side, and Ellen's face was close to
his. Any one who saw that action, any one who could understand the
quick sympathy that caused her to put her face so close to Dan's, to
show that she knew what he was reproaching himself for, might have
been able to comprehend the depth of unselfish tenderness that dwelt
in the soul of that little maid. Ah! it was only in a kitchen, but how
beautiful it was to see!

"Don't bother about me, my dear," she said almost in a whisper. "If
you are happy, I am happy." And then she added, pretending to be
comically indignant, "You stupid Dan! I've a good mind to rumple your
hair! You selfish, indeed!"

"I am selfish!" exclaimed Dan, looking up and thinking--just as Joshua
had thought--that he had never seen her look so pretty. "I _am_
selfish, Joshua!" he cried, so energetically that Joshua was quite
startled. "What would the Old Sailor say?"

"But, Dan"--said Ellen.

"Seriously, Jo" said Dan, putting his hand over Ellen's mouth, "what
_would_ the Old Sailor say?"

"The Old Sailor would be delighted."

"Now, look here," said Dan, with a determination almost comical in its
intensity when one considered what inspired it; as if it were a
question of tremendous national consequence, or something in which
mighty interests were involved; "are you sure?"

"I am sure he would be delighted, Dan," replied Joshua without the
slightest hesitation.

"It's of no use, Dan and Josh dear," said Ellen, shaking her head.
"You musn't think of it. I can't go. Mother wouldn't be able to spare
me. Why, don't you know"--

"Don't I know what, Ellen?" asked Dan.

"Don't you know that it's washing-day?" said Ellen with a sharp nod,
as if that settled the question.

Dan's head was still resting upon his hand. He pondered for a few
moments, and then raising his head, said, "Good little Ellen;" and
kissed her. "Now let us have breakfast."

Breakfast being over, Dan said he wanted to see Susan.

"Tell her I want to speak to her most particularly," he said to Ellen.
"And, Ellen! when Susan comes, you go out of the room, and Joshua as
well. I want to speak to her quite privately."

Ellen and Joshua left Susan with Dan, and went into the passage; which
gave Joshua opportunity to ask Ellen if she remembered when he used to
be pushed into the coal-cellar. Yes, Ellen remembered it very well
indeed; and they both laughed over the reminiscence.

"How black your face used to be!" exclaimed Ellen.

"And yours too, Ellen!" retorted Joshua saucily.

Whereat Ellen blushed, and did not reply.

What passed between Susan and Dan was never divulged. It was nothing
very dreadful, you may be sure; for when Dan called to Joshua and
Ellen to come in, they found him smiling. Susan was gone, but
presently she entered again with a radiant face and nodded to Dan, who
nodded to Susan in return, and said gayly,--

"Thank you, Susey!"

When Susan went into the passage, she wiped her eyes, and did not once
look round to see if any thing was behind her. That day, over the
washing-tub, Susan was happier than she had been for a long time.

Then Dan rubbed his hands, and said, "I really think this is going to
be the happiest day of my life."

The happiest day of my life! How often, and with what various
meanings, are those words uttered! At dinner-parties when the invited
guest rises to respond to the toast of his health, and commences by
saying in tones which falter from emotion, "This is the happiest day
of my life!" At wedding-feasts, if healths are being proposed, when
the bridegroom, the bridegroom's father, and the bride's father, each
in his turn declares, "This is the happiest day of my life!" At the
presentation of testimonials, whether to humbug, worthy man, or fool,
it is "The happiest day of my life!" with one and all of them. With
copious use of pocket-handkerchief, and with face more suitable for a
funeral than for a joyful occasion. But a fig for moralizing on such a
day as this!

Dam's countenance was suffused with a flush of genuine delight, as he
repeated,--

"Yes, Ellen, this is going to be the happiest day of my life."

She gave him a questioning, imploring look, which asked the reason why
as plainly as any words could put the question.

"Come here, and I'll whisper," said Dan.

Ellen put her ear close to his mouth, but Dan, instead of whispering,
blew into her ear, which caused her to start away with a pleasant
shiver, and to cry out that he tickled her. Nothing daunted, however,
she placed her ear a second time to his lips; and then he whispered
something, which made Ellen jump for joy, and hug him round the neck,
and tear out of the room as if she were mad. And almost before you
could say "Jack Robinson!" there she was back again, her eyes all
aglow with excitement, in her modest Sunday dress and pretty Sunday
bonnet.

Susan's voice was heard calling out,--

"Here's the cart at the door!"

"She means our carriage, Jo," said Dan merrily, as Joshua carried him
out.

And there they were, the three of them in the cart; Dan lying his full
length on some straw between Joshua and Ellen, who sat upon a kind of
bench in a state of perfect happiness. And there were the bullfinches
in their cage, wondering what on earth it all meant, but very blithe
and merry notwithstanding. And there was the cart moving, along
slowly, so that Dan should not be jolted. And there they were,
presently, looking at each other, and laughing and nodding pleasantly
without any apparent cause.

Not among all the stars that gem the heavens (which some wise men
assert are really worlds in which forms that have life fulfil the task
ordained by the Master of all the worlds) could there be found a more
beautiful world than this was to our young holiday-folk on that bright
summer morning. Whitechapel the Dingy was as a flower-garden in their
eyes; and as they rode through the busy neighborhood a great many
persons turned to look at the crazy cart--the springs in which were
the only uneasy part of the whole affair--and at the three joyful
faces that peered about, enjoying every thing, and thankful for every
thing, from the flying clouds to the lazy gutters.

Soon they were at the waterside; and soon they were on the barge, with
the Old Sailor welcoming them in downright sailor fashion. Directly
Dan put out his little hand, and felt it imprisoned in the Old
Sailor's immense palm, and directly he looked at the great open face,
pock-marked as it was, and into the staring pleasant eyes, which
returned his look honestly and pleasantly, he nodded to himself in
satisfaction. His delight was unbounded when the Old Sailor lifted him
tenderly, and placed him in a hammock specially prepared for him. He
was deeply impressed by the Old Sailor's thoughtful kindness. The mere
fact of his lying in a hammock was entrancing. And there Dan swung,
and, gazing in wonder upon the busy life of the flowing river, fancied
himself in dreamland.

Before he gave himself up to that trance, however, there was much to
be done and much to be observed. When the Old Sailor lifted him into
the hammock and arranged him comfortably--Dan was surprised that those
great strong hands could be so light and tender--he said to the Old
Sailor, "Thank you, sir;" and the Old Sailor replied, "Ay, ay, my
lad," just as he had read of, and in just the kind of tone he imagined
a sailor would use.

The next thing the Old Sailor did was to rest his hand upon Ellen's
head. Thereupon Joshua said, "You don't mind, Mr. Praiseworthy, do
you?" referring to the liberty they had taken in bringing Ellen
without an invitation. "Mind!" the Old Sailor exclaimed. "A pretty
little lass like this!" and he stooped and kissed her. And Ellen did
not even blush, but seemed to like it. The Old Sailor seemed to like
it too. There was something wonderfully charming in his manner of
saying "Pretty little lass;" none but a downright thoroughbred old tar
could have said it in such a way. And there was something wonderfully
charming in the rough grace with which he accepted the bunch of
flowers from Ellen. His first intention was to stick them in the bosom
of his shirt; but second consideration led him to reflect that their
circumference rendered such a resting-place inappropriate. So he
placed them in a large tin mug, and sprinkled them with water, which
glistened on their leaves as freshly as the dew-kisses which glisten
in the early morning wherever Nature makes holiday. Then Dan took the
cage containing the bullfinches, and asked the Old Sailor to accept
the birds as a present from him and Joshua; and the Old Sailor thanked
him in such cordial terms, that his heart was stirred with a fresh
delight. Truth to tell, the Old Sailor was mightily gratified with the
birds; but, at the same time, he was mightily puzzled as to what he
was to do with them. Prettier little things he had never seen; but,
small and beautiful as they were, they were a responsibility for which
he was not prepared. He stood with his legs wide apart, regarding the
birds with a perplexed expression on his face; and Dan divining what
was in his mind, opened the door of the cage and out hopped the
bullfinches looking about them with an air of having been accustomed
to the water all their lives. As if impelled by a sudden desire to fly
away and join their mates in distant woodlands, they took wing and
fluttered around the hammock in which Dan lay; now coming
tantalizingly near, and now sailing away with an independent air, as
much as to say, "We're off!" But when Dan held out his forefinger, they
came and perched upon it contentedly. The Old Sailor gazed on the
little comedy in admiration. His admiration was increased a hundred
fold when Dan, taking his hand, transferred the birds on to his
forefinger. He looked at the birds timorously; the birds looked at him
confidently. He was afraid to move lest some mischief should happen to
the delicate creatures.

"Put them in the cage, sir," said Dan. The Old Sailor did so. "Now,"
continued Dan, "I will send you food for them regularly; and it will
not be too much trouble for you to fill this well with fresh water
every morning, will it, sir?"

"No," said the Old Sailor. "But how will the birds get at the water,
my lad? It is out of their reach."

"Ah! you think so, sir. But have you ever been in want of water?"

"Of fresh water, I have, my lad; not of salt. Was for three days on a
raft, with not a drop of fresh water among thirty-seven of us. Two
drank salt water, and went raving mad; one threw himself into the
sea."

"And the others, sir?" inquired Dan, immensely interested.

"The others, my lad, waited and suffered, and prayed for rain. And it
came, my lad, and we were saved, by the mercy of God. It was awful
suffering; our very eyeballs were blazing with thirst. It would have
been a relief to us if we could have cried."

"But the heavens cried for you, sir," said Dan tenderly.

"Ay, ay, my lad," said the Old Sailor; "that's well said. The heavens
cried for us; and we lay on our backs with our mouths open to catch
the blessed drops. The salt water that was death to us dashed up from
below; and the fresh water that was life to us came down from above.
In five minutes we were soaked with the rain; and we sucked at our
clothes. We caught enough rain-water to last us until we were picked
up by a merchantman, homeward bound from the Indies."

"That was good," said Dan, feeling as if he had known the Old Sailor
all his life. "Now, supposing you were wrecked, sir, on a high rock.
Here is the rock," pointing to the perch on which the bullfinches were
standing.

"Here is the rock," repeated the Old Sailor, chiming in readily with
Dan's fancy.

"And here you are, sir, with another sailor," identifying Praiseworthy
Meddler and the other sailor with the two bullfinches.

"And here am I, with another sailor," said the Old Sailor attentively,
nodding familiarly at his new shipmate in the cage, who, making much
too light of the calamity which had befallen them, winked saucily in
return.

"And you are very thirsty."

"And I am very thirsty," said the Old Sailor, smacking his parched
lips.

"And here, out of your reach, is the water," indicating the well, "you
want to drink."

"And here, out of my reach, is the water I want to drink," said the
Old Sailor, growing more parched.

"Now, then," said Dan, "you can't get at the water with your beak--I
mean your mouth--and you can't reach it with your claws--I mean your
hands. Now what do you do?"

"Ah what do I do?" repeated the Old Sailor, not seeing his way out of
the difficulty.

"Why," exclaimed Dan enthusiastically, "you get a rope--or, if you
haven't got one, you make one out of some strong grass, or out of
strips of your clothes; and you get a bucket--or you make one out of a
cocoanut," in his enthusiasm Dan took the cocoanut for granted; and
the Old Sailor accepted its existence on the rock with most implicit
faith--"and you attach the cocoanut to the rope, and you lower it into
the water, and draw it up full. Here you are, doing it."

And, obedient to Dan's signal, the bullfinches lowered their tiny
bucket into the well, and drew it up full, and dipped their beaks into
the water, as if they were shipwrecked bullfinches, and were nearly
dead with raging thirst.

A thoughtful expression stole into the Old Sailor's face.

"They are wise little creatures," he said. "I have seen a might of
strange things and pretty things; but this is as pretty as any thing I
have seen."

"You can learn them any thing almost, sir," said Dan, who was bent
upon making the Old Sailor love the birds.

"To climb ropes like a sailor?"

"In a week they could. If I had a little ship, with two or three sails
and a rope-ladder, I could teach them to climb the ladder and set the
sails."

"I dare say, my lad, I dare say."

"Did you ever see a mermaid, sir?"

This was one of the questions Dan had made up his mind to ask the Old
Sailor directly they grew familiar.

"Yes," answered the Old Sailor. "I wasn't very near her; and I was
laughed at for saying I had seen her. But I saw her, for all that."

"Where was it that you saw her, sir?"

"In the South Pacific, where there are the ugliest images of men and
women, and the most wonderful birds and flowers and trees, in the
world. I have walked for miles through forests of wild flowers and
strange trees, while thousands of parrots were flying about, with
their feathers all blue and gold and scarlet and silver."

"Oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed Dan, twining his fingers together. "And
they're there now, sir?"

"Surely. Your land-lubbers don't know any thing of the world."

"Those men and women, sir--are they very ugly?"

"As ugly as sin can make 'em--brown and copper-colored and nearly
black; cannibals they are."

"That's very dreadful!" said Dan with a shiver. "What else have you
seen, sir?"

"What would you say to gardens in the sea?" asked the Old Sailor
enthusiastically. "What would you say to fields in the sky?"

"No!" said Dan in wonder.

"Yes, my lad. Gardens in the sea, with the flowers growing and
blooming. I only saw land in the sky once; but it was a sight that
can't be forgot. We were thousands of miles away from land; but there
in the sky was the country, with fields and forests and mountains. We
saw it for near an hour; then it melted away. What would you say to
flying fish--showers of 'em. I heard of a talking fish; but I never
saw it. I shouldn't wonder, now, if these pretty little birds could
talk."

"No, sir," said Dan; "they can't talk, but they can sing."

With that he whistled the first stave of "Rule, Britannia;" and the
bullfinches piped the patriotic song so spiritedly, that the Old
Sailor roared out in a hoarse voice, "Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules
the waves!" and then stopped, and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, and exclaimed, "Lord, Lord!" with rapturous bewilderment.
But when Dan whistled "And have you not heard of a jolly young
waterman?" and the birds answered, "Oh, yes! we have heard of a jolly
young waterman," and proceeded to narrate where that jolly young
waterman plied, and how dexterously that jolly young waterman
feathered his oars, the Old Sailor was fairly dumfoundered, and sat
down in silence, and watched and listened, while Dan put the birds
through the whole of their performances.

Ah, what a happy day was that--never, never to be forgotten! As he lay
in his hammock, with a delicious sense of rest upon him, he saw
pleasure-boats and barges floating down with the tide, with a happy
indolence in keeping with every thing about him. What else? Bright
visions in the clouds; not for himself, but for his friend, his
brother Joshua; bright visions of beautiful lands and beautiful seas.
What did the Old Sailor say? Gardens in the sea, with the flowers
growing and blooming! He saw them in the clouds; and each flower was
bright with beauty, and each petal was rimmed with light. Fields in
the skies! There they were, stretching far, far away; and some one was
walking through forests of wild flowers and strange trees. Who was it?
Joshua! And there were the parrots that the Old Sailor had spoken of;
with their feathers of blue and gold and scarlet and silver. But Dan
happened to turn his eyes from the clouds to the water, and dreamland
faded. Joshua was rowing on the river.

Bravo, Joshua! How strong he looked, with his shirt-sleeves tucked up
to his shoulders; and how well he managed his oars! Not that Dan was
much of a judge; but he knew what grace was, and surely he saw that
before him when he saw Joshua rowing. Joshua looked at Dan, and smiled
and nodded; and Dan clapped his hands. And Joshua, to show how clever
he was, made a great sweep with the oars, and fell backwards in the
boat, in a most ridiculous position, with his heels in the air. But he
was up again like lightning, and recovered his oars, and made so light
of it, that Dan, who had caught his breath for an instant, laughed
merrily at the mishap, and thought it was good fun. His laugh was
echoed by Ellen, who was sitting by his side, and who had also been a
little alarmed at first. The industrious maid was making holiday in
her own peculiar way. She was not accustomed to sit idly down with her
hands in her lap. By some mysterious means she had obtained possession
of two of the Old Sailor's shirts which required mending; and there
she was stitching away at them, as if it were the most natural thing
in the world for her to do when she came out for a holiday. Did she
have a design upon the Old Sailor? It really looked suspiciously like
it, if one might judge from the demure glances she cast upon him every
now and then, and from the admiring manner in which he returned her
artful glances. One thing was certain: she had fairly captivated him;
and there is no telling what might have occurred, if he had been
thirty years younger.

What more beautiful phase of human nature can be seen than that of an
old man with a young heart? Place, side by side, two pictures of old
manhood: one, with crafty face; with cautious eyes that never rove;
with compressed lips that keep guard on every word; with puckered
forehead and eyebrows, from every ugly crevice in which the spirit of
"You can't take me in" peeps out, as if the essence of a fox were in
hiding there;--the other, with open face, which says, "Read me; I am
not afraid;" with eyes that, be they large or small, enjoy what they
see; with full-fleshed wrinkles on forehead and eyebrows; with lips
that smile when others smile.

No younger heart ever beat in the breast of an old man than that which
beat in the breast of Praiseworthy Meddler. He had never mingled with
children; yet here he was, at nearly seventy years of age, a hale and
hearty old man, with a nature as simple as a child's. What was it that
made him so? Was it because he had lived his youth and manhood away
from cities, where the tricky webs of trade teach men to trick as
their brethren do, or where the anxiety how to live, and with many,
alas, how to get to-morrow's bread, stops the generous flow of a
generous nature, and robs life's summer of its brightness? Or did he
inherit it? If so, how deserving of pity are those children who are
born of crafty parents! There are human mysteries which science has
not dared to probe, and there are inherited ills and calamities which
philanthropists, up to the present time, have not tried to get to the
root of.

Anyhow, here was Praiseworthy Meddler sitting upon the deck of his
barge by the side of Ellen, showing her, in the intervals of
stitching, how to splice a broken rope, and initiating her into the
mysteries a short-splice, long-splice, and eye-splice. Dan, looking
on, begged some rope, and proved himself a wonderfully-apt scholar,
which caused the Old Sailor to remark,--

"You ought to be a sailor, my lad;" forgetting for the moment that
Dan's legs were useless.

"I should have to work in a hammock, sir," said Dan cheerfully.

The Old Sailor blushed.

"I forgot," he said in a gentle voice.

"There's the sailor for you, if you like," said Dan, pointing to
Joshua, who, a couple of hundred yards away, was pulling lazily
towards the barge.

"Ay, ay, my lad; Joshua has the right stuff in him. He will be a fine
strong man."

"He is better than strong, sir," said Dan; "he is noble and
tender-hearted. If you knew, sir, how good he has been to me, you
would admire and love him more. If you knew how gentle he has been to
me--how tender, and how self-sacrificing--you would think even better
of him than you do. We have been together all our lives; every day he
has come to me as regularly as the sun, and has been to me what the
sun is to the day. I look back now that he is going away, and I cannot
remember that he has ever given me a cross word or a cross look. And I
have been very troublesome sometimes, and very peevish; but he has
borne with it all. Look, sir," and Dan drew the Old Sailor's attention
to two pieces of rope, one thin and one thick, the strands of which he
had been interweaving, "this thin rope is me; this thick rope is
Joshua. Now we are spliced, and you can't pull us apart. Joshua and me
are friends for ever and ever!"

The Old Sailor listened attentively, and nodded his head occasionally,
to show that he was following Dan's words, and understood them. Ellen,
having mended the Old Sailor's shirts, sat with her hands folded in
her lap, indorsing every word that Dan uttered.

Just then Joshua reached the barge, and having secured the boat,
climbed on to the deck. As he did so, eight bells struck.

"Eight bells," said the Old Sailor. "Dinner."

With that, he lifted Dan out of the hammock, and carried him to where
dinner was laid on a table which extended fore and aft down the centre
of what it would be the wildest extravagance of courtesy to call a
saloon, and where every thing was prepared in expectation of a storm.
Joshua and Ellen followed, and the four of them made a very merry
party. Lobscouse and sea-pie were the only dishes, and they were
brought in by a Lascar with rings in his ears, whom the Old Sailor
called a "lubberly swab," because he was unmistakably drunk; and who
in return, notwithstanding his drunken condition, cast upon the Old
Sailor an evil look, which flashed from his eyes like a dagger-stroke.
This Lascar was the man who had struck eight bells, and who cooked for
the Old Sailor, and did odd work about the barge, in return for which
he got his victuals and a bunk to sleep in. A lazy, indolent rogue,
who would do any thing, never mind what, for rum and tobacco; a
cringing, submissive, treacherous rogue, ripe for the execution of any
villainy on the promise of rum and tobacco; a rogue who would fawn,
and lie, and stab, and humble himself and play Bombastes for rum and
tobacco. They were all he seemed to live for; they were his
Thirty-nine Articles, and he was ready to sell himself for them any
day. Of what quality might be the work proposed to him to do, so as to
earn the reward, was of the very smallest consequence to him. He gave
Ellen such an ugly look of wicked admiration that she was glad when he
was gone.

Dinner over, they returned to the deck, and the Old Sailor told them
stories of the sea-stories so enthralling, that the afternoon glided
by like a dream; and the setting sun was tinged with the glories of
the distant lands whither it was wending. They had tea on deck--a
delicious tea, of shrimps, water-creases, and bread-and-butter. The
task of preparing the tea was performed by Ellen and the Old Sailor;
and during the performance of this task, it may be confidently stated
that the conquest of the Old Sailor was completed, and that he was
from that moment, and ever afterwards, her devoted slave. Then they
went down, and sat two and two on each side of the table, Joshua and
Dan being on one side, and Ellen and the Old Sailor on the other; and
they had more sea-stories, and were altogether in a state of supreme
happiness.

During the latter part of the evening the conversation turned upon
Joshua's approaching voyage.

"Always bear in mind the sailor's watchword, my lad," said the Old
Sailor. "Along the line the signal ran: 'England expects that every
man this day will do his duty.' That's meant not for this day alone,
but for always. What a sailor's got to do is to obey. Many a voyage
has had a bad ending because of a sailor's forgetting his watchword.
Don't you forget it, Josh."

"I won't, sir."

"The 'Merry Andrew,' that you're going to make your first voyage in,
is a fine ship; the skipper is a fine skipper--a man he is, and that's
what a ship wants--a man and not an image." The Old Sailor said this
in a tone of exasperation, inspired, possibly, by some tantalizing
remembrance of a ship commanded by an image instead of a man. "So
stick to your watchword, my lad. It wouldn't be a bad thing now if we
were to drink to it."

The cunning old rascal was only too glad of a chance to get at his
grog.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Dan, clapping his hands.

No sooner said than done. Hot water, lemon, sugar, rum, compounded
with the skill of an artist. A glass for Joshua, a glass for Dan, a
glass for the Old Sailor, and a small glass for Ellen. Not one of them
seemed afraid of it--not even Ellen.

"Now then," said the Old Sailor, smiling as the steam rose to his
nostrils. "Now, then; the sailor's watchword--Duty, and may Joshua
never forget it!"

"Duty, Jo," said Dan, nodding over his glass to Joshua.

"Duty, Dan," said Joshua, nodding to Dan.

Ellen said nothing aloud, but whispered something into her glass. Then
they drank and sipped their grog, and resumed the conversation.

"Have you been to New Holland, sir?" asked Dan. The "Merry Andrew" was
bound for New Holland.

"I was there when I was a youngster," replied the Old Sailor, mixing a
second glass of grog for himself. "It was a wild country then; I am
told it is growing into a wonderful country now. We were six months
going out. We had nearly four hundred convicts aboard, most of them in
irons. A miserable lot of desperate wretches they were! They were not
well treated, and they knew it. We had to keep close watch over them;
if they could have set themselves free by any means--they talked of it
many a time among themselves--they would have captured the ship, and
flung us overboard, or something worse. We landed them at Port
Phillip, where the British Government wanted to form a settlement."

"Why New Holland, sir?" asked Dan, always eager for information.

"Discovered by the Dutch in about 1600," replied the Old Sailor
oratorically. "Victoria was discovered by Capt. Cook; let us drink to
him." They took a sip--all but the Old Sailor, who scorned sips.
"Discovered by Capt. Cook in 1770, after he had discovered New
Zealand."

"Any savages, sir?"

"Swarms. We were out in a boat exploring, and when we were close in
shore, two or three hundred savages came whooping down upon us. We
weren't afraid of them; we pulled in to shore, and they stopped short
about twenty yards from us, jabbering like a lot of black monkeys.
They soon got courage enough to come closer to us, and we gave them
some grog; but the ignorant lubbers spit it out of their mouths at
first. Then they began to steal things from the boat; and when we gave
them to understand that what was ours wasn't theirs, they grew saucy.
A black fellow caught up the master's-mate, and ran away with him."

"What did they want with him, sir?"

"To eat him, of course. We fired over their heads, and they dropped
the master's-mate, who ran back to us, glad enough to get free, for he
didn't relish the idea of being made a meal of. But when the savages
found that the guns didn't hurt them, they came whooping up to us
again, flourishing their spears. Their faces were painted, and they
had swans' feathers sticking out of their heads. Some of them had skin
cloaks on, painted all over with figures of naked men, and some of
them had bones stuck through their nostrils. On they came, yelling and
leaping like so many devils, thinking what a fine roast the fattest of
us would make. Then we fired and killed one of them. Directly they saw
him fall, they scampered off like madmen."

When the conversation flagged, they had music and singing. Joshua
played, and Dan sang a song, and the Old Sailor sang a good many. The
best of the Old Sailor's songs was, that they were all about the sea,
and that every one of them had a chorus in which the company could
join. Of course he sang "Heave the Lead," and "Yeo, heave, ho! To the
windlass let us go, with yo, heave ho!" and "Saturday Night at Sea;"
and when "Saturday night did come, my boys, to drink to Poll and
Bess," he flourished his glass, and drank to those young ladies with a
will. The number of lovely ladies with whom the Old Sailor made them
acquainted was something astonishing. Poor Jack had his Poll, whom he
addressed in a not very dignified manner, when he said to her,--


   "What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye?
      Why what a--(_hem!_) fool you must be!"


Out of respect for Ellen, the Old Sailor coughed over a good many
words in the songs he sang; for it must be confessed that there was
more swearing in them than was absolutely necessary. Poor Jack,
however, who called his Poll a something fool, made up for it in the
end by declaring that "his heart was his Poll's" (a very pretty though
somewhat trite sentiment), and "his rhino's his friend's" (a very
unwise and foolish sentiment, as the world goes). Then there was a
Polly whom the lads called so pretty, and who entreated her
sweetheart, before he sailed in the good ship the "Kitty" to be
constant to her; and who, when he returned without any rhino, turned
up her nose at him, as young women do now and then. Then there were
Poll in "My Poll and my partner Joe" (it was wonderful how faithless
the Polls were), and Poll in "Every inch a Sailor," who, when poor
Haulyard came home in tatters, swore (very unfeminine of her) that she
had never seen his face. But honest Ned Haulyard was a philosophical
sailor, for he something'd her for a faithless she, and singing went
again to sea. The Nancies were a better class of female:--


   "I love my duty, love my friend,
    Love truth and merit to defend,
       To moan their loss who hazard ran;
    I love to take an honest part.
    Love beauty with a spotless heart,
       By manners love to show the man;
    To sail through life by honor's breeze--
    'Twas all along of loving these
       First made me dote on lovely Nan."


And so on, and so on, with gentle Anna and buxom Nan; and poor Fanny,
who drowned herself in the waves near to the place where hung the
trembling pines; and poor Peggy, who loved a soldier lad (a marine,
without doubt); and bonny Kate, who lived happily afterwards with Tom
Clueline. Ellen joined in the choruses with her sweet voice; but,
strange to say, she had not been asked to sing until the Old Sailor,
struck perhaps by a sudden remorse at monopolizing the harmony, called
upon her for a song. Ellen, nothing loth, asked what song; and Joshua
said,--

"Sing the song you learned of mother, Ellen."

"'Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses?'" inquired Ellen.

"Yes, 'Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses.' 'Tisn't quite a girl's song sir"
(to the Old Sailor); "but it is a good song, and Ellen sings it
nicely."

"Hooray, then, for 'Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses!'" cried the Old
Sailor, casting a glance of intense admiration at Ellen, who, without
more ado, sang as follows:--


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES.

   One day, when I came home fatigued,
     And felt inclined to grumble,
   Because my life was one of toil,
     Because my lot was humble,
   I said to Kate, my darling wife,
     In whom my whole life's bliss is,
   "What have you got for dinner, Kate?"
     "Why, bread-and-cheese and kisses!"

   Though worn and tired, my heart leaped up
     As those plain words she uttered.
   Why should I envy those whose bread
     Than mine's more thickly buttered?
   I said, "We'll have dessert at once."
     "What's that?" she asked. "Why, this is."
   I kissed her. Ah, what sweeter meal
     Than bread-and-cheese and kisses!

   I gazed at her with pure delight;
     She nodded and smiled gayly;
   I said, "My love, on such a meal
     I'd dine with pleasure, daily.
   When I but think of you, dear girl,
     I pity those fine misses
   Who turn their noses up and pout
     At bread-and-cheese and kisses.

   "And when I look on your dear form,
     And on your face so homely;
   And when I look in your dear eyes,
     And on your dress so comely;
   And when I hold you in my arms,
     I laugh at Fortune's misses.
   I'm blessed in you, content with you,
     And bread-and-cheese and kisses."


Thus ended the happy day.




CHAPTER IX.
MINNIE AND HER SHELL.


So the simple ways of Joshua's simple life were drawing to a close. He
had chosen his career, and to-morrow he would be at the end of the
quiet groove in which he had hitherto moved, and would step upon
rougher roads, to commence the battle which dooms many a
fair-promising life to a despairing death, and out of which no one
comes without scars and wounds which art and time are powerless to
heal. To-morrow he was to leave a father almost too indulgent; a mother
whose heart was as true in its motherly affection for him as the
needle is to the pole; a friend who gave him a love as tender and as
pure as that which angels could feel.

During the past week he had been busily engaged in leave-taking, and
he had been surprised to find what a number of friends he had. There
was not one of the poor neighbors, in the poor locality in which he
had passed his boyhood's days, who had not kind words and good wishes
for him, and who did not give them heartily and without stint. Many a
hearty handwillshake from men whose hands he had never touched before,
and many a motherly kiss from women he had been in the habit of saying
only "Good-morning" to, did Joshua receive. There is a stronger
knitting of affection between poor people in poor neighborhoods than
there is among the rich in their wider thoroughfares. Perhaps it is
the narrow streets that draw them closer to each other; perhaps it is
the common struggle to keep body and soul together in which they are
all engaged; perhaps it is the unconscious recognition of a higher law
of humanity than prevails elsewhere; perhaps it is the absence of the
wider barriers of exclusiveness, among which the smaller and more
beautiful flowers of feeling--being so humble and unassuming--are in
danger of being lost or overlooked. Anyhow the ties of affection are
stronger among the poor. Putting necessity and sickness aside, more
mothers nurse their babes from love among the poor than among the
rich.

The secret of this unanimity of goodwill towards Joshua lay in his
uniformly quiet demeanor and affectionate disposition. The wonderful
friendship that existed between Dan and Joshua was a household word in
the poor homes round about; there was something so beautiful in it,
that they felt a pride in the circumstance of its having been cemented
in their midst; and many tender-hearted women said that night to their
husbands, that they wondered what Dan would do now that Joshua was
going away. "And Josh, too," the husband would reply; "do you think
he won't miss Dan?" But the women thought mostly of Dan in that
relationship. The romance of the thing had something to do with this
general interest in his welfare. Here was a young man, one of their
own order, born and bred among them, who, from no contempt of their
humble ways of life but from a distinct desire to do better than they
(not to _be_ better; that they would have resented), had resolved to
go out into the world to carve a way for himself. It was brave and
manly; it was daring and heroic. For the world was so wide! Cooped-up
as _they_ were, what did they know of it? What did they see of it?
Those of them--the few--who worked at home in their once-a-week
shirt-sleeves, could raise their eyes from their work, and see the
dull prospect of over the way; or, resting wearily from the monotonous
labor, could stroll to their street-doors, and look up and down the
street in a meaningless, purposeless manner: like automatons in
aprons, with dirty faces and very black finger-nails, coming out of a
box and performing a task in which there was necessarily no sense of
enjoyment.

Those of them--the many--who toiled in workshops other than their
homes, saw with the rising and the setting of every sun a few narrow
streets within the circumference of a mile, mayhap. Moving always in
the same groove, trudging to their workshops every morning, trudging
home every night--it was the same thing for them day after day. The
humdrum course of time was only marked by the encroachment of gray
hairs and white; or by the patching-up of the poor furniture, which
grew more rheumatic, and groaned more dismally every succeeding
season; or by the cracking and dismemberment of cups and saucers and
plates; or by the slow death of the impossible figures on the
tea-trays--figures which were bright and gay once upon a time, as
their owners were upon a certain happy wedding-day. Here, as a type,
are three small mugs, the letters upon which are either quite faded
away, or are denoted by a very mockery of shrivelled lines, as if
their lives were being drawn out to the last stage of miserable
attenuation. Once they proclaimed themselves proudly, and in golden
letters, "For George, a Birthday Present;" "For Mary Ann, with
Mother's Love;" "Charley, for a Good Boy." George and Mary, Ann and
Charley used to clap their little hands, and swing their little legs
delightedly, when they and the mugs kept company at breakfast and
tea-time; but now flesh and crockery have grown old, and are fading
away in common. The hair on George's head is very thin, although he is
not yet forty years of age; Mary Ann is an anxious-looking mother,
with six dirty children, who, as she declares twenty times a day, are
enough to worry the life out of her; and Charley has turned out any
thing but "a Good Boy," being much too fond of public-houses. With
such like uninteresting variations, the lives of George and Mary Ann
and Charley were typical of the lives of all the poor people amongst
whom the Marvels lived. From the cradle to the grave, every thing the
same; the same streets, the same breakfasts, the same dinners, the
same uneventful routine of existence, the only visible signs upon the
record being the deepening of wrinkles and the whitening of hairs. But
they were happy enough, notwithstanding; and if their pulses were
stirred into quicker motion when they shook Joshua's hand and wished
him good luck, there was no envy towards him in their minds, and no
feeling of discontent marred the genuineness of their God-speed. When
at candle-time they spoke of Joshua and of the world which he was
going to see, some of the women said that it would have been better if
"you, John," or "you, William," "had struck out for yourself when you
were young;" and John and William assenting, sighed to think that it
was too late for them to make a new start. Well, their time was past;
the tide which they might have taken at the flood, but did not, would
never come again to their life's shore. Joshua _had_ taken it at the
flood, and would be afloat to-morrow; good luck be with him! In the
heartiness of their good wishes there was no expressed consciousness
that there was as much heroism in their quiet lives as in the lives of
great heroes and daring adventurers; which very unconsciousness and
unexpressed abnegation made that heroism (begging Mr. Ruskin's pardon
for calling it so) all the grander.

Joshua had bidden the Old Sailor good-by. The dear, simple old fellow
had given Joshua some golden rules to go by; had enjoined him to be
respectful and submissive; to learn all he could; to be cheerful
always, and to do his work willingly, however hard it seemed; not to
mix himself up in the men's quarrels or grumblings; had told him how
that some officers were querulous, and some were tyrannical, but that
he could always keep himself out of mischief by obeying orders; and
had impressed upon him, more particularly than all, the value of the
golden motto--Duty. "Keep that for your watchword, my lad," said the
Old Sailor, "and you will do."

"I am glad it is nearly all over," said Joshua to Dan. "I have only
two or three more to say good-by to, with the exception of mother and
father, and Ellen and you, dear Dan."

"There's Susan, Jo," said Dan after a pause. "I wish you could see her
before you go."

"I wish so, too. I am going now to say good-by to Minnie and her
father."

"Is he better, Jo?"

"I haven't seen him for a week; but I don't think he is ever quite
right here;" touching his forehead.

They were speaking of the street actor, whose name was Basil Kindred.

"And Minnie is very pretty, you say."

"Very pretty, but with such strange ways, Dan, as I have told you
before."

"Yes," said Dan, looking earnestly at Joshua.

"Sometimes like a woman, which she is not; sometimes like a little
child, which she is not. Yet for all she is so strange, one can't help
loving her, and pitying her."

"Is she at all like Ellen, Jo?"

"Minnie is not like Ellen," said Joshua, considering. "Ellen's face is
calm and peaceful; Minnie's is grander, larger. Minnie is the kind of
girl for a heroine, and Ellen is not, I think. She is too peaceful.
Say that Ellen is like a lake, Minnie is like the sea."

A quiet smile passed over Dan's lips, yet a regretful one, too.

"You don't know Ellen, Jo," he said "Give me the lake."

"And me the sea," said Joshua, not meaning it at all with reference to
the girls, but literally, with reference to his choice of a
profession.

From the first part of this conversation it will be gathered that
Susan Taylor had left her home, and had chosen to keep her residence a
secret from her family. She was not to blame for it; for she had been
most unhappy in the family mansion of the Taylors. Although she earned
her own living, and paid for her board and lodging, her father, a
drunken, lazy mechanic, had lately been pestering her for small loans,
to be spent, of course, at the public-house. These she could not
afford to give him; and when he found that she would not assist him,
he quarrelled with her. He twitted her about her ungainly person,
jeered at her strange mannerisms, pricked her with domestic pins and
needles, and made her life so miserable, that she was glad when the
culminating quarrel gave her the opportunity to run away.

She had never had a friend. Nearly every girl has a girl-companion
with whom she exchanges little confidences, and whom she consults as
to the fashion of the new bonnet, and how it is to be trimmed, the
pattern of the new dress, and how many flounces it is to have, the
color of the new piece of ribbon, and how it should be worn, the
personal appearance and intentions of the last new admirer, and how he
is to be treated. Susan never had such a companion; worse than that,
she never had a sweetheart. She had grown to woman's estate without
ever having experienced the pleasures of courtship, either as a child
or as a woman. No little boy had taken a liking to her when she was a
little girl; and when she grew to be a young woman, no young man had
cast a favorable eye upon her. Sooth to say, there was nothing
singular in the circumstance; for she was as little attractive
externally, as a young woman well could be.

If it were necessary to define and describe her with brevity, a happy
definition and description might be given in two simple words--Joints
and Knobs. Susan Taylor was all Joints and Knobs, from the crown of
her head to the soles of her feet. There was not a straight line about
her; every square inch of her frame was broken by a joint or
intersected by a knob. Her face did not contain one perfect feature.
Bones, with sharp rugged outlines, asserted themselves in her cheeks,
in her chin, in her nose (most aggressively there), and in the arches
of her eyes. Her shoulders were suggestive of nothing but
salt-cellars; her fingers were covered with knuckles; her arms were
all elbows; and her knees, as she walked, forced themselves into
notice with offensive demonstrativeness. There was nothing round and
soft about her. Every part of her was suggestive of Bone; she was so
replete with mysterious and complicated angles that she might be said
to resemble a mathematical torture. Her angular proportions, broken
here by a joint, or intersected there by a knob, did not agree with
one another. As not one of them would accept a subordinate position,
they were necessarily on the very worst of terms: like a regiment in
which every soldier insisted on being colonel, and struggled for the
position. The result was Anatomical Confusion.

Cupid is popularly represented to be a mischievous young imp, who
delights in tying persons together who are not in the least suited to
each other, and as being so reckless and indiscriminate in the use of
the metaphorical arrow, which he is everlastingly fixing to that
metaphorical bow with such malicious nicety, that the right man seldom
finds himself in the right place, and the right woman is similarly
unfortunate. As a consequence of this eccentric and inhuman conduct,
long men and short women and long women and short men, get absurdly
matched, and the mental disparity is often found to be no less than
the disparity in limb and bulk. But never, surely, did that tricksy
youngster (who is so convenient to writers as a reference, and in
various other ways, that they cannot be sufficiently grateful for his
mythological existence) play a stranger prank than when he made Susan
Taylor and Basil Kindred acquainted with each other. The evening on
which Susan, for the first time, saw Basil Kindred act the Ghost
scenes in "Hamlet," marked an era in her life not less important than
that sad era which was commenced by her letting her brother Daniel
fall from her arms out of the window on to the cruel stones. For if
ever woman fell in love (which is so violently suggestive that it may
well be doubted) with man, Susan Taylor, on that evening, fell in love
with Basil Kindred.

But Susan was not the woman to exhibit her passion in words. In
another fashion she did exhibit it: in the best fashion that devotion
Can show itself--in deeds. She was not a cunning woman, nor a wise one
either. Being from the very infirmities of her nature a kind of social
outcast, she was not likely to consider what the world would say of
any action of hers. And here was an anomaly; she was neither foolish
enough nor wise enough to consider what the world would say; yet had
she considered that her conduct was open to censure, she would not
have swerved a hair's breadth because of the world's opinion; and this
very independence proceeded not from a hardened nature, but from a
nature utterly simple. So she did what a very considerable majority of
the busy bees in this busy world would consider either a very foolish
thing or some thing worse. When she left her home she rented a room in
the miserable house in which Basil Kindred and his daughter resided.
She did this because she loved him; and yet looking for no return of
her passion, she did it so that she might make herself useful to him
and to Minnie. The living she earned as a dressmaker was a poor and a
scanty one enough; but she managed, out of her small earnings, to
contribute some little towards the comfort of the couple whose
acquaintance she had so strangely made.

Joshua was always certain of a warm welcome from Basil and Minnie; an
affectionate intimacy had sprung up between them, and he had spent
many a pleasant hour in their company. But in the first flush of their
intimacy he had been sorely puzzled by Basil Kindred's strange ways
and oft-times stranger remarks; the wandering restlessness of his
eyes, and the no less wandering nature of his speech, engendered grave
doubts whether he was quite right in his mind. And as Joshua looked
from Basil's fine mobile face to that of his daughter, so like her
father's in all its grand and beautiful outlines, it distressed him to
think that her intellect also might be tainted with her father's
disease. It might not be; it might be merely the want of proper moral
training that induced her to be so strangely incoherent, so reckless
and defiant, and yet at the same time so singularly tender in her
conduct. With Minnie every thing was right or wrong according to the
way in which it affected herself. She recognized no general law as
guiding such and such a principle or sentiment. There was this
similarity and this difference between Minnie and Susan: they both
ignored the world's opinion and the world's judgment of their actions.
But where Susan would be meek, Minnie would be defiant; where Susan
would offend through ignorance, Minnie would offend consciously, and
be at the same time ready to justify herself and argue the point;
which latter she would do, of course, only from her point of view.
Supposing that it could be reduced to weights and measures, Minnie
would have been content to place herself and her affections on one
side of the scale, and all the world on the other, with the positive
conviction that she would tip the scale.

She was very affectionate and docile to Joshua; she looked up to him
with a kind of adoration, and this tacit acknowledgment of his
superiority was pleasing to his vanity. He was her hero, and she
worshipped him, and showed that she did so; and he, too, dangerously
regarding her as a child, received her worship, and was gratified by
it. And so she drifted.

Now as he entered the room, Minnie sprang towards him with a joyous
exclamation, and taking his hand, held it tightly clasped in hers as
she led him to a seat. The room was not so bare of furniture as it was
when he first saw it. He looked round for Basil Kindred.

"Father is not at home, Joshua," said Minnie. "He will be in soon, I
dare say." She pushed him softly into a chair, and sat on the ground
at his feet. "I am so glad you have come!"

"But I don't think I have time to stay."

"You mustn't go; you mustn't go," said Minnie, drawing his arm round
her neck. "I shall be so lonely if you do."

"But you were alone before I came in, Minnie."

"Yes," returned Minnie; "but I did not feel lonely then. I shall now,
if you go away."

"Then I will stop for a little while," said Joshua, humoring her.

"Always good!" said Minnie gratefully, resting her lips upon her hand,
"always good!"

"Why did you not feel lonely before I came, Minnie?"

"I was thinking."

"Of what?"

"Of long, long ago, when father was different to what he is now."

"It could not have been so long, long ago, little Minnie,"--here came
a little caressing action from the child,--"you are only--how old?"

"Fourteen."

"And fourteen years ago is not so long, long ago, little Minnie."

Minnie repeated her caressing action.

"To you it isn't perhaps, but it is to me. It seems almost," she said,
placing Joshua's hand upon her eyes, and closing them, "as if I had
nothing to do with it. Yet I must have had; for mother was mixed up
with what I was thinking.

"But I shall think of something else now that you are here," she said
presently. "I am going to listen."

With the hand that was free she took something from her pocket, and
placing it to her ear, bent her head closer to the ground. She was so
long in that attitude of watchful silence, that Joshua cried "Minnie"
to arouse her.

"Hush!" she said; "you must not interrupt me. I am listening. I can
almost hear it speak."

"Hear what speak?" asked Joshua, wondering.

Minnie directed his fingers to her ear, and he felt something smooth
and cold.

"It is a shell," she said softly, "and I am listening to the sea."

"Ah," said Joshua in a voice as soft as hers, "that is because I am
going to be a sailor."

"For that reason. Yes. Call me little Minnie."

"Little Minnie!" said Joshua tenderly; for Minnie's voice and manner
were very winsome, and he could not help thinking how quaintly pretty
her fancy was.

"Little Minnie, little Minnie!" whispered Minnie in so soft a tone
that Joshua could scarcely hear it,--"little Minnie, little Minnie!
The sea is singing it. How kind the sea is! and how soft and gentle I
should like to go to sleep like this."

"Does the shell sing any thing else, little Minnie?"

"Listen! Ah, but you cannot hear! It is singing, 'Little Minnie,
little Minnie, Joshua is going to be a sailor. Little Minnie, little
Minnie, would you like to go with him?'"

"And you answer?"

"Yes, yes, yes! I should like to go with him, and hear the sea always
singing like this. I should like to go with him because"--But here
Minnie stopped.

"Because what?"

"Because nothing," said Minnie, taking the shell from her ear. "Now
the sea is gone, and the singing is gone, and we are waiting at home
for father."

"What for, Minnie? What am I waiting at home for father for?"

"To see him of course," answered Minnie.

"And to wish him and you good-by," said Joshua.

"Good-by!" echoed the child, with a sudden look of distress in her
large gray eyes. "So soon!"

"Yes. My ship sails to-morrow."

"And this is the last day we shall see you," she said, her tears
falling upon his hand.

"The last day for a little while, little Minnie," he said, striving to
speak cheerfully.

"For how long?" asked the child, bending her head, so that her fair
hair fell over her face.

"For a year, perhaps, Minnie," he answered.

"For a long, long year," she said sorrowfully. "You will not do as
mother did, will you?"

"How was that?"

"She went away from us one afternoon, and was to come back at night.
And it rained--oh, so dreadfully!--that night. We were lodging under
some trees, father, mother, and I. Father was ill--very ill, but not
with the same kind of illness that he has now sometimes. He had a
fever. And mother went into the town to get something for us to
eat--as you did that night when the bad boys threw a stone at father,
and you brought him home. When father woke we went in search of her.
But I never remember seeing mother again. And you are going away, and
perhaps I shall never see you again."

"What does the shell say, Minnie?"

Minnie placed the shell to her ear.

"I cannot make out any thing," she said in a voice of pain. "It isn't
singing now; it is moaning and sighing."

He took the shell and listened.

"It will speak to me, because I am a sailor."

"And it says?" asked Minnie anxiously.

"And it says--no, it sings--'Little Minnie, little Minnie, Joshua is
going to sea, and Joshua will come back, please God, in a year, with
beautiful shells and wonderful stories for you and all his friends.
So, little Minnie, little Minnie, look happy; for there is nothing to
be sorrowful at.'"

"Ah!" said Minnie in less sorrowful tones, "if I was a woman and loved
anybody very much, I would not let him go away by himself."

"Why, what would you do?"

"I would follow him." And she pulled Joshua's head down to hers, and
whispered, "I should like to go to sea with you."

"Would you indeed, miss!"

"Yes; for I love you, oh, so much!" whispered the child innocently in
the same low tones. "But you wouldn't let me go, would you?"

"I should think not. A nice sailor you would make; a weak little thing
like you!"

The girl sprang from her crouching attitude, and stood upright. As she
did so, expressing in her action what her meaning was, Joshua noticed
for the first time that she was growing to be large-limbed and strong.
She tossed her hair from her face, and said,--

"Father says I shall be a tall woman."

"Well?"

"Well," she repeated half-proudly and half-bashfully. "I should not
make such a bad sailor, after all." And then with a motion thoroughly
childlike, she knelt on the ground before him; and placing her elbows
on his knees, rested her chin in her upturned palms, and looked
steadily into his face. "If I was a woman," she said slowly and
earnestly, "I would go with you, even if you would not let me."

"How would you manage that?"

"I would follow you secretly."

"You must not say so," said Joshua reprovingly; "it would be very,
very wrong."

"To follow any one you loved?" questioned the child, shaking her head
at the same time to denote that she had no doubt whether it would be
right or wrong. "Wrong to wish to be with any one you loved? It
would be wrong not to wish it. But"--and she looked round, as if
fearful, although they were alone, lest her resolution should become
known--"nobody should know; I would not tell a living soul."

Joshua was silent, puzzled at Minnie's earnestness. Minnie, with the
shell at her ear, soon broke the silence, however.

"Has your friend--the boy you have told me about"--

"Dan?"

"Yes, Dan. Has Dan got a shell?"

"No. I don't suppose he ever thought of it."

"And yet he loves you very much, and a shell is the only thing that
can bring the sea to him."

"Who gave you the shell, Minnie?"

"No one."

"How did you get it, then?"

"I took it from a stall."

"O Minnie!" exclaimed Joshua, grieved and shocked; "that was very
wicked."

"I know it was," said Minnie simply; "but I did it for you. Two days
afterwards, when father had money given to him, I asked him for some,
and he gave it me. I went to the stall where the shells were, and
asked the man how much each they were. 'A penny,' he said. I gave him
two pence and ran away. That was good, wasn't it?"

Joshua shook his head.

"It was very wicked to steal the shell; and I don't think you made up
for it by paying double when you got the money."

But Minnie set her teeth close, and said between them, "It was wicked
at first, but it wasn't wicked afterwards, was it, shell?"--She
listened with a coaxing air to the shell's reply.--"The shell says it
wasn't'. Besides, I did it for you; Dan wouldn't have done it."

"No, that he wouldn't."

"Shows he doesn't love you as much as I do," muttered Minnie with
jealous intonation. "If he did, he would have thought of a shell, and
would have got it somehow. If he did, he would go with you, and would
never, never leave you!"

"Now, Minnie, listen to me."

"I am listening, Joshua." She would have taken his hand; but he put it
behind his back, and motioned her to be still. She knew by his voice
that something unpleasant was coming, and she set her teeth close.

"You know that it is wrong to steal, and you stole the shell."

"I did it for you," she said doggedly. "That does not make it right,
Minnie. I want you to give me a promise."

"I will promise you any thing but one thing," she said.

"What is that."

"Never mind. You would never guess, so you will never ask me. What am
I to promise?"

"That you will never steal any thing again."

"Do you think I ever stole any thing but the shell, then?" she asked,
with an air that would have been stern in its pride if she had not
been a child.

It was on the tip of Joshua's tongue to say, "I don't know what to
think;" but her manner of putting the question gave the answer to it.
"No," he said instead, "I don't think you ever did, Minnie."

Her head was stubbornly bent; and she had enough to do to keep back
her tears. She would not have succeeded had his answer been different.

"No, I never stole any thing else. Stole is the proper word, I know;
but it is a nasty one, and makes me ashamed."

"That is your punishment, Minnie," said Joshua, wondering at himself
for his tenaciousness.

"That is my punishment, then," said Minnie not less doggedly than
before; "but I did it for you"--nothing would drive her from that
stand-point--"and I promise you, Joshua, that I will never steal any
thing again--never, never!"

He gave her his hand, and she took it and caressed it.

"And now, Minnie, about Dan," he said. "You must not say or think any
thing ill of him. He is the best-hearted and the dearest friend in the
world; and I cannot tell you how much I love him, or how much he loves
me."

"Why doesn't he go to sea with you, then?"

Joshua looked at her reproachfully.

"Your memory is not good, Minnie. He is lame, as I told you."

"I forgot. He can't go because he is lame. Would he go if his legs
were sound?"

"I think he would."

"Don't think," Minnie said, with a sly look at him; "be sure."

"I am sure he would then."

"Caught!" cried Minnie, clapping her hands, the sly look, in which
there was simplicity, changing to a cunning one, in which there was
craft. "Caught, caught, caught!"

"I should like to know how," said Joshua. "How ridiculous of you,
Minnie, to cry 'Caught!' as if I was a fox!"

"No, I am the fox," she cried, shaking her hair over her face with
enchanting grace. "I am in hiding--just peeping round the corner." She
made an opening in her thick hair, and flashed a look at him; a look
that was saucy, and cunning, and charming, and wilful, all at once.
"Am I a good fox?"

"You are a goose. Tell me how I am caught."

"Listen, then," throwing her hair back, and becoming logical. "Dan
loves you as well as any man or woman could love another, you said."

"Did I say as well? I thought I said better. I meant better."

"That's no matter. Dan loves you,"--she held up her left hand, and
checked off the items on her fingers--"that is one finger. And Dan
would go to sea with you; and it would be right, because he loves
you--that is two fingers. But Dan can't go because he is lame--that is
three fingers. Now I love you, and I am not lame--that is four
fingers. And it would not be wrong in me to follow you--and that is my
thumb, the largest reason of all. So you are caught, caught, caught,
you see."

"I do not see," said Joshua in a very decided voice. "Dan is a boy,
and you are a girl; and what is right for a boy to do is often wrong
for a girl. I do not see that I am caught."

But Minnie had relinquished the argument. She was satisfied that she
was right.

"And you would really be very angry with me if I did it?" she asked.

"I should be very angry with you now, Minnie, if it were not that you
were a stupid little girl, just a trifle too fond of talking nonsense.
Such nonsense, too! Why, there's Ellen, Dan's sister, _she_ wouldn't
talk so."

All the brightness went out of Minnie's face, and a dark cloud was
there instead.

Joshua noticed it with surprise. He took her hand gently; but she
snatched it away.

"Ellen would not behave like that," he said; "she is too mild and
gentle." There came into his mind what he had said to Dan of the two
girls--that Ellen was like a lake, and Minnie like the sea; and he
thought how true it was. "It would do you good to know her."

"I don't want to know her," said Minnie sullenly, "and I don't want to
be done good to."

"I didn't think you would be cross-tempered on my last day at home,"
said Joshua in a grave and gentle voice. He paused, as if expecting
her to speak; but she remained silent. "Ah, well," he said, rising, "I
shall go and see if I can find your father."

She jumped up and walked with him to the door.

"Say that you are not angry with me," she said in a voice of the
softest pleading, raising her face to his.

He would have made a different reply, but he saw that her face was
covered with tears.

"Angry with you!" he said kindly. "Who could be angry with you for
long, little Minnie?"

She smiled gratefully and thoughtfully as he kissed her; and when he
had gone, and she had heard his last footstep, she returned to her old
place upon the floor, and crouching down, placed the shell to her ear,
and listened to the singing of the sea.




CHAPTER X.
GOOD-BY.


Minnie's obliviousness of what was right had never before been
presented so clearly to Joshua. He knew well enough that Minnie,
although she was aware that it was wrong to steal, could not
understand that she did wrong in stealing the shell. At the same time
he could not help feeling tenderly towards her because of that wrong
action. After all, how much she was to be pitied! Could it be wondered
at that she was hard to teach, and that she was wayward and wilful,
living such a lonely life as she lived, with no friend to counsel, no
mother to guide her? How quaint was her fancy, and what a pretty thing
it was to see her as he saw her in his imaginings--sitting alone in
her room, with the shell at her ear, listening to the singing of the
sea! With what a daintily-caressing motion she nestled to him when he
called her "Little Minnie!" He repeated the pet words to himself,
"Little Minnie, little Minnie!" as he walked along, and smiled. As for
her telling him that she would like to go to sea with him, what was it
but a childish whimsey? If he had not contradicted her, and made a
matter of importance of it, she would have said it, and there an end.
She would like to go to sea with him, and would follow him if she were
a woman: Well! she was but a child, and the wish was as innocent as
her declaration that she loved him.

When he had thought out all this, he thought of to-morrow, and looked
round upon the familiar streets and the familiar houses with a pang of
regret. To-morrow he would be far away from them, and every succeeding
day would take him farther and farther away from them and all that he
loved. From mother, father, the Old Sailor, his pet birds, and from
Dan--ah! dear, dear Dan! Did ever boy or man have such a friend? Then
there was Ellen, his dear little sweetheart in the days when they were
children together. Was there ever such another unselfish little maid
as that? So devoted, so tender, so loving! How quickly she had won
the heart of the Old Sailor! He remembered that old salt saying,
pointing his great finger at Ellen as he said it, "Joshua, my lad,
that little lass there is the prettiest, the best, the truest and the
kindest-hearted in these dominions." And he remembered himself looking
at Ellen's mild face--peaceful as a lake--and saying, "So she is,
sir," and meaning it heartily; and he remembered the Old Sailor
saying, "That's right, my lad; all you've got to do is to mind your
bearings." Although he had answered, "Yes, sir, I will," he wondered
afterwards, and he found himself wondering now, what on earth the Old
Sailor meant by saying, "Mind your bearings." But what matter? Ellen
_was_ the prettiest, the best, the truest, and the kindest-hearted
lass in these or any other dominions. God bless her!

As he thought of these things, he felt himself growing so
soft-hearted, that he stopped and stamped his feet upon the pavement,
and thumped himself upon the chest, saying as he did so, between
laughing and crying, "This won't do, Josh; this won't do."

He had given himself a score of thumps, and had said, "This won't do,
Josh," half-a-score of times, when loud cries for help fell upon
his ears. He had been walking in the direction of the river, through
some of the streets where he would be most likely to find Basil
Kindred; and he was in a locality where there was a number of low
public-houses, patronized by the worst class of seamen. Turning in the
direction of the cry, Joshua saw a woman run swiftly out of a narrow
thoroughfare. Pursuing her was a man, a dark-looking fellow, with
glittering eyes, and rings in his ears, and a knife in his hand, and
with all his copper-colored fingers and black-serpent locks of hair
flashing in the air with evil intent. Impelled by the unmistakable air
of terror in the form of the flying girl, and the unmistakable air of
mischief in the form of the pursuing man--partly, also, by the
impulsion born of the hunting spirit implanted in man and beast,
Joshua started off at a great pace, and flew after the flying couple.

It was that part of the day when the neighborhood was most quiet. All
the men were at work in the dockyards, and the few women about (having
a wholesome horror probably of a man with an open knife in his hand,
and being perhaps accustomed to such diversions) seemed disinclined to
take part in the chase. With the exception of one drunken creature,
with a blotched and bloated face, who made a frantic motion to follow,
but being tripped up by her draggling petticoats, stumbled, more like
a heap of rags than a woman, into the gutter, Where she lay growling
indistinctly.

The flying woman and the pursuing man were fleet of foot, but Joshua
was younger and more nimble than they. As he gained upon them, a dim
consciousness stole upon him that he knew them; and, as he approached
nearer, the doubt grew into conviction. The almost breathless woman,
throwing affrighted looks behind her, as if a dozen men were pursuing
her instead of one, was Susan; and the evil-looking man who was bent
on running her down was the Lascar who served the Old Sailor, and who
cooked for him, and would have poisoned him for rum and tobacco. Some
other than those, the ruling cravings of his existence, influenced him
now. All the passions of love and hate, and the desire to achieve his
purpose by striking terror, were expressed in every motion of every
limb: they were so eloquent and earnest in the savage pursuit that
they seemed to proclaim their owner's intention, as he raced after the
panting girl.

He was almost upon her, and she felt his ugly lips reeking their
detestable flavor of rum and tobacco upon her neck, when Joshua,
coming up to him, seized him by the throat. He had been so savagely
vindictive in the pursuit, that Joshua's hand upon his throat was the
first indication he received that he was being himself pursued; but,
wasting no look upon his pursuer, he slipped from Joshua like an
eel--his neck was redolent of grease--and with an inarticulate cry of
rage and baffled lust, he sprang after Susan again, who had gained a
few steps by Joshua's ineffectual interposition. But Susan, thoroughly
bewildered and terrified, turned into a blind alley, and perceiving
that there was no thoroughfare, and that she was trapped, fell upon
the rough stones, prostrate from fear and exhaustion.

On one side of the blind alley were four or five houses, in which no
signs of life were visible. They seemed stricken to death by disease.
On the other side was a black dead wall, which shut out the sky.
Before the Lascar could reach Susan--what the man's intention was, or
what he would have done in his wild fury, he, being more beast than
man, might probably not have been able to explain--Joshua had knocked
the knife out of his hand, and had knocked him down with a blow, the
force of which astonished Joshua himself, even in the midst of his
excitement. Almost before Joshua could realize what had occurred, the
cowardly Lascar was crouching by the side of the dead wall, as if his
lair were there, and Joshua was on his knee assisting Susan to recover
herself; keeping a wary look, however, upon the knife, which was lying
in the road at an equal distance from him and the Lascar. The Lascar
saw it too--saw it without looking at it, and without seeming to see
it. A surprising change had taken place in him. A minute since a
volcano of delirious lust was raging in his breast, and every nerve in
his body was quivering with dangerous passion; now, as if by magic, he
was coiled up like a snake, with no motion of life in him but the
quiet glitter of his eyes, which watched every thing, but seemed to
watch nothing.

"What is it all about, Susan?" asked Joshua in wonderment, after a
pause. But, before Susan could reply, a crawling motion on the part of
the Lascar towards the knife caused Joshua to spring into the road.
The snake had no chance with the panther. The Lascar was knocked back
to his position by the dead wall, and Joshua stood over him grasping
the knife. This was the most eventful transaction that had ever
occurred to Joshua; and, as he stood over his antagonist palming the
knife, a strange sensation of pride in his own strength tingled
through his veins. There was blood upon the Lascar's face; Joshua had
struck him so fiercely as to loosen one of his teeth--so decidedly to
loosen it, that the Lascar put his finger into his mouth and drew it
out. He said nothing, however, but kept the tooth clasped in his
hand.

"You black devil!" exclaimed Joshua, gazing upon the crouching figure
with a kind of loathing amazement. "What do you mean by all this?"

The Lascar wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, and shaking
the hair from his eyes, threw upon Joshua a covert look of deadly
malice--a look expressive of a bloody-minded craving to have Joshua
helpless on the stones beneath him, that he might press the life out
of his enemy. His eye spoke, but his tongue uttered no word. Raging
inwardly as he was with bad passion, he had sufficient control over
himself to suppress any spoken manifestation of it. But his attitude
and demeanor were not less dangerous for all that.

"He follows me everywhere," said Susan, still gasping and panting for
breath. "He dogs me by day and by night. He waylays me in the dark,
and I can hardly get away from him."

"What for?" demanded Joshua, with his eye upon the Lascar, who was
sitting cunningly quiet, nursing his wounded mouth.

"I don't know," replied Susan, with an appalled look over her
shoulder, as if she were haunted by a fear that the spirit of the
Lascar was there, notwithstanding that he was crouching before her in
the ugly flesh. "I am afraid to think."

"Afraid! in broad daylight!"

"Day or night it is all the same," moaned Susan. "Whenever he sees me,
he dogs me till I am ready to die. You don't know his power--you don't
know his power!"

"What were you doing before I saw you?"

"I was looking for some one."

"For whom?"

"For Mr. Kindred," with a curious hesitation.

"For Mr. Kindred!" exclaimed Joshua, more amazed than ever; "why for
him?"

"He is ill. I will tell you about it by and by," replied Susan
nervously. "I thought I should find him in this neighborhood, and
while I was looking for him, he"--pointing to the Lascar with a
shudder--"he saw me and spoke to me, and would not leave me--wanted me
to go with him and drink with him, and when I refused, he seized me,
and then--then--I scratched him--and--I don't remember any thing more,
except that I was afraid he wanted to kill me."

Joshua looked up at the Lascar's face, and observed the scratch for
the first time. It was a long scratch downwards from the eye to the
wounded mouth. The Lascar made no attempt to hide it, but sat still,
with his hand on his mouth.

"Serve you right, you black dog!" exclaimed Joshua. "What do you mean
by dogging her? What do you mean by following her with a knife? Why,
you Lascar dog, for two pins"--he raised his hand indignantly, and
advanced a step towards the Lascar, who made a shrinking movement
backwards, although in truth he could not get nearer to the dead wall
than he was already.

"Don't, Joshua, don't!" cried Susan, seizing his arm, and clinging to
him imploringly. "Don't touch him, for God's sake, or"--with another
scared look behind her--"he'll haunt you as he haunts me."

A taunting wicked smile crossed the Lascar's lips, but it was gone a
moment afterwards. It might have been the shadow of an evil thought
finding expression there.

"How does he haunt you more than you have already told me he does?"
demanded Joshua in a great heat. "You don't think he can frighten me
as he frightens you, Susan, do you? The black dog! Look at him! He's
frightened of a white man's little finger!"

"Hush!" implored Susan. "He haunts me when he is not near me."

"How can he do that, you foolish girl?"

"He does it--he _can_ do it--with his double!"

"His double?"

"He has a double--a spirit, a wicked spirit"--she turned her head
slowly and trembled in every limb; "and he told me it should haunt me,
and follow me wherever I go. And it does! I feel it behind me when I
don't see him. It is there now! It is there now!" And wrought to the
highest pitch of mental terror and excitement, Susan threw up her
hands, and would have fallen to the ground but for Joshua's protecting
arm.

The taunting smile came again upon the Lascar's lips, as he secretly
watched Susan's terror. With a special maliciousness he flashed his
fingers towards her, as if he were issuing a command to his double not
to leave her. It was evidence of the power he possessed over her weak
mind that, notwithstanding her almost fainting condition, a stronger
shuddering came upon her when he made even that slight motion.

Feeling that, for Susan's sake, it was necessary to put an end to the
scene, Joshua, with an indignant motion, commanded the Lascar to leave
them. The Lascar rose submissively, like a whipped dog, and so stood
with bent head before Joshua.

"Now then, what are you waiting for?" asked Joshua.

"My knife," answered the Lascar doggedly.

"Not likely," said Joshua; "I know you too well to let you have it."

"What do you know of me?" asked the Lascar in a low guttural voice.

"I have heard enough of you from Mr. Meddler"--the Lascar grated his
teeth with tigerish ferocity--"you and the likes of you. I know how
free you are with your knives, you Lascars, on land and on sea. Be
off!"

"My knife!" again demanded the Lascar, with his eyes directed to
Joshua's feet; but he saw Joshua's face and every motion of Joshua's
body. "My knife! It is mine. I bought it and paid for it."

"Stole it more likely," said Joshua with a sneer.

"It is a lie. I bought it. Even if I did steal it, you have no right
to it. Give me my knife, and let me go."

"Joshua reflected. Clearly he had no just claim to the man's knife,
and had no right to retain it. His mind was soon made up. Releasing
his hold of Susan, he placed the blade beneath his foot, and broke it
off close to the handle. Then he threw the handle and the blade over
the Lascar's head. A dangerous fire gleamed in the man's downcast eyes
and a cold-blooded grating of teeth came from his mouth. He stood
silent for a few moments, with his hands tightly pressed, striving to
master the devil that was raging within him. But he could not restrain
his passion.

"Curse you!" he hissed; "I owe you something; I will pay it you, by
hell!"

He crouched to receive the blow which he expected Joshua would give
him, in return for his curse. But no blow was given nor intended; yet
he quivered as if he had been struck before he spoke again.

"See you!" he cried; "I never forget--never--never! My turn will come.
You called me black devil"--

"So you are," said Joshua scornfully. "And black dog--dog of a
Lascar!"

"So you are."

"You shall pay for it! If it is years before I can pay you, you shall
be paid for it! See you--remember!" With all his fingers menacingly,
as if each was possessed with a distinct will, and was swearing
vengeance against Joshua. "Your life shall pay for it--more than your
life shall pay for it!" He spat upon the ground and trod savagely upon
the spittle. "I mark you--see!" With his forefinger he marked a cross
in the air. "I put this cross against you--curse you!"

Susan, gazing on with sight terror-fixed, saw the infuriated man stamp
upon the stones, as if he had Joshua's life-blood beneath his foot,
and then saw the cross marked in the air. The fire of her fevered
imagination gave red color to the shadowy lines; and when the Lascar
lowered his forefinger, she saw the recorded cross standing
unsupported in the air--a cross of bright red blood. Fascinated, she
gazed until the bright color faded into two dusky lines, and so
remained. Joshua laughed lightly at the vindictive action and the
curse; yet he did not feel quite at his ease.

"Come, Susan," he said, "let us be going."

But Susan did not move. Every sense was absorbed in watching the
dreadful cross and the Lascar's passion-distorted face. He, stooping
to pick up the handle of the knife and the broken blade, turned again
upon Joshua, and remained faithful to his theme.

"Don't forget," he said in his low, bad voice, the words coming slowly
from a throat almost choked with passion. "By this"--placing his hand
upon his wounded mouth--"and these"--holding up the pieces of the
knife--"I will keep you in mind. If it is to-morrow, or next week, or
next month, you shall be paid! The dog of a Lascar never forgets! See
you--remember!"

"Storm away," said Joshua, drawing Susan aside to allow the Lascar to
pass. "You will have to be very quick about it, for to-morrow I go to
sea."

"You do, eh!" exclaimed the Lascar, with another harsh grating of his
teeth, and stopping suddenly in his course. "See you now--take this
with you for my good-by!" With a swift motion, he cut his finger with
the broken blade, and shook the blood at Joshua. It fell in a sprinkle
over his clothes, and a drop plashed into his face. The Lascar saw it,
and laughed. "Take that with you for luck!" he cried. "By that mark I
shall live to pay you, and you will live to be paid!"

So saying, he turned and fled. Joshua sprang after him, but the man
was out of sight in a minute. Returning to Susan, Joshua found her
sitting upon the pavement, nursing her knees and sobbing
distressfully.

"O Josh!" she cried, "it is a bad omen."

"Not at all," said Joshua, cooling down a little, and wiping the spot
of blood from his face. "What does the old proverb say? 'Curses always
come home to roost.' Do you hear me?"

It was evident that she did not; her fright was still strong upon her.
With a shrinking movement of her head, she looked slowly round, and
clutching Joshua's hand, whispered, "For pity's sake, don't let him
come near me! Hold me tight! Keep close to me! He is not gone!"

With a firm and gentle force, Joshua compelled her to stand upright.

"There is no one here but you and I," he said, in a firm voice. "You
are letting your fancies make a baby of you. There is no one here but
you and I. If you will not believe what I say--I can see, I suppose,
and I am calm, while you are in a regular fever--if you will not
believe what I say, I shall leave you."

"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him.

He compelled her to walk two or three times up and down the court. His
decided action calmed her. She gave vent to a sigh of relief, and
wiped her eyes.

"That's right," said Joshua as they walked out of the court. "Now I
can tell you that I am glad I have met you. I join my ship to-morrow."

"I had no idea you were going away so soon."

"I am going now to see if Mr. Kindred is at home."

"I live in the same house as he does," she said, looking timidly at
Joshua.

"That is strange. Are you and he intimate?"

"Yes. They are poor, you know, Joshua."

"So are you, Susey."

"But I can help them a little. He's often ill, and Minnie isn't strong
enough to take care of him, and so I nurse him sometimes. Minnie and I
are great friends."

When they arrived at Basil Kindred's poor lodging, Minnie met them at
the door. With her finger to her lips, she motioned them to be quiet.

"Tread softly," she whispered; "father has come home, and is lying
down."

They walked to the bed, and saw Basil Kindred lying on the bed in
unquiet sleep. Susan placed her hand on his hot forehead, and said,--

"I have been afraid of this for a long time, Josh. He has got a fever.
What would he do without me now?"

There was a touch of pride in her voice as she asked the question. The
pride arose from the conviction that the man she loved really needed
her help, and from the knowledge that she could make some little
sacrifice for him.

"He is very, very ill, I think," whispered Minnie.

"We will make him well between us, Minnie," said Susan.

Al! the fears by which she was assailed but a few minutes since were
gone. Joshua was glad to see that, at all events.

Minnie took Susan's hand gratefully, and kissed it.

"She has been so good to us, Joshua," she said.

Susan's eyes kindled, and she directed to Joshua a look which said,
"Have I not done right in coming to live here? See how useful I can
be, and how happy I am!"

"I shall tell them at home where you live, Susey," said Joshua.

"Very well. Give my love to Dan."

Joshua nodded, and bent over Basil Kindred. The action disturbed the
sleeping man. He seized Joshua's wrist in his burning hand, and said,
in a trembling voice, "She died in my arms, and the earth was her bed.
The stars were ashamed to look upon her. Well they might be! Well they
might be!"

"He is speaking of his wife," said Susan softly to Joshua. "He loved
her very dearly, and would have died for her. When she died, his heart
almost broke."

Sympathy and devotion made her voice like sweet music. Joshua looked
at her with a feeling of wonder, and was amazed at the change that had
come over her. An hour ago, she was crouching in drivelling terror,
overpowered by absurd fancies; now she moved about cheerfully, strong
in her purpose of love. But he had never in all his life seen her as
he saw her now. He bade her good-by, and she wished him Godspeed, and
kissed him. Minnie accompanied him to the door.

"Good-by, dear little Minnie," he said.

"Good-by," she said, with tears in her voice. "You forgive me, don t
you, for what I said this afternoon?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Ah! I like to hear you speak like that; it sounds sweet and good.
Say, 'I forgive you, little Minnie.'"

"But I haven't any thing to forgive, now I come to think of it."

"Yes, you have. You say that out of your good nature. You mustn't go
away and leave me to think that you are angry with me."

"I am not angry with you, Minnie. After all, what you did, you did
through love, and there could not be much wrong in it."

The brightest of bright expressions stole into her face, and she
clasped her hands with joy.

"Say that again, Joshua, word for word, as you said it just now."

"What you did, you did through love," repeated Joshua to please her,
"and there could not be much wrong in it."

"O Joshua!" she cried, pressing her hands to her face, "you have made
me almost quite happy. I have heard father say the same thing, but in
different words. Now I shall follow you to sea. Yes, I shall, with
this," holding up her shell. "To-morrow night, and every night that
you are at sea, I shall listen to my shell and think of you."

"Stupid little Minnie," he said affectionately.

"And you will come back in a year?"

"I hope so, please God."

"Then I shall be growing quite a woman," she said thoughtfully.

The next moment she raised her face quickly to his. The tears were
streaming down it. As he bent to her, she caught him round the neck,
and kissed him once, twice, thrice, with more than the passionate
affection, but with all the innocence, of a child. Then she ran into
the house; and Joshua, taking that as a farewell, walked slowly
homewards, to go through the hardest trial of all.


That hardest trial through which he had to go awaited him at home. All
the members of the Marvel family, and Dan and Ellen Taylor, were
assembled together in the old familiar kitchen. They were all of them
sad at heart, and made themselves sadder by vain little attempts to be
cheerful. The tea was a very silent affair, and the two or three extra
delicacies provided by Mrs. Marvel--as if it were a feast they were
sitting down to--were failures. The most remarkable feature about the
tea was the pretence they all made to eat and drink a great deal, and
the miserableness of the result. They pretended to accomplish
prodigies, and handed about the bread-and-butter and the cake very
industriously, as if it were each person's duty to be mightily anxious
about every other person's appetite, and to utterly ignore his own.
But every thing in the way of eating and drinking was a mistake. The
bread-and-butter was disregarded, and was taken away in disgrace; the
cake was slighted, and retired in dudgeon. It was a relief when the
tea-things were cleared. Mrs. Marvel was the bravest of the party; she
who had so strongly protested against Joshua's going to sea, did all
she could to administer little crumbs of comfort to every one of them,
and especially to her husband, who had so heartily encouraged Joshua
not to do as his father had done before him, but who was now the most
outwardly miserable person in the kitchen. Thus, Mrs. Marvel sang
snatches of songs, and bustled about as if she really enjoyed Joshua's
going, and was glad to get rid of him. When she had accomplished a
good deal of nothing, she rose and did nothing else; and when that was
done, she sat down and remonstrated with her good man, and would even
have rejoiced if she could have worried him into blowing her up.

"Don't take on so, George," she said; "you ought to be cheerful
to-night of all nights. What is the use of fretting? Joshua's going to
make a man of himself, and to do good for all of us--ain't you, my
dear?"

"I intend it, mother, you may be sure."

"Of course you do; and here is father in the dumps when he ought to be
up in the skies."

"Some day, I hope," said George Marvel, mustering up spirit to have
his joke in the midst of his sadness; "not just now, though. I want to
see what sort of a figure Josh will cut in the world first. Give me my
pipe, Maggie."

Mrs. Marvel made a great fuss in getting the pipe, knocking down a
chair, and clattering things about, and humming a verse of her
favorite song, "Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses;" and really made matters
a little less sad by her bustle. Then, instead of handing her husband
the pipe without moving from her seat, as she might have done, she
made a sweep round the table, and pinched Ellen's cheek, and patted
Dan on the head, and wiped her eyes on the sly, and kissed Joshua, and
so worked her way to George Marvel, and put the pipe between his lips.

"You are as active as a girl, Maggie," said George Marvel, putting his
arm round her waist, and gently detaining her by his side.

She looked down into his eyes, and for the life of her could not help
the tears gathering in her own. She made no further attempts to be
cheerful; and what little conversation was indulged in occurred
between long intervals of silence. They had an early supper; for
Joshua was to rise at daybreak. When supper was over, George Marvel
took out the Bible, and in an impressive voice read from it the one
hundred and seventh Psalm. They all stood round the table with bent
heads, Joshua standing between his mother and Dan, clasping a hand of
each. Very solemn was George Marvel's voice when he came to the
twenty-third verse:--


   "They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great
       waters;
   These see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep.
   For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the
       waves thereof.
   They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths;
       their soul is melted because of trouble.
   They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at
       their wits' end.
   Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them
       out of their distresses.
   He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.
   Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto
      their desired haven."


When the reading of the Psalm was over, and they had stood silent for
a little while, they raised their heads, but could scarcely see each
other for the tears in their eyes. Then they kissed, and said
goodnight; and Joshua, casting a wistful glance round the kitchen,
every piece of furniture and crockery in which appeared to share in
the general regret, assisted Dan up to his bedroom for the last time.

They had scarcely time to sit down before the handle was gently
turned, and George Marvel entered. In the room were all Joshua's
little household gods--his accordion, his favorite books, and his dear
little feathered friends.

George Marvel threw his arm round Joshua's waist, and drew him close.

"What are you going to do with the birds, Josh?" he asked.

"Dan will take care of them, father."

"Don't fret at leaving them--or us. Be a man, Josh--be a man," he
said, with the tears running down his face.

"Yes, dear father, I will," said Joshua with a great sob.

"An don't forget father and mother, my boy."

"No, father, never!"

"It's better than being a wood-turner, Josh. Don't you think so?"
doubting at the last moment the wisdom of his having encouraged Joshua
in the step he was about to take.

"A great deal better, father. You'll see!"

"That's right, Josh--that's right! I'm glad to hear you say so.
Goodnight, my boy. God bless you!" And pressing Joshua in his arms,
and kissing him, George Marvel went away to bed.

He had not been gone two minutes before the handle of the door was
turned again, and Mrs. Marvel's pale face appeared. She did not enter
the room; and Joshua ran to her. She drew him on to the narrow
landing, and shut the door, so that they were in darkness. She pressed
him to her bosom, and kissed him many times, and cried over him
quietly.

"O mother!" whispered Joshua, "shall I go?  Shall I go?"

"Hush, dear child," Mrs. Marvel said. "It is the very best thing; and
you must not doubt now. Bless you, my dear, dear child! You will come
home a man; and we shall all be so proud of you--so proud--and happy!"
She pressed him closer, and tried to speak cheerfully; but it was a
poor attempt. "And write whenever you can, and tell us every thing."

"Yes; I will be sure."

"Be a good boy, Joshua."

"Yes, mother."

"And you will say your prayers every night?"

"I will, mother."

"Dear child, God will protect you. I shall think of you of a night
saying your prayers my dear, and it will comfort me so! And here I am,
keeping my boy out of bed, like a selfish, selfish, selfish mother!
Now, my dear, one more kiss, and say goodnight."

He kissed her again, and she left his arms, and crept softly to her
room. These heart-shocks were hard to bear, and he paused to recover
himself before he re-entered the room. Dan did not look at him, nor
ask him any questions. But Joshua sat down beside Dan, and said,--

"It was mother kept me, Dan."

"Yes, I know, Jo dear. There's somebody else at the door."

It was Sarah, who asked if she might come in. Of course she might. And
might Ellen come in? Of course. So Ellen came in, and she and Sarah
sat with their brothers for a few minutes. They talked quietly
together, and Joshua drew close to Ellen, and grew calmer as he looked
at her sweet peaceful face. She raised her eyes shyly to his, and told
him she had a little present for him, and would he accept it? _There_
was a question to ask him! Joshua answered almost gayly. She produced
her present--a poor little purse, which she had herself worked for
him--and Joshua kissed it, and kissed her afterwards, and she nestled
to his side very tenderly and very prettily, and cast down her eyes,
and was perfectly happy. The girls did not stay long. Goodnight was
said again and again, and Joshua asked Ellen to kiss him, and she did
so without hesitation. When they were gone, Joshua sat down, and
rested his head upon his hands. He was weary after the day's
excitement, but although he was tired, he was wakeful, and did not
feel inclined for sleep. So he and Dan had a long chat together,
recalling the many tender memories that enriched their friendship.

"I have a present for you, too, Jo," said Dan, producing a Bible.

Joshua opened it, and read on the first page, "From Dan, to his
dearest friend and brother, Joshua. With undying love and confidence."

"With undying love and confidence," mused Joshua. "Nothing could ever
change our friendship, Dan, could it?"

"Nothing, Jo."

"Come, now," said Joshua, "suppose, for the sake of argument, that I
was to turn out bad."

Dan smiled. "That couldn't happen, Jo."

Thereupon Joshua told Dan the adventure he had had that day with Susan
and the Lascar. "And, do you know, Dan, when I knocked him down, and
saw his mouth bleeding. I was glad--savagely glad, I am sorry to say.
Yet afterwards when I thought of it, and when I think of it now, it
seems as if it was a bad feeling that possessed me."

"It doesn't seem so to me, Jo; it gives me greater confidence in you.
If you had not acted so, what would have become of poor Susan?"

"That's true," said Joshua.

"I knew all along, Jo dear, that you were loving and tender and good,
but I did not know until now that you were so bold and brave. And so
strong too! I am proud of you. You can't tell what may happen. Think
of this strange new world you are going to now, Jo, and of the strange
things the Old Sailor has told us of it. You have no more idea of the
wonders you will see than I have. But you will see them, and I shall
see them through you. Listen now to me, Jo. I love you, my dearest
friend and brother, and you have my undying love and confidence. I, a
poor helpless cripple, had no future of my own; and you have given me
one. I live in you. I shall follow you in my thoughts, in my dreams.
Somehow, Jo, our minds have grown together, and I smile at your words
that you might turn out bad. Could you believe it of me, if I was
strong like you even?"

"No."

"You answer for me Jo. You have always been noble and good to me, and
you will always be the same. I would not think of thanking you, Jo,
for what you have done for me--I would not think of thanking you for
making my poor crippled legs a blessing to me instead of a burden. Not
with words do I or can I repay you--but with undying love and
confidence. Kiss me now, Jo, and say that you fully understand my
friendship and truth."

"Fully, Dan;" kissing him. "And I have never forgotten what I promised
you a long time ago, Dan. Wherever I am, and whatever I shall see I
will think, 'Dan is here with me, although I cannot see him.' Although
we are parted, we shall be together."

"Yes, in spirit, Jo dear," said Dan with a beautiful light of
happiness upon his face. "And now, goodnight."

"Good night, Dan."

"If I am asleep in the morning, Jo, do not wake me. I am content to
part from you now with this goodnight."

"Very well, Dan. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, MY FRIEND."

With that Dan turned to the wall, and Joshua, going to the bird-cages
hanging in that the room, said goodnight to the birds. They were
asleep on their perches, and he did not disturb them. "They will give
me a chirrup in the morning," he thought, and, blowing out the candle,
he said his prayers and went to bed. But he could not sleep; the
events of the day presented themselves to his mind in the strangest
forms. Minnie and her shell came and faded away, and her place was
filled by Susan nursing Basil Kindred; then came the ugly figure of
the Lascar crouching down, and afterwards making a cross against him,
and cursing him; his father reading the Psalm, while they all stood
round; he and his mother standing in the dark passage, and his mother
sobbing over him; Ellen kissing him and nestling close to him, oh so
prettily and innocently! All these pictures presented themselves to
him consecutively at first; but presently they grew disturbed, and the
Lascar, the evil genius of the group, was mischievously and
triumphantly at work, now in one shape, now in another. Joshua and
Ellen were sitting together when the Lascar came between them, and
struck Ellen out of the picture. Then the two were locked in a deadly
struggle on the ground, and the Lascar, overpowering him, knelt upon
his chest and hissed, "I could take your life, but that won't satisfy
me. More than your life shall pay for what you have done." Other
phases of his fancies were, that Dan believed him to be false. "My
doing!" hissed the Lascar. That Ellen believed him to be wicked. "My
doing!" hissed the Lascar. That they all believed him to be bad. "My
doing!" hissed the Lascar. That they were all grouped together, and
were turning from him, and that the Lascar, holding him fast,
whispered that that was his revenge. At length the combinations became
so distressing, that Joshua, to shake off the fancies, rose in his bed
and opened his eyes. The moonlight was streaming in through the
window, and Joshua crept quietly to the water-jug and sprinkled some
water over his face. Then, his mind being calmer, he knelt down by the
side of the bed; and Dan, who had not slept, raised himself upon his
elbow, and, seeing his friend in prayerful attitude, smiled softly to
himself and was glad.




CHAPTER XI.
WHAT OCCURRED AFTER JOSHUA'S DEPARTURE.


The nicest mathematical calculations of the probability of events are
not uncommonly subjected to shocks which, to those dull and
unreflective persons who cannot distinguish between rule and
exceptions, seem to give the lie to science. Yesterday the world was
at peace, and rulers and politicians were eloquent in phrases of
friendship and goodwill to the inhabitants of every nation on the
face of the earth. To-day the world is at war, and rulers and
politicians, hot with wrath at a cunningly-provoked insult, are eager
to avenge traditional wrongs at any expense of blood and human
suffering, and to resent what they choose to call national
humiliation. Yesterday two nations clasped hands, and smiled upon one
another. Suddenly, as thus they stood, a fire--kindled by the worst of
secret passions and by the lust of self-aggrandizement--flashed into
their palms, and they threw each other off, and drew the sword. A more
serious shock was never given to the calculation of the probable
course of events.

Yesterday peace was certain, and men were preparing to gather the
harvests; today war is raging, and the cornfields are steeped in
blood.

So have I seen in a far-off country--now almost in its infancy, but
whose growth is swift, and whose manhood will be grand--a sluggish
river rolling lazily to the sea. Walking inland along its banks, now
broadened by fair plains, now narrowed by towering ranges, I have come
suddenly upon the confluence of it and another river, whose waters,
springing from cloud-tipped mountains of snow, rush laughingly down
the grand old rocks. Here, in the narrow pass where the rivers meet,
the gray sluggish stream of a sleeper opposes itself to the
marvellously blue waters of a passionate life. One, dull and inert,
rolls like a soulless sluggard sullenly to the sea; the other, with
its snow-fringed lines reflected in its restless depths of blue, leaps
and laughs as it flashes onwards, like a godlike hero, to the mightier
waters of the Pacific. But a few hundred yards away from the
confluence of the streams, no stranger, walking thitherward, could
imagine the singular and grand contest that is eternally waging in
that wonderful pass; and when he comes upon it suddenly, admiration
impels him to stand in silent worship.

One of the commonest of common similes is the simile of life and a
river. But as it is not because a thing is rare that it must needs be
sweet, so it is not because a thing is common that it must needs be
true. Every river fulfils its mission: does every life? More like a
stream than a river is life. Trace the stream, from the inconsiderable
bubbling of a mountain spring, down the hillsides, over rocks, through
glades lighted by sunlight and moonlight, through tortuous defiles and
rocky chasms, into a sparkling current, which swells and swells and
grows into a lovely channel, or into a sullen rill, which drips and
drips and loses itself in a puddle.

When Joshua's ship had sailed, gloom fell upon the house of the
Marvels: the sunshine that used to warm it no longer shone on it.
George Marvel showed his grief more plainly than did his good woman.
He was more gentle towards her, and sometimes his gentleness of manner
took the form of submission. Singularly enough she was seriously
distressed at the change. She wished him to be positive and
contradictory, as he used to be; to scold her and put her down, as he
used to do; to be more masterful and less gentle. She strove in all
sorts of ways to bring back his old humor; she tried his temper by
opposing him in trivial matters; she contradicted him when he spoke;
and she even ventured, on two or three occasions, to tell him that he
would have to wait for his meals--which waiting for one's meals, as is
well known, is one of the leading causes of domestic differences. But
all her well-meant efforts were thrown away; and when she saw him sit
down patiently on being told, with assumed snappishness, that tea
wouldn't be ready for half an hour, she gave it up as a bad job, and,
acting wisely, left time to cure him. It _did_ cure him, as it cures
greater griefs; but in the mean time he suffered greatly.

The fact of it was, George Marvel was troubled in his mind at the
prominent part he had taken in influencing Joshua's choice of a
profession. Having driven his son to sea, he felt as if he had a hand
in every storm, and as if he were in some measure responsible for
every gust of wind, inasmuch as it expressed danger to Joshua. Then
the thought of Joshua's being shipwrecked haunted him. "Suppose Josh
is shipwrecked, father," his wife had said, "what would you say then?
You'd lie awake night after night, father--you know you would--and
wish he had been a wood-turner."

"Maggie was right," he admitted to himself; "it would have been better
for Josh, and happier for all us, if he had remained at home and been
a wood-turner."

Being in pursuit of misery, he showed the doggedness of his nature by
hunting for it assiduously. He read with remorseful eagerness every
scrap of print relating to shipwreck that he could lay hands upon. He
would go out of his way to borrow a paper which he had heard contained
an account of disasters at sea, and when he obtained it, he would shut
himself up, and read it and re-read it in secrecy, until he extracted
as much misery from it as it could possibly yield him. The second
Saturday night after Joshua's departure he saw a number of persons
assembled round a sailor who was begging. The sailor had a patch over
his eye and a wooden leg, and he was singing, in a voice of dismal
enjoyment, a woful narration of his sufferings on a raft. George
Marvel stopped until the song was finished, and then gave the man a
penny. The following Saturday night he went in search of the sailor,
and listened to his song, and gave him another penny. And so, for many
successive Saturday nights, he went and enjoyed his penny-worth of
misery, getting, it must be admitted, full value for his money.

On other evenings he smoked his pipe in the kitchen as usual. If the
weather was boisterous, he would go restlessly to the street-door, and
come back more low-spirited than ever.

"It's dreadfully windy to-night, Maggie," he would say.

"Do you think so, George?" Mrs. Marvel would ask, making light of the
wind for his sake, although she too was thinking of Joshua.

"Not a star to be seen," he would add despondently.

Then would come a stronger gust, perhaps, and George Marvel would
shiver and ask his wife if she thought it was stormy out at sea. She,
becoming on the instant wonderfully weatherwise, would answer, No, she
was sure it wasn't stormy at sea, for the sea was such a long way off,
and it wasn't likely that a storm would be all over the world at once.

One night when a great storm was raging through London, and when the
thunder was breaking loudly over the chimney-tops in Stepney, Mrs.
Marvel lay awake, with all a mother's fears tugging at her
heart-strings, praying silently for Joshua's safety, and clasping her
hands more tightly in agony of love at every lightning-flash that
darted past the window. She hoped that her husband was asleep,
oblivious of the storm; but he was as wide awake as she was,
and was following Joshua's ship through the fearful storm. At one
time, the house shook in the wild blustering of the wind, and they
heard a crash as of the blowing down of some chimneys.

"Maggie," whispered Mr. Marvel, wondering if his wife were awake.

"Yes, father," answered Mrs. Marvel, under her breath.

"It is an awful storm." Then, after a pause, "Have you been awake
long, mother?"

"I have been listening to it for ever so long, dear," said Mrs.
Marvel; adding, with a cunning attempt to comfort him, "And praying
that it might spend out all its force over our heads, and not travel
away to Joshua's ship. We ought to be thankful that Joshua is on the
open sea. Mr. Meddler says there's no danger for a ship in a storm
when it isn't near land."

"And he knows better than us, mother."

"Yes, dear. All we can do is to pray for Joshua. God will bring him
back to us, father."

"I hope so; I pray so. Goodnight, Maggie. Go to sleep."

"Yes, George. Goodnight."

But they lay awake for a long time after that, until the storm,
sobbing like a child worn out with passion, sighed and moaned itself
away.

As for Dan, for many days after Joshua was gone he felt as if a dear
friend had died; not Joshua, but some unknown friend almost as dear.
He had reason enough for feeling lonely and miserable. His dear
friend's companionship had been inestimably precious to him; Joshua's
very footfall had made his heart glad. The hours they had spent
together were the summer of his life, and now that he and Joshua were
parted he recognized that a great void had been made in his life, and
that it behoved him to fill it up. That void was want of occupation.
What was he to do now that Joshua was gone? When Joshua was at home,
there had been every day something to do, something to talk about.
something to argue upon. Then, time did not hang heavily upon his
hands; now, when there was no Joshua to look forward to, he found
himself falling into a state of listlessness which he knew was not
good for him. He wanted something for his hands to do. What? He
thought a great deal about it, and had not settled the difficulty when
a domestic calamity occurred.

The drinking proclivities of Mr. Taylor have been incidentally
referred to. These proclivities had unfortunately grown upon him to
such an extent, that he was now an ardent and faithful slave of that
demon to so many English homes among the poor--Gin. It has been spoken
of often enough and truthfully enough, God knows! But it cannot, until
it lie vanquished in the dust, be too often struck at. If there is a
curse in this our mighty England which degrades it to a level so low
that it is shame to think of, that curse is Gin! If vice, domestic
misery, and prostitution have an English teacher, that teacher is Gin!
And in this England, which we so glorify, so sing about and mouth
about, no direct attempt has ever yet been made by statesmen who work
as Jobbers to root this teacher out of our wretched courts and alleys,
and replace it by something better. Perhaps one day, when a lull takes
place in the jangle of Politics--amid the din of which so many strange
sounds are heard; such as the wrangle of religious creeds, whose
various exponents split worthless straws in Church-and-State bills for
Heaven knows what purpose, unless it be for the triumph of their
particular creeds; such as the wrangle of private members whose hearts
and souls (literally) are wrapt up in private bills for the good of
the people--perhaps one day amid the lull, a wise and beneficent
statesman may turn his attention to the abominable curse, and earn for
himself a statue, the design of which shall be--after the manner of
St. George and the Dragon--Gin writhing on the ground in all its true
deformity, pierced through by the spear of a wise legislation, which
in this instance at least shall have legislated for the good of the
many.

Mr. Taylor, one of the Gin Patriots, having enrolled himself as a
soldier in the cause, was necessitated by the magnanimity of his
nature to become a soldier leal and true. So he bowed himself down
before Gin, and worshipped it morning, noon, and night. Even in his
dreams he was faithful to the cause, mumbling out entreaties to his
god. His devotion causing him to neglect all lesser worldly matters,
he fell into a bad state of poverty, and his family fell with him. The
worst form of Mr. Taylor's devotion did not appear until Joshua left
home; hitherto he had been working up to his ambition's height. Having
reached it, he rested on his oars, which, being composed of the
frailest of timber, gave way and sent him rolling into the mud. As he
declined to provide for his family, that duty devolved upon Mrs.
Taylor, and she patiently and unmurmuringly performed her duty, and
worked her fingers to the bone, until her strength gave way. She was
one of those quiet souls who always do their best, and never complain;
and having done her best, she closed her eyes upon the world, and
passed without a murmur out of the hive of busy bees.

There was much sadness in the house when the event occurred, and
there was much helpful sympathy among the neighbors. Not for Mr.
Taylor--although they remembered the time when he was a respectable
member of society, before he had fallen under the fatal influence of
Gin--but for the children. During Mrs. Taylor's illness, which lasted
but a very short time, Susan came to the house and helped Ellen in her
household work and in nursing their mother. It was an anxious time for
the poor little maid; but she did her work willingly, and with the
patient spirit her mother had exhibited. Susan was a great help to
her, and there was more sisterly love between them during that time
than had ever before shown itself. At the funeral, Mr. Taylor
presented himself in as decent a state of Gin as he could muster up
for the occasion; drivelled a little, trembled a great deal, and
proclaimed himself a most unfortunate man. Finding that he obtained no
sympathy for his miserable position from his children or from the
neighbors, he, when the funeral was over, pawned his waistcoat, and
dissolving the proceeds wept tears of Gin over the death of his wife.
While he was employed in that process of drowning his grief, the three
children were sitting together in Dan's room talking in hushed tones
over their loss and over their prospects. After the funeral, Mrs.
Marvel--who had helped to nurse Mrs. Taylor--quietly prepared tea in
Dan's room, and with her usual sympathetic instinct of what was best,
kept herself out of sight as much as possible. But at the last moment,
when tea was ready and she was about to leave the children
undisturbed, she placed her arm round Dan's neck, and whispered that
Joshua's home was Dan's and that he might come and occupy Joshua's
room whenever he pleased. "And be another son to us my dear," said
good Mrs. Marvel; "so that we shall have two." Dan thanked her, and
looked at Ellen thoughtfully, and then Mrs. Marvel left the children
to their meal.

Said Dan, "Mrs. Marvel has asked me to live in her house, and sleep in
Joshua's room."

"It would be a good thing," observed Susan.

Dan stole his hand into Ellen's, who had been looking down sadly; she
felt the warm pressure, and her fingers tightened upon his. That
little action was as good as words; they understood each other
perfectly.

"No," he said, "it would not be a good thing. It was a good thing for
Mrs. Marvel to offer, but then she is Jo's mother, and as kind and
good as Jo is; but it would not be a good thing for me to accept. For
there's Ellen here; she is half of me, Susey, and we mustn't be
parted. But indeed there will be no reason for it. I have a wonderful
scheme in my head, but it wants thinking over before I tell it."

Dan spoke bravely, as if he were a strong man, with all the world to
choose from.

"O Dan!" exclaimed Susan, tears coming to her eyes at his brave
confident manner, "if it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have been a
cripple, and your poor legs might have been of some use to you."

"They will be of more use to me perhaps than if they were sound,
Susey," said Dan cheerfully, "if I can make something out of the
scheme I have got in my head--and I think I can. Let us talk sensibly.
Now that poor dear mother's gone, we must all do something. I intend
to commence doing something to-morrow."

"What, dear Dan?" asked Susan.

"You will see. What I should like is that we should all live together.
Perhaps not just now, Susey, but by and by. What do you say to that,
Susey?"

Susan thought of Basil and Minnie Kindred, and felt that it would be
impossible for her to leave them. "It would be very good," she said,
"but we can talk of that by and by, as you say."

"Very well. The first thing, then, we have to consider is
bread-and-butter. Bread-and-butter," he repeated, in reply to their
questioning looks. "We must have it, and we must earn it."

Susan nodded gravely, and said, "Ellen had better learn to be a
dressmaker."

Ellen looked up with joyful gratitude.

"Oh, how good of you, Susey!" she exclaimed. "Then I could earn money.
I wouldn't mind how hard I should have to work."

"It is a capital idea," said Dan, taking Susan's hand. "The best thing
you can do, Susey, is to bring some of your work here every day for a
couple of hours, and let Ellen help you--she will soon learn."

"That I will," said Ellen in a voice of quiet gladness.

These young people, you see, were not entirely unhappy.

"I wonder where Joshua is," remarked Ellen during the evening.

"Ah, where?" sighed Dan. "But wherever he is, he is doing his duty,
and we will do ours. How happy we all were that night at Mr. Meddler's
What a beautiful day that was! Like a dream! Hark! There is the
church-bell striking nine o'clock." They listened in silence. "That is
like a wedding-bell. Now the other church is striking--how solemn it
sounds--like a funeral-bell."

The tears came to their eyes when Dan inadvertently made the last
remark.

They did not speak for a long time after that, and then Dan said,--

"I feel now just as I felt the day after Jo went away."

They sat up talking until eleven o'clock. They spoke in low tones, and
they sat in the dark.

"Don't you miss mother's step, Dan?" asked Susan.

"How strange it is to know that she is not in the house!" said Dan.
"Hush!"

There was a step outside the door; it was the drunken step of their
father, who stumbled through the passage and up the stairs, shedding
tears of Gin as he staggered to bed, bemoaning the death of his wife.
They listened with feelings of grief and fear until they heard his
bedroom-door shut, and then turned to each other with deeper sighs.
Shame for the living was more grievous to bear than sorrow for the
dead.




CHAPTER XII.
DAN ENTERS INTO BUSINESS.


Their plans were commenced the very next day. Susan came round with
her work, and gave Ellen her first lesson in dressmaking. Ellen was as
skilful with the needle as Susan was, and made famous progress. A
cheerful worker is sure to turn out a skilful one.

"I have been thinking in the night, Ellen," said Susan, "that we might
go into partnership."

"Wait," said Dan the Just, looking up from the table, on which the
birds were going through their performances; "there is time enough to
talk of that. I don't intend that you shall sacrifice every thing for
us."

"No sacrifice could be too great for me to make for you, Dan," replied
Susan. "But I think that I should have all the advantage, if we were
partners. Ellen has such a beautiful figure, that she would be sure to
get customers. Stand up, dear--look at her, Dan!" And Susan turned
Ellen about, and looked at her pretty sister's pretty figure without a
tittle of envy. "If you are a judge of any thing but birds, Dan, you
must confess that but is a model."

Dan smiled and said, "If Ellen wasn't good, you would make her vain.
Let the partnership question rest for a little while. Go on with your
work, and don't talk. I've got something very particular to do."

Dan, with his birds before him, appeared to be perplexed with some
more than usually difficult problem concerning them. There was a
curious indecision also in his treatment of them. Now he issued a
command, now he countermanded it; now he ordered a movement, and
before it was executed threw the birds into confusion by giving the
signal for something entirely different. Until at length the birds,
especially the old stagers, stood looking irresolutely at each other,
with the possible thought in their minds (if they have any) that their
master had taken a drop too much to drink; and one young recruit--none
but a young one and a tomtit, who is notoriously the sauciest of
birds, would have dared to do it--advanced, alone and unsupported, to
the edge of the table, and looking up in Dan's face, asked what he
meant by it. Recalled to himself by this act of insubordination, Dan
recovered his usual self-possession, and selected two bullfinches,
somewhat similar to those which he had given to the Old Sailor. They
were young untrained birds, and Dan at once commenced their education.
But Ellen remarked with surprise that he was less tender in his manner
towards them than towards the other birds. He spoke to them more
sternly, and as if the business in which they were engaged was a
serious business, with not a particle of nonsense in it.

"See, Ellen," he said after some days had passed--"see how clever they
are They draw up their own food and their own water; and directly I
sound this whistle, they sing 'God save the King.'"

He blew through the tin whistle, and the birds sang the air through.

"Now you sound the whistle, Ellen." Ellen blew through the whistle,
and the birds repeated the air.

"So you see, Ellen it doesn't matter who blows the whistle; the birds
begin to sing directly they hear it. Here is another whistle--a wooden
one, with a different note. Blow that softly."

Ellen blew, and the bullfinches immediately set to work hauling up
water from the well.

"That is good, isn't it?" said Dan. "They will obey anybody."

"But tell me, Dan, why you don't speak to them as kindly as you do to
the others?"

"Ah, you have noticed it, miss, have you? I thought you did. Well,
then in the first place, I wanted to teach them by a new system. I
wanted to teach them so that anybody can make them do what I do, if he
gives the proper signal; and I have succeeded, as you see. If I had
taught them by my voice as I have taught the others, they wouldn't
have been of use to any one but me. They are such cunning little
thing's, and they have such delicate little ears! In the second place,
Ellen, I did not want to grow fond of them."

"Why, Dan dear?"

"Because, if I had grown fond of them, it would almost break my heart
to part with them. Who could help loving them, I wonder? They have
been my world, you see, and they are such innocent little pets. I have
grown to love them so, you can't tell. And we know each other's
voices, and have made a language of our own, which no one else can
understand."

He chirruped to them, and called to them in endearing tones; and all
the birds, with the exception of the pair of bullfinches, fluttered to
him, and perched about his shoulders and nestled in his breast. The
two little bullfinches, standing alone in the centre of the table,
looked more surprised than forlorn at the desertion.

Then Dan said: "This is part of my scheme. I commence business to-day
as a bird-merchant. I have trained these two bullfinches to sell. You
are earning money already, Ellen dear, and you are a girl. I am not
quite a man in years, although I think I am here"--touching his
forehead--"and I am not going to let you beat me at moneymaking."

He pulled out a paper, on which was written, in Roman letters, and
neat round hand,


   THIS PAIR OF BULLFINCHES
      FOR SALE.
_They draw up their own food and water; and they sing_
   "GOD SAVE THE KING,"
_And other Tunes, to the Sound of a Whistle_.

   _Inquire within of_ DAN TAYLOR.


"What I propose to do, Ellen, is to put the cage with the bullfinches
in the parlor-window, with this announcement over the cage. Perhaps it
will attract the attention of some one or other, and he will be
curious about it, and will come in and make inquiries."

So the birds were exhibited in the parlor-window, and above their cage
was hung the announcement that they were for sale. The neighbors saw
the birds, and there was not a woman for a quarter of a mile around
who did not make a pilgrimage to the parlor-window of the Taylors.
"Dan is selling his birds," they said, "because of his brute of a
father;" and they shook their heads sorrowfully, and admired Dan's
writing, and said he was quite a scholar. Ellen, working in the
parlor, would pause in the midst of her hemming, or stitching, or
basting, as the shadow of a passer-by darkened the window, and pray
that he would come in and buy the birds.

The exhibition was a great boon to the dirty little boys and girls in
the neighborhood, who at first stood in open-mouthed admiration, and
would have stood so for hours, neglectful of the gutters, if an
occasional raid against their forces by anxious mothers had not
scattered them now and then. Those of the children who could get near
enough, would flatten their noses and mouths against the window-panes
in the fervor of their enthusiasm. The bullfinches, looking down from
their perch upon the queerly-distorted features, had the advantage of
studying human nature from an entirely novel point of view, and were
doubtless interested in the study. For the purpose of attracting the
passers-by, Dan, at certain intervals during the day, caused the birds
to draw up their water and food; and those exhibitions were the
admiration of the entire neighborhood.

"I wish some one would come in and ask the price of them," sighed
Ellen, wishing that she had a fairy-wand to turn the sight-gazers into
customers.

Dan only smiled, and bade Ellen have patience.

In the mean time Mr. Taylor, becoming every day more devoted in his
worship to his god, fell every day into a worse and worse condition.
One evening, Ellen, being tired, went to bed soon after tea, and on
that evening Mr. Taylor happened to come home earlier than usual.
There was a reason for it: he had spent all his money, had quite
exhausted his credit, and had been turned out of the public-houses.
Being less drunk than usual, he was more ill-tempered than usual, and
he stumbled into the parlor with the intention of venting his
ill-humor upon Ellen. But Ellen was not there. Dan was the only
occupant of the room, and he was reading. He raised his eyes, and
seeing his father half-drunk, he lowered them to his book again. He
was ashamed and grieved.

"Where is Ellen?" demanded Mr. Taylor.

"Gone to bed," replied Dan shortly.

"Why isn't she here to get my supper?" asked the gin-worshipper
irritably. Dan made no reply; but, although he appeared to be
continuing his reading, a quivering of his lips denoted that his
attention was not wholly given to his book. "Do you hear me?"
continued Mr. Taylor after a pause, thumping his fist upon the table.
"Why isn't she here to get my supper? What business has she to go to
bed without getting my supper?"

"She was up at five this morning to do the washing, and has been
working all day."

Dan spoke very quietly, and did not look at his father.

"Her mother wouldn't have done it," whimpered Mr. Taylor. "Here am I
without two pence in my pocket, and my very children rebel against me.
Is there any thing in the house for supper?--tell me that."

"I don't know. I don't think there is."

"You don't know! You don't think there is!" sneered Mr. Taylor.
"You've had yours, I suppose?"

"No, sir, I have not had any."

"What do you mean by 'sir'?" cried Mr. Taylor furiously. "How dare you
call your father 'sir'? Is that what you learned from your friend
Joshua?"

Dan clasped his hands nervously together; he was agitated and
indignant, and he did not dare to give expression to his thoughts.

"Why don't you speak?" demanded Mr. Taylor with unreasoning anger.
"What do you mean by sitting there mocking your father?"

"I am not mocking you," said Dan. "And as for speaking, I am too much
ashamed to say what I think; so I had better remain silent."

"How dare you speak to me in that way? Haven't I kept you for years in
idleness and luxury? Haven't I provided for you? And now when I am in
bad luck, and haven't sixpence to get a quartern loaf"--he meant a
quatern of gin, but the loaf was the more dignified way of putting
it--"my children turn against me."

"It isn't my fault that you have had to keep me," Dan said quietly.
"If I had been like other boys, I should have been glad to work and
earn money; but I am crippled, and never felt that I was unfortunate
until now. I don't think mother would have thrown my misfortune in my
teeth as you have done."

Mr. Taylor was too much steeped in gin to feel the reproachful words.
He continued to bemoan his hard fate and the ingratitude of his
children. In the midst of his bemoaning he caught sight of an empty
cage. An inspiration fell upon him. That bird-cage could probably be
exchanged for a pint of gin. Present bliss was before him, and the
prospect of it made him cunning.

He ordered Dan to bed, and Dan, who could crawl with the aid of his
crutches, went, thankful to escape from so painful an interview. When
Dan came down the next morning he discovered his loss. He was much
grieved; not so much at the loss of the bird-cage, but at the thought
that his other cages and the birds might be appropriated in like
manner. He said nothing of what had occurred, but that night when he
went to bed he had all his birds and cages removed to his bedroom, and
he locked his door.

It was midnight when Mr. Taylor came home. Although he was drunk, he
crept like a thief into the house. The proceeds of the cage had
supplied him with drink for the day; and having conscientiously spent
every penny, he was in the same impoverished condition as he had been
the previous night. As he could not live without gin, he determined to
appropriate another bird cage. What right had Dan to them? They were
his, the father's, who had kept his son in idleness, and who had
clothed and sheltered him. Yet in the midst of his drunken muttering
he was oppressed with a shamefaced consciousness of the villainy of
his logic, and it was with difficulty he obtained a light from the
tinder-box. The poor little rush-light flickered when it was lighted,
as if it also were oppressed with shame.

Unsteadily, and with much stumbling, Mr. Taylor groped his way to
Dan's room. Looking around on the walls he discovered, to his dismay
and astonishment, that the birds and the cages were gone. His first
surprise over, he gave way to passion. The boy had no doubt taken the
cages to his bedroom for fear his father should steal them. How dared
Dan suspect him? He would teach Dan a lesson--a lesson that he would
not forget. Working himself into a state of maudlin indignation he
stumbled up the stairs to Dan's bedroom, and tried the door. It was
locked. Here was another proof of his son's ingratitude and want of
confidence. What was he to do for gin the next day? He must have gin;
he could not live without it. Ellen's bedroom was next to Dan's. The
drunken father turned the handle of the door, and looked in. On the
floor were Ellen's boots. He saw gin marked on them, and catching them
up, he clutched them to his breast, and slunk guiltily to bed.

Ellen, rising the next morning, looked about in vain for her boots.
She searched for them up stairs and down stairs, wondering what had
become of them. The door of her father's room was open, and she
entered it; but Mr. Taylor, knowing that Ellen was an early riser, had
taken care to get out of the house before she was about. When Ellen
saw the empty bed, some glimmering of the truth flashed upon her. At
first the poor girl sat down upon the bed and began to cry; the loss
of her boots was a grievous loss indeed to her. She had no money to
buy another pair with; they were such beautiful boots, too, and fitted
her so nicely! What was she to do? How it would grieve Dan to know?
That thought calmed her. Dan must not know--it would hurt him too
much. She might be able to get an old pair from somebody during the
day; perhaps Susan had an old pair to lend her. She dried her eyes and
washed them well with cold water, and altogether managed so
successfully, that breakfast was over, and she and Dan and the birds
were all together in the parlor, without Dan ever suspecting what had
occurred.

Those two children sitting there were fully aware that a grave crisis
was approaching. Young as they were to bear the weight of serious
trouble, they bore it cheerfully, and strove in their humble way to
fight with the world and with the hard circumstances of their lives.
Dan cripple as he was had much hope; and often when he was thinking
over certain schemes which had been suggested by the stern necessity
of his condition, a quaint smile would play upon his lips, and a
humorous light would shine in his eyes. Ellen, looking up from her
work, would sometimes see that smile, which, for all its quaintness,
had a shade of thoughtfulness in it; and on her lips, too, a pleasant
smile would wreathe in sympathy. They were very tender towards each
other; and their love made them strong.

Ellen busy with her needle, sat close to the table, so that Dan should
not catch a glimpse of her shoeless feet. Dan was industriously at
work training two birds, which were to replace those in the window
when they were sold.

The education of this second pair of birds was almost completed, and
Dan said as much to Ellen. He had taught them different tricks, and
had fitted two ladders in the cage, up and down which they hopped,
keeping time, step for step.

"But will they ever be sold?" exclaimed Ellen almost despairingly.

"It _is_ a long time before we make a commencement," said Dan.
"There's Susan."

When Susan entered, she examined the dress which Ellen was making, and
suddenly exclaimed,--

"Why, Ellen, where are your boots?"

Dan looked up quickly, and then directed his eyes to Ellen's feet.
Poor Ellen stammered a good deal, and striving to hide the truth from
Dan, got into a sad bewilderment of words.

"Nay, but, Ellen," interposed Dan in a grave voice, "you don't mean to
say that you have been sitting all the morning without your boots?"

"Yes, I have," said Ellen, compelled to confess.

"But why, my dear?"

"When I got up this morning, I looked for them, and could not find
them. Perhaps I can find them now." And Ellen ran out of the room; but
she soon returned, shaking her head, and saying, "No, they're gone.
Never mind; it can't be helped."

"You really don't know what has become of them?"

"No, Dan."

"Did you see father last night?"

Ellen shook her head.

"Nor this morning?"

Ellen shook her head again.

"I can't quite see what is to be the end of all this," said Dan sadly.
"It is almost too dreadful to think of. Father must have taken your
boots, Ellen dear. The night before last he took a bird-cage; that was
the reason I had all my birds in my bedroom last night. It is very,
very dreadful. Poor dear mother! Poor dear Joshua! I _do_ wish you
were here now to advise us what to do!"

And the three children then drew closer together, and strove to
comfort each other.

"Dry your eyes, Ellen," said Dan stoutly; "brighter days will come.
Susan, have you a pair of old boots that you can lend to Ellen?"

Susan ran out of the house and returned with a pair of boots which she
had bought at a second-hand clothes-shop, and which Ellen was very
thankful for, although they were much too large for her.

Mr. Taylor came home at midnight in a state of drunken delirium. He
had drunk deeply--so deeply, that when he slammed the street-door
behind him, he found himself in the midst of a thousand mocking eyes,
growing upon him and blasting him with hideous looks; and as he groped
his way in terror up the dark stairs, a thousand misshapen hands
strove to bar his progress. They fastened on him and clung to him; and
the faster his trembling hands beat them down and tore them away, the
more thickly they multiplied. So, fighting and suffering and groaning
in his agony, the drunkard staggered to his room, and Dan and Ellen
shuddered as they lay and listened. Well for them that they could not
see as well as hear; well for them that they could not see him pick
the crawling things (existing only in his imagination) off his
bed-clothes and throw them off with loathing; that they could not see
him, bathed in perspiration, writhing in his bed and fighting with his
punishment. He could not endure it. It was too horrible to bear.

The room was full of creeping shapes, visible in the midst of the
darkness. He would go out into the streets, into the light, where they
could not follow him. Where was the door? He felt about the walls for
it. It was gone; he was closed in, imprisoned with his terrors. He
beat about with his hands deliriously. The window! ah, they had not
closed that! He dashed at the panes, and tearing open the casement
with his bleeding fingers, fell from a height of twenty feet, and met
a drunkard's death.




CHAPTER XIII.
DAN DECLARES THAT IT IS LIKE A ROMANCE.


The old gentleman with the hour-glass who never sleeps does not look a
day older, and yet four seasons have played their parts and have
passed away. The white hairs in George Marvel's head are multiplying
fast, and he grumbles at them as usual, but has given up the task of
pulling them out. Great changes have taken place among Joshua's
friends; and Dan, looking up from his work, remarks sometimes that it
is almost like a romance. Judge if it is.

When Mr. Taylor was buried--when the shame of his death was forgotten
and only sorrow for it remained--the children found themselves in one
of those social difficulties from which many wiser persons than they
are unable to extricate themselves. For the first three or four weeks
after their father's death, Mrs. Marvel and Susan had between them
managed to defray the small expenses of the house; but the tax was
heavy--too heavy for them to continue to bear. One day, however,
unexpected help came. George Marvel, in his quiet way, had conceived a
great idea, and in his quiet way had carried it out. Here were these
two children thrown upon the world. Not children exactly perhaps, for
they were nearly seventeen years of age; but one was a cripple, and
the other was a girl. They had been good children, and their character
stood high in the neighborhood. Who ought to assist them? The
neighbors. Some one must take it in hand, and why not he as well as
any other person? No sooner had he made up his mind than he set to
work. He went round to the neighbors personally, and told them what
his errand was. Poor as they were, they gave their mites cheerfully,
with scarcely an exception. When he had made the round of the
neighbors, he went to the workshops, and the men there gave their
penny each, and the boys their halfpence; and so swelled the total.
His own employers and fellow-workmen were more liberal than any. He
did not forget his tradesmen, his butcher and baker and grocer. They
all gave; and the result was that, at the end of the three weeks
during which he had been employed in his self-imposed task, he had a
sum of not less than twelve pounds four shillings in his possession,
to hand over to Dan and Ellen to assist them through their trouble.
The night he made up his accounts, he told his wife what he had done,
and she blessed him for it, and was silently and devoutly grateful
that Providence had given her a husband with such a heart.

The following evening George Marvel visited the children, with his bag
of money in his coat-tail pocket. Ellen was at work, and although she
looked pale in her black dress, she looked very pretty. The goodness
of the heart always shows itself in the face.

Now Dan had been thinking all day, and indeed for many previous days,
that he ought to consult some mature person as to what he was to do.
You must understand that Dan, notwithstanding that he was so much
younger than Susan, considered himself the head of the family. He had
his plans, but he wanted advice concerning them. Up to the present
time, his business in trained birds had not flourished. It could not
be said to have commenced, for he had not sold a bird. He had decided
Mr. Marvel would be a proper person to ask advice of, and by good luck
here Mr. Marvel was.

"Have you a few minutes to spare, sir?"

"Yes, surely, Dan," replied Mr. Marvel.

"I want to take your advice, sir," commenced Dan after a slight
hesitation. "You know how we are situated, and how suddenly our
misfortunes have come upon us. Well, sir, we must live; we must have
bread-and-butter. Now the only scapegrace out of the lot of us is
me--don't interrupt me, Ellen, nor you, sir, please. Susan is earning
her bread-and-butter and something more. Ellen is earning enough to
keep her; and I am the only idle one of all of us, and I am the only
one who is eating bread-and-butter and is not earning it."

"But, Dan," interposed George Marvel.

"No, sir, please; let me go on. I have been eating the bread of
idleness all my life, and I am eating it now. It isn't right that I
should do so. I ought to earn my own living. But how? I am not like
other boys, and cannot do what other boys can do. One thing is
certain: I can't let Ellen work for me, and it would break my heart to
part from her; and she would feel it quite as much as I should.--Yes,
Ellen, keep your arm round my neck, but don't speak.--I tried to earn
money, you know that. I trained some birds, and put them in the
window, thinking that some one would buy them. But no one has. I
haven't earned a penny-piece, and every bit of bread I put into my
mouth has been paid for by Susan and Ellen."

Notwithstanding his eagerness, his tears choked him here, and he was
compelled to pause before he resumed. In the mean time, obedient to
his wish, neither Ellen nor Mr. Marvel spoke.

"Now, sir, this is my idea. I have got now twenty-two birds; they can
do all sorts of tricks: they can whistle tunes; they can climb up
ladders; some of them can march like soldiers and can let off guns;
some of them can draw carts. Would it be considered begging, if I, a
lame boy, who have no other way of getting bread-and-butter, made an
exhibition of these birds, and got some one to wheel me about the
streets, and stop now and then so that I might put the birds through
their tricks? I shouldn't be ashamed to accept what kind persons might
give me, or might drop into a little box which I would take care to
have handy. I wouldn't do it in this neighborhood. I would go a long
way off--three or four miles perhaps--into the rich parts of London,
where people could better afford to give. But would it be considered
begging? That is what I want to ask your advice upon, sir."

George Marvel's breath was completely taken away. The enthusiastic
manner in which Dan had spoken, no less than his admiration of the
proposed scheme, had caused him to forget his errand for the time.
"Wait a minute," he said somewhat excitedly, "I must think; I must
walk about a bit." But no sooner had he risen than the weight of the
money in his coat-tail pocket brought him to his sober senses, and he
sat down again.

"Dan," he said, taking the lad's hand affectionately in his, "you are
a good boy, and I am glad that you are Joshua's friend. I will answer
your question and give you my advice, as you ask it. In any other case
than yours I think it would be begging; but I don't think it _would_
be in yours."

"Thank you, sir," said Dan gratefully.

"Mind, I think even in your case it would not be exactly what I should
approve of, if you had any other way of getting a living."

"You think as I do, sir; but I have tried, as you see, and I have not
succeeded."

"Try a little longer, Dan."

"How about next week's rent, sir?"

"You can pay it," replied George Marvel, "and many more weeks'
besides. I have a present for you in my pocket;" and he pulled out the
bag of money and put it on the table. "In this bag is twelve pounds
four shillings, which your friends--yours and your sisters'--have
clubbed together for you, and that is what brought me here to-night."

"O sir!" cried Dan, covering his face with his hands.

"This money has been got together because all of us round about here
love you. I sha'n't give it to you all at once. You shall have it so
much every week; and I should advise you--as you ask for my advice--to
continue training birds for sale and putting them in your window. Try
a little while longer. A customer may come at any minute. And one
customer is sure to bring another."

"How can I thank you and all the good people, sir?" said Dan, with a
full heart.

"Never mind that now," said George Marvel.

If he had known that it would have been so difficult and painful a
task, it is not unlikely he would have remitted it to his wife to
accomplish. Pretending to be in a great hurry, he rose to go, and,
pressing Dan's hand and kissing Ellen, went home to his wife and told
her of Dan's wonderful idea.

Ellen and Dan were very happy the next morning, and set about their
work cheerfully and hopefully. Dan wrote a new announcement concerning
the birds, and the windows were cleaned, and presented a regular
holiday appearance. In the midst of his work, Dan, looking up, saw a
face at the window that he recognized. It was that of a young man who
had been in the habit of looking in at the window nearly every day for
the last week, and of whom Dan had observed more than once, that he
looked like a customer.

"There he is again, Ellen," said Dan; "the same man. Why doesn't he
come in and ask the price of them?"

He had no sooner spoken the words than the man's face disappeared from
the window, and a knock came at the street-door.

"Run and open the door, Ellen. I shouldn't wonder if he has made up
his mind at last." Dan's heart beat loud with excitement. "How much
shall I ask for them?" he thought. "Oh, if he buys a couple of them,
how happy I shall be!"

The parlor-door opened, and the man entered; decidedly good-looking,
dark, with a fresh color in his face, and with black hair curling
naturally. The first impression was favorable, and Dan nodded
approvingly to himself. The man had curiously flat feet, which, when
he walked, seemed to do all the work without any assistance from
his legs; and although his eyes were keen and bright, they did not
look long at one object, but shifted restlessly, as if seeking a
hiding-place where they could retire from public gaze.

"I have been attracted by the birds in the window," he said, coming at
once to to the point, much to Dan's satisfaction. "Can they really
perform what the paper says? Can they really sing 'God save the King,'
and draw up their own food and water?"

"They can do all that sir; but you shall see for yourself.--Ellen!
Where is Ellen?" Dan called; for he wanted her to assist him, and she
had not followed the stranger into the room.

"Ah, Ellen," said the stranger, dwelling on the name. "Is that the
young lady who opened the door for me?"

"Yes, sir.--Ellen!" Dan called again.

"Allow me," said the stranger; and he went to the door, and called in
tones which slipped from his throat as if it was oiled, "Ellen!
Ellen!" Then he turned to Dan, and questioned: "Your sister?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah," said the man greasily, "she is extremely like you. Allow me. I
will bring the cage to the table."

He brought the cage from the window, and placed it before Dan. At that
moment Ellen entered the room. The man's eyes wandered all over her as
she took her seat at the table. She did not return his gaze, but bent
her head modestly to her work.

"Your sister's name is Ellen," he said, "and yours?"

"Daniel," said Dan; "Daniel Taylor."

"Daniel; a scriptural name. Mine is also a Scriptural name: Solomon,
Solomon Fewster. Solomon was a wise man; I hope I take after him."

"I hope so, I am sure, sir," said Dan somewhat impatiently; for he was
anxious to get to business. "Now, sir, if you will please to look and
listen."

He blew through the tin whistle; and the bullfinches piped "God save
the King."

"Very pretty, very pretty," said Solomon Fewster, nodding his head to
the music. "And you taught them yourself?"

"Yes, sir. But it isn't as if they will only sing for me; they will
sing for you, or for Ellen, or for any one who blows the whistle."

"And they will sing for Ellen if she breathes into the whistle?" said
Solomon Fewster. "Will Ellen breathe into the whistle with her pretty
red lips? Allow me."

He took the whistle from Dan and handed it to Ellen; and she
reluctantly gave the signal to the birds, who willingly obeyed it.
Fewster took the whistle from her and blew; and the birds for the
third time piped the air. Then Dan directed his attention to the
wooden whistle, and to the wonders performed by the birds at its
dictation. Nothing would please Mr. Fewster but that Ellen should
place the wooden whistle between her "pretty red lips," as he called
them again, and "breathe into it." He said that "breathe" was more
appropriate to Ellen's pretty lips than "blow." He, using the whistle
after her, cast upon her such admiring looks, that he really made her
uncomfortable. The performance being over, Dan gazed at Mr. Fewster
with undisguised anxiety. He had intended to be very cunning, and to
appear as if he did not care whether he sold the birds or not; but the
effort was unsuccessful.

"Well, well," said Mr. Fewster; "and they are really for sale? Poor
little things! I asked the price of bullfinches yesterday at a
bird-fancier's, and the man offered to sell them for four pence each.
Not that these are not worth a little more. There is the trouble of
training them; of course that is worth a trifle. Still bullfinches are
bullfinches all the world over; and bullfinches, I believe, are very
plentiful just now--quite a glut of them in the market." He paused, to
allow this information to settle in Dan's mind, before he asked, "Now
what do you want a pair for these?"

"What do you think they are worth, sir?" asked Dan, much depressed by
Mr. Fewster's mode of bargaining.

"No, no, Daniel Taylor," said Mr. Fewster, in a bantering tone, "I am
too old a bird for that; not to be caught. Remember my namesake. You
couldn't have caught him, you know; even the Queen of Sheba couldn't
catch _him_. I can't be buyer and seller too. Put your price upon the
birds; and I will tell you if they suit me."

"You see, sir," said Dan frankly, "you puzzle me. The training of
these birds has taken me a long time. You would be surprised if you
knew how patient I have to be with them. And you puzzle me when you
make so light a thing of my teaching, and when you tell me that
bullfinches are a glut in the market. If the bullfinches you can get
in the market will suit you, sir, why do you not buy them?"

"Well put, Daniel, well put," said Mr. Fewster good-humoredly. "Still,
you _must_ fix a price on them, you know. How much shall we say?"

"Fifteen shillings the pair," said Dan boldly.

Mr. Fewster gave a long whistle, and threw himself into an attitude of
surprise. Dan shifted in his seat uneasily.

"A long price," said Mr. Fewster, when he had recovered himself; "a
very long price."

"I couldn't take less, sir," said Dan.

"Not ten shillings? Couldn't you take ten shillings?" suggested Mr.
Fewster, throwing his head on one side insinuatingly.

There was something almost imploring in the expression on Dan's face
as he said,--

"No, sir, I don't think I could. You haven't any idea what a time they
have taken me to train. I hoped to get more for them."

"I tell you what," said Mr. Fewster, with sudden animation. "Ellen
shall decide with her pretty red lips. What do you say, Ellen? Shall I
give fifteen shillings for them?"

"They are worth it, I am sure, sir," said Ellen timidly.

"That settles it," said Mr. Fewster gallantly. "Here is the money."

And laying the money on the table, Mr. Fewster took the cage, and
shaking hands with Dan, and pressing Ellen's fingers tenderly, bade
them good-morning.

Dan's delight may be imagined. It was intensified a few day's
afterwards, when Mr. Fewster called again, and bought another pair of
birds; Mr. Fewster at the same time informed Dan that it was likely he
might become a constant customer; and so he proved to be.

In the course of a short time, Dan found himself in receipt of a
regular income. Other customers came, but Dan could not supply them
all, as Mr. Fewster bought the birds almost as soon as they were
trained. Very soon Dan thought himself justified in making a proposal
to Susan. The proposal was that they should all live together in the
house where Dan carried on his business. The only obstacle to the
carrying out of the arrangement was Susan's determination not to leave
Basil and Minnie Kindred. But why should not Basil Kindred and his
daughter come as well? asked Dan; there was plenty of room for them,
and it would be such company. And after the lapse of a little time,
the result that Dan wished for was accomplished, and Basil and Minnie
and Susan were living with them. They were a very happy family. The
parlor-window had been altered to allow more space for the bird-cages;
and Dan, looking around sometimes upon the group of happy faces, would
remark that it was almost like a romance.

And so indeed it was, notwithstanding that the scene was laid in the
humblest of humble localities.




CHAPTER XIV.
THE STRANGE COURSES OF LOVE.


Perhaps one of the most absurd questions that could be put to a person
would be to ask him how old he was when he was born. Yet the little
old-men's faces possessed by some babies might furnish an excuse for
such a question. The shrewd look, the cunning twinkle, the pinched
nose, the peaked chin, the very wrinkles--you see them all, though the
child be but a few weeks old. All the signs of worldly cunning and
worldly wisdom are there, ready made, unbought by worldly experience;
and as you look at them and wonder how old the little child-man really
is, the object of your curiosity returns your look with scarcely less
speculation in his eye than you have in yours. You are conscious that
you are no match, except in physical strength, for the little fellow
lying in his mother's lap or sprawling in his cradle; and a curious
compound of pity and humiliation afflicts you in consequence.

Some such a child as this was Solomon Fewster before he attained to
the dignity of boyhood; his parents and their friends agreed in
declaring that he was a cunning little fellow, a knowing little
fellow; they would poke their fingers in the fat creases of his neck,
and would sportively say, "Oh, you cunning little rogue!" "You knowing
little rogue!" and he would crow and laugh, and endeavor to utter the
words after them. He was so accustomed to the phrase, and grew to be
so fond of it, that when he was old enough to understand its meaning,
his chief desire seemed to be to prove himself worthy of it. It falls
to the lot of but very few of us to compass our desires. Solomon
Fewster was one of the fortunate exceptions. He was dubbed a cunning
little rogue, before he knew what such praise meant; and (could it be
that he was unwilling to trade under false pretences?) when he did
know, he educated himself to deserve it, and succeeded. A small
percentage of the old-men babies retain their old-men's looks as they
grow to boyhood; specimens of these can be seen any day in our courts
and alleys. This was not the case with Solomon Fewster; as he grew,
the old-man's look faded from his face, and the spirit of "a cunning
little rogue" took root in his heart, and flourished there. His
parents dying when he was a child, he was left to the charge of a
bachelor uncle, an undertaker by trade, who adopted and educated him.
When he was taken from school--where he was the cunningest boy of them
all--he was initiated into the mysteries of the undertaking business,
and when he was of age he was intrusted with a responsible position,
and his uncle made a will leaving every thing to him. He proved
himself an invaluable ally; was grieved to the heart at the losses
sustained by his uncle's customers; wept when he assisted at
measurements; was broken-hearted when the clay was taken from the
house; and sobbed with an almost utter prostration of spirit when he
receipted the account, and signed Payment in Full. He entered heart
and soul into the business, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Whether it was
because he looked upon himself as the future master of the
establishment, or because it was congenial to his nature, he strove by
every means in his power to extend the connection; and being as acute
and sensible as a man of double his age, his efforts were successful
and the business flourished. Death was most obliging to him, and
waited and fawned upon him at every step he took. If his spirits
became depressed because trade was slack, a fortunate epidemic
restored him to his usual cheerfulness, and orders poured in; and it
is no disparagement of him, as an undertaker, to state that he buried
his friends and acquaintances with melancholy satisfaction. When he
was twenty-three years of age his uncle died. He paid the old
gentleman every possible mark of respect: had the coffin lined with
white satin; wept till his face was puffed; entered the expense of the
funeral in the ledger to the debit of the deceased, and wiped off the
amount at once as a bad debt. Then he set to work vigorously upon his
own account. He had his name painted over the door, and issued
circulars to every house for miles round. In those circulars he
announced that he undertook and conducted funerals cheaper than any
other undertaker in London; said that one trial would prove the fact;
and respectfully solicited the patronage of his friends and the
public. His appeal was successful; his trade increased; and Solomon
Fewster was generally spoken of as a man on the high-road to
prosperity.

When Solomon Fewster first saw Ellen, she was seventeen years of age,
and he was seized with a sudden admiration for her pretty face and
graceful figure. He had never seen a girl so winsome; and when they
met again, he followed her admiringly to her home, and saw the
exhibition of the bullfinches in Dan's window. Here was an opportunity
to stare at her; and he enjoyed the cheap pleasure again and again
until Dan noticed his face at the window. Then a happy thought entered
Mr. Fewster's mind. The birds certainly were wonderfully intelligent,
and their clever tricks would most likely render them easy of
disposal. He entered into communication with a West-end fashionable
bird-fancier--the farther away from Dan the better, he thought--and
the bird-fancier (who had a connection among fine ladies) informed him
that if the birds could really do all that he stated, a profitable
trade might be established between them. "What a fine opportunity,"
thought Solomon Fewster, "of introducing myself to the pretty girl in
the light of a benefactor!" Then came the first interview and the
first purchase. The pair of bullfinches he bought for fifteen
shillings he sold for thirty; and the following week the fashionable
bird-fancier asked for more. Thus it was that Solomon Fewster made his
growing passion for Ellen a means of putting money in his purse; and
thus it was that he came to be looked upon as a privileged visitor to
the house.

The Old Sailor also found his way to the house. He was not as frequent
a visitor as Mr. Fewster, but he was a more welcome one. The Old
Sailor might have been a child, his heart was so green; and he had
such a fund of stories to tell, and he told them with such simplicity
and enthusiasm, believing in them thoroughly, however wild they were,
that his hearers would hang upon his words, and laugh with him, and
sorrow with him according to the nature of his narrative. They spent
the pleasantest of pleasant evenings together, and when Praiseworthy
Meddler told his sea-stories, Minnie would sit very quiet on the
floor--a favorite fashion of hers--listening eagerly to every word
that dropped from his lips. Then Basil Kindred would read Shakspeare
when he could be coaxed into the humor, and would keep them
spell-bound by his eloquence. He had ceased wandering in the streets
and begging for his living. Necessity was his master there. He was
stricken down with rheumatic fever, which so prostrated him that he
was unable to pursue his vagrant career. They had a very hard task in
inducing him to remain with them.

"Live upon you, my dear lad!" he exclaimed loftily. "No; I will perish
first!"

"There is enough for all, sir," replied Dan. "Do not go. I would take
from you--indeed, indeed I would!--could we change places. And there
is Minnie, sir,"--with such a wistful tender glance towards Minnie,
who was growing very beautiful,--"what would she do? But not for her
nor for you do I ask this, sir. It is for me; for Ellen and Susan and
Joshua. How happy he will be to find you here when he returns! You and
Minnie, that he talked of so often, and with such affection! Then
think, sir. You would not like to be the means of breaking up our
little happy circle; and it is happy, isn't it, Minnie?"

"Ah, yes, Dan!" replied Minnie, with an anxious look at her father.
"Only one is wanting to make it perfect."

"And that one is Joshua," said Dan, divining whom she meant, and
grateful to her for the thought.

"And that one is Joshua," she repeated softly, placing her shell to
his ear. "Do you hear it? Is it not sweet, the singing of the sea?"

But all argument and entreaty would have been thrown away upon Basil
if it had not been for Minnie. It was she who, when they were alone,
prevailed upon him to stay.

"Your mother suffered for me and died for me," he said to her, as he
lay upon his bed of pain. "How like her you are growing, Minnie! Well,
well, one is enough. I will stay, child, for your sake."

And she kissed him and thanked him, and whispered that he had made her
happy.

The next day she told Dan in a whisper that father was not going away;
and Dan clapped his hands, and quietly said, "Bravo!"

"And Joshua used to speak about us?" she remarked, with assumed
carelessness.

"Often and often, Minnie," answered Dan.

"And really speak of us affectionately?"

"Ah if you had only heard him! You know what a voice he has--like
music."

A sudden flush in her face, a rapid beating at her heart, a rush of
tears to her eyes. None of which did Dan notice, for her eyes were
towards the ground. A little while afterwards she was singing about
the house as blithe as a bird. Dan, stopping in the midst of his work,
listened to the soft rustle of her dress in the passage, and to her
soft singing as she went up the stairs; and a grateful look stole into
his eyes.

"Not to hear that!" he said. "Ah, it would be worse than death! But
she is going to stay, birdie," nodding gayly to one of his pets; "she
is going to stay!"

Dan told Minnie of the pretty fancies he had in connection with his
friend; of the manner in which his love had grown, until it was welded
in his heart for ever and ever; of Joshua's care and self-devotion
towards him, the poor useless cripple. He told her of his fancy about
the dream-theory, and how he had believed in it, and of the
experiments he had made. And Minnie listened with delight, and
sympathized with Dan--ay, and shed tears with him--and showed in every
word she uttered how thoroughly she understood his feelings.

"I have dreamed of him over and over again," said Dan; "but of course
I don't know, and indeed I can't believe, that I have dreamed of him
as he is. He is a man by this time, Minnie; and--let me see!--he is
standing on his ship, with his bright eyes and handsome face"--

"Yes!" interrupted Minnie eagerly. "Made brighter and handsomer by
living on the open sea and away from narrow streets. I can see the
spray dashing up into his eyes, and he shaking it off laughing the
while."

"Yes, yes!" said Minnie enthusiastically. "You can see him too,
Minnie. I feel that you can. Is he not handsome and brave? I can hear
him say, as he looks round upon the grand sea and up at the beautiful
clouds,--I can hear him say, 'Dan is here with me, although I cannot
see him.' He has me in his heart, as I have him. It was a compact. We
were to be always together, and we are. Dear Jo!" He paused a while,
and Minnie, her hands clasped in her lap, gazed before her, and saw
the picture painted by Dan's words. Many such conversations they had,
and the theme was always the same.

Shortly after the death of Mr. Taylor the Old Sailor came to see the
children. He did not know of the loss they had sustained; and when he
heard that both father and mother were dead, he was much grieved. The
news so disconcerted him that he rose to go three or four times, and
each time sat down again, as if he had something on his mind he wished
to get rid of first. As a proof that he was mentally disturbed, he
dabbed his face more frequently than usual with his blue-cotton
pocket-handkerchief, folding it up carefully before he put it in the
breast of his shirt, as if he were folding up his secret in it, and
afterwards taking it out and unfolding it, as if he had made up his
mind at last to disclose what that secret was. When he found courage
to speak, Dan learned that the bullfinches which Joshua and he had
presented to the Old Sailor were dead.

"Died yesterday morning, my lad," said the Old Sailor; "died just as
we were beginning to understand each other. Sailor birds they were,
and they could climb ropes as well as any bird in the service."

"I am sorry they are dead, sir," said Dan; "but I can give you another
pair."

"No, Dan, no. I'll not have any more; they wouldn't be safe."

"Not safe?"

"There was a mutineer in the crew, my lad," said the Old Sailor,
dropping his voice. "It comes awkward for me to tell you; but you
ought to know--and duty before every thing. The pretty birds were
poisoned."

"Who could have been so cruel as to poison the innocent creatures?"
asked Dan sorrowfully.

"That damned copper-colored eon of a thief who cooked for me!" replied
the Old Sailor excitedly. "You saw him when you were on my ship. He
had rings in his ears."

"I remember. He was a Lascar, you told us."

"The treacherous dog!" exclaimed the Old Sailor wrathfully, dabbing
his face. "But I did what was right to him. I flogged him with a
rope's end till he couldn't stand."

"He knew that Joshua gave you the birds, sir?"

"Ay, he knew it. To tell you the truth, my lad, I christened the birds
Josh and Dan, and used to call them by their names. They were as
sensible as human beings, and I gave them decent burial. I sewed them
in canvas, and weighted it with shot, and slipped it off a plank. I'll
not have any more of them, Dan. That lubberly thief would crawl on
board one night and murder them too. No, no, my lad; no more birds for
me."

"Well, then, I'll tell you what we'll do," said Dan. "I will give you
another pair of birds, and I will keep them for you, and you will come
here sometimes and see how they are getting along. That's a good idea,
isn't it, sir?"

The Old Sailor admitted that it was, and thus it fell out that he
became a visitor to the house. Dan bought a toy ship, with sails and
masts and slender ropes all complete, and taught the birds to climb
the ropes and masts, which they did deftly, although not in sailor
fashion, hand-over-hand; and his thoughtful conceit filled the Old
Sailor with infinite delight.

It was Susan's good fortune not to meet the Lascar for many months
after the eventful occurrence in which Joshua had played so prominent
a part. But one evening, when she and Ellen were returning home, she
met him face to face.

"Stop!" cried the Lascar, noticing Susan's agitation with secret
pleasure. "You don't forget me, do you?"

Ellen, raising her eyes, saw and recognized the Lascar, and was
recognized by him at the same moment.

"Ah!" he said, "I remember you. You came one day with a lame boy and
that young thief Joshua Marvel--curse him!--to see Mr. Meddler's
boat."

Ellen tried to hurry Susan along, but the Lascar stood directly in
their path.

"Not yet, my beauty. You are about the prettiest girl I've ever seen.
What's your name?"

Ellen was not so overcome with fear as to entirely lose her
self-possession. Had she been alone, she would have run away. But
Susan was clinging to her, almost fainting with terror. On the
opposite side of the road she saw a man walking towards them.

"Help!" she cried; but she could have bitten her lip with vexation
when she found that it was Solomon Fewster who responded to her
appeal. However, there Solomon Fewster was, ready to grapple with the
enemy and to die in Ellen's defence. The occasion for a display of
heroism was as good as he could have desired.

"Where is he?" he cried valiantly; "where's the villain who has dared
to frighten my pretty Ellen?"

He said this with such a presumptuous air of being her defender by
natural right, that Ellen was annoyed and displeased. But she could
not be uncivil to him. She thanked him for coming to their help, and
he asked to be allowed to see them home. But Ellen refused, and
although he pleaded hard, she was firm.

She was especially angry because of his calling her his pretty Ellen.
Glad as she would have been of a protector, she rightly thought that
it would be giving Mr. Fewster encouragement if she allowed him to
assume that office. So, with many distressingly-tender protestations,
he took his departure, congratulating himself upon the adventure, and
Susan and Ellen walked homewards.

Ellen was very anxious to know all about the Lascar, and why Susan was
frightened at him. Susan told her all, and Ellen's face glowed with
delight at Joshua's courage.

"Brave Joshua!" she exclaimed. "Isn't he a hero, Susan?"

Notwithstanding that she had not recovered from her fright at meeting
the Lascar, Susan could not help smiling at Ellen's enthusiasm.

"He was to be away a year," said Ellen, "and it is now two years and
four months."

"And how many weeks, and how many days, and how many hours?"
interrupted Susan, half gayly. "You could tell, I dare say. Ellen,
couldn't you, if you were put to it?" Ellen looked shyly at Susan.
"What a change he will find in you, my dear!" Susan continued
tenderly. "In the place of a plain little girl he will find a very
pretty woman."

"O Susey! calling me a woman!"

"Well, you are, dear, or you will be when he comes back. I wonder"--

But Susan did not say what it was she wondered at, but stopped, most
unaccountably, in the middle of the street and kissed Ellen in a
motherly kind of way. The caress set Ellen a-blushing, and she fell
into a state of happy musing. They were very near home when a voice at
their side said,--

"You thought you had escaped me, eh?"

It was the voice of the Lascar, who had dogged them until he found an
opportunity of speaking to them without attracting attention. Their
hearts beat fast, but they did not turn their heads.

"Don't say a word," whispered Ellen, "don't speak, don't stop, don't
look! We shall be home directly."

"So Joshua Marvel hasn't come back yet," he said with bitter emphasis.
"He is a long time gone; but wait till he comes. I go every day to see
the cross I put against him, and it grows brighter and brighter. I
curse him every night. Perhaps he thinks that I forget. He shall see
if I do." He gasped this at intervals, for the girls were now almost
running in their terror. "Tell him," hissed the Lascar, "when he comes
that that I poisoned at old thief's birds because Joshua gave them to
him, and because the old thief used to call one of them by his name.
Curse him! And you!" he exclaimed savagely, touching Susan's arm. "See
you--remember! My shadow follows you from this day, you damned witch!
for it was because of you that he came across me. Oh, you live there,
do you? Dream of my shadow, you cat, to-night. It shall stand at your
bedside. Blot it out if you can."

He had worked himself into a horrible rage; his passion made a madman
of him; yet he did not attempt to stop them as they darted in at the
door, but stood aside and looked at the house, and marked it and
lingered about it for half an hour afterwards. In the mean time Ellen
and Susan had run into their bedroom and locked the door. It was a
long time before they recovered from their agitation. Susan was in an
agony of terror; all her old fears came with stronger force upon her.
She pressed her fingers upon her eyes and threw herself upon the
ground, shuddering and moaning.

"Do you see his shadow, Ellen?" she moaned. "Do you see it?"

"There is nothing in the room but you and me, dear Susey," said Ellen,
smoothing Susan's hair, and striving by every means to soothe her.
"Why, I am braver than you, and I am ever so much younger. What have
we to be afraid of? A drunken man! You stupid Susey! And as for
shadows, who believes in them?"

"I do. I have seen them and felt them. I have heard them creeping
after me in the dark, and I have been frightened to turn. I have felt
their breath upon my face--and it is like death--like death!"

All Ellen's efforts to tranquillize her were unavailing. Susan did not
leave her room again that evening, and during the night that followed
she awoke a dozen times, and her fevered imagination conjured up the
shadow of the Lascar standing at her bedside, pointing to a cross of
blood which shone with cruel distinctness in the midst of the
darkness.




CHAPTER XV.
SOLOMON FEWSTER GIVES THE LASCAR A FLOWER.


Early in the new year letters from Joshua reached home. With what joy
they were read! In one of them he wrote: "I remember saying that I
should be home in twelve months; but that time has passed, and another
twelve months, and nearly another, and still there is no talk of
returning. If I stay away much longer you won't know me when you see
me. Upon my word, I think if I were to open the door now and walk in
suddenly, you would be puzzled to know whether I was really myself or
somebody else."

When they read this they all raised their heads and looked towards the
door, wishing that Joshua would turn the handle and walk into the
room.

The evening of the day on which the letters arrived was spent in grand
state in Dan's house. Every member of the Marvel family was there, and
the Old Sailor, and Solomon Fewster as well; so that the little parlor
was quite full, and all the chairs had to be brought from the bedroom
and the kitchen to provide seats for the company. The letters were
read aloud, and commented upon and rejoiced over.

"It isn't as good as Joshua's being here," said Dan, looking round
with a happy face; "but it is next door to it. I tell you what pleases
me almost as much as any thing in the letters--it is that Jo's a
favorite with the men. Hear what he says: 'I play to them on my
accordion two or three times a week, and according to them I am a
splendid musician--which I am not, you know, for I only play simple
tunes. Last week the captain sent for me and told me that some
passengers who were on board wanted to dance, and wished me to play
for them. Of course I fetched the accordion at once. You should have
seen us! I played for them twice after that night; and yesterday when
we arrived at Sydney--Oh, Dan such a lovely place, with such a
bay!--they gave me a sovereign, which I put into Ellen's purse. Tell
Ellen that!'"

A blush came into Ellen's face, and her heart beat more quickly, when
she heard that Joshua was so careful of the purse she had worked for
him.

Filled with such like matter, the letters could not fail to be a
source of delight. Dan was commissioned to give Joshua's love to
Ellen, and Ellen was asked to pay a visit to the Old Sailor, and to
tell him that Joshua was doing hie duty. Susan received messages for
Basil and Minnie, and was to tell Minnie that Joshua would bring her
some beautiful shells--"shells in which Minnie can hear the waves
singing to each other in whispers," Joshua wrote, almost poetically.

Minnie, sitting in her corner, scarcely spoke a word; she was thinking
of the sailor-lad who had been so kind to her, and she was looking
with the eyes of her mind upon the picture which Dan had painted of
Joshua, with his handsome face and free waving hair, standing on the
deck, and laughingly shaking the spray from his eyes.

The Old Sailor nodded approval as the letters were read, and then
traced Joshua's course on a map which he had brought with him,
stopping many times to tell the eager on-lookers of the wonders and
the glories of the beautiful South Pacific. The map was spread on the
table, and it was not an unattractive picture to see them all
clustered round the Old Sailor, peeping over his shoulders and under
his arms, as with his great forefinger he followed the ship from port
to port. Mrs. Marvel, who had taken to spectacles, found them of but
little use to her on this occasion, for the obstinate tears came into
her eyes and dropped into the ocean which the Old Sailor's forefinger
was ploughing. Minnie leaned over Dan's shoulder, and the table was so
small that she had to put her arm round Dan's neck and to put her face
close to his, so that she might see. A strange feeling of happiness
came upon Dan as her cheek nestled close to his; a feeling of
happiness so exquisite that all his senses were merged in it. The
common parlor, the eager faces peering at the map, the pleasant voice
of the Old Sailor explaining the route, all faded from before him, and
he was conscious of nothing but Minnie's presence. He felt the warm
contact of a soft hand; it was Minnie's hand, which in her eager
abstraction she had placed on his. He folded it in his, and she
allowed it to rest there. It was like a dream. He feared to move
and held his breath lest he should awake. A sudden murmur of
voices--voices that sounded for a moment as if they came from afar
off--aroused him; he looked into Minnie's face, and saw it lighted up
with a happiness that seemed to be a reflex of his own; and as she
turned her eyes to his, so luminous a beauty dwelt in them that he
could have fallen at her feet and worshipped her. But the dream was at
an end--the blissful silence which had encompassed him was invaded.
Minnie had returned to her corner, and his friends were speaking
together, and laughing and appealing to him upon some point which he
had not heard. Dan still felt the warm pressure of Minnie's hand and
the soft contact of her cheek; and unobserved he rested his lips upon
the palm which had clasped hers, and kissed it softly and wonderingly.

There was only one person in the party who did not feel happy. That
one was Solomon Fewster. Directly he entered the room he had been
greeted with the joyful tidings; and understanding that he was
expected to share in the general excitement of pleasure, he professed
a delight which he did not experience. That afternoon he had purchased
a rare flower, which it was his intention to present to Ellen. He had
brooded over the idea for several days, and had decided that it would
be a good thing to do. As he entered the room with the flower in the
button-hole of his coat, he was already primed with a few
complimentary words which he had learned by heart to say to Ellen,
when he presented his gift. Ellen had never before looked so pretty,
he thought. Her eyes were brighter, and there was a more joyous
animation than usual in her manner. She greeted him with a smile so
much more gracious than he was accustomed to receive from her, that he
congratulated himself upon the purchase of the flower. She gave him
her hand with more than her usual warmth, and when he ventured gently
to press it, she did not resent the liberty. The fact was, she did not
notice it. She was full of joy, and, as is the case with all amiable
natures, she dispensed gleams of her happiness to all with whom
she came in contact. Unless we are too much engrossed in our own
special cares, we sometimes meet with such like happy faces in
the streets--faces which seem to say, "We are happy; be happy with
us"--faces which, although quite strange to us, which we have never
seen before and may never see again, will kindle with a smile of
welcome upon the smallest encouragement.

But Solomon Fewster was terribly discomfited when he learned the
reason of her cheerfulness and animation; it was because letters had
been received from Joshua. He determined not to present his flower
just then, for he read something in Ellen's blushes that sorely galled
him. He could not help thinking that the fuss they were making about a
common sailor-boy, and the laughing and the crying they indulged in
over Joshua's stupid letters, were utterly ridiculous, and in a sort
of way derogatory to himself, Dan's best patron.

As the night wore on, his anger and uneasiness increased; and yet he
lingered until the last moment, torturing himself with all kinds of
speculations as to what was the nature of the feeling that Ellen
entertained for Joshua. Every expression of gladness that fell from
her lips concerning Joshua and Joshua's career was painful to him, and
it was with a bitter heart that he left the house, with the flower
still in his coat. He was hot and feverish as he closed the
street-door behind him, and he was not sorry to find that a heavy rain
was falling. He took off his hat and bared his head to the rain.
Within the house he had been compelled to repress expression of his
feelings; it was a relief to him now to feel that no one was by, and
that he could speak out at last. And the first words he uttered, as he
smoothed his wet hair and put on his hat, were, "Damn Joshua Marvel! I
would give money to drown him!" As he spoke the words aloud, he was
conscious of a slouching figure at his side. Although it was raining,
the night was not quite dark there was enough light for him to notice
that the man who had approached him was in rags--most probably a
beggar. Muttering that he had nothing to give, Solomon Fewster walked
on. But the man was not to be so easily shaken off, and Mr. Fewster
being in an eminently quarrelsome mood turned upon him, and repeated
in no civil tone that he had nothing to give.

"I have not asked you for any thing," said the man, surlily, "though
if I had, you might speak to me more civilly, Mr. Fewster."

They were passing a lamp-post, and, attracted by the utterance of his
name, Mr. Fewster stopped and said,--

"How do you know my name?"

"I know it; that is enough," was the answer.

"Ah!" said Mr. Fewster, regarding the Lascar with curiosity and
recognizing him, "I have seen you before, my man."

"That is not saying much against me, master," said the Lascar, rather
sneeringly. "I have seen _you_ before; so we're equal.

"And whenever I have seen you, it has been in this street," continued
Mr. Fewster.

"And pretty well whenever I have seen you, it has been in this
street," retorted the Lascar; "you seem to be as fond of it as I am."

"And generally of a night."

"The same to you master; and what then? The street is free to me as it
is to you. Look you. I know more than you are aware of. If it comes to
that, why do you go so often to that house?" The sudden look of
discomposure that flashed into Mr. Fewster's face was not lost upon
the Lascar, who had seen him walking by Ellen's side more than once,
and who had stealthily followed them on every occasion. "Look you,
master. What one man does for love, another man does for hate."

"Hate of whom? What do you mean?"

"The people in that house have received letters from Joshua Marvel
to-day."

"Well, what of that?"

"What of that!" cried the Lascar, in a voice of suppressed passion,
and yet with a cunning watchfulness of Mr. Fewster's face, as if he
were watching for a cue to speak more plainly. "Well, nothing much,
master; except that I should like to know when the cub is coming
home."

Mr. Fewster could not help an expression of satisfaction passing into
his eyes as he heard Joshua spoken of as a cub, and the Lascar saw it
and took his cue from it.

"What do you want to know for? What is Joshua Marvel to you?"

"He is this to me," cried the Lascar, the dark blood rushing into his
face and making it darker; "that if I had him here, I would stamp upon
him with my feet, and spoil his beauty for him! He is this to me, that
if I could twist his heart-strings I would do it, and laugh in his
face the while! See me now, master; look at me well. I did not ask you
for money, for I know you, and I know you don't give nothing for
nothing. But I might have asked you, and with reason, for I want it.
Look at my feet" (Mr. Fewster noticed, for the first time, that the
Lascar's feet were bare); "Look at my clothes--rags. That old thief,
Praiseworthy Meddler, kicked me off his barge where I've lived and
slept this many a year. And every blow he struck at me went down to
Joshua Marvel's account, and makes it heavier against him. See you;
the Lascar dog never forgets. I've sworn an oath, and I'll keep it.
I've put a cross against him, and he shall see it when he is dying."

Solomon Fewster looked at the wretch before him, quivering with
passion and shivering with cold, and deliberately cracked his fingers
one after another. When the operation was concluded, he said, lightly,
as taking no interest in what the Lascar had said,--

"That is your business, my friend; not mine. I will tell you as far as
I know about this young gentleman who has served you so well. He is
not coming home yet a while, I believe--not before the end of the
year, perhaps. I dare say you'll manage to see him when he does come
home."

"Yes, I'll manage to see him then," said the Lascar, with a sudden
quietude of manner and with a furtive rook at Mr. Fewster's face--a
look which said, "You are trying to deceive me, master; let us see who
is the more cunning--you or I." Then aloud, "Thank you for answering
my question. You say it is not your business, this hate of mine for
Joshua Marvel. Yet there may be something in common between us for
I've seen you walking with the girl who worships Joshua Marvel."

"How do you know that she worships him?" demanded Mr. Fewster, thrown
off his guard, his heart beating loud and fast.

"Because I am not blind. I know that as well as I know that you have
as much cause to hate him as I have. I am like a cat; I watch and
watch. You are too young, my master, to mask your face; and I have
seen that in it that you wouldn't like to speak."

"Mind what you are saying," said Mr. Fewster, with his knuckles at his
teeth; "you are on dangerous ground."

"Why should I mind?" questioned the Lascar, with a curious mixture of
fierceness and humility in his voice. "My tongue's my own. I have
nothing to lose: judge you if you have any thing to gain. Mind you, I
stop at nothing. I am not squeamish. You are a gentleman; I am a
vagabond. I can do what you daren't. I can help you to what you want,
perhaps; and you can help me."

The cunning of the Lascar was too deep for Mr. Fewster. The Lascar saw
as clearly as if he had been told that Solomon Fewster loved Ellen
Taylor, and he seized instinctively upon Ellen's love for Joshua as
the lever by which he was to gain power over Mr. Fewster. In the
present conversation the men were not evenly matched; the Lascar had
all the advantage on his side. Subtle as Mr. Fewster was, his love
blinded his judgment, and his hate led him to consider that this man
might be useful to him.

"I can help you, you tell me," he said. "How?"

"I am cold to the bone," said the shivering wretch. "Treat me to some
rum."

They walked until they reached a public-house; then Mr. Fewster gave
the Lascar money.

"Go in and drink, but don't get drunk."

"Ain't you coming in, master?"

"No," said Mr. Fewster, with a look of contempt at the Lascar's
tatters. "You can buy a bottle of rum, and bring it out with you. And
mind, when you come out, don't walk by my side; follow me."

Five minutes afterwards they were walking in single file towards Mr.
Fewster's place of business, where he lived. When they arrived at the
door, Mr. Fewster hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Lascar, to get
out of him all he knew about Ellen and Joshua; yet, looking at the
Lascar, he hesitated. The man divined what was in his mind, and
said,--

"There is a policeman coming along on the other side of the way. Go to
him and say, 'Look at this man; I have occasion to speak to him on a
matter of business; but he is a disreputable dog, and I want you to
watch the house. Knock in an hour, and if I don't answer, or if you
hear any noise, force open the door.' Say that to him, or something
like it, and give him a pint of beer, and you will be all right."

"Come along," said Mr. Fewster, stung by the Lascar's quiet sneer; "I
am not frightened of you."

"You have no need to be, master. You can use me like a dog, if you
give me to eat and drink."

"Like a dog!" echoed Mr. Fewster, with a laugh. "Well, suppose I
regard you in that light; it may be useful."

Mr. Fewster struck a light in the shop, in which there were at least a
score of coffins--respectable coffins, solemnly black as coffins
should be, with respectable nails to match.

"Waiting for tenants," he remarked, pleasantly, to the Lascar. "The
cheap ones--common deal--are in the workshop at the back." Mr. Fewster
put the candle down upon a coffin, and looked complacently upon his
wares. "Handsome, are they not? This one, now, with lacquered handles
and silvered plate for name, age, and virtues, what should you say to
that?"

"Shouldn't care much for it," said the Lascar, with evident
repugnance. "It would be more suitable for such as you, master. A
cheap one--of common deal--will be good enough for me, when my turn
comes."

"Quite good enough, I should say."

"You are not going to stop here talking, are you?" inquired the
Lascar, seeing that Mr. Fewster evinced no disposition to move.

"Why, don't you like it, you dog?" retorted Mr. Fewster, with a spice
of his native humor.

"No, I don't; it smells of worms."

With a pleasant laugh Mr. Fewster led the way into his sitting-room,
and set light to the fire and lit a second candle.

"This is better," said the Lascar, huddling before the fire. "Ah, this
is good, this warmth; it is life! Have you ever slept out in the cold,
master?"

"No, you dog," answered Mr. Fewster.

He had recovered his self-possession and much of his usual equanimity.

"I have; in the cold and wet, for two or three nights together."

"There was the Union," suggested Mr. Fewster.

"I have been there often enough. Sometimes I was too late; sometimes
there were too many of us; sometimes I didn't care even for that
shelter."

"Would you like to sleep in my shop? I think I could trust you there."

"I think you might. I shouldn't be likely to steal a coffin. I
shouldn't care to sleep there, master, and that's flat. If I woke up
in the dark, I should see dead men lying in the coffins. I wouldn't
mind it so much if the coffins were plain deal ones; but black--ugh!"

Mr. Fewster laughed loud and long. Coffins were playthings to
him--toys symbolical of the joys of life. He laughed merrily as he set
food on the table, the Lascar watching him with greedy eyes the while.
"Fall to, you dog!" said Mr. Fewster; and like a dog, devoid though of
a dog's generous nature, the Lascar fell to, and devoured the bread
and cheese. Meanwhile Mr. Fewster helped himself to a large glass of
rum. He was one of the soberest of undertakers, who, as a rule, are
not the soberest of men. He drank but very rarely; but when he did,
all the worst part of his nature disported itself, in revenge for
being generally kept so much under control. Now as he drank his
rum--and he drank it neat--he became savage, vengeful, desperate. He
had never felt till now how deeply he loved Ellen Taylor. He had loved
her in a light way from the first, and his love had grown quietly, and
had been fed by her avoidance of his attentions. Her behavior towards
him had deepened his love and intensified it. Yet all along,
notwithstanding that he felt he was not as agreeable in her eyes as he
would wish to be, he thought that to have he had only to ask. "They,
poor working people," he thought, "earning just enough to keep them,
living as it were from hand to mouth, _must_ feel flattered and
honored by my attention--by the attention of a man who has a
prosperous business and an account at the bank." As for marriage, he
had not thought of that till lately. But Ellen had so firmly and so
steadily repulsed him in any advances he had plucked up courage to
make, that he had resolved to lower himself and ask her to be his
wife. Having determined to make the sacrifice, he considered that the
road was clear to him. He reasoned with himself thus: "She thought
perhaps that I did not mean honorably by her, and that is the cause of
her treating me so coldly; but when she learns my real intentions she
cannot but feel flattered, and must accept me."

He thought over these things as he sat before the fire entirely
engrossed by love for Ellen and hate for Joshua. The Lascar had helped
himself to the spirits, and as Mr. Fewster sat studying the fire, he
sat studying his host. That it was a study that interested him and
pleased him was evident from the satisfied expression in his face, and
from the satisfied manner in which he rubbed his hands gently over one
another.

"Well, you dog!" exclaimed Mr. Fewster insolently.

"Well, master?" replied the Lascar meekly.

"Have you had enough, you dog?"

"Plenty, thank you, master."

The Master took another drink of rum, and the Dog followed suit. The
Master regarded the Dog with a contemptuous assumption of superiority.
The Dog regarded the Master with becoming humbleness. But the Dog had
the best of it, although he did cast down his eyes.

"Look up, you dog," said Mr. Fewster.

The Dog looked up.

"What would you do to Joshua Marvel if you had him here, with no one
by?"

The Lascar, who had been playing idly with the knife with which he had
cut his supper, raised it, and with a fierce action struck at the air.
Then, springing to his feet, he threw aside his chair, and kneeling on
the ground, made motions with his fingers as if he were strangling an
enemy.

"H-m!" exclaimed Mr. Fewster, looking at the upturned face, blazing
with vindictiveness, that fronted his. "Dangerous."

"That's my business. I'll risk the danger of it. See you--shall I
speak plainly?"

"Yes."

"This girl that you love worships the man that you and I hate"--

"Say that _you_ hate, you dog," interrupted Mr. Fewster. "I'll have no
partnership. I am master."

"I ask your pardon, master. The girl that you love worships the man
that I hate. She is waiting for him to come home; so am I. I have
sworn death to him. When he comes home, the girl that you love will
have no eyes for any one but him. What chance will you have with her
then?"

"Stop. You are too fast. Speak of yourself and of them without
reference to me. Don't iterate with your damnable tongue about the
girl that _I_ love. The girl that I love, I'll have"--

"So you shall, master, if I can help you."

"When I want your help, I'll ask for it. Now go on with your story,
and heed my caution."

With ready wit the Lascar fell into Mr. Fewster's humor.

"This girl that I speak of--as pretty a picture of flesh and blood as
eyes ever saw--is loved by a gentleman who in a sort of way has
lowered himself to think of her. But the gentleman has made up his
mind to have her, and when a gentleman makes up his mind, who shall
stop him? He goes one night to the house where this pretty girl
lives--I shouldn't wonder if the very flower that the gentleman wore
in his button-hole wasn't intended for her"--

"You are a clever dog, you!" said Mr. Fewster, half in anger, half in
admiration.

"Thank you, master. With the flower in his button-hole the gentleman
goes to the house where his pretty girl lives, and there he spends the
evening, and hears read, I dare say, some letters, which she has
received from his rival, who is a sailor--I only speak from fancy,
master; set me right if you can."

"How can I set you right when I know nothing about it, you dog, except
by saying that I shouldn't think it likely _she_ received any
letters?"

"Thank you, master. My fancy was wrong, I've no doubt. The gentleman,
then, is obliged to listen to some letters which have been received
from abroad, and is obliged to listen to affectionate words uttered by
the girl he loves for his rival far away--mind, master, I don't know
this, I only suspect it--and he sees, too, in her face, that when her
sailor-boy comes home, she will open her arms to his rival, to his
enemy, whom he hates, and would like to see put out of the way."

"How do you know that last?"

"I have seen it in his face; I have heard it in his voice. I happened
to see the gentleman come out of his sweetheart's house one rainy
night, not long ago; and I happened to hear the gentleman mutter that
he would give money if that sailor-lover was drowned."

"If were the gentleman, and you told me this to my face, I should say
that you lied."

"Of course you would; but what should you know of it? Still, master,
confess that the story is a likely one as far as it has gone."

"There is more of it to come, then?" asked Mr. Fewster, who had turned
his back so that the Lascar should not see his face.

"There is more of it to come. But say, first, it is a likely story as
far as I have told it," said the Lascar a little doggedly.

"It is likely enough. I have heard stories more strange."

"Where did I leave off? Oh! about my hearing this gentleman say, as he
stood bareheaded in the rain, that he wished his rival were dead. Now
that was a fortunate hearing for me. Not that I should take advantage
of what I heard; not that I should go to the pretty girl's brother,
and then tell him what I had heard the gentleman say about his
sailor-friend; not that I should go to the pretty girl herself and
say, 'Beware of the gentleman; he means mischief; if he can ruin your
lover he will.' That would be a mean thing to do; for it would upset
the gentleman's chances with the girl that he loves. No; I should go
to the gentleman and say, 'I hate this absent lover, and any thing
that I could do to make him suffer, I would do cheerfully. You would
do the same. But you are a gentleman, and I am a dog. You mustn't be
seen in the matter. What you want done do through me. Never mind how
mean it is, how dirty it is; do it through me. And all the return I
want for it is enough to buy food and shelter, and perhaps a drop of
grog and a bit of tobacco.' That wouldn't be much to ask in return for
what I may be able to do for him."

"But no gentleman would compromise himself by entering into a bargain
with a--a"--

"A dog, master--say a dog; it is good enough for me," interposed the
Lascar with a careless laugh.

"With a dog like you. I don't see how the affair could be arranged
with a proper understanding as to what was expected to be done."

"It could be arranged easily enough, master. I might ask the
gentleman, supposing he had a flower in his button-bole, to give me
that flower, and not say another word. That would be a proper
understanding for both of us."

Mr. Fewster rose, and put aside the curtain of the window. The rain
was coming down hard and fast, and the wind was tearing furiously
through the streets.

"A fine storm for a ship to be in near rocks, master," said the
Lascar, who had risen, and was standing by his side.

"It is time for you to be going," said Mr. Fewster, turning abruptly
away from the window.

"In such a night as this!" exclaimed the Lascar. "And I with no place
to put my head in?"

"You are homeless, then?" The Lascar nodded. "Well, I take you into my
service. It would be hard if no one could be found to do a good turn
for a poor devil like you."

"That it would, master," said the Lascar, standing in an attitude of
expectation; "and thank you. Could you spare that flower out of your
coat?"

Blinded by passion, inflamed by jealousy, Mr. Fewster detached the
flower, and threw it to the Lascar, whose eyes gleamed with
satisfaction as he put it in his pocket.

"You can sleep in the out-house," said Mr. Fewster; "and as every dog
should have a kennel, I dare say you can find a coffin to lie in."

"No, thank you, master; I will lie on the ground." He poured what
remained of the rum into his glass, and raised it to his lips. "Here's
luck, and my faithful service to you. You may depend upon me, for my
heart is in my work."




CHAPTER XVI.
CHRISTMAS-EVE AT HOME.


A happier party was never assembled within four walls than is now
gathered together within the four walls of Mr. Marvel's kitchen. That
it is Christmas-eve is proclaimed by the two little hoops which hang
from the ceiling, circled by colored Christmas candles; and that the
kindly influence of the time has fallen in full measure upon the
wood-turner's house may be read in the faces of George Marvel and his
family and guests. Sarah Marvel, whose place in this history is but a
small one, has grown into a comely young woman; and, indeed, the four
years which have elapsed since Joshua's departure have changed all his
friends for the better. Those of them who were young when he left are
no longer boys and girls, except in their hearts, which are as young
as ever, and which are pulsing with love for the absent hero. Not to
be absent for long now; for Joshua is coming home. They cannot tell
the exact day of his arrival; it may be a week yet, or a month; but
the sails of his ship are spread for dear home. So, as they sit round
the fire, there is a happy light in their eyes, and they look at each
other and smile, and laugh musical little laughs.

"It is more than four years ago," said George Marvel, "that one night
as we were sitting round the fire, as it might be now, Josh said all
of a sudden, 'I should like to go to sea.' Those were the very words
he said 'I should like to go to sea.' And it came so sudden-like, that
mother there began to cry. So you want to be a sailor, Josh? I
asked. 'Yes,' he answered; 'a sailor first, and then a captain.' Do
you remember, mother? And now my boy is coming home a man; and here we
are this happy Christmas-eve, talking of him, and thinking of him, and
hoping to see him soon after the New Year. Said mother that night,
'Suppose Josh is shipwrecked, what would you say then?' What would I
say then? What _did_ I say then? I said that Josh wasn't going to get
shipwrecked, and that there's more danger on the land than on the sea.
And I was right, I was; and mother wasn't."

Mrs. Marvel smiled contentedly at the reproof, and nodded in
confirmation of her husband's words.

"And when Mr. Praiseworthy Meddler came to see us for the first time,"
continued Mr. Marvel, "he said the very same thing that I said about
the dangers of the sea. And talking of Mr. Meddler, here he is, I do
believe; and that makes our party complete."

The last words had been suggested by a great stamping and puffing
outside in the passage; and presently the door opened, and
Praiseworthy Meddler, covered with snow, stood in the entrance.

"A merry Christmas to you all!" he said, peeling off his glazed coat.
"No, no my lasses, don't come near me; you'll spoil your pretty
ribbons."

But the girls would not be denied, and clustered round him, assisting
him to take off his coat, and to shake the snow from his cap and hair.
A pleasant figure he was to look at as he stood there, his honest face
beaming with health and pleasure, encircling the waists of Ellen and
Minnie, who nestled to him as confidingly and lovingly as if they were
his daughters. A sprig of mistletoe hanging over the door caught his
sight, and he stooped and gallantly kissed the girls, who pretended
resistance, and sprang laughing from his arms. Then he shook hands all
round, and taking the seat that was waiting for him near the warmest
part of the fire, remarked that the snow was two inches thick on the
pavement, and that it was coming down heavily still. It reminded him
of a great snow-storm by which he was overtaken in a cruise in the
north. That, of course, led to entreaties for a snow-story, and the
Old Sailor, in his homely way, told them a story Of icebergs and
polar-bears, which kept them entranced for nearly an hour, and which
was all the more delightful because it ended happily.

The story being concluded, they talked noisily and merrily as to what
they should do next in honor of Christmas. In the midst of the
conversation, Ellen, who was sitting next to Dan, felt her hand
tightly clasped. Looking up, she saw upon his face a listening
expression of such painful intensity that she asked him, in a whisper,
what he was listening to. He put his finger to his lips and told
her--with a strange abstractedness in his manner--that he was going
out of the room, and that he wished her to come with him without
attracting attention.

"We shall be back presently," said Ellen to Mrs. Marvel, as she
assisted Dan with his crutches.

When they were in the passage, she felt that he was trembling, and she
anxiously asked if he was unwell.

"Not bodily," he answered; "I want to look in the street."

They went to the street-door, and, opening it softly, looked out. The
snow was falling fast, and the unpretentious houses, covered with
their white mantle, looked surprisingly quaint and beautiful. A man,
who passed on the opposite side of the way as they opened the door,
was the only sign of life beside themselves in the street. The man
slouched onwards, and dragged his feet along the pavement in a brutish
kind of way, tearing a black gash in the pure white snow, out of sheer
wantonness as it seemed. It looked like a desecration.

"Ellen," said Dan, when the man was out of sight, "I would not tell my
fancies to any one but you. I am not happy. All last night I was
dreaming of Joshua."

"That was good, dear," said Ellen.

"It was not good, Ellen. My dreams were bad ones. They were too
confused and indistinct for me to remember them clearly. But the
impression they left upon me was that Joshua was in danger; I cannot
tell in what way or from whom. I did not hear a word of the story Mr.
Meddler just told us. I was thinking of I don't know what--and all of
a sudden, Ellen, I fancied that I heard Joshua's voice."

"That is because he is so near us."

"Near us? Yes. He is very near us; nearer than you imagine."

"How do you know, dear?"

"I feel that he is; and strange to say, Ellen, the feeling does not
seem to bring me pleasure."

"O Dan!"

"It is so, Ellen; I cannot help it. That Joshua is near us, I am
certain. See: is there anybody in the street?"

Ellen looked up and down. No; there was no person to be seen, and she
said so.

"How beautiful the night is, Dan!"

"Yes, like fairyland, almost," said Dan. "It hurts me to see that
black track on the other side, where the man was walking. Did you
notice how he slouched along? Look at that shadow at the end of the
street. Is it the same man, I wonder?"

The shadow lingered for a few moments, as if undecided which road to
take, and then disappeared again.

"Dan, dear," whispered Ellen, "you said that you would not tell your
fancies to any one but me."

"Well, Ellen?"

"May I whisper something, my dear?" she asked very tenderly.

"Yes."

"Would you not tell them to Minnie?"

She was supporting Dan, and his hand was round her neck; a nervous
twitching of his fingers told her that her question was a momentous
one.

"Dear Ellen," he answered in an agitated voice, "I do not think I
would--at least just yet--because--because"--

"Because what, dear?"

"Because I am not sure, Ellen," he said, with a sob which he strove in
vain to suppress. "Do not say any thing more, dear. My heart is very
sad."

She obeyed him, and kissed him, and then, with a lingering look at the
wondrous white outlines of eaves and roofs and at the wondrous white
carpet with which the earth was clad, they closed the street-door and
re-entered the kitchen. There they were greeted with the news that
Basil Kindred was going to describe and read a play to them. The play
which Basil had selected was Shakspeare's "Tempest," with which none
of them was acquainted but Minnie and Dan. Minnie clapped her hands in
delight.

"We will all have characters," she said. "You," to her father, "shall
be Prospero. You," to the Old Sailor, "shall be Stephano. You," to
Ellen, "shall be Miranda; and I will be Ariel. What a pity it is that
Mr. Fewster is not here!--he should be Caliban. If Joshua were here,
he should be Ferdinand."

"Who is Ferdinand?" asked Ellen.

"Ferdinand is a prince, and is in love with Miran--no!" Minnie
exclaimed suddenly and impetuously, the blood rising into her face,
"he should not play Ferdinand; he should not play at all. Look at me.
I am Ariel."

With a swift motion, she unloosed her hair and let it fall around her
shoulders. Bewitchingly graceful and bewitchingly beautiful, she bent
in obeisance to Prospero and said with a happy inspiration,--

"Do you love me, master?"

And he, partly in accordance with her pretty conceit and partly from
fatherly affection, placed his hand upon her head and answered,--

"Dearly, my delicate Ariel."

Then, motioning her to be silent, Basil Kindred, book in hand,
commenced to tell the story, reading passages now and again in
illustration of the beautiful fancy, and giving appropriate vocal
distinctness to each character; so that his hearers could understand
without difficulty who it was that was supposed to be speaking. He was
in his happiest humor, and he lingered lovingly upon the theme. The
fooling of Trinculo, the brutishness of Caliban, the tenderness of
Miranda, the majesty of Prospero, the daintiness of Ariel, were all
faithfully portrayed; and his audience followed the course of the
story with eager delight. When he had given utterance to that grandest
of poetical images,


                      "We are such stuff
     As dreams are made of, and our little life
     Is rounded with a sleep."


he paused, and a deep silence fell upon the room, a silence that was
broken by Dan exclaiming,--

"Hark! a knock at the door!"

Was it the magnetism of love that caused their hearts to flutter with
joy--that caused Mrs. Marvel to rise tremblingly and say that she
would go and open the door? But her limbs failed her, and Minnie,
crying, "I will go!" ran out of the room. They below, listening in a
state of strangely-anxious expectancy, heard Minnie ask "Who is
there?" and heard her open the door. Almost at the same moment they
heard a cry of joy, followed immediately by a sharp cry of pain. They
ran up stairs and saw Minnie kneeling in the snow, supporting on her
bosom the head of a man dressed in sailor-fashion, and pressing her
lips to his neck, from which the blood was flowing. The pure snow was
crimson-stained; and Mrs. Marvel, in an agony of fear falling on her
knees by Minnie's side, looked into the face of the wounded man, and
recognized the features of her sailor-boy just returned from sea.




CHAPTER XVII.
THE DOG AND HIS MASTER.


Upon that same Christmas-eve Solomon Fewster sat in his room a moody
unhappy man. He was alone; but if angry thought could have found
palpable shape, the room would have been thronged with ugly forms. He
had refused the invitation which Mrs. Marvel had given him to join the
Christmas party, simply because, when she invited him, she happened to
say something in joyful tones of Joshua's expected return. The mere
mention of Joshua's name was sufficient to inflame him; and he had at
once refused her in a lofty manner, saying that he had another
engagement for the evening. The Lascar had done his work well. There
is no death for jealousy: it sleeps, but it never dies. And the Lascar
had been careful that even the temporary bliss of forgetfulness should
be denied to his master. Less force of cunning than he was endowed
with would have served his purpose with such a man as Solomon Fewster.

The good influence of the time did not touch Solomon Fewster's heart.
He was completely engrossed by two sentiments--love for Ellen, hate
for Joshua. The very circumstance that upon this Christmas-eve he had
wilfully deprived himself of the painful pleasure of being in Ellen's
company he laid to Joshua's door. Every happy face he saw that day
deepened the hate he bore to Joshua; for if it had not been for that
absent enemy, he would have been as happy as the best of them. Once
during the evening he went into the open space at the rear of his
house, and saw his neighbors' windows lighted up, and heard sounds of
merriment issue from the rooms. "Who is it that prevents me from being
as happy as they are?" he muttered. "Who is the cause of my remaining
here to-night, fretting my heart out, instead of sitting next to the
girl that I love more than my life?" He unlocked the gate in the rear
of his premises, and strolled along the narrow lane into which it
opened. The houses in the lane were mere hovels, yet there was not one
of them that was not brilliantly lighted, and the echoes of laughter
and singing floating from their walls denoted that care had been sent
to the right-about for that evening, at least. The sounds were so
displeasing to him that he returned to his room and resting his face
in his hands; raised up the picture of Ellen, fair and bright and
beautiful. He was a calculating, unfeeling man; and if it had so
happened that there had been no obstacle to the smooth course of his
love, he might have remained so to the end of his days, and might
never have suspected that there were points in his character which
would not bear to close a scrutiny. But the means by which we are
brought to a knowledge of ourselves are oftentimes very strange. The
majority of us go down to our graves without suspecting that there are
powerful forces hidden within us, which, had opportunity for display
been allowed them, would have materially altered the tenor of our
lives, whether for good or for evil. Solomon Fewster's love for Ellen
was the most ennobling feeling he had ever experienced. His hatred for
Joshua, and the thoughts and desires prompted by that hate were the
most villainous. It is strange that the hate which disgraced him, not
the love which ennobled him, should have made him conscious of his
defects. It was that very hatred that brought to him the knowledge
that he was not a good man; and that caused him to reflect that, if
his love were returned, it would be the means of making him better.
His thoughts were taking this direction now, and he was still sitting
with his face resting in his hands, when he was startled by the sound
of the gate being violently dashed aside. He remembered that he had
forgotten to fasten it. Before he had time to rise, the latch of the
door was lifted, and the Lascar glided in like a white spectre. With a
strange feverishness of manner, the Lascar turned the key in the door,
and at the same moment stooped and listened, holding up a warning
finger as a caution for Solomon Fewster to be silent. He remained in
that position for two or three minutes; then rose upright, and drew a
long breath.

"What now?" demanded Mr. Fewster angrily, and yet with a consciousness
that the Lascar had sufficient cause for his abrupt entrance. "What
thieves' trick have you been up to to-night, you dog! that you run in
here as if the police were at your heels?"

"They are not," said the Lascar, shaking the snow from his clothes,
dog-like; "and that's a good thing, master, for you and for me."

"For me, you dog! You dare to say that!"

"I forgot to close the gate," said the Lascar, taking no notice of Mr.
Fewster's exclamation. He went out, and having locked the gate,
re-entered; and, seeing a bottle on the table, said, "What's this?
Rum?" He did not wait to be invited, but helped himself freely, and
spread his cold hands before the fire. "I am numbed to the bone. It's
precious cold being out in the snow all day. I didn't hope to find you
at home, master. I thought you would be enjoying yourself like a
gentleman. I ran in here, finding the gate open, not knowing where to
run. It is snowing fast--that's one comfort--and my footsteps will
soon be filled up."

All the while he spoke he was busily occupied warming his fingers and
blowing on his knuckles.

"Now, explain the meaning of all this," said Mr. Fewster.

"Give me something to eat first, master. I haven't tasted food since
the morning."

Mr. Fewster pointed to the cupboard; and the Lascar took bread and
meat, and ate swiftly and ravenously.

"My service to you, master," he said, glass in hand, "and a merry
Christmas."

When he had emptied the glass, he threw a knife on the table. It was a
clasp-knife, and the blade was open. There was a triumphant
demonstrativeness in the action that instantly attracted Mr. Fewster's
attention. He saw blood upon the blade--blood scarcely dried. Whose
blood was it? A mist floated before his eyes. It was there but a
moment; but in that moment a picture presented itself to him in the
midst of a lurid cloud--a picture of a handsome sailor, smitten by an
assassin's hand, falling to the ground. Then the figures were lost in
a glare of bright blood and bright snow; and they, in their turn, were
lost in black shade. Although the vision lasted but a moment, it
produced the curious effect upon him of having been enveloped in
darkness for a long time; and the sudden awakening to consciousness
caused him to shade his eyes with his hand, as if the light in the
room were too strong for him. Awake again, the Lascar's familiar
action and bearing smote him with a sense of danger. The instinct of
self-preservation whispered to him that his good name might be
imperilled by further association with the man. It was clear that the
Lascar had done a desperate deed--a deed which, although he shuddered
to think of it, had perhaps removed his enemy from the scene. But if
so, it was murder. The merest whisper, the faintest breath of
suspicion, would be his ruin, not only with the world, but with Ellen.
He would pay for services--yes; but he would take no risk. It behoved
him to be wary.

"They've had a merry party down yonder," said the Lascar, with a
motion of his head in the direction of Mr. Marvel's house. "I made
certain you were there, master. I've been hanging about the street all
night in the cold. I've been on the watch; shall I tell you for whom?"

"No; I want to know nothing," replied Mr. Fewster, measuring his words
carefully. "Understand me once and for all. Whatever you do you do on
your own responsibility; and I will in no way be associated with it or
with you. If you presume to associate me with any acts of violence on
your part, I wash my hands of you. Nay, more: I will set those upon
you who will not let you escape easily."

"I understand you, master," said the Lascar, without the least show of
resentment. "But go on; you have more to say. I'll wait till you've
done."

"You dog, you! You break into my house as if you had a right here! You
tell me, as if I were interested in knowing, that the police are at
your heels, and that you are afraid of your very footsteps being
tracked! You have the presumption to say that it is a good job for me
that it is not so! You throw down this knife before me with blood upon
it! What is it to me whose blood it is, or what crime you have
committed? What if it were to be discovered that you had rendered
yourself liable to the law, and then had been seen to come here? If I
did my duty, I should go for a policeman, and hand you into his
charge, and so be rid of you."

The Lascar listened without the slightest sign of discomposure. He
even nodded approvingly as he said,--

"There's only you and me, master. You wouldn't speak so if anybody
else was by. Don't fear; I know what you mean well enough. There's no
chance of our misunderstanding each other, though you're a better
actor than I am, and that's a fact. Rest you easy. No one saw me come
here; and no one shall see me go out. As for the police, I know as
well as you that it would suit your game as little to set them on me
as it would suit my game for them to be set on. But you're right in
threatening me with them. It belongs to your part; for you are master.
And it belongs to my part to take what you say kindly; for I am a dog.
I am satisfied so long as I get enough to keep me; and I'm not greedy,
as you know."

Solomon Fewster was extremely disconcerted by the Lascar's coolness.
It proved to him that he was in the Lascar's power, and that the
Lascar knew it. He was disconcerted also by the conviction that forced
itself upon him, that the Lascar measured his indignation at its
proper worth. But he could not belie his nature. It was impossible for
him to be straightforward; even in his villainy he was compelled to be
cunning. He would take care that he committed himself as little as
possible by word of mouth. He was burning to hear what the Lascar had
to tell, but he would not ask. He drew his breath hard, and it was
with difficulty that he restrained his impatience during the long
pause that followed; for the Lascar was as determined as he not to be
the first to break the silence. At length, feeling that he was being
mastered, he turned wrathfully upon the Lascar, and questioned,
"Well?"

"Well!" was the quiet answer.

"If you have nothing more to say, you can go."

"I have something more to say, but I am waiting for permission to
speak."

There was an assumption of insolent humility in the Lascar's tone; and
Mr. Fewster bit his lip as he said, "Your tongue's your own; I can't
stop you."

"Thank you, master;" with a cringing expression of satisfaction for
the concession. "Since I was employed in my present service--I mean,
since a certain night when a kind-hearted gentleman gave me a flower,
the leaves of which I have kept carefully in paper, so that I
shouldn't forget what I had to do--I have been more watchful than ever
in the task I had set myself to perform. I have been better able to do
that than I used to be, because the same kind-hearted gentleman has
generously supplied me with money, so that I have had all my time at
my own disposal. He also supplied me with information. The task I had
to perform was to revenge myself upon Joshua Marvel for stepping
between me and my affairs, and for doing me injury. A little while ago
the gentleman told me that Joshua Marvel was expected home soon; and
then I determined that not a night should pass and find me lagging.
Not only my hate, but my faithful duty to my master, made me
determined in this. I set myself to watch for the return of the sailor
Joshua; and during my watch I discovered a curious thing. I discovered
that the gentleman in whose service I am appeared very often in the
street I was watching, and that he was in the habit of lingering
there late at night. He never did any thing else but look up at the
bedroom-window of a certain pretty girl, whose shadow I have often
seen on the blind; and he never went away until the light in her room
was extinguished. I was careful that he should not see me, for it was
no business of mine; and I know when I ought to keep in the
background. Besides, I admired him for it; for I knew that he loved
this girl, and that Joshua Marvel stood in his way. Regularly every
day I went to the docks to see if the Merry Andrew--Joshua Marvel's
ship--had arrived; and as good luck would have it, the ship came in
this very morning. When I learned that, I went back to my watch in the
street the gentleman is so mightily fond of. I knew that Joshua Marvel
wouldn't be able to get away from his ship directly it got into port;
and I guessed that it was more likely than not that he wouldn't let
his people at home know of his unexpected arrival. No; he would
surprise them. It would be so pleasant on Christmas-eve to break in
upon them suddenly, and be petted and kissed, especially by one"--

"The devil take you!" cried Solomon Fewster fiercely, grasping the
table with such force that it trembled with the trembling of his hand.
"Tell your story without preaching, can't you?"

"I'll try, master. I hung about the street the whole day, eating
nothing, and drinking very little. I might have been frozen, if my
purpose hadn't kept me warm. I didn't grumble because I had to wait. I
wanted him to come at night, and he came when I wanted. It isn't much
more than an hour ago"--here he dropped his voice to a whisper--"that
I saw a sailor turn the corner of the street where pretty Ellen Taylor
lives. He had an accordion under his arm, and a cage in his hand
covered with a blue pocket-handkerchief; and he stopped two or three
times to look at the houses, and nodded to them as if he was wishing
them a merry Christmas. I followed him, like a cat, and opened my
knife. He was singing--I couldn't catch the words--and to judge from
that and from the way he walked, I should say he was as happy a man as
any in London. He never once looked behind him; if he had, I would
have struck him down. He stopped before the house where his father and
mother lived, and stooped to the keyhole and listened. I was close
upon him--waiting! If he hadn't been so much occupied, he might have
smelt me at his back. But it wouldn't have saved him if he had seen
me; he would only have been struck down the sooner. While he was
listening at the keyhole, he laughed quietly, enjoying the surprise he
was going to give his people. When he had his laugh out, he knocked at
the door. Presently I heard a woman's voice inside the house ask,
'Who's there?' 'It's Josh,' said my man. I heard a cry of pleasure;
and as the door was being unfastened, I raised my knife, and stabbed
him in the back."

"And killed him?" cried Solomon Fewster involuntarily.

"I don't know. He fell; and as I ran off, I caught a glimpse of a
woman kneeling by him in the snow, and raising his head to her bosom."

Solomon Fewster groaned. Without another word he opened the door by
which the Lascar had entered, and walked into the open air. The
snow-fall had ceased, and the stars were shining. The moon, too, had
risen, and clouds of light and deep shade were gliding swiftly across
it, while everchanging shadows were playing on the snow. In the
distance he heard the waits; they were a long way off, and the strains
of music fell upon his ears chastened and mellowed. He was in danger;
he had allied himself with this man, who made so light of the shedding
of blood; and he had been made a confederate in perhaps a murder. Not
that he had any compunction; not that he had any pity. Nothing would
have rejoiced him more than to have heard that Joshua had been killed
in a mutiny, had been wrecked, or had lost his life on sea or on land
by any means, so that he was not implicated in it. The feelings that
disturbed him now were purely selfish; he had to save himself from
suspicion, supposing any discovery were made. Perhaps it would be
best, after all, to speak plainly to the Lascar. There were no
witnesses, and it did not matter much what he said. If Joshua were
dead, the Lascar must be got rid of at any sacrifice of money. Thus
resolving, he returned to the room. The Lascar was sitting patiently
before the fire, and did not even raise his eyes as Mr. Fewster
entered. "He did not know what I went out for," thought Mr. Fewster.
"I might have gone for a policeman, and if I had brought one in, he
would have declared I was his accomplice."

"Has it left off snowing, master?" asked the Lascar.

"Yes."

"Then it wouldn't be quite safe for me to go away to-night--safe for
you, I mean."

"You can stop here to-night."

"Thank you, master. Have I done well?"

"It doesn't matter whether I say you have done well or ill; so, to
save argument, suppose I say you have done well. Now, attend. If what
you have done to-night should turn out to be"--

"Say murder, master," said the Lascar, seeing that Mr. Fewster
hesitated to speak plainly. "I don't mind."

"If it should turn out to be that, have you considered that you are in
danger?"

"I haven't thought of it, master, and that's a fact. But if I am in
danger, so are you."

"That may or may not be. The only danger I am in is from what you
might say; and, supposing I had spoken to you only once in my life,
you would be free to say any thing of me, or of any one else, for that
matter. What you might say wouldn't be evidence, you know."

"True, master: but, at all events, I could ruin your chances with
pretty Ellen Taylor."

"What satisfaction would that be to you?"

"Every satisfaction," said the Lascar with a kindling eye. "If any one
hurts me, I hurt him."

"As you have hurt Joshua Marvel, because he hurt you."

"And because I am in your service," said the Lascar doggedly. "Don't
forget that, please; I don't intend to forget it. If this is to be a
fair argument, let it be fair. If it is to be acting, let it be
acting. What I have done to-night is half for me and half for you:
equal shares."

"I told you once that I would have no partnerships," said Mr. Fewster
in a steady voice, "and I will have none; but I don't mind coming to a
distinct understanding. If what you have done to-night should turn out
at its worst"--

"Or its best," interrupted the Lascar sneeringly.

"It will not be safe for you to remain in the country. To please you,
I will say it will not be safe for you or for me."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Lascar thoughtfully. "I think I understand you.
Well, in that case there are plenty of countries I shouldn't mind
going to; or I might go aboard ship again. How much will you give me?"

"A hundred pounds."

"Agreed, master,--if it should turn out at its worst, as you say. But
if it does not, I stay, mind you."

"That is your affair."

"As much yours as mine, master," said the Lascar with determination.

"What makes you harp upon that, you dog?" exclaimed Mr. Fewster,
firing up.

"Necessity," replied the Lascar coolly. He liked the life of indolence
he had been leading, and he did not intend to relinquish his hold of
Solomon Fewster. "I have no money, and no means of living. You have
acted fairly to me up to now, and you must continue to do so. You can
afford it, that's certain. I know what it is you fear. You fear that
it should be known that I am in your service. Well, no one shall know
it from me; and I will never come here again. You know where I stay.
What you have to give me, leave there for me; and when you want me,
send for me. I am your dog, ready to do your bidding. I can't speak
fairer. There's no occasion for any more palaver. I'm tired and
sleepy; I can sleep here, before the fire." He stretched himself on
the ground by the side of the fire. "Silence gives consent, they say.
If you don't speak, I shall understand that the affair is settled. You
wanted a distinct understanding, you know."

He closed his eyes, and listened for the answer. The answer came--in
silence; for Solomon Fewster spoke not another word that night. The
Lascar, made drowsy by the glare from the fire, courted sleep; and it
came to him, as it comes to better men. And Solomon Fewster sat,
looking down upon the form of the man who could blast his good name by
a word, and thought--What? Once during the night the Lascar awoke with
a shiver. The fire had gone out; but Solomon Fewster was still sitting
at the table with a haggard look upon his face, as if he had suddenly
grown old.




CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RIVALRY OF LOVE.


A silence almost like the silence of the grave reigned in the house of
the Marvels. If, by some chance, a blind man had found his way there,
he might reasonably have wondered whether it was tenanted by ghosts or
human beings. The persons in the house walked about it with such a
ghostly motion that scarcely a footfall could be heard. The doors were
opened and shut as tenderly as if wounds were being handled, and as if
rough treatment would cause them to cry out with pain. The very voices
were hushed and low, and what was said was said in whispers. The blow
by which Joshua had been struck down was a severe one, and wounded
many besides himself. Notwithstanding Minnie's efforts, Joshua had
lost a great deal of blood, and was laid on a sick-bed for many weeks.
For a long time the doctor feared for his life; but good nursing and a
strong constitution were in his favor.

"But mind you, Mrs. Marvel," the doctor had said, half-a-dozen times,
"nothing _would_ have saved him--not even his constitution, and
it's a good one; not even the nursing he has had, and no man ever had
better--nothing _would_ have saved him if Miss Kindred had not behaved
like a heroine. You may thank that young lady for saving your son's
life. If she hadn't stopped the flow of blood with her lips, all the
doctors in London couldn't have kept him in the world for twenty-four
hours."

When Minnie was told of this, she went to her room and locked herself
in.

"I have saved him!" she said to herself, weeping tears of delicious
joy. "I have saved his life! Oh, what happiness! I could die now, I am
so happy!"

It might have been better for her if she had died then with those
words upon her lips.

During the time that Joshua was in the greatest danger, Mrs. Marvel
would allow no one but herself to sit up with him at night. She had a
bed made up on the floor, and rested there, taking, indeed, but little
sleep, until Joshua was out of danger. Minnie, especially, had pleaded
hard to be allowed to sit up with her; but Mrs. Marvel was firm.
Although she would not have confessed it even to herself, she was
jealous of the girl's solicitude; and once expressed herself angrily
because Minnie had offered to give Joshua his medicine. Afterwards,
seeing Minnie in tears, Mrs. Marvel kissed her and begged her pardon
in a gentle, motherly way, which made Minnie cry the more. Mrs. Marvel
found Minnie more difficult to manage than Ellen. Ellen was
wonderfully undemonstrative and wonderfully obedient. And besides,
Ellen was never in the way when she was not wanted, and was always at
hand the instant she was required. There was an instinctive sympathy
between Mrs. Marvel and Ellen which did not exist between Mrs. Marvel
and Minnie. The good mother loved both the girls, but she loved Ellen
like a daughter. In the second week of Joshua's illness a circumstance
occurred which, for a short time, occasioned Mrs. Marvel much anxious
thought. Joshua being more feverish than usual--for three weeks he was
delirious, and did not know where he was, or who were tending him--the
girls hovered about the room (in their anxiety to be of some
assistance) rather later than Mrs. Marvel generally allowed them.

"Go to bed, girls," said Mrs. Marvel.

Ellen rose obediently, and kissing Mrs. Marvel, and asking to be
called if Mrs. Marvel wanted assistance in the night, went softly out
of the room. But Minnie lingered behind, and with a yearning, wistful
look at Mrs. Marvel, begged, in the softest of whispers, to be allowed
to sit up with her.

"No, child," said Mrs. Marvel, "I can't think of it. You would be of
no use to me to-morrow if you were to sit up to-night."

"Oh, yes, I should!" said Minnie, still pleading; "you don't know what
a strong girl I am. Do let me stop with you! Do let me think that I
can do something to help you!"

"You can do a great deal if you obey me, Minnie; and you do assist me
very much, my dear; but I will not let you sit up to-night. Hush!" For
here Joshua said something aloud, and murmured feverishly in his
sleep. When he was quiet, Mrs. Marvel said, "Don't distress me, dear
Minnie; go to bed, like a good girl."

Minnie, with deep sighs, went to the bedside to look at Joshua and to
bid him a silent goodnight--Mrs. Marvel regarding her jealously the
while--and then crept out of the room in tears. The girls being gone,
Mrs. Marvel felt more contented. She sat down by her son's bedside,
and, with that lightness of touch which nothing but a mother's pure
love or that of a wife can impart, smoothed the bed-coverings, and
brushed the hair from Joshua's eyes. At about eleven o'clock the
handle of the door was gently turned, and Mr. Marvel entered. He had
no boots on, and she had not heard him come up from the kitchen.
Clasping his wife's hand, he leaned over the bed to catch a glimpse of
Joshua's face.

"He is better to-night, George," she said; "he is getting along
nicely. The doctor said to-day that he will soon be sensible."

George Marvel nodded, and put his lips to his wife's cheek.

"You must be very tired, Maggie."

She replied by a bright smile.

"Shall I sit up for an hour while you lie down?"

"Yes, father," knowing it would please him. "Have you had supper?"

A nod.

"And your beer?"

Another nod.

"And your pipe?"

"Yes; Ellen got every thing ready nicely. She is like you were when
you were a girl, Maggie."

"Better than me, father."

"That's not possible, wife." Ah! how her heart fluttered as he said
the word! She trembled in his arms like a girl. "Now lie down; I'll
wake you in an hour."

She had but to close her eyes--being satisfied that her darling son
was in good hands--and she was asleep. George Marvel watched for an
hour, and perhaps a little longer, and then touched his wife, who was
instantly awake. Alone again, Mrs. Marvel resumed her loving vigil.
Not a sound was to be heard except the occasional prattle of Joshua,
now of Dan and the birds, now of "father" and "mother," now of Ellen,
now of Minnie and her shell. Mrs. Marvel had already learned, through
those unconscious confessions, that her son's heart was as tender and
as good as it had been before he had started in life for himself. A
few minutes after the church-clock had struck two, Mrs. Marvel fancied
she heard a soft breathing, outside the bedroom-door. She listened
intently, thinking she must have been deceived; but no--the soft
breathing, as of some one asleep, came distinctly to her ears. She
went to the door and opened it, and, lying at the foot of the stairs
in the narrow passage, she discovered Minnie, in her night-dress, fast
asleep. The girl had evidently kept awake until Ellen and Sarah were
asleep, and had then stolen down stairs, and had sat outside the door
of the sick-room until she had been overpowered by fatigue. Mrs.
Marvel stooped over the sleeping girl and whispered,--

"Minnie!"

The sound of her name, chiming in with some dreaming fancy, brought a
happy smile to the girl's lips, and she answered,--

"Yes, Joshua!"

A look of pain passed into Mrs. Marvel's face; she knelt by Minnie's
side, and gently raising the girl's head, she whispered again,--

"Minnie! You'll catch your death of cold lying here."

Minnie, still sleeping, encircled Mrs. Marvel's neck with her arms,
and murmured, as she nestled close to the anxious mother's breast,--

"Joshua! Love me! Love me, Joshua!"

Mrs. Marvel trembled as she looked upon the girl's fair face, made
fairer by the happy smile playing about the lips, and she felt a
sudden chill at her heart.

"Oh, my poor Minnie!" she said beneath her breath. "Oh, my poor, poor
Minnie!"

Then by a strong effort, she raised the girl, and so awoke her.

Before Minnie had time to recover full consciousness, her name,
uttered by Joshua in his fevered sleep, fell upon her ears. With a
glad cry she sprang from Mrs. Marvel's arms into the sick-room; but
Mrs. Marvel stepped swiftly before her, and taking her two hands
prisoner, said, in a voice which, although very low, was stern and
decided, "I am seriously angry with you, Minnie."

The sudden movements, the light in the room, and, above all, Mrs.
Marvel's stern voice, restored Minnie to her senses. She dropped her
head, and a hot blush of shame stole over her neck and face, while the
hands which Mrs. Marvel held turned cold as ice. All Mrs. Marvel's
sternness was gone, and pity only remained.

"Forgive me," Minnie pleaded.

"I do, child," said Mrs. Marvel, more agitated than Minnie was. "I was
obliged to speak sternly, or I should not have been able to wake you.
Go to bed now, and be more obedient for the future."

Minnie walked humbly into the passage, whither Mrs. Marvel followed
her.

"Ah, not like that!" sighed Minnie, as Mrs. Marvel turned to enter the
room. "Not like that! Kiss me, and say again that you forgive me."

And Mrs. Marvel, distressed and pitiful, kissed Minnie, who clung to
her for a few moments, sobbing quietly, and then crept to bed.


But who had struck the blow? Who was it that, waiting with malicious
cunning until Joshua's foot was on the threshold of the home where so
many loving hearts were eager to welcome him, had foully struck him
down? Susan was the only one who had any suspicion; but she did not
mention it, for she had not seen the Lascar for many months. When
Minnie was questioned, she declared that she saw no one in the street.
A neighbor asked why one of the men in the house did not look for
footsteps in the snow and follow up the track. They could not tell why
they had not done so; it would have been the right thing to do,
undoubtedly, but it had not occurred to them. When Joshua was
sufficiently recovered, he could not assist them. He was examined and
cross-examined closely. Did he suspect any of the sailors? No; he was
good friends with every person on board; was even a favorite with the
captain and officers. Ah! perhaps it sprang from that, they said; one
of his mates might have been jealous of him. No; he was certain not
one of them was. His own opinion was that he had been stabbed by a
thief who wanted to rob him. But there! what was the use of bothering
about it? Here he was, getting well and strong again, when it might
have been so much worse. Thank God, in a few weeks he would be as well
as ever! The day that Joshua was out of danger, the doctor told him
that his life had been saved by Minnie.

"In what way, sir?" asked Joshua.

"Don't you remember that, when you were struck"--commenced the doctor.
But Joshua interrupted him by saying that he remembered nothing from
that moment.

"I was walking along, too much occupied with the happiness of coming
home to think of any thing else. I remember looking at the houses in
the street, and stopping before our house. I heard voices inside, or I
thought I did. Indeed, it might have been fancy. I stooped to listen,
and then knocked. Some one asked--ah, now I remember! It was Minnie's
voice asking who was there. Just as I answered, a dizziness came over
me; I did not even know that I was struck."

"As you answered," said the doctor, taking up the narrative where
Joshua dropped it, "Minnie opened the door. She saw you falling, and
saw blood flowing from your neck. She threw herself by your side, and
put her lips to the wound, and pressed so as to cause the blood to
flow less freely. I honestly believe that if she had not done that,
your life would not have been saved."

Joshua did not pursue the conversation, and the doctor did not recur
to the subject again. The following afternoon Joshua said to his
mother,--

"Mother, I want to speak to Minnie."

Mrs. Marvel, a little uneasily, went for Minnie, who came and sat by
Joshua's bed.

"Are you better, Joshua?" asked the girl.

"Yes, dear Minnie," answered Joshua.

They spoke in whispers. Joshua put out his big hand, and Minnie
clasped it.

"Your hand is quite cold, Minnie." Minnie, indeed, was very agitated.
"I owe you my life, dear Minnie, and I want to thank you for it. It
almost seems to me, after what I have been told, as if my life
belonged to you. Thank you, dear little Minnie--you used to like me to
call you that!--thank you a thousand thousand times. I shall never be
able to repay you!"

"I don't want payment, Joshua," said Minnie, when the wild beating of
her heart was subdued. "It brought its own payment with it. It is, and
ever will be, my sweetest remembrance. O Joshua! as the greatest
unhappiness that ever could occur to me would be"--(to lose you, she
was about to say, but she checked the words in time)--"to know that
you would not recover, so the greatest happiness that I have ever
experienced is to think that I have done you some little service."

"Little service! The greatest service, the most devoted action that
woman could do to man! Perhaps--who knows?--one day I may be able to
repay you in my own way." As if those words were not sufficient for
her, who would have given her life for his. "Stoop down Minnie!" She
inclined her head to the pillow. "Little Minnie, little Minnie!" he
whispered tenderly, and he placed his lips to her cheek. "Thank you
for your devotion."

It was fortunate for Minnie that it was dusk, and that her back was
towards Mrs. Marvel, or the good mother would have had further cause
for anxiety and uneasiness in Minnie's trembling form and flushed
face. As it was, there was a long silence in the room; and Mrs.
Marvel, approaching softly to the bed to see if Joshua was asleep,
broke the happy reverie into which Minnie had fallen.

Solomon Fewster came to the house every day to inquire after Joshua,
and went away every day with content in his face and despair in his
heart. If ever a man played a double part, he played it during that
time. "If he would but die!" he thought many and many a time. "If
mortification would set in, or erysipelas, or something that would
kill him!" And "I am truly happy to hear it," he said, many and many a
time, to Mrs. Marvel, as in answer to his inquiries she told him that
Joshua was improving rapidly. "I have brought a little jelly for him,"
which Mrs. Marvel received thankfully. At other times he would bring a
chicken or some other delicacy to tempt Joshua's appetite, and would
walk from the house with earnest wishes that what he left would choke
the invalid. "I shall never forget Mr. Fewster's kindness," said Mrs.
Marvel. "I feel quite angry with myself; for I did not give him credit
for so much good feeling. But it is just in such times as these that a
man shows the real goodness of his heart." And Mr. Fewster met with
his reward immediately; for they were all grateful to him for his
attention to Joshua. Mr. Marvel always had a hearty word for him,
Minnie always a bright look, Ellen always a kind welcome now. But it
was both sweet and bitter to him. "Ellen looks kindly upon me," he
thought, and thought truly, "because I profess myself kind to Joshua.
Will it ever be otherwise? Yes; if money can make it so, it shall be.
And money can do much."

Yes, money can do much; but it cannot buy love, although it is often
paid for it.

The most delicious three months of Joshua's life dated from the day on
which the doctor declared him to be out of danger. He lived in an
atmosphere of love. Loving hearts, loving hands, loving looks, loving
thoughts, surrounded him. Is it better to have those than to be great
and rich and powerful? Too modest for ambition are such blessings. Yet
are they the sweetest, the holiest attributes of life. Of life, which
is nothing without pleasures which cost money. Of life, which is not
worth the living without fine linen and rich food. Of life, which is
useless without the restless striving, the absorbing ambition, which
make up the sum of human progress. Of Life, the Paradox!

Something which has fallen out of its proper place may be motioned
here. When Joshua was carried into the house on that memorable
Christmas night, two things that had fallen from his hands were picked
up from the snow and carried in after him. On of these was his
accordion, the other was a white cockatoo in a cage, which Joshua had
brought home from the South Seas. Whether it was that the cockatoo was
overwhelmed at finding itself in a strange land, or that it deemed it
necessary to be silent in the distressing circumstances of the case,
it certainly behaved itself in a most exemplary manner, and gave no
indication that it possessed a tongue. The cockatoo was taken to Dan's
house, which was but a very few doors from Joshua's, and two or three
days afterwards Dan was startled by hearing his name called in a
strange loud voice. He looked up at Ellen, and asked if she had
spoken. She had just time to say "No" when _her_ name was called in
the same strange loud voice.

"Why, it's the cockatoo!" exclaimed Dan.

Sure enough, it was the cockatoo, which, now that its tongue was
loosened, made as much use of it as a woman could have done. Its stock
of language was not large, consisting only of a shrill "Dan!" a shrill
"Dan and Jo!" a shrill "Ellen!" a shrill "Minnie!" and a softer
articulation of "Bread-and-cheese and kisses! and kisses! and kisses!"
winding up with a volley of kisses, which it continued until it was
completely out of breath. No stronger proof of Joshua's attachment
could have been received by Dan and Ellen. Dan was much affected by
it.

"You see how he was thinking of us all the time he was away," he said
to Ellen, with tears in his eyes. "What shall I do if he dies!"

But Joshua did not die, and it was not very long afterwards that Dan
was sitting in his friend's bedroom, surrounded by his birds as usual.
It was like the old time come over again. Here they were, man and man,
talking often as if they were boys. So much had to be told! The loss
of Dan's parents, Dan entering into business, and how they all came to
be living together. "Wonderful, wonderful!" said Joshua, again and
again. "Like a story in a book."

"Just what I said," said Dan; "like a romance."

Who should come to the house one day but the captain of Joshua's ship.
the "Merry Andrew"? The part he plays in this story is a small one,
but eventful enough in all conscience. He was a shrewd man of business
and a good officer. It was to his interest to have good men about him;
for he was the principal owner of the ship, and he was remarkably
sensible in any matter affecting his interests. He had heard of what
had occurred to Joshua, and he was very sorry for it, because he had
been so satisfied with Joshua's conduct on board his ship, that he had
determined to make the young sailor his third mate on the next voyage.
Therein he showed his eccentricity; most other captains would have
chosen a man who had already filled that position satisfactorily. But
Captain Liddle liked to judge for himself, and Joshua had found favor
in his eyes. The young sailor was steady and attentive, and had made
some progress in the study of navigation. There was one especial
reason why Captain Liddle wanted steady men with him on his next
voyage. He was about to get married, and he was going to take his
young wife with him. There was great excitement in the house when
Captain Liddle announced himself. Joshua, who was in bed, wanted to
rise, but Captain Liddle would not allow him.

"Lie easy, lie easy, Marvel," he said: "you'll get better all the
sooner."

"I hoped to come with you, sir, on your next voyage," said Joshua.

"Well, I had some thought of that myself," said Captain Liddle.

"Do you go out soon, sir?"

"Not for three months, Marvel; perhaps not for four. The ship's
undergoing a thorough overhauling. She'll have a precious freight in
her next trip."

"What loading, sir?"

Captain Liddle's eyes twinkled. "Female. Lie easy, lie easy, Marvel;"
for Joshua had given another start. "Mrs. Captain Liddle. I shall be
married soon, and my wife goes out with me."

Joshua murmured respectful congratulations.

"Thank you, thank you, Marvel. Now, I'll tell you what I have come
especially for. First, though, how long before you are well?"

"I am well now, sir."

"Strong, I mean; able to get about and do your work like a man."

"Not for two months, I am afraid, sir."

"That will do. Now, then. You get strong in two months, and you shall
go out with me in my next trip as third mate of the 'Merry Andrew.'
Lie easy, lie easy, Marvel. What do you say to it, eh?"

"Say to it, sir! O"--

"Lie easy, lie easy, my lad. When you get strong come to the ship, and
write a few lines soon telling me how strong you are getting. Mrs.
Marvel, your son is a good sailor, and will make a good officer. And
this is Dan, that you told me of once? A good head; but not so strong
in the legs as Marvel, eh?"

"No, sir," said Dan with a bright smile, for he was overjoyed at
Joshua's good fortune; "but it wouldn't do for all of us to be strong
sir; consider the doctors."

"Why, here is a ship, ropes and sails and all! And birds!"

Obedient to Dan's signal, the sailor-birds flew up the ropes, and
stood on the slender cross-trees, as proud as if they had passed their
lives in the service.

"Good--good!" said Captain Liddle. "For sale, eh?"

"No; they are not mine sir; they belong to an old sailor."

"Very proper. Ah, young lady," to Minnie, who had been in the room,
but in the background, during the captain's visit; "and what do you
think of the sea?"

"If I had been a man, sir," said Minnie modestly and quietly, "I
should like to have been a sailor."

"Very proper--very proper. Good-day, Marvel. Get strong as quickly as
you can. You'll have to superintend cargo."

Mr. Marvel, coming home at night, was told the good news before he had
time to take the comforter from his neck. He ran up stairs at once to
his son's room. "A sailor first, and then a captain," he exclaimed,
recalling Joshua's words when he first announced his wish. "Do you
remember, Josh?

"Yes, father, yes," said Joshua eagerly.

"It's better than being a wood-turner, Josh," said George Marvel
triumphantly.

"I should think so, indeed. You'll see!"

"There, Maggie!" observed Mr. Marvel to his wife later on in the
evening. "What did I tell you? And you was against it all the while,
and wanted him to be a wood-turner. He'll be a captain before he's
thirty."

"He is spared, I hope, for great things." said Mrs. Marvel meekly;
"and to be a blessing to us all."

That same night, Dan and Joshua and Ellen spent some very happy hours
together. Minnie was with Susan attending her father, so that the
three were undisturbed. Mrs. Marvel opened the door once; but seeing
the group, and observing how engrossed they were, she shut it softly,
and went down again into the kitchen. Once, also, George Marvel was
going out of the kitchen when his wife called to to him,--

"Where are you going, father?"

"To Joshua's room."

"Don't go, George. Come and sit down; I want to speak to you."

Mr. Marvel resumed his seat, and Mrs. Marvel refilled his pipe and
handed it to him, with a light, "There! smoke your pipe and don't be
so restless."

He took a few whiffs, and asked who was with Joshua.

"Ellen and Dan; and they are very happy and comfortable. I peeped in
once, and I wouldn't disturb them."

"Oh!" said Mr. Marvel reflectively dwelling lengthily upon that
smallest of words.

"I have reasons, George," said Mrs. Marvel quietly. "I never saw Ellen
look so happy and pretty as she looks tonight."

Mr. Marvel nodded two or three times with an expression of
satisfaction. "Do you think, mother," he commenced; and then he
paused, and repeated, "Do you think, mother, that"--and then he paused
again, as if he had said enough to make his meaning clear.

"Yes, I do, George," said Mrs. Marvel. "I had my doubts, but now I
really think it will be so."

"That will be a real good thing;" rubbing his hands. "Here's hoping
so!" and he drank a full glass of beer to his mysterious toast.

What was going on up stairs that the wood-turner and his wife were
loath to interrupt? Merely a recalling of old reminiscences and a
closer drawing together of three hearts, which might have been one,
for the undivided affection for each other with which they were
filled.

"Thinking of then, when every thing before us was so uncertain, and of
now, when every thing before us is so bright and clear," said Joshua,
"makes me almost believe that our ways are shaped for us, and that, if
we strive to do our duty, our reward is certain."

"It is too deep a question for us, Jo," said Dan; "so many
considerations spring out of it. As to whether every good man is
happy. As to whether every man who strives to do right is spared pain
and misery. At all events, it is certain that the very best thing to
do is to do what is right, and to be straightforward and honest. It is
not too often done, I am afraid. I haven't seen any thing of the
world, but it strikes me that that is not the way of it."

"If ever I am captain of a ship--and I may be, Dan--it looks
promising"--

"That it does, Jo."

"You shall come with me a voyage. I will have every thing snug for
you; hammock on deck the same as that day we spent with the Old
Sailor--ah, what a day was that!"

"I can recall every moment of it; from the night before, when Ellen
stood at the window watching the rain, and my waking up in the morning
waiting for you to come--oh, so anxiously! And the flowers, and the
birds--the poor birds!--and the breakfast, and the ride! I tell you
what, Jo, stories could be made out of these things. But the day
wouldn't have been the day it was if Ellen had not been with us."

Ellen smiled, and her eyes sparkled.

"Every thing connected with it is so vivid to my mind just now," said
Joshua, "that it only wants one thing to make it complete; and that is
for Ellen to sing 'Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses,' as she sang it in the
Old Sailor's cabin."

Ellen, in a low voice, sang the song; and they were silent for a long
while, musing happily. Then Joshua made a remark that his pillow was
not nicely arranged, and Ellen smoothed it for him. Her arm
necessarily was round his neck for a moment--only for a moment by her
own will; for when she would have withdrawn it, Joshua held it there,
and she, with impulse as pure as pure heart and mind could make it,
allowed it to remain. What wonder that a silence of longer duration
followed?

Ah! if a magic spell had fallen upon them then, a spell that would
have transfixed them and made their happiness eternal!

Not one of them knew how long that blissful trance lasted. It was
broken by the slightest sound--it might have been the opening of a
door, or even the light tread of our old friend the tortoise-shell
cat--but whatever the sound was, the trance was at an end, and they
were all awake again. Ellen withdrew her arm, and, with downcast eyes,
hurriedly left the room. Joshua turned to Dan, and holding out his
hand, said, "Dan, take my hand, and say, Brother Jo."

"I do. Brother Jo!"

"That's good; isn't it, Dan?"

"Yes, Jo."

"Brothers more than in heart, Dan, as we have always been. But
Brothers really and truly, if Ellen says yes."

"Ellen loves you, Jo. You have but to ask." He paused for a little
while before he spoke again. "There is something in my mind that it is
right you should know. It is the only thing I have ever kept from you;
but now, since you have told me about yourself and Ellen"--

"Did you ever doubt it, Dan?"

"I wasn't certain, Jo. You have removed a great weight from my heart.
It seems strange that now, when I see the almost certain prospect of
your future being as bright as we used to hope it would be--it seems
strange that I cannot say I am happy. Yet one thing would make me so
perfectly."

"There is no cloud between you and me, Dan?"

"None--nor ever will be, brother of my heart. But a great hope,
shadowed by a great fear, has entered into my soul--a hope which
fulfilled, would make earth heaven for me. Is it too precious a thing
to pray for? It seems so to me. I tremble as I think of it. But if it
is not to be, I hope I shall soon die."

"Dan!" cried Joshua in alarm, for Dan's last words were like a cry of
agony.

"Haven't you seen it, Jo? Haven't you suspected it? I love her so
that, if I knew she were lost to me, I scarcely think I could live. I
love her so that, if she were lost to me, some stronger motive, some
stronger feeling than any I can now think of; would have to animate me
to make my future less black than the blackest night."

"You mean Minnie, Dan?"

"Yes; she is my light. Ah, Jo! How I love her! I have never spoken of
it till now; I have never dared to breathe it. And now that I speak of
it for the first time, it frightens me."

"Nay, Dan, take courage. You are frightened by shadows."

"If I could think so!" mused Dan in a less agitated voice. "What can
I, a cripple, offer her? Love? Yes, I can offer her that, pure and
undefiled. Nothing more--nothing more! Keep my secret, Jo."

"Yes, Dan," said Joshua sadly.

"If all should come right in the end, Jo! You and Ellen, and me and
Minnie!"

He trembled, and burying his face in his hands, thought of the happy
night when the Old Sailor traced Joshua's course on the map, and when
Minnie's arm was round his neck and her cheek had touched his. How
many times had he thought of those few blissful moments, and what balm
and comfort had the memory brought him!




CHAPTER XIX.
SUNSHINE AND CLOUD.


"George," said Mrs. Marvel to her husband one night, when they were
alone in their room, "what has come over Mr. Kindred? He is quite
changed."

"I've noticed it too, mother," said Mr. Marvel, "but I haven't thought
of it much, because, to tell you the truth, I don't believe he is
quite right here"--touching his forehead.

Mrs. Marvel had not mentioned to any one--not even to her husband--how
Minnie had distressed her during Joshua's illness. The girl had not
asked her to keep silence upon the subject; indeed, no word had passed
between them about it; but Mrs. Marvel judged that it would be best
for Minnie's sake, and for Joshua's also, to let the matter rest.
Since the night when Mrs. Marvel had discovered Minnie lying asleep at
Joshua's door, the girl had given her no further cause for
displeasure. Mrs. Marvel's fears were dispelled; for Minnie showed
nothing more than a friendly interest in Joshua's recovery. But if the
good mother had been less openly observant of Minnie's every look and
action, her fears would have grown stronger. For after the interview
between Joshua and Minnie, when Joshua had thanked her and kissed her
her, Mrs. Marvel set herself the task of closely observing Minnie's
conduct towards Joshua. And Minnie discovered it, and so behaved
herself that Mrs. Marvel was thrown completely off her guard. Minnie
displayed a carelessness and an indifference concerning Joshua's
health, at which Mrs. Marvel at any other time would have been hurt;
but now she was silently grateful, in the belief that her fears were
groundless.

Joshua was better. With the exception of a scar upon his neck, where
the Lascar had stabbed him, he was as well and strong as ever he had
been. He had grown into a fine handsome man; and the affectionate
disposition which had characterized him as a boy seemed to have become
stronger with his strength. The affection that existed between him and
Dan was unchanged and unchangeable. He took as much delight in the
birds as ever he had done; and, notwithstanding that he and Dan were
men now, with deepened passions and stronger aspirations, their hearts
were as tender to each other as in the younger days of their
friendship, when they mingled their tears together over the death of
Golden Cloud.

Every thing was bright before them. Dan had not spoken to Minnie of
his love for her; but he was made happy by a gradual change in her
behavior towards him. She grew more and more affectionate, spoke
softly to him, looked kindly at him, and did not repulse the little
tender advances he dared to make to her now and then.

"When you are gone to sea, Jo," he said to Joshua in the course of a
conversation in which, in the fulness of his joy at Minnie's kindness,
he had unbosomed himself to his friend, "I shall speak to her, and
tell her I love her." He spoke very slowly, and his eyes were toward
the ground; it was so sacred a subject with him, that his voice
trembled when he spoke of it. "Once on a time, before I knew her, Jo,
you, and you alone, filled my heart; but I had no idea then of a man's
passions and a man's fears. I think I should have disbelieved any
person then who told me that you would have a rival in my heart. But
you have, Jo; although you are not less loved for all that."

"I understand you, Dan, and am content. I am proud of your love. If I
were to lose it, the sweetness would go out of life."

"So it would be with me, Jo; but you can never lose it--never, never.
I think you and I know what love is. In the midst of all our trouble
when you first went away--trouble that came upon us so suddenly that I
began to be frightened of it--I found consolation in thinking of our
love for each other. Misfortunes came. Never mind, I thought; Joshua
loves me. Mother died, father died; we were left penniless; and I
thought of you and was comforted. You had grown so in my heart--like
the roots of a tree, Jo--that if I had ceased to love you, my heart
would have ceased to beat. It is the same now; but Minnie is in my
heart side by side with you. I shall tell her, you know, by and by. By
and by," he repeated softly. "The thought of it is like heaven to me;
for I have begun to hope."

It was on that same afternoon that Ellen was sitting in her bedroom
looking at her face in the looking-glass. She was fair; and she knew
it, and was proud of it. But it was not vanity that caused her to sit,
with her chin upon her hands, looking into the glass. Of a very modest
type a womanhood was Ellen; not a heroine of the Joan-of-Arc order,
who, with all her false glitter about her, would have been a woman
after very few men's hearts. Ellen was of the quiet order of women, of
whom there are thousands growing up in happy English homes, thank
Heaven! and who are blessed and contented and happy, notwithstanding
their sisters' unwomanly cries about woman's rights. May English women
like Ellen, modest and constant and loving, increase and multiply with
every succeeding year! Ellen was thinking of herself a little, as she
looked into the glass, and of Joshua a great deal. He had not spoken
to her yet; but he would soon, she knew. And as she sat and saw her
pretty face looking at her, whose step but Joshua's should she hear
coming, up the stairs? He went into the adjoining room--Dan's room;
and she heard him moving about, and--yes; singing! Singing what? Why,
"Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses." The heroine's name in the song is Kate;
but Joshua sang,--


    "I said to Nell, my darling wife,
     In whom my whole life's bliss is,
     'What have you got for dinner, Nell?'
     'Why, bread-and-cheese and kisses!'"


He said to _Nell_, his darling wife! The happy tears ran down Ellen's
face; but they were soon dried; and Ellen kept very quiet, fearing
that Joshua might hear her move. But Joshua went down stairs singing;
and then Ellen smiled at herself in the glass, and peeped at herself
through her fingers; and it wasn't an ugly picture to look at, if any
one had been there to see.

It was all settled without a word passing between them. I don't
believe there ever was such another courtship. They were sitting in
Mrs. Marvel's kitchen only four of them--father, mother, Ellen, and
Joshua. It really looked like a conspiracy that no other person came
into the kitchen that night; but there they were, conspiracy or no
conspiracy. There was Mrs. Marvel, knitting a pair of stockings for
Joshua; not getting along very fast with them, it must be confessed:
for her spectacles required a great deal of rubbing. And there was Mr.
Marvel, smoking his pipe, throwing many a furtive look in the
direction of Joshua and Ellen, who were sitting next to each other,
happy and silent. There is no record of how long they sat thus without
speaking; but suddenly, although not abruptly, Joshua put his arm
round Ellen's waist, and drew her closer to him. It was only a look
that passed between them; and then Joshua kissed Ellen's lips, and she
laid her head upon his breast.

"Mother! father! look here!"

Mrs. Marvel rose, all of a tremble, and laid her hand upon Ellen's
head, and kissed the young lovers. But Mr. Marvel behaved quite
differently. He cast one quick satisfied look at the two youngsters;
and then turned from them, and continued smoking as if nothing unusual
had occurred.

"Well, father?" exclaimed Joshua, rather surprised at his father's
silence.

"Well, Josh!" replied Mr. Marvel.

"Do you see this?" asked Joshua, with his arm round Ellen's waist.

Ellen, blushing rosy red, looked shyly at Mr. Marvel; but he looked
stolidly at her in return.

"Yes; I see it, Josh," said Mr. Marvel, without any show of emotion.

"And what do you say to it?"

"What do I say to it, Josh?" replied Mr. Marvel with dignity. "Well, I
believe I'm your father; and, as such, I think you should ask me if I
was agreeable. I thought it proper to ask _my_ father, Josh. It isn't
because I'm a wood-turner"--

"No, no, father," interrupted Joshua; "I made a mistake. Ellen and I
thought"--

"Ellen and you thought," repeated Mr. Marvel.

"That if you were agreeable"--continued Joshua.

"That if I was agreeable," repeated Mr. Marvel.

"And if you would please to give your consent"--said Joshua, purposely
prolonging his preamble.

"And if I would be pleased to give my consent," repeated Mr. Marvel
with a slight chuckle of satisfaction.

"That as we love each other very much, we would like to get married."

"That's dutiful," said Mr. Marvel, laying down his pipe, oracularly.
"I'm only agreeable, Josh, because I am old, and because I am married.
As I said to mother the other night, when we was talking the matter
over--ah! you may stare; but we knew all about it long ago. Didn't we,
mother? Well, as I was saying to mother the other night, if I was a
young man, and mother wasn't in the way, I'd marry her myself and you
might go a-whistling. Shiver my timbers, my lass!" he cried, breaking
through the trammels of wood-turning, and becoming suddenly nautical,
"come and give me a kiss."

Which Ellen did; and so the little comedy ended happily. Joshua,
having a right now to sit with his arm round Ellen's waist, availed
himself of it, you may be sure. If Ellen went out of the room, he had
also a right to go and inquire where she was going; and this,
curiously enough, happened four or five times during the night. If any
thing could have added to the happiness of Mr. Marvel--except being
any thing but a wood-turner, which, at his age, was out of the
question--it was this proceeding of Joshua's. Every time Joshua
followed Ellen out of the room; Mr. Marvel looked at his wife with
pleasure beaming from his eyes.

"It puts me in mind of the time when I came a-courting you, mother,"
he said. "How the world spins round! It might have been last night
when you and me were saying good-by at the street-door."


Mrs. Marvel had not spoken to her husband without cause of the change
that had taken place in Basil Kindred. A very remarkable change had
indeed taken place in him. A mistrustful expression had settled itself
upon his face, accompanied by a keen hungry watchfulness of all that
occurred around him. He gave short answers, and was snappish and
morose. Yet not a look, not a word, not a gesture escape his notice.
He did not avoid his friends; he rather courted their society. He
repelled their advances, but he sat among them, watching. Every sense
was employed in that all-absorbing task. What was it that he was
trying to discover?

The change was so sudden. A few days ago he was as he had ever been
hitherto, frank and cheerful,--even gay sometimes. Now, all that was
gone. In place of frankness, mistrust; in place of cheerfulness,
gloom. Susan was the only one, with the exception of his daughter, to
whom he did not speak with a certain bitterness. His manner to all the
others was as though some sensitive chord in his nature had been
sorely wounded--as though all men were his foes--as though his faith
in what was good and noble in human nature had been violently
disturbed.

See him now. He and Minnie have been sitting together for hours. He
has been strangely stern and strangely tender to her in turns, but she
is used to his wayward moods. He has detained her by his side all the
morning, upon one and another idle pretext; and she, as if wishful to
please him, has humored him, and been wonderfully submissive and
obedient. But once she had fallen into a reverie--not a happy one--and
he had broken it by asking her in a harsh voice what she was dreaming
about. She replied only by a startled look, and resumed her work,
which had been lying idly in her lap. Repentant of his harshness, he
turned his head from her to hide the sudden spasm which passed into
his face.

"Are you ill?" she asked.

"No, dear child."

"In pain?"

"No, dear child."

Presently she put aside her work, and rose to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" he asked in a strangely anxious voice.

"To see Mrs. Marvel," was her answer.

"Sit you down," he cried sternly.

She hesitated and lingered by the door, beating the ground with her
foot irresolutely. Seeing that, he grasped her wrist firmly, and hurt
her without intending to do so. The muscles of her face quivered, but
not from the pain.

"O Minnie, my child!" he cried; then, releasing her, "have I hurt
you?"

"No," she answered in a hard voice. "Why do you not wish me to go to
Mrs. Marvel's house? You have forbidden me before."

"You trouble them too much."

"That is not your reason, father," she said in the same hard voice.
"You are hiding something from me."

"Are you not hiding something from me, Minnie?" he asked, looking
anxiously into her face.

"What should I hide from you?" she asked, in reply, coldly and
evasively. "I am not well, father. I can't stop in this room. I will
not go where you do not wish me."

He did not detain her, and she glided swiftly out of the room. He was
about to follow her, when a dizziness came upon him, and he sank into
a chair. It was only by a strong effort of will that he kept himself
from fainting.

"My strength is deserting me," he muttered, his breath coming thick
and fast; "scarcely a day passes but this weakness comes upon me." He
held up his hand; it trembled like a leaf. "Have I failed in my duty
to her? Is it my fault that she does not confide in me? Or is this a
wicked lie?" He took a letter from his pocket and read it, not once,
but many times. "No," he groaned; "it is true. I feel that it is
true." He rose to his feet and felt like one just risen from a sick
bed. He was as weak as a child; so weak, indeed, that the
consciousness of his weakness brought tears into his eyes; and he said
in a voice of anguish, "Now, when my child's happiness--her honor,
perhaps--depends upon my watchful care, I am helpless. If I had some
one that I could trust some one to help me!" He heard a step upon the
stairs. It was like an answer to his wish. "It is Susan," he muttered;
"the one being that I know in the world who would serve me faithfully,
Susan, Susan!"

She heard him, although his voice was faint and low, and entered the
room. Alarmed by the traces of illness in his face, she hastened to
his side.

"You are ill," she said, assisting him to a seat. "Can I do any thing
for you?"

"Yes," he answered. "You can do much. You can be my friend."

"Your friend!" she exclaimed. Had she not always been his friend? But
there was a deeper meaning in his voice than she had ever heard
before, and his appeal sent thrills of pleasure to her heart.

"I am ill," he continued; "but it is more from weakness than any thing
else. I am not in pain. A dizziness seizes me, as it seized me just
now, and I feel as if my senses were leaving me. I can scarcely stand;
and I have no one to trust to."

"Not Minnie?" she said softly and wonderingly.

"Hush! Minnie, of all others, must not be told of this. Can I trust
you?"

"I would work till I dropped to serve you."

A flush came into his face.

"To serve me and Minnie?" he said.

"Yes; to serve you and Minnie."

"Give me your sacred promise that what passes between us now will
never be divulged, will never be spoken of, by you, unless my tongue
is sealed, and the time comes when it may be necessary to speak."

"Does it concern you?" she asked with a natural hesitation; for there
was a feverishness in his manner that alarmed her.

"It concerns me and Minnie."

"I promise."

"Faithfully and sacredly?"

"Faithfully and sacredly."

He took her hand and pressed it, and then gave her the letter, and
asked her to read it. It contained but a few words, but they were
sufficient to cause a look of horror to start into her eyes.

"Can it be true?" she asked, more of herself than of him and her
trembling lips turned white and parched in an instant.

"Susan," said Basil Kindred, "I have lived long enough in the world to
know its falseness. In years gone by, men have smiled in my face and
shaken me by the hand, and I have learned afterwards, that while their
manner spoke me fair, there was treachery in their hearts. My life has
been a hard one, what with false friends and bitter poverty; but I
bore it all patiently, and lived--lived, when a hundred times voices
have whispered in my ear, 'Die, and be at peace!' I had an object to
live for--Minnie, my darling child! So I lived and suffered, rather
than die and leave her unprotected. It was a bitter, bitter life. You
can guess how hard a thing it was for me to find food for her, and how
often she had to go without it, before the day when you and that
boy--I cannot utter his name--came to our rescue. From that time until
this dark cloud"--he placed his hand on the letter--"fell upon me, I
have been happy. And now, when I need all my strength to fulfil my
duty as a father--when it seems to me a crime that I should allow her
to go from my side--this weakness strikes me down."

"Does she know?"

"She knows and must know, nothing. But she must be watched. If there
be no truth in this letter--and there may not be"--

"I pray not! Oh, I pray not!" cried Susan. "For others' sakes as well
as yours."

"I understand you; if there be no truth in it, no one need know of it
but you and I."

"What shall I do?"

"Watch her and him, without seeming to do so," said Basil Kindred. "If
she goes out, follow her if you can without letting her see you and
let me know all you see and hear. Mind, I say _all_; keep nothing from
me. You have promised sacredly."

"I will do what you bid me."

He raised her hand to his lips, and in the midst of her great sorrow
his action brought a happy feeling to her heart. When she was gone,
Basil Kindred unlocked a desk and took out a clasped book, in which he
wrote a few lines. "It is necessary," he sighed, "for my memory is
lost to me sometimes, and I cannot recall events; and it may save me
from doing an injustice." Then he replaced the book and locked the
desk.


That night, in her room, Susan sat upon her bed and bowed her head to
her knees, sobbing, "O my poor Dan! O my poor, poor Ellen! if; after
all these years, you should find him false!"




CHAPTER XX.
THE ONLY DUTY THAT MINNIE CAN UNDERSTAND.


The "Merry Andrew" was nearly ready for sea again, and Joshua, having
been duly installed as third mate, was busily employed superintending
cargo. The Old Sailor was immensely delighted, and took an active
interest in Joshua's doings. When he was told of the engagement
between Joshua and Ellen, he smacked Joshua on the back and shook his
hand again and again, and kissed Ellen a dozen times, the old rogue!
as if he were the lucky man, and Joshua had nothing to do with it. He
took a private opportunity of entering into a confidential
conversation with the young lovers, and told them he had made over his
barge and all his little property to Ellen and Joshua jointly, "for
better or worse," he added, with a vague idea that those words were
necessary in the circumstances of the case. And he took many other
opportunities of instructing Joshua in the duties of mate and master,
and also in navigation and astronomy. He was more exacting than any
Marine Board would have been, and his instructions and examinations
were of a very severe and precise character. But he had a willing and
apt pupil in Joshua; and he delighted Ellen by whispering to her
confidentially that Joshua would make as fine a mariner as could be
found in the service. The examinations generally took place when only
the Old Sailor, Joshua, and Ellen were together; and then Joshua
propounded, to the satisfaction of his teacher, such problems as,
how he would send a top-gallant yard down in a gale of wind; what he
would do if he wanted to shiver his main-topsail yard when the leeches
were taut and the main yard could not be touched: how to turn in a
dead-eye; what he would do if he wanted to tack on a lee shore, and
the ship wouldn't come round, and there was not room to wear; and so
on, and so on. The Old Sailor was not satisfied with simple answers,
but insisted upon the why and the wherefore; so that what with working
and studying and sweethearting, Joshua's time was well taken up. Ellen
herself became quite learned in certain matters concerning Joshua's
profession, and made him laugh heartily by the wise air she assumed
when she repeated the twelve signs of the Zodiac, which she had
learned by heart perfectly, from Aries to Pisces. Joshua, repeating
after her, would purposely leave out Gemini or Aquarius, or another
sign, and would instantly be taken to account. In this simple way many
happy hours were passed. The Old Sailor had a great liking for Captain
Liddle, because he was a thorough sailor, and Captain Liddle admired
the Old Sailor for the simplicity of his character.

"You are in luck's way," said the Old Sailor to Joshua: "you are
sailing under a good master--not a land saint and sea devil--but a
good officer and a kind man; and you have the dearest and the
truest-hearted lass in the world to stand by you through life. Do your
duty, Josh, to her and to your ship."

"I will do my duty to both, sir, you may depend."

The Old Sailor took out his pocket-handkerchief, and thoughtfully
dabbed his face. "I don't doubt that you will, my lad," he said, "and
to Dan as well." Now the Old Sailor uttered these last words with a
significance that seemed intended to convey a deep meaning. His action
was appropriately mysterious. He looked round cautiously, after the
best manner of stage robbers, and hooked Joshua nearer to him by a
motion of his forefinger. "Hark ye, my lad," he whispered, guiding the
words to Joshua's ear by placing his open palm on one side of his
mouth; "Hark ye. Do you suspect any thing?"

Joshua opened his eyes very wide at this; he had not the slightest
consciousness of the Old Sailor's meaning.

"You don't?" continued the Old Sailor in the same mysterious manner.
"So much the better. I didn't suppose you did. Now, supposing--mind, I
only say supposing, my lad--supposing you were asked to do a very
out-of-the-way thing for Dan's sake, but a thing notwithstanding that
you would be very glad to do"--this with a chuckle expressive of
intense enjoyment--"would you do it?"

"Would I do it, sir!" exclaimed Joshua warmly. "I don't think you or
any one could ask me to do a thing for Dan's sake, that I shouldn't be
glad to do."

"Just my opinion," said the Old Sailor, still in the same
charnel-house whisper; "and if Dan's happiness depended upon your
doing this out-of-the-way thing"--

"Why, then, sir, more eagerly and willingly than ever."

"That's plain sailing; it might come to pass, or it mightn't," said
the Old Sailor, returning his handkerchief to its abiding-place in the
bosom of his shirt, to denote that the conversation was at an end.

But this did not satisfy Joshua. "What might come to pass, sir?" he
asked.

The Old Sailor winked craftily at Joshua, and said, "All I've got to
say is, that it might come to pass or it mightn't."

And try as he would, that was all the satisfaction Joshua could obtain
from the Old Sailor.

In the mean time Basil Kindred's condition had become so serious, that
he was unable to leave his room, and he was unreasonably obstinate in
his refusal to see a doctor. He knew well enough what was the matter
with him, he said, and doctors could not relieve him. But one day,
urged by Dan, Minnie brought a doctor to his bedside without
consulting him.

"Your daughter brought me," said the doctor, seeing that Basil was
displeased, and wisely judging that mention of his daughter would calm
him.

Basil called Minnie to him and kissed her. "Go out of the room,
child," he said; "what passes between me and the doctor must be
private."

Minnie obeyed, and went down stairs to sit with Dan, and the doctor
remained with his patient for half an hour. As the doctor came down,
Minnie opened the door of Dan's room, and the doctor entered.

"Well, sir?" asked Dan.

"Your father is suffering from rheumatism and low fever," said the
doctor, addressing Minnie. "I have left a prescription in his room;
run and get it."

Minnie went up stairs, and the doctor said to Dan, "You are very
anxious about Mr. Kindred."

"Yes, sir, very anxious, both for his sake and for Minnie's."

"Minnie--ah! yes, his daughter. Well, I may tell you in confidence
what I must not tell her. He is suffering from something more than
rheumatic fever. He has a disease which may prove fatal at any moment.
A strong mental shock would very likely prove fatal to him. His mind
is far from tranquil at the present time, and it is absolutely
necessary that he should have quiet and repose. Good-morning."

Grieved as Dan was to hear this, it relieved him, for it enabled him
to account for the sudden change in Basil Kindred's manner which had
so perplexed him. It also served to account for a change he had
observed in Minnie. It was not that she was less friendly towards him;
on the contrary, she had on many occasions been more tender to him
than usual. But the frank cordiality of her manner was gone; she was
more reserved, and an engrossed expression, evidently born of painful
thought, had settled upon her face. Dan had watched it with the
sensitive eye of love, wondering what had brought it into her face.
Now he knew the cause: her father's illness brought gloomy forebodings
to her heart and made her anxious. "Does she ever think that I love
her?" thought Dan, "and that I am only waiting for the proper time to
tell her that my life is devoted to her?" He would have spoken that
very day, but a sentiment of true delicacy restrained him. The feeling
that closed his lips upon the subject for the present could not have
existed in any but a chivalrous nature.

When Joshua came home in the evening, Dan told him what the doctor had
said. Joshua was silent for a little while before he spoke. "It is
very singular," he then said, "that what you have told me should make
me easier in my mind. Both Minnie's and Mr. Kindred's manner lately
have given me great pain, filling me with uneasiness, which I have
vainly struggled against. It is made clear to me now."

"Why, that was also my feeling, Jo," exclaimed Dan almost gayly.
"Another proof of the sympathy between us."

"I shall go and see Mr. Kindred. I am ashamed of myself to have
allowed such small feelings to exist. I ought to have made more
allowance for his sufferings." His hand was resting upon Dan's
shoulder. He inclined himself so that he could see the face of his
friend. "And Minnie?" he asked in that attitude. "How is it with you
and her?"

"I am more hopeful than ever, Jo; but it would not be right for me to
speak to her in her trouble."

"That is like you, Dan," said Joshua approvingly. "Ever tender--ever
considerate--ever just. No; you must not speak until Mr. Kindred is
better. You must wait."

Dan nodded assent, and Joshua went up stairs to Basil Kindred's room.
He paused at the door and listened. No sound came from within, and he
received no answer to his knock. He opened the door softly. The room
was in darkness.

"Who is there?" was asked in the abstracted voice of one just aroused
from sleep.

"It is I--Joshua. Shall I get a light?"

"No;" with a sudden fierceness. "What brings you here?"

The want of friendliness in Basil Kindred's voice was very painful to
Joshua, and it was only by a great effort that he was enabled to
maintain his composure. "What is the meaning of this, sir?" he asked,
very gently.

"Of what?"

"Of your changed manner towards me, sir. And not to me only, but to
all of us. Have we done any thing wrong--have _I_ done any thing
wrong? If I have, it has been done unconsciously, and it is but just
that you should not leave me in ignorance of my fault. I came up to
you now, sir, to ask that we should be to each other as we once
were--as we were before I went to sea--as we were on the first day of
our meeting, when you said, 'God bless you, Joshua Marvel.' I have
never forgotten that, sir. I do not speak to you for myself alone; I
speak for all of us, who hold you, I am sure, in the tenderest
respect and regard." Joshua spoke feelingly, and his words had the
effect of softening Mr. Kindred's manner.

"You are right," he said softly and very "it is not just. Sit here by
my side." Joshua sat where he was bidden, and waited for Mr. Kindred
to resume. "Distemper of the mind accompanies distemper of the body,"
continued the sick man "and you must lay some part of my
unfriendliness to that cause. I am sick in body, and therefore
peevish, and therefore, perhaps, unjust. Sick men have sick fancies.
They magnify straws, even as, lying here in the dark, I can by the
power of my will, magnify the shadows that rest within this room and
make them 'palpable to feeling as to sight.' Joshua Marvel, I owe you
much; you saved me and mine from starvation. I am glad that you are
here now, and that you met my fretfulness with patience; for there is
that within my mind, not newly born, but newly risen that I would
gladly not forget again. All the happiness of the last few years I owe
to you, for it was for your sake we were welcomed here."

"The pleasure your society has given to all those dearest to my heart,
sir, is recompense a thousand-fold."

"Those dearest to your heart!" repeated Basil Kindred musingly. "Who
are they?"

"You ought to know, sir," replied Joshua, surprised at the question.

"It is but a whim--a sick man's whim--but tell me: of all those
dearest to your heart, whom would you place first? Do not hesitate to
answer me. We are in the dark, and I cannot see your face."

"In the dark or in the light, before all the world, if it were
necessary, I could name but one, whom you know well."

"Still, to satisfy me name her."

"Ellen, sir. You know that she is to be my wife."

"I have heard so. Take my hand. I wish you the happiness that faithful
love deserves. No worldly happiness can be greater. It makes a heaven
of earth, in whatever sphere of life it comes. And if, as it was with
me, the partner of your faithful love is called away before you, the
remembrance of her goodness and purity will dwell forever in your
heart, like a divine star." His voice had grown so solemn, that Joshua
could only press his hand in reply. Presently Basil Kindred spoke
again. "Your past life should be a guarantee for the future. You have
been faithful in your friendship; you should be faithful in your
love."

"You do not doubt it, sir?"

"I cannot doubt it; your conduct gives doubt the lie. The shadows seem
to be clearing away. I have much to say yet, if you will sit with me a
little while."

"I am glad to do so, and happy to hear you speaking to me again in
your old kind manner."

"It is so hard to reconcile," mused Basil speaking as much to himself
as to Joshua. "From whom can the accusation have come? And the
motive--what can be the motive? Joshua, answer me--have you an enemy?"

"No, sir, not one that I know of."

"Reflect a little. Can you bring to mind any circumstance that
occurred during the years that you have been away to induce you to
suppose that some one is conspiring to do you injury?"

"I am more than surprised at your question, sir; I am grieved that you
should ask it, and apparently with reason. To my knowledge I have not
a bad friend in the world."

"Your surprise is natural," said Basil; "but though you may think my
remarks strange, do not think they are prompted by unkindness. I have
good reasons for what I say. I hold this conversation sacred, Joshua.
As it may be the last we shall ever have, let what is said between us
be said in perfect confidence."

"Agreed as to that, sir; but you must not say that this is the last
conversation we shall ever have."

"When do you go to sea again?" asked Basil Kindred, taking no heed of
Joshua's remonstrance.

"In less than a fortnight. We set sail first for Sydney, New South
Wales, then for China, then for home. A short trip. We shall not be
away long this time."

"Before you return, I shall have gone on a longer voyage than
you are about to take. Nay, do not interrupt me. I have received
warning--bodily, not spiritual, and therefore not open to doubt. It is
impossible that I can live much longer. And with this conviction
strong within me, I am tortured by an anxiety that racks me with a
mightier pain than that which even as I speak pierces me to the
marrow."

Joshua was profoundly shocked at the disclosure; he had not thought it
was so bad as that. Instinctively he knew what the anxiety was by
which Basil was tortured, and Basil answered his thought.

"You guess what my anxiety springs from. What will become of Minnie
when I am gone?"

If he had seen! If in that darkened room a vision had appeared to
answer him, could he have believed that it would come to pass? But
silence was his only answer for a time; for Joshua was revolving in
his mind whether it would be wise and merciful--whether he had any
right to speak to Basil Kindred about Dan's love for Minnie. The
conversation between them was sacred and confidential, and the sick
man's tone when he spoke of the bodily warnings he had received was so
impressive, that it carried conviction with it. It would be like
speaking to a dying man, and it would be serving his friend.

"That is my great anxiety," continued Basil; "were my mind relieved
upon that point, I should fear nothing, for death is my smallest
terror. I suffer deserved misery when I say that even I, her father,
do not know her nature thoroughly, and that I fear to think to what
extent her impulse might carry her. But I know that she needs
guidance, and that she cannot control herself. I have taught her ill,
or rather have not taught her at all. I have been remiss in my
fatherly duty--not intentionally, God knows! But I see it now--I see
it now." Even in the dark he turned his face from Joshua, the more
completely to hide his tribulation. "There is but one duty she can
understand--the duty of love. She knows no higher. She comprehends
that, because it is instinctive. She has her mother's devoted nature,
and would sacrifice herself for the only duty she can comprehend, as
her mother sacrificed herself for me. But she could not be made to
understand that under certain circumstances love may be sinful."

Joshua, following his train of thought, heard Basil's words, but
scarcely understood their sense. Still he said,--

"She loves you, sir."

"Yes, she loves me as a father, and by that love I have unconsciously
controlled her. But that power has gone from me. Our minds are
strangers; they used not to be so. Once she hid nothing from me; now
as I watch her I see in her eyes the attempt to hide her thoughts, and
I cannot express to you my agony in knowing that her heart and mind
are not open to me, as they have hitherto been. If I knew--if I only
knew, I should be satisfied; for then I might protect her. Sometimes I
think that another kind of love has come to her, and has shadowed the
love she bore for me. But for whom? Do you know?"

He asked the question in a singular tone of fierceness and entreaty;
but Joshua was thinking of Dan, and did not reply. Have I the right to
speak? he thought; and an affirmative answer did not come clearly to
his mind.

"You are silent," continued Basil in a quieter tone. "Are you
concealing any thing from me?"

"What should I conceal from you, sir?" asked Joshua in reply, after a
pause.

Basil Kindred sighed, as the words so hesitatingly spoken came from
Joshua's lips.

"Young men are often thoughtless in their actions," he said mildly, as
if wishful to rob the remark of direct significance; "they do not know
the depth and earnestness of some womanly natures. Listen, I will tell
you my story; it may be a lesson and a warning to you."




CHAPTER XXI.
LOVES SACRIFICE.


When I was a young man, I was an enthusiast. My mother had died when I
was a child. My father was a clergyman, and wished to educate me for
the church. But my heart was not in my studies, and I did not satisfy
his expectations. I was too fond of poetry and plays, my tutors told
him; sterner studies were distasteful to me, and they met with nothing
but disappointment from so unwilling a pupil. I was also difficult to
control; would indeed submit to no control. On several occasions when
a company of players came to the place in which I was being educated,
I had stolen away to the theatre, remaining there until nearly
midnight. My tutors spoke the truth. From the first night that I
stepped inside the walls of a theatre and saw a tragedy, my fate was
fixed. I was fascinated, entranced. I had never conceived any thing so
grand, so noble, so heroic. Mine was a pure passion; glitter possibly
had its effect upon my mind, but no base ingredient was mixed with my
determination to become an actor. What nobler calling could there be
than that which clothed the noblest of all the arts with living fire,
which made dead heroes speak and move and live again? My father
received the report with displeasure. He looked upon a theatre as the
abode of all the vices. He spoke to me and expostulated with me, and I
argued with him until I angered him. Then he took me from school, and
kept me at home, so that he might wean me from my wicked notions. I
had not been home a month before a company of players paid our town a
visit. I was aglow with excitement. My father warned me not to go; I
told him frankly that I would. He locked me in my bedroom; and I made
a rope of the sheets, and let myself out of the window. I came home
late, and my father opened the door for me. He was so strict a
disciplinarian, that my disobedience was a crime in his eyes. He told
me so sternly, and told me also that unless I complied with the rules
of his house, and with his commands as a father, I must find a home
elsewhere. He had other children, and he declared that I should not
contaminate them by my example. When I ventured to expostulate with
him, he stopped me peremptorily. There was no sign of tenderness in
his manner. He was harsh and hard. He forgot that I inherited some
share of his own determination, and that I was as likely to be
immovable in my ideas as he was in his. I felt that I could have
answered him by arguments as forcible as his, and, with the not
uncommon egotism of youth, I believed that I could have convinced him.
But he would not listen to me, and I was compelled to sit silent and
inwardly rebellious while he laid down the hard rules by which my life
was to be guided. The glittering splendor of the play I had witnessed
that night was vivid to my mind while his cold words fell upon my
ears. The tragedian upon whose musical impassioned utterances I had
hung entranced, was one of the greatest that ever trod the stage; the
play I had seen was one of the grandest of England's grandest poet.
What! was it a crime to come within the influence of such a teacher? I
could not believe it; I would not believe it. My father said my
inclinations were sinful, impious, misbegotten, and preached to me
sternly, uncompromisingly, until my heart--beating with indignation at
his injustice--was as hard to him as his was to me. Then he left the
room with a cold goodnight, and I went to bed. But before I went to
sleep, I took from my box the volume of Shakspeare containing the play
that I had seen, and as I read the noble verse, the men and women who
took part therein came and inspired me with the nobility of their
speech.

On the ensuing Sabbath my father preached against play-houses and
players. It is not necessary for me here to dilate upon his arguments;
they were the common arguments generally used against actors and their
abominations. Players were creatures of the devil, working in his
service for the damnation of souls. There was no heaven for them; by
their lives they earned damnation, and they received their wages in
another life. It was a strong sermon--"a beautiful sermon," as I heard
many men and women say to each other as they walked from the place of
worship; but it filled me with indignation. It was a challenge thrown
out to me, and I accepted it. I do not attempt to justify what I did;
but it seemed to me as if I should be false to myself if I did not do
it. On the following evening I went to the theatre early, and secured
a seat in the most conspicuous position, and sitting there the whole
night through, I applauded with more than my usual enthusiasm, and
even--perhaps I should be ashamed to say it--with purposed
demonstrativeness. It was like giving the lie to my father's teaching;
but I did not think of it then in that light. I was bound in honor to
a certain course of action, and I pursued it. When the play was over,
I walked about the town for an hour, filled with fervent passionate
admiration for what I had witnessed. It was past midnight when I
knocked at my father's door. No answer came. I knocked again. Still no
answer. I was standing in perplexity as to what I should do, when a
piece of paper fluttered on to the pavement from a window above. I
picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to me. It was in my
father's handwriting, and it told me in a few simple words that, as I
had chosen to commit a sinful outrage upon his cloth, and upon his
sermon of the previous day, he disowned me as a son and cast me off. A
postscript was added, to the effect that, upon my calling at or
sending to a certain place every week, I could receive a small sum of
money sufficient to keep me from want, but that if I adopted the stage
as a calling, the money would be withheld. In the event of my adopting
the stage, my father asked me as a favor to change my name. I never
received a farthing of the money; I would have died rather than have
taken it. I started that night from my native town, and I have never
seen one of my family since.

I need not dwell upon the details of the next few years. The
recollection is too painful to me. When I walked away from my father's
house, I solemnly resolved never to set foot in it again; I renounced
all claims of kindred, and said to myself proudly and confidently, "I
am alone in the world, without friends, without family. I am free to
adopt what course in life I think best. I will show my father, by my
career, that I am right, and he is wrong." I changed my name to the
name by which you know me. Speaking to you as I am speaking now, with
the solemn darkness around us, with something like a sense of death
upon me, I cannot hide from you any thing that comes to my
recollection. The simple reason for my changing my name was, that it
laid my father under an obligation to me. The motive was unworthy; but
it is hard to reconcile the lofty aspirations and the despicable
sentiment that in the same moment may animate a single mind. Well, I
marched into the world friendless and unknown, filled with an arrogant
courage, almost with defiance. I had a watch and a little money; I
sold my watch to increase my wealth, and before I had spent my last
shilling, I gained admission to a company of players, and commenced
life as an actor. I had seen these actors on the stage, and had been
inspired by them; but my amazement was great when their private lives
were open to me. The men and women who had inspired me were poor
struggling creatures, living almost begging lives, and suffering
almost incredible hardships. The salaries they were supposed to
receive were barely sufficient to pay for food and lodging; but the
money that was taken at the doors of the theatre was often of such
trifling amount, that at the end of the week the players were
compelled to be content with half, ay, with a fourth the sum due to
them. They all shared alike; there was none among them who took the
lion's share while the others starved. The leading tragedian received
a guinea a week, and was thankful when he got it. I have seen him play
Macbeth, knowing that he had not tasted food since breakfast; and have
seen him come off the stage at the end of the play and faint, not from
enthusiasm and excitement, but from sheer hunger. From this you can
form some idea of my sufferings; but I never wavered. I was
indomitable in my resolve. Disenchanted as I was to some extent, I saw
fame and glory before me, and I followed the beckoning shadows that
lured me on. And then I saw so much to admire in the lives of my
poor companions--so much self-sacrifice, so much devotion, so much
virtue--that I was proud to suffer with them. "Children of the devil,"
I had heard my father call them. A strong resentment against him
possessed me when I became a witness of their privations patiently
borne, of their self-sacrifices cheerfully made. All this
while--though I endured hunger and every species of worldly misery;
though I had to walk, many and many a time, forty, fifty, and sixty
miles, through wet and mud, in boots and shoes that scarcely held
together; though I often slept in the open air, by the side of
hay-stacks and under hedges--all this while I was advancing in my
profession, and enthusiastically believed that the day would come when
I should be famous and prosperous. So I grew to be a man, more firmly
hoping, more firmly believing. I was what is called leading man; I was
at the head of my profession, and was only waiting for the tide--being
prepared for it--that was to lead me to fame and fortune. But young as
I was, the life I had led had already destroyed my constitution.
Rheumatism had planted itself firmly in my bones, and want of
nourishing food had so weakened me, that I felt like an old man. It
was only the fire of enthusiasm that sustained me. I believed myself
to be what I represented at night; I lost all consciousness of my poor
self while I was acting; and would often come from the theatre with
the dream strong upon me, and in my sleep weave fancies sufficiently
bright and beautiful to recompense me for the material hardships of my
working life.

I was at the height of my powers, when it was both my happiness and my
misery to come to a town where we had arranged to stop for a
fortnight, and where I gained such honors in the shape of applause as
had never before fallen to my lot. It was a prosperous town, and our
two weeks' stay was so remunerative, that we thought it advisable to
lengthen our visit. We staid for six weeks--for six happy weeks. The
place rang with my praises. I was a wonder, a genius; such acting had
never been seen. Throughout the whole of my career I had preserved my
self-respect; what I suffered, I suffered in silence. I complained to
no one, and I never forgot my determination to prove, what perhaps my
father might one day be forced to own, that an actor may be as good a
man as a clergyman. Being therefore, in my habits of life, somewhat
above my companions, and having been so successful in the town, I was
courted by some of the towns-people, and received invitations to their
houses. I was what is termed, I believe, a social success; and I was
proud of it. Here was I, an actor, moving in as good society as was my
father, a clergyman. Who was right now, he or I. During the second
week of our stay, I was invited to an evening party; and as my part in
the performance for that night would be finished by nine o'clock, I
was enabled to accept the invitation. Fatal night--happy night! That
night was the real commencement of my life; it shaped my career in
this world, and it makes me look forward with joy unspeakable to the
world beyond, where I shall rejoin the mother of my darling child. Her
family were well born, ad occupied a high position in the town. They
were looked upon as leaders of fashion; and I learned that night that
they were among the principal patrons of the theatre, and that her
father had passed the highest encomiums upon me. They were not present
at the party, and their daughter was accompanied by her aunt, an
eccentric wealthy lady, with whom she resided during the greater part
of the year. I had the good fortune to find favor in the eyes of this
lady, who had a passion for celebrities, and she invited me to her
house. The invitation arose in this way; she had been to the theatre
on the previous evening, and a gentleman in her company had taken
exception to one of my readings. She mentioned it to me, telling me
that she had insisted that I was right, and at the same time confessed
to me, that she had not the slightest idea upon the subject, and had
been prompted to side with me only for the reason that the gentleman
was the most insufferably-conceited person on the face of the earth.

"He is not satisfied unless he is master in every thing," said the old
lady with wonderful warmth; "he is dictatorial, self-willed,
ungenerous, and supercilious--so much so, that he will scarcely
condescend to argue a point upon which he has expressed an opinion.
Nothing would please me more than to be able to bring evidence against
him respecting your reading."

It so happened that my reading was the correct one, and that the
emendation made by the gentleman was unsupported by authority. I told
her so, and she was delighted.

"But it will be of no use my telling him what you say," she said;
"and it would not be proper to bring you together for the purpose of
quarrelling about it."

Then I suggested a way. I would consult two or three old editions of
Shakspeare we had in the company, and have fair copies of the passage
made from them, with any notes or annotations that might be attached
to it. There was no occasion, I said, to let the gentleman know that I
supplied the evidence; it would be sufficient for him to see the
quotations and the authorities, and he would be able to test their
correctness for himself. She thanked me warmly, and I frankly owned to
her that I was almost as much interested in the matter as she was
herself.

"Ah! you are a student," she said, tapping me with her fan, "and are
not actuated by such small motives as I am."

I told her that it had been my nature, ever since I remembered myself,
to be in earnest in what I did. Success could not be attained without
earnestness, I said; and such a spirit was not thrown away even when
exhibited in the smallest matters. The old lady was pleased with my
conversation, and asked me to bring the written quotations to her
house the following day. She then introduced me to her niece.

Bear with me for a little while. When I commenced, I intended to be
more brief but I have been carried away by a tide of memories. These
things that I have spoken of have dwelt in my mind, but mention of
them has not passed my tongue; not even my daughter has ever heard
from me the story of my life. All the memories that are dearest to me
are stirred into life by my speech; and in the midst of the darkness
in this room, where nothing human exists but ourselves, I see my wife
as I saw her that night for the first time--as I shall see her soon in
a better land.

Good and evil, consciously wrought, are not of this world alone; mind
you that, Joshua Marvel. They bear their fruit hereafter. In what way
or in what shape we do not know--but they bear their fruit. I never
loved but one woman in my life, and never was false to her, even in
thought. I never harbored an unworthy sentiment towards her. I loved
her truly, purely, solely, as she loved me. If I had done her wrong,
and, loving her, had played false with another by a single act, by a
single word of encouragement, even if it were weakly given in a moment
of weakness, I could not look into this darkness as I do now without
fear and shuddering.


(What was it that passed into the room? The deep darkness that
prevailed, no less than the intense interest with which Joshua
followed the course of Basil's story, prevented him from seeing. Yet
it was no less certain that the door was gently opened, and that a
person with noiseless footfall entered the room, and, wrapped in
shade, stood silent in listening attitude.)


She loved me, and sacrificed herself for me. Loving me, she conceived
it to be her duty to follow me; she forsook friends and family, and
imperilled her good name for me; and in this solemn moment, when all
the dearest memories of my life give life to my words, life to my
thoughts, I bless her for it! Her devotion, unworldly as it was, was
sanctified by love. There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not
sanctify!


(A sound, half sigh, half sob, floated on the air, but so light that
Joshua doubted if he had heard it. It reached Basil's ears. Rising in
bed, he clutched Joshua by the shoulder, and whispered in trembling
tones, "Can spirits speak, and make themselves heard? Did you hear any
thing?"

"Something like a sigh, I thought," said Joshua; "and yet it is not
possible."

Rising, he walked to the door; but whoever it was that had entered so
noiselessly had so departed.

"There is no one here; it must have been fancy."

Basil sank down in the bed, exhausted by emotion, and it was long
before he resumed his story. During the silence, Joshua thought of
Ellen, and was happy. Such love as Basil Kindred had spoken of, Ellen
had given to him. "But she will not have to sacrifice herself for me,"
he thought; "hers and mine will be a happier lot, I hope." Yet Basil's
life was grand and noble. "Like a great storm at sea," thought Joshua,
"and two small boats, lashed together, contending against it vainly."
His thoughts were interrupted by Basil's voice.)


I need not describe her. Minnie is like her; but she was more
beautiful even than Minnie. I went to the aunt's house, and was a
frequent visitor there. Alice and I loved each other from the first.
How I won her pure heart, I do not know. I will not say I was unworthy
of her; for I was animated by a true ambition, and I was earnest and
conscientious in all I did. I did not deceive her; I told her exactly
what I was, what I had suffered, and what I hoped to gain. She paid no
heed to worldly matters; she loved me, and that was enough. She
sympathized with me in my ambition, and said it was a noble one. Her
words were like wine to me; they strengthened and encouraged me.
During the last week of our contemplated stay in the town I was
stricken down by rheumatic fever, and was confined to my bed for
nearly two months. The other members of the dramatic company waited
for me for a few days, hoping I would get well; but I grew worse, and
they were too poor to remain idle; so they left without me, and I was
alone in the place.

I was delirious for a long time, and knew no one about me. How well I
remember the day when consciousness returned! I opened my eyes,
wondering where I was, and what had occurred yesterday to cause me to
feel so deliciously weak; but I could not understand it, and I lay
contented and happy, as if newly born into a world of peace and
blissful repose. But as I lay--it might have been for a few moments or
a few hours--a soft murmur of voices fell on my ear. I did not turn
immediately in the direction of the sound; I was content to lie and
listen to the murmur, and had no desire to analyze it--it so
harmonized with my condition--there was such a sense of luxurious ease
in it: it was like the soft lapping of the sea upon a shore of velvet
sand! But with returning consciousness, my mind was gradually aroused
into activity; and in the whispering of voices, a familiar note,
sweeter and more musical than the rest, came to me. Lazily I turned my
head, and saw my darling Alice. Our eyes met, and it was like a flash
of light. I understood in that instant that she had been my
ministering angel during my sickness. A look of pity and love was in
her eyes as I turned to her, and she glided to my side and took my
hand in hers.

"Alice darling!" I whispered. My voice was tremulous as a blade of
grass in the summer air.

"Dear Basil!" she said in reply.

No heavenly happiness can be greater than that which entered my
grateful heart at that moment. All sense of sight and touch and
hearing--all heart and soul and mind--were merged in the exquisite
belief that inwrapped me then--in the faith that constituted itself a
part of me, inseparable, indissoluble, that is mine through all
time--that she and I were one for ever and ever!

She sat with me until my landlady warned her that it was time to go.
When she was gone, I learned that not a day had passed since my
sickness that she had not come to see me.

"Alone?" I asked.

"Yes, alone," my landlady said, adding that she had not spoken to any
one of the young lady's visits, as they might have been misconstrued.

The significant tone in which she said this caused me to reflect that
Alice's visits, if discovered, would expose her to the world's
censure, and I begged my landlady to preserve silence upon the
subject.

I will not linger upon this part of my story. Alice's visits were
discovered; and one day, when I was nearly well, and when I was
sitting by the window waiting for her beloved presence, I received a
visit from her aunt.

I saw the unpleasant news in her face directly she entered the room.
She commenced by saying she was glad to see I was nearly well, and
that she trusted I would not take advantage of a young girl's
indiscretion.

"It was by the merest accident I discovered that my niece has been in
the habit of coming to see you every day," said the old lady; "and she
has been very rash and indiscreet; you must see that, I'm sure."

I did not see it, and I told her so.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the old lady; "you are a man, and you know the
ways of the world and its judgment. As a man of honor, you must not
encourage my niece in her folly."

"Is it a folly to love?" I asked.

But the old lady would not listen to argument, and she demanded my
promise that I would not see my darling again.

Firmly I refused to give it, unless Alice asked me to do so. We were
pledged to each other, I said, and it was out of my power to break the
engagement, unless; Alice wished it broken.

The old lady was terrified by my firmness; and when she asked me what
I meant to do, and I told her that I meant to marry her niece, she
exclaimed aghast,--

"Marry her! and you an actor!"

"Yes; and I an actor," I answered proudly.

She kept with me for more than an hour, begging and entreating; but
she could not move me. I was contending for what was dearer to me than
life, and an old woman's worldly arguments could not make me false to
myself and to my love. She tempted me too--offered me money to leave
the town. After that, I was silent; I would speak to her no more upon
the subject. When she had exhausted herself, and rose to go, I opened
the door for her; and before she went out, I thanked her for her
hospitality to me, and expressed my regret that I should have been the
means of causing her pain. She made no reply; but I fancied I saw a
pitying expression on her face as she passed out.

I was overwhelmed by despair, and might have been guilty of I don't
know what extravagance, had not my darling foreseen my misery, and
provided against it. Within an hour of the departure of Alice's aunt,
a note was given to me by my landlady. It was from my darling herself.
She knew her aunt's errand; she knew that I was true to her; and she
told me not to lose heart, for she was mine, and mine only, and would
be true to me till death. Truly, those words were like oil upon the
troubled waters; my mind was instantly composed, and a deep peace and
joy fell upon me. The last words of her little note were to the effect
that she would find means to write to me again soon; and she begged me
not to go away until she saw me.

So I waited, and grew strong; and time passed, until there came an
evening when we met--met never to part again. It was a solemn meeting;
there was no hesitation on one side, or entreaty on the other. We
walked up and down in the rear of a wood-side inn; and my landlady,
whom I had asked to accompany me, stood a little distance from us. My
darling told me that her family were about to take her to the
Continent, and that she saw no way of resisting. "There is one," I
said. And as I said this, I stood by the side of an old elm, and she
stood with drooping head before me. "There is one. We are pledged to
each other till death. If I parted from you now in the belief that we
should not meet again, I would pray to God to end my life here where I
stand."

"Tell me what I shall do," she answered, "and I will do it."

"Follow me," I said. "Share my life, hard though it may be. Be mine,
as I am yours. Let us walk together till death, and after it."

She placed her hand in mine, and answered me in the words of Ruth, and
I folded her to my breast, and kissed her.

So, accompanied by my landlady, we turned our backs to the town where
we first met, and the next day we were married.

Ali, how happy we were, and how our lives seemed spread before us like
a bright holiday, which was to be spent in a land where the air was
always sweet--where the flowers were always blooming! No thought of
winter; but it came, with its frost and snow, and racked me with a
renewal of the old pains. I could have borne them cheerfully, if they
had not sometimes prevented me from working. We fell into poverty; and
through all its bitterness she never complained, and never gave me one
word of reproach. Nay, often and often, when she saw that my
sufferings were increased by the thought that I had asked her to share
my poor life, she comforted me and cheered me with tender speech, that
fell like balm upon my soul. I struggled on in my profession, gaining
applause always, but never seeming to mount a step nearer to the goal
where fame and fortune stood beckoning me. My wife had written to her
family without my knowledge; but not one of them replied except her
good aunt, who sent her a small sum of money. When Minnie was born she
wrote again, but the old lady was dead. Still, somehow we managed: our
wants were small, and our happiness was perfect. We had to travel
about a great deal; and when we had not sufficient money to pay our
coach-fares, we walked, and made the way light for each other by
cheering words. Many scores of miles have I--the great tragedian, as
they called me in the bills--carried our little Minnie in my arms,
lulling her to sleep, or pointing out to her the beauties of nature,
as they peeped at us out of hedgerows, or as they sprang up in the
gardens of great mansions, where they were not hidden by grim walls,
as if their owners were jealous lest the poor toilers on the road
should enjoy their lovely forms and colors. Now and then we got a lift
on a wagon, and the music of the bells on the horses' necks often
lulled Minnie to sleep. We seldom staid in one place longer than a
fortnight; but once we stopped in a town for nearly four months,
playing three nights a week. That was a happy time. I used to come
home from the theatre when my work was done, and Alice and I would sit
in our humble lodgings until late in the night, talking of such
matters as were nearest to our hearts; painting the future in bright
colors, and weaving fancies about our Minnie, who would sometimes be
lying awake on her mother's lap, and whose little fingers would clasp
one of mine as the ivy clasps the oak. We made many friends--false
friends most of them, attracted by my wife's beauty--friends whose
speech was fair, but whose thoughts were treacherous. But rocks on
which many a woman's good name and happiness have been wrecked melted
like snow before my wife's purity. And still we struggled on, hoping
against hope, until there came a time which cast a shadow on me never
to be removed except by death. It was in the autumn of the year. My
wife had been ill, and I had to nurse her and carry her about, and
study and work, while my heart was almost breaking; for the doctors
had told me she required wine and nourishing food, and I was earning
barely sufficient to pay for the commonest necessaries. One night when
I left the theatre, the rain was pouring down like a second deluge. I
had been playing the principal parts in tragedy and comedy, and I came
into the street hot and flushed with my exertions. It was the last
night I ever played. The rain soaked me to the skin; but I took no
heed of that; I was too anxious to reach home. I crept into our one
room, and found my wife asleep. I sat by her side and looked at her
pale face, and recalled the past. I saw her as she had been five years
before, a bright and beautiful girl; and as she was now, pale and wan
as a ghost. I heard her whisper, "Until death, Basil--until death!" I
threw myself on my knees by the bedside, and hid my face on the bed in
utter prostration; and while I knelt, my body turned cold as ice, then
hot as fire, and a feeling like the feeling of death came upon me.
"_Is_ it death?" I asked myself; and I almost rejoiced at the thought
that we might pass away together. When I raised my head, the room
seemed to be thronged with visible fancies. The light and brilliancy
of the theatre; the dark night with its down-pour of rain; Alice as
she was when I first met her; my father's study, and he and I looking
defiantly at each other; all these pictures, and many others, were
before me, and for a moment seemed to be in harmony with each other.
Unutterable confusion among them followed; and then a darkness fell
upon me.

Weeks passed before the darkness cleared away. When I recovered my
senses, I found my patient angel nursing me, although she was scarcely
stronger than I was. But what will not a woman's love accomplish? We
were not in the same town in which I had fallen sick. She had removed
me to a village some twenty miles distant from my native place. I did
not discover this until I was able to rise and move about. I was but a
shadow of myself; all my strength had left me, and I was like a child.
I was to discover something worse than that. I was to discover that my
memory was gone, and that, although I could repeat snatches of parts I
had played, I could not, study as hard as I would--and I tried
diligently during my convalescence--get the complete parts into my
head. My wife helped me--looked at the book while I stumbled
on--prompted me, encouraged me, bade me rest for a day and try again.
All in vain. If I was rehearsing the scenes in "Hamlet," speeches and
lines uttered by Macbeth and Lear, interpolated themselves, and I grew
hopelessly confused.

So, then--my occupation was gone; my ambition was at an end. The
knowledge would have been bitter enough to bear had I been by myself;
but there were my wife and daughter, my darling Minnie, my patient
suffering Alice, to provide for, and I in debt, without a penny in the
world, and without any means of driving white-faced hunger from my
dear ones. The despairing conviction almost brought on a relapse, and
it was only by the strongest effort of will that I kept my senses. But
I could not get strong; rheumatism had fastened itself too firmly in
my bones, and would not be driven away; and I was afflicted with
distressful shudderings and with feverish attacks, during which I knew
no one about me. Winter was coming on fast. Every atom of clothing
that could be spared had been sold by my wife; what she must have
suffered, dear angel! can never be told. Was it my selfishness or
blindness that prevented me from seeing death written in her face? I
did not see it--I did not suspect it--until the time when her cold
body lay before me. She suffered--yes; she could not disguise that
from me; but the pleasant smile and the cheerful look of content and
hope with which she always answered my wistful gaze, blinded me to her
condition and to the extent of her sufferings. I did not ask her why
she had brought me to the village--I guessed that it was because I had
known it in my happier days, and because it might induce me to think
of my father, and of the advisability of asking help from him. She did
not say a word upon the subject. She knew the story of my boyish life,
and was content that I should do as I thought best. But she was a
mother as well as a wife, and she deemed it to be her duty to bring me
where, if I so pleased, I might possibly obtain assistance. I thought
over it, and, bitter as it was, I saw that my duty lay clear before
me. I would sacrifice my pride and humble myself to my father. And yet
I hesitated--hesitated until one morning my wife came into the room
looking so strange that I passed my hand before my eyes, wondering if
I were awake.

"Alice!" I cried.

She came to my side with a cheerful look. Her beautiful hair, that had
hung down to her waist was gone. I took her upon my knee, and folded
her in my arms, and sobbed like a little child. She soothed and
comforted me.

"It will grow again," she said, knowing but too well that before that
time came she would be beneath the daisies. "The landlady wanted
money, and every thing was sold but that. See, I can pay her."

"All?" I asked.

"No, not all," she said cheerfully; "but perhaps some good fortune
will come to us."

That morning I wrote to my father. I told him that I was married to a
gentlewoman, noble, good, and pure, that we had a child, and that I
was ill and in want. But no answer came. I wrote again, begging him to
reply and to assist us. Still no answer. And meanwhile my wife was
fading before my eyes, and our landlady clamored for what was due to
her. Oh, if I could have sold my blood for money, I would have done
it, when I heard her coarse tongue revile my wife! I tottered into the
passage.

"Woman!" I cried, "you shall be paid. I will go and get money."

"Where?" asked my wife in a faint voice.

"At my father's," I answered. "Come, we will go and lay our sorrows at
his feet."

I took Minnie in my arms, and we started in the direction of my native
town. It was not until we had walked four or five miles that we
discovered how weak we were. We were penniless and hungry, and Minnie
was crying for food. I went into a public-house, and begged for some.
I was turned out without ceremony; but a common woman, who was
drinking with a tinker, ran after me--God bless her for it!--and put a
biscuit into Minnie's hand. We struggled on. A mile nearer. My wife
grew white in the face, and her lips were black. And as I looked at
her, there came by her side the image of what she was, ruddy,
bright-eyed, rosy-lipped. I saw it, I tell you. The impalpable shape
of the beautiful girl, radiant with health, walked with light step by
the side of the careworn haggard-faced woman. I must have been crazed.
She saw in my face the disturbed condition of my mind.

"Courage!" she whispered, taking my arm.

I laughed, and looked around. Fortunately, no one was near us, or I
should have robbed him--weak as I was, despair would have given me
strength. I have asked myself since, if it would have been a crime,
and have not found the answer. Ten miles were compassed when a storm
came on--a dreadful pitiless storm, in which the slanting wall of rain
before us seemed to shut out hope. We toiled through it, fainting from
weariness and hunger; we toiled through it, until I fell prone to the
earth. My wife knelt by me in the wet grass, and implored me to make
another effort for her sake, for our child's. I tried to rise, but
could not. All that I could do was to drag myself to a clump of trees,
where I lay exhausted. Every word that passed between us from that
time is too deeply engraven on my mind ever to be forgotten.

"Wife," I said, "the struggle is over. Kiss me and forgive me."

In the midst of her agony, a sweet smile irradiated her face. I could
not see it, but I knew it was there by her voice.

"Forgive you, husband!" she exclaimed, as she kissed me. "We have
nothing to forgive each other. Pity and love are all that I feel now.
Love for you and our darling Minnie,"--and she placed our little
darling's hand on my aching eyes--"and pity for your great
sufferings."

Not a word of herself! Her pure unselfish nature was triumphant over
all. As surely as we have hands to feel and eyes to see such love as
hers is heaven-born, and dies not with the flesh!

"Rest here," she said, placing our child in my arms. "I will go and
seek help. Keep up your heart while I am gone."

I had no power to stop her, and she left me and was lost in the gloom.
Hours must have passed, though it was night when I awoke. I had fallen
into sleep, and in my dreams all the circumstances of my life played
their miserable parts; from the dawn of my ambition down to the words
of my wife, "I will go and seek help. Keep up your heart while I am
gone." When those words were uttered, I followed my wife, in my dream,
as she stumbled on through the darkness. Suddenly I lost her; then a
whisper of pain stole upon me, and I heard her murmur, "Come to me,
Basil; I am dying." A strength born of fear enabled me to rise
shuddering to my feet. "Alice!" I cried. No voice answered me, but I
still seemed to hear the echo of the words, "Come to me, Basil; I am
dying." With Minnie in my arms, I followed the sound. Some wonderful
chance directed my steps aright. How far I walked, I do not know. The
rain was still falling, but there was a glimmering light in the sky to
guide me. The trees, past which I crept painfully and wearily, were
bare of leaves; their naked branches were emblematical of the
desolation of my heart. I crept onward until I came to a spot where I
saw a form lying on the ground. No need to tell me whose form it was
that I saw before me. No sound came from the lips, no sign of life was
observable in the limbs. The ghostly echo of the cry, "Come to me,
Basil; I am dying!" died away upon the wind as I fell by the side of
my darling, who had sacrificed her life for me. I raised her head on
my lap, and looked into her white face. The eyelids quivered, opened;
a look of joy leaped into her eyes.

"Oh, my darling, my darling!" I wailed; "wait for me."

I inclined my head to her lips, for they were moving.

"I will wait for you, Basil. There!" And she looked up to heaven,
while the cruel rain poured down upon her face.

I placed Minnie's lips to hers, and the child clasped her little arms
round her mother's neck.

"Live, Basil," she said slowly and painfully, "live for her. No, no!"
fearing that I was going from her, "do not leave me yet!"

Her fingers tightened on mine, and she closed her eyes. I leaned over
her to protect her from the rain. In that supreme moment of sacrifice
a smile rested on her lips.

"Till death, and after it, Basil, my love!" she whispered.

And her soul passed away into the wintry night.


"You are crying," said Basil Kindred, after a long pause. "My story
has touched your heart. I have told it to you for the purpose of
opening your eyes to Minnie's nature. She is like her mother, without
her mother's teaching. She is a wildflower; the impulse of her mind is
under the control of the impulse of her heart. She is oblivious of all
else, defiant of all else. Those of her friends who have the
consciousness of a higher wisdom than she possesses--those of them who
can recognize that the promptings of such a heart as hers may possibly
lead her into dangerous paths--must guide her gently, tenderly. If any
betray her, he will have to answer for it at the Judgment-seat.
Joshua, you said to me, when you entered this room, that you had not
forgotten the blessing I gave you on the first day of our meeting. I
repeat that blessing. In all your actions that deserve blessings and
prosperity, I say, God bless and prosper you, Joshua Marvel! Now leave
me."


Joshua's face was wet with tears, and his heart was throbbing with
sympathy for Basil as he walked down stairs. In the passage he heard a
footfall that he knew to be Minnie's. It was too dark to see her face.

"Is that you, Minnie?"

"Yes, Joshua," she answered, in a low voice. "You have been sitting
with father."

"Yes."

"I have been wishing to speak to you, and I was afraid I might not get
the opportunity, for father is very strange to me. When does your ship
sail, Joshua?"

"In a very few days Minnie."

"I should so much like to see it, if there was no harm in my coming."

"What harm can there be, Minnie?" exclaimed Joshua. "Come to-morrow to
the docks at twelve o'clock when the men are at their dinner. Bring
Ellen or Susan with you, and ask for the 'Merry Andrew,' and I will
show you over it."

"Thank you, Joshua. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Minnie."

As their hands met, Susan, carrying a light, came from the kitchen.
Joshua did not wish Susan to see the tears on his face, and he turned
hastily away as she approached. But she did not appear to notice
either him or Minnie, as she passed to the upper part of the house;
and the next moment Minnie glided away, and Joshua entered the room
where Dan and Ellen were sitting.

The following day Joshua, looking over the bulwarks of the "Merry
Andrew," saw Minnie standing in bewilderment amidst the busy life and
the confusion of bales and cases on the wharf. He was surprised to
find that she was alone. He hastened to her side, and asked her why
Ellen or Susan had not come with her, and received for reply that she
had thought they were both too busy, and had not liked to ask them.

"But you don't mind my coming by myself, Joshua, do you?" she said,
looking into his face.

"No," he said, returning her gaze. Her eyes were sparkling with youth
and health, and her cheeks had a bright color in them from the brisk
walk she had taken in the crisp air. "But I would have preferred your
not coming alone."

"I will go back rather than offend you."

"Offend me!" he exclaimed. "You are a stupid to talk of offending me.
And as for going back, that would be sheer nonsense now you have taken
the trouble to come."

It was impossible to look at her without pleasure; she was as
beautiful as the spring. A good many of the sailors turned to take
another peep at her, and thought what a lucky fellow the third mate of
the "Merry Andrew" was to have such a lass as that to come and see
him. But he was in luck's way right round, they said to each other as
they walked along. Joshua, not wishing to submit Minnie to their
prying looks--although, being human, he was proud of them a little
bit, it must be confessed--took her hand to lead her up the gangway.
It was not easy for Minnie to get aboard, and Joshua had almost to
carry her.

"How strong you are," she said, "to be able to carry a big girl like
me! And this is your ship."

"It is lumbered up at present, Minnie," he said; "but when we are at
sea, and the decks are cleared, and the sails are set, and we are
flying along before a fair wind, it is a little better than this, I
can tell you. I can smell the sweet spray now, as it comes dashing
up." His nostrils dilated at the mere thought of the ocean, and
involuntarily he passed his hand before his eyes, clearing away
imaginary spray.

"How beautiful it must be!" exclaimed Minnie.

Joshua abated a little of his enthusiasm. "It's all very well in fine
weather, when the wind and sea are kind; but you would be frightened
at storms."

"Not if you were on the ship, Joshua," she said dreamingly, but in so
soft and low a voice that he did not catch the words; yet he looked at
her keenly; but she did not notice his gaze, for she was wrapped in
thought, and her eyes were turned from him. So still did she stand,
that Joshua touched her sleeve to attract her attention. She started,
as if he had aroused her from sleep, and then they went over the ship
together. She was very anxious to see every thing, and they had a busy
half-hour. The last part of the ship they went into was the saloon.

"Captain Liddle has been very particular about the saloon," Joshua
said, "for his wife is coming with us this voyage. Here are their
cabins--one for the captain and his wife, and this little one
adjoining for her maid."

Minnie peeped into the cabins, and wondered how ladies could live in
such a dark place. Joshua had to explain that the cabins were dark
because the ship was in dock, and that when they got out at sea there
was light enough for any thing. Then they ascended to the deck again,
and Minnie thanked Joshua and prepared to go. Just at that moment
Joshua saw--or fancied he saw--Susan standing on the wharf. She was
standing quite still, and her eyes were fixed on the poop of the
"Merry Andrew."

"Why, there's Susan!" he exclaimed; and, leaving Minnie on deck, he
hurried down the gangway. But the woman was gone, and he could find no
trace of her. He returned to Minnie in a state of perplexity.

"I thought I saw Susan on the wharf," he said.

"You must have been mistaken, Joshua," said Minnie; "she was hard at
work at home when I left. If it had been Susan, she would not have
gone away when you went towards her."

"I suppose I _must_ have been mistaken. Good-morning, Minnie; take
care of yourself going home."

He led her down the gangway, and Minnie made her way, like a gleam of
sunshine among the throng of rough workingmen, who stood aside to let
her pass, and sent admiring looks after her. During his work that
afternoon Joshua thought much of her, and of her father's anxiety
concerning her. "Mr. Kindred is right," he thought. "Minnie requires
gentle tender guidance; such guidance as Dan can give her, and will
have the right to do soon, I hope. She can have no better teacher,
wiser counsellor, than Dan!"

So he mused and worked, and saw no signs of the dark clouds that were
gathering about him.




CHAPTER XXII.
NEVER TO RETURN.


Could a map be made of the mental life of a man whose career has been
marked by the commonest of commonplace incidents, and from that map a
tale were woven, it would transcend in interest the most eventful
story that can be found in the wonder-world of fiction. Space matter,
and all the abstract relations of the Great System, affect the meanest
order of mind, and produce the strangest of contrasts between the
outer and inner life of men. Not more strange perhaps, but certainly
more beautiful, are the contrasts presented in men of a high order of
intelligence. As in the case of Dan. Quiet as were the grooves in
which his material life moved, compassed as it was by a few narrow
streets, his ideal life was a romance. It glowed with poetic beauty,
and was filled with graceful images, like a peaceful lake in whose
waters are reflected the glories of grand sunsets and the delicate
lines and colors of night clouds and overhanging trees. Had it been
Dan's fate to mix with the world, his sensitive nature would have
rendered him the most unhappy of beings. The selfishness with which
the world abounds, and with which he would have been brought in
contact, would have made his life a misery. Wishful to see good in
every thing, he would have seen its reverse in so many things, that
his enduring faith in the purity and goodness of those upon whom he
fixed his affections might have been weakened. His friends were few,
but all his heart was theirs, and no doubt of their truth found place
in his mind. Not to suspect belonged to the nobility of his nature.

Otherwise, he might have found cause for suspicion in what was
occurring around him. Three days before Joshua's final departure from
home, Basil Kindred locked himself in his room, and denied himself and
Minnie to every person but Susan. She, and she only, attended to his
wants, and faithfully obeyed his wishes. To all inquiries the one
answer received, through Susan's lips, was, that he was too ill to be
seen, and that he required the constant attendance of his daughter,
who could not leave his room. Even Mrs. Marvel could not shake his
resolution, and was surprised to find that Susan encouraged him, and
would not assist her in her kind endeavors.

"It is not good for Minnie," remonstrated Mrs. Marvel, "to be
cooped-up in that room all day. She can nurse her father--it is only
right she should--but her health will suffer if she does not have
fresh air."

"Mr. Kindred knows what is best for himself and Minnie," returned
Susan in a voice that trembled, despite her efforts to be firm. "He
has asked me to nurse him, and to keep everybody out of his room until
he is better; and I mean to do it. If I can't do it here, I shall take
him away where he won't be disturbed."

"Let me go up and see him," persisted Mrs. Marvel. "I may be able to
do him some good."

"You can't do him a bit of good," replied Susan uncompromisingly, "and
he won't let anybody but me go into his room."

"Sick people don't always know what is best for them, my dear. We are
all of us very much distressed and anxious about Minnie and her
father. They are more than friends to us, and perhaps you do not guess
what Minnie is to"--But Mrs. Marvel was stopped in her speech by a
fierce exclamation from Susan. The good mother was not sorry for the
interruption; she had been about to refer to Dan's love for Minnie,
which her delicate and keen instinct had discovered, and the thought
came to her that perhaps it would not be wise to speak of it. She was
not the less surprised at Susan's agitation, and at the frightened
look which immediately afterwards flashed into Susan's eyes--a look
which asked, "What have I said? Have I betrayed my trust?" But the
next moment Susan resumed her determined manner, and no entreaties of
Mrs. Marvel could move her. When Mrs. Marvel told her husband of the
interview, he said he was sure that Basil Kindred was not right in
his head, and that the best thing to do would be to let the sick man
have his own way. As for Susan, Mr. Marvel said, she was always
strange--they were a pair, she and Basil Kindred.

So no further attempt was made by any of them to see Basil Kindred and
Minnie until the day when Joshua was going to sea. On that day Joshua
went to Basil's room, and knocked. Susan came out of the room into the
passage, and stood with her back to the door.

"I have come to say good-by," said Joshua; "and I should like much to
speak to Minnie and Mr. Kindred before I leave. Go in Susey, and ask
him to see me."

Susan returned the usual answer, but Joshua's entreaties caused her to
waver. She re-entered the room, and Joshua heard Basil's voice
speaking to her. Then Susan came out again, and said,--

"Mr. Kindred is too ill to see you--he told me to say so."

"And Minnie?"

"Minnie!" echoed Susan; and then in a low troubled voice, "Minnie is
asleep."

Joshua was inexpressibly pained.

"I must be content, I suppose," he said, sighing; "but I am deeply
grieved. Something seems to have come between us lately, and shall go
away leaving a mystery behind. I wonder sometimes if am the cause of
this estrangement. If I am, I hope all will be set right when I am out
of the way."

"I hope so," said Susan, with a singularly earnest look.

"You hope so! Then I am the cause, and you believe it. Take care,
Susan that you are not assisting in bringing unhappiness among us."

"It is for you to take care," said Susan, with bitter emphasis, "that
you do not do so."

"What do you mean?" asked Joshua, in amazement. "Tell me. I have a
right to ask, Susan, for you will one day be my sister."

Joshua had taken her hand as he spoke, but she snatched it from him
angrily.

"I can tell you nothing that you do not know," she said hurriedly. "If
I am to be your sister, I have only one thing to say to you."

"Well?" he inquired, in an offended tone, for he was angered by
Susan's manner.

"Be true to Ellen," she said, with quivering lips and in a softer
voice.

"Is that your fear?" he exclaimed almost gayly. "Be true to Ellen!
Why, Susey, I love her with all my heart and soul. But there! words go
for nothing. Time will show. Bid Minnie and Mr. Kindred good-by for
me, and say I was sorry I could not see them before I went away."

He put out his hand, and mechanically she took it in hers; but she
unloosed it immediately with a shudder, and left him abruptly. He was
compelled to be content with that good-by, unsatisfactory as it was,
and he walked to his home, where Dan had been staying for the last few
days, eating there, and sleeping, in Joshua's room. Sitting in their
bedroom alone on those last few nights, when all but themselves in the
house were sleeping the friends renewed their vows of faithful love,
and spoke of many things in the future which both of them desired. In
one of these conversations Joshua put into Dan's hands a written
paper, which made Dan and Joshua's father masters of his small savings
and of wages that would be due to him from the London owners of the
"Merry Andrew."

"In case any thing happens to me," said Joshua, in explanation.

"Not for any other reason, Jo," said Dan, "for I shall never want the
money."

"Father may want a little. It is all his and yours. As to your never
wanting money, I wish I could feel sure of it."

"You may, Jo; I am earning quite enough with my birds. Mr. Fewster
gave me an order yesterday for four canaries thoroughly trained to do
all the best and newest tricks."

Joshua uttered a dissatisfied "Hm!" at the mention of Mr. Fewster's
name. Dan understood it, for Joshua had contracted what Dan said was
an unreasonable dislike for Solomon Fewster. Now, in reply to a
remonstrance from Dan, Joshua said,--

"But you don't like him, Dan."

"I don't know that," said Dan, considering. "When you put it to me so
plainly, I am rather inclined to say I do like him; for I cannot give
a reason for not doing so. I _can_ give a reason for liking him; he
buys my birds"--

"And sells them at a profit, I'll be bound."

"Perhaps; he has a right to do so, if he pleases. I did think at first
that he bought them for himself, but of course I was mistaken.
However, whatever he does with them, he buys them and pays for them:
that's enough for me. You could give as good a reason for liking him.
He was kind to you when you were ill."

"Oh, yes! brought me jellies and things"--

"And you ate them and relished them," said Dan, laughing.

"I didn't know that he had brought them, or I wouldn't have touched
them. I remember in one of our coasting-trips we had a passenger on
board who wrote for newspapers, and who was said to be a very clever
man. Certainly he talked like one. He used to talk to me, as much
perhaps because I was a good listener, as for any other reason. Well,
a favorite subject with him was what he called magnetic sympathy. He
would just have suited you, Dan! He said that the natural magnetism
which makes persons like or dislike one another, without apparent
reason, is never wrongly directed."

"A kind of instinct," remarked Dan reflectively.

"He said, too, that as there are certain things in chemicals that
won't mix, being opposed in their natures, so there are persons who
have natural antipathies"--

"And won't mix--like you and Mr. Fewster," interpolated Dan.

"Just so. Besides that, I have a good many little reasons for not
liking Mr. Fewster.

"Firstly," prompted Dan.

"He never looks me in the face."

"Secondly."

"He has a horribly smooth voice."

"Thirdly."

"He has flat feet--ugly flat feet. I shall always hate men with flat
feet. Then every thing about him shifts and shuffles. But don't let us
talk about him any more. I can't keep my temper when he is in my
thoughts."

The conversation drifted into other subjects, and Solomon Fewster was
dismissed.

It was Dan's whim to have all his birds on a table for Joshua's
inspection on the morning of his friend's departure.

"Although we are men now, Jo," he said, "I should wish us to keep our
boyish fancies fresh and green always in our hearts. There is plenty
of room for them, notwithstanding that life is a more serious thing to
us than it was."

There they were, the modest linnets, the saucy tomtits, the defiant
blackbirds, the handsome canaries. Among the latter were four which
Dan pronounced to be "real beauties;" they were of a beautiful orange
color, and the feathers in their tails and wings were of a deep black.
These were the canaries which Dan had spoken of as having been
"ordered" for Solomon Fewster. As they were admiring them, Solomon
Fewster's step was heard in the passage, and the man himself entered
to wish Joshua good-by. He was profuse in his good wishes, to which
Joshua listened in silence, uttering no word but "good-by" as Fewster
quitted the room. It so happened that, during the pauses in his
expressions of good will to Joshua, Solomon Fewster looked at the
canaries which Dan had purchased for him, and handled them with words
of approval. When he was gone, Joshua who had thrown his handkerchief
carelessly upon the table, said,--

"That man hates me, Dan, more than I hate him."

"My dear Jo," said Dan, "how can you be so fanciful?

"Forewarned is fore-armed, Dan. I beg of you not to trust him; I beg
of you not to believe he is any thing but a cruel false man. He wishes
me ill--else why do I instinctively shrink from the touch of his hand?
He wishes me ill--else why is this?" Joshua removed his handkerchief,
and Dan saw one of his beautiful canaries dead upon the table. "As he
talked to me with his smooth tongue," continued Joshua, "wishing me
well in his hateful voice, he crushed the life out of this poor bird.
Is that no sign of a false bad heart? Had his thoughts been as gentle
as his words, would this have happened?" Dan was silent; he could not
defend Solomon Fewster by another word. "Let us say good-by here, dear
Dan. Mother and father are waiting for me, and many of the neighbors
also, to give me God-speed in a better fashion and with kinder hearts
than that cruel man. Good-by, dearest friend. God send you all that
your heart desires!"

"Thank you, dear friend. You know the one thing I desire to render me
perfectly happy--Minnie's love. Say, 'God speed you in that venture!'
Jo."

"God speed you! Dan, it comes upon me now to ask you one question. You
do not doubt me, do you?"

"Doubt you, Jo! No, nor never can."

"The answer is from your heart. I should not have asked but that some
things have distressed me lately, and I should indeed be unhappy if I
thought you had the shadow of a doubt of me. It may be that our voyage
will not be prosperous; it may be that I may never live to return. If
I do not--nay, Dan, I am impelled to speak thus--if I do not, believe
me to have been always the same to you. Believe that I never wavered
in my love or my truth, and that to the last I held you in my heart,
as I hold you now, gentlest, dearest, best of friends."

Dan drew Joshua's face to his and kissed it.

"We are one, Jo," he said softly; "nothing can divide our hearts. God
bless and protect you, and bring you safely back."

The leave-taking between Joshua and his parents was of a very
different nature from the last, when he was leaving home for the first
time in his life. Then Mr. and Mrs. Marvel were beset with doubts as
to whether the step Joshua was about to take was for the best. Now,
these doubts were dissolved. He had gone on his venture a bright happy
boy, and had returned a bright happy man. He had started on the lowest
round of the ladder, and had already mounted many steps. Third mate
already! What might he not attain to? They were proud of him, and with
just cause. All the neighbors were proud of him, too; he was a prince
among them. The family were quite a distinguished family in the
neighborhood, as having for their representative a young man who had
been all over the world--a man who had not only seen the sea, but who
had been on it. A little crowd of neighbors had gathered about the
house to give Joshua a parting handshake. The information of their
having gathered for that purpose was imparted to Joshua by his father
with an air of pride.

"I've lived in this neighborhood for nearly fifty years, Josh," said
George Marvel, "and I've never but once seen so many of the neighbors
on the lookout at one time."

"When was that, father?" asked Joshua, humoring his father's vanity.

"That was when a carriage with two white horses came through the
street, and stopped in it for full five minutes. It was the first
carriage that ever was seen here, and the last, for that matter. You
remember, mother!

"Yes, George."

"I wish you could have stopped with us until the last minute, Josh,"
continued George Marvel; "but Mr. Meddler was so mightily anxious that
you should spend tonight and to-morrow with him at Gravesend, that he
couldn't well be refused, being so good a friend. Do you think your
ship will sail to-morrow?"

"To-morrow or next day, daddy." And Joshua put his arm round his
mother's neck, and she looked up at her big son with affectionate
pride.

"In three or four months you'll be among the savages again," observed
George Marvel contemplatively and admiringly.

"I shall see plenty of them, I dare say, father. They come down to
Sydney from what the people call the interior."

"And they are black all over, eh, Josh?" asked George Marvel, who was
never tired of a repetition of Joshua's adventures.

"A kind of brown-black rather," answered Joshua, "with eyes like
pieces of lighted coal."

"And not a bit of clothing?"

"An old blanket, some of them; nothing at all, a good many. A sailor
gave one a pair of trousers, and the fellow tied them round his neck
by the legs."

"D'ye see what strange things there are in the world, mother, that we
never knew of?" observed George Marvel to his wife. "That comes of
being a wood-turner all one's life.--Josh, if you have children, don't
make wood-turners of 'em."

"I won't, father," said Joshua, laughing; "but I'm not certain either
that I'd make sailors of them."

"There, father!" Mrs. Marvel could not help saying triumphantly, "what
do you say to that? Joshua is coming round to my old way of thinking."

"Now, one would think," said George Marvel, appealing to an invisible
audience, "that Joshua's done a bad thing by being a sailor."

"Well, no," said Joshua; "I've nothing to grumble at; I've been very
lucky, and I'm thankful for it. But it is a hard life for a common
sailor. He's bullied here and buffeted there, and is obliged to be up
at all times of the night and day sometimes, and he gets soaked and
soaked until he hasn't a dry thing to put on. Then, when he's
dead-beat and turns in, he hasn't been asleep an hour perhaps when all
the watches are called on deck, and there he is again, half dead with
sleep, wondering whether he is dreaming or not, till he is woke up
with a vengeance by the water trickling down his back, and the wind
blowing as if it would blow his eyes clean out of his head."

Mrs. Marvel shivered with apprehension at Joshua's description; and he
with ready tact continued,--

"But that's not often; and even when an inexperienced man would
suppose there was great danger, there really is none at all. For the
most part, it is fair and beautiful; and when you are bowling along
under a steady breeze, with all sails set, surrounded by a bright
cloud and bright water, there isn't a more glorious life in the world.
If you were to see the ship, mother dear, on a calm day, with the
sails like birds' white wings, with a deck as clean as this kitchen
and the sailors sitting about mending sails and splicing ropes, while
the grand albatrosses are flying over us, and shoals of beautiful fish
are leaping like deer in the sea--if you were to see it then, you
would almost wish you had been a man, so that you might be a sailor.
And through all 'there's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, to
keep watch for the life of poor Jack.'"

"Indeed, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Marvel, satisfied with the sentiment
of the quotation, though its meaning was not quite clear to her; "I'm
glad to hear that."

"Dear old mother!" said Joshua, in secret delight at her simplicity,
kissing her.

"But the best of it all is," said George Marvel, "it makes a man of
you; your muscle's like a bit of iron. Feel mine, Josh--like a bit of
soft putty. That comes of being a wood-turner."

"Ellen and Mr. Meddler went down to Gravesend two hours ago,"
said Mrs. Marvel to Joshua, who was tying his accordion in his
pocket-handkerchief.

Joshua nodded. Brave as he had intended to be, spasms were rising in
his throat.

"You have all your things, dear?"

"Yes, every thing."

He turned to take a last look at the homely kitchen, noting in that
momentary glance the position of every piece of furniture and of the
crockery on the dresser. The yellow-haired cat was too old now to do
any thing but lie on the hearth before the fire; and Joshua stooped
and patted its head. When he rose and put his hand on the back of a
chair, it seemed to him as if that common piece of wood and every
other inanimate thing in the room were familiar friends. The very
shape of the room was dear to him. The dear old kitchen! how many
happy hours had he passed in it! He could have knelt and kissed the
floor, his heart was so tender. As it was, he touched the table and
the mantle-shelf; over which the bright saucepan-lids were hanging,
lovingly with his fingers, and with dim eyes walked slowly away. His
arm was round his mother's waist as they went up stairs to the
street-door, and he put his face to her neck and kissed it--a favorite
trick of his when he was a child. It brought to her suddenly the fancy
that her son was a baby-boy still; and she caressed his curly head as
a young mother might have done. Mr. Marvel of course was too manly to
give way to such weakness; but nevertheless he clasped Joshua's hand
with a clinging fondness, and the tune he was humming in proof of his
manliness came rather huskily from his throat. It was a triumphant
moment for him when he opened the street-door, and stood on the step
with his wife and Joshua; for there in the street were many of his
neighbors, who pushed forward to shake Joshua's hand, and to wish him
God-speed; while some of the women slyly gave him "a lucky touch."

"One word, dear mother," said Joshua, drawing mother and father into
the passage, whereat all the neighbors fell away, and turned their
backs to the door, there being nothing there really worth noticing.
"Take care of my darling Ellen for me. And Dan too; he may need it."

"They are our children, Joshua, next to you," said Mrs. Marvel.

"You think to yourself, when you are away, Josh," said Mr. Marvel,
with his finger in a button-hole in Joshua's jacket. "'There is Ellen,
my wife that is to be; and there is Dan, my dearest friend; and there
is father and mother with them every day, loving them almost as much
as they love me and almost as proud of them.' You think that, Josh, and
you'll think right."

"I am sure of it. Once more, good-by; God bless you all!"

And so, with tender embraces, hearty neighborly farewells, and waving
of hands, Joshua, with his accordion under his arm, bade farewell to
his dear old humble home.




CHAPTER XXIII.
THE OLD SAILOR SETS MATTERS STRAIGHT.


Having made over the whole of his worldly property to Joshua and Ellen
"for better or worse," it was reasonable that Praiseworthy Meddler
should have considerable weight in the family council of the Marvels.
The arrangement whereby Joshua left his home a day before his ship was
to sail was entirely of the Old Sailor's making; he and he alone was
responsible for it. Naturally enough, when he had at first proposed
it, he had met with opposition--especially from Mrs. Marvel, who
wished Joshua to remain with them until the last moment. But, after a
private conversation with the Old Sailor, she had yielded to his wish,
and had even used arguments to induce Joshua's readier compliance.
That being obtained, the Old Sailor informed them that he had a
lady-friend at Gravesend, name Mrs. Eliza Friswell, who was a married
woman herself with a family, and who kept a respectable boarding-house,
with whom he had arranged that Ellen should stay until the anchor of the
"Merry Andrew" was weighed; substantiating his statement by a letter
from Mrs. Eliza Friswell to Mrs. Marvel, in which Mrs. Eliza--as the
Old Sailor called her--undertook to look after Ellen as "one of her
own." On the morning of Joshua's departure from Stepney, the Old
Sailor, dressed in his best, and decorated with a bunch of flowers in
honor of Ellen, had called for his pretty lass and had taken her away,
leaving a message that if Joshua did not arrive at Gravesend exactly
at the appointed time, Ellen had consented to run away with him--to
wit, Praiseworthy Meddler--and get married. Very proud was the Old
Sailor of his charge, and very tender and confidential was the nature
of his communications to her as they made their way to Gravesend. What
it was that made her blush and laugh and cry in turns--what it was
that made her serious one moment and glad the next--was known only to
themselves. Certainly no one was taken into their confidence until
they arrived at Mrs. Eliza's, when, with a fatherly kiss, he delivered
Ellen into the charge of that estimable matron. Mrs. Eliza's husband
was a boatman, rough and strong as a boatman should be: with a great
red face and great red hands, and with a voice that rumbled from his
great deep chest with such thunderous power as to render such a thing
as a whisper physically impossible. He was the owner of a fleet of
four boats, which had been bought and paid for in shrimps and
watercresses, or, at all events, with the profits made by Mrs. Eliza
out of those delicacies, which she purveyed to the easily-satisfied
amorous British public, with stale bread-and-butter and an imitation
of tea, at nine pence per head.

Praiseworthy Meddler was fraternizing with Mrs. Eliza's husband when
Joshua made his appearance. Mrs. Eliza's husband immediately sheered
off, and the Old Sailor took Joshua in tow. In response to the Old
Sailor's remark that he was late, Joshua, who felt very despondent,
said that parting from those at home took a longer time than he had
expected.

"Ay, my lad," said the Old Sailor gravely, "'tis a hard word, good-by,
when said to those we love. A long time with Dan, I dare say now?"

"Yes, sir; but it didn't seem long. Time flies faster at some times
than others."

"Ay; flies fastest when we most want it to hold out. Mother and father
all right?"

"As right as may be, sir. Crying more now, I know by my own feelings,
than when I was with them. Kept up for my sake, sir, to give me
courage." And Joshua turned aside.

"No need to be ashamed of your tears, my lad. Gentle thoughts and a
gentle heart go together. Some people say 'tis unmanly to cry, but I
wouldn't give much for the man who never cried, or who wasn't
sometimes so near it as to feel a gulping in the throat. 'Tis as much
crying, that is, as if the tears were rolling down his face. I've felt
like it myself, I'm glad to say."

"You are very kind to me, sir."

"You deserve it, Josh, you deserve it, though I've a doubt that you're
a bit blind to some things."

"To what things, sir?"

"Gently my lad, gently. Plenty of time to talk."

The gravity of the Old Sailor was contagious, and Joshua felt that the
good old fellow was about to say something which he deemed of
importance.

"Where is Ellen, sir?"

"In the house with Mrs. Eliza. She is happy and comfortable, my lad;
and when you and me have had our bit of talk, we will go in to her.
She knows that we're together, and that we've got something to speak
about. As you turned the street, she put her pretty head out of window
there--you didn't know the house or you'd have seen her do it, like a
true sailor as you are--and when she saw us together, she put her
pretty head in again, satisfied. And you left everybody at home all
right, eh? Grieving naturally to be sure, but otherways all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let us walk as we talk," said the Old Sailor, hooking his arm in
Joshua's, and walking in the direction of the river. "Or we shall talk
better in a boat, perhaps; Mrs. Eliza's husband shall paddle us about
the while."

"But I should like to see Ellen just for one minute first.

"To begin your kissing, eh, my lad?" said the Old Sailor, with a
roguish, laugh. "No, no; you'll have plenty of time for that. I'm in
command now, and I'll have no mutineering, or I'll put you in irons.
You'll not like them as well as Ellen's pretty arms." Notwithstanding
the light nature of the Old Sailor's word's, Joshua detected a
serious mood beneath them, and with a good grace he walked to the
landing-place and stepped into the boat which Mrs. Eliza's husband
held ready.

"So you were a long time with Dan, my lad," remarked the Old Sailor,
when they were launched. "What did you talk about mostly?"

"The old things, sir,--ourselves mostly?"

"You have no secrets from Dan, my lad?"

"No, sir, none."

"And he has none from you?"

"None, sir."

"And yet I'll be bound," said the Old Sailor, looking steadily at
Joshua, and compelling Joshua to return his gaze, "that there was
something which you might have spoken of had you not been restrained
by a feeling, say, of kindness to Dan. What, now?"

"There was something, sir," replied Joshua, wondering what this
conversation, so singularly commenced, would lead to.

"Ah!" ejaculated the Old Sailor, rubbing his knees in a satisfied
manner; "let us hear what that something was."

"You speak so earnestly, sir," said Joshua, inwardly questioning
himself, "that I must be careful not to conceal any thing from
you--not that I have any reason nor that I wish to do so, but
something might escape me. I must first say, though that you must not
expect me to break any confidence--that supposing Dan had a secret,
and had imparted it to me, I should not be justified in telling that
secret to any one else."

"Fair and honest, my lad; what I expected from you."

"Well, then, I have been sorry to find that Mr. Kindred"--

"Minnie's father--yes," interrupted the Old Sailor, with a sharp look
at Joshua.

"Has been changed to all of us lately, and especially to me; and I
have been sorry to think that it is because of something which I have
done that he is so changed."

"You know of nothing, Josh?"

"Nothing--absolutely nothing; and that's what grieves me. If I did
know, I should be able to justify myself. Why, sir, this morning he
refused to see me when I went to wish him good-by, and refused to let
me see Minnie. I did not speak of this thing to Dan because of my love
for him."

"And because," said the Old Sailor, "supposing that Dan had a secret
and had imparted it to you, you thought that Dan would be easier in
his mind--in consequence of his secret--if he did not know of Mr.
Kindred's strange refusal to see you."

"Just so, sir."

"Could I guess this secret of Dan's?" questioned the Old Sailor.
"Could an old tar like me, who wouldn't be supposed to know much of
boys and girls and their whims and whams, venture to guess that this
secret of our dear friend Dan's was all about a woman?"

Joshua did not reply.

"And such a woman!" continued the Old Sailor. "With eyes as bright as
the stars, and with hair like a mermaid's. As cunning as a mermaid
too; not wickedly cunning--no, no; but 'tis in her to be so; and she
needs weaning from it, like a babe."

Very gentle was the Old Sailor's voice; and greatly did Joshua wonder,
not at its gentleness, for that was natural to the old man, but at the
wisdom of the words that came from his lips. All his roughness was
gone; all his pleasantry was gone; all his simplicity was laid aside
for the time; and the Old Sailor spoke as if all his life he had been
studying woman's nature until he was master of its complexities. But
such deep wisdom often comes from very simplicity.

"Lord love you, my lad!" he said, "how blind you have been! Here has
been a woman's heart laid bare to you, and you have not suspected it."

Joshua trembled with apprehension. "For Heaven's sake, sir," he
implored, "speak more plainly!"

"I intend to do so, Joshua; for this is the solemnest time of your
life. I have considered the matter deeply, and I can see but one right
thing to do; but I am running ahead too fast. Steady there, steady. As
I said a time ago, here has been a woman's heart laid bare to you, and
you have not suspected it. What woman, now? But 'tis not right to ask,
mayhap."

"Ask me any thing, sir; I will answer truly."

"What woman do you love?"

"Ellen."

"Ellen? And Ellen only?"

"And Ellen only. None other; nor ever shall, if it is given to man to
know his heart."

"Good! Answered like yourself; answered like the lad I used to see
looking out on the river that runs to the sea; like the lad my old
heart warmed to because there was honesty in his face; like the lad
who has grown to be a man, and who sits afore me now with truth in his
eyes."

"Thank you for that, sir."

"What woman does this lad, now grown to be a man, love? Ellen--the
pretty Ellen, the truest-hearted, gentlest-hearted, kindest-hearted,
dearest lass on all the high seas. What woman does Joshua's friend
Dan love? That's a question I ask myself. 'Tis easily answered.
Minnie--Minnie with the mermaid's hair, and with eyes bright as the
stars. Does Minnie love Dan? Yes; but not as Dan wants her to love
him. Why? Because there is some one in the way."

"Who, sir?" Joshua was constrained to ask, but dreading the answer.

"She loves Dan's friend Joshua better than she loves Dan. Let that
friend, who sits afore me now, search his heart and his mind, and let
him say what he thinks. He knows her nature; has been her friend since
she was a girl; and, cunning as a woman may be, no woman can be
cunning enough to hide her love always from the man she loves, though
she may hide it from all the rest of the world. It happens sometimes
in a man's life that he may be unconscious of a thing for years
perhaps, it being present to him all the time, until, sometimes in one
way, sometimes in another, a sudden light is thrown upon it, and he
sees in a flash what he has been blind to all his life before."

"You are right, sir," said Joshua sadly. "It has happened to me now. I
have been blind."

As he sat, sadly looking at the evening shadows reflected in the
river, every circumstance connected with his intimacy with Minnie came
to his mind with an interpretation different from that it had borne
before. Her pretty fancy of the shell, which he had thought of often
as a childish conceit bore a different meaning now. Tender looks and
simple acts, which had pleased him at the time, gathered strength, and
became more than tokens of mere friendship. Child as she was when he
first went to sea, he recognized now that she had more than the
strength of a child; that even then, indeed, she was almost a woman.
When he came back, a man, she had saved his life; and when he thanked
her for it--surely he could do no less!--she told him that she did not
want thanks, for the having saved his life would ever be her sweetest
remembrance. "Little Minnie, little Minnie," he had said, kissing her,
"thank you for your devotion." He remembered that she trembled, and
that something like a sob escaped her when he had kissed her. Had he
done wrong? Was he to blame? All he had done had been innocently done,
as from a brother to a sister. And her feelings were known to others
when they had been hidden from him. Minnie's secret was known to her
father and to Susan. That was the reason why Basil Kindred had
questioned him so strangely, and had told him the story of his life.
Words uttered by Basil, which had borne no direct signification when
they were spoken, came to him now with startling vividness. "Young men
are often thoughtless in their actions," Basil had said; "they do not
know the depth and earnestness of some womanly natures." The
revelation that had come to him served also to account for Susan's
singular conduct that very morning.

"So," he thought; "they believe I have been playing with Minnie's
feelings; and both of them have condemned me. And I at the same time
engaged to Ellen! It is too dreadful to think of. What can I do? Oh,
what can I do?"

The unspoken words rended him to the soul; he was enveloped in a
despairing darkness. But a greater terror than all fell upon him when
he thought of Dan. In such a momentous crisis as that through which
Joshua's mind was passing, nothing of the past is unremembered. Words
which otherwise are borne in mind only by their sense come back as if
they were just being, uttered. When Dan had imparted to Joshua the
secret of his love for Minnie, he had said, "A great hope, shadowed by
a great fear, has entered my soul; a hope which, fulfilled, would make
earth heaven for me. Is it too precious a thing to pray for? It seems
so to me. I tremble as I think of it. But if it is not to be, I hope I
shall soon die." And Joshua heard again that cry from Dan's soul,
almost word for word. The sacred nature of the love existing between
Dan and Joshua needs to be understood to realize the terrible fear
that smote Joshua at the present time. If Dan should ever come to
believe him false, he would not wish to live: for the salt would have
gone out of his life forever.

For full a quarter of an hour Joshua was wrapped in painful thought;
and the Old Sailor had not disturbed him. But now, as he raised his
tearful eyes to the Old Sailor's face, the Old Sailor laid his hand
gently upon Joshua's knee, and said,--

"Well, Joshua, and how do you make it out?"

"As bad as it well can be, sir. This is the hardest stroke I have ever
had. I do not think that even you can understand how hard it is for
me."

"Because of Dan?"

"Because of Dan, sir. I have no need to hide Dan's secret from you
now--you know it; but if Dan should be disappointed in his love for
Minnie, I don't know what effect it would have upon him. All this is
very terrible. I don't need to assure you, sir, that I have been
entirely blameless, and that I have never treated Minnie in any way
but that of an honored sister."

"You do not, my lad," said the Old Sailor, with an evident brightening
up in his manner; "I am satisfied of that. But what do we do when a
storm comes? Do we run and bury our heads in our hammocks, or do we
stand up like men to meet it and battle with it?--as we are going to
meet this storm, which has come upon us unaware, and from no fault of
our'n. Like men, Josh; we're going to meet it like men. I am looking
it straight in the face. No wonder it made you stagger when it come
upon you sudden. It set my old head a-thinking when I found it
out--though it only come upon me by degrees, and after a deal of
watching. Just you think a bit now, Josh, and tell me if you don't see
any way of getting the ship off the rocks."

"I can see no way, sir," said Joshua, after a little anxious
pondering; "all is dark around me."

The Old Sailor laughed a quiet little laugh.

"Lord, Lord how blind these youngsters are! Here's a sailor that's
lost his reckoning, and running the danger of seeing his ship break up
before his eyes; and all the while there's a smooth-water bay close
alongside him, and a friendly craft waiting to give him a hand."

"Where is that bay, sir?"

"Steady, my lad, steady. Let's see what we've got to do. Firstly, our
duty to every body, right round. Next, to make two persons, who ought
to know better, ashamed of themselves for misjudging of us. Next, to
make every thing so snug that our friend Dan sha'n't suffer from any
fault of our'n. Next, to teach a gentle lesson to a mermaid of a girl
who's got a notion in her head that's no business to be there, but who
otherways is as good as gold. It's a riddle, my lad, and I've got the
key to it in my pocket."

"May I see it, sir?"

"You may, and shall, Josh," said the Old Sailor, with a sly chuckle.
"It was to give you the key, that I brought you out here to talk."

And the Old Sailor took from his breast his blue-cotton
pocket-handkerchief, upon which was imprinted the twelve-hundred-ton
ship, with all its sails set to a favorable breeze. There was a knot
in the handkerchief; which the Old Sailor undid with his teeth,
keeping his eyes fixed upon Joshua's face all the while. The knot
being untied, the Old Sailor took from the handkerchief a very small
parcel in silver paper, and handed it to Joshua in perfect silence.

Joshua opened the silver paper, and found in it a wedding-ring.

He looked at the tiny symbol with a beating heart, and a glimmering of
the Old Sailor's meaning dawned upon his mind.

"That's the key, my lad," said the Old Sailor, with a triumphant
expression on his honest, weather-beaten face; "that's the key to it
all. You put that ring upon pretty Ellen's finger to-morrow morning
early, and what happens? Why, you spend your honeymoon here in
Gravesend with your little wife; and when the 'Merry Andrew' sets
sail,--which won't be to-morrow, Josh; I've found that out,--Ellen
goes back to Stepney with that pretty bit of gold on her finger. Says
she, 'I'm married--married to Joshua.' 'Married' says they, all but
one of 'em; 'married!' And surprised they are, all but one of 'em.
'Who made you do it?' says they, all but one of 'em. 'Mr. Meddler,'
says she; 'Mr. Meddler made me do it. He's a hard-hearted old shark,
and he made me do it. But I'm not sorry for it,' says she; 'I'm glad
of it. And I'd do it over again to-morrow; for I've got a true-hearted
man for a husband, and all I've got to do is to pray that he may come
back safe to me and to all of us.' With that they all fall a-kissing
one another, which is but right under the circumstances. What happens
then? Says Susan, 'I was mistaken; Joshua is as he always was.' Says
Mr. Kindred, 'Minnie is safe. God bless Joshua for doing what he has
done.' Says Minnie to herself, 'It's no use my loving a married man.
I've been a foolish girl, and what I've got to do is to love Joshua
like a brother, as he has always loved me--like brother and sister;
that's all we can ever be to one another.' Then she turns to Dan, and
loves that tender-hearted friend,--who ought to have been a man six
foot high, with his limbs as sound as our'n,--and loves him as he
ought to be loved. And I shouldn't wonder, my lad, that when you come
home from this trip, Dan will say to you, 'Here is my wife, Jo, my own
dear Minnie; and we're as happy as the day is long.' The consequence
of all of which is, that every thing turns out as it ought to turn
out, and as we all want it to turn out."

The Old Sailor drew a long breath after this peroration, and dabbed
his face in a manner expressive of a high state of exultation and
excitement. Joshua was no less moved. He toyed with the wedding-ring
as gently and affectionately as if it were already on Ellen's finger.
Truly, to him it was more than a piece of plain gold; it was a symbol
of love. If it had been a precious life, he could not have handled it
more tenderly. Tears came into his eyes as he looked at it, and his
heart beat more strongly with love for Ellen as he pressed the ring to
his lips. At which action the Old Sailor gave his knee a great slap;
and falling back, in the excitement of his triumph, upon Mrs. Eliza's
husband, nearly upset a boat for the first and only time in his life.

"And that is the reason, sir," said Joshua, "that you wished me to
spend my last day at Gravesend with Ellen?"

"That is the reason, my lad, and no other."

"But how did you find all this out?"

"The fact of it is, my lad," replied the most unsuspicious and
guileless old tar that ever crossed salt water, "I put this and that
together. I put this and that together," he repeated with an air of
amazing cunning. "It came first in a simple way. When you were ill, I
went one day to see Minnie's father; and when I went into his room, I
found that he was out. Minnie was there, though: but she didn't see
me. She was sitting on the ground by her father's bed, with a shell at
her ear, and was singing some words softly to herself; and I heard her
repeat your name, Joshua, over and over again. It might have been a
babe singing, her voice was so low and sweet. But I didn't like to
hear it, for all that; and from that time, my lad, I began to watch,
and to put this and that together. Lord love you if you hadn't been so
wrapped up with Ellen, you would have found it out yourself soon
enough. You see, if Minnie had been a little girl, that shell and her
singing wouldn't have mattered; but being a woman, it did."

"And Ellen, sir. Have you told her what you have told me?"

"Just as much as wouldn't wound her sensitive heart, the dear lass.
Not a word about Minnie. I've put it more as if it was your doing and
my wish, being an unreasonable old shark, you know, and because I had
a right to have my own unreasonable way. I told her I'd set my heart
on it, and so had you."

"And her answer?"

"That pretty little lass says, 'If Joshua, that I love dearer
than all the world'--them's her very words, 'dearer than all the
world'--'wishes me to marry him down here at Gravesend, it will be my
pride and my joy to do as he wishes, now and always.' Something else
she says too. But before I tell you what that something else was, let
me know what you think about it, Josh."

"What can I think, sir, after what you have told me, but that I
believe it is the best and only way to set all matters straight? It is
a task both of love and duty--love to Ellen, duty to Dan and Minnie.
Yet I have one regret. I have often pictured in my mind what a
proud day our wedding-day would be to mother,"--his voice faltered
here,--"and how her dear face would have brightened when our hands
were joined!"

"That's the very something else that Ellen says to me, Josh," said the
Old Sailor, beaming with satisfaction. "Says she, 'I should like to
have Josh's mother at the wedding.' Says I, 'My dear, Josh's mother
_will_ be at the wedding.'"

"No!" exclaimed Joshua with a sudden start of surprise.

"Yes," cried the Old Sailor dabbing his face gleefully. "Says I, 'My
dear Josh's mother _will_ be at the wedding. She will come down to
Gravesend to-morrow morning early, and will go back quietly in the
afternoon.' And when Ellen tells 'em at home all about it, mother will
be the only one among 'em who won't be surprised."

"Enough said, sir," said Joshua, his heart filled with wondering
happiness. "I don't know what I have done to deserve such friends as
I've got. Let us get back to Ellen."

With that, Mrs. Eliza's husband, who had behaved more like a machine
than a man during the long interview, pulled briskly to shore.

It was dusk when they walked along the street where Mrs. Eliza lived;
but Joshua saw Ellen standing at the door waiting for them. He
hastened to her eagerly, and with his arm around her waist, drew her
away from the little light that was left. She was trembling; but his
strong arm supported her.

"So you are to be my little wife to-morrow?" he said in a voice of
exceeding tenderness.

She clung closer to him, and hiding her face, although it was dark,
answered him in the softest of soft whispers, "Yes, if you are
satisfied that it shall be so."

"It will be for the best, darling," he whispered, embracing her.

How proud he was of her! and what a memorable night they passed with
the Old Sailor! The best room in the house had been brightened up for
them to have tea in; and after tea, Joshua and Ellen strolled by the
waterside for an hour, which seemed about five minutes long, talking
as lovers have talked since the Creation. Meanwhile, the Old Sailor
stood at the door, smoking his pipe with infinite satisfaction at the
thought of having set all matters straight. While he thus stood, a man
approached with the evident intention of making an inquiry of him; but
catching sight of the Old Sailor's face, the man uttered a hasty
exclamation and abruptly crossed the road, making a pretence of being
intoxicated. It was but a pretence, but it deceived the Old Sailor,
who set it down in his mind that the man was a sailor on the spree.
"Going to join the 'Merry Andrew' to-morrow, perhaps," he thought;
"and fuddling himself, as most of 'em do the first and last nights
ashore. A rare old swiller is Jack! Never knows when he has had
enough. Must always take another drop."

The man's thoughts were of a different kind. When he had turned the
corner of the street, he walked more leisurely, and drew such a breath
as one draws when he has escaped a danger. His first muttered words
were "He didn't see me;" his next, "What the devil brings him here?"
That his mind was disturbed by the sight of the Old Sailor was evident
from his manner; and it was evident also, by the wary looks he cast
about him, that he was bent already on no idle mission and needed
nothing fresh to occupy him. "A good job it was dark," he muttered,
directing his steps to the waterside; "if he had seen me, he would
have been sure to tell Marvel, and it might have given rise to
suspicion. Where is that dog of a Lascar, and what the devil does he
mean by keeping me waiting?" The words were scarcely uttered when his
face grew deadly white, and an ugly twitching came about the corners
of his lips at what he saw before him. It was merely a man and
woman--evidently lovers--who were walking slowly along, in earnest
conversation. He was about to follow them, when his arm was touched by
a new-comer, in a sailor's dress.

"Here I am, master," said the new-comer.

"See there, you dog!" exclaimed Solomon Fewster, pointing to the
lovers. "See there! What brings her here?"

The Lascar looked after them, shading his eyes with his hand, and
shrugged his shoulders. "Joshua Marvel and Ellen Taylor!" he said,
with a careless laugh. "Doing a little sweethearting on the sly. If
you had the chance, you'd do the same yourself. See, they're turning
back this way; let us get out of sight."

They stood aside, and as the lovers passed, heedful of nothing,
conscious of nothing, but their own great happiness, their faces met,
and a kiss passed between them. In his torment of jealousy, Solomon
Fewster grasped the Lascar's shoulder so tightly as to make the man
wince. The dog shook himself free from his master, and said, "Well,
he'll be away soon, and you'll have the pretty Ellen all to yourself.
Come, now; I don't want to stop here all night. Let us say what we've
got to say, and be done with it."

Solomon Fewster walked away a few steps to recover his composure, and
when he had mastered his agitation, returned to the Lascar.

"I shipped this morning, through an agent," said the Lascar; "here are
my papers."

"It is too dark for me to see them; I must take your word that you
have done what you say."

"You have taken my word before, master, and you have found me
faithful. You keep your part of the bargain; I shall keep mine. It is
my interest to do so."

"Yes, your interest," said Solomon Fewster, with somewhat of a bitter
emphasis. "You have cost me enough, you dog."

Notwithstanding that their positions of master and dog might have been
appropriately reversed, the old fiction was kept up between them, with
insolent arrogance on one side, and with mock humility on the other.
Neither of them deceived the other.

"I might have cost you more, master," replied the Lascar; "but go on."

"Let us see then, if we are agreed upon the position Of matters, and
if we understand one another. When a certain thing happened last
Christmas, which nearly cost a whelp his life, you thought it
necessary for your safety"--

"We thought it necessary for our safety," corrected the Lascar.

"To take yourself off somewhere, so as not to be seen, and therefore
not suspected. Out of sight out of mind. In accordance with that
understanding you went to a certain watering-place, and lived at my
expense until you got into a drunken quarrel with your drunken
mates, in which one of them received a cut across the face. The same
night--being within a week of the present time--you thought it
advisable to leave that district, and you accordingly did so, coming
down here to Gravesend, and apprising me that you were in danger of
arrest and in want of money."

"You talk like a book," said the admiring Lascar, with a laugh.

"I came down to see you, and to advise you"--

"Taking such an interest in me, master!" interrupted the Lascar, with
another and a louder laugh.

"And I told you that as in England a man who is too free with his
knife is likely to be deprived of his liberty for a longer time than
he would probably consider pleasant, the best thing you could do--the
police being on the lookout for you--would be to join a ship bound for
a distant port, and so get clear of danger. Is that fairly stated?"

"Pretty fairly for you, master. It is for me to say, that so long as I
am out of danger your safety is secured. But that's a matter, of
course, that you don't think much of."

"It happening, as it does not often happen with such dogs as you,"
continued Solomon Fewster, taking no other notice of the Lascar's
taunt than was indicated by a contemptuous emphasis on the word
"dogs," "that you were for once open to reason, you agreed with me
that it would be best for you to get out of the country. As luck would
have it, Joshua Marvel's ship, the 'Merry Andrew,' was shortly to
start for New South Wales, and as part of the crew was to be engaged
at Gravesend, where you were skulking about, you set your mind very
strangely upon going in the same ship with the whelp, and according to
your own statement, have accomplished your desire to-day."

"I didn't find it a very difficult thing, master. Sailors are none so
plentiful. Go on."

"When I found that you were determined to go in Joshua Marvel's ship,
I bearing in mind that you have been as faithful as it is in the
nature of such a dog as you to be, told you that the night before the
ship sails, I would come down and give you a few necessaries which you
said you required."

"Such as twenty-five pounds in gold," said the Lascar.

"Such as twenty-five pounds in gold," repeated Solomon Fewster, taking
some packets from his pocket.

"Such as a six-bladed knife."

"Such as a six-bladed knife."

"Such as another knife with one blade."

"Such as another knife with one blade."

"Such as a silver watch and a silver chain."

"Such as a silver watch and a silver chain."

"Bah!" exclaimed the Lascar, in a voice of intense scorn, as he
received the articles, one after another. "Look at the sky, master."

It was intensely dark; the clouds were black, there was no moon, and
not a star was discernible. Solomon Fewster looked up, and said,
"Well?"

"What can you see, master?"

"Nothing."

"Look at me"--he had walked away a few paces. "Can you see me?"

"I can see your form."

"Not my face, nor my eyes?"

"No, you dog!" answered Solomon Fewster hotly, for the Lascar's voice
was contemptuously insolent.

"Bah! you are worse than I am. Too free with my knife, am I? I wonder
whether you would be too free with your knife--in the dark? In the
light I know you wouldn't be. You wouldn't have the pluck to use it.
Look you, master: the first part of what you said was pretty well as
things happened; but the last part--Well, you and me know all about
that. And yet, although we're in the dark, and can't see each other's
face, nor each other's eyes, you haven't pluck enough to tell the
truth; you haven't pluck enough to say even to me, here in the dark,
with no one by, that when I found that the 'Merry Andrew' was
going to sea. I said to you, What a fine thing it would be for me to
go in the same ship as Joshua Marvel, and to take advantage of any
thing that might happen to do him a good turn and that then you
mentioned--quite accidentally, of course--that if any thing should
happen to him through me, you would give me fifty pounds if the 'Merry
Andrew' came home without Joshua Marvel. You haven't pluck enough to
say that then I said, 'Done!' and done it was; but that I--knowing
you, master--made a point of having something in earnest of the
bargain--such as twenty-five pounds in gold; such as a six-bladed
knife; such as another knife with one blade; such as a silver watch
and chain. Bah! If it wasn't that I was such a cursed fool when my
blood is up, that I don't know what I do, and that, because of that,
it is safer for me to leave the country than to remain in it, I would
stop and feed upon you--I would, by God!--and worry the heart out of
such a coward."

"You've been drinking," said Solomon Fewster, with difficulty
suppressing his anger.

"What if I have? I know what I am saying well enough. I have had too
much of your airs of superiority, and of your lies and your acting.
Why, do you think that I would ever have done your dirty work, if it
hadn't served my purpose? Do you think that if I hadn't sworn an oath,
and marked it with my blood, to be revenged upon that damned upstart,
Joshua Marvel, for what he did to me, I would go in his ship? Look
you! I will do my share of the work, never fear, master; but I would
have done it for next to nothing, if you were a man instead of a
sneak!"

"You dog!" cried Solomon Fewster, in an uncontrollable burst of
passion. "You have my money, my knives, and my watch upon you at this
moment. I have half a mind to give you into custody for robbing me."

An exclamation of anger escaped the Lascar, and Solomon Fewster cursed
himself inwardly for his injudiciousness the moment the words had
passed his lips. A long silence followed, a silence lengthened by
Solomon Fewster's fears; for he knew that he was in the Lascar's
power, and could not consider himself safe while his dog was in the
country.

"I didn't mean that," he said, with an awkward effort at conciliation;
"but you were wrong to provoke me."

The Lascar did not reply, and Solomon Fewster's alarm increased every
moment. "Why don't you speak?" he asked.

"I've been thinking, master," then said the Lascar with a quiet
laugh--"I've been thinking that a man isn't safe with such a sneak as
you, and I've made up my mind."

"To what?"

"To this; and if you don't do it, I'll go straight to Joshua Marvel
and his pretty Ellen, and open their eyes to what you are."

"And ruin yourself," said Solomon Fewster, trembling in every limb
like the coward he was.

"And ruin myself," said the Lascar composedly, "and you along with
me."

"You do not know what you are saying."

"You shall see," said the Lascar, moving slowly away.

"Stop! What is it you want me to do?"

"If the 'Merry Andrew' returns without Joshua Marvel, and I, having
done my work, come to you for my wages, it isn't unlikely that you'll
hatch some charge against me which I sha'n't be able to face, for you
are rich and I am poor. I will prevent this. You shall come with me
now to my lodging-house, and you shall scratch upon the inside of my
watch, 'From Solomon Fewster to his Lascar friend,' and you shall give
me a paper saying as how you made me a present of the knives and the
money because I have earned them. This is what I have made up my mind
to, and what I intend to have done, as sure as there is a sky above
us. What's more, I'm not going to have any palaver about it. If you
don't follow me to my lodgings, where I am going this very minute,
I'll peach upon you, by God!"

Without another word, he walked towards the town; and Salomon Fewster,
in a tumult of fear and vain passion, followed him to his lodging, and
unwillingly gave him his bond. That being done, the Lascar repeated
that he might be depended upon for fulfilling his task; and Solomon
Fewster took his leave with the consciousness that the basest of dogs
considered himself superior to the master who used him.


Early the following morning Mrs. Marvel came down to Gravesend, and
all preparations having been made by the Old Sailor, Joshua and Ellen
were married. It was the quietest and happiest of weddings. There were
but two guests--Mrs. Eliza, in a blaze of red ribbons, and Mrs.
Eliza's husband, whose futile efforts to speak in whispers were the
only evidences to Joshua and Ellen that the events of the morning were
real. Every thing but that irrepressible voice was so hushed and
subdued, that it seemed to belong more to a dream than any thing else.
But it was a happy dream, marred by no cloud, made bright by perfect
love. There was no happier person in the party than Mrs. Marvel.

"Now you are truly my daughter," she whispered to Ellen, "and really
belong to me."

"I can't believe that I am awake, mother," said Joshua to Mrs. Marvel,
as they two stood a little apart from the others; "yesterday I had no
thought of this. I wonder if Dan is thinking of me! When will you tell
him?"

"None of them will know, dear, until Ellen comes back, and that won't
be until your ship is gone. Mr. Meddler says it will not sail for two
days, so your honeymoon will be longer than you expected."

"And father! how surprised he will be!"

"He will approve, my dear, when I tell him all."

When she told him all! That means, thought Joshua, when she tells him
about Minnie. But he said nothing aloud in answer. Minnie was in both
his and his mother's thoughts, but neither of them mentioned her name.

"Look at her, Josh," said Mrs. Marvel, turning with affectionate pride
to where Ellen stood, hanging tearfully upon the Old Sailor's arm; "no
man ever had a greater treasure."

Joshua, gazing at the modest figure of his dear little woman, thought
of the comparison he had once drawn between Ellen and Minnie. "Minnie
is like the sea; Ellen like a peaceful lake." Every thing about
her--her dress, her trustful face, the calm light in her eyes--was
suggestive of peaceful love, a haven of refuge from the storms of
life. She turned to him, and he hurried to her side, and took her arm
on his.

"Darling," he whispered, "it seems too wonderful to be real. I am
afraid that I shall wake up presently, and find that it is all a
dream."

Thank God, that while this world of ours is pulsing with mean
ambitions and unworthy strivings, with heartless pleasures and vicious
desires, flowers of circumstance such as this bloom sometimes in the
lives of the poorest among us.

Dinner was taken in Mrs. Eliza's private parlor which, abounded in
family relics of great price, among which were especially conspicuous
two brown-stone mandarins, who wagged their heads upon the
mantle-shelf; two large pieces of white coral under glass shades; some
stuffed parrots similarly protected from the ravages of time; and an
impossible castle made with small shells. It was April weather with
all the company, and smiles and tears alternately chased one another.
Mrs. Eliza's husband proposed the toast of "The new-married couple,"
but, attempting to make a speech, could only get out the words, "And
may they ever," which he repeated four or five times, without being
able to explain himself. However, the toast was drunk not the less
cordially, Mrs. Eliza's husband and the Old Sailor giving three times
three in hearty sailor fashion. Then, it being nearly time for Mrs.
Marvel to go back to Stepney, the Old Sailor rose, glass in hand, and
said,--

"Mrs. Marvel, lady, if you was my own mother, my dear, which you
couldn't be, seeing that I am old enough to be your father, but if you
was my own mother, I couldn't honor you more. Some women are sent into
the world expressly to be mothers; you're one of 'em, and a noble one
you are, and a credit to Britannia. Here's may Josh and his lass ever
be a pride to your heart, lady, as they have ever been, and may Josh
be a skipper before he's thirty! And if a rusty old sailor like me,
lady, can ever serve you, my dear, I shall be proud to be commanded by
such a commander."

With that he drained his glass, and turning it upside down, took Mrs.
Marvel's hand and kissed it, like the gallant knight he was. Amid
tears and embraces and blessings, Mrs. Marvel took her departure,
escorted by the Old Sailor; and the lovers were left to their quiet
honeymoon. The "Merry Andrew" did not sail until two days afterwards,
as the Old Sailor had said. All too swiftly flew by the hours in that
brief time; and Joshua and Ellen found it harder to part than they had
ever done before.

"I am pledged to you forever, darling," said Joshua, as they stood
together during the last few minutes.

"And I to you, dear."

"I want a curl, Ellen; not to remind me of you, but to have something
of you always near me."

She cut off one of her brown curls, and he kissed her and it, and
placed it in the Bible Dan had given him.

"How shall I count the days, darling! But I shall see you through all
my work. It is time for me to go. My undying faithful love for you. My
undying faithful love for Dan. And now, put your arms about my neck,
and say 'God bless you, and bring you safely back!'"

"God bless you, and bring you safely back, my dear, my heart's
treasure!"

Her strength failed her here, and she was sinking to the ground.

"Take her, sir," said Joshua to the Old Sailor, who was standing a
little apart. "May Heaven reward you for all your kindness!" He
stooped and kissed her once more, and whispering, "I leave my heart
behind me," hurried with uneven steps to the boat in waiting for him.




CHAPTER XXIV.
FALSE FRIEND OR TRUE?


"I wish Ellen was at home," said Dan to himself, as he sat alone in
the parlor which served as his training-room; "the house is quite
lonely without her." Joshua had been gone from Stepney for four days,
and, knowing how Dan would miss Ellen, Mrs. Marvel had insisted that
he should stop at her house during that time. "There will be no one to
attend to you, my dear," Mrs. Marvel had said to him; "Mr. Kindred is
ill, and Minnie and Susan are fully employed waiting upon him." Dan
acknowledged the superior claims of Mr. Kindred on Minnie's and
Susan's attention, and consented to stop at Mrs. Marvel's house until
Ellen returned. Now that Joshua was gone, however, he could not help
thinking it strange that Minnie had not found time to run in and see
him, if only for two or three minutes. He expressed this to Mrs.
Marvel, who replied that Mr. Kindred was suffering much, she believed,
and did not like Minnie to be away from him, loving her so dearly.
"But it will be all right, my dear, when Ellen comes back," she said,
"she will be able to assist the girls in their nursing." The
uneasiness which Dan would have otherwise experienced at not seeing
Minnie was allayed by the knowledge that she was doing her duty. Still
he was glad when the morning came upon which Ellen was to return; for
patient as he was, he was hungering to see Minnie. And now at last he
was at home in his own little parlor, waiting almost impatiently for
Ellen. He heard a sound in the passage, and he raised his hand in a
listening attitude. "Ellen? No; Susan." The door opened, and Susan
entered. Accustomed as he was to Susan's strange manner and to the
alterations in it--morose one day and remorsefully affectionate the
next--he had never seen her as as he saw her now. Her face was pinched
as with some great agony, her hands wandered restlessly about her
dress and over one another, her eyes dilated as he remembered them in
the old days when she was tormented by the fear that terrible shapes
were stealing upon her unaware. Yet, notwithstanding these distressing
symptoms of a mind disturbed to its very uttermost, there was
something still more painful in her appearance. This was the effort to
appear calm and self-possessed, evidenced in the attempts she made to
keep her hands still and her eyes from wandering around. But she could
not bring color to her white face, nor composure to her quivering
lips. No nerves are more difficult to master than those which directly
affect the mouth, and many a hard-grained strong-minded man has
betrayed himself by a twitching of his lips, which he has found it
impossible to control. Dan had not seen Susan for more than a week,
and he was appalled at the change in her. His first thought was of
Minnie.

"What has happened, Susan?" he cried. "Minnie is not ill?"

He betrayed himself in the tone of anguish in which he made the
inquiry. Susan twisted her fingers so tightly together that the blood
left them, but she felt no pain.

"Why should Minnie be ill?" she asked. "You have not seen her, then?"

"Thank God!" Dan thought to himself; "it is not anxiety for Minnie
that has changed her so."

"And her father, Susan?" he said aloud, more softly.

"Her father!" exclaimed Susan, approaching Dan so that he could take
her hand; it was like ice. "Basil! He is stricken almost to death. I
don't know what to do; and I am pledged, miserable woman that I am--I
am pledged not to speak; not to divulge what I know!"

"Poor Susey!" said Dan soothingly, and in a tone of earnest sympathy,
thinking that Susan's last words referred to what the doctor had told
him of Basil's heart-disease. "Poor Mr. Kindred! I am grieved to the
soul to hear it."

She strove to free her hand from his grasp; but he retained it.

"Tell me about Minnie, Susey," he implored. "Ah, if you knew how I am
yearning to see her--how I am yearning to console her!"

At this appeal, so strong a trembling took possession of her, that her
words, to any but the acutest sense, would not have been
distinguishable.

"You, Dan!" she said, tightening her grasp upon his hand. "You
yearning to see her! You yearning to console her! Why?"

"Susey, you will help me when I tell you. You will let me see her when
I tell you. I love her!"

"My God!"

A deathlike silence followed, and Dan was almost frightened to break
it, but he was constrained by his fears to speak.

"There is a hidden meaning in your words, Susan," he said in hushed
tones, "that I cannot fathom. Give me some clew, if you have any love
for me."

"I can give you none," she answered hurriedly, "until I am released
from my pledge. Do not ask me any thing else--I don't think I am
conscious of what I am saying. I will go up to Basil--to Mr.
Kindred--and beg of him to see you. What is that?"

It was merely a knock at the street-door; but in Susan's nervous
condition the sound was sufficient to cause her to start in alarm from
Dan's side.

"Only a knock at the door, Susey. You have overtasked yourself, my
dear, with nursing."

Susan hastened to the street-door, and Dan heard a voice ask if Mr.
Basil Kindred lived there. "Yes," answered Susan. "Here is a letter
for him; is it right?" "Quite right." And taking the letter from the
messenger, Susan went up stairs to Basil Kindred's room. She had left
the street-door open, and before another minute had passed, sunshine
entered the house--sunshine, in the person of Ellen, who, radiant with
joy, ran into the house and into the parlor, and clasping Dan round
the neck, called him by the dearest of names, and kissed him again and
again. What a bright flower she was! What a lovely flower she was!
What nameless beauty had passed into her face, that caused Dan to
thrill with pride that she was his sister, and caused him to wonder at
the same time what change it was that had come over her and added to
her loveliness? The sombre aspect of the room was gone; the chill, the
fear, the dread of Susan's meaning was gone; the terror that had no
reason in it, as far as he could see, was gone. For sunshine had
entered the house.

"O my dear, dear Dan!" she cried, shedding tears in the fulness of her
joy. "O my darling, darling brother! I am so happy to be with you
again!"

She kissed his face a dozen times again, and hid hers on his neck, and
kissed that too, until from Dan's heart, infected by her happiness,
every particle of fear planted there by Susan's manner had fled.
Truly, she was sunshine--the best, the dearest, the warmest.

"My dear, dear Ellen!" said Dan, returning her affectionate embrace,
"how happy I am that you are back! I have been thinking how lonely the
house is without you. But"--holding her face between his hands and
looking at it, bright and blushing and beautiful--"you have grown
positively lovely. What have you been doing with yourself these last
four days?"

What had she been doing with herself? She laughed softly at the
question, then ran and shut the door, and came back and sat on the
floor at his feet, tucking up her dress to save it from the dust.
She was in such a flutter even then--taking Dan's hand and fondling
it--that he waited to speak until she was more composed. Presently she
grew quieter, and resting her head on his knees, said,--

"Now, Dan, I am quiet. Ask me questions."

"To commence, then, when did you come back?"

"This very minute."

"Who brought you back?"

"Mr. Meddler."

"The dear old friend! Why didn't he come in to see me?"

"For reasons. He said that we had best be left alone, so that we might
chat. He is coming to see you to-night."

"When did Joshua's ship go away?"

"The day before yesterday."

"Why, you little puss, you've been playing truant!"

"Mr. Meddler persuaded me; and yesterday Mr. Meddler and Mrs. Eliza
and me went for a ride in the country."

"What a grand young lady you've got to be! And Jo! What about Jo?"

She nestled to him more caressingly; and he, passing his hand over her
face, drew it away, with tears upon it.

"Crying, Nell?

"For happiness, Dan--for very happiness, my dear! What about Jo, you
ask. I will speak his exact words--almost his last, dear--'My undying
faithful love for Dan.'"

"Dear Jo! my dear, dearest brother!"

"That was not all he said, Dan; we were speaking of you all the
day--you were never out of our thoughts, never out of his, I am sure.
He is the dearest friend, the truest friend, the most faithful, the
most constant, that happy man or woman ever had!"

"He is all that you say, dear Ellen, and I thank Heaven for giving him
to us."

"Any more questions, Dan?"

"No; I can't think of any."

"Then I must tell you something without being asked," said Ellen: "I
am the happiest woman in the world."

She arose, and standing at the back of his chair, clasped him round
the neck, folding her hands one in the other, so that he should not
see her wedding-ring. Then she inclined her lips to his ear, and was
about to whisper the precious secret which made her the happiest woman
in the world, when an agonized scream rang through the house. With
affrighted looks they turned to each other for an explanation.

"It is Susan," said Dan, all his fears returning. "I have not had time
to tell you, Ellen, but her manner just now frightened me. For
Heaven's sake assist me up stairs!"

With his crutch under one arm, and his other round Ellen's neck, he
went to Basil Kindred's room, and, pushing open the door, entered.
Basil Kindred was sitting motionless in his chair, before a table on
which were writing-materials; his head was thrown back as if he were
asleep; one hand was on his heart, and the other, from which a letter
had fallen was hanging listlessly down. And kneeling by his side was
Susan, with a look of horror on her white face. But Minnie where was
Minnie? No one had gone out of the house; if she had come down stairs,
Dan must have heard her. He sank into a chair and gazed about him
vacantly. It was not that the power of thought had left him, but that
he was afraid to think. Susan, rocking herself to and fro, her face
turned away, had taken no notice of their entrance.

"Ask her where Minnie is," said Dan to Ellen. He had tried to utter
the words two or three times, but his throat was parched; and now his
voice sounded so strange to him, that he wondered if he or some one
else had spoken.

"Susan!" said Ellen, placing her hand on Susan's shoulder. "Susan,
where is Minnie?"

But Susan did not heed her; and Ellen raising her eyes from Susan's
face to that of Basil Kindred, retreated appalled to Dan's side. It
looked like the face of one to whom death had come suddenly; perfectly
peaceful, but terrible to see. Still she found strength to whisper to
Dan, "Be strong, my dear, be strong. Shall I run and fetch mother?"

"Mother!" echoed Dan, with the same doubt upon him as to whether he or
some one else were speaking. "Mother! Oh! Mrs. Marvel you, mean Jo's
mother."

"Yes, dear, Jo's mother and ours. Shall I run and fetch her?"

"No, not yet. What is that paper by his side? Pick it up; give it to
me."

Averting her eyes from Basil's face, Ellen picked up the letter and
gave it to Dan. "It is Minnie's writing," she whispered.

"Hark!" said Dan.

It was the cockatoo that Joshua had brought home that startled him. It
was screeching down stairs, "Dan, Ellen, Minnie! Bread-and-cheese and
kisses! and kisses, and kisses!" ending with the usual running fire of
kisses, until it lost its breath. When the bird was quiet, Dan looked
at the letter in his hand.

"Minnie's writing," he said, trying to read it; but the words swam in
his fading sight. "Read it, Ellen; I cannot make it out."

Ellen took the letter from his trembling hand, and read:--


"Father,--I have not gone from you because I do not love you, but
because it was my fate to do what I have done. I could not resist it.
I have nothing to say in justification of my conduct, except the words
I heard you use to Joshua when you were telling him of my mother. I
came into the room while you were speaking; it was dark, and neither
you nor Joshua saw me. What you said of my mother then sank into my
mind, and I can never forget it. Do you remember 'She loved me and
sacrificed herself for me. Loving me, she conceived it to be her duty
to follow me; she forsook friends and family for me, and I bless her
for it. Her devotion, unworldly as it was, was sanctified by love.
There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not sanctify.' As my
mother did, so I have done. It will be useless searching for me; for
when you read this, I shall be hundreds of miles away on the sea. If
you guess my secret, keep it for the sake of my good name; and for the
sake of my good name do not let any other eyes but yours see this
letter. If it were possible for me to have a wish fulfilled, I would
pray that I might die before this reaches you. On my knees I ask you
to forgive your unhappy

                         "Minnie."


No one but Ellen noticed the entrance of Solomon Fewster while the
letter was being read; and she, with a warning finger to her lips,
restrained him by that gesture from coming forward. So he stood silent
and attentive within the doorway. As the words came slowly and
painfully from Ellen's lips, each of them cut into Dan's heart like a
knife. Ellen had seen his sufferings, and would have ceased reading,
but that he motioned her to proceed.

"So, then," said Dan, after a long and painful pause, "Minnie is gone.
What have I to live for now? I would have been content if she had only
been near me; if I could have heard her voice or the rustle of her
dress to assure me of her beloved presence. Without that, my life is
dark indeed. But where has she gone?"

He asked the question of himself; but Susan starting to her feet,
answered him.

"Where has she gone? Where else but to sea in the 'Merry Andrew,' with
your false friend Joshua Marvel? And the knowledge of it has killed
her father!"

"It is false!" cried Dan in a clear ringing voice. "It is false, you
bad sister!"

"It is true, Daniel Taylor," said Solomon Fewster in his smooth oily
voice. "I have here a letter from a sailor on board the 'Merry Andrew,'
informing me that Minnie and Joshua are on the same ship."

At this corroborative testimony, Susan fell upon her knees, and raised
her arms.

"Curse that false friend!" she cried.

But Ellen fell at her side, exclaiming, "O Susan, Susan, restrain your
tongue! For all our sakes--for my sake! He is my husband!"

Whereat Solomon Fewster, upon whose face there had hitherto been an
ill-concealed expression of triumph, crushed the letter he held in his
hand, and muttered a bitter curse.

And Dan, folding Ellen in his arms, said,--

"Hush, my sister, hush! Blessings on your wedding-ring! Blessings on
your husband and my true friend! We shall live to see him give the lie
to slanderous tongues. I have something to live for now--to defend the
honor of my brother!"




CHAPTER XXV.
THE DEAD WITNESS.


When Ellen felt the comforting protection of Dan's arms, and heard the
words to which he gave utterance in the nobility of his soul, the
despair by which she had been overwhelmed vanished like snow before
the sun, and left her an unhappy, but not a hopeless woman.

"This, then, was your secret," said Dan to her, as she lay in his
arms; "your marriage with Jo. It is the proof of his faithfulness, my
dear. For me, I needed none. No heart but mine can judge my friend; no
tongue shall malign him unanswered while I am by."

"Good, noble brother," she sobbed, "to comfort me thus in the midst of
your own great grief! I do not doubt him; I love him--love him--love
him! My faithful darling!"

The reproachful looks she cast at Solomon Fewster, no less than the
passionate tenderness of her words, stung him to the soul. In truth he
had received a severe blow. When the Lascar's letter was delivered to
him, and he read the amazing news that Minnie was on board the "Merry
Andrew," he exulted in the triumph that awaited him. "Ellen is mine,"
he thought. "That fool of a whelp has played straight into my hand!"
As such mean souls as Fewster's delight in detecting the meanness of
others, he was rejoiced at the thought that Joshua had been playing
false with Minnie, although, before reading the Lascar's scrawl, he
had no suspicion of it. He walked to Dan's house exultant, and deemed
himself fortunate in being in time to witness the tragic scene in
Basil Kindred's chamber. But when he heard Ellen's declaration that
Joshua was her husband, a groan of despair escaped him, and he became
almost desperate in the sudden and unexpected dashing down of all his
hopes. This feeling lasted but a very little while. His scheming mind
was busy at work calculating the chances for and against him, and rays
of light soon illumined the darkness. "If the Lascar keeps his word,
and Joshua does not return," he thought, "all may yet be well." Even
when Ellen flung at him the words, "I love him--love him--love him!"
he said to himself, "Believing that he will come back to vindicate
himself. We shall see."

Notwithstanding this conflict of thought, his professional instinct
led him to the side of the inanimate form of Basil Kindred. He placed
his ear and hand to the dead man's heart; and then, with heartless
solemnity he lifted the gaunt form in his arms, and laid it on the
bed. Susan's eyes asked him, "Dead?"

"Dead," he answered aloud. "It looks like a sudden stroke."

Dan covered his face; and Ellen shudderingly turned her eyes from
Solomon Fewster.

"It is not my fault," he said, as if Ellen's looks conveyed an
accusation. "Neither this, nor the letter I have received. It would
not have been the act of a friend to keep such a thing to himself:
What would you have thought of me, if you had discovered that I had
received such a letter, and had concealed it?"

"No one accuses you, sir," said Dan sadly. "Indeed how could you be to
blame? These things have come of themselves, and from no fault of
ours. But," and his eyes kindled, and he laid his hand soothingly on
Ellen's head, "we will have no word spoken against Jo. He is dearer to
us absent than present; he is dearer to us now, when Susan's voice
accuses him, and when you come to add your testimony to hers than he
has ever been before."

"I have not come to add my testimony to hers," said Solomon Fewster,
with a well-assumed warmth of manner. "It is no testimony of mine; it
is no accusation of mine. This letter surprised and grieved me almost
as much as it has you."

"May I see the letter, sir?"

"Certainly." He had almost said "with pleasure," but checked himself
in time.

Dan took the letter, which was written an an uneven and dirty piece of
paper, and read aloud:--


"Master,--Joshua Marvel has run away with a young woman that lives in
Daniel Taylor's house--him as trains the birds. They are both of 'em
on board the 'Merry Andrew.' I send this by the pilot, and told him
that you would pay him for putting it into your hands. My faithful
service to you. When I come back, I hope to get what you promised me.

"Aboard the 'Merry Andrew.'"


"There is no name to it," said Dan. "Who sent it?"

"A sailor on the ship," replied Solomon Fewster; "a man who has done
odd jobs for me, and whom I have assisted."

"But how does he know me?"

"Through the birds, and through my telling him of you, I suppose. He
has been in the street often, and knows who live in the house. He is a
faithful honest fellow, and I dare say thought it his duty to tell me
about Miss Kindred, so that I might acquaint her friends."

"'When I come back, I hope to get what you promised me,'" said Dan,
reading from the letter.

"I promised him money if he brought home some foreign birds," answered
Solomon Fewster readily, "such as parrots and cockatoos, and other
likely birds, for you to train for me."

Meanwhile Susan had covered the dead man's face, and sat moaning on
the floor. To her Dan addressed himself, calling her by name; but it
was not until he had repeated it two or three times that her attention
was aroused. She took her hands from before her eyes, and looked at
him vacantly. There was no sign of intelligence in her face as she
spoke; it seemed as if the light of reason had fled, and as if the
words she uttered belonged to a lesson she had learned and was forced
to repeat.

"I promised him faithfully and sacredly--yes; they are the very words;
he made me say them after him, 'Faithfully and sacredly,'--that I
would never tell unless his tongue was sealed, and the time came when
it was necessary to speak. Is the time come?"

"It is, Susan," said Dan, a new fear at his heart; "it is come."

"Is the time come?" she repeated, turning to the motionless form on
the bed, and waiting for the answer in the awful silence that
followed. "I was the only one he trusted. Not a soul but me was to
come into the room; and they didn't--no I kept my promise faithfully
and sacredly. He said to me, 'If I die, and Joshua Marvel has betrayed
my daughter, give this book to Dan, and tell him it contains the words
of a dying man.'" She rose to her feet, and taking a book which was
lying on the desk, gave it to Dan. "Now you can tell him, when he asks
you, that I obeyed him to the last, faithfully and sacredly."

A listening expression flashed into her face, and she inclined her
body to the door. With feverish haste she ran down stairs and into the
street; but returned presently, muttering, "She is not come; there's
no sign of her;" and resumed her station by the side of the bed.


It is night, and Dan is sitting alone in his bedroom. An unopened book
is before him: it is the book that Susan gave him by Basil Kindred's
desire. He has not read a line in it. Between him and Ellen it has
been tacitly agreed that whatever is written in it shall be read, by
them, and by them alone, at night. Another book is also before him: it
is a Bible, and it is open.

Dan is waiting for Ellen. The grief that reigns in the house, and in
that of Mrs. Marvel, cannot be written here. It is too deep, too
overwhelming for expression. Mrs. Marvel is in the house now. All that
she knows is that Basil Kindred is dead, and that Minnie is gone: she
has no knowledge of the terrible suspicion that hangs like a deadly
cloud over the good name of her beloved son. But the news of the death
and the flight: they could not be concealed, although no one is aware
how they became known: has gone forth into the neighborhood; and
little knots of the neighbors have hung about the house all the
evening and night, discussing the strange events. Even now,
notwithstanding that it is near midnight, a dozen street-doors are
open, each with its assemblage of gossippers, chiefly feminine,
prattling, not at all sorrowfully, about the wonderful news. There is
much head-shaking and raising of hands; but whatever may be the
meaning of this play of heads and hands, it certainly does not express
grief. The neighborhood is rather bare of historical events; and those
that have just occurred are godsends. Given to the neighbors round
about the merit of all the kindliness of heart they deserve, they
really enjoy their gossip, and show their enjoyment of it. A stranger
walking through the street might have reasonably supposed that the
dwellers therein had been making general holiday.

Dan's face is very pale as he sits, with no sign of impatience upon
him, expectant of Ellen's coming. The door opens and Mrs. Marvel
enters. She draws down the blind--the moonlight has been streaming in
upon his face, giving it a more painful pallor than that which rests
on it when the moon is shut out--and sits down by his side in silence
for a while. She draws his head upon her breast, and kisses him; his
arm steals round her neck, and he sheds tears, and kisses her in
return; but few words pass between them.

"Susan?" he asks.

"She is in bed, my dear," she answers.

"Has she said any thing?" he asks anxiously.

"She has not spoken, my dear."

He gives a soft sigh of relief. She knows that he is waiting for
Ellen, and she will not linger. She kisses him again in her motherly
way, and bids him goodnight; and soon after Ellen enters the room.

A great change has taken place in Ellen. All the girlishness has gone
out of her face, and in its stead is an expression of quiet
trustfulness in which there is much sadness, but no doubt. It is as
though she is prepared to defend and believe in her husband's honor,
though all the world condemn him. She closes the door gently, and
draws a chair next to Dan. Then those two faithful souls, to each of
whom the bitterest of trials has come, look into each other's eyes,
and are comforted by what they see. They exchange no words of
sympathy; none are needed from one to the other. They make no effort
to conceal their sorrow; it must be borne, and they must suffer. But
for Joshua's sake, and for Minnie's, they must be brave and hopeful.

Does Ellen acknowledge this, and in her heart of hearts is she
disposed to be generous to the unhappy girl who has brought this great
misery upon them? Yes--she feels nothing but pity for Minnie. The
influences which actuate mental feeling are so delicate and various,
that it is difficult even to the most profound of pathognomists to
dissect the commonest of motives, and rightly account for it. We all
pride ourselves, in a greater or less degree, upon our knowledge of
character, and believe that we know full well what prompted So-and-so
to do such-and-such a thing. But in truth, in nothing do we show more
ignorance than in arrogating to ourselves the power of divining
character and motive. Strive as we may be just and calm and
reasonable--strive as we may to banish for the time the small feelings
of uncharitableness which we are conscious of harboring, and which
necessarily warp our judgment--we must from very necessity argue in a
certain measure from our own point of view. Otherwise we should be
infallible, and juries would never return a wrong verdict, and judges
would never commit an error of judgment. Otherwise rogues would have
their due; and some of them would not, as they do now, live in fine
houses, and eat and drink of the best. It is impossible to put
yourself in another man's place.

Most women in Ellen's situation would have thought of Minnie with
inexorable animosity. Not so Ellen. The knowledge that Dan loves
Minnie would alone have been sufficient to disarm harsh or bitter
feeling. But that influence is not necessary. She has the firmest
faith in Joshua's honesty and virtue, and firmly believes that when he
returns home, please God, all will be explained. In the mean time, her
duty is clear. Joshua's good name is at stake. In face of all adverse
circumstance and sentiment, she must uphold it, and defend it if
necessary.

Thus it is that as she and Dan sit looking sadly at each other, Dan is
comforted by what he sees, and she is no less so. Their mutual faith
in the purity of the absent dear ones is inexpressibly consoling to
them. Unconsciously each gives to the other strength to bear the
bitterness of the shock. But when their eyes turn to the book which
they are to read to-night, they hesitate and tremble, What may not
those dumb pages reveal! The place, the time, and all its surrounding
circumstances are solemn and mournful. The presence of Death; the
silence that strikes greater terror than brazen tongue of accusation;
the gloom of the mean apartment, in the corners of which lurk fears
made awful by the black shadow which inwraps them--these things and
their influence impress with a deeper sadness those two young hearts.
What wonder that they hesitate and tremble as they look upon the book
in which the words of their dead friend are recorded? Joshua is on the
sea, and each moment adds to the distance that separates him from his
friends; Minnie is gone also; Basil, alas, is dead; and all that
remains to light the mystery is the dumb witness that lies before
them. But hesitation soon yields to indomitable faith.

"Ellen," says Dan, laying his hand upon the book, "perhaps the worst
of this day's trials is here. Are you prepared for it?"

"Yes, Dan," answers Ellen with a steady light in her eyes.

"Susan's words were very dreadful," continues Dan; "but she does not
know Jo as we know him. Come, we will read what is here written. And
if it accuses your dear husband and my dear friend, our hearts will
defend him. His memory will be dearer to us because he is unjustly
accused; and we will wait hopefully and patiently for his return,
please God, and never, never waver."

And drawing Ellen closer to him, Dan opened the book, and in a subdued
voice read what follows.




CHAPTER XXVI.
BASIL KINDRED'S DIARY.


I make this record for various reasons, the strongest of which is the
conviction that I have not long to live. Although my mind is in a
state of sad confusion, what I write shall be no phantasy of the
brain. I pledge myself to this. And I pledge myself also to throw down
my pen when the suspicion comes upon me that, because of my fears and
my agony, I am writing what is not strictly the fact. If I do not thus
pledge myself, and death comes upon me unaware, this mute witness
might be the cause of bringing undeserved unhappiness to persons whose
conduct towards me has been wonderfully good and noble.

Let me read what I have written. Yes, it is clear, and it gives me the
assurance that, to-day at least, I shall be able to express myself
clearly. I pause over every word. I am careful of the construction of
every sentence. For I must be just. I could not rest in my grave if my
fear spoke instead of my reason.

What is it that immediately prompts me to commence this record? A
letter--signed by no name, delivered by I know not whom. The writing
is strange to me; I have never before seen its like. It lies before me
now, upon my desk.

It is night. I am alone, and Minnie is at Mrs. Marvel's house. Let me
carry back my thoughts to the time when I first made the acquaintance
of the good people with whom I have lived for years--for many happy
years--during which Minnie has grown from a child to a woman.

I had left her at home, poor child! hungry and unhappy. She had asked
me in the morning for food, and I had none to give her, nor any money
to buy it for her. The previous night we had eaten our last piece of
bread. I went out of our little room, telling her I was going to get
food for her. I toiled in the streets all the day, and was not
fortunate enough to receive a penny. My sufferings were great, almost
too great for human endurance, but I was compelled to bear them for
the sake of Minnie. Nothing but the consciousness that, if I went home
without food, my child might die from want, supported me. Late in the
afternoon I was in the streets declaiming, when some boys among the
crowd which surrounded me threw stones at me. One of the stones
wounded me in the forehead, and I think I must have fainted. Two
persons came to my assistance--a woman and a boy. The woman was Susan
Taylor, the boy was Joshua Marvel. They assisted me home, and the next
thing I remember was Susan bathing my wound and making tea for me. The
boy Joshua had brought in some food for us. My gratitude was great,
for his charity had saved my child. I blessed him that night before he
left us.

From that time he was a constant visitor to our wretched lodging, and
from that time I never knew want. I grew to love him. He was to be a
sailor, and it was a pleasure to me to listen to the enthusiastic
outpourings of his mind. He had a friend, Dan, whom I had not then
seen; and the loving manner in which he spoke of that friend, seemed
to me to be an assurance of the goodness of his own heart. He was the
principal subject of conversation between me and my daughter, and she,
dear child! grew to love him too. Before he went to sea, the woman
Susan Taylor--the sister of Joshua's friend Dan--came to live in the
house in which I lodged, and was very kind to us. Joshua went to sea,
and I felt a void in my heart as if I had lost a son. Minnie grieved
as much as I did--perhaps more--for she had never had a companion, and
Joshua's visits were looked upon as a kind of holiday. We consoled
ourselves for our loss by speaking of him often and by looking forward
to his return home. Minnie derived much pleasure from a childish
conceit in which she indulged. She had a shell, and she used to place
it to her ear and listen to the soft singing, to remind her of the sea
and of Joshua, she said. I thought it was a pretty fancy; but had I
feared then what I fear now, I would have crushed the shell to powder
beneath my heel.

Some time after Joshua left, circumstances occurred which caused me to
remove to the house of Joshua's friend Dan. I was loath to do so when
it was first proposed by Susan; but the argument used by Susan, who
was devoted to us, that Minnie would have a companion of a suitable
age in her sister Ellen, prevailed upon me. That was the sole cause of
my removal to the house in which I am now living. I had reason to be
grateful for the change. Minnie, who used to have many unhappy moods,
was happy and cheerful in the society of her new friends. And I was no
less so. I found that Joshua's parents were good simple people whom to
know was to love. A girl could have had no better companion than
Ellen, who is one of the pearls of womanhood. But before them all, I
learned to love Dan. I had never met with so pure a mind, with so
constant a nature. A cripple almost from his birth, it seemed as if
the good God had endued him with the purest thought and the sweetest
disposition to compensate for the misfortune he had met with. He might
truly say, with our great poet, "Sweet are the uses of adversity."

Some happy years passed, during the whole of which Joshua was at sea.
At rare intervals letters from him were received, and the perusal of
these letters gave us all--for we were like one family--the greatest
pleasure. At length he returned. It is not long since--but a few short
weeks--that he arrived home. He was expected, but not so soon. His
coming was eagerly looked for--he was the hero of the two houses. The
night of his return was memorable. It was Christmas-eve, and we were
all assembled in Mrs. Marvel's kitchen, celebrating the blessed time
with joyful, grateful hearts. Minnie persuaded me to read a play. I
chose the "Tempest," that loveliest creation of the poet's mind. She
is not present, but I can see her as she unloosed her hair and stood
before me, bright and bewitching as Ariel could have been. "Do you
love me, master?" she asked. I answered in the words of Prospero,
"Dearly, my delicate Ariel." . . . I resume my pen, which I had laid
aside, thinking that I was being betrayed by my feelings, and that I
was indulging in an exaggeration of sentiment. But no. I have read
over what I have written, and I am satisfied.

I was in the midst of the lovely story when a knock came at the
street-door. Minnie went out of the room to open the door. A silence
followed. Presently a scream struck fear to all our hearts. We ran up
stairs, and found that Joshua, having returned sooner than he was
expected, had been stabbed by a coward's hand when his foot was on the
threshold of his home. The house of joy was turned into a house of
mourning. I have no need to set down here the events of the next few
weeks, that bring me to the present day. Sufficient to say that Joshua
lingered for some time between life and death, and to the joy of all
of us, was declared out of danger three weeks ago. I have been
confined to my chamber with my old complaint nearly the whole of that
time. Susan has attended to me chiefly; for seeing Minnie's anxiety to
assist Mrs. Marvel in her trouble, I have allowed her to be much away
from me. Although Minnie has not spoken of it, I have learned that
she, according to the doctor's statement, saved Joshua's life by
pressing her lips to the wound in his neck and stopping in some
measure the effusion of blood, which might have been fatal to him. It
gave me pleasure to hear this; for no service, purposed or accidental,
could pay for the kindness we have received from the good people with
whom we have lived so happily.

So! I have temperately set down all that has occurred up to the
present, or rather up to four days ago, when I received the letter
which lies before me now. I will not attempt to describe the effect it
had upon me. It seemed to change the current of my blood. If there be
truth in it, is there, can there be, truth in man? Before pinning it
in the book, I copy it word for word:--

"A well-wisher warns Mr. Basil Kindred that Joshua Marvel is playing
false with his daughter. The writer has no purpose to serve in writing
this, and does not wish to be known. The information he gives is given
in kindness. Minnie Kindred loves Joshua Marvel, who takes every
secret opportunity that presents itself to prosecute his bad designs
upon a simple girl. It is right that Mr. Basil Kindred should be made
acquainted with the real character of the hypocrite, who is fair to a
man's face and false behind his back."

With some girls and with some people, the best way to do with such a
letter would be to show it to those concerned. But I dare not do this.
It would bring unhappiness and mistrust among these confiding good
people.

And I fear for Minnie. I fear that the writer, whoever he may be, is
right when he says that my darling child loves Joshua. And I, knowing
her nature, feel that if unhappily she has contracted a love for
Joshua, the discovery of it in this manner would bring misery upon her
for life. No; she must not see the letter--must not have a suspicion
of it.

All Joshua's previous life contradicts the accusation. It was the
simplicity and kindliness of his nature that attracted me to him. If
he is fair to a man's face and false behind his back, he is false to
his friend Dan; and I, knowing Dan's heart, know that there could be
no blacker treachery than that; for I have at times suspected that Dan
loves my Minnie. Yes; I may tell that secret to this mute friend,
although I have never otherwise whispered it. On one particular night
when we were all assembled together, reading a letter from Joshua, and
when Mr. Praiseworthy Meddler was tracing the course of Joshua's ship
upon the map, I detected in Dan's manner something more than a feeling
of friendship for Minnie. Since then, other small evidences have
forced themselves upon me, and I have not been unprepared for the
disclosure of Dan's love. Would it be a good thing for Minnie? Yes; if
she returned his love. Although he is a cripple, she could have no
better mate: he is all that is noble and good, and he would make her
happy, if she could learn to love him.

If she could learn to love him! These words have caused me to think if
Minnie could ever _learn_ to love--have caused me to ask myself if
love is not intuitive to her, as it was to her mother. My anxiety is
deepened by the thought. I am afraid to think further.

Every thing depends upon Joshua. If she loves him, and he encourages
her, he is false to his friend, false to honor. My duty is plain. I
must watch first, and discover if or there be any foundation for the
accusation, if it emanates from spite and vindictiveness.

I close the book and lock it in my desk, for fear other eyes than mine
should see what I have written.

Notwithstanding the bodily pain I have suffered, I have so far
controlled it as to visit Mrs. Marvel's house during the last three
days, and to sit with the young people as if nothing ailed me. I am
beset with doubt. I know not what to think. I have watched every look,
every movement; and I am afraid that my anxiety has caused me to be
uncivil and abrupt. I do not think that any one but Mrs. Marvel has
noticed my anxiety or any change in me; but I have observed her
sometimes look at me questioningly, as if wondering at my changed
manner.

That Minnie has an affection for Joshua is certain: she strives to
prevent it being observed, and I think no one suspects her. If there
is any secret understanding between her and Joshua, I have not
discovered it. He treats her kindly and affectionately, but he is
chiefly attentive to Ellen. But still the letter says that he avails
himself of "every secret opportunity" to see her. If that be true, it
is not likely that he would betray himself in the presence of his
friends. I must act upon the results of my observation. I must
endeavor to keep Minnie from visiting Mrs. Marvel's house so
frequently; it may prevent her feelings from ripening into love. In a
few weeks Joshua will be away, and then all danger will be over for a
time. I am, indeed, loath to believe any wrong of him; he seems to
have preserved the simplicity of character and the goodness of heart
for which I used to admire him.

I am glad I commenced this record; for my thoughts are often very
confused, and my memory is impaired.

Although my uneasiness increases with respect to Minnie, I have heard
good news: Joshua is engaged to be married to Ellen. Do I need any
other proof of Joshua's honesty? It would be monstrous if I did; and
yet I cannot regard him with the old feelings of affection, for Minnie
is unhappy, and he is the cause. One day I accuse myself of injustice
towards him; another day I almost hate him, and curse the circumstance
that made me and Minnie acquainted with him. Would to God that he were
gone! Every hour that he stops is an additional agony to me.

Minnie has been sullen and rebellious because I have sometimes
prevented her from going to Mrs. Marvel's house. She has not always
obeyed me. I must speak more firmly to her; "I must be cruel only to
be kind."


A day of agony. I have not been able to leave my room. Minnie was with
me all the morning: but before she came to me, I had received another
communication, in the same handwriting as the last. It contained but a
few words,--

"The friend who warned Mr. Basil Kindred before, warns him again.
Joshua Marvel is a smooth-tongued villain. In his character of a hero
he is playing false with two simple girls at on time."

Who can this friend be? I have no friends out of these two houses. But
whoever he is, he is right, I fear, as to Minnie, and may be right as
to Joshua--the mere writing of the name gives me pain. The receipt of
the few words I have just copied opened my wounds, and they bled
afresh. I detained Minnie with me all the morning; and when she wanted
to quit the room, I invented pretexts to induce her to remain. She was
not at her ease; I saw that plainly. Once or twice I am afraid that I
spoke harshly to her; but she was painfully submissive--almost humble.
At length she rose, with the intention of leaving the room. I asked
her where she was going. She answered, to see Mrs. Marvel. I grasped
her hand, and bade her resume her seat. She asked me why I did not
wish her to go to Mrs. Marvel's house; and when I said it was because
I thought she troubled the Marvels too much, all the hardness and
obstinacy in her nature came into play, and she answered in a voice
that might have come from lips of stone, that that was not my reason,
and that I was hiding something from her. For the first time I
betrayed myself. I asked her if she was not hiding a secret from me;
and she returned me an evasive reply. She left the room, and I was
about to follow her, when I was seized with a terrible dizziness. My
strength deserted me, and I was afraid I was about to die. The attack
passed away, and left me as weak as a child.

I pause in my recital of the day's events to make two declarations.
The first is, that I am certain, from my sensations this day, that a
sudden shock would be fatal to me; I am afraid that my heart is
diseased. The second is, that if I die suddenly, and Joshua has
betrayed my child, he is my murderer in the sight of God and man--as
much my murderer as if he were to come into the room this moment and
plunge a dagger in my heart!

How awful are these words! As I look at them, they seem to rise in
judgment against me. "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy
neighbor." Am I bearing false witness against Joshua? Am I to be the
cause of bringing unhappiness to friends but for whom Minnie and I
might have perished from hunger? Still do I cling to the hope that
lives in uncertainty. Still do I strive to believe that my fears have
grown without reason, and that they are like the monstrous shadows
that mock us on the walls and ceiling of a room whose only light is a
flickering fire. Above every other consideration, I must be just. If
no eye but mine reads these lines, I shall have done no harm in
writing them. If it should happily result that Minnie's love is not
deeply rooted--if it should happily result that Joshua has not been
tampering with her affections, and that he goes away spotless, as I
would fain believe him to be--let me determine to destroy this record.
It must be done. Determining to do this--willing it with the whole
strength of my mind--I shall be able to do it even before I am
stricken down, if it be fated that I am to die suddenly. Should it be
otherwise--should he prove to be false--this record shall remain as an
evidence of his treacherous heart.

When Minnie left me, and I discovered that I was too feeble to follow
her, I thought, Oh, if I had some one I could trust--some one to help
me! And as I thought, Susan entered the room. In her I confided; to
her I told my fears; and after pledging her sacredly to secrecy, I
showed her the letter I have received. She has promised to watch
Joshua, and she will be faithful. Now I shall know whether I have
cause for fear; now I shall know whether Joshua Marvel is false or
true.


I do not think I shall ever be able to leave my room. It is more than
a week since I wrote in this book: True, I have had nothing to say
until now. Minnie has been tender and affectionate to me; she has been
absent at various times during the day; but when she is with me she is
all that a child should be. I have left her free to come and go,
knowing that Susan was watching that she should come to no harm. I
sometimes think that she is fighting with her soul; for a new-born
sadness has settled upon her face. Yesterday I saw her sitting by the
window, with her hands clasped in her lap, and a deep-seated sorrow in
her eyes. I have seen her mother sit so in the old days long, long
ago--in the old days that seem to belong to another life. I had been
asleep; and when I awoke, I saw Minnie wrestling with her sorrow. I
called to her twice before she heard me; and when she came to my side,
she had the air of one who has been suddenly aroused from a dream.
Darling child, I pray to God to give you strength to bear affliction,
if it comes to you! If any sacrifice that I could make would lessen
your pain, how gladly would I make it!

Last night Susan slept with her, and in her sleep heard her murmur
Joshua's name. It proves that he is in her thoughts; but it proves
nothing more. I hear a step upon the stairs. Goodnight, dumb witness
of my grief!


How shall I commence? All my pulses are throbbing with rage and
apprehension. Proof has come. Joshua Marvel is a damned false-hearted
villain!

I write with pain and difficulty. My heart is beating so violently,
that I am obliged to stop to calm myself, for fear of consequences.
Calm myself! Can I do it? I must. I will lay down my pen, and wait
until I have subdued the tumult of passion which rages within me.

So! I am calmer. It is well that I stopped, or what the doctor warned
me of might have occurred. And I want to live--Oh, how I want to live!

Susan is sitting in the room with me; for I am afraid a being alone,
to-night of all nights. I am glad that I have kept this record; I am
glad that, if I die suddenly, the guilt of an infamous recreant will
be brought to light by means of this evidence.

About noon to-day--I am writing this at night--Minnie brought a doctor
to my bedside. I had steadily refused to see one before; for I knew
what I was suffering from, and I knew that the doctor's art was
powerless to cure me. But I was not displeased that Minnie brought
him; it was her anxiety and love--for she does love me--that caused
her to disobey my wishes. I sent Minnie out of the room, so that I
might speak to the doctor in private. He told me nothing new; as well
as suffering from rheumatism and low fever, I have heart-disease. He
told me what I already knew--that I might die suddenly, without any
other forewarnings than those I have already received. He went away
after uttering the usual platitudes. Late in the afternoon I fell
asleep; and when it was dark, I heard a step in the room; asking who
was there, Joshua's voice answered me. I spoke to him bitterly out of
the bitterness of my heart, and he answered me quietly and feelingly.
He said he had noticed with sorrow that I was changed; that he was not
conscious of having done any wrong. He begged that I would be to him
as I was before he first went to sea, and when I had blessed him. I
could not see his face; but his voice was tremulous with emotion; and
when he appealed to my sense of justice, I softened to him, for I had
no evidence against him but the suspicion which had been created by
the warning letters I had received. I had it first in my mind to tell
him all; but my pride and my consideration for Minnie's feelings
restrained me. Instead of doing that, I resolved to probe him; and,
that my agitation might not betray me, I refused to have a light. We
spoke in the dark. I elicited from him that he was engaged to Ellen,
whom he declared he loved before all the world. Upon that, his hand in
mine, I wished him the happiness that faithful love deserves. When,
after that, Minnie became the subject of conversation, there was a
hesitancy in his manner that aroused my slumbering suspicions. Then I
spoke so plainly to him--though telling him nothing about the
letters--that he could not have misunderstood me. I told him that my
heart was diseased, and that I could not live much longer. I told him
that I was tortured by anxiety for Minnie's future; that she needed
guidance and control; that she knew only one duty--the duty of love;
and that she could scarcely understand that, under certain
circumstances, love may be sinful. I told him that she was changed,
that she was hiding something from me, and that I was afraid some such
love as I had spoken of had come to her. And when I asked him if he
knew or suspected to whom that love was given, he was silent, and did
not answer me. Was not that silence sufficiently damning? I asked him
if he were concealing any thing from me, and he equivocated. What
should he conceal from me? he asked. At that answer I almost gave up
hope; but my child's happiness was at stake, and I persevered. I
resolved to tell him the story of my life, that he might learn how
Minnie's mother sacrificed herself for love; that he might learn what
Minnie's nature, being like her mother's, really was; and to what
extent she would go where her heart was engaged. It was an appeal to
him for mercy. How has he treated that appeal?

I told him the story of my life; I laid bare my heart to him. I lived
over again the agony of my wife's death. I told him that Minnie was
like her mother, without her mother's teaching; that the impulse of
her mind was under the control of the impulse of her heart; that those
who knew it must guide her gently, tenderly; and that if any man
betrayed her, he would have to answer for it at the Judgment-seat.
Could tongue speak more plainly than mine did? Could any man who was
not totally devoid of honor and humanity have listened to my trembling
words unheedingly? I appreciate at its proper worth the code of
morality by which many heartless men are guided; but I never believed
it possible that man could be so base as Joshua has proved himself to
be. Here is a proof of his villainy. Within a few minutes after my
story was ended--within a few minutes after he left my room, crying in
sympathy with me--he was fondling Minnie in the passage below. Susan
can prove it. They were in the dark, and Susan came up from the
kitchen with a lighted candle, and discovered them. Their hands were
in each other's clasp; and when Joshua Marvel saw the light and Susan,
he turned away his head, so that she should not see his face. They
parted on the moment; and Susan, not appearing to notice them, passed
them by, and, faithful woman as she is, came straight to me, and told
me what she had seen.

"Fair to a man's face, and false behind his back"--ay, that he is! But
not for him, for whom my indignation can find no fitting name, do I
care. For Minnie are all my thoughts. How can I act towards her? How
can I warn her? Tell her that he is false! that he is lying to her!
that to listen to him is shame! She would smile at my words; and if
she dared not scorn, would pity the tongue that uttered the calumny. I
must think; must think. In the mean time, she must not be allowed to
go about without being closely watched. Susan will do that for me. It
will not be for long. He will be away soon, thank God; and when he is
gone, I can resolve what to do. Perhaps he may never come back. With
all my heart I pray--No, I dare not pen the words. The thought of
Ellen and Dan, and his gentle mother, stops me. I give them here my
heartfelt thanks, for all their noble kindness to me and Minnie. But
for him--the treacherous son, the false friend, the perjured lover--I
vow never willingly to look upon his face again.

My passion has exhausted me. I turn to the first page of this record,
and I see there the pledge that I would throw down my pen when the
suspicion came upon me that because of my fear and my agony I am
writing what is not strictly the fact. I read over what I have written
this night; and I solemnly declare that every word is true, as I hope
to meet my wife in heaven!

But a few words more. When I return this book to my desk, I shall tell
Susan to place it in Dan's hands, if I die before Minnie is safe. A
step upon the stairs! It is my darling child's!--


Another day of misery has passed, and I have received farther damning
proof that Joshua Marvel is tampering with Minnie's affections. In my
present state of mind, it will be best for me to write down Susan's
statement, word for word. I cannot trust myself. I call her to me, and
bid her relate, without passion, and without prejudice, what she saw
to-day. What follows is from her own lips.


SUSAN'S STATEMENT.


"I noticed this morning that Minnie was more restless than usual.
Whenever I looked at her, she looked at me back again; as much as to
say, what do you mean by staring at me in that way? I couldn't help
thinking that she knew I was watching her and I felt uncomfortable.
But I watched her for all that, as I promised you I would. When she
went out of the room, I made believe that I wanted to go out too. Now
I think of it, she must have gone out of the room on purpose to try
me; because the second time I followed her, she turned upon me in the
passage, and looked at me in such a manner that I was frightened.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock I was in the kitchen, helping to
cook the dinner; and when I came up stairs, Minnie was gone from the
house. I ran round to Mrs. Marvel's, and she wasn't there. Scarcely
knowing what to do, I slipped on my bonnet and shawl, and went into
the streets to look for her. All at once it came into my mind, that if
I should find her anywhere it would be at the docks, where Joshua's
ship was, and where Joshua was working. I ran there as hard as ever I
could, and just at the entrance of the docks I caught sight of Minnie.
I was regularly out of breath, and my only fear now was that she might
see me. So I kept out of the way as much as I could, and followed her
quietly. When she got near the ships she stopped short; and presently
Joshua, who was looking over the side of his ship, as if he was
expecting some one, came down to where she was standing, and began
talking to her. He seemed a little bit uneasy--perhaps, because there
were so many people about, and because, I thought, he didn't want
Minnie to be noticed, for all the workmen and sailors were staring at
her. They went up a plank on to Joshua's ship; and Joshua had his arm
round her waist. They stood by the side of the ship, looking towards
the river, talking together. I never took my eyes off them, and I am
certain--though, of course, I couldn't hear them--that they were
talking of something very particular. All at once I lost sight of
them; they had gone to a part of the ship where I couldn't see them. I
think they must have been out of my sight for nearly a quarter of an
hour; and when they returned, Joshua looked to the place where I was
standing by the side of some large cases, and came off the ship
towards me. I was frightened that he would catch me, and I ran away.
When I was safe, I turned, and saw Joshua and Minnie together coming
from the ship. Minnie walked out of the docks by herself; and I
followed her home, and waited in the street a little before I went
into the house after her. But I no sooner got inside the door, than
Minnie met me in the passage; she hadn't taken her bonnet off. I
didn't seem to notice her; but she came into the kitchen after me.
'Where have you been, Susan?' she asked me, so sudden-like that I was
almost taken off my guard. 'Out for a walk,' I said. 'Have you been to
the docks?' she asked me. 'No,' I said; but I felt my face turning red
as I told the story. I thought she was done with her questions; but
she soon commenced again. 'Are you going out again?' she asked. I
said, No, I wasn't. '_I_ am,' she said; 'I am going out for a walk.'
And she ran up stairs and out of the house. I didn't know what to do;
and I came to you, and you told me not to watch her any more to-day."


It is evident that Minnie is suspicious of Susan, and I know that
Susan is no match for her. Ill as I am, I can see but one thing to
do--I must wait and hope. That the innate goodness and purity of
Minnie's heart will keep her from harm, is my earnest prayer. I will
be, if possible, more tender and loving to her than I have hitherto
been. I dare not speak plainly to her; I believe, if I did, that she
would go away from us, and we should never see her again. If I were
well, it would be different. I should take her from here until Joshua
Marvel had sailed.

What can I say of him? It is clear that Minnie went to the docks by
appointment, and that he expected her. I have appealed to him vainly.
After what passed between us--after the knowledge he has gained that I
am aware of his treachery--he has shown himself, in this clandestine
meeting with Minnie, to be totally devoid of honor. I leave him to his
conscience and to the judgment of his friends. May occasion never come
for them to learn how they are deceived in him!


Two days more have passed. In a week Joshua Marvel's ship sails. I
believe from that moment I shall begin to grow better. Then I shall
make new plans for the future. The future! Alas, my future on earth
will soon come to an end! See how I contradict myself. One moment
saying that I shall begin to get better when Joshua is gone; the next,
that my end must soon come. But 'tis in the nature of such a state of
feeling as mine to be hopeful one minute, and despondent the next. The
best thing for Minnie would be, that she should be impressed and
touched by Dan's love for her--of the existence of which I am sure,
having thought much of Dan's manner towards her--and that she should
consent to marry him. It is not certain that she loves Joshua; after
all, nearly the whole--nay, the whole--of the evidence is
circumstantial. It is but natural that she should have an affection
for him; the nature of the intimacy, his kindness to her and me, the
very circumstances attendant upon his return home, make that a
necessity. Indeed, indeed, it would be most unnatural if an affection
did not exist between them. The mere writing of these words is
comforting to me. I know that they are at variance with much that I
have previously written; but at one time I am writing out of my
despair, at another time out of my hope. I write now out of my hope.
Joshua Marvel will soon be gone, and I am assured that no farther
meeting has taken place between him and Minnie. Minnie's behavior to
me has been most kind. She is growing more and more like her mother
every day. There appears to have arisen in her some consciousness that
my claims to her love are more binding upon her than those of any
other person. I have passed some very happy hours with her.

She said a strange thing to me this morning. "Father, do you think I
should make a good actress?" The question startled me, for it brought
back to me some memories of my past life. Minnie, when a little child,
was often in her mother's arms in the theatre where I happened to be
playing; her mother would be waiting for me perhaps, and would not
leave our little darling alone in the room. Minnie has no definite
remembrance of those times and circumstances, I think; but shadowy
impressions of the scenes she then almost unconsciously witnessed are
stamped upon her mind. Upon this theme I questioned her somewhat
curiously this morning, and found that these experiences had had their
effect upon her, and that she has vague remembrances of beautiful
creatures beautifully dressed, walking in gardens in the midst of
light. Ah, if she were aware of the reality! If she knew what poor
struggling men and women these beautiful creatures were, and what a
mockery were the beautiful dresses and the lovely gardens in which
they lived their artificial lives! But I did not disenchant her. Life
is bitter enough; if a gleam of brightness can be thrown upon it by
the indulgence of a harmless fancy, it is good. In the midst of our
conversation, Minnie suddenly left the room, and in about half an hour
returned completely metamorphosed. She went out of the room a fair
lovely girl, she returned a dark tawny woman, looking at least half a
dozen years older; but still beautiful, very beautiful. I gazed at her
in wonder. By what means had she effected such a marvellous change in
herself? She explained, first asking me if I knew her again. Knew her
again? Could she by any disguise hide herself from my knowledge? But
suppose I had only seen her once in my life, she asked, then did I
think I should have known her again? I did not exactly know how to
answer that, and although she pressed me to give her an answer, I
could not. I was delighted to see her in the new light in which she
presented herself to me; it was almost an assurance that some portion
of my fears was groundless. She explained to me that in the box
containing her clothes were some remnants of the wherewithals I once
used in my profession, such as colors and a few wigs. I had forgotten
them, not having had occasion for them for so long a time. And she
confessed that she had often amused herself with these things. Indeed,
in the middle of her explanation she stooped and hid herself from my
sight, and rose in the wig I used to wear when I played "Hamlet." She
had tucked up her beautiful hair with the skill of an actress, so that
it was completely hidden by the wig; and as she stood before me, I saw
in her some shadowy resemblance of myself as I was in days gone by. I
could not but be delighted with her light humor; it almost entirely
dispelled my fears. Then she took off the wig, and washed the color
out of her face, and sat by my bedside quietly. I am used to her
variable moods, and therefore, although I was sorry to see that her
sportiveness had fled, and that a more serious mood took its place, I
was not surprised. Never in all her life has she shown me such
tenderness as she exhibited towards me this day. "I shall always love
you, father," she said to me, more than once. Dear child! Darling
treasure of my heart! All good angels guard you.


The cup of happiness is dashed from my lips. Something so strange, so
unexpected, has happened, that, simple as it is, I scarcely know how
to set it down, or what to augur from it.

Minnie has gone!

Where--for how long for what purpose--I do not know. She has gone from
her home, from me.

Early this morning, while I was waiting to see her dear face, I was
thinking of something strange that occurred in the night, wondering
whether it formed part of my dreaming fancies or had actually
occurred. It was this:--

The house was very quiet. It was the most solemn part of the night,
when troubled life is most like peaceful death. The healthfulness of
dreamless sleep is denied me, as it is denied to all men whose minds
are harassed. For many weeks I have not enjoyed an hour's repose, and
so confused are the images that pass through my mind when I am alone,
that I am often in doubt whether the scenes in which I am taking part
are real or fanciful. I was in this condition last night at the time
of which I am writing. While I was thinking or dreaming of Minnie and
her mother, I heard a soft footfall in the room. The impression that
some one was in the room was strong upon me, and when I felt a kiss
upon my face, and my pillow being smoothed by a gentle hand, I was
almost convinced that it was Minnie. The presence remained with me for
I know not what length of time; I do not know when I lost it, or when
it departed, but when I called "Minnie!" no voice answered me. When
daylight came, I determined to ask Minnie if it was she who had
entered my room in the night. I waited impatiently for her appearance,
but she did not come. Susan came, and I asked her if Minnie was down
yet; Susan had not seen her. I bade her go and tell Minnie to come to
me; she returned and said that Minnie was not in bed, nor in any part
of the house. As Susan told me this, she came to my bedside, and,
stooping, picked up a paper which must have fallen from beneath my
pillow. There was writing on it--Minnie's writing. It was addressed to
me, and it told me that Minnie had left me, not from any want of love,
but because she was miserable and unhappy. She said said she knew that
she had been watched; that a feeling she could not control had
compelled her to leave for a time; that she would write again or see
me in a few days; and she begged me to believe that no one but herself
was to blame for what she had done. She asked me, too, not to be
anxious as to how she would live, for she had provided for that.

The first thing I did was to desire Susan to lock the door, and on no
account to allow a person to enter the room. For the thought flashed
upon me, that if it were known that Minnie had left her home
clandestinely, her good name would suffer. She had done a foolish
thing--ay, it was a cruel thing to leave me thus; but it was done in
all innocence, I am sure, and in ignorance of the world's judgment
upon such an act. I, her father, must protect her good name; no breath
of slander must be allowed to touch her. Therefore I judged it
imperative that the secret of her departure should be known only to
Susan and me. I gave Susan the letter to read, and when her tears were
dried, my plan was formed. It is well for me that I have such an
attached and faithful friend as Susan. Without her, I should be
helpless indeed. I explained my wishes to her, and she promised to
obey them implicitly--and she will. The Marvels and Dan and Ellen are
to be told that Minnie cannot leave me; that my illness has increased,
and I require her constant attendance. And on no pretence whatever is
any one of them to be allowed to come into the room. The door is to be
always locked, and when Susan goes out of the room, she is to lock the
door and take the key with her. I am afraid that Susan judges Joshua
even more harshly than I do; for she suggested that she should watch
his movements, in the expectation that some clew might be gained. Her
evidence of to-day is all in his favor. She ascertained that he went
this morning direct from home to his ship; that he worked there for
six hours, and that he came home direct to Ellen. No, I cannot
associate him with Minnie's disappearance. I have been thinking as
coherently as I could as to what is most likely the cause of her
leaving home, and the most hopeful conclusion I can arrive at is this:
That Minnie has an attachment for Joshua, which, in the face of his
engagement with Ellen, she feels it is her duty to subdue; that it is
painful to her to be a witness of Ellen's happiness; and that, fearful
lest she should betray her attachment, she has left the neighborhood
until Joshua has gone upon his voyage.

I am re-assured. This conclusion is reasonable as well as hopeful. I
must bear with the misery of her absence--ah, how I miss her beloved
face!--in the hope that my darling will return to me when he is gone,
and that she will regain her peace of mind, and be to me as she has
hitherto been; chastened perhaps, but not entirely unhappy.

Are you thinking of me, Minnie? Can you realize the depth of my love
for you, my dearest? If such a thing exists in the flesh as spiritual
communion with those we love, you will know, darling treasure of my
heart! that my thoughts, my blessings, my prayers are with you now.


In two days Joshua's ship will sail, and then my darling will come
home. The secret of her departure has been well kept. No one knows or
suspects. There is a rare faithfulness in Susan's nature. If she
possessed all the graces of womanhood, she could not be nobler than
she is.

I need all my strength to enable me to bear with Minnie's absence; so
constantly do my thoughts dwell upon her, that at certain times I lose
consciousness of what has taken place, and detect myself listening for
her footstep. At other times I am engrossed by the idea that many
years have passed since I last saw Minnie. When this impression is
upon me, Minnie appears to me not as a woman, but as a child.


Joshua Marvel has gone. Thank God! Now I may expect Minnie to return.
Any moment may bring her to my loving arms again. I am haunted by the
ghosts of footsteps on the stairs. I know afterwards that my fancy has
conjured them up; but if they were real, I could not hear them more
plainly. They are Minnie's footsteps always. I hear them first in the
passage leading from the street--I stop and listen. Softly yet swiftly
they come nearer and nearer to me, till they are outside my door. Then
I say to myself, "She is lingering for a while, thinking of the
happiness I shall feel when she opens the door and runs to my side."
But the long silence that follows tells me that the steps I heard were
created by my fancy, and that I have still to wait for the
accomplishment of my dearest hope.

Before Joshua left, he came to the door, and asked to see me and
Minnie to bid us good-by. His desire to see Minnie was assuring, for
it convinced me that the reasons I assigned for her leaving are
correct, But I would not see him--I could not; for if he came into the
room, he would discover Minnie's absence.

I am thankful to think that may forced seclusion will soon be at an
end. How the minutes lag! Come, Minnie! Come, my darling child!


How shall I be able to endure this agony? It is night; yesterday
morning Joshua Marvel left to go on his voyage, and there is no sign
of Minnie. What can I think? Has any calamity befallen her? Is she
lying sick, helpless anywhere, and must I remain here, gnawing my
heart away with the knowledge that I am powerless to help her? O God,
who only witnesseth my sufferings, send my darling home to me
to-night! If in my life I have erred, and deserve punishment--if the
injunction I laid upon the woman who loved me, and whom I loved with
all my strength, was a crime, and if I am to suffer for the misery of
her wedded life, being the cause of it--deal with me as thou wilt; but
let me look once more upon the face of my darling!


The third day. My life is being tortured away. I believe that I shall
die before seeing Minnie. The prescience of death is upon me. Every
few minutes Susan runs into the street to see if Minnie is coming; but
there is no sign of her. The slightest sound in the house causes my
heart to beat so violently that I am afraid. I try to think, but I
cannot; I can only fear. These few words have taken me long to write.
I cannot read what I have previously written. I have tried to do so,
but the words swim before my eyes. I can write no more to-day.


With a despairing mind I trace these words slowly and painfully. They
are powerless to express my feelings.

Death is near. I know it. Not by physical pain am I warned, but I know
it. I saw my wife last night. She stood by my side for full an hour.
It is a sign that my hour is come.

Susan is below, looking for Minnie, perhaps--looking for Minnie, who
will never, never come. . . .

I take up my pen again. What lies before me? A letter. Susan brought
it up a while ago, and gave it to me. But when I saw the writing on
the cover, I had not courage to open it, so I placed it in the desk.
It is addressed to me in Minnie's writing. And on the cover are these
words: "The 'Merry Andrew;' John Steele, pilot." The letter, then,
comes from the "Merry Andrew," and is in Minnie's writing. What
follows? That Minnie is on board the "Merry Andrew" with Joshua
Marvel! I must read it--I _must_, if it strike me dead!


That was all that was written. Dan read every word of the manuscript
aloud, but was compelled by emotion to pause many times. During the
silence that followed, one thought rose uppermost in their minds.
Ellen thought, "How will Dan bear this?" And Dan had the same thought
with respect to Ellen. Is such noble unselfishness rare? Let us hope
not. For the first and only time in the course of this narrative, the
writer pauses to speak of a personal experience of devotion and
unselfishness. It was before him during his boyhood in the person of
his mother; and it is to her, and to the patient, unmurmuring
gentleness with which she bore the trials of her life, that her
children owe whatever little of good there may be in their nature. It
is from his experience of his mother's life of goodness and
self-sacrifice that he knows that the noble unselfishness of Dan and
Ellen is not, thank God, a creation of his fancy. And as he writes
these words in the midst of a great city, with all the whirl of its
busy life around him, he is glad to think that in it--in great
mansions and mean houses, in sight of gardens where Nature makes
holiday, and of dirty streets and courts where bright leaf never
grows--flowers of human life which the world shall never see are
blossoming tenderly and holily, and living gentle lives for others'
good.

For a long time no word was spoken by Ellen and Dan. Then Dan turned
and looked in Ellen's face. She met his gaze pityingly, almost
appealingly. He answered her with a sad smile, in which there was much
sweetness.

"You were the first to guess my love for Minnie," he said; "and only
to Jo did I ever confess it. But do not fret for me, my dear; she can
never be to me what I was daring enough to hope she would be one day.
My love for her is not less strong, but my hope is buried now."

She could say nothing but "Oh, my poor Dan! Oh, my poor Dan!"

"Nay, why?" he answered in his gentle voice; "what could I have
offered her? What right had I, a cripple, to entertain the hope? I
dared to hope that she, bright, strong, and full of healthful life,
would tie herself to a weak, sickly thing like me. I dared to hope
that she would love me. I fed my heart upon delusions; I can see it
now, But I can love her still--can believe in her still--shall have
faith in her purity as long as my heart shall beat, and after
that--ay, who knows?" He paused for a little while before he resumed:
"What you and I have in our thoughts, my dear, we must speak of; in
that lies our only consolation. And we must not shrink from it; for
our duty, no less than our love, demands it."

And yet she did shrink, fearing what was coming.

"What wonder that she should love Joshua?" continued Dan,
unflinchingly determined to look the truth in the face, and not to
spare himself; although as he spoke his quivering lips and tremulous
voice betrayed his agitation. "We who know how good and brave he is
are able to understand that she could not help loving him. But he--no,
he played no false part by her." He placed his hand upon the Bible,
and the action gave a deeper solemnity to the declaration. "Some
suspicion he may have entertained that her feelings towards him were
warmer than they ought to have been; and I well know the grief such
suspicion brought to him. But he could not mention it--he dared not
speak of it for Minnie's sake--for mine. I can trace a meaning now in
the last words he said to me. 'You do not doubt me, Dan?' he asked. I
answered, 'No, nor never could.' And then he said he should not have
asked, but that certain things had distressed him lately. Poor Jo!
Yes, he must have guessed Minnie's secret, and, knowing my love for
her, trembled lest I should turn against him. Turn against him! my
best, my dearest friend! When I do, it will be time for me to die.
Believe that I never wavered in my love or my truth, and that to the
last I held you in my heart as I hold you now, gentlest, dearest, best
of friends!"

Unconsciously he had uttered the very words which Joshua addressed to
him, and he spoke them as if Joshua were standing before him.

"As for what we have read to-night, we, and we alone, can rightly
understand it. He who wrote it in his agony knows now that Joshua's
heart is as pure as Minnie's honor."

"Those strange letters poor Minnie's father received," whispered
Ellen; "who wrote them?"

"Who stabbed Jo when he came home?" asked Dan in reply. "Whoever did
that wrote the letters. Jo has an enemy." Then, with a sudden
remembrance of Joshua's warning against Solomon Fewster, he cried in a
louder tone than he had hitherto used, "Mr. Fewster!" With eager
impatience he turned over the pages of Basil Kindred's diary, and
lighted upon the original letters. They were pinned on blank pages at
the end of the diary, and were written on soiled sheets of blue
letter-paper. "No," said Dan, examining them; "the writing is strange
to me. We must wait until Jo comes back; all will be explained then."

The candle had burnt low in the socket by this time, and Dan had just
said, "I think we had better try to sleep for a little while, Ellen,"
when they heard sounds of some one walking softly about the house.

"There is no one here but Susan," said Ellen in a tone of quiet
surprise.

"No one but"--said Dan, and then paused, awestruck by the thought of
that only other one in the house, who lay stark and dead in the room
above.

They listened to Susan's footsteps, and a new fear entered their
hearts. There was a soft stealthiness in the footfall, as if Susan
were hunting for some one who was hiding from her.

"Shall I go and see?" asked Ellen.

"Hush!" whispered Dan.

Susan's footsteps, soft and stealthy as those of a cat, were in the
passage. Presently the door was opened cautiously, and Susan entered,
and softly closed the door behind her. She did not notice either Dan
or Ellen, but looked about the room inquiringly, then went to the
window and pulled up the blind. The moon was high in the heavens, and
the light streamed down upon her face, making it ghastly.

"Susan!" cried Dan.

But she did not heed him; she peered anxiously through the window into
the street, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Is she asleep?" whispered Ellen.

"I don't know," said Dan in a troubled voice; "it is dreadful to see
her with that expression on her face."

It was an expression of suppressed watchfulness; that her
firmly-compressed lips and wandering eyes were at variance might have
been due to the peculiar circumstances of her life; but in the cunning
and revengeful determination in her face there was no sign of
indecision. It was as though she had staked her life on the
accomplishment of a task.

As she turned from the window and approached Dan, he seized her hand.
"Susan," he said, gently, "speak to me, my dear. What is the meaning
of this?"

She laid her hand upon his head, and said, "Poor Dan! And you loved
her, and she is lost to you."

"Not lost, Susey," he said, detaining her hand and humoring her, for
he was afraid that her reason was gone; "not lost. She will come
back."

"She will never come back--never, never! When she hears that _he_ is
dead--he is lying dead up stairs, Dan--she will never come back; she
will drown herself first; for she loved him, and me too; and would
have loved you, Dan, but for that false-hearted friend.

"You must not say that, Susey," said Dan, pointing to Ellen, who had
turned aside weeping. "Look at Ellen. He is her husband, and he is not
false-hearted. For her sake you must have kinder, juster thoughts
towards Jo."

But Susan did not catch the sense of his words. All that she
understood was, that he was speaking in defence of Joshua.

"All in his favor," she muttered. "If any one is to blame, it is
Minnie--that's what all of you will say. But I know better; I know
better. Didn't I watch them? Didn't I see him making love to her on
the ship? Didn't I see the poor dear that's lying dead up stairs
tortured slowly to death? And don't I know who killed him?"

"Who, Susan, who?" asked Dan, holding his breath.

"Joshua Marvel," said Susan, between her set teeth, with no change
upon her face. "And as God's my judge, I will bring him to justice!
You are his friends--I know that: you'll try to hide him from me; but
I'll do what I've made up my mind to, if I drop down dead the minute
after."

She twisted her hand from Dan's grasp, and crept slowly into the
passage, and thence into the street. And there she stood for many
minutes, with the same expression of implacable animosity on her face,
waiting for the return of Basil Kindred's murderer.




CHAPTER XXVII.
WHAT THE NEIGHBORS THINK OF IT.


The events that have been described, proved to be something more than
a nine-days' wonder. The neighborhood was remarkably bare of exciting
incidents, and nothing so stirring as the sudden death of Basil
Kindred and the flight of Minnie had happened within the memory of the
oldest inhabitant. Besides that, there was one element in the
occurrences which, above all others, added zest and flavor to
them--this was the element of mystery. Here was a family, which might
be looked upon as the most respected family in the neighborhood; for
there was no question about the position held by the Marvels. Every
one of the neighbors liked them, and every one of the neighbors had a
good word for them. They had lived in the neighborhood--they and their
fathers and grandfathers before them--for many scores of years, and no
shadow of reproach had ever rested upon a single member of the family.
They had always been steady, industrious, and sober, and had been held
up as examples, time out of mind, by wives to their husbands, and
parents to their children. They were homely, hospitable, and sociable,
and, although they might very well have done it, had never held their
heads above their fellows. If any male acquaintance wanted a word of
advice, he went to Mr. Marvel for it; and the advice received was
generally found to be sound, and was always admitted to be good. If
any one was sick, Mrs. Marvel always came forward to help and assist,
in her small way, and was always ready to sit up of a night if it were
necessary, and to do some portion of the household work if it were
needed. And what she did was done so unostentatiously and quietly
that it never left a sting behind it, and never--strange as it may
sound--elicited any thing but gratitude. Joshua was a model of a son,
and the neighbors had been proud of him. Take them for all in all, the
Marvels were a credit to the locality. And yet, as you shall presently
see, notwithstanding their irreproachable character, notwithstanding
the credit in which they were held, notwithstanding that they were
famous for all the virtues under the sun, a very remarkable change was
to take place in the estimation in which they were held.

Then as to the Taylors. There had been many transitions of feeling
regarding them when the parents were alive. They had not been a credit
to the neighborhood. The meek uncomplaining life which Mrs. Taylor had
led had been entirely lost sight of in the drunken dissolute habits of
the head of the family. Perhaps it was because of this bad conduct on
the part of Mr. Taylor that the virtues of the good wife had not been
taken into account; and the fact remained, that it was not until after
Mr. Taylor's death--the manner of which was disgraceful, and left a
blot upon the family name--that any strong affection was mingled with
the pity with which Dan and Ellen were regarded. There were so many
singular circumstances connected with the family history. First, there
was Susan letting Dan fall out of the window when he was a baby and
breaking his legs. Many of the neighbors, with young families of their
own, remembered the time when they were boys and girls, and when Susan
was twitted and jeered at for being Dan's murderer. Then Susan's
strange manner and slovenly dress--not it must be admitted, that her
slovenliness had very much to do with the feeling,--had not rendered
her a favorite; and she was often spoken of as being soft and not
quite right in her mind.

Then came that part of Mr. Taylor's career when (it having been
whispered about that he had been the death of his wife) he fell into
deeper and deeper dissipation, and when he was to be seen regularly
every night tumbling out of the public-house, and reeling home in a
state of intoxication. It is surprising how hard many wives, whose
husbands were not quite free from the reproach of over-indulgence,
were upon the failings of Mr. Taylor. He was a "drunken beast," a
"disgrace to the street," and so forth. And yet, as you have seen,
they were proud of the beautiful friendship that existed between Dan
and Joshua, and appreciated the good conduct of Ellen from the time
that she was big enough--she was young enough, Heaven knows, when her
duties commenced--to assist in the cleaning and washing. But the
father's drunken habits stained the family reputation, and not all the
washing and wringing could wash it clean at that time. Then came the
shameful death of the drunkard. From the date of that occurrence, the
position of the family began to improve, and the engagement of Ellen
and Joshua lifted them up still further in the estimation of their
neighbors.

Lastly, there were Basil Kindred and Minnie. Neither of them had ever
been favorites out of their own small circle. Basil Kindred had held
his head above them, and Minnie was too much of a lady for "such poor
folks as us." All the grown-up girls disliked her because she was
superior to them, and because she did not associate with them.
Therefore neither father nor daughter obtained sympathy, and there was
very little pity expressed for Basil's death. As for Minnie, she was
generally condemned. The neighbors in speaking of her and her flight
said, "she was always a forward thing;" and some even went so far as
to call her a "stuck-up slut." They never expected any thing better of
her, not they.

The mystery was, how it all became known; for it was known, every
detail of it, the day following that on which Basil Kindred had died.
Every person, for about a dozen streets round about, knew all the
particulars almost as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Marvel were made acquainted
with them--knew that Minnie had run away, knew that she was in Joshua
Marvel's ship, knew that the intelligence of the flight had caused her
father's death. Then they began to be wise in their generation, after
the usual manner of human herds, and before nightfall of the second
day it was recognized as an established fact, that it had been a
cunningly-planned plot from first to last, and that Joshua and Minnie
had run away together.

There is no accounting for these revulsions of feeling, and it is
perhaps best not to attempt to analyze them. So much small malice and
miserable uncharitableness would be brought to light, that we should
be ashamed of the exposure--being liable to such influences ourselves.
Joshua's character had hitherto been irreproachable; he had been
almost loved by many, and liked and admired by all. Suddenly he is
tainted by suspicion, and by suspicion only. There is not a tittle of
direct evidence against him. But the suspicion is enough; directly it
is whispered, it swells and grows, like the cloud which is at first
"no bigger than a man's hand," and Joshua's good name is wrecked in
the storm that follows.

The additional grief that this general verdict inflicted upon Joshua's
parents may easily be imagined. They had to learn that "slander's edge
is sharper than the sword," and that though their dear son were
"chaste as ice and pure as snow, he should not escape calumny." But
they did not receive these lessons meekly. They fought and protested
against them with all the strength of their loving souls. They might
as well have tried to stop a fierce wind with the palms of their
hands.

One of their bitterest experiences was the knowledge that there was a
difference of sentiment between them. They did not all believe alike.
All of them, except Susan, believed alike in the innocence and purity
of Joshua; but not so with respect to Minnie. The mercy that Dan and
Ellen accorded to her was denied to her by Mr. and Mrs. Marvel.
Neither of them thought well of her; and although Mrs. Marvel's
verdict was less harsh than that of her husband, she too, gentle and
forgiving as was her nature, could not forgive and hold dear the
unhappy girl who had brought this great misery upon them. What Minnie
had done was nothing less than a crime in the eyes of the good mother
and good woman.

But Minnie had one champion--Susan. It was generally reported, a few
days after the tragic occurrence, that Susan had gone mad because of
Basil Kindred's death; and a whisper went about, that, mad as she was,
she was fixed to the one idea of bringing Joshua to justice. Susan's
madness, if madness it was, took a very mild form. She did not speak
upon the subject, but she believed thoroughly in Minnie's innocence
and Joshua's guilt; and she was ever on the watch to bring that false
friend to justice. She was always peering about her and hunting for
Joshua. She contracted a strange habit of suspecting that he was
biding in the place she last left, and when she went out of the house,
returned, after going a few paces, to see if the man she was waiting
for was in the passage. If she opened a gate and shut it behind her,
she walked back to it and looked about her, expectant. Never a night
passed but she rose from her bed and went into the street, waiting for
Joshua; in the dead of night, when all others were asleep, she would
sit at her window and look into the street, waiting patiently. When
they discovered this habit at home, they tried to break her of it; but
their efforts were unavailing. By and by, this proceeding began to be
exceedingly popular in the neighborhood, and popular opinion veered
round to Susan's view; Minnie was not so thoroughly condemned, and the
blame was entirely laid on Joshua's shoulders. And when the neighbors
openly expressed their sympathy to Mr. Marvel because Joshua had
"turned out bad," he resented it angrily in his dogmatic obstinate
way, until he began to quarrel with them. He was so indignant, so
hurt, so unhappy, that he refused to speak to his old acquaintances,
and gradually they fell off from him, and a coldness sprang up which
made his life a misery. Still, he and all that were bound to him
cherished the hope that when Joshua came home all would be cleared up.
But Mr. Marvel made up his mind that he would never forgive his
neighbors for their suspicions. Months passed, and the estrangement
between him and his acquaintances grew stronger; his home, too, was
not a happy one. He grew morose and ill-tempered, and would not speak
to his wife upon the subject of Joshua and Minnie; and when she found
that he was determined upon this point, she wisely forbore to press
him, knowing his nature.

Before the advent of another spring, Ellen became a mother. Her
situation had been concealed from all but Dan and Mrs. Marvel; even
Mr. Marvel did not know it until the child was born. It was a girl;
and when the news was buzzed about the neighborhood, Joshua and Minnie
started again into a notoriety which had been on the wane. Again the
busybodies were at work, and again the busy tongues wagged more
volubly than before. It was a matter for resentment with the neighbors
that they had not been made acquainted with Ellen's situation; it was
depriving them of a legitimate privilege. But Ellen and her two
confidants had kept the secret well; and now the young mother nursed
her child in privacy, and seemed only anxious to keep it from prying
and unsympathizing eyes. No news had been received of Joshua or of his
ship; and although Mr. Marvel went every other day to the London
agents of the "Merry Andrew," they had nothing to tell him. Now that
the child was born, their anxiety for news of Joshua increased. But
still they received none. Weeks passed, months passed, until the
suspense became almost maddening. Ellen nursed the baby, and rejoiced
that the pretty little thing had Joshua's eyes, and yearned for Joshua
to see them. Mr. Marvel looked more angrily upon his old
acquaintances, who were ready to quarrel with him afresh for his sour
looks. Mrs. Marvel suffered in patience, and strove by assumed
cheerfulness to lighten the loads the others had to bear. Susan waited
and watched. And Dan waited and hoped--When there came a time!--

Ellen was in Mrs. Marvel's kitchen; her baby was in her lap, and she
was gazing at and worshipping, for the thousandth thousandth time, the
baby's beautiful eyes, and beautiful fingers and nails, and the round
cheeks, and the pretty mouth and chin, so like Joshua's. It was
evening, and Mr. Marvel was expected home every minute, with news
from the agents about Joshua's ship. Ellen began singing this to
baby--singing in a low soft voice how father would soon come from over
the seas to see his own little darling--his dear darling precious; and
she was in the midst of this, enriching the theme with twenty
different forms of endearing expression, when Mr. Marvel staggered
into the kitchen. There was a wild look in his face, and his hands
were trembling. He was drunk.

"O father!" cried Ellen.

"Where's mother?" he asked in a husky voice. "Where's mother?" he
repeated in a louder tone.

His wife answered the question by coming into the kitchen. She had
seen him reel into the house, and had followed him at once. She knew
he had been drinking, but she did not reproach him. He saw in her face
the knowledge and the forbearance, and he said,--

"Yes, I've been drinking; I was bound to. O mother, mother! how shall
I tell you?"

Her lips framed some words, but she could not utter them. She sank
into a chair and gazed at him with blanched cheek, with quivering
lips, with blurred eyes.

Hush, baby, hush! you have never seen your father's face, and you do
not understand now what one day will be told you--what George Marvel
has had to drink brandy to give him courage to tell his faithful
wife--

That the good ship, the "Merry Andrew," has foundered, and that every
soul on board, Joshua and Minnie included, has gone down to the bottom
of the sea. Not one saved--not one.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
ON BOARD THE "MERRY ANDREW."


While the "Merry Andrew" was lying at Blackwell taking in cargo, Capt.
Liddle, like the shrewd captain he was, had caused it to be notified
that he would be happy to take a certain number of passengers to the
New World at fifty pounds per head. It happened, as it usually happens
in such like cases, that just at that time the exact number of persons
that the ship could accommodate found either that Great Britain was
too crowded for them to move freely in, or that at length the hour had
arrived for them to make a fresh start in life. The captain of the
"Merry Andrew" offered them the necessary opportunity. His ship would
take them to a country where they would be able to turn without being
elbowed. And there was no doubt that the start they contemplated would
be a fresh one, inasmuch as in the new land their heads would be where
their feet were now, and night was day and day night, and cherries
grew with their stones outside, and many other wonders were
commonplaces of every-day life. Accordingly, these enterprising souls,
much to Capt. Liddle's satisfaction, paid their fifty pounds per head
for four months of quiet misery on the sea. By that stroke of business
Capt. Liddle served two purposes. He put money in his pocket as chief
owner of the vessel, and he provided society for his wife, who was to
accompany him on the voyage. Mrs. Liddle was a cheerful little body,
who, although she was thirty years of age, had as much sentiment as a
tender-hearted miss of eighteen. Her engagement with Capt. Liddle had
been a long one. It was now more than twelve years since she first saw
him and fell in love with him, as he did with her; but she happened to
be blessed in a father who entertained not uncommon ideas as to the
value of money, and as to the difference it made in a man, especially
in a man who presumed to fall in love with his daughter. At that time
Capt. Liddle was only second mate, and his matrimonial overtures were
pooh-poohed by Capt. Prue, which was the name and title of his wife's
father; Bessie Prue was hers. Capt. Prue (retired from the service)
declared that he loved sailors and loved the sea, and that nothing
would please him better than that his Bessie should marry a sailor.
But then, that sailor must be a captain, he declared, and that captain
must be absolute owner of the ship he commanded. Having passed the
principal part of his life on sea, in a position where his word was
law, he was, as most old sea-captains are, intolerant of opposition.
Having given the word, he would not depart from it. Consequently,
second-mate Liddle found that all his arguments and rhapsodies were as
wind--a fluid which is much more useful at sea than on land, however
it is produced. Bessie, as it proved, possessed a goodly share of her
old father's determination of character. Having fallen in love with
second-mate Liddle, and having determined to marry him or die an old
maid, she informed her lover that if he would be faithful to her, she
would be faithful to him--a form of declaration which has been very
popular from time immemorial. The pledge being sealed by the
infatuated ones in the usual manner--that is, with much protestation,
with much unnecessary solemnity, (as if they were doomed to execution,
and were to be beheaded within a few hours), with many kisses and
tender embracings--Bessie went to her father and apprised him,
melodramatically, of her determination.

"You wouldn't marry without my consent?" was the obstinate old
captain's question, after a little consideration. They were absurdly
happy, these two determined persons. Bessie was the apple of his eye,
the pride of his heart; she had not a wish, except the wish
matrimonial, that he would not have made any sacrifice to satisfy.
"You wouldn't marry without my consent, my pretty?" he repeated
anxiously, for she did not answer his question immediately.

"I won't, on one condition," replied Bessie categorically; "and that
is, that you won't ask me or wish me, or try to persuade me to marry
anybody but John Liddle; for I love him with all my heart, and I
wouldn't give him up--no, not to be made Lord High Admiral."

"I give you my promise, my pretty," said Capt. Prue, secretly admiring
his daughter's determination, and loving her the more for it; "I'll
never ask you, nor wish you, nor try to persuade you to marry anybody
but John Liddle."

It may be guessed how willingly the old sea-captain gave the pledge,
when it is known that he looked forward with absolute dread to the
time when Bessie might be taken from him to another home. He would
give her any thing, help her to anything but a husband. What right had
any body else to her? Why, the ship would go on the rocks without her
"And when John Liddle is skipper and owns a ship," he added, "I'll
give my consent free and willing." In which last words Capt. Prue was
not quite ingenuous. But the compact was made and adhered to.
Second-mate Liddle was informed of it, and was compelled to abide by it.
He trusted to chance, as many other men, not lovers, have done before
him; and he derived consolation from the thought, that when Capt. Prue
and Bessie pledged their word, it would need something very
extraordinary and unlooked-for to induce them to break it. He rose
from second mate to first mate, from first mate to skipper; and when
he returned from his voyages, he found Bessie faithful and true, and
received a hearty welcome from her father. And during these long and
many years of probation, he learned to love his true-hearted little
woman more deeply than he had done at first; she taught him to
understand what love really was; she taught him the true beauty of it,
the holiness of it--that it was something more than a sentiment,
something higher than a passion; she taught him to understand that it
was a sacrament.

It seems fated for this story, that its narration should necessitate,
for the most part, the depicting of the higher virtues, and what is
most noble and self-sacrificing in our natures. But it should be none
the less acceptable because of that.

A short time after Bessie's lover became skipper, a relative of his
died, and left him some money. Directly he came into possession of it,
he bought a share in the "Merry Andrew." Bessie was then twenty-six
years of age, as pretty as ever, and as fresh at heart as ever. One
would have thought that her father would have spoken to her of his own
accord, there and then, and that he would have given her the reward of
her faithfulness and devotion. But the truth must be told; he was a
selfish old curmudgeon, and he trembled at the thought of losing her.
So once more Capt. Liddle sailed away from his lady-love on the voyage
in which our Joshua commenced his apprenticeship at sea. The "Merry
Andrew" was away, as you know, for more than four years; and when it
returned, and Capt. Liddle went to see his Bessie, he found her in
mourning. Her father was dead. Before he died he had made her the only
reparation in his power. The last codicil to his will, written a few
weeks before his death, contained expressions of his love for her, his
admiration of her lover, his consent to their marriage, and his regret
that he had not consented to it years ago. But it is so easy to regret
_after_ a thing has occurred which we might have prevented or
remedied. I have not yet made up my mind as to the value of deathbed
repentance. Neither am I satisfied that we may sin properly for six
days in the week, in a comfortable knowledge that we can evade the
penalty by crying, "I have sinned!" on the sabbath.

However, the departed Captain Prue had been in all other respects a
kind and tender father, and no word of reproach passed the lips of
Bessie and John Liddle. They were not too old for the enjoyment of
life's blessings. Two months before the present sailing of the "Merry
Andrew" they were married; and it is not to be doubted that the
circumstances of their engagement promised them a lasting happiness.

Mrs. Liddle had a maid, a beautiful brown-complexioned girl, whose
appearance might have suggested some suspicion of a gypsy breed, had
it not been for her manners, which showed a refinement no gypsy-girl
could have acquired in her vagrant life, and for her eyes, which were
gray despite their brightness. The circumstances of her becoming Mrs.
Liddle's maid were somewhat peculiar. She had presented herself to
that lady a few days before the "Merry Andrew" sailed, and stating
that she had heard by accident that Mrs. Liddle wanted a maid to
accompany her on the voyage, asked to be engaged in that capacity.
There was something so winsome about the girl, that Mrs. Liddle--who
had not succeeded in engaging a maid willing to brave the terrors of a
sea-voyage--was at once attracted to her, and lent a sympathizing ear
to her story of being alone in the world and without friends. Perhaps
it was Mrs. Liddle's romantic happiness that caused her to be less
prudent than usual; but certain it is that the girl was engaged, and,
setting about her duties at once, proved so apt and attentive, that
Mrs. Liddle congratulated herself upon her decision. Captain Liddle
did not interfere in the matter; but when he first saw the girl her
face seemed familiar to him, and he glanced at her more than once,
wondering where he had met her. But he could not settle the doubt, and
the matter was not of sufficient importance to permanently engage his
attention. Thus it was that Minnie succeeded in obtaining a passage in
the "Merry Andrew," and in being near to the man who was dearer to her
than all other earthly considerations. She was not influenced by any
dishonoring passion; she simply desired not to be parted from the man
she loved. She did not want him to see her or speak to her--at least,
so she thought at that time; it was sufficient for her to know that
she was in the same ship with him, and that she would perhaps now and
again catch a glimpse of her hero, without his knowing that she was
by. When she first made up her mind to leave her home, she did not
pause to consider what would be the consequences of her rash act. She
was unhappy there and utterly miserable; everybody was against her;
and when she discovered, as she did discover, that Susan was playing
the spy upon her, she became defiant and more resolved. She loved her
father and honored him; but she loved Joshua with all the passion of
her passionate nature, and in her mistaken sense of right and wrong,
the stronger love usurped the place of duty, and made her oblivious of
all else. She was blinded by love, and by love in which there was not
a shade of impure passion.

She had had at first a wild idea of dressing herself in sailor's
clothes, and had saved a few shillings towards the purchasing of them;
but her success with Mrs. Liddle set that aside. When she went on to
the ship with her mistress, she was careful that Joshua should not see
her; but indeed, if they had met face to face at that time, it is not
likely that he would have recognized her in her disguise; for his
thoughts were with Ellen, and his heart was too full as yet to be
curious about the passengers. But the Lascar saw her, and was puzzled
about her directly he set eyes upon her face. He watched her like a
cat, and yet he could not make up his mind about her. He had seen her
often in Stepney, but he could scarcely believe that the fair girl
with the beautiful hair and this dark gypsy with the short curls were
one and the same. He knew her name and all about her from Solomon
Fewster, and he was quite ready to believe in the villainy of Joshua.
Resolved to make sure of the value of his suspicions, he contrived to
pass close by her as she was taking some bandboxes down stairs to the
saloon, and as he passed her, he muttered the name of "Minnie
Kindred." A start, a frightened look over her shoulders, and the
dropping of the bandboxes down the stairs, were sufficient
confirmation of his doubts; and before the pilot left the ship he gave
him a scrawl for Solomon Fewster to the effect that Joshua and Minnie
had run away together. He was cautious enough also to send upon
another piece of paper a private scrawl to Solomon Fewster, saying he
was not quite sure, but that Fewster would know how to act if Minnie
were missing from home.

But when the Lascar next saw Minnie's face, which was not until the
"Merry Andrew" was a thousand miles the other side of the Bay of
Biscay, his doubts returned, and he thought that, after all, he must
have been mistaken. He did not know the cunning of Minnie. In the
startled glance she had thrown over her shoulder when her name was
pronounced, she had marked the Lascar's face, so that she was sure she
would know it again; and when, after the lapse of weeks, she detected
him gazing at at her, she looked at him so boldly and contemptuously
that he drooped his eyes before her. What added to his perplexity was,
that he never saw Joshua speak to her, never saw him look at her. When
she came on deck, which she did very rarely, and never unless her duty
to her mistress called her there, she was careful not to give Joshua
an opportunity of speaking to her or of looking closely at her; and
he, detecting in her manner a wish to avoid any little attention he
might have it in his mind to offer her, did not trouble himself even
by giving her a thought. She was as distant and reserved to all the
officers; and in a little while it began to be understood, that the
handsome gypsy-maid did not wish to be spoken to by any one on board
but her mistress; and her wish was scrupulously respected.

To readers who are not well acquainted with ship-life, it may seem
strange that Minnie should have been able to keep herself so free from
observation; but there really can be--and there often is--as much
exclusiveness on board a passenger-ship as there is in society on
land. You may live in a ship for months, and travel for thousands upon
thousands of miles over the seemingly interminable waste of waters,
without having any more personal knowledge of those who sleep within a
few yards of you than you would have of them if you and they were
living at the extreme ends of a great city. When the long, long voyage
is at an end, and the ship is being piloted into the bay that skirts
the land of Pisgah, men and women whom you do not remember ever to
have seen before appear magically on deck; and you wonder where they
come from, and how it is you have not set eyes on them during all the
time that you and they have been living in the wonderful house of wood
and iron that has brought you safely over the raging seas.

Joshua knew the Lascar directly he saw him on board, and was not
pleased to find that he was one of the crew. But the man did his duty,
and worked as well and apparently as willingly as the other sailors;
and as he was uniformly respectful, Joshua could not, even if he had
been so inclined, treat him harshly with any sense of justice.

And so the "Merry Andrew," containing within its wooden walls its load
of human love and hate, cleaves through the ocean onward to its goal
steadily and patiently, while before it, with every new rising of the
sun, a monotonous hill of waters, never varying, never changing, lies
in the gray distance mocking its progress. Through cold weather,
through hot weather, burnt up in the torrid zone, and chilled by winds
which rush from ice-bound waters; through days when scarce a ripple
can be seen on the grand ocean's breast, and others when the waves
leap at its throat furiously, as an enemy might do; through nights
when the moon rises threateningly in the heavens, like a blazing ball
of lurid fire, suggesting thoughts of a dreadful to-morrow; and
through dark nights, solemnly beautiful, when the track of the vessel
is marked by the brilliant Medusæ (the sailor's girdle of Venus) which
gleam and shine--a line of living light--in the wondrous sea: through
all these, with unerring faith, the ship pursues its way steadily and
patiently to the garden of the world. Now the captain smells the
breeze, and hoarse cries, unintelligible to all but the initiated,
travel about the ship to clap on sail and make good use of the breath
of Boreas. Then the ship dashes on like a god drunk with joy, dives
into awful depths, and climbs water-mountains that a moment ago
threatened to fall in upon it and dash it to pieces. The curling seas
break over the deck, and the toilers that are battling with wind and
wave cling fast for dear life to ropes and spars; while ever and anon
a water-titan, more angry than his fellows, breaks against the side
with such tremendous force that the vessel reels and quivers beneath
the mighty shock. So! the breeze slackens and dies away; the anger of
the sea subsides, and after many days the ship is becalmed. Then the
passengers lie about the white deck in happy indolence, and muse and
dream of the great whale they saw a while ago, hung round with
sea-weed and barnacles; of the cloudless night, star-gemmed above and
below; of the beautiful Southern Cross and the strange Magellan
clouds; and while they muse and dream, the white sky stares down
lazily into blue peaceful waters. Every one on board is contented with
the change, excepting the skipper, who paces the deck restlessly and
prays for the breeze to spring up--taking advantage of the calm,
however, like the good skipper he is, to splice ropes, and make new
sails and mend old ones. Soon wind and water wake into life again, and
the waves sparkle, and the fresh breeze blows merrily, when a sudden
cry rings through the ship that a man is overboard. The next moment
every soul on board is bending over the bulwarks, watching the
retreating form of the sailor who is floating on his back, gazing with
agonizing dread at the cruel beaks of the swan-white albatrosses,
which are already hovering above him. Quickly the ship is put about; a
boat, with rowers in it, is lowered into the sea; and after the lapse
of many anxious moments a wild cheer rings through the air, as the man
saved from death, is dragged into the boat. He tells afterwards to
eager listeners--he is a notable man on board from that day forth--how
it seemed to him that he was floating on his back for full a day, and
how the only fear he felt was that the albatrosses would pick out his
eyes. Then the following week a young man died who was in a
consumption when he was first brought on to the ship, and who had
hoped that the warm breezes of the South would give him a new lease of
life; but he was never to breathe the balmy southern air. The little
colony of human beings is very sad when the funeral service is read
over the body, and the canvas coffin slips with a dull thud into the
sea; and a fear arises that some calamity is near. And surely that
night there is a fearful storm. The wind howls and roars; heavy seas
dash down the two men at the wheel; the sails split into a thousand
shreds; masts and spars crack like reeds. The sobs and lamentations of
the passengers are dreadful to bear. Minnie, creeping from her cabin
into the saloon, sees a dozen men and women, half-dressed, on their
knees, praying for mercy and forgiveness, making vows of reformation,
and indulging in all the fear-impelled evidences of a suddenly
awakened contrition. Pursued by the conviction that in a few minutes
she and all in the ship will meet their doom, she yearns with all her
soul to see Joshua, to touch him, to whisper in his ear that Minnie is
by his side. Then, if he will but take her hand, she will be content
to go down with him into the solemn depths of the awful sea. She
creeps to the wet stairs leading to the deck, only to find that the
hatches are fastened down, and that she is a prisoner. She tears at
the cruel door that separates her from Joshua, until her fingers bleed
and her strength gives way. She calls aloud to him, but she cannot
hear her own voice, so weak is it and so overwhelming is the roar of
the storm. She sinks, despairing, at the foot of the stairs, and in
the agony of her mind and the terror of the time so entirely loses
consciousness, that the cold waters which steal down the hatchway are
powerless to arouse her. But with the next rising of the sun the storm
has passed away, and the captain looks joyful, and the sailors sing
blithely at their work, and the passengers forget their vows of
reformation. So the ship sails on and on, until land is sighted, and
the passengers begin to prepare their best clothes to go on shore in.
Then comes a quiet evening when the "Merry Andrew" drops quietly down
the beautiful bay, and as evening deepens into night, a thousand
twinkling lights from distant hills welcome the wanderers and gladden
their hearts. How peaceful, how lovely, is the night! The balmy air,
the restful sound of dipping oars, the floating strains of music that
come from a neighboring ship, the beautiful star-lit waters--all these
bring grateful feelings to weary travellers, and silent prayers of
thankfulness arise to Heaven for the mercy that has brought them
safely through the perils of the mighty sea.




CHAPTER XXIX.
THE WRECK OF THE "MERRY ANDREW."


Built in the bed of a beautiful valley and on gardened slopes rising
from the waters which run to the sea, lies Sydney, the fair city of
the South. It is spring although the month is October. The heavens are
bright with bright clouds, the air is sweet with perfume from tree and
flower, the bay is gemmed with gardened isles and promontories.
Outside the heads which protect the bay and make it a safe refuge for
mighty fleets, the sea dashes against hoary rocks which stand defiant
of its wrath; but to-day, swayed by the influence of smiling sun and
cloud, the grim old walls sport with the huge waves, splinter them
into silver spray, and send them, laughing, back into the sea.
In the fair land girt by the blue waters of the South Pacific are
orange-groves, the fragrance of whose snow-white blossoms is in
harmony with the time and place, and coral-trees with bright scarlet
flower, and trees of peach, loquat, and bread, and hill-slopes where
the vines grow, and myriad other evidences of Nature's beneficence.
All things that see the light contribute to the beauty of spring.

"'Tis the garden of the world," said Captain Liddle to his wife, as
they stood apart from the others on board the "Merry Andrew;" "'tis
the garden of the world," he repeated, gazing at the lovely hills and
gloriously-tinted sky with that sense of gratitude which it is so good
for a man to experience.

Her thoughts were in harmony with his, but she did not answer him
immediately. She, too, was sensible of the beautiful scene around
them, and stood by his side in silent thankfulness. To-morrow, the
"Merry Andrew," having discharged her cargo, and taken in another
(chiefly hard wood), was to set sail for China, where she had a
charter for London. It was of London--of home--that the captain's wife
was thinking, and presently her thoughts found simple expression.

"Yes, John," she said; "it is indeed a garden--a beautiful garden; but
it is not home."

"Why now, Bessie," said the captain, looking down smilingly upon the
wife he had waited and worked for as anxiously as Jacob did for
Rachel, "could you not content yourself here?"

"All my life, John?"

"All your life, my dear."

"No," she said without hesitation; "I should always be pining for
home. Even if we were poor, and it were a necessity that we should
live here, I don't think I could manage to quite content myself. But
as it is"--

"As it is, Bessie"--repeated her husband, in secret delight at his
wife's enthusiasm.

"As it is, John," she responded softly, "'there's no place like
home.'"

Captain Liddle hummed a few bars of the Englishman's household hymn;
and then, looking to that part of the ship where Joshua was busy,
said: "There is some one on board, Bessie, who is even more anxious to
get home than you are."

"Who can that be, John?"

"My handsome mate, as you call him, Joshua Marvel. He was expressing
his delight to me yesterday that we should be not away longer than we
thought we should when we started. And when I asked him what made him
so impatient to get home, he told me that he was married three days
before we left Gravesend. How would _you_ have liked that?"

"I wouldn't have allowed you to go," said Mrs. Liddle, with a very
positive shake of the head.

"Easily said, little woman; not so easily managed, though, if I had
been third mate instead of captain. Thank your stars that you married
a captain."

"So I do, John," said Mrs. Liddle tenderly--so tenderly, that her
husband would have stooped and kissed her, if they had been alone.
"Was it a love-match?"

"Marvel's? Certainly, I should say. When I went to his house in London
to see him, I saw a very beautiful girl in his room. Perhaps it is to
her that he is married."

"Very beautiful, sir?" exclaimed Mrs. Liddle, with a toss of her head.
"I am almost inclined to take you to task for that; but I'll ask you,
instead, to describe her."

"I can't, Bess; 'tis not in my line. I tell you what, though: your
maid would be like her, if she was fair instead of brown, and if she
had long hair."

"Making eyes at my maid, sir!" cried Mrs. Liddle, with a pretty
wilfulness. "When I get you home, I shall lock you up."

Captain Liddle laughed, and pinched his wife's cheek.

"I am glad it was a love-match," she said; "I like Mr. Marvel all the
better for that. You ought to do something for him."

"I shouldn't be surprised, Bessie, if Marvel was second mate on our
next voyage," was the captain's reply. "Now go and see to the stowing
away of your curiosities."

During the time that the "Merry Andrew" had been lying in Sydney
Harbor, Mrs. Liddle and her gypsy maid had been living on shore, and
had only come on board today. Her husband's last remark referred to a
number of parcels which were scattered about the poop, containing
curiosities she had collected in that strange new world--such as
feathers and skins, and curious weapons and plants--designed to
astonish her friends at home.

Captain Liddle's intention to promote Joshua had been quietly
whispered by the sailors to one another for some weeks past, although
the captain, from motives of prudence and a proper regard for
discipline, had made no mention of his intention, even to his wife,
until now. Captain Liddle respected Joshua, and often engaged him in
familiar conversation. He saw much to admire in the young sailor, and
recognized in him qualities, both intellectual and professional, of a
far higher standard than those exhibited by his other officers. A
sailor more deeply impressed than Joshua was with the highest
qualification a sailor can possess, duty, never walked the deck of a
ship; and this merit, added to a quick natural intelligence, made him
a great favorite with Captain Liddle. He was much liked, also, by the
sailors; for while his sense of duty made him firm, his kindliness of
heart made him gentle. Sailors resemble women in one particular: the
more they respect a man, the better they like him. Joshua, however,
had two bitter enemies on board: one was the Lascar, who was compelled
to conceal his hate; other was the second mate, Scadbolt by name, who
made no secret of his animosity. Scadbolt, being both an inefficient
officer and one who liked to shirk his work, had been sharply spoken
to by Captain Liddle on several occasions. From this may have sprung
the rumor of his intended deposition; and when it reached his ears, it
made him venomous. Between Scadbolt and the Lascar about this time
there sprang up a kind of intelligence with regard to Joshua, which
boded him no good if he should chance to get into their power. No
conversation passed between them on the subject; but each knew
instinctively that the other hated the upstart third mate of the
"Merry Andrew."

With his usual foresight and shrewdness, Captain Liddle had announced
his readiness to take a small number of passengers to China, or to
London by way of China--rather a roundabout route home, it must be
confessed, but one which recommended itself to certain colonists from
its novelty, and from the opportunity it afforded them of seeing
something of the wonderful land where so many Sons of the Moon lived
and had their being. Captain Liddle knew what he was about by stating
that he could provide accommodation for only a few passengers, for
only a few took passage. Here is the way-bill:--

Mr. and Mrs. Pigeon and daughter, the latter five years of age.

Mr. Bracegirdle.

Stephen and Rachel Homebush, brother and sister.

James Heartsease.
Harry Wall.

Rough-and-Ready.

So that there were nine passengers in all, including little Emma
Pigeon.

The crew numbered twenty-eight persons, all told; and these, with the
passengers and the captain's wife and her maid, made the total number
of souls on board thirty-nine.

Mr. Pigeon was the son of a wealthy squatter, who had lately died.
Desirous of giving his wife and child better advantages than could be
obtained in the colony, he had sold out his property, and was now on
his way home, for the purpose of settling in the "old country." He was
a rough kind of a gentleman at the best, as might be expected of one
who had been brought up in the bush; but he had a tender heart, and
was passionately devoted to his wife and child. Mrs. Pigeon was a
sparkling little creature, full of life and bustle, never still, and
with a laugh so merry and contagious, that every soul on board felt
glad when it was first heard on the ship. Little Emma, as the child
was called, was a small edition of her mother, with precisely the same
natural gayety of disposition. The family were in high glee at the
prospect of going "home" (even Little Emma, born in the bush, had been
taught so to call it), and found in the pleasures of imagination some
compensation for the natural sorrow they felt in leaving the bright
and beautiful land of the South.

Mr. Bracegirdle was a mystery. No one knew any thing about him; and as
no one inquired, and he was not communicative, his antecedents could
only be guessed at.

Stephen and Rachel Homebush were a hard-featured morose-looking
couple, whose piety was generally recognized as unimpeachable, but
whose good-nature was certainly open to question. And this induces the
reflection, that it is singular how often piety and sourness go hand
in hand. It almost seems as if, with the majority of so-called pious
people, religious contemplation chills the generous impulse, and
hardens the heart instead of softening it. The light of truth falls on
them not like dew, but like a miasma.

James Heartsease and Harry Wall are bracketed in the way-bill, as they
were bracketed in heart. They were friends who had travelled together
all over the world. They were enthusiastic sketchers; and it was
whispered that they were writing a book, which caused them to be
looked up to with a kind of veneration.

Rough-and-Ready was as great a mystery as Mr. Bracegirdle, but whereas
nothing was known of Mr. Bracegirdle's antecedents, so many stories
were current concerning Rough-and-Ready, that the difficulty was to
hit upon the right one. None of them were at all creditable to him.
One story was, that he was a bushranger; another, that he was a
stockman, who had shot down any number of blacks; another, that he was
a runaway convict. The name he chose to go by fitted any one or all of
these stories. He engaged his passage in the name of Mr. Rough; but
before he had been on board half an hour, every sailor knew him as
Rough-and-Ready. The lady passengers cast cold looks upon him; but the
sailors adored him; and he, taking the aversion of the women and the
admiration of the men very philosophically, was as much at home on
board the "Merry Andrew" as the captain himself. Captain Liddle saw
nothing objectionable in Rough-and-Ready. He was prone, as you know,
to form his own judgments of people, and was one of the small minority
of men in the world who decline to be led by the nose. There was
nothing very smooth or polished about Rough-and-Ready, as was implied
by his name; but he had a bright eye, a free manner, and a civil
tongue--sufficient recommendations to Captain Liddle's good favor.

At the appointed time the "Merry Andrew" weighed anchor, and started
for China. Joshua rubbed his hands, and thought with a light heart of
his pretty Ellen and his friend Dan, and his old mother and father,
and that good friend the Old Sailor. He saw himself walking along the
familiar street in Stepney, and saw all the neighbors running out to
greet him, and saw Ellen, his own dear little wife, fluttering into
his arms, and nestling there as prettily as could be. What wonder that
his face grew bright, and that he went about his work with a
cheerfulness that brought a darker scowl into the face of the Lascar!
This worthy had not advanced a single step towards the furtherance of
the scheme to which he had in a sort of measure pledged himself to
Solomon Fewster before he left Gravesend. True, he had gone on board
the "Merry Andrew" with the vaguest of ideas as to the manner in which
he should be able to carry out his intentions regarding Joshua. The
fact was, that he had been only anxious to get away from England for a
time; the brawl in which he had been engaged and had used his knife
was a serious one, and he was frightened for his own safety. But he
had played his cards cunningly with Solomon Fewster, and had succeeded
in extracting money and valuables from his cowardly master; thus
providing for his safety, and putting money in his purse at the same
time. Joshua had kept a sharp eye upon him during the whole of the
voyage, and he was compelled to be careful and wary for he knew that
Joshua was a favorite with the captain, and that he would be clapped
in irons upon the first sign of insubordination. Then he was
disappointed in finding that not another sailor on board but himself
owed Joshua a grudge, or was envious of him; so that he was alone in
his hate until that instinctive understanding took place between him
and the second mate Scadbolt, which made Joshua a mark for their
mutual animosity. The Lascar would have dearly liked to do Joshua an
ill turn; but he could not see his way to the accomplishment of his
wish. But even from this thwarting of his desire he derived a kind of
malicious satisfaction; for he could not help thinking with pleasure
of the dismay and disappointment Solomon Fewster would experience when
Joshua came home safe and sound. He could not help chuckling to
himself as he thought, "What a way he'll be in when the 'Merry Andrew'
gets into Blackwall, and how he'll storm and swear! But he'd better
mind what he's about with me. I owe him one for that threat of giving
me into custody for stealing the things he gave me." Certainly no such
sentiment as "Honor among thieves" found place in the breast of the
Lascar.

And Minnie? She had not calculated the effect of living within
herself, as she had been compelled to do. Loving Joshua as she did
with all her heart and soul, she had deceived herself by believing
that she would be happy if she were only in the ship with him. Happy
she would have been, had he known her and spoken kindly to her; but
the gulf that divided them seemed to her to be wider than it would
have been had thousands of miles of ocean been between them. She had
time for reflection on board ship; and reflection, although it did not
turn the current of her love, nor lessen it, added to her misery. At
one time during the voyage she had been so unhappy that she was almost
on the point of throwing herself overboard; and indeed had she known
of the marriage between Joshua and Ellen she might really have done
so. Happily for her she was not aware of the marriage, and was spared
the contemplated sin. But she was on a rack of love and doubt, and was
truly unhappy in the present, and despairing in the future. She went
about her work in a dull mechanical way, keeping aloof from every one,
and never going on deck unless her duties called her there. Mrs.
Liddle saw that the poor girl was miserable, and questioned her. But
here Minnie's rebellious nature came into play; she shut her heart
against the proffered sympathy, and returned cold answers to her
mistress's kind questions. Mrs. Liddle was sorry, but not offended;
she saw that the girl was struggling with a great grief. "A love
affair, depend upon it John," she said to her husband; and she
respected Minnie's desire not to have her confidence openly intruded
upon. Minnie's behavior on board inspired Mrs. Liddle with the
conviction that her maid was a thoroughly good girl, and she could
overlook a great deal in a girl who behaved so well. And
notwithstanding Minnie's retired behavior, she was an object of
interest to all. The officers and sailors called her "the shy beauty,"
"the pretty gypsy-maid," "the brown-faced little beauty;" and, when
she came towards them with her eyes downcast, made way for her with
almost as much deference as they did for the captain's wife. But she
spoke no word to any one of them, and lived her life of self-imposed
isolation in grief and silence.

The wind was fair, and a favorable voyage was anticipated. Sail after
sail was clapped on, and Captain Liddle walked up and down the deck
with a beaming face and in a state of high satisfaction. Five of the
passengers were below in the first agonies of sea-sickness. Four were
on deck--the two friends, James Heartsease and Harry Wall, Stephen
Homebush, and Rough-and-Ready. The friends had travelled too many
thousands of miles upon the ocean to be troubled by sea-sickness now;
they had struggled with and vanquished that fell enemy years ago.
Rough-and-Ready was not the sort of man to give in; he treated
sea-sickness as he treated every thing else that came to him in a
threatening shape--he laughed in its face. Perhaps previous experience
enabled him to do so with impunity. Stephen Homebush was not so
fortunate. He had a large stock of bile, and (speaking after the
manner of a well-known great man) when he had got rid of a great deal,
he would have a great deal left. He certainly got rid of a great deal
upon this occasion; and accustomed as he was to wrestle against
yearnings of the flesh and terrible foes, this foe was too powerful
for him, and this yearning of the flesh sent him into a deep pit of
tribulation from which he saw no chance of escape. Some kind friend
had advised him not to go below when he was attacked; and in
accordance with that advice he remained on deck, possessed by a spirit
so fiendish as not only to set at naught the pious exhortations of the
worthy Stephen, but even to change words of piety into utterances that
sounded very like anathemas. Even in the midst of his agony, he looked
round for some one, as was his wont in his happier moods, upon whom to
pour the vials of his spleen; for Stephen Homebush had this peculiar
conviction with respect to himself. His invariable verdict when
tribulation visited other persons was, that it was a just
punishment--it was a visitation of the Lord. But there was no such
acknowledgment regarding any vexation by which he was afflicted. In
that case his opinion was, that he was suffering for the sins of
others, and the conviction was to him a sufficient proof of his own
worthiness and of the wickedness and unworthiness of every other
person. He looked round for some one on whom to vent his spleen; but
no person met his eye but Rough-and-Ready, whose merry face and
cheerful manner were an additional sting to the miserable Stephen.
Rough-and-Ready nodded encouragingly to the pale-faced Stephen, who
was leaning against the bulwarks, and said cheerfully, and really from
no ill-natured motive--

"You will be better by and by, Mr. Homebush. Besides, it will do you
good."

These last words were unfortunately chosen; for the afflicted
Stephen--who had heard the discreditable stories attached to
Rough-and-Ready, and who had already judged him as a sinner of the
first magnitude--glared at the speaker, and said with difficulty,
"Scoffer, sinner!"

He intended to add, "Repent!" but a sudden paroxysm compelled him to
confide that exhortation to the waves.

Rough-and-Ready laughed gayly, and turning on his heel, met the
captain, and fell into step with him.

"Some of the sailors are grumbling," observed Rough-and-Ready,
"because we have set sail on a Friday."

"Grumble!" exclaimed Captain Liddle, pettishly. "Ay, and they'll
grumble till the end of the voyage. I have had that sort of thing
occur to me before. This is the fifth time I have started on a Friday,
and nothing more unusual ever occurred than occurred at any other
time. But the men wouldn't believe it, and won't believe it now. If a
head-wind comes, it is because we set sail on a Friday; if we're
becalmed, because we set sail on a Friday; if there's a squall,
because we set sail on a Friday; if a man tumbles overboard,
because we set sail on a Friday; if we lose a spar, if a sail is
split, because we set sail on a Friday. I do believe, if one of
them cuts his finger, he thinks, 'Curse the skipper! What the
something unmentionable did he set sail on a Friday for?'"

"I have no doubt, skipper," said Rough-and-Ready, smiling and pointing
to Stephen Homebush, whose head was hanging over the bulwarks, as if
its owner were curiously interested in the swelling of the waves,
"that Mr. Homebush is quite ready to side with the men, and to declare
that he is sea-sick because you set sail on a Friday."

Captain Liddle smiled at the pious sufferer, and shrugged his
shoulders. It was evident, although he said nothing upon the subject,
that he had already formed a not too favorable opinion of Stephen
Homebush.

For the first three days the prognostications of the sailors, that
"something" was sure to happen because the voyage was commenced upon a
Friday, did not seem likely to be realized. The weather was fine, the
wind was fair, and every stitch of canvas was set. But the grumbling
did not cease, and for a very good reason. Scadbolt and the Lascar did
their best to keep the subject warm, and between them managed to
foment and increase the dissatisfaction. Captain Liddle, cognizant of
this, became stern and strict, and took but little rest. He did not
know who it was that was encouraging the men; he suspected Scadbolt,
and, estimating his second mate at his proper worth, he wanted but the
slightest confirmation of his suspicions to take prompt action against
the offender. By this time the passengers had recovered from their
sea-sickness, and begun to assemble on the deck. Stephen and Rachel
Homebush set to work vigorously in their task of reclaiming the
sinners, in which category every person but themselves on board was
included; but though they prayed (for others), and groaned (for
others), and "wrestled" (for others), their efforts were not crowned
with success. Indeed, the only person who tolerated them at all was
the man who had the worst character, and whom nearly everybody
avoided. Rough-and-Ready was a treasure to the pious couple. To him,
as the most illustrious sinner within their reach, they imparted the
knowledge of their own goodness and of everybody else's wickedness;
him they informed that their special mission (out of heaven) was to
lead him to the waters of grace, and that his special mission was to
be led thereto by them. They prayed for him wrathfully, in stony
voices, and would have wept over him, had he allowed them to do so.
And when they found that they made no impression upon him (for it was
only his good-nature that induced him to listen to them), they groaned
the louder, and prayed the longer, and wrestled the more, because of
the hardness of man's heart. It was a curious thing, seeing how good
they were and how bad he was, to observe the conduct of Little Emma,
Mrs. Pigeon's five-year-old daughter, towards the saints and the
sinner. The little child ran away from the saints, and cried and
struggled when Rachel Homebush took her hand; but when she saw the
sinner, she ran into his arms with perfect confidence, and submitted
to be tossed in the air and to be kissed by him very much as if she
liked it. But then children have no judgment.

Towards the close of the third day the weather became threatening, and
the sails were taken in. This set the grumblers at work more busily
than ever. Some time before midnight, the watch being in charge of the
second mate, Captain Liddle came unaware upon two of the men who were
grumbling, and sternly asked them what they were grumbling at. The
Lascar was one of the twain, and of course he did not reply; but the
other man, being pressed by the captain, pulled at his forelock, and
said that the sailors weren't pleased because the voyage had been
commenced on their unlucky day.

"And that's the cause of this rough weather, eh?" questioned Captain
Liddle sarcastically.

"Yes, your honor," was the reply. "Why, even the second mate says so."

"Does he?" cried Captain Liddle, turning wrathfully upon Scadbolt, who
at that moment approached them. "What do you mean, Mr. Scadbolt, by
spreading dissatisfaction among the crew?"

Brought face to face with the man to whom he had spoken, Scadbolt, who
was no coward, gave him a threatening look, and said,--

"Well, sir, I've an objection to setting sail on Friday; and, as you
see, the men have the same objection."

"I see quite enough to warn you to be careful," said Captain Liddle in
a determined tone; "I have warned you before, and I warn you now for
the last time. Keep your objections to yourself, sir, and trouble
yourself only with your duty.--And you, men, attend to yours, and let
me hear no more of this nonsense. You know me well enough to know that
I will not be trifled with."

The men slouched away, and Scadbolt was obliged to suppress his
passion for the time: but it burned the fiercer for that.

The next day the weather became worse, and circumstances thus gave a
color to the dissatisfaction, which grew stronger every hour. But the
captain was equal to both emergencies; like a good sailor and a stout
captain he grappled with the storm that raged without, and with that
scarcely less dangerous one that raged within. He was seldom off the
deck, and when he did go down to snatch an hour's rest, he left Joshua
on board to watch in his place. For Captain Liddle was not slow to
discover that Joshua was the man of all the other men on the ship upon
whose faithfulness he could best depend. He said this many times to
his wife, and often spoke to her in praise of Joshua. Minnie heard
this, and heard also of the dissatisfaction among the sailors, and how
Scadbolt, the second mate, had fomented the dissatisfaction. About
this time a whisper spread among the passengers that there were three
or four sailors in the crew who only wanted a favorable opportunity to
break into open mutiny. Confirmation of this was given by the captain,
on the third day of the bad weather, when the ship was scudding along
under bare poles. He, coming down hastily into the saloon, went into
his cabin, and made his appearance in a few minutes with a belt
buckled round his waist and two pistols in it. The passengers,
looking at each other in astonishment, received another shock
presently by the surprising appearance of Rough-and-Ready. His dress
hitherto had been of a respectable character black coat and waistcoat
and tweed trousers; but now he had on a red-serge shirt, and a rough
billycock-hat, and buckskin riding-trousers, and boots that reached
half-way up his thighs, and a red-silk sash round his waist, with
knife and pistol stuck therein. You may guess the alarm he caused
among the ladies; the only passenger who seemed pleased at the change
in his appearance was little Emma Pigeon, who skipped round him
delightedly, and clapped her hands in approval of his bright-colored
shirt and sash. Rough-and-Ready caught the child in his arms and gave
her a hearty kiss, and nodded cordially to the fellow-passengers who
had so studiously avoided him. They were so frightened at his
desperate appearance, that they forgot to frown upon him as they were
wont to do. Rough-and-Ready then going on deck, walked up to Captain
Liddle, and said,--

"You can depend upon me, skipper. I've seen this sort of thing
before."

Captain Liddle gave him a look of grateful acknowledgment, and they
made their way into the midst of a knot of sailors who were standing
irresolutely about Scadbolt and Joshua. Joshua was cool but perplexed,
and Scadbolt was in a furious rage.

"Whose watch is this?" asked Captain Liddle. He knew well enough, but
he had a motive for asking.

"Mine, sir," answered Joshua.

"What are the men hanging about for?"

"I gave an order, sir, and Mr. Scadbolt countermanded it."

"Give your order again, Mr. Marvel."

Joshua did so; and as Scadbolt, in a voice thick with passion, was
desiring the men not to obey it, Captain Liddle very promptly knocked
him down. Calling two of the sailors by name, Captain Liddle ordered
them to put the second mate in irons. After the confusion which
followed the execution of this order had partially subsided, Captain
Liddle cried out,--

"Now, then, what have you to complain of? Speak out like men."

At this one of the sailors stepped forward, and said respectfully,--

"Well, your honor, some of us think it would have been better if we
had stopped in port another day."

"That's a matter of opinion," said the captain. "You have a right to
yours, but I have a right to mine also; and I am master of this ship.
Now I ask you as sensible men and good sailors, is it right that you
should forget your duty because we don't agree upon a certain point?
Do you know what this means my men?" pointing to Scadbolt. "It means
mutiny. What would any one of you do if you were skipper in my place
You would put a stop to it at once, as I have done, and as I intend to
do. I'll do it by reason, if you'll let me, and I'll say nothing of
any other means, for I don't want to use them. I speak you fair, men,
and I mean you fair. What do you say, now, to treating me as I treat
you?"

Acquiescent murmurs ran round the crew, most of whom had gathered
together during the scene. "And at such a time as this too," continued
Captain Liddle, "though it would be all the same in fair weather or
foul. I'll tell you something that many of you, as good mariners,
suspect already. We are near a dangerous coast--how near I do not
know, for I have not been able to take a sight for two days. And it's
at such a time as this that this bad sailor--I found out before we got
into the Bay of Biscay that he wasn't as good as he ought to be--it's
at such a time as this that he tries to get you into trouble. Come,
now, have I spoke you fair?"

"Yes, you have; spoke like a man!" a dozen voices said.

"That's well said. Whoever is on my side step over to me."

Every man--even the Lascar, too much of a coward to stand
aloof--stepped to the captain's side and saluted him.

"I'm proud of my crew," was the captain's simple remark after this.
"Now go to your duty."

As the captain walked on to the poop, Rough-and-Ready said,

"That was well done, skipper; but there are two or three black sheep
among 'em, for all that."

"I know it," replied Captain Liddle, with a significant look. "I shall
keep a sharp look-out on them. I've got a man on board that's a match
for a dozen black sheep, or I'm very much mistaken."

Rough-and-Ready laughed and turned on his heel, and Captain Liddle
went down to say an encouraging word to his wife.

On the eighth day the captain, suspecting that they were in the
vicinity of the Minerva Shoal, near which there were some dangerous
rocks, ordered a sharp lookout to be kept for broken water. All the
passengers were by this time in a state of great alarm, and although
Captain Liddle tried to cheer them by encouraging words, his anxious
face belied his speech. Perhaps the one who suffered the most from
terror was Stephen Homebush. His terror was so great that he forgot
his mission, and flew to others for consolation, instead of imparting
it. Such men as he are most true to their calling when the weather is
fine. It was a miserably dark night. The captain, completely tired
out, had gone down to his cabin for a little rest. All the passengers,
with the exception of Rough-and-Ready, who never seemed to sleep, and
yet was the freshest man of them all, had retired to their beds with
hearts filled by gloomy forebodings of what the morrow might bring;
and there they lay, tossing about, listening to the raging wind that
was driving them perhaps to certain death. In the captain's cabin were
Mrs. Liddle and her maid. There was something in the present danger
that was to Minnie almost a relief from the horrible monotony of her
life. Her self-imposed silence had become unbearable, and she fretted
under it until her health was in danger of giving way. So that this
change, with all its terrors and uncertainties, was an absolute relief
to her. She was too sad and unhappy to be frightened at the prospect
of death. Had the future held out to her any hope of happiness, she
would have prayed to live; but as it was--"Better to die," she
thought, "and so end all." There is no doubt that this miserable state
of her mind was due to the want of proper moral training in her
childhood. Thrown completely upon herself; with no mother's love to
teach her what is often taught by love's instinct alone, that such and
such impulses and thoughts are weeds that destroy, and such and such
are flowers that beautify: doomed to the almost sole companionship of
a father whose misfortunes had rendered him an unfit teacher, it is
scarcely to be wondered at that she should have been oblivious of the
true duty of life.

"Bessie," said Captain Liddle to his wife, "I have come down for an
hour's sleep. I can rest with confidence, for Marvel is keeping the
watch."

Mrs. Liddle nodded, and gave him a sweet little smile that was like
wine to him; and Minnie heard him say, in answer to a whisper from his
wife, "We are in God's hands, Bessie, and must trust to His mercy."
"We are in God's hands, and must trust to His mercy," thought Minnie
as she left the cabin; "and Joshua is keeping the watch. Death may be
very near. Will it be wrong to speak to him?" Mechanically she made
her way to the deck, stumbling two or three times and bruising
herself. But she felt no pain. "I should like to die near him," she
thought; "if he would take my hand in his, I should be content and
happy."

Nothing but darkness surrounded her on deck. She clung to a rope,
appalled by the mournfulness of the scene. Not a star was to be seen
in the heavens, and the sky and water were as black as the night. So
solemn, so mournful was every thing around, that the ship seemed to be
rushing into a pit of death, where no light was. She could not see her
hand before her, but all at once her heart beat wildly at the sound of
Joshua's voice. He was speaking to Rough-and-Ready, and they were
quite near her, although she had not seen them. Even now she could but
barely discern their forms in the gloom. Joshua had just made a remark
that Rough-and-Ready must have been a great traveller.

"Yes," answered Rough-and-Ready, "I've been about a pretty great deal.
I've led a wild life; but then, you see, I never had any one to care
for but myself."

"Never?" questioned Joshua, in a tone that had a dash of pity in it.

"Never but once, and that was only for a little while. But what
matters? It will be all one by and by."

"I should be sorry to think you meant that," continued Joshua; "it
would be a sad belief that, at such a time as this."

"You speak as if you didn't believe it, at all events," said
Rough-and-Ready, in tones as soft as a girl's; "but then your
circumstances are different to mine. You are young; I am"--

"Not old."

"Old enough for twice your years. Then you have friends at home,
mayhap?"

"Ay, dear ones."

"Mother and father?"

"Ay; God bless them!"

"Wife perhaps?"

Joshua gave a gasp that sounded almost like a cry of pain.

"Ah, well," continued Rough-and-Ready, "if we were to go down this
minute, I don't know the man or woman who would say 'Poor fellow!'
when my fate was known. I leave no one behind me, and my death would
bring no grief to a single soul. Perhaps my condition is the happier
of the two."

"Not so," said Joshua sadly; "and I hope--indeed I believe--that you
don't mean what you say. I have a friend at home--Dan, his name--to
whom the news of my death would be the bitterest grief. I have dear
ones at home, whose lives would be lives of mourning if I were not to
return. I know this, and feel the pain that they would experience
should it be God's will that we are not to escape this peril. But,
strange as it may sound, I would not spare them the pain if it were in
my power. Could I, by a wish, destroy the memories that make my life
dear to me and them--dearer than you imagine--and so pluck from their
hearts and minds the sting that my death would bring to them, I would
not do so. For after death, there is life!"

"You believe in the immortality of the soul, mate?"

"Surely; and you?"

Rough-and-Ready made no reply.

"'Tis often difficult to believe in what we don't understand. On such
a night as this--bleak, dreary, awfully solemn--with death waiting for
us within a few yards perhaps--it is difficult to believe that there
are spots on the earth where the sun is shining and where the flowers
are blooming."

"That's true, mate; you speak more like a scholar than a sailor. Shake
hands."

"I learned a great deal from the friend of whom I have spoken," said
Joshua, grasping Rough-and-Ready's hand. "What is that ahead of us?"

A dark cloud. Impossible to see whether it belonged to earth, or air,
or water. A moment after he uttered the words, the man who was keeping
the look-out cried that there was land ahead. Joshua hastily gave some
orders, and was making his way to the saloon to arouse the captain,
when he was almost thrown off his legs by a terrible shock.
Involuntarily he threw his arms around Minnie, who was clinging to the
rope. She held him fast for a moment, and he cried,--

"Who is this?"

"It is me," she said; "cling to me."

"Don't stir," he whispered rapidly, filled with a wild amazement at
the familiar tones of Minnie's voice; "if it were not that I know I am
not dreaming, I could believe a spirit spoke, and not a woman. But
keep you here; do not move for your life."

The next instant all was confusion, and cries and lamentations filled
the air. Captain Liddle was on deck barefooted, and all the passengers
were there in their nightdresses, clinging to ropes and spars, praying
and crying and wringing their hands. Great seas washed over the ship,
drowning the cries for a brief time; the night was so dark that their
true situation could not be discovered, and imagination added to their
terrors and magnified them. The captain could do literally nothing;
for the ship appeared to have been lifted on to the rocks, and kept
bumping against them in its endeavors to get free. And yet there was
sea all around them. Some of the passengers had sought shelter under
the lee of the cuddy, among them the captain's wife, Mr. and Mrs.
Pigeon and Little Emma, and Steven and Rachel Homebush. Many times
during the night was the voice of Stephen Homebush heard, calling upon
the Lord to save _him_; while his sister Rachel, braver than he, stood
by his side, with a stern set face, in silence. The cheery laugh of
Mrs. Pigeon was stilled, but she was not so overcome by terror as not
to be a comfort to her husband and child; during the dark night those
three clung together and comforted each other as well as they were
able; while the captain, making his way from one group to another,
bade them not lose heart; for the ship seemed to be keeping together,
and when daylight came their condition might be found to be less
desperate than it appeared.

"Besides," he whispered to the male passengers, "we have three or four
rascals among the sailors, and for the sake of the women we must keep
ourselves cool and self-possessed."

To his wife he said simply,--

"Well, Bessie, this is a bad job. I ought not to have allowed you to
come with me."

"I would sooner be here with you, John," she said, kissing him, "than
I would be at home in safety."

"Brave little heart," he whispered to himself as he walked away from
her. "Yet I could bear it better if I were alone."

James Heartsease and Harry Wall kept together, as friends should, all
through the night. They felt not a particle of fear; they thought it
was very grand and very awful, and spoke in calm tones of what the
morrow might bring.

"Don't think we shall see China, Jim," said Harry.

"Perhaps not. Hope no body will be hurt," was the reply. "What a grand
painting this would make!"

A few minutes after Joshua had left Minnie, he came to the cuddy,
where Mrs. Liddle had sought protection.

"Mr. Marvel," she called to him, "have you seen my maid?"

Then it came upon him that the woman to whom he had clung when the
ship struck was the gypsy-maid who had kept herself so reserved, and
he said, "Yes my lady; do you want her?"

All the officers called the captain's wife "my lady," and she was
proud of the title.

"Yes," she answered; "I wish you could bring her to me, poor girl; she
is friendless and unhappy, poor child!"

"Has she no friends at home, my lady?" Joshua could not help asking.

"None, I believe."

The word "home" reached little Emma Pigeon's ears, and as she nestled
in her mother's arms, the child cried, "Mother, are we going home?"

"Yes, yes, my dear," sobbed Mrs. Pigeon; "try to go to sleep, there's
a darling." And she rocked the child, and sang a little song about
birds and angels.

Joshua, steadying himself as he walked cautiously to where Minnie was
standing, wondered to himself whether it was fancy that had made the
gypsy-maid's voice sound so familiar to him; a sea washing over the
deck, drenched him to the skin, and as he stood upright and shook the
water from his clothes, the memories that were stirred within him
brought to him a picture of the dear old kitchen at Stepney, with
himself half-naked, barefooted, and with the water streaming from him,
standing at the door. The vision may have occupied but a moment, but
the picture was complete; father, mother, Ellen, Dan and the birds,
the Old Sailor, all were there. But where was Minnie? Why, by his
side, with short curly hair and brown gypsy-face. "Am I mad?" he
exclaimed, as he dashed the waters from his eyes. But when he reached
the spot where Minnie stood, and she clasped his hand and said, "Thank
God, you are safe!" his amazement grew.

"I cannot see your face," he whispered, with his arm round her, for
the better protection of both; "but your voice is strangely familiar
to me. Do I know you?"

"Yes. But do not press me farther. Wait till the light comes. Shall we
live till then?"

"I hope so."

"Will you promise me to keep near me till daylight comes? It is my
dearest wish--my only one."

"I promise," he said, strangely agitated, "until my duty calls me
away."

"And even then, you will come back when you have done your task, and
stand by my side?"

"I will, my poor girl. I have come now to bring you to the captain's
lady."

"She sent you for me?"

"Yes."

"She is a good lady. But wait a little; I have something to say
first." Many moments passed before she spoke again, and in the pause a
grateful prayer went up from the girl's heart even for the small
blessing of gentle speech from her hero's lips. "You have made me
very, very happy. Until tonight--for many, many months past--I have
been most unhappy." She bent her lips to his hand and kissed it. "Now
answer me. We are in great peril?"

"The greatest, I fear."

"But a danger threatens you of which you are not aware. Listen. The
second mate, he who was put in irons the other day"--

"Scadbolt--go on."

"Is loosed."

"By whom?"

"I don't know. But he is loosed, and but five minutes since was near
me with a sailor whom I think I know, although I could not see him.
Listen. I must whisper, for he may be near us now. They were talking
of you, and they swore--O my God!--they swore to have your life."

"They spoke of me by name?"

"By name--Joshua Marvel."

"You think you know the sailor who was talking to Scadbolt. Is he a
dark man?"

"Yes; a Lascar I think."

"You are right. He owes me an old grudge."

"Scadbolt said that this coast is one of the most dangerous upon which
a ship could strike. He believes he knows pretty well where we are,
and that it will be a fight for the boats"--

"We have only two, the jolly-boat and the longboat; he may be right."

"Be on your guard; tell the captain; be prepared."

"We will; and you"--

"I can protect myself. Feel this."

"A knife!"

"I picked it up. Let them beware."

Another lurch of the vessel made them cling closer to each other.
During all the horror of the scene, Joshua had not dared to ask
whether it really was Minnie to whom he was speaking; he feared to
know the truth. Minnie on the ship with him! and Ellen at home--and
Dan--he dared not think of it.

"Come," he said; "I will take you to the captain's lady. Cling fast to
me."

"Say a few words to me."

"What are they?"

"God bless and forgive you."

"God bless and forgive you! From my heart."

"He will, I think," said the girl, as if communing with herself. "I
have not felt so happy for a long time past. Death has no terror for
me if you are kind!"




CHAPTER XXX.
JOSHUA IS PROMOTED.


When daylight came--and oh, how they watched for it, and prayed for
it!--they saw clearly their great peril. The ship was rolling amongst
a mass of sharp rocks jutting upwards from the sea. They saw the
points of these rocks on all sides of them; but no friendly land was
in view.

"The ship is lost," said Captain Liddle to Joshua whom he looked upon
as his right-hand; "she is breaking up fast. Our next chance is the
boats."

It was a wonder indeed how the "Merry Andrew" had kept together during
the night, with the tremendous beating she had received from the
rocks; if she had been in deep water, she must inevitably have sunk.

Joshua had told Captain Liddle of the understanding between Scadbolt
and the Lascar, as overhead by Minnie; and now the captain walked to
where the two conspirators were standing in conversation with other
sailors. Scadbolt was endeavoring to persuade them to seize the jolly
boat, and leave the passengers to shift for themselves.

"What is that you are saying?" cried the captain breaking in amongst
them, and grasping Scadbolt by the shoulder with a grasp of iron.
"More incitings to mutiny! Take heed, sir! Give me but a little
stronger cause--nay, dare to lay a finger upon boats or provisions
without leave--and, by God, I'll throw you into the sea!"

"Will you stand this, men?" shouted Scadbolt, writhing in the
captain's grasp.

The Lascar made a movement towards the captain, and the glitter of a
knife flashed in the light; but a blow from Joshua sent him reeling,
and in an instant the knife was torn from his hand.

"Remember!" said Joshua in a low voice. "You had a lesson from me
years ago. What the captain does to Scadbolt, I do to you, you
treacherous cur."

"I remember," muttered the Lascar, presenting the singular aspect of a
man cowed by fear and raging with furious passion at the same time, "I
swore to have your heart's blood, and I'll have it! Look you! the end
has not yet come. Give me my knife."

Joshua looked at the knife; it was one-bladed, with a clasp--one of
the articles, indeed, which the Lascar had wrested from Solomon
Fewster's fears.

"You asked me once before for a knife I took from you," he said; "then
I broke it before I gave it back. But this--this I mean to keep."

"Now then my men," cried the captain, in a cheery voice, "this is the
second time that this damned rascal has tried to step between you and
me. What I feared then has happened now. The ship is breaking up, and
can't hold together for many days, and if the weather gets worse, may
break up in a day. There are certain chances in our favor, every one
of which will be destroyed unless we act in friendly concert and like
men. This scoundrel has tried to make you believe that your interests
and the interests of the passengers are in opposition. He lies! I
declare to you, as a captain and a man" (if he had said a gentleman,
all would have been ruined), "that your lives and your safety are as
dear to me, as those of anybody else on board--except my wife," he
said softly yet stoutly, and murmurs of "Bravo, skipper! Bravo you're
a man!" broke even from the lips of those sailors who were most
disposed to be won over by Scadbolt. "Well then, you hear me declare
now, as I have declared before, that I mean you fair. And I declare
moreover, that our only chance of safety is in union. Once again--With
me,--or Against me?"

"With you I with you, skipper!"

During this scene, Joshua did not know that Minnie was standing near
him. Now, releasing the Lascar with warning words, he turned and saw
her. She met his gaze unflinchingly, and a hot blush mantled over her
neck and face. He gazed at her for so long a time, that she drooped
her head before him, and stood in an attitude of pleading. But he
could not doubt the evidence of his senses. Her manner, no less than
her appearance, convinced him. It was Minnie, indeed, who stood before
him.

He covered his eyes with his hand, and staggered to the saloon. If a
thousand despairing and undeserved deaths had stared him in the face,
he could not have been more shocked and bewildered. He sat down and
tried to think. What was the meaning of it? What did they know at
home? What did they, know? What might they suspect? He saw himself and
the Old Sailor together in the boat at Gravesend, and heard that
faithful old friend tell him of Minnie's love for him, and what it was
his duty to do. He had seen his duty clearly then: love for Ellen no
less than duty--affection for his friend and brother, no less than
love and duty--impelled him to the right and honorable course of
making Ellen his wife. And then! Why, within three days of that
consummation of his dearest hope, he and Minnie were together on board
the "Merry Andrew." If they at home knew it, suspected it even, must
they not believe that his whole life was a monstrous lie? that he had
planned, plotted, deceived, schemed, to prove how utterly false he was
to the woman who adored him, to the man who believed in him, to the
kind mother and father who loved him better than Benjamin was loved?
For a few moments he lost all consciousness of present peril. The ship
beat amongst the rocks; the seas dashed over the deck: he heard them
not, felt them not. He took from his breast Ellen's picture and the
lock of hair she had given him at their parting, and kissed them
again and again while his tears ran on them. Strangely enough, there
came to his ears then, in the midst of his agony, his father's hearty
exultant voice, saying, "This is better than being a wood-turner all
one's life, isn't it, Josh?" He shivered and sobbed and cried, "O Dan,
Dan, do not forsake me!" and stretched forth his hands as if his
friend were near. A hand upon his shoulder aroused him, He looked up,
and saw the captain's wife. She was a brave woman, and had done much
during the night to sustain the courage of the others.

"There is a man's work to do on deck," she said to him gravely and
sweetly. "You are not growing faint-hearted?"

"No, my lady," he answered, "not faint-hearted at the prospect of
death; but I have received a shock worse than death."

She did not stop to ask for an explanation of his meaning--time was
too precious; but she took the picture of Ellen and looked at it.

"My wife, my lady," he said, with a sob.

A troubled expression crossed her features, and she said
encouragingly,--

"Nay, all hope is not gone; we may succeed in reaching land, or some
ship may see us and pick us up. But all private grief must give way
now for the general good. There are not too many faithful men on
board; the lives of others depend on them. If they lose heart, and
yield to the selfishness of their grief, we are lost."

Joshua jumped to his feet and wiped his tears.

"They are not unmanly tears, my lady," he said bravely; "I can justify
them to you when there is no pressing work to do. Thank you for
calling me to my duty."

She smiled brightly on him and shook hands with him. When he got on
deck, the captain was giving orders to lower the jolly-boat; but as
the boat was being lowered, the broken water caught her and splintered
her to pieces. The sailors and passengers looked with dismay at the
fragments of the boat drifting away and dashing against the jagged
rocks. "What next?" they all thought.

"Try the long-boat, men," cried the captain. And in accordance with
his instructions, the long-boat--the only one left--was launched over
the vessel's side; but as she hung in the tackle a huge wave dashed up
and filled her. It was imperative that the water should be bailed out
of her.

"Who will do it?" asked the captain, loath to give an order in which
there was almost certain death. Joshua was about to start forward,
when Minnie's hand upon his arm restrained him. Before he could shake
off the grasp, the first mate, crying, "I'm a single man; I've no wife
and children waiting for me at home!" jumped into the boat up to his
waist in water, and began to bail it out. But he had not bailed out a
dozen gallons when the stern-post was jerked out of the boat, which
was left hanging in the tackle. The shouts of the men and the screams
of the women apprised him of his danger; and as he looked about to see
how he could remedy the disaster, the fore-tackle got adrift, and the
boat was battling with cruel rocks and water. The force of the current
was too powerful for her. The captain threw out lines to the
unfortunate man, but he could not catch them. But if he had, he would
have been bruised to death by the sharp rocks. The moment before he
went down, he waved a good-by to those on board. A long silence
followed. The women looked anxiously at the captain, but saw no hope
in his face. Then with a gesture to all to follow him, he went down to
the saloon, and there read prayers, and commended them to God. He was
not what is understood as a religious man; but knowing the danger in
which they stood, he conceived this to be a duty. That done, he said,
"Men and passengers, we have one chance left, and only one. Out of
our masts and spars we can make a raft sufficiently large to hold all
of us. Then we may be able to reach some friendly land. To stay on
board and wait, and not work, is certain death. Even as it is, a raft
will take us some days to make, and the ship may break to pieces
before it is done. But we must trust to God for that. What we've got
to do is to work like men, for our own sakes, for the sake of the
women, and for the sake of wives and children at home. Some of you
have these, I know. It is not for me, now that we are in such a
strait, to say, do this, or do that; although under any circumstances
I shall insist upon discipline and order. I can't make you work, and
therefore I submit for your approval the plan I think best for general
safety. Have any of you a better one to propose?"

"No, no!" was the unanimous cry.

"Very well; then we'll determine upon this. And for the better
carrying out of our design, I appoint Mr. Marvel second in command. He
is first mate now. If any thing happens to me, you will look to him.
When the raft is made, and safely launched--if it please God that it
shall be so--we will set down necessary rules for all on board. Until
that time there is but one rule--to work. Every man on board must
work--passengers and all; and every man must aid me in preserving
order."

The captain's manly speech infused hope into every heart; and
exclamations of "Good!" "Bravo skipper!" "Well said, sir!" followed
his last words.

"One other thing," he said, in a more determined voice: "to my certain
knowledge, we have unfortunately among us two men who have endeavored
to spread dissatisfaction and add to our confusion. I will not point
out these men; they are known to me and all of you. They are men,
though, as we are, so far as the value of life to each of us goes; and
it is only fair that they should have equal chances with us. But this
I declare, by my dear wife's life! If these men do not work, and if
they attempt any thing that is not for the general good, I will shoot
them with my own hand! Now then, to the deck!"

Not a man among them who did not take off his coat and set to work
with a will. There were a great many loose spars on board, which, with
the mizenmast, were found to be sufficient for their purpose. They
tried to cut down the mainmast; but there was so much danger in the
attempt that it was relinquished. For three days they worked like
slaves. The rocks served as a resting-place for the ends of the
largest spars, which were firmly lashed together and nailed; the light
and short spars were used for the centre of the raft, upon which a
kind of platform was raised on which many of the shipwrecked persons
could lie out of the water; a mast, to carry sails was also rigged up.
The raft was not finished too soon; they could not have stopped
another day on the ship. While the work was going on, three of the
sailors lost their lives, so that already their number was lessened by
four. The raft being ready, it was launched with great difficulty. The
next anxious question was provisions; and the result of their inquiry
blanched many a cheek. All the bread was spoiled by the salt water,
and most of the preserved meat had been lost, in consequence of having
been brought on deck when they tried to launch the boats. They also
made another disheartening discovery. They could only find two small
kegs to hold water. Still, when the first shock of these discoveries
was over, they were borne bravely, almost cheerfully. The women,
excepting Rachel Homebush, were the cause of this; they smiled upon
the workers, encouraged them, and made them hopeful in spite of
themselves. Even Mrs. Pigeon recovered some of her good spirits; and
knowing that her merry laugh was a comfort to the men, she laughed
often when she was not inclined for mirth. The little child, Emma, was
the only truly happy one of the party, and her presence drove away
many a hard thought. Rough-and-Ready had his anxious intervals, but he
worked with a will. Between him and Joshua a strong attachment sprung
up; each admired the manliness of the other. He was also particularly
kind to Minnie, and she grew accustomed to look upon him with
confidence, and to trust in him. The night before the raft was
launched, Joshua persuaded Captain Liddle to take a night's rest.

"It will be all the better for you and all of us, sir," said Joshua.

"But you too, Marvel," said Captain Liddle, "you want rest as much as
I. I don't believe you have had two hours' sleep since we struck."
This was really true; both Joshua and the captain had been in
defatigable.

"Never mind me, sir," said Joshua, with a sad sweet smile. "You have
your wife to attend to. Besides, I promise that I will rest to-morrow
night, if you will give me leave."

"You are a noble fellow, Marvel;" and Captain Liddle gazed admiringly
at the young sailor. "I have often wondered how you acquired certain
qualities that are not common to the ordinary sailor."

"I don't know, sir; I doubt if they were ever in me. They must have
been put there by my friend Dan, who is nobleness itself."

"Dan? Ah! the lame boy with the wonderful birds; that I saw at your
house. I liked his face."

"He is the dearest fellow"--Joshua turned away his head.

The next day the provisions and the charts and instruments, and many
things that would be useful, such as blankets, tools, and writing
materials, were stowed safely on the raft. Of the provisions there was
a very small store: twenty tins of preserved meat, a small quantity of
sugar, about a gallon of rum, and two kegs of water. By the time every
thing useful was stowed away and secured, and the passengers were
safely on the raft, it was evening, and within three hours the "Merry
Andrew" broke completely up. The raft, having parted its moorings,
forced by the strong current, was carried to sea, and the passengers
watched the last of the ship with unmixed feelings of sadness. The
women shed tears, and all of them, men and women, felt as if they had
lost a friend. When the vessel was out of sight a stronger feeling of
desolation stole upon the unhappy group, and Rough-and-Ready had many
looks of astonishment cast upon him as he rubbed his hands and said in
a cheerful voice, "This is splendid. Now we can be comfortable." But
it was well for them that they had some stout hearts on board.

The direct allusion made by Captain Liddle to Scadbolt and the Lascar
had had its effect upon those worthies; they knew that their lives
depended upon their conduct. But they found means to exchange
confidences, and they resolved to revenge themselves on both Joshua
and the captain when opportunity served. "Wait till we make land,"
said Scadbolt; "they shall smart then the pair of them. I'll teach
both of them the meaning of 'general good!'" The Lascar's old feeling
of hate for Joshua had been revived in all its intensity by the late
scene between them.

"I'll have my knife back," he muttered to himself as he lay on the
raft the first night, at a little distance from Joshua, watching him
with venomous looks, "and his heart's blood with it."

Not a movement, not a glance, escaped Minnie's notice. Aware of the
feelings of hate entertained by the Lascar for Joshua, she set herself
the task of watching over Joshua's safety. He, overpowered by fatigue,
had been persuaded by the captain to take some sleep, and when he lay
down Minnie crept to his side and remained there during the night. He
slept long and peacefully through the solemn night and after the gray
morning had dawned, dreaming of home, of Dan and Ellen, and murmuring
their names with a smile upon his lips.




CHAPTER XXXI.
ON THE RAFT.


Joshua, opening his eyes, saw Minnie sitting by his side. She, seeing
that he was awake, moved quietly away without a word, and went to
where the other women were lying. He had been so fatigued when he lay
down to rest, that his sleep had been very profound; and when he
awoke, the full sense of his situation did not come upon him. Minnie,
sitting by his side with her brown face and short curls, was the first
thing he saw; and it seemed to him for a brief space that he was
dreaming. But when she moved away and joined the other women, he
remembered the perils they had encountered, and the terrible position
in which they were placed. He would have called to her, but that some
feeling restrained him; and although he thought much of her during the
day, he was glad that he had not spoken to her. Besides, his attention
was diverted for a time to another circumstance. Some of the men were
clamoring for breakfast. Neither Scadbolt nor the Lascar was among the
murmurers; these last consisted of the weakest of the party, who were
less able than the others to bear hunger, and to whom the fear of
starvation made it appear as if they had been already fasting a day.

"Breakfast! breakfast!" they cried.

"Wait till ten o'clock," said the captain, in a stern determined
voice; "you can't be hungry already. If you don't cease murmuring, I
will put off breakfast until twelve."

This threat silenced them.

In the mean time the captain called his council together, and
consulted with them. There were four in the council: himself, Joshua,
Rough-and-Ready, and an old sailor named Standish, who had been
wrecked twice before, and who consequently was looked upon as a
distinguished personage. At eight o'clock the captain read prayers.
Then the men, with the exception of the council, sat idly watching the
water, and looking out for a fish. The morning was fine; one of the
sailors noted for quaint sayings remarked that the weather had no
business to be fine; it was a mockery. At ten o'clock the captain
piped all hands; the call was answered readily, but there were no
signs of breakfast.

"Be seated," said the captain.

They all sat down, with the exception of the captain and his three
counsellors. The captain stood in front, his supporters behind.

"We who stand," said the captain, "have been constituted by me,
commander of this ship, into a council for the discussion and
deliberation of all matters relating to the general welfare. The
fairness of the selection will recommend itself to the crew, for the
council is composed of three sailors and one passenger. Are you
content?"

"Yes, yes!" cried a large number.

Up rose Scadbolt.

"Let us hear first what you have to say about the provisions," he
said. "I am not one who says yes without consideration."

"That's fair too," broke from half a dozen throats.

Captain Liddle eyed Scadbolt steadily. Scadbolt returned his gaze. He
knew that in the position he had assumed, he could command the
sympathies of a certain number, and the knowledge gave him confidence.

"Well, it is fair," said the captain; "and a reasonable suggestion is
always reasonable, never mind who makes it. The council have drawn out
a set of rules this morning, which I have here writ down on paper. If
you approve of them you will approve of the council; do I understand
that?"

"Yes, yes!"

The captain produced his paper and commenced.

"Rule 1. All questions in dispute, with the exception of such as are
properly within the province of the duties of Captain Liddle--whose
orders as Captain of the 'Merry Andrew,' we promise to obey and uphold
to the death--shall be decided by the majority."

"Agreed!" some cried.

"Stop!" exclaimed Scadbolt; "how about the women? We are not going to
let them vote."

Thought Captain Liddle, "This is no common scoundrel; he puts in
speech what many a malcontent would only dare to think." Said Captain
Liddle aloud, "That was not mentioned by the council. I don't suppose
the women would wish to vote; a proper man would not have mentioned
it. Decided, however, that the women do not vote."

In arguing with Scadbolt, Captain Liddle committed a grave mistake; it
put them upon a kind of equality, and from that moment Scadbolt could
boast of being the leader of a party, small as it might be.

"Rule 2," continued Captain Liddle. "The small stock of provisions
shall be equally divided between every soul on board"--

A little faint cheering here broke out.

"But, in consequence of the smallness of the supply, the quantity to
be measured out to each person shall be regulated, as occasion
demands, by the Captain and his council."

No demur was made to this.

"Rule 3. That all fish, birds, or food of any kind which may be found
in air or water shall be added to the general stock, and shall be
fairly and equally divided."

"Unfair!" exclaimed Scadbolt; "each man is entitled to what he can
catch in air or water."

"Not so," replied the captain; "for what then would become of the
women?--Men, I appeal to you: does this man, who speaks while you are
silent, represent your views?"

Two or three voices answered, "Yes;" a score answered, "No."

"Good," said the captain; "he represents but one in a dozen; and even
the two or three of you who seem to side with him may be brought to
see the selfishness of what he advocates. If he had his way, the weak
would be left to die; the strong alone should live, and have a chance
of being saved. Is this fair? is it manly? is it honest?"

"Every man for himself, and God for us all," muttered Scadbolt trying
to fan the flame.

"Then the strongest man would crush the rest, and might would take the
place of right," continued the captain, beginning to see that he had
made a mistake in listening so patiently to Scadbolt. "We were never
nearer to death than we are this day; but shall that make us forget
that we are men? Shall that turn us into brutes? We have helpless
women depending upon us, and upon our manliness. They shall be shown
no favor in the way of provisions; they shall divide equally with us,
share and share alike. But, by God, the one who seeks to deny them
their fair chance of life, dies by my hand!"

"I am with you, captain," cried Rough-and-Ready.

"And I," said Joshua.

"And I," said the sailor who had been twice wrecked.

"And I," "And I," from most of the rest.

"Decided, then, that all food that may be found in air or water shall
be added to the general stock, and shall be fairly and equally
divided."

Scadbolt did not dare demur.

"Rule 4. That, recognizing the full extent of our dread peril, and
knowing that death stares us in the face, we resolve to die like men,
if it be God's will; and thus resolving, we solemnly declare that,
supposing all our food to be gone, we will not eat human flesh"--

A shudder ran round the attentive group, and Mrs. Pigeon fainted; but
Captain Liddle proceeded firmly,--

"Nor draw lots as to who shall be killed to feed the rest. This we
solemnly resolve, in fear of the Lord, out of common humanity, and out
of respect for ourselves as Christian men."

Assented to in silence; not one of them could realize the horrible
craving, born of raging thirst and hunger, that had come upon men in
such a strait as theirs.

"That is all," concluded the captain after a long pause. "You approve,
then, of the council and these rules?"

"Yes."

"Now to breakfast. Water, for the first week, will be served out
twice a day--a quarter of a pint in the morning, and a quarter of a
pint in the evening--half a pint a day to each person. Of food we
have only preserved meat and sugar, and very little of either. One
tablespoonful of preserved meat will be served out to each person at
eleven o'clock every morning, and at five o'clock one ounce of sugar.
Of rum we have about a gallon: a teaspoonful will be served out to
each person once in every other day, in the morning or in the evening,
as he may choose. The general stock of previsions will not be touched
by any one on board, except in presence of all, and it will be guarded
by two of the council; the penalty of tampering with the stock, or of
attempting to steal any portion of it, will be death. And God give us
strength, and send us happy deliverance!"

When breakfast was served, the men lay about the raft idly, watching
the water for fish, which they were not successful in catching, and
rising every now and then to scan the horizon for a sail. Some slept
or tried to sleep; some talked over the chances of deliverance; some
spoke in whispers of what they had heard from men who had been
wrecked. While the provisions were being measured by the captain, the
other three of the council stood by with cocked pistols, ready to fire
should a rush be made. Most of the men took their spoonful of
preserved meat, and ate it quickly and greedily, some of them at one
gulp; but a few, wiser than their fellows, retired with their portion,
and sitting down, ate it very slowly. These last were the best
satisfied. The council were busy enough all the day; assisted by Mr.
Pigeon and the two friends, Wall and Heartsease, they were employed in
re-arranging every thing on the raft, and in making things more
comfortable for the women. A kind of low tent was built, under cover
of which the women could lie down and rest, screened from the men; but
it was only used at night; for at first the women mixed with the men
during the day, and made themselves useful. Mrs. Pigeon, of her own
accord, crept to where the sailors were lying about, and asked if they
wanted any thing mended. At first they were too surprised to reply;
but presently a dozen voices answered her. One wanted a pair of socks
darned; another had half a dozen rents in his shirt; and in a very
little while Mrs. Pigeon's hands were full. She made her way back to
her female companions, and throwing a heap of clothes in the midst of
them, proposed that they should set to work at once. Soon all of them,
with the exception of Rachel Homebush, were busily and cheerfully at
work; and while their fingers were plying, Mrs. Pigeon sang snatches
of songs. It was as little like a picture of shipwrecked persons as
one could imagine. But it was a picture that did an immense amount of
good. The men looked at the women admiringly, and Rough-and-Ready's
eyes glistened every time they wandered that way.

"A pretty bunch!" he observed to Joshua.

Joshua nodded hopefully, for the sight cheered him.

"That's a good little woman of yours," said Rough-and-Ready, turning
to Mr. Pigeon. Rough-and-Ready held a very different position now from
what he did when he first stepped aboard the "Merry Andrew;" he was a
general favorite with men and women. Even Rachel Homebush cast glances
of approval at him.

"I tell you what," answered Mr. Pigeon in a confidential tone; "I've
not seen much of women--you know out there in the bush they're rather
scarce--and we had some hope of getting home"--

"_Had_ some hope!" interrupted Rough-and-Ready. "Say _have_ some hope.
If there's one thing in the world that makes me certain of it, it is
that picture there," pointing to the women.

"I am heartily glad to hear you say so. _Have_ some hope, then, of
getting home, where the streets are crowded with women they say. But
there isn't one among 'em to come up to her. Although there were not
half a dozen lasses to choose from when I first made up to her, I'd
choose her now out of a million."

Having delivered himself of these, his articles of faith in his wife,
he sat down by her side, and held her cotton for her as she stitched
and sewed.

Meantime the current and their one sail carried them along at the rate
of about two miles an hour. No land was in sight, and there was no
sign of a ship, although during the day many a false alarm was given.
The weather remained fine. The light wind died away in the evening,
when the thin crescent of a new moon came out in the sky. It was
welcomed as a good omen; and the women looked at it, and smiled at one
another, the foolish things! as if the silver crescent were a
messenger of good tidings. Then the stars came out brightly--another
good omen. Many a one on the raft thought, "This is better than being
jammed on the rocks, in the 'Merry Andrew;' we are moving towards
safety. If we do not see a ship, we may see land, and may manage to
get ashore." References were made to Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss
Family Robinson; not in a gloomy, but in a cheerful spirit. It was the
admirable bearing of the men in command, no less than the virtues of
the women, that contributed to this state of hopeful feeling. The
sailors were also comparatively contented; most of them had a little
stock of tobacco--some more, some less--the chewing of which gave them
comfort. Each man hoarded his store more jealously than a miser hoards
his gold; but some were greedier than others, or craved for it more,
and could not withstand the temptation of chewing it almost
wastefully, certainly not prudently. But then sailors are not a
prudent class of men.

To Joshua, who was sitting musing of home, came Rough-and-Ready, and
sat beside him.

"You don't smoke?" asked Rough-and-Ready.

"That's not sailor-like."

Joshua shrugged his shoulders, and smiled.

"Nor chew?"

"No."

"Here is a little piece of tobacco. Chew it."

Joshua put it in his mouth and chewed it, because he thought it was,
after all a certain kind of food, and might make him less hungry. But
it made him sick.

Rough-and-Ready laughed a little when he saw the effect of it, and
presently said, so that no one else should hear, "You must learn to
chew."

"Why?"

"It will help to keep you alive when the provisions run out. I have a
dozen pounds of tobacco strapped round me; it was my own, so I thought
I had a right to it. By and by it will come in handy. I wish I could
teach the women to chew."

"If the men knew you had so much," said Joshua, "your life would not
be safe."

"I know that. I had an idea at first of handing it to the skipper for
general use; but I thought better of it. There are a few on board to
whom I don't think I'd give an ounce to save their lives. What is that
in your handkerchief?"

"My accordion."

"Do you play? Of course, though, or you wouldn't have it. I should
like to hear some music."

Joshua untied his handkerchief and took out his accordion. The night
was very still, and the soft tones floated in the air, and seemed to
linger about the raft as it glided through the sea. The quiet bubbling
of the water as it stole through the openings between the spars, as if
in sport, was in consonance with the melody and the still night and
the beautiful peaceful heavens. Men who were lying at full length sat
up when the music commenced, and were the better for it. The women
crept from out their shelter, and listened and shed tears, not
entirely unhappy. Surely it was a night of good omens. As Joshua
played, his thoughts wandered back to his boyish life, and to the
tender conversations that had taken place between him and Dan. Often
he stopped as he mused and thought; but presently his fingers would be
on the keys again, playing a few bars of "Poor Tom Bowling," and other
more cheerful songs of Dibdin, which the Old Sailor loved so well.
They came back to him, the memories of that happy time. Their anxiety
about their birds, when they first commenced to train them; the death
of Golden Cloud, and the after conversation which he had never
forgotten, in the course of which they had read together of the wreck
of Robinson Crusoe. Why, it seemed all to have come true! Here he was,
wrecked, certainly not alone, and therefore better off than Crusoe
was, but wrecked for all that. But under what circumstances, and with
what a dreadful web of suspicion surrounding him! Oh, if he could see
the end of it! It was horrible to think that he might die--he and all
of them on the raft; and that Dan might believe him false because of
Minnie. It would not bear thinking of. He ceased playing, and bathed
his fevered head and face. Often and often had he said to himself, in
former storms and former scenes, the words that Dan had impressed upon
him; and now he tried to fancy that Dan could see him, and knew that
he was true.

Rough-and-Ready, seeing that Joshua was engrossed in thought, did not
disturb him, and presently dozed off. How long he had been asleep he
did not know; but he woke up with a curious impression upon him. He
must have slept long, for the night was far advanced, and no sound was
heard but the plashing of the water against and through the spars. The
impression was this: that he and Joshua were lying side by side (as,
in fact they were) asleep, and that a woman suddenly came between
them. Her back was to him, her face turned to Joshua; that she sat
down so, and so remained, for an hour and more, making no movement,
uttering no sound; but he could tell that all the while she was
watching Joshua's sleeping form. That then she inclined herself gently
to Joshua, and pressed her lips to his hand: and that rising to go,
she turned her face to Rough-and-Ready, and he saw that it was Mrs.
Liddle's gypsy-maid. So far his fancies went. Starting into a sitting
position, he saw Minnie a few paces from him, making her way to where
the women were lying.

Now this set Rough-and-Ready thinking--for more reasons than one. Had
he been dreaming, or had it really occurred? If it had occurred, it
must have been love that prompted her. He had observed her the
previous night sitting near Joshua; but then it had not been so
noticeable, for there was no kind of order on the raft. How long had
she known Joshua? He was the more perplexed because he had never seen
the two in conversation, and because of the mystery surrounding the
acquaintance. He was troubled, too; for, rough as he was, and old
enough to be Minnie's father, he had taken a tender interest in her,
and the discovery he had just made came upon him like a shock.

Every person on the raft was asleep with the exception of the men in
the watch and himself. He did not feel inclined to lie down again, so
he sat and thought of things. In such a solemn scene, and at such
solemn moments the spirit of nature works wonders in the minds of the
roughest men--quickens the sympathies, and stirs into life the
tenderest memories. It was so with Rough-and-Ready at the present
time. Incidents in his life which had been so long unremembered that
he wondered how he thought of them now, came vividly before him. His
home--his mother--small domestic joys and griefs--a brother who died
when they were both children, with whom he used to play and pelt with
daisies--Good God! what kind of a bridge was that in his life that
spanned that time and this? By what strange step had he walked from
then to now? The stars grew less bright and paled out of the skies;
the water grew grayer in the brief space before the morning's dawn.
Soon in the east a thin line of water at the edge of the horizon
quickened into life, and Nature's grandest wonder began to work in the
dawning of a new day. The waterline, a mere thread at first, but
broadening with every second that marked the flight of gray shadows,
was rosy with blushing light. Purple clouds, fringed with wondrous
colors, surrounded the clear space, in which presently the glorious
sun rose grandly from the golden bed of waters; and as it rose, sky
and sea rejoiced. At one time, for a few moments, the sea was like a
field of golden corn waving in the sun's eye; but soon it deepened,
till it and the heavens, that looked down into its mighty depths, were
filled with flaming restless light, which in their turn gave way to
softer shadows. Many a sunrise had Rough-and-Ready seen, but never one
that he had watched so steadily as this; but it seemed as if his
thoughts were in harmony with it.

Late in the day, Rough-and-Ready asked Joshua how long he had known
Mrs. Liddle's maid. Joshua looked at him curiously, but did not reply.
He had not spoken to Minnie since they had been on the raft, and had,
indeed, taken pains to avoid her. She did not intrude herself upon
him; she submitted in patience to the silence he imposed upon her by
his manner. But a strange phenomenon took place in her. While the
others grew weaker and paler and more unhappy, she seemed to gather
fresh strength, and actually grew rosier and more hardy. The dark
color, too, was dying out of her face.

"I have a reason for asking," said Rough-and-Ready, as an excuse for
his question.

Joshua nodded, not unkindly, but with a troubled face.

"There is a strange story connected with your question," he said; "so
strange and so gainful, that I cannot give you an answer."

"I thought there was some mystery in the affair," observed
Rough-and-Ready; "but I will not press upon your confidence. Do you
know that the night before last she watched by you the whole time you
were asleep?"

"Watched by me?"

"Ay. And last night, too, for some time--I don't know for how long."

Joshua gave Rough-and-Ready an amazed look, and turned away to where
Minnie was sitting. She saw him coming towards her, and her heart beat
fast.

"Why have you watched near me for two nights?" he asked, without
looking at her.

"You have enemies on the raft," was the answer, very quietly given.

"I know; Scadbolt and the Lascar. But I can take care of myself."

"Not when you are asleep," she said, almost in a whisper.

What could he do? What could he say? Together on the raft in the
presence of Death, from which only something very like a miracle could
save them, could he be stern and harsh to her? And his great misery
was, that he knew and felt his power. He knew that an unkind word from
him to this young girl was as bitter as death could be.

"You are like the rest of us, I suppose," he said, gently; "growing
very weak."

"I do not think so," she answered, trembling at the gentleness of his
voice; "I feel strong as yet. Shall we be saved?"

"We are in God's hands," he said. "I think there is but little chance
of being picked up, or even of making friendly land."

Neither addressed the other by name.

"If the end comes, and you know it, and I am not near you, will you
try and find me, and say a kind word to me before I die?"

He gave her the promise, and hurried suddenly from her, for his heart
was fit to break, and he dared not trust himself to say more.

The third day passed, and the fourth. No sign of succor near. Hope
began to die.

On the sixth morning, when the roll was called, one of the passengers
did not answer to his name. It was Mr. Bracegirdle.

"He is asleep," said one.

They shook him, but he did not move. He was dead. This was the first
death, and it affected them deeply. Before he was sewn in the canvas,
he was searched, in the anticipation of finding something useful. A
surprising discovery was then made. He had in his pocket-book and
round his waist bank-notes and bills for more than ten thousand
pounds. But nobody knew any thing about him; he died, as he had lived
among them a mystery. After his body was slipped into the sea, a
whisper went about that the money found on him had not been honestly
come by.

That same night two sailors were washed into the sea. When it became
known, there were some among them who secretly rejoiced in the thought
that there would not be so many mouths to feed. Nearly a third of the
provisions was eaten, and the women were very weak. Little Emma Pigeon
held out the best; but that was because her mother, from even her
small portion, gave some to her child between the times of serving out
the provisions; the child also was petted and nourished by the other
women. Rough-and-Ready as especially considerate to the females.
Joshua saw him chewing something, and wondered what it was. Noticing
the look of inquiry on Joshua's face, Rough-and-Ready enlightened him.

"I am eating leather," he said.

Joshua stared at him. Then Rough-and-Ready took from his pocket a
dozen very thin strips of leather which he had cut out of his boot,
and told Joshua that he had found a new food. He gave Joshua a couple
of strips--very thin they were, almost like a wafer--and Joshua set to
work on them, and after some difficulty, chewed them to a pulp and
swallowed them.

"There's nothing like leather," said Rough-and-Ready with a quiet
laugh. "It wants strong teeth, but it fills up an empty place in the
stomach."

The next day Joshua noticed that Rough-and-Ready received his
tablespoonful of preserved meat in his handkerchief, and later on he
saw Rough-and-Ready slyly feeding little Emma with a portion of the
meat, and then go to her mother and slip what remained into her hand.

Now and then a few small fish were caught. There being no means of
cooking them, the women refused their share with horror, but the men
ate them raw. They also snared some birds, and ate them in the same
manner.

On the twelfth night Scadbolt and the Lascar lay side by side awake.
Nearer than they to the edge of the raft lay a shipmate, chewing
tobacco.

"All mine is gone," said Scadbolt enviously.

"And mine," said the Lascar, with a horrible look at the man who was
chewing.

"I think he must have a good lot left. I heard him boast of it last
week."

"Two men are better than one."

"Wait till that black cloud touches the moon; then stop his mouth;
I'll do the rest!"

The black cloud travelled on and on, crept before the moon, and soon
shut out its light. When the moon shone again upon the waters there
was one man less on the raft, and Scadbolt and the Lascar were chewing
tobacco greedily!

These two men had a line out in the water, with a small hook at the
end of it. The Lascar felt it jerk. He pulled in the line; there was a
fish at the end of it, weighing more than a pound. He took from his
pocket a six-bladed knife, opened the largest blade, and cut the fish
in two equal parts. He gave one to Scadbolt, and ate the other
himself. So that they should not be observed, they lay down on their
faces while they ate.

"That was a good bit of luck," said Scadbolt; "I feel stronger."

"If the skipper caught us, he would throw us overboard, whispered the
Lascar.

"He'd try to; but one man is as good as another now. Let us do this
and take care of ourselves; we shall outlast the others. I wish they
were all dead--all but two."

"Ay, Joshua's Marvel's one. I know what you mean. You'd like to have
the doing of him. So would I. Who's the other?"

"The gypsy-maid. She's a rare beauty."

The Lascar did not say any thing to this. He had seen enough since
they had been on the raft to convince him that his first suspicions
were right, and that the gypsy-looking girl really was Minnie.
Notwithstanding their desperate condition, he had cast many admiring
glances at her.

"How fine," he thought, "to strike at Joshua Marvel through her!"




CHAPTER XXXII.
SAVED FROM THE SEA.


The first among the passengers to completely give way was Stephen
Homebush. He had observed no manner of discretion in eating his food,
and had always swallowed it hastily, so that it did him but little
good. Contrary to what might have been expected of him as a man of
pious parts, he was the most selfish of all the passengers. Instead of
praying for mercy, he rebelled in thought and speech against the
misfortune which had overtaken him. He did not think of the others. It
was _his_ fate that was so hard. The prayers that he had so liberally
offered up for other lost men were not for him now that he was lost.
All other men were sinners, so he had preached. There was no grace in
any of them. He came to impart it to them. Let them open their
rebellious hearts, and receive it, while there was yet time. To all
kinds of men had he preached this, striking at them hard, trying to
frighten them with threatened penalties if they refused to believe as
he believed. He came to give them grace; did he himself require none?

What kind of faith is that which believes all other faiths wrong and
sinful? What is the test of faith? Sincerity? Ay, for me; but not for
you. _I_ am sincere; _I_ am born in the grace of God. But you! Fall
down and repent!

Such had been the preaching of Stephen Homebush. But now that the
earth was crumbling from beneath his feet, and the New Life was before
him, he prayed neither for others nor for himself. He maintained a
sullen rebellious silence, faithful to his nature for the first time
in his life. His mood, no less than the scanty supply of food and his
manner of eating it, drove him mad; and within a fortnight of his
sojourn on the raft, he was crawling and staggering about, uttering a
dreadful jumble of prayers and blasphemies. His sister Rachel attended
to him as well as her strength allowed her; but he struck at her
often, and often cursed her and himself. It was terrible to see and
hear. He did not suffer long. One day he ran from one part of the raft
to another, raving that a sail was in sight. At first they thought
that he might be right, but they soon discovered that he was raving.
But he saw the ship coming nearer and nearer. His sister was the only
one who had patience to bear with him. He described the ship to her,
and described the men and women that were on the deck; and she
shuddered as she recognized in his descriptions acquaintances and
relatives every one of whom was dead.

"Here it comes," he said, standing up in his eagerness,
"nearer--nearer! I shall be able to jump on board presently."

She strove to restrain him; but he broke from her wildly, and gave a
leap on to the imaginary ship. He sank at once, and was seen no more.

The forlorn woman sat stupefied, and never moved. Hours afterwards,
Rough-and-Ready, taking pity upon her condition, spoke to her, and
bade her take comfort, The sense of what he said was lost to her, but
she understood the sympathy that was expressed in his voice, and she
looked at him gratefully while the tears rolled down her face. He
placed his hand upon her shoulder, and said gently; "Poor woman! poor
woman!" She took his hand in hers, and clung to it, as if her only
hope of life was there. He could not disengage his hand except by
force; so he sat by her for an hour and more, until she released him.
Then he crept to where the women were lying; there was comfort in
being close to them.

One of their most frightful experiences was the sight of the sharks
snapping at the bodies as they were thrown into the sea. A great
number of these creatures followed the raft day and night, scenting
their prey. Each of the unfortunates thought, as he saw the sharks
tearing at the body of his fellow creature, "Perhaps it is my turn
next." About the twentieth day they caught at least a dozen rock cod,
but after that they caught no fish for many days. Soon their fresh
water was nearly gone; for some time past they had only half a pint a
day; now the quantity was reduced to a quarter of a pint. Some tins of
the preserved meat were also found to be putrid: the women could not
touch it; but a few of the sailors Scadbolt and the Lascar among them,
devoured it greedily. When another new moon rose, the courage of
nearly every one of them was gone; hope had fled too. They looked upon
themselves as doomed.

A curious conversation took place between the two friends, Harry Wall
and James Heartsease. In the morning they had refused their portion of
food.

"Save it for the women, sir," they said to the captain.

He expostulated with them, and tried to prevail upon them to take it,
but he did not succeed.

"Sir," said James Heartsease, "we are going to lie down to die. We
both of us feel that our time has come. To rob the poor women of any
more food would be simple barbarity. I should like to shake hands with
you."

Captain Liddle shook hands with them; and after that they crawled to
the women, and shook hands with them, and kissed little Emma Pigeon.
Then they crawled away, and lay down side by side.

"The end has come, Jim," said Harry.

"All right, Hal," said James; "it is only a matter of a few
years--perhaps not so long as that. If we had had plenty to eat, it
might have come just the same. After all, what is time? Draw a breath,
and it is gone. It isn't so hard to give up a few years when you think
of that. Besides"--But here he paused.

"Besides what, Jim?"

"We are alone; we have no women-ties--no wives, no sweethearts. If we
had, I think we should both try to live as long as we could."

"I think so too. 'Tis a good job we are alone in the world."

"Did you notice the women, Hal? I don't think they'll last long."

"One of them won't," said Harry. "Mrs. Pigeon will soon go. Well, you
know the reason of that."

"Yes; she gives all her food to her little girl. Women are good
creatures, Hal."

"Such as she are. Jim, old boy, a sudden weakness has come over me.
Put your face closer to mine--I want to kiss you. Good old boy--good
old boy!"

They did not speak for some time after that. Heartsease was the first
to break silence.

"Hal, old fellow," he said, "we shall meet somewhere by and by."

"Sure to," said Harry; "somewhere, somehow. It is awfully grand to
think of--it is good to believe. I am glad I never did any great wrong
to sting me now. Jim, depend upon it, there is only one true religion;
that is, the religion of being kind and tender and unselfish--the
religion of doing unto others as you would others should do unto you,
and of living a good life. Give me the man who does that, and who
believes in the goodness and greatness of God. All the rest is
mummery. We have agreed upon that, haven't we old boy?"

"Ay, times out of mind."

"Now, I tell you what I am going to do. I don't want to quite starve
to death--it would be too painful; it's frightful to bear even now. I
don't want to commit suicide, although to throw one's self into the
water just now would be, in a certain measure, justifiable. I am going
to draw myself close to the edge of the raft; then I am going to
sleep. If the waves should chance to wash me over in the night--good!
Let them; then I shall know something."

"All right, Hal; I'll lie by your side. Goodnight, old fellow."

"Goodnight."

When the sun rose again, those two good friends had gone to their
rest, to meet again. Somewhere--Somehow!

So day after day passed, and their numbers continued to grow fewer,
until there were no more than eighteen on the raft. In the first
quarter of the second new moon--that is, when they had been on the
raft for more than thirty days--Mrs. Pigeon died. When the news went
round, there were few dry eyes among the poor creatures. Every one
loved her, even to Scadbolt and the Lascar, whose clothes she had
mended. It was a wonder how she had lasted so long, for it was with
the greatest difficulty she could be prevailed upon to take food; she
gave it all to her little daughter. When, almost by force, a small
portion had been put into her mouth, Joshua had seen her take it out
to feed Little Emma. That is why the child lived while the mother
starved to death. Between Mrs. Pigeon and Minnie a strong affection
had sprung up. Minnie scarcely ever left the side of the dying woman,
and what little she could do to ease her last hours--it was but
little, God knows!--she did tenderly and cheerfully. Minnie knew that
Mrs. Pigeon was starving herself, so that her little girl might live.
The beauty of that sacrifice Minnie was well able to comprehend. She
would have done the same. But she was terribly unhappy. She knew by
Joshua's manner, and by the few words that he spoke to her--kind one
day, constrained the next--that her conduct had added to his
unhappiness. She had seen him look at her with such a look of fear and
wild amazement in his eyes, as to convey to her the impression that
she had done him a great wrong. But so blinded was she by her love,
that she could not quite understand the meaning of this; indeed, she
did not pause to consider. The night before Mrs. Pigeon died, Minnie
lay by her side, talking in whispers. But few words were spoken at a
time; Mrs. Pigeon was too weak. The mother lay with her child in her
arms, and her husband sitting close to her, his hands clasping his
knees, and with an expression of stony despair in his face. So he had
sat for three or four days, answering his wife vacantly, and with the
air of one whose mind was a blank. Little by little, Minnie had told
Mrs. Pigeon her story; and the dying woman, notwithstanding her own
great trouble, had wept with Minnie, and sympathized with her. But
Mrs. Pigeon, as well as expressing her sympathy, had striven to make
Minnie aware of the fault she had committed.

"You see, my dear," she gasped in her weak voice, "he has left a
sweetheart at home, and he fears that if it were known that you were
in the ship with him, she and his other friends might believe that he
had played false with them."

"I never thought of that before," sobbed Minnie. "I only thought of
one thing: I loved him, and I wanted to be near him. I didn't want him
even to know; and those at home bad no idea of what I was going to
do--they can't even suspect."

"But Mr. Marvel _fears_ they may. Then think, my dear, was it not
wrong to leave your father?"

"It was--I see it now; but I did not think of it then. But O Mrs.
Pigeon if he would only forgive me! If I ask him, he will; but the
answer would come out of the goodness of his heart, and while he
forgave he would still condemn me. I know it, I know it, for he has
never once called me by my name."

Soon after that, Mrs. Pigeon fell into a doze; and waking when it was
near midnight, whispered, "Minnie!"

"Yes," answered Minnie. She had been sleeping too, but so lightly that
a whisper was sufficient to awake her.

"I have not long to live, my dear," said Mrs. Pigeon; "and I should
like to pass my last minutes alone with my husband and child, and to
speak to no one but them--to think of no one but them. But before I
go, I should be glad to say good-by to Joshua Marvel. Can you bring
him to me? Say that I am dying."

Repressing her sobs, Minnie crept to where Joshua was standing on the
lookout. He had grown thin and gaunt like the others; his feet were
bare, the only pair of shoes he had possessed having been rotted by
the salt water; his clothes hung about him in tatters; and his face
was covered with hair, which, having not yet grown to a decent length,
added to the wretchedness of his appearance. The moon had gone down,
and Joshua, shading his eyes with his hand, was looking out to sea,
possessed with the fancy that he saw a sail many miles away. This had
now become a very common illusion; scarcely a man on board who did not
see imaginary sails and ships a dozen times a day. With a weary sigh
Joshua dropped his hand.

"It is folly," he muttered; "there's no hope."

Minnie timidly touched his sleeve, but did not succeed in attracting
his attention. Then she called softly, "Joshua!" And he gave a gasp,
and turned and saw her; but there was not light enough for him to see
the tears upon her face.

"Mrs. Pigeon has sent me for you," said Minnie. "She is dying, and
wants to wish you good-by."

He followed her in silence to where Mrs. Pigeon was lying.

"Is it so bad?" he asked gently, as he leaned over her close enough to
see her poor thin face.

"Yes," she murmured. "Sit by me for a few minutes."

He sat down, and took her wasted hand in his: it was like the hand of
a skeleton, thin and cold--a hand already dead, though it closed on
Joshua's fingers.

"Every one speaks well of you," said Mrs. Pigeon in broken tones: "I
have heard the captain speak many times of your courage and goodness
and constancy."

"I have been glad to hear it, and am glad to hear it again," replied
Joshua; "it is my best reward as a sailor."

"You have a kind heart, I am sure," continued the dying woman. "If it
were in your power to lessen the bitter grief that even a mere
acquaintance might suffer, you would do so."

"I think I would."

"I am sure you would; if only for the sake of those you love at home,
and to whom you would wish that others might be kind when grief comes
to them. You will forgive me for speaking thus; but I am dying, and I
am a woman. I cannot say much more; I am too weak. If I could see you
do one little thing, I should be glad."

"I will do any thing you ask."

"Because a dying woman asks you; but do it from your own kind impulse
as well. That is what I wish. You know who it is that is sitting by us
now."

"Yes," he answered with a troubled glance at Minnie.

"She has been very good to me, very kind, very, very patient. And she
is so young! Soon you and she may follow me. Think of that."

"What is it you would have me to do?"

"I would have you be kind to this poor child; I would have you, at
this awful time, show to her the love that a brother might show to a
sister. She has committed a fault; forgive her for it; let her atone
for it. Be not you the one to cast the stone at her. And when you
speak to her, speak from your heart; for she can read and understand,
as all loving women can, the music of the voice."

"Minnie," said Joshua, turning to her. Mrs. Pigeon had loosed his
hand; and now be held out his two hands to Minnie. It was the first
time he had called her by her name.

"Joshua," she said, with deep sobs, her hands in his, and bowing her
head upon his shoulder until her lips almost touched his face.

Was it treasonable to Ellen that he should permit it? Surely not,
surely not, at such a time.

"You have made me glad," said Mrs. Pigeon. "Now go. Good-by. Heaven
send you peace!"

"And you!" they both said.

Mrs. Pigeon nestled her face close to that of her little daughter, and
soon afterwards died peacefully.

Then, for the first time, Mr. Pigeon seemed to awake to the reality of
things. Kneeling by the side of his wife, he called softly, "Emma!
Emma!" And receiving no answer, shook her gently, and smoothed the
hair from her white face.

"Be comforted," said Joshua to him.

"Comforted!" he repeated with a pondering look, as if he were
considering what meaning there was in the word. He kissed her
passionately, and whispered something in her ear, and waited for the
answer that could not come. "My God!" he cried suddenly, "she is
dead!"

Minnie placed Little Emma before him, thinking that the sight of his
little girl might lessen his grief; but he took no notice of the
child, and sat the whole day nursing, the dead body of his wife in his
lap. One tin of preserved meat was all that remained now of their
stock of provisions. They brought his small share to him; but he
motioned them away impatiently and fretfully. They went to him, and
endeavored to make him understand that, for the sake of the others, he
should allow the remains of his wife to be placed in their poor shroud
of sacking; but he met them savagely, and threatened to bite at them
and strangle them if they did not let him alone.

"For the sharks to eat," he whispered to the inanimate form; "they
want to throw you into the sea for the sharks to eat, my darling. But
I'll tear their hearts out before they part us."

When the silver crescent looked down again upon the despairing group,
Joshua tried once more to comfort the man, and said, with a heavy
heart, that perhaps at the last moment a ship might pick them up. But
though he uttered the words, he did not believe in them.

"And if it does," muttered Mr. Pigeon hoarsely, "what do I care now?
You don't know what it is to lose the woman you love." He staggered to
his feet with the beloved form in his arm. "You want to take her from
me; that is why you speak the lying words. But nothing shall part
us--nothing."

Her face was lying upon his shoulder, and her fair hair was hanging
loosely down over his breast. He took some of the hair in his mouth;
and as Joshua saw him standing thus in the moon's light, he thought he
had never seen a picture so utterly despairing. Thus the man stood,
motionless, for a time, until the captain's lady crept to his side,
and tried to console him. Poor thing! she was terribly weak, and the
words came from her lips slowly and wearily. He gazed at her vacantly
while she spoke, then turned his eyes to his dead wife.

"Emma," he said, "don't fear; nothing that they say shall make me give
you up. We will go together--we will go together."

He cast one last look at the peaceful heavens, and whispering, "Lord,
receive us!" clasped his wife more closely to him, and jumped into the
sea. Two or three heads turned at the plash; but no other notice was
taken of the event. They were all too weak and despairing. The
captain's wife gasped, with heart-broken sobs,--

"Poor dears! poor dears! Their troubles are over; they are happier
than we are."

"Yes, my lady," said Joshua; "but I would not end my life like that.
We are in the hands of the Lord; our lives belong to Him."

He stretched himself at full length upon the raft, and took Ellen's
picture and the lock of hair from his breast, and kissed them again
and again. They, and the Bible that Dan had given him, were his most
precious possessions. When he looked up, Minnie and Little Emma were
close to him. He took the child's hand; and they remained together
during the long, long night.

A dreadful announcement was made the next day. The water that was
served out was the last--one tablespoonful each exhausted the store;
all the provisions were used up also. It seemed, indeed, as if the
best thing they could do would be to die at once by their own hands.
The rules made by the council were no longer thought of. Something to
eat, something to drink: these were the only laws now. When the next
man died, the sailors looked longingly at the body. The Lascar had his
knife open, and was about to use it, when Captain Liddle called to him
to stop.

"Why?" asked the Lascar, with a savage flourish of his knife.

"Why?" echoed the other men: there were only six of them left
altogether.

"Because fish is better to eat than human flesh," said the captain.

"So it is," said one; "but we haven't any more fishing-line."

"Come now," said the captain, "even without that we can manage to
catch a shark perhaps. Wait a few minutes. I'll think of a way."

And sure enough, very soon he devised a snare. First a running-bowling
knot was made; then they cut a leg off the man that WAS dead (terrible
to write, but true), and lashed it to the end of an oar; while on the
end of another oar they hung the snare in such a way that the fish, to
get at the bait, was compelled to come through it. There were plenty
of sharks; and it was not long before one fell into the trap. It was
dragged on to the raft; and a few blows from an axe soon killed it.
After that, the man was sewed in sacking, and the funeral-service was
read over him as it had been over all the others who had been buried
in the sea.

During all this time it was evident that they were near the coast, and
yet they never saw it. The captain said that they were in the vicinity
of the north-east coast of Australia--a part of the continent which
had been very little explored. Here came in Rough-and-Ready's
experience. He knew something of the country, he said. It was
inhabited by the most savage of the Australian natives, and no white
man had as yet had the courage to penetrate far into the country.

"Yet we might make the coast," said Rough-and-Ready, "and not see a
native for a long time, if we could manage to live; for I don't
believe there are a great many of them. Cannibals they are; but, for
all that, I should be glad to get among them. We might succeed in
working our way down to a cattle-station."

"Would there be really a chance of that?" asked one or two.

"About a hundred to one against us," replied Rough-and-Ready
carelessly; "but that would be better than nothing."

Rough-and-Ready gave them a description of some natives that he had
seen, and told of their manner of living, their treachery and
wildness. It was not very comforting to hear; the prospect of reaching
land, and finding themselves in the midst of such savages, was very
dismal.

The suffering that they had now to bear--that of thirst--was the most
awful experience of all. Some of them grew delirious, and saw gardens
and pools of fresh water. "My lady" was one of these. She whispered to
her husband that a beautiful garden was within a few yards of them,
and that they should reach it presently. She described the flowers and
trees, and the cool fruit waiting to be plucked. And as the vision
faded, she clutched him  by the hand, and cried, "John, John! What are
they doing? We are going the wrong way. O my God we have passed it--it
is gone!" and lay exhausted. The words came from her parched throat
with difficulty; and Joshua shuddered as he touched her face: it
seemed to be on fire. Soon, however, the gardens dotted with
clear-water fountains, and with trees laden with refreshing fruit,
grew again for the delirious woman. She saw them in the water, in the
air, in the heavens--so bright, so deliciously cool, that her heart
almost burst in the vain attempt she made to reach them with her hand.
A little rain fell mercifully, and yet mockingly; for nearly every
thing on board was so impregnated with salt as to render the pieces of
rags and canvas that were held out to catch heaven's tears no better
when they were soaked than if they had been dipped into the sea.
Rough-and-Ready took the lining out of his wide-awake hat; and he and
Joshua held it out until it was soaked with the blessed drops. The
first use they made of the piece of wet rag was to moisten the women's
lips with it, and then the little girl's and their own. Little Emma
lived still; and Minnie had taken charge of her. As Joshua moistened
Mrs. Liddle's lips, the captain, who was lying beside her, motioned
him.

"It is all over with me, Marvel," he gasped; "I haven't long to live.
If by God's mercy you are rescued, report me at home and say I did all
in my power to save the ship." Joshua pressed the dying captain's hand.
"Mind, you are first in command now. In a few hours you will be
captain. You have risen quickly," he said with a faint smile. "Beware
of Scadbolt and that Lascar dog. When I am dead, take my boots--you
have none--and what of my clothes may be useful to you; take the
log-book too, and keep it safe. There is a record in it of Scadbolt's
conduct, and your promotion. It will be necessary in case a ship picks
you up. Scadbolt was your superior officer when we left the port of
Sydney; and he might bring a charge against you, which, without the
log-book, you would not be able to refute."

Joshua thanked the captain for his thoughtfulness, and expressed a
hope that it was not so bad with him as he feared. Then the captain
told Joshua how, a few days before, he had struck his head against a
piece of iron, and how he had lost a quantity of blood. Joshua put his
hand to the back of the captain's head, round which a piece of canvas
was tied, and felt a great gash there.

"I did not tell any one; but it so weakened me, that I thought I was
about to die then. This is a piteous sight!" pointing to his wife. She
lay, pale as death, with her eyes wide open, gazing at the gardens in
the air. The tears rolled down Joshua's face. "Bury us together,"
continued the captain. "There are two or three pieces of iron you
might put into the canvas with us, so we may sink at once. You will do
this?'"

"Yes."

Captain Liddle pressed Joshua's hand, and creeping close to his wife
clasped her in his arms. In the mean time Rough-and-Ready was busy
squeezing drops of fresh water into a bottle. He saved nearly a pint.

Shortly after that, Joshua was the first to see land. He went to tell
the Captain, but could not arouse him; his heart still beat, but very
faintly. Night came on soon; and when day dawned again the land was
gone. Rough-and-Ready came to Joshua with a grave face. He said
nothing; but Joshua understood him. They went to where the lifeless
bodies of the captain and his wife lay, and sewed them in canvas, and
placed inside the pieces of iron, as Joshua had promised. Joshua read
the burial-service as the bodies were thrown into the sea. They sank
at once.

"Not many of us left," observed Rough-and-Ready. "I should like to see
land again. If we don't sight it soon, we may find that the worst has
not yet come. It is as Scadbolt said when the rules were being read,
'Every man for himself now, and God for us all.' But come what may
we'll stick to each other and to the women."

"It does my heart good to hear you speak so," said Joshua. "I know
what you mean: the worst men are left against us; but we are a match
for them, I think. See, here's the log-book, with the poor skipper's
last words: 'I appoint Joshua Marvel captain of this raft, made out of
the spars of the "Merry Andrew," and intrust to him the charge of the
surviving passengers and crew.--John Liddle, Master of the "Merry
Andrew."'"

Rough-and-Ready touched his hat in sailor fashion.

"While we are at sea, captain," he said, "I will obey your orders."

A thrill ran through Joshua as he heard himself called captain.
Captain! But of what a crew! The promotion had come all too soon.

Before long he had to exercise his authority. They were being, driven
on to a reef by a strong current. It was necessary to get the raft
into deep water before dark. He gave his orders; and although both
Scadbolt and the Lascar saw the wisdom of them, they refused to obey.

"I am captain," said Scadbolt. "You will obey my orders now."

Then Rough-and-Ready took a double-barrelled pistol from his belt, and
gave its fellow to Joshua. They covered Scadbolt and the Lascar with
them.

"Obey orders!" cried Rough-and-Ready in as loud a voice as he could
command. "Obey orders! Speak another word of disobedience, and you are
dead men!"

The rebellious men were cowed. With scowling faces they worked as
Joshua directed: and with some trouble they got the raft clear over
the reef, and floated it into deeper water. The night that followed
was a night of great anxiety. Joshua knew that they were near land;
and he and Rough-and-Ready kept watches of two hours' duration in
turn. The reason of this was, that they did not deem it safe to sleep
both at the same time; for they suspected that Scadbolt and the Lascar
were only waiting for the opportunity to fall upon them and kill them.

"We have all the fire-arms, thank goodness," said Rough-and-Ready,
"and all the powder and shot. We are masters while we can keep these."

He had kept a sharp guard over the firearms, and had indeed secretly
dropped three guns into the sea. "Better there than in those rascals'
hands," he wisely thought; "we mustn't cumber ourselves with too much
lumber."

In the night Joshua whispered to Rachel Homebush and Minnie that
to-morrow probably would decide their fate. They revived somewhat at
the news, and Minnie directed Joshua's attention to little Emma
Pigeon.

"She has not spoken all day," said Minnie anxiously.

Joshua placed his hand on the little girl's heart; it beat, but very
faintly.

"She will live, Minnie," said Joshua, "if we can reach land; we are
certain to find food then."

While they spoke, Minnie kept Joshua's hand in hers; it was her only
comfort, poor child. He was kneeling by her side, and she saw in his
face that he had no harsh thoughts for her. They had not exchanged a
word about their friends at home, but Minnie said to-night,--

"Joshua, when you first came to our little room--do you
remember?--what should we have thought if a wizard had told us this?"

"What, indeed!" replied Joshua; and then, after a pause, "Do you
suffer much, Minnie?"

"Not now. Ah, Joshua, if I can only live to repay you!"

"Keep up your courage, Minnie, and pray that we may reach friendly
land--any land--to-morrow," was his answer.

She did pray fervently, and when daylight came they saw land. It did
not look very friendly. A long line of dark savage-looking rocks was
what they saw; towering gloomily and threateningly for the most part,
but with many a little inlet, which offered them a favorable chance of
landing, as Joshua's seaman's eye discerned. There were only eight
living persons now on the raft out of the thirty-five who first took
shelter there. Five men--to wit, Joshua, Rough-and-Ready, Scadbolt,
the Lascar, and the sailmaker; two women--Rachel Homebush and Minnie,
and the little girl Emma. The men worked and watched with a will.
Private animosities were for the time forgotten; but for all that,
Rough-and-Ready was never off his guard. Every thing looked fair, when
suddenly up sprang a land breeze, and they were driven to sea again;
the hope that had been kindled died away. They caught a cod, but the
women turned from it with loathing. Then Joshua thought of a fine
thing. The sun was high in the heavens. He took a piece of rag and
washed it and dried it; then he took a magnifying glass out of a
telescope, and caught the sun's fire on to the rag. He had wood ready,
and they made a fire on the raft. The sailors ate their portion of the
fish raw; but Joshua put his and the women's and Rough-and-Ready's on
the wood, and roasted it. Before they gave this delicious food to the
women, they moistened their lips with a little of the water that was
still left in Rough-and-Ready's bottle; the moistening and the food
were new life to them all Minnie chewed a little of the fish and
placed it in the child's mouth; the child swallowed it, with
difficulty at first, and seemed to grow stronger soon afterwards; she
had been better nourished than the others. As if in reward for this
good thought of Joshua's, the wind shifted to a sea breeze, and a
couple of hours before mid-night they were driven on to land. It
required the greatest care and the most delicate handling to steer the
raft safely through the rocks; but it was done. Scadbolt and the
Lascar were about to scramble on to the rocks, when Rough-and-Ready,
in a voice of thunder--he seemed suddenly to have recovered his full
strength--commanded them to stand. Not his voice, but his pistol,
enforced obedience.

"Why?" demanded Scadbolt.

"Because you are treacherous dogs," roared Rough-and-Ready; "because
you are not men, but savages; because I know how such scum are to be
treated. Ah! scowl as you will I but I have shot better men than you
down before to-night, and I'll shoot _you_ down if you dare to stir,
as I would a brace of treacherous dingos or Blacks--they're much the
same. The women and child are to be saved first. Why, if we allowed
you to get ashore, you'd strike us from the rocks before we got a
footing! I know you, you see, you skunks. Marvel, take the women and
little girl ashore first, one by one. I'll keep guard here the while.
Sailmaker, assist Mr. Marvel."

By this last masterly stroke Rough-and-Ready enlisted the sailmaker on
his side, for a time at least. For the sailmaker and Joshua were man
to man, and Joshua had fire-arms. So, with difficulty, the women and
child were conveyed on to the rocks in safety; then Rough-and-Ready
bade Joshua take ashore what things would be useful from the raft.
Among other things, Joshua took ashore two axes, all the nails he
could find, and some iron pots. The women also had some things they
were anxious to preserve--needles and thread and such like. All this
occupied nearly two hours, and was not accomplished without
difficulty. Scadbolt and the Lascar stood sullenly by, the while.
Rough-and-Ready was in his element; he absolutely revelled in the task
he had set himself. It was as good as meat and drink to him to watch
those two rascals and beat them through their fears. When Joshua and
the sailmaker had completed their task, Rough-and-Ready joined them on
the rocks. After him Scadbolt and the Lascar scrambled on to land, and
began to look hungrily about them. It was a fine night; the moon was
nearly at its full. The first thing Rough-and-Ready did was to cast a
glance at the women lying helpless on the rocks; the next thing he did
was to smooth his mustache with his hand in a thoughtful manner; the
next, to send a dark look at Scadbolt and the Lascar, who were
prowling about on the rocks in search of shell-fish; the next, to lay
his hand in a familiar manner upon the sailmaker's shoulder.

"I say, mate," said Rough-and-Ready, "have you a wife at home?"

"Two."

Rough-and-Ready whistled loud and long, and followed up the whistle
with a laugh.

"It's no joke," said the sailmaker.

"One isn't, much less two," replied Rough-and-Ready, with a wink; "but
never mind them now."

"I'm content."

"You seem a good-hearted fellow, sailmaker, and as you have two
wives, you must think a great deal of womankind."

"I love 'em,"--looking at the two poor creatures lying near them.

"I'm a bushman myself," said Rough-and-Ready, with assumed
carelessness; "I'd as soon be where I am as in any part of the world.
I am at home here. What do you say, mate? Shall we be friends?"

"Glad to be." And the two men shook hands, Rough-and-Ready hugging
himself for his successful diplomacy.

"You're a man after my own heart," said Rough-and-Ready, really
appreciating the crisp utterances of the sailmaker, who evidently was
not a word-waster. "Seems to me that the first thing we've got to do
is to bring the women round; mustn't let them die, eh?"

"Certainly not."

"There's a split in the camp," continued Rough-and-Ready. "Those two
rascals prowling about in search of something to eat, would be glad of
an opportunity to get rid of us; and then God help the women. At all
events let us three stick together--you and me and Captain Marvel.
Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Good. What I want to do is to get fresh water for us and the women; I
know how to look for it. Will you keep guard over the women with
Captain Marvel till I return?"

"Yes."

Rough-and-Ready placed a loaded pistol in the sailmaker's hand--he did
it without hesitation--and that act completed the conquest. Joshua,
standing by, had heard the conversation and now shook hands with the
sailmaker. Scadbolt and the Lascar had also seen the conference.

"They've bought him over," said the Lascar.

"Never mind," replied Scadbolt, "there will be plenty of
opportunities."

In less than an hour Rough-and-Ready returned. He had taken two
bottles with him, and brought them back filled with bright, clear,
fresh water. He had his wide-awake hat in his hand; it evidently
contained something good, he was so careful in carrying it. Joshua put
his hand in, and started back with a cry; he had grasped a nettle.

"Careful, careful," said Rough-and-Ready, laughing at Joshua's
grimaces; "don't be too eager to take hold of things. A great deal of
the wood-growth round about-here is covered with thorns, and some of
them are poisonous to the blood. This isn't, though; 'tis an old
friend."

He took out of his hat two small branches with long spines upon them;
the branches were covered with fruit resembling a small apple.

"Good to eat?" asked the sailmaker.

"Shouldn't have brought them otherwise," answered Rough-and-Ready, in
unconscious imitation of the sailmaker's manner of speaking.

The sailmaker took some of the fruit and ate it, and would have taken
more, but that Rough-and-Ready's hand restrained him.

"That's not the way for a man to eat who has been nearly starved for
six weeks," he said, "unless he wants to kill himself right out. Here,
make yourself useful; but take a little water to drink first."

Rough-and-Ready measured a small quantity of water, and gave the
sailmaker and Joshua to drink. He had thrown down a couple of pieces
of wood when he said "Make yourself useful," and the sailmaker, after
drinking, asked him what the wood was for.

"A good job for you two that you have me for your mate," said
Rough-and-Ready good-humoredly; "you might stand a chance of starving
else. The enemy"--with a nod of his head in the direction of Scadbolt
and the Lascar--"won't be half as well off as we shall be. Just watch
me." He took his knife and cut from the wood two pieces, in one of
which he made a kind of groove, which he placed upon the ground. "This
is off the black fig-tree, and is the best wood there is for making
fire. Now rub away into the groove, steadily, like this, and keep
rubbing. It's hard work; but never mind; it's worth the labor."

He disappeared again, leaving the sailmaker at work, and returned
with an armful of dry sticks and leaves. Soon fire came into the wood,
the sparks dropped on to the dry leaves, and a blaze was kindled, that
brought astonishment into the eyes of Scadbolt and the Lascar. Before
the fire was made, the indefatigable bushman had gone _down_ the rocks
this time, and had returned with a hat full of mussels. These he put
on the fire to cook; and then sat down and rubbed his hands in a high
state of satisfaction. Joshua had not been idle; he had attended to
the women and child, and had given them a little water, which was like
nectar to them. They were too weak to exert themselves; so the men sat
by them and ate supper, and gave them to eat, sparingly, under the
direction of Rough-and-Ready, who was regarded by the others with
unbounded admiration. The warmth of the fire was very comforting to
them, for although summer was coming, their long sojourn on the raft
had chilled their blood.

"Well now," said Rough-and-Ready, when supper was over, "I think we
ought to be very grateful for our escape. It was touch-and-go with us.
We sha'n't be very strong for a few days; and that's what we've got to
do first: to get strong. Then we can look about us."

"Where are we?" whispered Minnie.

"As well as I can make out, my dear, we are somewhere on the
north-east coast of the continent of Australia; where I don't believe
a white man ever trod foot before. That's something, isn't it? We're
the first bits of civilization that these rocks have ever seen."

"Is there any chance of a ship seeing us?"

"I doubt it; but for my part I don't want a ship to see me; I've had
enough of ships. I feel at home here, or I shall feel so in a little
while. I don't doubt but what we shall be able to get plenty to eat
and drink, and that's our first great need. Try and sleep for an hour
now. Strength is what we want, remember."

Rachel Homebush turned to him and held out her hand. She was grateful
for being saved, but she did not speak. The three men arranged to get
a little rest also, watch and watch in turn. It was Rough-and-Ready's
watch first. Before Joshua lay down, he went to see if Minnie was
asleep. Her eyes were closed, but she was aware of his approach.

"That is you, Joshua?"

"Yes, Minnie. Do you think you can sleep?"

"I don't know; I am strangely excited. I thank God that you are saved.
Joshua," rising to a sitting posture and taking his hand, "you will
not be unkind to me now that we are out of danger?"

"Surely not, Minnie. What makes you ask?"

"I was afraid, that was all."

Here the little child murmured something. Minnie placed her ear to the
girl's lips.

"She asked who was talking to me, and I told her you," said Minnie,
taking Little Emma upon her lap. "She wants you to kiss her."

Joshua stooped and kissed the little girl, and she put her arms round
his neck, and asked where papa had gone to. Joshua turned away, and
pressing Minnie's hand, was soon afterwards in the land of dreams. So,
during the night, they slept and watched, and in their troubled dreams
felt the rocks moving and swaying beneath them. Every now and then
they started in terror, and clutched what was nearest to them, as if
life was slipping away; they suffered over again the agonies of
thirst, and moved their parched lips entreatingly. When it was
Joshua's watch, he observed the sufferings of his sleeping companions;
he guessed the cause, for he had suffered himself in like manner. With
merciful thoughtfulness he moistened their lips with fresh water; the
women smiled and grew more composed; perhaps at that moment they
dreamed that an angel was bringing them life and health. Minnie's head
was lying on her hand, and her face was exposed to the light. It was
sun-burnt, but the gypsy stain was dying out of it. Her hair too was
growing lighter and longer. Joshua looked up at the sky and round
about him at the strange scene. Over his head the light of day was
just breaking, but the dusky shadows still lay upon the waters. Behind
him a faint light, heralding the sun, was quivering on distant wood
and upland.

"Dan made me promise," he said softly to himself, as the wonderful
strangeness of his position came upon him, "when I was seeing strange
sights in strange places, to think, 'Dan is here with me, although I
cannot see him.' _Is_ Dan here with me now? Is it possible that he can
have the vaguest idea of me as I stand, heart-wrecked, in this wild
country? I will try to believe so; I will try to believe that he and
Ellen see me as I am, know me as I am, and pity me. I could die here
now contentedly, if that were a conviction. Ellen, dear wife! Dan,
dear friend! dear mother and father! stand fast to me, and believe
that I never wavered in my love and my truth!"

This was his theme that he thought of and mused upon, while all the
others were asleep. The rocks were burnished with golden light before
they awoke.




CHAPTER XXXIII.
ON THE ROCKS.


As the sailmaker was stretching himself, Rough-and-Ready, who was
already stirring, said,--

"I say, mate what name shall we call you by?"

"Isn't Sailmaker good enough?" was the Irish answer.

"It's good enough; but it's no name."

"Tom, for short, then."

"That'll do, Tom; it's like your talk, short, and to the point."

From that time they talked of him as Tom the Sailmaker.

"We're going to look for something for breakfast, Marvel," said
Rough-and-Ready. "Don't wake the women--let them have their sleep out.
And keep your eye on those two rascals yonder. If they come to close
quarters, have no mercy. They'd have none on you. Come along, Tom."

They returned some two hours afterwards, with smiling faces. The women
gathered hope from their cheerful countenances. The sailmaker was
loaded with wood to replenish the fire, which had not been allowed to
go out during the night.

"We're going to have a fine breakfast," said Rough-and-Ready,
flourishing half a dozen plump pigeons. He chuckled as he exhibited
them; but he had no time for trifling. There was more serious business
to attend to--the cooking of the pigeons.

With those and a few mussels they made a breakfast fit for kings and
queens. The two malcontents in the distance had no fire and no
pigeons; they made their breakfast off cold shell-fish, and looked
with envious eyes at the cooking going on among the other party.

"Ah, ah, my fine fellows!" cried Rough-and-Ready, waving half a
roasted pigeon in the air; "what d'ye think of mutineering now?"

They could not hear him, but they understood his taunting action.

Said Rough-and-Ready to the women, when breakfast was finished,--

"Can you handle a pistol? Could you pull the trigger of one straight
in the face of man or beast, if danger threatened?"

They looked at him inquiringly.

"You might have to do it," continued Rough-and-Ready; "so you had
better learn, and be prepared."

"But why?" they asked.

"You see, my dears, there are two parties of us. Here we are, one
party. Yonder are two rascals, another party. We are not the best of
friends, we two parties. If they could get rid of us, they would. By
fair means they can't; but they might try foul. Now I take it that we
men have to look after you and protect you--and you may depend upon us
for doing our best, my dears. We must see to every thing--food,
lodging, protection from storms and from savage Blacks. That may take
us away from you sometimes, and those rascals might steal upon you
unaware. Or another thing might happen: we might fall sick. Then who
will protect you? Or another thing--But, pshaw! there are a dozen
other reasons why you should learn to use fire-arms."

Without more ado he showed them how to load a pistol and fire it,
and indeed was not content until they did it to his satisfaction.
Minnie was the more expert of the two; she soon learned. Then said
Rough-and-Ready,--

"Now, we are going to take a walk. A mile, I dare say. We shall be
followed, you'll see; the enemy will want to know where we are going."

Rough-and-Ready took Little Emma in his arms, the sailmaker assisted
Rachel Homebush, and Joshua attended to Minnie. As Rough-and-Ready
expected, Scadbolt and the Lascar followed them at a distance.
Rough-and-Ready led the way over the rocks, on to sand, into forest.
They were nearly an hour before they came to the end of their journey,
for the women were very weak and could walk but slowly. Without any
forewarning, Rough-and-Ready stopped.

"Here is another thing I have to teach you. A native call."

And to their astonishment, he put his hands to his mouth and emitted a
shrill cry, that rang through the woods and seemed to linger there.
The word he uttered was "Coo-[=e][=e]!" and the sound was composed of
two notes, the second an octave higher than the first. He made them
all repeat the cry after him many times, and made them dwell on the
notes as long as their breath lasted.

"If we miss each other, and lose our way, that cry will be a signal.
You have no idea how far it will travel, if you dwell long enough on
the notes. Now, you" (to the men) "stop here for a little while. You,"
(to the women) "follow me."

They obeyed him unhesitatingly. He led the women over a rise in the
woodland, where the trees were thickly grouped; and when they were on
the declivity on the other side, they saw at the base of the rise a
lovely creek of fresh water sparkling in the sun.

"You will not be disturbed for an hour," he said, and darted away.

They divined the meaning of this delicate thoughtfulness, and with
full confidence in him and his party they made their way to the creek,
and bathed and combed their hair. (I vouch for the comb, but am not
prepared to say where it came from, for the cunning of woman is beyond
me.) The men looked at them with astonishment when they came back,
sleek and trim. They appeared to have grown a dozen years younger.
They blushed and smiled as the men gazed at them, and Little Emma
lisped, "It was so nice!" Even Rachel looked brighter and more
womanly.

After them, the men went in turns and bathed, and by that time they
were hungry enough for their dinner. Rough-and-Ready had already
provided it, having shot a sufficient number of birds for three or
four meals. Nothing could satisfy them after dinner but to go to the
rocks, and look seaward for the sight of a ship. Rough-and-Ready
declared it was useless. "Time thrown away," he said. "If we see a
ship, we have no means of signalling it; and even if we had, 'tis a
thousand to one that they would not see the signal." But all-potent as
his authority and advice were in every other matter, he could not
prevail upon them to cast away the hope of being rescued by that
means. Before night came they made their way back to the woods, and
constructed some rough tents with branches of trees, to sleep in. As
they were collecting suitable timber, Rough-and-Ready, who never
omitted an opportunity to instruct his companions in the resources of
the country, called their attention to a group of curiously-twisted
trees, which he said were apple-trees, although there was no fruit on
them. On nearly every one of them, three or four feet from the ground,
was a large knob, bulging out like a tumor.

"See how bountiful Nature is," said Rough-and-Ready. "You need seldom
be in want of water or food, if you know the secrets of the bush."

He dug his knife into one of the knobs, and fresh water ran out of the
wood. They tasted it, and found it very sweet.

It was a beautiful night, and they sat talking for some time before
they retired to rest. Their strength was recruited by the nourishing
food they had eaten, and by the bath they had had. They had not seen
the Lascar or Scadbolt since the morning, and they deemed it prudent
to keep watch during the night. Now that the first excitement of being
saved was over, their thoughts turned to their unfortunate companions
who had found a grave in the cruel sea, and they shed pitiful tears
over the memory of the dead.

Rough-and-Ready's experience of the Australian natives was largely
drawn upon during the night. Although he said nothing of his past
career, it was evident that he was well acquainted with every thing
appertaining to Australian bush-life. His descriptions of the natives
were not comforting; he described them as treacherous, mean, and
cruel. As to their chances of escape, he declared that there was no
hope from the sea. Their best plan would be to try and work their way
southward, but not for some time, until they were quite strong.

"We will camp here," he said, "for two or three weeks at least, and
try and learn something about the country."

But he told Joshua, when they two were alone, that he only said that
to console the women.

"We can manage to live here; but to get south we should have to cross
country, where we should almost certainly be starved to death or
butchered by the Blacks."

The prospect was dismal indeed; they seemed to be cut off from the
world.

Notwithstanding that the women shuddered and trembled as they listened
to Rough-and-Ready's account of the natives, with whom they were
almost certain to come in contact soon, the subject was too
fascinating to be avoided. So, being compelled to talk about them, he
spoke of many strange things concerning them. The conversation turning
upon their superstitions, he told his hearers of the savage beliefs in
water-spirits and land-spirits, who are all females, and walk about
without heads; of the Oorundoo, who comes out of the water to drown
bad wives; of the Balumbal, a gentle race of spirits who live upon the
sweet leaves of flowers; of the Bunyip, a monster who lives in the
large lakes, and who issues therefrom to seize women and children;
Potoyan, a spirit of darkness, whose Whisper strikes terror; and of
many other singular beliefs.

Said Rough-and-Ready, "There is no surer way to frighten the blacks
than through their superstitious fears. Their 'doctors' can work upon
them as they please."

Joshua had taken care of his accordion, and had preserved it almost
uninjured. He played, and they all listened wonderingly to the soft
notes of "Home, sweet home," floating through the woods. It was like a
dream; they could scarcely believe they were awake. When he ceased
playing, a melancholy cuckoo-note came from the distant woods.

"'Tis the more-pork, a night-bird," said Rough-and-Ready. "I never
heard it sing in the day."

They retired to their beds of dry leaves soon after that, and dreamed
of the strange things they had heard. But Joshua could not sleep. Some
time before midnight--it might have been an hour--he rose and wandered
away from the camp, through the solemn woods. He took no notice of the
groups of majestic trees through which he walked--here masses of the
silver-leaved iron-bark; there thick clusters of the gigantic palm,
woven together, as it were, by luxuriant vines trailing through their
topmost branches. Strange effects of light and shade were produced by
this natural network; but Joshua took no heed of them, nor of the
other wonders of the woods by which he was encompassed. A sense of
awful desolation was upon him; tremblingly he retraced his steps till
he came to the camp, where he sank upon the ground exhausted by
emotion. The full moon rose and shed its light upon him. He took from
his breast the Bible which Dan had given him, and read upon its first
page, "From Dan, with undying love and confidence." Those words did
much to calm him; he kissed them, and pressed the book to his heart,
and gradually fell into a deep sleep.




CHAPTER XXXIV.
BITTER REVELATIONS.


Here in the grand Australian woods are two tents--gunyahs,
Rough-and-Ready calls them--built of tea-tree bark, bound round by
vine creepers. They are in the form of a hive, and are wonderfully
picturesque and comfortable. Up to this time, the castaway dwellers in
these gunyahs have been undisturbed by savages, and this has been a
matter of surprise to all but Rough-and-Ready. "Wait till after the
rainy season," he has said a dozen times; "we shall have plenty of
them then." Rough-and-Ready has made this "rainy season" a pretext for
lingering near the spot where they first camped after their rescue. It
would be suicide, he told them, to attempt to move at present; they
would not be able to make their way through the country. But indeed
all of them, with the exception of Joshua, were content to remain
where they were; they dreaded to encounter the horrors of the wild
country through which they would have to pass. Joshua was the only one
who fretted at their life of inaction. It seemed to him the cruellest
thing to remain passive while Ellen and Dan and his parents were
waiting for him at home. But what could he do? Without the assistance
of Rough-and-Ready he was powerless; and that wise man of the woods
declared emphatically that it would be madness to start upon such an
expedition. So Joshua was compelled to wait for events to shape his
destiny, and fretted and worried because he could take no hand in the
direction of them. It was a good thing for him that he had plenty to
do; he might else have lost his reason. Rough-and-Ready was the best
of physicians; he would not allow any of his companions to be idle,
and he took care to supply them with more work than they could
conveniently accomplish. He derived a huge pleasure from this cunning
proceeding, and had many a sly laugh to himself because of it. The
building of the gunyahs was a matter in which he took especial
delight, and he and his mates labored at them for many days; when they
were finished, Rough-and-Ready declared that they were better than the
finest stone houses that ever were built. The women took delight in
them also, and decorated them with the prettiest creepers they could
find. During all this time they were not molested by Scadbolt and the
Lascar. In their rambles through the woods they occasionally came upon
traces of the two rascals and caught distant glimpses of them, but
they never came to close quarters. Once Scadbolt had attempted to
make overtures; but he was warned off with small ceremony by
Rough-and-Ready, who declined to parley with him.

On a certain moonlight night, not many nights ago, Rough-and-Ready
invited Joshua to accompany him on an expedition. Coming to a place
where the moon was shining over the tops of the gum-trees
Rough-and-Ready motioned Joshua to be still, and in a few minutes they
heard a call, half scream, half chatter. Presently Rough-and-Ready
raised his gun, pulled the trigger, and down came two animals shaped
like cats, with long brushy tails, sharp claws and something like
thumbs on their hind feet.

"'Possums," said Rough-and-Ready in explanation.

He had found out a haunt of these animals, and that night they brought
back more than a dozen, some ring-tailed, some silver. They could
only be shot on moonlight nights, said Rough-and-Ready, and are
chiefly found where the gum or peppermint-tree abounds. They had a
splendid harvest, and in a week they collected nearly a hundred,
Rough-and-Ready was mighty particular about the skinning of them, and
about rubbing the fleshy parts of the skins with fine wood-ashes
before fixing them on the trees to dry. They also caught a score or so
of the sugar-squirrel, whose fur is real chinchilla. Upon these skins
Minnie and Rachel are busy now with needle and thread, making caps for
the men. It is a strange sight to see such evidences of civilization
in the wild woods. The women had begged Rough-and-Ready to spare the
lives of two young opossums which were found alive in their mothers'
pouches, and he, knowing that they could be easily tamed, had readily
consented. They were the most docile and harmless little things, and
soon became domesticated, if such a word may properly be used in the
life I am describing. At the present time, one of them is hanging head
downwards, with its tail curled round the branch of a tree, in a state
of serene happiness and content. The other is with Little Emma, who is
sitting not far from the women, playing with it in the midst of a
great heap of wild flowers she has collected.

The females are not alone. Two of the men are away, but Joshua is in
sight, busy with his axe cutting up a tree for slabs. To tell truth,
Rough-and-Ready is not desirous of moving from the woods where they
are now camped, unless they are compelled to do so by the savages or
by unforeseen circumstances. They are camped upon high land, where
they are comparatively safe from floods; the country round about is
fairly stocked with game; and there is water in abundance--somewhat of
a rare circumstance, and, rarer still, the water is sweet. As for the
life itself, none could be more attractive to him. The slabs that
Joshua is cutting now are designed for a fence round their homestead.
"Even if Blacks come," thought Rough-and-Ready "and they are not
inclined to be friendly, we may frighten them away with our guns." He
is very sparing of their powder and shot, of which they have not too
large a store, and has taught his companions to make and lay many
kinds of cunning snares for game. He is a thorough bushman, and in his
present circumstances is certainly the right man in the right place.

The character of Rachel Homebush appears to have completely changed.
The trials she has gone through have softened her hitherto hard
nature. No stony-voiced exhortations to repent drop from her lips; she
is humanized and humbled. But a short time since she was intolerant,
arrogant, harsh, and proudly-insolent in her armor of sanctity; but
now she has doffed that armor, and has inward doubts of herself: She
believes in the goodness of others. She is less sanctified and more
godly.

Said Rough-and-Ready to Joshua, when they were talking of the women--

"Rachel Homebush is a different creature to what she was. She is not
so good as she was, and I think she's all the better for it."

Joshua smiled at this paradox, and said,--

"At all events she has a different opinion of you."

"Think so, mate?" asked Rough-and-Ready, a little anxiously. "I'm
sorry for it, in one way. There's only one woman"--

But he paused unaccountably in the middle of his speech, looked at
Minnie, who was a few yards away, looked at Joshua, and walked off
whistling.

Here is the picture. Two hives, bright with flowering creepers; Rachel
and Minnie sitting in the shadow of the hives, on stumps of trees,
making fur caps; a 'possum hanging by its tail, studying gravitation;
the little child, not far away, lying on the ground, surrounded by
wild flowers, playing with her pet; in the distance, Joshua busy with
his axe; surrounding and encompassing all, bright sky and lovely
forest. Rachel, raising her eyes from her work, looks at the child in
the midst of her garden, and a soft expression rests upon her face.
The child sees the look, and thrusting the 'possum in the bosom of her
frock, runs towards Rachel with a handful of flowers. Rachel kisses
the child, strokes the silky coat of the 'possum, and selecting a
piece of wild jasmine, places it in her breast. Then Little Emma goes
to the back of Minnie, and twines some of the brightest flowers in
Minnie's beautiful hair; and after falling back and admiring the
effect of her handiwork, whispers to Minnie to get up, for she wants
to show her something. Minnie smiles and rises, and they walk hand in
hand to where Emma's wild flowers are, but the child leads her farther
on, in the direction of Joshua. Made aware of the child's intention,
Minnie falters, and tries to release her hand gently; but Little Emma
clings to her, and laughingly strives to pull her along. Joshua's
attention is attracted to the gentle struggle, and, coming forward, he
asks the meaning of it. The child explains that she wanted Joshua to
see how pretty the flowers looked in Minnie's hair, and that Minnie
tried to run away. Joshua looks at Minnie, who stands trembling before
him, as if she were guilty of some deep offence. Her bosom is heaving,
her eyes are luminous with tears, her face is bright with blushes, and
the tell-tale blood dyes her fair neck. Surely he has never looked
upon a more beautiful picture! He says some kind words to her, and she
goes back to her place near Rachel, and he to his work. But, within a
few minutes afterwards, he swings his axe over his shoulder, and walks
away in deep thought. The bees are humming about him, many-colored
locusts and golden-green grasshoppers flit among the tangled
brushwood, gorgeous butterflies skim through the air; the gaudy beetle
creeps lazily along; the praying mantis, with its leaf-like wings,
darts before him; the tree-frog utters its strange cry; a great
lizard, with a frill round its neck, disappears at the sound of his
step. He walks past these and myriad other wonders of the woods, until
the character of the country changes, and he finds himself among rocky
gullies, with many a fissure in the stony ranges that lead down to
them.

The buzz of woodland life has ceased; unfathomable silence seems to
dwell in these rocky hills and valleys. But suddenly a sharp
shrill note sounds upon the air. It is a bird's note, but no mate's
voice replies. It is like himself; solitary in the midst of this
ungracious scene, which frowningly proclaims, "Love finds here no
dwelling-place." Again the note sounds, and as he makes his way toward
it, curious to see what kind of bird haunts so desolate a place, he
hears a faint echo answer--a voice with no soul in it, he thinks in
his then melancholy mood. He comes to the opening of a small cave, the
walls of which assume fantastic shapes in the dim light. And there,
uttering its wail, to which only mocking echoes make response, he sees
the Solitary Warbler standing alone in the centre of the cave, like
the Cain of its race. He sighs and walks on--over the rocky range,
into woodland again, where the ground dips, and where the rich soil is
teeming with new wonders; and coming to a great pool, he sits down by
its side. He has been to this spot before. Chancing upon it by
accident in one of his rambles, he was attracted by its beauty, and by
the singular effect of the shifting shadows upon the bosom of the
pool, whose surface is almost covered by lovely pink-and-white
water-lilies. He looks now into the water, and sees his haggard face
reflected between the beautifully-colored lilies. And singularly
enough he sees at the same time, with the eyes of his mind, the
picture of Minnie as she stood before him, with eyes downcast and the
flowers in her hair. It is because he was disturbed by thought of her
that he left his work. He knows her secret but too well. She loves him
with all her soul. She tells it in every look, in every word; every
little act of hers towards him is imbued with dangerous tenderness,
and yet she is unconscious of wrong. Every day she grows more
devoted--every day grows more beautiful. And it is a part of his great
misery to feel that her society gives him pleasure as well as pain. He
is storm-tossed by a conflict of feeling. In this conflict no
miserable vanity finds place, although it might be well excused in
most men in such a position; nor is he by a thought false to Ellen.
But Minnie is dependent upon him, lives upon his kindness, asks
nothing from him but gentle speech. Shall he deny her this? Shall he
be false to his nature, and be harsh where harshness would be
brutality? He is strong; she is weak. Her power is in her weakness;
his weakness is in his strength. She leans upon him for support, and
rules by submission.

Something stirs behind him. A sound so light that it might have been
produced by the fall of a leaf or by the swaying of a bough from which
a bird has flown. Joshua, whose senses have been quickened by his late
experience, turns rapidly, and meets the Lascar face to face. In the
woods thought and action are twin-like. Quick as lightning Joshua's
pistol is in his hand, and the muzzle is pointed straight at the
Lascar's breast.

"Stand!" cries Joshua, "if you value your life."

The Lascar stands motionless, his hands behind him.

"Show your hands and what is in them, or I fire."

The Lascar shows his hands--a large piece of rock in one. He had seen
Joshua sitting by the pool, and had intended to brain him with the
stone. At Joshua's command, he drops the stone. A bitter smile
wreathes Joshua's lips, and something like a savage instinct whispers
to him to shoot his enemy dead upon the spot. But the thought that it
would be nothing less than murder restrains him. The Lascar sees the
struggle in Joshua's face, and trembles; miserable wretch as he is he
has not conquered the fear of death. He is re-assured when Joshua
drops his hand and moves away, still facing him. At this, fear being
subdued, the venom in his nature begins to work. Shall he let his
enemy depart without a sting? He commences with a piece of bravado.

"Ah," he exclaimed, "you have robbed me, but you can't make up your
mind to murder me."

"Robbed you!" exclaims Joshua, forgetting for a moment. "Of what?"

"Of my knife. Give it me back. I can't hurt you with it. You are more
than a match for me with your pistols. How do you think I can live
without a knife?"

Joshua makes no reply to this appeal to his humanity, and moves off a
few steps, warily.

"I suppose you think yourself a manly sort of fellow," continues the
Lascar, moving step for step with Joshua, but keeping at a safe
distance nevertheless, "robbing people of their knives, threatening to
murder them, and running away with an innocent girl, and ruining her!"

"You villain!" exclaims Joshua, quivering at this reference to Minnie,
"do not make me forget myself!"

"So far as to shoot a man in cold blood!" sneers the Lascar. "But
don't forget that the first time you struck me it was for running
after a woman. What better are you than me? I ran after a woman, not
an innocent girl. Perhaps you'll say you didn't trick her from her
father's house, and make love to another girl, her friend, all the
while, and that girl the sister of the man you pretended such fondness
for! Going to be married to her too, I heard. But I can tell you
something you don't know. You were precious sly with your sweetheart,
Ellen Taylor, in Gravesend; she wouldn't suspect you, I dare say you
thought, if you had her down at Gravesend until the ship sailed--she
wouldn't have an idea then that your other sweetheart, Minnie Kindred,
with her face stained brown, was waiting for you on board the 'Merry
Andrew.' Ah! you played a cunning game, you pink of perfection, you
sailor-hero; but I outwitted you, I think, in a way you're not aware
of."

"How?" asks Joshua, constrained to listen.

"How? I watched you, and was paid for it. You little thought that, did
you? I'll tell you something more. The man who paid me for watching
had a fancy for your sweetheart Ellen: you've no need to ask me who he
is, for you'll not find out through me. I did my duty to him, and he
paid me for it. Why, directly I set eyes on that brown-faced
gypsy-maid aboard the 'Merry Andrew,' I says, 'Minnie Kindred, by
God!' and I set a trap for her, and she fell into it. Then what did I
do? I sent a letter to my master by the pilot, and told him to go to
Minnie Kindred's father, and to Dan, and to your mother and father,
and to your other sweetheart, Ellen, and let them know that you had
run away with the girl, that you parted from Ellen Taylor one minute,
and was courting Minnie Kindred aboard ship the next. Was that a good
game to play? Was I as cunning as you? Was that paying you for what
you first did to me? Do you remember what I said, when you called me a
dog of a Lascar? I told you that the Lascar dog never forgets--never,
never! Why, now I look into your face, I could hug myself to think
that we're wrecked, and that we shall die and rot here, every one of
us, and that your sweetheart (who's my master's sweetheart now, I'll
be sworn) and your friends know you for what you are--a mean false
hound! I put a cross against you once, and I swore to have your
heart's blood. Have I had as good? Think of it, and tell me if I have
had my revenge."

But he does not wait to be told. There is so dangerous a look in
Joshua's face, that he darts away and disappears in the bush. It is
well for him that he has escaped, for Joshua is maddened by what he
has heard. Truly the Lascar has struck at him with a cunning hand. The
agony of his soul is shown in the convulsive twitching of his
features, in his white lips, and in the veins of his strong hand,
which swell almost to bursting as he grasps a stout branch for
support. So he remains fighting with his agony with a bleeding heart,
for full half an hour. This knowledge that he has gained is more
bitter than all the rest. He knows the worst now. The evidence against
him is awful in its completeness. "Even the Old Sailor will believe me
guilty," he thinks, and groans aloud at the thought. But there is one
duty before him to do. He must tell Minnie. This last resolve comes
upon him when the force of his first passion is somewhat spent.
Between him and Minnie no word has ever passed of those at home; their
very names have been avoided. But Joshua now makes up his mind that
silence on this subject must be broken. It _must_; both for Minnie's
sake and his own.

It is past sundown. The day has been very hot, and the shadows of
night bring cooler breezes, grateful to the senses of the castaways.
Joshua has drawn Minnie a little apart from the others; she, yielding
to his slightest wish, accompanies him to a part of the forest where
they can talk unobserved. His first impulse is to ask her why she came
on board the "Merry Andrew" unknown to him, and why she had disguised
herself from him; but he spares her this pain, and takes from his
breast Ellen's portrait and her lock of hair, and Dan's Bible. He
hands Minnie the Bible.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks. "Yes," she answers; "it is the
Bible that Dan gave you."

"Read what is on the first page."

She reads the inscription: "From Dan to his dearest friend and
brother, Joshua. With undying love and confidence."

"You know the love that existed between Dan and me, Minnie?"

"I know. It is perfect. Why do you say existed? Surely it exists!"

"I don't know; I'm afraid to think. Your words are in some sort
comforting to me; for they prove you have acted in ignorance, and that
you have not wilfully wronged me."

She looks at him imploringly.

"You will understand presently," he says.

He takes Ellen's lock of hair, and presses it to his lips, and kisses
Ellen's portrait also. The hot blood flushes into Minnie's face, then
suddenly deserts it, and she clasps her hands convulsively. She is but
woman, after all. Yet she controls her agitation sufficiently to ask
in an unsteady voice,--

"Is it necessary to speak further of this, Joshua?"

"It is more than necessary," he replies; "it is imperative. My duty
and my honor demand it."

She bows her head; he pauses a while, and when he speaks again, it is
in a softer tone.

"Minnie, do you know that Dan loved you?"

"Loved me!"

"Ay, with all the strength of his constant heart."

"I did not know it. I thought he liked me, but I had no idea it was as
you say."

"He told me in confidence some time before I left. My heart bleeds as
I recall that conversation. No girl could hope to be more fondly, more
faithfully loved. When the 'Merry Andrew' left Gravesend, I said to
myself, 'When I return, Minnie will be Dan's wife,' for I could not
but believe that you would have learned to appreciate the worth of
such a love as his. But it was not to be."

"No, it was not to be," says Minnie sadly. "If I had known, it could
not have been; if I had remained at home, it could not have been. You,
who knew Dan so well, do you not know something of me also? I
understand the motive that impels you to speak to me of these things,
and I honor you the more for it. It is another proof of your goodness
and generosity"--

"Minnie, Minnie!" he cries, "do not speak to me like that!"

"I must; I cannot help myself. Have you so poor an opinion of me--do
you know so little of me--as to think I would marry a man I did not
love? Rather than that, I would choose for him I loved the bitterest
lot that life can offer--misery, shame, humiliation--and be content.
Dan is all that you say; but I did not love him, did not deceive him.
If he told you so, he told you what is false."

"He did not tell me so, but said that from your manner to him
sometimes, he hoped to win your love."

"Must I shame myself to justify myself?" she cries recklessly. "I
was happy in his company because he was your friend, and because he
loved you. I was happy in his company because he spoke of you, and
because--Joshua, have pity on me and forgive me! O my heart, my
heart!"

He catches her fainting form, for she is falling. Weeping, she turns
her face from him and hides it in her hair. Soft breezes play among
the branches of the trees, stirring them into worshipping motion, and
the more-pork, with its sad-colored plumage, flits by on noiseless
wings, uttering his melancholy note. Joshua waits until Minnie is more
composed; presently her sobs grow fainter and she leaves the shelter
of his arm, and stands a little apart from him, with her face still
averted.

"I do pity you," he then says, "and forgive you. What I have said and
what I have done springs from no feeling of unkindness to you, Minnie.
God knows, in such a strait as ours, such a feeling would be worse
than cruel. But there are certain things of which I am afraid you are
ignorant, that I must speak of and that you must hear. Do you know
that, before I left home, I was suspected of playing with your
feelings--of making love to you clandestinely, and so betraying the
friend whom I would have laid down my life to serve?"

"No, no Joshua, do not tell me that!"

"It is the truth; but I did not know it until after I had bidden
good-by to mother and father and Dan, in Stepney. Where were you on
that day?"

"I--I was not at home," she falters.

"You had left, then. I went to your father's room to wish you and him
good-by. He refused to see me. I asked to see you, and Susan told me
you were asleep. I was deeply grieved; and I can understand now what
caused Susan to beg me imploringly to be true to Ellen. What a
cowardly villain they must believe me to be! Your father suspected me;
Susan suspected me. If I had died that Christmas night at mother's
door, it would have been happier for me! Minnie I thanked you once for
saving my life; but I cannot thank you now, for you have made me the
unhappiest of men."

She does not answer him, but stands before him trembling and
suffering, as before a judge, enduring her punishment and admitting
the justice of it.

"It is part of my unhappiness," he continues, "that I have to speak
thus to you; it is part of my unhappiness that I have to show you the
consequences of your rash conduct. Listen: To-day I saw the Lascar; he
came behind me stealthily, to kill me, I believe; but I turned and saw
him in time. I could have shot him dead where he stood; indeed, some
savage prompting urged me to do so, but I held my hand and was spared
the crime. This man hates me, Minnie. In an encounter I had with him
before I first went to sea, I struck him and hurt him. He has had a
bitter revenge upon me. He saw you on board the 'Merry Andrew' before
the pilot left the ship, and recognized you, despite your disguise."

Minnie holds her breath. She remembers how the Lascar whispered her
name in her ear the first day she went aboard.

"He did a devilish thing then. He wrote a letter home, saying that I
had run away with you, and that we were together on board the 'Merry
Andrew.'"

She falls on her knees before him, and raises her bands
supplicatingly, and begs him again to forgive her, and to believe that
she knew nothing of this, and that if she had known--

"If you had known, Minnie," he says, gently raising her, "you would
not have done what you have. But you did not stop to consider, poor
child! You see the consequences of that letter, do you not? Suspecting
me, your father told me the story of his life, to warn me not to
betray you. Suspecting me, Susan implored me to be true to Ellen. Dan
confided to me his love for you, and I listened to and sympathized
with him. Well, what must he and all of them think, when they have
learned that you and I are together on board the 'Merry Andrew'? And I
have something to tell you more painful than all the rest."

He puts Ellen's portrait into her hand. "Do you know who this is?"

Her eyes are blurred by tears, and she sees Ellen's sweet face through
the sorrowful mist.

"It is Ellen's," she says.

"It is my wife!"

As Joshua utters these words, earth and heaven fade in Minnie's sight;
nothing is visible, nothing is palpable to her senses, but the
knowledge that flashes upon her, that her love, instead of being her
glory, is now her shame. "There is no earthly sacrifice that love will
not sanctify," her father had said. Could love sanctify such a
sacrifice as she had made--a sacrifice that had brought disgrace and
dishonor upon the man she loved? For the first time some slight
consciousness of her error breaks upon her, and she looks upon herself
as a shameful thing. As Joshua, witnessing her agony, moves a step
nearer to her, she cries, "No, no, do not touch me!" and with a wild
shudder sinks upon the ground. He, animated by sincerest compassion,
throws himself by her side, lays his hand upon her head, and raises
her face to his. She bows her head upon his shoulder, and sobs her
grief out there. By every means in his power--by gentle speech, by
tender act--he strives to soothe her, and succeeds. And then, true to
his purpose, he finishes his story--tells her what occurred between
him and the Old Sailor at Gravesend; how surprised he was to find
that the good old man, and even his own mother, had seen Minnie's
fancy for him, and had devised the cure for it; and how, prompted by
duty and by his love for Ellen (he dwelt much on that), he had married
her quietly at Gravesend, and had spent there the three happiest days
of his life. And when his story is finished, and she has learned all,
they sit hand in hand, very quiet and sore-smitten, until Minnie, in a
singularly-subdued voice, asks what she shall do: as if, having
committed this fault, and brought such terrible suspicion upon him, he
has only to tell her how to atone for it, and she will straightway do
it. Sadly he replies, "What can you do, Minnie? Nothing--nothing but
wait. There is, to my mind, not the barest chance of escape. We shall
make our graves in this wild forest; but we must live so--you and I,
my dear--that upon my deathbed I shall be able to think that I have
been true to my wife, true to my friend. Life is not the end of all
things."

Meekly she assents. He calls her "Sister," and kisses her; and then
they rejoin their companions, who are seated by the gunyahs, cooking
turtles' eggs found by Rough-and-Ready, the discoverer.




CHAPTER XXXV.
SURPRISED BY SAVAGES.


The wisdom of Rough-and-Ready's plan of action was soon proved. One
night, thunder awoke them from sleep. The thunder that breaks over the
housetops, and the lightning that flashes in at the window-panes of a
populous city, are very different from what are heard and seen in
mountain ranges and great wastes of forests. Nature seems to be toned
down in the city; in the forests and mountains she is grandly
beautiful in repose, terrifically beautiful in travail. The
thunder-peals were so loud and awful, that the women and child lay
clasping each other in speechless fear. Like savage Titans the sound
swept down upon them, and rushed through the forests and over the
mountains and into them in search of echoes. The lightning darted upon
the trees, and ran along the branches, and leaped through the woods
into the bowels of the earth. Every thing that lived in stream and
woodland, in rocky range and dark lagoon, sought shelter from the
storm, of which Sound was but the herald. Presently it came, the swift
rush of waters, like a second deluge, filling the creeks and rivers,
and flooding all the land. Great torrents rushed down the mountainside
into the low land, sweeping all before them. The storm raged the whole
night through, abating slightly when morning dawned. It was well for
the castaways that they had a little food stored by, for they could
not go out in search of any. The second night the women begged the men
to stay with them; so they all occupied the women's gunyah, lying side
by side in the dark, and whispering to each other little words of
comfort. All but Rachel Homebush, who was struck dumb by fear. The
second night's storm was more terrific than the first, and about
midnight so tremendous a peal of thunder broke over them, that they
started up in dread.

"Who screamed?" asked Rough-and Ready. But his voice was not heard;
and swift upon the heels of the thunder another vivid lightning-flash,
instantly followed by a terrific burst of thunder, darted through the
gunyah, and struck them blind for many moments. Then, during a slight
lull, Rough-and-Ready asked again,--

"Who screamed?"

"Not I," said Joshua.

"Nor I," said the sailmaker.

The women did not speak. Joshua's heart beat with a new fear as he
whispered,--

"Minnie! Minnie! speak to me. You are not hurt?"

And tears of thankfulness came into his eyes as Minnie answered in a
trembling voice,--

"No Joshua; I am only frightened. Let me hold your hand."

"Where's the child?" he asked.

"Rachel has her. Rachel! Rachel!"

No voice replied. Thoroughly alarmed, they called to her again and
again, and to the child, but could not rouse them. They were in the
deepest darkness.

Presently Rough-and-Ready said, "Hush! we must wait for the light."

They waited for the light, and by the first faint glimmer they saw
Rachel and the child lying down peacefully, the woman with the child
folded in her arms. Light had come to them before the others!

Rough-and-Ready, who was the first to discover it, turned to his
companions, with the tears streaming down his face and beard.

"Comfort _her_," he said to Joshua, pointing to Minnie.

Joshua put his arm round Minnie and turned her face from where the
woman and child lay.

"Poor Rachel! Poor Little Emma!" he said. "Be brave, Minnie, my dear.
Do not give way, for my sake."

He knew what words to utter to give her strength to bear the shock,
and he made use of his power with a wise compassion.

Her poor white lips trembled as she said to him,--

"Pray for one thing for me, Joshua. Pray that I may not die before I
have made atonement."

"Hush, hush, my dear!" he replied; "there is none to make. It is I who
rather should have to make it, for my hardness to you. Be comforted,
my dear."

The words came from his heart. He would have been unfeeling indeed if
he had not learned to appreciate the beautiful unselfishness of
Minnie's love; her meekness, her faithfulness, her devotion, her
unmurmuring submission, could not fail to have a powerful effect upon
such a nature as his.

The men went into their gunyah, and before night came again had made a
rough coffin of bark. The next morning they dug a grave and stood
round it bareheaded while the rain was falling. They kissed the
child's face and poor Rachel's also before the cover was put on the
rude coffin. Amid deep sobs--the men were not ashamed of their
tears--Joshua read prayers; some vine-creepers were thrown into the
grave; the earth was piled up into a mound: and they went back sadly
to their tent. The loss of some one very near and dear to them could
not have been more severely felt. From that time forth it became a
practice for Joshua to read a chapter out of the Bible every morning
and evening.

The rainy season lasted for three weeks, and during this time they
lived very miserably. Minnie thrived, however--perhaps because Joshua
was tender to her. The hot weather came and they were able to go in
search of food. But Minnie was never left alone. Joshua and she were
waiting one evening for the return of Rough-and-Ready and the
sailmaker, but Rough-and-Ready came back without his companion. He
looked round in some anxiety.

"Hasn't the sailmaker returned?"

"No," said Joshua; "you went out together."

"I know; but I missed him a couple of hours ago, and although I have
searched for him and coo-[=e][=e]d for him everywhere, I haven't been
able to find him."

The sailmaker did not make his appearance. To the surprise of his
companions, Rough-and-Ready, after dark, fired half a dozen shots from
his pistol into the air.

"You look surprised," he said; "well, now" (to Minnie), "can you bear
a shock? Will you promise to be brave if I tell you something?"

She nodded.

"It is only something that I have been expecting. I think that the
sailmaker is with the natives."

"Why do you think so?" asked Joshua.

"For good reasons. I saw some tracks of them when I was hunting for
Tom. Perhaps they have captured him."

"He had his pistols."

"Frightened to use them, perhaps; or perhaps there were a lot of the
Blacks, and he thought it would be foolish and useless. Besides he is
new to them. He's all right, though; they won't hurt him for he's a
plucky fellow. Now, mind. When you first see the natives, and indeed
always after that, show no fear of them. What I am going to say is to
my mind a most foolish thing; but there's the faintest chance in the
world that, making friends with them, you might make your way down
south, from one tribe to another, in a few months, and come upon some
cattle station. But, lord! there's one chance for you, and a hundred
against you."

"Why do you say 'you'?" asked Minnie. "'We,' rather."

"No, my dear," said Rough-and-Ready with a blush. "I have two reasons
for saying you and not we. The first reason is not a reason--it is a
presentiment. I shall die in the bush. The second reason is a plainer
one. It wouldn't be pleasant for me to get into civilized company in
New South Wales."

"Why?"

Rough-and-Ready looked at her with admiration, and said, very
inappropriately, as she thought,--

"Do you know that you have made me a better man?"

"A better man!" she exclaimed. "Why, you are a good man, and a brave
man, too."

"You think so. So let it be," he said, half seriously, half gayly.
"I'm not going to spoil your delusion just yet."

They saw no signs of the savages that night. They did not retire until
late, and Rough-and-Ready went many times short distances in different
directions to look for the natives, but they did not appear. Joshua
took out his accordion and played. Rough-and-Ready listened
thoughtfully, and when Joshua had finished an air, he said,--

"I told you, when we first came ashore here, that there is no surer
way to frighten the blacks than through their superstitious fears.
Your playing to-night, connected with the near presence of the
savages, brings that remark back to me; and I'll tell you why. That
music of yours may possibly be a great power with them. They have
never heard any thing like it. If you don't lose your self-possession
when you get among them--and you must take care not to, for Minnie's
sake; her life may depend upon your courage--you may obtain an
influence over them by means of your accordion. Sound for which they
cannot account has a wonderful effect upon them. Here you have it.
Don't forget what I say. Come, now, I can hear no sign of the black
devils. You take some rest. I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

So they watched in turns during the night.

"What is the best thing to do," asked Joshua the following evening,
"when the savages come?--to make friends with them, or try to frighten
them?"

"There are too few of us to fight," answered Rough-and-Ready. "We
might frighten them for a time, but they would be sure to come back in
larger numbers. Then we haven't too much powder and shot left. No; the
best and wisest course will be to be friendly with them, if possible.
I _have_ heard of white men living with them for many years. I saw an
Englishman myself once who had been with them for five years. He was
glad enough to get away from them; but they treated him kindly, he
said. One man, whom I never saw, lived with them for thirty years. His
name is Buckley, and he is living now."

"Do you know any thing of his story?"

"I'll tell you what little I know. He was a bricklayer in
Cheshire--came from Macclesfield, I've heard. A great big  hulking
lazy fellow he was--brick-making was too hard work for him, so he
enlisted  as a grenadier. A fine grenadier he must have looked--he was
six feet six inches in his stockings. But grenadiering didn't satisfy
his wants. He was a natural vagabond like myself, and he got into
trouble, and was sentenced to transportation. So he and three or four
hundred other natural and unnatural vagabonds, being deemed fine
material for the purpose, were sent out to form a colony. Buckley and
his mates were put ashore at Port Phillip; but the governor, whose
name was Collins, liked the place as little as the convicts, and he
moved them off to Van Dieman's Land. Then they began to talk of
escaping. They didn't know any thing of the interior of the country;
but they thought, perhaps, that any thing was better than the devil's
life they led as convicts. Buckley got away with two mates, of whom
nothing more was ever heard. About twelve months after he escaped, he
fell in with the natives, and lived with them for more than thirty
years. During the whole of that time he never saw a white man. At
length he heard from the tribe he was living with, that some men with
skins the same color as his had been seen within a few miles of the
native camp. They belonged to a band of explorers headed by a man
named Batman. Buckley went in search of them, and presented himself to
them. You can imagine what a sensation he created; a white giant, who
had forgotten how to speak English, with native weapons hung round his
body, and a kangaroo-skin rug his only clothing. He soon picked up a
bit of English, and was taken to a white settlement, where he was made
a pet and a wonder of. He might have done good service for the white
people with the natives, for they say he has great influence with
them. But my opinion of him is, that he is a lazy, skulking thief, and
that living with the savages, where he hadn't to work for his food,
just suited him. I expect that some part of his influence over them
was produced by his tremendous height and big limbs. However, he is
among the whites again, with a free pardon granted him, I've heard,
and earning his living as he has earned it all his life--by doing
nothing."

During the recital of this story, which Rough-and-Ready declared was
veracious, every word of it, he was busy baking a fresh-water turtle,
which he had caught that day while he was fishing in a lagoon. The
turtle was baked in its shell, and they made a delicious supper off
it. They had arranged to fish for eels that night, and Rough-and-Ready
said,--

"Come along; it's of no use being frightened by thinking of the
natives; we must get accustomed to them. We shall soon see them, and
Tom with them."

They took all their fire-arms. Minnie had two pistols in her belt, and
Joshua and Rough-and-Ready, besides pistols, had guns slung across
their shoulders. Each of them wore a cap made of the beautiful fur of
the sugar-squirrel. They walked through the quiet wood, looking
sharply about them as they went along, but neither heard nor saw any
signs of the natives. When they came to the lagoon, Rough-and-Ready
told them he was going to show them a fine way of catching eels
without trouble. He had his fire-sticks with him, and in half an hour
he had a great fire blazing by the side of the lagoon. Attracted by
the light, the eels came swarming towards them; and in a very short
time they caught as many as they desired. Loaded with their spoil,
they made their way back to their gunyahs; and as they got near them,
they saw a dark figure glide swiftly away from the spot into the bush.

"A native," said Rough-and-Ready. "We must look out to-night."

"Or Scadbolt, or the Lascar, do you think?" suggested Joshua,
supporting Minnie, who was clinging to him in alarm.

"No; a white man couldn't move away with such a cat-like motion. I
fancy I saw his dark skin."

Thereupon Rough-and-Ready, for the purpose of familiarizing Minnie
with the idea of living with the savages, and so lessening her fears,
commenced talking of them, and continued talking for a couple of
hours. By which time Minnie's fears really _were_ lessened.

"What a number of stars have fallen the last few nights remarked
Joshua.

"Ah, you have noticed that!" said Rough-and-Ready. "And if you
observe, they have fallen immediately over this spot, in the direction
of the sea. Well, those shooting-stars may have brought the natives
here; for although some tribes believe that danger lies where stars
fall, or that they indicate the direction of hostile tribes, others
have a kind of belief that a great and good spirit may be seen where
they fall. They believe that there is a new sun every day and a new
moon every night, One tribe throws up the sun at daybreak, and another
tribe catches it at sunset."

Here they were interrupted by cries of fear, and by the running
towards them of some person who fell at their feet trembling and
grovelling. It was the Lascar, who was evidently in a state of
horrible fright. He looked more like a wild beast than a man. What few
clothes he had on were torn and tattered, his nails were long, and his
disordered hair and grovelling fears deprived his features of any
likeness to humanity.

"The savages, the savages," he cried.

He had chosen what he considered the lesser of two evils; his white
foes were preferable to black cannibals. Rough-and-Ready looked down
upon him contemptuously and touched him with his foot.

"The cowardly ruffian!" he said. "I'd sooner trust the Blacks than
such as he. Where's his rascally mate, I wonder--Get up!" he cried,
and administered so smart a kick to the prostrate wretch that he
jumped up on the instant, imploring mercy.

"Be silent, you chattering imp of darkness!" roared Rough-and-Ready;
"be silent, and answer me. You've seen the Blacks, I suppose?"

The Lascar muttered an affirmative.

"Well, what are you frightened at? Why don't you go and make friends
with them? They haven't much the advantage of you in color, and you
are more of a wild beast than they are. Frightened of being eaten, eh?
Faugh! they'd spear you and throw you away; you're not good enough
even for them." The Lascar trembled the more at this; he was a true
coward. "What d'ye think of mutineering now, eh? Answer me, you
copper-colored devil, or I'll make an end of you--where's your mate,
Scadbolt?"

"I don't know; I haven't seen him for days.

"Ah, two of a trade never agree. I thought you'd be cutting each
other's throats. Captain Marvel, here's one of your crew who tried to
raise a mutiny. As if that was not enough, he has murdered his mate."
(It is a fact that Scadbolt was never heard of again, nor was any
thing ever known of his fate.) "Now then, you, as captain of the
'Merry Andrew,' pronounce judgment--death, nothing less--and I'll take
him away and execute it, as truly as I'm a living man!"

There was something so determined in Rough-and-Ready's speech, and
something so threatening in his action, that the Lascar leaped away in
mortal fear. Whereat Rough-and-Ready laughed loud and long, and fired
a shot in the air to frighten the Lascar the more.

In the morning, while they were at breakfast, two savages suddenly
made their appearance, about twenty yards from where they were
sitting. They appeared so suddenly, that they seemed to have started
out of the ground.

"Now, Minnie," said Rough-and-Ready quietly, "don't scream out, and
don't show any alarm. By the look of those fellows they are friendly,
and do not mean to harm us."

Minnie conquered her fears bravely, although her heart was beating
fast, and by the direction of Rough-and-Ready they went on with their
breakfast, to all appearance quite unconcerned, and as if the presence
of the savages was the most natural thing in the world. The two men
who stood gazing at them were naked, with the exception of a girdle of
emeu-feathers round their waists; their color was pale black; they
were tall, with thin limbs and fine chests, and their hair was thick
and curly. They had spears in their hands, about seven feet long, made
from the stem of the tea-tree.

Seeing that they stood quite quiet, Rough-and-Ready held up part of an
eel towards them, and smiled, and nodded his head gently. Whereupon
the two savages looked at each other, said a few words, and
disappeared. Both Joshua and Minnie drew a long breath of relief, for
which Rough-and-Ready was inclined to be cross with them.

"They will be back presently," he said, "in company."

They had not long to wait. In less than half an hour the two who had
first presented themselves returned with nearly a score of others. To
the joy of the castaways, they saw Tom the sailmaker in the rear, and
they nodded and smiled at him. Seeing that the savages, who had been
jabbering among themselves, made signs to the sailmaker; and after the
display of much pantomime, he came towards his mates. They shook hands
with him, and Rough-and-Ready asked him how he was.

"Jolly," he replied. He told them in crisp sentences, all of them in
answer to Rough-and-Ready's questions, that the natives seemed
disposed to be friendly, and that they were not half so bad as they
looked.

Rough-and-Ready, accompanied by Tom, then walked half a dozen yards in
the direction of the savages, and held out his hands to them. Tom
looked at the savages, touched Rough-and-Ready on the breast, and then
himself, with sufficiently expressive pantomime, to denote, "We two
are one." Minnie and Joshua stood in the background, side by side,
with linked arms. The savages, coming a little nearer, pointed to
them, and jabbered unintelligibly, as much as to say, "What do you do
here? Who are you?" Joshua, observing the success of Rough-and-Ready's
pantomime, touched Minnie on the breast, and then himself, conveying
the same meaning, "We two are one."

Here it must be told that Minnie had regained her naturally fair
complexion, and that her hair, also fair, had grown to a great length.
Tall and well-formed, with bare arms beautifully shaped, with pure
complexion; with dreamy eyes, with long hair hanging loosely down, and
with the charm and grace of youth upon her, she stood before them in
her strange dress of civilized cotton and woodland fur; and her
singularly-beautiful appearance had a powerful effect on the savages.
They approached Rough-and-Ready, and felt his clothes, and made
friends with him in their primitive fashion; but they kept some
distance from Joshua and Minnie, regarding, her with looks of
reverence and astonishment. Presently, after much grimacing and
flashing of hands and fingers, Rough-and-Ready came towards Minnie,
and, to her surprise, bowed low before her, and stood in an attitude
of respectful worship. The savages, who were watching him attentively,
saw only his back; but if they had seen the merry twinkle in his eyes,
they would have been as puzzled as Minnie was.

"I've heard say that every woman is an actress," he said, smiling.
"Prove yourself one now, for all our sakes, by not moving, and by
listening to me attentively. Your conduct may decide our fate. I have
told you what significance the natives attach to shooting-stars, and
how they either avoid the direction in which they fall or are impelled
there by some powerful superstition. Fortune has favored us. I don't
understand a single word these savages utter; but I understand from
their actions that they are so amazed at your appearance as to
entertain a belief that you are not quite mortal--that, in fact, you
are a superior spirit. If they can be kept in this belief (supposing
they entertain it), it will be of immense service to us. If you are
brave enough not to show fear, they will almost be certain not to
attempt to harm us."

No better speech could have been spoken to Minnie to inspire her with
confidence and courage. But she turned to Joshua first, and asked,
"Shall I do this?"

"Yes," he answered; "I think it will be well, if you can nerve
yourself to it."

Smiling at the "if" she said softly, "For your sake, Joshua," and
then, with queenly motion, walked towards the savages, conquering her
disgust at their appearance. They awaited her approach; and when she
was within a few steps of them, an old graybeard came forward, and
held out his hands, saying some words expressive of respectful
welcome. Minnie understood as much by his expressive action. She
touched his hands, and waved hers, bidding them welcome, and beckoning
to Joshua, touched him on the breast, and placed her hand upon his
shoulder. Then, smiling placidly upon the dusky group, she walked away
with Joshua, and sat down in the shade of the gunyah. Whatever meaning
her pantomime had conveyed, it evidently excited great interest among
the savages. They conversed earnestly and excitedly, and pointed to
the sky and to the earth, describing, by their motions the action of a
star falling gently to the ground.

"Bravely done," said Rough-and-Ready to Minnie. "Whatever notion they
have in their heads, it is one that will do us no harm. See, they are
moving off, taking the sailmaker with them."

And, indeed, the natives went away in a body, leaving behind them four
of their party, however, who squatted upon the ground, with their eyes
fixed upon the castaways.

"They are left to watch us," said Rough-and-Ready; "but I think we may
make ourselves easy about their being disposed to be friendly."

He and Joshua went about their pursuits as usual; but to keep up the
fiction concerning Minnie with the natives who were watching them,
they would not allow her to work, and treated her with such marks of
deference as could not fail to impress the savages. During the day,
Rough-and-Ready offered food to the savages, who accepted it. To show
their gratitude, two of them went away into the forest, and returned
with a quantity of honey in a reed basket, which they placed at
Minnie's feet, and which she partook of to their evident satisfaction.

"There isn't the slightest mistake," said Rough-and-Ready merrily,
"that the devil isn't half so black as he is painted."

They were left apparently undisturbed for two days, when the natives
returned, with different descriptions of food--sweet roots many of
them, pleasant and good to eat. "They have some plan in their heads,"
said Rough-and-Ready. He was right. Early the next morning the natives
gave them to understand that they were going farther inland, and that
the white people were to accompany them. "Now we shall see something,"
observed Rough-and-Ready as they plunged into the forest. They walked
for three days before they came to the native camp. They made short
stages to accommodate Minnie. During this time, Minnie kept close to
Joshua, as if to protect him; but Rough-and-Ready mixed freely with
the natives, and made some snares for game, which he gave to them, and
with which they were much pleased. When they were within a few miles
of the camp a number of the tribe, chiefly women and children, came
out to meet them. Soon they arrived at the camp, and were surprised at
its picturesqueness. It consisted of about a dozen roomy huts, roofed
and thatched with bark and reeds. At a short distance from the huts
was a large pool, the vegetation around which was singularly
beautiful. Among the strange trees which attracted the notice of the
castaways, the umbrella-tree, with its dark loaves and crimson
flowers, seemed to them the most remarkable. There were also a large
number of great fig-trees, and magnificent palms with feathery leaves.
The air was sweet with the perfume of lily and jasmine and the
golden-flowered thorn. There was one hut which appeared but newly
built; it was prettier than the others, and its sides were decorated
with wild flowers and flowering vines. Towards this the natives led
Minnie, upon whom the women and children looked in awe and wonder.
She, clasping Joshua's hand, entered this hut, and sank upon the bed
of dry leaves, wondering what was next to come. She begged Joshua to
stop with her, for she was frightened of being left alone. So, after
partaking of the food which the natives brought to them, he lay down
near the mouth of the hut, and she at the farther end on her bed of
leaves. Joshua could see the glories of the sunset from where he lay;
and he saw the fire die out of the sky, and saw the stars come out.
But he was tired with his day's walk, and sleep overpowered him,
although he tried to keep awake. Early in the morning they rose, and
walked towards the banks of the pool,--


    "To where the weed of green and red
     Its floating carpet gayly spread,
     Whereon the emerald frog reclined,
     Fanned by the fragrance of the wind;
     And all was darkened by the shade
     The water-weeping branches made--
     Save where a paler, tenderer green
     Made bright the beauty of the scene.
     The birds flashed down, to drink or lave,
     With varied note and joyous stave,
     And plunging sidelong from the reeds,
     That wavered mid the water-weeds.
     Plashed in the stream so cool and calm,
     O'erhung by many a fern-tree palm;
     And bell-bird peels, whose silvery chimes
     Found in the rippled water rhymes,
     Throughout the perfumed thicket rang,
     Whence the tall-headed bulrush sprang."




CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE POWER OF MUSIC.


The natives were busy preparing for a grand Correboree, which, being
interpreted, means a grand gathering and celebration in honor of some
imposing event. Scouts were sent out in every direction, and every
hour brought fresh comers, who evinced the greatest possible curiosity
in the white people. At one time nearly sixty members of a different
tribe arrived in a body, and a fierce jabbering took place between the
old men of the tribes. Rough-and-Ready, who had by this time picked up
a few native words, came to Minnie and Joshua with a look of concern
on his face.

"They are quarrelling about us," he said. "As far as I can understand,
this new tribe lay claim to us for having been found in a country
which they say is theirs. I think I know how they will settle it, if
they settle it at all peaceably."

"How?" asked Joshua anxiously.

"They will separate us--two for each of the two strongest tribes."
Minnie caught Joshua's hand convulsively. "I know what you mean, my
dear," said Rough-and-Ready, a little sadly; "you and Joshua must not
be parted. And indeed, it would not be right; you belong to one
another. Well, the sailmaker and I will go our way and you will go
yours. Only you must be cunning and keep together. Joshua, tonight,
before the natives go to sleep, play a few soft airs upon your
accordion. You and Minnie must be in your hut together while you play.
And don't let them see the accordion. The music will fill them with
wonder, and it will be a strong reason with them why you should not be
parted. But indeed, my dear, if you continue to act your part well
there will be no fear of that."

"You are a good man," said Minnie gratefully, holding out her hand to
Rough-and-Ready.

He took it and pressed it to his lips, and held it in his with
infinite tenderness.

"No, my dear," he said, "I am not a good man. You have seen me at my
best. I am a convict, and when I came on board the 'Merry Andrew,' I
was trying to escape from the colony. There's many a black mark
against me which I doubt will never be wiped out in this world. I was
a little sinned against at first, it is true, but I had my revenge
afterwards; I couldn't be meek and humble under undeserved punishment.
There! that's all I shall tell you about myself. Your imagination must
fill in the outlines. And, mind you! you can't make me out worse than
I am. I am glad I have made this confession, lame and bald as it is;
it has relieved my mind." He turned his back to them, with a motion
which said, "You see what a vagabond I am; I am not fit company for
such as you."

But Minnie laid one hand upon his shoulder, and with the other turned
his face towards hers.

"You are a good man," she repeated earnestly, looking into his eyes,
which were filled with tears, "and I honor and respect you."

"And I, too," said Joshua, grasping his hand heartily. "If it should
be our good fortune to meet under happier circumstances than these, I
will show my gratitude to you."

"There, there, there!" exclaimed Rough-and-Ready, half roughly, half
tenderly; "enough said about the past. We sha'n't be together much
longer, as I've told you, and as you'll soon find. We must take things
as they come, and make the best of them. Do you know the natives have
a curious fancy about you?" he said to Minnie. "There was once in
their tribe a young woman of rare beauty and virtues, who was idolized
by all I don't know how long ago this was, and it is only by piecing
stray words and actions together that I have been able to understand
it. Well, this young woman, by some means or other, was transformed
into a star. They believe you to be her, having taken mortal form
again to visit them. 'Tis a pretty fancy, isn't it?"

"But I am white, and"--

"She was black," interrupted Rough-and-Ready gayly. "That is easily
accounted for; they believe that when they die they jump up white. If
you were of their color, they would not have the fancy about you."

By the evening there were not less than a hundred and fifty savages
collected together. Although the weather was warm, they were lying
down before their campfires, with the exception of one group of about
twenty old men and doctors of the principal tribes, who were earnestly
engaged in discussing matters relating to the white people. An old
chief of the tribe who had first discovered the castaways was on his
feet, declaiming violently, with extravagant action, in which,
nevertheless, there was much dignity. Opara was his name. His hair and
beard were white, and his face and body were scored with ugly seams
gained in battle, or in the exercise of the strange rites and
ceremonies of his tribe. On his neck and breast, and from his
shoulders to his hips, were still to be seen, old as he was, the
gashes made in his youth to entitle him to the dignity of manhood. A
great chief was Opara--wise in council, fearless in battle and had
been the most skilful of all his tribe with boomerang and spear, and
middla, and in throwing the wirra.

"The strangers are ours," he said; "the sacred crow, Karakorok,
witnesseth that they are ours by right. The heavens were filled with
light, and great voices thundered. We listened in awe. Fire rent the
mountains, and made new caverns sacred. Light dived into raging
waterfalls, cutting the earth. We waited full a moon. The storm
ceased; the spirits spoke no more. We waited another moon. The stars
fell near the sea--into it. We went there, wanting to know. We brought
the strangers back. They are ours."

Up rose Wealberrin, chief of the other tribe. No less famous he than
Opara. White-bearded, too, and tattooed from top to toe, and no less
cunning with war and hunting weapons. Around his waist was a belt made
of the hair of the enemies he had slain in battle.

"Not so," he said. "The _land_ is ours. There, in Pandarri Kurto
(heaven's cavern), lie our mintapas--our doctors. There are our
hunting-grounds--our fishing-lands. There we make men of our sons.
Shall I take Opara's food, and call it mine by right? He would reply
as becomes a warrior. If I ask, he would give. But I ask not now. The
land is ours. What is found on the land is ours."

"Once lived Mirgabeen," said Opara. "Bright-eyed, fleet-footed,
hollow-backed. Her tongue spoke the music of the birds. Her dark hair
hung down to her arched feet. She could shroud her glory in it--as
night the day. She was beloved by all. Too bright for earth, she lives
in the heavens now, a star. She looks down on me. She hears me speak.
So dwelt with us a maid, whose supple limbs cleaved the water, who
sang the music of the woods. The trees bent to her as she walked. The
branches bowed before her, and whispered to her, and she replied. She
left us for the grand vault where moons are made. What was ours is
ours. She has come back to us. She is ours."

"So be it," said Wealberrin. "The others then are ours. Opara has
spoken."

"She has with her a mate," said Opara, "whom she has touched upon the
breast. Let Wealberrin take two--we two. Then we shall have peace."

Wealberrin would have replied, but as he rose to his feet a wondering
expression stole into his face, and into the faces of all assembled
there. For from Minnie's gunyah issued sounds so soft and sweet that
the night-birds hushed their voices to listen. The breeze was so light
that the melodious notes hung upon the air, and lingered long before
they died away. The savages clutched each other, and stood transfixed
with fear and wonder. What voices were these that were speaking? In
their dreams they had never heard any thing so sweet. Opara had said
it. Minnie had come from the vault where the moons are made, and was
speaking to the spirits of another world. Motionless, with bended
heads or with forms inclined towards the sound, they stood like
figures of stone, in reverential attitude. And did not move a limb
when the music ceased; for a shadow fell upon the moonlit space, and
Minnie came to the opening of the gunyah and looked in dumb amazement
at the strange scene before her.

And now the day has come upon which the grand ceremony of the
Corroboree is to be celebrated. The rival tribes have settled their
dispute. Rough-and-Ready, who is the Chorus of the party, tells his
friends that Joshua and Minnie are to remain with Opara's tribe, and
that he and the sailmaker are to be attached to Wealberrin's. Joshua
hints at resistance, but Rough-and-Ready declares it would be madness.

"If there was no woman in the case," he says, "I might counsel
differently; but for Minnie's sake we must have no fighting. We might
kill a score or two of the natives, but you must bear in mind there
are half a thousand of them here now. Then their spears are poisoned.
Suppose one should strike Minnie. No, no; submission is our best
course." So, with much grief, they are compelled to make up their
minds to submit.

All day long, there is great feasting. An emeu has been hunted down,
and the fat carefully distributed among the natives; honey and sweet
roots have been brought in in abundance, and the bushes have been
stripped of their fruit. Rude seats of vines, decorated with flowers,
have been placed for Minnie and Joshua in front of their gunyah, and
in front of the seats a kind of arched screen of leaves and branches
has been erected, through the network of which they can see and be
seen. When night comes, fires are lighted, the flickering flames of
which give birth to monstrous shadows that flit about the trees, and
fill the woods with grotesque shapes. Minnie and Joshua watch with a
kind of wonder the shadows created by the fire nearest to them. Now
the light goes down, and the black shapes dart through the woods, or
run swiftly along the branches, ravenously, and with cruel intent, as
it appears; anon, the flame leaps up, and the shadows fly and shift
restlessly about, with lightning speed, as if suddenly surprised by an
enemy. Their attention, however, is soon diverted from these inanimate
creations. The natives are assembling. Men, women, and children troop
in from all quarters, and seat themselves round and about the fires in
somewhat orderly fashion. There cannot be less than five or six
hundred of them. All being seated, a long silence ensues, broken at
length by a circle of singers, who chant a monotonous song, narrating
how they had journeyed towards the sea into which stars were falling,
and how they had found the strangers, and brought them to their camp.
As they sing this song over and over again, they beat time with their
clubs. A brave then chants a tradition of one of their ancient chiefs,
who was compelled to fly before a hostile tribe; all his young
warriors were slain, and he alone escaped; but his enemies determined
to put an end to him, set fire to the bush around him, and he was
encircled by a net of flame. Suddenly the earth opened, and water
stole up from the caverns and extinguished the fire, and so the chief
was saved, and a great river was made, in which fish was plentiful. In
the midst of the silence which follows this song, a man springs from
out the shadows. His face is crossed with lines of red and yellow, and
his body is painted white. In his hand is a branch of green leaves,
and a great tuft of emeu-feathers is on his head. He stands perfectly
still for full a quarter of an hour, looking into the sky for the
spirits of dead men. What inspiration falls upon him at the end of
that time it would probably be difficult to explain; but he waves his
branch of green leaves to and fro, and the singers strike up another
song, and the musicians beat time as before with their war-clubs,
while the chief actor in the scene rushes about, and flourishes his
arms in a gradually-worked-up state of the wildest excitement. He
vanishes in the shade as suddenly as he had appeared, and in his place
leap a dozen men, presenting so startling an appearance that Minnie
clasps Joshua's hand in sudden alarm. Flowers are twined round their
ankles and above their knees. Some have tails or dingoes wound about
their heads, others wreaths of down from the white cockatoo; some have
tails of wallabies attached to their peaked beards, and all have
feathers in their hair. White rings are round their eyes, their noses
are striped, and lines of red, yellow, and black are painted from
their shoulders and breasts down to their waists, where a white ring
encircles them. The singers burst into song again, and the
hideously-decorated figures begin to dance, advancing towards the
singers and retreating from them; their motions at first are slow and
tremulous, but soon they are leaping and jumping frantically from side
to side, each trying to out-tire the others, with such violent exertion
as to cause them presently to fall upon the ground in a state of
exhaustion. As soon as each recovers, he rises, and dances by himself,
and the women utter cries of commendation, and beat the ground in
ecstasy. These performers are followed by others, who dance in a
serpentine line, until they present the appearance of a serpent coiling
and uncoiling itself; as they dance, they make a hissing sound with
their tongues, to imitate the hissing of a serpent. And so through the
night the Corroboree continues, until, thoroughly worn out, the savages
retire to their rest, and the woods that a while ago were filled with
such strange life and sound, are lying quiet and solemn in the
peaceful light of the stars.


Wealberrin and his tribe are ready to start, and Rough-and-Ready and
the sailmaker have come to wish Minnie and Joshua good-by. They go
into the woods, out of sight of the natives, and sit sadly upon trunks
of trees that have been blown down by storms.

"I have heard say, or have read somewhere," says Rough-and-Ready,
striving to speak gayly, "that life is made up of meetings and
partings, so that this is quite a natural thing, and not to be repined
at. What we've got to do is to make the best of things."

"It might be worse," says Tom the sailmaker, good-naturedly assisting
Rough-and-Ready to cheer Minnie's spirits.

"Bravo, Tom!" exclaims Rough-and-Ready. "It might be a good deal
worse. We have escaped greater dangers than the present one, and if we
act wisely and bravely we shall escape this. But it all depends upon
ourselves, and if we lose courage, we lose all. You must bear that in
mind, my dear. Why, this day twelve months we may be talking together,
and smiling at these experiences which now seem so hard to bear!"

But Minnie only smiles sadly in reply, and Joshua asks Rough-and-Ready
if there is any thing they can give him to enable him to bear them in
remembrance.

"Nothing is needed," replies Rough-and-Ready. "We have not been
together for a very long time, but our acquaintanceship has been
sufficiently eventful to cause us never to be able to forget each
other. Yet I should like one thing," with a tender glance at Minnie.

"What?" she asks, learning by his look that it is something in her
power to give.

"A piece of your hair, Minnie," he says.

Minnie desires Joshua to cut off a lock with his knife, and he cuts a
thick tress and gives it to Rough-and-Ready, who winds it round his
finger and puts it into his pocket.

"Now," says he, "for a little sensible talk. Your sole aim must be to
endeavor to work your way near to the settled districts, where you may
have the chance of falling in with white people. Southward lies your
chance of being rescued. Every day the squatters are coming farther
inland in search of new ground for cattle-stations, and every day this
fresh opening up of the country adds to the chances of escape.
Whosesoever lot it is to first fall in with our countrymen must tell
them that there are two white people living with one of the native
tribes who are desirous of getting into civilized company again. That
will make them look out for us perhaps. You will find that stockmen
and bushmen are as fine and manly a set of fellows as you would desire
to meet. I think you have the best chance of first hearing the crack
of a stockman's whip, for your tribe is more of a southern one than
ours." Then Rough-and-Ready told them, as much for the purpose of
diverting Minnie's attention from the sad parting near at hand as for
any other, of the wonderful enterprise of the Australian pioneers of
progress, of the dangers they cheerfully encounter, of the unknown
country they bravely plunge into, of the hardships they bear and make
light of, and of the grand future that awaits the beautiful Australian
continent.

"To my thinking," he says with enthusiasm, "there is no life that
contains so much pure enjoyment as the life of a backwoodsman. I would
not change it for any other--only I would prefer, for occasional mates
and companions, white people instead of savages. I don't believe man
was intended to live in close cities."

"But even such a life as you describe," says Joshua, "leads to the
making of great cities. The pioneers go first, and the masses follow."

"That's the worst of it," says Rough-and-Ready; "they follow, and are
not content to live naturally. They make streets and cramp them up
with just room enough for a score of men to walk abreast in. Down in
Sydney there are streets, as you know, where not a half a dozen men
could walk abreast through; but that's the way of all cities, large or
small. Directly new land is opened up, in troop the masses, as you
call them, who make their streets and build their houses as if there
wasn't an inch of ground to spare; while all around them are thousands
and thousands of miles of lovely country, with trees and flowers, and
fruit, and fish, and game, inviting them to come and enjoy life as it
ought to be enjoyed!"

"Well," says Joshua, "'tis the way of the world. _You_ were never
intended to live in cities, that's clear."

"I don't know. I dare say, once upon a time, I should have thought I
was mad if such ideas as I have now had entered my head. I wasn't
always so rough as I am now. But cities are necessary, I suppose; and
it's folly to talk as I do. Why, I don't doubt that in less than fifty
years a city will be built even here in these wild woods; and perhaps
on this very spot where we now sit they'll build a prison." He speaks
these last words with a dash of bitterness: but he soon shakes off his
cynical humor, and proceeds to speak of more important matters
concerning the present. "Be especially careful of one thing," he
concludes, "never by any chance let them see your accordion." (Joshua
had it slung round his shoulders, wrapped in a bag of fur which Minnie
had made for it.) "When you play, let the natives hear the music, not
see where it comes from. By that means you will best preserve your
influence and Minnie's over them. And bear in mind--work southward."

Here two natives make their appearance, and after looking attentively
at the white people, glide away quietly.

"'Tis time to go," says Rough-and-Ready, jumping to his feet; "that is
their delicate way of telling us that they are waiting." Minnie, with
streaming eyes, raises her face to his. He stoops and kisses her, and
says tenderly, "God bless and protect you, my dear!" The four of them
shake hands sorrowfully, and part--never again to meet on earth. So
Rough-and-Ready and Tom the sailmaker disappear from the yearning gaze
of their friends, and from this story; and Joshua and Minnie are left
thus strangely alone.




CHAPTER XXXVII.
HARSH JUDGMENTS.


The foundering of the "Merry Andrew" and the loss of every soul on
board were duly recorded in the newspapers, and utterly shattered the
happiness of that humble home in Stepney wherein love and content had
dwelt for so many years. If Mrs. Marvel's daughter Sarah, who has
played an insignificant part in this history, had been at home,
unmarried, her parents might have derived relief and consolation in
watching the progress of her fortunes; but Sarah had had the rare good
fortune to be quickly wooed and quickly won by a country mechanic, and
her subsequent career has nothing in common with these pages. So that
Mr. and Mrs. Marvel were left alone in their unhappy position. They
could not bear to live longer in the house in which Joshua had been
born and reared, and they agreed to Dan's proposition, that they
should move, and live with him and his sisters. What added to their
unhappiness was, that they were at war with every one of their
neighbors. When the news of the loss of the "Merry Andrew" reached
Stepney, the neighbors one and all decided that Joshua was guilty, and
many of them declared that the punishment which had overtaken him was
a just visitation. To listen to this in silence seemed to Joshua's
family to be nothing less than flat treason; they fought stoutly and
earnestly against the calumny, and defended the character of their
lost son with all the strength of their loving hearts. But vainly. The
neighbors persisted in their belief until George Marvel gave out that
if he caught any man speaking against the dead, he would thrash him.
He had not long to wait to give effect to his words. He came home one
day with a black eye and a bruised face. "I've been fighting Bob
Turner," he said in explanation, "for taking away our Josh's good
name." Now Bob Turner was a favorite in the neighborhood, and the
cause in which he received a drubbing was not his alone, but all
his neighbors' as well. Was free and fair speech to be burked by
such an obstinate and opinionated old fellow as George Marvel? Were
they to be deprived of their legitimate privilege of gossiping and
tittle-tattling? Things had come to a pretty pass, when a man was to
be allowed to bully all his neighbors because they wouldn't agree with
him. The fight between Bob Turner and George Marvel was an exciting
topic of conversation in every house for a dozen streets round; and a
unanimous verdict was given in favor of Bob Turner, who was looked
upon in some sort of way as the general champion of the important
privilege of Tittle-tattle. Much sympathy was expressed for him,
inasmuch as he had been taken home after the fight with a battered
nose and bunged-up eyes, and could not go to his work for a week
afterwards. During that week George Marvel thrashed another man, and
called a woman unpleasant names; and when the woman's husband demanded
an explanation, he received one of such a nature as to convert him
instantly into an active enemy. Then Bob Turner, convalescent, made
his appearance in the streets again, with traces of disfigurement in
his face; and burning with animosity and shame, armed himself with a
stone tied in the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, and, swinging his
sling defiantly, expressed his regret that Joshua had been drowned,
for thereby the gallows had been cheated. George Marvel, hearing this,
went in search of his enemy Bob, and came away again with his hand so
disabled by a blow from the sling, that he also could not work for a
week. At which Bob Turner rejoiced, and all the neighbors rejoiced
with him. After that George Marvel refused to speak to any of his
work-mates, and they, in retaliation, passed a resolution sending him
to "Coventry" for six months; which sending to "Coventry" may, to the
uninitiated, be described as the very refinement of cruelty, inasmuch
as it ignores the offender's existence, and condemns him not to be
spoken to by any of his fellow-workmen. This enforced silence was a
dreadful punishment to George Marvel. He bore it patiently enough for
two or three weeks; but then it became a horrible torture. To sit at
his work day after day, and week after week, uttering no word, and
with his work-mates avoiding his very look, was almost maddening. It
drove him to something which I am sorry to have to record; it drove
him to drink. And the habit that began to grow upon him was of the
worst kind. Having no one to drink with him, he drank by himself, and
soon began to carry a flat bottle in his pocket, liberally supplied
with that national curse--Gin.

Although it may be objected of George Marvel that in his behavior
towards his neighbors he carried things with too high a hand, he acted
only in strict accordance with his nature; and indeed, if he had been
less dictatorial and more conciliatory it is likely that the same
result mould have been produced. It was not to be expected of him to
be gentle and self-suffering under the dreadful accusation that was
brought against his son, when Mrs. Marvel's conduct was taken into
consideration. She could not listen patiently to the revilings of the
neighbors; to remonstrate with them, to speak gently to them, to beg
of them to be more merciful in their speech, would have been an
injustice to the memory of her son. Every tender remembrance
connected with him--and ah, how many there were, and how she cherished
them!--urged her to defend him. And she did defend him, with all her
mother's love, and with flaming eyes and agitated breast; told the
revilers that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and that they
must be bad and wicked themselves, else they could not set their
tongues to such bad and wicked accusations of the best son that ever
blessed a mother's eyes. Poor thing! it was a sad sight to see her
make her indignant defence in public, and then to see her in her
room--pale, powerless, trembling--sink into a chair, overcome by the
agony of her grief. It was not long before white hairs began to
multiply, and before the cheerful look quite died out of her face. And
Dan and Ellen worked on, and never lost their faith in the dear one
who was lost to them; and Susan, notwithstanding what had befallen,
still watched and rose in the night, and went into the street,
awaiting the return of Basil Kindred's murderer. But no word of him
passed her lips; she worked at her dressmaking in silence, and never
uttered a cheerful word. A blight had fallen upon those once happy
homes.

They had, however, two friends and constant visitors, Praiseworthy
Meddler and Solomon Fewster. Through good and evil report, these two
friends remained faithful to Them, although from widely-different
motives. Considering all the circumstances, every thing had turned out
very fortunate for Solomon Fewster. He confessed as much to himself
exultantly, and curiously enough, gave himself some credit for having
brought it about. Every tittle of evidence against him had been
destroyed; no suspicion rested against him. Joshua was drowned; and
Ellen remained, looking prettier in her black dress than he had ever
seen her. He was sure of her now. He had only to wait. She had an
encumbrance, certainly, which he would gladly have dispensed with--her
baby-girl, born in sorrow. But he made up his mind that he would be
kind to her, if she lived; and this resolve, to his own thinking,
atoned for any hand he may have had in Joshua's misfortunes. When he
saw Ellen with her baby in her lap, he thought, and thought rightly,
that he had never seen a more beautiful sight. "One day," he said to
himself, "I shall see her with a child of mine upon her breast;" and
he dreamed with tender pleasure, and with no pangs of conscience, of
the happy time to come.

So time passed on, and no ray of sunshine illumined the darkness of
that unhappy home. Things were going from bad to worse. George Marvel
was not a confirmed drunkard, but he drank more than was good for him;
and his reputation as a cunning workman was on the wane. He did not
work regularly either; he was often absent, and earned less money. His
wife expostulated with him many times, and begged him not to drink. He
listened without impatience, and said, "It's of no use, Maggie; if I
didn't drink I should go mad. I'm an altered man to what I was, and
I've brought it all on myself."

"Nay, George," she said, "you cannot say that and mean it."

(It is to be noticed as a singular thing that now she never called her
husband "father," and indeed had not done so since the news of
Joshua's death had reached them. The delicacy and thoughtfulness of a
faithful wife's love are not to be excelled.)

"I _can_ say that and mean it, Maggie," he replied; "I have been the
cause of all this. I wasn't content that my son should be a
wood-turner; no, I drove him to sea and away from all of us. We might
have been as happy as the day is long if he had remained at home. And
he would have remained but for me. I remember what you said, Maggie,
as well as if you'd said it last night: 'If Joshua is shipwrecked,
don't forget that I warned you beforehand.'"

"O George!" cried Mrs. Marvel, in an agony of remorse, "how can you
bring my wicked words up against me now?"

"I do not bring them up against you, wife; I bring them up against
myself. And they were wise and good words--not wicked ones. I ought to
have listened to them; but I was obstinate and pig-headed, and
thought, like a fool, that I knew better than you. Ah! but it's too
late to alter what is past; and I've brought death to our son and
misery to you, and shame on all of us."

Then he refused to listen to her longer, and walked away to chew the
cud of his remorse, and to drink more gin. To her and to the others in
the house he was gentle: but to everybody else he was a bear. One
night he came home in a condition which may be described as neither
drunk nor sober. Dan and Ellen were sitting together, and the baby--to
whom they had given Mrs. Marvel's name of Maggie--was lying in the
cradle, when he came into the house. It belonged to his humor not to
show himself ashamed of his new bad habit: when he was drunk he did
not slink away and hide himself; but exhibited a kind of reckless
defiance, for which it would have been as hard for him as for others
to account. So upon this occasion he came into the room, quickly
followed by his wife, who never watched him out of doors, but who
attended to him in the house as if he were a child. He took his seat
in the chair which Ellen placed for him, and sat moody and silent
while Mrs. Marvel quickly set his supper before him. But he could not
eat it. He pushed the food from him fretfully, and took his wife's
hand and patted it, and then said suddenly,--

"Maggie, we must go away from here."

"Go away, George!" she exclaimed. "Where to?"

"I don't know; but I can't stop here much longer. If I do, I shall
bring fresh disgrace upon you. I can't live this life any longer; it
is killing me. We have already lost our good name and our good
character in the neighborhood, and where I used to get respect I now
get contempt. And, Maggie, I am afraid of myself! A new workman came
into the shop to-day, and I heard Bob Turner tell him about us and
about our poor lost boy, and speaking of him in such a way--Dan!
Ellen!" he cried, appealing to them in justification of himself
"_could_ you stand by quietly and listen to shameful words spoken of
our Joshua? Could you restrain yourself if you heard him spoken of as
a--Oh, but I cannot say it!"

Ellen rose, with flashing eyes and cheeks burning with honest
indignation.

"No," she exclaimed; "I could not, father. I should tell the wretch he
was a coward and a villain."

"I told him so--your very words: I called him a coward and a villain;
and I almost had my hand on his throat, when the other men interfered.
But there was a row in the place for an hour: for I was almost mad.
And then the master called me into his room, and told me--what do you
think? Why, that he was very sorry to see the change that had taken
place in me lately; that he was very sorry to see that I had taken to
drink; that I was a good workman, and that I had worked well for him
for a many years; but that if I couldn't behave myself as I used to
do, I must find another shop. That was a pretty thing to say to
me!--the best workman he ever had, and the steadiest too--no, I can't
say that now; but I could up to a little time ago. I had a mind to
take off my apron, and fling it in his face, but thought of all of you
stopped me. Instead of that, I asked him what he would have done in my
place supposing he had had a son; but he stopped me there, and said
that he was talking business, and not sentiment. With that I flung
myself out of the room, and swore I'd join the Chartists, and teach
the masters one day that workmen have hearts"--But Mr. Marvel broke
down here and glared about him in violent agitation.

They let him be, and waited till he was calmer; they had studied how
best to humor him. Then Mrs. Marvel said:--

"What do you think we had best do, George?"

"I don't know," he answered somewhat roughly; "I'm not fit to give
advice. I was dead against you when you didn't want our poor boy to go
to sea, and I'm rightly served for it; but I'll never advise again.
I'll be led now, not lead."

At this point, Dan, purposely, but without attracting observation,
pushed the cradle so as to awake baby, and thus caused a diversion.
After that, he quietly gave Ellen and Mrs. Marvel to understand that
he wanted to speak to Mr. Marvel alone, and the women presently glided
out of the room. George Marvel took no notice of their departure, and
indeed did not notice it until Dan aroused his attention. Then he
said,--

"Where's Ellen and the wife?"

"Gone to bed, sir," replied Dan; "and I'm glad of it, because I wanted
to speak to you."

George Marvel gave Dan a disturbed look, and said,--

"Won't another time do, Dan?"

"No, sir; I want to say what I have to say now, particularly."

George Marvel nodded, and somehow or other, the flat bottle in which
he carried his gin obtruded itself unpleasantly upon his notice. It
made a bulge in his pocket, and he tried to hide it from Dan, but did
not succeed.

"Will you give me leave to speak of certain things in the past, sir,
and not consider it a liberty?" asked Dan.

"Say what you like, Dan; I can't consider any thing you say a
liberty."

"Ah--then I may speak of another thing presently, which makes us all
very unhappy." (George Marvel shifted uneasily upon his chair, and
wished he could get rid of the flat bottle which made itself so
conspicuous in his breast-pocket.) "We have gone through many changes
in our humble life; but for the most part we have been very happy. Do
you remember, sir, when father died, how perplexed I was as to how we
should live, and how, when every thing seemed to be a failure, and
there didn't seem to be a ray of hope, you came to me with twelve
pounds four shillings, in a bag, which you had collected for us among
the neighbors?" (George Marvel groaned, and thought, "What would the
neighbors say to me now if I went to them on such an errand? But I was
respected then.") "Well, sir, from that time fortune smiled upon us,
and we got on, until the unhappy day came. You know, sir, what father
died of; it causes me shame and sorrow to think of, although it is a
long time ago. I remember how Ellen and I used to sit here, in this
very room, and tremble when we heard his step in the passage--she was
frightened, but I was more ashamed than frightened. There was the day
poor mother was buried--I shall never forget that night when we sat
here in the dark; Mrs. Marvel was very kind to us that day, but indeed
she was always that. Jo's mother couldn't be otherwise." (George
Marvel gave a gasp, and lowered his head.) "It cuts, sir, to speak of
Jo in this way; I feel it as well as you. But it may do good. Now I'll
tell you what I thought that night of poor mother's funeral, when I
heard father stumbling in the passage. I thought it was cruel and
unkind to mother; I thought that even if he had the right to bring
shame on himself (which I am certain he hadn't, for no man has), he
had no right to bring it on us; I thought that perhaps poor mother
died sooner than she might have done if father had been a steady and
sober man. For father earned very little money, and mother had to work
very hard to make both ends meet. I have known her get up in the
winter mornings at five o'clock, and work and slave till near
midnight, and all because of father's idleness. Now tell me, sir, you
whom I have always looked up to because you are a just man, could any
thing justify father in leading the life he did?"

"Nothing, Dan," replied George Marvel, in a low voice.

"He did not even have the excuse of a great grief," said Dan
courageously and tenderly. "Why, when he died that dreadful death,
shamed and shocked as I was, I looked upon it as a mercy to him and to
us that he was taken away. Yet, going a long way back, to the time
when I was very young, I remember that father was not so very bad; he
used to drink a little, but was not always drunk. It grew upon him, I
suppose, until it mastered him, and made him what he became."
Certainly, Dan proved himself the cunningest of physicians; he had
brought home to George Marvel a consciousness of the abyss towards
which he was walking, and had executed his task tenderly, wisely, and
without giving offence. "Now, come, sir," continued Dan boldly; "let
us look things straight in the face. You said you must go away from
here--you mean all of us, of course. Have you any idea where we should
move to?"

"None, Dan. Only one thing is plain to me--ay, much plainer to me
after what you have said--and that is that I must go from this
neighborhood, where once I held up my head and was respected, but
where now every man and woman is my enemy. I never will be friends
with them again--never! If they held out their hands to me now, I
should refuse them after what they have said of our poor dead boy."

"Dead boy!" mused Dan. "Are you certain, sir, that Jo is dead?" So
startled was Mr. Marvel by the question, that he gazed at Dan in
speechless astonishment. "I haven't spoken of it to anybody else, but
something tells me that our Joe is alive. Yes, sir, you may well stare
at me, for every other person but you and Ellen and Mrs. Marvel would
call me mad for saying such a thing. I can give you no reason for the
belief--for it is a belief, not a fancy. Haven't you heard, sir, of
men being wrecked on strange lands, and living there for many years
after they were supposed to be dead? Haven't you heard of men living
amongst savages, and suddenly appearing among their friends years and
years after they were lost? Some such thing, happily, may have
occurred to Jo."

"But it's two years now since Josh went away," gasped Mr. Marvel; and
then added, "Don't tell mother, Dan; it would drive her out of her
senses."

"I shall wait before I tell her, but I shall tell Ellen when the
proper time comes. Hope isn't a bad thing, sir.

"But hope without reason," suggested Mr. Marvel.

"Except the reason that exists and the comfort that exists in thinking
of the cases that we have read of in stories of shipwrecked men who
have been preserved from death. But hope is a good thing always,
whether it comes from reason or fancy. And if you can believe as I
believe, it will be the better and not the worse for you. Indeed,
indeed, sir, you don't know how earnest I am in this. Think of the
friendship that exists between me and Jo; I believe it to be something
better and higher than ordinary friendships among boys and men. It has
grown up with us, until it has become almost a part of our very being.
We are never out of each other's thoughts; when he was away on his
first voyage he was always thinking of me, and I of him. And that
Christmas night that he came home--do you know what happened then,
sir? Ellen can tell you that during the whole of that day I was uneasy
about Jo; I had dreamed of him the night before, and my dream made me
unhappy, for I was convinced that he was in danger. I had no reason
for that, nor had I any reason for telling Ellen that Jo was very near
us an hour before he came to the door. But unhappily, it all came true
as I feared. Now, sir, I have thought often that if Jo was dead, I
should feel it and know it--and I don't feel it and don't know it.
Something keeps whispering to me, 'You will see him again, be with him
again.' And I believe that I shall. For last night, sir, I dreamed of
Jo, and Jo was alive; and as sure as we're sitting here talking, we
shall see Jo one day, and all the dreadful mystery that looks so black
against him will be cleared up."

Mr. Marvel jumped to his feet, and walked excitedly about the room.
There was something contagious in Dan's enthusiasm. So earnest, so
thrilling was Dan's voice, that Mr. Marvel's heart beat high with the
hope in which there was no reason.

"I have not done yet, sir. When you said to-night that you must go
away from here, I was amazed, for it seemed to belong to part of my
dream. Jo seemed to say to me, 'I can't come to you Dan; come to me.'
And I want to go to him"--

Mr. Marvel stopped suddenly in his walk, and stood before Dan with a
startled look on his face.

"I want to go to him, or as near to him as I can. The last place Jo
was heard of was at Sydney, and the ship is supposed to have foundered
somewhere near the Australian coast. Well, sir, if by any means it can
be managed, we ought to go to Australia."

"All of us!" exclaimed Mr. Marvel.

"All of us," repeated Dan. "Why not? We are miserable here--unhappy
here. We haven't, as you say, a friend in the place. Everybody is
against Jo, and believe him to be bad, while we know him to good. I
agree with you, sir, that if those we thought were our friends and who
have spoken against Jo were to hold out their hands to me, I would not
take them. It would be treasonable to Jo. To live on here in this way
would only be adding to our unhappiness. I dare say we could manage to
get along out there. Mr. Meddler says it is a rising place, and a
splendid country for a poor man to get along in. You could take your
tools, and could get work. I could take my birds, and should be able
to get plenty there that I could train. Why, sir, it would be a
splendid thing, and the best for all of us."

"I believe it would--I believe it would," said Mr. Marvel, his voice
trembled with eagerness; "but where is the money to come from?"

"We have forty pounds of Jo's, sir, that he left for you and me; I
wouldn't mind it being spent that way. That wouldn't be any thing like
enough, I know; but I think I have a friend. However, sir, let us
think over it for a little while. I am glad that we've had this talk.
You'll forgive me, sir, won't you, for what I said in the first part
of it?"

George Marvel made no reply, but, standing by Dan, put his arm
affectionately round the neck of his son's friend; then left the room,
and comforted his wife by a very simple act. He took the flat bottle
out of his pocket, and said, "Maggie, I have done with this; I shall
never fill it again." And, happily for him and all of them, he kept
his word.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. MARVEL SHAKES THE DUST FROM HIS FEET.


Dan took the Old Sailor in to his confidence, and the impracticable
old fellow excitedly proposed that they should leave Stepney and come
and live with him in his barge. But as Dan declared that that was
impossible, the Old Sailor's hopes fell down to zero.

"We can't live in this neighborhood much longer," said Dan; "it
wouldn't so much matter to me, for I'm always indoors, but it does to
Jo's father. I know what he must suffer. You see, what we want is a
friend."

"Ah!" said the Old Sailor, "what you want is a friend. Well, we'll
talk of this again by and by."

"He went down stairs to see Ellen, and found her crying over her baby.

"Come, come, my dear," he said; "this won't do; you'll be making an
old woman of yourself in no time." And he dried her eyes with his
handkerchief.

"You're the only friend we've got now," said Ellen sadly.

The Old Sailor thought: "Says Dan, 'What we want is a friend.' Says
Ellen, 'You're the only friend we've got.'" And he put this and that
together, as he had done once before in the memorable conversation he
had had with Joshua at Gravesend, when he set all matters straight.

"What were you crying for, my lass?" he said aloud.

"Ah, sir!" replied Ellen, "I don't mind telling you. I was looking
down at baby, and thinking that when she is old enough to understand
things--and baby is very quick, and almost understands already, don't
you, my pet?--she will hear such stories from ill-natured people about
father, as will make her as unhappy as her poor mother is. When I
thought that, sir, I began to cry, and was almost wicked enough to
believe that it would be better for both of us to die than to live
amongst such bad-hearted people."

The Old Sailor did not stop long, but walked away in profound thought.

Soon after that, another misfortune occurred. George Marvel told them
that he had left his situation. "I gave it up of my own accord,
Maggie," he said to his wife, to whom he first spoke upon the subject;
"If I hadn't, I should have done something that would have made the
master give me warning, and I should have been disgraced. I can't make
sure of myself now; my blood boils up so when I hear a word dropped
about Josh, that every thing swims before my eyes. I can't help it, my
dear. Don't blame me."

She did not blame him, but said she was sure he had done what he
thought was for the best.

"I've worked in the shop, man and boy, for more than thirty years," he
said huskily, "and I doubt if I shall get another. Trade's overdone. A
good many men are out, and I'm not as young as I was. I don't quite
see the end of it, Maggie."

She cheered him and comforted him, and he went out the next morning in
search of work, feeling very much ashamed of himself. It was like
begging. He came home disheartened and footsore, and hadn't a cheerful
word or look for any one. "A nice ending this is!" he said bitterly.
"But I brought it all on myself. I shouldn't have driven our boy to
sea." He seemed to think it was nothing but strict justice that he
should take all the blame upon himself. He earned so little money,
that presently he had to break into Joshua's legacy to him and Dan,
and it began to melt like magic. Things were getting very bad. The
dressmaking work, too, was slackening, and Susan and Ellen had many
idle days.

Solomon Fewster observed all this with inward satisfaction, although
outwardly he sympathized with them, and was profuse in his offers of
assistance. But they would not accept any thing from him; and very
soon the proceeds of the birds he continued to purchase from Dan
became their most dependable source of revenue. Notwithstanding that
he was careful never to say a word of the past that would be
distasteful to them, he did not make much way in their good graces.
They did not show this, however; he was consistent in his offers of
assistance and in his friendly behavior, and they could not show
ingratitude; but their instincts were against him. He allowed a year
to pass before he spoke to Ellen of his love for her, and even then he
thought it best first to make sure of the co-operation of her friends.
He addressed himself in the first place to George Marvel, who opened
his eyes very wide, and was indeed very much astonished at Mr.
Fewster's declaration. He had never suspected that Mr. Fewster had an
attachment for Ellen.

"I loved her before she was married," said Mr. Fewster to him; "but
then I saw that she loved your poor son, and I was too honorable to
interpose. So I did not distress her by telling her of my love."

Mr. Marvel thought that that was manly and straightforward, but asked
Mr. Fewster why he spoke to him upon the subject.

"You are in a sort of way Ellen's father," replied Mr. Fewster, "and
it is due to you that I should speak to you first. I should not be
justified otherwise in offering myself to Ellen. I have something to
say also, if you will excuse me for taking the liberty"--

Seeing that Mr. Fewster hesitated, Mr. Marvel bade him proceed, and
then the wooer cunningly placed before Mr. Marvel certain advantages
that would accrue to him if Ellen consented.

"I should feel it my duty," said Mr. Fewster, "to see that the man I
look upon as Ellen's father is properly cared for."

"Never mind that," said Mr. Marvel; he had recovered from his
astonishment, and felt a sort of displeasure at Mr. Fewster's
proposal. "Never mind that," he repeated dryly, "but tell me what it
is you want me to do."

"I want you to give your consent, Mr. Marvel, and to assist me."

"Assist you in making a woman love you, Mr. Fewster!" exclaimed Mr.
Marvel. "No, no; the matter rests with you and Ellen. It is none of
mine, and any feeling I may have in the matter it is but right I
should keep to myself."

"But you won't say any thing in my disfavor," urged Mr. Fewster,
alarmed at Mr. Marvel's coldness of manner, and thinking to himself
that when Ellen was his wife, he would have as little as possible to
do with the Marvels.

"I shall say nothing to Ellen one way or the other," replied Mr.
Marvel moodily. "I have no doubt Ellen knows what is due to herself.
And to Joshua," he was about to add, but he only thought the words;
they did not pass his lips. When Mr. Fewster went away, Mr. Marvel was
very despondent, and thought with some bitterness that he would have
spoken to Ellen's lover very differently, if he hadn't been so low
down in the world. So discouraged was Mr. Fewster by his interview
with Mr. Marvel, that he did not speak to any other members of the
family, not even to Dan, but came straight to the point at once with
Ellen. After all, whom else did it concern but Ellen and himself? She
was sitting in the kitchen, working; baby was in the cradle, and upon
Ellen's face were traces of tears. When she and baby were alone, her
tears flowed too readily now. Solomon Fewster had prepared himself
carefully for the occasion. He was attired in his best, and presented
quite a holiday appearance. He bought a bunch of flowers for Ellen, of
which he begged her acceptance. With a little hesitancy of manner, she
took them from his hand and placed them on the table. There is
something in the air of a wooer that betrays his purpose to the woman
he loves, and when Ellen looked into Mr. Fewster's face and saw this,
she rose hurriedly, and stooped to take baby out of the cradle,
intending to leave the room. But Mr. Fewster's hand upon her arm
restrained her.

"Nay, Ellen," he said awkwardly, "let baby alone for a little; don't
disturb her--she looks so pretty in her sleep." And calling up a look
of admiration in his face, he contemplated baby with an appearance of
affectionate interest, which would have won its way to the heart of
most mothers at once. But not to Ellen's. Mr. Fewster's tender manner
brought back to her the memory of all his disagreeable attentions when
they were first acquainted, and she waited in silent apprehension for
what she dreaded was to come. But round about the bush went Mr.
Fewster.

"Things are very much changed, Ellen," he observed. She would have
resented his calling her by her Christian name on the present
occasion, although he had often done so before; but he was Dan's
patron and their chief dependence, and she did not dare to object.
"Very much changed," he repeated. "Mr. Marvel, poor fellow, looks
quite shabby. He has a difficulty in getting work, I believe. Very
sad--very sad. But it's the way of the world. One man up, another man
down, Lucky, man that who can always keep up."

"He is indeed, Mr. Fewster," said Ellen, constrained to say something
in reply. "But we can't help misfortunes coming."

"No; but we can often turn bad fortune into good. Now, looking lately
at Mr. and Mrs. Marvel, who are far from happy, poor things! far from
happy, I have been thinking what a beautiful thing it would be to make
them easier in their mind as regards their worldly circumstances, for
there is no doubt that that constitutes the greatest part of their
unhappiness. As for the other part of their unhappiness--family
grief--time will soften that. But time doesn't soften poverty if it is
always with you. It is a sad thing, a very sad thing, but it is so
unfortunately. There is no harder misfortune in the world than
poverty."

"Yes, there is, Mr. Fewster," said Ellen, who had taken baby on her
lap as a kind of protection. "There are griefs of the heart which are
bitterer to bear than poverty."

"I stand corrected. But then that will be the case with the few, not
with the many--with the few who are superior to most people, and who
are the more to be admired for the possession of such excellent
virtues. I know one woman who is far above all others in this respect,
and whom I therefore love and admire far above all other women." Ellen
trembled and turned very pale, but Mr. Fewster proceeded rapidly,
fearful lest he had been too precipitate, "Coming back to Mrs.
Marvel--would it not be a good thing to make her comfortable in her
mind about her worldly circumstances?"

"It would be--a very good thing," answered Ellen, in a low tone.

"And it can be done. There is one person who has it in her power to do
this for Mrs. Marvel." Again Mr. Fewster paused until Ellen asked,
"Who is that person, Mr. Fewster?"

"You," he said eagerly. "You can do this, and at the same time you can
make a man who has loved you from the first day he saw you the
happiest man in the world."

"Stop, sir!" cried Ellen, in a firm voice. "You must not say what you
were about to say. It would be folly--worse than folly--it would be
wicked for me to pretend not to understand you. It would be merciful
to me, and best for both of us, that you should not say any thing more
now. I have no heart for any thing but my grief and my child."

So earnestly did she speak, that Fewster was fain to desist. The only
words he said were, "You shall see how I respect and love you: your
word is my law;" and straightway left her. But he did not leave her
despairingly. One little word that Ellen had unconsciously uttered
filled him with hopeful anticipation. She had said, "It will be
merciful to me, and best for both of us, that you should not say any
thing more _now_." She had put no impression upon the word; but the
wish that "keeps the word of promise to the ear" imbued it with a
distinct utterance to Solomon Fewster's sense. "I must not say any
thing more _now_," he thought; "that opens the way for the future. I
must be content for a little while." He thought he had made a good
move, and that he was sure to win the game.

When he was gone, Ellen caught her baby to her bosom, and ran to Dan's
room for consolation--almost, as it seemed to her, for protection.
There she found George Marvel sitting in an attitude of sadness. He
had not had an hour's work for the last fortnight, and half of
Joshua's savings was spent: but barely twenty pounds remained. When
that was gone! Well, that was what was fermenting in George Marvel's
mind now. When that was gone, what was he to do? Sit down and starve?
Without doubt, they could not all live upon Dan's earnings; for Dan
and his sisters earned barely enough to keep themselves. He groaned in
bitterness of spirit to think that he, the only man in the house who
could work, was doomed to idleness. He had striven hard, and still
strove, to obtain employment--with what success has been narrated. He
felt at times as if he would be justified in demanding work, instead
of begging for it. Indeed, on one occasion he had asked for work in
some what defiant tones, and, being refused, had spoken out of the
bitterness of his heart, of the injustice and hardship that stood in
his way of earning food, being willing to work for it honestly. The
only answer he received was an order to quit the shop immediately, if
he did not wish to be given in custody. The sentiments to which he had
given utterance were soon made known to many masters in the trade,
some of whom afterwards, in reply to his applications, said they did
not want any Chartists in their workrooms. His case was a desperate
one indeed. The problem which he was trying to solve as Ellen entered
the room after her interview with Solomon Fewster was a common one
enough, more's the pity. He would have expressed it in very simple
words: "I must work to live. I am able to work, and willing. I cannot
get work. How am I to live?" Ellen saw the trouble in his face, and
sat down by his side. He gave her just one glance, and learned what
had occurred; for he had seen Solomon Fewster go out of the house.

"I know what has occurred, my dear," he said anxiously. "Mr. Fewster
has been speaking to you. And your answer?"

"I have no need to tell you, father," said Ellen, raising her eyes to
his. She said nothing of the bribe Fewster had offered for her love.

George Marvel saw that Ellen had refused Mr. Fewster, and he nodded
grave approval; yet, from a sense of justice, was compelled to ask,--

"Have you considered all the circumstances, Ellen? Have you considered
the future?"

"I don't know," she answered; "I only know that I have done what is
right, and what is due to my dear Joshua's memory."

All this was Greek to Dan, and it had to be explained to him. He
listened in silence, and was very thoughtful afterwards. He let the
matter drop, however, until he and Ellen were alone; and then he told
her, gently and by degrees, of his belief that Joshua was not lost,
and of his earnest desire to go over the seas and commence a new life.
She, listening eagerly, almost breathlessly, pressed his hand to her
lips and kissed him again and again, and was absolutely so simple as
to share his belief. Hope revived within her; and when Dan said, "You
are not widowed yet, dear; of that I feel assured," she blessed him
for the words in which there was no reason.

Other troubles came. Solomon Fewster, strong in cunning, made a new
move in the game. His orders began to fall off, and in a short time he
bought one bird where formerly he had bought three. Perhaps he
thought, "If love won't drive Ellen into my arms, necessity may." It
was a cruel device, mean and merciless, and it struck fresh terror to
their hearts. They could do nothing; but wait and watch the tide come
up. And things grew so bad for them that they had to content
themselves with two meals a day, and those but poor and scanty ones.
Their condition was a strange parallel to that of the unfortunate
passengers of the "Merry Andrew" on the raft. There are wrecks on land
as sad as any in the records of the sea.

Solomon Fewster, of course, was profuse in his regrets at the
falling-off of the business, and offered to lend Dan and Ellen money,
which they refused. He renewed his offer many times, not offended at
the refusal. "He wants to buy Ellen," thought Dan; "but he doesn't
know her. Jo said once that Ellen was not the kind of a girl for a
heroine. Would he say so now, if he could see her, I wonder?"

It was in this way that he often thought of Joshua as of one who would
be restored to them some day. He had fixed the belief firmly in his
mind, and nothing could shake it. He had no hope of ever seeing Minnie
again. She was as one who had passed out of his life forever. But she
lived in his mind and in his heart, and came to him in his dreams. And
in the light, often and often, he would muse upon her tenderly and
lovingly.

So they lived on, and the tide of adversity rose higher and higher,
until they were compelled to begin to pawn things. But a better time
was coming. The Old Sailor passing a pawn-shop one day in Dan's
neighborhood--he was on his way to Dan's house--saw Ellen hurry out of
the shamefaced door. He was so staggered that he allowed her to escape
his sight. He had had no idea that things were so hard with them as
that. When he recovered himself, he gave his chest a great thump,
called himself "a blind old swab," and made his way to Dan's house. He
went straight down to the kitchen, prying old interloper as he was,
and caught Ellen, in the act of counting a few--very few--small pieces
of silver and copper in Mrs. Marvel's hand. He was so distressed, that
the blood rushed into his face. He only desired to see Ellen alone and
speak to her, and here he was shaming them in their poverty. The
tender-hearted old fellow was fit to sink into the ground, he was so
remorseful. He stammered out a few words of apology, said he thought
Ellen was alone, but that Dan would do as well. He went up to Dan, and
to Dan's astonishment locked the door. Then he inclined his head
melodramatically, to be sure that no one was listening, and, being
satisfied, drew a chair close to Dan's.

"Hark ye, my lad," he said: "can you and I speak to the point, and
without beating about the bush?"

"I think we can, sir," replied Dan, smiling; the Old Sailor's voice
always did him good.

"Frankly, then," said the Old Sailor, "do you find it a hard matter to
live?"

"Very hard, sir."

"No money in the house, eh?"

"None, sir."

"And business falling off?"

"Fallen off would be more correct, sir. My earnings for the last month
not more than ten shillings."

"And Mr. Marvel?"

"About a day's work in the week, sir."

"And the money that poor Josh left?"

"All gone, sir."

"O Dan!" groaned the Old Sailor, "why wasn't I told of this?"

Dan gave him a sad look, but made no other reply.

"And the poor mother," continued the Old Sailor, "how must she have
suffered! And Ellen, poor lass! and the little one! Dan, Dan! if I
don't feel to you as if you were my son, I could find it in my heart
to be angry with you!"

"Nay, sir," urged Dan gently, "you are not to blame. We are
unfortunate, that is all. We are not the only ones, I dare say."

"Come, now, open your mind to me. Look things in the face. What do you
see before you this time twelve months?"

The practical question was like a blow, and Dan trembled. The answer
came from his reason in which there was no hope.

"What do I see before me this time twelve months? Worse poverty than
this--and this is hard enough, God knows! We are growing poorer every
day, and every day it is a puzzle where to-morrow's food will come
from. All our friends have fallen off from us; when Ellen and Jo's
mother go into the streets, not one pleasant face greets them. They
come back, sad and suffering. And they must bear it while they remain
in this neighborhood, if they are to be true to Jo. I can understand
now how some good people are made bad by the world's injustice. It
won't make them bad, I can answer for that; but I'm not so sure of Mr.
Marvel. I haven't seen a smile on his face for months; his nature
seems to be completely changed. I am almost afraid to think what
remorse might drive him to, for he is continually reproaching himself
with being the cause of all our misfortunes. He says he drove Jo to
sea, when his influence would have kept him at home; and this thought
stings him day and night. As for me, I earn very little money now. And
I am so stupid," he added, with an odd smile, yet thoughtful withal,
"as to repine sometimes that we can't live without silver and copper."

The Old Sailor dabbed his face with his handkerchief in a state of
great excitement during this recital, and was compelled to wait until
he was cool before he said, "So, taking them altogether, things are
very bad."

"Taking them altogether, sir," said Dan, "I don't see how they could
be worse. We have only one consolation."

"What is that, Dan?" asked the Old Sailor eagerly, with a faint hope
that it was something tangible.

"Our faith in Jo, and our knowledge that he is good and true, as we
have always known him to be. Poor Jo!"

The Old Sailor groaned.

"You can't live on that, Dan," he said.

"No, sir," replied Dan with rare simplicity; "but it is a great
comfort, nevertheless."

The Old Sailor pressed Dan's hand.

"'Tisn't so bad a world," he murmured more to himself than to Dan,
"despite its injustice." Then aloud: "What would be the best thing for
all of you to do, Dan, under the circumstances?

"There is but one thing, sir; and I might as well wish for cheese from
the moon as wish for that."

"Perhaps not, Dan, perhaps not. Tell your wish."

"I want some money."

"Ah! how much?"

"Enough to take us to Australia, where we could commence a new life."

"You hinted at that some time ago, Dan."

"Yes, sir."

"That's what you meant when you said you wanted a friend?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I took no notice of it, like a hard-hearted old hunks as I am. Do
you know why I took no notice of it, Dan?"

"No, sir."

"Because I didn't want to part from you--because I didn't want to lose
the only friends I have in the world--because I thought only of
myself; and how lonely I should feel when you and my little Ellen and
the good mother were thousands of miles away. Well, well! Old as I am,
I'm not too old to learn from younger heads. Look you, my lad! But
stop--we'll have the women up."

The Old Sailor went down into the kitchen where Ellen and Mrs. Marvel
were, and took a hand of each, and led them gravely up stairs into
Dan's room.

"This is a family council, my dears," he said, kissing them, "where we
are to speak our minds without hesitation. Dan has been making things
clear to me, and I see a good deal to which I've been blind, selfishly
blind, more shame to me. When the storm came on, I had an idea that
you might be able to weather it; but you were not strong enough, and
human hearts have not been so kind to you as winds and waves are. The
winds howl to-day, but a calm comes to-morrow; the waves dash over you
for a time, but presently the sea grows smooth. That's at sea; 'tis
different on land sometimes. You have found it so, my dears, eh?"

They sighed assent, and waited in a state of painful expectancy for
what was to come.

"And here you are with every sail split, with every spar broken, with
bulwarks dashed in, and every thing adrift. And around you cruel
tongues and unjust hearts. What! with all this craft in view, won't
one come forward, and ask, What cheer? Not one? And yet you've held
out a helping hand many a time, my dear" (to Mrs. Marvel), "as I well
know, and spared a spar here and a bit of canvas there, with a willing
heart and a free hand. But you are pearls, you women, and teach us
goodness. The Lord love you, and send you happier days!"

He almost broke down here; but he recovered himself by a great effort,
and continued, somewhat huskily at first:--

"Ah, my dears, I've been in storms, but never a worse than this has
been to you. Look up, my lass!" he cried to Ellen, and pointing
upwards to the dingy paper ceiling in so earnest a tone that he found
all of them followed the direction of his finger, while a new-born
hope entered their hearts. "Look up! D'ye see the clouds a-breaking?
D'ye see the sun tipping the edges with white light? If you don't,
take my word for it, the storm's over, and a friendly craft is bearing
down upon you." He paused awhile before he spoke again. "'You see,'
says Dan to me, 'what we want is a friend.' Says Ellen to me, the very
same day, 'You're the only friend we've got.' What did I do? Clap on
sail and bear down upon you? Not I!"

"Nay, sir," interposed Dan.

"Hold your tongue, Dan; I deserve to have the cat for my behavior.
Now, hark ye. Before my poor lass here was married to Josh--don't cry,
my dear--I made over my little bit of money to them jointly, for
better or worse. I dare say it will come to a matter of two hundred
pounds. Will that be enough, Dan?"

Dan's sobs prevented a reply, and the women sat silently thankful.

"So look upon that as settled," said the Old Sailor, rising; "and make
your arrangements. I'll see what ships are going out, and 'll let you
know to-morrow."

He left the room abruptly, unable to bear the thankful looks and tears
of his friends. Besides which, he was almost unmanned at the thought
of parting from them. They were the only friends he had in the world,
as he had said; and when they were gone, he would be left lonely in
his old age. The thought flashed across him to go with them, but he
dismissed it at once. Not only was he too old to cross the seas, but
he felt he could not leave his barge near the old Tower Stairs.

"I should be like a fish out of water," he thought; "and besides, I
should only be an encumbrance to the poor souls. I shall be in my
dotage soon, and they have troubles enough of their own. No; I'll stop
and lay my bones in Old England."

So the faithful old soul set to work at once, and left himself with
the very barest pittance to live on, in order to get together
sufficient money for the necessities of his friends.

The news soon spread. Some of the neighbors said it was a good job
they were going; some were envious; and a few repented of their
harshness. These last went so far as to make slight advances towards
Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. Mr. Marvel looked at them angrily, and responded
with hard words; but his wife, a true peacemaker, was more
conciliatory. When she remonstrated with him, and begged him to
consider that they were sorry because they had concurred in the
general verdict of condemnation of Joshua, he said,--

"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.


Opara holds the last words of Minnie sacred. To the expressed desire
of the doctors of the tribe to inter Minnie according to their rites,
he says, "Our daughter has spoken, and Opara has promised. Her brother
will see to her. Let her rest." So, on the following night, Joshua is
standing alone by Minnie's grave, which he has strewn with wild
flowers. In the rude coffin of bark, which he has cut and made with
his own hands, he places also the sweetest-smelling flowers he can
find. Her shell he leaves in her hand, and cuts a long tress from her
hair. "For Dan," he murmurs.

He buries her in the place he had described to her, and where she had
expressed a wish to be laid. It is just such a night as she pictured.
The moon is streaming through the interlaced branches on the beautiful
lilies and the peaceful water. He reads prayers from Dan's Bible, and
falls upon his knees; and, as he sobs there, the words of her father
recur to inn, and he repeats their sense prayerfully: "She is a wild
flower; the impulse of her mind is under the control of the impulse of
her heart. She is oblivious of all else, defiant of all else. Those of
her friends who have the consciousness of a higher wisdom than she
possesses, those of them who can recognize that the promptings of such
a heart as hers may possibly lead her into dangerous paths, must guide
her gently, tenderly. If any betray her, he will have to answer for it
at the Judgment-seat!"

"Judge me," he cries aloud, raising his arms to heaven, "and so deal
with me! This dear angel lies in her grave pure as at her birth. But
she will speak for me, dear, honored sister!"

In the distance, standing in the shadow of the trees, are the natives,
their bodies streaked with white. They do not intrude upon Joshua's
sorrow. Slowly he piles the earth upon the faithful heart, and kisses
the earth with passionate grief. When he is calmer, he reads his Bible
by the moon's light; and, as he reads, peace comes to him.




CHAPTER XLI.
JOSHUA AND THE OLD WIZARD.


For two weeks the natives mourned for Minnie. Their grief was sincere,
notwithstanding that it was expressed in barbarous fashion--such as
painting their bodies white with pipeclay, and inflicting painful
gashes upon their breasts and arms with shells and stones. They
observed Joshua gathering wild flowers to place upon her grave, and
every day after that, the women and children collected the prettiest
and rarest flowers they could find, and decorated Minnie's grave with
them. During this time a terrible feeling of desolation came upon
Joshua. If Opara failed to keep the promise he had given Minnie, what
would become of him? He thought of some words Dan had spoken to him in
one of their boyish conversations, when they were talking of Robinson
Crusoe. Dan had said he thought it strange that Robinson did not
forget how to speak his native language, and had wondered that he
didn't go mad. This remembrance was terrible to Joshua. At night, when
he was alone in his hut, he would speak to himself, and would tremble
at his voice; and stopping sometimes with half-uttered words upon his
tongue, would be seized with sudden terror as at an unfamiliar sound.
But at the end of a fortnight, Opara came to Joshua, and said, "Our
days of mourning are over; but the image of our daughter will dwell
forever in our hearts. To-night we hold a council. Shall we tarry yet
a while, or shall we prepare to depart?"

"I have a message for my brothers and hers," replied Joshua. "They
live southward. Is that the direction Opara will take?"

"Opara will do as he has promised," said the old chief with dignity,
"and will accompany you to the south."

"My sister will be glad if her message is delivered soon;" and
Joshua's heart beat quickly at the prospect of deliverance.

Opara gravely bent his head; and that night it was decided that twenty
young men and doctors of the tribe, including Opara, should start in a
couple of days, with Joshua, for the south. When Joshua was informed
of this, he went to Minnie's grave, and shed tears of joy, and
gathered a little of the earth, and placed it in the bag round his
neck which contained his most precious possessions. On the appointed
morning they started early, accompanied by the entire tribe; but by
noon all the stragglers had departed. In a few days their road lay
through very rough country, where, although fruits and birds were
plentiful (it being summer), Opara said they would not be able to live
in the winter. Their great difficulty was to obtain water, for the
creeks and watercourses were drying up; and Joshua was filled with
admiration at the resources of the natives, who found water in
places--digging it out of trees, indeed, very often--were a stranger
would never have dreamed of searching for it. When Joshua saw them
strike their stone weapons into a tree whence cold bright water
flowed, he could not help thinking of Moses striking the rock. A
favorite food with them was a species of shrubby plant which they
called Karkalla, and which yielded a rich luscious fruit; and they
ate, with intense relish, many species of grubs which they cut out of
the bark of trees.

Among the party was one famous wizard and doctor, who was not disposed
to look upon Joshua with the same friendly eye as the others did. When
Minnie was ill, he had been especially desirous of exercising his arts
upon her, and of restoring her to health, by which means his
reputation with the tribe would have been enormously increased; and
when Minnie died, he entertained the belief that he could have saved
her if he had been allowed. This doctor's name was Nullaboin, and he
had joined Joshua's escort because he thought that he might, by
watching Joshua's movements, obtain some kind of knowledge that might
be useful to him.

During the latter days of Minnie's illness Joshua had not played his
accordion, which, it must be borne in mind, the natives had never
seen. Joshua had kept it jealously concealed in its covering of fur,
and had never played it in sight of the natives. It was at the end of
the second week of their journey, when Joshua was looking out
anxiously for traces of white settlers, that a circumstance occurred
which boded him great danger. He had wandered, as he had been in the
habit of doing every night, a long distance from where the natives
pitched their camp. From time to time Opara and his party had met
natives of different tribes, with whom they had conversed (though
sometimes with difficulty, for their dialects differed) concerning the
white men; and on this morning a strange native had given them such
information as led Opara to tell Joshua that he believed he would soon
be able to deliver Minnie's message to her brothers. Interpreting by
this that the stranger they had met had seen something of Englishmen,
Joshua, in the night, wandered farther from the camp than usual, in
the vague hope that he might come upon traces of his countrymen. He
saw none, and yet thought they might be near. An idea struck him. "Why
should I not play my accordion?" he thought. "I might be within a
short distance of my deliverers, and not know it. The sound of
civilized music might reach their ears, and they would come to me." He
acted upon the thought without delay. For the first time for many
weeks, he took his accordion from its covering (it was slung round his
shoulders by a strap of dried skin), and walked through the woods,
playing, and swinging the instrument in the air, so that the sound
should travel far. He little dreamed of the effect he produced.
Nullaboin was tracking him--had tracked him every night in his
wanderings. Hitherto Nullaboin had learned nothing; but now directly
the music struck upon his ears, he was so amazed as almost to betray
himself. The idea that flashed through that cunning savage mind was as
singular as it was original. It was neither more nor less than that
Joshua held Minnie's spirit imprisoned in the strange instrument from
which the melodious sounds proceeded. They were the same as used to
proceed from Minnie's hut, when it was imagined she was speaking with
invisible shapes. What wonders might he not perform, could he obtain
possession of that power! The mysterious spirits of air and heaven
would speak to him, and would tell him strange things. But how could
he obtain it--how? Joshua was strong--too strong for him. He was an
old man--ay, he was an old man, and these spirits, if he could speak
to them in their language, might teach him how to become young again.
The courses of his blood quickened through the old wizard's veins at
the wild hope, and he picked up a stone and cut at his breast in his
excitement. He could not hope to wrest the magic power from Joshua
singly. He must enlist his companions on his side. His influence was
great, but Opara's was greater. He dreaded that aged chief. "If Opara
knows," was his cunning thought, "Opara will claim it for himself.
No, no; it is mine Nullaboin's. Here me, Pulyalanna! Strike Opara with
your thunder to-night! Strike him dead! He has lived long enough." But
as he thought, he started away in terror. Among the trees some twenty
yards away, he saw a crouching figure, which he took to be one of the
fabulous Purkabidnies, that roam through the woods at night to slay
black men. It was but the charred stump of a tree, but it was
sufficient to cause Nullaboin, the wizard, to fly from the spot in
direst terror, towards the camp. He lay awake until Joshua returned,
and noted with his lynx eyes that Joshua wore the magic instrument
strapped round his shoulders. The following day he took occasion to
speak to Joshua in a subtle manner, as thus: "Nullaboin dreamt last
night of his daughter the Star."

Joshua nodded.

"She spoke to me. Her voice was like the voice of the birds. I shall
see her soon."

Joshua gave him a startled look.

"Has her brother seen her?"

"No."

"Has she not spoken to him?"

"No."

"Nullaboin is a great mintapa, and his daughter knows his power."

All this was Greek to Joshua, and he did not encourage the old wizard
to continue his revelations. But during that day and the next,
Nullaboin was busy working upon the credulous minds of the younger
natives, and found but little difficulty in inflaming their curiosity.
Joshua's eagerness had become almost painful by this time; and when
they were travelling over plains, every speck on the horizon became a
horseman in his anxious eyes. Occasionally they had to make their way
through dense scrub, where there were but few trees; but for the most
part their road lay through the woods, where tall timber was abundant.
Under any other circumstances, Joshua would have found the life he was
leading wonderfully interesting, fatiguing as it was. Now they were
wending their way through a gully, the heights on each side of which
were so thickly wooded as almost to shut out the light of heaven; now
they were on a plain somewhat thinly dotted with trees when suddenly a
young savage would dart off in pursuit of a bee which his wonderful
sight had detected fifty feet high in the air. Away buzzed the bee
through the clear air, and, with his eyes fixed upon the tiny insect,
after it flew the savage joined by other young men of the party, the
older men following more leisurely. With unerring sight the hunters
ran until the bee settled upon a tree; and with wondrous speed the
bee-hunter, seeing the sugar-bags in the topmost branches, climbed the
trunk, cutting notches in the bark for his toes with his stone
hatchet, until he reached the sweet store, with which he loaded
himself, and then rejoined his companions. Now they caught an enormous
guana, more than five feet in length, upon which the natives feasted;
and saw strange specimens of the mantis, which looked like rotten
pieces of dead twigs until they were touched, when they crawled away
by the aid of their abundant misshapen limbs. Now they came to a place
where, surrounded by almost impenetrable scrub, in which patches of
wild bananas grew, were a number of fresh-water lagoons, filled with
reeds and weeds of every description, and abounding in screeching
cockatoos and beautifully-colored ducks. While Nullaboin was busy with
his scheme for obtaining the magic box in which he imagined Minnie's
spirit was imprisoned, some members of a strange tribe came to the
party, one of whom, to Joshua's amazement, was singing in imperfect
English a verse of the ballad, "He promised to buy me a bunch of blue
ribbons."[1] The singer knew no other words of English: but he
contrived to make Joshua understand that he had been among white men,
which, indeed, was sufficiently evident from his singing.

----------

[Footnote 1: A fact.]

----------


"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?"

"No, sir; I think it will be best if Mr. Fewster will keep away from
us."

"And you, Ellen? what do you say?

"I never wish to see him again. For the sake of what is past, I would
have been content to see him, if he would have ceased from persecuting
me; but after what he has said to you, I hope he will leave us in
peace."

"You hear," exclaims George Marvel; "we are happy enough without you.
Go, and never darken this door again!"

Solomon Fewster looks round, almost savagely; his face is white with
passion, and all the vindictiveness of his bad nature comes into play.

"You are happy enough without me!" he sneers, with his knuckles to his
mouth.

"Don't make too sure of that. I have been your friend hitherto. What
if I now make myself your enemy? What if, when I go from this house, I
spread about _my_ version of your reason for leaving London? What if I
tell your neighbors here of the real character of your sailor-hero,
and how, because of his villainy, all your friends turned their backs
upon you"--

But he has no time to say more; for the door, which has been partly
open, swings on its hinges, and Joshua enters.

Not one of them recognizes him. In his strange garb, with his fur-cap
pulled over his eyes, and with his face covered with hair, no trace of
Joshua is discernible; and yet they look at him spell-bound, waiting
for him to speak. He gazes at the forms of all the dear ones and
grasps the back of a chair to steady himself. He takes them all in at
a glance, and sees in one brief moment the changes in them that time
has made. His mother's white hair; the deepened wrinkles in his
father's face; Ellen more matronly than she was, but fair and pleasant
to look at as when she was a girl; Susan, like an old woman; Dan grown
a little stouter, and with the same dear boyish light in his eyes and
on his face--but the child, clinging to Ellen's apron and looking at
him wonderingly with Ellen's eyes and his!--

He had thought, before he entered, that he would be strong, but he has
no more control over himself for a few moments than a straw in a
fierce wind. Then muttering, "Justice first!" he turns upon Solomon
Fewster a glance of hate and scorn, and grasps him by the shoulder
with so powerful a grasp, that Fewster writhes with pain.

"I heard your last words," he says.

But directly he speaks, a thrill runs through them, and they are
running towards him with outstretched arms, when he cries,--

"Stand off! By what strange chance I find you, I can scarcely imagine.
But do not come nearer to me for a little while, or I shall fall dead
at your feet!"

Awe-struck and trembling they obey him.

"I would not touch one of your dear hands till you have heard me and
judged me, though death were the penalty for depriving myself of the
joy! I would not receive one kiss from your honored lips upon my cheek
till you have heard me and judged me, though I were sure that my
tongue would be paralyzed in the utterance of what I have to say! Some
part of your sufferings, some part of your pain, I know from my own
suffering and pain, and I will clear myself before your eyes, so help
me Thou! or go forever from my sight!"

Susan is running to him with cries of "Justice! justice!" and is about
to throw herself upon him, when George Marvel's arm restrains and
keeps her back. "Be still, madwoman!" he mutters sternly, and stands
by her side, watchful of her, and no less watchful and attentive of
every word that falls from his son's lips.

Joshua takes the cap from his head, and lets it fall to the ground,
still keeping his strong grasp upon Solomon Fewster, whose cowardly
blood grows thin as he writhes and listens.

"Justice!" echoes Joshua. "You shall have it, and so shall this base
dog, whose presence pollutes the air I breathe. Listen well. Of
another matter that we must speak of presently, and which is near and
dear to all our hearts, I will say nothing before him. But in the
'Merry Andrew' in which I sailed from Gravesend, and which is now at
the bottom of the sea, with many dear brave souls that were aboard
her, was a villanous sailor--a Lascar, from whose hands I once rescued
the woman who calls for justice, and who struck me down on that
dreadful Christmas-eve when I first came home from sea. He shrinks and
trembles beneath my grasp, this false friend, of whose bad heart I
warned my brother Dan before the 'Merry Andrew' sailed. At one time
during the voyage, when we were in danger, there was an attempt at
mutiny, and this Lascar was one of the cowardly wretches who
endeavored to spread dissatisfaction. When we were in dread peril,
this Lascar sailor and a mutinous mate, whom we had to put in irons,
strove hard to injure me and the captain--Heaven rest his soul--and,
happily, failed. The ship was wrecked, and we had to abandon her, and
take to a raft which we had made; and on that raft we suffered more
than six weeks hunger and thirst, and every species of misery. Out of
the entire crew and passengers only seven were saved, among them being
myself and this Lascar sailor and his confederate, the mutinous mate.
Before the captain died, he appointed me to succeed in the command,
and I have the record from the log-book about me now. We got ashore.
How we lived, you shall hear from me by and by; but once the Lascar
(whom we suspected of having killed his confederate) stole upon me,
and but that I turned my head in time, I should not be here now to
expose the villainy of this cowardly wretch. Foiled in his devilish
design, he told me then that he had been set to trap me, and was paid
for it. Some time after that, I found the Lascar dead in the forest;
and before I buried him--not wishing to leave a human creature
however vile, to be eaten by birds and beasts--I obtained evidence
which proved to me that the wretch who writhes now within my grasp was
the master who paid him to ruin, and perhaps to murder me."

"A clever lie," Solomon Fewster manages to say, though he is shaking
from terror.

"A lie! have the proofs. Be thankful that I have met you here among
those who are all that the world holds dear for ma. If I had met you
in the forest, in the midst of such scenes as I have witnessed lately,
I would not have answered for your life."

Joshua hurls Solomon Fewster from him with such force that he falls,
almost stunned, in the corner of the room. Then Joshua takes from his
neck the bag containing; his relics, and selects from them the silver
watch and the document which Fewster had given the Lascar, and after
reading aloud the document and the inscription on the watch, lays them
upon the table.

"Here are the proofs of your crime and your villainy," he says to
Fewster. "Be thankful if you are allowed to escape punishment. Go and
go quickly, and without a word!" He stands aside to let the man pass;
and Solomon Fewster, without a word or a look to any one there, passes
out of the room, and out of the village. And is never seen in it
again.

When they are alone, Joshua turns to Susan, and, in a softer voice,
says,--

"Susan, you cried for justice. Upon me!"

"Yes, upon you. Where is Minnie? What have you done with Minnie?"

The big tears roll down Joshua's beard at the mention of her name.

"You think I took her away?"

"You know you did."

"Then truly, if all of you believe as Susan believes, my life is
darker than the darkest night." With upraised hand he checks them,
from speaking; but he sees in their faces what gives him precious
comfort. "When I went away from Gravesend," he says in a soft and
gentle voice, "I had no knowledge that Minnie was aboard. When we got
to Sydney I did not know it. My duties occupied all my time. We sailed
from Sydney, and I was still in ignorance. But on the night the 'Merry
Andrew' struck on the rocks I heard her voice for the first time. I
suppose she thought that we were lost, and in her agony she made
herself known to me; but I did not see her--the night was too dark.
When I saw her the next day, I saw to my amazement that she had
stained her face, and that her hair was not so long as she used to
wear it. We were together on the raft. We were together on the shore.
She was one of the seven who were saved. We lived together like
brother and sister. When the savages discovered us, they had a strange
fancy respecting her, and she obtained great influence over them. She
used all her influence to protect me, and but for her I should have
lived and died where the tribe we fell amongst chiefly wandered--in
the north, many hundreds of miles from here." He takes from his bag
Ellen's portrait, the lock of her hair he had cut before he left
Gravesend, and Dan's Bible. He places these on one side. "What is
left, Dan, is yours. This tress, cut not many weeks ago; this paper,
which she desired me to give you, and which I have never read; this
earth, which I gathered from her grave Before she died, she sent you
all her dearest love, and a kiss for mother, Dan, and Ellen. She died
pure as she had lived, dear, faithful, mistaken heart! As I hope for
redemption, I speak the truth. If you believe me, take me to your
hearts again, and let me live in them as I know I once lived!"

As he once lived! as he had always lived! They cluster round him, and
kiss him, and sob over him. Had he not been saved from the deep--ay,
and from greater perils--to comfort them? And they put his little
daughter in his arms, who asks, hearing that he was her father, "Has
God sent my father back? God is very good."

O good faithful mother! can this great bearded man be your son? Not
often can such a cluster of loving hearts be seen--faithful to each
other, believing in each other's goodness and purity, in face of
terrible adverse circumstance. Their faithfulness is a proof of their
own worth. To the pure all things are pure. But hush! for Minnie's
last words; Dan is reading them aloud.


"I have learned, too late, the consequences of my fault. But I, and I
alone, am to blame. No one knew it; no one suspected it; no one aided
me in it. I am writing this upon a page of Dan's Bible, and it seems
to me like an oath. I cannot live long. I am dying. But a long-life's
devotion could not repay Joshua's brotherly care. All good angels
guard him and you! If Joshua is preserved to give you this--and I
believe he will be--think, while you read it, that my spirit is near;
and forgive me, dear Dan and Ellen. My love to you both, and to good
Mrs. Marvel and Joshua's father; and to Susan, who must have no bad
thoughts of Joshua. God bless you, and send you happiness!

       "Minnie."


Dan and Joshua sit talking together until late in the night. Ellen and
Mr. and Mrs. Marvel are sitting up also, but in another part of the
house. They know that Dan wants to speak to Joshua of Minnie, and they
leave the friends undisturbed.

What is said to each other by the two faithful friends cannot be
written here; but it may be easily understood by those who have read
these pages. Joshua tells Dan as much as time will allow of his and
Minnie's lives, and is tender and indignant in turns, as Dan relates
to him the history of the family in Stepney after the sailing of the
"Merry Andrew." Be sure that the Old Sailor is not forgotten. I650f
tender speech and loving thought are worth any thing, the Old Sailor
is rich indeed.

Their eyes are wet with tears, and their hands are in each other's
clasp. Joshua has just finished his relation of Minnie's death, and of
her words about the river--"So restless there, so quiet here!"--when a
knock comes at the door and Ellen enters. He takes her in his arms,
and they sit, the three of them, and talk in a state of wondering
happiness.

Another knock at the door.--Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. The magnetism of love
has drawn them all together.

"It reminds me of the night before you first went to see, Jo," says
Dan. "Do you remember? The knocks at the door one after another."


"Josh," said George Marvel to his son, a fortnight afterwards, "what
are you going to do?"

"What do you mean, daddy?" asked Joshua in return.

"What do I mean? Well, you don't want to go to sea again?"

"No, I shouldn't like to leave Ellen and Dan and all of you again."

"Well, then, what are you going to do? You must do something."

Mrs. Marvel sat silent, and smiled a little smile, but very slyly, so
that no one should see it.

"You can get plenty of work as a wood-turner, daddy?"

"Yes, Josh, a good deal more than I can do--and well paid for it too."

"Well, daddy, I think"--

"Yes, Josh, you think"--

"I think I'll learn wood-turning, if you'll teach me."

Whereupon George Marvel, after the slightest amount of hesitation,
rose and kissed his wife.