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There were other friends, too. Sometimes, as the children were sitting at their play on the rocks, there would rise, from the ragged crest of an old fir-tree hard by, a great black bird; would hover an instant, uttering a hoarse croak, which yet had a friendly sound, as of greeting; then, beating his broad wings, would sail out over the water. A second followed him, and the two circled and swung together above the playing children, above the waking, laughing sea. Two ancient ravens, living apart from the noisy crows and the song-sparrows. They knew Isla Heron well, in their age-long wisdom, and loved her in their way. She was not of the same mould as the boys who now and then strayed to the south end of the island, half timid, half defiant; who called them crows, and dared one another to throw stones at them. No stone was ever thrown, however. There was a story on the island of a boy who had once stoned the ravens, – these very birds, or their forbears, and had been set upon by them, and driven backward, shrieking, over the verge of Black Head, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. The ravens had taken note of this child since her babyhood, and found her ways much like their own. Sometimes they would sit on a rock near by and watch her, with bright eyes cocked aside, as she strung berries or shells, or plaited garlands of seaweed. Once or twice they had brushed her hair, floating past on outspread wing; and she rightly interpreted this as a token of friendship.
“You might tame them,” her father said when she told him. “Ravens are easy tamed; I read a book once about one.”
“They would not like me any more if I did,” said Isla. “I should hate any one who tried to tame me.” And Giles laughed, and thought it would be no easy task.
Other moods and hours took the children down to the shore; this was especially their delight in the morning, when the simple housework was done, and the mother sat at the spinning by the door (for wherever she came from, she brought her wheel with her, and was a thrifty, hard-working housewife), and the father out in his boat.
Their bathing-place was such as no king ever had. Among the rocks by the water’s edge was one of enormous size and strange form. One might think that some mammoth of forgotten ages had been overtaken by the tide as he lay asleep; had slept into death, and so turned to stone. Seen from a distance, he looked all smooth and gray; but, when one came to climb his vast flanks they were rent and seamed and scarred, and by his shoulder there was tough climbing enough. Near by, a huge, formless mass of rock had fallen off into the sea, and between this and the side of the sleeping monster was a pool of clear shining water. Brown tresses of rockweed, long ribbons of kelp, swung gently to and fro; sprays of emerald green floated through the water; the rocks could be seen at the bottom, and they were green and crimson, with here and there fringes of delicate rose-colour. In and out among the rockweed darted brown shrimps and tiny fish; on the rocks the barnacles opened, waved a plume of fairy feathers, and closed again.
Here the children came to bathe, swimming about as free and gracefully as the fishes that hardly feared them, or lying at length in the shallows that stretched gold and crystal in the sun, caressed by soft fingers, swept by long, brown tresses; only weeds, were they? who could tell?
Isla loved to lie so, in the summer heat, when the water seemed warm to her hardy limbs, though a landsman might still think it cold. She would tether little Jacob to a rock with a long kelp-ribbon, and he would play contentedly at being a horse, that creature he had never seen save in a picture. There are no horses on the Island of the Wild Rocks.
There the girl would float and dream, her body at rest, her mind out and away with the clouds, or the sea-gulls that hovered and wheeled above the blue sparkling water, till there came a low murmur on the outer reef, a white break against the seaward side of the rock, and she knew that the tide was rising. Then, taking the child by the hand, she would leave the water, and climb up to a great boulder, where the barnacles lay dry in the sun. Only the great spring tides came here; and she would lie on the warm rock, one hand supporting her chin, the other holding Jacob’s hand, and watch the ancient miracle that was always new.
With a swing and a swirl the waters rushed into their pool of peace; the foam sprang high, then fell, and crept up the rock, up, up. Now back, strongly, with a wrench that tugged at the streaming locks, scattering them loose, unrolling the kelp-ribbons to their utmost length. It was gone, and for an instant there was stillness again; then once more came the roar, the inward rush, the snowy column tossed aloft, the white seeking hands creeping up along the rock, till now all the water was a white churn of foam, all the air was filled with driving spray, and the reef thundered with wild artillery. The seas hove bodily over it, and broke only in the cove itself; the place where the children had paused and lingered in their upward climb now boiled like a pot, and even on the top of the great boulder the spray beat in their faces, stinging, burning. A black wing struck athwart the white smoke, and a raven floated past on the wind, one eye cast aside on the children. Isla cried out with glee, and shook her wet hair, and broke into a chant, such as she loved to croon to the wind; but Jacob was timid, and did not like the spray in his face, and, though he heard no sound, shivered at every vibration of the rock as the seas dashed themselves at it; he pulled his sister’s hand, and begged to be gone; so home they went over the mammoth’s back, and left the raven to his own.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SCARLET SORREL
AND now June was come, and Giles Heron still lived. He had watched passionately for the blossoming of the scarlet sorrel. “That’ll be my time!” he said, talking to himself as he lay rocking in his boat. “I’ve got to wait till then. Some person seems to hold me back from helping myself before then; maybe I’ve got to know what it’s like all along the line; maybe it’ll be some help to some one over yonder, and I hope it may, for it’s small comfort to me. Like as if my mother held me back. But, when the sorrel is red, I guess they’ll give me my pass; they’d be hard folks if they wouldn’t. And the sooner over for Mary and the children; poor Mary, she’ll burn right up and come along, too, most likely.”
And now, at last, the sorrel was in bloom. It clothed the dark-gray rock like a holiday garment; it flamed in the sunlight; when the sky was overcast it took a darker shade. Certainly, it had the colour of blood; or was it still a little lighter?
One morning Giles kissed his wife and children before he went down to the shore; he held Isla in his arms for a moment with a wistful look, as if he would have spoken; but at last he nodded, and went his usual way. Isla looked after him with a vague pain, she knew not what; but her mother gave a dreadful sob, pressed her hands together, and then flung them apart, with a gesture of almost savage anguish. Isla would have tried to comfort her, but the dumb woman would not meet her eyes, and turned away to her work, and worked all the morning as one works in a fever-dream.
Life was ebbing very low for Giles. Slowly, slowly, he crawled down to the beach; it was only a few paces from the cabin, but a corner, rounded, took him out of sight, and he had of late sternly forbidden the children to come with him even as far as the corner. Till he passed it he made some poor pretence of holding his head up, and walking straight; but, once round that friendly rock, he could cling to it, and drag his tired body along, and make no one wince but himself.
The boat was ready; good old boat! she would miss him, he thought. He fell across the thwart, and lay there dozing for a time; then crept to a sitting posture, and, with short, faltering strokes, pulled himself across to Toluma. The distance was small, but once there he must lie down again in the boat, at the foot of the towering cliff, and wait painfully till the faint breath should come back to him. One last effort, now, and then – rest!
Could he do it? Had he rowed so far, miles and miles, for nothing? His slight, worn body seemed a mass of lead, his hands and feet were turned to water, as he climbed up, wearily, wearily. Many times he paused, clutching the naked stone, while he struggled for breath, racked by the terrible cough. Once his grasp loosened, and he had almost fallen, and felt already the shock on the reef below; but something drifted through his mind – a saying of his father’s, was it? “Hold on, Heron! a good bird and a rare un!” His muscles crisped again, the mist lifted a little from his eyes, and he climbed on; till now the top was reached, and the scarlet upland which his eyes had sought so yearningly these many weeks. With a long, sighing breath the tired man laid himself at full length on the glowing sod. He felt life go from him with that breath; the rest was mere detail.
He lay still, looking now across at the main island, now down and around him. A few paces away the rock broke sheer off, two hundred feet down to the water, that danced and dimpled in the sun. Between the highest crest of the rock and the sorrel-meadow where he lay was a tiny hollow brimming over with white violets, the scentless kind that blossom as late as June here. Heron looked at them and smiled, as bits of a nursery tale came back to the confusion of his mind.
“White as snow, red as blood, – what a pity the ravens never come over here! The rock is all gray and orange, no black.”
He dozed a little; then repeated drowsily, “Red as blood! only blood is a little darker, I think. Maybe ’t has faded out, all these years. Anyway, I shall be able to see.”
The light seemed dim, though he felt the sun striking fiercely on his head and shoulders. He pulled the scarlet sorrel blossoms, and let a stream of them run slowly through his hand. Yes, darker, surely.
He had forgotten by this time about Isla, about his wife and little Jacob, and all his doubts and fears. He seemed a boy again, only curiously weak, and with all sorts of creatures, – bees, were they? – buzzing about his head, – or inside it; he was not sure, and it did not matter.
The knife, now! he was tired, and rest was very near; and he did not think it would be laid up against him. Something in his head said it was cowardly, but he explained that it was only his body, that could not get about any longer, and that it would be a pity to let the folks see him die, because that would make them feel badly. He drew out the long, sharp knife, and made the light play along the blade, as he always loved to do at school, and smiled to himself.
“The same dear old Giles!” he said. “Good-by, old fellow, if we don’t meet again!”
He felt above his heart; this was where it should be. One stroke, now for rest and freedom —
What was that? What sound broke the stillness? A voice? Far away, faint yet clear, ringing sweet round the gray rock:
“Giles! Father Giles! where are you, father?”
Giles Heron gathered his wasted muscles together, and with a last effort threw the knife from him; it glittered a moment, unstained, in the sun; then dropped without sound, and the red blossoms closed over it. He raised himself and tried to answer the call, but his voice was choked. The day turned black, and, as he sank down, the blood burst from his mouth and streamed out over the scarlet sorrel. Yes, it was darker.
CHAPTER V.
“LONE, LONE, THOU HAST LEFT ME HERE.”
HERE begins the true story of Isla Heron’s life. She had been a simple creature till now, living the life of half-savage freedom that was the only life she knew, playing among the black rocks, singing with the wind and the sea, loving her parents and her little Jacob almost fiercely. Her thinking life began when her father was brought back to the home-cabin, cold and silent, and laid on his bed by the pitying villagers. One man came first, bringing the bad news; it was Joe Brazybone. He had been hovering about in his boat, as he often did, fishing now and then, but keeping an eye on Giles; had not dared to follow him up the rocks, for Giles had been strange for a long time now, and had kept off the old friend; but after a time Joe grew alarmed, and climbed up, and found him already cold. He came now, and tried in some awkward fashion to break the news. Isla took little note of the strange figure at the time, though she knew it well enough afterward.
“Giles ain’t very well,” said Joe, edging round the corner of the house.
“You tell your ma that, little Heron lady, and I’ll keep out o’ sight, for she don’t like old Joe, your ma don’t. You tell her Giles ain’t very well. And – see here, little lady! When you’ve a-told her that, foller it up, you know! foller it up! tell her he’s bad, and then, kind o’ easy, tell her he’s mortal bad, and they’re fetchin’ of him home.”
Here he broke off short, with a glance behind him; and thrusting the child gently forward, with an earnest gesture, he slunk out of sight as Mary Heron came to the door. Next moment the men were there.
They spoke in whispers, and cast strange glances at the dumb woman, with her gray face and wild eyes of pain. There was no surprise for her; it was only the Thing that lurked so long in corners of her hut, now come out into the light and known for what it was. A kind, white-haired fisherman stayed behind the rest, who were in haste to be gone; he spoke gently to Isla, and she interpreted his words to her mother. There was no minister on the island at that time, but Captain Maynard was used to filling the place of one, and the simple arrangements were made for saying a prayer and laying the tired body to rest.
When the stranger was gone, Isla went to the bed and put her face down by her father’s. She called him, putting forth all the power of her strong young voice; it seemed as if he must hear her. But he gave no sign, and the lids lay white and heavy over his eyes, and when she touched his cheek it was cold, cold. She looked at little Jacob, playing with his shells on the floor; then at her mother. But there was no mother now, only the wife who had seen her child loved better than herself, and who would now guard her sorrow jealously, admitting no sharer in it; and Isla knew that she was alone.
She made no resistance when, after days of brooding, the dumb woman took her by the hand and led her over the rocks, across the brown hill-pastures, to the village school. A little gray building stood apart on a stony hill, and here the children were taught by a young woman who came over from the main for certain months of the year.
Standing in the doorway, Mary Heron beckoned to the school-mistress, who came trembling, afraid of the tall, gipsy figure and the burning eyes; laid the child’s hand in hers, and, with a gesture of grave dignity, turned away. Isla, standing with her hand still in the teacher’s, watched the stately woman as she took her way down the hill and back through the crooked street; her heart yearned to her mother, but Mary Heron never looked back, and soon passed out of sight.
The young teacher was kind, and her fear of the wild girl soon wore away when she found her readiness to learn. Isla pounced upon the simple school-books and studied them fiercely. The children kept their dread of her longer, and huddled together in the play-hour, looking askance at her long russet locks, like tawny rockweed, and her dusky, jewel-like eyes. She had no beauty according to their standard (which was pink and white, and had yellow curls), but all the remoteness of her sea-bound home was in her face and look. Her dress was strange, too, for the homely brown print was sure to be looped and decked with fringes of kelp and weed, and she had long strings of shells, sometimes bound round her head, sometimes twined about her wrists.
Soon, however, the children learned to love her, for her heart was gentle, and she loved all little creatures. She brought them sea-urchin shells, delicately cleaned, and showing all their beauty of green and pale purple; chains of gold-shells, or of dried sea-bladders. The children took the gifts eagerly, and at length grew familiar, and questioned Isla about her life at the south end of the island.
“What makes you live there, Isla? Why don’t you never come up to the street, and live in a house like other folks? My mother says decent folks wouldn’t live there in those bogy rocks. What makes you stay there?”
Then Isla would throw her head back, and draw a long breath as she looked about her at the bare, dingy walls of the little schoolroom.
“It isn’t living, here!” she would say. “It’s – I don’t know what it is! there’s no air to breathe. Where I live, the wind blows in from the sea, and it comes from all across the world; and I don’t have to be under a roof, – I hate roofs, – only just at night and in the winter; and I have the rocks, and the sheep, and my little Jacob, and all the things in the woods. Don’t you go in the woods? But what makes you live here, in these houses all near each other? That’s the strange way, not mine; mine is the real way. What makes you do it?”
“’Cause it’s near the boats!” said one.
“’Cause the school’s here, and the store!” said another.
“’Cause there’s folks, and folks like to be where there’s other folks!” said a third; and the rest chimed in, as this sentiment voiced the feelings of all.
“Yes, folks like to be where there’s other folks.”
Then Isla would shake her long locks, and laugh, and begin to sing one of her strange songs, or tell them of the wonderful things in her home, which stretched miles and miles, all her own, all a playground for her and Jacob.
So things went on well enough for a time; but one day Isla took some of the children off, at their urgent request, and kept them a day and a night in some familiar haunt of hers among the hills. Their parents were frantic, and searching parties were sent out in all directions. The dumb woman could or would tell them nothing; she only shrugged her shoulders, and showed them that her own little boy was gone with his sister and the rest. They were ready to burn her cabin over her head, when down the hill came Isla singing, a child in either hand, another leaping and singing beside her. She was seized, threatened with punishment, and warned never to come to the school again.
The little teacher sighed for her best scholar, the only one who had made teaching anything but drudgery; the children looked longingly for the wild girl who spoke so kindly, and sang so sweetly, and told them such beautiful stories; but Isla came no more. Only the boldest of the children, venturing rarely a little way down the beach toward the south end, would hear her song, echoing clear and sweet among the Wild Rocks.
ISLA’S SONGThe wind sang to the falling tide,“Coo sha coo! coo sha coo!Now I fold my wings wide,Coo sha coo sha coo!Sleep beneath the folded wing,Dream and murmur while I sing,Coo sha coo sha coo sha!Coo sha coo sha coo!”The wind sang to the rising sea,“U la hu! u la hu!Come and fly abroad with me,U la hu la hu!Toss your hair so wild and gray,Beat the rocks with hands of spray,U la hu la hu la!U la hu la hu!”CHAPTER VI.
THE NEW TEACHING
AND now, this Sunday morning, Isla stood on the rocks, and looked at the young preacher, as she came toward her.
“Good morning!” said the preacher, feeling curiously embarrassed under the quiet, straightforward gaze of the island girl. “I saw you at the service this morning; but I missed you when it was over, and your friend here guided me to you.” She turned to look at Joe, but he had disappeared.
“Yes,” said Isla Heron, “I was there. I was coming to look for you, too. I wanted to ask you if something you said was true.”
The preacher smiled. “I hope I said nothing that was untrue,” she said.
Isla looked up with a startled glance. “Oh, yes!” she said. “Things that are not true here, anyhow. I don’t know how it may be over on the main. But – what I wanted to ask you – you read something from the Bible, – ‘The tongue of the dumb shall sing.’ What did you mean by that?”
The preacher repeated, slowly, that she might have time to think a little.
“‘Then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing.’ Yes, that is a beautiful passage; you will find it in Isaiah, the thirty-fifth chapter.”
“But is it true?” Isla persisted. “Did they do it then, or can they do it now?”
“I do not understand you,” the preacher said, gently. “It is a prophecy of the flourishing of Christ’s kingdom.”
“Will he make dumb people speak? that is all I want to know,” said Isla. “My little brother is dumb, and I would do anything in the world to make him speak. If that is true, tell me how it is done.”
The preacher looked at her very tenderly.
“Let us sit down here, my dear,” she said; “and tell me about your little brother.”
They sat down on a warm brown stone, and Isla told the story of her little Jacob; of her father’s death two years before, and of her mother’s fading away through the year, and following him before another spring came.
“So now there are just the two of us,” she said. “Just me and my little Jacob. And if I could make him hear and speak, I would be willing to die myself.”
“He can never hear!” the preacher said. “These are not the days of miracles, and we have no assurance that we may look for them, though signs and wonders are all about us. But truly a wonder has been wrought in these very days; and it may be that the child can be taught to speak, and to read by the lips what others say to him.”
She told Isla, in a few words, of the new teaching of the deaf, and the girl listened with her whole soul.
“Where is it done?” she asked. “Tell me the name of the place!”
The preacher named Bellton as the nearest city where such teaching could be had. “Have you friends there?” she asked.
Isla’s startled eyes gave her answer. “Bellton!” she said. “That was a place Giles showed me on the sand, where the people lived in prisons, and liked it, and turned white for want of sun. I should have to go there, should I, and take my little Jacob? Could a person live there, do you think, who was not used to it?”
“I was there for two or three years,” said the preacher. “I lived well enough, Isla. Have you never been away from your island?”
The girl shook her head.
“No! why should I go? I never would go, except to help my little Jacob. It would kill me to live under a roof, and breathe hot air, and have no wind blowing, and no sea.”
“Where do you live?” asked the preacher. “You cannot spend the year out-of-doors, in this cold place.”
“Come and see!” said Isla Heron.
She led the preacher over the gray rocks, over the high downs, till they came to the little green meadow, set like a jewel in a great ring of stones.
Here was the cabin, looking from the outside not unlike the rock against which it leaned. Inside, it was gay with shells and bright berries, and everything was neat and clean, as Mary Heron had taught her children to keep it. Jacob was sitting by the table, carving a boat, and at Isla’s coming he rose, clapping his hands, and ran to throw his arms round her neck; but drew back in alarm at sight of the stranger. The girl spoke to him with eyes and hands, and led him forward, still hanging back, but smiling now, and ready to make friends. He was nearly ten years old, but so small and delicate that he looked much younger. His face was all sunshine, but there was no line of thought in it yet; he had never had to think for himself. Isla had done all his thinking, and he had lived like a bird so far, taking everything at her hands, rejoicing in the sunshine, and the sea, and the shells and flowers. He knew nothing beyond his own end of the island. Isla was a great traveller in his eyes, because she sometimes went to the village, and was gone for hours. This never made him sad, because he did not know what sadness was; but he had a pride in his sister’s journeyings, and looked eagerly in her face when she came back, seeking new light there, since she was so wise always, and probably learned new wisdom every time she went away.
The preacher caressed the child, and sat for a few moments in the little sitting-room, her mind full of new thoughts.
“You live here entirely alone?” she asked, presently; “you two children? Are you happy, Isla? Is it not terribly lonely?”