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Isla looked up wondering.
“How should it be lonely?” she said. “It is home. It is the only place where we could live. Some people wanted us to come and live in the village, after mother died. We’d sooner have died, too, both of us. Wouldn’t we, Jacob?”
“Is there no one belonging to you? it seems too – ”
“Too dreadful,” the preacher would have said, but something seemed to hold back the words. Perhaps it was the perfect quiet in the two faces.
“Of course I miss Giles, all the time,” Isla went on, presently. “But he was so tired, poor dear, that he could not stay any longer.”
“And your mother?” said the preacher, with some reproach in her tone. “Do you not miss your mother?”
“Jacob did!” said Isla. “Or he would have, at first, if I had let him. But mother, – oh, you could not have kept her. She hated it so, after Giles was gone, she had to go, too. No, we are much better off without mother; she could not bear me after Giles went, and hardly she could bear Jacob; and she tried so hard to die, I was glad when she could. She was dumb, too, you know, and now she isn’t, I suppose.”
This was strange talk. The preacher felt that she should reprove and exhort, but still the girl’s face silenced her.
“Tell me, Isla,” she said, after a silence, “what did you mean, when you said, a little while ago, that I had said some things that were not true. You did not mean that, I am sure.”
Isla reflected.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, surely I meant it. You spoke of Him,” – she nodded upward with her curious reverent gesture, – “you said He was our Father; I liked that. Giles knew a little, but he did not know that much, then. Now I suppose he does. But then you said that if we did things, – I don’t remember what things, – that He would be angry with us always, and never love us any more, and that we should be punished all the time, forever. And that could not be true, because it is nonsense.”
The preacher was startled, and spoke sharply.
“You are not speaking in a proper manner!” she said. “What right have you to speak so to me?”
“You asked me!” said Isla. “What did you want me to say?”
They were both silent for a time.
“Why do you think this?” said the preacher then. “What can you know about these things, living here with no teaching and no light save that of your own heart, which is sinful?”
Isla laughed.
“I had a father!” she said. “Do you suppose that Great One needed Giles to tell Him how to treat His children?”
“What can I know?” she repeated. “I know what the sea tells me all day, all my life; and what the clouds tell me, and the birds; but most of all I know what my little Jacob tells me. Look at him! Is he sinful? If you say that, then I see that you do not know. But my sea knows, and it tells me, all day long. All day long!” the girl repeated; and her eyes grew soft and dreamy as she gazed out over the blue, white-tossing water. The preacher would have answered, for she was shocked and pained at this unseemly talk; but suddenly some words came to her mind, and silenced her.
“Deep answereth unto deep – ”
“I must go!” she said, rising. “I should like to see you again, Isla, and talk with you; your – your thoughts are strange to me, but I feel that your heart is good. I must go now back to the village.” She kissed the little boy, who cooed and smiled in return, and turned to find her way back to the village; but Isla was at her side.
“Let me take you by a shorter way,” she said. “It is slow climbing over our rocks when folks are not used to them. I will take you through the Dead Valley, and you will get there quicker. But you will not tell people?” she said, stopping for a moment, and looking up into her companion’s face with searching eyes. “It is our own place, Jacob’s and mine; we don’t want other folks to know about it.”
The preacher promised.
“Shut your eyes, then!” cried the girl, her face lightening with pleasure. “Give me your hand, and I will lead you into our Dead Valley. Now! now open your eyes, and look!”
The preacher obeyed, and gave a cry of surprise, so strange a place was this that met her eyes. A valley of rocks; yes! but not rocks like those she had seen elsewhere, not like any rocks that she had seen in her life. A place of desolation, full of the bones of forgotten ages. The girl, watching her companion’s face, laughed aloud for pleasure.
“Do you see?” she cried. “Do you see why it is the Dead Valley? Look at them all, the great beasts, lying asleep! Giles told me all about them, when we first found this place; we came together, Giles and I. He said, ‘They are mammoths, like elephants, only bigger;’ and he had seen the bones of one, somewhere, in some place where they keep such things, so he knew their names and all. And see! They used to play here, and go down to the water to bathe, and just live as they liked. And one day, – we played they had done some dreadful thing, but we never knew just what, – they were all turned into gray stones, and here they have been ever since. There! that is one of the biggest; and he fell down on his side, you see, and just curled his great huge legs under him, and went to sleep so comfortable! And this one, – oh, I love this old fellow. He was kneeling, don’t you see, preacher? and he could not get up when the time came, so he went to sleep just that way. And down there by the beach, that one had gone down to drink and take his bath, and he tumbled in, and there he lies. Over the other side of him, that is where Jacob and I go to bathe ourselves. The rockweed grows all over his shoulders, and keeps him warm. And we run over his back, and sit on his great round head, and climb into a hollow place that we call his mouth; but he never stirs, just sleeps and sleeps; and there he will stay, Giles said, till the last call comes. What is the matter, preacher?”
The preacher had started with a little cry of dismay. Two or three aged trees, ragged and twisted and bent, still clung to the rocks in this grim place, and kept some sort of iron-bound life in their veins. There were many others lying beside them, which had given up the fight years, – centuries ago. Only their bones were left, gleaming pallid and slender among the sleeping mammoths; and soon these old soldiers, too, would lay down their arms and join the sleepers. But still there showed some faint tinge of green in their rusty tops; and, as the preacher looked at them, wondering, a great black bird rose from the ragged branches, and almost brushed past them in his flight.
Isla laughed again, and waved her hand with a friendly gesture.
“Those are our ravens,” she said. “They are friends of ours, Jacob’s and mine. Other folks are afraid of them, but we know them, and they like us. This way, preacher! Step up on this elephant’s shoulder; he will not hurt you. There! now it will be smoother; and tell me more about the place where they teach dumb people to speak.”
CHAPTER VII.
LITTLE JACOB
ISLA stood on the shore, with Jacob’s hand in hers, and watched the schooner which bore away her new friend. She had seen the preacher several times since that first interview, and they had talked much together. She held now in her hand a precious gift, a letter to the head of the Deaf and Dumb School, which, the preacher felt sure, would insure Jacob’s admission. This kind woman had made a little map of the streets, so that Isla might find her way without trouble through the crowded city. She had offered, if Isla could only wait, to be her guide, and take upon herself the task of presenting Jacob; but Isla could not wait. She gave as her reason that the child was already older than most of the beginners, from what the preacher told her; moreover, that now was the time when the schools would soon be opening. Other reasons there were which she did not give, but the preacher accepted these, and gave her the note readily. Now the schooner was out of sight, round the far point of the island, and Isla was her own mistress. As Jacob danced and swung about, holding fast to her loving hand, the girl was thinking hard. Her thoughts flew forward to that strange, dreadful place, the city. Already she felt the stifling air, and saw the walls close around her. It would take months, years, the preacher said, before Jacob would learn to speak. If she could only live so long! She had only half listened when the preacher told her of all the pleasant things she would see and hear. She knew better than that. Herons could not live in cities; Herons like her and Giles. Jacob was so young, he would not know so well, perhaps, and would soon forget – forget! The word went through the girl like a sharp pain. Under all lay the dread, not spoken even to herself, shut out instantly when it forced itself to her mind, – that she might not be allowed to stay with her brother at the school. If all went as she had planned there would be no danger, none at all. They would never know. Silence had become the rule of her life. But there might be some mistake; some emergency might arise that would force her to speak.
Then, if she were sent away from him, would Jacob forget? She grasped the child’s hand so hard that he winced, and held up his face with a little moan of pain. She bent down and took him in her arms, soothing him so gently that he forgot the moment’s grief, and laughed again. Isla smiled, the rare smile that made her whole face bright with inward light; but she did not laugh. There was no one to hear her laugh, since Giles died.
That afternoon she told Jacob that she must leave him for some hours. He was to be happy, oh, so happy! for he might play on the stretch of white sand where the gold-shells were, taking care not to go below the rope of seaweed that marked their high-tide boundary. He was so careful, she knew she might trust him. And she would bring him an orange from the village, if there was one; sometimes the captain brought a few over from the main, on his weekly trip with the mail-schooner. At least she would bring him something, surely, something good or pretty; and he was to play his best plays, and think of her, and the time would go quickly, quickly, till she came back.
Jacob nodded and laughed, well content. He would never have Isla out of his sight, if that might be; but he knew that these times must come, and he was a patient child, and knew not the sense of being unhappy or forlorn. Taking his clam-shell spade and his pails of birch-bark, he trotted down to the strip of white shell-sand, and there built houses, and rocks, and lighthouses, such as Isla had showed him. He had seen the houses himself, but the tall tower he took on faith; there was no tower in those days on the Wild Rocks. Tiring of his building, he gathered a great heap of gold-shells, and watched the afternoon sunbeams play on their delicate scales and turn them to ruddy gold, where at first they were pale. Then he found a rock-pool, full of brown shrimps; he lay on his stomach, and watched them scuttling in and out of the rockweed fringe. Presently an unwary barnacle opened his shell and put out his plume of feathers. Whisk! he was seized by a crab, torn from his home, enveloped, swept away into the dark caverns. Poor barnacle! Jacob shook his head in compassion; yet, having large sympathies, was glad, too, that the crab had such a good supper.
A little chill struck him. The sand turned from brilliant to dead white, and, turning, he saw that the sun had gone down behind the crest of the sister island across the bay. It was time for Isla to come! The red glow had faded from the gold-shells, too, and they looked pale and cold. Cold! and they must stay out here all night, and then it would be very cold indeed! Isla would make him a little fire, and cook his supper, and they would be warm and comfortable at home, but the poor things on the beach would be cold.
And now a bright thought came to Jacob; a thought that made him clap his hands, and make little sounds of pleasure, such as a bird or a young lamb might make.
Why should not he build a fire? Not in the house, but here, on the shore? Isla would see it on her way back, and it would light up the rocks and make them bright and cheerful, and she would know that he was watching and waiting for her. And then it would last all night, perhaps, and the poor shells and things would be warm for once. It would be fine, fine! He cooed with joy. Isla should see how clever he was, how well he could do things to help! He ran here and there, picking up bits of driftwood, twigs and sticks and shingles. The light faded, but Jacob’s face made a little brightness of its own. Soon he had quite a pile collected; then he ran to the house for matches, and soon the fire was leaping and crackling merrily. The warmth and glow were heartening! The happy child bent above it, and spread out his hands, and murmured pure pleasure. How soon would Isla come? Surely she had never stayed so long before.
The tide was rising, and now murmured higher and higher on the stones; but Jacob had no fear of the tide. The rope of seaweed was his boundary, and that lay always dry, and he and his pretty fire were well above it. The fire was very friendly, he thought. It was dancing for him, making all sorts of pretty plays for him. He danced, too, to show that he appreciated the courtesy; but, on the whole he liked best to sit close beside it, with his palms spread to catch all the kindly warmth.
Sitting so, his mind full of happy thoughts, sleep came softly to him. It was past his bedtime, or perhaps it was only the heat, so close at hand, that brought the drowsiness. He tried to brush it away, but it came back. The evening grew dim, and only the fire glowed bright and cheerful. Presently the curly head sank down on the warm seaweed; there was a little sigh or two, of sheer comfort and content, and Jacob was asleep.
The tide still rose quietly, and murmured softly on the stones. A beach bird ran by, and did not fear to brush the child with its wing, he was so still, and looked so gentle. A sea-gull came wheeling in over the beach; hovered a moment on broad wings, then vanished, a white ghost in the deepening gray. The fire smouldered, the brands fell away into soft, gray heaps with a red coal at the centre; and still the child slept, though now the air grew thin and cold, and a fog began to creep in from the sea.
Now was it a thing of his dreams, or was there a flutter of broader wings over the lonely shore? Were they real, the two figures that stood dimly lovely in the waning light?
Surely they were speaking —
“See! he is sleeping, how soundly! He should be mine, not yours. He hears now; he speaks now; and I will but loose him from the little dumb thing that was the prison of him, and he shall hear and speak always, forevermore. If I lay my hand on him, it will be only a touch, and not so cold, only a soft coolness; and then! oh, the waking for him! Why would you keep him from me? for it is to me that the word should come.”
And the other, the flame-winged spirit, could not answer; could only keep her own warm hand on the child’s heart, and breathe on him with her warm breath, and wait and listen in anguish, lest the word should indeed come to her brother and not to her.
And if the word should come a moment late, and she had lost the faint flutter of the little heart?
But how strange for the angel not to know, that there is no “too late!”
Hark! what sound is that?
A moment ago, – unless those shadowy forms were real indeed, – there was only silence and the falling night, and the child asleep on the shingle. But now, though no voice is heard – for who should cry aloud to the deaf child? – yet the air is full of sound; it palpitates with motion. The light shock of pebbles falling beneath hurrying feet, the patter of those feet, hardly touching the sand as they flit past; then round the point a figure flying, swift and silent, with outstretched arms and hair streaming loose. Isla! Isla is coming!
Go thy way, good brother Death! not yet the child needs thee; not yet is he to take thy kind, cold hand and go with thee. And thou, flame-winged spirit, fold him yet closer in thy warm arms, for the night falls chill.
Isla dropped on the beach and clasped the boy to her heart. The little limbs were cold, but the breath came warm on her cheek, as she pressed him close, and kissed and patted him. She dropped the orange beside him. It was this that had made her late; going for it on board a vessel where she heard the fruit might be had, and detained by the churlish skipper, till night began to fall, while she was still at the further end of the island. Would the child wake to see it?
Jacob opened his eyes, slowly, unwillingly, thinking the morning was come too soon; and found night instead of the sun, but he felt his Isla’s arms about him, and her warm face pressed to his, and knew that his joy was come back to him. He nestled in the strong, tender arms, and laughed, now wide-awake, and pointed to the fire, telling, with eloquent gestures, what he had done. There was no doubt that his fire had brought her back; happy Jacob! And Isla, kneeling on the sand, holding him in her arms, promised to herself that never again in this world would she and Jacob part. Alas for thee, Isla! Not for us are the promises.
CHAPTER VIII.
LOCHABER NO MORE!
“YOU was thinkin’ of goin’ to-day, was you, Isly?”
It was Joe Brazybone who spoke. He was standing on the wharf, at a little distance from the two Herons; there was an air of suppressed excitement about the three which told that some great thing was toward.
“Yes, Joe,” said Isla. “You know very well that I am going. Why do you ask me so many times?”
“Nothin’; nothin’ at all!” said Joe, hastily. He stood in a curious attitude, with one hand held behind him; and, whenever Isla turned to look at him, he sidled about in a confused, guilty fashion, keeping his face turned resolutely toward her.
“Was you goin’ that way, Isly?” he persisted. “Without no bunnit on your head? Ain’t you afraid of ketchin’ somethin’?”
Isla laughed.
“Mrs. Maynard tried to make me wear a hat,” she said. “I never wore a hat in my life, Joe. I could not see with straw down over my eyes. And what should I catch?”
Joe looked miserable. Loyalty forbade him to say plainly that she would be stared at in the city if she went about bareheaded. He glanced nervously behind him, his hands twitching; then at the girl again; but Isla had already forgotten him, and was gazing with all her eyes at the schooner, which was evidently nearly ready to sail.
“Will you take me aboard now, Joe?” she said. “I think it must be time.”
Joe’s red and brown turned to a deep purple; with a desperate effort he mastered his confusion, and brought his hand round to the front. It held a strange object, which he thrust forward to Isla.
“You take this!” he pleaded. “You take this, Isly, and wear it for old Joe. ’Tain’t what I could wish, but ’t will cover your head, and – and keep you from ketchin’ things. Some say ’tis handsome, but I don’t know how that is. Anyway, ’twas the best I could do.”
The thing he held out was a bonnet, of vast size and ancient fashion. The front was filled with crushed and faded muslin flowers; the crumpled ribbons and tarnished silk showed that it had lain for years in its box. Isla gazed at it in amazement.
“’Twas Ma’am’s!” said Joe, hastening to explain. “My own mother’s, I mean, Isly. That’s why it don’t look quite so new-fangled as some. But there’s good stuff in this bunnit. I remember of Ma’am’s sayin’ so, when father brought it home to her over from the main. I was a youngster then, but I remember her very words. ‘’Tis too gay for my age, Hiram,’ she says; ‘but there’s good stuff in it, and I’m obleeged to you for fetchin’ of it.’ You take it now, Isly, and keep it. Many’s the time Mother Brazybone as is has tried to get her hands on to this bunnit, but Joe was too many for her. Old Joe ain’t got many handsome things, but what he has ain’t goin’ to no Brazybone. When my little Heron lady wants any of old Joe’s things, she’s only got to speak for ’em, and there they be. So you take the bunnit, Isly, and ’t will do me good to see ye in it.”
Isla knew little about bonnets, but her eyes told her that this was a hideous monstrosity. Nevertheless she took it, and smiled at Joe with friendly eyes. “Thank you, Joe!” she said. “It is ever so kind of you to give me something that belonged to your mother. I won’t put it on now, because I shouldn’t know how to wear it. I’ll take it with me on board the schooner, Joe, and then we will see.”
Joe nodded in delight, and then went and got his little red boat, and rowed Isla and Jacob over to the mail-schooner, which was making signals for departure. Jacob’s eyes were round with wonder at all he was seeing. He held Isla’s hand tight, but having that, feared nothing, and followed cheerfully where she bade him.
Captain Ezekiel, the sturdy, brown-bearded skipper of the Egret, welcomed the children kindly enough. He hardly knew the wild Heron girl by sight, but he knew all about her, and had learned through Joe Brazybone of her plans for her little brother. Most of the villagers thought it was tomfoolery, and said the appointments of Providence weren’t good enough for Herons, so this girl was going to try and reverse the Lord’s jedgment about her deef-dummy brother. But Captain Ezekiel knew too much for this point of view, and had silenced the talk, as much as he could, and promised the preacher to befriend the two helpless children.
He was a silent man, and, after nodding kindly to Jacob, and telling Isla to make herself at home, he had nothing further to say. As he and his mate hoisted the shining sail, Isla turned to Joe to say good-by.
“Joe,” she said, “you have been so good and kind. I can’t thank you, Joe, but Giles will be glad if he knows.”
Joe did not take the hand she held out to him.
“I – I wasn’t thinkin’ of goin’ back right away, Isly,” he said, shuffling awkwardly about, with his eyes on the deck. “Cap’n ’Zekle, he’s no objection to me goin’ over to the main, he says. I wa’n’t calc’latin’ to go back right yet, ye see.”
“Oh!” said Isla, in surprise. It was years since Joe Brazybone had left the island, and she knew it.
“I didn’t know you had friends over on the main, Joe.”
“Not – not rightly friends, perhaps I shouldn’t call ’em,” Joe admitted, still studying the planks with attention. “But – well” (and his face brightened visibly), “I ain’t got no enemies. There’s where it is, you see, Isly, I ain’t got no enemies, so there’s nothin’ to hender my goin’ over to the main, so long as Cap’n Zekle has no objection.”
He drew a long breath after this statement, and ventured to steal a look at Isla out of the corner of his eye. But Isla thought little of what he said. She accepted the homage of the queer man who had loved her father; it seemed entirely natural that Joe Brazybone should be devoted to her; but she gave him little thought beyond a kindly feeling, and a consciousness that she could make him happy for a day by smiling and nodding to him, even though she seldom spoke. Now she had said far more than usual, and she thought no more of his matters. Her thoughts still flew forward to the new life, the prisoned life in which Jacob would be all her sun and air, her world, her joy, as she would be his. But her eyes turned backward with passionate longing toward the home that they were leaving. The schooner moved swiftly, sailing along the southern shore. Now they were coming to the South Rocks, her own rocks, where half of her heart must stay, while her body went on, away. They passed the opening of the Dead Valley. It seemed as if the sleeping mammoths must rise from their long slumber and call to her; as if every crag and cliff, every ragged, friendly tree, must see her desertion and cry out upon it. Her eyes strained backward as the schooner flew, the heart seemed torn out of her breast. See! The ravens, rising from a tufted fir, and sailing slowly above the valley. Were they looking for her? Would they know why she had gone, how it killed her to go? Now the wild birds flapped toward the shore, uttering a harsh cry; and it smote on the girl’s heart like a reproach. An answering cry rose to her lips, but she forced it back, and, turning resolutely away, fixed her eyes on little Jacob’s face. The boy was smiling happily at the bright waves as they rose and fell around the schooner; and Isla took his hand in hers and saw her sunshine in his face.