 | Castle nowhere |  |
MISERY LANDING.
TOWARD the western end of Lake Superior there
is a group of islands, twenty-three in number,
called the “Twelve Apostles.” One more and the
Apostles might have had two apiece. But although
Apostles taken together, officially, as it were, they have
personal names of a very different character, such as
“Cat,” “Eagle,” “Bear,” “Devil,” etc. Whether the
Jesuit fathers who first explored this little archipelago
had any symbolical ideas connected with these animals
we know not, but they were wise enough to appreciate
the beauty of the group, and established a little church
and Indian college upon the southernmost point of the
southernmost island as early as 1680. A village grew
slowly into existence on this point, — very slowly,
since one hundred and ninety-two years later it was
still a village, and less than a village; the Catholic
church and adjoining buildings, the house of the Indian
agent, and the United States warehouse, stored
full at payment time, one store, and the cabins of the
fishermen and trappers, comprised the whole. Two
far out into the bay, and forming the horizon line on
that side. Perched upon the edge of this promontory,
outlined against the sky, stood a solitary house. The
pine forest stopped abruptly behind it, the cliff broke
off abruptly in front, and for a long distance up and
down the coast there was no beach or landing-place.
This spot was “Misery Landing,” so called because
there was no landing there, not even a miserable one,
— at least that was what John Jay said when he first
saw the place. The inconsistency pleased him, and
forthwith he ordered a cabin built on the edge of
the cliff, taking up his abode meanwhile in the village,
and systematically investigating the origin of the name.
He explored the upper circle, consisting of the Indian
agent, the storekeeper, and the priests; but they could
tell him nothing. A priest more imaginative than the
rest hastily improvised a legend about some miserable
sinner, but John refused to accept the obvious fraud.
The second circle, consisting of fishermen, voyageurs,
and half-breed trappers, knew nothing save the fact
that the name belonged to the point before their day.
The third circle, consisting of unadulterated Indian, produced
the item that the name was given by a white
man as long ago as the days of their great-grandfathers.
Who the white man was and what his story no one
knew, and John was at liberty to imagine anything he
pleased. The cabin built, he took possession of his
land side; the other three sides were sheer cliffs rising
from the deep water. Directly in front of the house,
however, a rope-ladder was suspended over the cliff,
strongly fastened at the top, but hanging loose at the
bottom within two feet of the water; so, in spite of
nature's obstacles, he had a landing-place at Misery
after all. Extracts from his diary will best tell his
story: —
“June 15, 1872. — Settled at last in my cabin at
Misery Landing. Now, indeed, I feel myself free from
the frivolity, the hypocrisy, the evil, the cowardice, and
the falsity of the world. Now I can live close to
nature; now I can throw off the habits of cities, and
mentally and physically be a man; not a puppet,
not a fashion-plate, but a man! Here I have all that
life holds of real worth, the sun, the free winds of
heaven, the broad water, the woods, the flowers, the
birds, and the wild animals, whom I welcome as my
fellows. True-Heart, my dog, shall be my companion,
— ah, how much more trustworthy than a human
friend!
“June 16. — Have cooked and eaten my solitary
supper, and now, with Sweet-Silence, my pipe, breathing
out fragrance, and True-Heart lying at my feet, I
take up my pen. First I will describe my cabin. The
people of the village are full of wonder over its marvels,
and the stockade is none too high to keep them out.
you see, we never can come out to call on you in the
evening if we have to take a boat, come round by
water, and climb up that dizzy ladder,' they say. It
never occurs to them that possibly that is what I
intend. My cabin is made of logs, well chinked and
plastered; it is one large square room, with a deep
chimney at each end, the western half curtained off
as a sleeping-apartment. There is only one door, and
that is in front, where there are also two large windows
looking off over the lake; on the other three sides the
windows are high up, and filled with painted glass.
I can look out only upon the boundless water, and only
toward the eastward. In this respect I am as devout
as any ascetic. The question arises, Did n't the ascetics
have the best of it, after all? I am inclined to think
they fled away into the wilderness to get rid of
feminine frivolity and falsity, just as I have done;
they were ashamed of their own weakness, just as I
am; and they resolved to have nothing to do with the
accursed beautiful images, who are fickle because such
is their nature. Why should we expect vanes to remain
stationary?
“I have a luxurious bed, a hair-mattress suspended
in a hammock. Here, when the red curtains are
down and the fire has burned into red coals, I fall
asleep, lulled by the sighing of the wind among the
pine-trees, the rush of the rain upon the roof, or the
Landing, thou art indeed a rest for the weary!
“June 17. — I have been looking over my books,
and smiling at their selection; they represent eras in
my life. There 's St. Francis de Sales, Thomas à
Kempis, a quantity of mediæval Latin hymns, together
with Tennyson's `Sir Galahad,' superbly illustrated.
Heaven help me! I thought I was a Sir
Galahad myself once upon a time. But I got bravely
over that, it seems, since the next series is `all for
love.' O Petrarch, and ye of that ilk, how I sighed
over your pages! Then comes a dash of French,
cynical, exquisite in detail, glittering, brilliant, — the
refinement of selfishness; then a soar into the cloudland
of Germany, and a wrestle with philosophy,
coming down into modern rationalism, Darwin, Huxley,
and the like, each phase represented by a single
volume, the one which for some unexplained reason
happened to impress me the most. And what is the
last book of all? Bret Harte. Not his verse, but
his deep-hearted prose. After all, as long as I can
read his pages, I cannot be so bad as I seem, since,
to my idea, there is more of goodness and generosity
and courage in his words than in many a sermon.
He shows us the good in the heart of the outcast.
I wonder if I am an outcast.
“June 29. — It is a fine thing to have money.
Poverty pur et simple is not adapted to the cultivation
cultivating the last named. The truth is, I felt blue,
and so I ordered out the hunters and fishermen, sent
for old Lize the cook, and held a royal feast. It
lasted for days, Indian fashion. I did nothing but
eat, sleep, and smoke. Sweet-Silence and True-Heart
were my companions; the riffraff who ate the fragments
camped outside in the forest, and Lize had
orders to throw them supplies over the stockade.
She herself was ordered not to speak, and to depart
at nightfall, leaving a store of well-cooked viands
behind her. With my rare old wines, my delicate
canned, potted, and preserved stores of all kinds, I
passed a luxurious week. I thought of Francesca:
she would have entered into it with all her heart,
(by the way, has she a heart?) but she would have
required velvet robes and a chair draped with ermine
before she would condescend to give herself as an
adjunct to the scene. Sybarite! But why should I
cast scorn upon her? Can she help her nature?
She is so beautiful that she seeks luxury as a rose
seeks sunshine. Ease is the natural condition of her
being. Is it any wonder, then, that she longed for
my wealth? But I had the insane fancy to be
loved for myself alone; and so, having found her out,
I left her forever.
“July 9. — I have been studying the wild-flowers
of this region; equipped for botanizing, I have spent
collection. This is indeed living close to nature.
“July 15. — Flowers are but inanimate things, after
all, the toys of vegetation. It has been said that all
naturalists are what they are because they have been
the victims of some heart disappointment, which means,
I suppose, that they take up with the less because they
cannot have the greater.
“July 20. — Thoreau found the climbing fern, and I,
too, have found a rare and unique plant! Who knows
but that it may carry my name down to posterity!
“July 25. — It is n't rare at all. It is the same old
Indian pipe, or monotropa, masquerading under a new
disguise. And as to posterity, who cares for it? As
the Englishman said in Parliament, `My lords and
gentlemen, I hear a great deal said here about posterity,
but let me ask, frankly, what has posterity ever
done for us?'
“August 1. — They say you can teach birds to come
at your call. There was a bird girl in Teverino, I
remember. Will begin to-day.
“August 15. — It can't be done. Am going fishing.
“August 16. — On the whole, I don't like fishing.
Dying agonies are not cheerful. Have been painting
a little for the first time in months. It seems as if
poverty was the sine qua non in painting: all great
artists are poor.
“August 25. — Painting for days. Have painted
was leaning forward, with parted lips and starry eyes,
her golden hair shining on the velvet of her robe, a
rose-flush on her cheek, pearls on her full white throat.
I sat in the shadow watching her. `She is moved by
the pathos of the scene,' I thought, as I noted the
absorbed expression. I spoke to her, and drew out
the whole. `O, the perfection of that drapery!' she
murmured; `the exquisite pattern of that lace!'
“August 26. — There is no doubt but that she was
royally beautiful. I could have stood it, I think, or
rather I fear, if she had condescended so far as even
to pretend to love me. But she simply did not know
how. A woman of more brain would have deceived
me, but Francesca never tried. No merit to her,
though, for that. Am going hunting.
“September 1. — In the village to-day. For curiosity,
went into the old Catholic church. It is anchored
down to the rocks, covered with lichen on the outside,
and decked with tinsel within. The priests were
chanting horribly out of tune, and the ignorant, dirty
congregation mumbled their prayers while they stared
open-mouthed at me. There was a homely little girl
kneeling near me who did not glance up, the only
person who did not. A homely woman is a complete
mistake, always: a woman should always be beautiful,
as a man should always be strong.
“September 5. — The homely little girl was there
features are irregular; her dark hair braided closely
around her small head. Ah! what glorious waves of
gold flowed over Francesca's shoulders!
“September 10. — The fall storms are upon us; the
wind is howling overhead, and the waves roaring below.
But what a strange sense of comfort there is in
it all! I was sitting before the fire last evening smoking
Sweet-Silence, and deep in a delicious revery.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door. I was
startled. The rain was pouring down in torrents; it
seemed as though no human foot could have climbed
the swaying ladder in front of my hermitage. I opened
the door, half hoping that the Prince of the Powers
of the Air had come to pay me a visit, and I resolved
to entertain him royally. But no mighty, potent spirit
was on my threshold; only a slim youth, drenched
and pallid, with large pale eyes and pinched features.
He said nothing, but gazed at me imploringly, while
the water dripped from every bony angle. Evidently
this was no devil of jovial tastes; he was more like a
washed-out cherub in the process of awkward growth
toward full angelhood.
“`What do you want?' I said. He did not answer,
and somewhat roughly I drew him in; I never could
endure to see anything shiver. Then I closed the door,
and resumed my warm seat and Sweet-Silence, turning
my back upon the interloper; he was welcome to everything
himself and eat or sleep, but me he must not approach.
But minutes passed; the creature neither moved nor
spoke, and his very silence was more offensive to me
than loud-tongued importunity. At length it so
wrought upon me that, angry with myself for being
unable to banish his miserable presence from my
thoughts, I turned sharply around and confronted
him. He had not moved, standing on the exact spot
where I had left him, shivering and dumb, with the
rain dripping in chilly little pools upon the floor.
There were holes in his wet old boots; I could see
his blue-white skin gleaming through; he had no
stockings, and no shirt under his ragged coat, held
together over his narrow chest with long thin fingers.
“`Stop shivering, you horrible image of despair,' I
called out.
“`Please, sir, I can't help it,' he answered, humbly.
Well, of course I went to work; I knew I should all
the time, — I always do. I got him into warm dry
clothes, I fed him, I made him drink spiced wine, I
gave him my own easy-chair. Then, stretching out
fleecy stockings and slippers upon the hearth, in the
plenitude of warmth and comfort, gradually the creature
unfolded all his lank length, and thawed into
speech. His name was George Washington Brown,
his tribe Yankee, his state orphanage, his condition
haunted him and devoured what poor strength his
rapid growth had left. On the mainland hunting, the
storm had kept him until, his provisions exhausted,
half fainting with hunger, he essayed to cross back to
the village; but his sail was torn away, he lost an oar,
and, drifting hopelessly, chance sent him ashore on the
iron-bound coast just where my rope-ladder struck his
face in the darkness of the stormy night. He knew
then where he was. He had been drifting twenty-four
hours. The ascent was perilous, for the ladder swung
him about like a cork on a line, but desperately he
clung, and so reached my door at last. Poor wretch!
It was a sight to see him take in comfort at every
pore. `You may stay until the storm goes down,' I
said.
“September 15. — The storm has gone down, but he
is here still.
“September 18. — He knows nothing. He cannot
read, he cannot write; he has never heard of Shakespeare,
of Raphael, of Napoleon, or even of his own
sponsor, Washington, beyond the fact that he `heard
tell as how Washington was a wery good sort of a
man'; he has never seen anything but Lake Superior,
he knows nothing of geography, he has Joshua's
ideas of the heavenly bodies, and he believes in
ghosts; he has heard of Grant, and vaguely remembers
that Lincoln was killed; he has never seen
are free. I have told him that he may stay here a
month.
“September 28. — I played simple tunes on my violin
last evening, and the boy was moved to tears.
I shall teach him to play, I think.
“September 30. — Another gale. I read aloud last
evening. George did not seem much interested in
Bret Harte, but was captivated with the pageantry
of `Ivanhoe.' Strange that it should be so, but everywhere
it is the cultivated people only who are taken
with Bret. But they must be imaginative as well
as cultivated; routine people, whether in life or in
literature, dislike anything unconventional or new.
“October 28. — Have been so occupied that I could
not write. George has gone over to the village to
church to-day. He is a good Catholic, and I have
resisted the temptation to trouble his faith, so far.
I drew and colored a picture for him yesterday, and
ever since he has been wild to have me paint the
likeness of some one in the village. He does not
say who, but I suspect it is one of the priests. I
am teaching him to read and write.
“November 2. — George did not return until the next
morning, and then who should the boy bring with
him but that homely girl! `This is Marthy,' he
said; `she 's come to be painted, governor.' To please
him, I began. The girl sat down with quiet composure;
She must be about seventeen.
“November 7. — George brings her out in the boat
every day, and takes her back at night; but ice is
forming now, and he must find some other way.
While I paint he cooks the dinner, and serves it
with the most delicate of my stores. Martha presides
at the feast with a quaint little dignity peculiarly
her own. She is a colorless, undeveloped child. A
picture of her will be like a shadow on the wall.
“November 9. — Cold and stormy. I am alone.
George has gone to the village. Have been reading
Shakespeare. Booth plays Hamlet wonderfully well;
but why is it that he never has a fair Ophelia? It
looks too much like method in his madness when he
leaves her so easily. Ophelia should be slight and
young, with timid eyes, and delicate, colorless complexion.
She should be without guile, innocent,
ignorant of the world. At least that is my idea of
her.
“November 11. — Little Martha can sing. She has a
sweet, fresh, untrained voice, and now while I paint
she sings song after song. I am making quite an
elaborate picture, after all. It will serve as a souvenir
of Misery Landing.”
Here the diary ends, and the narrator takes up
the tale. One evening in April, five months later,
when the wild spring winds were sweeping through
John Jay and his protégé sat together before the fire
in the cabin on the point.
“But, George,” said the gentleman, “think of all I
offer you, — education, a chance to see the world, a
certainty of comfort for all your life. If it is myself
you object to, I will leave you entirely independent
of me.”
“'T is n't you, governor; I 'm mighty fond of you.
I s'pose ye 're like what my father ud have been ef
he 'd lived.”
“No, no, George. Your father would have been a
much older man than I am. I am not thirty-five yet.”
“And I am not twenty-one. What was you like
when you was young, governor?”
“Very much what I am now, I suppose.”
“O no; that could n't be, you know. Why, you 've
got wrinkles, and some gray hairs, and such a tremenjous
mus-tash, you have! Marthy says she 's never
seen the like.”
“She does not admire it?”
“My! no. I say, governor, she's got a nice little
face, now has n't she?”
“Really, I am no judge of that style, George. But
look, I will show you a lovely lady I once knew.
There are many such faces out in the world, and you
can see them for yourself if you will go to school and
college as I wish.”
Rising, the gentleman brought out the glowing picture
of Francesca at the opera. The boor gazed at
it with wide-open eyes. “It 's some queen, I reckon,”
he said at length.
“No, it is a beautiful lady, and you shall know her,
her very self, if you please. Look at the waves of
her golden hair, her starry eyes, her velvet skin with
its rose-leaf glow. See her head, her bearing, her exquisite
royal beauty. Look, look with all your eyes,
boy, and think that you too can see and love her.”
The boor gazed as the gentleman pointed out each
beauty. “It 's mighty grand, it 's powerful fine,” he
said at last, drawing a long breath. “But arter all,
governor, Marthy is sweeter nor her!”
Another time the conversation ran as follows: —
“Yes, George, that is floating on the Nile, just as I
have told you, with the palm-trees, the gorgeous flowers,
the brilliant birds, the temples, and the strange
Pyramids. You shall see the Bedouins of the desert;
you shall ride on Arabian horses; you shall study the
secrets of the Old World in their very birthplace.
Is n't that better than living forever on this cold
coast, with only your own two hands between yourself
and starvation?”
George looked down slowly at his hands, spreading
them open on his knees for a clearer view. “Can't
Marthy go with me, governor?” he said, wistfully.
“I tell you, no. You must give her up. She is
a woman, she cannot learn, or rather unlearn.”
“Can't women-folks learn?” said George, wonderingly.
“No,” thundered the governor; “they are an inferior
race; by nature they must be either tyrants or slaves,
— tyrants to the weak, slaves to the strong. The wise
man chains them down; the chains may be gilded,
but none the less must they be chains.”
“Well, then, governor,” replied the youth, simply,
“I 'll just take Marthy with me as my slave. It ull
do as long as I have her some way; and seeing as
we 're going to Africa, it ull be all right, won't it?”
“Why do you want her, George?” said the gentleman,
abruptly. “She is not beautiful; she is utterly
ignorant.”
“I know it, governor.”
“And she does not love you.”
“I know that too,” said the boy, dejectedly. “But
the point of the thing is just here: she may not love
me, but, governor, I love her, — love her so much that
I can't live without her.”
“Nonsense! Boys always think so. Try it for six
months, George, and you 'll find I am right.”
“Not for six days, governor. I jest could n't,” said
the youth, in a tone of miserable conviction. The
tears stood in his pale eyes, and he shifted his long
limbs uneasily.
“Don't squirm,” ejaculated the gentleman, sternly,
glowering at him over Sweet-Silence. “I 'm afraid
you 're a fool, George,” he continued, after a pause.
“I 'm afraid so too, governor.”
Then John Jay took the girl into his confidence.
“What, go away!” she exclaimed. “George to go
away! And you, sir?”
“I am quite attached to the boy,” said the gentleman,
ignoring her question. “Why I call him a boy
I scarcely know; I myself am not thirty-five, Martha.”
“And I am not seventeen, sir.”
“A woman is a woman. But never mind that now.
What I want to know is whether you are willing he
should go?”
“O yes, sir; it will be for his good. But you?”
“I do not know whether I shall go or not,” replied
the gentleman, gazing down into the timid, upraised
eyes. Then he told her of the outside world, and all
its knowledge, all its splendor; this was what he
intended for George. The maiden listened, spellbound.
“It will be beautiful for him,” she murmured.
“Yes, he must go. I shall make him.”
“Will he do as you say, Martha?”
“O yes; he always does!”
“But this time it will be different.”
“How different?”
“He must leave you behind.”
“O, as to that, sir, I do not want to go. I shall tell
him so.”
“But perhaps he will not go without you.”
The girl laughed merrily, showing little white teeth
like pearls. “Poor old George!” she said, dismissing,
as it were, with a wave of her small brown hand the
absent boy-lover. Her tone jarred some chord in the
gentleman's breast; he rose, bade her good evening
ceremoniously, and opened the door. She lingered,
but he stood silent. At last, subdued and timid again,
she took up her little basket and hurried away. But
hours afterward, when John Jay went out, according
to his custom, to smoke Sweet-Silence in the open
evening air, a small dark object was sitting on the
edge of the cliff. He approached; it was Martha.
“O sir,” she said, “you are not going away? Say
you are not! O say you are not!”
“What if I am?” said the gentleman, abruptly.
“O sir! O —” And the tears came.
“Go home, child!” said the man, leading her
toward the stockade. There was a postern-gate there
now. She went obediently; but at the edge of the
wood she paused, and wiped her eyes with her apron
in order to see him plainly as he stood outlined in the
gateway against the clear evening sky. The gentleman
closed the gate with violence, and went back into the
house.
Not one word more said John Jay to his protégé
took up the song, and chanted it in every key, with
all her woman's wit to aid her. George grew pale
and sad and restless. He could settle to nothing; his
gun, traps, and tackle, his kettles and frying-pans, his
books and music, were all neglected. Every day he
saw Martha, and every day she had a new way of
presenting the hateful subject. Every day he tried to
speak the words that choked him, and every day he
failed, and parted from her in silent misery.
One morning they were all together in the cabin.
“When you come back, George, I suppose you 'll
have a great mustache, like Mr. Jay's,” said Martha,
merrily. She had taken the “of-course-you-'re-going-and-it
's-all-settled” tone that day, much to the poor
lad's discomfiture.
“I suppose you 'd scarcely say, `How d' ye do?'
then,” answered George. Then, with a sudden rush
of boldness, “I say, Marthy,” he burst forth, “ef I do
go, will you give me a kiss for good-by?”
“Of course I will,” answered the girl, gayly; and
springing up, she tripped across the room, and lightly
touched his forehead with her delicate little lips. The
boy flushed scarlet, and caught her hands in an attempt
at awkward frolicking.
“Give the old governor one too,” he said. “Come,
I 'll let you.”
The “old governor” (ah! so very old!) advanced;
even touch her hand; but for one moment he looked
deep down into her upraised eyes. The girl drew a
quick, audible breath; then turning, she ran from the
house like some shy, startled creature of the woods.
They saw her no more that day, nor the next, nor
for many days. The boy pined visibly. One evening
John Jay said, suddenly, “George, I have changed my
mind. Martha shall go with you. You may marry
her, and I will care for you both.”
“Do you really mean it, governor?”
“Yes; go and tell her so.”
Then there was a rush out of the cabin, a headlong
climbing down the swinging ladder, a frantic row
across the bay, and a wild irruption into the little
house on the beach where Martha lived. Half an
hour later the same whirlwind came back across the
bay and up the ladder, and demanded of the governor,
“Are you going with us?”
“No,” said the governor, shortly, and the whirlwind
departed again. At one o'clock there came a feeble
knock at the barred door. There stood the drooping
lover, drenched with the rain which had been falling
since midnight. “What do you mean by coming out
here at this time of night, you uncomfortable object?”
said the governor, getting back again into his luxurious
bed.
“I did n't know it was late, and I did n't care for
“for Marthy she 's gone and said she won't go.” And
sitting down, he took out his handkerchief and bowed
his pale face upon it.
“You goose! the handkerchief is already soaked
with rain,” said the gentleman, raising himself on his
elbow to watch the boy.
“With tears, governor.”
“Well, get a dry one, take something to eat and
drink, and get into bed as soon as possible. She 'll
say `yes' to-morrow: they 're all alike.”
“I don't know any other girl but Marthy, governor,
and so I don't know whether they 're all alike or not;
but Marthy she 's vowed she won't go with me, and
she won't, that 's the end of it! And as for eating, I
could n't touch a crumb; my throat 's all choked up.”
He climbed into his bunk, and turned his face to the
wall. There was no sound; but hours afterward John
Jay knew that the boy was still silently weeping. In
the morning he went about his tasks, pale and haggard,
his eyes sunken, his mouth drawn. A chill came
on at breakfast, and he could not eat. As, later, he
studied his lesson, the fever rose and mixed with the
words, until the page swam before his tired eyes. The
gentleman had noted all silently. Now he said, “Go
out into the open air, George. Go down into the village
and bring back Martha; say that I wish her to
come. Take heart, boy. Don't give up so easily.”
“So easily! But it ain't so easily, governor, Seems
as though something was broken inside of me. How
can I go and see Marthy when — when — O, I know
I 'm humly and poor; but I 'd work for her, I 'd take
such care of her. O governor, perhaps if you was to
speak to her!”
“Go and bring her to me,” said the gentleman, rising
abruptly. In the open air he paced to and fro. Sweet-Silence
died out unnoticed while he watched the boat
moving toward the village. At length it returned with
two in it; but when the girl entered the house, with
head erect and defiant eyes, the gentleman sat in his
easy-chair, Sweet-Silence breathing out a cloud of incense,
and a book before him, the picture of idle contentment.
“How now, little girl,” he said, gayly, “what is this
I hear? You do not want to go out into the bright
world with George, and see all its wonders?”
She answered not a word.
“Are we not a little selfish? It is a bad thing to
be selfish, child.”
Still no answer.
“Think of all the benefit to George,” pursued the
gentleman. “Think of all you might see, might know,
might be! Why, that is all there is of life, Martha.”
“It is not all,” answered the girl, in a low voice.
“It is, if George is with you. — Can you say nothing
for yourself, boy?” asked the gentleman, sharply.
For answer the lad threw himself on his knees before
her, and caught her hands in his fevered grasp, while
he poured out a flood of broken entreaties. The gentleman
listened, meanwhile carelessly smoking Sweet-Silence
and patting the head of True-Heart laid wistfully
upon his knee. (Why should the dog be jealous?)
“Do, Marthy, do!” pleaded the boy; and he pressed
her hands to his eager lips. The gentleman smiled.
“I never, never will,” said the girl, looking, not at
her lover, but into the quiet, smiling face across the
room. Defiantly she spoke, and drew herself aloof
from the boy at her feet.
“Well, then, Martha, if you will not go with George,
will you stay here with him?” said the gentleman.
“See, I will give you this house and everything in it.
Will it do to commence housekeeping?”
The boy sprang up with a burst of joy. “Will
you, governor? Will you really? Do you hear that,
Marthy? You did n't like the thought of travelling
out into the big world, dear; and no wonder. But now
you can stay right on here in the place you 're used
to, and everything so comfortable. Never mind about
Egypt and the palm-trees and things; they 're nothing
alongside of you. And I 'd take such care of you, dear.
You would n't have to work a bit; I 'd hunt and fish
and cook too; I 'd make the fires, and everything.
All I want is just to see you sitting by the chimbley
when I come home, dear, so pretty and so sweet. O
And, school-boy fashion, George gave a great
bound for joy.
A rose flush had risen in Martha's cheek; her eyes
were gentle now. “I will keep the house,” she said
softly, as if to herself, and smiled.
“Yes, you shall,” said George; “you shall, my
pretty one. Hurrah for the little housekeeper of
Misery Landing! Won't it be nice, governor, to
find her here when we come in from hunting?”
“Very nice, my boy; only I fear I cannot enjoy
the sight with you. But that need make no difference.”
“Well, no,” replied George, with the frank ingratitude
of youth. “But I 'm sorry on your own account,
governor; we 'd have been so comfortable all
together. Marthy would have been like a daughter
to you.”
“Thank you, George; you are very kind. But I
must go.”
“Soon, governor?”
“I 'll stay to see you married, my boy. Suppose
we say next Tuesday? I will give a ball, and invite
all the village to do you honor.”
“Next Tuesday! O my!” ejaculated George in the
excess of his joy. Words failed him, but he caught
his love in his arms. That at least needed no language.
The girl burst from his embrace. “What!” she
cried, in a voice strained high with passion, “I
marry you, you ungrateful dog! Never, never, here
or anywhere! I will die first!” The door closed
after her, and the two men stood gazing at vacancy.
A week later at Misery Landing there is a boy
racked with fever; a man nurses him, if not tenderly,
at least with exactest care.
“She will not see me, — even see me!” cries the
delirious voice. “Marthy! my little Marthy!”
The days pass; the fever lasts, and consumes the
small store of strength; still, night and day, the
voice of the sick boy never ceases its cry for her he
loves. His heart exhausts its last drops in calling
her name. At length the burning tide finds nothing
more to nourish it, and departs, leaving death to finish
the work. The boy is conscious again, but wasted,
pale, and pinched, his form under the sheet like a
skeleton, his voice a whisper, his hands strangely
white and weak. He lies in the luxurious hammock-bed,
but notices nothing; his large eyes are closed,
his breath labored. The man who watches him so
closely is trying every human device to raise him to
life again; for three days, for a week, night and day
he tends him, administering hour by hour drops of
delicate cordial and the small nourishment his feeble
frame will bear, laying, as it were, the very atoms in
place for a new foundation. But he gains almost
and that is killing the body. In the night he finds
the boy weeping; too weak to sob aloud, the great
tears on his pale cheeks bear witness to his despair.
There came a night when, rousing suddenly from a
sleep which had overwhelmed his weary eyes, he
thought the boy was dead, so rigid and so motionless
seemed the still form under the sheet. He
shuddered. Was it death? “I have done all I
could,” he said to himself, hurriedly, as he had often
said it before; but the words failed this time, and
he stood face to face for one bare moment with his
inmost self. Then, pale as the face before him, he
approached the bed, and laid his trembling hand
upon the heart. It was still beating. The boy slept.
Calling the old half-breed to keep watch, John Jay
rushed out into the night, climbed down the ladder,
and rowed the boat swiftly across the bay toward
the village. As the sun rose above the eastern woods
he reached the beach cottage, and found the girl outside.
Without a word he took her hand and led her
to the boat. She followed mutely, and in silence
they took the journey together, nor paused until they
stood in the presence of the sleeping boy. Then the
man spoke. “He will die unless you love him,
Martha.”
“I cannot,” answered the girl, bowing her face upon
her hands.
“Then, at least let him love you; that will suffice
him, poor fellow!”
She did not speak.
“Martha,” said the gentleman, bending over her
and drawing away her hands, “what I tell you is
absolutely true. I have done my best, as far as skill
and care can go; but the boy — no, he is a man
now — cannot live without you. Look at him. Will
you let him die?”
He drew her forward. Hand in hand they stood
together and gazed upon the poor pinched face before
them; from long habit a tear even in sleep crept
from under the closed lids.
“We cannot do this thing, Martha,” said the man
in a low deep voice. He turned away a moment and
left her there alone; then coming back to the bedside,
he lifted the sleeper, laid him in her arms, his
head resting on her shoulder, and without a word
went away into the wide world again, leaving Misery
Landing behind him forever.
Two weeks later he presented himself at the door
of Francesca's opera-box in the Academy. Francesca
was still beautiful, and still Francesca: no “Madame”
graced her card.
“Good evening, Mr. Jay,” she said, smiling the same
old beautiful smile. “You have been away just a year
in the wilderness. I hope you have enjoyed yourself?”
“Immensely,” answered John.
EPILOGUE.
Place, — Fifth Avenue mansion. Scene, — Dinner. Time, — 7 P. M.
Mrs. Jay. “By the way, John, you have never told
me about that Lake Superior hermitage of yours, —
Misery Landing, was n't it? I suppose you behaved
very badly there.”
John Jay. “Of course. I always do, you know.
Hand me a peach, please. That claret-colored velvet
becomes you admirably, Francesca.”
Mrs. Jay. “Do you think so? I am so glad. I
made a real study of this trimming. But about Misery
Landing, John; you never told me —”
John Jay. “And never shall, madame.”
| Castle nowhere | |