eyes, for no boat could be lowered.
"At long last, though, my man and his mate determined to venture. Itwas a terrible risk. But I am a fisherman's wife, and I never said,`Don't go, Joe.'"
She paused a moment, woman-like, to wipe away a tear.
"And they saved the crew?" asked auntie.
"They came back wi' four in the boat, ma'am. One was a gentle lady, onewas Mattie, and there were two sailors besides. They were all Spanish,Miss. The poor lady never spoke a word we could understand. She woreaway next afternoon, but that great box yonder was washed on shore, andwhen she saw it she pointed to poor baby, then to the chest, andsmiled--and died."
"And the men, could they tell you nothing?"
"They told the parson something in Spanish, but it wasn't much.Mattie's mother was a grand dame, and the father had not been on board.They promised to write and tell us more, but ah! Miss, we'll never hearnor know aught else till the sea gives up its dead."
"We read of such things in books," said auntie, "but I never heard sostrange a tale from living lips before. Come hither, child."
Mattie obeyed, and, marvellous to say, was not a bit afraid of auntie.She clambered on to her knee and put an arm round her neck, and auntielooked softened, so much so that for a moment or two I thought I saw atear in her eye. She sat a long time talking, and orphan Mattie wentsound asleep.
After this Mattie came very often to Trafalgar Cottage, and became ourplaymate all the winter, out of doors when the weather was fine, and inthe house when it blew wild across the sea.
Jill and I grew very fond of Mattie, but we used to wonder at herstrange beauty. She was so different from other children, with hercreamy face, her weird black eyes, and long, long hair. And we used towonder also at her cleverness. I suppose Spanish people have the giftof tongues, but though Mattie was younger by three years than we, shecould talk far better, and to hear her read was like listening to themusic of birds.
She used to read to us by the hour, Jill and I lying on the floor ongoats' skins, as was our custom, and feeling all the while in some otherworld--dreamland, I think they call it.
There were three of us now, for auntie asked permission to teach Mattiewith us. But one o'clock was never struck on Mattie's little knuckles;indeed, she was clever even at "ologies," and had all the "ographies" byheart, and so did not deserve one o'clock.
There were three of us to play on the beach now, and climb the broomyhills, and gather wild flowers, and look for birds' nests in the spring,and three of us to go out with Father Gray in his brown-sailed yawl.
There were three of us, never separate all the livelong summer days.
But summer passed away at last, the days shortened in, the sea lookedrougher and colder now, and the vessels out on the grey distance wentstaggering past under shortened sails, or flew like ghosts when the windblew high.
And then came my first sorrow, the first time that I really knew therewas grief and death in the world.
I will not take long to tell it. I am but little likely to linger overso sad and dismal a memory of the past. Yet every incident in thatday's drama is painted on the tablets of memory in colours that willnever be effaced while life does last.
Little did big brown-bearded Joe Gray think, when he kissed his wife andMattie on that bright afternoon, and with his mate put off to sea, thatthey would never see him alive again.
The moon rose early, and shone red and clear over the water in atriangular path of silver, that went broadening away towards thehorizon. And when hours passed by, and the wind came up with cloudbanks out of the west, Nancy--fisherman's wife though she was--grewuneasy, and went very often to the door.
The wind grew wilder and wilder, and the air was filled with rain, andwith spray from the waves that broke quick and angrily on the beach.
The big petroleum lamp was lighted and put in the window. That lamp hadoften guided Joe Gray through darkness and storm to his own cottagedoor.
They tell me that fisher folks, and toilers by and on the sea have aninstinct that is not vouchsafed to dwellers inland. Be that as it may,poor Nancy could rest to-night neither indoors nor out. But hours andhours went by, and still the husband came not. How she strained herears to catch some sound above the roaring wind and lashing seas, togive her joy, only those who have so waited and so watched can tell.
Her only hope at last was that he might have made some other port ortaken shelter under the lee of the island.
The night passed away. Wee Mattie slept, and towards morning even thedistracted wife's sorrows were bathed for an hour in slumber. But shesprang up at last--she thought she heard his voice.
The fire had burned out on the hearth, the lamp was out too, but greydaylight was shimmering through the uncurtained panes.
"Yes, yes!" she cried. "Coming, Joe! Coming, lad!"
And she staggered up and rushed forth.
What was that dark thing on the beach? It was a great boat--it was hisyawl, bottom up.
She knew little more for a time after that. She saw people hurryingtowards her and towards the wreck; then all was a mist for hours.
But they found poor Joe beneath the yawl, and they bore him in and laidhim in the little "best" room. He was dead and stiff, with cold, hardhands half clenched, and in one a morsel of rope. It was the end of themain sheet he had grasped in his hour of agony, and they cut it off andleft it there.
Her grief, they say, when she awoke at last, was past describing. Witha wail of widowed anguish, that thrilled through the hearts of thesea-hardened listeners she flung herself on the body.
"My Joe, my Joe--my own poor boy!" she moaned. "Oh, why has Heavendeprived me of my man!"
They simply turned away and left her to her grief. They thought itbest, but there was not a man among them whose face was not wet withtears.
That was my first sorrow; but, alas! there were more to come.
And it is strange the effect that sorrow has on the young. Before this,all my life had seemed one long happy dream. But all at once I becameawake, and I date my real existence from the day they laid poor Joe Grayin the little churchyard, high above the sea, that will sing his requiemfor ever and for ay.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE SOUND OF WAR--FIRST SORROWS--A CHANGE IN OUR LIVES.
Like many other poor folks, to the houses of whom Death comes when leastexpected, Nancy Gray was left without a penny in the world, and weeMattie was doubly an orphan since Daddie Gray was drowned.
When then, after a visit or two to the fisherman's cottage, auntie onemorning announced that she had taken Mattie over to be as one of her ownkith and kin, and that Nancy herself would have employment at TrafalgarCottage, none of us was a bit surprised. It was only the angel inauntie's heart showing a little more.
So Mattie was henceforth styled "sister" by Jill and me.
Then came sorrow the second. War broke out at the Cape, the Caffreswere up and killing--butchering, in fact--our poor people at all hands.Father's regiment was ordered out, and though he himself might havestayed at home, he elected to go.
What a grief this was for us! Jill and I looked upon our dear father asone already dead.
"I'm sure they'll kill _you_, father," Jill sobbed.
"Why _me_, my boy?"
"Because they kill all the prettiest men," said the innocent boy.
Then came a few busy days and tearful days, and--then my father wasgone. The scene of the departure of the soldiers for the war issomething I will never forget. What made it all the worse was, that inreturning home our carriage was blocked by a mob, and we had to witnessthe passing by of a soldier's funeral. It was inexpressibly sad, and Iremember my dear mother wept on auntie's breast, till I verily believedher heart would break.
From that very date our bed was made up in mother's own room. We wereall she had now. Besides, something must have told her that she wouldnot even have us long.
Children's sorrows do not last very long, their souls are veryresilient, and this i
s wisely ordered. So by the time we got father'sfirst letter we had learned to live on in happy hope of soon seeing himback.
Letter after letter came; some that told of the fighting were sadenough, but there was no word of our soldier father returning from thewars.
One day we were all seated at breakfast and talking quite cheerfully,when the postman's thrilling rat-tat was heard at the door. That knockalways did make us start, now that father was away at the wars. Andthis very morning, too, we had watched the postman till he went past anddisappeared round the corner, so he must have forgotten our letter andcome with it on his return. Sally came in with it at last, but seemedto take such a long time.
"It's from the Cape, ma'am," she said, "and it _isn't in black_."
Girls _are_ so thoughtless.
I cannot tell you how it was, but neither Jill nor I could take
Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers Page 3
