"I'm rather tired," said Agnes; "but I am going to have some supper now."
But before she sat down to it a telegram from the office was brought in.
"Something's wrong, miss," said Maria, seeking Agnes. "Mr. Benson, he guv' a sort of a screech when he read it,—nasty thing,—and he says, says he, 'Send Miss Denham to me,' says he. I can't think why folks ever go sending them ugly yellow telegrams about, frightening people."
Agnes did not listen to this tirade, she never imagined that a telegram for Mr. Benson could affect her. Strangely enough she did not think of Ralph, she was so tired, and her evening had been so full of pressing trivialities.
But upon her entering Mr. Benson's room, that gentleman came towards her, telegram in hand, looking so full of sorrowful compassion that a cold thrill ran through her at once.
"What is it, sir?" she faltered.
"My dear young lady, there is some very sad news come. I want you to help me in breaking it to your poor mother. I am deeply grieved to tell you that thePelican of the Northhas been burnt at sea."
"Oh, Mr. Benson! And Ralph?"
Her white lips could hardly utter the words.
"The crew and passengers left her safely, but the boat in which Ralph was is missing."
Agnes swayed, turned deathly sick, felt as if she were going blind, caught hold of the nearest support, missed it, and sank upon the floor insensible.
Neither Mr. Benson nor his friend had ever seen a girlfaint before, and were terribly frightened. They tore the bell down in their agitation; they called for help in tones which brought everyone around them in consternation; nobody had their wits at command except Miss Mason.
"Go downstairs, Lisa," she commanded. "Take away the boys. Maria, go downstairs; Miss Denham has only fainted, her mother and I are enough to help her."
She assisted Mrs. Denham to lay the poor girl flat, to loosen her dress and sprinkle her face with water, as she spoke. She fetched salts; and when consciousness returned, she directed the gentlemen to carry her up to her own bed.
None of them, for the moment, thought of asking what had caused the swoon. Mrs. Denham naturally considered it the result of over-exertion, and the wetting which Agnes had undergone; she was much concerned, but not alarmed.
Miss Mason, not knowing of these predisposing causes, and seeing the telegram in Mr. Benson's hand, guessed more. She was also much struck with the lack of comfort in the scantily-furnished bedroom, crowded with two beds, and littered with Lisa's books in every direction.
Leaving her mother to undress Agnes, she went downstairs with the gentlemen, and, entering Mr. Benson's parlour, she closed the door and asked—
"What caused this sudden faintness, Mr. Benson? Had that telegram anything to do with it?"
"Indeed, I am sorry to say that it had, ma'am," and Mr. Benson handed it to the old lady.
"Humph!" said she. "If you had any sense you would have sent for me, not that poor girl."
"I'm awfully sorry," stammered out Mr. Benson, while his friend could hardly repress a smile at witnessing the autocrat of "Herford Brothers," before whom twenty clerks trembled when he frowned, being scolded and scorned by a neat little woman in a shabby silk gown and white curls.
There was wine on the table.
"Before you half kill the mother, as well as the daughter, you had better bring her down here and give her a glass of that sherry if it is decent wine," proceeded Miss Mason.
"It is, ma'am,—it is very fair sherry," said the crestfallen Mr. Benson. "You don't think that she will faint too, do you?"
Miss Mason's only answer was, "I will fetch her myself," and she walked off.
Mrs. Denham did not faint, but it was a most distressing scene, and Miss Mason took command of the whole family.
Ralph was sitting, languid and feeble, in a long chair in front of the hospital, where he had lain ill for some weeks.
The hospital was a mile or two inland from Moulmein; a comfortable place, but Ralph was weary of it. Everything had a parched, burnt-up appearance; the little pagodas, to be seen on the surrounding hills, were all alike; the punkah was working, yet there seemed to be no air to breathe; nothing suggested freshness, or gave him a start towards recovery.
A grove of palm trees rose majestically on one hand, interspersed with tamarinds, and trees of strange form covered with brilliant flowers.
Along the road came a girl in native dress, carrying a huge basket of roses, on her way to sell them in the bazaar. She had the flowers of a white, purple-striped orchid nestled coquettishly in the coils of her hair; and was smoking a huge green cheroot.
Then a long procession of yellow-robed "phoongyees," or monks, came by; each clasping his lacquered begging-bowl, and staring before him into vacancy, with rapt concentration of thought.
An open carriage appeared. "Come along, Denham," cried Mr. Gilchrist from it, "the doctor orders a drivefor you, and we will go out to the Battery Point, to see whether there is not a breath of air to be met with there."
"It will be very nice if there is," said Ralph; "this place is like a furnace. Is it always as hot as this here, Mr. Gilchrist?"
"Not always. The rains are at hand; after that it will be cooler."
They drove out to the Point, watching the native boats, light, square-sailed, fitted with thatched houses, rowed with great difficulty against the stream, by men standing, instead of sitting, to row.
They looked out over Washing Head Island, with its pagoda mounting guard over the Holy Well, whence, it is said, is drawn the water in which the king once a year cleanses his sacred head.
It was a pleasant evening, and Ralph felt its refreshment.
"I am very anxious," he said presently,—"I am very anxious to get quite well; for, unless I can get something to do, it will be 'up a tree' for me. I don't know how I am to pay all the expenses I am costing now, or to get a new outfit, or earn my living at all. I lie and fret dreadfully about this."
"You have not been yet in a fit state to bear much talking," replied Mr. Gilchrist, "or I would have relieved your mind. Your uncle wrote to me before he sailed for home, desiring me to let you want for nothing. Herford Brothers are disposed to be very liberal; and the captain's possessions, at least, were insured. Compensation will, I believe, be made to you; and there is little doubt but what this will take the form of a clerkship in the Rangoon house—a much better thing than the place you have lost. Your luck will be great if you get a berth in that house, for it is quite the first in the trade. But, Ralph, this must await letters from England. I also must await thereplies from home, for all my scientific apparatus must be replaced there, and sent out to me; in the meantime the Rangoon house makes itself responsible for our expenses."
"It is very liberal of the Messrs. Herford," said Ralph. "I have no claim whatever on them."
"That I dispute," replied his friend. "You did your share of work for your passage, and did it so well and willingly that it quite entitled you to a claim upon them, for they made the agreement to let you go on those terms. You have suffered nobly; never a complaint whatever the hardships, for which you never bargained. You have lost everything you possess in their ship; and, besides all this, what can we not say of your attention to me, nursing me day and night, as you have done so kindly, and which was certainly not in the letter of your agreement. I am not ungrateful, my boy."
"You have been so kind to me, sir, teaching me, and all that. One would have been a brute to do less."
"Well, that is your way of putting it; mine is not exactly the same. But, Ralph, I am feeling better than I have done for years. This climate suits me, and will, I hope, suit you now that you have taken the turn. I will tell you what my plan is for you. I want you to go with me upon my orchid-hunting expedition. It will give your brain a rest, and set you up after this illness. The best time for the plants will come on when the rains are over, and the season be at its coolest. I mean to get what appliances I can here, and make a short expedition into the jungle around this place; then sending what I can collect to Rangoon to be shipped home. And by that time, having received better appliances from England, also having learnt to speak the language a little better,—we must studythat, Ralph,—I shall make my way to Rangoonaround the head of the bay; searching the various likely habitations for rare plants, at different elevations and in different kinds of soil. The weather will then be growing very hot, but we shall be seasoned to it. I hope thus to obtain an extremely valuable collection,—perhaps of insects as well as of flowers,—for we shall be collecting in every variety of weather and locality. Mr. Augustus Herford will not grudge money to this end; he gave me, virtually,carte blancheto make what arrangements I found desirable when I got here; and if we do well,thereis your claim upon him."
"I should like it of all things," cried Ralph, with sparkling eyes.
"Well, you must be my assistant; and, as we shall need hands as well as heads, I have spoken to the rest of our poor raft's crew, and we have determined to keep together, hoping that our bad luck there will follow us no further. We feel that we all showed pluck enough over that affair to be able to trust each other in the future."
"I am sure, sir, that I would trust you anywhere, and should look upon it as a very jolly thing to go with you. I like the men, too; we should be ever such a comfortable party of us. But, Mr. Gilchrist, I don't see that we hadallbad luck with that raft. I am sure it was very good luck that it never upset. Those sharks swimming about us, like silent death waiting for us, have bothered me dreadfully since I was ill. And it was very good luck to be picked up when we were. Has anything been heard of the boat, sir?"
"Not yet, but the very absence of news is some hope. No wreck of it has been seen, no vestige at all. Ralph, when I think that we were cut adrift on purpose, from malice, I think sometimes it may be as well if that boat's crew never turns up."
"Oh, don't say so, don't say so! It was the doing of one only, and he might have been half mad at the time. Perhaps—most probably—he has been very sorry since."
"You are a good fellow, Denham, but it would never do to put more lives at the mercy of a person who could have doomed six unoffending people to all but certain death to gratify his own wicked spite. What the Commissioner may do were he to appear here, I cannot say. If they do turn up, I wish it might be anywhere else than here. I do not want to appear against him, yet it would be my duty to do so. The Commissioner is aware of the fact, and the severed line is in his keeping. If I had not spoken of it, old Wills and Osborn would have done so. They are very faithful to 'Miss Amy's chield,' Ralph. But see, there is the steamer from the Andamans in the offing."
A long slender line of grey smoke was plainly visible upon the horizon, becoming more distinct each minute; and all the European officers and gentlemen in the place were congregating, in their white garments, upon the quay to see the vessel come in. Amusement was not too plentiful for such people in Moulmein in those days; an arrival of any sort was interesting.
Mr. Gilchrist left the carriage to take Ralph home, and sauntered down to join the groups that were forming. Ralph was glad to be alone for a time, he was fatigued by the conversation, and much excited by the thought of making this expedition with his friends. The prospect was delightful to him, and on reaching home he resumed his former seat, thinking of all he might see, until thought became dreamy, and dreaminess sleep.
He was aroused by a familiar cheery voice.
"Hurrah! There he is! He has only left half of himself in the bay!"
It was Kershaw. Ralph sprang up to seize him by both hands in eager welcome.
"Oh, Kershaw! How glad I am, how very, very glad to see you again! How were you saved?"
"The steamer for the Andamans, with passengers from Rangoon, picked us up, and carried us straight on there. It had some sort of big bug on board who could not be hindered on his way for such a trifle as the announcement of our safety, and we have been brought back here as fast as our own news could have flown. So, like the clown in the circus, 'Here we are again.' But, Denham, I'll go back to the Andamans, if they expect usallto practise Banting here. What have you done to yourself? You are as thin as a whipping-post, and your face is all eyes."
"Oh, I've been ill! but I shall pick up fast enough now. People are so kind to us. It is a very good world, after all, that we live in, Kershaw, in spite of what some folks say."
"'It is a very good world that we live in,To lend, or to spend, or to give in;But to beg or to borrow, or get a man's own,'Tis the very worst world that ever was known,'"
"'It is a very good world that we live in,To lend, or to spend, or to give in;But to beg or to borrow, or get a man's own,'Tis the very worst world that ever was known,'"
sang Kershaw.
"Oh, most wise and sapient third mate," cried Ralph, "you are easily hoisted with your own petard! If folks lend, spend, and give, do not other folks receive?"
"Let me be among the other folks then. I have lost all the locks of hair of all the young ladies,—the dear creatures who adored me. There's a loss, Denham! Black, brown, golden, grey,—they have all gone to disagree with the sharks."
"Ugh! don't talk of sharks, they haunt me in my dreams yet."
"They use them for policemen in the Andamans.Fact!—the blue ones, because of the colour like the uniform, you know. They loaf about, round and round, just like bobbies on their beat; and if any poor devil of a prisoner tries to escape, and swim to the mainland,—hey, presto! they nip him up, and have him in a tight place in no time!"
"Your experience of life has been enlarged since I saw you, evidently."
"Yes, sir; nothing like foreign travel for enlarging the mind and perfecting the manners. Perfecting even the most charming natural manners, sir," said the mate, drawing himself up, and saluting with one finger.
It was good for Ralph to have this atmosphere of boyish nonsense restored to him. Between its bright influence, and the relief of finding his friends alive and well, he improved wonderfully fast.
All the officers and men of thePelicancame to see him, and all appeared to be drawn more closely together from remembrance of the hardships through which they had struggled. There was but one exception, that of Kirke, and why he did not form one of that friendly group must be explained later.
The friends went to walk in the bazaar, amused to see the shops, or booths, so simply arranged by throwing upwards the side of the house, and propping it up with a pole; and the odd conglomeration of articles exposed for sale beneath this primitive awning.
Here, in a hole simply dug in the ground before the houses, were Burmese women cooking rice in the joints of the bamboo.
There were others selling "pickled tea," and other abominations, by means of weights fashioned after the semblance of the sacred duck.
Silver trinkets, lacquer ware, earthen jars and pots ofnative manufacture, were oddly mixed up with the commonest glass and earthenware from Staffordshire and St. Helens; stuffs of Oriental make and pattern lay beside Manchester coloured handkerchiefs and Madras muslin jackets; images of Guadama wore a suspiciously Brummagem air, and might be seen—though never sold—side by side with lamps of native pottery with distinctly classical shape, in the establishment of some Chinaman, over whose booth the picture of his patron saint presided. Mats, baskets, cylinders of gold, ornamented more or less, and worn by the ladies as earrings poked through the universal hole in the ear, were on every side,—together with Peak and Frean's biscuits and Bryant and May's matches,—looking oddly out of place.
The people who bought and sold were as mixed a lot, and as queer to the unsophisticated boy's eyes, as the goods in which they trafficked.
Burmese men and lads, whose close-fitting blue-patterned garments turned out to be their own skins tattooed; women, their abundant tresses dressed with exquisite roses or orchids, but displaying one leg bare to the knee beneath their gracefully-draped "tameins"; children, even babies in arms, smoking cheroots; bullock-carts, saffron-robed priests, officials; half-naked children everywhere, under everybody's feet; gongs sounding, bells tinkling, laughter echoing, strange calls and cries and speech on all sides,—formed a never-ending entertainment for Ralph, who had not previously seen more of the world than the rather dull and prosaic streets of mercantile Liverpool. All was new to him, all amusing, nothing more so than the idleness and merry temper of the natives, coming so suddenly upon him after so stern an early struggle with the grave realities of civilised life.
The rains were now over, and the pious Burmese, withgreat tenderness for the little fishes left behind in many pools, collected them in jars, and carried them in procession down to the river, that they might be thus carefully restored to their native element.
The fish would doubtless have proved to be as grateful for this humanity as the fish was to the queen in the old fairy story, did it not happen that they were nearly all dead before they reached the water.
Their would-be saviours then ate them, and all ends were secured. Piety and hunger were equally satisfied, and both "nats" and men pleased.
Kirke's jealousy of Ralph Denham had dated from the earliest commencement of their ill-fated voyage; and Ralph had not been as way-wise as an older person might have wished him to be in avoiding occasions for arousing it. His own dislike to Kirke's character; his scarcely concealed contempt of him for throwing away the chances in life which he himself longed so ardently to possess; the notice taken of him by Mr. Gilchrist, and of which he was so proud,—all tended to inflame Kirke's ill-will towards him.
Ralph had tried, unavailingly but persistently, to draw little Jackson from his influence, and Jackson's services were useful to Kirke.
The two old Cornish seamen kept aloof from the elder apprentice, and did many little things for their countryman, as they regarded Denham; and Kershaw, just a trifle older and higher in the service than Kirke, took to Denham, laughed and joked with him, sought his society, and made of him a companion.
Kirke felt his seclusion, and resented it upon Denham. Such feelings feed upon themselves, and grow apace.
Little Jackson's sudden death was a shock; and, somewhat softened at heart, though too proud to confess to the fact, Kirke would have been glad of comfort and sympathyRalph had no idea of this, but, repulsed on his first evidence of kindly feeling, made no further attempt at consolation; and Kirke, in his loneliness, raged the more bitterly in secret because Denham had not found out that he wanted him.
So one thing acted and reacted upon another, and culminated upon the unhappy night in the boats.
Envying Ralph's pluck and heroism, admiring him for it; emulous of their comrades' appreciation of his gallant daring, he yet could not bring himself to imitate it, for he felt so afraid to die,—he dreaded so terribly what came after death, which he considered certain upon that raft.
He knew that he was not fit to die,—his whole ill-spent life rose up, in one instant, with awful clearness before his mental vision, and he dared not face its consequences. He believed in spite of himself, and his faith brought him nothing but fear.
He hung back, and then resented the plainly-expressed scorn of Kershaw and the sailors. Mellish, with the authority of captain delegated to him, stopped their taunts with a high hand, but was powerless to alter the expression of contempt upon their faces. Accustomed through all his early life to the surface respect paid to him as a gentleman's son, he could not bear the lack of deference now displayed by the men whom he regarded as his inferiors; and, when the watch was changed, and Kershaw yielded to him the tiller, saying, "Here, take the ropes, I suppose you aren't afraid ofthem," the climax was reached.
Half-frenzied with pride, anger, jealousy and fear, he drew out his knife, severed the rope without thought of anyone but his rival, saw in one flash that he had practically murdered six helpless and inoffensive fellow-creatures, and remorse seized him for a prey instantaneously.
No one in the boat suspected him, it was supposed thatthe rope was weak or rotten, and gave of itself from the strain upon it. A shark might have bitten it; no one knew what had happened exactly. Kirke, in horror at his own deed, called upon the others in the boat to turn her head, to row back, to search for the raft.
His agitation, the frantic energy with which he worked, redeemed him somewhat in his shipmates' eyes, but may have caused him to steer unequally, injudiciously, wide of his mark. However it happened, they could find no trace of the raft, and, though they did for a time hear the voices of the castaways raised on the breeze, the direction of the wind made their whereabouts uncertain, and the sound gradually ceased altogether.
Did that mean that they were gone? Drowned? Fled before God's judgment-seat, to be for ever witnesses against him? God knew that he did not mean this! But would He pardon?—could He pardon?
Still did the unhappy wretch maintain a sullen silence as to his deed. He could not confess, and those around him were kinder to him than usual, perceiving his sorrow, but ignorant as to its source.
Next day they were picked up by the steamer, and carried on to the Andamans. Everyone at Port Blair was kind to them, but the word "murder" seemed to be on the air.
"What! are you a convict?" someone would ask of butler, washerwoman, syce, coxswain or coolie. "What are you in for?"
"Murder, Thakin" (Englishman, sir), would be the calm reply, with a polite gesture and fascinating smile.
The convicts seemed to think no more of such a crime than of crushing heaps of cockroaches. Oh, that he could be equally dense!
They were detained at Port Blair but a very short time,when they once more embarked for Moulmein. Upon nearing the port, the first figure which he descried among the groups on shore was that of Mr. Gilchrist. He stared as if he had seen a ghost,—but it was an avenging spectre. Within the first five minutes of their landing, Mr. Gilchrist accused him of the crime of cutting the raft adrift; all shrank from him with detestation, no one stood forth to say "I do not believe the charge."
Wills and Osborn confirmed Mr. Gilchrist's accusation; the two ordinary seamen, Price and Simpson, gave testimony against him; even Ralph, upon whose forgiving nature he fastened hope, said, "Oh, Kirke, how could you have done such a thing!"
He was put into the police guardroom, and a watch set over him.
What could be done to him he had no idea, and imagination played strange pranks with his fears. Should he be sent back to England, in irons, to be tried there, where his father would be broken-hearted, his sisters disgraced; where all would appear in the papers; and, whatever the event, he could never hold up his head again?
Would they send him back to the Andamans, to herd with those half-savage convicts, mutineers from Delhi, the scum of Rangoon?
Would they shoot him, or hang him, or flog him?
Image after image of terror succeeded each other, while the guard gossipped, laughed, and dozed. These men were careless of their charge. Where should a European go if he did escape? They paid little heed to him, and he began to perceive that escape was possible.
Where he should go troubled him not; how he should live, how travel, without knowledge or help, in an unknown country where his European face would make him a marked man. He had some vague misty idea of ruby mines; and,in his ignorance, supposed these to be scattered about all over the country. That rubies were to be picked up by anyone, as nuggets had been streamed out of the sand in Ballarat by the earliest adventurers, was a fixed notion of his. He would make his way to such a place, lose his identity among the rough miners, find some splendid jewels, make his way to some other port a rich man, and return to England to lead a better life.
Opportunity presented itself at last. It was the feast of the "Tawadehutha," the most joyous of all the Burmese festivals.
Feasting and merriment lasted for three days, and holiday was observed everywhere. Even the Commissioner was forced to keep business in abeyance, and leave Kirke in his easy durance; perhaps the more willingly as, his offence being so unusual a one, and his family known to be so respectable in England, that gentleman himself was in perplexity as to what course he ought to pursue.
So in the guardroom the offender remained, under the care of the Burmese guard, who cared nothing for his crime, though they were afraid of displeasing the Commissioner.
It was hard upon them that they should not be allowed to take part in the jollity which they would have enjoyed so greatly, and their black scowls and grumbling tones were comprehended by Kirke, although their actual words were not understood.
The festival was a religious one, and theraison d'êtrewas that of presenting gifts to the various pagodas, of which there are so many in all parts of Burma.
It is regarded as a highly meritorious thing to build a pagoda, although the erection is practically of no use. It is not a church, or temple, in which religious services of prayer or praise are held, or any charitable work carried on. Their very structure forbids that, for they are solid blocksof masonry, upon which graceful cupolas and spires are erected, painted, gilt, and decorated with many bells. These bells are gifts, and are sometimes very costly, formed from pure gold or silver, and set with jewels.
It is good for the soul to present these gifts; but any repairs done to the building as it suffers from age or weather, counts to the merit of the original constructor alone. Therefore, when any rich Burmese wishes to make his salvation secure, he builds a new pagoda, large or small, all by himself,—he does not care for another person's eternal welfare. Let every man look out for himself in the kingdom of the "nats."
But gifts are another matter,theyare offered to the priests, and make plenty of show both in this world and the next; so the pagoda festival is a particularly brilliant affair, and a very picturesque one.
Long processions streamed through the street, attended by boys and girls dancing, and bearing in their midst long bamboo poles decorated with spires covered with tinsel paper, gilt balls, and all manner of toys, which gave them the air of gigantic Christmas trees.
Some bore aloft pasteboard images of "nats," or beatified spirits, who bring good luck to men, acting as guardian angels. Some carried huge, frightful representations of "beloos," or demons, who must be alternately conciliated and treated with every indignity to frighten them away.
Kirke's guard rushed out to exclaim at each fresh group that trooped past the guardhouse. Many an "Ameh!" was ejaculated, and this one was admired, that one despised;—now great delight was manifested, then contempt expressed in voluble jabber, and with no reference to their prisoner.
He cared for none of these exhibitions, so childish in his eyes—which were fatigued by the glare and noise.
White umbrellas, decorated with frills of paper lace; gold umbrellas; long bamboos, gilt or silvered; the constant stream of gay moving figures; the flash of tinsel in the sun; the beating of drums, carried in carts whose wheels creaked and groaned in unison; the clashing of bells great and small; the songs and cries of the thousands of people,—all wearied and oppressed his brain almost beyond endurance. The screams of delight which the guard constantly uttered, ran through his ears with great distress; and then the climax arrived, in the sight of a huge "silver tree," attended by prancing hobby-horses, and from the trembling boughs of which hundreds of rupees hung quivering, each wrapped in coloured tinsel paper, and followed by the inhabitants of the whole country village which had furnished it, and who danced like mad around it to the music (?) of their own voices.
Kirke could bear no more; hoping to be left alone for a little while, he produced such silver as he had in his pocket, and presented it to the guard, who seized it with delighted gratitude, and rushed out in vast excitement to expend it in pickled tea, leh-pet, cheroots, and sweetmeats of strange fashion.
They offered some on their return to their benefactor, all their sour looks changed into smiles, but he shook his head and motioned to them to leave him alone.
Surprised and compassionate, they seated themselves on their haunches outside the door in the verandah, and gabbled and feasted happily while watching the constantly passing crowds.
A pasteboard cow is drawn by oxen in the midst of richly and gaudily dressed people; a cart bearing a huge gilded pot in which the milk sacred to Guadama is to be cooked; a gorgeously-attired maiden, laden with jewels, represents the milkmaid; still more and more crowds yet; moredrums, more bells, more songs, more cries, more colour and noise and flashing lights, more beloos, more nats, more hobby-horses.
Night fell, and the revel was still maintained. Torches and fires cast a strange and lurid light over the motley scene.
What is this terrible figure advancing? A huge snow-white serpent, a hundred feet long, fierce fiery red eyes glaring from out the voluminous coils of its luminous body, as it writhes on its slow onward course in pursuance of a great rolling ball of light.
The Burmese excitement could stand no more. Springing from their heels, they rushed down from the verandah to greet the apparition with dance and shout like the rest. They ran, shrieking with admiration, along with the multitude, and Kirke was left alone.
It was an opportunity not to be missed. All Moulmein and the country side about it were in the streets, his figure would be unnoticed among the rest; he arose hastily, and ran out from the guardhouse into the town, where the brilliancy of lights in some parts made the obscurity deeper than ever in others.
No one observed him, no one spoke to him; he hastened along at his greatest speed, at first mixing with the people, then choosing the quieter places, fearing lest any English should see him and recognise him. Everyone was, however, attracted by the gay sights around; the English residents were chiefly in their own bungalows, watching the processions from their own verandahs, and distributing gifts as the various groups paused before each house to display themselves. No one thought of him, and he stole along in the darkness out into the vast misty unknown country beyond the town, unperceived.
When the processions had all reached the great pagoda;when the mystery play was over; when the old legend of Guadama being nourished by the sacred milk was acted out; when all were tired, the lights out, the crowds dispersed, the fun over,—the guards bethought them of their trust, and returned to take it up again.
In dismay unutterable they found their bird was flown, nor could he be found anywhere. In great alarm they made up the best story they could for the Commissioner's ears; and, to their wonder, found him strangely lenient to their misdemeanour. In truth, the great man was thus relieved from a dilemma; he pretended as much wrath as the carelessness of the guard deserved, but was almost grateful to them in his heart.
A search was instituted for the prisoner; but not very vigorously prosecuted, and soon abandoned when no signs of him could be discovered.
"Oh, that I had never allowed him to go!" wailed Mrs. Denham, the morning after the alarming telegram arrived, rocking herself to and fro in her misery, tears streaming down her face. "My dear, dear boy! He went to help me, and this is the end of it. The best, the dearest, the most unselfish boy in the world! How can I bear it! how can I bear it!"
But Agnes, when she recovered, showed much sense and strength of mind.
"Mother," said she, "it only says that the boat is missing, it does not say it is lost. Those seas are full of vessels, please God some ship has picked them up, and dear Ralph is safe yet. Do not despair, God is good."
"You are my only comfort, Agnes," sobbed Mrs. Denham; "but, oh, if I had only refused to let him go!"
"Agnes is right," said the sensible Miss Mason. "Your son did his duty in taking the chance offered to him, and God is merciful. You must trust to Him, Mrs. Denham. Agnes, my dear, you are not fit to go to your pupils to-day. I have written a note, and Jack can take it before he goes to school."
"No, thank you, ma'am," said Agnes. "Mrs. Dallas is particular. I am quite well enough this morning; the walk will do me good. I mean to be brave, and keep up heart."
She smiled, but it was a wan smile.
"Perhaps you are right," replied the little old lady, with secret admiration of the girl's resolution. "Duty and work are a real help in trouble."
Miss Mason became a firm friend to Agnes from that time. She was a lonely woman. Death had lately robbed her of all who were near and dear to her; it had lessened her means, and taken her home from her; but she had an affectionate heart, into which she took her young acquaintance from that time, and found an unexpected source of happiness in so doing.
Many were the little ways of relieving the strain upon Agnes which she found. She allowed Lisa to bring her school-work into her parlour for preparation; and the quiet harbour of refuge proved to be an immense boon, and lessened the constant irritation of the girl's temper.
She often took Cicely to walk with her; she taught her to read, and quite took her off her mother's hands.
In another week, a second telegram assured the family of Ralph's safe arrival at Moulmein; but all particulars had to be sent by post, and before they arrived all the children were down with measles.
Lisa and the baby were excessively ill. Lisa's lungs were much affected, she had been growing very fast, and the time of year was against her; while the complaint seemed to bring out latent mischief in the baby's constitution: spinal disease asserted itself, and the medical man pronounced that, if he lived, he must be a hopeless cripple.
Agnes, who had taken the measles in the first instance from her pupils, was left with a cough which every east wind aggravated, and she became thin and pale.
The assurance of Ralph's safety was a great cordial, butthe letters which arrived by post, in due course of time, brought with them renewed anxiety. They related only the bare facts of the escape from the ship, and that of Ralph's severe illness.
Captain Rogers had sailed from Rangoon so quickly as to have missed Mr. Gilchrist's account of particulars, addressed to him there and reposted to him in Liverpool. Thus, though he himself arrived very soon after his own letter to the firm, he knew little or nothing further.
The Messrs. Herford wished him to go out again as soon as possible. They had every confidence in him, attributing no blame whatever to him for the loss of his ship; but an official inquiry into the circumstances was inevitable, and all the appliances for Gilchrist's orchid hunting had to be renewed, besides the usual business of loading his new ship. He ran down to Cornwall to see his wife, and was obliged to be in London about the business, so could scarcely spare time to see his sister.
As soon, however, as Mr. Gilchrist's letter arrived, a copy of it was sent to Mrs. Denham; and the same post brought one to her saying that her son was out of danger, and relating details of his recovery.
These letters did more than relieve the terrible suspense of Mrs. Denham and her family, they aroused the deepest interest in the minds of all in the office of Messrs. Herford Brothers.
Mr. Augustus Herford, talking over the matter with the captain, complimented him highly upon the conduct of his nephew.
"He must be a lad worth helping," said he; "and the mother, for whose sake he has plunged into so much danger, shall not be forgotten. What other family has she, Rogers?"
"Two more sons, sir, younger, and whose education isdifficult to accomplish,—a crippled infant, who must always be a burden,—and three daughters."
"Six young children!" exclaimed Mr. Herford. "Poor soul, poor soul!"
He was a rich and liberal man, and acted upon his impulse. A situation was offered to Ralph in the house at Rangoon, where he might rise more rapidly than in England. Reginald was put into Christ's Hospital; and Jack should be apprenticed to his uncle as soon as he was fourteen. This would not be for nearly a year; but Reginald went soon, which relieved the crowd in the house,—and Ralph's heroism, the illness at home, and the dreadful suspense as to his brothers fate, had exerted a very favourable influence over the boy's character.
He saw how Ralph was respected and admired; he witnessed how much he was beloved and missed at home, and determined to win the same regard if possible. At anyrate, he would not disgrace his brother. The hope of soon entering upon a manly career added to his improvement; his last few months at home should be useful in leaving a good impression behind him, and little annoyances which would so soon be over were more easily borne.
Ralph would have been more surprised than anyone had he realised how widespread the consequences of his own simple adherence to duty had become, or how his own dear ones benefited through it.
Time passed on, the invalids improved in health; spring advanced, and a letter arrived from Ralph himself, saying little of his troubles, but full of the kindness he had received, and the pleasure with which he was anticipating his journey with Mr. Gilchrist.
"Kershaw, my friend, is on his way home," he wrote in conclusion. "He has promised to call and see you, dear mother. I have sent a few trifles for you from the bazaarhere, and he will tell you much which I am hardly strong enough yet to write about."
It was not long after receipt of this letter before a tall, good-looking, sunburnt, and extremely grave young man called one evening. He proved to be Ralph's friend, the mate Kershaw, and he was received with effusion. Tea was just ready, and he was at once invited to remain to partake of it.
Miss Mason was fetched down, and questions about the dear absent one poured out upon him. He replied to everyone with the most demure politeness, but it was not long before Agnes, as well as some of the others, observed a twinkle in the bright eyes, not exactly in accordance with the gravity of his manner. Also some of his calm observations were, to say the least of them, startling.
There was home-made saffron-cake on the table, and Mrs. Denham offered him the plate.
"Ah!" said he, "no wonder that Denham is a little dissatisfied with Burmese cookery, when he gets such cake as this at home."
"I am glad that you like it, for it is a kind of cake which we Cornish people particularly affect. Do you happen to have Cornish connections, Mr. Kershaw?"
"No, madam, I am of Irish extraction."
"Irish!" cried Lisa. "I should so like to visit Ireland. I want to see Fingal's Cave and the Giant's Causeway."
"I suppose you know, Miss Lisa, that the Causeway is supposed not to be a freak of nature but of man's manufacture."
"No, I never heard that," said Lisa. "What ground is there for supposing such a thing?"
"There are so many sham rocks in Ireland," said he sadly.
"Stuff!" said Lisa rudely. The others laughed.
"I suppose you heard that Ralph is to go up into the jungle, orchid hunting, with Mr. Gilchrist?" said Mrs. Denham.
"Yes; it will be a most interesting expedition. I could have wished to have joined it, only it was necessary to come home and pass my examination for master. Without my master's certificate I cannot take a berth as first mate, you know. Otherwise I should have liked to have gone with them, natural history is my great forte,—particularly Burmese natural history. I should have liked to have seen the Kain-no-ree, which inhabit lonely parts of the jungle."
"What sort of creature is that?" asked Jack.
"It is the missing link between birds and men, which Mr. Darwin failed to discover. It has the body of a bird, and the face of a man, and can talk away like anything."
"What a strange creature! I never heard of such a thing before. Are they pretty?"
"No, rather queer old birds, but conscientious. They have tongues which never told a lie. Then the links between the monkeys and the orchids are as much a question of degree, only upon one side, as those between monkeys and natives on the other."
"I believe," said Miss Mason quietly, "that we occasionally see the latter peculiarity at home. I have observed it in sailors."
Mr. Kershaw looked up at her. "Present company always excepted, of course," said he.
"Oh, certainly so! particularly when the company present is of Irish extraction," she replied.
"Miss Denham," appealed the young man, in injured innocence, "this lady is very severe upon me. Will you not take my part?"
"But, Mr. Kershaw, you did take even me in for a minute. How can I believe you again?"
"Even you? Was it so? I cry,Peccavi.Evenyou."
"And now you are laughing at me."
"I? I would not laugh for the world, not even at you."
"I wish I could be even with you, Mr. Kershaw."
"And I wish that I could be evened to you, Miss Denham."
All laughed there; then Mr. Kershaw's accounts of Burma began again, in a curious medley of truth and fiction difficult to separate.
"The Burmese are a very strictly religious sort of folks. They kick off their shoes to pray, and sit upon their heels. They must not take life, not even kill their fleas or their black-beetles; yet they are the most determined murderers on the face of the earth. There is no country in which human life is less considered where offence has been offered."
"But does the English Government allow this?" asked Mrs. Denham.
"Well, madam, the murderers make such good and cheap servants, you see. Of course they must not kill the English."
"I do not know how to believe you, Mr. Kershaw."
"Other ladies have the same difficulty at times, ma'am, but I may assure you that it is a fact. English people are perfectly safe from them. Other customs are peculiar. Whenever they wish for a wet day, they send a white elephant out to take his walks abroad, and the rain is sure to come."
"Now, Mr. Kershaw!"
"It is quite true, madam. It would be done more frequently were there more white elephants, but there are very few, and it does not answer to whitewash them.Unfortunately it is one of those cases where the converse of a fact does not work in an opposite manner. There would not be six months of rain at a stretch if sending out a black elephant would stop it."
"I daresay not," remarked Miss Mason drily. "Will you take some honey, Mr. Kershaw?"
"No, I thank you, ma'am. Burma has cured me from a boyish taste for honey. They embalm their dead with honey there; and, after a time, tap the mummies, in a spirit of true economy, and sell the honey in the bazaars to Englishmen unsuspecting of guile. Such honey is said to be peculiarly nourishing,—to eat it from the tomb of your fathers is to taste all the sweetness of friendship with your venerated ancestors. It is a poetical idea."
"Mr. Kershaw! How can you talk so? Have you no pleasanter or really beautiful things about which to tell us?"
"The most beautiful idea of which I have heard there, is the notion that people's souls are like butterflies, and that when you dream of an absent friend, it is really because your butterfly and his have escaped, for a time, from their prison-houses, and meet in dreamland for a chat."
"Oh," sighed Agnes, "I wish that my brother's butterfly would escape this very night, and tell me what he is doing at this moment!"
"Don't wish that, Agnes dear," said Miss Mason. "Should he be in pain or difficulty, and you could not help him, it would be better for you not to know of it."
"How can you say so!" cried Agnes. "I should always know when he is happy, and if troubles came I could give him my sympathy."
"Suppose you give it to me, Miss Denham, to keep for him. I would take great care of it."