and left Nadi with her dear husband. Her face hadfallen forward on his big broad chest, and she appeared convulsed withgrief.
"Leave her a little," Castizo said. "It is ever better thus."
In about half an hour, or it might have been less, Peter and I returned.
Nadi had never moved from her position.
"Nadi, my poor woman," said Peter. "Nadi, Nadi."
She was still.
Peter touched her shoulder, then turned quickly round to me.
"She does not need our consolation, Jack," he said, solemnly.
"What," I cried, "is Nadi dead?"
"Nadi is dead!"
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If I have any consolation at all in looking back to the events of thatmorning, it is to think that Jill and I had told to these poor heathensthe sad, sweet story of this world.
Jeeka and his wife are buried side by side on the banks of the riverthat rolls through the forest, close to the spot where our old log-housestood.
"Amidst the forests of the West, By a dark stream they're laid; The Indian knows their place of rest Far in the cedar shade."
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
ON THE GOOD YACHT "MAGDALENA"--"THE VERY SEAS USED TO SING TO US"--THEHOME-COMING--THE END.
At sea once more.
At sea in one of the smartest yachts that ever walked the waters like athing of life.
At sea, and homeward bound. Ah! that was what sent the joyful flush toour cheeks and the glad glitter to our eyes, whenever we chose to thinkof the fact, and try to realise it.
The _Magdalena_ in which we were sailing was no racer, but a splendidsea craft, and one that, as Ritchie said, could have shown a pair ofclean heels to the best tea-ship in the merchant service. And that wassaying a deal. She was broad in the beam for a yacht, but consequentlysafe and comfortable. Her masts were tall, but they were also strong,and she carried such a cloud of canvas that, seen from a distance, shemust have looked a perfect albatross.
To say that her decks were as white as snow would be to talkfiguratively, but literally they were as white as cocoanut husk andholystone could make them. The sails were really like snow in thesunshine, and there was not a bit of polished wood about her decks,whether in binnacle or capstan, that did not look as if varnished; nor amorsel of brass or copper that did not shine.
There was an awning over the quarter-deck by day, for we were in thetropics, and the sun blazed down with a heat sufficient to soften thepitch, if it did not absolutely make it boil.
Yonder, under the awning, sits Castizo, in a light coat and straw hat,quietly reading a book. Jill and I are walking rapidly up and down thedeck, and Dulzura is standing beside Peter. Both are gazing down at thebubbling green water, that goes eddying along the good ship's sides.Yet I do not think that either Dulzura or he is thinking very much aboutit.
But why, it may be reasonably asked, are we homeward bound, instead ofbearing up for Castizo's place at Valparaiso? Ah! thereby hangs a tale.And I will endeavour to tell it as it was told to us, on the very lastnight we spent on the Pampa.
We were barely one day's journey from the port of Santa Cruz, and werebivouacked in a green canon under the lee of the west barranca. Not faroff were the toldos of our faithful Indians. Alas! we sadly missedJeeka and poor Nadi, though. Not far off, the horses quietly grazed bythe water's edge.
We sat beside the fire of roots on our guanaco skins for the night wasnot warm.
There had been silence for a brief space. We were waiting for our_mate_. Presently it came in steaming bowls.
"Ah! thank you, Pedro. What should we do without you?" said Castizo.
"What, indeed?" "What, indeed?" said Jill and I.
"How anxious your daughter will be," said Peter. "She has had quite along time to wait for us."
Castizo smiled.
"My daughter," he replied, "will not be idle. She will have gonecruising. She is like me and like her poor mother--she hatesinactivity."
"You have only once before mentioned Miss Castizo's mother in ourhearing," said Peter.
"True, Peter. But now that we are so soon to part--for you will meet asteamer at Puentas Arenas to take you back to your own country, and wemay never meet again--I may as well give you a very brief outline of mylife."
We are all silent, and presently Castizo continued:
"It must be brief indeed; I am but a poor storyteller. Besides, I havebut little to tell, and there is a tinge of sorrow over it all.
"I was born of a noble Spanish family, and found myself fatherless andwealthy at a very early age. I was always fond of wild sport and of anomadic life, and before I had reached the age of twenty-five hadvisited most parts of the world in my own yacht, and been a soldier toboot. At a ball one night in Madrid I fell deeply in love with abeautiful young lady. She was quite of my own way of thinking asregards a wandering life. I will not dwell upon the happiness of mymarried life. Suffice it to say that Magdalena became the one brightstar in my mental firmament. I do not think any one could have lovedeach other more than we did. Zenona, whom you, Peter, call Dulzura, wasthe first pledge of that love. About two years after her birth Iaccepted a post of great honour in Monte Video, and thither we went tosettle down. We even sold our yacht, so content were we with theclimate. Then Silvana was born.
"It was about a year after this that I noticed a marked change in mypoor wife. She began to look ill. I wish now I had thrown up my postof honour. What did I need with honour, when I had riches and the wholelove of such a wife as Magdalena?
"She must have a change. She must go home. I would follow in thecourse of a year. Ah! my dear friends, it is here the sorrow comes in.She entreated me, she begged of me in tears and anguish, not to ask herto leave me.
"No, no, no. I was obdurate. Oh, I must have been hard-hearted--mad,even.
"She went away. She sailed in a ship bound for France, a Spanishbarque."
Castizo paused, and I could see the tears in his eyes by the light ofthe fire.
"And the ship was wrecked?" said Peter.
I had never seen Peter look so strange before; he appeared almost wild.
"The ship," said Castizo, slowly, almost solemnly, "must have founderedat sea, for I never saw nor heard of her more, nor of my poor dear wifeand baby. That is my story: that is the key to the seeming mystery ofmy restlessness, and of my love for being alone at times. That is all."
"No," cried Peter, half rising from the recumbent position he hadresumed when Castizo began to speak. "No, my friend Castizo; that isnot all. That is not all, Jack. Is it?"
"I think not," I said, and I was almost as excited now as Peter, whileJill, too, sat up with his eyes fixed on Castizo's face, on which was alook of mingled curiosity and amazement.
"_I_ will finish the story," continued Peter, speaking as slowly as hecould. "I knew your daughter Zenona the moment I first saw her atPuentas Arenas. I knew her eyes, her strangely beautiful face; I knewher hair, her wondrous hair. We have her counterpart at home, in theold house by the sea, where dwell Jack's mother and aunt. You haveheard them,"--he pointed to Jill and me--"you have heard them speak oftheir sister Mattie. Mattie is that counterpart."
"I do not understand," said Castizo.
"Nay, but listen, and you shall. The ship in which your poor wife andchild were sent home, did not founder at sea. She was wrecked on thecoast of Cornwall, and went in pieces next day. Not a timber of her wassaved, her very name would have been unknown but that two sailors out ofall the crew were saved, and your wife and child."
"My wife and child! Say those words again!"
"Do not let me raise hopes, my friend, that must end in disappointment.The lady died."
Castizo fell back with a moan, but sat up once more as Peter went ontalking.
"But the child lived; is living now--at least so we must hope, for weleft her well. _She is their adopted sister Mattie_."
"This is
indeed a strange ending to my story. What name did the ship socast away sail by."
Peter was silent.
"Neither Jill nor I remember," I replied. "We are not quite sure weever heard it. One of the shipwrecked sailors was killed. The other,whose name is Adriano, I have lost sight of for many a long year."
Castizo's face fell.
"There was no such man on board the _Zenobia_. I knew every man in thebarque. Ha, Peter, my dear boy, I fear it was someone else's ship,someone else's wife and child. Can you give me the date?"
"Alas!" I said, "I cannot even do that for certain. It was afisherman's boat that saved those who were saved. It was thefisherman's wife who kept the child, till by accident she became oursister. There is no other clue."
"Was there not a large chest," said Peter.
"Yes," I said. Then I described the box most minutely to Castizo. Itwas such a strange box, taller than it was broad, the length and widththe same, and painted blue.
It was Castizo's turn now to show anxiety and excitement. He made medescribe the box over and over again. I even took a pencil and sketchedit from memory on a fly-leaf of the Bible dear mother had given me whena boy.
Then Castizo said, "That was my poor Magdalena's box. Thank God, ourchild lives."
He put but one more question to me.
"Was there nothing of value in the chest? Were there no papers, money,or rings or watches?"
"Nothing save clothes. I've often and often heard Mummy Gray, as Mattiecalls her, wonder at that."
"Then I'm more than ever convinced the chest was hers. It had a falsebottom. The box was specially prepared for the voyage. Oh, boys,Heaven, in sending you to Puentas Arenas, condescended to answer myprayers. Now, instead of returning to Valparaiso, my yacht shall takeyou back to England."
That, then, was what occurred on our last night on the Pampa; and thestory begun by Castizo, and so opportunely finished by Peter with alittle assistance from Jill and me, was the cause of our being herealtogether, homeward bound in the good sea yacht _Magdalena_.
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That was indeed an idyllic voyage. Even to Jill and me it was idyllic,ten times more so must it have been to Peter and Dulzura.
With the exception of a week in the doldrums while crossing the line, wehad glorious weather all the way, with just the breezes a sailor loves,enough to fill the sails and carry us merrily onwards.
The very seas used to sing to us as they went seething past and awayastern; and on sighting the dear chalky cliffs of England, the gullsthat came out in flocks to meet us seemed to shriek us a welcome, andtell us all was well.
Perhaps we ought to have come farther up the Channel than we did, andsailed right into the great naval seaport, where dear father used to bestationed.
But no. We would do nothing of the sort, but--the weather being fineand only a gentle breeze now blowing--go right into the little bay, andanchor before our own door.
And so we did.
Yonder it was, dear old-fashioned Trafalgar Cottage. We all looked atit through the glass. Nothing altered, nothing. Balcony, garden,railings, and climbers all the same.
But there were no signs of life about, though smoke came from thechimney.
Oh dear, how a sailor's heart does beat with anxiety when he reachesonce more his native land; and how he does keep worrying and wonderingwhether his relations and friends are alive and well!
We are in the bay now, and the anchor is let go. What a delicious soundis that of the chain running out! No music in the world is half sosweet.
"Jack, Jack!" cries Jill, who was forward in the bows, the wind blowingoff the land. "Run, Jack, run!"
I rushed forward.
"What is it, Jill? What is it?"
"Robert bringing round Trots. Hurrah!"
So it was. The same old Robert. The same old Trots.
"Look again. Look, look! Yonder is Aunt Serapheema getting in. Anddarling mother in the doorway."
We were near enough to shout.
And shout we did. Peter joined in with a will, and Ritchie and Lawlorjoined to help us.
Jill and I even crept out along bowsprit and jib-boom, and waved ourhandkerchiefs and shouted again.
Was there ever such an home-coming in the world I wonder!
Auntie knows our voices. Mother waves back to us.
"Call away the boat!"
In a few minutes more, rowed by the sturdy arms of Lawlor and Ritchie,the little boat is bounding over the water.
Then it is beached, and mother, half hysterical and wholly in tears,does not know which of us to hug first.
And the fact is she does not know till we tell her which is Jack andwhich is Jill.
"I'm Jack, mother;" "I'm Jill, mother," we say.
Then we go all up home together.
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Mattie was well, but away at school. She returned next day, however,and Jill and I were half afraid of her, so tall and beautiful had shebecome. But dear Mattie was self-possessed enough, though wesemi-civilised sailors were shy.
This was a never-to-be-forgotten day. We had brought Mattie--we wouldalways call her Mattie--a father and a sister. For this box was _the_box, and that is saying enough.
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For many voyages after this, Jill and I sailed together in the sameships. And very often Ritchie and Lawlor were our shipmates.
We never saw nor heard anything more of Adriano. That was a littlemorsel of mystery never cleared up.
Castizo settled down in England, having bought property not far from thelittle churchyard where his dear wife is sleeping. He is there now,though he is getting old. With him live Peter and his wife Dulzura, ashe still calls her, and it is ever a pleasure to meet them, andoftentimes, I scarcely need say, we talk of the dear old days on thePampas and our life in the Land of the Giants.
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Alas, poor Jill, though! It is sad to record how we were parted atlast. We who thought the same thoughts, dreamt the same dreams, andwere seldom separate by night or by day. We who had come through somany wild and stormy adventures hand in hand, I might say, to be partedso strangely.
We had come off a long voyage to the Arctic ice, and were together inLondon. We left each other but for an hour, it was agreed. I was backin time at the appointed place, but poor Jill never appeared. I neversaw my brother again. No one could find out, though all search wasmade, whither he had gone, or been taken!
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Long years have passed away since then. I have fallen heir to our longlost estates. Mother and aunt live with me in our noble home.
Mattie is my wife.
They say I look a sadder man.
This may be so. Yet I live in hope that poor Jill and I are sure tomeet again _some day--somewhere_. And when lying awake at night,thinking about the past, I sometimes seem to hear a voice which I knowto be my brother's, saying--
"Come to me, Jack; come to me, for I cannot come to you."
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The End.
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