Joshua Marvel

On a certain moonlight night, not many nights ago, Rough-and-Ready invited Joshua to accompany him on an expedition. Coming to a place where the moon was shining over the tops of the gum-trees Rough-and-Ready motioned Joshua to be still, and in a few minutes they heard a call, half scream, half chatter. Presently Rough-and-Ready raised his gun, pulled the trigger, and down came two animals shaped like cats, with long brushy tails, sharp claws and something like thumbs on their hind feet.

"'Possums," said Rough-and-Ready in explanation.

He had found out a haunt of these animals, and that night they brought back more than a dozen, some ring-tailed, some silver. They could only be shot on moonlight nights, said Rough-and-Ready, and are chiefly found where the gum or peppermint-tree abounds. They had a splendid harvest, and in a week they collected nearly a hundred, Rough-and-Ready was mighty particular about the skinning of them, and about rubbing the fleshy parts of the skins with fine wood-ashes before fixing them on the trees to dry. They also caught a score or so of the sugar-squirrel, whose fur is real chinchilla. Upon these skins Minnie and Rachel are busy now with needle and thread, making caps for the men. It is a strange sight to see such evidences of civilization in the wild woods. The women had begged Rough-and-Ready to spare the lives of two young opossums which were found alive in their mothers' pouches, and he, knowing that they could be easily tamed, had readily consented. They were the most docile and harmless little things, and soon became domesticated, if such a word may properly be used in the life I am describing. At the present time, one of them is hanging head downwards, with its tail curled round the branch of a tree, in a state of serene happiness and content. The other is with Little Emma, who is sitting not far from the women, playing with it in the midst of a great heap of wild flowers she has collected.

The females are not alone. Two of the men are away, but Joshua is in sight, busy with his axe cutting up a tree for slabs. To tell truth, Rough-and-Ready is not desirous of moving from the woods where they are now camped, unless they are compelled to do so by the savages or by unforeseen circumstances. They are camped upon high land, where they are comparatively safe from floods; the country round about is fairly stocked with game; and there is water in abundance-somewhat of a rare circumstance, and, rarer still, the water is sweet. As for the life itself, none could be more attractive to him. The slabs that Joshua is cutting now are designed for a fence round their homestead. "Even if Blacks come," thought Rough-and-Ready "and they are not inclined to be friendly, we may frighten them away with our guns." He is very sparing of their powder and shot, of which they have not too large a store, and has taught his companions to make and lay many kinds of cunning snares for game. He is a thorough bushman, and in his present circumstances is certainly the right man in the right place.

The character of Rachel Homebush appears to have completely changed. The trials she has gone through have softened her hitherto hard nature. No stony-voiced exhortations to repent drop from her lips; she is humanized and humbled. But a short time since she was intolerant, arrogant, harsh, and proudly-insolent in her armor of sanctity; but now she has doffed that armor, and has inward doubts of herself: She believes in the goodness of others. She is less sanctified and more godly.

Said Rough-and-Ready to Joshua, when they were talking of the women-

"Rachel Homebush is a different creature to what she was. She is not so good as she was, and I think she's all the better for it."

Joshua smiled at this paradox, and said, -

"At all events she has a different opinion of you."

"Think so, mate?" asked Rough-and-Ready, a little anxiously. "I'm sorry for it, in one way. There's only one woman" -

But he paused unaccountably in the middle of his speech, looked at Minnie, who was a few yards away, looked at Joshua, and walked off whistling.

Here is the picture. Two hives, bright with flowering creepers; Rachel and Minnie sitting in the shadow of the hives, on stumps of trees, making fur caps; a 'possum hanging by its tail, studying gravitation; the little child, not far away, lying on the ground, surrounded by wild flowers, playing with her pet; in the distance, Joshua busy with his axe; surrounding and encompassing all, bright sky and lovely forest. Rachel, raising her eyes from her work, looks at the child in the midst of her garden, and a soft expression rests upon her face. The child sees the look, and thrusting the 'possum in the bosom of her frock, runs towards Rachel with a handful of flowers. Rachel kisses the child, strokes the silky coat of the 'possum, and selecting a piece of wild jasmine, places it in her breast. Then Little Emma goes to the back of Minnie, and twines some of the brightest flowers in Minnie's beautiful hair; and after falling back and admiring the effect of her handiwork, whispers to Minnie to get up, for she wants to show her something. Minnie smiles and rises, and they walk hand in hand to where Emma's wild flowers are, but the child leads her farther on, in the direction of Joshua. Made aware of the child's intention, Minnie falters, and tries to release her hand gently; but Little Emma clings to her, and laughingly strives to pull her along. Joshua's attention is attracted to the gentle struggle, and, coming forward, he asks the meaning of it. The child explains that she wanted Joshua to see how pretty the flowers looked in Minnie's hair, and that Minnie tried to run away. Joshua looks at Minnie, who stands trembling before him, as if she were guilty of some deep offence. Her bosom is heaving, her eyes are luminous with tears, her face is bright with blushes, and the tell-tale blood dyes her fair neck. Surely he has never looked upon a more beautiful picture! He says some kind words to her, and she goes back to her place near Rachel, and he to his work. But, within a few minutes afterwards, he swings his axe over his shoulder, and walks away in deep thought. The bees are humming about him, many-colored locusts and golden-green grasshoppers flit among the tangled brushwood, gorgeous butterflies skim through the air; the gaudy beetle creeps lazily along; the praying mantis, with its leaf-like wings, darts before him; the tree-frog utters its strange cry; a great lizard, with a frill round its neck, disappears at the sound of his step. He walks past these and myriad other wonders of the woods, until the character of the country changes, and he finds himself among rocky gullies, with many a fissure in the stony ranges that lead down to them.

The buzz of woodland life has ceased; unfathomable silence seems to dwell in these rocky hills and valleys. But suddenly a sharp shrill note sounds upon the air. It is a bird's note, but no mate's voice replies. It is like himself; solitary in the midst of this ungracious scene, which frowningly proclaims, "Love finds here no dwelling-place." Again the note sounds, and as he makes his way toward it, curious to see what kind of bird haunts so desolate a place, he hears a faint echo answer-a voice with no soul in it, he thinks in his then melancholy mood. He comes to the opening of a small cave, the walls of which assume fantastic shapes in the dim light. And there, uttering its wail, to which only mocking echoes make response, he sees the Solitary Warbler standing alone in the centre of the cave, like the Cain of its race. He sighs and walks on-over the rocky range, into woodland again, where the ground dips, and where the rich soil is teeming with new wonders; and coming to a great pool, he sits down by its side. He has been to this spot before. Chancing upon it by accident in one of his rambles, he was attracted by its beauty, and by the singular effect of the shifting shadows upon the bosom of the pool, whose surface is almost covered by lovely pink-and-white water-lilies. He looks now into the water, and sees his haggard face reflected between the beautifully-colored lilies. And singularly enough he sees at the same time, with the eyes of his mind, the picture of Minnie as she stood before him, with eyes downcast and the flowers in her hair. It is because he was disturbed by thought of her that he left his work. He knows her secret but too well. She loves him with all her soul. She tells it in every look, in every word; every little act of hers towards him is imbued with dangerous tenderness, and yet she is unconscious of wrong. Every day she grows more devoted-every day grows more beautiful. And it is a part of his great misery to feel that her society gives him pleasure as well as pain. He is storm-tossed by a conflict of feeling. In this conflict no miserable vanity finds place, although it might be well excused in most men in such a position; nor is he by a thought false to Ellen. But Minnie is dependent upon him, lives upon his kindness, asks nothing from him but gentle speech. Shall he deny her this? Shall he be false to his nature, and be harsh where harshness would be brutality? He is strong; she is weak. Her power is in her weakness; his weakness is in his strength. She leans upon him for support, and rules by submission.

Something stirs behind him. A sound so light that it might have been produced by the fall of a leaf or by the swaying of a bough from which a bird has flown. Joshua, whose senses have been quickened by his late experience, turns rapidly, and meets the Lascar face to face. In the woods thought and action are twin-like. Quick as lightning Joshua's pistol is in his hand, and the muzzle is pointed straight at the Lascar's breast.

"Stand!" cries Joshua, "if you value your life."

The Lascar stands motionless, his hands behind him.

"Show your hands and what is in them, or I fire."

The Lascar shows his hands-a large piece of rock in one. He had seen Joshua sitting by the pool, and had intended to brain him with the stone. At Joshua's command, he drops the stone. A bitter smile wreathes Joshua's lips, and something like a savage instinct whispers to him to shoot his enemy dead upon the spot. But the thought that it would be nothing less than murder restrains him. The Lascar sees the struggle in Joshua's face, and trembles; miserable wretch as he is he has not conquered the fear of death. He is re-assured when Joshua drops his hand and moves away, still facing him. At this, fear being subdued, the venom in his nature begins to work. Shall he let his enemy depart without a sting? He commences with a piece of bravado.

"Ah," he exclaimed, "you have robbed me, but you can't make up your mind to murder me."

"Robbed you!" exclaims Joshua, forgetting for a moment. "Of what?"

"Of my knife. Give it me back. I can't hurt you with it. You are more than a match for me with your pistols. How do you think I can live without a knife?"

Joshua makes no reply to this appeal to his humanity, and moves off a few steps, warily.

"I suppose you think yourself a manly sort of fellow," continues the Lascar, moving step for step with Joshua, but keeping at a safe distance nevertheless, "robbing people of their knives, threatening to murder them, and running away with an innocent girl, and ruining her!"

"You villain!" exclaims Joshua, quivering at this reference to Minnie, "do not make me forget myself!"

"So far as to shoot a man in cold blood!" sneers the Lascar. "But don't forget that the first time you struck me it was for running after a woman. What better are you than me? I ran after a woman, not an innocent girl. Perhaps you'll say you didn't trick her from her father's house, and make love to another girl, her friend, all the while, and that girl the sister of the man you pretended such fondness for! Going to be married to her too, I heard. But I can tell you something you don't know. You were precious sly with your sweetheart, Ellen Taylor, in Gravesend; she wouldn't suspect you, I dare say you thought, if you had her down at Gravesend until the ship sailed-she wouldn't have an idea then that your other sweetheart, Minnie Kindred, with her face stained brown, was waiting for you on board the 'Merry Andrew.' Ah! you played a cunning game, you pink of perfection, you sailor-hero; but I outwitted you, I think, in a way you're not aware of."

"How?" asks Joshua, constrained to listen.

"How? I watched you, and was paid for it. You little thought that, did you? I'll tell you something more. The man who paid me for watching had a fancy for your sweetheart Ellen: you've no need to ask me who he is, for you'll not find out through me. I did my duty to him, and he paid me for it. Why, directly I set eyes on that brown-faced gypsy-maid aboard the 'Merry Andrew,' I says, 'Minnie Kindred, by God!' and I set a trap for her, and she fell into it. Then what did I do? I sent a letter to my master by the pilot, and told him to go to Minnie Kindred's father, and to Dan, and to your mother and father, and to your other sweetheart, Ellen, and let them know that you had run away with the girl, that you parted from Ellen Taylor one minute, and was courting Minnie Kindred aboard ship the next. Was that a good game to play? Was I as cunning as you? Was that paying you for what you first did to me? Do you remember what I said, when you called me a dog of a Lascar? I told you that the Lascar dog never forgets-never, never! Why, now I look into your face, I could hug myself to think that we're wrecked, and that we shall die and rot here, every one of us, and that your sweetheart (who's my master's sweetheart now, I'll be sworn) and your friends know you for what you are-a mean false hound! I put a cross against you once, and I swore to have your heart's blood. Have I had as good? Think of it, and tell me if I have had my revenge."

But he does not wait to be told. There is so dangerous a look in Joshua's face, that he darts away and disappears in the bush. It is well for him that he has escaped, for Joshua is maddened by what he has heard. Truly the Lascar has struck at him with a cunning hand. The agony of his soul is shown in the convulsive twitching of his features, in his white lips, and in the veins of his strong hand, which swell almost to bursting as he grasps a stout branch for support. So he remains fighting with his agony with a bleeding heart, for full half an hour. This knowledge that he has gained is more bitter than all the rest. He knows the worst now. The evidence against him is awful in its completeness. "Even the Old Sailor will believe me guilty," he thinks, and groans aloud at the thought. But there is one duty before him to do. He must tell Minnie. This last resolve comes upon him when the force of his first passion is somewhat spent. Between him and Minnie no word has ever passed of those at home; their very names have been avoided. But Joshua now makes up his mind that silence on this subject must be broken. It must; both for Minnie's sake and his own.

It is past sundown. The day has been very hot, and the shadows of night bring cooler breezes, grateful to the senses of the castaways. Joshua has drawn Minnie a little apart from the others; she, yielding to his slightest wish, accompanies him to a part of the forest where they can talk unobserved. His first impulse is to ask her why she came on board the "Merry Andrew" unknown to him, and why she had disguised herself from him; but he spares her this pain, and takes from his breast Ellen's portrait and her lock of hair, and Dan's Bible. He hands Minnie the Bible.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks. "Yes," she answers; "it is the Bible that Dan gave you."

"Read what is on the first page."

She reads the inscription: "From Dan to his dearest friend and brother, Joshua. With undying love and confidence."

"You know the love that existed between Dan and me, Minnie?"

"I know. It is perfect. Why do you say existed? Surely it exists!"

"I don't know; I'm afraid to think. Your words are in some sort comforting to me; for they prove you have acted in ignorance, and that you have not wilfully wronged me."

She looks at him imploringly.

"You will understand presently," he says.

He takes Ellen's lock of hair, and presses it to his lips, and kisses Ellen's portrait also. The hot blood flushes into Minnie's face, then suddenly deserts it, and she clasps her hands convulsively. She is but woman, after all. Yet she controls her agitation sufficiently to ask in an unsteady voice, -

"Is it necessary to speak further of this, Joshua?"

"It is more than necessary," he replies; "it is imperative. My duty and my honor demand it."

She bows her head; he pauses a while, and when he speaks again, it is in a softer tone.

"Minnie, do you know that Dan loved you?"

"Loved me!"

"Ay, with all the strength of his constant heart."

"I did not know it. I thought he liked me, but I had no idea it was as you say."

"He told me in confidence some time before I left. My heart bleeds as I recall that conversation. No girl could hope to be more fondly, more faithfully loved. When the 'Merry Andrew' left Gravesend, I said to myself, 'When I return, Minnie will be Dan's wife,' for I could not but believe that you would have learned to appreciate the worth of such a love as his. But it was not to be."

"No, it was not to be," says Minnie sadly. "If I had known, it could not have been; if I had remained at home, it could not have been. You, who knew Dan so well, do you not know something of me also? I understand the motive that impels you to speak to me of these things, and I honor you the more for it. It is another proof of your goodness and generosity" -

"Minnie, Minnie!" he cries, "do not speak to me like that!"

"I must; I cannot help myself. Have you so poor an opinion of me-do you know so little of me-as to think I would marry a man I did not love? Rather than that, I would choose for him I loved the bitterest lot that life can offer-misery, shame, humiliation-and be content. Dan is all that you say; but I did not love him, did not deceive him. If he told you so, he told you what is false."

"He did not tell me so, but said that from your manner to him sometimes, he hoped to win your love."

"Must I shame myself to justify myself?" she cries recklessly. "I was happy in his company because he was your friend, and because he loved you. I was happy in his company because he spoke of you, and because-Joshua, have pity on me and forgive me! O my heart, my heart!"

He catches her fainting form, for she is falling. Weeping, she turns her face from him and hides it in her hair. Soft breezes play among the branches of the trees, stirring them into worshipping motion, and the more-pork, with its sad-colored plumage, flits by on noiseless wings, uttering his melancholy note. Joshua waits until Minnie is more composed; presently her sobs grow fainter and she leaves the shelter of his arm, and stands a little apart from him, with her face still averted.

"I do pity you," he then says, "and forgive you. What I have said and what I have done springs from no feeling of unkindness to you, Minnie. God knows, in such a strait as ours, such a feeling would be worse than cruel. But there are certain things of which I am afraid you are ignorant, that I must speak of and that you must hear. Do you know that, before I left home, I was suspected of playing with your feelings-of making love to you clandestinely, and so betraying the friend whom I would have laid down my life to serve?"

"No, no Joshua, do not tell me that!"

"It is the truth; but I did not know it until after I had bidden good-by to mother and father and Dan, in Stepney. Where were you on that day?"

"I-I was not at home," she falters.

"You had left, then. I went to your father's room to wish you and him good-by. He refused to see me. I asked to see you, and Susan told me you were asleep. I was deeply grieved; and I can understand now what caused Susan to beg me imploringly to be true to Ellen. What a cowardly villain they must believe me to be! Your father suspected me; Susan suspected me. If I had died that Christmas night at mother's door, it would have been happier for me! Minnie I thanked you once for saving my life; but I cannot thank you now, for you have made me the unhappiest of men."

She does not answer him, but stands before him trembling and suffering, as before a judge, enduring her punishment and admitting the justice of it.

"It is part of my unhappiness," he continues, "that I have to speak thus to you; it is part of my unhappiness that I have to show you the consequences of your rash conduct. Listen: To-day I saw the Lascar; he came behind me stealthily, to kill me, I believe; but I turned and saw him in time. I could have shot him dead where he stood; indeed, some savage prompting urged me to do so, but I held my hand and was spared the crime. This man hates me, Minnie. In an encounter I had with him before I first went to sea, I struck him and hurt him. He has had a bitter revenge upon me. He saw you on board the 'Merry Andrew' before the pilot left the ship, and recognized you, despite your disguise."

Minnie holds her breath. She remembers how the Lascar whispered her name in her ear the first day she went aboard.

"He did a devilish thing then. He wrote a letter home, saying that I had run away with you, and that we were together on board the 'Merry Andrew.'"

She falls on her knees before him, and raises her bands supplicatingly, and begs him again to forgive her, and to believe that she knew nothing of this, and that if she had known-

"If you had known, Minnie," he says, gently raising her, "you would not have done what you have. But you did not stop to consider, poor child! You see the consequences of that letter, do you not? Suspecting me, your father told me the story of his life, to warn me not to betray you. Suspecting me, Susan implored me to be true to Ellen. Dan confided to me his love for you, and I listened to and sympathized with him. Well, what must he and all of them think, when they have learned that you and I are together on board the 'Merry Andrew'? And I have something to tell you more painful than all the rest."

He puts Ellen's portrait into her hand. "Do you know who this is?"

Her eyes are blurred by tears, and she sees Ellen's sweet face through the sorrowful mist.

"It is Ellen's," she says.

"It is my wife!"

As Joshua utters these words, earth and heaven fade in Minnie's sight; nothing is visible, nothing is palpable to her senses, but the knowledge that flashes upon her, that her love, instead of being her glory, is now her shame. "There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not sanctify," her father had said. Could love sanctify such a sacrifice as she had made-a sacrifice that had brought disgrace and dishonor upon the man she loved? For the first time some slight consciousness of her error breaks upon her, and she looks upon herself as a shameful thing. As Joshua, witnessing her agony, moves a step nearer to her, she cries, "No, no, do not touch me!" and with a wild shudder sinks upon the ground. He, animated by sincerest compassion, throws himself by her side, lays his hand upon her head, and raises her face to his. She bows her head upon his shoulder, and sobs her grief out there. By every means in his power-by gentle speech, by tender act-he strives to soothe her, and succeeds. And then, true to his purpose, he finishes his story-tells her what occurred between him and the Old Sailor at Gravesend; how surprised he was to find that the good old man, and even his own mother, had seen Minnie's fancy for him, and had devised the cure for it; and how, prompted by duty and by his love for Ellen (he dwelt much on that), he had married her quietly at Gravesend, and had spent there the three happiest days of his life. And when his story is finished, and she has learned all, they sit hand in hand, very quiet and sore-smitten, until Minnie, in a singularly-subdued voice, asks what she shall do: as if, having committed this fault, and brought such terrible suspicion upon him, he has only to tell her how to atone for it, and she will straightway do it. Sadly he replies, "What can you do, Minnie? Nothing-nothing but wait. There is, to my mind, not the barest chance of escape. We shall make our graves in this wild forest; but we must live so-you and I, my dear-that upon my deathbed I shall be able to think that I have been true to my wife, true to my friend. Life is not the end of all things."