Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter XX The Troglodytes

On the afternoon of the day following that of his arrival, when for a little while her many tasks seemed to be finished, Mary showed Andrew the wonders of her cave. It was much larger than his own, three times the size indeed, with sundry smaller caves opening out of it which she used as storehouses. Near to its mouth, but round a corner so that it could not be seen from outside, burned the second fire in a kind of pit. Like the other it was fed with the dried seaweed that gave off aromatic fumes with great heat and little smoke.

In the storehouse caves, some of which were large, she kept her hay and oat straw, also tanned sealskins, grain, the candles which she made, a great pile of dried stockfish, her few tin vessels that had come originally from the boat, grass nets, fishing lines made of seal sinews with rude hooks on them laboriously cut and rubbed out of the ivory of sea–lion tusks, a tin bucket taken from the boat, a cauldron that with much trouble Old Tom had fashioned out of a block of soapstone, which she used when melting blubber into oil, and lastly, among other articles, the water–cask, also from the boat, in which the oil was stored.

In other places were her piles of slates covered with writing, some of which Andrew found of interest in after days; her stock of skin rugs and sealskin robes beautifully sewn with sinew (poor Mary had no other garments save some skin petticoats which she used when it was very cold or she was fishing or at work upon the land in summer); and large shells in which she kept water and goat's milk, also a kind of cheese which she made, and her little store of oatcake.

The main cave was adorned with her baked clay models, arranged tastefully enough upon the floor, singly or in groups according to the subject. Also standing on a block of stone by her bed, together with a lamp and the cherished Whitaker's Almanack, there was a rough pot made by herself from baked clay, in which vessel were some sprays of blossoming heath from the moor mixed with ferns and wild geraniums. Set in that place by this untaught girl, Andrew thought those flowers very touching; indeed, the sight of them brought the tears to his eyes. How, he wondered, in the midst of such wild surroundings, had she managed to retain such instinctive love of beauty?

All these things she showed him with a pride which she could not conceal, and occasional outbursts of her charming childish laughter. Then suddenly she grew solemn, and with a portentous effort and an air of interrogation, emphasized by the lifting of her arched eyebrows, she said:

"Andrew sleep here?"

With many gestures he disclaimed any such intention.

"Mary sleep Old man Tom. Mary love Old Tom," she went on by way of explanation.

Again he declined, trying to make it clear that he also loved Old Tom now that this worthy was at the bottom of the pool, and they left the cave.

That evening went by much as the one before, except that Andrew began to make studied efforts at conversation, to find that Mary understood a great deal better than she could speak. Thus he was able to explain to her that like herself he was a shipwrecked person; also that he lived upon the other side of the island.

"Come live here?" said Mary.

He looked doubtful, whereupon she made another suggestion.

"Mary come live you?"

He pointed to her garden and cave and shook his head. So the matter rested for that night which, as has been said, he passed peaceably enough in Old Tom's sepulchre, as he hoped Old Tom himself did in his new abode at the bottom of the sea. Mary escorted him to bed as before, but to his relief did not ask to be kissed. He hoped she had abandoned this dangerous habit, but next morning was undeceived. Evidently it had been Old Tom's habit only to kiss her in the morning, and she was keeping up the tradition.

What on earth was he to do, he wondered. Really the position with only Josky for a chaperon was most difficult. Yet he could not leave her here alone, nor, with such charming society only a few miles off, could he return to dwell in solitude at the hut. That sacrifice to the proprieties was too great. The only way out that he could see was to adopt the rôle of Old Tom and become a second father to her, and this, not without many inward qualms, he determined to try.

At any rate it was necessary that he should revisit the hut since his tobacco had given out; also there were many things in it which would be most useful at the caves. All this he tried to tell her after the matutinal embrace on the following morning, but at first the only idea he succeeded in conveying to her mind was that he proposed to desert her, whereon, to his horror, she burst into tears. These could only be quelled by patting her hand affectionately, together with a very pantomime of demonstration in which the sun played a great part, to indicate to her that before it set he would return. So after a hurried breakfast off he went, accompanied for a while by the doubting Mary, who in turn was followed by her goats and a large assortment of her friends the seafowl. At a certain spot on the moor she halted (afterwards he discovered that Old Tom had forbidden her to go beyond that limit) and once more showed signs of bursting into tears. Then a thought struck her, and suddenly she snatched up Josky which had walked after them.

"Mary keep pussy–cat," she said. "Andrew love pussy–cat, Andrew come back pussy–cat!"

"Yes, yes," he answered, and departed at a run for fear he should do or say something foolish, while she stood watching him, beautiful and forlorn, like a second Dido, till he vanished over the brow of the moor.

Knowing his road he reached the hut in half the time that it had taken him to travel to the caves. So much seemed to have happened since he left that somehow he was quite surprised to see it looking exactly as it had done; the sole difference that he could find anywhere was that a little moor flower had come into bloom on some turf which he had put over Jacks's grave. Then he set to work to collect his stores, only to find that it was utterly impossible for him to carry half the things he needed. So he made a selection, thinking that he could come for the rest another time, and started back again.

The return was a very different business to the outward journey, slung round as he was with household articles like the White Knight in Alice through the Looking–Glass, but with no horse save his own legs, between which dangled a spade that he had tied round his neck, together with a rake that poked him in the back. Taken altogether he calculated that he must be carrying sixty or seventy pounds weight in addition to his clothes, which to a tired man was no small burden over such terrible ground. Indeed, he would have stopped and slept upon the moor had not the thought of Mary watching and waiting and convinced that she was deserted, prevented him. So he struggled on manfully, and just at sunset reached the neighbourhood of the caves.

Yes, there she was standing on the brow of the hill, the red light flaming on her auburn hair. She saw him and sped forward at such a pace that her train of goats was forced to gallop to keep up with her. She arrived with open arms, reminding him forcibly of Leighton's picture of Eurydice welcoming Orpheus to the Shades, and as he felt sure, was about to embrace him, garden implements, bags and bulging pockets and all. To avoid this development he had recourse to artifice, and taking advantage of a weariness which was not feigned, sank with a clatter to the ground in front of her. Her distress knew no bounds, she uttered moans and little inarticulate cries, and the next thing he knew was what she was plucking him of his gear as a fowl is plucked of its feathers. In a trice the spade and the rake and the axe and the garden–fork that he had artistically arranged on a collar of rope, were over her own head. The medicine chest was on her arm, various well–filled bags hung from her shapely shoulders; she had a great parcel in each hand, and even carried another of considerable weight, for it contained cartridges, on her head, holding the band of the bag in her teeth, while she looked regretfully at his bursting pockets, as though wondering if she could not manage to stow their contents about her person. Then she put her arms about him and helped him up, and thus affectionately supported and wondering how a woman could possibly be so strong, he descended the cliff to the caves.

What a meal they had afterwards! No dinner at Claridge's or the best of clubs could equal its delights. But then the comparative merits of meals depend very much upon the company, that is, to some diners.

Now that she had some one to talk to Mary's English came back to her with a rush, especially as in every spare moment she read Whitaker's Almanack with renewed vigour, also poor Jacks's Church–service, that was in itself an education. Very soon she could talk quite well, which was a relief to her, for having been silent for so long she had a great deal to say. What conversation was hers! It resembled the bubbling of a brook, thought Andrew, and was as sweet and pure and natural. Also, at any rate for a long while, it had the same continuous flow. She talked mostly of herself, giving him a diary of the life that might very truly have been called simple, which she had led ever since she arrived upon the island.

Her memory, he noted, was perfectly marvellous. She could tell him the details of the weather for each of those fifteen years, what she had sown, what she had reaped; the history of the catching of the wild kids, of their taming and rearing and of the progeny of each of them when they came to maturity. In the same way she remembered all Old Tom's sayings and repeated them at length with veneration, till at last Andrew came to the conclusion that Old Tom must have been a kind of nautical Dr. Johnson, and almost as big a bore.

The truth was, although he did not admit this to himself, that he was jealous of Old Tom whom Mary still held to be much wiser than himself. The fact that she believed herself to have some peculiar communion with the shade of this departed and most worthy person rather accentuated his feeling upon the matter. As Old Tom was dead Andrew wished that he would recognize the fact that he had had his day, and remain dead. It annoyed him when any project was mooted to see Mary shake her beautiful head and to hear her remark that she would find out what Old Tom thought about the matter, especially as Old Tom's ideas, according to her, often proved to differ from his own.

Secretly he concluded that Mary was obstinate, and took this method of getting her own way.

Then she would tell him the individual history of many of the beasts which lived about them, of fights that sea–elephants and seals had together, of which she had been witness, and of how she knew them again by their scars; of when the seals left the islands for unknown places and when they returned again; yes, the same seals, for many of them she had marked while they were babies. It was the same story with quite a number of the penguins and other wildfowl, round whose legs she tied bands of sinew when they were young, so that she might recognize them.

"See that big bird," she said one day, pointing to the great black–winged albatross, which was always hanging about the cave during the nesting season to receive fish refuse that Mary gave it, or floating on the water near at hand, "I its mother, yes, I its mother."

"Really?" said Andrew, "I don't see any family resemblance either physical or moral," a remark which she did not in the least understand.

"I say, I its mother," she repeated with emphasis, as she suspected him of laughing at her. "That old he–goat, him with the white beard, go near nest of its real mother, and she bite him on nose. Then he, who have wicked temper like Satan, put down his head and jump in air and hit her with his horns, so that she die. But first she pick out his eye. Look, he only got one, and when he see big—what you call him—albatross, he 'member and always run away now. Well, she leave two young and I take them. One die, but other—that fellow—grow up eight year ago, and always know me for his mother. He go away for month on month, but come back again in spring when he want wife. His nest over there, but he care little about wife, always sit here and ask for fish because he is lazy and not want trouble to catch them. Also he love Mary. He come back this year, let me see, yes, one hundred and twenty–two days before I find Andrew. I write it down on my slate."

"You mean before Andrew found you."

"I mean before I find Andrew, only you not understand what I mean," she replied, with her most obstinate air.

Then he told her all the story of that albatross, of how it had followed the ship he was in for a vast distance and of how, after the vessel was sunk, it had guided his boat to the island; also why he knew it for the same. Mary nodded her head wisely and did not seem in the least astonished.

"Very clever bird that," she said. "He know Mary 'lone and want one live with, because Mary often tell him. So he go look and when he find you, he bring you here."

"He might have brought some one else," suggested Andrew.

"Oh! no, no. He know who bring. Mary tell him."

Then, as though it occurred to her that she had said too much, she sprang up and departed at her usual run on some errand which she did not explain.

Andrew looked at her retreating form, which was so full of power mingled with an extraordinary grace, and reflected that it was high time she should have found a companion of some sort, since clearly her loneliness was beginning to affect her brain. It was not possible that she could talk to beasts and birds, or at least that they should be able to understand what she said, though it was true that he had never known or heard of anyone whose communion with the animal creation was so close. Also, what did she mean about having told the albatross whom it was to find and bring, and by sundry other dark sayings of the sort? He had not the slightest idea and she did not appear inclined to enlighten him, but evidently she seemed to be satisfied with that ferocious old bird's selection.

What was to be the end of it all? She was growing very intimate with him; except over certain agricultural matters, he was beginning to take the place of Old Tom in her regard and mind. And, after all, he was not Old Tom, but a man only approaching middle life; one, too, who seemed to have grown younger as well as infinitely stronger since he reached the island. He felt sure that it would pain her very much if he left her now. And—this was a new idea—what would he feel about that matter himself? Would it not pain him also? Now that he came to think of it, he was sure it would. He was extremely happy with Mary, happier than he could remember ever having been with any human being, except perhaps with his mother as a boy.

Although her mind was only reawakening, somehow it seemed to be in complete accord with his own, while its freshness was full of an infinite variety and charm. Also she was beautiful to look on clad though she was in rough skin garments; never had he seen any woman quite so beautiful, no, not even Rose. Rose was lovely in her way, but hers was, so to speak, a shallow, surface loveliness that drew nothing from within. Much of Mary's feminine splendour, for no other word can describe it, came, he felt, from a fire of soul which shone through her great, dark blue eyes and expressed itself in every movement of her noble countenance. Rose was the product of civilization, as Clara was the product of fashion, and out of both of them all that was elemental had been winnowed; but Mary might have been the young Eve as she appeared in glory to the enraptured eyes of Adam, full of the potentialities of passion and of motherhood, and yet sweet as the wild flower and pure as the snow upon the mountain peaks.

He understood with a pang that the thought of leaving her was already horrible to him. And yet, how could he stay with her, he who was married—at least, he supposed that he was married. It depended upon whether Clara still survived. If not—oh! he would not pursue that line of thought; it was too dangerous.

The best thing that could happen to them both was that they should be rescued. But how were they to be rescued from an island which apparently no big ship sighted more than once in a generation? He looked at the great albatross preening its powerful black wings which, as he knew, could bear it over thousands of miles of sea without stay or weariness. There was a messenger, if only he knew how to give it the message. As to this, no inspiration came to him, and of it he was glad. He might as well face it at once; the truth was that he was very happy on this island and did not in the least wish to go away now that he had found a friend—no, not to be Governor–General of Oceania, or for the matter of that, King of the whole earth.

This strange pair had a wonderful summer together, if such the season could be called in that wintry climate. As it chanced, the months were warm for that latitude so that the oats and beans throve and having now after many years become acclimatized, yielded plentifully; also Andrew, on one of his visits, for he made several, brought from the hut some garden seeds there were in a box among the stores, of which some, such as cabbage and turnips, grew so well that they had a fine supply of vegetables. It is only under such circumstances, he reflected, that one learns to appreciate the fundamental value of a garden.

Fish, too, were plentiful that year, so that they had an ample diet and dried more than they could possibly want during the winter. They laid up great numbers of eggs, made hay for the goats, and cheeses from their milk that were not a bad imitation of Gruyère. This was Andrew's idea, for he had once stopped on a Swiss farm where they produced this kind of cheese, and remembered something of the method of its manufacture.

Thus it came about that they lacked for nothing, nor were likely to do so, while, owing to the saucepans and other tin vessels which Andrew procured from the hut, Mary was able to vary her cooking, and consequently their meals also. For example, now they ate their eggs boiled as well as roasted, and very excellent were those of the plover which swarmed upon the island.

At length harvest was over. Their skin sacks full of oats and beans were safely stored, undamaged by frost or wet; their seaweed for fuel was stacked; their dried fish was set away in piles, and everything was made ready for the winter. Most of the seals and sea–lions vanished mysteriously, whither they knew not; but this did not matter to them, since combats between those animals had been frequent that year and they had been able to skin as many as they wanted, also to obtain a sufficient quantity of oil and blubber. The birds, too, were going, except some sorts which wintered there.

Among the last to leave was the great black–winged albatross, which for some mornings in succession wheeled about the cave mouth.

"He always does that before he goes," said Mary. "He come to say good–bye to me his mother. Perhaps he have other friends far away in the world, or perhaps he sail about the sea till spring."

"Perhaps," said Andrew. Then idly enough he told her how it had occurred to him that this bird might be used as a messenger, if only there were something on which the message could be conveyed.

Mary thought, and pointed to a piece of tin, it was the lid of a biscuit box, and said:

"Might write on that."

"Great idea," said Andrew, and with the punch at the back of his knife he perforated the following words upon the tin:

"Lord Atterton, survivor Neptune, cast away on one of two islands some hundreds of miles north where Neptune sank. Atterton."

To this he added the date. Then he cut off all the superfluous tin so that only a piece remained about three inches square, or less, and bored two holes through the top, turning in the tin on both these and all round, so that its edges should not cut. Through these holes he passed twisted strings of strong knotted seal sinews, and all was ready.

Next, Mary went to the albatross, which to her was as tame as a fowl, and fed it with fish, while Andrew, creeping up behind, slipped a skin bag over its head, whereon it became quite quiet, not struggling at all. After this, everything was easy. Between them, they tied the tin disk about the great bird's neck, for extra security knotting the sinew cord over its back behind the wings, and doing all in such fashion that the tin could not impede it in flight, or in feeding, or be torn off by the great hooked beak, or, so far as they could judge, cause the bird inconvenience in any way. Then Andrew pulled the bag from its head and they both stepped back.

With an indignant scream, the albatross waddled along till its wings could get a bite of the air. It rose, wheeled once angrily about Mary's head, then sailed away to the south and vanished.

Mary laughed.

"He very cross and would bite us if he dare. But that writing stop on him till he come back next spring."

"Perhaps he will never come back," said Andrew. "Perhaps some one will see the tin and shoot him."

"Oh!" replied Mary, "I never think of that."

"It seems to me," said Andrew with perturbation, "that there are several things we did not think of. For instance, the message may be read and some interfering people may send a ship and find us."

"Yes, Andrew," and she looked at him doubtfully, awaiting explanation.

"Well," he went on, "I don't want to be found. Do you?"

"No," answered Mary, in a very thoughtful voice, "for then p'raps they wish take you away."

"Then they would certainly take us both away."

"No, no," she exclaimed, "this Mary's home. Who feed goats, who grow corn? We both stop here, always."

At this point all the horrible possibilities that might result from what they had done came home to her, and she began to look very disturbed indeed.

"Mary," said Andrew, "we have been fools. I thought that I ought to do this for your sake, at least I thought it once, and now I am not sure."

Then of a sudden she grew angry.

"For me, Andrew. Do I want to go away from here? Never, never. Here I live, here I die. I help you for your sake, because I see you want to go away and leave Mary, who tire you—what you call it—big bore, stupid, wild girl, wear nothing under skin coat 'cause got nothing to wear. Talk to birds and beasts and see ghosts. Oh! yes, mad, quite mad, only good swim, catch fish and cook for Andrew."

"I say, Mary," he broke in, "supposing you stop."

"Why stop? Plenty more say, all same sort."

"Because I don't like it; because it isn't true; because such words make me unhappy."

"Mary make Andrew unhappy? Then glad make him unhappy—like that."

Next she looked up with a sudden radiance of the eyes that reminded him of sunlight breaking through a cloud, and asked innocently, "Andrew not want leave Mary? Andrew love Mary as much, as much as—pussy–cat Josky?"

"Of course, and a great deal more. Josky is a selfish little beast," he added by way of explanation.

She nodded, though whether in acceptance of the first or second statement did not appear. Then she advanced her inquiries.

"Andrew love Mary as much as Mary love Andrew?" she asked, her with head on one side like a bird and looking at him.

"Of course, but that wouldn't be much, would it?"

"Don't know. P'raps Andrew know best. P'raps Andrew not understand what he say."

Again she returned to the charge in her insatiable search for information as to the exact extent of Andrew's affection.

"Andrew love Mary as much as he love Mrs. Andrew, if she dead?"

"Oh! yes. You see, one can't compare such things."

"Compare," she repeated after him, then nodded, having caught his sense, and went on, "Andrew love Mary as much as he love Mrs. Andrew, if she not dead?"

"I say, you mustn't ask such questions," he gasped, turning scarlet through his tan.

She watched him narrowly, to all appearance not without some satisfaction.

"All right," she said, bursting into one of her merry fits of laughing, "Mary not ask any more. What good ask when Mary know. Mary not cross now, see," and promptly in her childish fashion she held up her face to be kissed.

Andrew nearly burst in two, or so it seemed to him, and it was with very great physical difficulty that he kept his arms straight down by his side, for they seemed to have a natural tendency towards Mary's gracious form. But to his credit, be it said, he did it somehow and then rushed off and indulged in an hour's hard manual labour, which Mary told him afterwards was quite unnecessary, since he had only done things that he should have left undone. When he returned, she said:

"If the albatross come back, I catch him and cut that plate off his neck."

"So will I," said Andrew, "but it is too much to hope."

"Long time before he get anywhere, perhaps he pull off plate, or perhaps no one see it. Yes, yes, long time, make most of time," she said by way of consolation.

"It can't be too long," groaned Andrew. "I hope that blessed bird will eat the tin and choke itself."

"That not kind. Andrew and Mary ought to eat tin, half each, because they both silly and do what they no want do. Why Andrew write his name At—ter–ton on plate?"

"Oh! because people call me that."

"Why call Andrew that?" she pursued remorselessly.

"Oh! because I am a peer."

"Peer? What a peer?"

"Peers," said Andrew, "are people who, or whose relations, have acquired or inherited something that makes silly fools think them bigger than other men; because they are called 'my lord' and are richer than most of them. You will find lots of them in Whitaker's Almanack."

Mary considered all this, then asked:

"Are you rich, my lord?"

"No, I don't think so, not very, but my wife is, or was, and she may have left property, though I don't think that either."

"What is riches, Andrew?"

He pointed to the oats stored in their skin sacks and to the piles of dried fish and to the seaweed fuel, and answered:

"These are riches. These and health and love and children. All the rest is nothing at all."