Call of the Caribbean/Chapter 13
XIII.
STUART and I had nothing to say when he ended. It is hard to be polite about the tragedies of life. To my thinking we try to forget them as soon as we can. Matthew Burnie seemed not to expect us to reply. He sat full in the glare of the sun, which did no more than give vitality to his thin blood.
“I have gone at times,” he said, “to try to save the souls of the heathens who killed my wife. They will not heed me. It was hard at first—for two months before Esther died a daughter was born to us. The Lord has given, and He has taken away.”
He nursed the bamboo staff between his thin knees. There was no weakness in his lean back or the poise of his fine head. When Stuart leaned toward him he glanced at the lad inquiringly. Already something of his distrust of us had vanished in conversation, as is the way with those who are old.
“Your daughter!” Stuart exclaimed. “Was she killed by the islanders?”
Matthew Burnie shook his head slowly.
“That is not given to me to know. In my sorrow I tried to learn the truth. But the heathen, fearing my wrath, would not say. I have not seen the girl since I left her with her mother.”
Stuart’s eyes met mine. Matthew Burnie had had a daughter. Born perhaps twenty years ago. She had disappeared, possibly slain by the islanders, possibly
“You said there was a raid by the hillmen at that time?” I asked.
“Aye. That is their way. They are a timid folk. I have tried to be friends with them in vain.”
“Then,” said the lad, “might not the child have been carried off by them?”
The patriarch considered this, stroking his beard.
“I once heard an islander tell that a white girl had been seen in the hills. It gave me great hope, and I praised the Lord. But I have looked and seen naught. I think the heathen meant to torment me.”
I would have told the man slowly what we had seen in the hills—that Mary was alive and in most excellent health. There was little doubt in my mind that Mary was the child stolen from the coast village by the hill tribe. The hillmen did not seem to be cannibals. They were great thieves, however, and I have found many instances where children were stolen by such people. Especially might they take a white child which would be something of a curiosity.
“Did your wife—Esther—have dark hair and eyes?” blurted out the lad.
“Aye, that she had. Brown eyes, and hair a shade darker. There was French blood in her. She was as pretty as the morning flower.”
He said this quietly, almost with an air of meditation.
“Man,” cried Stuart, “your daughter is living! I have seen her, talked with her.”
Matthew Burnie shook his head tolerantly. No answering fire showed in his deep-set eyes.
“She died with her mother, lad.”
“But I have seen her. You know the islander fellow said there was a girl child alive in the hills.”
“I have not seen her. She is dead.”
I had looked for the man to be powerfully moved by the news he heard from the boy’s lips, not realizing the strength of the idea bred into his mind by years of solitude. I added my word to that of Jack Stuart. For just a second the eyes of the old man fastened on me keenly. Then he returned to his musing.
“I’ll get Mary,” cried Stuart, springing to his feet, supremely confident that the girl could not be far away.
“Be careful, lad,” I warned him, “of the hillmen. They will not let you set hand on her.”
Matthew Burnie needed little persuasion to stay with me while Stuart departed on his search. The castaway, I found, had little interest in what had transpired away from Santo. He had lived in the hills for so long that the place had become ah all-sufficient home. Although he did not say it, I understood that he had found solace in the silent beauty of the spot.
He said it was not strange to him that Quiros and the others had sought for their paradise here. It was a country, he said, as lovely as the shores of Galilee.
I have heard much about the spell of the islands. It has crept into the abominations which are guidebooks and tourists’ schedules. Yet I know this much. I returned after an absence of several years to the islands. You can say that the spell was on me, if you like. But the garden of Santo had woven its tendrils around the heart of Matthew Burnie.
He would never leave the spot, he said. I suggested that it might have sorrowful memories for him. But he said that sorrow has its claim upon us, and it is hard to leave a place where the last of our memories are.
Then Jack Stuart emerged from the bush, leading Mary by the hand.
How he persuaded her to come I know not, except that she would obey his least wish. She stared at Matthew Burnie with a round-eyed fear that made me smile.
“Here is your daughter,” said Jack Stuart. “She was taken by the hillmen and brought up by them. When we came here she made friends with us.”
Matthew Burnie got to his feet quickly and advanced toward the shrinking girl. His eyes glowed under their thick brows.
“She is a little afraid of you,” said Jack Stuart. “She does not know you are her father.”
The patriarch seemed not to have heard.
“It is Esther’s face,” he muttered, “aye, those are her eyes. How can that be?”
“This is your child,” said the lad, smiling, and speaking as if he were talking to a child. He glanced at Mary reassuringly. I was afraid we would receive an arrow from her guardians.
It was a long moment that the two of them faced each other, the old man’s countenance tense, and the girl still uneasy. She conquered her fear. It may be that the ties of blood are stronger than we know. Or the lad’s voice, vibrant with love, may have calmed her.
Matthew Burnie took his child’s hand and touched her face. She watched him wonderingly. She had seen him before only from a distance. Already she was at ease.
“The Lord is kindly,” he said, and his voice quivered. Then—“Twenty years she has lived beside me and I knew it not.”
Stuart and I felt decidely awkward. When the old man dropped to his knees to pray we walked away a short distance into the bush.
Hardly had we done so than Mary rejoined Stuart. She was smiling again and she put a flower into his hair as she had done several days ago. Youth passes lightly over the solemn moments of the aged.