Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers, Page 2

that day,"to go out for a sail now and then; I must say it has made me feel quiteyoung again."

  The pointer did not strike one o'clock on Jill's knuckles or mine allnext forenoon, so of course we wished that auntie would always go outa-sailing.

  But it was when telling my brother and me stories of a winter's eveningby the fire, or upstairs on the balcony in the sweet summer-time thatauntie was at her very very best. Then the angel came out in earnest,and neither Jill nor I were ever a bit afraid of her. We would sitclose up by her knee, and even lean across her lap, or toy with hermitted hands as we listened entranced to every word she said.

  They were mostly stories of the ocean wave, and of far-away lands andclimes beyond the setting sun. Indeed what else could a sailor'sdaughter, whose father had gone down with his ship in the stormy Bay,speak to us about, secularly?

  But she had the gift of telling Bible stories well also. The wonderfuladventures of Joseph and his brethren quite enthralled us, and oftenafter we went to bed I used to try to tell it in the same way and samewords to Jill, but never so entrancingly, though he liked it so muchthat he often went to sleep before I had finished.

  I said my mother was delicate, and this is the reason why auntie tooksuch charge of us; but mother invariably came to our room after Sallyhad done with us, and would sit by our bedside sewing for an hourtogether sometimes. It was to her we said our prayers. No, we did not_say_ them, for mother taught us to think and _pray_ the prayer--to_wish_ what we said, as it were; and we got into that habit, Jill and I,so that at any time when praying, with our hearts wandering, as it were,we believed the good angels never could hear that prayer, and never bearit away to the good Father on the great white throne of grace.

  I dare say few boys love their mother so much as we loved our beautifulmother, but then one always does think just in that way about one's ownlove. None other can be like it.

  Well, at all events, our childhood, what with one thing or another, wasa very happy one, and slipped all too soon away.

  Why was it, I wonder, that as far back as I can remember, I always feltmyself my brother's keeper, so to speak? Mind you, though I was thecider, it was _only by five minutes_. But this five minutes appeared tomake me immeasurably wiser than Jill. I was not stronger, nor bigger,nor anything, only just five minutes older, and five years wiser. So_I_ thought, and so Jill thought, and he never failed to consult me inall matters, however trivial.

  He would just say, with that simple, innocent smile of his:

  "Jack, what would you do now?"

  And I would tell him, and he would do it straight away.

  Of course Jill was very dear to me. I loved him more than I did myself.Does that seem a strange confession? Well, it is true, though. Ithink one reason for this great affection was his likeness to papa. _I_saw that, if others did not. And he even had papa's way of talking andusing little odd words, such as "certainly," "assuredly," and so forth.

  For example one day in the schoolroom we were among the "ologies"--bother them all.

  "Reginald Augustus," said auntie, and I pulled myself to "attention" andbraced sharp up, as Bill would say. "Reginald Augustus, define to usthe meanings of the words `entomology' and `etymology.'"

  Now I would have been all right if I hadn't started off by putting thecart before the horse.

  "Entomology," I replied, "is the science that treats of wordderivations, and etymology describes insects."

  One o'clock struck on my knuckles, loud enough to be heard over all theroom.

  "Rupert Domville," said auntie, "is your brother right in saying thatetymology describes insects?"

  "Certainly, auntie."

  "But suppose _I_ say that _entomology_, not _ety_mology, is the sciencedescriptive of insect life, would you _then_ say your brother wasright?"

  "_Assuredly_, aunt," said Jill, boldly.

  One o'clock rang out sharp and clear on old Jill's knuckles, and we wereboth sent to our seats to think.

  The cottage we lived in might have just as well been denominated avilla, only Aunt Serapheema, to whom it belonged, rather despisedhigh-flown names. It was a beautiful old house in the suburbs of aromantic wee fisher village, that nestled under high banks and greenbraes, not far from the great naval seaport of P--.

  My father's duties at the barracks were not very heavy in our childhood,for there was no war, and though the ride home was a long one, everynight almost we listened for the clatter of his horse's hoofs, whetherhe came or not, and Jill and I bounded to meet him. His coming was_the_ one great event of the day or week to us all, and he never failedto bring light and sunshine to Trafalgar Cottage.

  Our mother was very, very beautiful--Jill and I always thought so--andour father was the beau ideal to our young minds of what a hero ought tobe. I think I see him now as he used to look standing by his beautifulblack horse, before mounting in the morning, one arm thrown carelesslyover the mane, with his fair hair and his blue eyes smiling as he blewkisses to the drawing-room window, and had kisses blown back in return.

  Of course you will excuse a son speaking thus of his parents. Theymight not have been much to any one else, but they were all the world tomy brother and me.

  My father was to be a rich man some day, auntie told us, when he cameinto his estates in Cornwall. Meanwhile he was simply Captain Jones,and proud and happy to be so.

  Ours was not a very large village, though dignified at times by the nameof town by the people themselves, only it was quaint and pretty enoughin the sweet summer-time, when the sky was blue, and the sea reflectedits colour; when the waves sang on the beach, and birds in the hedgesand bushes, on the cliffs, and in the glen; when fisher boats were drawnup on the sand, or went lazily out towards the horizon in the evening.Yes, then it was even picturesque, and more than one artist that Iremember of lived quite a long time at the Fisherman's Joy. They wouldbe sketching boats and sails and spars, and the natives themselves, allday, to the great astonishment of the natives.

  "He do be uncommon clever-like," I heard one man say; "but surely heought to let the loikes of we have our Sunday clothes on afore he paintsus."

  The artists thought differently.

  Quite a friendship sprang up between our family and the Grays.

  But shortly after we made their acquaintance, Bill--who was not a Gray,his name was Moore--went away, having got, at his own request--he beinga deserving old coast-guardsman--a post as ship keeper on an old hulk,of which you will hear more soon. Here he lived alone with his oldwoman, as he called his buxom wife.

  Then something else really strange happened. Quite an adventure in alittle way. Jill had gone to P--with mamma that day, and I wasstrolling on the beach, feeling very lonely indeed. The tide was farback, and near the water's edge I could see a girl gathering shells.Strolling down towards her was a fisher lad, about my own age, and someinstinct impelled me to follow. I was just in time to notice him rudelysnatch at her basket, and empty all the shells, and presently she passedme crying.

  My blood boiled, so I went right on and told the boy he was nogentleman.

  He said he didn't pretend to be, but he could lick me if I wanted himto, gentleman or not gentleman.

  I said, "Yes, I wanted him to."

  I never knew I was so strong before. That lad was soon on his backcrying for mercy, and next minute I left him.

  The girl was about seven, but so beautiful and lady-like.

  She thanked me very prettily, and we walked on together, I feeling shy.But I summoned up courage after a time to ask her name.

  "Mattie Gray," she replied; "and yonder comes mother."

  To my surprise, "mother" was Nancy, the fisherman's wife.

  I was invited in, and made a hero of for hours, but somehow I could notkeep from wondering about Mattie.

  I told auntie the story that evening. Now, if there be anything a womanloves in this world it is a mystery, and auntie was no exception. Soshe and Jill and I all walked over to the cottage next afternoon.

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nbsp; "What a lovely child you have, Mrs Gray! We have not seen her before."

  "No, ma'am, she'd been to school."

  "Have you only one?"

  "My dear lady," said Nancy, "Mattie isn't ours. You see, we have onlybeen here for six months, and people don't know our story. We come fromfar south in Cornwall, and when a baby, bless her, Mattie, as we callher, came to us in a strange, strange way."

  "Tell us," said auntie, seating herself in a chair which Nancy haddusted for her.

  "Oh, it is soon told, ma'am, all that's of it. We lived on a wild bito' coast, ma'am, and many is the ship that foundered there. Well, onewild afternoon we noticed a barque trying to round the point, and wouldhave rounded it, but missed stays like, struck, and began to break up.We saw her go to pieces before our