Authors: George England
"Well, little wife! Busy, as usual? Always busy, sweetheart?"
At his greeting Beatrice looked up as though startled. She was sitting
in a low easy-chair he had made for her of split bamboos cleverly
lashed and softly cushioned.
At her left hand, on the palm-wood table, stood a heavy bronze lamp
from some forgotten millionaire's palace in Atlanta. Its soft radiance
illumined her face in profile, making a wondrous aureole of her
clustered hair, as in old paintings of the Madonna at the
Annunciation.
A presage gripped the man's heart, drawing powerfully at its strings
with pain, yet with delicious hope and joy as she turned toward him.
For something in her face, some new, beatified, maternal loveliness,
not to be analyzed or understood, betrayed her wondrous secret.
With a little gasp, she dropped into her lap the bit of needlework and
sought to hide it with her hands—a gesture wholly girlish yet—to
hide and guard it with those hands, so useful and beautiful, so
precious and so dearly loved.
But Allan, breathing hard and deep, strode to her, his face aflame
with hope and adoration. He caught them up together in the gentle
strength of his rough hands and pressed them to his heart.
Beside her he knelt silently; he encircled her with his right arm.
Then he took up the tiny garment, smiling.
For a long minute their eyes met.
His brimmed with sudden tears. Hers fell, and her head drooped down
upon his breast, and—as once before, at the cathedral—an eloquent
tide of crimson mounted from breast to throat, from cheek to
tendrilled hair.
About his neck her arms slid, trembled, tightened.
No word was uttered there under the golden lamp-glow; but the strong
kiss he pressed, reverently, proudly, upon her brow, renewed with
ten-time depth their eternal sacrament of love.
Days, busy days, lengthened into weeks, and these to months
happy and full of labor; and in the ever-growing colony progress and
change came steadily forward.
All along the cliff-face and the terraces the cave-dwellings now
extended, and the smoke from a score of chimneys fashioned among the
clefts rose on the temperate air of that sub-tropic winter.
At the doors, nets hung drying. On the pool, boats were anchored at
several well-built stone wharfs. The terraces had been walled with
palisades on their outer edge and smooth roadways fashioned, leading
to all the dwellings as well as to the river below.
On top of the cliff and about three hundred yards back from the edge
another palisade had been built of stout timbers set firmly in the
earth, interlaced with cordage and propped with strong braces.
The enclosed space, bounded to east and west by the barrier which
swung toward and touched the canyon, had all been cleared, save for a
few palms and fern-trees left for shade.
Beside drying-frames for fish and game and a well-smoothed plaza for
public assemblies and the giving of the Law, it now contained Stern's
permanent hangar. The Pauillac had been brought along the road from
Newport Heights and housed there.
This road passed through strong gates of hewn planks hinged with
well-wrought ironwork forged by some of the Folk under the direction
of H'yemba, the smith. For H'yemba, be it known, had been brought up
by Stern early in December.
The man was essential to progress, for none knew so well as he the
arts of smelting and of metal-work. Stern still felt suspicious of
him, but by no word or act did the smith now betray any rebellious
spirit, any animosity, or aught but faithful service.
Allan, however, could not trust him yet. No telling what fires might
still be smoldering under the peaceful and industrious exterior. And
the master's eye often rested keenly on the powerful figure of the
blacksmith.
Across the canyon, from a point about fifty yards to eastward of Cliff
Villa—as Beta and Allan had christened their home—a light bridge had
been flung, connecting the northern with the southern bank and saving
laborious toil in crossing via the river-bed.
This bridge, of simple construction, was merely temporary. Allan
counted on eventually putting up a first-class cantilever; but for now
he was content with two stout fiber cables anchored to palm-trunks,
floored with rough boards lashed in place with cordage, and railed
with strong rope.
This bridge opened up a whole new tract of country to northward and
vastly widened the fruit and game supply. Plenty reigned at Settlement
Cliffs; and a prosperity such as the Folk had never known in the
Abyss, a well-being, a luxurious variety of foodstuffs—fruits, meats,
wild vegetables—as well as a profusion of furs for clothing, banished
discontent.
Barring a little temporary depression and lassitude due to the great
alteration of environment, the Folk experienced but slight ill effects
from the change.
And, once they grew acclimated, their health and vigor rapidly
improved. Strangest of all, a phenomenon most marked in the children,
Allan noticed that after a few weeks under the altered conditions of
food and exposure to the actinic rays of the sun as reflected by the
moonlight, pigmentation began to develop. A certain clouding of the
iris began to show, premonitory of color-deposit. The skin lost
something of its chalky hue, while at the roots of the hair, as it
grew, a distinct infiltration of pigment-cells was visible. And at
this sight Allan rejoiced exceedingly.
Beatrice did not now go much abroad with him, on account of her
condition. She hardly ventured farther than the top of the cliff, and
many days she sat in her low chair on the terrace, resting, watching
the river and the forest, thinking, dreaming, sewing for the little
new colonist soon to arrive. Some of their most happy hours were spent
thus, as Allan sat beside her in the sun, talking of their future. The
bond between them had grown closer and more intimate. They two, linked
by another still unseen, were one.
"Will you be very angry with me, dear, if it's a girl?" she asked one
day, smiling a little wistfully.
"Angry? Have I ever been angry with you, darling? Could I ever be?"
She shook her head.
"No; but you might if I disappointed you now."
"Impossible! Of course, the world's work demands a chief, a head, a
leader, to come after me and take up the reins when they fall from my
hands, but—"
"Even if it's a girl—only a girl—you'll love me just the same?"
His answer was a pressure of her hand, which he brought to his lips
and held there a long minute. She smiled again and in the following
silence their souls spoke together though their lips were mute.
But Beta had her work to do those days as well as Allan.
While he planned the public works of the colony and directed their
construction at night, or made his routine weekly trip into the Abyss
for more and ever more of the Folk—a greatly shortened trip, now that
he knew the way so well and needed stop below ground only long enough
to rest a bit and take on oil and fuel—she was busy with her teaching
of the people.
They had carefully discussed this matter, and had decided to impose
English bodily and arbitrarily upon the colonists. Every evening
Beatrice gathered a class of the younger men and women, always
including the children, and for an hour or two drilled them in simple
words and sentences.
She used their familiar occupations, and taught them to speak of
fishing, metal-working, weaving, dyeing, and the preparation of food.
And always after they had learned a certain thing, in speaking to them
she used English for that thing. The Folk, keen-witted and retentive
of memory as barbarians often are, made astonishing strides in this
new language.
They realized fully now that it was the speech of their remote and
superior ancestors, and that it far surpassed their own crude and
limited tongue.
Thus they learned with enthusiasm; and before long, among them in
their own daily lives and labors, you could hear words, phrases, and
bits of song in English. And at sound of this both Allan and the girl
thrilled with pride and joy.
Allan felt confident of ultimate success along this line.
"We must teach the children, above all," he said to her one day.
"English must come to be a secondary tongue to them, familiar as
Merucaan. The next generation will speak English from birth and
gradually the other language will decay and perish—save as we record
it for the sake of history.
"It can't be otherwise, Beatrice. The superior tongue is always bound
to replace the inferior. All the science and technical work I teach
these people must be explained in English.
"They have no words for all these things. Bridges, flying-machines,
engines, water-pipes for the new aqueduct we're putting in to supply
the colony from the big spring up back there, tools, processes,
everything of importance, will enforce English. The very trend of
their whole evolution will drive them to it, even if they were
unwilling, which they aren't."
"Yes, of course," she answered. "Yet, after all, we're only two—"
"We'll be three soon."
She blushed.
"Three, then, if you say so. So few among so many—it will be a hard
fight, after all."
"I know, but we shall win. Old man Adams and one or two others, at the
time of the mutiny of the 'Bounty' taught English to all their one or
two score wives and numerous children on Pitcairn.
"The Tahitan was soon forgotten, and the brown half-breeds all spoke
good English right up to the time of the catastrophe, when, of course,
they were all wiped out. So you see, history proves the thing can be
done—and will be."
Came an evening toward the beginning of spring again—an evening of
surpassing loveliness, soft, warm, perfumed with the first crimson
blossoms of the season—when Bremilu ran swiftly up the path to the
cliff-top and sought Allan in the palisaded enclosure, working with
his men on the new aqueduct.
"Come, master, for they seek you now!" he panted.
"Who?"
"The mistress and old Gesafam, the aged woman, skilled in all
maladies! Come swiftly, O Kromno!"
Allan started, dropped his lantern, and turned very white.
"You mean—"
"Yea, master! Come!"
He found Beatrice in bed, the bronze lamp shining on her face, pale as
his own.
"Come, boy!" she whispered. "Let me kiss you just once
before—before—"
He knelt, and on her brow his lips seemed to burn. She kissed him,
then with a smile of happiness in all her pain said:
"Go, dearest! You must go now!"
And, as he lingered, old Gesafam, chattering shrilly, seized him by
the arm and pushed him toward the doorway.
Dazed and in silence he submitted. But when the door had closed behind
him, and he stood alone there in the moonlight above the rushing
river, a sudden exaltation thrilled him.
He knelt again by the rough sill and kissed the doorway of the house
of pain, the house of life; and his soul flamed into prayer to
whatsoever Principle or Power wrought the mysteries of the
ever-changing universe.
And for hours, keeping all far away, he held his vigil; and the stars
watched above him, too, mysterious and far.
But with the coming of the dawn, hark! a cry within! The cry—the
thrilling, never-to-be-forgotten, heart-wringing cry of the
first-born!
"Oh, God!" breathed Allan, while down his cheeks hot tears gushed
unrestrained.
The door opened. Gesafam beckoned.
Trembling, weak as a child, the man faltered in. Still burned the lamp
upon the table. He saw the heavy masses of Beta's hair upon the pillow
of deerskin, and something in his heart yearned toward her as never
until now.
"Allan!"
Choking, unable to formulate a word, shaking, he sank beside the bed,
buried his face upon it, and with his hand sought hers.
"Allan, behold your son!"
Into his quivering arms she laid a tiny bundle wrapped in the finest
cloth the Folk could weave of soft palm-fibers.
His son!
Against his face he held the child, sobbing. One hand sheltered it;
the other pressed the weak and trembling hand of Beatrice.
And as the knowledge and the joy and pain of realization, of full
achievement, of fatherhood, surged through him, the strong man's tears
baptized the future master of the race!
That evening, the evening of the same day, Allan presented the
man-child to his assembled Folk.
Eager, silent, awed, the white barbarians gathered on the terrace, all
up and down the slope of it, before the door of their Kromno's house,
waiting to behold the son of him they all obeyed, of him who was their
law.
Allan took the child and bore it to the doorway; and in the presence
of all he held it up, and in the yellow moonlight dedicated it to
their service and the service of the world.
"Listen, O folk of the Merucaans!" he cried. "I show you and I give
you, now, into your keeping and protection forever, this first-born
child of ours!
"This is the first American, the first of the ancient race that once
was, the same race whence you, too, have descended, to be born in the
upper world! His name shall be my name—Allan. To him shall be taught
all good and useful things of body and of mind. He shall be your
master, but more than master; he shall be your friend, your teacher,
your strength, your guide in the days yet to come! To you his life is
given. Not for himself shall he live, not for power or oppression, but
for service in the good of all!
"To you and your children is he given, to those who shall come after,
to the new and better time. When we, his parents, and when you, too,
shall all be gone from here, this man-child shall carry on the work
with your descendants. His race shall be your race, his love and care
all for your welfare, his every thought and labor for the common good!