the slopes and knolls and palm-fringed cliffs of ratinga were tipped with gold by the western sun one evening as he declined towards his bed in the pacific, when marie zeppa wandered with betsy waroonga and her brown little daughter zariffa towards the strip of bright sand in front of the village.
the two matrons, besides being filled with somewhat similar anxieties as to absent ones, were naturally sympathetic, and frequently sought each other’s company. the lively anglo-french woman, whose vivacity was not altogether subdued even by the dark cloud that hung over her husband’s fate, took special pleasure in the sedate, earnest temperament of her native missionary friend, whose difficulty in understanding a joke, coupled with her inability to control her laughter when, after painful explanation, she did manage to comprehend one, was a source of much interest—an under-current, as it were, of quiet amusement.
“betsy,” said marie, as they walked slowly along, their naked feet just laved by the rippling sea, “why do you persist in wearing that absurd bonnet? if you would only let me cut four inches off the crown and six off the front, it would be much more becoming. do let me, there’s a dear. you know i was accustomed to cutting and shaping when in england.”
“but what for the use?” asked betsy, turning her large brown eyes solemnly on her companion. “it no seems too big to me. besides, when brudder gubbins give him to me he—”
“who is brudder gubbins?” asked marie, with a look of smiling surprise.
“oh! you know. the min’ster—gubbins—what come to the mission-station just afore me an’ waroonga left for ratinga.”
“oh! i see; the reverend mr gubbins—well, what did he say about the bonnet?”
“w’at did he say? ah! he say much mor’n i kin remember, an’ he look at the bonnet with’s head a one side—so sad an’ pitiful like. ‘ah! betsy waroonga,’ ses he, ‘this just the thing for you. put it on an’ take it to ratinga, it’ll press the natives there.’”
“impress them, you mean, betsy.”
“well, p’raps it was that. anyhow i put it on, an’ he looked at me so earnest an’ ses with a sigh, ‘betsy,’ ses he, ‘it minds me o’ my grandmother, an’ she was a good old soul—brought me up, betsy, she did. wear it for her sake an’ mine. i make a present of it to you.’”
“ah! betsy,” said marie, “the reverend gubbins must be a wag, i suspect.”
“w’at’s a wag, marie?”
“don’t you know what a wag is?”
“oh, yis, i know. when leetil bird sit on a stone an shake hims tail, i’ve heerd you an orley say it wag—but misser gubbins he got no tail to wag—so how can he wag it?”
“i didn’t say he wagged it, betsy,” returned marie, repressing a laugh, “but—you’ll never get to understand what a wag means, so i won’t try to explain. look! zariffa is venturesome. you’d better call her back.”
zariffa was indeed venturesome. clad in a white flannel petticoat and a miniature coal-scuttle, she was at that moment wading so deep into the clear sea that she had to raise the little garment as high as her brown bosom to keep it out of the water; and with all her efforts she was unsuccessful, for, with that natural tendency of childhood to forget and neglect what cannot be seen, she had allowed the rear-part of the petticoat to drop into the sea.
this, however, occasioned little or no anxiety to betsy waroonga, for she was not an anxious mother; but when, raising her eyes a little higher, she beheld the tip of the back-fin of a shark describing lively circles in the water as if it had scented the tender morsel and were searching for it, her easy indifference vanished. she gave vent to a yell and made a bound that told eloquently of the savage beneath the missionary, and, in another instant was up to the knees in the water with the coal-scuttle quivering violently. seizing zariffa, she squeezed her almost to the bursting point against her palpitating breast, while the shark headed seaward in bitter disappointment.
“don’t go so deep agin, ziffa,” said the mother, with a gasp, as she set her little one down on the sand.
“no, musser,” said the obedient child; and she kept on the landward side of her parent thereafter with demonstrative care.
it may be remarked here that, owing to waroonga’s love for, and admiration of, white men, zariffa’s native tongue was english—broken, of course, to the pattern of her parents.
“it was a narrow escape, betsy,” said marie, solemnised by the incident.
“yes, thank the lord,” replied the other, continuing to gaze out to sea long after the cause of her alarm had disappeared.
“oh! marie,” she added, with a sigh, “when will the dear men come home?”
the question drove all the playful humour out of poor marie, and her eyes filled with sudden tears.
“when, indeed? oh! betsy, my man will never come. for orley and the others i have little fear, but my antonio—”
poor marie could say no more. her nature was as quickly, though not as easily, provoked to deep sorrow as to gaiety. she covered her face with her hands.
as she did so the eyes of betsy, which had for some time been fixed on the horizon, opened to their widest, and her countenance assumed a look so deeply solemn that it might have lent a touch of dignity even to the coal-scuttle bonnet, if it had not bordered just a little too closely on the ridiculous.
“ho! marie,” she exclaimed in a whisper so deep that her friend looked up with a startled air; “see! look—a sip.”
“a ship—where?” said the other, turning her eager gaze on the horizon. but she was not so quick-sighted as her companion, and when at length she succeeded in fixing the object with her eyes, she pronounced it a gull.
“no ’snot a gull—a sip,” retorted betsy.
“ask zariffa. her eyes are better than ours,” suggested marie.
“kumeer, ziffa!” shouted betsy.
zariffa came, and, at the first glance, exclaimed. “a sip!”
the news spread in a moment for other and sharper eyes in the village had already observed the sail, and, ere long, the beach was crowded with natives.
by that time most of the ratingans had adopted more or less, chiefly less, of european costume, so that the aspect of the crowd was anything but savage. it is true there were large proportions of brown humanity presented to view—such as arms, legs, necks, and chests, but these were picturesquely interspersed with striped cotton drawers, duck trousers, gay guernseys, red and blue flannel petticoats, numerous caps and straw hats as well as a few coal-scuttles—though none of the latter could match that of betsy waroonga for size and tremulosity.
but there were other signs of civilisation there besides costume, for, in addition to the neat huts and gardens and whitewashed church, there was a sound issuing from the pointed spire which was anything but suggestive of the south sea savage. it was the church bell—a small one, to be sure, but sweetly toned—which was being rung violently to call in all the fighting men from the woods and fields around, for at that time the ratingans had to be prepared for the reception of foes as well as friends.
a trusty chief had been placed in charge of the village by tomeo before he left. this man now disposed his warriors in commanding positions as they came trooping in, obedient to the call, and bade them keep out of sight and watch his signals from the beach.
but now let us see what vessel it was that caused such commotion in ratinga.
she was a brig, with nothing particularly striking in her rig or appointments—a mere trading vessel. but on her bulwarks at the bow and on the heel of the bowsprit was gathered a group that well deserves notice, for there, foremost of all, and towering above the others, stood antonio zeppa, holding on to a forestay, and gazing with intensity and fixedness at the speck of land which had just been sighted. beside him, and not less absorbed, stood his valiant and amiable son; while around, in various attitudes, sat or stood the chiefs tomeo and buttchee, rosco and ebony, ongoloo and wapoota, and little lippy with her mother!
but the native missionary was not there. he had positively refused to quit the desert which had so unexpectedly and suddenly begun to blossom as the rose, and had remained to water the ground until his friends should send for him.
the chief and prime minister of the mountain-men were there because, being large-minded, they wished to travel and see the world; and lippy was there because zeppa liked her; while the mother was there because she liked lippy and refused to be parted from her.
great was the change which had come over zeppa during his convalescence. the wild locks and beard had been cut and trimmed; the ragged garments had been replaced by a suit belonging to orley, and the air of wild despair, alternating with vacant simplicity, which characterised him in his days of madness, had given place to the old, sedate, sweet look of gentle gravity. it is true the grey hairs had increased in number, and there was a look, or, rather, an effect, of suffering in the fine face which nothing could remove; but much of the muscular vigour and the erect gait had been regained during those months when he had been so carefully and untiringly nursed by his son on sugar-loaf island.
it was not so with the ex-pirate. poor rosco was a broken man. the shock to his frame from the partial burning and the subsequent amputation of his feet had been so great that a return to anything like vigour seemed out of the question. but there was that in the expression of his faded face, and in the light of his sunken eye, which carried home the conviction that the ruin of his body had been the saving of his soul.
“i cannot tell you, orley, how thankful i am,” said zeppa, “that this trader happened to touch at the island. as i grew stronger my anxiety to return home became more and more intense; and to say truth, i had begun to fear that captain fitzgerald had forgotten us altogether.”
“no fear of that, father. the captain is sure to keep his promise. he will either return, as he said, or send some vessel to look after us. what are you gazing at, ebony?”
“de steepil, massa. look!” cried the negro, his whole face quivering with excitement, and the whites of his eyes unusually obtrusive as he pointed to the ever-growing line of land on the horizon, “you see him?—glippering like fire!”
“i do see something glittering,” said orlando, shading his eyes with his hand; “yes, it must be the steeple of the church, father. look, it was not there when you left us. we’ll soon see the houses now.”
“thank god!” murmured zeppa, in a deep, tremulous voice.
“can you see it, rosco?” said orley.
the pirate turned his eyes languidly in the direction pointed out.
“i see the land,” he said faintly, “and i join your father in thanking god for that—but—but it is not home to me.”
“come, friend,” said zeppa, laying his hand gently on the poor man’s shoulder, “say not so. it shall be home to you yet, please god. if he has blotted out the past in the cleansing blood of the lamb, what is man that he should remember it? cheer up, rosco, you shall find a home and a welcome in ratinga.”
“always returning good for evil, zeppa,” said rosco, in a more cheerful voice. “i think it is this tremendous weakness that crushes my spirits, but come—i’ll try to ‘cheer up,’ as you advise.”
“dat’s right massa!” cried ebony, in an encouraging tone; “an’ jus’ look at the glipperin’ steepil. he’ll do yous heart good—somet’ing like de fire in de wilderness to de jipshins—”
“to the israelites you mean,” said orley.
“ah, yis—de izlrights, to be sure. i mis-remembered. ho! look; dar’s de house-tops now; an’ the pine grove whar’ we was use to hold palaver ’bout you, massa, arter you was lost; an’—yis—dat’s de house—yous own house. you see de wife lookin’ out o’ winder bery soon. i knows it by de pig-sty close ’longside whar’ de big grumper sow libs, dat ziffa’s so fond o’ playin’ wid. ho! lippy, come here, you little naked ting,” (he caught up the child an’ sat her on his broad shoulder). “you see de small leetil house. dat’s it. dat’s whar’ ziffa lubs to play, but she’ll hab you to play wid soon, an’ den she’ll forsake de ole sow. ho! but i forgit—you no understan’ english.”
hereupon ebony began to translate his information as he best could into the language of the little creature, in which effort he was not very successful, being an indifferent linguist.
meanwhile the vessel gradually neared the island, stood into the lagoon, and, finally, dropped anchor. a boat was at once lowered and made for the shore.
and oh! how intensely and intently did those in the boat and those on the shore gaze at each other as the space between them diminished!
“they not look like enemies,” said betsy in subdued tones.
“and i don’t think they are armed,” returned marie, with palpitating heart, “but i cannot yet make out the faces—only, they seem to be white, some of them.”
“yis, an’ some of ’em’s brown.”
thus—on the shore. in the boat:—
“now den, massa, you sees her—an’ ha! ha! dar’s betsy. i’d know her ’mong a t’ousind. you sees de bonnit—tumblin’ about like a jollyboat in a high sea; an’ ziffa too wid de leetil bonnit, all de same shape, kin you no’ see her?”
zeppa protested, rather anxiously, that he could not see them, and no wonder, for just then his eyes were blinded by tears which no amount of wiping sufficed to clear away.
at that moment a shriek was heard on shore, and betsy was seen to spring, we are afraid to say how many feet, into the air.
“dar’, she’s reco’nised us now!” exclaimed ebony with delight; and it was evident that he was right for betsy continued to caper upon the sands in a manner that could only be the result of joy or insanity, while the coal-scuttle beat tempestuously about her head like an enraged balloon.
another moment and a signal from the chief brought the ambushed christian warriors pouring down to the shore to see the long-lost and loved ones reunited, while ebony ran about in a state of frantic excitement, weeping copiously, and embracing every one who came in his way.
but who shall describe the agony of disappointment endured by poor betsy when she found that waroonga was not among them? the droop of the spirits, the collapse of the coal-scuttle! language is impotent. we leave it to imagination, merely remarking that she soon recovered on the faith of the happiness which was yet in store for her.
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