Wild Life in the Land of the Giants Part 3

Poor Jill! It was really strange the dependence he had upon me, his twin brother--his elder brother--his second self. I but mention the following in proof of this. It happened about the time we first made the acquaintance of the boatmen. Jill had gone to look for nests all by himself for a wonder. Unfortunately he fell over a cliff. Not all the way down, else there would have been no more Jill--and no more Jack, perhaps, for I hardly think I could have lived without my brother. He had been in his perilous position for hours before found. Listening at last near the top of the cliff, I could hear his plaintive, pleading voice calling me, though he knew not I was there.

"Come to me, Jack, come to me," he prayed, "for I cannot come to you."

I had reason to remember these strange words in after life, as will be seen.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE STORY OF A SHIPWRECK--A MYSTERY--THE FATE OF POOR JOE.

We all went on that boat cruise--that is, auntie went, and Jill and I.

Auntie appeared to take us with her but we were really taking her. That was fun.

There was nothing remarkable about the cruise, except that it was the first of many far more delightful, for Jill and me.

Auntie behaved like an angel all through, if one could conceive of an angel wearing two pairs of spectacles one on top of the other and long black mits. But auntie's heart contained the angel, and to-day she never once looked over her gla.s.ses--always through them.

The fishermen, Bill and Joe, "ma'am"-ed her and "miss"-ed her, and she smiled a deal, and did not get even squeamish, for she was a sailor's daughter, and knew all about boats and ships.

We sailed straight away out, and tacked round an island, and there was a lumpy bit of a sea on. But auntie steered part of the way, much to her own delight and the admiration of Bill and Joe. Sometimes the boat gave a jump or fell down with a jerk into the trough of a sea, and the sail would tighten and the sheet would strain, and perhaps a feather of a wave would skim across the boat and hit us all; but nothing disturbed the equanimity of our bold Aunt Serapheema.

She shook hands so prettily, too, with the men and with Nancy, who curtseyed so low, that she looked like a brig under full sail settling down by the stern.

The men lifted their hats, and I'm sure each had something in his hand that auntie had left there; then away we came, and Jill and I jumped on lumps of seaweed to crack the little bladders all the way home, and auntie didn't mind a bit.

"It would do _you_ good, mamma," she said to mother at dinner that day, "to go out for a sail now and then; I must say it has made me feel quite young again."

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

But it was when telling my brother and me stories of a winter's evening by the fire, or upstairs on the balcony in the sweet summer-time that auntie 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 sit close up by her knee, and even lean across her lap, or toy with her mitted hands as we listened entranced to every word she said.

They were mostly stories of the ocean wave, and of far-away lands and climes beyond the setting sun. Indeed what else could a sailor's daughter, 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 wonderful adventures of Joseph and his brethren quite enthralled us, and often after we went to bed I used to try to tell it in the same way and same words to Jill, but never so entrancingly, though he liked it so much that he often went to sleep before I had finished.

I said my mother was delicate, and this is the reason why auntie took such charge of us; but mother invariably came to our room after Sally had done with us, and would sit by our bedside sewing for an hour together 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 bear it 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 beautiful mother, but then one always does think just in that way about one's own love. None other can be like it.

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

Why was it, I wonder, that as far back as I can remember, I always felt myself my brother's keeper, so to speak? Mind you, though I was the cider, it was _only by five minutes_. But this five minutes appeared to make 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 in all 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. I think 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 and using little odd words, such as "certainly," "a.s.suredly," 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" and braced sharp up, as Bill would say. "Reginald Augustus, define to us the meanings of the words 'entomology' and 'etymology.'"

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

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

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

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

"Certainly, auntie."

"But suppose _I_ say that _entomology_, not _ety_mology, is the science descriptive of insect life, would you _then_ say your brother was right?"

"_a.s.suredly_, aunt," said Jill, boldly.

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

The cottage we lived in might have just as well been denominated a villa, only Aunt Serapheema, to whom it belonged, rather despised high-flown names. It was a beautiful old house in the suburbs of a romantic wee fisher village, that nestled under high banks and green braes, 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, every night almost we listened for the clatter of his horse's hoofs, whether he 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 failed to bring light and sunshine to Trafalgar Cottage.

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

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

My father was to be a rich man some day, auntie told us, when he came into 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 name of town by the people themselves, only it was quaint and pretty enough in the sweet summer-time, when the sky was blue, and the sea reflected its colour; when the waves sang on the beach, and birds in the hedges and bushes, on the cliffs, and in the glen; when fisher boats were drawn up 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 I remember of lived quite a long time at the Fisherman's Joy. They would be sketching boats and sails and spars, and the natives themselves, all day, to the great astonishment of the natives.

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

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 being a 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 old woman, as he called his buxom wife.

Then something else really strange happened. Quite an adventure in a little way. Jill had gone to P--with mamma that day, and I was strolling on the beach, feeling very lonely indeed. The tide was far back, and near the water's edge I could see a girl gathering sh.e.l.ls.

Strolling down towards her was a fisher lad, about my own age, and some instinct impelled me to follow. I was just in time to notice him rudely s.n.a.t.c.h at her basket, and empty all the sh.e.l.ls, and presently she pa.s.sed me crying.

My blood boiled, so I went right on and told the boy he was no gentleman.