“Is the road very bad?” Mrs. Arkwright asked her in a whisper.
“Ah, yes; it is a bad road.”
“And when shall we be at the river?”
“It took me four days,” said the woman.
“Then I shall never see my mother again,” and as she spoke1 Mrs. Arkwright pressed her baby to her bosom2. Immediately after that her husband came in, and they started.
Their path now led away across the slope of a mountain which seemed to fall from the very top of that central ridge4 in an unbroken descent down to the valley at its foot. Hitherto, since they had entered the forest, they had had nothing before their eyes but the trees and bushes which grew close around them. But now a prospect5 of unrivalled grandeur6 was opened before them, if only had they been able to enjoy it. At the bottom of the valley ran a river, which, so great was the depth, looked like a moving silver cord; and on the other side of this there arose another mountain, steep but unbroken like that which they were passing,—unbroken, so that the eye could stretch from the river up to the very summit. Not a spot on that mountain side or on their side either was left uncovered by thick forest, which had stood there untouched by man since nature first produced it.
But all this was nothing to our travellers, nor was the clang of the macaws anything, or the roaring of the little congo ape. Nothing was gained by them from beautiful scenery, nor was there any fear from the beasts of prey7. The immediate3 pain of each step of the journey drove all other feelings from them, and their thoughts were bounded by an intense desire for the evening halt.
And then, as the guide had prophesied8, the rain began. At first it came in such small soft drops that it was found to be refreshing9, but the clouds soon gathered and poured forth10 their collected waters as though it had not rained for months among those mountains. Not that it came in big drops, or with the violence which wind can give it, beating hither and thither11, breaking branches from the trees, and rising up again as it pattered against the ground. There was no violence in the rain. It fell softly in a long, continuous, noiseless stream, sinking into everything that it touched, converting the deep rich earth on all sides into mud.
Not a word was said by any of them as it came on. The Indian covered the baby with her blanket, closer than she was covered before, and the guide who walked by Mrs. Arkwright’s side drew her cloak around her knees. But such efforts were in vain. There is a rain that will penetrate12 everything, and such was the rain which fell upon them now. Nevertheless, as I have said, hardly a word was spoken. The poor woman, finding that the heat of her cloak increased her sufferings, threw it open again.
“Fanny,” said her husband, “you had better let him protect you as well as he can.”
She answered him merely by an impatient wave of her hand, intending to signify that she could not speak, but that in this matter she must have her way.
After that her husband made no further attempt to control her. He could see, however, that ever and again she would have slipped forward from her mule13 and fallen, had not the man by her side steadied her with his hand. At every tree he protected her knees and feet, though there was hardly room for him to move between the beast and the bank against which he was thrust.
And then, at last, that day’s work was also over, and Fanny Arkwright slipped from her pillion down into her husband’s arms at the door of another rancho in the forest. Here there lived a large family adding from year to year to the patch of ground which they had rescued from the wood, and valiantly14 doing their part in the extension of civilisation15. Our party was but a few steps from the door when they left their mules16, but Mrs. Arkwright did not now as heretofore hasten to receive her baby in her arms. When placed upon the ground, she still leaned against the mule, and her husband saw that he must carry her into the hut. This he did, and then, wet, mud-laden, dishevelled as she was, she laid herself down upon the planks17 that were to form her bed, and there stretched out her arms for her infant. On that evening they undressed and tended her like a child; and then when she was alone with her husband, she repeated to him her sad foreboding.
“Oh, yes, Fanny, you will see her and talk over all these troubles with pleasure. It is very bad, I know; but we shall live through it yet.”
“You will, of course; and you will take baby home to her.”
“And face her without you! No, my darling. Three more days’ riding, or rather two and a half, will bring us to the river, and then your trouble will be over. All will be easy after that.”
“Ah, Harry, you do not know.”
“I do know that it is very bad, my girl, but you must cheer up. We shall be laughing at all this in a month’s time.”
On the following morning she allowed herself to be lifted up, speaking no word of remonstrance19. Indeed she was like a child in their hands, having dropped all the dignity and authority of a woman’s demeanour. It rained again during the whole of this day, and the heat was becoming oppressive as every hour they were descending20 nearer and nearer to the sea level. During this first stage hardly a word was spoken by any one; but when she was again taken from her mule she was in tears. The poor servant-girl, too, was almost prostrate21 with fatigue22, and absolutely unable to wait upon her mistress, or even to do anything for herself. Nevertheless they did make the second stage, seeing that their mid-day resting place had been under the trees of the forest. Had there been any hut there, they would have remained for the night.
On the following day they rested altogether, though the place at which they remained had but few attractions. It was another forest hut inhabited by an old Spanish couple who were by no means willing to give them room, although they paid for their accommodation at exorbitant23 rates. It is one singularity of places strange and out of the way like such forest tracks as these, that money in small sums is hardly valued. Dollars there were not appreciated as sixpences are in this rich country. But there they stayed for a day, and the guides employed themselves in making a litter with long poles so that they might carry Mrs. Arkwright over a portion of the ground. Poor fellows! When once she had thus changed her mode of conveyance24, she never again was lifted on to the mule.
There was strong reason against this day’s delay. They were to go down the Serapiqui along with the post, which would overtake them on its banks. But if the post should pass them before they got there, it could not wait; and then they would be deprived of the best canoe on the water. Then also it was possible, if they encountered further delay, that the steamer might sail from Greytown without them, and a month’s residence at that frightful25 place be thus made necessary.
The day’s rest apparently26 did little to relieve Mrs. Arkwright’s sufferings. On the following day she allowed herself to be put upon the mule, but after the first hour the beasts were stopped and she was taken off it. During that hour they had travelled hardly over half a league. At that time she so sobbed27 and moaned that Arkwright absolutely feared that she would perish in the forest, and he implored28 the guides to use the poles which they had prepared. She had declared to him over and over again that she felt sure that she should die, and, half-delirious with weariness and suffering, had begged him to leave her at the last hut. They had not yet come to the flat ground over which a litter might be carried with comparative ease; but nevertheless the men yielded, and she was placed in a recumbent position upon blankets, supported by boughs29 of trees. In this way she went through that day with somewhat less of suffering than before, and without that necessity for self-exertion which had been worse to her than any suffering.
There were places between that and the river at which one would have said that it was impossible that a litter should be carried, or even impossible that a mule should walk with a load on his back. But still they went on, and the men carried their burden without complaining. Not a word was said about money, or extra pay;—not a word, at least by them; and when Arkwright was profuse30 in his offer, their leader told him that they would not have done it for money. But for the poor suffering Se?ora they would make exertions31 which no money would have bought from them.
On the next day about noon the post did pass them, consisting of three strong men carrying great weights on their backs, suspended by bands from their foreheads. They travelled much quicker than our friends, and would reach the banks of the river that evening. In their ordinary course they would start down the river close upon daybreak on the following day; but, after some consultation32 with the guides, they agreed to wait till noon. Poor Mrs. Arkwright knew nothing of hours or of any such arrangements now, but her husband greatly doubted their power of catching33 this mail despatch34. However, it did not much depend on their exertions that afternoon. Their resting-place was marked out for them, and they could not go beyond it, unless indeed they could make the whole journey, which was impossible.
But towards evening matters seemed to improve with them. They had now got on to ground which was more open, and the men who carried the litter could walk with greater ease. Mrs. Arkwright also complained less, and when they reached their resting-place on that night, said nothing of a wish to be left there to her fate. This was a place called Padregal, a cacao plantation35, which had been cleared in the forest with much labour. There was a house here containing three rooms, and some forty or fifty acres round it had been stripped of the forest trees. But nevertheless the adventure had not been a prosperous one, for the place was at that time deserted36. There were the cacao plants, but there was no one to pick the cacao. There was a certain melancholy37 beauty about the place. A few grand trees had been left standing38 near the house, and the grass around was rich and park-like. But it was deserted, and nothing was heard but the roaring of the congos. Ah me! Indeed it was a melancholy place as it was seen by some of that party afterwards.
On the following morning they were astir very early, and Mrs. Arkwright was so much better that she offered to sit again upon her mule. The men, however, declared that they would finish their task, and she was placed again upon the litter. And then with slow and weary step they did make their way to the river bank. It was not yet noon when they saw the mud fort which stands there, and as they drew into the enclosure round a small house which stands close by the river side, they saw the three postmen still busy about their packages.
“Thank God!” said Arkwright.
“Thank God, indeed!” said his brother. “All will be right with you now.”
“Well, Fanny,” said her husband, as he took her very gently from the litter and seated her on a bench which stood outside the door. “It is all over now,—is it not?”
She answered him by a shower of tears, but they were tears which brought her relief. He was aware of this, and therefore stood by her, still holding her by both her hands while her head rested against his side. “You will find the motion of the boat very gentle,” he said; “indeed there will be no motion, and you and baby will sleep all the way down to Greytown.” She did not answer him in words, but she looked up into his face, and he could see that her spirit was recovering itself.
There was almost a crowd of people collected on the spot, preparatory to the departure of the canoes. In the first place there was the commandant of the fort, to whom the small house belonged. He was looking to the passports of our friends, and with due diligence endeavouring to make something of the occasion, by discovering fatal legal impediments to the further prosecution39 of their voyage, which impediments would disappear on the payment of certain dollars. And then there were half a dozen Costa Rican soldiers, men with coloured caps and old muskets40, ready to support the dignity and authority of the commandant. There were the guides taking payment from Abel Ring for their past work, and the postmen preparing their boats for the further journey. And then there was a certain German there, with a German servant, to whom the boats belonged. He also was very busy preparing for the river voyage. He was not going down with them, but it was his business to see them well started. A singular looking man was he, with a huge shaggy beard, and shaggy uncombed hair, but with bright blue eyes, which gave to his face a remarkable41 look of sweetness. He was an uncouth42 man to the eye, and yet a child would have trusted herself with him in a forest.
At this place they remained some two hours. Coffee was prepared here, and Mrs. Arkwright refreshed herself and her child. They washed and arranged their clothes, and when she stepped down the steep bank, clinging to her husband’s arm as she made her way towards the boat, she smiled upon him as he looked at her.
“It is all over now,—is it not, my girl?”—he said, encouraging her.
“Oh, Harry, do not talk about it,” she answered, shuddering43.
“But I want you to say a word to me to let me know that you are better.”
“I am better,—much better.”
“And you will see your mother again; will you not; and give baby to her yourself?”
To this she made no immediate answer, for she was on a level with the river, and the canoe was close at her feet. And then she had to bid farewell to her brother. He was now the unfortunate one of the party, for his destiny required that he should go back to San José alone,—go back and remain there perhaps some ten years longer before he might look for the happiness of home.
“Good-bye, Fanny,” he said, “and do not let them forget me in England. It is a great comfort to think that the worst of your troubles are over.”
“Oh,—she’s all right now,” said Arkwright. “Good-bye, old boy,”—and the two brothers-in-law grasped each other’s hands heartily45. “Keep up your spirits, and we’ll have you home before long.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said the other. But from the tone of the voices, it was clear that poor Ring was despondent46 at the thoughts of his coming solitude47, and that Arkwright was already triumphing in his emancipation48.
And then, with much care, Fanny Arkwright was stowed away in the boat. There was a great contest about the baby, but at last it was arranged, that at any rate for the first few hours she should be placed in the boat with the servant. The mother was told that by this plan she would feel herself at liberty to sleep during the heat of the day, and then she might hope to have strength to look to the child when they should be on shore during the night. In this way therefore they prepared to start, while Abel Ring stood on the bank looking at them with wishful eyes. In the first boat were two Indians paddling, and a third man steering49 with another paddle. In the middle there was much luggage, and near the luggage so as to be under shade, was the baby’s soft bed. If nothing evil happened to the boat, the child could not be more safe in the best cradle that was ever rocked. With her was the maid-servant and some stranger who was also going down to Greytown.
In the second boat were the same number of men to paddle, the Indian guide being one of them, and there were the mails placed. Then there was a seat arranged with blankets, cloaks, and cushions, for Mrs. Arkwright, so that she might lean back and sleep without fatigue, and immediately opposite to her her husband placed himself. “You all look very comfortable,” said poor Abel from the bank.
“We shall do very well now,” said Arkwright.
“And I do think I shall see mamma again,” said his wife.
“That’s right, old girl;—of course you will see her. Now then,—we are all ready.” And with some little assistance from the German on the bank, the first boat was pushed off into the stream.
The river in this place is rapid, because the full course of the water is somewhat impeded50 by a bank of earth jutting51 out from the opposite side of the river into the stream; but it is not so rapid as to make any recognised danger in the embarkation52. Below this bank, which is opposite to the spot at which the boats were entered, there were four or five broken trees in the water, some of the shattered boughs of which showed themselves above the surface. These are called snags, and are very dangerous if they are met with in the course of the stream; but in this instance no danger was apprehended53 from them, as they lay considerably54 to the left of the passage which the boats would take. The first canoe was pushed off by the German, and went rapidly away. The waters were strong with rain, and it was pretty to see with what velocity55 the boat was carried on some hundred of yards in advance of the other by the force of the first effort of the paddle. The German, however, from the bank holloaed to the first men in Spanish, bidding them relax their efforts for awhile; and then he said a word or two of caution to those who were now on the point of starting.
The boat then was pushed steadily56 forward, the man at the stern keeping it with his paddle a little farther away from the bank at which they had embarked57. It was close under the land that the stream ran the fastest, and in obedience58 to the directions given to him he made his course somewhat nearer to the sunken trees. It was but one turn of his hand that gave the light boat its direction, but that turn of the hand was too strong. Had the anxious master of the canoes been but a thought less anxious, all might have been well; but, as it was, the prow59 of the boat was caught by some slight hidden branch which impeded its course and turned it round in the rapid river. The whole lengths of the canoe was thus brought against the sunken tree, and in half a minute the five occupants of the boat were struggling in the stream.
Abel Ring and the German were both standing on the bank close to the water when this happened, and each for a moment looked into the other’s face. “Stand where you are,” shouted the German, “so that you may assist them from the shore. I will go in.” And then, throwing from him his boots and coat, he plunged60 into the river.
The canoe had been swept round so as to be brought by the force of the waters absolutely in among the upturned roots and broken stumps61 of the trees which impeded the river, and thus, when the party was upset, they were at first to be seen scrambling62 among the branches. But unfortunately there was much more wood below the water than above it, and the force of the stream was so great, that those who caught hold of the timber were not able to support themselves by it above the surface. Arkwright was soon to be seen some forty yards down, having been carried clear of the trees, and here he got out of the river on the farther bank. The distance to him was not above forty yards, but from the nature of the ground he could not get up towards his wife, unless he could have forced his way against the stream.
The Indian who had had charge of the baby rose quickly to the surface, was carried once round in the eddy63, with his head high above the water, and then was seen to throw himself among the broken wood. He had seen the dress of the poor woman, and made his effort to save her. The other two men were so caught by the fragments of the boughs, that they could not extricate64 themselves so as to make any exertions; ultimately, however, they also got out on the further bank.
Mrs. Arkwright had sunk at once on being precipitated65 into the water, but the buoyancy of her clothes had brought her for a moment again to the surface. She had risen for a moment, and then had again gone down, immediately below the forked trunk of a huge tree;—had gone down, alas66, alas! never to rise again with life within her bosom. The poor Indian made two attempts to save her, and then came up himself, incapable67 of further effort.
It was then that the German, the owner of the canoes, who had fought his way with great efforts across the violence of the waters, and indeed up against the stream for some few yards, made his effort to save the life of that poor frail68 creature. He had watched the spot at which she had gone down, and even while struggling across the river, had seen how the Indian had followed her and had failed. It was now his turn. His life was in his hand, and he was prepared to throw it away in that attempt. Having succeeded in placing himself a little above the large tree, he turned his face towards the bottom of the river, and dived down among the branches. And he also, after that, was never again seen with the life-blood flowing round his heart.
When the sun set that night, the two swollen69 corpses70 were lying in the Commandant’s hut, and Abel Ring and Arkwright were sitting beside them. Arkwright had his baby sleeping in his arms, but he sat there for hours,—into the middle of the long night,—without speaking a word to any one.
“Harry,” said his brother at last, “come away and lay down. It will be good for you to sleep.”
“Nothing ever will be good again for me,” said he.
“You must bear up against your sorrow as other men do,” said Ring.
“Why am I not sleeping with her as the poor German sleeps? Why did I let another man take my place in dying for her?” And then he walked away that the other might not see the tears on his face.
It was a sad night,—that at the Commandant’s hut, and a sad morning followed upon it. It must be remembered that they had there none of those appurtenances which are so necessary to make woe71 decent and misfortune comfortable. They sat through the night in the small hut, and in the morning they came forth with their clothes still wet and dirty, with their haggard faces, and weary stiff limbs, encumbered72 with the horrid73 task of burying that loved body among the forest trees. And then, to keep life in them till it was done, the brandy flask74 passed from hand to hand; and after that, with slow but resolute75 efforts, they reformed the litter on which the living woman had been carried thither, and took her body back to the wild plantation at Padregal. There they dug for her her grave, and repeating over her some portion of the service for the dead, left her to sleep the sleep of death. But before they left her, they erected76 a pallisade of timber round the grave, so that the beasts of the forest should not tear the body from its resting-place.
When that was done Arkwright and his brother made their slow journey back to San José. The widowed husband could not face his darling’s mother with such a tale upon his tongue as that.
The End
The End
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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3
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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4
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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5
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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6
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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10
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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11
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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12
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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19
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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24
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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27
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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33
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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35
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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39
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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40
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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43
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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44
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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45
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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46
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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48
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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49
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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50
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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52
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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54
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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55
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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57
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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58
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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60
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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61
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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62
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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63
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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64
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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65
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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66
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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71
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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72
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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74
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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75
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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76
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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