Of course Charlie Christian gravitated towards Sally, and these two, falling slowly behind the rest, soon turned aside, and descended by another of the numerous paths which traversed that part of the mountain.
Of course, also, Daniel McCoy drew near to Sarah Quintal, and these two, falling slowly behind, sought another of the mountain-paths. It will be seen that these young people were charmingly unsophisticated.
For a considerable time Charlie walked beside Sally without uttering a word, and Sally, seeing that there was something on his mind, kept silence. At last Charlie lifted his eyes from the ground, and with the same innocent gaze with which, as an infant, he had been wont to look up to his guardian, he now looked down at her, and said, “Sally.”
“Well, Charlie?”
There was a little smile lurking about the corners of the girl’s mouth, which seemed to play hide-and-seek with the twinkle in her downcast eyes.
“Well, Charlie, what are you going to tell me?”
“Isn’t Toc—very—happy?”
He blushed to the roots of his hair when he said this, and dropped his eyes again on the ground.
“Of course he is,” replied Sally, with a touch of surprise.
“But—but—I mean, as—”
“Well, why don’t you go on, Charlie?”
“I mean as a—a married man.”
“Every one sees and knows that, Charlie.” There was another silence, during which the timid youth cleared his throat several times. At last he became desperate.
“And—and—Sally, don’t you think that other people might be happy too if they were married?”
“To be sure they might,” said the girl, with provoking coolness. “There’s Dan McCoy, now, and Sarah Quintal, they will be very happy when—”
“Why, how do you know?”—Charlie spoke with a look of surprise and stopped short.
The girl laughed in a low tone, but did not reply, and the youth, becoming still more desperate, said—
“But I—I didn’t mean Dan and Sarah, when I—Oh, Sally, don’t you know that I love you?”
“Yes, I know that,” replied the girl, with a blush and a little tremulous smile. “I couldn’t help knowing that.”
“Have I made it so plain, then?” he asked, in surprise.
“Haven’t you followed me ever since you were a staggerer?” asked Sally, with a simple look.
“O yes, of course—but—but I love you far far more now. In short, I want to marry you, Sally.”
He had reached the culminating point at last. “Well, Charlie, why don’t you ask father’s leave?” said the maiden.
“And you agree?” he exclaimed, timidly taking her hand.
“Oh, Charlie,” returned Sally, looking up in his face, with an arch smile, “how stupid you are! Nothing goes into your dear head without such a deal of hammering. Will you never become wise, and—”
Charlie became wise at last, and stopped her impudent mouth effectively; but she broke from him and ran into the woods, while he went down to the village to tell Adams.
Meanwhile Daniel McCoy led Sarah Quintal by a round-about path to the cliffs above Pitcairn.
Pretty little Sarah was timid, and had a vague suspicion of something that caused her heart to flutter.
“I say, Sarah,” said the bold and stalwart Dan, “did you ever see such a jolly couple as Toc and his wife before?”
“I never saw any couple before, you know,” replied the girl, simply, “except father Adams and his wife.”
“Well, they are an oldish couple,” returned Dan, with a laugh; “but it’s my opinion that before long you’ll see a good many more couples—young ones, too.”
“Indeed,” said Sarah, becoming much interested, for this was the first time that any young man had ventured to refer to such a subject, though she and her female companions had often canvassed the possibilities that surrounded them.
“Yes, indeed,” returned Dan. “Let me see, now. There’s Charlie Christian and Otaheitan Sally—”
“Why, how did you come to know that?” asked Sarah, in genuine surprise.
Dan laughed heartily. “Come to know what?” he asked.
“That—that he is fond of Sally,” stammered Sarah.
“Why, everybody knows that,” returned Dan; “the very gulls must be aware of it by this time, unless they are geese.”
“Yes, of course,” said the poor girl, blushing crimson at the thought of having been led almost to betray her friend’s confidences.
“Well, then,” continued Dan, “Charlie and Sall bein’ so fond o’ one another—”
“I did not say that Sally was fond of Charlie,” interrupted Sarah, quickly.
“Oh dear no!” said Dan, with deep solemnity; “of course you didn’t; nevertheless I know it, and it wouldn’t surprise me much if something came of it—a wedding, for instance.”
Sarah, being afraid to commit herself in some way if she opened her lips, said nothing, but gazed intently at the ground as they walked slowly among the sweet-scented shrubs.
“But there’s one o’ the boys that wants to marry you, Sarah Quintal, and it is for him I want to put in a good word to-day.”
A flutter of surprise, mingled with dismay at her heart, tended still further to confuse the poor girl. Not knowing what to say, she stammered, “Indeed! Who can it—it—” and stopped short.
“They sometimes call him Dan,” said the youth, suddenly grasping Sarah’s hand and passing an arm round her waist, “but his full name is Daniel McCoy.”
Sarah Quintal became as suddenly pale now as she had formerly become red, and struggled to get free.
“Oh, Dan, Dan, don’t!” she cried, earnestly; “do let me go, if you love me!”
“Well, I will, if you say I may speak to Father Adams about it.”
Sarah’s answer was quite inaudible to ordinary ears, but it caused Dan to loosen his hold; and the girl, bounding away like a frightened gazelle, disappeared among the palm-groves.
“Well,” exclaimed Dan, thrusting both hands into his trousers-pockets as he walked smartly down the hill, “you are the dearest girl in all the world. There can’t be two opinions on that point.”
Dan’s world was a remarkably small one, as worlds go, but it was quite large enough to fill his heart to overflowing at that time.
In turning into another path he almost ran against Charlie Christian.
“Well?” exclaimed Charlie, with a brilliant smile. “Well?” repeated Dan, with a beaming countenance.
“All right,” said Charlie.
“Ditto,” said Dan, as he took his friend’s arm, and hastened to the abode of John Adams, the great referee in all important matters.
They found him seated at his table, with the big Bible open before him.
“Well, my lads,” he said, with a kindly smile as they entered, “you find me meditatin’ over a verse that seems to me full o’ suggestive thoughts.”
“Yes, father, what is it?” asked Dan.
“‘A prudent wife is from the Lord.’ You’ll find it in the nineteenth chapter o’ Proverbs.”
The youths looked at each other in great surprise. “It is very strange,” said Charlie, “that you should hit upon that text to-day.”
“Why so, Charlie?”
“Because—because—we came to—that is to say, we want to—”
“Get spliced, Charlie; out with it, man. You keep shuffling about the edge like a timid boy goin’ to dive into deep water for the first time.”
“Well, and so it is deep water,” replied Charlie; “so deep that we can’t fathom it easily; and this is the first time too.”
“The fact is, you’ve come to tell me,” said Adams, looking at Charlie, “that you want to marry Otaheitan Sally, and that Dan there wants to marry Sarah Quintal. Is it not so?”
“I think, father, you must be a wizard,” said Dan, with a surprised look. “How did you come to guess it?”
“I didn’t guess it, lad; I saw it as plain as the nose on your own face. Anybody could see it with half an eye. Why, I’ve seen it for years past; but that’s not the point. The first question is, Are you able to feed your wives without requirin’ them to work too hard in the fields?”
“Yes, father,” answered Dan, promptly. “Charlie helped me, and I helped him, and so we’ve both got enough of land enclosed and stocked to keep our—our—wives comfortably,” (even Dan looked modest here!) “without requiring them to work at all, for a long time at least.”
“Well. I don’t want ’em not to work at all—that’s good for neither man, nor woman, nor beast. Even child’n work hard, poor things, while playin’ at pretendin’ to work. However, I’m glad to hear you are ready. Of course I knew what you were up to all along. Now, you’ll want to borrow a few odds an’ ends from the general stock, therefore go an’ make out lists of what you require, and I’ll see about it. Is it long since you arranged it wi’ the girls?”
“About half-an-hour,” returned Dan.
“H’m! sharp practice. You’ll be the better of meditation for a week or two. Now, get along with you, lads, and think of the word I have given you from God’s book about marriage. I’ll not keep you waitin’ longer than I think right.”
So Dan and Charlie left the presence-chamber of their nautical ruler, quite content to wait for a couple of weeks, having plenty to keep them employed, body and mind, in labouring in their gardens, perfecting the arrangements of their respective cottages, and making out lists of the various things they required to borrow. In all of which operations they were lovingly assisted by their intended wives, with a matter-of-fact gravity that would have been quite touching if it had not been half ridiculous.
The list of things to be borrowed was made out in accordance with a system of barter, exchange, and loan, which had begun in necessity, and was afterwards conducted on regular principles by Adams, who kept a systematic journal and record of accounts, in which he entered the nature and quantity of work performed by each family, what each had received, and what each was due on account. The exchanges also were made in a systematic manner. Thus, when one family had too many salt fish, and another had too much fruit or vegetables, a fair exchange restored the equilibrium to the satisfaction of both parties; and when the stores of one family were exhausted, a fresh supply was raised for it from the general possessions of all the rest, to be repaid, however, in exact measure when the suffering family should be again in affluence, through good harvests and hard work. All details were minutely noted down by Adams, so that injustice to individuals or to the community at large was avoided.
It is interesting to trace, in this well-conducted colony, the great root-principles on which the colossal system of the world’s commerce and trade has been reared, and to recognise in John Adams the germs of those principles of equity and method which have raised England to her high commercial position. But still more interesting is it to recognise in him that good seed, the love of God and His truth, spiritual, intellectual, and material, which, originated by the Holy Spirit, and founded in Jesus Christ, produces the “righteousness that exalteth a nation.”
When the short period of probation was past, Charlie Christian became the happy husband of the girl whom he had all but worshipped from the earliest rememberable days of infancy, and Dan McCoy was united to Sarah Quintal. As in the first case of marriage, Otaheitan Sall was older than her husband; but in her case the difference was so slight as scarcely to be worth mentioning. As to appearance, tall, serious, strapping Charlie looked old enough to have been Sally’s father.
The wedding-day was a day of great rejoicing, considerable solemnity, and not a little fun; for the religion of the Pitcairners, being drawn direct from the inspired Word, was the reverse of dolorous. Indeed, the simplicity of their faith was extreme, for it consisted in merely asking the question, “What does God wish me to do?” and doing it.
Of course the simplicity of this rule was, in Pitcairn as elsewhere, unrecognised by ignorance, or rendered hazy and involved by stupidity. Adams had his own difficulties in combating the effects of evil in the hearts of his children, for, as we have said before, they were by no means perfect, though unusually good.
For instance, one day one of those boys who was passing into the hobbledehoy stage of life, came with a perplexed air, and said—
“Didn’t you tell us in school yesterday, father, that if we were good Jesus would save us?”
“No, Jack Mills, I told you just the reverse. I told you that if Jesus saved you you would be good.”
“Then why doesn’t He save me and make me good?” asked Jack, anxious to cast the blame of his indecision about his salvation off his own shoulders.
“Because you refuse to be saved,” said Adams, pointedly.
Jack Mills felt and looked somewhat hurt at this. He was one of the steadiest boys at the school, always learned his tasks well, and was generally pretty well behaved; but there was in him an ugly, half-hidden root of selfishness, which he did not himself perceive.
“Do you remember going to the shore yesterday?” asked Adams, replying to the look,—for the boy did not speak.
“Yes, father.”
“And you remember that two little boys had just got into a canoe, and were pushing off to enjoy themselves, when you ran down, turned them out, and took the canoe to yourself?”
Jack did not reply; but his flushed face told that he had not forgotten the incident.
“That’s right, dear boy,” continued Adam, “Your blood tells the truth for you, and your tongue don’t contradict it. So long’s you keep the unruly member straight you’ll get along. Well, now, Jack, that was a sin of unkindness, and a sort of robbery, too, for the canoe belonged to the boys while they had possession. Did you want to be saved from that sin, my boy?”
Jack was still silent. He knew that he had not wished to be saved at the time, because, if he had, he would have at once returned to the shore and restored the canoe, with an apology for having taken it by force.
“But I was sorry afterwards, father,” pleaded the boy.
“I know you were, Jack, and your guilty conscience longed for forgiveness. But Jesus did not come to this world to forgive us. He came to save us—to save this people from their sins; His people,—forgiven people, my boy,—from their sins. If you had looked to Jesus, He would have sent His Spirit into you, and brought His Word to your mind, ‘Be ye kind one to another,’ or, ‘Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them:’ or in some way or other He would have turned you back and saved you from sin, but you did not look to Jesus; in short, you refused to be saved just then, and thought to make up for it by being sorry afterwards. Isn’t that the way of it, Jack?”
“Yes, father,” said Jack, with downcast but no longer hurt looks, for Adams’s tone and manner were very kind.
“Then you know now, Jack Mills, why you’re not yet saved, and you can’t be good till you are saved, any more than you can fly till you’ve got wings. But don’t be cast down, my lad; He will save you yet. All you’ve got to do is to cease your opposition, and let Him take you in hand.”
Thus, or in some such way, did this God-appointed pastor lead his little flock from day to day and year to year.
But to return from this digression.
We have said that the double wedding-day was one of mingled rejoicing, solemnity, and fun. If you insist on further explanation, good reader, and want to know something more about the rejoicing, we can only direct you to yonder clump of blossoming plants in the shade of the palm-grove. There you will find Charlie Christian looking timidly down into the gorgeous orbs of Otaheitan Sally as they hold sweet converse of things past, present, and to come. They have been so trained in ways of righteousness, that the omission of the world-to-come from their love-making, (not flirtation, observe), would be as ridiculous as the absence of reference to the wedding-day.
On the other side of the same knoll Daniel McCoy sits by the side of modest Sarah Quintal, his only half-tamed spirit torn by the conflicting emotions aroused by a compound of jollity, love, joy, thankfulness, and fun, which render his words too incoherent to be worthy of record.
In regard to solemnity, reader, we refer you to the little school-room, which also serves for a chapel, where John Adams, in tones befitting a bishop and with feelings worthy of an apostle, reads the marriage service in the midst of the assembled population of the island. He has a brass curtain-ring which did duty at the marriage of Thursday October Christian, and which is destined to do duty in similar circumstances in many coming years. The knots are soon tied. There are no sad tears, for at Pitcairn there are no partings of parents and children, but there are many tears of joy, for Adams’s words are telling though few, and his prayers are brief but deeply impressive, while the people, young and middle-aged, are powerfully sympathetic. The most of the girls break down when Adams draws to an abrupt close, and most of the youths find it hard to behave like men.
They succeed, however, and then the wedding party goes off to have a spell of fun.
If you had been there, reader, to behold things for yourself, it is not improbable that some of the solemnity of the wedding would have been scattered, (for you, at least), and some of the fun introduced too soon, for the costumes of the chief actors were not perfect; indeed, not quite appropriate, according to our ideas of the fitness of things.
It is not that we could object to the bare feet of nearly all the party, for to such we are accustomed among our own poor. Neither could we find the slightest fault with the brides. Their simple loose robes, flowing hair, and wreaths of natural flowers, were in perfect keeping with the beauty of their faces. But the garb of guileless Charlie Christian was incongruous, to say the least of it. During the visit of the Topaz a few old clothes had been given by the seamen to the islanders, and Charlie had become the proud possessor of a huge black beaver hat, which had to be put on sidewise to prevent its settling down on the back of his neck; also, of a blue dress-coat with brass buttons, the waist and sleeves of which were much too short, and the tails unaccountably long; likewise, of a pair of Wellington boots, the tops of which did not, by four inches, reach the legs of his native trousers, and therefore displayed that amount of brawny, well-made limbs, while the absence of a vest and the impossibility of buttoning the coat left a broad, sunburnt expanse of manly chest exposed to view. But such is the difference of opinion resulting from difference of custom, that not a muscle of any face moved when he appeared, save in open admiration, though there was just the shade of a twinkle for one moment in the eye of John Adams, for he had seen other, though not better, days.
Even Dan’s excitable sense of the ridiculous was not touched. Himself, indeed, was a greater guy than Charlie, for he wore a richly-flowered vest, so tight that it would hardly button, and had been split up the back while being put on. As he wore a shell-jacket, much too short for him, this accident to the vest and a portion of his powerful back were clearly revealed.
But these things were trifles on that great day, and when the fun did begin, it was kept up with spirit. First, the greater part of the population went to the beach for a little surf-sliding. It is not necessary to repeat our description of that exercise. The waves were in splendid order.
It seemed as if the great Pacific itself were pulsating with unwonted joy. The billows were bigger grander, almost slower and more sedate than usual. Outside it was dead calm. The fall of each liquid wall was more thunderous, its roar more deep-toned, and the confusion of the surf more riotous than ever. For average rejoicers this exercise might in itself have sufficed for one day, but they were used to it, and wanted variety; so the youths took to racing on the sands, and the maidens to applauding, while the elderly looked on and criticised. The small children went, loosely speaking, mad.
Some there were who went off on their own accounts, and cast a few of those shadows which are said to precede “coming events.” Others, less poetically inclined just then, remained in the village to prepare roast pig, yam-pie, and those various delicacies compounded of fruits and vegetables, which they knew from experience would be in great demand ere long.
As evening descended they all returned to the village, and at sunset hauled down their flag.
This flag, by the way, was another souvenir of the Topaz. It was an old union Jack, for which Adams had set up a flagstaff, having by that time ceased to dread the approach of a ship. By Jack Brace he had been reminded of the date of the king’s birthday, and by a strange coincidence that happened to be the very day on which the two couples were united. Hence there was a double, (perhaps we should say a treble), reason for rejoicing. As John Adams was now endeavouring to undo the evils of his former life, he naturally became an enthusiastic loyalist. On passing the flagstaff he called for three cheers for the British king, and with his own voice led off the first verse of the national anthem before hauling down the colours. Thereafter, assembling round the festive board in the school-room, they proceeded to take physical nourishment, with the memory of mental food strong upon them. Before the meal a profound hush fell on all the scene, and the deep voice of Adams was heard asking a blessing on the food they were about to receive. Thanks were returned with equal solemnity after meat. Then the tables were cleared, and games became the order of the evening. When a point of semi-exhaustion was reached, a story was called for, and the nautical pastor at once launched into oceans of imagination and fancy, in which he bid fair to be wrecked and drowned. During the recital of this the falling of a pin would have been heard, if there had been such a thing as a pin at Pitcairn to fall.
Last, but not least, came blind-man’s-buff. This exhausted the last spark of physical energy left even in the strongest. But the mental and spiritual powers were still vigorous, so that when they all sat down in quiescence round the room, and Toc took down the family Bible from its accustomed shelf and set it before Adams, they were all, young and old, in a suitable state of mind to join in the worship of Him who had given them the capacity, as well as the opportunity, to enjoy that glorious and ever memorable day.
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