The People of the Mist by H. Rider Haggard (best books for students to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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“If you wish, Tom, but it will be painful.”
“A little pain more or less can scarcely hurt us, old fellow,” said Tom, laying his thin hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Then they started. A quarter of an hour’s walking brought them to the Hall. The snow had ceased falling now and the night was beautifully clear, but before it ceased it had done a welcome office in hiding from view all the litter and wreckage of the auction, which make the scene of a recent sale one of the most desolate sights in the world. Never had the old house looked grander or more eloquent of the past than it did on that night to the two brothers who were dispossessed of their heritage. They wandered round it in silence, gazing affectionately at each well-known tree and window, till at length they came to the gun-room entrance. More from habit than for any other reason Leonard turned the handle of the door. To his surprise it was open; after the confusion of the sale no one had remembered to lock it.
“Let us go in,” he said.
They entered and wandered from room to room till they reached the greater hall, a vast and oak-roofed chamber built after the fashion of the nave of a church, and lighted by a large window of ecclesiastical design. This window was filled with the armorial bearings of many generations of the Outram family, wrought in stained glass and placed in couples, for next to each coat of arms were the arms of its bearer’s dame. It was not quite full, however, for in it remained two blank shields, which had been destined to receive the escutcheons of Thomas Outram and his wife.
“They will never be filled now, Leonard,” said Tom, pointing to these; “curious, isn’t it, not to say sad?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” answered his brother; “I suppose that the Cohens boast some sort of arms, or if not they can buy them.”
“I should think that they would have the good taste to begin a new window for themselves,” said Tom.
Then he was silent for a while, and they watched the moonlight streaming through the painted window, the memorial of so much forgotten grandeur, and illumining the portraits of many a dead Outram that gazed upon them from the panelled walls.
“Per ardua ad astra,” said Tom, absently reading the family motto which alternated pretty regularly with a second device that some members of it had adopted—“For Heart, Home, and Honour.”
“‘Per ardua ad astra’—through struggle to the stars—and ‘For Heart, Home, and Honour,’” repeated Tom; “well, I think that our family never needed such consolations more, if indeed there are any to be found in mottoes. Our Heart is broken, our hearth is desolate, and our honour is a byword, but there remain the ‘struggle and the stars.’”
As he spoke his face took the fire of a new enthusiasm: “Leonard,” he went on, “why should not we retrieve the past? Let us take that motto—the more ancient one—for an omen, and let us fulfil it. I believe it is a good omen, I believe that one of us will fulfil it.”
“We can try,” answered Leonard. “If we fail in the struggle, at least the stars remain for us as for all human kind.”
“Leonard,” said his brother almost in a whisper, “will you swear an oath with me? It seems childish, but I think that under some circumstances there is wisdom even in childishness.”
“What oath?” asked Leonard.
“This; that we will leave England and seek fortune in some foreign land—sufficient fortune to enable us to repurchase our lost home; that we will never return here until we have won this fortune; and that death alone shall put a stop to our quest.”
Leonard hesitated a moment, then answered:
“If Jane fails me, I will swear it.”
Tom glanced round as though in search of some familiar object, and presently his eye fell upon what he sought. A great proportion of the furniture of the old house, including the family portraits, had been purchased by the in-coming owner. Among the articles which remained was a very valuable and ancient bible, one of the first ever printed indeed, that stood upon an oaken stand in the centre of the hall, to which it was securely chained. Tom led the way to this bible, followed by his brother. Then they placed their hands upon it, and standing there in the shadow, the elder of them spoke aloud in a voice that left no doubt of the earnestness of his purpose, or of his belief in their mission.
“We swear,” he said, “upon this book and before the God who made us that we will leave this home that was ours, and never look upon it again till we can call it ours once more. We swear that we will follow this, the purpose of our lives, till death destroys us and it; and may shame and utter ruin overtake us if, while we have strength and reason, we turn our backs upon this oath! So help us God!”
“So help us God!” repeated Leonard.
Thus in the home of their ancestors, in the presence of their Maker, and of the pictured dead who had gone before them, did Thomas and Leonard Outram devote their lives to this great purpose. Perhaps, as one of them had said, the thing was childish, but if so, at the least it was solemn and touching. Their cause seemed hopeless indeed; but if faith can move mountains, much more can honest endeavour attain its ends. In that hour they felt this. Yes, they believed that the end would be attained by one of them, though they guessed little what struggles lay between them and the Star they hoped to gain, or how strangely they should be borne thither.
On the morrow they went to London and waited there a while, but no word came from Jane Beach, and for good or ill the chains of the oath that he had taken riveted themselves around Leonard Outram’s neck.
Within three months of this night the brothers were nearing the shores of Africa, the land of the Children of the Mist.
AFTER SEVEN YEARS
“What is the time, Leonard?”
“Eleven o’clock, Tom.”
“Eleven—already? I shall go at dawn, Leonard. You remember Johnston died at dawn, and so did Askew.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t speak like that, Tom! If you think you are going to die, you will die.”
The sick man laughed a ghost of a laugh—it was half a death-rattle.
“It is no use talking, Leonard; I feel my life flaring and sinking like a dying fire. My mind is quite clear now, but I shall die at dawn for all that. The fever has burnt me up! Have I been raving, Leonard?”
“A little, old fellow,” answered Leonard.
“What about?”
“Home mostly, Tom.”
“Home! We have none, Leonard; it is sold. How long have we been away now?”
“Seven years.”
“Seven years! Yes. Do you remember how we said good-bye to the old place on that winter night after the auction? And do you remember what we resolved?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it.”
“We swore that we would seek wealth enough to buy Outram back till we won it or died, and that we would never return to England till it was won. Then we sailed for Africa. For seven years we have sought and done no more than earn a livelihood, much less a couple of hundred thousand pounds or so.”
“Leonard.”
“Yes, Tom?”
“You are sole heir to our oath now, and to the old name with it, or you will be in a few hours. I have fulfilled my vow. I have sought till I died. You will take up the quest till you succeed or die. The struggle has been mine, may you live to win the Star. You will persevere, will you not, Leonard?”
“Yes, Tom, I will.”
“Give me your hand on it, old fellow.”
Leonard Outram knelt down beside his dying brother, and they clasped each other’s hands.
“Now let me sleep awhile. I am tired. Do not be afraid, I shall wake before the—end.”
Hardly had the words passed his lips when his eyes closed and he sank into stupor or sleep.
His brother Leonard sat down upon a rude seat, improvised out of an empty gin-case. Without the tempest shrieked and howled, the great wind shook the Kaffir hut of grass and wattle, piercing it in a hundred places till the light of the lantern wavered within its glass, and the sick man’s hair was lifted from his clammy brow. From time to time fierce squalls of rain fell like sheets of spray, and the water, penetrating the roof of grass, streamed to the earthen floor. Leonard crept on his hands and knees to the doorway of the hut, or rather to the low arched opening which served as a doorway, and, removing the board that secured it, looked out at the night. Their hut stood upon the ridge of a great mountain; below was a sea of bush, and around it rose the fantastic shapes of other mountains. Black clouds drove across the dying moon, but occasionally she peeped out and showed the scene in all its vast solemnity and appalling solitude.
Presently Leonard closed the opening of the doorway, and going back to his brother’s side he gazed upon him earnestly. Many years of toil and privation had not robbed Thomas Outram’s face of its singular beauty, or found power to mar its refinement. But death was written on it.
Leonard sighed, then, struck by a sudden thought, sought for and found a scrap of looking-glass. Holding it close to the light of the lantern, he examined the reflection of his own features. The glass mirrored a handsome bearded man, dark, keen-eyed like one who is always on the watch for danger, curly-haired and broad-shouldered; not very tall, but having massive limbs and a form which showed strength in every movement. Though he was still young, there was little of youth left about the man; clearly toil and struggle had done an evil work with him, ageing his mind and hardening it as they had hardened the strength and vigour of his body. The face was a good one, but most men would have preferred to see friendship shining in those piercing black eyes rather than the light of enmity. Leonard was a bad enemy, and his long striving with the world sometimes led him to expect foes where they did not exist.
Even now this thought was in his mind: “He is dying,” he said to himself, as he laid down the glass with the care of a man who cannot afford to hazard a belonging however trivial, “and yet his face is not so changed as mine is. My God! he is dying! My brother—the only man—the only living creature I love in the world, except one perhaps, if indeed I love her still. Everything is against us—I should say against me now, for I cannot count him. Our father was our first enemy; he brought us into the world, neglected us, squandered our patrimony, dishonoured our name, and shot himself. And since then what has it been but one continual fight against men and nature? Even the rocks in which I dig for gold are foes—victorious foes—” and he glanced at his hands, scarred and made unshapely by labour. “And the fever, that is a foe. Death is the only friend, but he won’t shake hands with me. He takes my brother whom I love as he has taken the others, but me he leaves.”
Thus mused Leonard sitting sullenly on the red box, his elbow on his knee, his rough hands held beneath his chin pushing forward the thick black beard till it threw a huge shadow, angular and unnatural, on to the wall of the hut, while without the tempest now raved, now lulled, and now raved again. An hour—two—passed and still he sat not moving, watching the face of the fever-stricken man that from time to time flushed and was troubled, then grew pale and still. It seemed to him as though by some strange harmony of nature the death-smitten blood was striving to keep pace with the beat of the storm, knowing that presently life and storm would pass together into the same domain of silence.
At length Tom Outram opened his eyes and looked at him, but Leonard knew that he did not see him as he was. The dying eyes studied him indeed and were intelligent, but he could feel that they read something on his face that was not known to himself, nor could be visible to any other man—read it as though it were a writing.
So strange was this scrutiny, so meaningless and yet so full of
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