The Witness
Tliere is a deep gulf of verdure which ruua inland between two rocky promontories. The sea once flowed thcre, but long before the memory of man. It had finally barred itself out by throwing up, year al'ter year, a sandy barrier across the entrance to tlie gulf. No doubt, even after the tide was stopped from flowing in, some strong eastern wind had driven the sea roaring over the bar and heaped higher the bulwarks of sand. One eould read this as he stood upon the rocks and looked down upon the green spot, which, for its contrast to the gray rocks and unplanted deep, was named Paradise. From the sea itself its green, cool depths were very iuvitii.g. The coast at this point was thinly inhabited. A few flshermen's houses were clustered near the shore just beyond the rocks that jutted out; but the men were away for weeks at a time, and tlie women were unccasingly busy over their indoor work. Only the children who playi-d on the beach gave the place a happy, human look. As a groiip of them were gathered on the sand odc morning they saw coming toward them a singular ligure, moving along the shore in the direction of Paradise. They stopped their play, wondering whether it were man or beast, so confused was the outlino. Little by little, as it moved slowly toward them, thev discerned a man's form, Vjending beneath somo btirdcu. They retreated a few steps, and gathered upon the flat stone that etood foïe tho doorway of oiao of tl ie houses. The man made ho motion to ooltoe totoard the house, and seemed not to see the children. As he carne opposite to where tliey stood they discovered that he bow upon his back a huge woeden cross. He kept on his way, staggering through the deep sand beneath his borden, until he was lost to siglit behind the rocks which made one of the walls of Paradise. " Let us teil Nancy," said one of the children. And they entered tho house together. Whatevcr happcned in or about tliis little settlement was sure to come, sooner or later, to the ears of Nancy Dacre. Bemote irom toWn, the people had no church, minister, or priest; but they were not so very f orsaken so long as they had with them this widow, Nancy Dacre. It used to be said that no secret was safe irom her ; but every secret was safe with her. There are some women who are bom conffssors, and she was one. It was impossible to withhold confidence from her. Silent herself, she was the repository of other people' talk ; and all, whejther children or grown people, went to her with news or with perplexities. It would be difficult to say in jnst what consisted the absolution she gave when faults were confessed as they often were ; certainly not in any formal words. Still, a certain gift of peace belonged to her as surely as the gift of hearing cont'essions. She was at work in the house when the children entered, and went with them to the door, elthough the man had tlready disiippear?'1. " He carried a great cross," said one. "He wore ear -rings." "He was very dr.rk and very bent. " "That was the weight of the cross." Some of the bolder wero for following liirn, to see what he was about ; but Nancy dissuaded them. " If he did not speak to you, it was because he did not wish to be spoken to. Leave him clone. He may come back thia way. You need not be afraid of him," she added, as the younger ones came closer to her. He did come back at dupk. The children had scattered to their several homes, and Nancy sat alone on the doorstep, when she perceived a man coming toward her. From his appearance she I did not doubt that it was the stranger whom the children had seen. She rose as he carne fo the door. "Good-evening," she said. He answered her in her own words ; but given with a certain thicknees of utterance which showed him to be a foreigiier. "May I give you some supper f" The man looked up at her quickly and nodded. She entered the house, while he took his seat on the flat stone ; and presently she brought him a bowl of milk and some large ship-biscuit. He made a low bow to her as ho took his supper and placed it before him on his knees. She looked at him narrowly, as he sat in silence eating and drinkiag. He was a thick-set, somewhat clumsy man, with a face bronzed deeply with exposure, and black, curly hair. His eyes, overhung by thick brows, did not look directly at her ; but, while averted, every now and then stole a look at her. Something about the man, she could not say what, seemed familiar to her ; and she studicd his face closely, trying to rccall it. Perhaps the earnestness of her look made him uneasy. He drained the bowl dry, placed it on the stone beside him, and then stood silent, withuis hands moving j restiessly by lm side. "I have seen you before," she said, flnally. Her voice was kind ; but he stepped hastily aside, and looked at her furtively. "I don't remember," he said, slowly, and turned his face away. " Not tonight," he muttered ; "not to-night." But then, as he was about to leave, he stopped and said : " Many thanks." " But where will you sleep to-night? i You may stay in my shed." "I will sleep over there," and he pointed toward the rocks. "In Paradise? There is no house there." The man gave a groan. " I3 that Paradise where the grass grows green?" "So we callit." He turned and walked hastily away. Tho woman followed him with her eyes until she could no longer descry him, as he was lost in the shadow of the rocks. His face perplexud her; but she could not remember where she liad ever seen it. Several days passed, and once or twice the man had been seen clambering about the rocks and apparently gathering berries. Once he had been seen fishing, and a smoke curled np oocasionally from the rocks. His presence there served to keep the children away; while yet it tempted them to go noarer and see what he was doing. One, more daring than the others, crept round by another way, and brought back word that the cross which he had been seen to carry was raised above the beach in front of the opening to Paradise, but the man was not to be seen. All this and the stories which one and another told of other men who had acted strangely began to affect the little community; and, at length, on Snnday af ternoon, Nancy Dacre, unwilling that tho uneasiness shonld continue, left her home aüd walked along the beach toward Paradise. Some of the children began to folios her. " Oome back! come baek !" their mothers cried. "Nancy will go. No one will harm her. But you must wait till she has been." Nancy herself was not ur willing to go alone. The cool breeze blew freshly beneath the warm Jnly sun, and the long, swooping dip of the sca-gulls gave her a sense of freedom and life. The rare times when she left work and people behind her brought some such keen seDse of life. She stepped quickly forward, and each step seemed to make her more buoyant. Victory is fabled to bO winged, and this woman's life had not been without lts overcoming. She passed round the rocky ledge and come out in view of Paradise, with the gray rocks which formed is northern boundary. Midway she saw the cross standing. It could not fail at once to take her eye, and at its foot the man was kneeling, his head nearly leaning upon it, while his hands seemed busy. He did not at once perceive her, and she ; tood not f ar off on the sand watchicg him. She saw that he had a kuife in his hnnd, and was cutting into the wood. Preaently he laid his knife aside; and, going ii little way off, feil upon his breast, and, propping bis chin between his hands, looked iixedly upon the cross. The woman for a moment was disturbed. She had seemed to enter this man's closet and to break in upon some secret devotions. Yet to go would be to disturb him more. She remained motionless, her eye fixed upon him. Then she s:iw hin face drop into his hands, and she could no longer hcsitate. Slie weut toward him. He hearcl the sound of lier dreps, and rose hastily. tíis face shöwed siguS of great t ■inotic-ii, but the sight of Ñahcy wroúght a chan'e in it. He caine to her and looked in her face. "Are you tne woinan that gave me my supper at the house yondir, and asked me to stay ? " "Yes, I am." " And you are not afraid of me ? " "No; I should pothave eome herc if I had been. I came to Ree you. I did not know but I might help you." " Yon are a good woman. I nm a bad man." "Yon cnnnot be wholly bad. You have raised tliis cross here." " Do you think so ? Do you say so ?" he cricd, engcrly. "Oh! look at me, teil me that again." Nancy looked steadily at him, trying again to reeall his features. "No," she said, deliberately. "You are not wholly bad, and you have suffered much for what you have done." " I have suffered heil for ten years. You are a good wcman. I have told nobody. Yes, I have at last told the world. Let me teil you here." He seized her hand and drew her near the cross. "Do you see this cross? Do you see of how many pieces of wood it is built? I have been ten years building it. Yes, ten years- it was ten years a go. See, thatpiece is from Malaga. I was born in Malaga, and I went back there first; but I could not stay there. And that is from Brazil. And that is from Alexandria. I bovght it of a Greek. He said it was a bit of the true cross; but he lied. I gave him all I had for it, and I put it in the middle - see there; but it never drove it out of my heart. And there's not a country where I've not been and brought away a bit of the wood. It's all the work of my own hands; and I thought when I'd finisbed the cross it would go away. And I worked patiently, though the men mocked me. And it's not gone away. Then I thought if I planted it right here, that would bo the end; but it wasn't. And now I have cut my name and what I did onit, that all the world may see; and, O, God ! it's on me yet. Wliere shall I go ? Shall I lay myself down there, side of him and the boy? Yc're tired. Sit ye down and 111 teil it all to you. Mo?' Ye'U not sit down? Ye'll stand by the cross ? It's all cut on it. Ye can read it. That's the story. ' Requiescat in pace ! I, Daniel Mora, seaman, did, in a passion, kill the skipper of the schooner Nancy and his boy, and scuttle the Nancy about two leagues to the eastward of this cross, which I set up. and may God have mercy on my soul.' Ye'll say now I'm not a bad man? Ye'll not be afraid of me now? O, blessed mother ! to.ke it away ! Take it away ! Yes, it was off there, where you're looking. Oh ! but it was terrible. Wby don't ye speak ? Do ye see anything? Oh! do ye see it? I bound them in the cabin after I - after they were - I didn't take any monej. It was not for that. There was nothing but ballast in the lading. My God ! the Judgment day !" Out of the blue water, under the sunset sky, slowly there way rising, as they looked, the masts and then the huil of a spectral schooner, half carecned over, water-logged, slimy. No sound was hcail ; but the silent witness to Daniel Mora's words lay before them, moving sluggishly on the water. To-day the incessant rolling of ten years bad released the last weight that held it down. Mora's eyes started from beneath their shaggy brows, as he grasped tlie cross and tïien clutched at his companion's dress. He did not see her. He oniy saw the witness, on which his eyes ftxed with a look of despair. " Dacre ! John Dacre !" he cried, stretehing out bis hands imploringly to the bulk. " Aye ! aye I" said a voice at his side, and hé tumed suddenly. The woman stood before him, her hands clasped tightly before her. " Ho was my husband. That boy was my child. " The, man feil at her feet. " Bise, Daniel Mora. I am not thy judge. I am a sinner, liko you." But she herself bowed low upon the ground. Her forehead touched the cross, which carried tbe tale of her grief and this man's erinie. Daniel Mora crept thither also, until at length he felt two cold hands laid on his head. " God be merciful to us sinners !" she said. And be repeated the prayer after her.
Article
Subjects
Old News
Michigan Argus