The strange creature was brushing his ragged gray sleeve across his eyes, and his voice quavered curiously.
“You never saw Giles?” he said, looking up presently.
“Giles was Isly’s father, but he’s dead now. You might never have seen him formerly, when he was over on the main some time?”
The preacher shook her head.
“He was another!” Joe went on, half to himself. “Like a king, Giles was, for all his smilin’, pleasant ways. Most folks didn’t know it, but Joe knowed it. Many’s the time I’ve hid down against the rock, after Giles wouldn’t see me no more, and waited so I could touch him when he went by. It done me good to touch his coat; I felt good come out to me, every time I done it.”
He stared at the preacher, and she stared back at him, thinking him out of his wits. Probably he was, or, more likely still, he had never had his full share of intelligence. Yet, if the preacher had been a seer—if she had had powers of vision that could pierce the veil of past as of future years—she might have called up scenes and figures that from century to century should seem to justify some of Joe Brazybone’s ideas, fantastic as they were. She might see, in generation after generation, two figures side by side, one masterful, dominant, the other crouching, serving, loving, coming to heel when called, like a dog, springing like a man to action at the master’s word. One might almost, even now, fancy a dim scene, half hidden by rolling clouds of dust and smoke. A battle-field. Gilles Tête d’Airain, the fair-haired Norman, stands wiping his bloody sword, and calls back his men from the pursuit, for the enemy is scattered beyond redemption. The half-savage soldiers come trooping back with wild gestures, with great shouts of triumph. Among them the chief singles out one, an ugly fellow of enormous strength, who twice, since the bloody morning, has stood between his master and death. He kneels, a serf, bound for life and for death; he is bidden to rise a free man, with henceforth a name and a station of his own.
“Brave et bon tu t’es montré; Brave-et-Bon sera ton nom, d’ici à jamais!”
The clouds roll forward, the vision is gone. But was this true? and has Tête d’Airain sunk to mere Heron, and has Brave-et-Bon, good and brave, drawled itself away into Brazybone? If this were so, it might account for poor Joe’s attitude, at which all the villagers laugh.
“You’d like to see Isly, preacher? You was meanin’ to speak to her?”
“I—yes, if you think she would like to see me. Her face interested me greatly; I should like to see her nearer, and make her acquaintance.”
“This way, preacher! this way! you’re the right sort; a lady yourself, and knowin’ a lady when you see one. Mother Brazybone, she would have taken Isly home, when her mother died; but I wouldn’t hear to it. I know’d how ’twould be. She’d ha’ set her to work, and tried to make a servant of her; Isly Heron doin’ Mother Brazybone’s work! Guess the solid rocks would ha’ come down to do the cookin’ fust, ’fore they allowed any such doin’s. These rocks know Herons, I tell you, most as well as old Joe does. They laid soft under Giles, that day he was up yonder.” He nodded upward, toward a huge mass of rock that towered across the narrow bay, the younger sister of the Island of the Wild Rocks.
The preacher, more and more puzzled, followed her strange guide, as he led the way toward a point of rock not far distant.
“She’ll be here, likely!” he said. “She often stops here on her way home, Isly does, to look about her, and see the lay of the land. She thinks, too, Isly does! A power of thinkin’ she keeps up! Wonderful, for one of her size, if she warn’t a Heron, and thinkin’ natural to ’em all—wonderful!”
They turned the point of rock, and came directly upon the person of whom they were in search. She was standing still, with her hands folded, looking out to sea; a slender, youthful figure, lonely as the rocks around her. This was Isla Heron. And while Joe Brazybone, in his clumsy way, is presenting the preacher to her, as if the crown he fancied were shining in actual gold on her head, let us go back a little, and see who the child is, and who her father was, the Giles Heron who was so faithfully loved, and who is now gone to his own place.
CHAPTER II.
THE HERONS.
THE child Isla might have been twelve years old when her father died. Giles Heron was the last man of his people, unless you counted the boy, and no one did count him. The Herons had owned the whole island once, but, bit by bit, it had passed away from the name, if not from the blood; they had no gift for keeping, it was said. A roving people, the Herons mostly died at sea, or, if women, married into families on the main, as we call the shore that on fine days can be dimly seen from the Island of the Wild Rocks. Giles had been a wild lad, and held himself, as all his people had done, above the fishing-folk in the village at the north end. Few of them knew him well; there was only Joe Brazybone, Sculpin Joe, who from babyhood had been his humble and loving servant, and who still clung to him, until that strange affair of the marriage. To most of the villagers it seemed “all of a piece,” and “Heron doings,” when Giles brought home from some foreign port a handsome deaf-mute, a “dummy,” as a wife. Joe would have been her servant, too, gladly enough; but, when he came shambling along the rocks to make his first visit, the young woman turned and ran from him; and Giles laughed, and told him he would best keep away for a time. Poor Joe did not come again.
Giles built a house—you might look long for it now—at the wild south end of the island, which still belonged to him. Neither Joe nor any one else would visit him there, he knew, for it was considered an unlucky place, and no one knew what things might be met with there. But Giles loved it, and as for his wife, the Wild Rocks bounded the world for her, once Giles told her it was her home. Here their two children were born. The first was a daughter, and Giles named her Isla, in fanciful remembrance of the savage island which was her birthplace and his. When the boy came, four years later, the dumb wife would have given him his father’s name; but Giles said “No!” It was no chancy name, and the boy should be called Jacob, after a grandfather over on the main, who had no Heron blood in him. “See if we can’t make him a farmer,” he said, laughing. “There’s good farming land here; and the sea is hungry for folks named Giles Heron.” Mary Heron yielded, as she would yield to anything that Giles wished. She was passionately loving, in her silent way. Her husband would have filled her world full enough, had there been no children; she had hardly the mother look in her eyes; but the children were his, and she loved and cared for them; most for the boy, who should have borne his father’s name, and whom she still called “little Giles,” in her heart.
Alas! but he bore his mother’s curse. Isla learned speech readily from her father; but little Jacob was mute from birth. No sound came into his quiet world, but he missed nothing; the sign language spoke for his every need, and his eyes were filled with beauty all day long.
It was a black day for Giles Heron when he found the boy was deaf. For the first time his heart hardened toward the woman he had chosen. She felt the chill of his averted face, of the eyes that would not meet hers; felt it, and cried to God in her dumbness, that He would take her and her stricken child away, out of sight of her husband’s changed face.
But Heron was a kind man. He had wedded his wife for her wild beauty; he had grown to love her simple goodness and truth. He smiled again, but neither