Âmona; The Child; And The Beast; And Others - George Lewis Becke (10 best novels of all time txt) 📗

shriek of terror from the child; then came the sound of a heavy fall.

As they entered, Armitage strode out, jolting against them as he passed. His face was swollen and ugly with passion--bad to look at.

"Go and pick up the child, you frizzy-haired pig!" he muttered hoarsely to Amona as he passed. "He fell off his mother's lap."

Mrs. Armitage was leaning back in her chair, as white as death, and trying to speak, as with one hand she tried to stanch the rush of blood from her mouth, and with the other pointed to her child, who was lying on his face under a table, motionless and unconscious.

In less than ten minutes, a native was galloping through the bush to Apia for Dr. Eckhardt. Denison had picked up the child, who, as he came to, began to cry. Assuring his mother that he was not much hurt, he brought him to her, and sat beside the lounge on which she lay, holding him in his arms. He was a good little man, and did not try to talk to her when the supercargo whispered to him to keep silent, but lay stroking the poor mother's thin white hand. Yet every now and then, as he moved or Denison changed his position, he would utter a cry of pain and say his leg pained him.

Four hours later the German doctor arrived. Mrs. Armitage was asleep; so Eckhardt would not awaken her at the time. The boy, however, had slept but fitfully, and every now and then awakened with a sob of pain. The nurse stripped him, and Eckhardt soon found out what was wrong--a serious injury to the left hip.

Late in the evening, as the big yellow-bearded German doctor and Denison sat in the dining room smoking and talking, Taloi, the child's nurse entered, and was followed by Amona, and the woman told them the whole story.

"_Misi Fafine_ was sitting in a chair with the boy on her lap when the master came in. His eyes were black and fierce with anger, and, stepping up, he seized the child by the arm, and bade him get down. Then the little one screamed in terror, and _Misi Fafine_ screamed too, and the master became as mad, for he tore the boy from his mother's arms, and tossed him across the room against the wall. That is all I know of this thing."

Denison saw nothing of Armitage till six o'clock on the following morning, just as Eckhardt was going away. He put out his hand, Eckhardt put his own behind his back, and, in a few blunt words, told the Beast what he thought of him.

"And if this was a civilised country," he added crisply, "you would be now in gaol. Yes, in prison. You have as good as killed your wife by your brutality--she will not live another two months. You have so injured your child's hip that he may be a cripple for life. You are a damned scoundrel, no better than the lowest ruffian of a city slum, and if you show yourself in Joe D'Acosta's smoking-room again, you'll find more than half a dozen men--Englishmen, Americans and Germans--ready to kick you out into the _au ala_" (road).

Armitage was no coward. He sprang forward with an oath, but Denison, who was a third less of his employer's weight, deftly put out his right foot and the master of Solo Solo plantation went down. Then the supercargo sat on him and, having a fine command of seafaring expletives, threatened to gouge his eyes out if he did not keep quiet.

"You go on, doctor," he said cheerfully. "I'll let you know in the course of an hour or two how Mrs. Armitage and the boy are progressing. The seat which I am now occupying, though not a very honourable one, considering the material of which it is composed, is very comfortable for the time being; and"--he turned and glared savagely at Armitage's purpled face--"You sweep! I have a great inclination to let Eckhardt come and boot the life out of you whilst I hold you down, you brute!"

"I'll kill you for this," said Armitage hoarsely.

"Won't give you the chance, my boy. And if you don't promise to go to your room quietly, I'll call in the native servants, sling you up like the pig you are to a pole, and have you carried into Apia, where you stand a good show of being lynched. I've had enough of you. Every one--except your blackguardly acquaintances in Matafele--would be glad to hear that you were dead, and your wife and child freed from you."

Eckhardt stepped forward. "Let him up, Mr. Denison."

The supercargo obeyed the request.

"Just as you please, doctor. But I think that he ought to be put in irons, or a strait-jacket, or knocked on the head as a useless beast. If it were not for Mrs. Armitage and her little son, I would like to kill the sweep. His treatment of that poor fellow Amona, who is so devoted to the child, has been most atrocious."

Eckhardt grasped the supercargo's hand as Armitage shambled off "He's a brute, as you say, Mr. Denison. But she has some affection for him. For myself, I would like to put a bullet through him."

Within three months Mrs. Armitage was dead, and a fresh martrydom began for poor Amona. But he and the child had plenty of good friends; and then, one day, when Armitage awakened to sanity after a long drinking bout, he found that both Amona and the child had gone.

Nearly a score of years later Denison met them in an Australian city. The "baby" had grown to be a well-set-up young fellow, and Amona the faithful was still with him--Amona with a smiling, happy face. They came down on board Denison's vessel with him, and "the baby" gave him, ere they parted, that faded photograph of his dead mother.



THE SNAKE AND THE BELL

When I was a child of eight years of age, a curious incident occurred in the house in which our family lived. The locality was Mosman's Bay, one of the many picturesque indentations of the beautiful harbour of Sydney. In those days the houses were few and far apart, and our own dwelling was surrounded on all sides by the usual monotonous-hued Australian forest of iron barks and spotted gums, traversed here and there by tracks seldom used, as the house was far back from the main road, leading from the suburb of St. Leonards to Middle Harbour. The building itself was in the form of a quadrangle enclosing a courtyard, on to which nearly all the rooms opened; each room having a bell over the door, the wires running all round the square, while the front-door bell, which was an extra large affair, hung in the hall, the "pull" being one of the old-fashioned kind, an iron sliding-rod suspended from the outer wall plate, where it connected with the wire.

One cold and windy evening about eight o'clock, my mother, my sisters, and myself were sitting in the dining-room awaiting the arrival of my brothers from Sydney--they attended school there, and rowed or sailed the six miles to and fro every day, generally returning home by dusk. On this particular evening, however, they were late, on account of the wind blowing rather freshly from the north-east; but presently we heard the front-door bell ring gently.

"Here they are at last," said my mother; "but how silly of them to go to the front door on such a windy night, tormenting boys!"

Julia, the servant, candle in hand, went along the lengthy passage, and opened the door. No one was there! She came back to the dining-room smiling--"Masther Edward is afther playin' wan av his thricks, ma'am----" she began, when the bell again rang--this time vigorously. My eldest sister threw down the book she was reading, and with an impatient exclamation herself went to the door, opened it quickly, and said sharply as she pulled it inwards--

"Come in at once, you stupid things!" There was no answer, and she stepped outside on the verandah. No one was visible, and again the big bell in the hall rang!

She shut the door angrily and returned to her seat, just as the bell gave a curious, faint tinkle as if the tongue had been moved ever so gently.

"Don't take any notice of them," said my mother, "they will soon get tired of playing such silly pranks, and be eager for their supper."

Presently the bell gave out three clear strokes. We looked at each other and smiled. Five minutes passed, and then came eight or ten gentle strokes in quick succession.

"Let us catch them," said my mother, rising, and holding her finger up to us to preserve silence, as she stepped softly along the hall, we following on tiptoe.

Softly turning the handle, she suddenly threw the door wide open, just as the bell gave another jangle. Not a soul was visible!

My mother--one of the most placid-tempered women who ever breathed, now became annoyed, and stepping out on the verandah, addressed herself to the darkness--

"Come inside at once, boys, or I shall be very angry. I know perfectly well what you have done; you have tied a string to the bell wires, and are pulling it. If you don't desist you shall have no supper."

No answer--except from the hall bell, which gave another half-hearted tinkle.

"Bring a candle and the step-ladder, Julia," said our now thoroughly exasperated parent, "and we shall see what these foolish boys have done to the bell-wire."

Julia brought the ladder; my eldest sister mounted it, and began to examine the bell. She could see nothing unusual, no string or wire, and as she descended, the bell swayed and gave one faint stroke!

We all returned to the sitting room, and had scarcely been there five minutes when we heard my three brothers coming in, in their usual way, by the back door. They tramped into the sitting room, noisy, dirty, wet with spray, and hungry, and demanded supper in a loud and collected voice. My mother looked at them with a severe aspect, and said they deserved none.

"Why, mum, what's the matter?" said Ted; "what _have_ we been doing now, or what have we not done, that we don't deserve any supper, after pulling for two hours from Circular Quay, against a howling, black north-easter?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean. It is most inconsiderate of you to play such silly tricks upon us."

Ted gazed at her in genuine astonishment. "Silly tricks, mother! What silly tricks?" (Julia crossed herself, and trembled visibly as the bell again rang.)

My mother, at once satisfied that Ted and my other brothers really knew nothing of the mysterious bell-ringing, quickly explained the cause of her anger.

"Let us go and see if we can find out," said Ted. "You two boys, and you, Julia, get all the stable lanterns, light them, and we'll start out together--two on one side of the house and two on the other. Some one must be up to a trick!"

Julia, who was a huge, raw-boned Irish girl, as strong as a working bullock, but not so graceful, again crossed herself, and began to weep.

"What's the matter with you?" said Ted angrily.

"Shure, an' there was tirrible murders committed here in the ould convict days," she whimpered. "The polace sargint's wife at Sint Leonards tould me all about it. There was three souldiers murdered down beyant on the beach, by