The Mysterious Island
Pencroft.”
“Pooh! our mill would only go the faster!”
“There is no need for it to go so very fast,” replied Cyrus Harding. “It
is known by experience that the greatest quantity of work is performed
by a mill when the number of turns made by the sails in a minute is six
times the number of feet traversed by the wind in a second. A moderate
breeze, which passes over twenty-four feet to the second, will give
sixteen turns to the sails during a minute, and there is no need of
more.”
“Exactly!” cried Herbert, “a fine breeze is blowing from the northeast,
which will soon do our business for us.”
There was no reason for delaying the inauguration of the mill, for the
settlers were eager to taste the first piece of bread in Lincoln Island.
On this morning two or three bushels of wheat were ground, and the next
day at breakfast a magnificent loaf, a little heavy perhaps, although
raised with yeast, appeared on the table at Granite House. Every one
munched away at it with a pleasure which may be easily understood.
In the meanwhile, the stranger had not reappeared. Several times Gideon
Spilett and Herbert searched the forest in the neighborhood of Granite
House, without meeting or finding any trace of him. They became
seriously uneasy at this prolonged absence. Certainly, the former
savage of Tabor island could not be perplexed how to live in the forest,
abounding in game, but was it not to be feared that he had resumed his
habits, and that this freedom would revive in him his wild instincts?
However, Harding, by a sort of presentiment, doubtless, always persisted
in saying that the fugitive would return.
“Yes, he will return!” he repeated with a confidence which his
companions could not share. “When this unfortunate man was on Tabor
Island, he knew himself to be alone! Here, he knows that fellow-men are
awaiting him! Since he has partially spoken of his past life, the poor
penitent will return to tell the whole, and from that day he will belong
to us!”
The event justified Cyrus Harding’s predictions. On the 3rd of December,
Herbert had left the plateau to go and fish on the southern bank of the
lake. He was unarmed, and till then had never taken any precautions for
defense, as dangerous animals had not shown themselves on that part of
the island.
Meanwhile, Pencroft and Neb were working in the poultry-yard, while
Harding and the reporter were occupied at the Chimneys in making soda,
the store of soap being exhausted.
Suddenly cries resounded,--
“Help! help!”
Cyrus Harding and the reporter, being at too great a distance, had not
been able to hear the shouts. Pencroft and Neb, leaving the poultry-yard
in all haste, rushed towards the lake.
But before then, the stranger, whose presence at this place no one had
suspected, crossed Creek Glycerine, which separated the plateau from the
forest, and bounded up the opposite bank.
Herbert was there face to face with a fierce jaguar, similar to the
one which had been killed on Reptile End. Suddenly surprised, he was
standing with his back against a tree, while the animal gathering itself
together was about to spring.
But the stranger, with no other weapon than a knife, rushed on the
formidable animal, who turned to meet this new adversary.
The struggle was short. The stranger possessed immense strength and
activity. He seized the jaguar’s throat with one powerful hand, holding
it as in a vise, without heeding the beast’s claws which tore his flesh,
and with the other he plunged his knife into its heart.
The jaguar fell. The stranger kicked away the body, and was about to
fly at the moment when the settlers arrived on the field of battle, but
Herbert, clinging to him, cried,--
“No, no! you shall not go!”
Harding advanced towards the stranger, who frowned when he saw him
approaching. The blood flowed from his shoulder under his torn shirt,
but he took no notice of it.
“My friend,” said Cyrus Harding, “we have just contracted a debt of
gratitude to you. To save our boy you have risked your life!”
“My life!” murmured the stranger. “What is that worth? Less than
nothing!”
“You are wounded?”
“It is no matter.”
“Will you give me your hand?”
And as Herbert endeavored to seize the hand which had just saved him,
the stranger folded his arms, his chest heaved, his look darkened, and
he appeared to wish to escape, but making a violent effort over himself,
and in an abrupt tone,--
“Who are you?” he asked, “and what do you claim to be to me?”
It was the colonists’ history which he thus demanded, and for the first
time. Perhaps this history recounted, he would tell his own.
In a few words Harding related all that had happened since their
departure from Richmond; how they had managed, and what resources they
now had at their disposal.
The stranger listened with extreme attention.
Then the engineer told who they all were, Gideon Spilett, Herbert,
Pencroft, Neb, himself, and, he added, that the greatest happiness they
had felt since their arrival in Lincoln Island was on the return of the
vessel from Tabor Island, when they had been able to include among them
a new companion.
At these words the stranger’s face flushed, his head sunk on his breast,
and confusion was depicted on his countenance.
“And now that you know us,” added Cyrus Harding, “will you give us your
hand?”
“No,” replied the stranger in a hoarse voice; “no! You are honest men!
And I--”
Chapter 17
These last words justified the colonists’ presentiment. There had been
some mournful past, perhaps expiated in the sight of men, but from which
his conscience had not yet absolved him. At any rate the guilty man felt
remorse, he repented, and his new friends would have cordially pressed
the hand which they sought; but he did not feel himself worthy to extend
it to honest men! However, after the scene with the jaguar, he did not
return to the forest, and from that day did not go beyond the enclosure
of Granite House.
What was the mystery of his life? Would the stranger one day speak of
it? Time alone could show. At any rate, it was agreed that his secret
should never be asked from him, and that they would live with him as if
they suspected nothing.
For some days their life continued as before. Cyrus Harding and Gideon
Spilett worked together, sometimes chemists, sometimes experimentalists.
The reporter never left the engineer except to hunt with Herbert, for
it would not have been prudent to allow the lad to ramble alone in the
forest; and it was very necessary to be on their guard. As to Neb
and Pencroft, one day at the stables and poultry-yard, another at the
corral, without reckoning work in Granite House, they were never in want
of employment.
The stranger worked alone, and he had resumed his usual life, never
appearing at meals, sleeping under the trees in the plateau, never
mingling with his companions. It really seemed as if the society of
those who had saved him was insupportable to him!
“But then,” observed Pencroft, “why did he entreat the help of his
fellow-creatures? Why did he throw that paper into the sea?”
“He will tell us why,” invariably replied Cyrus Harding.
“When?”
“Perhaps sooner than you think, Pencroft.”
And, indeed, the day of confession was near.
On the 10th of December, a week after his return to Granite House,
Harding saw the stranger approaching, who, in a calm voice and humble
tone, said to him: “Sir, I have a request to make of you.”
“Speak,” answered the engineer, “but first let me ask you a question.”
At these words the stranger reddened, and was on the point of
withdrawing. Cyrus Harding understood what was passing in the mind of
the guilty man, who doubtless feared that the engineer would interrogate
him on his past life.
Harding held him back.
“Comrade,” said he, “we are not only your companions but your friends. I
wish you to believe that, and now I will listen to you.”
The stranger pressed his hand over his eyes. He was seized with a
sort of trembling, and remained a few moments without being able to
articulate a word.
“Sir,” said he at last, “I have come to beg you to grant me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“You have, four or five miles from here, a corral for your domesticated
animals. These animals need to be taken care of. Will you allow me to
live there with them?”
Cyrus Harding gazed at the unfortunate man for a few moments with a
feeling of deep commiseration; then,--
“My friend,” said he, “the corral has only stables hardly fit for
animals.”
“It will be good enough for me, sir.”
“My friend,” answered Harding, “we will not constrain you in anything.
You wish to live at the corral, so be it. You will, however, be always
welcome at Granite House. But since you wish to live at the corral
we will make the necessary arrangements for your being comfortably
established there.”
“Never mind that, I shall do very well.”
“My friend,” answered Harding, who always intentionally made use of this
cordial appellation, “you must let us judge what it will be best to do
in this respect.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the stranger as he withdrew.
The engineer then made known to his companions the proposal which had
been made to him, and it was agreed that they should build a wooden
house at the corral, which they would make as comfortable as possible.
That very day the colonists repaired to the corral with the necessary
tools, and a week had not passed before the house was ready to receive
its tenant. It was built about twenty feet from the sheds, and from
there it was easy to overlook the flock of sheep, which then numbered
more than eighty. Some furniture, a bed, table, bench, cupboard, and
chest were manufactured, and a gun, ammunition, and tools were carried
to the corral.
The stranger, however, had seen nothing of his new dwelling, and he
had allowed the settlers to work there without him, while he occupied
himself on the plateau, wishing, doubtless, to put the finishing stroke
to his work. Indeed, thanks to him, all the ground was dug up and ready
to be sowed when the time came.
It was on the 20th of December that all the arrangements at the corral
were completed. The engineer announced to the stranger that his dwelling
was ready to receive him, and the latter replied that he would go and
sleep there that very evening.
On this evening the colonists were gathered in the diningroom of Granite
House. It was then eight o’clock, the hour at which their companion was
to leave them. Not wishing to trouble him by their presence, and thus
imposing on him the necessity of saying farewells which might perhaps be
painful to him, they had left him alone and ascended to Granite House.
Now, they had been talking in the room for a few minutes, when a light
knock was heard at the door. Almost immediately the stranger entered,
and without any preamble,--
“Gentlemen,” said he, “before I leave you, it is right that you should
know my history. I will tell it you.”
These simple words profoundly impressed Cyrus Harding and his
companions. The engineer rose.
“We ask you nothing, my friend,” said he; “it is your right to be
silent.”
“It is my duty to speak.”
“Sit down, then.”
“No, I will stand.”
“We are ready to hear you,” replied Harding.
The stranger remained standing in a corner of the room, a little in the
shade. He was bareheaded, his arms folded across his chest, and it
was in this posture that in a hoarse voice, speaking like some one
who obliges himself to speak, he gave the following recital, which his
auditors did not once interrupt:--
“On the 20th of December, 1854, a steam-yacht, belonging to a Scotch
nobleman, Lord Glenarvan, anchored off Cape Bernouilli, on the western
coast of Australia, in the thirty-seventh parallel. On board this yacht