Chapter One.

The Western Paradise.

“Well, boys, where have you been?”

The speaker, a sturdy-looking, sun-tanned man, seated upon a home-made stool at a rough home-made table in a home-made house of rugged, coarsely-sawn boards, with an open roof covered in with what one of the boys had called wooden slates, had looked up from his writing, and as he spoke carefully wiped his pen—for pens were scarce—and corked the little stone bottle of ink so that it should not evaporate in the super-heated atmosphere, before it was wanted again for the writing of one of the rare letters dispatched to England, these being few, the writer preferring to wait till the much-talked-of better days came—the days for which they had been patiently waiting five years.

The boys looked sharply one at the other, their eyes seeming to say, “You tell him!” But neither of them spoke, and the penman said sharply—

“Hallo! Been in some mischief?”

The boys spoke out together then, and muddled or blurred their reply, for one said, “No, fa,” being his shortening of father, and the other cried, “No, sir,” both looking indignant at the suggestion. “What have you been doing, then?”

“Fishing, sir.”

“Good lads!” cried the first speaker, leaning back on his seat, and starting up and grasping the rough edge of the table to save himself from falling, while the boys burst out laughing.

“Yes, you may laugh, my fine fellows,” said the first speaker rather pettishly, “but it wouldn’t have been pleasant for me if I had gone down.”

“No, fa,” said his son, colouring and speaking quickly. “I beg your pardon! I am sorry.”

“I know, Chris. You didn’t think. I suppose it looked droll.”

“Yes, sir,” said the other boy, hastily. “I beg your pardon too. You thought you were in an arm-chair, didn’t you?”

“I did, my boy,” was the reply, given in company with a weary sigh. “But granted, granted, and thank you. I’m glad to find that though we are leading this half savage life, you young fellows don’t forget that you are gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen’s sons, sir,” said the second boy modestly.

“Same thing, Ned Bourne. Well, so we’re to have a treat: fish for dinner, eh? Where are they?”

The boys exchanged glances again, their eyes twinkling with mirth, and then they burst out laughing merrily once more.

“A big basketful, boys?” And the speaker rubbed his hands.

“No, fa,” cried the first boy. “We haven’t caught one.”

“What! Why, where did you go?”

“To the upper pool, sir,” said the second boy, “and there wasn’t a fish.”

“Then why didn’t you try the river?”

“There is no river now, fa.”

“No river?”

“No, fa; it was all turned into pools when we were there a fortnight ago, and now there’s only a muddy spot here and there; all the rest have dried-up.”

“Tut, tut, tut! What a place it is!”

“Oh, it will be better soon, sir,” said the second boy cheerfully. “There’ll be a heavy rain, the river will fill again, and the fish begin running up from the sea. It’s such a lovely morning out, and the flowers are glorious.”

“Yes, Ned, lovely and glorious,” said the penman sadly. “It is, as I have often said, a perfect paradise—a beautiful garden. I don’t wonder that the old mission fathers called it the Valley of the Angels. But though we can drink in the beauty of the place it does not quench one’s thirst, and not being herbivorous people, we can’t feed on flowers. Oh dear! Then there are no fish?”

“Not till the rains come, fa.”

“And when they do come the wet will find it easy to get to your skin, Chris—and to yours too, Ned Bourne. What a pair of ragamuffins you look!”

The two frank, good-looking lads coloured through their bronzed skins, and each involuntarily clapped his hand to a guilty spot—that is to say, one covered a triangular hole in his knickerbockers and the other pressed together the sides of a long slit in his Norfolk jacket, and they spoke together again.

“I got hung up in the agaves, father, and the thorns catch like hooks.”

“A nail ran into my knicks, sir, when I was on the roof mending the shingles.”

“A very meritorious proceeding, my dear Ned, but there are needles and thread in the chest: why didn’t you mend your knicks, as you call them? Don’t let’s degenerate into scarecrows because we are obliged to live this Robinson Crusoe-like life. It’s many years since I read that book, Chris, but if I recollect right he used not only to mend his own clothes, but make new ones out of goat-skins. ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’ boys, so mend your ways—I mean the open ways where the wind and rain get in. See anything of your father, Ned?”

“Yes, sir; he’s working away with Mr Wilton up in the far orange-grove.”

“Far orange-grove,” repeated Christopher Lee’s father bitterly; “a grove without oranges. Is the blight—the scale, I mean—any better up there?”

“No, sir. Father said it was a hundred times worse.”

“But that was exaggeration, Ned,” cried Chris eagerly. “It’s very bad, but not a hundred times worse than it was last time we were there.”

“Say eighty or ninety times worse, then,” said Chris’s father bitterly.

“No; dad’s right, sir,” cried Ned Bourne. “The twigs and leaves are covered with those nasty little tortoise-like things, and he says they are sucking all the juices out of the trees.”

“They might have waited till the fruit was ripe,” said Chris, with a grin, “and then been contented with sucking a few oranges.”

Doctor Lee smiled sadly at his son, and was silent for a few moments before saying—

“That’s bad news indeed, boys; it’s like the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. I did hope that the orange trees were going to be better this year; it would have made up for that other disappointment.”

“What other disappointment, fa?” cried Chris sharply.

“Over the peaches. I’ve been through the plantations this morning before I sat down to write home about our troubles.”

“But have the peaches got scale too, father?”

“Yes, my boy, and every other blight and disease possible to them, without counting the dry shrivelled state they are in from the drought.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Chris. “There seems to be nothing here but disappointments.”

“Oh yes, there is, my boy,” said the doctor; “it is a land of beauty and perfect health.”

“Yes, it’s beautiful enough, fa,” said Chris grudgingly, “and it’s wonderful to see Mr Bourne, who used to be so weak that he had to be carried out to lie in the shade, while now he can do anything. He runs faster than we can, doesn’t he, Ned?”

“Ever so much,” said the lad proudly, and with glistening eyes.

“And he carried that tree to the saw-pit,” said Chris; “the one we couldn’t lift.”

“Yes, he has thoroughly recovered,” said the doctor, “and we were none of us so well before in our lives.”

“But that makes it so bad for you, fa,” said Chris, with something of his father’s bitterness of tone. “How are you ever going to get a practice together if people will be so horribly healthy?”

“What!” cried the doctor. “Horribly healthy, indeed! Why, you wicked young ruffian, do you suppose that I want people to be ill? Thank goodness that it is such a paradise of beauty and health. Don’t I have people come from a hundred miles round with their accidents—broken limbs and cuts?”

“Doctor Lee,” said the other boy, who had been sitting on a flour-barrel very silent and thoughtful and with his brow puckered up, while his voice sounded eager and inquiring.

“What is it, sir? Are you going to defend Chris?”

“No, sir; I wasn’t thinking about what he said, but about the way everything we have planted fails. I can’t understand it.”

“Can’t you, my boy?”

“No, sir. We all came here from England, didn’t we, to seek for health?”

“That’s right, Ned.”

“Father gave up his living in Derbyshire because if he had stopped any longer he would have died.”

“Yes, Ned, and Mr Wilton gave up his practice as a lawyer because his doctor said that he was in the last stage of consumption.”

“But you didn’t, sir.”

“I was not his attendant, my boy. I had never seen him or Mr Wilton till I met them here on this land they have taken up.”

“Did you think they’d die, sir?”

“I was afraid so, Ned. I never expected to see them recover as they have.”

“Then I won’t say it’s a horribly disappointing place,” cried Ned, proudly. “I say it’s beautiful and grand.”

“So it is, my boy,” said the doctor; “but why have you begun talking like this?”

“Oh, that’s nothing to do with what I was going to say, sir,” said the boy excitedly.

“What were you going to say, then?” asked the doctor, smiling.

“That I can’t understand it, sir.”

“Well, you said so before,” cried Chris grumpily.

“Of course I did; you needn’t catch me up, Chris.—I mean this, sir; I can’t understand why it is that the trees and flowers and other things grow so beautifully here, while the peaches and oranges, bananas and corns are always killed by frost or want of water, when they are not covered with insects and grubs which make them wither away.”

“That’s simple enough, my dear boy,” said the doctor gravely. “All those things which flourish so well are natives of this part of the world, and grow wild. Those which we have planted are foreign to the soil, and grow after the fashion to which they have been trained by cultivation. Nature is a better gardener than man, but fruits of the soil that she produces and which flourish so bravely are not suited to our requirements.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ned thoughtfully. “But what about the millions of insects? Why don’t Nature’s plants get blighted the same as ours do?”

“They are,” replied the doctor; “only in the enormous space and amongst the millions of trees spread about, we do not notice that a part of them suffer. It is only in the plantations and orchards and gardens set apart by man for growing things quite foreign to the soil, that the damage is so plain. Nature never meant groves of oranges to flourish here, or they would have existed—at least, so it seems to me. As it is, we choose to settle down upon wild land that has been the home of the insects which annoy us ever since the beginning of time, and plant those foreign trees, so we must take our chance of their succeeding. Who’s that coming across the plantation?”

“Mr Wilton,” said Chris, running to the door.

“And father along with him,” cried Ned.

“Tut, tut, tut! To dinner, I suppose,” said the doctor dismally. “Potatoes and damper! Oh, boys, I did think you would have had a dish of fish.”

Chapter Two.

Our Yankee Neighbour.

The gentlemen named strode into the roughly-furnished kitchen-like room, looking as unlike a clergyman and a lawyer as could be imagined, for both were dressed in well-worn garments, half farmer, half back wood settler, the one with a thistle staff or spud in his hand, the other shouldering a double gun, which, following the example of his companion, he set up in a corner in company with the spud and a couple of fishing rods and a landing-net, before going to the broad shelf over the fire-place, upon which he placed a cartridge wallet, glancing at the same time at another fowling-piece and four rifles hanging across upon hooks.

The whole place was untidy, giving the notion to an observer that no woman ever entered the shanty; but the firearms looked clean and bright, and the gentleman who had just deposited the canvas wallet on the mantel-board was probably answerable for the absence of dust, for he took an old silk handkerchief from his pocket, and using it liberally, flicked away a few traces of white wood-ash which had floated up from the fire smouldering on the hearth in spite of the heat of the day.

“Hallo, boys!” he said; “back again?” and without waiting for an answer, he continued, “What have you for dinner to-day, Lee?”

“Potatoes—damper—”

“Hang it all, man! There’s a tin or two of preserved meat. One wasn’t finished.”

“No,” said the doctor; “I looked at it this morning, and it had gone bad.”

“Too bad to eat—for a hungry man?”

“Yes,” said the doctor; “unless he wants to poison himself.”

“This sounds cheerful, Bourne.”

“Horrible! There, it’s of no use to save up,” said the gentleman addressed. “You must give us the last tin of bouillé beef.”

“Gone bad too,” said the doctor gruffly.

“What, have you opened it to see?”

“No; the top and bottom are both blown up in a curve with the bad gas generated.”

“Well, upon my word! Hear this, Wilton! Can anything be worse?”

“No. Who says home—Eastward Ho!” replied the gentleman addressed. “Look here, Lee; we’ve been talking it all over as we went well over the plantation this morning. Everything has gone wrong, and it’s madness to try any longer. Why, it’s five years since we agreed to join hands and lands and to work the fruit-farm into a success.”

“Yes,” said the doctor sadly; “and we’ve worked like slaves.”

“I’m afraid,” said the gentleman addressed as Bourne, “that no slaves would have worked half so hard.”

“That they would not,” cried Wilton. “There, it’s a failure, and we’d better get to ’Frisco and take passage by a sailing-vessel while we have the money. The plantation is going back to a state of nature, and we shall waste time by trying any more.”

“We ought to stay on for a bit,” said the doctor, as the two boys stood listening eagerly and forgetting all about the poor dinner to come.

“What!” cried Wilton, with a bitter laugh. “Who’d buy it?”

“Oh, we shouldn’t make much; only enough to pay our passages back to Liverpool. Some newcomer would be glad to have a place fenced in and planted, and with all the improvements we have made.”

“I, for one,” said Mr Bourne firmly, “will not be a party to selling such a miserable failure to a stranger.”

“Nor I,” cried Wilton angrily. “It wouldn’t be honest.”

“Well, I suppose not,” said the doctor sadly. “I’m afraid—no matter how little we obtained—I should feel as if I had swindled my brother-seeker for prosperity. There, I’ll join with you in what you say. But what a failure we have made!”

“No, no, not altogether,” said Ned’s father warmly. “We have found what we ought to think better than riches. Eh, Wilton?”

“Hah! Brother-grumbler, we have indeed,” said the other. “I never expected to be strong again.”

“And we are,” said Bourne. “Strong as horses, thanks to you, Lee.”

“No, no, no, I won’t take the undeserved credit, my dear fellows; thank the climate and the out-door life. The place is a regular Eden.”

“Only it won’t grow us food-stuffs to live upon.”

“Nor fruit to sell,” added Wilton. “There, we’ve talked it over for years, worked till we have been worn out, and hoped against hope. The plantations are the homes of plagues of every noxious insect under the western sun, so let’s give it up and go.”

“Agreed,” said the others, and the boys joined in with a hearty “Hurrah!”

“Then you won’t mind going, Ned?” said Mr Bourne.

“No, father. I should like it—for some things,” replied the boy addressed, and he looked wistfully at his companion.

“What do you say, Chris?” cried the doctor. “You want to go, then?”

“Yes, fa, I should like to go to England again, but I shall be very sorry to go away from here, for it is very beautiful, you know.”

“But you’d like the change?”

“Yes, fa,” said the boy frankly, “for some things. But I shouldn’t like it if Ned Bourne were not coming too.”

“Oh! I should be coming too, shouldn’t I, father?” said the other lad eagerly.

“Of course, my boy. I dare say Doctor Lee will think out some plan by which those years of companionship may be continued,” looking at his friends.

“Oh yes,” cried Wilton eagerly; “that must be managed somehow. I should say—Who’s this?”

“Company?” said Ned’s father, turning to look through the open door towards the track leading to the next plantation.

“Our Yankee neighbour,” said the doctor. “What does he want?”

“It’s a patient for you, Lee,” said Wilton.

“Hillo, you!” cried the newcomer, in a lusty voice, but in rather a nasal sing-song tone. “Doctor there?”

“Yes; come in,” was the reply, and a tall, sun-dried, keen-looking man in grey flannels, the legs of which were tucked into his boots, dropped the butt of his rifle on the earthen floor with a dull thud, as he slouched into the room, to show the assembled party that the joke about a patient for the doctor was a good guess, and that many a true word really is spoken in jest.

Chapter Three.

The Man from the Wilderness.

“Howdy, all on you? Two boys included. D’yer hear, nippers? I was a bit scared about ketching you, doctor. You’re wanted yonder.”

“An accident?” cried the doctor quickly.

“Accident?” said the newcomer. “Wal, yes, that’ll do. You might call him an accident, poor beggar, for he’s about played down to the lowest level. Some’d call him a loafer, but we’ll say accident—fatal accident, for I’m thinking he’s too far gone for you, friend Lee, clever doctor as you are.”

“Where is he? At your place?”

“Nay–y–y! He’s trudging along after me. I said I’d fetch the doctor to him, poor fellow, but he just found words enough to say he’d come after me, and he crept along. Yes,” continued the American, turning to the door. “Here he comes. Do what you can for him, and send him back to me; he can have one of the sheds and as much husk as he likes to lie on for the time he wants it, and I don’t think that’ll be long.”

“I dare say we can do that for him, poor fellow,” said the doctor coldly, as he stepped towards the door, and then uttered an exclamation. “For goodness’ sake, Bourne, look here!”

Both his companions and the boys hurried to the door to look out where a strange, gaunt-looking, grey-haired figure came creeping along in the hot sunshine, walking painfully by the help of a stout six-foot stick.

At the first glance the red-brown skin drawn so tightly over his face made him resemble a mummy more than a living being, while his worn canvas and skin garments clung so tightly to him that his bodily aspect was horribly suggestive of a clothed skeleton.

Upon seeing that he was observed he stopped short, leaning forward resting heavily upon the stick, to which he clung, peering from beneath the shadow cast by his bony brows, while his eyes, deeply sunken in their orbits, seemed to literally glow.

The next moment he turned slowly towards a rough bench fixed beneath a shade-giving tree and sank slowly down with his back to the trunk, stretching out a long thin hand towards the doctor, while his dry greyish lips moved as if appealing naturally to him, the man he believed able to give that which he sought—help.

“Ugh! How horrible!” whispered Chris to his companion. “If I had seen him lying down I should have thought that he was dead.”

The boy’s idea was shared by all present, as the doctor stepped forward to their visitor.

“That’s how he looked at me when he came up,” said their American neighbour. “He can’t say a word—only point and make signs.”

“But where does he come from?”

“Over yonder,” said the American, nodding south-east. “I caught sight of him when I first woke this morning, ever so far away, and then forgot all about him for hours, when I saw him again, and he had crawled nearer, about a hundred yards an hour, I should say. He looked so queer that I went over to him, and tried, as soon as I had got over the first look, to find out who and what he was.”

“Well,” said Christopher eagerly; “who is he?”