The Discovery—Waylao’s Flight—A South Sea Scandal—I fall in with the
Fugitive—The Convict Girl—Sorrow and Sympathy—What the Tide
brought Back—Waylao’s Second Escape
I HARDLY know how to place the following incidents as they occurred.
Perhaps it will be best to give Lydia’s account of what had happened in
our absence.
It appeared that Waylao had been feeling sick for several weeks, and had
become strangely absent-minded. Night after night the girl had gone off
to get her mother’s stores and had completely forgotten them. One night
Mrs Benbow went to bed enraged at her daughter’s absence from the
domestic domicile. In the morning she got up full of suspicion, went
into the misguided girl’s room and found Waylao fast asleep.
“Get up, you lazy hussys; to tink that I, yours old mothers, the
descendant of great kinks [kings], should have to feed chicken while my
lazy daughters lay in beds!” Saying this, the old woman pulled the
bed-clothes right off Waylao—puff! As the girl stood before her irate
parent attired in her night attire, trembling with fear, the native
woman yelled fiercely: “Where yous go these nights after nights? What
yous do? Now then, tell me! Your father is far at sea, so you tink you
does as you likes with mees!”
Waylao said nothing. She hung her head and then stared through the
little lattice window.
Suddenly the mother said with a startled voice, a voice that was shrill
with horror:
“Gods Almighties! What you been doing?” This horrified shout was
immediately followed by the frantic woman clutching the Oriental muslin
robe from Waylao’s trembling figure.
The unhappy girl still stared, paralysed by the look of astonishment and
rage on her mother’s face.
Old Lydia was speechless. Her eyes rolled as though she were in a fit.
She opened her mouth wide, then the muscular rigidity of her face
relaxed, the jaws met together with a frightful click. It was a
convulsive movement, a faint expression of the horror she felt at the
discovery of the secret—revealed at last.
For several minutes Benbow’s cottage fairly trembled. It seemed to
Waylao that a flash of lightning came out of her mother’s eyes, followed
by a mighty crash that split the universe in twain. The old woman
clapped her hands together like an idiot, stamped her feet, then poured
forth volleys of her fiercest invectives. She went mad, danced and
whirled in a kind of heathen frenzy, leaping forward like a puppet, over
and over again, to strike that unhappy sinner, the wretched victim of
passion and romance.
Finally the demented old woman rushed into the next room, clutched hold
of the new tea set that she had given Waylao on her last birthday,
lifted each pretty china article above her head, and smashed it to atoms
at her feet.
Like a beautiful, sculptured figure, emblematical of the forlorn
betrayed, the poor girl still stood, silent, her eyes staring like
glassy terror, one foot outstretched as though to help the better to
bear the weight of humanity’s pious wrath on her guilty head. Old Lydia
forgot her own sins (she admitted this after); she was a Christianised
native woman; her daughter had disgraced her. It was terrible. The last
thread of self-control snapped in that old barbarian’s brain as with a
pious howl she rushed forward and fastened her teeth in the wretched
girl’s arm.
“Who did it? Who is it? Tell me, you wicked villains!” she shrieked.
Waylao stood silent as death, as mother and daughter faced each other.
Only the old grandfather’s clock broke the silence of those dreadful
minutes, ticking off, as though with sorrow, the flight of time.
“If yous don’t tells me the man, I’ll kills you!” shrieked the
infuriated woman. With the pluck born of resignation, the true pluck
that is found in most women when the supreme moment comes for the test,
the girl stared ahead with a look of secret defiance and loyalty to her
Indian cut-throat.
Like a big marionette on a stick, the dusky old woman jumped up to the
low-roofed ceiling three times, then, with a howl, rushed into the next
room and clutched hold of the huge family war-club hanging on the
parlour wall. In her flurry she tripped over the matting and fell.
Scrambling to her feet, she rushed back into the bedroom—it was empty.
In that moment of her mother’s absence Waylao had fled.
The old woman gasped, then rushed out of the cottage door, spurred by
mingled feelings of hatred and remorse.
“Wayee! Wayee! Wheres ares you? Come back! Come back! Tells me all,” she
shouted.
The old Marquesan woman stared through the colonnades of bread-fruits,
and listened. She heard nothing but the low cry of the katafa bird,
bound seaward, breaking the stillness.
All that day and the next day the sad old mother searched and called in
vain. She wandered like one demented to the huts of the native villages,
calling aloud for Waylao, telling every greedy listener of her sorrow.
The scandal swept with magical rapidity from village to village, from
shore to shore. Indeed scandal was as rampant in the South Seas as in
the cities of civilisation.
The rumour spread and spread, and took on wondrous shapes and hideous
detail. Some pitied the girl, and cried: “What! Waylao? Well, I never!
Poor Waylao!”
Others cried: “Shame! Shame! Oh, the sinful wretch to do so! Kill her!
Kill her!”
Old Ranjo tucked his shirt-sleeves up and struck fearsome imaginary
blows into the air of his saloon bar, blows that his heart yearned to
inflict on the girl’s betrayer. Uncle Sam got fearfully drunk.
The Irishman and Scotsman went into wordy rivalry over similar sorrows
in their boyhood’s memory. The reformed harlot from Sydney swooned with
sheer disgust to think sensuality had existed so near her virtuous
homestead.
The day after Waylao’s flight the scandal was raging like a violent
epidemic among the native and white settlers, for Waylao’s beauty and
sweet disposition had won for her the love of all the genuine men and
women of those parts.
So much was whispered and exaggerated over the reputation of the missing
girl that the little native children sat by the camp-fires huddled in
fright; they would look awestruck around and behind them, gazing into
the forest gloom, expecting to see the awful Waylao leap from the
shadows like a spirit-woman. Old chiefs lifted their hands as they
discussed, in hushed voices, with their Christianised wives the fall of
the beautiful half-white woman, and the subsequent shock to the morals
of the semi-heathen villages.
The great Christianised chiefess, Manaraoa, wailed out, “O Mita Savoo!
The devil allee samee good, ee always get ’is own,” then she too lifted
the bottle of gin to her lips and drank, to drown her grief, her
disgust, that a girl should fall so low.
Grimes and I had only just returned from Honolulu when we heard of
Waylao’s flight. We were sitting in the old grog shanty counting out our
hard-earned money. “We shall never make our fortunes at this rate,
Grimes,” said I, as I counted out the dollars.
“Never mind, pal,” said Grimes. “We’ll be wealthy by and by.”
“Yes,” said I, “when it’s too late to enjoy life, when we only want to
sit over the smouldering bonfire of our shattered dreams and warm our
hearts by the pale hearth-fire of the distant stars.”
“Blow the stars and yer shattered dreams! You’re allus finking everfing
is too late. We can be gay old men, can’t we?” responded my sensible
pal. Then he continued: “Look at the tharsands of giddy old men in
London, a-making up for all that didn’t ’appen in their ’appy youth.”
Considerably cheered by Grimes’s philosophy, we leaned back on to the
old settee and prepared for an afternoon’s siesta.
It was at this moment that Mrs Ranjo dropped a bombshell of surprise on
us.
“Hi, Mr Violinist, have you heard the latest?”
“No,” we responded drowsily, hardly looking up, for the latest was
generally some old joke from the prehistoric period.
“Waylao, Benbow’s pretty daughter, has got into trouble with some
beachcomber, you know, got _like that_.” And then she added, with her
eyebrows raised: “She’s bolted from home, kicked out by her mother.”
“No!” was our simultaneous ejaculation. We sat bolt upright and stared
like two idiots. That exclamation expressed the chaos of our thoughts.
It was like the erect ears and tail of canine astonishment; we were
dumb-struck, alert with surprise.
Grimes went quite ghastly; he looked sallow beneath his bronzed skin.
When we had heard all that Mrs Ranjo had to say, we went out into the
open.
“Well!” was all I could utter as the fresh breeze revived my thinking
power. Grimes for a moment was strangely silent, then suddenly started
off at full speed from my side! Away he went, his big feet shuffling and
stirring up clouds of sand as he raced.
I looked ahead to see the meaning of it all. There was no apparent
reason for his racing off like that. I stared with astonishment as he
reached the coco-palms down by the beach, turned right about, and once
again, with his elbows raised in racing attitude, came flying back to
where I stood.
“What’s the matter, pal?” I said. He did not reply at first, then he
said hoarsely: “Blimey! fancy ’er a-going wrong—that hangel!”
For a moment he stared in front of him, then continued: “Cawn’t we foind
’er? I’m in love with ’er, that’s where it is!”
It was then that I saw that Grimes had run just as an animal in pain
runs—to relieve his feelings.
I did not wonder, or take much notice of his wild remarks; for Grimes
and I had had many adventures together, so that his peculiarities had
become quite commonplace to me. He was all of a-tremble when I left him.
That night I went up to see old Lydia, and found the poor native woman
half demented. She knew me well. I was truly sorry for her and all
concerned. She wrung her hands with grief, cried like a child,
reiterating the full account of the terrible discovery. With frequent
sobs of remorse she related each incident, hiding nothing, behaving as
though it relieved her feelings to unburden her mind. “Mees old heathen
bitch!” she wailed, as she beat her flanks with her hands. “My pretty
Wayee, I send ’er way to the forest. Benbow kill mees when he comes
’ome.” So did the old girl ramble on, uttering a multitude of original
phrases that expressed genuine grief and despair.
I took the grieving mother’s hand and swore that I would do my best to
find her daughter and persuade her to return home.
Ere I left that little cottage the old woman flung her tawny arms about
me, kissed me hysterically, and said: “You bewtifool white mans, you no
say much, allee samee good Clistian man.”
Then I went away under the coco-palms to do as I had promised, and see
Father O’Leary, and tell him all that the poor mother had confided to
me.
I found the old priest at prayers, “My son, I have heard all,” he said,
as he lifted his hands to the sky. I felt sorry for him as he lifted his
old eyes and said: “My lost sheep, my little Waylao.” Then to my
astonishment he said: “Damn!”
This mild oath from the earnest ecclesiastic made me feel more sorry
than ever; I saw how intense was his sorrow.
Though I was a Protestant, if anything at all, he took my hand and
blessed me. To tell the truth, I loved that old priest. Though I did not
agree with half that he said, I admired and respected his sincerity. I
feel sure that he liked me, notwithstanding that I shocked him so much
at times that he lifted his hands to the skies and asked God to forgive
me. But we were pally, that old priest and I, and he was so upset that
night that he forgot to toll the mission bell.
I am not going to tell all that I did after I left that priest, or all I
felt. No one confesses their innermost thoughts—so why should I?
After seeing the priest and old Lydia I went to fulfil an engagement, at
a high-toned job, to appear at a great social gathering as violinist at
the Bishop of —— residence. But when I was about half-a-mile from
Tai-o-hae I made up my mind to let the concert go and hang itself as far
as I was concerned. I was feeling too sad about everything, as I walked
along with my violin.
No pages of romance could outvie what I experienced that night in the
silence of that tropical loneliness of heathen-land. It must have been
Fate which drew my footsteps to the solitude by the mountains near
Tai-o-hae, for I met not only Waylao, but another victim of life’s
drama.
I was passing down the track that ran beside the mountains, a lonely
spot, from where one could see the distant ocean twinkling in the
moonlight and the moth-grey sails of the outbound schooners fading out
to sea. Not far from where I stood was a chasm where the giant
bread-fruits still sheltered the ancient ruins of the heathen temple
Marea, a solemn reminder of the great old days. As I stood there alone,
drinking in the atmosphere of far-off years, a figure suddenly emerged
from a thicket of bamboos.
For a moment I could hardly believe my eyes. I had inquired and searched
at every likely place to find that sad fugitive, and lo! there stood
Waylao.
I will not dwell on all that happened, the girl’s despair and my own
feelings as I grasped the clammy hand of that sad enigma, that homeless
girl of mystery, passion and romance.
I led her into the shadows of the forest, and she cried bitterly as I
gave the sympathy she needed so much.
It seems like a dream in the recalling, the memory of that trembling
form, the wild look of terror in her eyes as at last she realised the
true character of the man whom she had worshipped. She did not divulge
the name of her betrayer, nor was it my wish to seek the information. It
was all beyond recall. One thing was very obvious to me—that she had
been to her betrayer for protection and found that he had flown directly
he had heard of her plight. I tried my best to persuade the misguided
girl to return home.
“Waylao,” I said, “I have seen your mother and she has begged me to try
and find you.” But it seemed that either she was half demented or that
her fear of Benbow and her mother made her prefer to roam homeless
rather than consent.
“I do not want to live, or if I must live, I do not wish to see those I
have disgraced again,” she murmured between her tears.
I took her hand and tried by the softest words to reassure the girl, but
it seemed hopeless. Indeed it was only when my persuasion brought a
terrified look into her eyes, and she was on the point of taking to
flight, that I led her away into the forest.
By the hollows where grew enormous banyans was a little deserted hut,
and there I led her.
“Waylao,” I said, “you cannot roam about like this; and if you are
determined not to return to your people, you had better stop here where
I can find you.”
Though I was about Waylao’s age, I felt considerably older. Indeed my
experience of the world made me look upon her as a child.
“Waylao,” I said, “I wish to be your friend. Will you let me help you?”
The girl only looked at me earnestly and burst into tears.
The night was perfectly still. The moon was shining brilliantly over the
mountains, revealing the distant shore and ocean for miles and miles.
Like some half-wild creature, the stricken girl crouched beside me. But
after a while she calmed down and even promised to try and listen to my
advice the next day, for I had arranged to come to that hut, to bring
food and blankets.
It was more like some Byronic romance than reality as I thought of our
strange position and looked at the girl beside me. She was robed in a
picturesque multi-coloured kimono, that she had hastily snatched up, I
suppose, in her flight. A few flowers were in her hair, that crown of
rich, glossy splendour, and made her appear wildly beautiful as the
dishevelled tresses fell about her throat, gleaming white in the
moonlight. I tried to cheer her up. Taking the violin out of the case, I
was lifting the bow to play a song that I had heard her sing in the
shanty when we heard a voice. For a moment I wondered what on earth it
could mean, for I distinctly heard the strains of sweet singing coming
nearer and nearer.
Waylao clung to me with fright. I immediately reassured her, for,
looking out through the thickets of wild _feis_, I saw a faery-like
being in the distance. I stared in astonishment at that sight. I rubbed
my eyes to convince myself that I did not dream it all; for there,
coming down the forest track on weary feet, outlined in the moonlight,
came the figure of a girl. Even Waylao half forgot her own sorrows as
she too peeped out of the thickets, watched and listened to that wraith
of the forest singing the saddest, sweetest strain I ever heard. It is
some phantom girl of the mountains, thought I, for in those days I was
mad enough to believe anything.
“What can it be, Waylao?” I whispered as we both watched and the melody
grew clearer, for the figure was coming towards us. As the form
approached, it seemed to be swaying to the tremulous song that the lips
were singing in a strange language. It were impossible to describe the
pathos of it all. It seemed that the poor, weary feet of that castaway,
that the dilapidated shoes that she wore, were shuffling out some
terribly sad accompaniment to that French song—for that wandering girl
of the night was an escapee, a convict girl from New Caledonia, a poor
fugitive who had stowed away on some schooner at the convict
settlements, risking the horrors of a homeless life in those wild South
Seas rather than live on linked with criminals. She was still clad in
her ragged convict clothes, the misery of God knows what thoughts
shining in her eyes, as she tramped the night track by Tai-o-hae.
Ere I could recover from the wonder that thrilled me the convict girl
was right opposite our hiding-place. I distinctly saw the beautiful
outline of her face as the moonlight streamed through the branches of
the bread-fruits that sheltered the track.
So intensely sad was her face that I instinctively leaned forward and
stared. In a moment the song ceased. The girl had observed me; she half
turned, as if to fly. It must have been some expression of my face that
made her stay, look again and respond half fearfully to my beckoning.
I think the memory, the pathos of that scene will remain with me till I
die.
The escapee’s eyes filled with tears as Waylao threw her arms about that
frail, possibly lately lashed form, for Waylao understood more than I
did the plight of those wretched derelicts who escaped and drifted as
stowaways across the Pacific from Noumea. Either they came to those
parts, hunted men—seldom women—or their skeletons were discovered in the
hold of some ship wherein they had hidden their trembling frames too
well.
So did romance come to me in its saddest, most terrible form. Nothing,
not even the sorrow of Calvary, could outdo that tragedy, that picture
of man’s inhumanity and mighty injustice to those in his power.
With all the impulsiveness of a boy’s wild desire to help the stricken,
to plead for the beauty of romance in woman, I knelt at that altar of
misery.
It may sound like a page from a drama that never saw the light of day. I
only wish it _were_ a fevered dream of the brain. But it was real
enough, though it certainly sounds sufficiently mad to be untrue in this
world of inscrutable mockery, where man lifts his eyes piously, and
where all his prayers begin or end with “God have mercy upon _me_!”
God! I’ve done glorious mission work in my time.
We took the poor escapee into the forest depth so that she might be safe
from the eyes of the gendarmes, the hunters, the officials of the
calaboose near Tai-o-hae, and she stood trembling beside us, beneath
those giant bread-fruits. Even those old, insensate trees seemed to bend
tenderly over that hunted convict girl.
After she had discovered that we were friends and had listened to our
sympathy, a beautiful expression, an almost indescribable splendour lit
up her tearful face. She looked like some fallen angel: the earnest
stars seemed to shine in her eyes as she stood before us, the dirty
strip of blue ribbon fluttering at her beautiful throat as she wept, and
told us all—yes, even the crime of passion which had caused her to be
exiled from her La Belle France.
As we listened to her story, we three huddled together in that forest,
the scents of the damp glooms were stirred by the creeping zephyrs, as
though the mighty brooding heart of Nature was in sympathy with all we
heard and with unseen fingers touched us, and sighed the breath from her
dead forest flowers upon us, as I sat there with those two beautiful
castaways, one a child of the South, and one from far-away civilisation.
I can still hear the terribly sad music of that voice, as in pathetic,
broken English she almost sang her sorrow into our ears.
She told us how justice was meted out to her, how fierce, relentless men
came in the disguise of outraged righteousness, seized her and shut her
with her remorse in that coffin whereon no flowers are placed: nailing a
young girl down with all her shattered dreams—alive, inside.
As Waylao and I listened to her story, I imagined that girl to be some
terrible symbol, some sad, beautiful personification of all the
castaways of the earth. The very winds seemed to shriek triumphantly, as
though they still roared out the hate of pious men, and coming from the
far-off cities across the seas, rushed up that shore and shook the
forest trees violently with pursuing hands. I felt as though the world
of reality had long since been shattered back into its hell by the final
cataclysm, the crash of the spheres; that I sat there with the remnant,
two beings it had failed to crush, but had left behind, gloriously
beautiful with sorrow, in a new, divine form. As for me, it seemed as
though I were some great mistake, some man, by a sad mischance, still
left behind on earth, and I sat between them listening and hung my head
for shame.
Out of another’s sorrow balm came to Waylao: she wept not for herself,
but for the ragged figure, the blistered feet of the derelict beside us.
O heart of mine! Is it true that the forest trees brightened with
ethereal light—that an angel stood weeping in those woods—that a
stricken phantom girl seemed to step from the confessional box of that
almighty cathedral of giant trees and the domed starlit night, her soul
renewed with glory, her shattered dreams restored by our sympathy?
Was it a fallen angel, a phantom of the imagination, that came down to
us in the forest by Tai-o-hae, sang that French hymn to beauty, and,
with the stars shining in her flying mass of hair,
Danced as the winds came creeping in
And I played on the violin!
Yes, danced, as the mad shadow played and played the songs of romance
and the waves beat out their warning monotones on the beach below.
* * * * *
Early the next day I hurried back to my two sad fugitives in their hut
by the sea. Ere I had left them the night before I had made them promise
not to stray away from that spot.
It would have been better if I had broken my promise and gone straight
to old Lydia and told her of Waylao’s whereabouts. But as usual in this
funny world, I managed to do the wrong thing at exactly the right
moment.
So strange and sad had been the happenings of the previous night that I
half fancied I had dreamed of Waylao and that hut in the forest and the
convict girl. That morning I went to Mrs Ranjo and got her to lend me
two blankets. “I’ve got an awful chill on the lungs,” I wailed
plaintively, in order to satisfy the bar-woman’s curiosity, and departed
for the forest with a parcel of dainty things.
When I arrived at that little hut by the mountains, there they still
were, huddled together, sisters of grief in each other’s arms. It is
hard to know, even now, which was the greatest sinner—Mohammed in the
South Seas, or “Christianity’s” strange justice in the civilised world.
I still recall the earnest eyes of that grateful convict girl as I crept
into that little shelter.
Ah, God! it’s hard to have been a missionary at the altar of romance and
beauty, to have reaped so little reward for so much sorrow. The milk of
human kindness is indeed diluted and hard to digest. That same night
Waylao and I listened to the wretched escapee’s story. She told us why
she had been transported for life, but it is too sad a tale to tell
here. She was a Parisian girl of superior family, and had suffered for
twelve months in the galleys and in the hideous chain gangs of Noumea
ere she escaped. She had stowed away in the hold of a small schooner
that called with stores at Noumea. Friendly sailors had connived to let
her slip ashore unperceived at Nuka Hiva a few days before Waylao and I
met her.
As we sat under the trees of that forest near Tai-o-hae, she seemed
still to be a being from another world. Our sympathy, which she had
probably never thought to find again on earth, inspired her with a new,
half-etherealised existence. Strange as it may appear to the marble-like
human beings of the great, polite world, she sang to us, swaying like to
some faery creature as I played to her on my violin. Ah! What a soloist
I’ve been! Who has had such fame, such success as I? What an audience
was mine—when I played to immortality, to those earnest eyes, to those
sad lips singing magical French songs to us. I think God must have
composed the melodies we three sang together in those wide halls before
the footlight of the stars, over the seas, years ago.
The native drums had already beaten the last stars in as I sat there in
deep thought, pondering over it all, wondering what was the best thing
to do for that poor derelict’s sake. As Waylao wept on, the lost escapee
rose as though restless, as though she wished to leave us. Her
restlessness had already worried me, for it was not the first time she
had intimated that she must leave us. Indeed Waylao had almost promised
me that she would return home for that derelict girl’s sake. For I must
confess that I had traded on the miraculous appearance of that fugitive,
and had sought to make her the instrument to serve two purposes.
“Waylao,” I said, “if you return to your mother, we can, with each
other’s help, hide this poor castaway till such time as we can help her
to get to a safer retreat.” At this Waylao had listened earnestly and,
for the sake of the French convict girl, promised to go home. I was
delighted at the way things were working, till that French girl rose and
intimated that she must go away.
“Why go? We will look after you,” we said appealingly.
I even told her that I would try and get her a passage back to the
colonies, so that she could once more get back to France.
She shook her head. She must never, never go back to the West; but must
ever wander, lost, exiled, with her face turned to the South, hopeless,
forgotten by all.
Waylao threw her arms about the girl, imploring her not to leave her.
When they had wept a little while together, the convict girl gave us to
understand that she wished to be left alone with her God for a while. We
were strangely impressed by the earnestness of her manner. Her eyes had
an indescribable look of beauty in them. The smile on her mouth almost
brought the tears to my eyes. I no longer sought to look for meanings of
anything. I sat there like one in a dream, as though I were doing my
part on some unknown stage where some mysterious drama was being
enacted.
“Mon dieu! I will come back to you again, sister,” she whispered in
broken English as Waylao kissed her. She went down the little track that
led to the shore. We saw her turn and wave her hand as she turned round
by the buttressed banyans and then disappeared.
Waylao and I waited together. As the wind came in from the sea and
wailed in the giant bread-fruits overhead, we felt strangely unhappy. At
last I listened to Waylao, whose instincts were stronger than mine in
fathoming the ways of her sex. I had already given up any idea of my
returning to Tai-o-hae. I determined to stay with Waylao till her
new-found comrade returned. We must have walked up and down that track
and along the shore for hours searching, and even calling, in hopes that
the fugitive would hear us and return. It was only when Waylao was
almost dropping with exhaustion that I returned to the hut in the
forest. Again we sat and still waited for the return of the girl who had
strangely gripped us by the very heart-strings. I made a soft bed of
moss and dead weeds for the homeless girl beside me. She lay down, and
ere I had spread the blanket over her figure she had fallen into a deep
sleep of exhaustion. Then I crept away down to the shore to smoke and
with the hope of discovering our lost companion.
Ah, God! Dawn came stealing in, like hushed grey wings sending the stars
home before their wide, silent sweep. Ere the first burnished flame of
the sun touched the horizon the blue lagoons of the shores sprang into
view. Scarcely a ripple stirred the deep waters of the Pacific as they
heaved, dark and immense, like some mighty, troubled tomb, ere it gave
up its dead.
Then her body came in on the tide, lifting and falling with the swell.
Even the tropic birds seemed to give a low cry of sorrow as they swept
away over the hushed waters. Just as the poets might say—her beautiful
hair floated like a glinting mass of softest seaweed. It might have been
a sleeping mermaid floating shoreward. Not in all the world of romance
and reality could one imagine a sight to outrival the pathos, the
ineffable sorrow of that castaway returning to the shores of earth—on
the incoming tide. I can still see the South Sea chestnut-trees and the
leaning bread-fruits as they stretched their tasselled, twining arms
over that blue lagoon. The mirroring water shone like purest glass above
the multi-coloured corals of the still depths. On she came. The blue
strip of ribbon was still at her throat, like some weeping symbol, a
tiny flag that had once fluttered on the visionary turrets of the
enchanted castle of a girl’s dreams. There it hung, limp as the hands
that had tied it there, after all the faeries had flown back to the
stars. As she reclined on the surface of those deep, clear waters, her
shadow was perfectly outlined, and her sleeping face sideways on her
hanging arm distinctly visible beneath her. Even the strip of ribbon was
imaged, and fluttered once again as the little starfish sailed right
_through_ it.
The light of man’s cruelty, the hopelessness of all the creeds, shone in
her dead eyes.
So died the convict girl. Sympathy had made her brave. She had regained
belief in the goodness of things, recaptured, out of misery, the lost
faith of her childhood; fearlessly risked her all—gone before One who
would not judge as men judge, or condemn the clay of His own fashioning.
They buried her by Calaboose Hill, in the hidden cemetery of the forest
depth, where lay old Marquesan chiefs and the home-sick white men. And
I, irreligious wretch that I am, went to that hallowed spot, leaned over
the dead escapee and placed a little cross on the grave.
After that terrible discovery I returned to Waylao, hardly conscious of
what I should say. For a while I managed to keep the sorrow of it from
her. She saw by my manner that something terrible had occurred; indeed
she half guessed the truth before I told her anything. Her grief was
terrible. I did my best to console the poor girl.
“Waylao,” I said, “it is no good grieving; she has gone from all the
sorrow of this world; and but for this little bit of ribbon we might
well imagine that such a being never existed, never drifted out of the
stars, and then, leaving these dilapidated shoes behind, escaped from
the clutches of the convict officials.”
Taking her hand as tenderly as a brother might take the hand of an
erring sister, I said: “Waylao, come away home to your people. I have
been to Father O’Leary and he wants to see you.” Then I told her once
more of her mother’s grief over her flight, of all the kind things that
people had said about her—for I, too, can be a holy liar—and I took her
away over the hills. She was strangely silent as she walked beside me.
“I don’t want to go back, I cannot,” she said when we were within sight
of the township. I did not dream of the true state of her mind. All that
she had gone through, and the sudden loss of her new-made friend in her
sorrow, had evidently unhinged her mind, for I never saw any woman run
like she did. We were just passing by a clump of bread-fruits that
stretched into the deeper forest by Tai-o-hae when I looked up and saw
her bolting.
Recovering from my astonishment, I started off in pursuit. She was light
of frame and foot, and so easily outpaced me.
I was more upset at this turn of affairs than I would like to confess.
When I got back to the old hulk I was sweating and exhausted through my
hopeless search. I thought it best to say nothing to anyone except
Father O’Leary of what had happened. To tell the truth, I began to
wonder what construction might be put on my unconventional interest in
Waylao’s plight. I suppose, even now, old Mother Grundy will have her
private opinion, but what care I, safe out here in the solitude of
Savaii Isles! I wonder what she would think of my next chance meeting
with the half-caste girl. Yes, we met again some time later, and in the
most miraculous way—far out at sea. But there’s a good deal to tell
before I reach that episode.
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