It was spring in the South Seas when, for the first time, I went ashore
at Batengo, which is the Polynesian village, and the only one on the big
grass island of the same name. There is a cable station just up the
beach from the village, and a good-natured young chap named Graves had
charge of it. He was an upstanding, clean-cut fellow, as the fact that
he had been among the islands for three years without falling into any
of their ways proved. The interior of the corrugated iron house in which
he lived, for instance, was bachelor from A to Z. And if that wasn't a
sufficient alibi, my pointer dog, Don, who dislikes anything Polynesian
or Melanesian, took to him at once. And they established a romping
friendship. He gave us lunch on the porch, and because he had not seen a
white man for two months, or a liver-and-white dog for two years, he
told us the entire story of his young life, with reminiscences of early
childhood and plans for the future thrown in.
The future was very simple. There was a girl coming out to him from the
States by the next steamer but one; the captain of that steamer would
join them together in holy wedlock, and after that the Lord would
provide.
"My dear fellow," he said, "you think I'm asking her to share a very
lonely sort of life, but if you could imagine all the--the affection and
gentleness, and thoughtfulness that I've got stored up to pour out at
her feet for the rest of our lives, you wouldn't be a bit afraid for her
happiness. If a man spends his whole time and imagination thinking up
ways to make a girl happy and occupied, he can think up a whole lot....
I'd like ever so much to show her to you."
He led the way to his bedroom, and stood in silent rapture before a
large photograph that leaned against the wall over his dressing-table.
She didn't look to me like the sort of girl a cable agent would happen
to marry. She looked like a swell--the real thing--beautiful and simple
and unaffected.
"Yes," he said, "isn't she?"