All that she said to me that night as we returned over the stilly waters
of the lagoon to our companions, I cannot now remember; I only know
that as she sat facing me, and I paddled slowly and dreamily along, I
promised her, dully and mechanically, to tell Lucia that night that I
loved her.
“And she and thee will be happy, very happy, Simi. Her heart went out
to thee from the very first. And children will come to thee, and I shall
see them grow--the boys strong and brave as thou art, and the girls fair
and sweet as Lucia--and yet shalt thou have thy heart's desire, and be
spoken of as a man who did a great deed... a great voyage... and all
that hath been done by the three men of whom thou hast so often thought
will be but as little compared with this voyage of thine. And she so
loves thee, Simi; ah, she so loves thee.”
The soft murmur of her voice enthralled, took such possession of me
mentally and physically, that I know not what I answered except that I
said again and again, “Ay, I love her, I love her, and I shall tell her
of my love, and that she, and she alone, is my heart's desire.”
How long we were in getting back to the island I cannot tell, but I
do remember that it was quite dark, and both Niâbon and myself were
paddling vigorously when we heard Tepi's load hail of welcome, and a
canoe shot up on the beach, and Lucia came towards me with outstretched
hands.
“Jim, oh Jim! I thought you were never coming back,” she said.
I folded her in my arms and kissed her. “Lucia, dear, dear Lucia! Will
you be my wife? For I love you,” and then, scarcely knowing what I
was doing, I strained her almost savagely to my bosom, and kissed her
upturned face again and again.
“Jim, dear, dear Jim,” and her soft arms were around my neck, “and I
love you too! I have loved you almost from the day you first came to
Taritai, and Niâbon has told me that one day you would tell me that you
loved me... that some day you would speak... Jim dearest, bend down; you
are so tall, and I am so little; ah, Jim, I am so little, but my heart,
dear, is so big with love for you, that I feel that I could take _you_
in my arms, and kiss you as you now kiss me. Jim, dear, I never, never
knew what love meant till now.”
A bright burst of flame illumined the beach, and Niâbon with a torch in
her hand was standing at the water's edge.
“The night is fair and good, and the wind is from the east. Let us away,
dear friends.”
Her voice seemed to reach me as if from far, far away, though her dark
face with the deep luminous eyes were so near, and, as she spoke, the
boat, with Tepi and Tematau standing erect and waiting, grounded gently
on the strand.
“Yes, yes, we shall sail to-night,” I cried exultantly, as I again
pressed Lucia to my heart, and showered passionate kisses upon her lips,
“we shall sail, Lucia my dearest; on, and on, and on, to the north-west,
my beloved, till we come to our journey's end, and you and I shall never
part again, no never, never, my dearest.”
“Ay, never, never shall ye two part again,” cried Niâbon, casting down
her torch; “man with the strong and daring hand, and woman with the fond
and tender heart. Thy lives are forever linked together. Quick, give me
thy hand, Lucia, my dove, my own, my own!” She sprang towards us, and
took Lucia's hand in hers, and almost tore off her wedding ring, and
then flung it far out into the lagoon.
“Sink, sink, thou ring of misery--thou golden circle which should have
meant love and trust and happiness, but brought naught but hate and
treachery and poison to her who wore it. Sink, accursed thing.”
“Oh, Jim, Jim!” and Lucia turned her streaming eyes to mine, “it was my
wedding ring, and when _he_ gave it to me, I think he loved me, wicked
and cruel as he was afterwards. Oh, Niâbon, Niâbon!” In a moment
Niâbon's arms were around her. “My sweet, my sweet! thou art to me more
than life,” she whispered, “I love thee so, Lucia. I love thee so that
I would die for thee! Heed not the ring, for now thou hast beside thee
a good man--true, brave, and strong--one whose love will forever shield
thee. Come, my dearest, come with me to the boat.”
They went down the beach together, with arms around each other's waists,
and their footsteps guided by the still-burning torch lying on the sand.
I followed, and in another minute I had the tiller in my hand, and told
Tepi to push off, as Tematau ran up the jib.
“How now for the passage?” I cried, as I slipped my arm around Lucia's
waist, and her lips met mine, “how now for the passage, Tepi? Canst see?
Canst see, Tematau?”
Niâbon placed her hand on mine.
“Have no fear, Simi. The wind is fair and the passage through the reef
is wide, and the ship on the right hand is a good guide. See, her masts
stand out clear against the sky. And give me the tiller, for thou and
Lucia are tired. So sleep--sleep till the dawn, and Tematau and Tepi
and I shall keep watch through the night. How shall I steer?”
“North-west, north-west,” I muttered, as Lucia laid her cheek to mine,
“north-west, but call me if the wind hauls to the northward.”
She bent oyer Lucia and touched her face softly.
“Sleep, dear one, sleep till dawn,” she said in a whisper, and then with
a smile she turned to me.
“Simi, thou too art tired, and must sleep even as Lucia sleepeth now.
See, her eyes are closed. How sweet and fair she is as she sleepeth! Ah,
how sweet! So, let me touch thy face.” She pressed her soft hand on my
brow, and then, with Lucia's head pillowed on my breast, I slept.