arrival, and when at last he landed at Tahiti he allowed a youth, who
said he was the son of the house, to lead him to the Hotel de la Fleur.
He chuckled when he thought of his friend's amazement on seeing him,
the most unexpected of visitors, walk into his office.
"By the way," he asked, as they went along, "can you tell me where I
shall find Mr. Edward Barnard?"
"Barnard?" said the youth. "I seem to know the name."
"He's an American. A tall fellow with light brown hair and blue eyes.
He's been here over two years."
"Of course. Now I know who you mean. You mean Mr Jackson's nephew."
"Whose nephew?"
"Mr Arnold Jackson."
"I don't think we're speaking of the same person," answered Bateman,
frigidly.
He was startled. It was queer that Arnold Jackson, known apparently to
all and sundry, should live here under the disgraceful name in which he
had been convicted. But Bateman could not imagine whom it was that he
passed off as his nephew. Mrs Longstaffe was his only sister and he had
never had a brother. The young man by his side talked volubly in an
English that had something in it of the intonation of a foreign tongue,
and Bateman, with a sidelong glance, saw, what he had not noticed
before, that there was in him a good deal of native blood. A touch of
hauteur involuntarily entered into his manner. They reached the hotel.
When he had arranged about his room Bateman asked to be directed to the
premises of Braunschmidt & Co. They were on the front, facing the
lagoon, and, glad to feel the solid earth under his feet after eight
days at sea, he sauntered down the sunny road to the water's edge.
Having found the place he sought, Bateman sent in his card to the
manager and was led through a lofty barn-like room, half store and half
warehouse, to an office in which sat a stout, spectacled, bald-headed
man.
"Can you tell me where I shall find Mr Edward Barnard? I understand he
was in this office for some time."
"That is so. I don't know just where he is."
"But I thought he came here with a particular recommendation from Mr
Braunschmidt. I know Mr Braunschmidt very well."
The fat man looked at Bateman with shrewd, suspicious eyes. He called to
one of the boys in the warehouse.
"Say, Henry, where's Barnard now, d'you know?"
"He's working at Cameron's, I think," came the answer from someone who
did not trouble to move.
The fat man nodded.
"If you turn to your left when you get out of here you'll come to
Cameron's in about three minutes."
Bateman hesitated.
"I think I should tell you that Edward Barnard is my greatest friend. I
was very much surprised when I heard he'd left Braunschmidt & Co."
The fat man's eyes contracted till they seemed like pin-points, and
their scrutiny made Bateman so uncomfortable that he felt himself
blushing.
"I guess Braunschmidt & Co. and Edward Barnard didn't see eye to eye on
certain matters," he replied.
Bateman did not quite like the fellow's manner, so he got up, not
without dignity, and with an apology for troubling him bade him
good-day. He left the place with a singular feeling that the man he had
just interviewed had much to tell him, but no intention of telling it.
He walked in the direction indicated and soon found himself at
Cameron's. It was a trader's store, such as he had passed half a dozen
of on his way, and when he entered the first person he saw, in his shirt
sleeves, measuring out a length of trade cotton, was Edward. It gave him
a start to see him engaged in so humble an occupation. But he had
scarcely appeared when Edward, looking up, caught sight of him, and gave
a joyful cry of surprise.
"Bateman! Who ever thought of seeing you here?"
He stretched his arm across the counter and wrung Bateman's hand. There
was no self-consciousness in his manner and the embarrassment was all on
Bateman's side.
"Just wait till I've wrapped this package."
With perfect assurance he ran his scissors across the stuff, folded it,
made it into a parcel, and handed it to the dark-skinned customer.
"Pay at the desk, please."
Then, smiling, with bright eyes, he turned to Bateman.
"How did you show up here? Gee, I am delighted to see you. Sit down,
old man. Make yourself at home."
"We can't talk here. Come along to my hotel. I suppose you can get
away?"
This he added with some apprehension.
"Of course I can get away. We're not so businesslike as all that in
Tahiti." He called out to a Chinese who was standing behind the opposite
counter. "Ah-Ling, when the boss comes tell him a friend of mine's just
arrived from America and I've gone out to have a drain with him."
"All-light," said the Chinese, with a grin.
Edward slipped on a coat and, putting on his hat, accompanied Bateman
out of the store. Bateman attempted to put the matter facetiously.
"I didn't expect to find you selling three and a half yards of rotten
cotton to a greasy nigger," he laughed.
"Braunschmidt fired me, you know, and I thought that would do as well as
anything else."
Edward's candour seemed to Bateman very surprising, but he thought it
indiscreet to pursue the subject.
"I guess you won't make a fortune where you are," he answered, somewhat
dryly.
"I guess not. But I earn enough to keep body and soul together, and I'm
quite satisfied with that."
"You wouldn't have been two years ago."
"We grow wiser as we grow older," retorted Edward, gaily.
Bateman took a glance at him. Edward was dressed in a suit of shabby
white ducks, none too clean, and a large straw hat of native make. He
was thinner than he had been, deeply burned by the sun, and he was
certainly better looking than ever. But there was something in his
appearance that disconcerted Bateman. He walked with a new jauntiness;
there was a carelessness in his demeanour, a gaiety about nothing in
particular, which Bateman could not precisely blame, but which
exceedingly puzzled him.
"I'm blest if I can see what he's got to be so darned cheerful about,"
he said to himself.
They arrived at the hotel and sat on the terrace. A Chinese boy brought
them cocktails. Edward was most anxious to hear all the news of Chicago
and bombarded his friend with eager questions. His interest was natural
and sincere. But the odd thing was that it seemed equally divided among
a multitude of subjects. He was as eager to know how Bateman's father
was as what Isabel was doing. He talked of her without a shade of
embarrassment, but she might just as well have been his sister as his
promised wife; and before Bateman had done analysing the exact meaning
of Edward's remarks he found that the conversation had drifted to his
own work and the buildings his father had lately erected. He was
determined to bring the conversation back to Isabel and was looking for
the occasion when he saw Edward wave his hand cordially. A man was
advancing towards them on the terrace, but Bateman's back was turned to
him and he could not see him.
"Come and sit down," said Edward gaily.
The new-comer approached. He was a very tall, thin man, in white ducks,
with a fine head of curly white hair. His face was thin too, long, with
a large, hooked nose and a beautiful, expressive mouth.
"This is my old friend Bateman Hunter. I've told you about him," said
Edward, his constant smile breaking on his lips.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Hunter. I used to know your father."
The stranger held out his hand and took the young man's in a strong,
friendly grasp. It was not till then that Edward mentioned the other's
name.
"Mr Arnold Jackson."
Bateman turned white and he felt his hands grow cold. This was the
forger, the convict, this was Isabel's uncle. He did not know what to
say. He tried to conceal his confusion. Arnold Jackson looked at him
with twinkling eyes.
"I daresay my name is familiar to you."
Bateman did not know whether to say yes or no, and what made it more
awkward was that both Jackson and Edward seemed to be amused. It was bad
enough to have forced on him the acquaintance of the one man on the
island he would rather have avoided, but worse to discern that he was
being made a fool of. Perhaps, however, he had reached this conclusion
too quickly, for Jackson, without a pause, added:
"I understand you're very friendly with the Longstaffes. Mary Longstaffe
is my sister."
Now Bateman asked himself if Arnold Jackson could think him ignorant of
the most terrible scandal that Chicago had ever known. But Jackson put
his hand on Edward's shoulder.
"I can't sit down, Teddie," he said. "I'm busy. But you two boys had
better come up and dine to-night."
"That'll be fine," said Edward.
"It's very kind of you, Mr Jackson," said Bateman, frigidly, "but I'm
here for so short a time; my boat sails to-morrow, you know; I think if
you'll forgive me, I won't come."
"Oh, nonsense. I'll give you a native dinner. My wife's a wonderful
cook. Teddie will show you the way. Come early so as to see the sunset.
I can give you both a shake-down if you like."
"Of course we'll come," said Edward. "There's always the devil of a row
in the hotel on the night a boat arrives and we can have a good yarn up
at the bungalow."
"I can't let you off, Mr Hunter," Jackson continued with the utmost
cordiality. "I want to hear all about Chicago and Mary."
He nodded and walked away before Bateman could say another word.
"We don't take refusals in Tahiti," laughed Edward. "Besides, you'll get
the best dinner on the island."
"What did he mean by saying his wife was a good cook? I happen to know
his wife's in Geneva."
"That's a long way off for a wife, isn't it?" said Edward. "And it's a
long time since he saw her. I guess it's another wife he's talking
about."
For some time Bateman was silent. His face was set in grave lines. But
looking up he caught the amused look in Edward's eyes, and he flushed
darkly.
"Arnold Jackson is a despicable rogue," he said.
"I greatly fear he is," answered Edward, smiling.
"I don't see how any decent man can have anything to do with him."
"Perhaps I'm not a decent man."
"Do you see much of him, Edward?"
"Yes, quite a lot. He's adopted me as his nephew."
Bateman leaned forward and fixed Edward with his searching eyes.
"Do you like him?"
"Very much."
"But don't you know, doesn't everyone here know, that he's a forger and
that he's been a convict? He ought to be hounded out of civilised
society."
Edward watched a ring of smoke that floated from his cigar into the
still, scented air.
"I suppose he is a pretty unmitigated rascal," he said at last. "And I
can't flatter myself that any repentance for his misdeeds offers one an
excuse for condoning them. He was a swindler and a hypocrite. You can't
get away from it. I never met a more agreeable companion. He's taught me
everything I know."
"What has he taught you?" cried Bateman in amazement.
"How to live."
Bateman broke into ironical laughter.
"A fine master. Is it owing to his lessons that you lost the chance of
making a fortune and earn your living now by serving behind a counter in
a ten cent store?"
"He has a wonderful personality," said Edward, smiling good-naturedly.
"Perhaps you'll see what I mean to-night."
"I'm not going to dine with him if that's what you mean. Nothing would
induce me to set foot within that man's house."
"Come to oblige me, Bateman. We've been friends for so many years, you
won't refuse me a favour when I ask it."
Edward's tone had in it a quality new to Bateman. Its gentleness was
singularly persuasive.
"If you put it like that, Edward, I'm bound to come," he smiled.
Bateman reflected, moreover, that it would be as well to learn what he
could about Arnold Jackson. It was plain that he had a great ascendency
over Edward, and if it was to be combated it was necessary to discover
in what exactly it consisted. The more he talked with Edward the more
conscious he became that a change had taken place in him. He had an
instinct that it behooved him to walk warily, and he made up his mind
not to broach the real purport of his visit till he saw his way more
clearly. He began to talk of one thing and another, of his journey and
what he had achieved by it, of politics in Chicago, of this common
friend and that, of their days together at college.
At last Edward said he must get back to his work and proposed that he
should fetch Bateman at five so that they could drive out together to
Arnold Jackson's house.
"By the way, I rather thought you'd be living at this hotel," said
Bateman, as he strolled out of the garden with Edward. "I understand
it's the only decent one here."
"Not I," laughed Edward. "It's a deal too grand for me. I rent a room
just outside the town. It's cheap and clean."
"If I remember right those weren't the points that seemed most important
to you when you lived in Chicago."
"Chicago!"
"I don't know what you mean by that, Edward. It's the greatest city in
the world."
"I know," said Edward.
Bateman glanced at him quickly, but his face was inscrutable.
"When are you coming back to it?"
"I often wonder," smiled Edward.
This answer, and the manner of it, staggered Bateman, but before he
could ask for an explanation Edward waved to a half-caste who was
driving a passing motor.
"Give us a ride down, Charlie," he said.
He nodded to Bateman, and ran after the machine that had pulled up a few
yards in front. Bateman was left to piece together a mass of perplexing
impressions.
Edward called for him in a rickety trap drawn by an old mare, and they
drove along a road that ran by the sea. On each side of it were
plantations, coconut and vanilla; and now and then they saw a great
mango, its fruit yellow and red and purple among the massy green of the
leaves; now and then they had a glimpse of the lagoon, smooth and blue,
with here and there a tiny islet graceful with tall palms. Arnold
Jackson's house stood on a little hill and only a path led to it, so
they unharnessed the mare and tied her to a tree, leaving the trap by
the side of the road. To Bateman it seemed a happy-go-lucky way of doing
things. But when they went up to the house they were met by a tall,
handsome native woman, no longer young, with whom Edward cordially shook
hands. He introduced Bateman to her.
"This is my friend Mr Hunter. We're going to dine with you, Lavina."
"All right," she said, with a quick smile. "Arnold ain't back yet."
"We'll go down and bathe. Let us have a couple of _pareos_."
The woman nodded and went into the house.
"Who is that?" asked Bateman.
"Oh, that's Lavina. She's Arnold's wife."
Bateman tightened his lips, but said nothing. In a moment the woman
returned with a bundle, which she gave to Edward; and the two men,
scrambling down a steep path, made their way to a grove of coconut trees
on the beach. They undressed and Edward showed his friend how to make
the strip of red trade cotton which is called a _pareo_ into a very neat
pair of bathing-drawers. Soon they were splashing in the warm, shallow
water. Edward was in great spirits. He laughed and shouted and sang. He
might have been fifteen. Bateman had never seen him so gay, and
afterwards when they lay on the beach, smoking cigarettes, in the limpid
air, there was such an irresistible light-heartedness in him that
Bateman was taken aback.
"You seem to find life mighty pleasant," said he.
"I do."
They heard a soft movement and looking round saw that Arnold Jackson was
coming towards them.
"I thought I'd come down and fetch you two boys back," he said. "Did you
enjoy your bath, Mr Hunter?"
"Very much," said Bateman.
Arnold Jackson, no longer in spruce ducks, wore nothing but a _pareo_
round his loins and walked barefoot. His body was deeply browned by the
sun. With his long, curling white hair and his ascetic face he made a
fantastic figure in the native dress, but he bore himself without a
trace of self-consciousness.
"If you're ready we'll go right up," said Jackson.
"I'll just put on my clothes," said Bateman.
"Why, Teddie, didn't you bring a _pareo_ for your friend?"
"I guess he'd rather wear clothes," smiled Edward.
"I certainly would," answered Bateman, grimly, as he saw Edward gird
himself in the loincloth and stand ready to start before he himself had
got his shirt on.
"Won't you find it rough walking without your shoes?" he asked Edward.
"It struck me the path was a trifle rocky."
"Oh, I'm used to it."
"It's a comfort to get into a _pareo_ when one gets back from town,"
said Jackson. "If you were going to stay here I should strongly
recommend you to adopt it. It's one of the most sensible costumes I have
ever come across. It's cool, convenient, and inexpensive."
They walked up to the house, and Jackson took them into a large room
with white-washed walls and an open ceiling in which a table was laid
for dinner. Bateman noticed that it was set for five.
"Eva, come and show yourself to Teddie's friend, and then shake us a
cocktail," called Jackson.
Then he led Bateman to a long low window.
"Look at that," he said, with a dramatic gesture. "Look well."
Below them coconut trees tumbled down steeply to the lagoon, and the
lagoon in the evening light had the colour, tender and varied, of a
dove's breast. On a creek, at a little distance, were the clustered huts
of a native village, and towards the reef was a canoe, sharply
silhouetted, in which were a couple of natives fishing. Then, beyond,
you saw the vast calmness of the Pacific and twenty miles away, airy and
unsubstantial like the fabric of a poet's fancy, the unimaginable beauty
of the island which is called Murea. It was all so lovely that Bateman
stood abashed.
"I've never seen anything like it," he said at last.
Arnold Jackson stood staring in front of him, and in his eyes was a
dreamy softness. His thin, thoughtful face was very grave. Bateman,
glancing at it, was once more conscious of its intense spirituality.
"Beauty," murmured Arnold Jackson. "You seldom see beauty face to face.
Look at it well, Mr Hunter, for what you see now you will never see
again, since the moment is transitory, but it will be an imperishable
memory in your heart. You touch eternity."
His voice was deep and resonant. He seemed to breathe forth the purest
idealism, and Bateman had to urge himself to remember that the man who
spoke was a criminal and a cruel cheat. But Edward, as though he heard a
sound, turned round quickly.
"Here is my daughter, Mr Hunter."
Bateman shook hands with her. She had dark, splendid eyes and a red
mouth tremulous with laughter; but her skin was brown, and her curling
hair, rippling down her-shoulders, was coal black. She wore but one
garment, a Mother Hubbard of pink cotton, her feet were bare, and she
was crowned with a wreath of white scented flowers. She was a lovely
creature. She was like a goddess of the Polynesian spring.
She was a little shy, but not more shy than Bateman, to whom the whole
situation was highly embarrassing, and it did not put him at his ease to
see this sylph-like thing take a shaker and with a practised hand mix
three cocktails.
"Let us have a kick in them, child," said Jackson.
She poured them out and smiling delightfully handed one to each of the
men. Bateman flattered himself on his skill in the subtle art of shaking
cocktails and he was not a little astonished, on tasting this one, to
find that it was excellent. Jackson laughed proudly when he saw his
guest's involuntary look of appreciation.
"Not bad, is it? I taught the child myself, and in the old days in
Chicago I considered that there wasn't a bar-tender in the city that
could hold a candle to me. When I had nothing better to do in the
penitentiary I used to amuse myself by thinking out new cocktails, but
when you come down to brass-tacks there's nothing to beat a dry
Martini."
Bateman felt as though someone had given him a violent blow on the
funny-bone and he was conscious that he turned red and then white. But
before he could think of anything to say a native boy brought in a great
bowl of soup and the whole party sat down to dinner. Arnold Jackson's
remark seemed to have aroused in him a train of recollections, for he
began to talk of his prison days. He talked quite naturally, without
malice, as though he were relating his experiences at a foreign
university. He addressed himself to Bateman and Bateman was confused and
then confounded. He saw Edward's eyes fixed on him and there was in them
a flicker of amusement. He blushed scarlet, for it struck him that
Jackson was making a fool of him, and then because he felt absurd--and
knew there was no reason why he should--he grew angry. Arnold Jackson
was impudent--there was no other word for it--and his callousness,
whether assumed or not, was outrageous. The dinner proceeded. Bateman
was asked to eat sundry messes, raw fish and he knew not what, which
only his civility induced him to swallow, but which he was amazed to
find very good eating. Then an incident happened which to Bateman was
the most mortifying experience of the evening. There was a little
circlet of flowers in front of him, and for the sake of conversation he
hazarded a remark about it.
"It's a wreath that Eva made for you," said Jackson, "but I guess she
was too shy to give it you."
Bateman took it up in his hand and made a polite little speech of thanks
to the girl.
"You must put it on," she said, with a smile and a blush.
"I? I don't think I'll do that."
"It's the charming custom of the country," said Arnold Jackson.
There was one in front of him and he placed it on his hair. Edward did
the same.
"I guess I'm not dressed for the part," said Bateman, uneasily.
"Would you like a _pareo_?" said Eva quickly. "I'll get you one in a
minute."
"No, thank you. I'm quite comfortable as I am."
"Show him how to put it on, Eva," said Edward.
At that moment Bateman hated his greatest friend. Eva got up from the
table and with much laughter placed the wreath on his black hair.
"It suits you very well," said Mrs Jackson. "Don't it suit him, Arnold?"
"Of course it does."
Bateman sweated at every pore.
"Isn't it a pity it's dark?" said Eva. "We could photograph you all
three together."
Bateman thanked his stars it was. He felt that he must look prodigiously
foolish in his blue serge suit and high collar--very neat and
gentlemanly--with that ridiculous wreath of flowers on his head. He was
seething with indignation, and he had never in his life exercised more
self-control than now when he presented an affable exterior. He was
furious with that old man, sitting at the head of the table, half-naked,
with his saintly face and the flowers on his handsome white locks. The
whole position was monstrous.
Then dinner came to an end, and Eva and her mother remained to clear
away while the three men sat on the verandah. It was very warm and the
air was scented with the white flowers of the night. The full moon,
sailing across an unclouded sky, made a pathway on the broad sea that
led to the boundless realms of Forever. Arnold Jackson began to talk.
His voice was rich and musical. He talked now of the natives and of the
old legends of the country. He told strange stories of the past, stories
of hazardous expeditions into the unknown, of love and death, of hatred
and revenge. He told of the adventurers who had discovered those distant
islands, of the sailors who, settling in them, had married the daughters
of great chieftains, and of the beach-combers who had led their varied
lives on those silvery shores. Bateman, mortified and exasperated, at
first listened sullenly, but presently some magic in the words possessed
him and he sat entranced. The mirage of romance obscured the light of
common day. Had he forgotten that Arnold Jackson had a tongue of silver,
a tongue by which he had charmed vast sums out of the credulous public,
a tongue which very nearly enabled him to escape the penalty of his
crimes? No one had a sweeter eloquence, and no one had a more acute
sense of climax. Suddenly he rose.
"Well, you two boys haven't seen one another for a long time. I shall
leave you to have a yarn. Teddie will show you your quarters when you
want to go to bed."
"Oh, but I wasn't thinking of spending the night, Mr Jackson," said
Bateman.
"You'll find it more comfortable. We'll see that you're called in good
time."
Then with a courteous shake of the hand, stately as though he were a
bishop in canonicals, Arnold Jackson took leave of his guest.
"Of course I'll drive you back to Papeete if you like," said Edward,
"but I advise you to stay. It's bully driving in the early morning."
For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Bateman wondered how he should
begin on the conversation which all the events of the day made him
think more urgent.
"When are you coming back to Chicago?" he asked, suddenly.
For a moment Edward did not answer. Then he turned rather lazily to look
at his friend and smiled.