her with it. She screamed, and the scream maddened him so that he went
on striking her, again and again. Her shrieks rang through the bungalow
and he cursed her as he hit. Then he flung her on the bed. She lay there
sobbing with pain and terror. He threw the whip away from him and rushed
out of the room. Ethel heard him go and she stopped crying. She looked
round cautiously, then she raised herself. She was sore, but she had not
been badly hurt, and she looked at her dress to see if it was damaged.
The native women are not unused to blows. What he had done did not
outrage her. When she looked at herself in the glass and arranged her
hair, her eyes were shining. There was a strange look in them. Perhaps
then she was nearer loving him than she had ever been before.
But Lawson, driven forth blindly, stumbled through the plantation and
suddenly exhausted, weak as a child, flung himself on the ground at the
foot of a tree. He was miserable and ashamed. He thought of Ethel, and
in the yielding tenderness of his love all his bones seemed to grow soft
within him. He thought of the past, and of his hopes, and he was aghast
at what he had done. He wanted her more than ever. He wanted to take her
in his arms. He must go to her at once. He got up. He was so weak that
he staggered as he walked. He went into the house and she was sitting in
their cramped bedroom in front of her looking-glass.
"Oh, Ethel, forgive me. I'm so awfully ashamed of myself. I didn't know
what I was doing."
He fell on his knees before her and timidly stroked the skirt of her
dress.
"I can't bear to think of what I did. It's awful. I think I was mad.
There's no one in the world I love as I love you. I'd do anything to
save you from pain and I've hurt you. I can never forgive myself, but
for God's sake say you forgive me."
He heard her shrieks still. It was unendurable. She looked at him
silently. He tried to take her hands and the tears streamed from his
eyes. In his humiliation he hid his face in her lap and his frail body
shook with sobs. An expression of utter contempt came over her face. She
had the native woman's disdain of a man who abased himself before a
woman. A weak creature! And for a moment she had been on the point of
thinking there was something in him. He grovelled at her feet like a
cur. She gave him a little scornful kick.
"Get out," she said. "I hate you."
He tried to hold her, but she pushed him aside. She stood up. She began
to take off her dress. She kicked off her shoes and slid the stockings
off her feet, then she slipped on her old Mother Hubbard.
"Where are you going?"
"What's that got to do with you? I'm going down to the pool."
"Let me come too," he said.
He asked as though he were a child.
"Can't you even leave me that?"
He hid his face in his hands, crying miserably, while she, her eyes hard
and cold, stepped past him and went out.
From that time she entirely despised him; and though, herded together in
the small bungalow, Lawson and Ethel with her two children, Brevald, his
wife and her mother, and the vague relations and hangers-on who were
always in and about, they had to live cheek by jowl, Lawson, ceasing to
be of any account, was hardly noticed. He left in the morning after
breakfast, and came back only to have supper. He gave up the struggle,
and when for want of money he could not go to the English Club he spent
the evening playing hearts with old Brevald and the natives. Except when
he was drunk he was cowed and listless. Ethel treated him like a dog.
She submitted at times to his fits of wild passion, and she was
frightened by the gusts of hatred with which they were followed; but
when, afterwards, he was cringing and lachrymose she had such a contempt
for him that she could have spat in his face. Sometimes he was violent,
but now she was prepared for him, and when he hit her she kicked and
scratched and bit. They had horrible battles in which he had not always
the best of it. Very soon it was known all over Apia that they got on
badly. There was little sympathy for Lawson, and at the hotel the
general surprise was that old Brevald did not kick him out of the
place.
"Brevald's a pretty ugly customer," said one of the men. "I shouldn't be
surprised if he put a bullet into Lawson's carcass one of these days."
Ethel still went in the evenings to bathe in the silent pool. It seemed
to have an attraction for her that was not quite human, just that
attraction you might imagine that a mermaid who had won a soul would
have for the cool salt waves of the sea; and sometimes Lawson went also.
I do not know what urged him to go, for Ethel was obviously irritated by
his presence; perhaps it was because in that spot he hoped to regain the
clean rapture which had filled his heart when first he saw her; perhaps
only, with the madness of those who love them that love them not, from
the feeling that his obstinacy could force love. One day he strolled
down there with a feeling that was rare with him now. He felt suddenly
at peace with the world. The evening was drawing in and the dusk seemed
to cling to the leaves of the coconut trees like a little thin cloud. A
faint breeze stirred them noiselessly. A crescent moon hung just over
their tops. He made his way to the bank. He saw Ethel in the water
floating on her back. Her hair streamed out all round her, and she was
holding in her hand a large hibiscus. He stopped a moment to admire her;
she was like Ophelia.
"Hulloa, Ethel," he cried joyfully.
She made a sudden movement and dropped the red flower. It floated idly
away. She swam a stroke or two till she knew there was ground within her
depth and then stood up.
"Go away," she said. "Go away."
He laughed.
"Don't be selfish. There's plenty of room for both of us."
"Why can't you leave me alone? I want to be by myself."
"Hang it all, I want to bathe," he answered, good-humouredly.
"Go down to the bridge. I don't want you here."
"I'm sorry for that," he said, smiling still.
He was not in the least angry, and he hardly noticed that she was in a
passion. He began to take off his coat.
"Go away," she shrieked. "I won't have you here. Can't you even leave me
this? Go away."
"Don't be silly, darling."
She bent down and picked up a sharp stone and flung it quickly at him.
He had no time to duck. It hit him on the temple. With a cry he put his
hand to his head and when he took it away it was wet with blood. Ethel
stood still, panting with rage. He turned very pale, and without a word,
taking up his coat, went away. Ethel let herself fall back into the
water and the stream carried her slowly down to the ford.
The stone had made a jagged wound and for some days Lawson went about
with a bandaged head. He had invented a likely story to account for the
accident when the fellows at the club asked him about it, but he had no
occasion to use it. No one referred to the matter. He saw them cast
surreptitious glances at his head, but not a word was said. The silence
could only mean that they knew how he came by his wound. He was certain
now that Ethel had a lover, and they all knew who it was. But there was
not the smallest indication to guide him. He never saw Ethel with
anyone; no one showed a wish to be with her, or treated him in a manner
that seemed strange. Wild rage seized him, and having no one to vent it
on he drank more and more heavily. A little while before I came to the
island he had had another attack of _delirium tremens_.
I met Ethel at the house of a man called Caster, who lived two or three
miles from Apia with a native wife. I had been playing tennis with him
and when we were tired he suggested a cup of tea. We went into the house
and in the untidy living-room found Ethel chatting with Mrs Caster.
"Hulloa, Ethel," he said, "I didn't know you were here."
I could not help looking at her with curiosity. I tried to see what
there was in her to have excited in Lawson such a devastating passion.
But who can explain these things? It was true that she was lovely; she
reminded one of the red hibiscus, the common flower of the hedgerow in
Samoa, with its grace and its languor and its passion; but what
surprised me most, taking into consideration the story I knew even then
a good deal of, was her freshness and simplicity. She was quiet and a
little shy. There was nothing coarse or loud about her; she had not the
exuberance common to the half-caste; and it was almost impossible to
believe that she could be the virago that the horrible scenes between
husband and wife, which were now common knowledge, indicated. In her
pretty pink frock and high-heeled shoes she looked quite European. You
could hardly have guessed at that dark background of native life in
which she felt herself so much more at home. I did not imagine that she
was at all intelligent, and I should not have been surprised if a man,
after living with her for some time, had found the passion which had
drawn him to her sink into boredom. It suggested itself to me that in
her elusiveness, like a thought that presents itself to consciousness
and vanishes before it can be captured by words, lay her peculiar charm;
but perhaps that was merely fancy, and if I had known nothing about her
I should have seen in her only a pretty little half-caste like another.
She talked to me of the various things which they talk of to the
stranger in Samoa, of the journey, and whether I had slid down the water
rock at Papaseea, and if I meant to stay in a native village. She talked
to me of Scotland, and perhaps I noticed in her a tendency to enlarge on
the sumptuousness of her establishment there. She asked me naïvely if I
knew Mrs This and Mrs That, with whom she had been acquainted when she
lived in the north.
Then Miller, the fat German-American, came in. He shook hands all round
very cordially and sat down, asking in his loud, cheerful voice for a
whisky and soda. He was very fat and he sweated profusely. He took off
his gold-rimmed spectacles and wiped them; you saw then that his little
eyes, benevolent behind the large round glasses, were shrewd and
cunning; the party had been somewhat dull till he came, but he was a
good story-teller and a jovial fellow. Soon he had the two women, Ethel
and my friend's wife, laughing delightedly at his sallies. He had a
reputation on the island of a lady's man, and you could see how this
fat, gross fellow, old and ugly, had yet the possibility of fascination.
His humour was on a level with the understanding of his company, an
affair of vitality and assurance, and his Western accent gave a peculiar
point to what he said. At last he turned to me:
"Well, if we want to get back for dinner we'd better be getting. I'll
take you along in my machine if you like."
I thanked him and got up. He shook hands with the others, went out of
the room, massive and strong in his walk, and climbed into his car.
"Pretty little thing, Lawson's wife," I said, as we drove along.
"Too bad the way he treats her. Knocks her about. Gets my dander up when
I hear of a man hitting a woman."
We went on a little. Then he said:
"He was a darned fool to marry her. I said so at the time. If he hadn't,
he'd have had the whip hand over her. He's yaller, that's what he is,
yaller."
The year was drawing to its end and the time approached when I was to
leave Samoa. My boat was scheduled to sail for Sydney on the fourth of
January. Christmas Day had been celebrated at the hotel with suitable
ceremonies, but it was looked upon as no more than a rehearsal for New
Year, and the men who were accustomed to foregather in the lounge
determined on New Year's Eve to make a night of it. There was an
uproarious dinner, after which the party sauntered down to the English
Club, a simple little frame house, to play pool. There was a great deal
of talking, laughing, and betting, but some very poor play, except on
the part of Miller, who had drunk as much as any of them, all far
younger than he, but had kept unimpaired the keenness of his eye and the
sureness of his hand. He pocketed the young men's money with humour and
urbanity. After an hour of this I grew tired and went out. I crossed the
road and came on to the beach. Three coconut trees grew there, like
three moon maidens waiting for their lovers to ride out of the sea, and
I sat at the foot of one of them, watching the lagoon and the nightly
assemblage of the stars.
I do not know where Lawson had been during the evening, but between ten
and eleven he came along to the club. He shambled down the dusty, empty
road, feeling dull and bored, and when he reached the club, before going
into the billiard-room, went into the bar to have a drink by himself. He
had a shyness now about joining the company of white men when there were
a lot of them together and needed a stiff dose of whisky to give him
confidence. He was standing with the glass in his hand when Miller came
in to him. He was in his shirt sleeves and still held his cue. He gave
the bar-tender a glance.
"Get out, Jack," he said.
The bar-tender, a native in a white jacket and a red _lava-lava_,
without a word slid out of the small room.
"Look here, I've been wanting to have a few words with you, Lawson,"
said the big American.
"Well, that's one of the few things you can have free, gratis, and for
nothing on this damned island."
Miller fixed his gold spectacles more firmly on his nose and held Lawson
with his cold determined eyes.
"See here, young fellow, I understand you've been knocking Mrs Lawson
about again. I'm not going to stand for that. If you don't stop it right
now I'll break every bone of your dirty little body."
Then Lawson knew what he had been trying to find out so long. It was
Miller. The appearance of the man, fat, bald-headed, with his round bare
face and double chin and the gold spectacles, his age, his benign,
shrewd look, like that of a renegade priest, and the thought of Ethel,
so slim and virginal, filled him with a sudden horror. Whatever his
faults Lawson was no coward, and without a word he hit out violently at
Miller. Miller quickly warded the blow with the hand that held the cue,
and then with a great swing of his right arm brought his fist down on
Lawson's ear. Lawson was four inches shorter than the American and he
was slightly built, frail and weakened not only by illness and the
enervating tropics, but by drink. He fell like a log and lay half dazed
at the foot of the bar. Miller took off his spectacles and wiped them
with his handkerchief.
"I guess you know what to expect now. You've had your warning and you'd
better take it."
He took up his cue and went back into the billiard-room. There was so
much noise there that no one knew what had happened. Lawson picked
himself up. He put his hand to his ear, which was singing still. Then he
slunk out of the club.
I saw a man cross the road, a patch of white against the darkness of the
night, but did not know who it was. He came down to the beach, passed me
sitting at the foot of the tree, and looked down. I saw then that it was
Lawson, but since he was doubtless drunk, did not speak. He went on,
walked irresolutely two or three steps, and turned back. He came up to
me and bending down stared in my face.
"I thought it was you," he said.
He sat down and took out his pipe.
"It was hot and noisy in the club," I volunteered.
"Why are you sitting here?"
"I was waiting about for the midnight mass at the Cathedral."
"If you like I'll come with you."
Lawson was quite sober. We sat for a while smoking in silence. Now and
then in the lagoon was the splash of some big fish, and a little way out
towards the opening in the reef was the light of a schooner.
"You're sailing next week, aren't you?" he said.
"Yes."
"It would be jolly to go home once more. But I could never stand it now.
The cold, you know."
"It's odd to think that in England now they're shivering round the
fire," I said.
There was not even a breath of wind. The balminess of the night was like
a spell. I wore nothing but a thin shirt and a suit of ducks. I enjoyed
the exquisite languor of the night, and stretched my limbs voluptuously.
"This isn't the sort of New Year's Eve that persuades one to make good
resolutions for the future," I smiled.
He made no answer, but I do not know what train of thought my casual
remark had suggested in him, for presently he began to speak. He spoke
in a low voice, without any expression, but his accents were educated,
and it was a relief to hear him after the twang and the vulgar
intonations which for some time had wounded my ears.
"I've made an awful hash of things. That's obvious, isn't it? I'm right
down at the bottom of the pit and there's no getting out for me. '_Black
as the pit from pole to pole._'" I felt him smile as he made the
quotation. "And the strange thing is that I don't see how I went wrong."
I held my breath, for to me there is nothing more awe-inspiring than
when a man discovers to you the nakedness of his soul. Then you see that
no one is so trivial or debased but that in him is a spark of something
to excite compassion.
"It wouldn't be so rotten if I could see that it was all my own fault.
It's true I drink, but I shouldn't have taken to that if things had gone
differently. I wasn't really fond of liquor. I suppose I ought not to
have married Ethel. If I'd kept her it would be all right. But I did
love her so."
His voice faltered.
"She's not a bad lot, you know, not really. It's just rotten luck. We
might have been as happy as lords. When she bolted I suppose I ought to
have let her go, but I couldn't do that--I was dead stuck on her then;
and there was the kid."
"Are you fond of the kid?" I asked.
"I was. There are two, you know. But they don't mean so much to me now.
You'd take them for natives anywhere. I have to talk to them in Samoan."
"Is it too late for you to start fresh? Couldn't you make a dash for it
and leave the place?"
"I haven't the strength. I'm done for."
"Are you still in love with your wife?"
"Not now. Not now." He repeated the two words with a kind of horror in
his voice. "I haven't even got that now. I'm down and out."
The bells of the Cathedral were ringing.
"If you really want to come to the midnight mass we'd better go along,"
I said.
"Come on."
We got up and walked along the road. The Cathedral, all white, stood
facing the sea not without impressiveness, and beside it the Protestant
chapels had the look of meeting-houses. In the road were two or three
cars, and a great number of traps, and traps were put up against the
walls at the side. People had come from all parts of the island for the
service, and through the great open doors we saw that the place was
crowded. The high altar was all ablaze with light. There were a few
whites and a good many half-castes, but the great majority were natives.
All the men wore trousers, for the Church has decided that the
_lava-lava_ is indecent. We found chairs at the back, near the open
door, and sat down. Presently, following Lawson's eyes, I saw Ethel come
in with a party of half-castes. They were all very much dressed up, the
men in high, stiff collars and shiny boots, the women in large, gay
hats. Ethel nodded and smiled to her friends as she passed up the aisle.
The service began.
When it was over Lawson and I stood on one side for a while to watch the
crowd stream out, then he held out his hand.
"Good-night," he said. "I hope you'll have a pleasant journey home."
"Oh, but I shall see you before I go."
He sniggered.
"The question is if you'll see me drunk or sober."
He turned and left me. I had a recollection of those very large black
eyes, shining wildly under the shaggy brows. I paused irresolutely. I
did not feel sleepy and I thought I would at all events go along to the
club for an hour before turning in. When I got there I found the
billiard-room empty, but half-a-dozen men were sitting round a table in
the lounge, playing poker. Miller looked up as I came in.
"Sit down and take a hand," he said.
"All right."
I bought some chips and began to play. Of course it is the most
fascinating game in the world and my hour lengthened out to two, and
then to three. The native bar-tender, cheery and wide-awake
notwithstanding the time, was at our elbow to supply us with drinks and
from somewhere or other he produced a ham and a loaf of bread. We played
on. Most of the party had drunk more than was good for them and the play
was high and reckless. I played modestly, neither wishing to win nor
anxious to lose, but I watched Miller with a fascinated interest. He
drank glass for glass with the rest of the company, but remained cool
and level-headed. His pile of chips increased in size and he had a neat
little paper in front of him on which he had marked various sums lent to
players in distress. He beamed amiably at the young men whose money he
was taking. He kept up interminably his stream of jest and anecdote, but
he never missed a draw, he never let an expression of the face pass him.
At last the dawn crept into the windows, gently, with a sort of
deprecating shyness, as though it had no business there, and then it was
day.
"Well," said Miller, "I reckon we've seen the old year out in style. Now
let's have a round of jackpots and me for my mosquito net. I'm fifty,
remember, I can't keep these late hours."
The morning was beautiful and fresh when we stood on the verandah, and
the lagoon was like a sheet of multicoloured glass. Someone suggested a
dip before going to bed, but none cared to bathe in the lagoon, sticky
and treacherous to the feet. Miller had his car at the door and he
offered to take us down to the pool. We jumped in and drove along the
deserted road. When we reached the pool it seemed as though the day had
hardly risen there yet. Under the trees the water was all in shadow and
the night had the effect of lurking still. We were in great spirits. We
had no towels or any costume and in my prudence I wondered how we were
going to dry ourselves. None of us had much on and it did not take us
long to snatch off our clothes. Nelson, the little supercargo, was
stripped first.
"I'm going down to the bottom," he said.
He dived and in a moment another man dived too, but shallow, and was out
of the water before him. Then Nelson came up and scrambled to the side.
"I say, get me out," he said.
"What's up?"
Something was evidently the matter. His face was terrified. Two fellows
gave him their hands and he slithered up.
"I say, there's a man down there."
"Don't be a fool. You're drunk."
"Well, if there isn't I'm in for D. T's. But I tell you there's a man
down there. It just scared me out of my wits."
Miller looked at him for a moment. The little man was all white. He was
actually trembling.
"Come on, Caster," said Miller to the big Australian, "we'd better go
down and see."
"He was standing up," said Nelson, "all dressed. I saw him. He tried to
catch hold of me."
"Hold your row," said Miller. "Are you ready?"
They dived in. We waited on the bank, silent. It really seemed as though
they were under water longer than any men could breathe. Then Caster
came up, and immediately after him, red in the face as though he were
going to have a fit, Miller. They were pulling something behind them.
Another man jumped in to help them, and the three together dragged their
burden to the side. They shoved it up. Then we saw that it was Lawson,
with a great stone tied up in his coat and bound to his feet.
"He was set on making a good job of it," said Miller, as he wiped the
water from his shortsighted eyes.
VI
_Honolulu_