Following the departure of the Customs tug, Gaston of the Beard had sat
below in earnest converse with Tamea. The Triton had wept a little at
first, albeit his tears were not for himself but for Tamea; and after
her initial gust of despair and grief, the girl had remembered that
strength and not weakness was what her father expected of her.
Accordingly she had rallied to the task of comforting him.
“And you knew I had contracted this disease, my daughter?” old Gaston
queried amazedly.
“_Oui, mon père._ I saw the puffy places on your cheeks and knuckles
before we sailed from Riva, but I was not certain until I saw you one
day in swimming. There is a white patch on your right shoulder.”
“But you have touched me, Tamea. You have caressed me——”
“And shall again, dear one. The disease has but recently made its
appearance. There are no active lesions and I am not fearful, father
Larrieau.”
“In this country, Tamea, when one is afflicted so, he is restrained of
his liberty. He is confined in a hospital called the pesthouse. There
are no men or women there with whom I should care to associate—and I am
old enough to die, anyhow. I would be free from this tainted body and
dwell with your mother in Paliuli”—the Polynesian equivalent of heaven.
Tamea had no answer for this. All too thoroughly she divined the hidden
meaning in his speech, but because she was what she was—a glorious
pagan—the knowledge of the course which Gaston of the Beard
contemplated aroused in her neither apprehension nor grief. To Tamea the
mystery of death was no greater than the mystery of birth. Men and women
lived their appointed time and passed on to Paliuli, if they were worthy
like her father; or to Po, the world of darkness, if they were unworthy.
The departure for Paliuli was not one to cause a grief greater than that
experienced when one’s nearest and dearest departed for a neighboring
island, to be absent for an indefinite period. Of course she would weep,
for were not her people the most affectionate and tender-hearted race in
the world?
And was not she, the last of her line, a descendant of kings and
expected to meet with complacency whatever of good or of evil life might
have in store for her? So she tugged the great bush of a beard
affectionately, from time to time, as her father talked, telling her of
his plans for her, his ambitions and desires, impressing upon her, above
all things, the necessity for absolute obedience to the man whom he
would name her guardian.
With a full heart Tamea gave him the promise he desired, and when she
noticed how much the assurance comforted him her triumphant youth routed
for the nonce consideration of everything save the necessity for
cheering her father. So she went to her stateroom and returned with—an
accordion! It was a splendid instrument belonging to old Larrieau, and
Tamea had learned to play it very well by ear. She lay back in her chair
and commenced to play very, very softly a ballad that was old a decade
before Tamea was born, to wit, “Down Went McGinty!”
But—it had a lilt to it, and presently her father was beating time and
humming the song. And Tamea, like her father, like so many of her
mother’s race, had a gift for clowning; now, as she played, she swayed
her body a trifle, raised her shoulders on the long drawn out “D-o-w-n”
and made funny faces; somehow the instrument seemed to wail and sob as
McGinty sank to the bottom of the sea. It was ridiculous, wholly
amusing, and old Gaston’s mellow bellow of laughter reached the ears of
Dan Pritchard while yet his launch was a cable’s length from the Moorea.
And then Tamea swung her instrument and broke into “La Marseillaise”
while her father sang it as only a Frenchman can.
Dan Pritchard came overside and stuck his head down through the
ventilator over the deck-house. “Gaston,” he remarked, when the singer
ceased, “I came because I heard you were very ill.”
“Ill, _mon petit_, ill? I am worse than ill. I am a dead man and I sing
at my own wake. Come down, rascal! By my beard, my old heart sings to
see you, Dan Pritchard. Come down, I tell you.”
“Coming,” Dan answered laughingly—and came.
“I could embrace you, my boy,” the old sailor informed him, “but during
Lent one must do something to mortify the flesh. Besides, I have had the
devilish luck to acquire leprosy.”
Dan Pritchard made no sign that this news was disturbing, albeit he was
hearing it for the first time.
“Well, if I may not shake your hand, give me a tug at your beard,
Gaston. Upon my word, there is no blight on those whiskers, old
shipmate.” And before Larrieau could prevent him he had grasped a
handful of whiskers and given the huge head a vigorous shaking. The
Triton, tremendously pleased, roared out an oath to hide a sob.
“Dan, this is my well beloved daughter, Tamea. Tamea, my dear child,
this is Monsieur Dan Pritchard, the gentleman of whom we were speaking.”
Tamea’s wondrous smoky eyes glowed with a welcoming light. “He who
twitches my father’s beard—when he _knows_,” she said very distinctly,
“shall never lack the love and respect of my father’s daughter. Monsieur
Dan Pritchard, my father would he might embrace you. Behold! I embrace
you—once for old Gaston of the Beard and once for myself.” And she set
her accordion on the cabin table, walked calmly to Dan Pritchard, drew
him to her heart and kissed him, in friendly fashion, on each cheek.
Embarrassed, Dan took her hand in his and patted it. “You are a sweet
child,” he said simply. Then, turning to the old man: “Gaston, it’s
great to see you again. But explain yourself, wretch. How dare you foul
up the Moorea with your frightful indisposition?”
“I was ever a disciple of the devil, Dan. It’s all through the islands.
The Chinese brought it. Dan, I am to be taken from Tamea—forever—and I
go as soon as my business has been arranged. Here is the book containing
my accounts as master to date. There is a balance of four thousand eight
hundred and nine dollars and eight cents due me. Give this to Tamea for
her personal needs. The vouchers are in this envelope. What is a fair
price for my one-quarter interest in the Moorea?”
“She is an old vessel but sound, and she pays her way like a lady,
Gaston. She’s worth twenty-five thousand dollars. I will buy your
interest on that basis.”
“Sold. Invest the money for Tamea. Here are drafts on the Bank of
California for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. I have indorsed
them to you. Buy bonds with them for Tamea. And here”—he burrowed in
the base of his beard and brought forth a small tobacco bag he had
hidden in that hirsute forest—“are the crown jewels of my little Tamea.
They are the black pearls I have come by, from time to time. It was
known that I had some of great value and I have had to conceal them
carefully.” He laughed his bellowing laugh. “Pay the duty on them, Dan,
if you are more honest than I; then sell them and buy more bonds for
Tamea.”
Dan Pritchard took an old envelope from his pocket, Larrieau dropped the
bag into it, and Dan sealed the envelope.
“I desire that Tamea be educated and affianced to some decent fellow.
Tamea, hear your father. You are not to marry any man Monsieur Dan
Pritchard does not approve of.”
Dan looked at her. “I promise,” she replied simply.
“You are to be her guardian, Dan.”
“Very well, Gaston,” said Dan instantly, “since you desire it. I shall
try to discharge the office in a commendable manner.”
“That, my boy, is why the office is yours. For your trouble you shall
have my gratitude while I live and the gratitude of Tamea after I am
dead. Also, you shall be the executor of my estate, which will bring you
a nice fee, and in addition the largest and most beautiful pearl in that
lot is yours. It will make a magnificent setting for a ring for the
woman you may marry—if you have not married.”
“I still revel in single blessedness, Gaston.”
The sailor nodded approvingly. “Time enough to settle down after you are
forty,” he agreed. “You will select the pearl, however. It is yours now.
It is magnificent. Its equal is not to be found in the world, I do
believe. The heart of it has a warm glow, like my old heart when I think
of my friendship for your good father and for you—when I think of Tamea
and Tamea’s wonderful mother. Damnation! I have lived! I have known
love; my great carcass has quivered to the thrill of life as a schooner
quivers in the grip of a _willi-waw_!” He smiled wistfully at Dan. Then:
“Well, bring down your lawyer, Dan. I would make my will, leaving all I
possess to Tamea.”
At a summons from Dan, Henderson came down into the cabin and was
introduced to Gaston of the Beard and his daughter. The last will and
testament of the Triton was as simple as the man who signed it, and Dan
and the lawyer appended their signatures as witnesses.
“Now then, Gaston,” said Dan, “of what does your estate consist?”
“These pearls, the money due me for disbursements made for account of
the Moorea and her owners, my interest in the Moorea and these drafts on
San Francisco. I have no real estate, and I owe nobody. Neither does
anybody owe me.”
“Then,” said Dan smilingly, “why make a will, with its fees and taxes?
Why not make a gift of all you possess to Tamea now? Gifts are not
taxable, nor do they have to be probated—expensively.”
Gaston of the Beard smiled and winked at the lawyer. “I knew I should
make no mistake in entrusting my little Tamea to this good friend,” he
declared. “Dan, the drafts are already indorsed to her. Take them. The
pearls you already have. Go ashore, my good friend, and return with a
bill of sale and a check for my interest in the Moorea, which I sell to
you, and your firm’s check for the amount due me on the final adjustment
of the ship’s accounts. I will then indorse both checks to Tamea and the
troublesome business of dying will have been simplified a
thousand-fold.”
Dan returned to the office of Casson and Pritchard, found a printed bill
of sale form such as is used in shipping offices, filled it in, unlocked
the safe, drew Casson and Pritchard’s check and his own for the amount
due Larrieau and returned to the Moorea. Three scratches of a pen and
Dan’s word passed, and the estate of Gaston of the Beard had been
probated and distributed.
Meanwhile Tamea had opened the boxes of flowers Dan had brought aboard
in compliance with her father’s request. Deftly she wove a _lei_ of
sweet peas, and when the business with Dan and the lawyer was done she
hung the _lei_ around old Gaston’s burly neck and garlanded his shaggy
head with roses.
Presently, at his suggestion, Tamea called the steward, who brought
glasses and a dusty bottle of old French Malaga. When the glasses had
been filled and passed by Tamea, Gaston of the Beard raised his on high.
“I drink to my loves, living and dead; to you, friend Dan Pritchard, and
to you, Monsieur l’Avocat! _Morituri te salutamus!_ I wish you good
luck, good health, happiness and a life just long enough not to become a
burden. May you live as joyously as I have lived and love life as I have
loved it; may you die as contented as I shall die, and without repining.
And may we embrace, like true friends and clean, in Paliuli!”
They drank.
“I have six quarts of that Malaga left. It is very old and of a rare
vintage. Monsieur l’Avocat, will you have money for your fee or would
you prefer the six live soldiers?. . . Ah, I thought so! The steward
will deliver them to you at your home, provided the prohibition agents
are not encountered first. Let us go on deck.”
At the head of the companion Tamea kissed a rose and passed it to her
father.
And that was their farewell.
“The tide has turned. It is at the ebb. It will bear me far to the sea
that I have loved and upon whose bosom my days have been spent,” said
Gaston of the Beard casually. “Thank you, dear Dan, for all that you
have been to me in life, for all that you will be to me in death. I go,
finding it hurts to leave those I love. Farewell, Dan Pritchard, and you
also, my good Monsieur l’Avocat. . . Tamea, dear child, I depart, loving
you.”
He pressed to his red lips the rose she had given him and then, with a
look of unutterable love for Tamea and a blithe kiss tossed to sea and
sky, he ran swiftly to the rail, stepped over it, and disappeared with a
very small splash for so huge a man. . . .
“He has gone to join my mother in Paliuli,” said Tamea bravely. “He goes
to her, flower-laden, like a bridegroom. It is the custom in Riva with
those for whom life has lost its taste to have their loved ones adorn
them with flowers; then they walk out into the sea until they are seen
no more.”
Presently, to Dan Pritchard, watching over the taffrail of the Moorea,
something floated up from the dark depths and drifted astern. It was the
emblem of love, the crown of roses and the _lei_ with which Tamea had
decked the great pagan e’er he left her for Paliuli. . . . Afterward Dan
remembered that Gaston had worn his marvelous going-ashore clothes and
that his tremendous trousers had bagged somewhat more than usual. So Dan
suspected he had taken the precaution to fill his pockets with pig lead
or iron bolts, and with the tide at the ebb he was drifting in those
dark depths out through the Golden Gate at the rate of four miles an
hour. . . . Well, they would not see _him_ again.
The sun had sunk behind Telegraph Hill, and dusk was creeping over the
waters of the bay of St. Francis. Dan saw the flag at Fort Mason come
fluttering down, and across the waters came the sound of the garrison
band; from the church of St. Francis de Sales over in North Beach the
Angelus was ringing.
“Well, Mr. Henderson,” said Dan presently, “the day’s work is done. The
launch is still alongside, so I suggest that you go ashore first and
send the launch back for me. Your family doubtless expects you home to
dinner. I shall remain here, I think, and go ashore later, when Tamea
has packed her belongings. I don’t suppose I ought to leave the child
here all night alone.”
Mr. Henderson inclined his head, for he was profoundly affected; as the
launch coughed away in the gathering gloom to land him at Meiggs Wharf,
Dan descended to the cabin, whither Tamea had gone.
As he entered the main cabin she came out of her stateroom. Her glorious
black hair had been loosely braided and hung over her left breast; in
the braid a scarlet sweet pea-blossom nestled. She still wore the cheap
white cotton skirt Dan had observed on her when he first came aboard and
she was still hatless, but buttoned tightly around her lithe young body
she now wore an old navy pea-jacket; under her arm she carried her
father’s very expensive accordion.
“I am your Tamea now, Monsieur Dan Pritchard,” she announced
tremulously. “In this new land I know no one but you. I go with you
where you will. I will obey you always, for you are my father and my
mother.”
The pathos of that simple speech stabbed him. Poor, lonely little alien!
Poor wanderer, in a white man’s world—a world which, Dan sensed, she
would never quite understand. How wondrously simple and sweet and
unspoiled she was! How transcendently lovely! He wished he might paint
her thus—he had a yearning to stretch forth his hand and touch her
hair. . . and presently he yielded to this desire. At his gentle,
paternal touch all the stark, suppressed agony in the heart of the Queen
of Riva rose in her throat and choked her. . . .
Dan Pritchard took the outcast in his arms and soothed and petted her
while she emptied her full heart. And to him the experience did not seem
an unusual one, for as Maisie had often assured him he had been born to
bear the burdens of other people. He was one of those great-hearted men
who seem destined to daddy the world. . . .
He wiped her tears away with his handkerchief and when the launch bumped
alongside again they said good-by to the Moorea. Kahanaha, the Kanaka,
wept, for he had sailed ten years with Gaston of the Beard. As they
disappeared into the darkness headed for Meiggs Wharf, his mellow
baritone voice followed them.
He was singing “_Aloha!_”