On the morning following Gabrielle's terrible experience old Everard sat
bathing his head in a calabash of sea-water. It considerably revived his
numbed sense. Then he blew his nose fiercely and, stumping his wooden
leg with tremendous irritability, sat down to breakfast. Suddenly, as he
was munching, he looked up, wondering what on earth was the matter with
his daughter. Her dress was torn, her face looked pale and haggard, her
eyes full of drowsy fright and some haunting fear. She looked years
older than when she had retired the night before. The expression on her
face was one of infinite sorrow. The lips kept trembling. The old man,
completely lacking in imagination, could see nothing of the pathos, the
absolute wretchedness of the girl's expression. He summed up the whole
business according to his own feelings.
"Did you drink rum last night?--get drunk? What's the matter?" said he,
as he concluded by munching fast at his bread and toasted cheese.
"_You_ were drunk," said the girl, squeezing the words out with an
effort as her voice cracked.
"Wha' you think of Rajah Koo Macka, gal, eh?"
"Not much," she responded. Her mouth visibly twitched as she turned her
eyes from the stupid, inquiring parental gaze.
"Nice fellow 'im; believes in God, Christ and in virginity. Rajahs ain't
knocking about everywhere, Gabby old gal, either," he continued, as he
gave a wink. Then he added: "It's wonderful how people who was once
'eathens seems to be the most relygous folk; they seems to 'ave a real
faith in goodness 'o things, that's what it is."
Gabrielle still kept silent, hardly hearing at all as the old idiot
rambled on in this wise: "'E's got ther brass too! Going to 'ire me to
go on a pearl-hunting scheme in the Admiralty Group. 'E knows _I_ know
where the pearls are found. He he!"
Suddenly the man ceased his wild talk and looked at the girl quizzically
for a second, then said: "Gabrielle, you're a woman now, don't yer feel
like one?"
At this, to the old man's astonishment, the girl burst into tears.
"What on earth 'ave I said," he mumbled, as his eyes lost the bleared,
rum-dim look, and he tapped his wooden leg. Something that slept deep
down in his heart stirred in its long slumber: "Don't cry, girlie.
Aren't you well?"
Even he saw the faint appeal of those violet-blue eyes.
"Who's torn your dress?" he said, as he struggled against the impulse
that he felt, for he had put forth his arms to draw the girl to him. But
he didn't do so.
Pouring a little more Jamaica rum into his tea, he swallowed it, smacked
his lips and said: "Don't grissel. I'm not going to bully you for
tearing your clothes. S'pose you've been arambling 'bout ther scrub at
yer old games, admiring ther beauties of Nathure?" He pursed his lips
and gave a cynical grin as he made the foregoing remark. Then he
continued: "I saw you t'other day talking to that blasted runaway ship's
apprentice, 'Illary, I think they call 'im. Do yer want to disgrace your
old father by talking to ther likes of 'im, a damned penniless, stranded
runaway apprentice, nothing but a fiddler with a shabby, brass-bound
suit on!"
Then the old evangelical zealot of vagabon gospel and the best Jamaica
rum put his big-rimmed hat on, looked at the clock and went stumping
down the track by the palms to look after the Kanakas who were employed
on the copra, coffee and pine-apple plantations.
As soon as the sounds of his stumping footsteps had died away the pretty
native girl, "Wanga-woo," from Setiwao village, made her characteristic
somersault through the front door. She had come to tidy the bungalow in
her usual way. Even that nymph-like creature looked sideways at
Gabrielle, noticed the pallor of her face and wondered at the absence of
the usual cheery salutation that had always greeted her. It took the
native child no time to tidy up. Then she ran outside the homestead and
returned with her big market basket full of luscious tropical fruits:
mangoes, two big over-ripe pine-apples, limes and reddish oranges lying
on their own dark green leaves.
"You liker them, Misser Gaberlel? They belonger nicer you!"
The native child's voice and action cheered up Everard's daughter
wonderfully. Then, as she lay down on the parlour settee to rest her
aching head, she heard the little maid running away into the forest,
back to her village, singing:
"Willy-wa noo, Woo-le woo wail-o,
Cowana te o le suva, mango-te ma bak!"
Then the sound died away and Gabrielle felt glad to hear it no longer,
and lying there thinking and thinking, and softly crying to herself, she
fell fast asleep, and slept through most of the hot tropical day. When
she awoke sunset had already fired the mountain palms. As she sat on the
bamboo seat by the door she heard her father's voice. She knew he was
drunk; the rollicking, hoarse intonation of, his song was unmistakable
as the sounds came nearer. He had been away to the plantations to see
Rajah Koo Macka, who was supposed to be purchasing a lot of copra for
cargo for his ship that lay off Bougainville.
In a moment the girl had made up her mind, had risen and run off into
the forest. Sunset was sending its golden streams across the banyan
groves as she passed under the giant trees that were smothered with huge
scarlet blossoms. Already the koo-koo owl had stolen from the deeper
shadows and was hooting forth its "To woo--to-woo-woo!"
"I wish I hadn't overslept," she murmured to herself as she felt a
longing to see one of her own sex. For she had made up her mind to go
around the coast to see Mrs. S----, the German missionary's wife. She
was a cold-eyed white woman, this missionary's wife, but still, she was
white. Gabrielle had thought to tell her of the terrible shadow that had
come to her in the night, and had hoped for her sympathy and advice. She
would have gone even then, but she knew that the white woman's residence
was miles round the coast and it would be quite dark before she arrived
there. She also remembered that Mrs. S---- was a terrible coward and
would not venture from her husband's bungalow after dark on account of
the rumours going about that _tabarans_ (evil spirits) lurked in the
forests when the tambu worshippers were chanting their sacred rites.
Even Gabrielle shivered in fright when she thought of the tambu
worshippers and the strange look of fear on the faces of the dead who
were found in the mountain forests after certain festivals. It was some
kind of religious sect who offered terrible sacrifices to the _tabarans_
and the ceremony was something after the style of the Vaudoux worship as
described by M. de St. Mery in his work on Vaudoux cannibalistic
fetishes in Haiti.
When those fetishes were in full swing they could hear the chanting away
down in Rokeville during the silence of the night. "Ach!" the Germans
would say as they listened to the far-away shrieks in the mountain
citadels: children being clubbed and offered up in thanksgiving song and
frenzied dances at the altars of indescribable orgy. And the knowledge
that such things happened within easy walking distance from her bungalow
made Gabrielle careful about roaming too far after dark. She turned from
the denser forest and made up her mind to go through the light jungle
that separated her from the picturesque shores and lagoons to the
south-west. As she ran along the silvery track she looked fearfully into
the shadows of the huge buttressed banyans. Her imagination, vividly
alive through her terrible experience the night before, made her fancy
she heard something running swiftly beside her in the jungle. She
suddenly stopped and trembled from head to feet as the sounds of running
footsteps stopped also. "Dear God, what have I done?" she wailed out in
terror. In a moment she had rushed off, and bounding over the logs of
the deserted _dobos_ (huts) came to the cleared spaces where the
scattered ivory-nut palms grew. She looked round with relief as she
thought of that dreadful hollow that had so strangely re-echoed her
_own_ footsteps. Again she ran off; her fears left her and she began to
sing. The sight of the dotted huts of the native homestead on the
far-away shore revived her spirits. The rich blue of the departing day
shone on the horizon and seemed strangely to influence her thoughts. The
sough of the winds in the palms near by had rich music for her ears as
she listened. "What's that?" she murmured, as she stood perfectly still.
It was not the sound of beating tribal drums this time: she leaned
forward and listened again, as though her very soul would drink in that
faint, far-off sound. It came again, softly, a wailing, silvery sound
moving on the warm sea wind. No fear leapt into her eyes, no agitation
came to her limbs. An intensely beautiful expression seemed to light up
her face as her heart as well as her ears heard those sweet sounds. The
very palms just over her head moaned a tender _con anima tenerezza_
accompaniment as it came, a sweet-throbbing, long-drawn tremulous wail.
Tears sprang into her eyes as she listened to the strain of melancholy
in the thin silvery voice that drifted beneath the tropic stars. It was
the "Miserere" from _Il Trovatore_.
It was Hillary who felt the embarrassment of the moment as she ran out
from beneath the palms. He had not really expected the girl to turn up
that evening, although she had asked him to play his violin at that very
spot so that she might chance to hear him. The apprentice felt a trifle
foolish as he dropped his instrument and gazed at the girl. It struck
him that he had been a party to a sentimental by-play out of some
romantic novel or scene on the stage. He gave a sheepish grin that would
have been quite out of place even had it been a stage performance. As
for Gabrielle, she revelled in the romance of that meeting. She gazed
into Hillary's eyes, more like a child than ever, as she sat there on
the same banyan bough where she had first sung to Hillary when the
Homeric intruder had so suddenly disturbed them. As the apprentice
looked at the girl he noticed how haggard she was. As though to ward off
his critical gaze, she swiftly turned her head and murmured: "How
romantic to hear you play your violin in the distance like that." Then
she added coyly: "It's as though we are two passionate lovers meeting,
just like they meet in Spain and Italy--you know, in the books," she
added, as she gazed half sadly in the apprentice's face. Hillary tried
to hide his true feelings by joking about her brown stocking. She
laughed. Then as the darkness deepened Hillary became bolder and pressed
his lips on her hand. The girl responded by pressing his fingers. He
gazed steadily into her eyes; he wondered why they looked so beautiful
and wild. He had noticed the same expression before. He did not stare
with vulgar surprise; he simply pressed the girl's hand in instinctive
sympathy. He knew that some fear haunted her soul. His love for
Gabrielle had strangely blinded him to worldly things, but had gifted
him with an inward sight that made him wonderfully sympathetic. Just for
a second he felt a tremendous premonition of all that was coming to pass
in his life through his affection for the girl by his side. In another
moment his natural gaiety had returned. He half laughed to himself as he
felt the wonder of all that he was experiencing in a place where white
girls wore two expressions, laughed in one breath and stared in fright
in the next.
Gabrielle was staring into his eyes as though she were asleep and yet
had her eyes open. Her face was pallid; she had released her hand from
his; she was still singing the song she had begun when her expression
changed before the apprentice's astonished eyes.
"God! what is that weird, beautiful melody that you are singing,
Gabrielle?" said he, as he came under the influence of her voice. All
the European music that he knew was as nothing compared to the painful
soul of melody that lingered in the strain that the girl extemporised.
As she still sang and swayed by him in the shadows he swiftly opened his
violin-case, but very softly, as though he feared to frighten the song
away from her lips. He drew the bow gently, caressingly, _con
tenerezza_, across the responsive strings and played.
[Transcriber's Note: Lyrics]
Mis Ta-lo-fa, the chiefs are sleep-ing,
The seas in moon-light sing,
My eyes are dream-ing, the winds art creep-ing,
Dead shad-ows round me spring.
Winds sigh-ing by me, my Ma-la-bar maid,
Un-der the co-co palms.
Here thro' the night on my breast in the ... Etc.
A. S.-M.
It was very late when Hillary walked back with Gabrielle to see her
home. Even the shouts from the festivals of the heathen villages had
subsided, only coming to their ears in dismal wails and tom-tom
beatings. Gabrielle felt no fear of the dark forest as they hurried
along the silver track with the big-trunked trees clearly outlined in
the brilliant moonlight.
"You mustn't get nervous and allow your brain to have such curious
fancies, Gabrielle," said the young apprentice as the girl clung tightly
to his arm at the dodgings of their own monstrous silhouettes.
At length they arrived outside old Everard's bungalow. All was quiet.
"Good-night, Gabrielle," said Hillary, as he leaned forward, half
inclined to say: "Dearest, may I kiss you?" During the last two hours,
however, he had been too much worried about something that he knew not
of to have made such headway in his advances. Notwithstanding his wish,
he only took her hand and gazed into her eyes, and made her promise to
keep the next appointment without fail. And she promised. Then he said:
"Don't look so scared, he's asleep. Surely you're not afraid of your
father like this?" Then he added: "I'll wait outside here and have a
snooze beneath the palms till I think that you are fast asleep!"
Gabrielle didn't laugh at such a suggestion, as she might have done two
nights before! Indeed, she pressed his hand in almost hysterical
thankfulness. Hillary wondered why she should be so frightened, why she
should look so delighted after looking so scared. "God in heaven! the
girl's madly in love with me!" was the delighted thought that flashed
through his brain.
Gabrielle crept indoors. She heard her father's snoring as she softly
opened her bedroom door and entered the room. She went straight to the
small casement that opened on the feathery palms and distant moon-lit
seas. She pushed aside the big hibiscus blossoms and peered down. Her
heart fluttered with some half-fierce delight as she saw that form
reclining beneath the palms: it was the penniless, stranded sea
apprentice watching outside his South Sea princess's castle.
With some great light warming her heart Gabrielle crept into bed and
fell fast asleep, and so another night passed. It was only in the
morning that old Everard said: "Where the 'ell were yer last night? I
wish ter blazes ye'd come back before it's dark. I'm damned if there
wasn't a shadder a-knocking about 'ere last night!"
"No, Dad!" said Gabrielle.
"Yus!" said the old man with terrible vehemence. Then he added: "That
old barman up at Parsons's is a blamed liar; he swore that the last case
I bought was the best Jamaica rum. And yer don't see shadders after
drinking ther best Jamaica, that yer don't!"
The old ex-sailor rambled on as he beat a violent tattoo on the floor of
the bungalow with his wooden leg.
As for Hillary, he didn't get home till sunrise, so he slept till near
midday.
"Papalagi! Maser Hill-e-ary!" roared Madame Tamboo, his landlady, as she
banged his bedroom door with a ponderous bamboo stick.
"All ri'!" answered the sleepy young apprentice. Then he jumped up. He
was out and about in two ticks, for he had slept "all-standing."
He couldn't keep calm that day. Mango Pango the maid-of-all-work, opened
her bright eyes with delight as he paid her pretty compliments over her
beauty. "Ah, what nice papalagi!" she said, as she looked sideways in
the German mirror at her image. True enough, she had fine eyes and
features that were quite different from those of the full-blooded
Solomon natives. Like most Polynesian girls, she was extremely romantic
and imaginative. She lifted her eyes towards the roof in childish
ecstasy when Hillary laughingly admired her yellow stockings and told
her that she reminded him of Cleopatra.
"Who Cleopatra?" Mango Pango said. Then Hillary told her a lot about the
doings of Antony, who loved Cleopatra.
"She and nicer Antony still liver in Peratania England?"
"No, they're both dead," said Hillary mournfully.
"Oh dear! poor tings!" said Mango Pango sympathetically. Then she looked
into the apprentice's eyes and said coquettishly: "Was Cleopatra a bery
beautifuls woman, Mounsieur?"
"Most beautiful woman in the whole world, just like you," said Hillary.
So would they talk together; and the pretty native girl would laugh and
smirk with the apprentice and wonder if she was as beautiful as he said
she was, and if he really meant it when he told her that he longed to
elope with her so that they could live on a desert isle together.
Hillary little dreamed how one day he and that little native girl
_would_ travel across the seas together--in a stranger fashion than he
jokingly anticipated.
After the noon sun had dropped and the fire-flies had begun to dance in
the mangroves the apprentice put his cap on and strolled out on to the
slopes to kill time. And pretty Mango Pango peeled potatoes, sang a
melancholy Samoan song, dreamed of the handsome white papalagis and
nearly wept to think she was so brown.