1
Connart had started in life with a fine, open, believing disposition,
and with that disposition for his chief asset he had entered the world
of business. At thirty he had lost nearly everything but his heart, yet
it was stolen from him, also, by one Mary Bateman of Boston, a
quiet-looking little woman, endowed with common sense, a few thousand
dollars and a taste for travel. It was this taste, combined with a
slight weakness of the lungs, that induced Connart to go into the
Pacific trade, also a legacy, from an English relation, amounting to
some two thousand pounds odd, which enabled him to make the new start in
business without calling on his wife’s capital.
Dobree of San Francisco gave him the pitch. Connart had the qualities of
his defects. Men robbed him, but they liked him. Men are queer things.
Dobree, in business, was a very tough person indeed, quite without any
finer feelings, and never giving a cent or a chance away, yet, taking a
liking to Connart, he gave him a house, a go-down, and the chance of
success on this Island, by name of Maleka, for nothing.
“I had a station there up to six months ago,” said Dobree, “but I’m
getting rid of my copra interests. You can have the house, charter a
schooner and fill up with trade and go down there, it’s a good climate
and will suit your wife. You won’t make a fortune, but you won’t do
badly if you stick to your guns and don’t let the Kanakas get the
weather gauge on you. There’s only one man there, Seedbaum is his name,
he’s a tough customer by all accounts, but there’s copra enough for
two—I know a schooner you can have, the _Golden Gleam_; she’s owned by
old Tom Bowlby. I’ve got a fellow at a station on Tomasu, that’s a
hundred and fifty miles west of Maleka. There’s a cargo waiting shipment
there. Bowlby can drop you and your stuff at Maleka, then pick up my
cargo at the other place. You won’t have your copra ready for some
months and you can make arrangements with him to come back for it. You
might make arrangements to work in future with Bowlby, he’s a straight
man. You might work with him as partner.”
It was easy to be seen that Dobree was not only giving things away, but
going out of his course to make things smooth. Connart felt glowingly
thankful.
“It’s more than good of you,” said he, “but it seems to me you will lose
over this, for a location like that is worth money.”
“So are cigars,” said Dobree, “but if I give a box of cigars to a friend
he doesn’t complain that the gift is worth money. D——n money,” continued
this money-grubber, “it’s worth nothing but the fun of making it—well,
will you take your cigars, or shall I give the box to someone else?”
Connart said no more. In three weeks’ time the _Golden Gleam_, which was
lying at the wharves, had taken her cargo of all the multitudinous
things that go by the name of “trade,” and one bright morning, tacking
against the wind from the sea, she left the Golden Gate behind her.
Mrs. Connart stood on deck, watching bald Tamalpais across the blue,
scudding sea of the wake.
When you go to the Pacific Islands you die to all the things you have
known, but you are at least sure that you are going to heaven—if you
avoid the low islands.
Mrs. Connart knew the first fact. Down below in her cabin she carried
with her the relics of the life she would no longer lead, down to a
well-worn riding habit and a whip that would most likely never touch
horse again, but she was not despondent, quite the reverse.
You may be sea-sick in a Pacific schooner, bucking against the swell and
bending to the north-west trades, you may be mutinous, or angry, or
tipsy, but despondency, that low fever of cities and civilisation, has
no place out there.
“You ain’t feelin’ the sea, ma’am?” said Captain Bowlby, ranging up
alongside of her.
“No,” said she, “I’m a good sailor.”
“I bet you are,” said the captain.
Bowlby had a keen eye for ships and women. He had taken a liking to Mrs.
Connart at first sight. She had a steady eye and sure smile that pleased
him, and some days later, alone with Ambrose the mate, he voiced his
opinions.
“Looks like a mouse, don’t she? Well, there ain’t no mouse about her
barring her look. She’s one of them quiet sorts that’d back-chat a
congressman if she was put to it, or take a lion by the tail if it was
makin’ for one of her kids. I bet she’s rudder and compass both to
Connart. She and he fit as if they was welded. Did you ever take notice
that there’s chaps you meet that’re only half men till they get a woman
that fits them clapped on to them? If she don’t fit they go under the
first beam sea they meet; if she do, weather won’t hurt them.”
Ambrose concurred. He was a concurring individual, with few opinions of
his own on any matters outside his trade.
“I reckon you’re right,” said he, “though I don’t know much about
women—I never had the time,” he finished, apologetically.
2
They raised Maleka at six o’clock one brilliant morning, and by nine it
had developed before them, mountainous and green, showing, through the
glasses, the blowing foliage, torrent traces and the foam on the barrier
reef.
To Connart and his wife there seemed something miraculous in the
unfolding of this island from the wastes of the blue and desolate sea.
They had pictured this new home often in their minds, but they had
pictured nothing like this. It had been waiting for them all their
lives, and it seemed to them now that the souls of all the pleasant
places they had ever seen or dreamed of were waiting to greet them on
that summer-girdled reef.
As they passed the break and entered the lagoon the true island beach of
blinding white sand showed its curve lipped by the emerald waters, and
through the foliage came glimpses of the white houses of the little
town.
“Look,” said Mrs. Connart, wide-eyed and drawing deep breaths as if to
inhale the strangeness and beauty of the scene before her, “there are
people on the beach, natives, and look at the canoes.”
“There’s a boat pushing off,” said Connart, “and a big fellow in a
striped suit in her.”
“That’s Seedbaum,” said Captain Bowlby; “wonder what he wants, comin’ to
inspect—gin, likely.”
The anchor fell, waking the echoes of the woods, and the _Golden Gleam_,
swinging to the tide that was just beginning to steal out of the lagoon,
lay with her nose pointing to the beach whilst the boat came alongside,
and the man in the striped suit scrambled on board.
He was a big man, with bulging eyes, a shaved head, and feet encased in
worn-out tennis shoes. The suit seemed made of flannelette.
Mrs. Connart at first sight took a profound dislike to this individual.
Seedbaum—for Seedbaum it was—saluted Bowlby, gave him good-day, cast his
eye at the strangers and opened up.
“I knew you before you made the anchorage,” said he, “dropped in for
water, I suppose.”
“No, I’ve water enough till I fetch Tomasu,” replied Bowlby, “I’ve
brought some trade.”
“Trade,” said Seedbaum, offering a cigar. “Well, I don’t mind taking
some prints and knives off you at a reasonable price. I’m full up with
canned goods and tobacco, still—at a reasonable figure——”
“The trade’s not mine,” said Bowlby, lighting the cigar. “It belongs to
the new trader—that gentleman there, Mr. Connart’s his name, let me make
you known. Mr. Connart, this is Mr. Seedbaum.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” said Connart.
Seedbaum, fingering an unlit cigar, stared at Connart.
“Well, this gets me,” said he. “Why, Dobree cleared his last man out for
good, there’s not business enough in this island for two—that’s
flat—what’d he want sending you for?”
“He didn’t send me,” replied Connart.
“Then,” said Seedbaum, “what brought you here, anyway?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Connart, “this ship brought us here—and, excuse
me—do you own this island?”
Seedbaum stared at her, then his glance fell before that quiet,
unwavering gaze, and he turned to Bowlby.
“Well,” said he, “it’s none of my affair if the whole continent of the
States comes here to find copra—if it’s to be found—but it seems to me
this is a pretty dry ship.”
“Come down below,” said Bowlby.
They went below and the pop of a beer-bottle cork followed upon their
descent.
“Oh, what a creature!” said Mrs. Connart. “George, why is it that
humanity alone produces things like that?”
“I don’t know,” said Connart, “but I wish humanity had not produced it
here.”
Seedbaum came on deck again mollified by beer. Despite the set-down he
had received he nodded to the new-comers as he went over the side, and
as they watched him being rowed ashore, Bowlby, leaning on the rail,
spat into the water and spoke.
“I didn’t much trouble tellin’ you of that chap on the way out,” said
Bowlby. “There’s no use in meetin’ troubles half way, and there’s not an
island in the hull Pacific you won’t find trouble of some sort in. If
you go in for Pacific tradin’ there’s two things you have to face,
cockroaches and men. I’ve kept the old Gleam pretty free of ‘roaches by
fumigatin’, but you can’t fumigate islands. If you could I reckon you’d
see more rats with hands and feet takin’ to the water than’s ever been
seen since the Ark discharged cargo. Seedbaum’d be one of them, but you
have his measure now and you’ll know enough to go careful with him.
Wiart, the last man that was here, got on all right with him. You see,
they were pretty much of a pair, and it’s my belief they were hand in
glove, as you might say, but I reckon you won’t have much use for a
glove like that. Well, I’ll get you ashore now to see your house and
I’ll help to fix it up for you. We’ll begin gettin’ the cargo ashore
to-morrow.”
He ordered a boat to be lowered and they rowed ashore.
Never, not even in dreamland, had Mrs. Connart experienced anything so
strange as that stepping on shore from the bow of the boat run high and
dry on the shelving beach, never anything like the touch of land after
the long, long weeks of seafaring, and the sights, the sounds, the
perfumes all new, belonging to a new life to be lived in a new world.
The white houses set in a little garden at the far end of the village
pleased her as much as the place. Her house is almost as much as her
husband to a woman, for, to a woman a house implies so much more than to
a man. There are good houses and bad houses, crazy houses exhibiting the
folly of their builders in stucco turrets or mad chimney pots, and
stupid houses without character or proper sculleries and sinks. The
house at Maleka, though small and possessing few rooms, was cheerful and
had a pleasant personality of its own, but it did not possess a stick of
furniture. Mrs. Connart with the prescience of a woman and assisted by
the advice of Bowlby, had brought with them from San Francisco articles
of furniture not to be obtained in the islands, unless at a ruinous
cost. Mats, cane chairs and hammocks could be obtained from the natives.
All the same, there had been furniture in the house and it was gone.
Dobree had given them a list of things and amongst them was an article
on which Mrs. Connart had, woman-like, set her heart. “One red cedar
chest, four foot six by three foot,” was its specification.
“But who can have taken them?” said she, as they stood in the empty
front room, after a tour of inspection. “There was crockery ware,
besides, and oh, ever so many things, and Mr. Dobree was so kind. He
would not take a penny for them. You remember, George, he said: ‘When I
give a friend a box of cigars I don’t take the bands off them, whatever
is there you can have’—and now there’s nothing!”
“Maybe the Kanakas have taken them,” said Bowlby.
“Or Seedbaum,” said Connart.
“As like as not,” replied the captain. “He seems to look on the blessed
place as his. He told me down in the cabin he reckoned he was king of
Maleka, and that all the Kanakas jumped to his orders as if he was king.
He’s got a clutch on the place, there’s no denying that, and he manages
to keep missionaries away somehow or ’nother. I’m afraid you’re going to
have trouble with that chap.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” said Connart. “I’ve got a revolver and can use
it if worst comes to the worst.”
“Oh, it’s not revolvers I’m thinkin’ of,” said the captain, “it’s
trickery; he’d trick the devil out of his hoofs and then make gelatine
of them, would Seedbaum; have no trade dealin’s with him; take my
advice, just stick to the Kanakas.”
“Let’s go and ask him, right now, if he knows where the things have gone
to,” said Mrs. Connart.
“Well, that’s not a bad idea,” said Bowlby. “He’s sure to lie; anyhow,
it’ll clear matters.”
Seedbaum’s house was a substantially built coral-lime-washed building,
with a broad verandah in which hung a cage containing a parrot, the
garden was neat and well-tended, and the whole place had an air of quiet
prosperity, neatness and order, as though the better part of the owner’s
character were here exhibited for the general view.
Seedbaum was seated on the verandah, reading a San Francisco paper
obtained from Bowlby.
Seeing them approach he rose to greet them.
“I’ve come to ask you about the furniture in our house,” said Connart.
“There were quite a lot of things left by the last man, and I have a
list of them, but everything has gone, been taken away—do you know
anything of the matter?”
“I don’t know anything of what you call furniture,” said the other.
“Wiart sold me his sticks when he left for fifty dollars, and a bad
bargain it was.”
“He sold you them?”
“Yes.”
“But they belonged to Mr. Dobree.”
“Oh, did they; well, Dobree will have to dispute that with Wiart. Wiart
said they were his.”
“Have you his receipt?”
“Lord, no, there was no receipt in the matter. I handed him over the
dollars and he handed me over the rubbish. It was a favour to him.”
“Was there a cedar-wood chest?” asked Mrs. Connart.
“There was. It’s in my house now, there; you can see it through the
door.”
Through the open door which gave a view of the front room Mrs. Connart
saw the object of her desire. It was a beauty, solid, moth-defying, with
brass corners and brass handles. It was hers by all right, and Seedbaum
had tricked her out of it. She spoke:
“That chest is mine,” said she. “Mr. Dobree gave it to me, it was his
property, and Mr. Wiart had no right to sell it.”
“Well,” said Seedbaum, “he sold it, and if there’s any trouble over it
it will be between Dobree and Wiart, and Wiart was going to Japan, so he
said when he left here, so Dobree had better go to Japan and have it out
with him.”
Mrs. Connart turned.
“Come,” said she to the others, “there is no use talking any more to
this person. I will write to Mr. Dobree.”
They turned away and Seedbaum sat down again to read his newspaper.
“That’s what I said,” spoke Bowlby. “Monkey tricks; you see how he’s
placed; Wiart’s gone Lord knows where, and Pacific Coast law don’t run
here. The way for you to do is to lay low and fetch him in the eye
unexpected, somehow, though if you take my advice you’ll give him a wide
offing. There’s no use in fightin’ with alligators; better leave them
be. Hullo, what’s that?”
They turned.
Seedbaum had come out of the verandah.
A passing native had drawn his ire for some reason or another, and the
redoubtable Seedbaum was storming at him. Then he kicked the native, and
the latter, a big, powerful man, turned and ran.
“The coward!” said Mrs. Connart.
“I expect that chap ain’t a coward,” said Bowlby. “He’s just ’feared of
Seedbaum. I reckon there’re some curious things in nature. I’ve seen a
whole ship’s company livin’ in terror of a hazin’ captain. They could
have hove him overboard and swore he fell over—for the after guard was
as set against him as the fo’c’sle—but they didn’t. Just let themselves
be driv’ like sheep and kicked like terriers. It’s the same with the
Kanakas on this island, I expect.”
“He’s got a personal ascendancy over them,” said Connart.
“I reckon he’s got something like that,” said Captain Bowlby.
3
In a week they were settled down, and a few days later, the cargo having
been landed and stored, the _Golden Gleam_ took her departure.
They went down to the beach to see her off; they watched her topsails
vanish beyond the reef, and they returned, feeling very much alone in
the world. A good man is warmth and light even to the souls of sinners.
Captain Bowlby was illiterate; his language was free; he was not a
saint, but he was a good, human man right through. The sea turns out
characters like this just as she turns out shells. It is a pity that
they have to cling to the ocean and the beaches; the cities want them.
“I feel just as if I had lost a near relation,” said Mrs. Connart.
“Well, we’ll have him back soon,” said her husband. “It’s up to us now
to get the copra to give him a cargo.”
Next morning the new trader began business by laying out a selection of
goods on the verandah of his store. Mrs. Connart, who knew something of
the Polynesian dialects and who had the art of picking up unknown
tongues, had already got in touch with the Kanakas; they charmed and
pleased her, especially the children, and wherever she went she was
greeted by friendly faces. It seemed to her that the population of this
island, leaving out Seedbaum, her husband and herself, consisted
entirely of children, children of different sizes and different ages,
but children all the same.
Returning that day from a long walk in the woods she found Connart
smoking a pipe on the verandah of their house. He looked rather
depressed.
“I can’t make it out,” said he; “there’s no trade doing.”
“Maybe they don’t know you have started in business yet.”
“Oh, yes, they do; lots of them have passed and seen the store open;
they’ve turned to look at the goods, and they seemed attracted, but they
went on.”
“Well, give them time,” said she.
“Look,” said Connart, “there’s copra going to Seedbaum’s; they’re
trading with him, right enough.”
Mrs. Connart watched the copra bearers, but said nothing.
In her heart she felt that Seedbaum was moving against them by some
stealthy means. At first she thought that it might be possible he had
worked upon the native mind and induced the Kanakas to put a taboo upon
the newcomers, but she dismissed this idea at once. There was no taboo.
The Kanakas were not a bit afraid of either her or her husband, on the
contrary, there was every evidence of friendliness.
“Well,” she said that night, when the store was closed for the day
without a knife or a stick of tobacco changing hands, “there’s nothing
to be done till we find out why they are acting so. It’s that creature,
I am sure. He began by robbing me of my beautiful cedar-wood chest, and
he’s going on to rob you of your chances in business. Well, let him
beware. I’m Christian enough not to wish to hurt him, but I’m Christian
enough to believe there’s a power that punishes the wicked, and he’s
wicked. I knew him for a wicked man directly he came on board the ship.”
“He keeps to himself, and that’s one good thing,” said Connart; “but I
don’t see how he can stop the natives from trading with us.”
“I don’t, either, but I know he does,” said she.
The next day passed without business being done, and the next.
“We may as well shut up shop, it seems to me,” said Connart. “How would
it be if you spoke to some of these people and asked them what is the
matter?”
“I’ve thought of that,” said his wife, “and I held off
because—because—oh, I don’t know, it seems sort of indelicate to ask
people why they don’t come to one’s store. I’ll do it to-morrow morning
first thing. One mustn’t let one’s feelings stand in the way when one’s
living is concerned.”
“I wish we had never come here,” said he, “for your sake.”
“Never come here?” she cried. “Why, I wouldn’t for the earth have gone
anywhere else! I love the place and I love people, and what are
difficulties? Why, difficulties are the main excitement in life. If life
wasn’t an obstacle race, it would be a very flat affair. George, we have
got to beat that man, and I’m going to, you wait and see.”
He kissed her and blessed her, and they sat down that night to a game of
cribbage, Seedbaum and the wickedness of the world forgotten.
Next morning after breakfast Mrs. Connart went out. She passed through
the village and on to the beach, brilliant in the morning light,
breeze-blown and filled with the murmurs of the reef; some natives were
pulling in a net and she watched them, chatting to them and playing with
the children who had come down to secure the little fish. Then she had a
talk with a woman who was standing by, a woman dark and straight as an
arrow, a woman mild-eyed and with a voice sweet as the sound of running
water.
Leaving her, Mrs. Connart passed to a man who was engaged in mending an
outrigger of one of the canoes hauled up on the beach; she had a talk
with him.
Then she returned, walking slowly and thoughtfully to the house, where
she found her husband.
“George,” said she. “I am right. It is that Creature. The people hate
him, but they are afraid of him. It seems absolutely absurd, but it is
so. He holds them in a spell. He kicks them and beats them, but they are
not afraid of that. It’s just him.”
“Good Lord,” said Connart, “why on earth don’t they rise against him,
and tell him to go to the devil; he’s only one man, anyway.”
“I don’t know,” said she. “It’s a mystery of human nature. He’s the
tyrant type, and it’s always been the same in the world; there’s some
sort of magnetism in that type that keeps folk under. History is full of
that. It’s the soft man and the kindly man and the good man that’s
assassinated, but tyrants seem to go free. He’s what he said he was, the
king of this place—well, we must see what we can do to pull him from his
throne. I wish there were more whites here.”
“That’s the bother,” said Connart.
Next morning they found a basket of fruit on their verandah, a gift from
some unknown person. It was as though the Kanakas, afraid to show their
sympathy and friendliness openly for the strangers, had done it in this
manner. But no one came to trade.
That night two chickens, some sweet potatoes and another basket of fruit
were deposited in the same place.
“And we can’t thank them,” said Mrs. Connart; “but I believe these
haven’t all come from one person. I think it’s everyone here—they all
like us. Oh, George, isn’t it maddening that we can’t have them openly
our friends, just because of that Beast!”
“It is,” said George.
Now at eleven o’clock that morning, Mrs. Connart, seated on the verandah
and engaged on some needle-work, noticed a little native girl, who,
pausing at the garden gate and seeming undecided, at last picked up
courage, opened the gate and came towards the house.
Connart was in the house, going over some accounts, when his wife ran in
to him.
“George, come at once,” cried she; “such a dreadful thing—they’ve risen
against Seedbaum and they are killing him somewhere in the woods, and
they want us to go and see!”
“Good Lord!” cried he, “killing him! Want us to go and see! Are they
mad?”
He picked up his hat and came out on the verandah, where the pretty
little native girl was waiting, a flower of the scarlet hibiscus in her
hair and calm contentment in her eyes.
“I can’t quite make out all she says,” said Mrs. Connart; “but I can
make out her meaning.”
“You’d better stay here,” said he, “whilst I go; there may be trouble.”
“I am not afraid,” she replied. “Come on, we may be too late.”
They followed the child.
“Tell her to hurry,” said Connart.
“She says we need not hurry,” replied she; “as far as I can make out
they are only going to kill him—I expect they have him a prisoner
somewhere; well, much as I hate him, I am glad we will be able to save
him.”
“That depends on how the natives take it,” said he.
The child led them from the road by a path trod by the copra gatherers,
a path running through the wonderland of the woods, a green gloom where
the soaring palms shot upwards through a twilight roofed with moving
shadows and sun sparkles.
They reached a glade where a number of natives were seated in a circle.
Above them and swinging by a cord from two trees was hanging a little
disk about half the size of a tambourine; the disk was made of cane, and
so constructed as to leave a small hole in the centre. An old native
woman seated under the disk was clapping her hands and repeating
something that sounded like an incantation. Every pair of eyes in the
whole of that assembly was fixed upon the disk.
The child whispered something to Mrs. Connart. Then she turned from the
child and whispered to her husband.
“It’s only witchcraft. That’s a soul trap. They are waiting for a fly to
pass through the hole in that thing. If it does, then Seedbaum will
die.”
“Good heavens,” murmured Connart, with a half-laugh. “Why, the fellow
hasn’t any soul—not enough to furnish out a fly.”
They watched patiently for ten minutes. There were plenty of flies; they
rested on the little tambourine, crawled round its edge, but not one
went through the hole.
“Come,” whispered Connart.
They withdrew, taking the path back.
“It’s pathetic,” murmured she.
“It’s damned foolishness,” he repeated. “They trade with him, and let
him kick them, and then go on with that nonsense. If they refused him
copra, they would bring him to his senses quick enough.”
“Anyhow they hate him,” said she.
“Much good that is,” he replied.
4
Now it came about that the soul trap—turning out a dead failure, since
not a single fly went through the hole—instead of destroying Seedbaum,
fixed him on a pedestal more secure than that which he had hitherto
occupied.
He was indestructible, and the power which he exercised over the native
mind threatened to be as indestructible as himself.
However, vengeance was coming. Retribution for all the wrongs he had
committed, his swindlings, brutalities and beatings.
It came in this wise:
One afternoon Mrs. Connart, seated on the verandah and reading _The
Moths of the Limberlost_, heard the cries of a child.
Right in front of the house, King Seedbaum was beating a native child
for some fault or fancied disrespect towards his royal highness, cuffing
it and cuffing it, whilst the squeals of the cuffed one affronted the
heavens and the ears of all listeners.
Now, to touch a child or dog or cat in Mrs. Connart’s presence was to
raise a devil. White as death she rushed into the house and white as
death she rushed out again. She held her riding-whip, a Mexican quirt,
ladies’ size, but horribly efficient in energetic hands.
Seedbaum saw her coming, couldn’t understand, caught the first lash on
his right arm and along his back—he was wearing the pyjama suit—and his
yell brought the village flocking and Connart running from a field where
he was laying out some plants.
He saw the quirt lashing over Seedbaum’s shoulder, across his legs, and
across the back, for the King of Maleka was now running, running and
pursued for ten yards or so whilst the quirt got one last blow in.
Then he had his wife in his arms, and she was weeping.
“Did he touch you?” cried Connart.
“No—it was a child,” she gasped. “Beast! Look, he has run into his
house.”
The street was filled with a crowd that all through the beating had
remained spell-bound. Now it broke up into knots and small parties, all
talking together excitedly.
Connart, with his arm around his wife, drew her into the house.
She sat down on a couch and laughed and sobbed. She was half hysterical,
but not for long.
“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “I would do it again. It’s not because
of us—but because he was beating a child.”
“Brute!” said Connart. “I’ll go down now and give him more. I want to
have it out with him right now.” He turned to the door. She caught him.
“No,” she cried, “he’s had enough. He won’t do it again. Listen, what’s
that?”
From away in the direction of Seedbaum’s house came a sound like the
swarming of angry bees, also shouts.
They rushed to the door and saw Seedbaum. Seedbaum with fifty people
round him, and every person trying to beat him at the same time.
“Good God,” said Connart, “you’ve taught them the trick—they’ll kill
him.”
“He’s got away,” cried Mrs. Connart.
Seedbaum, breaking from the crowd, was making up the street, the whole
village was after him; he passed the Connarts’ house and headed for the
woods where he disappeared. Then his pursuers drew off, and, rushing to
the house of Connart, swarmed at the railings, shouting and waving and
laughing, whilst Mrs. Connart interpreted.
“They say he’ll never come back to the village again,” said she, “for
they’ll kill him if he does; that he’ll have to live in the woods. Oh,
George! I’m frightened—what will be the end of it all?”
* * * * *
The end was a whale ship that came into the lagoon. Seedbaum, living in
the woods and supported by the generosity of the Connarts, was given
notice by the three chiefs of the island, Matua, Tamura and Ratupea by
name, that if he did not go away in the whale ship he would be killed
before the next ship arrived. And he went.
He was almost friendly with the Connarts, in return for their food and
protection, at the last, and as the natives would allow him to take
nothing with him, he had to leave everything behind him, including the
red cedar-wood chest, which thus came back to its rightful owner.
He did not even threaten the natives with governmental retribution; he
knew he was done and placed out of court by his own conduct.
But the thing that always remained with Connart out of this affair was
the fact that a population of active and vigorous people would still
have been down-trodden by a merciless tyrant but for a little, quiet,
calm-eyed woman, who had unconsciously and just from an uprising of her
own spirit, “shown them the trick.”
Spirit—after all, what else is there in the world beside it?