One day, a year after his marriage, Lygon found himself alone out on the
reef. He had paddled over in a canoe and, leaving her tied up, had taken
his seat on a lump of coral. Pipe in mouth, he was watching the breakers
coming in, great green rollers filled with the movement of life and the
perfume of the heart of the sea.
In contrast with the quiet island beach here, there was uproarious life.
The coral shook with the thunder of the breakers and the gulls cried and
the wind blew, bringing the spindrift of the ocean, and mixing the voice
of the undertow with the bourdon note of the waves.
Lygon who had landed on the island a penniless outcast was to-day rich.
Jourdain’s invested money came to nearly ten thousand pounds. There was,
besides that, the schooner, the pitch, and a going business. He had for
wife one of the most beautiful women in the world, and the island was a
paradise.
Was he happy? He was happy, but not quite contented. The call of
civilization had come to him. He had begun to hear the roar of streets
in the roar of the reef, and to wish for a change. Just a few months’
change. The _Haliotis_ was due--overdue by some days--and he had
determined to take Kineia with him when the schooner sailed next and,
leaving the place in charge of Taro, make the run to San Francisco.
They would only be a few months away, so he told himself.
Kineia had agreed. She showed no enthusiasm over the business. At heart
she disliked it, but his wish was her law.
Suddenly Lygon rose to his feet and shaded his eyes. Away, far away
against the sky line lay a fleck, spar-white in the sun dazzle, now
almost invisible, now clear. It was the top canvas of a ship. It was the
_Haliotis_ . He knew that instinctively and at once. He watched, but the
speck did not change. He turned away and, walking along the coral, did
not look again for five minutes, then when he looked it had grown
larger. She was coming with the wind that was breezing up fresh from the
nor’east, and leaving the reef he paddled over to the island beach in
search of Kineia.
She was seated in the veranda of their house engaged in needlework, and
telling her that the schooner was in sight he went off to smarten
himself.
He always put on his best clothes to receive the _Haliotis_. It was part
of the ritual which included Californian champagne and palm salad at the
dinner given to the captain.
It was after four when the _Haliotis_ entered the lagoon, and spilling
the wind from her sails dropped anchor a few cable lengths from the
beach.
Then a boat put off.
Lygon, standing beside Kineia, shaded his eyes. He was looking at the
man in the stern sheets of the boat.
“That’s not Captain Morris,” said he. “What on earth has happened to the
cap?”
The man in the stern sheets was certainly not Morris. He showed a sick,
white face under his sun helmet, and as the boat beached and he
scrambled out, Kineia instinctively drew back a step. The appearance of
the stranger did not please her.
As for Lygon, he stood as if turned to stone. The man before him was
Packard, the one man in all the world he dreaded, the man with whom he
had gone that night to the gambling house in New York.
He had often wondered what had become of Packard.
The recognition was mutual.
“Hello!” said Packard. “Why, it’s you.”
“This is a surprise,” said Lygon.
Packard glanced round at the trees, at the beach, at Kineia. Then he
laughed.
“Well, this is a start,” said he. “I’m your new captain. Morris is down
with a dropsy--won’t be any more use for the sea, and I took on the job
for one voyage. Never recognized you in the name, though it’s not a
common one. Your agents gave me the job. How on earth did you come
here?”
“It’s a long story,” said Lygon. “I’ll tell you some time. This is my
wife. Kineia, this is Captain Packard.”
Then Lygon led the way up to the house, where the two men sat in basket
chairs and talked while Palu, the maid, served them with drinks and
Kineia went off to see about preparations for dinner.