THE TREMBLINGOF A LEAF

_Little Stories of the South Sea Islands_

BYW. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

AUTHOR OF "THE MOON AND SIXPENCE, ""OF HUMAN BONDAGE, " ETC. 

NEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1921, PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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TOBERTRAM ALANSON

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_L'extrême félicité à peine séparée parune feuille tremblante de l'extrêmedésespoir, n'est-ce pas la vie?_

SAINTE-BEUVE. 

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CONTENTS

I THE PACIFIC

II MACKINTOSH

III THE FALL OF EDWARD BARNARD

IV RED

V THE POOL

VI HONOLULU

VII RAIN

VIII ENVOI

THE TREMBLING OF A LEAF

I

_The Pacific_

The Pacific is inconstant and uncertain like the soul of man. Sometimesit is grey like the English Channel off Beachy Head, with a heavy swell, and sometimes it is rough, capped with white crests, and boisterous. Itis not so often that it is calm and blue. Then, indeed, the blue isarrogant. The sun shines fiercely from an unclouded sky. The trade windgets into your blood and you are filled with an impatience for theunknown. The billows, magnificently rolling, stretch widely on all sidesof you, and you forget your vanished youth, with its memories, cruel andsweet, in a restless, intolerable desire for life. On such a sea as thisUlysses sailed when he sought the Happy Isles. But there are days alsowhen the Pacific is like a lake. The sea is flat and shining. The flyingfish, a gleam of shadow on the brightness of a mirror, make littlefountains of sparkling drops when they dip. There are fleecy clouds onthe horizon, and at sunset they take strange shapes so that it isimpossible not to believe that you see a range of lofty mountains. Theyare the mountains of the country of your dreams. You sail through anunimaginable silence upon a magic sea. Now and then a few gulls suggestthat land is not far off, a forgotten island hidden in a wilderness ofwaters; but the gulls, the melancholy gulls, are the only sign you haveof it. You see never a tramp, with its friendly smoke, no stately barkor trim schooner, not a fishing boat even: it is an empty desert; andpresently the emptiness fills you with a vague foreboding. 

II

_Mackintosh_

He splashed about for a few minutes in the sea; it was too shallow toswim in and for fear of sharks he could not go out of his depth; then hegot out and went into the bath-house for a shower. The coldness of thefresh water was grateful after the heavy stickiness of the salt Pacific, so warm, though it was only just after seven, that to bathe in it didnot brace you but rather increased your languor; and when he had driedhimself, slipping into a bath-gown, he called out to the Chinese cookthat he would be ready for breakfast in five minutes. He walked barefootacross the patch of coarse grass which Walker, the administrator, proudly thought was a lawn, to his own quarters and dressed. This didnot take long, for he put on nothing but a shirt and a pair of ducktrousers and then went over to his chief's house on the other side ofthe compound. The two men had their meals together, but the Chinese cooktold him that Walker had set out on horseback at five and would not beback for another hour. 

Mackintosh had slept badly and he looked with distaste at the paw-pawand the eggs and bacon which were set before him. The mosquitoes hadbeen maddening that night; they flew about the net under which he sleptin such numbers that their humming, pitiless and menacing, had theeffect of a note, infinitely drawn out, played on a distant organ, andwhenever he dozed off he awoke with a start in the belief that one hadfound its way inside his curtains. It was so hot that he lay naked. Heturned from side to side. And gradually the dull roar of the breakers onthe reef, so unceasing and so regular that generally you did not hearit, grew distinct on his consciousness, its rhythm hammered on his tirednerves and he held himself with clenched hands in the effort to bear it. The thought that nothing could stop that sound, for it would continue toall eternity, was almost impossible to bear, and, as though his strengthwere a match for the ruthless forces of nature, he had an insane impulseto do some violent thing. He felt he must cling to his self-control orhe would go mad. And now, looking out of the window at the lagoon andthe strip of foam which marked the reef, he shuddered with hatred of thebrilliant scene. The cloudless sky was like an inverted bowl that hemmedit in. He lit his pipe and turned over the pile of Auckland papers thathad come over from Apia a few days before. The newest of them was threeweeks old. They gave an impression of incredible dullness. 

Then he went into the office. It was a large, bare room with two desksin it and a bench along one side. A number of natives were seated onthis, and a couple of women. They gossiped while they waited for theadministrator, and when Mackintosh came in they greeted him. 

"_Talofa li. _"

He returned their greeting and sat down at his desk. He began to write, working on a report which the governor of Samoa had been clamouring forand which Walker, with his usual dilatoriness, had neglected to prepare. Mackintosh as he made his notes reflected vindictively that Walker waslate with his report because he was so illiterate that he had aninvincible distaste for anything to do with pens and paper; and now whenit was at last ready, concise and neatly official, he would accept hissubordinate's work without a word of appreciation, with a sneer ratheror a gibe, and send it on to his own superior as though it were his owncomposition. He could not have written a word of it. Mackintosh thoughtwith rage that if his chief pencilled in some insertion it would bechildish in expression and faulty in language. If he remonstrated orsought to put his meaning into an intelligible phrase, Walker would flyinto a passion and cry:

"What the hell do I care about grammar? That's what I want to say andthat's how I want to say it. "

At last Walker came in. The natives surrounded him as he entered, tryingto get his immediate attention, but he turned on them roughly and toldthem to sit down and hold their tongues. He threatened that if they werenot quiet he would have them all turned out and see none of them thatday. He nodded to Mackintosh. 

"Hulloa, Mac; up at last? I don't know how you can waste the best partof the day in bed. You ought to have been up before dawn like me. Lazybeggar. "

He threw himself heavily into his chair and wiped his face with a largebandana. 

"By heaven, I've got a thirst. "

He turned to the policeman who stood at the door, a picturesque figurein his white jacket and _lava-lava_, the loin cloth of the Samoan, andtold him to bring _kava_. The _kava_ bowl stood on the floor in thecorner of the room, and the policeman filled a half coconut shell andbrought it to Walker. He poured a few drops on the ground, murmured thecustomary words to the company, and drank with relish. Then he told thepoliceman to serve the waiting natives, and the shell was handed to eachone in order of birth or importance and emptied with the sameceremonies. 

Then he set about the day's work. He was a little man, considerably lessthan of middle height, and enormously stout; he had a large, fleshyface, clean-shaven, with the cheeks hanging on each side in greatdew-laps, and three vast chins; his small features were all dissolved infat; and, but for a crescent of white hair at the back of his head, hewas completely bald. He reminded you of Mr Pickwick. He was grotesque, afigure of fun, and yet, strangely enough, not without dignity. His blueeyes, behind large gold-rimmed spectacles, were shrewd and vivacious, and there was a great deal of determination in his face. He was sixty, but his native vitality triumphed over advancing years. Notwithstandinghis corpulence his movements were quick, and he walked with a heavy, resolute tread as though he sought to impress his weight upon the earth. He spoke in a loud, gruff voice. 

It was two years now since Mackintosh had been appointed Walker'sassistant. Walker, who had been for a quarter of a century administratorof Talua, one of the larger islands in the Samoan group, was a man knownin person or by report through the length and breadth of the South Seas;and it was with lively curiosity that Mackintosh looked forward to hisfirst meeting with him. For one reason or another he stayed a couple ofweeks at Apia before he took up his post and both at Chaplin's hotel andat the English club he heard innumerable stories about theadministrator. He thought now with irony of his interest in them. Sincethen he had heard them a hundred times from Walker himself. Walker knewthat he was a character, and, proud of his reputation, deliberatelyacted up to it. He was jealous of his "legend" and anxious that youshould know the exact details of any of the celebrated stories that weretold of him. He was ludicrously angry with anyone who had told them tothe stranger incorrectly. 

There was a rough cordiality about Walker which Mackintosh at firstfound not unattractive, and Walker, glad to have a listener to whom allhe said was fresh, gave of his best. He was good-humoured, hearty, andconsiderate. To Mackintosh, who had lived the sheltered life of agovernment official in London till at the age of thirty-four an attackof pneumonia, leaving him with the threat of tuberculosis, had forcedhim to seek a post in the Pacific, Walker's existence seemedextraordinarily romantic. The adventure with which he started on hisconquest of circumstance was typical of the man. He ran away to sea whenhe was fifteen and for over a year was employed in shovelling coal on acollier. He was an undersized boy and both men and mates were kind tohim, but the captain for some reason conceived a savage dislike of him. He used the lad cruelly so that, beaten and kicked, he often could notsleep for the pain that racked his limbs. He loathed the captain withall his soul. Then he was given a tip for some race and managed toborrow twenty-five pounds from a friend he had picked up in Belfast. Heput it on the horse, an outsider, at long odds. He had no means ofrepaying the money if he lost, but it never occurred to him that hecould lose. He felt himself in luck. The horse won and he found himselfwith something over a thousand pounds in hard cash. Now his chance hadcome. He found out who was the best solicitor in the town--the collierlay then somewhere on the Irish coast--went to him, and, telling himthat he heard the ship was for sale, asked him to arrange the purchasefor him. The solicitor was amused at his small client, he was onlysixteen and did not look so old, and, moved perhaps by sympathy, promised not only to arrange the matter for him but to see that he madea good bargain. After a little while Walker found himself the owner ofthe ship. He went back to her and had what he described as the mostglorious moment of his life when he gave the skipper notice and told himthat he must get off _his_ ship in half an hour. He made the matecaptain and sailed on the collier for another nine months, at the end ofwhich he sold her at a profit. 

He came out to the islands at the age of twenty-six as a planter. He wasone of the few white men settled in Talua at the time of the Germanoccupation and had then already some influence with the natives. TheGermans made him administrator, a position which he occupied for twentyyears, and when the island was seized by the British he was confirmed inhis post. He ruled the island despotically, but with complete success. The prestige of this success was another reason for the interest thatMackintosh took in him. 

But the two men were not made to get on. Mackintosh was an ugly man, with ungainly gestures, a tall thin fellow, with a narrow chest andbowed shoulders. He had sallow, sunken cheeks, and his eyes were largeand sombre. He was a great reader, and when his books arrived and wereunpacked Walker came over to his quarters and looked at them. Then heturned to Mackintosh with a coarse laugh. 

"What in Hell have you brought all this muck for?" he asked. 

Mackintosh flushed darkly. 

"I'm sorry you think it muck. I brought my books because I want to readthem. "

"When you said you'd got a lot of books coming I thought there'd besomething for me to read. Haven't you got any detective stories?"

"Detective stories don't interest me. "

"You're a damned fool then. "

"I'm content that you should think so. "

Every mail brought Walker a mass of periodical literature, papers fromNew Zealand and magazines from America, and it exasperated him thatMackintosh showed his contempt for these ephemeral publications. He hadno patience with the books that absorbed Mackintosh's leisure andthought it only a pose that he read Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ orBurton's _Anatomy of Melancholy_. And since he had never learned to putany restraint on his tongue, he expressed his opinion of his assistantfreely. Mackintosh began to see the real man, and under the boisterousgood-humour he discerned a vulgar cunning which was hateful; he was vainand domineering, and it was strange that he had notwithstanding ashyness which made him dislike people who were not quite of his kidney. He judged others, naïvely, by their language, and if it was free fromthe oaths and the obscenity which made up the greater part of his ownconversation, he looked upon them with suspicion. In the evening the twomen played piquet. He played badly but vaingloriously, crowing over hisopponent when he won and losing his temper when he lost. On rareoccasions a couple of planters or traders would drive over to playbridge, and then Walker showed himself in what Mackintosh considered acharacteristic light. He played regardless of his partner, calling upin his desire to play the hand, and argued interminably, beating downopposition by the loudness of his voice. He constantly revoked, and whenhe did so said with an ingratiating whine: "Oh, you wouldn't count itagainst an old man who can hardly see. " Did he know that his opponentsthought it as well to keep on the right side of him and hesitated toinsist on the rigour of the game? Mackintosh watched him with an icycontempt. When the game was over, while they smoked their pipes anddrank whisky, they would begin telling stories. Walker told with gustothe story of his marriage. He had got so drunk at the wedding feast thatthe bride had fled and he had never seen her since. He had hadnumberless adventures, commonplace and sordid, with the women of theisland and he described them with a pride in his own prowess which wasan offence to Mackintosh's fastidious ears. He was a gross, sensual oldman. He thought Mackintosh a poor fellow because he would not share hispromiscuous amours and remained sober when the company was drunk. 

He despised him also for the orderliness with which he did his officialwork. Mackintosh liked to do everything just so. His desk was alwaystidy, his papers were always neatly docketed, he could put his hand onany document that was needed, and he had at his fingers' ends all theregulations that were required for the business of their administration. 

"Fudge, fudge, " said Walker. "I've run this island for twenty yearswithout red tape, and I don't want it now. "

"Does it make it any easier for you that when you want a letter you haveto hunt half an hour for it?" answered Mackintosh. 

"You're nothing but a damned official. But you're not a bad fellow; whenyou've been out here a year or two you'll be all right. What's wrongabout you is that you won't drink. You wouldn't be a bad sort if you gotsoused once a week. "

The curious thing was that Walker remained perfectly unconscious of thedislike for him which every month increased in the breast of hissubordinate. Although he laughed at him, as he grew accustomed to him, he began almost to like him. He had a certain tolerance for thepeculiarities of others, and he accepted Mackintosh as a queer fish. Perhaps he liked him, unconsciously, because he could chaff him. Hishumour consisted of coarse banter and he wanted a butt. Mackintosh'sexactness, his morality, his sobriety, were all fruitful subjects; hisScot's name gave an opportunity for the usual jokes about Scotland; heenjoyed himself thoroughly when two or three men were there and he couldmake them all laugh at the expense of Mackintosh. He would sayridiculous things about him to the natives, and Mackintosh, hisknowledge of Samoan still imperfect, would see their unrestrained mirthwhen Walker had made an obscene reference to him. He smiledgood-humouredly. 

"I'll say this for you, Mac, " Walker would say in his gruff loud voice, "you can take a joke. "

"Was it a joke?" smiled Mackintosh. "I didn't know. "

"Scots wha hae!" shouted Walker, with a bellow of laughter. "There'sonly one way to make a Scotchman see a joke and that's by a surgicaloperation. "

Walker little knew that there was nothing Mackintosh could stand lessthan chaff. He would wake in the night, the breathless night of therainy season, and brood sullenly over the gibe that Walker had utteredcarelessly days before. It rankled. His heart swelled with rage, and hepictured to himself ways in which he might get even with the bully. Hehad tried answering him, but Walker had a gift of repartee, coarse andobvious, which gave him an advantage. The dullness of his intellect madehim impervious to a delicate shaft. His self-satisfaction made itimpossible to wound him. His loud voice, his bellow of laughter, wereweapons against which Mackintosh had nothing to counter, and he learnedthat the wisest thing was never to betray his irritation. He learned tocontrol himself. But his hatred grew till it was a monomania. He watchedWalker with an insane vigilance. He fed his own self-esteem by everyinstance of meanness on Walker's part, by every exhibition of childishvanity, of cunning and of vulgarity. Walker ate greedily, noisily, filthily, and Mackintosh watched him with satisfaction. He took note ofthe foolish things he said and of his mistakes in grammar. He knew thatWalker held him in small esteem, and he found a bitter satisfaction inhis chief's opinion of him; it increased his own contempt for thenarrow, complacent old man. And it gave him a singular pleasure to knowthat Walker was entirely unconscious of the hatred he felt for him. Hewas a fool who liked popularity, and he blandly fancied that everyoneadmired him. Once Mackintosh had overheard Walker speaking of him. 

"He'll be all right when I've licked him into shape, " he said. "He's agood dog and he loves his master. "

Mackintosh silently, without a movement of his long, sallow face, laughed long and heartily. 

But his hatred was not blind; on the contrary, it was peculiarlyclear-sighted, and he judged Walker's capabilities with precision. Heruled his small kingdom with efficiency. He was just and honest. Withopportunities to make money he was a poorer man than when he was firstappointed to his post, and his only support for his old age was thepension which he expected when at last he retired from official life. His pride was that with an assistant and a half-caste clerk he was ableto administer the island more competently than Upolu, the island ofwhich Apia is the chief town, was administered with its army offunctionaries. He had a few native policemen to sustain his authority, but he made no use of them. He governed by bluff and his Irish humour. 

"They insisted on building a jail for me, " he said. "What the devil do Iwant a jail for? I'm not going to put the natives in prison. If they dowrong I know how to deal with them. "

One of his quarrels with the higher authorities at Apia was that heclaimed entire jurisdiction over the natives of his island. Whatevertheir crimes he would not give them up to courts competent to deal withthem, and several times an angry correspondence had passed between himand the Governor at Upolu. For he looked upon the natives as hischildren. And that was the amazing thing about this coarse, vulgar, selfish man; he loved the island on which he had lived so long withpassion, and he had for the natives a strange rough tenderness which wasquite wonderful. 

He loved to ride about the island on his old grey mare and he was nevertired of its beauty. Sauntering along the grassy roads among the coconuttrees he would stop every now and then to admire the loveliness of thescene. Now and then he would come upon a native village and stop whilethe head man brought him a bowl of _kava_. He would look at the littlegroup of bell-shaped huts with their high thatched roofs, like beehives, and a smile would spread over his fat face. His eyes rested happily onthe spreading green of the bread-fruit trees. 

"By George, it's like the garden of Eden. "

Sometimes his rides took him along the coast and through the trees hehad a glimpse of the wide sea, empty, with never a sail to disturb theloneliness; sometimes he climbed a hill so that a great stretch ofcountry, with little villages nestling among the tall trees, was spreadout before him like the kingdom of the world, and he would sit therefor an hour in an ecstasy of delight. But he had no words to expresshis feelings and to relieve them would utter an obscene jest; it was asthough his emotion was so violent that he needed vulgarity to break thetension. 

Mackintosh observed this sentiment with an icy disdain. Walker hadalways been a heavy drinker, he was proud of his capacity to see menhalf his age under the table when he spent a night in Apia, and he hadthe sentimentality of the toper. He could cry over the stories he readin his magazines and yet would refuse a loan to some trader indifficulties whom he had known for twenty years. He was close with hismoney. Once Mackintosh said to him:

"No one could accuse you of giving money away. "

He took it as a compliment. His enthusiasm for nature was but thedrivelling sensibility of the drunkard. Nor had Mackintosh any sympathyfor his chief's feelings towards the natives. He loved them because theywere in his power, as a selfish man loves his dog, and his mentality wason a level with theirs. Their humour was obscene and he was never at aloss for the lewd remark. He understood them and they understood him. Hewas proud of his influence over them. He looked upon them as hischildren and he mixed himself in all their affairs. But he was veryjealous of his authority; if he ruled them with a rod of iron, brookingno contradiction, he would not suffer any of the white men on the islandto take advantage of them. He watched the missionaries suspiciouslyand, if they did anything of which he disapproved, was able to make lifeso unendurable to them that if he could not get them removed they wereglad to go of their own accord. His power over the natives was so greatthat on his word they would refuse labour and food to their pastor. Onthe other hand he showed the traders no favour. He took care that theyshould not cheat the natives; he saw that they got a fair reward fortheir work and their copra and that the traders made no extravagantprofit on the wares they sold them. He was merciless to a bargain thathe thought unfair. Sometimes the traders would complain at Apia thatthey did not get fair opportunities. They suffered for it. Walker thenhesitated at no calumny, at no outrageous lie, to get even with them, and they found that if they wanted not only to live at peace, but toexist at all, they had to accept the situation on his own terms. Morethan once the store of a trader obnoxious to him had been burned down, and there was only the appositeness of the event to show that theadministrator had instigated it. Once a Swedish half-caste, ruined bythe burning, had gone to him and roundly accused him of arson. Walkerlaughed in his face. 

"You dirty dog. Your mother was a native and you try to cheat thenatives. If your rotten old store is burned down it's a judgment ofProvidence; that's what it is, a judgment of Providence. Get out. "

And as the man was hustled out by two native policemen the administratorlaughed fatly. 

"A judgment of Providence. "

And now Mackintosh watched him enter upon the day's work. He began withthe sick, for Walker added doctoring to his other activities, and he hada small room behind the office full of drugs. An elderly man cameforward, a man with a crop of curly grey hair, in a blue _lava-lava_, elaborately tatooed, with the skin of his body wrinkled like awine-skin. 

"What have you come for?" Walker asked him abruptly. 

In a whining voice the man said that he could not eat without vomitingand that he had pains here and pains there. 

"Go to the missionaries, " said Walker. "You know that I only curechildren. "

"I have been to the missionaries and they do me no good. "

"Then go home and prepare yourself to die. Have you lived so long andstill want to go on living? You're a fool. "

The man broke into querulous expostulation, but Walker, pointing to awoman with a sick child in her arms, told her to bring it to his desk. He asked her questions and looked at the child. 

"I will give you medicine, " he said. He turned to the half-caste clerk. "Go into the dispensary and bring me some calomel pills. "

He made the child swallow one there and then and gave another to themother. 

"Take the child away and keep it warm. To-morrow it will be dead orbetter. "

He leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe. 

"Wonderful stuff, calomel. I've saved more lives with it than all thehospital doctors at Apia put together. "

Walker was very proud of his skill, and with the dogmatism of ignorancehad no patience with the members of the medical profession. 

"The sort of case I like, " he said, "is the one that all the doctorshave given up as hopeless. When the doctors have said they can't cureyou, I say to them, 'come to me. ' Did I ever tell you about the fellowwho had a cancer?"

"Frequently, " said Mackintosh. 

"I got him right in three months. "

"You've never told me about the people you haven't cured. "

He finished this part of the work and went on to the rest. It was aqueer medley. There was a woman who could not get on with her husbandand a man who complained that his wife had run away from him. 

"Lucky dog, " said Walker. "Most men wish their wives would too. "

There was a long complicated quarrel about the ownership of a few yardsof land. There was a dispute about the sharing out of a catch of fish. There was a complaint against a white trader because he had given shortmeasure. Walker listened attentively to every case, made up his mindquickly, and gave his decision. Then he would listen to nothing more; ifthe complainant went on he was hustled out of the office by apoliceman. Mackintosh listened to it all with sullen irritation. On thewhole, perhaps, it might be admitted that rough justice was done, but itexasperated the assistant that his chief trusted his instinct ratherthan the evidence. He would not listen to reason. He browbeat thewitnesses and when they did not see what he wished them to called themthieves and liars. 

He left to the last a group of men who were sitting in the corner of theroom. He had deliberately ignored them. The party consisted of an oldchief, a tall, dignified man with short, white hair, in a new_lava-lava_, bearing a huge fly wisp as a badge of office, his son, andhalf a dozen of the important men of the village. Walker had had a feudwith them and had beaten them. As was characteristic of him he meant nowto rub in his victory, and because he had them down to profit by theirhelplessness. The facts were peculiar. Walker had a passion for buildingroads. When he had come to Talua there were but a few tracks here andthere, but in course of time he had cut roads through the country, joining the villages together, and it was to this that a great part ofthe island's prosperity was due. Whereas in the old days it had beenimpossible to get the produce of the land, copra chiefly, down to thecoast where it could be put on schooners or motor launches and so takento Apia, now transport was easy and simple. His ambition was to make aroad right round the island and a great part of it was already built. 

"In two years I shall have done it, and then I can die or they can fireme, I don't care. "

His roads were the joy of his heart and he made excursions constantly tosee that they were kept in order. They were simple enough, wide tracks, grass covered, cut through the scrub or through the plantations; buttrees had to be rooted out, rocks dug up or blasted, and here and therelevelling had been necessary. He was proud that he had surmounted by hisown skill such difficulties as they presented. He rejoiced in hisdisposition of them so that they were not only convenient, but showedoff the beauties of the island which his soul loved. When he spoke ofhis roads he was almost a poet. They meandered through those lovelyscenes, and Walker had taken care that here and there they should run ina straight line, giving you a green vista through the tall trees, andhere and there should turn and curve so that the heart was rested by thediversity. It was amazing that this coarse and sensual man shouldexercise so subtle an ingenuity to get the effects which his fancysuggested to him. He had used in making his roads all the fantasticskill of a Japanese gardener. He received a grant from headquarters forthe work but took a curious pride in using but a small part of it, andthe year before had spent only a hundred pounds of the thousand assignedto him. 

"What do they want money for?" he boomed. "They'll only spend it on allkinds of muck they don't want; what the missionaries leave them, that isto say. "

For no particular reason, except perhaps pride in the economy of hisadministration and the desire to contrast his efficiency with thewasteful methods of the authorities at Apia, he got the natives to dothe work he wanted for wages that were almost nominal. It was owing tothis that he had lately had difficulty with the village whose chief mennow were come to see him. The chief's son had been in Upolu for a yearand on coming back had told his people of the large sums that were paidat Apia for the public works. In long, idle talks he had inflamed theirhearts with the desire for gain. He held out to them visions of vastwealth and they thought of the whisky they could buy--it was dear, sincethere was a law that it must not be sold to natives, and so it cost themdouble what the white man had to pay for it--they thought of the greatsandal-wood boxes in which they kept their treasures, and the scentedsoap and potted salmon, the luxuries for which the Kanaka will sell hissoul; so that when the administrator sent for them and told them hewanted a road made from their village to a certain point along the coastand offered them twenty pounds, they asked him a hundred. The chief'sson was called Manuma. He was a tall, handsome fellow, copper-coloured, with his fuzzy hair dyed red with lime, a wreath of red berries roundhis neck, and behind his ear a flower like a scarlet flame against hisbrown face. The upper part of his body was naked, but to show that hewas no longer a savage, since he had lived in Apia, he wore a pair ofdungarees instead of a _lava-lava_. He told them that if they heldtogether the administrator would be obliged to accept their terms. Hisheart was set on building the road and when he found they would not workfor less he would give them what they asked. But they must not move;whatever he said they must not abate their claim; they had asked ahundred and that they must keep to. When they mentioned the figure, Walker burst into a shout of his long, deep-voiced laughter. He toldthem not to make fools of themselves, but to set about the work at once. Because he was in a good humour that day he promised to give them afeast when the road was finished. But when he found that no attempt wasmade to start work, he went to the village and asked the men what sillygame they were playing. Manuma had coached them well. They were quitecalm, they did not attempt to argue--and argument is a passion with theKanaka--they merely shrugged their shoulders: they would do it for ahundred pounds, and if he would not give them that they would do nowork. He could please himself. They did not care. Then Walker flew intoa passion. He was ugly then. His short fat neck swelled ominously, hisred face grew purple, he foamed at the mouth. He set upon the nativeswith invective. He knew well how to wound and how to humiliate. He wasterrifying. The older men grew pale and uneasy. They hesitated. If ithad not been for Manuma, with his knowledge of the great world, andtheir dread of his ridicule, they would have yielded. It was Manuma whoanswered Walker. 

"Pay us a hundred pounds and we will work. "

Walker, shaking his fist at him, called him every name he could thinkof. He riddled him with scorn. Manuma sat still and smiled. There mayhave been more bravado than confidence in his smile, but he had to makea good show before the others. He repeated his words. 

"Pay us a hundred pounds and we will work. "

They thought that Walker would spring on him. It would not have been thefirst time that he had thrashed a native with his own hands; they knewhis strength, and though Walker was three times the age of the young manand six inches shorter they did not doubt that he was more than a matchfor Manuma. No one had ever thought of resisting the savage onslaught ofthe administrator. But Walker said nothing. He chuckled. 

"I am not going to waste my time with a pack of fools, " he said. "Talkit over again. You know what I have offered. If you do not start in aweek, take care. "

He turned round and walked out of the chief's hut. He untied his oldmare and it was typical of the relations between him and the nativesthat one of the elder men hung on to the off stirrup while Walker from aconvenient boulder hoisted himself heavily into the saddle. 

That same night when Walker according to his habit was strolling alongthe road that ran past his house, he heard something whizz past him andwith a thud strike a tree. Something had been thrown at him. He duckedinstinctively. With a shout, "Who's that"? he ran towards the place fromwhich the missile had come and he heard the sound of a man escapingthrough the bush. He knew it was hopeless to pursue in the darkness, andbesides he was soon out of breath, so he stopped and made his way backto the road. He looked about for what had been thrown, but could findnothing. It was quite dark. He went quickly back to the house and calledMackintosh and the Chinese boy. 

"One of those devils has thrown something at me. Come along and let'sfind out what it was. "

He told the boy to bring a lantern and the three of them made their wayback to the place. They hunted about the ground, but could not find whatthey sought. Suddenly the boy gave a guttural cry. They turned to look. He held up the lantern, and there, sinister in the light that cut thesurrounding darkness, was a long knife sticking into the trunk of acoconut tree. It had been thrown with such force that it required quitean effort to pull it out. 

"By George, if he hadn't missed me I'd have been in a nice state. "

Walker handled the knife. It was one of those knives, made in imitationof the sailor knives brought to the islands a hundred years before bythe first white men, used to divide the coconuts in two so that thecopra might be dried. It was a murderous weapon, and the blade, twelveinches long, was very sharp. Walker chuckled softly. 

"The devil, the impudent devil. "

He had no doubt it was Manuma who had flung the knife. He had escapeddeath by three inches. He was not angry. On the contrary, he was in highspirits; the adventure exhilarated him, and when they got back to thehouse, calling for drinks, he rubbed his hands gleefully. 

"I'll make them pay for this!"

His little eyes twinkled. He blew himself out like a turkey-cock, andfor the second time within half an hour insisted on telling Mackintoshevery detail of the affair. Then he asked him to play piquet, and whilethey played he boasted of his intentions. Mackintosh listened withtightened lips. 

"But why should you grind them down like this?" he asked. "Twenty poundsis precious little for the work you want them to do. "

"They ought to be precious thankful I give them anything. "

"Hang it all, it's not your own money. The government allots you areasonable sum. They won't complain if you spend it. "

"They're a bunch of fools at Apia. "

Mackintosh saw that Walker's motive was merely vanity. He shrugged hisshoulders. 

"It won't do you much good to score off the fellows at Apia at the costof your life. "

"Bless you, they wouldn't hurt me, these people. They couldn't dowithout me. They worship me. Manuma is a fool. He only threw that knifeto frighten me. "

The next day Walker rode over again to the village. It was calledMatautu. He did not get off his horse. When he reached the chief'shouse he saw that the men were sitting round the floor in a circle, talking, and he guessed they were discussing again the question of theroad. The Samoan huts are formed in this way: Trunks of slender treesare placed in a circle at intervals of perhaps five or six feet; a talltree is set in the middle and from this downwards slopes the thatchedroof. Venetian blinds of coconut leaves can be pulled down at night orwhen it is raining. Ordinarily the hut is open all round so that thebreeze can blow through freely. Walker rode to the edge of the hut andcalled out to the chief. 

"Oh, there, Tangatu, your son left his knife in a tree last night. Ihave brought it back to you. "

He flung it down on the ground in the midst of the circle, and with alow burst of laughter ambled off. 

On Monday he went out to see if they had started work. There was no signof it. He rode through the village. The inhabitants were about theirordinary avocations. Some were weaving mats of the pandanus leaf, oneold man was busy with a _kava_ bowl, the children were playing, thewomen went about their household chores. Walker, a smile on his lips, came to the chief's house. 

"_Talofa-li_, " said the chief. 

"_Talofa_, " answered Walker. 

Manuma was making a net. He sat with a cigarette between his lips andlooked up at Walker with a smile of triumph. 

"You have decided that you will not make the road?"

The chief answered. 

"Not unless you pay us one hundred pounds. "

"You will regret it. " He turned to Manuma. "And you, my lad, I shouldn'twonder if your back was very sore before you're much older. "

He rode away chuckling. He left the natives vaguely uneasy. They fearedthe fat sinful old man, and neither the missionaries' abuse of him northe scorn which Manuma had learnt in Apia made them forget that he had adevilish cunning and that no man had ever braved him without in the longrun suffering for it. They found out within twenty-four hours whatscheme he had devised. It was characteristic. For next morning a greatband of men, women, and children came into the village and the chief mensaid that they had made a bargain with Walker to build the road. He hadoffered them twenty pounds and they had accepted. Now the cunning lay inthis, that the Polynesians have rules of hospitality which have all theforce of laws; an etiquette of absolute rigidity made it necessary forthe people of the village not only to give lodging to the strangers, butto provide them with food and drink as long as they wished to stay. Theinhabitants of Matautu were outwitted. Every morning the workers wentout in a joyous band, cut down trees, blasted rocks, levelled here andthere and then in the evening tramped back again, and ate and drank, ateheartily, danced, sang hymns, and enjoyed life. For them it was apicnic. But soon their hosts began to wear long faces; the strangershad enormous appetites, and the plantains and the bread-fruit vanishedbefore their rapacity; the alligator-pear trees, whose fruit sent toApia might sell for good money, were stripped bare. Ruin stared them inthe face. And then they found that the strangers were working veryslowly. Had they received a hint from Walker that they might take theirtime? At this rate by the time the road was finished there would not bea scrap of food in the village. And worse than this, they were alaughing-stock; when one or other of them went to some distant hamlet onan errand he found that the story had got there before him, and he wasmet with derisive laughter. There is nothing the Kanaka can endure lessthan ridicule. It was not long before much angry talk passed among thesufferers. Manuma was no longer a hero; he had to put up with a gooddeal of plain speaking, and one day what Walker had suggested came topass: a heated argument turned into a quarrel and half a dozen of theyoung men set upon the chief's son and gave him such a beating that fora week he lay bruised and sore on the pandanus mats. He turned from sideto side and could find no ease. Every day or two the administrator rodeover on his old mare and watched the progress of the road. He was not aman to resist the temptation of taunting the fallen foe, and he missedno opportunity to rub into the shamed inhabitants of Matautu thebitterness of their humiliation. He broke their spirit. And one morning, putting their pride in their pockets, a figure of speech, since pocketsthey had not, they all set out with the strangers and started working onthe road. It was urgent to get it done quickly if they wanted to saveany food at all, and the whole village joined in. But they workedsilently, with rage and mortification in their hearts, and even thechildren toiled in silence. The women wept as they carried away bundlesof brushwood. When Walker saw them he laughed so much that he almostrolled out of his saddle. The news spread quickly and tickled the peopleof the island to death. This was the greatest joke of all, the crowningtriumph of that cunning old white man whom no Kanaka had ever been ableto circumvent; and they came from distant villages, with their wives andchildren, to look at the foolish folk who had refused twenty pounds tomake the road and now were forced to work for nothing. But the harderthey worked the more easily went the guests. Why should they hurry, whenthey were getting good food for nothing and the longer they took aboutthe job the better the joke became? At last the wretched villagers couldstand it no longer, and they were come this morning to beg theadministrator to send the strangers back to their own homes. If he woulddo this they promised to finish the road themselves for nothing. For himit was a victory complete and unqualified. They were humbled. A look ofarrogant complacence spread over his large, naked face, and he seemed toswell in his chair like a great bullfrog. There was something sinisterin his appearance, so that Mackintosh shivered with disgust. Then inhis booming tones he began to speak. 

"Is it for my good that I make the road? What benefit do you think I getout of it? It is for you, so that you can walk in comfort and carry yourcopra in comfort. I offered to pay you for your work, though it was foryour own sake the work was done. I offered to pay you generously. Now_you_ must pay. I will send the people of Manua back to their homes ifyou will finish the road and pay the twenty pounds that I have to paythem. "

There was an outcry. They sought to reason with him. They told him theyhad not the money. But to everything they said he replied with brutalgibes. Then the clock struck. 

"Dinner time, " he said. "Turn them all out. "

He raised himself heavily from his chair and walked out of the room. When Mackintosh followed him he found him already seated at table, anapkin tied round his neck, holding his knife and fork in readiness forthe meal the Chinese cook was about to bring. He was in high spirits. 

"I did 'em down fine, " he said, as Mackintosh sat down. "I shan't havemuch trouble with the roads after this. "

"I suppose you were joking, " said Mackintosh icily. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're not really going to make them pay twenty pounds?"

"You bet your life I am. "

"I'm not sure you've got any right to. "

"Ain't you? I guess I've got the right to do any damned thing I like onthis island. "

"I think you've bullied them quite enough. "

Walker laughed fatly. He did not care what Mackintosh thought. 

"When I want your opinion I'll ask for it. " Mackintosh grew very white. He knew by bitter experience that he could do nothing but keep silence, and the violent effort at self-control made him sick and faint. He couldnot eat the food that was before him and with disgust he watched Walkershovel meat into his vast mouth. He was a dirty feeder, and to sit attable with him needed a strong stomach. Mackintosh shuddered. Atremendous desire seized him to humiliate that gross and cruel man; hewould give anything in the world to see him in the dust, suffering asmuch as he had made others suffer. He had never loathed the bully withsuch loathing as now. 

The day wore on. Mackintosh tried to sleep after dinner, but the passionin his heart prevented him; he tried to read, but the letters swambefore his eyes. The sun beat down pitilessly, and he longed for rain;but he knew that rain would bring no coolness; it would only make ithotter and more steamy. He was a native of Aberdeen and his heartyearned suddenly for the icy winds that whistled through the granitestreets of that city. Here he was a prisoner, imprisoned not only bythat placid sea, but by his hatred for that horrible old man. He pressedhis hands to his aching head. He would like to kill him. But he pulledhimself together. He must do something to distract his mind, and sincehe could not read he thought he would set his private papers in order. It was a job which he had long meant to do and which he had constantlyput off. He unlocked the drawer of his desk and took out a handful ofletters. He caught sight of his revolver. An impulse, no sooner realisedthan set aside, to put a bullet through his head and so escape from theintolerable bondage of life flashed through his mind. He noticed that inthe damp air the revolver was slightly rusted, and he got an oil rag andbegan to clean it. It was while he was thus occupied that he grew awareof someone slinking round the door. He looked up and called:

"Who is there?"

There was a moment's pause, then Manuma showed himself. 

"What do you want?"

The chief's son stood for a moment, sullen and silent, and when he spokeit was with a strangled voice. 

"We can't pay twenty pounds. We haven't the money. "

"What am I to do?" said Mackintosh. "You heard what Mr Walker said. "

Manuma began to plead, half in Samoan and half in English. It was asing-song whine, with the quavering intonations of a beggar, and itfilled Mackintosh with disgust. It outraged him that the man should lethimself be so crushed. He was a pitiful object. 

"I can do nothing, " said Mackintosh irritably. "You know that Mr Walkeris master here. "

Manuma was silent again. He still stood in the doorway. 

"I am sick, " he said at last. "Give me some medicine. "

"What is the matter with you?"

"I do not know. I am sick. I have pains in my body. "

"Don't stand there, " said Mackintosh sharply. "Come in and let me lookat you. "

Manuma entered the little room and stood before the desk. 

"I have pains here and here. "

He put his hands to his loins and his face assumed an expression ofpain. Suddenly Mackintosh grew conscious that the boy's eyes wereresting on the revolver which he had laid on the desk when Manumaappeared in the doorway. There was a silence between the two which toMackintosh was endless. He seemed to read the thoughts which were in theKanaka's mind. His heart beat violently. And then he felt as thoughsomething possessed him so that he acted under the compulsion of aforeign will. Himself did not make the movements of his body, but apower that was strange to him. His throat was suddenly dry, and he puthis hand to it mechanically in order to help his speech. He was impelledto avoid Manuma's eyes. 

"Just wait here, " he said, his voice sounded as though someone hadseized him by the windpipe, "and I'll fetch you something from thedispensary. "

He got up. Was it his fancy that he staggered a little? Manuma stoodsilently, and though he kept his eyes averted, Mackintosh knew that hewas looking dully out of the door. It was this other person thatpossessed him that drove him out of the room, but it was himself thattook a handful of muddled papers and threw them on the revolver in orderto hide it from view. He went to the dispensary. He got a pill andpoured out some blue draught into a small bottle, and then came out intothe compound. He did not want to go back into his own bungalow, so hecalled to Manuma. 

"Come here. "

He gave him the drugs and instructions how to take them. He did not knowwhat it was that made it impossible for him to look at the Kanaka. Whilehe was speaking to him he kept his eyes on his shoulder. Manuma took themedicine and slunk out of the gate. 

Mackintosh went into the dining-room and turned over once more the oldnewspapers. But he could not read them. The house was very still. Walkerwas upstairs in his room asleep, the Chinese cook was busy in thekitchen, the two policemen were out fishing. The silence that seemed tobrood over the house was unearthly, and there hammered in Mackintosh'shead the question whether the revolver still lay where he had placed it. He could not bring himself to look. The uncertainty was horrible, butthe certainty would be more horrible still. He sweated. At last he couldstand the silence no longer, and he made up his mind to go down theroad to the trader's, a man named Jervis, who had a store about a mileaway. He was a half-caste, but even that amount of white blood made himpossible to talk to. He wanted to get away from his bungalow, with thedesk littered with untidy papers, and underneath them something, ornothing. He walked along the road. As he passed the fine hut of a chiefa greeting was called out to him. Then he came to the store. Behind thecounter sat the trader's daughter, a swarthy broad-featured girl in apink blouse and a white drill skirt. Jervis hoped he would marry her. Hehad money, and he had told Mackintosh that his daughter's husband wouldbe well-to-do. She flushed a little when she saw Mackintosh. 

"Father's just unpacking some cases that have come in this morning. I'lltell him you're here. "

He sat down and the girl went out behind the shop. In a moment hermother waddled in, a huge old woman, a chiefess, who owned much land inher own right; and gave him her hand. Her monstrous obesity was anoffence, but she managed to convey an impression of dignity. She wascordial without obsequiousness; affable, but conscious of her station. 

"You're quite a stranger, Mr Mackintosh. Teresa was saying only thismorning: 'Why, we never see Mr Mackintosh now. '"

He shuddered a little as he thought of himself as that old native'sson-in-law. It was notorious that she ruled her husband, notwithstandinghis white blood, with a firm hand. Hers was the authority and hers thebusiness head. She might be no more than Mrs Jervis to the white people, but her father had been a chief of the blood royal, and his father andhis father's father had ruled as kings. The trader came in, small besidehis imposing wife, a dark man with a black beard going grey, in ducks, with handsome eyes and flashing teeth. He was very British, and hisconversation was slangy, but you felt he spoke English as a foreigntongue; with his family he used the language of his native mother. Hewas a servile man, cringing and obsequious. 

"Ah, Mr Mackintosh, this is a joyful surprise. Get the whisky, Teresa;Mr Mackintosh will have a gargle with us. "

He gave all the latest news of Apia, watching his guest's eyes thewhile, so that he might know the welcome thing to say. 

"And how is Walker? We've not seen him just lately. Mrs Jervis is goingto send him a sucking-pig one day this week. "

"I saw him riding home this morning, " said Teresa. 

"Here's how, " said Jervis, holding up his whisky. 

Mackintosh drank. The two women sat and looked at him, Mrs Jervis in herblack Mother Hubbard, placid and haughty, and Teresa, anxious to smilewhenever she caught his eye, while the trader gossiped insufferably. 

"They were saying in Apia it was about time Walker retired. He ain't soyoung as he was. Things have changed since he first come to the islandsand he ain't changed with them. "

"He'll go too far, " said the old chiefess. "The natives aren'tsatisfied. "

"That was a good joke about the road, " laughed the trader. "When I toldthem about it in Apia they fair split their sides with laughing. Goodold Walker. "

Mackintosh looked at him savagely. What did he mean by talking of him inthat fashion? To a half-caste trader he was Mr Walker. It was on histongue to utter a harsh rebuke for the impertinence. He did not knowwhat held him back. 

"When he goes I hope you'll take his place, Mr Mackintosh, " said Jervis. "We all like you on the island. You understand the natives. They'reeducated now, they must be treated differently to the old days. It wantsan educated man to be administrator now. Walker was only a trader sameas I am. "

Teresa's eyes glistened. 

"When the time comes if there's anything anyone can do here, you betyour bottom dollar we'll do it. I'd get all the chiefs to go over toApia and make a petition. "

Mackintosh felt horribly sick. It had not struck him that if anythinghappened to Walker it might be he who would succeed him. It was truethat no one in his official position knew the island so well. He got upsuddenly and scarcely taking his leave walked back to the compound. Andnow he went straight to his room. He took a quick look at his desk. Herummaged among the papers. 

The revolver was not there. 

His heart thumped violently against his ribs. He looked for the revolvereverywhere. He hunted in the chairs and in the drawers. He lookeddesperately, and all the time he knew he would not find it. Suddenly heheard Walker's gruff, hearty voice. 

"What the devil are you up to, Mac?"

He started. Walker was standing in the doorway and instinctively heturned round to hide what lay upon his desk. 

"Tidying up?" quizzed Walker. "I've told 'em to put the grey in thetrap. I'm going down to Tafoni to bathe. You'd better come along. "

"All right, " said Mackintosh. 

So long as he was with Walker nothing could happen. The place they werebound for was about three miles away, and there was a fresh-water pool, separated by a thin barrier of rock from the sea, which theadministrator had blasted out for the natives to bathe in. He had donethis at spots round the island, wherever there was a spring; and thefresh water, compared with the sticky warmth of the sea, was cool andinvigorating. They drove along the silent grassy road, splashing now andthen through fords, where the sea had forced its way in, past a coupleof native villages, the bell-shaped huts spaced out roomily and thewhite chapel in the middle, and at the third village they got out of thetrap, tied up the horse, and walked down to the pool. They wereaccompanied by four or five girls and a dozen children. Soon they wereall splashing about, shouting and laughing, while Walker, in a_lava-lava_, swam to and fro like an unwieldy porpoise. He made lewdjokes with the girls, and they amused themselves by diving under him andwriggling away when he tried to catch them. When he was tired he laydown on a rock, while the girls and children surrounded him; it was ahappy family; and the old man, huge, with his crescent of white hair andhis shining bald crown, looked like some old sea god. Once Mackintoshcaught a queer soft look in his eyes. 

"They're dear children, " he said. "They look upon me as their father. "

And then without a pause he turned to one of the girls and made anobscene remark which sent them all into fits of laughter. Mackintoshstarted to dress. With his thin legs and thin arms he made a grotesquefigure, a sinister Don Quixote, and Walker began to make coarse jokesabout him. They were acknowledged with little smothered laughs. Mackintosh struggled with his shirt. He knew he looked absurd, but hehated being laughed at. He stood silent and glowering. 

"If you want to get back in time for dinner you ought to come soon. "

"You're not a bad fellow, Mac. Only you're a fool. When you're doing onething you always want to do another. That's not the way to live. "

But all the same he raised himself slowly to his feet and began to puton his clothes. They sauntered back to the village, drank a bowl of_kava_ with the chief, and then, after a joyful farewell from all thelazy villagers, drove home. 

After dinner, according to his habit, Walker, lighting his cigar, prepared to go for a stroll. Mackintosh was suddenly seized with fear. 

"Don't you think it's rather unwise to go out at night by yourself justnow?"

Walker stared at him with his round blue eyes. 

"What the devil do you mean?"

"Remember the knife the other night. You've got those fellows' backsup. "

"Pooh! They wouldn't dare. "

"Someone dared before. "

"That was only a bluff. They wouldn't hurt me. They look upon me as afather. They know that whatever I do is for their own good. "

Mackintosh watched him with contempt in his heart. The man'sself-complacency outraged him, and yet something, he knew not what, madehim insist. 

"Remember what happened this morning. It wouldn't hurt you to stay athome just to-night. I'll play piquet with you. "

"I'll play piquet with you when I come back. The Kanaka isn't born yetwho can make me alter my plans. "

"You'd better let me come with you. "

"You stay where you are. "

Mackintosh shrugged his shoulders. He had given the man full warning. Ifhe did not heed it that was his own lookout. Walker put on his hat andwent out. Mackintosh began to read; but then he thought of something;perhaps it would be as well to have his own whereabouts quite clear. Hecrossed over to the kitchen and, inventing some pretext, talked for afew minutes with the cook. Then he got out the gramophone and put arecord on it, but while it ground out its melancholy tune, some comicsong of a London music-hall, his ear was strained for a sound away therein the night. At his elbow the record reeled out its loudness, the wordswere raucous, but notwithstanding he seemed to be surrounded by anunearthly silence. He heard the dull roar of the breakers against thereef. He heard the breeze sigh, far up, in the leaves of the coconuttrees. How long would it be? It was awful. 

He heard a hoarse laugh. 

"Wonders will never cease. It's not often you play yourself a tune, Mac. "

Walker stood at the window, red-faced, bluff and jovial. 

"Well, you see I'm alive and kicking. What were you playing for?"

Walker came in. 

"Nerves a bit dicky, eh? Playing a tune to keep your pecker up?"

"I was playing your requiem. "

"What the devil's that?"

"'Alf o' bitter an' a pint of stout. "

"A rattling good song too. I don't mind how often I hear it. Now I'mready to take your money off you at piquet. "

They played and Walker bullied his way to victory, bluffing hisopponent, chaffing him, jeering at his mistakes, up to every dodge, browbeating him, exulting. Presently Mackintosh recovered his coolness, and standing outside himself, as it were, he was able to take a detachedpleasure in watching the overbearing old man and in his own coldreserve. Somewhere Manuma sat quietly and awaited his opportunity. 

Walker won game after game and pocketed his winnings at the end of theevening in high good humour. 

"You'll have to grow a little bit older before you stand much chanceagainst me, Mac. The fact is I have a natural gift for cards. "

"I don't know that there's much gift about it when I happen to deal youfourteen aces. "

"Good cards come to good players, " retorted Walker. "I'd have won if I'dhad your hands. "

He went on to tell long stories of the various occasions on which he hadplayed cards with notorious sharpers and to their consternation hadtaken all their money from them. He boasted. He praised himself. AndMackintosh listened with absorption. He wanted now to feed his hatred;and everything Walker said, every gesture, made him more detestable. Atlast Walker got up. 

"Well, I'm going to turn in, " he said with a loud yawn. "I've got a longday to-morrow. "

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm driving over to the other side of the island. I'll start at five, but I don't expect I shall get back to dinner till late. "

They generally dined at seven. 

"We'd better make it half past seven then. "

"I guess it would be as well. "

Mackintosh watched him knock the ashes out of his pipe. His vitality wasrude and exuberant. It was strange to think that death hung over him. Afaint smile flickered in Mackintosh's cold, gloomy eyes. 

"Would you like me to come with you?"

"What in God's name should I want that for? I'm using the mare andshe'll have enough to do to carry me; she don't want to drag you overthirty miles of road. "

"Perhaps you don't quite realise what the feeling is at Matautu. I thinkit would be safer if I came with you. "

Walker burst into contemptuous laughter. 

"You'd be a fine lot of use in a scrap. I'm not a great hand at gettingthe wind up. "

Now the smile passed from Mackintosh's eyes to his lips. It distortedthem painfully. 

"_Quem deus vult perdere prius dementat. _"

"What the hell is that?" said Walker. 

"Latin, " answered Mackintosh as he went out. 

And now he chuckled. His mood had changed. He had done all he could andthe matter was in the hands of fate. He slept more soundly than he haddone for weeks. When he awoke next morning he went out. After a goodnight he found a pleasant exhilaration in the freshness of the earlyair. The sea was a more vivid blue, the sky more brilliant, than on mostdays, the trade wind was fresh, and there was a ripple on the lagoon asthe breeze brushed over it like velvet brushed the wrong way. He felthimself stronger and younger. He entered upon the day's work with zest. After luncheon he slept again, and as evening drew on he had the baysaddled and sauntered through the bush. He seemed to see it all with neweyes. He felt more normal. The extraordinary thing was that he was ableto put Walker out of his mind altogether. So far as he was concerned hemight never have existed. 

He returned late, hot after his ride, and bathed again. Then he sat onthe verandah, smoking his pipe, and looked at the day declining over thelagoon. In the sunset the lagoon, rosy and purple and green, was verybeautiful. He felt at peace with the world and with himself. When thecook came out to say that dinner was ready and to ask whether he shouldwait, Mackintosh smiled at him with friendly eyes. He looked at hiswatch. 

"It's half-past seven. Better not wait. One can't tell when the boss'llbe back. "

The boy nodded, and in a moment Mackintosh saw him carry across the yarda bowl of steaming soup. He got up lazily, went into the dining-room, and ate his dinner. Had it happened? The uncertainty was amusing andMackintosh chuckled in the silence. The food did not seem so monotonousas usual, and even though there was Hamburger steak, the cook'sinvariable dish when his poor invention failed him, it tasted by somemiracle succulent and spiced. After dinner he strolled over lazily tohis bungalow to get a book. He liked the intense stillness, and nowthat the night had fallen the stars were blazing in the sky. He shoutedfor a lamp and in a moment the Chink pattered over on his bare feet, piercing the darkness with a ray of light. He put the lamp on the deskand noiselessly slipped out of the room. Mackintosh stood rooted to thefloor, for there, half hidden by untidy papers, was his revolver. Hisheart throbbed painfully, and he broke into a sweat. It was done then. 

He took up the revolver with a shaking hand. Four of the chambers wereempty. He paused a moment and looked suspiciously out into the night, but there was no one there. He quickly slipped four cartridges into theempty chambers and locked the revolver in his drawer. 

He sat down to wait. 

An hour passed, a second hour passed. There was nothing. He sat at hisdesk as though he were writing, but he neither wrote nor read. He merelylistened. He strained his ears for a sound travelling from a fardistance. At last he heard hesitating footsteps and knew it was theChinese cook. 

"Ah-Sung, " he called. 

The boy came to the door. 

"Boss velly late, " he said. "Dinner no good. "

Mackintosh stared at him, wondering whether he knew what had happened, and whether, when he knew, he would realise on what terms he and Walkerhad been. He went about his work, sleek, silent, and smiling, and whocould tell his thoughts?

"I expect he's had dinner on the way, but you must keep the soup hot atall events. "

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the silence was suddenlybroken into by a confusion, cries, and a rapid patter of naked feet. Anumber of natives ran into the compound, men and women and children;they crowded round Mackintosh and they all talked at once. They wereunintelligible. They were excited and frightened and some of them werecrying. Mackintosh pushed his way through them and went to the gateway. Though he had scarcely understood what they said he knew quite well whathad happened. And as he reached the gate the dog-cart arrived. The oldmare was being led by a tall Kanaka, and in the dog-cart crouched twomen, trying to hold Walker up. A little crowd of natives surrounded it. 

The mare was led into the yard and the natives surged in after it. Mackintosh shouted to them to stand back and the two policemen, sprangsuddenly from God knows where, pushed them violently aside. By now hehad managed to understand that some lads who had been fishing, on theirway back to their village had come across the cart on the home side ofthe ford. The mare was nuzzling about the herbage and in the darknessthey could just see the great white bulk of the old man sunk between theseat and the dashboard. At first they thought he was drunk and theypeered in, grinning, but then they heard him groan, and guessed thatsomething was amiss. They ran to the village and called for help. It waswhen they returned, accompanied by half a hundred people, that theydiscovered Walker had been shot. 

With a sudden thrill of horror Mackintosh asked himself whether he wasalready dead. The first thing at all events was to get him out of thecart, and that, owing to Walker's corpulence, was a difficult job. Ittook four strong men to lift him. They jolted him and he uttered a dullgroan. He was still alive. At last they carried him into the house, upthe stairs, and placed him on his bed. Then Mackintosh was able to seehim, for in the yard, lit only by half a dozen hurricane lamps, everything had been obscured. Walker's white ducks were stained withblood, and the men who had carried him wiped their hands, red andsticky, on their _lava-lavas_. Mackintosh held up the lamp. He had notexpected the old man to be so pale. His eyes were closed. He wasbreathing still, his pulse could be just felt, but it was obvious thathe was dying. Mackintosh had not bargained for the shock of horror thatconvulsed him. He saw that the native clerk was there, and in a voicehoarse with fear told him to go into the dispensary and get what wasnecessary for a hypodermic injection. One of the policemen had broughtup the whisky, and Mackintosh forced a little into the old man's mouth. The room was crowded with natives. They sat about the floor, speechlessnow and terrified, and every now and then one wailed aloud. It was veryhot, but Mackintosh felt cold, his hands and his feet were like ice, andhe had to make a violent effort not to tremble in all his limbs. He didnot know what to do. He did not know if Walker was bleeding still, andif he was, how he could stop the bleeding. 

The clerk brought the hypodermic needle. 

"You give it to him, " said Mackintosh. "You're more used to that sort ofthing than I am. "

His head ached horribly. It felt as though all sorts of little savagethings were beating inside it, trying to get out. They watched for theeffect of the injection. Presently Walker opened his eyes slowly. He didnot seem to know where he was. 

"Keep quiet, " said Mackintosh. "You're at home. You're quite safe. "

Walker's lips outlined a shadowy smile. 

"They've got me, " he whispered. 

"I'll get Jervis to send his motor-boat to Apia at once. We'll get adoctor out by to-morrow afternoon. "

There was a long pause before the old man answered, "I shall be dead by then. "

A ghastly expression passed over Mackintosh's pale face. He forcedhimself to laugh. 

"What rot! You keep quiet and you'll be as right as rain. "

"Give me a drink, " said Walker. "A stiff one. "

With shaking hand Mackintosh poured out whisky and water, half and half, and held the glass while Walker drank greedily. It seemed to restorehim. He gave a long sigh and a little colour came into his great fleshyface. Mackintosh felt extraordinarily helpless. He stood and stared atthe old man. 

"If you'll tell me what to do I'll do it, " he said. 

"There's nothing to do. Just leave me alone. I'm done for. "

He looked dreadfully pitiful as he lay on the great bed, a huge, bloated, old man; but so wan, so weak, it was heart-rending. As herested, his mind seemed to grow clearer. 

"You were right, Mac, " he said presently. "You warned me. "

"I wish to God I'd come with you. "

"You're a good chap, Mac, only you don't drink. "

There was another long silence, and it was clear that Walker wassinking. There was an internal hæmorrhage and even Mackintosh in hisignorance could not fail to see that his chief had but an hour or two tolive. He stood by the side of the bed stock still. For half an hourperhaps Walker lay with his eyes closed, then he opened them. 

"They'll give you my job, " he said, slowly. "Last time I was in Apia Itold them you were all right. Finish my road. I want to think that'll bedone. All round the island. "

"I don't want your job. You'll get all right. "

Walker shook his head wearily. 

"I've had my day. Treat them fairly, that's the great thing. They'rechildren. You must always remember that. You must be firm with them, butyou must be kind. And you must be just. I've never made a bob out ofthem. I haven't saved a hundred pounds in twenty years. The road's thegreat thing. Get the road finished. "

Something very like a sob was wrung from Mackintosh. 

"You're a good fellow, Mac. I always liked you. "

He closed his eyes, and Mackintosh thought that he would never open themagain. His mouth was so dry that he had to get himself something todrink. The Chinese cook silently put a chair for him. He sat down by theside of the bed and waited. He did not know how long a time passed. Thenight was endless. Suddenly one of the men sitting there broke intouncontrollable sobbing, loudly, like a child, and Mackintosh grew awarethat the room was crowded by this time with natives. They sat all overthe floor on their haunches, men and women, staring at the bed. 

"What are all these people doing here?" said Mackintosh. "They've got noright. Turn them out, turn them out, all of them. "

His words seemed to rouse Walker, for he opened his eyes once more, andnow they were all misty. He wanted to speak, but he was so weak thatMackintosh had to strain his ears to catch what he said. 

"Let them stay. They're my children. They ought to be here. "

Mackintosh turned to the natives. 

"Stay where you are. He wants you. But be silent. "

A faint smile came over the old man's white face. 

"Come nearer, " he said. 

Mackintosh bent over him. His eyes were closed and the words he saidwere like a wind sighing through the fronds of the coconut trees. 

"Give me another drink. I've got something to say. "

This time Mackintosh gave him his whisky neat. Walker collected hisstrength in a final effort of will. 

"Don't make a fuss about this. In 'ninety-five when there were troubleswhite men were killed, and the fleet came and shelled the villages. Alot of people were killed who'd had nothing to do with it. They'redamned fools at Apia. If they make a fuss they'll only punish the wrongpeople. I don't want anyone punished. "

He paused for a while to rest. 

"You must say it was an accident. No one's to blame. Promise me that. "

"I'll do anything you like, " whispered Mackintosh. 

"Good chap. One of the best. They're children. I'm their father. Afather don't let his children get into trouble if he can help it. "

A ghost of a chuckle came out of his throat. It was astonishingly weirdand ghastly. 

"You're a religious chap, Mac. What's that about forgiving them? Youknow. "

For a while Mackintosh did not answer. His lips trembled. 

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do?"

"That's right. Forgive them. I've loved them, you know, always lovedthem. "

He sighed. His lips faintly moved, and now Mackintosh had to put hisears quite close to them in order to hear. 

"Hold my hand, " he said. 

Mackintosh gave a gasp. His heart seemed wrenched. He took the old man'shand, so cold and weak, a coarse, rough hand, and held it in his own. And thus he sat until he nearly started out of his seat, for the silencewas suddenly broken by a long rattle. It was terrible and unearthly. Walker was dead. Then the natives broke out with loud cries. The tearsran down their faces, and they beat their breasts. 

Mackintosh disengaged his hand from the dead man's, and staggering likeone drunk with sleep he went out of the room. He went to the lockeddrawer in his writing-desk and took out the revolver. He walked down tothe sea and walked into the lagoon; he waded out cautiously, so that heshould not trip against a coral rock, till the water came to hisarm-pits. Then he put a bullet through his head. 

An hour later half a dozen slim brown sharks were splashing andstruggling at the spot where he fell. 

III

_The Fall of Edward Barnard_

Bateman Hunter slept badly. For a fortnight on the boat that brought himfrom Tahiti to San Francisco he had been thinking of the story he had totell, and for three days on the train he had repeated to himself thewords in which he meant to tell it. But in a few hours now he would bein Chicago, and doubts assailed him. His conscience, always verysensitive, was not at ease. He was uncertain that he had done all thatwas possible, it was on his honour to do much more than the possible, and the thought was disturbing that, in a matter which so nearly touchedhis own interest, he had allowed his interest to prevail over hisquixotry. Self-sacrifice appealed so keenly to his imagination that theinability to exercise it gave him a sense of disillusion. He was likethe philanthropist who with altruistic motives builds model dwellingsfor the poor and finds that he has made a lucrative investment. Hecannot prevent the satisfaction he feels in the ten per cent whichrewards the bread he had cast upon the waters, but he has an awkwardfeeling that it detracts somewhat from the savour of his virtue. BatemanHunter knew that his heart was pure, but he was not quite sure howsteadfastly, when he told her his story, he would endure the scrutinyof Isabel Longstaffe's cool grey eyes. They were far-seeing and wise. She measured the standards of others by her own meticulous uprightnessand there could be no greater censure than the cold silence with whichshe expressed her disapproval of a conduct that did not satisfy herexacting code. There was no appeal from her judgment, for, having madeup her mind, she never changed it. But Bateman would not have had herdifferent. He loved not only the beauty of her person, slim andstraight, with the proud carriage of her head, but still more the beautyof her soul. With her truthfulness, her rigid sense of honour, herfearless outlook, she seemed to him to collect in herself all that wasmost admirable in his countrywomen. But he saw in her something morethan the perfect type of the American girl, he felt that herexquisiteness was peculiar in a way to her environment, and he wasassured that no city in the world could have produced her but Chicago. Apang seized him when he remembered that he must deal so bitter a blow toher pride, and anger flamed up in his heart when he thought of EdwardBarnard. 

But at last the train steamed in to Chicago and he exulted when he sawthe long streets of grey houses. He could hardly bear his impatience atthe thought of State and Wabash with their crowded pavements, theirhustling traffic, and their noise. He was at home. And he was glad thathe had been born in the most important city in the United States. SanFrancisco was provincial, New York was effete; the future of Americalay in the development of its economic possibilities, and Chicago, byits position and by the energy of its citizens, was destined to becomethe real capital of the country. 

"I guess I shall live long enough to see it the biggest city in theworld, " Bateman said to himself as he stepped down to the platform. 

His father had come to meet him, and after a hearty handshake, the pairof them, tall, slender, and well-made, with the same fine, asceticfeatures and thin lips, walked out of the station. Mr Hunter'sautomobile was waiting for them and they got in. Mr Hunter caught hisson's proud and happy glance as he looked at the street. 

"Glad to be back, son?" he asked. 

"I should just think I was, " said Bateman. 

His eyes devoured the restless scene. 

"I guess there's a bit more traffic here than in your South Sea island, "laughed Mr Hunter. "Did you like it there?"

"Give me Chicago, dad, " answered Bateman. 

"You haven't brought Edward Barnard back with you. "

"No. "

"How was he?"

Bateman was silent for a moment, and his handsome, sensitive facedarkened. 

"I'd sooner not speak about him, dad, " he said at last. 

"That's all right, my son. I guess your mother will be a happy womanto-day. "

They passed out of the crowded streets in the Loop and drove along thelake till they came to the imposing house, an exact copy of a château onthe Loire, which Mr Hunter had built himself some years before. As soonas Bateman was alone in his room he asked for a number on the telephone. His heart leaped when he heard the voice that answered him. 

"Good-morning, Isabel, " he said gaily. 

"Good-morning, Bateman. "

"How did you recognise my voice?"

"It is not so long since I heard it last. Besides, I was expecting you. "

"When may I see you?"

"Unless you have anything better to do perhaps you'll dine with usto-night. "

"You know very well that I couldn't possibly have anything better todo. "

"I suppose that you're full of news?"

He thought he detected in her voice a note of apprehension. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

"Well, you must tell me to-night. Good-bye. "

She rang off. It was characteristic of her that she should be able towait so many unnecessary hours to know what so immensely concerned her. To Bateman there was an admirable fortitude in her restraint. 

At dinner, at which beside himself and Isabel no one was present but herfather and mother, he watched her guide the conversation into thechannels of an urbane small-talk, and it occurred to him that in justsuch a manner would a marquise under the shadow of the guillotine toywith the affairs of a day that would know no morrow. Her delicatefeatures, the aristocratic shortness of her upper lip, and her wealth offair hair suggested the marquise again, and it must have been obvious, even if it were not notorious, that in her veins flowed the best bloodin Chicago. The dining-room was a fitting frame to her fragile beauty, for Isabel had caused the house, a replica of a palace on the GrandCanal at Venice, to be furnished by an English expert in the style ofLouis XV; and the graceful decoration linked with the name of thatamorous monarch enhanced her loveliness and at the same time acquiredfrom it a more profound significance. For Isabel's mind was richlystored, and her conversation, however light, was never flippant. Shespoke now of the _Musicale_ to which she and her mother had been in theafternoon, of the lectures which an English poet was giving at theAuditorium, of the political situation, and of the Old Master which herfather had recently bought for fifty thousand dollars in New York. Itcomforted Bateman to hear her. He felt that he was once more in thecivilised world, at the centre of culture and distinction; and certainvoices, troubling and yet against his will refusing to still theirclamour, were at last silent in his heart. 

"Gee, but it's good to be back in Chicago, " he said. 

At last dinner was over, and when they went out of the dining-roomIsabel said to her mother:

"I'm going to take Bateman along to my den. We have various things totalk about. "

"Very well, my dear, " said Mrs Longstaffe. "You'll find your father andme in the Madame du Barry room when you're through. "

Isabel led the young man upstairs and showed him into the room of whichhe had so many charming memories. Though he knew it so well he could notrepress the exclamation of delight which it always wrung from him. Shelooked round with a smile. 

"I think it's a success, " she said. "The main thing is that it's right. There's not even an ashtray that isn't of the period. "

"I suppose that's what makes it so wonderful. Like all you do it's sosuperlatively right. "

They sat down in front of a log fire and Isabel looked at him with calmgrave eyes. 

"Now what have you to say to me?" she asked. 

"I hardly know how to begin. "

"Is Edward Barnard coming back?"

"No. "

There was a long silence before Bateman spoke again, and with each ofthem it was filled with many thoughts. It was a difficult story he hadto tell, for there were things in it which were so offensive to hersensitive ears that he could not bear to tell them, and yet in justiceto her, no less than in justice to himself, he must tell her the wholetruth. 

It had all begun long ago when he and Edward Barnard, still at college, had met Isabel Longstaffe at the tea-party given to introduce her tosociety. They had both known her when she was a child and theylong-legged boys, but for two years she had been in Europe to finish hereducation and it was with a surprised delight that they renewedacquaintance with the lovely girl who returned. Both of them felldesperately in love with her, but Bateman saw quickly that she had eyesonly for Edward, and, devoted to his friend, he resigned himself to therole of confidant. He passed bitter moments, but he could not deny thatEdward was worthy of his good fortune, and, anxious that nothing shouldimpair the friendship he so greatly valued, he took care never by a hintto disclose his own feelings. In six months the young couple wereengaged. But they were very young and Isabel's father decided that theyshould not marry at least till Edward graduated. They had to wait ayear. Bateman remembered the winter at the end of which Isabel andEdward were to be married, a winter of dances and theatre-parties and ofinformal gaieties at which he, the constant third, was always present. He loved her no less because she would shortly be his friend's wife; hersmile, a gay word she flung him, the confidence of her affection, neverceased to delight him; and he congratulated himself, somewhatcomplacently, because he did not envy them their happiness. Then anaccident happened. A great bank failed, there was a panic on theexchange, and Edward Barnard's father found himself a ruined man. Hecame home one night, told his wife that he was penniless, and afterdinner, going into his study, shot himself. 

A week later, Edward Barnard, with a tired, white face, went to Isabeland asked her to release him. Her only answer was to throw her armsround his neck and burst into tears. 

"Don't make it harder for me, sweet, " he said. 

"Do you think I can let you go now? I love you. "

"How can I ask you to marry me? The whole thing's hopeless. Your fatherwould never let you. I haven't a cent. "

"What do I care? I love you. "

He told her his plans. He had to earn money at once, and GeorgeBraunschmidt, an old friend of his family, had offered to take him intohis own business. He was a South Sea merchant, and he had agencies inmany of the islands of the Pacific. He had suggested that Edward shouldgo to Tahiti for a year or two, where under the best of his managers hecould learn the details of that varied trade, and at the end of thattime he promised the young man a position in Chicago. It was a wonderfulopportunity, and when he had finished his explanations Isabel was oncemore all smiles. 

"You foolish boy, why have you been trying to make me miserable?"

His face lit up at her words and his eyes flashed. 

"Isabel, you don't mean to say you'll wait for me?"

"Don't you think you're worth it?" she smiled. 

"Ah, don't laugh at me now. I beseech you to be serious. It may be fortwo years. "

"Have no fear. I love you, Edward. When you come back I will marryyou. "

Edward's employer was a man who did not like delay and he had told himthat if he took the post he offered he must sail that day week from SanFrancisco. Edward spent his last evening with Isabel. It was afterdinner that Mr Longstaffe, saying he wanted a word with Edward, took himinto the smoking-room. Mr Longstaffe had accepted good-naturedly thearrangement which his daughter had told him of and Edward could notimagine what mysterious communication he had now to make. He was not alittle perplexed to see that his host was embarrassed. He faltered. Hetalked of trivial things. At last he blurted it out. 

"I guess you've heard of Arnold Jackson, " he said, looking at Edwardwith a frown. 

Edward hesitated. His natural truthfulness obliged him to admit aknowledge he would gladly have been able to deny. 

"Yes, I have. But it's a long time ago. I guess I didn't pay very muchattention. "

"There are not many people in Chicago who haven't heard of ArnoldJackson, " said Mr Longstaffe bitterly, "and if there are they'll have nodifficulty in finding someone who'll be glad to tell them. Did you knowhe was Mrs Longstaffe's brother?"

"Yes, I knew that. "

"Of course we've had no communication with him for many years. He leftthe country as soon as he was able to, and I guess the country wasn'tsorry to see the last of him. We understand he lives in Tahiti. Myadvice to you is to give him a wide berth, but if you do hear anythingabout him Mrs Longstaffe and I would be very glad if you'd let us know. "

"Sure. "

"That was all I wanted to say to you. Now I daresay you'd like to jointhe ladies. "

There are few families that have not among their members one whom, iftheir neighbours permitted, they would willingly forget, and they arefortunate when the lapse of a generation or two has invested hisvagaries with a romantic glamour. But when he is actually alive, if hispeculiarities are not of the kind that can be condoned by the phrase, "he is nobody's enemy but his own, " a safe one when the culprit has noworse to answer for than alcoholism or wandering affections, the onlypossible course is silence. And it was this which the Longstaffes hadadopted towards Arnold Jackson. They never talked of him. They would noteven pass through the street in which he had lived. Too kind to make hiswife and children suffer for his misdeeds, they had supported them foryears, but on the understanding that they should live in Europe. Theydid everything they could to blot out all recollection of Arnold Jacksonand yet were conscious that the story was as fresh in the public mind aswhen first the scandal burst upon a gaping world. Arnold Jackson was asblack a sheep as any family could suffer from. A wealthy banker, prominent in his church, a philanthropist, a man respected by all, notonly for his connections (in his veins ran the blue blood of Chicago), but also for his upright character, he was arrested one day on a chargeof fraud; and the dishonesty which the trial brought to light was not ofthe sort which could be explained by a sudden temptation; it wasdeliberate and systematic. Arnold Jackson was a rogue. When he was sentto the penitentiary for seven years there were few who did not think hehad escaped lightly. 

When at the end of this last evening the lovers separated it was withmany protestations of devotion. Isabel, all tears, was consoled a littleby her certainty of Edward's passionate love. It was a strange feelingthat she had. It made her wretched to part from him and yet she washappy because he adored her. 

This was more than two years ago. 

He had written to her by every mail since then, twenty-four letters inall, for the mail went but once a month, and his letters had been allthat a lover's letters should be. They were intimate and charming, humorous sometimes, especially of late, and tender. At first theysuggested that he was homesick, they were full of his desire to get backto Chicago and Isabel; and, a little anxiously, she wrote begging him topersevere. She was afraid that he might throw up his opportunity andcome racing back. She did not want her lover to lack endurance and shequoted to him the lines:

 _"I could not love thee, dear, so much, _ _Loved I not honour more. "_

But presently he seemed to settle down and it made Isabel very happy toobserve his growing enthusiasm to introduce American methods into thatforgotten corner of the world. But she knew him, and at the end of theyear, which was the shortest time he could possibly stay in Tahiti, sheexpected to have to use all her influence to dissuade him from cominghome. It was much better that he should learn the business thoroughly, and if they had been able to wait a year there seemed no reason why theyshould not wait another. She talked it over with Bateman Hunter, alwaysthe most generous of friends (during those first few days after Edwardwent she did not know what she would have done without him), and theydecided that Edward's future must stand before everything. It was withrelief that she found as the time passed that he made no suggestion ofreturning. 

"He's splendid, isn't he?" she exclaimed to Bateman. 

"He's white, through and through. "

"Reading between the lines of his letter I know he hates it over there, but he's sticking it out because.... "

She blushed a little and Bateman, with the grave smile which was soattractive in him, finished the sentence for her. 

"Because he loves you. "

"It makes me feel so humble, " she said. 

"You're wonderful, Isabel, you're perfectly wonderful. "

But the second year passed and every month Isabel continued to receive aletter from Edward, and presently it began to seem a little strangethat he did not speak of coming back. He wrote as though he weresettled definitely in Tahiti, and what was more, comfortably settled. She was surprised. Then she read his letters again, all of them, severaltimes; and now, reading between the lines indeed, she was puzzled tonotice a change which had escaped her. The later letters were as tenderand as delightful as the first, but the tone was different. She wasvaguely suspicious of their humour, she had the instinctive mistrust ofher sex for that unaccountable quality, and she discerned in them now aflippancy which perplexed her. She was not quite certain that the Edwardwho wrote to her now was the same Edward that she had known. Oneafternoon, the day after a mail had arrived from Tahiti, when she wasdriving with Bateman he said to her:

"Did Edward tell you when he was sailing?"

"No, he didn't mention it. I thought he might have said something to youabout it. "

"Not a word. "

"You know what Edward is, " she laughed in reply, "he has no sense oftime. If it occurs to you next time you write you might ask him whenhe's thinking of coming. "

Her manner was so unconcerned that only Bateman's acute sensitivenesscould have discerned in her request a very urgent desire. He laughedlightly. 

"Yes. I'll ask him. I can't imagine what he's thinking about. "

A few days later, meeting him again, she noticed that something troubledhim. They had been much together since Edward left Chicago; they wereboth devoted to him and each in his desire to talk of the absent onefound a willing listener; the consequence was that Isabel knew everyexpression of Bateman's face, and his denials now were useless againsther keen instinct. Something told her that his harassed look had to dowith Edward and she did not rest till she had made him confess. 

"The fact is, " he said at last, "I heard in a round-about way thatEdward was no longer working for Braunschmidt and Co. , and yesterday Itook the opportunity to ask Mr Braunschmidt himself. "

"Well?"

"Edward left his employment with them nearly a year ago. "

"How strange he should have said nothing about it!"

Bateman hesitated, but he had gone so far now that he was obliged totell the rest. It made him feel dreadfully embarrassed. 

"He was fired. "

"In heaven's name what for?"

"It appears they warned him once or twice, and at last they told him toget out. They say he was lazy and incompetent. "

"Edward?"

They were silent for a while, and then he saw that Isabel was crying. Instinctively he seized her hand. 

"Oh, my dear, don't, don't, " he said. "I can't bear to see it. "

She was so unstrung that she let her hand rest in his. He tried toconsole her. 

"It's incomprehensible, isn't it? It's so unlike Edward. I can't helpfeeling there must be some mistake. "

She did not say anything for a while, and when she spoke it washesitatingly. 

"Has it struck you that there was anything queer in his letters lately?"she asked, looking away, her eyes all bright with tears. 

He did not quite know how to answer. 

"I have noticed a change in them, " he admitted. "He seems to have lostthat high seriousness which I admired so much in him. One would almostthink that the things that matter--well, don't matter. "

Isabel did not reply. She was vaguely uneasy. 

"Perhaps in his answer to your letter he'll say when he's coming home. All we can do is to wait for that. "

Another letter came from Edward for each of them, and still he made nomention of his return; but when he wrote he could not have receivedBateman's enquiry. The next mail would bring them an answer to that. Thenext mail came, and Bateman brought Isabel the letter he had justreceived; but the first glance of his face was enough to tell her thathe was disconcerted. She read it through carefully and then, withslightly tightened lips, read it again. 

"It's a very strange letter, " she said. "I don't quite understand it. "

"One might almost think that he was joshing me, " said Bateman, flushing. 

"It reads like that, but it must be unintentional. That's so unlikeEdward. "

"He says nothing about coming back. "

"If I weren't so confident of his love I should think.... I hardly knowwhat I should think. "

It was then that Bateman had broached the scheme which during theafternoon had formed itself in his brain. The firm, founded by hisfather, in which he was now a partner, a firm which manufactured allmanner of motor vehicles, was about to establish agencies in Honolulu, Sidney, and Wellington; and Bateman proposed that himself should goinstead of the manager who had been suggested. He could return byTahiti; in fact, travelling from Wellington, it was inevitable to do so;and he could see Edward. 

"There's some mystery and I'm going to clear it up. That's the only wayto do it. "

"Oh, Bateman, how can you be so good and kind?" she exclaimed. 

"You know there's nothing in the world I want more than your happiness, Isabel. "

She looked at him and she gave him her hands. 

"You're wonderful, Bateman. I didn't know there was anyone in the worldlike you. How can I ever thank you?"

"I don't want your thanks. I only want to be allowed to help you. "

She dropped her eyes and flushed a little. She was so used to him thatshe had forgotten how handsome he was. He was as tall as Edwardand as well made, but he was dark and pale of face, while Edward wasruddy. Of course she knew he loved her. It touched her. She felt verytenderly towards him. 

It was from this journey that Bateman Hunter was now returned. 

The business part of it took him somewhat longer than he expected and hehad much time to think of his two friends. He had come to the conclusionthat it could be nothing serious that prevented Edward from coming home, a pride, perhaps, which made him determined to make good before heclaimed the bride he adored; but it was a pride that must be reasonedwith. Isabel was unhappy. Edward must come back to Chicago with him andmarry her at once. A position could be found for him in the works of theHunter Motor Traction and Automobile Company. Bateman, with a bleedingheart, exulted at the prospect of giving happiness to the two persons heloved best in the world at the cost of his own. He would never marry. Hewould be godfather to the children of Edward and Isabel, and many yearslater when they were both dead he would tell Isabel's daughter how long, long ago he had loved her mother. Bateman's eyes were veiled with tearswhen he pictured this scene to himself. 

Meaning to take Edward by surprise he had not cabled to announce hisarrival, and when at last he landed at Tahiti he allowed a youth, whosaid he was the son of the house, to lead him to the Hotel de la Fleur. He chuckled when he thought of his friend's amazement on seeing him, the most unexpected of visitors, walk into his office. 

"By the way, " he asked, as they went along, "can you tell me where Ishall find Mr. Edward Barnard?"

"Barnard?" said the youth. "I seem to know the name. "

"He's an American. A tall fellow with light brown hair and blue eyes. He's been here over two years. "

"Of course. Now I know who you mean. You mean Mr Jackson's nephew. "

"Whose nephew?"

"Mr Arnold Jackson. "

"I don't think we're speaking of the same person, " answered Bateman, frigidly. 

He was startled. It was queer that Arnold Jackson, known apparently toall and sundry, should live here under the disgraceful name in which hehad been convicted. But Bateman could not imagine whom it was that hepassed off as his nephew. Mrs Longstaffe was his only sister and he hadnever had a brother. The young man by his side talked volubly in anEnglish that had something in it of the intonation of a foreign tongue, and Bateman, with a sidelong glance, saw, what he had not noticedbefore, that there was in him a good deal of native blood. A touch ofhauteur involuntarily entered into his manner. They reached the hotel. When he had arranged about his room Bateman asked to be directed to thepremises of Braunschmidt & Co. They were on the front, facing thelagoon, and, glad to feel the solid earth under his feet after eightdays at sea, he sauntered down the sunny road to the water's edge. Having found the place he sought, Bateman sent in his card to themanager and was led through a lofty barn-like room, half store and halfwarehouse, to an office in which sat a stout, spectacled, bald-headedman. 

"Can you tell me where I shall find Mr Edward Barnard? I understand hewas in this office for some time. "

"That is so. I don't know just where he is. "

"But I thought he came here with a particular recommendation from MrBraunschmidt. I know Mr Braunschmidt very well. "

The fat man looked at Bateman with shrewd, suspicious eyes. He called toone of the boys in the warehouse. 

"Say, Henry, where's Barnard now, d'you know?"

"He's working at Cameron's, I think, " came the answer from someone whodid not trouble to move. 

The fat man nodded. 

"If you turn to your left when you get out of here you'll come toCameron's in about three minutes. "

Bateman hesitated. 

"I think I should tell you that Edward Barnard is my greatest friend. Iwas very much surprised when I heard he'd left Braunschmidt & Co. "

The fat man's eyes contracted till they seemed like pin-points, andtheir scrutiny made Bateman so uncomfortable that he felt himselfblushing. 

"I guess Braunschmidt & Co. And Edward Barnard didn't see eye to eye oncertain matters, " he replied. 

Bateman did not quite like the fellow's manner, so he got up, notwithout dignity, and with an apology for troubling him bade himgood-day. He left the place with a singular feeling that the man he hadjust interviewed had much to tell him, but no intention of telling it. He walked in the direction indicated and soon found himself atCameron's. It was a trader's store, such as he had passed half a dozenof on his way, and when he entered the first person he saw, in his shirtsleeves, measuring out a length of trade cotton, was Edward. It gave hima start to see him engaged in so humble an occupation. But he hadscarcely appeared when Edward, looking up, caught sight of him, and gavea joyful cry of surprise. 

"Bateman! Who ever thought of seeing you here?"

He stretched his arm across the counter and wrung Bateman's hand. Therewas no self-consciousness in his manner and the embarrassment was all onBateman's side. 

"Just wait till I've wrapped this package. "

With perfect assurance he ran his scissors across the stuff, folded it, made it into a parcel, and handed it to the dark-skinned customer. 

"Pay at the desk, please. "

Then, smiling, with bright eyes, he turned to Bateman. 

"How did you show up here? Gee, I am delighted to see you. Sit down, old man. Make yourself at home. "

"We can't talk here. Come along to my hotel. I suppose you can getaway?"

This he added with some apprehension. 

"Of course I can get away. We're not so businesslike as all that inTahiti. " He called out to a Chinese who was standing behind the oppositecounter. "Ah-Ling, when the boss comes tell him a friend of mine's justarrived from America and I've gone out to have a drain with him. "

"All-light, " said the Chinese, with a grin. 

Edward slipped on a coat and, putting on his hat, accompanied Batemanout of the store. Bateman attempted to put the matter facetiously. 

"I didn't expect to find you selling three and a half yards of rottencotton to a greasy nigger, " he laughed. 

"Braunschmidt fired me, you know, and I thought that would do as well asanything else. "

Edward's candour seemed to Bateman very surprising, but he thought itindiscreet to pursue the subject. 

"I guess you won't make a fortune where you are, " he answered, somewhatdryly. 

"I guess not. But I earn enough to keep body and soul together, and I'mquite satisfied with that. "

"You wouldn't have been two years ago. "

"We grow wiser as we grow older, " retorted Edward, gaily. 

Bateman took a glance at him. Edward was dressed in a suit of shabbywhite ducks, none too clean, and a large straw hat of native make. Hewas thinner than he had been, deeply burned by the sun, and he wascertainly better looking than ever. But there was something in hisappearance that disconcerted Bateman. He walked with a new jauntiness;there was a carelessness in his demeanour, a gaiety about nothing inparticular, which Bateman could not precisely blame, but whichexceedingly puzzled him. 

"I'm blest if I can see what he's got to be so darned cheerful about, "he said to himself. 

They arrived at the hotel and sat on the terrace. A Chinese boy broughtthem cocktails. Edward was most anxious to hear all the news of Chicagoand bombarded his friend with eager questions. His interest was naturaland sincere. But the odd thing was that it seemed equally divided amonga multitude of subjects. He was as eager to know how Bateman's fatherwas as what Isabel was doing. He talked of her without a shade ofembarrassment, but she might just as well have been his sister as hispromised wife; and before Bateman had done analysing the exact meaningof Edward's remarks he found that the conversation had drifted to hisown work and the buildings his father had lately erected. He wasdetermined to bring the conversation back to Isabel and was looking forthe occasion when he saw Edward wave his hand cordially. A man wasadvancing towards them on the terrace, but Bateman's back was turned tohim and he could not see him. 

"Come and sit down, " said Edward gaily. 

The new-comer approached. He was a very tall, thin man, in white ducks, with a fine head of curly white hair. His face was thin too, long, witha large, hooked nose and a beautiful, expressive mouth. 

"This is my old friend Bateman Hunter. I've told you about him, " saidEdward, his constant smile breaking on his lips. 

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Hunter. I used to know your father. "

The stranger held out his hand and took the young man's in a strong, friendly grasp. It was not till then that Edward mentioned the other'sname. 

"Mr Arnold Jackson. "

Bateman turned white and he felt his hands grow cold. This was theforger, the convict, this was Isabel's uncle. He did not know what tosay. He tried to conceal his confusion. Arnold Jackson looked at himwith twinkling eyes. 

"I daresay my name is familiar to you. "

Bateman did not know whether to say yes or no, and what made it moreawkward was that both Jackson and Edward seemed to be amused. It was badenough to have forced on him the acquaintance of the one man on theisland he would rather have avoided, but worse to discern that he wasbeing made a fool of. Perhaps, however, he had reached this conclusiontoo quickly, for Jackson, without a pause, added:

"I understand you're very friendly with the Longstaffes. Mary Longstaffeis my sister. "

Now Bateman asked himself if Arnold Jackson could think him ignorant ofthe most terrible scandal that Chicago had ever known. But Jackson puthis hand on Edward's shoulder. 

"I can't sit down, Teddie, " he said. "I'm busy. But you two boys hadbetter come up and dine to-night. "

"That'll be fine, " said Edward. 

"It's very kind of you, Mr Jackson, " said Bateman, frigidly, "but I'mhere for so short a time; my boat sails to-morrow, you know; I think ifyou'll forgive me, I won't come. "

"Oh, nonsense. I'll give you a native dinner. My wife's a wonderfulcook. Teddie will show you the way. Come early so as to see the sunset. I can give you both a shake-down if you like. "

"Of course we'll come, " said Edward. "There's always the devil of a rowin the hotel on the night a boat arrives and we can have a good yarn upat the bungalow. "

"I can't let you off, Mr Hunter, " Jackson continued with the utmostcordiality. "I want to hear all about Chicago and Mary. "

He nodded and walked away before Bateman could say another word. 

"We don't take refusals in Tahiti, " laughed Edward. "Besides, you'll getthe best dinner on the island. "

"What did he mean by saying his wife was a good cook? I happen to knowhis wife's in Geneva. "

"That's a long way off for a wife, isn't it?" said Edward. "And it's along time since he saw her. I guess it's another wife he's talkingabout. "

For some time Bateman was silent. His face was set in grave lines. Butlooking up he caught the amused look in Edward's eyes, and he flusheddarkly. 

"Arnold Jackson is a despicable rogue, " he said. 

"I greatly fear he is, " answered Edward, smiling. 

"I don't see how any decent man can have anything to do with him. "

"Perhaps I'm not a decent man. "

"Do you see much of him, Edward?"

"Yes, quite a lot. He's adopted me as his nephew. "

Bateman leaned forward and fixed Edward with his searching eyes. 

"Do you like him?"

"Very much. "

"But don't you know, doesn't everyone here know, that he's a forger andthat he's been a convict? He ought to be hounded out of civilisedsociety. "

Edward watched a ring of smoke that floated from his cigar into thestill, scented air. 

"I suppose he is a pretty unmitigated rascal, " he said at last. "And Ican't flatter myself that any repentance for his misdeeds offers one anexcuse for condoning them. He was a swindler and a hypocrite. You can'tget away from it. I never met a more agreeable companion. He's taught meeverything I know. "

"What has he taught you?" cried Bateman in amazement. 

"How to live. "

Bateman broke into ironical laughter. 

"A fine master. Is it owing to his lessons that you lost the chance ofmaking a fortune and earn your living now by serving behind a counter ina ten cent store?"

"He has a wonderful personality, " said Edward, smiling good-naturedly. "Perhaps you'll see what I mean to-night. "

"I'm not going to dine with him if that's what you mean. Nothing wouldinduce me to set foot within that man's house. "

"Come to oblige me, Bateman. We've been friends for so many years, youwon't refuse me a favour when I ask it. "

Edward's tone had in it a quality new to Bateman. Its gentleness wassingularly persuasive. 

"If you put it like that, Edward, I'm bound to come, " he smiled. 

Bateman reflected, moreover, that it would be as well to learn what hecould about Arnold Jackson. It was plain that he had a great ascendencyover Edward, and if it was to be combated it was necessary to discoverin what exactly it consisted. The more he talked with Edward the moreconscious he became that a change had taken place in him. He had aninstinct that it behooved him to walk warily, and he made up his mindnot to broach the real purport of his visit till he saw his way moreclearly. He began to talk of one thing and another, of his journey andwhat he had achieved by it, of politics in Chicago, of this commonfriend and that, of their days together at college. 

At last Edward said he must get back to his work and proposed that heshould fetch Bateman at five so that they could drive out together toArnold Jackson's house. 

"By the way, I rather thought you'd be living at this hotel, " saidBateman, as he strolled out of the garden with Edward. "I understandit's the only decent one here. "

"Not I, " laughed Edward. "It's a deal too grand for me. I rent a roomjust outside the town. It's cheap and clean. "

"If I remember right those weren't the points that seemed most importantto you when you lived in Chicago. "

"Chicago!"

"I don't know what you mean by that, Edward. It's the greatest city inthe world. "

"I know, " said Edward. 

Bateman glanced at him quickly, but his face was inscrutable. 

"When are you coming back to it?"

"I often wonder, " smiled Edward. 

This answer, and the manner of it, staggered Bateman, but before hecould ask for an explanation Edward waved to a half-caste who wasdriving a passing motor. 

"Give us a ride down, Charlie, " he said. 

He nodded to Bateman, and ran after the machine that had pulled up a fewyards in front. Bateman was left to piece together a mass of perplexingimpressions. 

Edward called for him in a rickety trap drawn by an old mare, and theydrove along a road that ran by the sea. On each side of it wereplantations, coconut and vanilla; and now and then they saw a greatmango, its fruit yellow and red and purple among the massy green of theleaves; now and then they had a glimpse of the lagoon, smooth and blue, with here and there a tiny islet graceful with tall palms. ArnoldJackson's house stood on a little hill and only a path led to it, sothey unharnessed the mare and tied her to a tree, leaving the trap bythe side of the road. To Bateman it seemed a happy-go-lucky way of doingthings. But when they went up to the house they were met by a tall, handsome native woman, no longer young, with whom Edward cordially shookhands. He introduced Bateman to her. 

"This is my friend Mr Hunter. We're going to dine with you, Lavina. "

"All right, " she said, with a quick smile. "Arnold ain't back yet. "

"We'll go down and bathe. Let us have a couple of _pareos_. "

The woman nodded and went into the house. 

"Who is that?" asked Bateman. 

"Oh, that's Lavina. She's Arnold's wife. "

Bateman tightened his lips, but said nothing. In a moment the womanreturned with a bundle, which she gave to Edward; and the two men, scrambling down a steep path, made their way to a grove of coconut treeson the beach. They undressed and Edward showed his friend how to makethe strip of red trade cotton which is called a _pareo_ into a very neatpair of bathing-drawers. Soon they were splashing in the warm, shallowwater. Edward was in great spirits. He laughed and shouted and sang. Hemight have been fifteen. Bateman had never seen him so gay, andafterwards when they lay on the beach, smoking cigarettes, in the limpidair, there was such an irresistible light-heartedness in him thatBateman was taken aback. 

"You seem to find life mighty pleasant, " said he. 

"I do. "

They heard a soft movement and looking round saw that Arnold Jackson wascoming towards them. 

"I thought I'd come down and fetch you two boys back, " he said. "Did youenjoy your bath, Mr Hunter?"

"Very much, " said Bateman. 

Arnold Jackson, no longer in spruce ducks, wore nothing but a _pareo_round his loins and walked barefoot. His body was deeply browned by thesun. With his long, curling white hair and his ascetic face he made afantastic figure in the native dress, but he bore himself without atrace of self-consciousness. 

"If you're ready we'll go right up, " said Jackson. 

"I'll just put on my clothes, " said Bateman. 

"Why, Teddie, didn't you bring a _pareo_ for your friend?"

"I guess he'd rather wear clothes, " smiled Edward. 

"I certainly would, " answered Bateman, grimly, as he saw Edward girdhimself in the loincloth and stand ready to start before he himself hadgot his shirt on. 

"Won't you find it rough walking without your shoes?" he asked Edward. "It struck me the path was a trifle rocky. "

"Oh, I'm used to it. "

"It's a comfort to get into a _pareo_ when one gets back from town, "said Jackson. "If you were going to stay here I should stronglyrecommend you to adopt it. It's one of the most sensible costumes I haveever come across. It's cool, convenient, and inexpensive. "

They walked up to the house, and Jackson took them into a large roomwith white-washed walls and an open ceiling in which a table was laidfor dinner. Bateman noticed that it was set for five. 

"Eva, come and show yourself to Teddie's friend, and then shake us acocktail, " called Jackson. 

Then he led Bateman to a long low window. 

"Look at that, " he said, with a dramatic gesture. "Look well. "

Below them coconut trees tumbled down steeply to the lagoon, and thelagoon in the evening light had the colour, tender and varied, of adove's breast. On a creek, at a little distance, were the clustered hutsof a native village, and towards the reef was a canoe, sharplysilhouetted, in which were a couple of natives fishing. Then, beyond, you saw the vast calmness of the Pacific and twenty miles away, airy andunsubstantial like the fabric of a poet's fancy, the unimaginable beautyof the island which is called Murea. It was all so lovely that Batemanstood abashed. 

"I've never seen anything like it, " he said at last. 

Arnold Jackson stood staring in front of him, and in his eyes was adreamy softness. His thin, thoughtful face was very grave. Bateman, glancing at it, was once more conscious of its intense spirituality. 

"Beauty, " murmured Arnold Jackson. "You seldom see beauty face to face. Look at it well, Mr Hunter, for what you see now you will never seeagain, since the moment is transitory, but it will be an imperishablememory in your heart. You touch eternity. "

His voice was deep and resonant. He seemed to breathe forth the purestidealism, and Bateman had to urge himself to remember that the man whospoke was a criminal and a cruel cheat. But Edward, as though he heard asound, turned round quickly. 

"Here is my daughter, Mr Hunter. "

Bateman shook hands with her. She had dark, splendid eyes and a redmouth tremulous with laughter; but her skin was brown, and her curlinghair, rippling down her-shoulders, was coal black. She wore but onegarment, a Mother Hubbard of pink cotton, her feet were bare, and shewas crowned with a wreath of white scented flowers. She was a lovelycreature. She was like a goddess of the Polynesian spring. 

She was a little shy, but not more shy than Bateman, to whom the wholesituation was highly embarrassing, and it did not put him at his ease tosee this sylph-like thing take a shaker and with a practised hand mixthree cocktails. 

"Let us have a kick in them, child, " said Jackson. 

She poured them out and smiling delightfully handed one to each of themen. Bateman flattered himself on his skill in the subtle art of shakingcocktails and he was not a little astonished, on tasting this one, tofind that it was excellent. Jackson laughed proudly when he saw hisguest's involuntary look of appreciation. 

"Not bad, is it? I taught the child myself, and in the old days inChicago I considered that there wasn't a bar-tender in the city thatcould hold a candle to me. When I had nothing better to do in thepenitentiary I used to amuse myself by thinking out new cocktails, butwhen you come down to brass-tacks there's nothing to beat a dryMartini. "

Bateman felt as though someone had given him a violent blow on thefunny-bone and he was conscious that he turned red and then white. Butbefore he could think of anything to say a native boy brought in a greatbowl of soup and the whole party sat down to dinner. Arnold Jackson'sremark seemed to have aroused in him a train of recollections, for hebegan to talk of his prison days. He talked quite naturally, withoutmalice, as though he were relating his experiences at a foreignuniversity. He addressed himself to Bateman and Bateman was confused andthen confounded. He saw Edward's eyes fixed on him and there was in thema flicker of amusement. He blushed scarlet, for it struck him thatJackson was making a fool of him, and then because he felt absurd--andknew there was no reason why he should--he grew angry. Arnold Jacksonwas impudent--there was no other word for it--and his callousness, whether assumed or not, was outrageous. The dinner proceeded. Batemanwas asked to eat sundry messes, raw fish and he knew not what, whichonly his civility induced him to swallow, but which he was amazed tofind very good eating. Then an incident happened which to Bateman wasthe most mortifying experience of the evening. There was a littlecirclet of flowers in front of him, and for the sake of conversation hehazarded a remark about it. 

"It's a wreath that Eva made for you, " said Jackson, "but I guess shewas too shy to give it you. "

Bateman took it up in his hand and made a polite little speech of thanksto the girl. 

"You must put it on, " she said, with a smile and a blush. 

"I? I don't think I'll do that. "

"It's the charming custom of the country, " said Arnold Jackson. 

There was one in front of him and he placed it on his hair. Edward didthe same. 

"I guess I'm not dressed for the part, " said Bateman, uneasily. 

"Would you like a _pareo_?" said Eva quickly. "I'll get you one in aminute. "

"No, thank you. I'm quite comfortable as I am. "

"Show him how to put it on, Eva, " said Edward. 

At that moment Bateman hated his greatest friend. Eva got up from thetable and with much laughter placed the wreath on his black hair. 

"It suits you very well, " said Mrs Jackson. "Don't it suit him, Arnold?"

"Of course it does. "

Bateman sweated at every pore. 

"Isn't it a pity it's dark?" said Eva. "We could photograph you allthree together. "

Bateman thanked his stars it was. He felt that he must look prodigiouslyfoolish in his blue serge suit and high collar--very neat andgentlemanly--with that ridiculous wreath of flowers on his head. He wasseething with indignation, and he had never in his life exercised moreself-control than now when he presented an affable exterior. He wasfurious with that old man, sitting at the head of the table, half-naked, with his saintly face and the flowers on his handsome white locks. Thewhole position was monstrous. 

Then dinner came to an end, and Eva and her mother remained to clearaway while the three men sat on the verandah. It was very warm and theair was scented with the white flowers of the night. The full moon, sailing across an unclouded sky, made a pathway on the broad sea thatled to the boundless realms of Forever. Arnold Jackson began to talk. His voice was rich and musical. He talked now of the natives and of theold legends of the country. He told strange stories of the past, storiesof hazardous expeditions into the unknown, of love and death, of hatredand revenge. He told of the adventurers who had discovered those distantislands, of the sailors who, settling in them, had married the daughtersof great chieftains, and of the beach-combers who had led their variedlives on those silvery shores. Bateman, mortified and exasperated, atfirst listened sullenly, but presently some magic in the words possessedhim and he sat entranced. The mirage of romance obscured the light ofcommon day. Had he forgotten that Arnold Jackson had a tongue of silver, a tongue by which he had charmed vast sums out of the credulous public, a tongue which very nearly enabled him to escape the penalty of hiscrimes? No one had a sweeter eloquence, and no one had a more acutesense of climax. Suddenly he rose. 

"Well, you two boys haven't seen one another for a long time. I shallleave you to have a yarn. Teddie will show you your quarters when youwant to go to bed. "

"Oh, but I wasn't thinking of spending the night, Mr Jackson, " saidBateman. 

"You'll find it more comfortable. We'll see that you're called in goodtime. "

Then with a courteous shake of the hand, stately as though he were abishop in canonicals, Arnold Jackson took leave of his guest. 

"Of course I'll drive you back to Papeete if you like, " said Edward, "but I advise you to stay. It's bully driving in the early morning. "

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Bateman wondered how he shouldbegin on the conversation which all the events of the day made himthink more urgent. 

"When are you coming back to Chicago?" he asked, suddenly. 

For a moment Edward did not answer. Then he turned rather lazily to lookat his friend and smiled. 

"I don't know. Perhaps never. "

"What in heaven's name do you mean?" cried Bateman. 

"I'm very happy here. Wouldn't it be folly to make a change?"

"Man alive, you can't live here all your life. This is no life for aman. It's a living death. Oh, Edward, come away at once, before it's toolate. I've felt that something was wrong. You're infatuated with theplace, you've succumbed to evil influences, but it only requires awrench, and when you're free from these surroundings you'll thank allthe gods there be. You'll be like a dope-fiend when he's broken from hisdrug. You'll see then that for two years you've been breathing poisonedair. You can't imagine what a relief it will be when you fill your lungsonce more with the fresh, pure air of your native country. "

He spoke quickly, the words tumbling over one another in his excitement, and there was in his voice sincere and affectionate emotion. Edward wastouched. 

"It is good of you to care so much, old friend. "

"Come with me to-morrow, Edward. It was a mistake that you ever came tothis place. This is no life for you. "

"You talk of this sort of life and that. How do you think a man gets thebest out of life?"

"Why, I should have thought there could be no two answers to that. Bydoing his duty, by hard work, by meeting all the obligations of hisstate and station. "

"And what is his reward?"

"His reward is the consciousness of having achieved what he set out todo. "

"It all sounds a little portentous to me, " said Edward, and in thelightness of the night Bateman could see that he was smiling. "I'mafraid you'll think I've degenerated sadly. There are several things Ithink now which I daresay would have seemed outrageous to me three yearsago. "

"Have you learnt them from Arnold Jackson?" asked Bateman, scornfully. 

"You don't like him? Perhaps you couldn't be expected to. I didn't whenI first came. I had just the same prejudice as you. He's a veryextraordinary man. You saw for yourself that he makes no secret of thefact that he was in a penitentiary. I do not know that he regrets it orthe crimes that led him there. The only complaint he ever made in myhearing was that when he came out his health was impaired. I think hedoes not know what remorse is. He is completely unmoral. He acceptseverything and he accepts himself as well. He's generous and kind. "

"He always was, " interrupted Bateman, "on other people's money. "

"I've found him a very good friend. Is it unnatural that I should takea man as I find him?"

"The result is that you lose the distinction between right and wrong. "

"No, they remain just as clearly divided in my mind as before, but whathas become a little confused in me is the distinction between the badman and the good one. Is Arnold Jackson a bad man who does good thingsor a good man who does bad things? It's a difficult question to answer. Perhaps we make too much of the difference between one man and another. Perhaps even the best of us are sinners and the worst of us are saints. Who knows?"

"You will never persuade me that white is black and that black iswhite, " said Bateman. 

"I'm sure I shan't, Bateman. "

Bateman could not understand why the flicker of a smile crossed Edward'slips when he thus agreed with him. Edward was silent for a minute. 

"When I saw you this morning, Bateman, " he said then, "I seemed to seemyself as I was two years ago. The same collar, and the same shoes, thesame blue suit, the same energy. The same determination. By God, I wasenergetic. The sleepy methods of this place made my blood tingle. I wentabout and everywhere I saw possibilities for development and enterprise. There were fortunes to be made here. It seemed to me absurd that thecopra should be taken away from here in sacks and the oil extracted inAmerica. It would be far more economical to do all that on the spot, with cheap labour, and save freight, and I saw already the vastfactories springing up on the island. Then the way they extracted itfrom the coconut seemed to me hopelessly inadequate, and I invented amachine which divided the nut and scooped out the meat at the rate oftwo hundred and forty an hour. The harbour was not large enough. I madeplans to enlarge it, then to form a syndicate to buy land, put up two orthree large hotels, and bungalows for occasional residents; I had ascheme for improving the steamer service in order to attract visitorsfrom California. In twenty years, instead of this half French, lazylittle town of Papeete I saw a great American city with ten-storybuildings and street-cars, a theatre and an opera house, a stockexchange and a mayor. "

"But go ahead, Edward, " cried Bateman, springing up from the chair inexcitement. "You've got the ideas and the capacity. Why, you'll becomethe richest man between Australia and the States. "

Edward chuckled softly. 

"But I don't want to, " he said. 

"Do you mean to say you don't want money, big money, money running intomillions? Do you know what you can do with it? Do you know the power itbrings? And if you don't care about it for yourself think what you cando, opening new channels for human enterprise, giving occupation tothousands. My brain reels at the visions your words have conjured up. "

"Sit down, then, my dear Bateman, " laughed Edward. "My machine forcutting the coconuts will always remain unused, and so far as I'mconcerned street-cars shall never run in the idle streets of Papeete. "

Bateman sank heavily into his chair. 

"I don't understand you, " he said. 

"It came upon me little by little. I came to like the life here, withits ease and its leisure, and the people, with their good-nature andtheir happy smiling faces. I began to think. I'd never had time to dothat before. I began to read. "

"You always read. "

"I read for examinations. I read in order to be able to hold my own inconversation. I read for instruction. Here I learned to read forpleasure. I learned to talk. Do you know that conversation is one of thegreatest pleasures in life? But it wants leisure. I'd always been toobusy before. And gradually all the life that had seemed so important tome began to seem rather trivial and vulgar. What is the use of all thishustle and this constant striving? I think of Chicago now and I see adark, grey city, all stone--it is like a prison--and a ceaselessturmoil. And what does all that activity amount to? Does one get therethe best out of life? Is that what we come into the world for, to hurryto an office, and work hour after hour till night, then hurry home anddine and go to a theatre? Is that how I must spend my youth? Youth lastsso short a time, Bateman. And when I am old, what have I to look forwardto? To hurry from my home in the morning to my office and work hourafter hour till night, and then hurry home again, and dine and go to atheatre? That may be worth while if you make a fortune; I don't know, itdepends on your nature; but if you don't, is it worth while then? I wantto make more out of my life than that, Bateman. "

"What do you value in life then?"

"I'm afraid you'll laugh at me. Beauty, truth, and goodness. "

"Don't you think you can have those in Chicago?"

"Some men can, perhaps, but not I. " Edward sprang up now. "I tell youwhen I think of the life I led in the old days I am filled with horror, "he cried violently. "I tremble with fear when I think of the danger Ihave escaped. I never knew I had a soul till I found it here. If I hadremained a rich man I might have lost it for good and all. "

"I don't know how you can say that, " cried Bateman indignantly. "Weoften used to have discussions about it. "

"Yes, I know. They were about as effectual as the discussions of deafmutes about harmony. I shall never come back to Chicago, Bateman. "

"And what about Isabel?"

Edward walked to the edge of the verandah and leaning over lookedintently at the blue magic of the night. There was a slight smile on hisface when he turned back to Bateman. 

"Isabel is infinitely too good for me. I admire her more than any womanI have ever known. She has a wonderful brain and she's as good as she'sbeautiful. I respect her energy and her ambition. She was born to make asuccess of life. I am entirely unworthy of her. "

"She doesn't think so. "

"But you must tell her so, Bateman. "

"I?" cried Bateman. "I'm the last person who could ever do that. "

Edward had his back to the vivid light of the moon and his face couldnot be seen. Is it possible that he smiled again?

"It's no good your trying to conceal anything from her, Bateman. Withher quick intelligence she'll turn you inside out in five minutes. You'dbetter make a clean breast of it right away. "

"I don't know what you mean. Of course I shall tell her I've seen you. "Bateman spoke in some agitation. "Honestly I don't know what to say toher. "

"Tell her that I haven't made good. Tell her that I'm not only poor, butthat I'm content to be poor. Tell her I was fired from my job because Iwas idle and inattentive. Tell her all you've seen to-night and all I'vetold you. "

The idea which on a sudden flashed through Bateman's brain brought himto his feet and in uncontrollable perturbation he faced Edward. 

"Man alive, don't you want to marry her?"

Edward looked at him gravely. 

"I can never ask her to release me. If she wishes to hold me to my wordI will do my best to make her a good and loving husband. "

"Do you wish me to give her that message, Edward? Oh, I can't. It'sterrible. It's never dawned on her for a moment that you don't want tomarry her. She loves you. How can I inflict such a mortification onher?"

Edward smiled again. 

"Why don't you marry her yourself, Bateman? You've been in love with herfor ages. You're perfectly suited to one another. You'll make her veryhappy. "

"Don't talk to me like that. I can't bear it. "

"I resign in your favour, Bateman. You are the better man. "

There was something in Edward's tone that made Bateman look up quickly, but Edward's eyes were grave and unsmiling. Bateman did not know what tosay. He was disconcerted. He wondered whether Edward could possiblysuspect that he had come to Tahiti on a special errand. And though heknew it was horrible he could not prevent the exultation in his heart. 

"What will you do if Isabel writes and puts an end to her engagementwith you?" he said, slowly. 

"Survive, " said Edward. 

Bateman was so agitated that he did not hear the answer. 

"I wish you had ordinary clothes on, " he said, somewhat irritably. "It'ssuch a tremendously serious decision you're taking. That fantasticcostume of yours makes it seem terribly casual. "

"I assure you, I can be just as solemn in a _pareo_ and a wreath ofroses, as in a high hat and a cut-away coat. "

Then another thought struck Bateman. 

"Edward, it's not for my sake you're doing this? I don't know, butperhaps this is going to make a tremendous difference to my future. You're not sacrificing yourself for me? I couldn't stand for that, youknow. "

"No, Bateman, I have learnt not to be silly and sentimental here. Ishould like you and Isabel to be happy, but I have not the least wish tobe unhappy myself. "

The answer somewhat chilled Bateman. It seemed to him a little cynical. He would not have been sorry to act a noble part. 

"Do you mean to say you're content to waste your life here? It's nothingless than suicide. When I think of the great hopes you had when we leftcollege it seems terrible that you should be content to be no more thana salesman in a cheap-John store. "

"Oh, I'm only doing that for the present, and I'm gaining a great dealof valuable experience. I have another plan in my head. Arnold Jacksonhas a small island in the Paumotas, about a thousand miles from here, aring of land round a lagoon. He's planted coconut there. He's offered togive it me. "

"Why should he do that?" asked Bateman. 

"Because if Isabel releases me I shall marry his daughter. "

"You?" Bateman was thunderstruck. "You can't marry a half-caste. Youwouldn't be so crazy as that. "

"She's a good girl, and she has a sweet and gentle nature. I think shewould make me very happy. "

"Are you in love with her?"

"I don't know, " answered Edward reflectively. "I'm not in love with heras I was in love with Isabel. I worshipped Isabel. I thought she was themost wonderful creature I had ever seen. I was not half good enough forher. I don't feel like that with Eva. She's like a beautiful exoticflower that must be sheltered from bitter winds. I want to protect her. No one ever thought of protecting Isabel. I think she loves me formyself and not for what I may become. Whatever happens to me I shallnever disappoint her. She suits me. "

Bateman was silent. 

"We must turn out early in the morning, " said Edward at last. "It'sreally about time we went to bed. "

Then Bateman spoke and his voice had in it a genuine distress. 

"I'm so bewildered, I don't know what to say. I came here because Ithought something was wrong. I thought you hadn't succeeded in what youset out to do and were ashamed to come back when you'd failed. I neverguessed I should be faced with this. I'm so desperately sorry, Edward. I'm so disappointed. I hoped you would do great things. It's almost morethan I can bear to think of you wasting your talents and your youth andyour chance in this lamentable way. "

"Don't be grieved, old friend, " said Edward. "I haven't failed. I'vesucceeded. You can't think with what zest I look forward to life, howfull it seems to me and how significant. Sometimes, when you are marriedto Isabel, you will think of me. I shall build myself a house on mycoral island and I shall live there, looking after my trees--getting thefruit out of the nuts in the same old way that they have done forunnumbered years--I shall grow all sorts of things in my garden, and Ishall fish. There will be enough work to keep me busy and not enough tomake me dull. I shall have my books and Eva, children, I hope, and aboveall, the infinite variety of the sea and the sky, the freshness of thedawn and the beauty of the sunset, and the rich magnificence of thenight. I shall make a garden out of what so short a while ago was awilderness. I shall have created something. The years will passinsensibly, and when I am an old man I hope that I shall be able to lookback on a happy, simple, peaceful life. In my small way I too shall havelived in beauty. Do you think it is so little to have enjoyedcontentment? We know that it will profit a man little if he gain thewhole world and lose his soul. I think I have won mine. "

Edward led him to a room in which there were two beds and he threwhimself on one of them. In ten minutes Bateman knew by his regularbreathing, peaceful as a child's, that Edward was asleep. But for hispart he had no rest, he was disturbed in mind, and it was not till thedawn crept into the room, ghostlike and silent, that he fell asleep. 

Bateman finished telling Isabel his long story. He had hidden nothingfrom her except what he thought would wound her or what made himselfridiculous. He did not tell her that he had been forced to sit at dinnerwith a wreath of flowers round his head and he did not tell her thatEdward was prepared to marry her uncle's half-caste daughter the momentshe set him free. But perhaps Isabel had keener intuitions than he knew, for as he went on with his tale her eyes grew colder and her lips closedupon one another more tightly. Now and then she looked at him closely, and if he had been less intent on his narrative he might have wonderedat her expression. 

"What was this girl like?" she asked when he finished. "Uncle Arnold'sdaughter. Would you say there was any resemblance between her and me?"

Bateman was surprised at the question. 

"It never struck me. You know I've never had eyes for anyone but you andI could never think that anyone was like you. Who could resemble you?"

"Was she pretty?" said Isabel, smiling slightly at his words. 

"I suppose so. I daresay some men would say she was very beautiful. "

"Well, it's of no consequence. I don't think we need give her any moreof our attention. "

"What are you going to do, Isabel?" he asked then. 

Isabel looked down at the hand which still bore the ring Edward hadgiven her on their betrothal. 

"I wouldn't let Edward break our engagement because I thought it wouldbe an incentive to him. I wanted to be an inspiration to him. I thoughtif anything could enable him to achieve success it was the thought thatI loved him. I have done all I could. It's hopeless. It would only beweakness on my part not to recognise the facts. Poor Edward, he'snobody's enemy but his own. He was a dear, nice fellow, but there wassomething lacking in him, I suppose it was backbone. I hope he'll behappy. "

She slipped the ring off her finger and placed it on the table. Batemanwatched her with a heart beating so rapidly that he could hardlybreathe. 

"You're wonderful, Isabel, you're simply wonderful. "

She smiled, and, standing up, held out her hand to him. 

"How can I ever thank you for what you've done for me?" she said. "You've done me a great service. I knew I could trust you. "

He took her hand and held it. She had never looked more beautiful. 

"Oh, Isabel, I would do so much more for you than that. You know that Ionly ask to be allowed to love and serve you. "

"You're so strong, Bateman, " she sighed. "It gives me such a deliciousfeeling of confidence. "

"Isabel, I adore you. "

He hardly knew how the inspiration had come to him, but suddenly heclasped her in his arms, and she, all unresisting, smiled into his eyes. 

"Isabel, you know I wanted to marry you the very first day I saw you, "he cried passionately. 

"Then why on earth didn't you ask me?" she replied. 

She loved him. He could hardly believe it was true. She gave him herlovely lips to kiss. And as he held her in his arms he had a vision ofthe works of the Hunter Motor Traction and Automobile Company growing insize and importance till they covered a hundred acres, and of themillions of motors they would turn out, and of the great collection ofpictures he would form which should beat anything they had in New York. He would wear horn spectacles. And she, with the delicious pressure ofhis arms about her, sighed with happiness, for she thought of theexquisite house she would have, full of antique furniture, and of theconcerts she would give, and of the _thés dansants_, and the dinners towhich only the most cultured people would come. Bateman should wear hornspectacles. 

"Poor Edward, " she sighed. 

IV

_Red_

The skipper thrust his hand into one of his trouser pockets and withdifficulty, for they were not at the sides but in front and he was aportly man, pulled out a large silver watch. He looked at it and thenlooked again at the declining sun. The Kanaka at the wheel gave him aglance, but did not speak. The skipper's eyes rested on the island theywere approaching. A white line of foam marked the reef. He knew therewas an opening large enough to get his ship through, and when they camea little nearer he counted on seeing it. They had nearly an hour ofdaylight still before them. In the lagoon the water was deep and theycould anchor comfortably. The chief of the village which he couldalready see among the coconut trees was a friend of the mate's, and itwould be pleasant to go ashore for the night. The mate came forward atthat minute and the skipper turned to him. 

"We'll take a bottle of booze along with us and get some girls in todance, " he said. 

"I don't see the opening, " said the mate. 

He was a Kanaka, a handsome, swarthy fellow, with somewhat the look of alater Roman emperor, inclined to stoutness; but his face was fine andclean-cut. 

"I'm dead sure there's one right here, " said the captain, lookingthrough his glasses. "I can't understand why I can't pick it up. Sendone of the boys up the mast to have a look. "

The mate called one of the crew and gave him the order. The captainwatched the Kanaka climb and waited for him to speak. But the Kanakashouted down that he could see nothing but the unbroken line of foam. The captain spoke Samoan like a native, and he cursed him freely. 

"Shall he stay up there?" asked the mate. 

"What the hell good does that do?" answered the captain. "The blame foolcan't see worth a cent. You bet your sweet life I'd find the opening ifI was up there. "

He looked at the slender mast with anger. It was all very well for anative who had been used to climbing up coconut trees all his life. Hewas fat and heavy. 

"Come down, " he shouted. "You're no more use than a dead dog. We'll justhave to go along the reef till we find the opening. "

It was a seventy-ton schooner with paraffin auxiliary, and it ran, whenthere was no head wind, between four and five knots an hour. It was abedraggled object; it had been painted white a very long time ago, butit was now dirty, dingy, and mottled. It smelt strongly of paraffin andof the copra which was its usual cargo. They were within a hundred feetof the reef now and the captain told the steersman to run along it tillthey came to the opening. But when they had gone a couple of miles herealised that they had missed it. He went about and slowly worked backagain. The white foam of the reef continued without interruption and nowthe sun was setting. With a curse at the stupidity of the crew theskipper resigned himself to waiting till next morning. 

"Put her about, " he said. "I can't anchor here. "

They went out to sea a little and presently it was quite dark. Theyanchored. When the sail was furled the ship began to roll a good deal. They said in Apia that one day she would roll right over; and the owner, a German-American who managed one of the largest stores, said that nomoney was big enough to induce him to go out in her. The cook, a Chinesein white trousers, very dirty and ragged, and a thin white tunic, cameto say that supper was ready, and when the skipper went into the cabinhe found the engineer already seated at table. The engineer was a long, lean man with a scraggy neck. He was dressed in blue overalls and asleeveless jersey which showed his thin arms tatooed from elbow towrist. 

"Hell, having to spend the night outside, " said the skipper. 

The engineer did not answer, and they ate their supper in silence. Thecabin was lit by a dim oil lamp. When they had eaten the canned apricotswith which the meal finished the Chink brought them a cup of tea. Theskipper lit a cigar and went on the upper deck. The island now was onlya darker mass against the night. The stars were very bright. The onlysound was the ceaseless breaking of the surf. The skipper sank into adeck-chair and smoked idly. Presently three or four members of the crewcame up and sat down. One of them had a banjo and another a concertina. They began to play, and one of them sang. The native song soundedstrange on these instruments. Then to the singing a couple began todance. It was a barbaric dance, savage and primeval, rapid, with quickmovements of the hands and feet and contortions of the body; it wassensual, sexual even, but sexual without passion. It was very animal, direct, weird without mystery, natural in short, and one might almostsay childlike. At last they grew tired. They stretched themselves on thedeck and slept, and all was silent. The skipper lifted himself heavilyout of his chair and clambered down the companion. He went into hiscabin and got out of his clothes. He climbed into his bunk and laythere. He panted a little in the heat of the night. 

But next morning, when the dawn crept over the tranquil sea, the openingin the reef which had eluded them the night before was seen a little tothe east of where they lay. The schooner entered the lagoon. There wasnot a ripple on the surface of the water. Deep down among the coralrocks you saw little coloured fish swim. When he had anchored his shipthe skipper ate his breakfast and went on deck. The sun shone from anunclouded sky, but in the early morning the air was grateful and cool. It was Sunday, and there was a feeling of quietness, a silence asthough nature were at rest, which gave him a peculiar sense of comfort. He sat, looking at the wooded coast, and felt lazy and well at ease. Presently a slow smile moved his lips and he threw the stump of hiscigar into the water. 

"I guess I'll go ashore, " he said. "Get the boat out. "

He climbed stiffly down the ladder and was rowed to a little cove. Thecoconut trees came down to the water's edge, not in rows, but spaced outwith an ordered formality. They were like a ballet of spinsters, elderlybut flippant, standing in affected attitudes with the simpering gracesof a bygone age. He sauntered idly through them, along a path that couldbe just seen winding its tortuous way, and it led him presently to abroad creek. There was a bridge across it, but a bridge constructed ofsingle trunks of coconut trees, a dozen of them, placed end to end andsupported where they met by a forked branch driven into the bed of thecreek. You walked on a smooth, round surface, narrow and slippery, andthere was no support for the hand. To cross such a bridge required surefeet and a stout heart. The skipper hesitated. But he saw on the otherside, nestling among the trees, a white man's house; he made up his mindand, rather gingerly, began to walk. He watched his feet carefully, andwhere one trunk joined on to the next and there was a difference oflevel, he tottered a little. It was with a gasp of relief that hereached the last tree and finally set his feet on the firm ground ofthe other side. He had been so intent on the difficult crossing that henever noticed anyone was watching him, and it was with surprise that heheard himself spoken to. 

"It takes a bit of nerve to cross these bridges when you're not used tothem. "

He looked up and saw a man standing in front of him. He had evidentlycome out of the house which he had seen. 

"I saw you hesitate, " the man continued, with a smile on his lips, "andI was watching to see you fall in. "

"Not on your life, " said the captain, who had now recovered hisconfidence. 

"I've fallen in myself before now. I remember, one evening I came backfrom shooting, and I fell in, gun and all. Now I get a boy to carry mygun for me. "

He was a man no longer young, with a small beard, now somewhat grey, anda thin face. He was dressed in a singlet, without arms, and a pair ofduck trousers. He wore neither shoes nor socks. He spoke English with aslight accent. 

"Are you Neilson?" asked the skipper. 

"I am. "

"I've heard about you. I thought you lived somewheres round here. "

The skipper followed his host into the little bungalow and sat downheavily in the chair which the other motioned him to take. While Neilsonwent out to fetch whisky and glasses he took a look round the room. Itfilled him with amazement. He had never seen so many books. The shelvesreached from floor to ceiling on all four walls, and they were closelypacked. There was a grand piano littered with music, and a large tableon which books and magazines lay in disorder. The room made him feelembarrassed. He remembered that Neilson was a queer fellow. No one knewvery much about him, although he had been in the islands for so manyyears, but those who knew him agreed that he was queer. He was a Swede. 

"You've got one big heap of books here, " he said, when Neilson returned. 

"They do no harm, " answered Neilson with a smile. 

"Have you read them all?" asked the skipper. 

"Most of them. "

"I'm a bit of a reader myself. I have the _Saturday Evening Post_ sentme regler. "

Neilson poured his visitor a good stiff glass of whisky and gave him acigar. The skipper volunteered a little information. 

"I got in last night, but I couldn't find the opening, so I had toanchor outside. I never been this run before, but my people had somestuff they wanted to bring over here. Gray, d'you know him?"

"Yes, he's got a store a little way along. "

"Well, there was a lot of canned stuff that he wanted over, an' he's gotsome copra. They thought I might just as well come over as lie idle atApia. I run between Apia and Pago-Pago mostly, but they've got smallpoxthere just now, and there's nothing stirring. "

He took a drink of his whisky and lit a cigar. He was a taciturn man, but there was something in Neilson that made him nervous, and hisnervousness made him talk. The Swede was looking at him with large darkeyes in which there was an expression of faint amusement. 

"This is a tidy little place you've got here. "

"I've done my best with it. "

"You must do pretty well with your trees. They look fine. With copra atthe price it is now. I had a bit of a plantation myself once, in Upoluit was, but I had to sell it. "

He looked round the room again, where all those books gave him a feelingof something incomprehensible and hostile. 

"I guess you must find it a bit lonesome here though, " he said. 

"I've got used to it. I've been here for twenty-five years. "

Now the captain could think of nothing more to say, and he smoked insilence. Neilson had apparently no wish to break it. He looked at hisguest with a meditative eye. He was a tall man, more than six feet high, and very stout. His face was red and blotchy, with a network of littlepurple veins on the cheeks, and his features were sunk into its fatness. His eyes were bloodshot. His neck was buried in rolls of fat. But for afringe of long curly hair, nearly white, at the back of his head, he wasquite bald; and that immense, shiny surface of forehead, which mighthave given him a false look of intelligence, on the contrary gave himone of peculiar imbecility. He wore a blue flannel shirt, open at theneck and showing his fat chest covered with a mat of reddish hair, and avery old pair of blue serge trousers. He sat in his chair in a heavyungainly attitude, his great belly thrust forward and his fat legsuncrossed. All elasticity had gone from his limbs. Neilson wondered idlywhat sort of man he had been in his youth. It was almost impossible toimagine that this creature of vast bulk had ever been a boy who ranabout. The skipper finished his whisky, and Neilson pushed the bottletowards him. 

"Help yourself. "

The skipper leaned forward and with his great hand seized it. 

"And how come you in these parts anyways?" he said. 

"Oh, I came out to the islands for my health. My lungs were bad and theysaid I hadn't a year to live. You see they were wrong. "

"I meant, how come you to settle down right here?"

"I am a sentimentalist. "

"Oh!"

Neilson knew that the skipper had not an idea what he meant, and helooked at him with an ironical twinkle in his dark eyes. Perhaps justbecause the skipper was so gross and dull a man the whim seized him totalk further. 

"You were too busy keeping your balance to notice, when you crossed thebridge, but this spot is generally considered rather pretty. "

"It's a cute little house you've got here. "

"Ah, that wasn't here when I first came. There was a native hut, withits beehive roof and its pillars, overshadowed by a great tree with redflowers; and the croton bushes, their leaves yellow and red and golden, made a pied fence around it. And then all about were the coconut trees, as fanciful as women, and as vain. They stood at the water's edge andspent all day looking at their reflections. I was a young man then--GoodHeavens, it's a quarter of a century ago--and I wanted to enjoy all theloveliness of the world in the short time allotted to me before I passedinto the darkness. I thought it was the most beautiful spot I had everseen. The first time I saw it I had a catch at my heart, and I wasafraid I was going to cry. I wasn't more than twenty-five, and though Iput the best face I could on it, I didn't want to die. And somehow itseemed to me that the very beauty of this place made it easier for me toaccept my fate. I felt when I came here that all my past life had fallenaway, Stockholm and its University, and then Bonn: it all seemed thelife of somebody else, as though now at last I had achieved the realitywhich our doctors of philosophy--I am one myself, you know--haddiscussed so much. 'A year, ' I cried to myself. 'I have a year. I willspend it here and then I am content to die. '"

"We are foolish and sentimental and melodramatic at twenty-five, but ifwe weren't perhaps we should be less wise at fifty. "

"Now drink, my friend. Don't let the nonsense I talk interfere withyou. "

He waved his thin hand towards the bottle, and the skipper finished whatremained in his glass. 

"You ain't drinking nothin, " he said, reaching for the whisky. 

"I am of a sober habit, " smiled the Swede. "I intoxicate myself in wayswhich I fancy are more subtle. But perhaps that is only vanity. Anyhow, the effects are more lasting and the results less deleterious. "

"They say there's a deal of cocaine taken in the States now, " said thecaptain. 

Neilson chuckled. 

"But I do not see a white man often, " he continued, "and for once Idon't think a drop of whisky can do me any harm. "

He poured himself out a little, added some soda, and took a sip. 

"And presently I found out why the spot had such an unearthlyloveliness. Here love had tarried for a moment like a migrant bird thathappens on a ship in mid-ocean and for a little while folds its tiredwings. The fragrance of a beautiful passion hovered over it like thefragrance of hawthorn in May in the meadows of my home. It seems to methat the places where men have loved or suffered keep about them alwayssome faint aroma of something that has not wholly died. It is as thoughthey had acquired a spiritual significance which mysteriously affectsthose who pass. I wish I could make myself clear. " He smiled a little. "Though I cannot imagine that if I did you would understand. "

He paused. 

"I think this place was beautiful because here I had been lovedbeautifully. " And now he shrugged his shoulders. "But perhaps it is onlythat my æsthetic sense is gratified by the happy conjunction of younglove and a suitable setting. "

Even a man less thick-witted than the skipper might have been forgivenif he were bewildered by Neilson's words. For he seemed faintly to laughat what he said. It was as though he spoke from emotion which hisintellect found ridiculous. He had said himself that he was asentimentalist, and when sentimentality is joined with scepticism thereis often the devil to pay. 

He was silent for an instant and looked at the captain with eyes inwhich there was a sudden perplexity. 

"You know, I can't help thinking that I've seen you before somewhere orother, " he said. 

"I couldn't say as I remember you, " returned the skipper. 

"I have a curious feeling as though your face were familiar to me. It'sbeen puzzling me for some time. But I can't situate my recollection inany place or at any time. "

The skipper massively shrugged his heavy shoulders. 

"It's thirty years since I first come to the islands. A man can't figureon remembering all the folk he meets in a while like that. "

The Swede shook his head. 

"You know how one sometimes has the feeling that a place one has neverbeen to before is strangely familiar. That's how I seem to see you. " Hegave a whimsical smile. "Perhaps I knew you in some past existence. Perhaps, perhaps you were the master of a galley in ancient Rome and Iwas a slave at the oar. Thirty years have you been here?"

"Every bit of thirty years. "

"I wonder if you knew a man called Red?"

"Red?"

"That is the only name I've ever known him by. I never knew himpersonally. I never even set eyes on him. And yet I seem to see him moreclearly than many men, my brothers, for instance, with whom I passed mydaily life for many years. He lives in my imagination with thedistinctness of a Paolo Malatesta or a Romeo. But I daresay you havenever read Dante or Shakespeare?"

"I can't say as I have, " said the captain. 

Neilson, smoking a cigar, leaned back in his chair and looked vacantlyat the ring of smoke which floated in the still air. A smile played onhis lips, but his eyes were grave. Then he looked at the captain. Therewas in his gross obesity something extraordinarily repellent. He had theplethoric self-satisfaction of the very fat. It was an outrage. It setNeilson's nerves on edge. But the contrast between the man before himand the man he had in mind was pleasant. 

"It appears that Red was the most comely thing you ever saw. I've talkedto quite a number of people who knew him in those days, white men, andthey all agree that the first time you saw him his beauty just took yourbreath away. They called him Red on account of his flaming hair. It hada natural wave and he wore it long. It must have been of that wonderfulcolour that the pre-Raphaelites raved over. I don't think he was vain ofit, he was much too ingenuous for that, but no one could have blamed himif he had been. He was tall, six feet and an inch or two--in the nativehouse that used to stand here was the mark of his height cut with aknife on the central trunk that supported the roof--and he was made likea Greek god, broad in the shoulders and thin in the flanks; he was likeApollo, with just that soft roundness which Praxiteles gave him, andthat suave, feminine grace which has in it something troubling andmysterious. His skin was dazzling white, milky, like satin; his skin waslike a woman's. "

"I had kind of a white skin myself when I was a kiddie, " said theskipper, with a twinkle in his bloodshot eyes. 

But Neilson paid no attention to him. He was telling his story now andinterruption made him impatient. 

"And his face was just as beautiful as his body. He had large blue eyes, very dark, so that some say they were black, and unlike most red-hairedpeople he had dark eyebrows and long dark lashes. His features wereperfectly regular and his mouth was like a scarlet wound. He wastwenty. "

On these words the Swede stopped with a certain sense of the dramatic. He took a sip of whisky. 

"He was unique. There never was anyone more beautiful. There was no morereason for him than for a wonderful blossom to flower on a wild plant. He was a happy accident of nature. "

"One day he landed at that cove into which you must have put thismorning. He was an American sailor, and he had deserted from aman-of-war in Apia. He had induced some good-humoured native to give hima passage on a cutter that happened to be sailing from Apia to Safoto, and he had been put ashore here in a dugout. I do not know why hedeserted. Perhaps life on a man-of-war with its restrictions irked him, perhaps he was in trouble, and perhaps it was the South Seas and theseromantic islands that got into his bones. Every now and then they take aman strangely, and he finds himself like a fly in a spider's web. It maybe that there was a softness of fibre in him, and these green hills withtheir soft airs, this blue sea, took the northern strength from him asDelilah took the Nazarite's. Anyhow, he wanted to hide himself, and hethought he would be safe in this secluded nook till his ship had sailedfrom Samoa. "

"There was a native hut at the cove and as he stood there, wonderingwhere exactly he should turn his steps, a young girl came out andinvited him to enter. He knew scarcely two words of the native tongueand she as little English. But he understood well enough what her smilesmeant, and her pretty gestures, and he followed her. He sat down on amat and she gave him slices of pineapple to eat. I can speak of Redonly from hearsay, but I saw the girl three years after he first mether, and she was scarcely nineteen then. You cannot imagine howexquisite she was. She had the passionate grace of the hibiscus and therich colour. She was rather tall, slim, with the delicate features ofher race, and large eyes like pools of still water under the palm trees;her hair, black and curling, fell down her back, and she wore a wreathof scented flowers. Her hands were lovely. They were so small, soexquisitely formed, they gave your heart-strings a wrench. And in thosedays she laughed easily. Her smile was so delightful that it made yourknees shake. Her skin was like a field of ripe corn on a summer day. Good Heavens, how can I describe her? She was too beautiful to be real. "

"And these two young things, she was sixteen and he was twenty, fell inlove with one another at first sight. That is the real love, not thelove that comes from sympathy, common interests, or intellectualcommunity, but love pure and simple. That is the love that Adam felt forEve when he awoke and found her in the garden gazing at him with dewyeyes. That is the love that draws the beasts to one another, and theGods. That is the love that makes the world a miracle. That is the lovewhich gives life its pregnant meaning. You have never heard of the wise, cynical French duke who said that with two lovers there is always onewho loves and one who lets himself be loved; it is a bitter truth towhich most of us have to resign ourselves; but now and then there aretwo who love and two who let themselves be loved. Then one might fancythat the sun stands still as it stood when Joshua prayed to the God ofIsrael. "

"And even now after all these years, when I think of these two, soyoung, so fair, so simple, and of their love, I feel a pang. It tears myheart just as my heart is torn when on certain nights I watch the fullmoon shining on the lagoon from an unclouded sky. There is always painin the contemplation of perfect beauty. "

"They were children. She was good and sweet and kind. I know nothing ofhim, and I like to think that then at all events he was ingenuous andfrank. I like to think that his soul was as comely as his body. But Idaresay he had no more soul than the creatures of the woods and forestswho made pipes from reeds and bathed in the mountain streams when theworld was young, and you might catch sight of little fawns gallopingthrough the glade on the back of a bearded centaur. A soul is atroublesome possession and when man developed it he lost the Garden ofEden. "

"Well, when Red came to the island it had recently been visited by oneof those epidemics which the white man has brought to the South Seas, and one third of the inhabitants had died. It seems that the girl hadlost all her near kin and she lived now in the house of distant cousins. The household consisted of two ancient crones, bowed and wrinkled, twoyounger women, and a man and a boy. For a few days he stayed there. Butperhaps he felt himself too near the shore, with the possibility thathe might fall in with white men who would reveal his hiding-place;perhaps the lovers could not bear that the company of others should robthem for an instant of the delight of being together. One morning theyset out, the pair of them, with the few things that belonged to thegirl, and walked along a grassy path under the coconuts, till they cameto the creek you see. They had to cross the bridge you crossed, and thegirl laughed gleefully because he was afraid. She held his hand tillthey came to the end of the first tree, and then his courage failed himand he had to go back. He was obliged to take off all his clothes beforehe could risk it, and she carried them over for him on her head. Theysettled down in the empty hut that stood here. Whether she had anyrights over it (land tenure is a complicated business in the islands), or whether the owner had died during the epidemic, I do not know, butanyhow no one questioned them, and they took possession. Their furnitureconsisted of a couple of grass-mats on which they slept, a fragment oflooking-glass, and a bowl or two. In this pleasant land that is enoughto start housekeeping on. "

"They say that happy people have no history, and certainly a happy lovehas none. They did nothing all day long and yet the days seemed all tooshort. The girl had a native name, but Red called her Sally. He pickedup the easy language very quickly, and he used to lie on the mat forhours while she chattered gaily to him. He was a silent fellow, andperhaps his mind was lethargic. He smoked incessantly the cigaretteswhich she made him out of the native tobacco and pandanus leaf, and hewatched her while with deft fingers she made grass mats. Often nativeswould come in and tell long stories of the old days when the island wasdisturbed by tribal wars. Sometimes he would go fishing on the reef, andbring home a basket full of coloured fish. Sometimes at night he wouldgo out with a lantern to catch lobster. There were plantains round thehut and Sally would roast them for their frugal meal. She knew how tomake delicious messes from coconuts, and the bread-fruit tree by theside of the creek gave them its fruit. On feast-days they killed alittle pig and cooked it on hot stones. They bathed together in thecreek; and in the evening they went down to the lagoon and paddled aboutin a dugout, with its great outrigger. The sea was deep blue, wine-coloured at sundown, like the sea of Homeric Greece; but in thelagoon the colour had an infinite variety, aquamarine and amethyst andemerald; and the setting sun turned it for a short moment to liquidgold. Then there was the colour of the coral, brown, white, pink, red, purple; and the shapes it took were marvellous. It was like a magicgarden, and the hurrying fish were like butterflies. It strangely lackedreality. Among the coral were pools with a floor of white sand and here, where the water was dazzling clear, it was very good to bathe. Then, cool and happy, they wandered back in the gloaming over the soft grassroad to the creek, walking hand in hand, and now the mynah birds filledthe coconut trees with their clamour. And then the night, with thatgreat, sky shining with gold, that seemed to stretch more widely thanthe skies of Europe, and the soft airs that blew gently through the openhut, the long night again was all too short. She was sixteen and he wasbarely twenty. The dawn crept in among the wooden pillars of the hut andlooked at those lovely children sleeping in one another's arms. The sunhid behind the great tattered leaves of the plantains so that it mightnot disturb them, and then, with playful malice, shot a golden ray, likethe outstretched paw of a Persian cat, on their faces. They opened theirsleepy eyes and they smiled to welcome another day. The weeks lengthenedinto months, and a year passed. They seemed to love one another as--Ihesitate to say passionately, for passion has in it always a shade ofsadness, a touch of bitterness or anguish, but as whole heartedly, assimply and naturally as on that first day on which, meeting, they hadrecognised that a god was in them. "

"If you had asked them I have no doubt that they would have thought itimpossible to suppose their love could ever cease. Do we not know thatthe essential element of love is a belief in its own eternity? And yetperhaps in Red there was already a very little seed, unknown to himselfand unsuspected by the girl, which would in time have grown toweariness. For one day one of the natives from the cove told them thatsome way down the coast at the anchorage was a British whaling-ship. "

"'Gee, ' he said, 'I wonder if I could make a trade of some nuts andplantains for a pound or two of tobacco. '"

"The pandanus cigarettes that Sally made him with untiring hands werestrong and pleasant enough to smoke, but they left him unsatisfied; andhe yearned on a sudden for real tobacco, hard, rank, and pungent. He hadnot smoked a pipe for many, months. His mouth watered at the thought ofit. One would have thought some premonition of harm would have madeSally seek to dissuade him, but love possessed her so completely that itnever occurred to her any power on earth could take him from her. Theywent up into the hills together and gathered a great basket of wildoranges, green, but sweet and juicy; and they picked plantains fromaround the hut, and coconuts from their trees, and breadfruit andmangoes; and they carried them down to the cove. They loaded theunstable canoe with them, and Red and the native boy who had broughtthem the news of the ship paddled along outside the reef. "

"It was the last time she ever saw him. "

"Next day the boy came back alone. He was all in tears. This is thestory he told. When after their long paddle they reached the ship andRed hailed it, a white man looked over the side and told them to come onboard. They took the fruit they had brought with them and Red piled itup on the deck. The white man and he began to talk, and they seemed tocome to some agreement. One of them went below and brought up tobacco. Red took some at once and lit a pipe. The boy imitated the zest withwhich he blew a great cloud of smoke from his mouth. Then they saidsomething to him and he went into the cabin. Through the open door theboy, watching curiously, saw a bottle brought out and glasses. Red drankand smoked. They seemed to ask him something, for he shook his head andlaughed. The man, the first man who had spoken to them, laughed too, andhe filled Red's glass once more. They went on talking and drinking, andpresently, growing tired of watching a sight that meant nothing to him, the boy curled himself up on the deck and slept. He was awakened by akick; and, jumping to his feet, he saw that the ship was slowly sailingout of the lagoon. He caught sight of Red seated at the table, with hishead resting heavily on his arms, fast asleep. He made a movementtowards him, intending to wake him, but a rough hand seized his arm, anda man, with a scowl and words which he did not understand, pointed tothe side. He shouted to Red, but in a moment he was seized and flungoverboard. Helpless, he swam round to his canoe which was drifting alittle way off, and pushed it on to the reef. He climbed in and, sobbingall the way, paddled back to shore. "

"What had happened was obvious enough. The whaler, by desertion orsickness, was short of hands, and the captain when Red came aboard hadasked him to sign on; on his refusal he had made him drunk and kidnappedhim. "

"Sally was beside herself with grief. For three days she screamed andcried. The natives did what they could to comfort her, but she would notbe comforted. She would not eat. And then, exhausted, she sank into asullen apathy. She spent long days at the cove, watching the lagoon, inthe vain hope that Red somehow or other would manage to escape. She saton the white sand, hour after hour, with the tears running down hercheeks, and at night dragged herself wearily back across the creek tothe little hut where she had been happy. The people with whom she hadlived before Red came to the island wished her to return to them, butshe would not; she was convinced that Red would come back, and shewanted him to find her where he had left her. Four months later she wasdelivered of a still-born child, and the old woman who had come to helpher through her confinement remained with her in the hut. All joy wastaken from her life. If her anguish with time became less intolerable itwas replaced by a settled melancholy. You would not have thought thatamong these people, whose emotions, though so violent, are verytransient, a woman could be found capable of so enduring a passion. Shenever lost the profound conviction that sooner or later Red would comeback. She watched for him, and every time someone crossed this slenderlittle bridge of coconut trees she looked. It might at last be he. "

Neilson stopped talking and gave a faint sigh. 

"And what happened to her in the end?" asked the skipper. 

Neilson smiled bitterly. 

"Oh, three years afterwards she took up with another white man. "

The skipper gave a fat, cynical chuckle. 

"That's generally what happens to them, " he said. 

The Swede shot him a look of hatred. He did not know why that gross, obese man excited in him so violent a repulsion. But his thoughtswandered and he found his mind filled with memories of the past. He wentback five and twenty years. It was when he first came to the island, weary of Apia, with its heavy drinking, its gambling and coarsesensuality, a sick man, trying to resign himself to the loss of thecareer which had fired his imagination with ambitious thoughts. He setbehind him resolutely all his hopes of making a great name for himselfand strove to content himself with the few poor months of careful lifewhich was all that he could count on. He was boarding with a half-castetrader who had a store a couple of miles along the coast at the edge ofa native village; and one day, wandering aimlessly along the grassypaths of the coconut groves, he had come upon the hut in which Sallylived. The beauty of the spot had filled him with a rapture so greatthat it was almost painful, and then he had seen Sally. She was theloveliest creature he had ever seen, and the sadness in those dark, magnificent eyes of hers affected him strangely. The Kanakas were ahandsome race, and beauty was not rare among them, but it was the beautyof shapely animals. It was empty. But those tragic eyes were dark withmystery, and you felt in them the bitter complexity of the groping, human soul. The trader told him the story and it moved him. 

"Do you think he'll ever come back?" asked Neilson. 

"No fear. Why, it'll be a couple of years before the ship is paid off, and by then he'll have forgotten all about her. I bet he was pretty madwhen he woke up and found he'd been shanghaied, and I shouldn't wonderbut he wanted to fight somebody. But he'd got to grin and bear it, and Iguess in a month he was thinking it the best thing that had everhappened to him that he got away from the island. "

But Neilson could not get the story out of his head. Perhaps because hewas sick and weakly, the radiant health of Red appealed to hisimagination. Himself an ugly man, insignificant of appearance, he prizedvery highly comeliness in others. He had never been passionately inlove, and certainly he had never been passionately loved. The mutualattraction of those two young things gave him a singular delight. It hadthe ineffable beauty of the Absolute. He went again to the little hut bythe creek. He had a gift for languages and an energetic mind, accustomedto work, and he had already given much time to the study of the localtongue. Old habit was strong in him and he was gathering togethermaterial for a paper on the Samoan speech. The old crone who shared thehut with Sally invited him to come in and sit down. She gave him _kava_to drink and cigarettes to smoke. She was glad to have someone to chatwith and while she talked he looked at Sally. She reminded him of thePsyche in the museum at Naples. Her features had the same dear purityof line, and though she had borne a child she had still a virginalaspect. 

It was not till he had seen her two or three times that he induced herto speak. Then it was only to ask him if he had seen in Apia a mancalled Red. Two years had passed since his disappearance, but it wasplain that she still thought of him incessantly. 

It did not take Neilson long to discover that he was in love with her. It was only by an effort of will now that he prevented himself fromgoing every day to the creek, and when he was not with Sally histhoughts were. At first, looking upon himself as a dying man, he askedonly to look at her, and occasionally hear her speak, and his love gavehim a wonderful happiness. He exulted in its purity. He wanted nothingfrom her but the opportunity to weave around her graceful person a webof beautiful fancies. But the open air, the equable temperature, therest, the simple fare, began to have an unexpected effect on his health. His temperature did not soar at night to such alarming heights, hecoughed less and began to put on weight; six months passed without hishaving a hæmorrhage; and on a sudden he saw the possibility that hemight live. He had studied his disease carefully, and the hope dawnedupon him that with great care he might arrest its course. It exhilaratedhim to look forward once more to the future. He made plans. It wasevident that any active life was out of the question, but he could liveon the islands, and the small income he had, insufficient elsewhere, would be ample to keep him. He could grow coconuts; that would give himan occupation; and he would send for his books and a piano; but hisquick mind saw that in all this he was merely trying to conceal fromhimself the desire which obsessed him. 

He wanted Sally. He loved not only her beauty, but that dim soul whichhe divined behind her suffering eyes. He would intoxicate her with hispassion. In the end he would make her forget. And in an ecstasy ofsurrender he fancied himself giving her too the happiness which he hadthought never to know again, but had now so miraculously achieved. 

He asked her to live with him. She refused. He had expected that and didnot let it depress him, for he was sure that sooner or later she wouldyield. His love was irresistible. He told the old woman of his wishes, and found somewhat to his surprise that she and the neighbours, longaware of them, were strongly urging Sally to accept his offer. Afterall, every native was glad to keep house for a white man, and Neilsonaccording to the standards of the island was a rich one. The trader withwhom he boarded went to her and told her not to be a fool; such anopportunity would not come again, and after so long she could not stillbelieve that Red would ever return. The girl's resistance only increasedNeilson's desire, and what had been a very pure love now became anagonising passion. He was determined that nothing should stand in hisway. He gave Sally no peace. At last, worn out by his persistence andthe persuasions, by turns pleading and angry, of everyone around her, she consented. But the day after when, exultant, he went to see her hefound that in the night she had burnt down the hut in which she and Redhad lived together. The old crone ran towards him full of angry abuse ofSally, but he waved her aside; it did not matter; they would build abungalow on the place where the hut had stood. A European house wouldreally be more convenient if he wanted to bring out a piano and a vastnumber of books. 

And so the little wooden house was built in which he had now lived formany years, and Sally became his wife. But after the first few weeks ofrapture, during which he was satisfied with what she gave him he hadknown little happiness. She had yielded to him, through weariness, butshe had only yielded what she set no store on. The soul which he haddimly glimpsed escaped him. He knew that she cared nothing for him. Shestill loved Red, and all the time she was waiting for his return. At asign from him, Neilson knew that, notwithstanding his love, histenderness, his sympathy, his generosity, she would leave him without amoment's hesitation. She would never give a thought to his distress. Anguish seized him and he battered at that impenetrable self of herswhich sullenly resisted him. His love became bitter. He tried to melther heart with kindness, but it remained as hard as before; he feignedindifference, but she did not notice it. Sometimes he lost his temperand abused her, and then she wept silently. Sometimes he thought she wasnothing but a fraud, and that soul simply an invention of his own, andthat he could not get into the sanctuary of her heart because there wasno sanctuary there. His love became a prison from which he longed toescape, but he had not the strength merely to open the door--that wasall it needed--and walk out into the open air. It was torture and atlast he became numb and hopeless. In the end the fire burnt itself outand, when he saw her eyes rest for an instant on the slender bridge, itwas no longer rage that filled his heart but impatience. For many yearsnow they had lived together bound by the ties of habit and convenience, and it was with a smile that he looked back on his old passion. She wasan old woman, for the women on the islands age quickly, and if he had nolove for her any more he had tolerance. She left him alone. He wascontented with his piano and his books. 

His thoughts led him to a desire for words. 

"When I look back now and reflect on that brief passionate love of Redand Sally, I think that perhaps they should thank the ruthless fate thatseparated them when their love seemed still to be at its height. Theysuffered, but they suffered in beauty. They were spared the real tragedyof love. "

"I don't know exactly as I get you, " said the skipper. 

"The tragedy of love is not death or separation. How long do you thinkit would have been before one or other of them ceased to care? Oh, it isdreadfully bitter to look at a woman whom you have loved with all yourheart and soul, so that you felt you could not bear to let her out ofyour sight, and realise that you would not mind if you never saw heragain. The tragedy of love is indifference. "

But while he was speaking a very extraordinary thing happened. Though hehad been addressing the skipper he had not been talking to him, he hadbeen putting his thoughts into words for himself, and with his eyesfixed on the man in front of him he had not seen him. But now an imagepresented itself to them, an image not of the man he saw, but of anotherman. It was as though he were looking into one of those distortingmirrors that make you extraordinarily squat or outrageously elongate, but here exactly the opposite took place, and in the obese, ugly old manhe caught the shadowy glimpse of a stripling. He gave him now a quick, searching scrutiny. Why had a haphazard stroll brought him just to thisplace? A sudden tremor of his heart made him slightly breathless. Anabsurd suspicion seized him. What had occurred to him was impossible, and yet it might be a fact. 

"What is your name?" he asked abruptly. 

The skipper's face puckered and he gave a cunning chuckle. He lookedthen malicious and horribly vulgar. 

"It's such a damned long time since I heard it that I almost forget itmyself. But for thirty years now in the islands they've always called meRed. "

His huge form shook as he gave a low, almost silent laugh. It wasobscene. Neilson shuddered. Red was hugely amused, and from hisbloodshot eyes tears ran down his cheeks. 

Neilson gave a gasp, for at that moment a woman came in. She was anative, a woman of somewhat commanding presence, stout without beingcorpulent, dark, for the natives grow darker with age, with very greyhair. She wore a black Mother Hubbard, and its thinness showed her heavybreasts. The moment had come. 

She made an observation to Neilson about some household matter and heanswered. He wondered if his voice sounded as unnatural to her as it didto himself. She gave the man who was sitting in the chair by the windowan indifferent glance, and went out of the room. The moment had come andgone. 

Neilson for a moment could not speak. He was strangely shaken. Then hesaid:

"I'd be very glad if you'd stay and have a bit of dinner with me. Potluck. "

"I don't think I will, " said Red. "I must go after this fellow Gray. I'll give him his stuff and then I'll get away. I want to be back inApia to-morrow. "

"I'll send a boy along with you to show you the way. "

"That'll be fine. "

Red heaved himself out of his chair, while the Swede called one of theboys who worked on the plantation. He told him where the skipper wantedto go, and the boy stepped along the bridge. Red prepared to follow him. 

"Don't fall in, " said Neilson. 

"Not on your life. "

Neilson watched him make his way across and when he had disappearedamong the coconuts he looked still. Then he sank heavily in his chair. Was that the man who had prevented him from being happy? Was that theman whom Sally had loved all these years and for whom she had waited sodesperately? It was grotesque. A sudden fury seized him so that he hadan instinct to spring up and smash everything around him. He had beencheated. They had seen each other at last and had not known it. He beganto laugh, mirthlessly, and his laughter grew till it became hysterical. The Gods had played him a cruel trick. And he was old now. 

At last Sally came in to tell him dinner was ready. He sat down in frontof her and tried to eat. He wondered what she would say if he told hernow that the fat old man sitting in the chair was the lover whom sheremembered still with the passionate abandonment of her youth. Yearsago, when he hated her because she made him so unhappy, he would havebeen glad to tell her. He wanted to hurt her then as she hurt him, because his hatred was only love. But now he did not care. He shruggedhis shoulders listlessly. 

"What did that man want?" she asked presently. 

He did not answer at once. She was old too, a fat old native woman. Hewondered why he had ever loved her so madly. He had laid at her feet allthe treasures of his soul, and she had cared nothing for them. Waste, what waste! And now, when he looked at her, he felt only contempt. Hispatience was at last exhausted. He answered her question. 

"He's the captain of a schooner. He's come from Apia. "

"Yes. "

"He brought me news from home. My eldest brother is very ill and I mustgo back. "

"Will you be gone long?"

He shrugged his shoulders. 

V

_The Pool_

When I was introduced to Lawson by Chaplin, the owner of the HotelMetropole at Apia, I paid no particular attention to him. We weresitting in the lounge over an early cocktail and I was listening withamusement to the gossip of the island. 

Chaplin entertained me. He was by profession a mining engineer andperhaps it was characteristic of him that he had settled in a placewhere his professional attainments were of no possible value. It was, however, generally reported that he was an extremely clever miningengineer. He was a small man, neither fat nor thin, with black hair, scanty on the crown, turning grey, and a small, untidy moustache; hisface, partly from the sun and partly from liquor, was very red. He wasbut a figurehead, for the hotel, though so grandly named but a framebuilding of two storeys, was managed by his wife, a tall, gauntAustralian of five and forty, with an imposing presence and a determinedair. The little man, excitable and often tipsy, was terrified of her, and the stranger soon heard of domestic quarrels in which she used herfist and her foot in order to keep him in subjection. She had beenknown after a night of drunkenness to confine him for twenty-four hoursto his own room, and then he could be seen, afraid to leave his prison, talking somewhat pathetically from his verandah to people in the streetbelow. 

He was a character, and his reminiscences of a varied life, whether trueor not, made him worth listening to, so that when Lawson strolled in Iwas inclined to resent the interruption. Although not midday, it wasclear that he had had enough to drink, and it was without enthusiasmthat I yielded to his persistence and accepted his offer of anothercocktail. I knew already that Chaplin's head was weak. The next roundwhich in common politeness I should be forced to order would be enoughto make him lively, and then Mrs Chaplin would give me black looks. 

Nor was there anything attractive in Lawson's appearance. He was alittle thin man, with a long, sallow face and a narrow, weak chin, aprominent nose, large and bony, and great shaggy black eyebrows. Theygave him a peculiar look. His eyes, very large and very dark, weremagnificent. He was jolly, but his jollity did not seem to me sincere;it was on the surface, a mask which he wore to deceive the world, and Isuspected that it concealed a mean nature. He was plainly anxious to bethought a "good sport" and he was hail-fellow-well-met; but, I do notknow why, I felt that he was cunning and shifty. He talked a great dealin a raucous voice, and he and Chaplin capped one another's stories ofbeanos which had become legendary, stories of "wet" nights at theEnglish Club, of shooting expeditions where an incredible amount ofwhisky had been consumed, and of jaunts to Sydney of which their pridewas that they could remember nothing from the time they landed till thetime they sailed. A pair of drunken swine. But even in theirintoxication, for by now after four cocktails each, neither was sober, there was a great difference between Chaplin, rough and vulgar, andLawson: Lawson might be drunk, but he was certainly a gentleman. 

At last he got out of his chair, a little unsteadily. 

"Well, I'll be getting along home, " he said. "See you before dinner. "

"Missus all right?" said Chaplin. 

"Yes. "

He went out. There was a peculiar note in the monosyllable of his answerwhich made me look up. 

"Good chap, " said Chaplin flatly, as Lawson went out of the door intothe sunshine. "One of the best. Pity he drinks. "

This from Chaplin was an observation not without humour. 

"And when he's drunk he wants to fight people. "

"Is he often drunk?"

"Dead drunk, three or four days a week. It's the island done it, andEthel. "

"Who's Ethel?"

"Ethel's his wife. Married a half-caste. Old Brevald's daughter. Tookher away from here. Only thing to do. But she couldn't stand it, and nowthey're back again. He'll hang himself one of these days, if he don'tdrink himself to death before. Good chap. Nasty when he's drunk. "

Chaplin belched loudly. 

"I'll go and put my head under the shower. I oughtn't to have had thatlast cocktail. It's always the last one that does you in. "

He looked uncertainly at the staircase as he made up his mind to go tothe cubby hole in which was the shower, and then with unnaturalseriousness got up. 

"Pay you to cultivate Lawson, " he said. "A well read chap. You'd besurprised when he's sober. Clever too. Worth talking to. "

Chaplin had told me the whole story in these few speeches. 

When I came in towards evening from a ride along the seashore Lawson wasagain in the hotel. He was heavily sunk in one of the cane chairs in thelounge and he looked at me with glassy eyes. It was plain that he hadbeen drinking all the afternoon. He was torpid, and the look on his facewas sullen and vindictive. His glance rested on me for a moment, but Icould see that he did not recognise me. Two or three other men weresitting there, shaking dice, and they took no notice of him. Hiscondition was evidently too usual to attract attention. I sat down andbegan to play. 

"You're a damned sociable lot, " said Lawson suddenly. 

He got out of his chair and waddled with bent knees towards the door. Ido not know whether the spectacle was more ridiculous than revolting. When he had gone one of the men sniggered. 

"Lawson's fairly soused to-day, " he said. 

"If I couldn't carry my liquor better than that, " said another, "I'dclimb on the waggon and stay there. "

Who would have thought that this wretched object was in his way aromantic figure or that his life had in it those elements of pity andterror which the theorist tells us are necessary to achieve the effectof tragedy?

I did not see him again for two or three days. 

I was sitting one evening on the first floor of the hotel on a verandahthat overlooked the street when Lawson came up and sank into a chairbeside me. He was quite sober. He made a casual remark and then, when Ihad replied somewhat indifferently, added with a laugh which had in itan apologetic tone:

"I was devilish soused the other day. "

I did not answer. There was really nothing to say. I pulled away at mypipe in the vain hope of keeping the mosquitoes away, and looked at thenatives going home from their work. They walked with long steps, slowly, with care and dignity, and the soft patter of their naked feet wasstrange to hear. Their dark hair, curling or straight, was often whitewith lime, and then they had a look of extraordinary distinction. Theywere tall and finely built. Then a gang of Solomon Islanders, indenturedlabourers, passed by, singing; they were shorter and slighter than theSamoans, coal black with great heads of fuzzy hair dyed red. Now andthen a white man drove past in his buggy or rode into the hotel yard. Inthe lagoon two or three schooners reflected their grace in the tranquilwater. 

"I don't know what there is to do in a place like this except to getsoused, " said Lawson at last. 

"Don't you like Samoa?" I asked casually, for something to say. 

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

The word he chose seemed so inadequate to describe the unimaginablebeauty of the island, that I smiled, and smiling I turned to look athim. I was startled by the expression in those fine sombre eyes of his, an expression of intolerable anguish; they betrayed a tragic depth ofemotion of which I should never have thought him capable. But theexpression passed away and he smiled. His smile was simple and a littlenaïve. It changed his face so that I wavered in my first feeling ofaversion from him. 

"I was all over the place when I first came out, " he said. 

He was silent for a moment. 

"I went away for good about three years ago, but I came back. " Hehesitated. "My wife wanted to come back. She was born here, you know. "

"Oh, yes. "

He was silent again, and then hazarded a remark about Robert LouisStevenson. He asked me if I had been up to Vailima. For some reason hewas making an effort to be agreeable to me. He began to talk ofStevenson's books, and presently the conversation drifted to London. 

"I suppose Covent Garden's still going strong, " he said. "I think I missthe opera as much as anything here. Have you seen _Tristan and Isolde_?"

He asked me the question as though the answer were really important tohim, and when I said, a little casually I daresay, that I had, he seemedpleased. He began to speak of Wagner, not as a musician, but as theplain man who received from him an emotional satisfaction that he couldnot analyse. 

"I suppose Bayreuth was the place to go really, " he said. "I never hadthe money, worse luck. But of course one might do worse than CoventGarden, all the lights and the women dressed up to the nines, and themusic. The first act of the _Walküre's_ all right, isn't it? And the endof _Tristan_. Golly!"

His eyes were flashing now and his face was lit up so that he hardlyseemed the same man. There was a flush on his sallow, thin cheeks, and Iforgot that his voice was harsh and unpleasant. There was even a certaincharm about him. 

"By George, I'd like to be in London to-night. Do you know the Pall Mallrestaurant? I used to go there a lot. Piccadilly Circus with the shopsall lit up, and the crowd. I think it's stunning to stand there andwatch the buses and taxis streaming along as though they'd never stop. And I like the Strand too. What are those lines about God and CharingCross?"

I was taken aback. 

"Thompson's, d'you mean?" I asked. 

I quoted them. 

 _"And when so sad, thou canst not sadder, _ _Cry, and upon thy so sore loss_ _Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder_ _Pitched between Heaven and Charing Cross. "_

He gave a faint sigh. 

"I've read _The Hound of Heaven_. It's a bit of all right. "

"It's generally thought so, " I murmured. 

"You don't meet anybody here who's read anything. They think it'sswank. "

There was a wistful look on his face, and I thought I divined thefeeling that made him come to me. I was a link with the world heregretted and a life that he would know no more. Because not so verylong before I had been in the London which he loved, he looked upon mewith awe and envy. He had not spoken for five minutes perhaps when hebroke out with words that startled me by their intensity. 

"I'm fed up, " he said. "I'm fed up. "

"Then why don't you clear out?" I asked. 

His face grew sullen. 

"My lungs are a bit dicky. I couldn't stand an English winter now. "

At that moment another man joined us on the verandah and Lawson sankinto a moody silence. 

"It's about time for a drain, " said the new-comer. "Who'll have a dropof Scotch with me? Lawson?"

Lawson seemed to arise from a distant world. He got up. 

"Let's go down to the bar, " he said. 

When he left me I remained with a more kindly feeling towards him than Ishould have expected. He puzzled and interested me. And a few days laterI met his wife. I knew they had been married for five or six years, andI was surprised to see that she was still extremely young. When hemarried her she could not have been more than sixteen. She was adorablypretty. She was no darker than a Spaniard, small and very beautifullymade, with tiny hands and feet, and a slight, lithe figure. Her featureswere lovely; but I think what struck me most was the delicacy of herappearance; the half-caste as a rule have a certain coarseness, theyseem a little roughly formed, but she had an exquisite daintiness whichtook your breath away. There was something extremely civilised abouther, so that it surprised you to see her in those surroundings, and youthought of those famous beauties who had set all the world talking atthe Court of the Emperor Napoleon III. Though she wore but a muslinfrock and a straw hat she wore them with an elegance that suggested thewoman of fashion. She must have been ravishing when Lawson first sawher. 

He had but lately come out from England to manage the local branch of anEnglish bank, and, reaching Samoa at the beginning of the dry season, hehad taken a room at the hotel. He quickly made the acquaintance of alland sundry. The life of the island is pleasant and easy. He enjoyed thelong idle talks in the lounge of the hotel and the gay evenings at theEnglish Club when a group of fellows would play pool. He liked Apiastraggling along the edge of the lagoon, with its stores and bungalows, and its native village. Then there were week-ends when he would rideover to the house of one planter or another and spend a couple of nightson the hills. He had never before known freedom or leisure. And he wasintoxicated by the sunshine. When he rode through the bush his headreeled a little at the beauty that surrounded him. The country wasindescribably fertile. In parts the forest was still virgin, a tangle ofstrange trees, luxuriant undergrowth, and vine; it gave an impressionthat was mysterious and troubling. 

But the spot that entranced him was a pool a mile or two away from Apiato which in the evenings he often went to bathe. There was a littleriver that bubbled over the rocks in a swift stream, and then, afterforming the deep pool, ran on, shallow and crystalline, past a ford madeby great stones where the natives came sometimes to bathe or to washtheir clothes. The coconut trees, with their frivolous elegance, grewthickly on the banks, all clad with trailing plants, and they werereflected in the green water. It was just such a scene as you might seein Devonshire among the hills, and yet with a difference, for it had atropical richness, a passion, a scented languor which seemed to melt theheart. The water was fresh, but not cold; and it was delicious after theheat of the day. To bathe there refreshed not only the body but thesoul. 

At the hour when Lawson went, there was not a soul and he lingered for along time, now floating idly in the water, now drying himself in theevening sun, enjoying the solitude and the friendly silence. He did notregret London then, nor the life that he had abandoned, for life as itwas seemed complete and exquisite. 

It was here that he first saw Ethel. 

Occupied till late by letters which had to be finished for the monthlysailing of the boat next day, he rode down one evening to the pool whenthe light was almost failing. He tied up his horse and sauntered to thebank. A girl was sitting there. She glanced round as he came andnoiselessly slid into the water. She vanished like a naiad startled bythe approach of a mortal. He was surprised and amused. He wondered whereshe had hidden herself. He swam downstream and presently saw her sittingon a rock. She looked at him with uncurious eyes. He called out agreeting in Samoan. 

"_Talofa. _"

She answered him, suddenly smiling, and then let herself into the wateragain. She swam easily and her hair spread out behind her. He watchedher cross the pool and climb out on the bank. Like all the natives shebathed in a Mother Hubbard, and the water had made it cling to herslight body. She wrung out her hair, and as she stood there, unconcerned, she looked more than ever like a wild creature of the wateror the woods. He saw now that she was half-caste. He swam towards herand, getting out, addressed her in English. 

"You're having a late swim. "

She shook back her hair and then let it spread over her shoulders inluxuriant curls. 

"I like it when I'm alone, " she said. 

"So do I. "

She laughed with the childlike frankness of the native. She slipped adry Mother Hubbard over her head and, letting down the wet one, steppedout of it. She wrung it out and was ready to go. She paused a momentirresolutely and then sauntered off. The night fell suddenly. 

Lawson went back to the hotel and, describing her to the men who were inthe lounge shaking dice for drinks, soon discovered who she was. Herfather was a Norwegian called Brevald who was often to be seen in thebar of the Hotel Metropole drinking rum and water. He was a little oldman, knotted and gnarled like an ancient tree, who had come out to theislands forty years before as mate of a sailing vessel. He had been ablacksmith, a trader, a planter, and at one time fairly well-to-do; but, ruined by the great hurricane of the nineties, he had now nothing tolive on but a small plantation of coconut trees. He had had four nativewives and, as he told you with a cracked chuckle, more children than hecould count. But some had died and some had gone out into the world, sothat now the only one left at home was Ethel. 

"She's a peach, " said Nelson, the supercargo of the _Moana_. "I've givenher the glad eye once or twice, but I guess there's nothing doing. "

"Old Brevald's not that sort of a fool, sonny, " put in another, a mancalled Miller. "He wants a son-in-law who's prepared to keep him incomfort for the rest of his life. "

It was distasteful to Lawson that they should speak of the girl in thatfashion. He made a remark about the departing mail and so distractedtheir attention. But next evening he went again to the pool. Ethel wasthere; and the mystery of the sunset, the deep silence of the water, thelithe grace of the coconut trees, added to her beauty, giving it aprofundity, a magic, which stirred the heart to unknown emotions. Forsome reason that time he had the whim not to speak to her. She took nonotice of him. She did not even glance in his direction. She swam aboutthe green pool. She dived, she rested on the bank, as though she werequite alone: he had a queer feeling that he was invisible. Scraps ofpoetry, half forgotten, floated across his memory, and vaguerecollections of the Greece he had negligently studied in his schooldays. When she had changed her wet clothes for dry ones and saunteredaway he found a scarlet hibiscus where she had been. It was a flowerthat she had worn in her hair when she came to bathe and, having takenit out on getting into the water, had forgotten or not cared to put inagain. He took it in his hands and looked at it with a singular emotion. He had an instinct to keep it, but his sentimentality irritated him, andhe flung it away. It gave him quite a little pang to see it float downthe stream. 

He wondered what strangeness it was in her nature that urged her to godown to this hidden pool when there was no likelihood that anyoneshould be there. The natives of the islands are devoted to the water. They bathe, somewhere or other, every day, once always, and often twice;but they bathe in bands, laughing and joyous, a whole family together;and you often saw a group of girls, dappled by the sun shining throughthe trees, with the half-castes among them, splashing about the shallowsof the stream. It looked as though there were in this pool some secretwhich attracted Ethel against her will. 

Now the night had fallen, mysterious and silent, and he let himself downin the water softly, in order to make no sound, and swam lazily in thewarm darkness. The water seemed fragrant still from her slender body. Herode back to the town under the starry sky. He felt at peace with theworld. 

Now he went every evening to the pool and every evening he saw Ethel. Presently he overcame her timidity. She became playful and friendly. They sat together on the rocks above the pool, where the water ran fast, and they lay side by side on the ledge that overlooked it, watching thegathering dusk envelop it with mystery. It was inevitable that theirmeetings should become known--in the South Seas everyone seems to knoweveryone's business--and he was subjected to much rude chaff by the menat the hotel. He smiled and let them talk. It was not even worth whileto deny their coarse suggestions. His feelings were absolutely pure. Heloved Ethel as a poet might love the moon. He thought of her not as awoman but as something not of this earth. She was the spirit of thepool. 

One day at the hotel, passing through the bar, he saw that old Brevald, as ever in his shabby blue overalls, was standing there. Because he wasEthel's father he had a desire to speak to him, so he went in, noddedand, ordering his own drink, casually turned and invited the old man tohave one with him. They chatted for a few minutes of local affairs, andLawson was uneasily conscious that the Norwegian was scrutinising himwith sly blue eyes. His manner was not agreeable. It was sycophantic, and yet behind the cringing air of an old man who had been worsted inhis struggle with fate was a shadow of old truculence. Lawson rememberedthat he had once been captain of a schooner engaged in the slave trade, a blackbirder they call it in the Pacific, and he had a large hernia inthe chest which was the result of a wound received in a scrap withSolomon Islanders. The bell rang for luncheon. 

"Well, I must be off, " said Lawson. 

"Why don't you come along to my place one time?" said Brevald, in hiswheezy voice. "It's not very grand, but you'll be welcome. You knowEthel. "

"I'll come with pleasure. "

"Sunday afternoon's the best time. "

Brevald's bungalow, shabby and bedraggled, stood among the coconut treesof the plantation, a little away from the main road that ran up toVailima. Immediately around it grew huge plantains. With their tatteredleaves they had the tragic beauty of a lovely woman in rags. Everythingwas slovenly and neglected. Little black pigs, thin and high-backed, rooted about, and chickens clucked noisily as they picked at the refusescattered here and there. Three or four natives were lounging about theverandah. When Lawson asked for Brevald the old man's cracked voicecalled out to him, and he found him in the sitting-room smoking an oldbriar pipe. 

"Sit down and make yerself at home, " he said. "Ethel's just titivating. "

She came in. She wore a blouse and skirt and her hair was done in theEuropean fashion. Although she had not the wild, timid grace of the girlwho came down every evening to the pool, she seemed now more usual andconsequently more approachable. She shook hands with Lawson. It was thefirst time he had touched her hand. 

"I hope you'll have a cup of tea with us, " she said. 

He knew she had been at a mission school, and he was amused, and at thesame time touched, by the company manners she was putting on for hisbenefit. Tea was already set out on the table and in a minute oldBrevald's fourth wife brought in the tea-pot. She was a handsome native, no longer very young, and she spoke but a few words of English. Shesmiled and smiled. Tea was rather a solemn meal, with a great deal ofbread and butter and a variety of very sweet cakes, and the conversationwas formal. Then a wrinkled old woman came in softly. 

"That's Ethel's granny, " said old Brevald, noisily spitting on thefloor. 

She sat on the edge of a chair, uncomfortably, so that you saw it wasunusual for her and she would have been more at ease on the ground, andremained silently staring at Lawson with fixed, shining eyes. In thekitchen behind the bungalow someone began to play the concertina and twoor three voices were raised in a hymn. But they sang for the pleasure ofthe sounds rather than from piety. 

When Lawson walked back to the hotel he was strangely happy. He wastouched by the higgledy-piggledy way in which those people lived; and inthe smiling good-nature of Mrs Brevald, in the little Norwegian'sfantastic career, and in the shining mysterious eyes of the oldgrandmother, he found something unusual and fascinating. It was a morenatural life than any he had known, it was nearer to the friendly, fertile earth; civilisation repelled him at that moment, and by merecontact with these creatures of a more primitive nature he felt agreater freedom. 

He saw himself rid of the hotel which already was beginning to irk him, settled in a little bungalow of his own, trim and white, in front of thesea so that he had before his eyes always the multicoloured variety ofthe lagoon. He loved the beautiful island. London and England meantnothing to him any more, he was content to spend the rest of his days inthat forgotten spot, rich in the best of the world's goods, love andhappiness. He made up his mind that whatever the obstacles nothingshould prevent him from marrying Ethel. 

But there were no obstacles. He was always welcome at the Brevalds'house. The old man was ingratiating and Mrs Brevald smiled withoutceasing. He had brief glimpses of natives who seemed somehow to belongto the establishment, and once he found a tall youth in a _lava-lava_, his body tattooed, his hair white with lime, sitting with Brevald, andwas told he was Mrs Brevald's brother's son; but for the most part theykept out of his way. Ethel was delightful with him. The light in hereyes when she saw him filled him with ecstasy. She was charming andnaïve. He listened enraptured when she told him of the mission school atwhich she was educated, and of the sisters. He went with her to thecinema which was given once a fortnight and danced with her at the dancewhich followed it. They came from all parts of the island for this, since gaieties are few in Upolu; and you saw there all the society ofthe place, the white ladies keeping a good deal to themselves, thehalf-castes very elegant in American clothes, the natives, strings ofdark girls in white Mother Hubbards and young men in unaccustomed ducksand white shoes. It was all very smart and gay. Ethel was pleased toshow her friends the white admirer who did not leave her side. Therumour was soon spread that he meant to marry her and her friends lookedat her with envy. It was a great thing for a half-caste to get a whiteman to marry her, even the less regular relation was better thannothing, but one could never tell what it would lead to; and Lawson'sposition as manager of the bank made him one of the catches of theisland. If he had not been so absorbed in Ethel he would have noticedthat many eyes were fixed on him curiously, and he would have seen theglances of the white ladies and noticed how they put their headstogether and gossiped. 

Afterwards, when the men who lived at the hotel were having a whiskybefore turning in, Nelson burst out with:

"Say, they say Lawson's going to marry that girl. "

"He's a damned fool then, " said Miller. 

Miller was a German-American who had changed his name from Müller, a bigman, fat and bald-headed, with a round, clean-shaven face. He wore largegold-rimmed spectacles, which gave him a benign look, and his ducks werealways clean and white. He was a heavy drinker, invariably ready to stayup all night with the "boys, " but he never got drunk; he was jolly andaffable, but very shrewd. Nothing interfered with his business; herepresented a firm in San Francisco, jobbers of the goods sold in theislands, calico, machinery and what not; and his good-fellowship waspart of his stock-in-trade. 

"He don't know what he's up against, " said Nelson. "Someone ought to puthim wise. "

"If you'll take my advice you won't interfere in what don't concernyou, " said Miller. "When a man's made up his mind to make a fool ofhimself, there's nothing like letting him. "

"I'm all for having a good time with the girls out here, but when itcomes to marrying them--this child ain't taking any, I'll tell theworld. "

Chaplin was there, and now he had his say. 

"I've seen a lot of fellows do it, and it's no good. "

"You ought to have a talk with him, Chaplin, " said Nelson. "You know himbetter than anyone else does. "

"My advice to Chaplin is to leave it alone, " said Miller. 

Even in those days Lawson was not popular and really no one took enoughinterest in him to bother. Mrs Chaplin talked it over with two or threeof the white ladies, but they contented themselves with saying that itwas a pity; and when he told her definitely that he was going to bemarried it seemed too late to do anything. 

For a year Lawson was happy. He took a bungalow at the point of the bayround which Apia is built, on the borders of a native village. Itnestled charmingly among the coconut trees and faced the passionate blueof the Pacific. Ethel was lovely as she went about the little house, lithe and graceful like some young animal of the woods, and she was gay. They laughed a great deal. They talked nonsense. Sometimes one or two ofthe men at the hotel would come over and spend the evening, and often ona Sunday they would go for a day to some planter who had married anative; now and then one or other of the half-caste traders who had astore in Apia would give a party and they went to it. The half-castestreated Lawson quite differently now. His marriage had made him one ofthemselves and they called him Bertie. They put their arms through hisand smacked him on the back. He liked to see Ethel at these gatherings. Her eyes shone and she laughed. It did him good to see her radianthappiness. Sometimes Ethel's relations would come to the bungalow, oldBrevald of course, and her mother, but cousins too, vague native womenin Mother Hubbards and men and boys in _lava-lavas_, with their hairdyed red and their bodies elaborately tattooed. He would find themsitting there when he got back from the bank. He laughed indulgently. 

"Don't let them eat us out of hearth and home, " he said. 

"They're my own family. I can't help doing something for them when theyask me. "

He knew that when a white man marries a native or a half-caste he mustexpect her relations to look upon him as a gold mine. He took Ethel'sface in his hands and kissed her red lips. Perhaps he could not expecther to understand that the salary which had amply sufficed for abachelor must be managed with some care when it had to support a wifeand a house. Then Ethel was delivered of a son. 

It was when Lawson first held the child in his arms that a sudden pangshot through his heart. He had not expected it to be so dark. After allit had but a fourth part of native blood, and there was no reason reallywhy it should not look just like an English baby; but, huddled togetherin his arms, sallow, its head covered already with black hair, with hugeblack eyes, it might have been a native child. Since his marriage he hadbeen ignored by the white ladies of the colony. When he came across menin whose houses he had been accustomed to dine as a bachelor, they werea little self-conscious with him; and they sought to cover theirembarrassment by an exaggerated cordiality. 

"Mrs Lawson well?" they would say. "You're a lucky fellow. Damned prettygirl. "

But if they were with their wives and met him and Ethel they would feelit awkward when their wives gave Ethel a patronising nod. Lawson hadlaughed. 

"They're as dull as ditchwater, the whole gang of them, " he said. "It'snot going to disturb my night's rest if they don't ask me to their dirtyparties. "

But now it irked him a little. 

The little dark baby screwed up its face. That was his son. He thoughtof the half-caste children in Apia. They had an unhealthy look, sallowand pale, and they were odiously precocious. He had seen them on theboat going to school in New Zealand, and a school had to be chosen whichtook children with native blood in them; they were huddled together, brazen and yet timid, with traits which set them apart strangely fromwhite people. They spoke the native language among themselves. And whenthey grew up the men accepted smaller salaries because of their nativeblood; girls might marry a white man, but boys had no chance; they mustmarry a half-caste like themselves or a native. Lawson made up his mindpassionately that he would take his son away from the humiliation ofsuch a life. At whatever cost he must get back to Europe. And when hewent in to see Ethel, frail and lovely in her bed, surrounded by nativewomen, his determination was strengthened. If he took her away among hisown people she would belong more completely to him. He loved her sopassionately, he wanted her to be one soul and one body with him; and hewas conscious that here, with those deep roots attaching her to thenative life, she would always keep something from him. 

He went to work quietly, urged by an obscure instinct of secrecy, andwrote to a cousin who was partner in a shipping firm in Aberdeen, sayingthat his health (on account of which like so many more he had come outto the islands) was so much better, there seemed no reason why he shouldnot return to Europe. He asked him to use what influence he could to gethim a job, no matter how poorly paid, on Deeside, where the climate wasparticularly suitable to such as suffered from diseases of the lungs. Ittakes five or six weeks for letters to get from Aberdeen to Samoa, andseveral had to be exchanged. He had plenty of time to prepare Ethel. Shewas as delighted as a child. He was amused to see how she boasted to herfriends that she was going to England; it was a step up for her; shewould be quite English there; and she was excited at the interest theapproaching departure gave her. When at length a cable came offering hima post in a bank in Kincardineshire she was beside herself with joy. 

When, their long journey over, they were settled in the little Scotstown with its granite houses Lawson realised how much it meant to him tolive once more among his own people. He looked back on the three yearshe had spent in Apia as exile, and returned to the life that seemed theonly normal one with a sigh of relief. It was good to play golf oncemore, and to fish--to fish properly, that was poor fun in the Pacificwhen you just threw in your line and pulled out one big sluggish fishafter another from the crowded sea--and it was good to see a paper everyday with that day's news, and to meet men and women of your own sort, people you could talk to; and it was good to eat meat that was notfrozen and to drink milk that was not canned. They were thrown upontheir own resources much more than in the Pacific, and he was glad tohave Ethel exclusively to himself. After two years of marriage he lovedher more devotedly than ever, he could hardly bear her out of his sight, and the need in him grew urgent for a more intimate communion betweenthem. But it was strange that after the first excitement of arrival sheseemed to take less interest in the new life than he had expected. Shedid not accustom herself to her surroundings. She was a littlelethargic. As the fine autumn darkened into winter she complained of thecold. She lay half the morning in bed and the rest of the day on a sofa, reading novels sometimes, but more often doing nothing. She lookedpinched. 

"Never mind, darling, " he said. "You'll get used to it very soon. Andwait till the summer comes. It can be almost as hot as in Apia. "

He felt better and stronger than he had done for years. 

The carelessness with which she managed her house had not mattered inSamoa, but here it was out of place. When anyone came he did not wantthe place to look untidy; and, laughing, chaffing Ethel a little, he setabout putting things in order. Ethel watched him indolently. She spentlong hours playing with her son. She talked to him in the baby languageof her own country. To distract her, Lawson bestirred himself to makefriends among the neighbours, and now and then they went to littleparties where the ladies sang drawing-room ballads and the men beamed insilent good nature. Ethel was shy. She seemed to sit apart. SometimesLawson, seized with a sudden anxiety, would ask her if she was happy. 

"Yes, I'm quite happy, " she answered. 

But her eyes were veiled by some thought he could not guess. She seemedto withdraw into herself so that he was conscious that he knew no moreof her than when he had first seen her bathing in the pool. He had anuneasy feeling that she was concealing something from him, and becausehe adored her it tortured him. 

"You don't regret Apia, do you?" he asked her once. 

"Oh, no--I think it's very nice here. "

An obscure misgiving drove him to make disparaging remarks about theisland and the people there. She smiled and did not answer. Very rarelyshe received a bundle of letters from Samoa and then she went about fora day or two with a set, pale face. 

"Nothing would induce me ever to go back there, " he said once. "It's noplace for a white man. "

But he grew conscious that sometimes, when he was away, Ethel cried. InApia she had been talkative, chatting volubly about all the littledetails of their common life, the gossip of the place; but now shegradually became silent, and, though he increased his efforts to amuseher, she remained listless. It seemed to him that her recollections ofthe old life were drawing her away from him, and he was madly jealous ofthe island and of the sea, of Brevald, and all the dark-skinned peoplewhom he remembered now with horror. When she spoke of Samoa he wasbitter and satirical. One evening late in the spring when the birchtrees were bursting into leaf, coming home from a round of golf, hefound her not as usual lying on the sofa, but at the window, standing. She had evidently been waiting for his return. She addressed him themoment he came into the room. To his amazement she spoke in Samoan. 

"I can't stand it. I can't live here any more. I hate it. I hate it. "

"For God's sake speak in a civilised language, " he said irritably. 

She went up to him and clasped her arms around his body awkwardly, witha gesture that had in it something barbaric. 

"Let's go away from here. Let's go back to Samoa. If you make me stayhere I shall die. I want to go home. "

Her passion broke suddenly and she burst into tears. His anger vanishedand he drew her down on his knees. He explained to her that it wasimpossible for him to throw up his job, which after all meant his breadand butter. His place in Apia was long since filled. He had nothing togo back to there. He tried to put it to her reasonably, theinconveniences of life there, the humiliation to which they must beexposed, and the bitterness it must cause their son. 

"Scotland's wonderful for education and that sort of thing. Schools aregood and cheap, and he can go to the University at Aberdeen. I'll make areal Scot of him. "

They had called him Andrew. Lawson wanted him to become a doctor. Hewould marry a white woman. 

"I'm not ashamed of being half native, " Ethel said sullenly. 

"Of course not, darling. There's nothing to be ashamed of. "

With her soft cheek against his he felt incredibly weak. 

"You don't know how much I love you, " he said. "I'd give anything in theworld to be able to tell you what I've got in my heart. "

He sought her lips. 

The summer came. The highland valley was green and fragrant, and thehills were gay with the heather. One sunny day followed another in thatsheltered spot, and the shade of the birch trees was grateful after theglare of the high road. Ethel spoke no more of Samoa and Lawson grewless nervous. He thought that she was resigned to her surroundings, andhe felt that his love for her was so passionate that it could leave noroom in her heart for any longing. One day the local doctor stopped himin the street. 

"I say, Lawson, your missus ought to be careful how she bathes in ourhighland streams. It's not like the Pacific, you know. "

Lawson was surprised, and had not the presence of mind to conceal thefact. 

"I didn't know she was bathing. "

The doctor laughed. 

"A good many people have seen her. It makes them talk a bit, you know, because it seems a rum place to choose, the pool up above the bridge, and bathing isn't allowed there, but there's no harm in that. I don'tknow how she can stand the water. "

Lawson knew the pool the doctor spoke of, and suddenly it occurred tohim that in a way it was just like that pool at Upolu where Ethel hadbeen in the habit of bathing every evening. A clear highland stream randown a sinuous course, rocky, splashing gaily, and then formed a deep, smooth pool, with a little sandy beach. Trees overshadowed it thickly, not coconut trees, but beeches, and the sun played fitfully through theleaves on the sparkling water. It gave him a shock. With his imaginationhe saw Ethel go there every day and undress on the bank and slip intothe water, cold, colder than that of the pool she loved at home, and fora moment regain the feeling of the past. He saw her once more as thestrange, wild spirit of the stream, and it seemed to him fantasticallythat the running water called her. That afternoon he went along to theriver. He made his way cautiously among the trees and the grassy pathdeadened the sound of his steps. Presently he came to a spot from whichhe could see the pool. Ethel was sitting on the bank, looking down atthe water. She sat quite still. It seemed as though the water drew herirresistibly. He wondered what strange thoughts wandered through herhead. At last she got up, and for a minute or two she was hidden fromhis gaze; then he saw her again, wearing a Mother Hubbard, and with herlittle bare feet she stepped delicately over the mossy bank. She came tothe water's edge, and softly, without a splash, let herself down. Sheswam about quietly, and there was something not quite of a human beingin the way she swam. He did not know why it affected him so queerly. Hewaited till she clambered out. She stood for a moment with the wet foldsof her dress clinging to her body, so that its shape was outlined, andthen, passing her hands slowly over her breasts, gave a little sigh ofdelight. Then she disappeared. Lawson turned away and walked back to thevillage. He had a bitter pain in his heart, for he knew that she wasstill a stranger to him and his hungry love was destined ever to remainunsatisfied. 

He did not make any mention of what he had seen. He ignored the incidentcompletely, but he looked at her curiously, trying to divine what was inher mind. He redoubled the tenderness with which he used her. He soughtto make her forget the deep longing of her soul by the passion of hislove. 

Then one day, when he came home, he was astonished to find her not inthe house. 

"Where's Mrs Lawson?" he asked the maid. 

"She went into Aberdeen, Sir, with the baby, " the maid answered, alittle surprised at the question. "She said she would not be back tillthe last train. "

"Oh, all right. "

He was vexed that Ethel had said nothing to him about the excursion, buthe was not disturbed, since of late she had been in now and again toAberdeen, and he was glad that she should look at the shops and perhapsvisit a cinema. He went to meet the last train, but when she did notcome he grew suddenly frightened. He went up to the bedroom and saw atonce that her toilet things were no longer in their place. He opened thewardrobe and the drawers. They were half empty. She had bolted. 

He was seized with a passion of anger. It was too late that night totelephone to Aberdeen and make enquiries, but he knew already all thathis enquiries might have taught him. With fiendish cunning she hadchosen a time when they were making up their periodical accounts at thebank and there was no chance that he could follow her. He was imprisonedby his work. He took up a paper and saw that there was a boat sailingfor Australia next morning. She must be now well on the way to London. He could not prevent the sobs that were wrung painfully from him. 

"I've done everything in the world for her, " he cried, "and she had theheart to treat me like this. How cruel, how monstrously cruel!"

After two days of misery he received a letter from her. It was writtenin her school-girl hand. She had always written with difficulty:

_Dear Bertie:_ _I couldn't stand it any more. _ _I'm going back home. Good-bye. _

 _Ethel. _

She did not say a single word of regret. She did not even ask him tocome too. Lawson was prostrated. He found out where the ship made itsfirst stop and, though he knew very well she would not come, sent acable beseeching her to return. He waited with pitiful anxiety. Hewanted her to send him just one word of love; she did not even answer. He passed through one violent phase after another. At one moment he toldhimself that he was well rid of her, and at the next that he would forceher to return by withholding money. He was lonely and wretched. Hewanted his boy and he wanted her. He knew that, whatever he pretended tohimself, there was only one thing to do and that was to follow her. Hecould never live without her now. All his plans for the future were likea house of cards and he scattered them with angry impatience. He did notcare whether he threw away his chances for the future, for nothing inthe world mattered but that he should get Ethel back again. As soon ashe could he went into Aberdeen and told the manager of his bank that hemeant to leave at once. The manager remonstrated. The short notice wasinconvenient. Lawson would not listen to reason. He was determined to befree before the next boat sailed; and it was not until he was on boardof her, having sold everything he possessed, that in some measure heregained his calm. Till then to those who had come in contact with himhe seemed hardly sane. His last action in England was to cable to Ethelat Apia that he was joining her. 

He sent another cable from Sydney, and when at last with the dawn hisboat crossed the bar at Apia and he saw once more the white housesstraggling along the bay he felt an immense relief. The doctor came onboard and the agent. They were both old acquaintances and he felt kindlytowards their familiar faces. He had a drink or two with them for oldtimes' sake, and also because he was desperately nervous. He was notsure if Ethel would be glad to see him. When he got into the launch andapproached the wharf he scanned anxiously the little crowd that waited. She was not there and his heart sank, but then he saw Brevald, in hisold blue clothes, and his heart warmed towards him. 

"Where's Ethel?" he said, as he jumped on shore. 

"She's down at the bungalow. She's living with us. "

Lawson was dismayed, but he put on a jovial air. 

"Well, have you got room for me? I daresay it'll take a week or two tofix ourselves up. "

"Oh, yes, I guess we can make room for you. "

After passing through the custom-house they went to the hotel and thereLawson was greeted by several of his old friends. There were a good manyrounds of drinks before it seemed possible to get away and when they didgo out at last to Brevald's house they were both rather gay. He claspedEthel in his arms. He had forgotten all his bitter thoughts in the joyof beholding her once more. His mother-in-law was pleased to see him, and so was the old, wrinkled beldame, her mother; natives andhalf-castes came in, and they all sat round, beaming on him. Brevald hada bottle of whisky and everyone who came was given a nip. Lawson satwith his little dark-skinned boy on his knees, they had taken hisEnglish clothes off him and he was stark, with Ethel by his side in aMother Hubbard. He felt like a returning prodigal. In the afternoon hewent down to the hotel again and when he got back he was more than gay, he was drunk. Ethel and her mother knew that white men got drunk now andthen, it was what you expected of them, and they laughed good-naturedlyas they helped him to bed. 

But in a day or two he set about looking for a job. He knew that hecould not hope for such a position as that which he had thrown away togo to England; but with his training he could not fail to be useful toone of the trading firms, and perhaps in the end he would not lose bythe change. 

"After all, you can't make money in a bank, " he said. "Trade's thething. "

He had hopes that he would soon make himself so indispensable that hewould get someone to take him into partnership, and there was no reasonwhy in a few years he should not be a rich man. 

"As soon as I'm fixed up we'll find ourselves a shack, " he told Ethel. "We can't go on living here. "

Brevald's bungalow was so small that they were all piled on one another, and there was no chance of ever being alone. There was neither peace norprivacy. 

"Well, there's no hurry. We shall be all right here till we find justwhat we want. "

It took him a week to get settled and then he entered the firm of a mancalled Bain. But when he talked to Ethel about moving she said shewanted to stay where she was till her baby was born, for she wasexpecting another child. Lawson tried to argue with her. 

"If you don't like it, " she said, "go and live at the hotel. "

He grew suddenly pale. 

"Ethel, how can you suggest that!"

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"What's the good of having a house of our own when we can live here. "

He yielded. 

When Lawson, after his work, went back to the bungalow he found itcrowded with natives. They lay about smoking, sleeping, drinking _kava_;and they talked incessantly. The place was grubby and untidy. His childcrawled about, playing with native children, and it heard nothing spokenbut Samoan. He fell into the habit of dropping into the hotel on hisway home to have a few cocktails, for he could only face the evening andthe crowd of friendly natives when he was fortified with liquor. And allthe time, though he loved her more passionately than ever, he felt thatEthel was slipping away from him. When the baby was born he suggestedthat they should get into a house of their own, but Ethel refused. Herstay in Scotland seemed to have thrown her back on her own people, nowthat she was once more among them, with a passionate zest, and sheturned to her native ways with abandon. Lawson began to drink more. Every Saturday night he went to the English Club and got blind drunk. 

He had the peculiarity that as he grew drunk he grew quarrelsome andonce he had a violent dispute with Bain, his employer. Bain dismissedhim, and he had to look out for another job. He was idle for two orthree weeks and during these, sooner than sit in the bungalow, helounged about in the hotel or at the English Club, and drank. It wasmore out of pity than anything else that Miller, the German-American, took him into his office; but he was a business man, and though Lawson'sfinancial skill made him valuable, the circumstances were such that hecould hardly refuse a smaller salary than he had had before, and Millerdid not hesitate to offer it to him. Ethel and Brevald blamed him fortaking it, since Pedersen, the half-caste, offered him more. But heresented bitterly the thought of being under the orders of a half-caste. When Ethel nagged him he burst out furiously:

"I'll see myself dead before I work for a nigger. "

"You may have to, " she said. 

And in six months he found himself forced to this final humiliation. Thepassion for liquor had been gaining on him, he was often heavy withdrink, and he did his work badly. Miller warned him once or twice andLawson was not the man to accept remonstrance easily. One day in themidst of an altercation he put on his hat and walked out. But by now hisreputation was well known and he could find no one to engage him. For awhile he idled, and then he had an attack of _delirium tremens_. When herecovered, shameful and weak, he could no longer resist the constantpressure and he went to Pedersen and asked him for a job. Pedersen wasglad to have a white man in his store and Lawson's skill at figures madehim useful. 

From that time his degeneration was rapid. The white people gave him thecold shoulder. They were only prevented from cutting him completely bydisdainful pity and by a certain dread of his angry violence when he wasdrunk. He became extremely susceptible and was always on the lookout foraffront. 

He lived entirely among the natives and half-castes, but he had nolonger the prestige of the white man. They felt his loathing for themand they resented his attitude of superiority. He was one of themselvesnow and they did not see why he should put on airs. Brevald, who hadbeen ingratiating and obsequious, now treated him with contempt. Ethelhad made a bad bargain. There were disgraceful scenes and once or twicethe two men came to blows. When there was a quarrel Ethel took the partof her family. They found he was better drunk than sober, for when hewas drunk he would lie on the bed or on the floor, sleeping heavily. 

Then he became aware that something was being hidden from him. 

When he got back to the bungalow for the wretched, half native supperwhich was his evening meal, often Ethel was not in. If he asked whereshe was Brevald told him she had gone to spend the evening with one orother of her friends. Once he followed her to the house Brevald hadmentioned and found she was not there. On her return he asked her whereshe had been and she told him her father had made a mistake; she hadbeen to so-and-so's. But he knew that she was lying. She was in her bestclothes; her eyes were shining, and she looked lovely. 

"Don't try any monkey tricks on me, my girl, " he said, "or I'll breakevery bone in your body. "

"You drunken beast, " she said, scornfully. 

He fancied that Mrs Brevald and the old grandmother looked at himmaliciously and he ascribed Brevald's good-humour with him, so unusualthose days, to his satisfaction at having something up his sleeveagainst his son-in-law. And then, his suspicions aroused, he imaginedthat the white men gave him curious glances. When he came into thelounge of the hotel the sudden silence which fell upon the companyconvinced him that he had been the subject of the conversation. Something was going on and everyone knew it but himself. He was seizedwith furious jealousy. He believed that Ethel was carrying on with oneof the white men, and he looked at one after the other with scrutinisingeyes; but there was nothing to give him even a hint. He was helpless. Because he could find no one on whom definitely to fix his suspicions, he went about like a raving maniac, looking for someone on whom to venthis wrath. Chance caused him in the end to hit upon the man who of allothers least deserved to suffer from his violence. One afternoon, whenhe was sitting in the hotel by himself, moodily, Chaplin came in and satdown beside him. Perhaps Chaplin was the only man on the island who hadany sympathy for him. They ordered drinks and chatted a few minutesabout the races that were shortly to be run. Then Chaplain said:

"I guess we shall all have to fork out money for new dresses. "

Lawson sniggered. Since Mrs Chaplin held the purse-strings if she wanteda new frock for the occasion she would certainly not ask her husband forthe money. 

"How is your missus?" asked Chaplin, desiring to be friendly. 

"What the hell's that got to do with you?" said Lawson, knitting hisdark brows. 

"I was only asking a civil question. "

"Well, keep your civil questions to yourself. "

Chaplin was not a patient man; his long residence in the tropics, thewhisky bottle, and his domestic affairs had given him a temper hardlymore under control than Lawson's. 

"Look here, my boy, when you're in my hotel you behave like a gentlemanor you'll find yourself in the street before you can say knife. "

Lawson's lowering face grew dark and red. 

"Let me just tell you once for all and you can pass it on to theothers, " he said, panting with rage. "If any of you fellows come messinground with my wife he'd better look out. "

"Who do you think wants to mess around with your wife?"

"I'm not such a fool as you think. I can see a stone wall in front of meas well as most men, and I warn you straight, that's all. I'm not goingto put up with any hanky-panky, not on your life. "

"Look here, you'd better clear out of here, and come back when you'resober. "

"I shall clear out when I choose and not a minute before, " said Lawson. 

It was an unfortunate boast, for Chaplin in the course of his experienceas a hotel-keeper had acquired a peculiar skill in dealing withgentlemen whose room he preferred to their company, and the words werehardly out of Lawson's mouth before he found himself caught by thecollar and arm and hustled not without force into the street. Hestumbled down the steps into the blinding glare of the sun. 

It was in consequence of this that he had his first violent scene withEthel. Smarting with humiliation and unwilling to go back to the hotel, he went home that afternoon earlier than usual. He found Ethel dressingto go out. As a rule she lay about in a Mother Hubbard, barefoot, witha flower in her dark hair; but now, in white silk stockings andhigh-heeled shoes, she was doing up a pink muslin dress which was thenewest she had. 

"You're making yourself very smart, " he said. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to the Crossleys. "

"I'll come with you. "

"Why?" she asked coolly. 

"I don't want you to gad about by yourself all the time. "

"You're not asked. "

"I don't care a damn about that. You're not going without me. "

"You'd better lie down till I'm ready. "

She thought he was drunk and if he once settled himself on the bed wouldquickly drop off to sleep. He sat down on a chair and began to smoke acigarette. She watched him with increasing irritation: When she wasready he got up. It happened by an unusual chance that there was no onein the bungalow. Brevald was working on the plantation and his wife hadgone into Apia. Ethel faced him. 

"I'm not going with you. You're drunk. "

"That's a lie. You're not going without me. "

She shrugged her shoulders and tried to pass him, but he caught her bythe arm and held her. 

"Let me go, you devil, " she said, breaking into Samoan. 

"Why do you want to go without me? Haven't I told you I'm not going toput up with any monkey tricks?"

She clenched her fist and hit him in the face. He lost all control ofhimself. All his love, all his hatred, welled up in him and he wasbeside himself. 

"I'll teach you, " he shouted. "I'll teach you. "

He seized a riding-whip which happened to be under his hand, and struckher with it. She screamed, and the scream maddened him so that he wenton striking her, again and again. Her shrieks rang through the bungalowand he cursed her as he hit. Then he flung her on the bed. She lay theresobbing with pain and terror. He threw the whip away from him and rushedout of the room. Ethel heard him go and she stopped crying. She lookedround cautiously, then she raised herself. She was sore, but she had notbeen 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 notoutrage her. When she looked at herself in the glass and arranged herhair, her eyes were shining. There was a strange look in them. Perhapsthen she was nearer loving him than she had ever been before. 

But Lawson, driven forth blindly, stumbled through the plantation andsuddenly exhausted, weak as a child, flung himself on the ground at thefoot of a tree. He was miserable and ashamed. He thought of Ethel, andin the yielding tenderness of his love all his bones seemed to grow softwithin him. He thought of the past, and of his hopes, and he was aghastat what he had done. He wanted her more than ever. He wanted to take herin his arms. He must go to her at once. He got up. He was so weak thathe staggered as he walked. He went into the house and she was sitting intheir cramped bedroom in front of her looking-glass. 

"Oh, Ethel, forgive me. I'm so awfully ashamed of myself. I didn't knowwhat I was doing. "

He fell on his knees before her and timidly stroked the skirt of herdress. 

"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 tosave you from pain and I've hurt you. I can never forgive myself, butfor God's sake say you forgive me. "

He heard her shrieks still. It was unendurable. She looked at himsilently. He tried to take her hands and the tears streamed from hiseyes. In his humiliation he hid his face in her lap and his frail bodyshook with sobs. An expression of utter contempt came over her face. Shehad the native woman's disdain of a man who abased himself before awoman. A weak creature! And for a moment she had been on the point ofthinking there was something in him. He grovelled at her feet like acur. 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 beganto take off her dress. She kicked off her shoes and slid the stockingsoff 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 hardand cold, stepped past him and went out. 

From that time she entirely despised him; and though, herded together inthe small bungalow, Lawson and Ethel with her two children, Brevald, hiswife and her mother, and the vague relations and hangers-on who werealways in and about, they had to live cheek by jowl, Lawson, ceasing tobe of any account, was hardly noticed. He left in the morning afterbreakfast, 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 spentthe evening playing hearts with old Brevald and the natives. Except whenhe 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 wasfrightened by the gusts of hatred with which they were followed; butwhen, afterwards, he was cringing and lachrymose she had such a contemptfor 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 andscratched and bit. They had horrible battles in which he had not alwaysthe best of it. Very soon it was known all over Apia that they got onbadly. There was little sympathy for Lawson, and at the hotel thegeneral surprise was that old Brevald did not kick him out of theplace. 

"Brevald's a pretty ugly customer, " said one of the men. "I shouldn't besurprised 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 seemedto have an attraction for her that was not quite human, just thatattraction you might imagine that a mermaid who had won a soul wouldhave 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 byhis presence; perhaps it was because in that spot he hoped to regain theclean rapture which had filled his heart when first he saw her; perhapsonly, with the madness of those who love them that love them not, fromthe feeling that his obstinacy could force love. One day he strolleddown there with a feeling that was rare with him now. He felt suddenlyat peace with the world. The evening was drawing in and the dusk seemedto cling to the leaves of the coconut trees like a little thin cloud. Afaint breeze stirred them noiselessly. A crescent moon hung just overtheir tops. He made his way to the bank. He saw Ethel in the waterfloating on her back. Her hair streamed out all round her, and she washolding 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 idlyaway. She swam a stroke or two till she knew there was ground within herdepth 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 apassion. He began to take off his coat. 

"Go away, " she shrieked. "I won't have you here. Can't you even leave methis? 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 hishand to his head and when he took it away it was wet with blood. Ethelstood still, panting with rage. He turned very pale, and without a word, taking up his coat, went away. Ethel let herself fall back into thewater and the stream carried her slowly down to the ford. 

The stone had made a jagged wound and for some days Lawson went aboutwith a bandaged head. He had invented a likely story to account for theaccident when the fellows at the club asked him about it, but he had nooccasion to use it. No one referred to the matter. He saw them castsurreptitious glances at his head, but not a word was said. The silencecould only mean that they knew how he came by his wound. He was certainnow that Ethel had a lover, and they all knew who it was. But there wasnot the smallest indication to guide him. He never saw Ethel withanyone; no one showed a wish to be with her, or treated him in a mannerthat seemed strange. Wild rage seized him, and having no one to vent iton he drank more and more heavily. A little while before I came to theisland he had had another attack of _delirium tremens_. 

I met Ethel at the house of a man called Caster, who lived two or threemiles from Apia with a native wife. I had been playing tennis with himand when we were tired he suggested a cup of tea. We went into the houseand 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 whatthere 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; shereminded one of the red hibiscus, the common flower of the hedgerow inSamoa, with its grace and its languor and its passion; but whatsurprised me most, taking into consideration the story I knew even thena good deal of, was her freshness and simplicity. She was quiet and alittle shy. There was nothing coarse or loud about her; she had not theexuberance common to the half-caste; and it was almost impossible tobelieve that she could be the virago that the horrible scenes betweenhusband and wife, which were now common knowledge, indicated. In herpretty pink frock and high-heeled shoes she looked quite European. Youcould hardly have guessed at that dark background of native life inwhich she felt herself so much more at home. I did not imagine that shewas 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 haddrawn him to her sink into boredom. It suggested itself to me that inher elusiveness, like a thought that presents itself to consciousnessand 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 herI 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 thestranger in Samoa, of the journey, and whether I had slid down the waterrock at Papaseea, and if I meant to stay in a native village. She talkedto me of Scotland, and perhaps I noticed in her a tendency to enlarge onthe sumptuousness of her establishment there. She asked me naïvely if Iknew Mrs This and Mrs That, with whom she had been acquainted when shelived in the north. 

Then Miller, the fat German-American, came in. He shook hands all roundvery cordially and sat down, asking in his loud, cheerful voice for awhisky and soda. He was very fat and he sweated profusely. He took offhis gold-rimmed spectacles and wiped them; you saw then that his littleeyes, benevolent behind the large round glasses, were shrewd andcunning; the party had been somewhat dull till he came, but he was agood story-teller and a jovial fellow. Soon he had the two women, Etheland my friend's wife, laughing delightedly at his sallies. He had areputation on the island of a lady's man, and you could see how thisfat, gross fellow, old and ugly, had yet the possibility of fascination. His humour was on a level with the understanding of his company, anaffair of vitality and assurance, and his Western accent gave a peculiarpoint 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'lltake you along in my machine if you like. "

I thanked him and got up. He shook hands with the others, went out ofthe 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 whenI 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 toleave Samoa. My boat was scheduled to sail for Sydney on the fourth ofJanuary. Christmas Day had been celebrated at the hotel with suitableceremonies, but it was looked upon as no more than a rehearsal for NewYear, and the men who were accustomed to foregather in the loungedetermined on New Year's Eve to make a night of it. There was anuproarious dinner, after which the party sauntered down to the EnglishClub, a simple little frame house, to play pool. There was a great dealof talking, laughing, and betting, but some very poor play, except onthe part of Miller, who had drunk as much as any of them, all faryounger than he, but had kept unimpaired the keenness of his eye and thesureness of his hand. He pocketed the young men's money with humour andurbanity. After an hour of this I grew tired and went out. I crossed theroad and came on to the beach. Three coconut trees grew there, likethree moon maidens waiting for their lovers to ride out of the sea, andI sat at the foot of one of them, watching the lagoon and the nightlyassemblage of the stars. 

I do not know where Lawson had been during the evening, but between tenand eleven he came along to the club. He shambled down the dusty, emptyroad, feeling dull and bored, and when he reached the club, before goinginto the billiard-room, went into the bar to have a drink by himself. Hehad a shyness now about joining the company of white men when there werea lot of them together and needed a stiff dose of whisky to give himconfidence. He was standing with the glass in his hand when Miller camein to him. He was in his shirt sleeves and still held his cue. He gavethe 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 fornothing on this damned island. "

Miller fixed his gold spectacles more firmly on his nose and held Lawsonwith his cold determined eyes. 

"See here, young fellow, I understand you've been knocking Mrs Lawsonabout again. I'm not going to stand for that. If you don't stop it rightnow I'll break every bone of your dirty little body. "

Then Lawson knew what he had been trying to find out so long. It wasMiller. The appearance of the man, fat, bald-headed, with his round bareface 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 hisfaults Lawson was no coward, and without a word he hit out violently atMiller. 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 onLawson's ear. Lawson was four inches shorter than the American and hewas slightly built, frail and weakened not only by illness and theenervating tropics, but by drink. He fell like a log and lay half dazedat the foot of the bar. Miller took off his spectacles and wiped themwith his handkerchief. 

"I guess you know what to expect now. You've had your warning and you'dbetter take it. "

He took up his cue and went back into the billiard-room. There was somuch noise there that no one knew what had happened. Lawson pickedhimself up. He put his hand to his ear, which was singing still. Then heslunk out of the club. 

I saw a man cross the road, a patch of white against the darkness of thenight, but did not know who it was. He came down to the beach, passed mesitting at the foot of the tree, and looked down. I saw then that it wasLawson, but since he was doubtless drunk, did not speak. He went on, walked irresolutely two or three steps, and turned back. He came up tome 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 andthen in the lagoon was the splash of some big fish, and a little way outtowards 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 thefire, " I said. 

There was not even a breath of wind. The balminess of the night was likea spell. I wore nothing but a thin shirt and a suit of ducks. I enjoyedthe 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 goodresolutions for the future, " I smiled. 

He made no answer, but I do not know what train of thought my casualremark had suggested in him, for presently he began to speak. He spokein a low voice, without any expression, but his accents were educated, and it was a relief to hear him after the twang and the vulgarintonations which for some time had wounded my ears. 

"I've made an awful hash of things. That's obvious, isn't it? I'm rightdown at the bottom of the pit and there's no getting out for me. '_Blackas the pit from pole to pole. _'" I felt him smile as he made thequotation. "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 thanwhen a man discovers to you the nakedness of his soul. Then you see thatno one is so trivial or debased but that in him is a spark of somethingto 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 gonedifferently. I wasn't really fond of liquor. I suppose I ought not tohave married Ethel. If I'd kept her it would be all right. But I didlove her so. "

His voice faltered. 

"She's not a bad lot, you know, not really. It's just rotten luck. Wemight have been as happy as lords. When she bolted I suppose I ought tohave 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 itand 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 inhis 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, stoodfacing the sea not without impressiveness, and beside it the Protestantchapels had the look of meeting-houses. In the road were two or threecars, and a great number of traps, and traps were put up against thewalls at the side. People had come from all parts of the island for theservice, and through the great open doors we saw that the place wascrowded. The high altar was all ablaze with light. There were a fewwhites 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 opendoor, and sat down. Presently, following Lawson's eyes, I saw Ethel comein with a party of half-castes. They were all very much dressed up, themen in high, stiff collars and shiny boots, the women in large, gayhats. 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 thecrowd 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 blackeyes, shining wildly under the shaggy brows. I paused irresolutely. Idid not feel sleepy and I thought I would at all events go along to theclub for an hour before turning in. When I got there I found thebilliard-room empty, but half-a-dozen men were sitting round a table inthe 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 mostfascinating game in the world and my hour lengthened out to two, andthen to three. The native bar-tender, cheery and wide-awakenotwithstanding the time, was at our elbow to supply us with drinks andfrom somewhere or other he produced a ham and a loaf of bread. We playedon. Most of the party had drunk more than was good for them and the playwas high and reckless. I played modestly, neither wishing to win noranxious to lose, but I watched Miller with a fascinated interest. Hedrank glass for glass with the rest of the company, but remained cooland level-headed. His pile of chips increased in size and he had a neatlittle paper in front of him on which he had marked various sums lent toplayers in distress. He beamed amiably at the young men whose money hewas taking. He kept up interminably his stream of jest and anecdote, buthe 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 ofdeprecating shyness, as though it had no business there, and then it wasday. 

"Well, " said Miller, "I reckon we've seen the old year out in style. Nowlet'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, andthe lagoon was like a sheet of multicoloured glass. Someone suggested adip before going to bed, but none cared to bathe in the lagoon, stickyand treacherous to the feet. Miller had his car at the door and heoffered to take us down to the pool. We jumped in and drove along thedeserted road. When we reached the pool it seemed as though the day hadhardly risen there yet. Under the trees the water was all in shadow andthe night had the effect of lurking still. We were in great spirits. Wehad no towels or any costume and in my prudence I wondered how we weregoing to dry ourselves. None of us had much on and it did not take uslong to snatch off our clothes. Nelson, the little supercargo, wasstripped first. 

"I'm going down to the bottom, " he said. 

He dived and in a moment another man dived too, but shallow, and was outof 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 fellowsgave 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 mandown there. It just scared me out of my wits. "

Miller looked at him for a moment. The little man was all white. He wasactually trembling. 

"Come on, Caster, " said Miller to the big Australian, "we'd better godown and see. "

"He was standing up, " said Nelson, "all dressed. I saw him. He tried tocatch hold of me. "

"Hold your row, " said Miller. "Are you ready?"

They dived in. We waited on the bank, silent. It really seemed as thoughthey were under water longer than any men could breathe. Then Castercame up, and immediately after him, red in the face as though he weregoing to have a fit, Miller. They were pulling something behind them. Another man jumped in to help them, and the three together dragged theirburden 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 thewater from his shortsighted eyes. 

VI

_Honolulu_

The wise traveller travels only in imagination. An old Frenchman (he wasreally a Savoyard) once wrote a book called _Voyage autour de maChambre_. I have not read it and do not even know what it is about, butthe title stimulates my fancy. In such a journey I could circumnavigatethe globe. An eikon by the chimneypiece can take me to Russia with itsgreat forests of birch and its white, domed churches. The Volga is wide, and at the end of a straggling village, in the wine-shop, bearded men inrough sheepskin coats sit drinking. I stand on the little hill fromwhich Napoleon first saw Moscow and I look upon the vastness of thecity. I will go down and see the people whom I know more intimately thanso many of my friends, Alyosha, and Vronsky, and a dozen more. But myeyes fall on a piece of porcelain and I smell the acrid odours of China. I am borne in a chair along a narrow causeway between the padi fields, or else I skirt a tree-clad mountain. My bearers chat gaily as theytrudge along in the bright morning and every now and then, distant andmysterious, I hear the deep sound of a monastery bell. In the streets ofPeking there is a motley crowd and it scatters to allow passage to astring of camels, stepping delicately, that bring skins and strangedrugs from the stony deserts of Mongolia. In England, in London, thereare certain afternoons in winter when the clouds hang heavy and low andthe light is so bleak that your heart sinks, but then you can look outof your window, and you see the coconut trees crowded upon the beach ofa coral island. The sand is silvery and when you walk along in thesunshine it is so dazzling that you can hardly bear to look at it. Overhead the mynah birds are making a great to-do, and the surf beatsceaselessly against the reef. Those are the best journeys, the journeysthat you take at your own fireside, for then you lose none of yourillusions. 

But there are people who take salt in their coffee. They say it gives ita tang, a savour, which is peculiar and fascinating. In the same waythere are certain places, surrounded by a halo of romance, to which theinevitable disillusionment which you must experience on seeing themgives a singular spice. You had expected something wholly beautiful andyou get an impression which is infinitely more complicated than any thatbeauty can give you. It is like the weakness in the character of a greatman which may make him less admirable but certainly makes him moreinteresting. 

Nothing had prepared me for Honolulu. It is so far away from Europe, itis reached after so long a journey from San Francisco, so strange and socharming associations are attached to the name, that at first I couldhardly believe my eyes. I do not know that I had formed in my mind anyvery exact picture of what I expected, but what I found caused me agreat surprise. It is a typical western city. Shacks are cheek by jowlwith stone mansions; dilapidated frame houses stand next door to smartstores with plate glass windows; electric cars rumble noisily along thestreets; and motors, Fords, Buicks, Packards, line the pavement. Theshops are filled with all the necessities of American civilisation. Every third house is a bank and every fifth the agency of a steamshipcompany. 

Along the streets crowd an unimaginable assortment of people. TheAmericans, ignoring the climate, wear black coats and high, starchedcollars, straw hats, soft hats, and bowlers. The Kanakas, pale brown, with crisp hair, have nothing on but a shirt and a pair of trousers; butthe half-breeds are very smart with flaring ties and patent-leatherboots. The Japanese, with their obsequious smile, are neat and trim inwhite duck, while their women walk a step or two behind them, in nativedress, with a baby on their backs. The Japanese children, in brightcoloured frocks, their little heads shaven, look like quaint dolls. Thenthere are the Chinese. The men, fat and prosperous, wear their Americanclothes oddly, but the women are enchanting with their tightly-dressedblack hair, so neat that you feel it can never be disarranged, and theyare very clean in their tunics and trousers, white, or powder blue, orblack. Lastly there are the Filipinos, the men in huge straw hats, thewomen in bright yellow muslin with great puffed sleeves. 

It is the meeting-place of East and West. The very new rubs shoulderswith the immeasurably old. And if you have not found the romance youexpected you have come upon something singularly intriguing. All thesestrange people live close to each other, with different languages anddifferent thoughts; they believe in different gods and they havedifferent values; two passions alone they share, love and hunger. Andsomehow as you watch them you have an impression of extraordinaryvitality. Though the air is so soft and the sky so blue, you have, Iknow not why, a feeling of something hotly passionate that beats like athrobbing pulse through the crowd. Though the native policeman at thecorner, standing on a platform, with a white club to direct the traffic, gives the scene an air of respectability, you cannot but feel that it isa respectability only of the surface; a little below there is darknessand mystery. It gives you just that thrill, with a little catch at theheart, that you have when at night in the forest the silence trembles ona sudden with the low, insistent beating of a drum. You are allexpectant of I know not what. 

If I have dwelt on the incongruity of Honolulu, it is because just this, to my mind, gives its point to the story I want to tell. It is a storyof primitive superstition, and it startles me that anything of the sortshould survive in a civilisation which, if not very distinguished, iscertainly very elaborate. I cannot get over the fact that suchincredible things should happen, or at least be thought to happen, rightin the middle, so to speak, of telephones, tram-cars, and daily papers. And the friend who showed me Honolulu had the same incongruity which Ifelt from the beginning was its most striking characteristic. 

He was an American named Winter and I had brought a letter ofintroduction to him from an acquaintance in New York. He was a manbetween forty and fifty, with scanty black hair, grey at the temples, and a sharp-featured, thin face. His eyes had a twinkle in them and hislarge horn spectacles gave him a demureness which was not a littlediverting. He was tall rather than otherwise and very spare. He was bornin Honolulu and his father had a large store which sold hosiery and allsuch goods, from tennis racquets to tarpaulins, as a man of fashioncould require. It was a prosperous business and I could well understandthe indignation of Winter _père_ when his son, refusing to go into it, had announced his determination to be an actor. My friend spent twentyyears on the stage, sometimes in New York, but more often on the road, for his gifts were small; but at last, being no fool, he came to theconclusion that it was better to sell sock-suspenders in Honolulu thanto play small parts in Cleveland, Ohio. He left the stage and went intothe business. I think after the hazardous existence he had lived solong, he thoroughly enjoyed the luxury of driving a large car and livingin a beautiful house near the golf-course, and I am quite sure, since hewas a man of parts, he managed the business competently. But he couldnot bring himself entirely to break his connection with the arts andsince he might no longer act he began to paint. He took me to his studioand showed me his work. It was not at all bad, but not what I shouldhave expected from him. He painted nothing but still life, very smallpictures, perhaps eight by ten; and he painted very delicately, with theutmost finish. He had evidently a passion for detail. His fruit piecesreminded you of the fruit in a picture by Ghirlandajo. While youmarvelled a little at his patience, you could not help being impressedby his dexterity. I imagine that he failed as an actor because hiseffects, carefully studied, were neither bold nor broad enough to getacross the footlights. 

I was entertained by the proprietary, yet ironical air with which heshowed me the city. He thought in his heart that there was none in theUnited States to equal it, but he saw quite clearly that his attitudewas comic. He drove me round to the various buildings and swelled withsatisfaction when I expressed a proper admiration for theirarchitecture. He showed me the houses of rich men. 

"That's the Stubbs' house, " he said. "It cost a hundred thousand dollarsto build. The Stubbs are one of our best families. Old man Stubbs camehere as a missionary more than seventy years ago. "

He hesitated a little and looked at me with twinkling eyes through hisbig round spectacles. 

"All our best families are missionary families, " he said. "You're notvery much in Honolulu unless your father or your grandfather convertedthe heathen. "

"Is that so?"

"Do you know your Bible?"

"Fairly, " I answered. 

"There is a text which says: The fathers have eaten sour grapes and thechildren's teeth are set on edge. I guess it runs differently inHonolulu. The fathers brought Christianity to the Kanaka and thechildren jumped his land. "

"Heaven helps those who help themselves, " I murmured. 

"It surely does. By the time the natives of this island had embracedChristianity they had nothing else they could afford to embrace. Thekings gave the missionaries land as a mark of esteem, and themissionaries bought land by way of laying up treasure in heaven. Itsurely was a good investment. One missionary left the business--I thinkone may call it a business without offence--and became a land agent, butthat is an exception. Mostly it was their sons who looked after thecommercial side of the concern. Oh, it's a fine thing to have a fatherwho came here fifty years ago to spread the faith. "

But he looked at his watch. 

"Gee, it's stopped. That means it's time to have a cocktail. "

We sped along an excellent road, bordered with red hibiscus, and cameback into the town. 

"Have you been to the Union Saloon?"

"Not yet. "

"We'll go there. "

I knew it was the most famous spot in Honolulu and I entered it with alively curiosity. You get to it by a narrow passage from King Street, and in the passage are offices, so that thirsty souls may be supposedbound for one of these just as well as for the saloon. It is a largesquare room, with three entrances, and opposite the bar, which runs thelength of it, two corners have been partitioned off into littlecubicles. Legend states that they were built so that King Kalakaua mightdrink there without being seen by his subjects, and it is pleasant tothink that in one or other of these he may have sat over his bottle, acoal-black potentate, with Robert Louis Stevenson. There is a portraitof him, in oils, in a rich gold frame; but there are also two prints ofQueen Victoria. On the walls, besides, are old line engravings of theeighteenth century, one of which, and heaven knows how it got there, isafter a theatrical picture by De Wilde; and there are oleographs fromthe Christmas supplements of the _Graphic_ and the _Illustrated LondonNews_ of twenty years ago. Then there are advertisements of whisky, gin, champagne, and beer; and photographs of baseball teams and of nativeorchestras. 

The place seemed to belong not to the modern, hustling world that I hadleft in the bright street outside, but to one that was dying. It had thesavour of the day before yesterday. Dingy and dimly lit, it had avaguely mysterious air and you could imagine that it would be a fitscene for shady transactions. It suggested a more lurid time, whenruthless men carried their lives in their hands, and violent deedsdiapered the monotony of life. 

When I went in the saloon was fairly full. A group of business men stoodtogether at the bar, discussing affairs, and in a corner two Kanakaswere drinking. Two or three men who might have been store-keepers wereshaking dice. The rest of the company plainly followed the sea; theywere captains of tramps, first mates, and engineers. Behind the bar, busily making the Honolulu cocktail for which the place was famous, served two large half-castes, in white, fat, clean-shaven and darkskinned, with thick, curly hair and large bright eyes. 

Winter seemed to know more than half the company, and when we made ourway to the bar a little fat man in spectacles, who was standing byhimself, offered him a drink. 

"No, you have one with me, Captain, " said Winter. 

He turned to me. 

"I want you to know Captain Butler. "

The little man shook hands with me. We began to talk, but, my attentiondistracted by my surroundings, I took small notice of him, and after wehad each ordered a cocktail we separated. When we had got into the motoragain and were driving away, Winter said to me:

"I'm glad we ran up against Butler. I wanted you to meet him. What didyou think of him?"

"I don't know that I thought very much of him at all, " I answered. 

"Do you believe in the supernatural?"

"I don't exactly know that I do, " I smiled. 

"A very queer thing happened to him a year or two ago. You ought to havehim tell you about it. "

"What sort of thing?"

Winter did not answer my question. 

"I have no explanation of it myself, " he said. "But there's no doubtabout the facts. Are you interested in things like that?"

"Things like what?"

"Spells and magic and all that. "

"I've never met anyone who wasn't. "

Winter paused for a moment. 

"I guess I won't tell you myself. You ought to hear it from his own lipsso that you can judge. How are you fixed up for to-night?"

"I've got nothing on at all. "

"Well, I'll get hold of him between now and then and see if we can't godown to his ship. "

Winter told me something about him. Captain Butler had spent all hislife on the Pacific. He had been in much better circumstances than hewas now, for he had been first officer and then captain of apassenger-boat plying along the coast of California, but he had lost hisship and a number of passengers had been drowned. 

"Drink, I guess, " said Winter. 

Of course there had been an enquiry, which had cost him his certificate, and then he drifted further afield. For some years he had knocked aboutthe South Seas, but he was now in command of a small schooner whichsailed between Honolulu and the various islands of the group. Itbelonged to a Chinese to whom the fact that his skipper had nocertificate meant only that he could be had for lower wages, and to havea white man in charge was always an advantage. 

And now that I had heard this about him I took the trouble to remembermore exactly what he was like. I recalled his round spectacles and theround blue eyes behind them, and so gradually reconstructed him beforemy mind. He was a little man, without angles, plump, with a round facelike the full moon and a little fat round nose. He had fair short hair, and he was red-faced and clean shaven. He had plump hands, dimpled onthe knuckles, and short fat legs. He was a jolly soul, and the tragicexperience he had gone through seemed to have left him unscarred. Thoughhe must have been thirty-four or thirty-five he looked much younger. Butafter all I had given him but a superficial attention, and now that Iknew of this catastrophe, which had obviously ruined his life, Ipromised myself that when I saw him again I would take more careful noteof him. It is very curious to observe the differences of emotionalresponse that you find in different people. Some can go through terrificbattles, the fear of imminent death and unimaginable horrors, andpreserve their soul unscathed, while with others the trembling of themoon on a solitary sea or the song of a bird in a thicket will cause aconvulsion great enough to transform their entire being. Is it due tostrength or weakness, want of imagination or instability of character? Ido not know. When I called up in my fancy that scene of shipwreck, withthe shrieks of the drowning and the terror, and then later, the ordealof the enquiry, the bitter grief of those who sorrowed for the lost, andthe harsh things he must have read of himself in the papers, the shameand the disgrace, it came to me with a shock to remember that CaptainButler had talked with the frank obscenity of a schoolboy of theHawaiian girls and of Ewelei, the Red Light district, and of hissuccessful adventures. He laughed readily, and one would have thought hecould never laugh again. I remembered his shining, white teeth; theywere his best feature. He began to interest me, and thinking of him andof his gay insouciance I forgot the particular story, to hear which Iwas to see him again. I wanted to see him rather to find out if I coulda little more what sort of man he was. 

Winter made the necessary arrangements and after dinner we went down tothe water front. The ship's boat was waiting for us and we rowed out. The schooner was anchored some way across the harbour, not far from thebreakwater. We came alongside, and I heard the sound of a ukalele. Weclambered up the ladder. 

"I guess he's in the cabin, " said Winter, leading the way. 

It was a small cabin, bedraggled and dirty, with a table against oneside and a broad bench all round upon which slept, I supposed, suchpassengers as were ill-advised enough to travel in such a ship. Apetroleum lamp gave a dim light. The ukalele was being played by anative girl and Butler was lolling on the seat, half lying, with hishead on her shoulder and an arm round her waist. 

"Don't let us disturb you, Captain, " said Winter, facetiously. 

"Come right in, " said Butler, getting up and shaking hands with us. "What'll you have?"

It was a warm night, and through the open door you saw countless starsin a heaven that was still almost blue. Captain Butler wore a sleevelessunder-shirt, showing his fat white arms, and a pair of incredibly dirtytrousers. His feet were bare, but on his curly head he wore a very old, a very shapeless felt hat. 

"Let me introduce you to my girl. Ain't she a peach?"

We shook hands with a very pretty person. She was a good deal tallerthan the captain, and even the Mother Hubbard, which the missionaries ofa past generation had, in the interests of decency, forced on theunwilling natives, could not conceal the beauty of her form. One couldnot but suspect that age would burden her with a certain corpulence, butnow she was graceful and alert. Her brown skin had an exquisitetranslucency and her eyes were magnificent. Her black hair, very thickand rich, was coiled round her head in a massive plait. When she smiledin a greeting that was charmingly natural, she showed teeth that weresmall, even, and white. She was certainly a most attractive creature. Itwas easy to see that the captain was madly in love with her. He couldnot take his eyes off her; he wanted to touch her all the time. That wasvery easy to understand; but what seemed to me stranger was that thegirl was apparently in love with him. There was a light in her eyes thatwas unmistakable, and her lips were slightly parted as though in a sighof desire. It was thrilling. It was even a little moving, and I couldnot help feeling somewhat in the way. What had a stranger to do withthis love-sick pair? I wished that Winter had not brought me. And itseemed to me that the dingy cabin was transfigured and now it seemed afit and proper scene for such an extremity of passion. I thought Ishould never forget that schooner in the harbour of Honolulu, crowdedwith shipping, and yet, under the immensity of the starry sky, remotefrom all the world. I liked to think of those lovers sailing offtogether in the night over the empty spaces of the Pacific from onegreen, hilly island to another. A faint breeze of romance softly fannedmy cheek. 

And yet Butler was the last man in the world with whom you would haveassociated romance, and it was hard to see what there was in him toarouse love. In the clothes he wore now he looked podgier than ever, andhis round spectacles gave his round face the look of a prim cherub. Hesuggested rather a curate who had gone to the dogs. His conversation waspeppered with the quaintest Americanisms, and it is because I despair ofreproducing these that, at whatever loss of vividness, I mean to narratethe story he told me a little later in my own words. Moreover he wasunable to frame a sentence without an oath, though a good-natured one, and his speech, albeit offensive only to prudish ears, in print wouldseem coarse. He was a mirth-loving man, and perhaps that accounted not alittle for his successful amours; since women, for the most partfrivolous creatures, are excessively bored by the seriousness withwhich men treat them, and they can seldom resist the buffoon who makesthem laugh. Their sense of humour is crude. Diana of Ephesus is alwaysprepared to fling prudence to the winds for the red-nosed comedian whosits on his hat. I realised that Captain Butler had charm. If I had notknown the tragic story of the shipwreck I should have thought he hadnever had a care in his life. 

Our host had rung the bell on our entrance and now a Chinese cook camein with more glasses and several bottles of soda. The whisky and thecaptain's empty glass stood already on the table. But when I saw theChinese I positively started, for he was certainly the ugliest man I hadever seen. He was very short, but thick-set, and he had a bad limp. Hewore a singlet and a pair of trousers that had been white, but were nowfilthy, and, perched on a shock of bristly, grey hair, an old tweeddeer-stalker. It would have been grotesque on any Chinese, but on him itwas outrageous. His broad, square face was very flat as though it hadbeen bashed in by a mighty fist, and it was deeply pitted with smallpox;but the most revolting thing in him was a very pronounced harelip whichhad never been operated on, so that his upper lip, cleft, went up in anangle to his nose, and in the opening was a huge yellow fang. It washorrible. He came in with the end of a cigarette at the corner of hismouth, and this, I do not know why, gave him a devilish expression. 

He poured out the whisky and opened a bottle of soda. 

"Don't drown it, John, " said the captain. 

He said nothing, but handed a glass to each of us. Then he went out. 

"I saw you lookin' at my Chink, " said Butler, with a grin on his fat, shining face. 

"I should hate to meet him on a dark night, " I said. 

"He sure is homely, " said the captain, and for some reason he seemed tosay it with a peculiar satisfaction. "But he's fine for one thing, I'lltell the world; you just have to have a drink every time you look athim. "

But my eyes fell on a calabash that hung against the wall over thetable, and I got up to look at it. I had been hunting for an old one andthis was better than any I had seen outside the museum. 

"It was given me by a chief over on one of the islands, " said thecaptain, watching me. "I done him a good turn and he wanted to give mesomething good. "

"He certainly did, " I answered. 

I was wondering whether I could discreetly make Captain Butler an offerfor it, I could not imagine that he set any store on such an article, when, as though he read my thoughts, he said:

"I wouldn't sell that for ten thousand dollars. "

"I guess not, " said Winter. "It would be a crime to sell it. "

"Why?" I asked. 

"That comes into the story, " returned Winter. "Doesn't it, Captain?"

"It surely does. "

"Let's hear it then. "

"The night's young yet, " he answered. 

The night distinctly lost its youth before he satisfied my curiosity, and meanwhile we drank a great deal too much whisky while Captain Butlernarrated his experiences of San Francisco in the old days and of theSouth Seas. At last the girl fell asleep. She lay curled up on the seat, with her face on her brown arm, and her bosom rose and fell gently withher breathing. In sleep she looked sullen, but darkly beautiful. 

He had found her on one of the islands in the group among which, whenever there was cargo to be got, he wandered with his crazy oldschooner. The Kanakas have little love for work, and the laboriousChinese, the cunning Japs, have taken the trade out of their hands. Herfather had a strip of land on which he grew taro and bananas and he hada boat in which he went fishing. He was vaguely related to the mate ofthe schooner, and it was he who took Captain Butler up to the shabbylittle frame house to spend an idle evening. They took a bottle ofwhisky with them and the ukalele. The captain was not a shy man and whenhe saw a pretty girl he made love to her. He could speak the nativelanguage fluently and it was not long before he had overcome the girl'stimidity. They spent the evening singing and dancing, and by the end ofit she was sitting by his side and he had his arm round her waist. Ithappened that they were delayed on the island for several days and thecaptain, at no time a man to hurry, made no effort to shorten his stay. He was very comfortable in the snug little harbour and life was long. Hehad a swim round his ship in the morning and another in the evening. There was a chandler's shop on the water front where sailormen could geta drink of whisky, and he spent the best part of the day there, playingcribbage with the half-caste who owned it. At night the mate and he wentup to the house where the pretty girl lived and they sang a song or twoand told stories. It was the girl's father who suggested that he shouldtake her away with him. They discussed the matter in a friendly fashion, while the girl, nestling against the captain, urged him by the pressureof her hands and her soft, smiling glances. He had taken a fancy to herand he was a domestic man. He was a little dull sometimes at sea and itwould be very pleasant to have a pretty little creature like that aboutthe old ship. He was of a practical turn too, and he recognised that itwould be useful to have someone around to darn his socks and look afterhis linen. He was tired of having his things washed by a Chink who toreeverything to pieces; the natives washed much better, and now and thenwhen the captain went ashore at Honolulu he liked to cut a dash in asmart duck suit. It was only a matter of arranging a price. The fatherwanted two hundred and fifty dollars, and the captain, never a thriftyman, could not put his hand on such a sum. But he was a generous one, and with the girl's soft face against his, he was not inclined tohaggle. He offered to give a hundred and fifty dollars there and thenand another hundred in three months. There was a good deal of argumentand the parties could not come to any agreement that night, but the ideahad fired the captain, and he could not sleep as well as usual. He keptdreaming of the lovely girl and each time he awoke it was with thepressure of her soft, sensual lips on his. He cursed himself in themorning because a bad night at poker the last time he was at Honoluluhad left him so short of ready money. And if the night before he hadbeen in love with the girl, this morning he was crazy about her. 

"See here, Bananas, " he said to the mate, "I've got to have that girl. You go and tell the old man I'll bring the dough up to-night and she canget fixed up. I figure we'll be ready to sail at dawn. "

I have no idea why the mate was known by that eccentric name. He wascalled Wheeler, but though he had that English surname there was not adrop of white blood in him. He was a tall man, and well-made thoughinclined to stoutness, but much darker than is usual in Hawaii. He wasno longer young, and his crisply curling, thick hair was grey. His upperfront teeth were cased in gold. He was very proud of them. He had amarked squint and this gave him a saturnine expression. The captain, whowas fond of a joke, found in it a constant source of humour andhesitated the less to rally him on the defect because he realised thatthe mate was sensitive about it. Bananas, unlike most of the natives, was a taciturn fellow and Captain Butler would have disliked him if ithad been possible for a man of his good nature to dislike anyone. Heliked to be at sea with someone he could talk to, he was a chatty, sociable creature, and it was enough to drive a missionary to drink tolive there day after day with a chap who never opened his mouth. He didhis best to wake the mate up, that is to say, he chaffed him withoutmercy, but it was poor fun to laugh by oneself, and he came to theconclusion that, drunk or sober, Bananas was no fit companion for awhite man. But he was a good seaman and the captain was shrewd enough toknow the value of a mate he could trust. It was not rare for him to comeaboard, when they were sailing, fit for nothing but to fall into hisbunk, and it was worth something to know that he could stay there tillhe had slept his liquor off, since Bananas could be relied on. But hewas an unsociable devil, and it would be a treat to have someone hecould talk to. That girl would be fine. Besides, he wouldn't be solikely to get drunk when he went ashore if he knew there was a littlegirl waiting for him when he came on board again. 

He went to his friend the chandler and over a peg of gin asked him for aloan. There were one or two useful things a ship's captain could do fora ship's chandler, and after a quarter of an hour's conversation in lowtones (there is no object in letting all and sundry know your business), the captain crammed a wad of notes in his hip-pocket, and that night, when he went back to his ship, the girl went with him. 

What Captain Butler, seeking for reasons to do what he had already madeup his mind to, had anticipated, actually came to pass. He did not giveup drinking, but he ceased to drink to excess. An evening with theboys, when he had been away from town two or three weeks, was pleasantenough, but it was pleasant too to get back to his little girl; hethought of her, sleeping so softly, and how, when he got into his cabinand leaned over her, she would open her eyes lazily and stretch out herarms for him: it was as good as a full hand. He found he was savingmoney, and since he was a generous man he did the right thing by thelittle girl: he gave her some silver-backed brushes for her long hair, and a gold chain, and a reconstructed ruby for her finger. Gee, but itwas good to be alive. 

A year went by, a whole year, and he was not tired of her yet. He wasnot a man who analysed his feelings, but this was so surprising that itforced itself upon his attention. There must be something very wonderfulabout that girl. He couldn't help seeing that he was more wrapped up inher than ever, and sometimes the thought entered his mind that it mightnot be a bad thing if he married her. 

Then, one day the mate did not come in to dinner or to tea. Butler didnot bother himself about his absence at the first meal, but at thesecond he asked the Chinese cook:

"Where's the mate? He no come tea?"

"No wantchee, " said the Chink. 

"He ain't sick?"

"No savvy. "

Next day Bananas turned up again, but he was more sullen than ever, andafter dinner the captain asked the girl what was the matter with him. She smiled and shrugged her pretty shoulders. She told the captain thatBananas had taken a fancy to her and he was sore because she had toldhim off. The captain was a good-humoured man and he was not of a jealousnature; it struck him as exceeding funny that Bananas should be in love. A man who had a squint like that had a precious poor chance. When teacame round he chaffed him gaily. He pretended to speak in the air, sothat the mate should not be certain that he knew anything, but he dealthim some pretty shrewd blows. The girl did not think him as funny as hethought himself, and afterwards she begged him to say nothing more. Hewas surprised at her seriousness. She told him he did not know herpeople. When their passion was aroused they were capable of anything. She was a little frightened. This was so absurd to him that he laughedheartily. 

"If he comes bothering round you, you just threaten to tell me. That'llfix him. "

"Better fire him, I think. "

"Not on your sweet life. I know a good sailor when I see one. But if hedon't leave you alone I'll give him the worst licking he's ever had. "

Perhaps the girl had a wisdom unusual in her sex. She knew that it wasuseless to argue with a man when his mind was made up, for it onlyincreased his stubbornness, and she held her peace. And now on theshabby schooner, threading her way across the silent sea, among thoselovely islands, was enacted a dark, tense drama of which the fat littlecaptain remained entirely ignorant. The girl's resistance fired Bananasso that he ceased to be a man, but was simply blind desire. He did notmake love to her gently or gaily, but with a black and savage ferocity. Her contempt now was changed to hatred and when he besought her sheanswered him with bitter, angry taunts. But the struggle went onsilently, and when the captain asked her after a little while whetherBananas was bothering her, she lied. 

But one night, when they were in Honolulu, he came on board only just intime. They were sailing at dawn. Bananas had been ashore, drinking somenative spirit, and he was drunk. The captain, rowing up, heard soundsthat surprised him. He scrambled up the ladder. He saw Bananas, besidehimself, trying to wrench open the cabin door. He was shouting at thegirl. He swore he would kill her if she did not let him in. 

"What in hell are you up to?" cried Butler. 

The mate let go the handle, gave the captain a look of savage hate, andwithout a word turned away. 

"Stop here. What are you doing with that door?"

The mate still did not answer. He looked at him with sullen, bootlessrage. 

"I'll teach you not to pull any of your queer stuff with me, you dirty, cross-eyed nigger, " said the captain. 

He was a good foot shorter than the mate and no match for him, but hewas used to dealing with native crews, and he had his knuckle-dusterhandy. Perhaps it was not an instrument that a gentleman would use, butthen Captain Butler was not a gentleman. Nor was he in the habit ofdealing with gentlemen. Before Bananas knew what the captain was at, hisright arm had shot out and his fist, with its ring of steel, caught himfair and square on the jaw. He fell like a bull under the pole-axe. 

"That'll learn him, " said the captain. 

Bananas did not stir. The girl unlocked the cabin door and came out. 

"Is he dead?"

"He ain't. "

He called a couple of men and told them to carry the mate to his bunk. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction and his round blue eyes gleamedbehind his spectacles. But the girl was strangely silent. She put herarms round him as though to protect him from invisible harm. 

It was two or three days before Bananas was on his feet again, and whenhe came out of his cabin his face was torn and swollen. Through thedarkness of his skin you saw the livid bruise. Butler saw him slinkingalong the deck and called him. The mate went to him without a word. 

"See here, Bananas, " he said to him, fixing his spectacles on hisslippery nose, for it was very hot. "I ain't going to fire you for this, but you know now that when I hit, I hit hard. Don't forget it and don'tlet me have any more funny business. "

Then he held out his hand and gave the mate that good-humoured, flashingsmile of his which was his greatest charm. The mate took theoutstretched hand and twitched his swollen lips into a devilish grin. The incident in the captain's mind was so completely finished that whenthe three of them sat at dinner he chaffed Bananas on his appearance. Hewas eating with difficulty and, his swollen face still more distorted bypain, he looked truly a repulsive object. 

That evening, when he was sitting on the upper deck, smoking his pipe, ashiver passed through the captain. 

"I don't know what I should be shiverin' for on a night like this, " hegrumbled. "Maybe I've gotten a dose of fever. I've been feelin' a bitqueer all day. "

When he went to bed he took some quinine, and next morning he feltbetter, but a little washed out, as though he were recovering from adebauch. 

"I guess my liver's out of order, " he said, and he took a pill. 

He had not much appetite that day and towards evening he began to feelvery unwell. He tried the next remedy he knew, which was to drink two orthree hot whiskies, but that did not seem to help him much, and when inthe morning he surveyed himself in the glass he thought he was notlooking quite the thing. 

"If I ain't right by the time we get back to Honolulu I'll just give DrDenby a call. He'll sure fix me up. "

He could not eat. He felt a great lassitude in all his limbs. He sleptsoundly enough, but he awoke with no sense of refreshment; on thecontrary he felt a peculiar exhaustion. And the energetic little man, who could not bear the thought of lying in bed, had to make an effort toforce himself out of his bunk. After a few days he found it impossibleto resist the languor that oppressed him, and he made up his mind not toget up. 

"Bananas can look after the ship, " he said. "He has before now. "

He laughed a little to himself as he thought how often he had lainspeechless in his bunk after a night with the boys. That was before hehad his girl. He smiled at her and pressed her hand. She was puzzled andanxious. He saw that she was concerned about him and tried to reassureher. He had never had a day's illness in his life and in a week at theoutside he would be as right as rain. 

"I wish you'd fired Bananas, " she said. "I've got a feeling that he's atthe bottom of this. "

"Damned good thing I didn't, or there'd be no one to sail the ship. Iknow a good sailor when I see one. " His blue eyes, rather pale now, withthe whites all yellow, twinkled. "You don't think he's trying to poisonme, little girl?"

She did not answer, but she had one or two talks with the Chinese cook, and she took great care with the captain's food. But he ate littleenough now, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that shepersuaded him to drink a cup of soup two or three times a day. It wasclear that he was very ill, he was losing weight quickly, and his chubbyface was pale and drawn. He suffered no pain, but merely grew every dayweaker and more languid. He was wasting away. The round trip on thisoccasion lasted about four weeks and by the time they came to Honoluluthe captain was a little anxious about himself. He had not been out ofhis bed for more than a fortnight and really he felt too weak to get upand go to the doctor. He sent a message asking him to come on board. Thedoctor examined him, but could find nothing to account for hiscondition. His temperature was normal. 

"See here, Captain, " he said, "I'll be perfectly frank with you. I don'tknow what's the matter with you, and just seeing you like this don'tgive me a chance. You come into the hospital so that we can keep youunder observation. There's nothing organically wrong with you, I knowthat, and my impression is that a few weeks in hospital ought to put youto rights. "

"I ain't going to leave my ship. "

Chinese owners were queer customers, he said; if he left his shipbecause he was sick, his owner might fire him, and he couldn't afford tolose his job. So long as he stayed where he was his contractsafe-guarded him, and he had a first-rate mate. Besides, he couldn'tleave his girl. No man could want a better nurse; if anyone could pullhim through she would. Every man had to die once and he only wished tobe left in peace. He would not listen to the doctor's expostulations, and finally the doctor gave in. 

"I'll write you a prescription, " he said doubtfully, "and see if it doesyou any good. You'd better stay in bed for a while. "

"There ain't much fear of my getting up, doc, " answered the captain. "Ifeel as weak as a cat. "

But he believed in the doctor's prescription as little as did the doctorhimself, and when he was alone amused himself by lighting his cigar withit. He had to get amusement out of something, for his cigar tasted likenothing on earth, and he smoked only to persuade himself that he was nottoo ill to. That evening a couple of friends of his, masters of trampsteamers, hearing he was sick came to see him. They discussed his caseover a bottle of whisky and a box of Philippine cigars. One of themremembered how a mate of his had been taken queer just like that and nota doctor in the United States had been able to cure him. He had seen inthe paper an advertisement of a patent medicine, and thought there'd beno harm in trying it. That man was as strong as ever he'd been in hislife after two bottles. But his illness had given Captain Butler alucidity which was new and strange, and while they talked he seemed toread their minds. They thought he was dying. And when they left him hewas afraid. 

The girl saw his weakness. This was her opportunity. She had been urginghim to let a native doctor see him, and he had stoutly refused; but nowshe entreated him. He listened with harassed eyes. He wavered. It wasvery funny that the American doctor could not tell what was the matterwith him. But he did not want her to think that he was scared. If he leta damned nigger come along and look at him, it was to comfort _her_. Hetold her to do what she liked. 

The native doctor came the next night. The captain was lying alone, half awake, and the cabin was dimly lit by an oil lamp. The door wassoftly opened and the girl came in on tip-toe. She held the door openand some one slipped in silently behind her. The captain smiled at thismystery, but he was so weak now, the smile was no more than a glimmer inhis eyes. The doctor was a little, old man, very thin and very wrinkled, with a completely bald head, and the face of a monkey. He was bowed andgnarled like an old tree. He looked hardly human, but his eyes were verybright, and in the half darkness, they seemed to glow with a reddishlight. He was dressed filthily in a pair of ragged dungarees, and theupper part of his body was naked. He sat down on his haunches and forten minutes looked at the captain. Then he felt the palms of his handsand the soles of his feet. The girl watched him with frightened eyes. Noword was spoken. Then he asked for something that the captain had worn. The girl gave him the old felt hat which the captain used constantly andtaking it he sat down again on the floor, clasping it firmly with bothhands; and rocking backwards and forwards slowly he muttered somegibberish in a very low tone. 

At last he gave a little sigh and dropped the hat. He took an old pipeout of his trouser pocket and lit it. The girl went over to him and satby his side. He whispered something to her, and she started violently. For a few minutes they talked in hurried undertones, and then they stoodup. She gave him money and opened the door for him. He slid out assilently as he had come in. Then she went over to the captain and leanedover him so that she could speak into his ear. 

"It's an enemy praying you to death. "

"Don't talk fool stuff, girlie, " he said impatiently. 

"It's truth. It's God's truth. That's why the American doctor couldn'tdo anything. Our people can do that. I've seen it done. I thought youwere safe because you were a white man. "

"I haven't an enemy. "

"Bananas. "

"What's he want to pray me to death for?"

"You ought to have fired him before he had a chance. "

"I guess if I ain't got nothing more the matter with me than Bananas'hoodoo I shall be sitting up and taking nourishment in a very few days. "

She was silent for a while and she looked at him intently. 

"Don't you know you're dying?" she said to him at last. 

That was what the two skippers had thought, but they hadn't said it. Ashiver passed across the captain's wan face. 

"The doctor says there ain't nothing really the matter with me. I'veonly to lie quiet for a bit and I shall be all right. "

She put her lips to his ear as if she were afraid that the air itselfmight hear. 

"You're dying, dying, dying. You'll pass out with the old moon. "

"That's something to know. "

"You'll pass out with the old moon unless Bananas dies before. "

He was not a timid man and he had recovered already from the shock herwords, and still more her vehement, silent manner, had given him. Oncemore a smile flickered in his eyes. 

"I guess I'll take my chance, girlie. "

"There's twelve days before the new moon. "

There was something in her tone that gave him an idea. 

"See here, my girl, this is all bunk. I don't believe a word of it. ButI don't want you to try any of your monkey tricks with Bananas. He ain'ta beauty, but he's a first-rate mate. "

He would have said a good deal more, but he was tired out. He suddenlyfelt very weak and faint. It was always at that hour that he felt worse. He closed his eyes. The girl watched him for a minute and then slippedout of the cabin. The moon, nearly full, made a silver pathway over thedark sea. It shone from an unclouded sky. She looked at it with terror, for she knew that with its death the man she loved would die. His lifewas in her hands. She could save him, she alone could save him, but theenemy was cunning, and she must be cunning too. She felt that someonewas looking at her, and without turning, by the sudden fear that seizedher, knew that from the shadow the burning eyes of the mate were fixedupon her. She did not know what he could do; if he could read herthoughts she was defeated already, and with a desperate effort sheemptied her mind of all content. His death alone could save her lover, and she could bring his death about. She knew that if he could bebrought to look into a calabash in which was water so that a reflectionof him was made, and the reflection were broken by hurtling the water, he would die as though he had been struck by lightning; for thereflection was his soul. But none knew better than he the danger, and hecould be made to look only by a guile which had lulled his leastsuspicion. He must never think that he had an enemy who was on the watchto cause his destruction. She knew what she had to do. But the time wasshort, the time was terribly short. Presently she realised that the matehad gone. She breathed more freely. 

Two days later they sailed, and there were ten now before the new moon. Captain Butler was terrible to see. He was nothing but skin and bone, and he could not move without help. He could hardly speak. But she dareddo nothing yet. She knew that she must be patient. The mate was cunning, cunning. They went to one of the smaller islands of the group anddischarged cargo, and now there were only seven days more. The momenthad come to start. She brought some things out of the cabin she sharedwith the captain and made them into a bundle. She put the bundle in thedeck cabin where she and Bananas ate their meals, and at dinner time, when she went in, he turned quickly and she saw that he had been lookingat it. Neither of them spoke, but she knew what he suspected. She wasmaking her preparations to leave the ship. He looked at her mockingly. Gradually, as though to prevent the captain from knowing what she wasabout, she brought everything she owned into the cabin, and some of thecaptain's clothes, and made them all into bundles. At last Bananas couldkeep silence no longer. He pointed to a suit of ducks. 

"What are you going to do with that?" he asked. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"I'm going back to my island. "

He gave a laugh that distorted his grim face. The captain was dying andshe meant to get away with all she could lay hands on. 

"What'll you do if I say you can't take those things? They're thecaptain's. "

"They're no use to you, " she said. 

There was a calabash hanging on the wall. It was the very calabash I hadseen when I came into the cabin and which we had talked about. She tookit down. It was all dusty, so she poured water into it from thewater-bottle, and rinsed it with her fingers. 

"What are you doing with that?"

"I can sell it for fifty dollars, " she said. 

"If you want to take it you'll have to pay me. "

"What d'you want?"

"You know what I want. "

She allowed a fleeting smile to play on her lips. She flashed a quicklook at him and quickly turned away. He gave a gasp of desire. Sheraised her shoulders in a little shrug. With a savage bound he sprangupon her and seized her in his arms. Then she laughed. She put her arms, her soft, round arms, about his neck, and surrendered herself to himvoluptuously. 

When the morning came she roused him out of a deep sleep. The early raysof the sun slanted into the cabin. He pressed her to his heart. Then hetold her that the captain could not last more than a day or two, and theowner wouldn't so easily find another white man to command the ship. IfBananas offered to take less money he would get the job and the girlcould stay with him. He looked at her with love-sick eyes. She nestledup against him. She kissed his lips, in the foreign way, in the way thecaptain had taught her to kiss. And she promised to stay. Bananas wasdrunk with happiness. 

It was now or never. 

She got up and went to the table to arrange her hair. There was nomirror and she looked into the calabash, seeking for her reflection. Shetidied her beautiful hair. Then she beckoned to Bananas to come to her. She pointed to the calabash. 

"There's something in the bottom of it, " she said. 

Instinctively, without suspecting anything, Bananas looked full into thewater. His face was reflected in it. In a flash she beat upon itviolently, with both her hands, so that they pounded on the bottom andthe water splashed up. The reflection was broken in pieces. Bananasstarted back with a sudden hoarse cry and he looked at the girl. She wasstanding there with a look of triumphant hatred on her face. A horrorcame into his eyes. His heavy features were twisted in agony, and witha thud, as though he had taken a violent poison, he crumpled up on tothe ground. A great shudder passed through his body and he was still. She leaned over him callously. She put her hand on his heart and thenshe pulled down his lower eye-lid. He was quite dead. 

She went into the cabin in which lay Captain Butler. There was a faintcolour in his cheeks and he looked at her in a startled way. 

"What's happened?" he whispered. 

They were the first words he had spoken for forty-eight hours. 

"Nothing's happened, " she said. 

"I feel all funny. "

Then his eyes closed and he fell asleep. He slept for a day and a night, and when he awoke he asked for food. In a fortnight he was well. 

It was past midnight when Winter and I rowed back to shore and we haddrunk innumerable whiskies and sodas. 

"What do you think of it all?" asked Winter. 

"What a question! If you mean, have I any explanation to suggest, Ihaven't. "

"The captain believes every word of it. "

"That's obvious; but you know that's not the part that interests memost, whether it's true or not, and what it all means; the part thatinterests me is that such things should happen to such people. I wonderwhat there is in that commonplace little man to arouse such a passion inthat lovely creature. As I watched her, asleep there, while he wastelling the story I had some fantastic idea about the power of lovebeing able to work miracles. "

"But that's not the girl, " said Winter. 

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Didn't you notice the cook?"

"Of course I did. He's the ugliest man I ever saw. "

"That's why Butler took him. The girl ran away with the Chinese cooklast year. This is a new one. He's only had her there about two months. "

"Well, I'm hanged. "

"He thinks this cook is safe. But I wouldn't be too sure in his place. There's something about a Chink, when he lays himself out to please awoman she can't resist him. "

VII

_Rain_

It was nearly bed-time and when they awoke next morning land would be insight. Dr Macphail lit his pipe and, leaning over the rail, searched theheavens for the Southern Cross. After two years at the front and a woundthat had taken longer to heal than it should, he was glad to settle downquietly at Apia for twelve months at least, and he felt already betterfor the journey. Since some of the passengers were leaving the ship nextday at Pago-Pago they had had a little dance that evening and in hisears hammered still the harsh notes of the mechanical piano. But thedeck was quiet at last. A little way off he saw his wife in a long chairtalking with the Davidsons, and he strolled over to her. When he satdown under the light and took off his hat you saw that he had very redhair, with a bald patch on the crown, and the red, freckled skin whichaccompanies red hair; he was a man of forty, thin, with a pinched face, precise and rather pedantic; and he spoke with a Scots accent in a verylow, quiet voice. 

Between the Macphails and the Davidsons, who were missionaries, therehad arisen the intimacy of shipboard, which is due to propinquity ratherthan to any community of taste. Their chief tie was the disapprovalthey shared of the men who spent their days and nights in thesmoking-room playing poker or bridge and drinking. Mrs Macphail was nota little flattered to think that she and her husband were the onlypeople on board with whom the Davidsons were willing to associate, andeven the doctor, shy but no fool, half unconsciously acknowledged thecompliment. It was only because he was of an argumentative mind that intheir cabin at night he permitted himself to carp. 

"Mrs Davidson was saying she didn't know how they'd have got through thejourney if it hadn't been for us, " said Mrs Macphail, as she neatlybrushed out her transformation. "She said we were really the only peopleon the ship they cared to know. "

"I shouldn't have thought a missionary was such a big bug that he couldafford to put on frills. "

"It's not frills. I quite understand what she means. It wouldn't havebeen very nice for the Davidsons to have to mix with all that rough lotin the smoking-room. "

"The founder of their religion wasn't so exclusive, " said Dr Macphailwith a chuckle. 

"I've asked you over and over again not to joke about religion, "answered his wife. "I shouldn't like to have a nature like yours, Alec. You never look for the best in people. "

He gave her a sidelong glance with his pale, blue eyes, but did notreply. After many years of married life he had learned that it was moreconducive to peace to leave his wife with the last word. He wasundressed before she was, and climbing into the upper bunk he settleddown to read himself to sleep. 

When he came on deck next morning they were close to land. He looked atit with greedy eyes. There was a thin strip of silver beach risingquickly to hills covered to the top with luxuriant vegetation. Thecoconut trees, thick and green, came nearly to the water's edge, andamong them you saw the grass houses of the Samoans; and here and there, gleaming white, a little church. Mrs Davidson came and stood beside him. She was dressed in black and wore round her neck a gold chain, fromwhich dangled a small cross. She was a little woman, with brown, dullhair very elaborately arranged, and she had prominent blue eyes behindinvisible _pince-nez_. Her face was long, like a sheep's, but she gaveno impression of foolishness, rather of extreme alertness; she had thequick movements of a bird. The most remarkable thing about her was hervoice, high, metallic, and without inflection; it fell on the ear with ahard monotony, irritating to the nerves like the pitiless clamour of thepneumatic drill. 

"This must seem like home to you, " said Dr Macphail, with his thin, difficult smile. 

"Ours are low islands, you know, not like these. Coral. These arevolcanic. We've got another ten days' journey to reach them. "

"In these parts that's almost like being in the next street at home, "said Dr Macphail facetiously. 

"Well, that's rather an exaggerated way of putting it, but one doeslook at distances differently in the South Seas. So far you're right. "

Dr Macphail sighed faintly. 

"I'm glad we're not stationed here, " she went on. "They say this is aterribly difficult place to work in. The steamers' touching makes thepeople unsettled; and then there's the naval station; that's bad for thenatives. In our district we don't have difficulties like that to contendwith. There are one or two traders, of course, but we take care to makethem behave, and if they don't we make the place so hot for them they'reglad to go. "

Fixing the glasses on her nose she looked at the green island with aruthless stare. 

"It's almost a hopeless task for the missionaries here. I can never besufficiently thankful to God that we are at least spared that. "

Davidson's district consisted of a group of islands to the North ofSamoa; they were widely separated and he had frequently to go longdistances by canoe. At these times his wife remained at theirheadquarters and managed the mission. Dr Macphail felt his heart sinkwhen he considered the efficiency with which she certainly managed it. She spoke of the depravity of the natives in a voice which nothing couldhush, but with a vehemently unctuous horror. Her sense of delicacy wassingular. Early in their acquaintance she had said to him:

"You know, their marriage customs when we first settled in the islandswere so shocking that I couldn't possibly describe them to you. But I'lltell Mrs Macphail and she'll tell you. "

Then he had seen his wife and Mrs Davidson, their deck-chairs closetogether, in earnest conversation for about two hours. As he walked pastthem backwards and forwards for the sake of exercise, he had heard MrsDavidson's agitated whisper, like the distant flow of a mountaintorrent, and he saw by his wife's open mouth and pale face that she wasenjoying an alarming experience. At night in their cabin she repeated tohim with bated breath all she had heard. 

"Well, what did I say to you?" cried Mrs Davidson, exultant, nextmorning. "Did you ever hear anything more dreadful? You don't wonderthat I couldn't tell you myself, do you? Even though you are a doctor. "

Mrs Davidson scanned his face. She had a dramatic eagerness to see thatshe had achieved the desired effect. 

"Can you wonder that when we first went there our hearts sank? You'llhardly believe me when I tell you it was impossible to find a singlegood girl in any of the villages. "

She used the word _good_ in a severely technical manner. 

"Mr Davidson and I talked it over, and we made up our minds the firstthing to do was to put down the dancing. The natives were crazy aboutdancing. "

"I was not averse to it myself when I was a young man, " said DrMacphail. 

"I guessed as much when I heard you ask Mrs Macphail to have a turn withyou last night. I don't think there's any real harm if a man danceswith his wife, but I was relieved that she wouldn't. Under thecircumstances I thought it better that we should keep ourselves toourselves. "

"Under what circumstances?"

Mrs Davidson gave him a quick look through her _pince-nez_, but did notanswer his question. 

"But among white people it's not quite the same, " she went on, "though Imust say I agree with Mr Davidson, who says he can't understand how ahusband can stand by and see his wife in another man's arms, and as faras I'm concerned I've never danced a step since I married. But thenative dancing is quite another matter. It's not only immoral in itself, but it distinctly leads to immorality. However, I'm thankful to God thatwe stamped it out, and I don't think I'm wrong in saying that no one hasdanced in our district for eight years. "

But now they came to the mouth of the harbour and Mrs Macphail joinedthem. The ship turned sharply and steamed slowly in. It was a greatland-locked harbour big enough to hold a fleet of battleships; and allaround it rose, high and steep, the green hills. Near the entrance, getting such breeze as blew from the sea, stood the governor's house ina garden. The Stars and Stripes dangled languidly from a flagstaff. Theypassed two or three trim bungalows, and a tennis court, and then theycame to the quay with its warehouses. Mrs Davidson pointed out theschooner, moored two or three hundred yards from the side, which was totake them to Apia. There was a crowd of eager, noisy, and good-humourednatives come from all parts of the island, some from curiosity, othersto barter with the travellers on their way to Sydney; and they broughtpineapples and huge bunches of bananas, _tapa_ cloths, necklaces ofshells or sharks' teeth, _kava_-bowls, and models of war canoes. American sailors, neat and trim, clean-shaven and frank of face, sauntered among them, and there was a little group of officials. Whiletheir luggage was being landed the Macphails and Mrs Davidson watchedthe crowd. Dr Macphail looked at the yaws from which most of thechildren and the young boys seemed to suffer, disfiguring sores liketorpid ulcers, and his professional eyes glistened when he saw for thefirst time in his experience cases of elephantiasis, men going aboutwith a huge, heavy arm or dragging along a grossly disfigured leg. Menand women wore the _lava-lava_. 

"It's a very indecent costume, " said Mrs Davidson. "Mr Davidson thinksit should be prohibited by law. How can you expect people to be moralwhen they wear nothing but a strip of red cotton round their loins?"

"It's suitable enough to the climate, " said the doctor, wiping the sweatoff his head. 

Now that they were on land the heat, though it was so early in themorning, was already oppressive. Closed in by its hills, not a breath ofair came in to Pago-Pago. 

"In our islands, " Mrs Davidson went on in her high-pitched tones, "we'vepractically eradicated the _lava-lava_. A few old men still continue towear it, but that's all. The women have all taken to the MotherHubbard, and the men wear trousers and singlets. At the very beginningof our stay Mr Davidson said in one of his reports: the inhabitants ofthese islands will never be thoroughly Christianised till every boy ofmore than ten years is made to wear a pair of trousers. "

But Mrs Davidson had given two or three of her birdlike glances at heavygrey clouds that came floating over the mouth of the harbour. A fewdrops began to fall. 

"We'd better take shelter, " she said. 

They made their way with all the crowd to a great shed of corrugatediron, and the rain began to fall in torrents. They stood there for sometime and then were joined by Mr Davidson. He had been polite enough tothe Macphails during the journey, but he had not his wife's sociability, and had spent much of his time reading. He was a silent, rather sullenman, and you felt that his affability was a duty that he imposed uponhimself Christianly; he was by nature reserved and even morose. Hisappearance was singular. He was very tall and thin, with long limbsloosely jointed; hollow cheeks and curiously high cheek-bones; he had socadaverous an air that it surprised you to notice how full and sensualwere his lips. He wore his hair very long. His dark eyes, set deep intheir sockets, were large and tragic; and his hands with their big, longfingers, were finely shaped; they gave him a look of great strength. Butthe most striking thing about him was the feeling he gave you ofsuppressed fire. It was impressive and vaguely troubling. He was not aman with whom any intimacy was possible. 

He brought now unwelcome news. There was an epidemic of measles, aserious and often fatal disease among the Kanakas, on the island, and acase had developed among the crew of the schooner which was to take themon their journey. The sick man had been brought ashore and put inhospital on the quarantine station, but telegraphic instructions hadbeen sent from Apia to say that the schooner would not be allowed toenter the harbour till it was certain no other member of the crew wasaffected. 

"It means we shall have to stay here for ten days at least. "

"But I'm urgently needed at Apia, " said Dr Macphail. 

"That can't be helped. If no more cases develop on board, the schoonerwill be allowed to sail with white passengers, but all native traffic isprohibited for three months. "

"Is there a hotel here?" asked Mrs Macphail. 

Davidson gave a low chuckle. 

"There's not. "

"What shall we do then?"

"I've been talking to the governor. There's a trader along the front whohas rooms that he rents, and my proposition is that as soon as the rainlets up we should go along there and see what we can do. Don't expectcomfort. You've just got to be thankful if we get a bed to sleep on anda roof over our heads. "

But the rain showed no sign of stopping, and at length with umbrellasand waterproofs they set out. There was no town, but merely a group ofofficial buildings, a store or two, and at the back, among the coconuttrees and plantains, a few native dwellings. The house they sought wasabout five minutes' walk from the wharf. It was a frame house of twostoreys, with broad verandahs on both floors and a roof of corrugatediron. The owner was a half-caste named Horn, with a native wifesurrounded by little brown children, and on the ground-floor he had astore where he sold canned goods and cottons. The rooms he showed themwere almost bare of furniture. In the Macphails' there was nothing but apoor, worn bed with a ragged mosquito net, a rickety chair, and awashstand. They looked round with dismay. The rain poured down withoutceasing. 

"I'm not going to unpack more than we actually need, " said Mrs Macphail. 

Mrs Davidson came into the room as she was unlocking a portmanteau. Shewas very brisk and alert. The cheerless surroundings had no effect onher. 

"If you'll take my advice you'll get a needle and cotton and start rightin to mend the mosquito net, " she said, "or you'll not be able to get awink of sleep to-night. "

"Will they be very bad?" asked Dr Macphail. 

"This is the season for them. When you're asked to a party atGovernment House at Apia you'll notice that all the ladies are given apillow-slip to put their--their lower extremities in. "

"I wish the rain would stop for a moment, " said Mrs Macphail. "I couldtry to make the place comfortable with more heart if the sun wereshining. "

"Oh, if you wait for that, you'll wait a long time. Pago-Pago is aboutthe rainiest place in the Pacific. You see, the hills, and that bay, they attract the water, and one expects rain at this time of yearanyway. "

She looked from Macphail to his wife, standing helplessly in differentparts of the room, like lost souls, and she pursed her lips. She sawthat she must take them in hand. Feckless people like that made herimpatient, but her hands itched to put everything in the order whichcame so naturally to her. 

"Here, you give me a needle and cotton and I'll mend that net of yours, while you go on with your unpacking. Dinner's at one. Dr Macphail, you'dbetter go down to the wharf and see that your heavy luggage has been putin a dry place. You know what these natives are, they're quite capableof storing it where the rain will beat in on it all the time. "

The doctor put on his waterproof again and went downstairs. At the doorMr Horn was standing in conversation with the quartermaster of the shipthey had just arrived in and a second-class passenger whom Dr Macphailhad seen several times on board. The quartermaster, a little, shrivelledman, extremely dirty, nodded to him as he passed. 

"This is a bad job about the measles, doc, " he said. "I see you've fixedyourself up already. "

Dr Macphail thought he was rather familiar, but he was a timid man andhe did not take offence easily. 

"Yes, we've got a room upstairs. "

"Miss Thompson was sailing with you to Apia, so I've brought her alonghere. "

The quartermaster pointed with his thumb to the woman standing by hisside. She was twenty-seven perhaps, plump, and in a coarse fashionpretty. She wore a white dress and a large white hat. Her fat calves inwhite cotton stockings bulged over the tops of long white boots in glacékid. She gave Macphail an ingratiating smile. 

"The feller's tryin' to soak me a dollar and a half a day for themeanest sized room, " she said in a hoarse voice. 

"I tell you she's a friend of mine, Jo, " said the quartermaster. "Shecan't pay more than a dollar, and you've sure got to take her for that. "

The trader was fat and smooth and quietly smiling. 

"Well, if you put it like that, Mr Swan, I'll see what I can do aboutit. I'll talk to Mrs Horn and if we think we can make a reduction wewill. "

"Don't try to pull that stuff with me, " said Miss Thompson. "We'llsettle this right now. You get a dollar a day for the room and not onebean more. "

Dr Macphail smiled. He admired the effrontery with which she bargained. He was the sort of man who always paid what he was asked. He preferredto be over-charged than to haggle. The trader sighed. 

"Well, to oblige Mr Swan I'll take it. "

"That's the goods, " said Miss Thompson. "Come right in and have a shotof hooch. I've got some real good rye in that grip if you'll bring italong, Mr Swan. You come along too, doctor. "

"Oh, I don't think I will, thank you, " he answered. "I'm just going downto see that our luggage is all right. "

He stepped out into the rain. It swept in from the opening of theharbour in sheets and the opposite shore was all blurred. He passed twoor three natives clad in nothing but the _lava-lava_, with hugeumbrellas over them. They walked finely, with leisurely movements, veryupright; and they smiled and greeted him in a strange tongue as theywent by. 

It was nearly dinner-time when he got back, and their meal was laid inthe trader's parlour. It was a room designed not to live in but forpurposes of prestige, and it had a musty, melancholy air. A suite ofstamped plush was arranged neatly round the walls, and from the middleof the ceiling, protected from the flies by yellow tissue paper, hung agilt chandelier. Davidson did not come. 

"I know he went to call on the governor, " said Mrs Davidson, "and Iguess he's kept him to dinner. "

A little native girl brought them a dish of Hamburger steak, and aftera while the trader came up to see that they had everything they wanted. 

"I see we have a fellow lodger, Mr Horn, " said Dr Macphail. 

"She's taken a room, that's all, " answered the trader. "She's gettingher own board. "

He looked at the two ladies with an obsequious air. 

"I put her downstairs so she shouldn't be in the way. She won't be anytrouble to you. "

"Is it someone who was on the boat?" asked Mrs Macphail. 

"Yes, ma'am, she was in the second cabin. She was going to Apia. She hasa position as cashier waiting for her. "

"Oh!"

When the trader was gone Macphail said:

"I shouldn't think she'd find it exactly cheerful having her meals inher room. "

"If she was in the second cabin I guess she'd rather, " answered MrsDavidson. "I don't exactly know who it can be. "

"I happened to be there when the quartermaster brought her along. Hername's Thompson. "

"It's not the woman who was dancing with the quartermaster last night?"asked Mrs Davidson. 

"That's who it must be, " said Mrs Macphail. "I wondered at the time whatshe was. She looked rather fast to me. "

"Not good style at all, " said Mrs Davidson. 

They began to talk of other things, and after dinner, tired with theirearly rise, they separated and slept. When they awoke, though the skywas still grey and the clouds hung low, it was not raining and they wentfor a walk on the high road which the Americans had built along the bay. 

On their return they found that Davidson had just come in. 

"We may be here for a fortnight, " he said irritably. "I've argued it outwith the governor, but he says there is nothing to be done. "

"Mr Davidson's just longing to get back to his work, " said his wife, with an anxious glance at him. 

"We've been away for a year, " he said, walking up and down the verandah. "The mission has been in charge of native missionaries and I'm terriblynervous that they've let things slide. They're good men, I'm not sayinga word against them, God-fearing, devout, and truly Christian men--theirChristianity would put many so-called Christians at home to theblush--but they're pitifully lacking in energy. They can make a standonce, they can make a stand twice, but they can't make a stand all thetime. If you leave a mission in charge of a native missionary, no matterhow trustworthy he seems, in course of time you'll find he's let abusescreep in. "

Mr Davidson stood still. With his tall, spare form, and his great eyesflashing out of his pale face, he was an impressive figure. Hissincerity was obvious in the fire of his gestures and in his deep, ringing voice. 

"I expect to have my work cut out for me. I shall act and I shall actpromptly. If the tree is rotten it shall be cut down and cast into theflames. "

And in the evening after the high tea which was their last meal, whilethey sat in the stiff parlour, the ladies working and Dr Macphailsmoking his pipe, the missionary told them of his work in the islands. 

"When we went there they had no sense of sin at all, " he said. "Theybroke the commandments one after the other and never knew they weredoing wrong. And I think that was the most difficult part of my work, toinstil into the natives the sense of sin. "

The Macphails knew already that Davidson had worked in the Solomons forfive years before he met his wife. She had been a missionary in China, and they had become acquainted in Boston, where they were both spendingpart of their leave to attend a missionary congress. On their marriagethey had been appointed to the islands in which they had laboured eversince. 

In the course of all the conversations they had had with Mr Davidson onething had shone out clearly and that was the man's unflinching courage. He was a medical missionary, and he was liable to be called at any timeto one or other of the islands in the group. Even the whaleboat is notso very safe a conveyance in the stormy Pacific of the wet season, butoften he would be sent for in a canoe, and then the danger was great. Incases of illness or accident he never hesitated. A dozen times he hadspent the whole night baling for his life, and more than once MrsDavidson had given him up for lost. 

"I'd beg him not to go sometimes, " she said, "or at least to wait tillthe weather was more settled, but he'd never listen. He's obstinate, andwhen he's once made up his mind, nothing can move him. "

"How can I ask the natives to put their trust in the Lord if I am afraidto do so myself?" cried Davidson. "And I'm not, I'm not. They know thatif they send for me in their trouble I'll come if it's humanly possible. And do you think the Lord is going to abandon me when I am on hisbusiness? The wind blows at his bidding and the waves toss and rage athis word. "

Dr Macphail was a timid man. He had never been able to get used to thehurtling of the shells over the trenches, and when he was operating inan advanced dressing-station the sweat poured from his brow and dimmedhis spectacles in the effort he made to control his unsteady hand. Heshuddered' a little as he looked at the missionary. 

"I wish I could say that I've never been afraid, " he said. 

"I wish you could say that you believed in God, " retorted the other. 

But for some reason, that evening the missionary's thoughts travelledback to the early days he and his wife had spent on the islands. 

"Sometimes Mrs Davidson and I would look at one another and the tearswould stream down our cheeks. We worked without ceasing, day and night, and we seemed to make no progress. I don't know what I should have donewithout her then. When I felt my heart sink, when I was very neardespair, she gave me courage and hope. "

Mrs Davidson looked down at her work, and a slight colour rose to herthin cheeks. Her hands trembled a little. She did not trust herself tospeak. 

"We had no one to help us. We were alone, thousands of miles from any ofour own people, surrounded by darkness. When I was broken and weary shewould put her work aside and take the Bible and read to me till peacecame and settled upon me like sleep upon the eyelids of a child, andwhen at last she closed the book she'd say: 'We'll save them in spite ofthemselves. ' And I felt strong again in the Lord, and I answered: 'Yes, with God's help I'll save them. I must save them. '"

He came over to the table and stood in front of it as though it were alectern. 

"You see, they were so naturally depraved that they couldn't be broughtto see their wickedness. We had to make sins out of what they thoughtwere natural actions. We had to make it a sin, not only to commitadultery and to lie and thieve, but to expose their bodies, and to danceand not to come to church. I made it a sin for a girl to show her bosomand a sin for a man not to wear trousers. "

"How?" asked Dr Macphail, not without surprise. 

"I instituted fines. Obviously the only way to make people realise thatan action is sinful is to punish them if they commit it. I fined them ifthey didn't come to church, and I fined them if they danced. I finedthem if they were improperly dressed. I had a tariff, and every sin hadto be paid for either in money or work. And at last I made themunderstand. "

"But did they never refuse to pay?"

"How could they?" asked the missionary. 

"It would be a brave man who tried to stand up against Mr Davidson, "said his wife, tightening her lips. 

Dr Macphail looked at Davidson with troubled eyes. What he heardshocked him, but he hesitated to express his disapproval. 

"You must remember that in the last resort I could expel them from theirchurch membership. "

"Did they mind that?"

Davidson smiled a little and gently rubbed his hands. 

"They couldn't sell their copra. When the men fished they got no shareof the catch. It meant something very like starvation. Yes, they mindedquite a lot. "

"Tell him about Fred Ohlson, " said Mrs Davidson. 

The missionary fixed his fiery eyes on Dr Macphail. 

"Fred Ohlson was a Danish trader who had been in the islands a good manyyears. He was a pretty rich man as traders go and he wasn't very pleasedwhen we came. You see, he'd had things very much his own way. He paidthe natives what he liked for their copra, and he paid in goods andwhiskey. He had a native wife, but he was flagrantly unfaithful to her. He was a drunkard. I gave him a chance to mend his ways, but hewouldn't take it. He laughed at me. "

Davidson's voice fell to a deep bass as he said the last words, and hewas silent for a minute or two. The silence was heavy with menace. 

"In two years he was a ruined man. He'd lost everything he'd saved in aquarter of a century. I broke him, and at last he was forced to come tome like a beggar and beseech me to give him a passage back to Sydney. "

"I wish you could have seen him when he came to see Mr Davidson, " saidthe missionary's wife. "He had been a fine, powerful man, with a lot offat on him, and he had a great big voice, but now he was half the size, and he was shaking all over. He'd suddenly become an old man. "

With abstracted gaze Davidson looked out into the night. The rain wasfalling again. 

Suddenly from below came a sound, and Davidson turned and lookedquestioningly at his wife. It was the sound of a gramophone, harsh andloud, wheezing out a syncopated tune. 

"What's that?" he asked. 

Mrs Davidson fixed her _pince-nez_ more firmly on her nose. 

"One of the second-class passengers has a room in the house. I guess itcomes from there. "

They listened in silence, and presently they heard the sound of dancing. Then the music stopped, and they heard the popping of corks and voicesraised in animated conversation. 

"I daresay she's giving a farewell party to her friends on board, " saidDr Macphail. "The ship sails at twelve, doesn't it?"

Davidson made no remark, but he looked at his watch. 

"Are you ready?" he asked his wife. 

She got up and folded her work. 

"Yes, I guess I am, " she answered. 

"It's early to go to bed yet, isn't it?" said the doctor. 

"We have a good deal of reading to do, " explained Mrs Davidson. "Wherever we are, we read a chapter of the Bible before retiring for thenight and we study it with the commentaries, you know, and discuss itthoroughly. It's a wonderful training for the mind. "

The two couples bade one another good night. Dr and Mrs Macphail wereleft alone. For two or three minutes they did not speak. 

"I think I'll go and fetch the cards, " the doctor said at last. 

Mrs Macphail looked at him doubtfully. Her conversation with theDavidsons had left her a little uneasy, but she did not like to say thatshe thought they had better not play cards when the Davidsons might comein at any moment. Dr Macphail brought them and she watched him, thoughwith a vague sense of guilt, while he laid out his patience. Below thesound of revelry continued. 

It was fine enough next day, and the Macphails, condemned to spend afortnight of idleness at Pago-Pago, set about making the best of things. They went down to the quay and got out of their boxes a number ofbooks. The doctor called on the chief surgeon of the naval hospital andwent round the beds with him. They left cards on the governor. Theypassed Miss Thompson on the road. The doctor took off his hat, and shegave him a "Good morning, doc. , " in a loud, cheerful voice. She wasdressed as on the day before, in a white frock, and her shiny whiteboots with their high heels, her fat legs bulging over the tops of them, were strange things on that exotic scene. 

"I don't think she's very suitably dressed, I must say, " said MrsMacphail. "She looks extremely common to me. "

When they got back to their house, she was on the verandah playing withone of the trader's dark children. 

"Say a word to her, " Dr Macphail whispered to his wife. "She's all alonehere, and it seems rather unkind to ignore her. "

Mrs Macphail was shy, but she was in the habit of doing what her husbandbade her. 

"I think we're fellow lodgers here, " she said, rather foolishly. 

"Terrible, ain't it, bein' cooped up in a one-horse burg like this?"answered Miss Thompson. "And they tell me I'm lucky to have gotten aroom. I don't see myself livin' in a native house, and that's what somehave to do. I don't know why they don't have a hotel. "

They exchanged a few more words. Miss Thompson, loud-voiced andgarrulous, was evidently quite willing to gossip, but Mrs Macphail hada poor stock of small talk and presently she said:

"Well, I think we must go upstairs. "

In the evening when they sat down to their high-tea Davidson on comingin said:

"I see that woman downstairs has a couple of sailors sitting there. Iwonder how she's gotten acquainted with them. "

"She can't be very particular, " said Mrs Davidson. 

They were all rather tired after the idle, aimless day. 

"If there's going to be a fortnight of this I don't know what we shallfeel like at the end of it, " said Dr Macphail. 

"The only thing to do is to portion out the day to differentactivities, " answered the missionary. "I shall set aside a certainnumber of hours to study and a certain number to exercise, rain orfine--in the wet season you can't afford to pay any attention to therain--and a certain number to recreation. "

Dr Macphail looked at his companion with misgiving. Davidson's programmeoppressed him. They were eating Hamburger steak again. It seemed theonly dish the cook knew how to make. Then below the gramophone began. Davidson started nervously when he heard it, but said nothing. Men'svoices floated up. Miss Thompson's guests were joining in a well-knownsong and presently they heard her voice too, hoarse and loud. There wasa good deal of shouting and laughing. The four people upstairs, tryingto make conversation, listened despite themselves to the clink ofglasses and the scrape of chairs. More people had evidently come. MissThompson was giving a party. 

"I wonder how she gets them all in, " said Mrs Macphail, suddenlybreaking into a medical conversation between the missionary and herhusband. 

It showed whither her thoughts were wandering. The twitch of Davidson'sface proved that, though he spoke of scientific things, his mind wasbusy in the same direction. Suddenly, while the doctor was giving someexperience of practice on the Flanders front, rather prosily, he sprangto his feet with a cry. 

"What's the matter, Alfred?" asked Mrs Davidson. 

"Of course! It never occurred to me. She's out of Iwelei. "

"She can't be. "

"She came on board at Honolulu. It's obvious. And she's carrying on hertrade here. Here. "

He uttered the last word with a passion of indignation. 

"What's Iwelei?" asked Mrs Macphail. 

He turned his gloomy eyes on her and his voice trembled with horror. 

"The plague spot of Honolulu. The Red Light district. It was a blot onour civilisation. "

Iwelei was on the edge of the city. You went down side streets by theharbour, in the darkness, across a rickety bridge, till you came to adeserted road, all ruts and holes, and then suddenly you came out intothe light. There was parking room for motors on each side of the road, and there were saloons, tawdry and bright, each one noisy with itsmechanical piano, and there were barbers' shops and tobacconists. Therewas a stir in the air and a sense of expectant gaiety. You turned down anarrow alley, either to the right or to the left, for the road dividedIwelei into two parts, and you found yourself in the district. Therewere rows of little bungalows, trim and neatly painted in green, and thepathway between them was broad and straight. It was laid out like agarden-city. In its respectable regularity, its order and spruceness, itgave an impression of sardonic horror; for never can the search for lovehave been so systematised and ordered. The pathways were lit by a rarelamp, but they would have been dark except for the lights that came fromthe open windows of the bungalows. Men wandered about, looking at thewomen who sat at their windows, reading or sewing, for the most parttaking no notice of the passers-by; and like the women they were of allnationalities. There were Americans, sailors from the ships in port, enlisted men off the gunboats, sombrely drunk, and soldiers from theregiments, white and black, quartered on the island; there wereJapanese, walking in twos and threes; Hawaiians, Chinese in long robes, and Filipinos in preposterous hats. They were silent and as it wereoppressed. Desire is sad. 

"It was the most crying scandal of the Pacific, " exclaimed Davidsonvehemently. "The missionaries had been agitating against it for years, and at last the local press took it up. The police refused to stir. Youknow their argument. They say that vice is inevitable and consequentlythe best thing is to localise and control it. The truth is, they werepaid. Paid. They were paid by the saloon-keepers, paid by the bullies, paid by the women themselves. At last they were forced to move. "

"I read about it in the papers that came on board in Honolulu, " said DrMacphail. 

"Iwelei, with its sin and shame, ceased to exist on the very day wearrived. The whole population was brought before the justices. I don'tknow why I didn't understand at once what that woman was. "

"Now you come to speak of it, " said Mrs Macphail, "I remember seeing hercome on board only a few minutes before the boat sailed. I rememberthinking at the time she was cutting it rather fine. "

"How dare she come here!" cried Davidson indignantly. "I'm not going toallow it. "

He strode towards the door. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Macphail. 

"What do you expect me to do? I'm going to stop it. I'm not going tohave this house turned into--into.... "

He sought for a word that should not offend the ladies' ears. His eyeswere flashing and his pale face was paler still in his emotion. 

"It sounds as though there were three or four men down there, " said thedoctor. "Don't you think it's rather rash to go in just now?"

The missionary gave him a contemptuous look and without a word flung outof the room. 

"You know Mr Davidson very little if you think the fear of personaldanger can stop him in the performance of his duty, " said his wife. 

She sat with her hands nervously clasped, a spot of colour on her highcheek bones, listening to what was about to happen below. They alllistened. They heard him clatter down the wooden stairs and throw openthe door. The singing stopped suddenly, but the gramophone continued tobray out its vulgar tune. They heard Davidson's voice and then the noiseof something heavy falling. The music stopped. He had hurled thegramophone on the floor. Then again they heard Davidson's voice, theycould not make out the words, then Miss Thompson's, loud and shrill, then a confused clamour as though several people were shouting togetherat the top of their lungs. Mrs Davidson gave a little gasp, and sheclenched her hands more tightly. Dr Macphail looked uncertainly from herto his wife. He did not want to go down, but he wondered if theyexpected him to. Then there was something that sounded like a scuffle. The noise now was more distinct. It might be that Davidson was beingthrown out of the room. The door was slammed. There was a moment'ssilence and they heard Davidson come up the stairs again. He went to hisroom. 

"I think I'll go to him, " said Mrs Davidson. 

She got up and went out. 

"If you want me, just call, " said Mrs Macphail, and then when the otherwas gone: "I hope he isn't hurt. "

"Why couldn't he mind his own business?" said Dr Macphail. 

They sat in silence for a minute or two and then they both started, forthe gramophone began to play once more, defiantly, and mocking voicesshouted hoarsely the words of an obscene song. 

Next day Mrs Davidson was pale and tired. She complained of headache, and she looked old and wizened. She told Mrs Macphail that themissionary had not slept at all; he had passed the night in a state offrightful agitation and at five had got up and gone out. A glass of beerhad been thrown over him and his clothes were stained and stinking. Buta sombre fire glowed in Mrs Davidson's eyes when she spoke of MissThompson. 

"She'll bitterly rue the day when she flouted Mr Davidson, " she said. "Mr Davidson has a wonderful heart and no one who is in trouble has evergone to him without being comforted, but he has no mercy for sin, andwhen his righteous wrath is excited he's terrible. "

"Why, what will he do?" asked Mrs Macphail. 

"I don't know, but I wouldn't stand in that creature's shoes foranything in the world. "

Mrs Macphail shuddered. There was something positively alarming in thetriumphant assurance of the little woman's manner. They were going outtogether that morning, and they went down the stairs side by side. MissThompson's door was open, and they saw her in a bedraggleddressing-gown, cooking something in a chafing-dish. 

"Good morning, " she called. "Is Mr Davidson better this morning?"

They passed her in silence, with their noses in the air, as if she didnot exist. They flushed, however, when she burst into a shout ofderisive laughter. Mrs Davidson turned on her suddenly. 

"Don't you dare to speak to me, " she screamed. "If you insult me I shallhave you turned out of here. "

"Say, did I ask Mr Davidson to visit with me?"

"Don't answer her, " whispered Mrs Macphail hurriedly. 

They walked on till they were out of earshot. 

"She's brazen, brazen, " burst from Mrs Davidson. 

Her anger almost suffocated her. 

And on their way home they met her strolling towards the quay. She hadall her finery on. Her great white hat with its vulgar, showy flowerswas an affront. She called out cheerily to them as she went by, and acouple of American sailors who were standing there grinned as the ladiesset their faces to an icy stare. They got in just before the rain beganto fall again. 

"I guess she'll get her fine clothes spoilt, " said Mrs Davidson with abitter sneer. 

Davidson did not come in till they were half way through dinner. He waswet through, but he would not change. He sat, morose and silent, refusing to eat more than a mouthful, and he stared at the slantingrain. When Mrs Davidson told him of their two encounters with MissThompson he did not answer. His deepening frown alone showed that he hadheard. 

"Don't you think we ought to make Mr Horn turn her out of here?" askedMrs Davidson. "We can't allow her to insult us. "

"There doesn't seem to be any other place for her to go, " said Macphail. 

"She can live with one of the natives. "

"In weather like this a native hut must be a rather uncomfortable placeto live in. "

"I lived in one for years, " said the missionary. 

When the little native girl brought in the fried bananas which formedthe sweet they had every day, Davidson turned to her. 

"Ask Miss Thompson when it would be convenient for me to see her, " hesaid. 

The girl nodded shyly and went out. 

"What do you want to see her for, Alfred?" asked his wife. 

"It's my duty to see her. I won't act till I've given her every chance. "

"You don't know what she is. She'll insult you. "

"Let her insult me. Let her spit on me. She has an immortal soul, and Imust do all that is in my power to save it. "

Mrs Davidson's ears rang still with the harlot's mocking laughter. 

"She's gone too far. "

"Too far for the mercy of God?" His eyes lit up suddenly and his voicegrew mellow and soft. "Never. The sinner may be deeper in sin than thedepth of hell itself, but the love of the Lord Jesus can reach himstill. "

The girl came back with the message. 

"Miss Thompson's compliments and as long as Rev. Davidson don't come inbusiness hours she'll be glad to see him any time. "

The party received it in stony silence, and Dr Macphail quickly effacedfrom his lips the smile which had come upon them. He knew his wife wouldbe vexed with him if he found Miss Thompson's effrontery amusing. 

They finished the meal in silence. When it was over the two ladies gotup and took their work, Mrs Macphail was making another of theinnumerable comforters which she had turned out since the beginning ofthe war, and the doctor lit his pipe. But Davidson remained in his chairand with abstracted eyes stared at the table. At last he got up andwithout a word went out of the room. They heard him go down and theyheard Miss Thompson's defiant "Come in" when he knocked at the door. Heremained with her for an hour. And Dr Macphail watched the rain. It wasbeginning to get on his nerves. It was not like our soft English rainthat drops gently on the earth; it was unmerciful and somehow terrible;you felt in it the malignancy of the primitive powers of nature. It didnot pour, it flowed. It was like a deluge from heaven, and it rattled onthe roof of corrugated iron with a steady persistence that wasmaddening. It seemed to have a fury of its own. And sometimes you feltthat you must scream if it did not stop, and then suddenly you feltpowerless, as though your bones had suddenly become soft; and you weremiserable and hopeless. 

Macphail turned his head when the missionary came back. The two womenlooked up. 

"I've given her every chance. I have exhorted her to repent. She is anevil woman. "

He paused, and Dr Macphail saw his eyes darken and his pale face growhard and stern. 

"Now I shall take the whips with which the Lord Jesus drove the usurersand the money changers out of the Temple of the Most High. "

He walked up and down the room. His mouth was close set, and his blackbrows were frowning. 

"If she fled to the uttermost parts of the earth I should pursue her. "

With a sudden movement he turned round and strode out of the room. Theyheard him go downstairs again. 

"What is he going to do?" asked Mrs Macphail. 

"I don't know. " Mrs Davidson took off her _pince-nez_ and wiped them. "When he is on the Lord's work I never ask him questions. "

She sighed a little. 

"What is the matter?"

"He'll wear himself out. He doesn't know what it is to spare himself. "

Dr Macphail learnt the first results of the missionary's activity fromthe half-caste trader in whose house they lodged. He stopped the doctorwhen he passed the store and came out to speak to him on the stoop. Hisfat face was worried. 

"The Rev. Davidson has been at me for letting Miss Thompson have a roomhere, " he said, "but I didn't know what she was when I rented it to her. When people come and ask if I can rent them a room all I want to know isif they've the money to pay for it. And she paid me for hers a week inadvance. "

Dr Macphail did not want to commit himself. 

"When all's said and done it's your house. We're very much obliged toyou for taking us in at all. "

Horn looked at him doubtfully. He was not certain yet how definitelyMacphail stood on the missionary's side. 

"The missionaries are in with one another, " he said, hesitatingly. "Ifthey get it in for a trader he may just as well shut up his store andquit. "

"Did he want you to turn her out?"

"No, he said so long as she behaved herself he couldn't ask me to dothat. He said he wanted to be just to me. I promised she shouldn't haveno more visitors. I've just been and told her. "

"How did she take it?"

"She gave me Hell. "

The trader squirmed in his old ducks. He had found Miss Thompson a roughcustomer. 

"Oh, well, I daresay she'll get out. I don't suppose she wants to stayhere if she can't have anyone in. "

"There's nowhere she can go, only a native house, and no native'll takeher now, not now that the missionaries have got their knife in her. "

Dr Macphail looked at the falling rain. 

"Well, I don't suppose it's any good waiting for it to clear up. "

In the evening when they sat in the parlour Davidson talked to them ofhis early days at college. He had had no means and had worked his waythrough by doing odd jobs during the vacations. There was silencedownstairs. Miss Thompson was sitting in her little room alone. Butsuddenly the gramophone began to play. She had set it on in defiance, tocheat her loneliness, but there was no one to sing, and it had amelancholy note. It was like a cry for help. Davidson took no notice. Hewas in the middle of a long anecdote and without change of expressionwent on. The gramophone continued. Miss Thompson put on one reel afteranother. It looked as though the silence of the night were getting onher nerves. It was breathless and sultry. When the Macphails went to bedthey could not sleep. They lay side by side with their eyes wide open, listening to the cruel singing of the mosquitoes outside their curtain. 

"What's that?" whispered Mrs Macphail at last. 

They heard a voice, Davidson's voice, through the wooden partition. Itwent on with a monotonous, earnest insistence. He was praying aloud. Hewas praying for the soul of Miss Thompson. 

Two or three days went by. Now when they passed Miss Thompson on theroad she did not greet them with ironic cordiality or smile; she passedwith her nose in the air, a sulky look on her painted face, frowning, asthough she did not see them. The trader told Macphail that she had triedto get lodging elsewhere, but had failed. In the evening she playedthrough the various reels of her gramophone, but the pretence of mirthwas obvious now. The ragtime had a cracked, heart-broken rhythm asthough it were a one-step of despair. When she began to play on SundayDavidson sent Horn to beg her to stop at once since it was the Lord'sday. The reel was taken off and the house was silent except for thesteady pattering of the rain on the iron roof. 

"I think she's getting a bit worked up, " said the trader next day toMacphail. "She don't know what Mr Davidson's up to and it makes herscared. "

Macphail had caught a glimpse of her that morning and it struck him thather arrogant expression had changed. There was in her face a huntedlook. The half-caste gave him a sidelong glance. 

"I suppose you don't know what Mr Davidson is doing about it?" hehazarded. 

"No, I don't. "

It was singular that Horn should ask him that question, for he also hadthe idea that the missionary was mysteriously at work. He had animpression that he was weaving a net around the woman, carefully, systematically, and suddenly, when everything was ready would pull thestrings tight. 

"He told me to tell her, " said the trader, "that if at any time shewanted him she only had to send and he'd come. "

"What did she say when you told her that?"

"She didn't say nothing. I didn't stop. I just said what he said I wasto and then I beat it. I thought she might be going to start weepin'. "

"I have no doubt the loneliness is getting on her nerves, " said thedoctor. "And the rain--that's enough to make anyone jumpy, " he continuedirritably. "Doesn't it ever stop in this confounded place?"

"It goes on pretty steady in the rainy season. We have three hundredinches in the year. You see, it's the shape of the bay. It seems toattract the rain from all over the Pacific. "

"Damn the shape of the bay, " said the doctor. 

He scratched his mosquito bites. He felt very short-tempered. When therain stopped and the sun shone, it was like a hothouse, seething, humid, sultry, breathless, and you had a strange feeling that everything wasgrowing with a savage violence. The natives, blithe and childlike byreputation, seemed then, with their tattooing and their dyed hair, tohave something sinister in their appearance; and when they patteredalong at your heels with their naked feet you looked back instinctively. You felt they might at any moment come behind you swiftly and thrust along knife between your shoulder blades. You could not tell what darkthoughts lurked behind their wide-set eyes. They had a little the lookof ancient Egyptians painted on a temple wall, and there was about themthe terror of what is immeasurably old. 

The missionary came and went. He was busy, but the Macphails did notknow what he was doing. Horn told the doctor that he saw the governorevery day, and once Davidson mentioned him. 

"He looks as if he had plenty of determination, " he said, "but when youcome down to brass tacks he has no backbone. "

"I suppose that means he won't do exactly what you want, " suggested thedoctor facetiously. 

The missionary did not smile. 

"I want him to do what's right. It shouldn't be necessary to persuade aman to do that. "

"But there may be differences of opinion about what is right. "

"If a man had a gangrenous foot would you have patience with anyone whohesitated to amputate it?"

"Gangrene is a matter of fact. "

"And Evil?"

What Davidson had done soon appeared. The four of them had just finishedtheir midday meal, and they had not yet separated for the siesta whichthe heat imposed on the ladies and on the doctor. Davidson had littlepatience with the slothful habit. The door was suddenly flung open andMiss Thompson came in. She looked round the room and then went up toDavidson. 

"You low-down skunk, what have you been saying about me to thegovernor?"

She was spluttering with rage. There was a moment's pause. Then themissionary drew forward a chair. 

"Won't you be seated, Miss Thompson? I've been hoping to have anothertalk with you. "

"You poor low-life bastard. "

She burst into a torrent of insult, foul and insolent. Davidson kept hisgrave eyes on her. 

"I'm indifferent to the abuse you think fit to heap on me, MissThompson, " he said, "but I must beg you to remember that ladies arepresent. "

Tears by now were struggling with her anger. Her face was red andswollen as though she were choking. 

"What has happened?" asked Dr Macphail. 

"A feller's just been in here and he says I gotter beat it on the nextboat. "

Was there a gleam in the missionary's eyes? His face remained impassive. 

"You could hardly expect the governor to let you stay here under thecircumstances. "

"You done it, " she shrieked. "You can't kid me. You done it. "

"I don't want to deceive you. I urged the governor to take the onlypossible step consistent with his obligations. "

"Why couldn't you leave me be? I wasn't doin' you no harm. "

"You may be sure that if you had I should be the last man to resent it. "

"Do you think I want to stay on in this poor imitation of a burg? Idon't look no busher, do I?"

"In that case I don't see what cause of complaint you have, " heanswered. 

She gave an inarticulate cry of rage and flung out of the room. Therewas a short silence. 

"It's a relief to know that the governor has acted at last, " saidDavidson finally. "He's a weak man and he shilly-shallied. He said shewas only here for a fortnight anyway, and if she went on to Apia thatwas under British jurisdiction and had nothing to do with him. "

The missionary sprang to his feet and strode across the room. 

"It's terrible the way the men who are in authority seek to evade theirresponsibility. They speak as though evil that was out of sight ceasedto be evil. The very existence of that woman is a scandal and it doesnot help matters to shift it to another of the islands. In the end I hadto speak straight from the shoulder. "

Davidson's brow lowered, and he protruded his firm chin. He lookedfierce and determined. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"Our mission is not entirely without influence at Washington. I pointedout to the governor that it wouldn't do him any good if there was acomplaint about the way he managed things here. "

"When has she got to go?" asked the doctor, after a pause. 

"The San Francisco boat is due here from Sydney next Tuesday. She's tosail on that. "

That was in five days' time. It was next day, when he was coming backfrom the hospital where for want of something better to do Macphailspent most of his mornings, that the half-caste stopped him as he wasgoing upstairs. 

"Excuse me, Dr Macphail, Miss Thompson's sick. Will you have a look ather. "

"Certainly. "

Horn led him to her room. She was sitting in a chair idly, neitherreading nor sewing, staring in front of her. She wore her white dressand the large hat with the flowers on it. Macphail noticed that her skinwas yellow and muddy under her powder, and her eyes were heavy. 

"I'm sorry to hear you're not well, " he said. 

"Oh, I ain't sick really. I just said that, because I just had to seeyou. I've got to clear on a boat that's going to 'Frisco. "

She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were suddenly startled. Sheopened and clenched her hands spasmodically. The trader stood at thedoor, listening. 

"So I understand, " said the doctor. 

She gave a little gulp. 

"I guess it ain't very convenient for me to go to 'Frisco just now. Iwent to see the governor yesterday afternoon, but I couldn't get to him. I saw the secretary, and he told me I'd got to take that boat and thatwas all there was to it. I just had to see the governor, so I waitedoutside his house this morning, and when he come out I spoke to him. Hedidn't want to speak to me, I'll say, but I wouldn't let him shake meoff, and at last he said he hadn't no objection to my staying here tillthe next boat to Sydney if the Rev. Davidson will stand for it. "

She stopped and looked at Dr Macphail anxiously. 

"I don't know exactly what I can do, " he said. 

"Well, I thought maybe you wouldn't mind asking him. I swear to God Iwon't start anything here if he'll just only let me stay. I won't go outof the house if that'll suit him. It's no more'n a fortnight. "

"I'll ask him. "

"He won't stand for it, " said Horn. "He'll have you out on Tuesday, soyou may as well make up your mind to it. "

"Tell him I can get work in Sydney, straight stuff, I mean. 'Tain'tasking very much. "

"I'll do what I can. "

"And come and tell me right away, will you? I can't set down to a thingtill I get the dope one way or the other. "

It was not an errand that much pleased the doctor, and, characteristically perhaps, he went about it indirectly. He told hiswife what Miss Thompson had said to him and asked her to speak to MrsDavidson. The missionary's attitude seemed rather arbitrary and it coulddo no harm if the girl were allowed to stay in Pago-Pago anotherfortnight. But he was not prepared for the result of his diplomacy. Themissionary came to him straightway. 

"Mrs Davidson tells me that Thompson has been speaking to you. "

Dr Macphail, thus directly tackled, had the shy man's resentment atbeing forced out into the open. He felt his temper rising, and heflushed. 

"I don't see that it can make any difference if she goes to Sydneyrather than to San Francisco, and so long as she promises to behavewhile she's here it's dashed hard to persecute her. "

The missionary fixed him with his stern eyes. 

"Why is she unwilling to go back to San Francisco?"

"I didn't enquire, " answered the doctor with some asperity. "And I thinkone does better to mind one's own business. "

Perhaps it was not a very tactful answer. 

"The governor has ordered her to be deported by the first boat thatleaves the island. He's only done his duty and I will not interfere. Herpresence is a peril here. "

"I think you're very harsh and tyrannical. "

The two ladies looked up at the doctor with some alarm, but they neednot have feared a quarrel, for the missionary smiled gently. 

"I'm terribly sorry you should think that of me, Dr Macphail. Believeme, my heart bleeds for that unfortunate woman, but I'm only trying todo my duty. "

The doctor made no answer. He looked out of the window sullenly. Foronce it was not raining and across the bay you saw nestling among thetrees the huts of a native village. 

"I think I'll take advantage of the rain stopping to go out, " he said. 

"Please don't bear me malice because I can't accede to your wish, " saidDavidson, with a melancholy smile. "I respect you very much, doctor, andI should be sorry if you thought ill of me. "

"I have no doubt you have a sufficiently good opinion of yourself tobear mine with equanimity, " he retorted. 

"That's one on me, " chuckled Davidson. 

When Dr Macphail, vexed with himself because he had been uncivil to nopurpose, went downstairs, Miss Thompson was waiting for him with herdoor ajar. 

"Well, " she said, "have you spoken to him?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, he won't do anything, " he answered, not looking at herin his embarrassment. 

But then he gave her a quick glance, for a sob broke from her. He sawthat her face was white with fear. It gave him a shock of dismay. Andsuddenly he had an idea. 

"But don't give up hope yet. I think it's a shame the way they'retreating you and I'm going to see the governor myself. "

"Now?"

He nodded. Her face brightened. 

"Say, that's real good of you. I'm sure he'll let me stay if you speakfor me. I just won't do a thing I didn't ought all the time I'm here. "

Dr Macphail hardly knew why he had made up his mind to appeal to thegovernor. He was perfectly indifferent to Miss Thompson's affairs, butthe missionary had irritated him, and with him temper was a smoulderingthing. He found the governor at home. He was a large, handsome man, asailor, with a grey toothbrush moustache; and he wore a spotless uniformof white drill. 

"I've come to see you about a woman who's lodging in the same house aswe are, " he said. "Her name's Thompson. "

"I guess I've heard nearly enough about her, Dr Macphail, " said thegovernor, smiling. "I've given her the order to get out next Tuesday andthat's all I can do. "

"I wanted to ask you if you couldn't stretch a point and let her stayhere till the boat comes in from San Francisco so that she can go toSydney. I will guarantee her good behaviour. "

The governor continued to smile, but his eyes grew small and serious. 

"I'd be very glad to oblige you, Dr Macphail, but I've given the orderand it must stand. "

The doctor put the case as reasonably as he could, but now the governorceased to smile at all. He listened sullenly, with averted gaze. Macphail saw that he was making no impression. 

"I'm sorry to cause any lady inconvenience, but she'll have to sail onTuesday and that's all there is to it. "

"But what difference can it make?"

"Pardon me, doctor, but I don't feel called upon to explain my officialactions except to the proper authorities. "

Macphail looked at him shrewdly. He remembered Davidson's hint that hehad used threats, and in the governor's attitude he read a singularembarrassment. 

"Davidson's a damned busybody, " he said hotly. 

"Between ourselves, Dr Macphail, I don't say that I have formed a veryfavourable opinion of Mr Davidson, but I am bound to confess that hewas within his rights in pointing out to me the danger that the presenceof a woman of Miss Thompson's character was to a place like this where anumber of enlisted men are stationed among a native population. "

He got up and Dr Macphail was obliged to do so too. 

"I must ask you to excuse me. I have an engagement. Please give myrespects to Mrs Macphail. "

The doctor left him crest-fallen. He knew that Miss Thompson would bewaiting for him, and unwilling to tell her himself that he had failed, he went into the house by the back door and sneaked up the stairs asthough he had something to hide. 

At supper he was silent and ill-at-ease, but the missionary was jovialand animated. Dr Macphail thought his eyes rested on him now and thenwith triumphant good-humour. It struck him suddenly that Davidson knewof his visit to the governor and of its ill success. But how on earthcould he have heard of it? There was something sinister about the powerof that man. After supper he saw Horn on the verandah and, as though tohave a casual word with him, went out. 

"She wants to know if you've seen the governor, " the trader whispered. 

"Yes. He wouldn't do anything. I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anythingmore. "

"I knew he wouldn't. They daren't go against the missionaries. "

"What are you talking about?" said Davidson affably, coming out to jointhem. 

"I was just saying there was no chance of your getting over to Apia forat least another week, " said the trader glibly. 

He left them, and the two men returned into the parlour. Mr Davidsondevoted one hour after each meal to recreation. Presently a timid knockwas heard at the door. 

"Come in, " said Mrs Davidson, in her sharp voice. 

The door was not opened. She got up and opened it. They saw MissThompson standing at the threshold. But the change in her appearance wasextraordinary. This was no longer the flaunting hussy who had jeered atthem in the road, but a broken, frightened woman. Her hair, as a rule soelaborately arranged, was tumbling untidily over her neck. She worebedroom slippers and a skirt and blouse. They were unfresh andbedraggled. She stood at the door with the tears streaming down her faceand did not dare to enter. 

"What do you want?" said Mrs Davidson harshly. 

"May I speak to Mr Davidson?" she said in a choking voice. 

The missionary rose and went towards her. 

"Come right in, Miss Thompson, " he said in cordial tones. "What can I dofor you?"

She entered the room. 

"Say, I'm sorry for what I said to you the other day an' for--foreverythin' else. I guess I was a bit lit up. I beg pardon. "

"Oh, it was nothing. I guess my back's broad enough to bear a few hardwords. "

She stepped towards him with a movement that was horribly cringing. 

"You've got me beat. I'm all in. You won't make me go back to 'Frisco?"

His genial manner vanished and his voice grew on a sudden hard andstern. 

"Why don't you want to go back there?"

She cowered before him. 

"I guess my people live there. I don't want them to see me like this. I'll go anywhere else you say. "

"Why don't you want to go back to San Francisco?"

"I've told you. "

He leaned forward, staring at her, and his great, shining eyes seemed totry to bore into her soul. He gave a sudden gasp. 

"The penitentiary. "

She screamed, and then she fell at his feet, clasping his legs. 

"Don't send me back there. I swear to you before God I'll be a goodwoman. I'll give all this up. "

She burst into a torrent of confused supplication and the tears courseddown her painted cheeks. He leaned over her and, lifting her face, forced her to look at him. 

"Is that it, the penitentiary?"

"I beat it before they could get me, " she gasped. "If the bulls grab meit's three years for mine. "

He let go his hold of her and she fell in a heap on the floor, sobbingbitterly. Dr Macphail stood up. 

"This alters the whole thing, " he said. "You can't make her go back whenyou know this. Give her another chance. She wants to turn over a newleaf. "

"I'm going to give her the finest chance she's ever had. If she repentslet her accept her punishment. "

She misunderstood the words and looked up. There was a gleam of hope inher heavy eyes. 

"You'll let me go?"

"No. You shall sail for San Francisco on Tuesday. "

She gave a groan of horror and then burst into low, hoarse shrieks whichsounded hardly human, and she beat her head passionately on the ground. Dr Macphail sprang to her and lifted her up. 

"Come on, you mustn't do that. You'd better go to your room and liedown. I'll get you something. "

He raised her to her feet and partly dragging her, partly carrying her, got her downstairs. He was furious with Mrs Davidson and with his wifebecause they made no effort to help. The half-caste was standing on thelanding and with his assistance he managed to get her on the bed. Shewas moaning and crying. She was almost insensible. He gave her ahypodermic injection. He was hot and exhausted when he went upstairsagain. 

"I've got her to lie down. "

The two women and Davidson were in the same positions as when he hadleft them. They could not have moved or spoken since he went. 

"I was waiting for you, " said Davidson, in a strange, distant voice. "Iwant you all to pray with me for the soul of our erring sister. "

He took the Bible off a shelf, and sat down at the table at which theyhad supped. It had not been cleared, and he pushed the tea-pot out ofthe way. In a powerful voice, resonant and deep, he read to them thechapter in which is narrated the meeting of Jesus Christ with the womantaken in adultery. 

"Now kneel with me and let us pray for the soul of our dear sister, Sadie Thompson. "

He burst into a long, passionate prayer in which he implored God to havemercy on the sinful woman. Mrs Macphail and Mrs Davidson knelt withcovered eyes. The doctor, taken by surprise, awkward and sheepish, knelttoo. The missionary's prayer had a savage eloquence. He wasextraordinarily moved, and as he spoke the tears ran down his cheeks. Outside, the pitiless rain fell, fell steadily, with a fierce malignitythat was all too human. 

At last he stopped. He paused for a moment and said:

"We will now repeat the Lord's prayer. "

They said it and then; following him, they rose from their knees. MrsDavidson's face was pale and restful. She was comforted and at peace, but the Macphails felt suddenly bashful. They did not know which way tolook. 

"I'll just go down and see how she is now, " said Dr Macphail. 

When he knocked at her door it was opened for him by Horn. Miss Thompsonwas in a rocking-chair, sobbing quietly. 

"What are you doing there?" exclaimed Macphail. "I told you to liedown. "

"I can't lie down. I want to see Mr Davidson. "

"My poor child, what do you think is the good of it? You'll never movehim. "

"He said he'd come if I sent for him. "

Macphail motioned to the trader. 

"Go and fetch him. "

He waited with her in silence while the trader went upstairs. Davidsoncame in. 

"Excuse me for asking you to come here, " she said, looking at himsombrely. 

"I was expecting you to send for me. I knew the Lord would answer myprayer. "

They stared at one another for a moment and then she looked away. Shekept her eyes averted when she spoke. 

"I've been a bad woman. I want to repent. "

"Thank God! thank God! He has heard our prayers. "

He turned to the two men. 

"Leave me alone with her. Tell Mrs Davidson that our prayers have beenanswered. "

They went out and closed the door behind them. 

"Gee whizz, " said the trader. 

That night Dr Macphail could not get to sleep till late, and when heheard the missionary come upstairs he looked at his watch. It was twoo'clock. But even then he did not go to bed at once, for through thewooden partition that separated their rooms he heard him praying aloud, till he himself, exhausted, fell asleep. 

When he saw him next morning he was surprised at his appearance. He waspaler than ever, tired, but his eyes shone with an inhuman fire. Itlooked as though he were filled with an overwhelming joy. 

"I want you to go down presently and see Sadie, " he said. "I can't hopethat her body is better, but her soul--her soul is transformed. "

The doctor was feeling wan and nervous. 

"You were with her very late last night, " he said. 

"Yes, she couldn't bear to have me leave her. "

"You look as pleased as Punch, " the doctor said irritably. 

Davidson's eyes shone with ecstasy. 

"A great mercy has been vouchsafed me. Last night I was privileged tobring a lost soul to the loving arms of Jesus. "

Miss Thompson was again in the rocking-chair. The bed had not been made. The room was in disorder. She had not troubled to dress herself, butwore a dirty dressing-gown, and her hair was tied in a sluttish knot. She had given her face a dab with a wet towel, but it was all swollenand creased with crying. She looked a drab. 

She raised her eyes dully when the doctor came in. She was cowed andbroken. 

"Where's Mr Davidson?" she asked. 

"He'll come presently if you want him, " answered Macphail acidly. "Icame here to see how you were. "

"Oh, I guess I'm O. K. You needn't worry about that. "

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"Horn brought me some coffee. "

She looked anxiously at the door. 

"D'you think he'll come down soon? I feel as if it wasn't so terriblewhen he's with me. "

"Are you still going on Tuesday?"

"Yes, he says I've got to go. Please tell him to come right along. Youcan't do me any good. He's the only one as can help me now. "

"Very well, " said Dr Macphail. 

During the next three days the missionary spent almost all his time withSadie Thompson. He joined the others only to have his meals. Dr Macphailnoticed that he hardly ate. 

"He's wearing himself out, " said Mrs Davidson pitifully. "He'll have abreakdown if he doesn't take care, but he won't spare himself. "

She herself was white and pale. She told Mrs Macphail that she had nosleep. When the missionary came upstairs from Miss Thompson he prayedtill he was exhausted, but even then he did not sleep for long. After anhour or two he got up and dressed himself, and went for a tramp alongthe bay. He had strange dreams. 

"This morning he told me that he'd been dreaming about the mountains ofNebraska, " said Mrs Davidson. 

"That's curious, " said Dr Macphail. 

He remembered seeing them from the windows of the train when he crossedAmerica. They were like huge mole-hills, rounded and smooth, and theyrose from the plain abruptly. Dr Macphail remembered how it struck himthat they were like a woman's breasts. 

Davidson's restlessness was intolerable even to himself. But he wasbuoyed up by a wonderful exhilaration. He was tearing out by the rootsthe last vestiges of sin that lurked in the hidden corners of that poorwoman's heart. He read with her and prayed with her. 

"It's wonderful, " he said to them one day at supper. "It's a truerebirth. Her soul, which was black as night, is now pure and white likethe new-fallen snow. I am humble and afraid. Her remorse for all hersins is beautiful. I am not worthy to touch the hem of her garment. "

"Have you the heart to send her back to San Francisco?" said the doctor. "Three years in an American prison. I should have thought you might havesaved her from that. "

"Ah, but don't you see? It's necessary. Do you think my heart doesn'tbleed for her? I love her as I love my wife and my sister. All the timethat she is in prison I shall suffer all the pain that she suffers. "

"Bunkum, " cried the doctor impatiently. 

"You don't understand because you're blind. She's sinned, and she mustsuffer. I know what she'll endure. She'll be starved and tortured andhumiliated. I want her to accept the punishment of man as a sacrifice toGod. I want her to accept it joyfully. She has an opportunity which isoffered to very few of us. God is very good and very merciful. "

Davidson's voice trembled with excitement. He could hardly articulatethe words that tumbled passionately from his lips. 

"All day I pray with her and when I leave her I pray again, I pray withall my might and main, so that Jesus may grant her this great mercy. Iwant to put in her heart the passionate desire to be punished so that atthe end, even if I offered to let her go, she would refuse. I want herto feel that the bitter punishment of prison is the thank-offering thatshe places at the feet of our Blessed Lord, who gave his life for her. "

The days passed slowly. The whole household, intent on the wretched, tortured woman downstairs, lived in a state of unnatural excitement. Shewas like a victim that was being prepared for the savage rites of abloody idolatry. Her terror numbed her. She could not bear to letDavidson out of her sight; it was only when he was with her that she hadcourage, and she hung upon him with a slavish dependence. She cried agreat deal, and she read the Bible, and prayed. Sometimes she wasexhausted and apathetic. Then she did indeed look forward to her ordeal, for it seemed to offer an escape, direct and concrete, from the anguishshe was enduring. She could not bear much longer the vague terrorswhich now assailed her. With her sins she had put aside all personalvanity, and she slopped about her room, unkempt and dishevelled, in hertawdry dressing-gown. She had not taken off her night-dress for fourdays, nor put on stockings. Her room was littered and untidy. Meanwhilethe rain fell with a cruel persistence. You felt that the heavens mustat last be empty of water, but still it poured down, straight and heavy, with a maddening iteration, on the iron roof. Everything was damp andclammy. There was mildew on the walls and on the boots that stood on thefloor. Through the sleepless nights the mosquitoes droned their angrychant. 

"If it would only stop raining for a single day it wouldn't be so bad, "said Dr Macphail. 

They all looked forward to the Tuesday when the boat for San Franciscowas to arrive from Sydney. The strain was intolerable. So far as DrMacphail was concerned, his pity and his resentment were alikeextinguished by his desire to be rid of the unfortunate woman. Theinevitable must be accepted. He felt he would breathe more freely whenthe ship had sailed. Sadie Thompson was to be escorted on board by aclerk in the governor's office. This person called on the Monday eveningand told Miss Thompson to be prepared at eleven in the morning. Davidsonwas with her. 

"I'll see that everything is ready. I mean to come on board with hermyself. "

Miss Thompson did not speak. 

When Dr Macphail blew out his candle and crawled cautiously under hismosquito curtains, he gave a sigh of relief. 

"Well, thank God that's over. By this time to-morrow she'll be gone. "

"Mrs Davidson will be glad too. She says he's wearing himself to ashadow, " said Mrs Macphail. "She's a different woman. "

"Who?"

"Sadie. I should never have thought it possible. It makes one humble. "

Dr Macphail did not answer, and presently he fell asleep. He was tiredout, and he slept more soundly than usual. 

He was awakened in the morning by a hand placed on his arm, and, starting up, saw Horn by the side of his bed. The trader put his fingeron his mouth to prevent any exclamation from Dr Macphail and beckoned tohim to come. As a rule he wore shabby ducks, but now he was barefoot andwore only the _lava-lava_ of the natives. He looked suddenly savage, andDr Macphail, getting out of bed, saw that he was heavily tattooed. Hornmade him a sign to come on to the verandah. Dr Macphail got out of bedand followed the trader out. 

"Don't make a noise, " he whispered. "You're wanted. Put on a coat andsome shoes. Quick. "

Dr Macphail's first thought was that something had happened to MissThompson. 

"What is it? Shall I bring my instruments?"

"Hurry, please, hurry. "

Dr Macphail crept back into the bedroom, put on a waterproof over hispyjamas, and a pair of rubber-soled shoes. He rejoined the trader, andtogether they tiptoed down the stairs. The door leading out to the roadwas open and at it were standing half a dozen natives. 

"What is it?" repeated the doctor. 

"Come along with me, " said Horn. 

He walked out and the doctor followed him. The natives came after themin a little bunch. They crossed the road and came on to the beach. Thedoctor saw a group of natives standing round some object at the water'sedge. They hurried along, a couple of dozen yards perhaps, and thenatives opened out as the doctor came up. The trader pushed himforwards. Then he saw, lying half in the water and half out, a dreadfulobject, the body of Davidson. Dr Macphail bent down--he was not a man tolose his head in an emergency--and turned the body over. The throat wascut from ear to ear, and in the right hand was still the razor withwhich the deed was done. 

"He's quite cold, " said the doctor. "He must have been dead some time. "

"One of the boys saw him lying there on his way to work just now andcame and told me. Do you think he did it himself?"

"Yes. Someone ought to go for the police. "

Horn said something in the native tongue, and two youths started off. 

"We must leave him here till they come, " said the doctor. 

"They mustn't take him into my house. I won't have him in my house. "

"You'll do what the authorities say, " replied the doctor sharply. "Inpoint of fact I expect they'll take him to the mortuary. "

They stood waiting where they were. The trader took a cigarette from afold in his _lava-lava_ and gave one to Dr Macphail. They smoked whilethey stared at the corpse. Dr Macphail could not understand. 

"Why do you think he did it?" asked Horn. 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. In a little while native police camealong, under the charge of a marine, with a stretcher, and immediatelyafterwards a couple of naval officers and a naval doctor. They managedeverything in a businesslike manner. 

"What about the wife?" said one of the officers. 

"Now that you've come I'll go back to the house and get some things on. I'll see that it's broken to her. She'd better not see him till he'sbeen fixed up a little. "

"I guess that's right, " said the naval doctor. 

When Dr Macphail went back he found his wife nearly dressed. 

"Mrs Davidson's in a dreadful state about her husband, " she said to himas soon as he appeared. "He hasn't been to bed all night. She heard himleave Miss Thompson's room at two, but he went out. If he's been walkingabout since then he'll be absolutely dead. "

Dr Macphail told her what had happened and asked her to break the newsto Mrs Davidson. 

"But why did he do it?" she asked, horror-stricken. 

"I don't know. "

"But I can't. I can't. "

"You must. "

She gave him a frightened look and went out. He heard her go into MrsDavidson's room. He waited a minute to gather himself together and thenbegan to shave and wash. When he was dressed he sat down on the bed andwaited for his wife. At last she came. 

"She wants to see him, " she said. 

"They've taken him to the mortuary. We'd better go down with her. Howdid she take it?"

"I think she's stunned. She didn't cry. But she's trembling like aleaf. "

"We'd better go at once. "

When they knocked at her door Mrs Davidson came out. She was very pale, but dry-eyed. To the doctor she seemed unnaturally composed. No word wasexchanged, and they set out in silence down the road. When they arrivedat the mortuary Mrs Davidson spoke. 

"Let me go in and see him alone. "

They stood aside. A native opened a door for her and closed it behindher. They sat down and waited. One or two white men came and talked tothem in undertones. Dr Macphail told them again what he knew of thetragedy. At last the door was quietly opened and Mrs Davidson came out. Silence fell upon them. 

"I'm ready to go back now, " she said. 

Her voice was hard and steady. Dr Macphail could not understand the lookin her eyes. Her pale face was very stern. They walked back slowly, never saying a word, and at last they came round the bend on the otherside of which stood their house. Mrs Davidson gave a gasp, and for amoment they stopped still. An incredible sound assaulted their ears. Thegramophone which had been silent for so long was playing, playingragtime loud and harsh. 

"What's that?" cried Mrs Macphail with horror. 

"Let's go on, " said Mrs Davidson. 

They walked up the steps and entered the hall. Miss Thompson wasstanding at her door, chatting with a sailor. A sudden change had takenplace in her. She was no longer the cowed drudge of the last days. Shewas dressed in all her finery, in her white dress, with the high shinyboots over which her fat legs bulged in their cotton stockings; her hairwas elaborately arranged; and she wore that enormous hat covered withgaudy flowers. Her face was painted, her eyebrows were boldly black, andher lips were scarlet. She held herself erect. She was the flauntingquean that they had known at first. As they came in she broke into aloud, jeering laugh; and then, when Mrs Davidson involuntarily stopped, she collected the spittle in her mouth and spat. Mrs Davidson coweredback, and two red spots rose suddenly to her cheeks. Then, covering herface with her hands, she broke away and ran quickly up the stairs. DrMacphail was outraged. He pushed past the woman into her room. 

"What the devil are you doing?" he cried. "Stop that damned machine. "

He went up to it and tore the record off. She turned on him. 

"Say, doc, you can that stuff with me. What the hell are you doin' in myroom?"

"What do you mean?" he cried. "What d'you mean?"

She gathered herself together. No one could describe the scorn of herexpression or the contemptuous hatred she put into her answer. 

"You men! You filthy, dirty pigs! You're all the same, all of you. Pigs!Pigs!"

Dr Macphail gasped. He understood. 

VIII

_Envoi_

When your ship leaves Honolulu they hang _leis_ round your neck, garlands of sweet smelling flowers. The wharf is crowded and the bandplays a melting Hawaiian tune. The people on board throw colouredstreamers to those standing below, and the side of the ship is gay withthe thin lines of paper, red and green and yellow and blue. When theship moves slowly away the streamers break softly, and it is like thebreaking of human ties. Men and women are joined together for a momentby a gaily coloured strip of paper, red and blue and green and yellow, and then life separates them and the paper is sundered, so easily, witha little sharp snap. For an hour the fragments trail down the hull andthen they blow away. The flowers of your garlands fade and their scentis oppressive. You throw them overboard. 

THE END

* * * * *

BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

OF HUMAN BONDAGETHE MOON AND SIXPENCETHE TREMBLING OF A LEAFMRS. CRADDOCKTHE EXPLORERTHE MAGICIAN

NEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY