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