“Friday, September 22nd.—Been thinking of England to-day. I’d give something to hear the thrush singing up in the old apple-tree of my grandfather’s estate.
“It’s wonderful how beautiful another place seems when you are sailing across Southern Seas, perfectly alone. As I dreamed, I could hear the ship’s Kanakas singing their native songs in a strange tongue. I like their melodies; they sound weirdly sweet. The words seem to go like this: ‘Cheery-o, me-o, O see ka vinka! too-ee-me, loge wailo, mandy-o! pom! pom!’ As they sang aloft, their shadows dropped down through the moonlight on to the deck at my feet.
“I thought of my dear mother last night. I’d give something to put my arms round her to-night. I was her favourite: that’s natural enough, as I’m the worst boy of the family.
“Saturday.—Feel a bit worried to-day. I went mad last night. The world seemed beautiful; I felt like some old poet who’d crept out of the tomb and found the world reading his poems. Waylao and I sat on deck. It was a glorious night, perfectly calm. The sky was crowded with stars. I could just see the outline of Waylao’s face in the gloom beside me. She was sitting in the skipper’s deckchair. Her face seemed ineffably beautiful, her eyes seemed to have caught the ethereal gleams of the stars. She fascinated me. I felt a wild desire enter my heart. Then I took hold of her hand and whispered:
“‘Waylao, I am worried about you.’
“‘And I about you,’ she responded half absently.
“Again the wild impulse thrilled me, but still I spoke on.
“‘Girl, we are only shadows in this world. In a little while all this dream of ours will be less than a dream. It is strange that you should have come into my life like this. I half wish that I had never met you,’ said I. Then, before I could understand what I was doing, I placed my arms about her; I pulled her gently towards me. Her face was lifted up to mine; I gazed into the depths of those exquisite eyes, they shone so brightly. I looked at the mouth: it quivered. Ah! it was a beautiful mouth; it seemed to be curved so that it might tenderly resemble the warm, wild, passionate South.
“Alas! though I was born in the far-away cold North-West, I, too, seemed to feel the spell of the impassioned starlit Isles. I tried to control myself; but men, let alone romantic youths, are weak, and so I fell—I clasped her in my arms and pressed my lips to hers. Heaven only knows what I might not have said to her in my madness if the boatswain had not called me: ‘Hey, hey, youngster! Where are you? What the hell——’
“I leaped away into the darkness.