“My son, have hope. I feel assured that she will come again,” said the old Catholic as I bade him good-night, and went away feeling less hopeful than ever. Ere I left the Father I had asked him if Pauline was still on the island. To tell the truth, I half-expected to hear that she had flown away to sea also. When the priest told me that Pauline still roamed that spot by the mountains my heart leapt with a strange thrill of joy. She at least is left on earth, I thought, as I wandered away into the night.
Next day I went and saw Madame Lydia, and I shall never forget the welcome of the old native woman when I walked into her cottage. She almost jumped into my arms as I greeted her. I was pleased to find that she was not quite alone. It so happened that one of her own relations was staying with her till Benbow returned to Tai-o-hae with all the shellbacks who had gone away as his crew.
I will now describe, as well as I am able, all that I heard from old Lydia and the Ranjos about Benbow’s home-coming and why he went to sea with the beachcombers.
It appeared that, about a week after the Sea Swallow, with Waylao and me on board, left, Benbow arrived home. All the beachcombers had stopped in the shanty instead of going down to the shore to greet him as was their custom when he put into Tai-o-hae Bay. They anticipated trouble.
Possibly Benbow himself wondered why everyone looked so damnably serious instead of greeting him in the usual boisterous fashion when he entered the grog shanty. Not one dare tell him the truth about the trouble awaiting him at home, but their hearts were pretty full, I am sure, when he called for drinks all round. He must have thought that the hot weather had affected them as the beachcombers lifted their mugs, clinked and drank his health in a subdued voice.
When the burly old skipper had left the shanty, and passed away up the little track that led to his home, the shellbacks all rushed to the door, watched and listened. Though Benbow’s bungalow was several hundred yards away, they waited the thunderous voice of the skipper, the ejaculations that would escape from his lips when trembling old Lydia told him all.
As Benbow entered the old parlour he looked around. What was the matter? Why did his wife look at him like a whipped hound? Where was the welcoming voice of his pretty Waylao?
“Waylao!” he shouted. Then he stared round him wildly. Had old Lydia gone mad, he wondered, as he yelled once again.
“What the hell’s the matter? Where’s Waylao?”