What with the absence of Grimes, the death of Tamafanga, and various other aids to depression, I felt that something must be done to dispel my cloudy thoughts and make a little artificial sunshine. With this idea, I went straight off that same night to L——’s little homestead by the mountains. It may be remembered I had been up to that silent hamlet in the hills long before, serenading the girl who haunted my mind.
I recall the very atmosphere of that night as I left the shanty full of hopes that I should see Pauline. Even as I write, I can almost fancy that I smell the rich, warm scents of the wild cloves and faded orange blossoms that hung on the boughs as I strolled by that silent bungalow. The night was thick with stars, staring as though pale with fright at the rising moon on the eastern horizon.
I crept through the thickets of bamboos and went across the small pathway that ran across the patch of garden. All was silent except for the chirruping monotone of the locusts that haunted the taro and pine-apples that grew in wild profusion around.
Peering through the branches, I saw a light glimmering through the crack of the doorway. I knew that it came from the small compartment wherein lay John L—— and his weird companion. As I drew nearer, I saw the shadow figure of that eternal watcher. That shadow bobbed about the wall as the patient groaned and asked, presumably, for just a little drop of spirit to moisten his fevered lips.
I became brave, and crept closer, to within three feet of the little room wherein Pauline slept. I suppose that it was the worry I had had and the sound of the breath of heaven that roamed through the trees that made me madly romantic. I whistled a soft melody that Pauline had once admired. I listened and watched, but only the stars winked over the giant trees.
Ah! how my heart beat as I looked up at that moonlit window-pane. I fancied I saw the scarlet blossoms of the tangled vines quiver in the brilliant night gleam. It seemed to me that the small window by the coco-palms was some ghostly, glassy eye staring down at me and watching over that sleeping girl. In the vivid inward light of a romantic boy’s imaginings, I fancied I saw Pauline lying like a warm, white-limbed angel between the sheets, her eyes closed in sleep as she dreamed of what—me? Alas! why should she dream of me?
CHAPTER XXIV
Heart-to-heart Talks with Pauline—My Native Friends—The Unappreciated Genius—His Views on Art—Father O’Leary’s Call—Waylao’s Return
FATHER O’LEARY and I became the best of pals. Though we disagreed on some matters we never argued.