I was sitting in the grog shanty dreaming of old England, and wondering what my people would think could they see me playing my violin to that weird crew. I felt sure that it would have damped their ardour over any idea of my retrieving the family’s fortunes during my travels.
Well, as I sat there I noticed a handsome man (whom I will call John L——) stumble out of the bar as usual on his way home, drunk. He was seldom sober, had little to say and was regarded as a mystery by all. From hearsay I gathered that he had arrived in the Marquesan Group about ten years before, bringing a pretty mite of a girl with him. Probably he was one of those individuals who had hurried away from his native land so as to retain his liberty—or his neck. Anyway, the little girl interested me most. This little waif’s name was Pauline, and she had, at this period, arrived at the stage when girlhood meets womanhood. Her mother was dead. We all knew that, because when John L—— was drunk he would sweep the stick he carried about, and sweep imaginary stars from the low roof of the shanty as he cursed the heavens and God. Even the Ranjos paled slightly during those fits of ungovernable frenzy, when he yelled forth atheistic curses till he fell forward and sobbed like a child. It would strike me with sorrow as well as horror to witness those paroxysms.
John L—— and his daughter lived in a little homestead situated up near the mountains that soared in the background of Tai-o-hae. It was a wild spot this fugitive had chosen for his home in exile; only the South Sea plovers passed over that place on their migrating flight to the westward.
To me the memory of that homestead is like the “Forsaken Garden,” a remote spot of that South Sea isle, its ghost of a garden still fronting the sea:
“Where there was weeping,
Haply of lovers none ever will know,
Whose eyes went seaward, a hundred sleeping
Years ago.”
It isn’t a hundred years ago, though, but it seems so to me. I could half think that I dreamed that white wooden homestead by the palms; that it was some ghostly hamlet hidden up there in the wild South Sea hills—a beautiful phantom-like girl trembling inside—and Destiny knocking, knocking at the door. Ah, Pauline!
But to return to John L—— as he staggered away from the shanty into the darkness. I recall that his farewell sounded more like a death-groan than anything else. Almost every incident of that night is engraved on my memory. I still see the haggard, haunted face as he departs, and the shellbacks look into one another’s eyes significantly. I can even remember the swaying of the palm leaves outside the open door as I saw them drift apart, revealing the moonlit seas beyond, and John L——’s white duck-suit jacket fluttering between them as he staggered homeward. His thin-faced companion holds his arm—he’s a sardonic-looking individual—and I, as well as the shellbacks, wonder why he tolerates such a sinister comrade.