“I dunno,” said Tommy, reflectively. “I read some yarns about them when I was a kid. All coral and cokernuts, ain’t they?”
“Ah! There are human souls there too. Yes, and I’m told that in one group at any rate Roman Catholicism is rampant. There’s work to be done.”
“Well,” said Grice, “if we hadn’t been fools enough to let the French slip in and grab what they wanted—”
“Grice, my friend, let us be proud that in one instance, at any rate, this country has not done all the grabbing. I’m not going to suggest that we should add one square foot to our possessions. We have too much—territorially, we’re gorged. No, let us see rather what we can do to spread the true religion in place of the false. That’s what I feel. If I can do one little thing for the cause of true religion, then my holiday won’t be entirely wasted.”
“No, indeed,” said Mr Wallis, who suddenly felt that his cigar and the glass in front of him had been inappropriate.
Mr Lechworthy’s fist descended solemnly on the table before him. “True religion—that’s the only thing. I’ve kept it before me in my business. I’ve tried to show that it is possible to treat the workman as a brother, to consider his soul’s eternal salvation, and yet to make a fair profit. I’ve dared to bring practical religion into journalism. The Morning Guide loses me so much every day, so much every year. The money’s set aside for it—to produce a paper which will never print a divorce case or an item of racing news—a paper in which every feuilleton clearly and distinctly enforces a good moral—a paper which will be the sworn foe of this blatant self-styled imperialism. In the House I venture to say that I belong to the religious party. You’ll find little religion among the Conservatives—and what there is, is largely tainted with ritualism. Unprofitable servant that I am, little though I have done, I have at least kept my faith and carried it into my life.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then somewhere at the back of the saloon a fool of a servant opened a bottle of soda-water. It went off with a loud and ironical pop. The gurgle of the fluid seemed to utter a repeated tut-tut. But Mr Lechworthy was unperturbed. Gliding easily into another subject, he began to talk about cameras. His book or pamphlet, whichever it might be, was to be profusely illustrated. Mr Wallis, an amateur photographer of some experience, was lavish with his advice. Later, a possible title for the book was discovered. Mr Grice, who had been a little sleepy, grew suddenly alert again and almost disproportionately enthusiastic. “A magnificent and noble enterprise that could only have occurred to yourself, Lechworthy,” was a phrase that possibly overstated the facts. Tommy Burton slept peacefully—poor Tommy Burton—much in love with Hilda Auriol and condemned to perpetual cheerfulness and brotherhood.
Thus it happened that the schooner which Cyril Mast had sighted bore with it to the island of Faloo Mr Lechworthy and his niece. He had never intended to take Hilda with him at all, but then Hilda had always intended to go. Faloo had never been part of his programme, and all that the skipper could tell him about it was that it was wrongly charted; but Hilda had caught a glimpse of it in the evening light and decided that she must spend an hour or two there. It was immediately discovered that the ship needed oranges and taro, and that Faloo might as well provide them. Lechworthy still had a will of his own, but then the captain knew so much more and Hilda cared so much more, and the sweet content of the South Seas had settled down upon him. He had eaten peach-flavoured bananas and he was learning the mango. The expressed juice of the fresh lime, mingled with ice and soda-water, seemed to him the best drink that had ever been found. As to the missions—well, he was getting a general impression (which bothered him a little, because it was not quite the impression that he had meant to get), and he would fill in the bare facts later. He had taken many photographs and would develop the rolls of film as soon as he could find the time—unless he came upon somebody who would do them for him.
At dawn the Snowflake lay in a dead calm just outside the reef. Cyril Mast took a good look at her. The snowy decks, the brilliant white paint and the polished metal showing a hundred bright points of light in the sunshine, told that this was no ordinary trader. Had the retreat of the exiles been discovered at last? No, for the ship to come in that case would be something sterner than this pretty toy. In a few minutes he had changed his clothes; and now his collar, his necktie and his waistcoat proclaimed his calling. He could manage a canoe excellently himself—it was his favourite pastime when sober—but now his dignity demanded that a couple of natives should propel him out through the opening in the reef to the schooner’s side. The natives—as curious as Mast—were eager for the work. At the moment the mad idea which Mast subsequently carried out had not yet entered his head. All that he wanted was to find out what the schooner was, and if possible to get some break in the accursed monotony of his island life. He wanted, pathetically, to exchange a few civilities with some white man who did not know too much about him—to catch a glimpse of the outside world that had been closed to him. That was why he wore the starched dog-collar that was so uncomfortable, and the frayed black alpaca jacket, and the waistcoat of clerical cut. He had not worn them for ages; but he meant now, for an hour perhaps, to get back to the old time, before certain events had made Faloo the only place in the world for him.