After the eating was over the whole party, except the Chinaman, went down to the boat, which was a good-sized sloop, of twice the tonnage of either of ours, and embarked, pulling out of the creek by a warp laid out to a buoy for that purpose. They had a good-sized dingy, or better, a yawl, in tow. When they reached the buoy, which was at a distance of forty rods or thereabouts from shore, they made fast to it, and the three Indians with the negro got into the yawl and pulled away a hundred yards or so to the south, the white man remaining on board the sloop, where I could see him sitting near the tiller smoking a cigar.
When the party in the yawl reached the distance mentioned, the negro being at the oars, they came to a standstill, and I could see the Indians strip for diving. The operation was wholly new to me and interesting. They took turns one after another. The fellow whose turn it was to dive got over the side and took hold of a line, to the end of which a great stone was tied, and which was provided with two loops, in which he inserted his feet. When he was all ready one of the other Indians allowed the rope to pay out rapidly, and down sank the diver carrying a sort of bag hung around his neck. After the Indian had been down what seemed to me an extraordinary length of time for a man to stay under water, he came up without the bag and clung to the side of the boat seemingly in a state of utter exhaustion. The two Indians in the boat then helped him on board and he immediately lay down, while his companions hauled up the stone again and brought inboard the bag, from which they emptied perhaps a bushel of great flat oysters. Then another took his turn, and so on in rotation, until a considerable heap of the great bivalves, each of which was four or five inches in diameter, was collected. These they carried to the sloop and began again, shifting their position a little each time under the direction of the man on the sloop, who sat watching and smoking the whole time.
I had heard remarkable stories of the length of time pearl-divers could remain under water, some accounts putting it as high as ten minutes, and I was sorry I had no timepiece with me to find out how long the men before me actually stayed down. As a substitute for a more accurate method, I timed them several times by counting my own pulse-beats. Allowing seventy-five beats to the minute, which I believe was about right, the longest time I could make out was a little over two minutes. The shortness of the time was a surprise to me, for judging from my untimed observations the apparent duration was frequently between five and ten minutes. I think the exaggerated accounts we receive are due to the natural tendency of an observer who does not actually measure the time to think it longer than it really is.
The oyster-gathering thus conducted in my view was a slow business, as the divers did not go down oftener than once in fifteen or twenty minutes, and were seemingly in no hurry to go down at all, though willing enough to come up. This was the frequent occasion of rough and stern command from the man in the sloop, who kept up a more or less constant talk across the water with his subordinates. When a diver would come up too soon or with a light find, a string of imprecations in Spanish would greet him; so, too, when one hesitated too long before he plunged in.
When I had watched this performance for an hour or two I began to think of getting back home. The Chinaman had finished his work and was seated at the foot of a tree knitting a white cotton sock, his fingers plying the bright steel needles as fast as ever I saw a grandmother do it. He sat precisely facing my place of concealment, and every now and then would look up and around, his needles still going with automatic regularity. This was very annoying. I did not dare to move so long as he sat there; for if he should chance to look up while I was scaling the rock just back of me—a height of perhaps ten feet—to reach the summit of the cliff, discovery was almost certain. I was obliged, therefore, to remain where I was.
In order to improve the time I examined the interior of the tent with the telescope. The only thing I saw of interest there was a double-barrelled breech-loading shot-gun slung to the ridgepole, with a belt of cartridges. You may be sure I coveted the possession of this weapon and its ammunition, and had there been any way to get it, should not under the circumstances have hesitated to appropriate it to my own use and the defence of my friends. But even if I had succeeded in getting it without being seen by the knitting Chinaman its loss would at once be discovered and the presence of others on the island immediately suspected. I now turned my glass on the Chinaman and soon saw him close his eyes while still knitting away. He looked up now no longer, but his fingers kept on plying the needles. His head gradually sunk upon his breast. The man was evidently knitting in his sleep! A moment later his hands fell into his lap, and after a few more of the automatic movements became still. I lost no further time in climbing back to the summit and getting out of sight in the forest, from whence I made my way home safely.
We continued to lie close at home after this, as before. In order that no smoke should rise by day we now made a practice of cooking at night-time in the fireplace so that the fire would not be visible. We did not venture out on the beach at any time during daylight where we might be seen from a distance. This life continued thus for a week, and I had about made up my mind to take another trip to Farm Cove to see if the pearl-fishers were still there. This, however, became unnecessary, for just as I had reached that conclusion we were informed of the fact that the visitors were still present by the sound of several shots from the centre of the island.
To occupy some of the time that hung so heavy on our hands, Mr. Millward and I took down the pumping-machine and loaded it on the big boat, to be in readiness to carry to the basin when we should feel it safe to do so. We went out fishing after dark in the smaller boat several times to eke out our supply of provisions by a stock of fresh fish. One night I was fortunate enough to turn a fine turtle, which gave us a good supply of meat and a plenty of eggs. The latter made a fairly good omelet, but had a slightly unpleasant oily taste.
Thus passed another week of enforced idleness. I cannot deny that the society of Alice Millward proved an ample compensation to me for this delay in our plans. We were almost constantly together, and there grew up between us, I was certain, a perfect feeling of comradeship, even if it went no further on her part. A thousand times during this period of intimate association my great love for this sweet girl, who grew sweeter and dearer as I came to know her better, impelled me to speak to her of my regard. But I did not do so. It seemed to me then that by so doing I might risk the delight of her companionship. As our present relations stood we were happy in each other’s friendship. Her beautiful eyes looked into mine so frankly and cordially, her hand lay often so confidingly in my own, her smile was so friendly and sweet, that I dared not risk the utterance of words which, if they found no response in her own heart, would make mine so desolate. You may perhaps quote to me the old adage that “faint heart never won fair lady.” But please remember my situation. You would not ask a shipwrecked mariner to give up the plank on which he floats; no more could you ask me to risk the only joy I knew. If there lurked discomfort in the uncertainty, certainty might develop more than discomfort—utter despair. I trust that I am not a coward in all things; yet in this thing my heart beat faint at the possibility of disappointment.
It seemed to me that her father more than half guessed the state of my heart. But he never said a word to indicate it to me, and I only judged so from his manner at times; for example, from the fond way in which he would look at his daughter, or stroke her hair,—little things which suggested to my mind the idea that he thought of the time when another might claim her from him. My turbulent heart would beat then at the bare possibility that I might be that happy man. It must be a great sorrow for a loving parent, who tenderly cherished a daughter through helpless infancy and childhood, till she blossoms into womanhood, to see her wooed and won away by a stranger—a sorrow that is not less poignant because untainted by any selfish desire to hinder the loved one from leaving the home nest, and acquiring new loves and affections which shall inevitably displace to a great degree the old ones. It is small consolation to the heart bereft that it is the course of nature. That does not bring back the lost one. The parent would not have it different, and yet the grief is there. Akin to this is the fond regret of the mother who sees with mingled pride and sorrow her babe grow out of its sweet helplessness. Day by day the little one must seem to become less and less a part of herself. Her old love may take on a new form, but it is not so dear a form.