One morning he awoke to find that Elsie had skipped out. Yes, by God, gone with the half-carste! At first he couldn’t believe it; but when he went off in a tearing rage to see the pastor, he found a crowd gathered round the church door, all chattering at once, like niggars do. They made way for him, and what do you think he saw on that door, so help him? A regular proclamation in English and native, saying as how Elsie Ryegate and Edward George Forrest had taken each other for husband and wife, for better or worse, for sickness or sorrow, until death should them part, and a lot of stuff besides about the pastor and the king both refusing to perform the marriage ceremony. It was well written, that he would allow, though it made him wild to read it. He tore it down and put it into his pocket for evidence, and went on to see Jimmy Upolu. Jimmy was in fits too, for if people got to marrying one another in that church doorway, what would become of Jimmy’s fees?
But though Jimmy could talk, he wasn’t much of a hand to do things. What missionary niggar is? He wouldn’t hear of no trial, let alone a little idea with a stick of dynamite. He could think of nothing better than excommunication and talking at him from the pulpit—a fat lot he’d care for either, would Forrest! It seemed nothing could be done, for without the pastor and the king where would be the use? A man had to be keerful these days: the natives were losing all respeck for whites, and them men-of-war fellers were as likely to take a niggar’s word as his own. Wasn’t it sickening! Well, so it all ended in smoke, and Elsie and Ned set up housekeeping together. He had never clapped eyes on her but once, when she threw herself on her knees before him, right there in the dirt, and said she’d die if he wouldn’t forgive her, and please, wouldn’t he let the pastor marry her and Ned? It was a tight place for a father—a father as doted on that girl. But a filthy half-carste! Who could stomach such a swine for his daughter? He told her he’d rather see her stretched dead at his feet; that’s what he said, just like that, and walked on. It was hard, but a man must do his dooty. That was the last he had seen of her—the last he wished to see of her till she’d quit that feller. If she’d do that, his poor, dishonoured girl, she’d never find her father’s door closed against her; no, by God, it stood open for her night and day.
I had become pretty tired of the old man and his daughter long before he had reached the conclusion of his tale; but the others listened readily enough, and seemed genuinely to commiserate him. Captain Mins remarked in his slow, deliberate tones, that wherever you went, half-castes were the same—all swine. And Old Bee said that he’d see that the matter was properly represented to the next man-of-war that came down that way. Frenchy went further and asked a whole raft of questions; about the girl; about Forrest; about the island generally. What sort of man might the king be? Oh, Peter was all right, was he? Was this Forrest a stranger, or had he been born on the island? A stranger. Well, he couldn’t have much of a poosh then—not many kowtubs to back him up in case of a row? And the missionary niggar was square, was he? Old Tom hadn’t any picture of that there girl, had he? So this didn’t do her justice, eh? Why, she was a perfect leetle beauty. Frenchy held the photograph a long time in his hand, studying it with close attention as he puffed at his cigarette. Finally tossing it to one side, he looked earnestly at the floor, and drummed in an undecided way with one foot. Then he stretched out his arms and gave a great yawn.
“Let’s me and you go for a promenade, sonny,” he said, addressing me. “We don’t want to sit here all ze day, do we?”
Once in the open air, however, his desire to walk seemed to vanish, for he began to ask for Ned Forrest’s store, and offered a stick of tobacco to any one that could guide us there. Pretty well the whole village did that, and we were conducted in state to a wooden house near the lagoon, about a mile distant from the spot where we had first landed. Frenchy stood on no ceremony on going in, and I followed close behind him, much less at my ease than my companion. It was dark within the house, and the hum of a sewing-machine covered our approach; it was a minute or two before we were discovered by the young girl we dimly saw at work, who sprang up at last, with a little cry, and came towards us.
Frenchy became suavity itself: begged Mrs. Forrest’s pardon for our intrusion, but it was eempossible to reseest the pleasure of calling upon a white lady. Might he have ze honour of acquainting her with hees friend, Mr. Bence?
The young lady, though somewhat fluttered by our unexpected visit, betrayed no more than natural embarrassment. She begged us to be seated, inquired the name of our vessel, and acquitted herself with an ease and self-possession that few young white women could have rivalled. It was we, indeed, Frenchy and I, who completely lost our heads; for Tom Ryegate’s daughter was of such a captivating prettiness, and her manners were at once so gentle, arch, and engaging, that we could hardly forbear staring her out of countenance, or restrain our admiration within the bounds of ordinary politeness. She was no darker than a Spaniard, with sparkling eyes, and the most glorious black hair in the world. Her girlish figure was not too well concealed by the flimsy cotton dress in which we had surprised her, and it failed to hide altogether her rich young beauty. From the top of her curly head to the little naked feet she kept so anxiously beneath her gown, there was not one feature to mar the rest, not a curve nor a dimple that one would have wished to change. I cannot recall much of what we talked about, though the picture of her there in that dark room is as vivid a memory as any I have. We drank fresh cocoanuts, I remember; listened to a cheap music-box; and looked at the photographs in an album. With the practical gallantry of the Islands, Frenchy begged her to ask for any favour that we had it in our power to grant. The whole ship, he said, was at her deesposal. Was she sure that she needed nozing? Some ear-rings? A bolt of silk? A really nice beet of lace he had intended for the queen of Big Muggin?
But she would accept nothing. You see, her husband did not like her to take presents from white gentlemen. The supercargo of the Lancashire Lass had given her two pairs of shoes, and some goldfish in a bottle, but Ned was much displeased. Ned said that people would talk and take away her character; besides, it wasn’t for poor folks to have shoes and goldfish. Ned was a very proud man and did not pretend to be what he was not. She was still speaking when Ned himself unexpectedly appeared at another door. Amid laughing explanations, we were made acquainted with the head of the house, a big, shy half-caste, who welcomed us with a tremendous hand-shake apiece. He was a powerful young man, and his muscular throat and arms were still grimy with the blacksmithing at which he had been engaged. I liked his unshrinking, honest look, and as he turned his eyes on his beautiful wife there was in them something of the tenderness and devotion of a dog’s. Elsie ordered the great fellow about with a pretty imperiousness that only lovers use, and with a peculiar softness of intonation that did not escape me. It made me a little envious and heartsick to see this happiness in which I could have no share, and I was almost glad at last when Frenchy rose to go. Lifting her little hand to his lips, he begged her to please count him her friend and serviteur to command, and regretted that the preessure of affairs would preclude him from calling again before the ship sailed. He had been so assiduous in his attentions to the young beauty that I was at a loss to understand this sudden renunciation; but I put it down to his common sense, which must have told him that in this quarter his gallantry could only be wasted. Any one could see that our pretty quarter-caste was head over heels in love with her own husband; and however much she might laugh and talk with strangers, and enjoy the impression her starry eyes indubitably produced, her heart, at least, was in no uncertain keeping. It was just as much Ned Forrest’s as the clothes upon her back or the house in which she lived. How I envied him his prize as Frenchy and I walked back silently towards old Tom’s, and saw the bark’s sails shining through the trees. I tried to say something about the charming girl we had left, but Frenchy hardly seemed to listen. For a long time he continued in a deep study, puffing hard at his cigarette, and looking, as it appeared to me, more than usually reckless and devil-may-care. We found the others exactly where we had left them,—though not perhaps so sober,—and they haled Frenchy in and bade him report himself, the square-face meanwhile making another round.
“What news of thy quest, O illustrious horse-soldier?” demanded the captain, in his usual thick, loud voice—a little louder and a little thicker for the gin. “Hast thou found a damsel to thy taste on this thy servant’s isle?”
“Hein?” said Frenchy, with a queer glance at me.