“Tamea,” he almost groaned, “I cannot bear to break your heart.”
She smiled sadly. “My heart will not be broken. It will be hurt but time will cure that. I do not wish you to remain longer. If you do I shall be much more unhappy than if you go away. You will, perhaps, not understand, but these are true words, dear one. We have both made a large mistake and it would be foolish not to admit it and strive to mend that mistake.”
He bowed his head. “And you truly desire this, Tamea?”
“With all my heart,” she answered. She came to him and placed her arms around his neck. “Love of my life,” she said softly, and in her voice the stored-up pathos and longing of her shattered life vibrated, “you will kiss me once and then you will go—quickly.”
“Oh, sweetheart!” he moaned.
“Sh-h,” she pleaded. “I desire this parting, dear love, and because I desire it I have been to some pains and expense to accomplish it. Here you are as a fish cast up on the beach. You gasp and struggle for life and in the end you will die—living. I understand, darling. Chéri, believe me, I understand truly, and there is naught to grieve over.”
She kissed him and clung to him, wet-eyed and trembling, but resolute. “Now, dear love, you will go,” she whispered, “nor will you look back as you descend the hill. And sometimes you will think of your Tamea who loved you better than you will ever be loved again. Adieu, my husband.”
She left him abruptly. He stood for about a minute, his thoughts inchoate, his brain numbed; yet, out of the chaos of his conflicting emotions there rose, almost subconsciously, the tiniest flicker of relief. He hated himself for it. He felt low and mean and treacherous, felt that he had played a sorry part, indeed, yet he had not meant to do this, nor had he even contemplated doing it. The situation existed, that was all, nor could any power of his or Tamea’s alter it in the slightest. As well strive to restrain a falling star!
His heart constricted, his eyes blurred with tears of sorrow and shame, he turned away at last and stumbled down the path to the Muggridge bungalow. Hackett and Mellenger, seeing him coming, walked around to the opposite side of the house, in order that he might be spared the humiliation of knowing they had seen him with his soul laid bare. Straight for the whaleboat, drawn up at the edge of the wash, Dan headed, and the Kanaka sailors, seeing him coming, ran the boat into the surf until it floated; there they held it, waiting; and when Dan Pritchard climbed wearily in, they pulled him out to the Pelorus.
Up on the veranda of the mission house Captain Hackett produced two of his famous Sumatra cigars. “We’ll give him a couple of hours in which to straighten out his record with Miss Morrison,” the maritime philosopher suggested. “Smoke up.”