“You’re a good gal when yer like,” said old Everard, little dreaming for whose eyes Gabrielle had so tastefully arrayed herself.
“Mitia, savee! Nicer ladie!” said the tiny Papuan maid, who at that moment arrived with her basket of fish at the door. The fish were all alive, splashing about in the grass-plaited basket, as frisky as the little savage maiden, who took her purchase money and sped away under the palms like a nymph of the wilds.
“You’re as beautiful-looking as your mother was,” said the white man as he sighed. Then he followed his sigh by taking a good pull at the rum bottle. Possibly the memory of his dead wife impelled the weak ex-sailor to take so many extra drops, for he was known to sit for hours like a man in a trance when folk sang certain old songs.
“That’s right, tidy the place up! Put the green cloth on. Macka’s mighty particular. Those civilised ’eathens like things just so,” said the fuddled, idiotic old man. He was expecting the Rajah at any moment, for it was past seven o’clock and he had promised Everard to be at the bungalow before eight. It seemed incredible that the old ex-sailor could not see through such a one as the Rajah. But sailormen are not very wise when it comes to judging human nature. And it didn’t want twenty-four jurymen to discern the sort of glance that lurked in the Rajah’s eyes when he gazed at his women converts. Had the Rajah been correctly placed in an ethnographical classification, he would have been placed somewhere between the orang-outang and the lowest negro type. But circumstances had invested him with the power to act as a mediator between God and the souls of decent men and women. His outward life, his fleshy, handsome face were splendid assets. They stood him in good stead, giving him an extra distinction in the eyes of ignorant natives and even low-caste whites. Not the least of his stock-in-trade were the frock-coat, top hat, kid gloves, spotless patent boots, scarlet waistcoat and the turban swathing, the purchasing value of the lot being about twelve dollars in Beratania Street, Honolulu.
Old Everard gazed eagerly at the clock. “Time’s getting on,” he mumbled. And was Everard’s daughter as eager over the Rajah’s expected visit as her father? Not a bit of it! She hadn’t the slightest idea of being in that dismal parlour when Macka arrived. She had made up her mind to make a surreptitious departure as soon as she had tidied up the room. She longed to meet Hillary again. She had been more than thinking about his proposal to fly to Honolulu, for she had planned everything in her mind. And if anyone could have peeped under her bed at that moment they would have seen a small carpet bag packed with those things that she valued. She had so often rehearsed the whole business and her sudden flight that she had several times looked fondly on her wicked parent, as she imagined his oats and distress to find her gone for ever.
“Where yer hoff to?” suddenly yelled old Everard. The girl had quickly snatched up her cloak and had bolted.
Her inward knowledge of Hillary’s love for her tremendously minimised her fears over her father’s wrath if he managed to catch her.
It was just dusk. One or two stars were already out when she opened the door and made the final bolt out of the front door into the night. She gave a startled cry—she had rushed straight in Rajah Koo Macka’s outstretched arms!
Fate seemed to have planned that it should be so. The Rajah held the girl’s hand tightly, almost fiercely, in his swarthy grip. A strange fire was burning in his terrible eyes.
“Miss Everard, Gabri-arle! Langi, O ke mako,” he murmured, lapsing into his native lingo as he gazed steadily into the frightened girl’s eyes. It was a masterful gaze, serpent-like in its malignant fascination. The girl bravely returned that gaze. The Rajah realised the struggle that was going on in her soul. His instincts told him the truth. Gabrielle wasn’t the first. He knew why her face was pallid, why the cold beads of perspiration stood out on her brow, distinctly revealed to his gaze, as though the moon would shed its beams and show the pity of it all.