“Let me go! Do! Do!” she murmured in an appealing voice.
“Gabrie-arle! I’ve come, not to see your father but to see you, you, my lovelier whiter girl, lovelier, nicer!” he whispered, as in his emotion he reverted to the old pidgin-English of his boyhood, before he had joined the first missionary society in Honolulu. And still Gabrielle stared into those terrible eyes. Her lips half smiled as she struggled with herself. It was a terrible moment for her as she stood there, her frame trembling as she felt those two terrible rivals struggling to strangle each other—the struggle of the white and the dark woman in her soul.
He whispered swift, passionate words: “I lover you, wine of my heart, stars of my soul, O voice of the waves, seas, night storm and darkness! O stars that are like the children of our souls to be!” he wailed, as he switched off into his beloved verse libre, so popular with his kind. He still held her in his clasp, just as so many helpless women had been held by the devil who reigns in tropic climes.
Gabrielle felt that the struggle was coming to an end. The cold perspiration stood in beads on her brow. She felt faint. And the devil, who always helps his own, sent a shadow across the silvery track by the ivory-nut palms. That shadow touched the small vine-clad verandah of the bungalow. Gabrielle’s heart nearly stopped as she saw it, and its darkness fell over her own soul. Her horror was not to be wondered at, for the silhouette had taken human form as something rushed out of the thick jungle-growth hard by.
There was no real cause for Gabrielle’s terror at seeing this particular object. It was nothing more than one of the Rajah’s native servants, who had rushed from the bamboo thickets, thinking he had heard the Rajah call him.
All the foregoing and the Rajah’s successful domination over the girl occupied about two minutes. He had rained kisses on her face, had whispered impassioned words in her ears, using the names of the Apostles and even the name of Christ to lure the girl back into the bungalow and her soul into darkness. Gabrielle felt as though she had had a paralytic stroke as he gripped her hand and pushed her into the front doorway of the bungalow. She could hardly believe her senses as she went half willingly forward. He was an old bird at the game; years older than Hillary. He had the father on his side too, and that was natural enough when one thinks of the way the world wags. Most men of the Rajah’s type, by means of their successful hypocrisy, secure the father’s help to buttress up their desires. Besides, the Rajah had no personal drawbacks, for he had no idealistic views, no sensitiveness about girlish innocence and what might be considered impropriety. So he was strongly equipped for furthering his requirements; moreover, he had the mighty power of the Christian creed and the glory of its apostles on his side, so far as hypocritical protestations could make them useful to him.
Old Everard was leaning over the table, swearing like a genuine ’Frisco shellback, as they entered the parlour.
“Thought you’d cleared out for the evening,” said he, as he stared querulously into his daughter’s face. He was too drunk to notice her terrified, helpless expression as he staggered to his feet. He had suddenly sighted Koo Macka, who stood erect, standing with all his grand insignias of Rajahship behind the girl. “Glad to see you, bully boy! Bless me soul, I thought that the girl had made a bolt, and blowed if she hadn’t rushed out at hearing yer footsteps. She’s a bit gone on you already, eh? Nothing like a woman’s ears when they want to hear!”
The old man gave Macka a friendly nudge and at once lifted a bottle and began to pour out a tumblerful of Parsons’s best Bougainville Three Star.
So did the Rajah once more enter Gabrielle’s home and gaze with his magnetic eyes at the girl on that very night when she had promised to meet Hillary!