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IN THE SOUTH SEAS

PAGE Editorial Note ix

LETTERS FROM SAMOA 351

EDITORIAL NOTE

IN THE SOUTH SEAS

PART I

THE MARQUESAS

IN THE SOUTH SEAS

AN ISLAND LANDFALL

That I should thus have reversed the verdict of Lord Tennyson's hero is less eccentric than appears. Few men who come to the islands leave them; they grow grey where they alighted; the palm shades and the trade-wind fans them till they die, perhaps cherishing to the last the fancy of a visit home, which is rarely made, more rarely enjoyed, and yet more rarely repeated. No part of the world exerts the same attractive power upon the visitor, and the task before me is to communicate to fireside travellers some sense of its seduction, and to describe the life, at sea and ashore, of many hundred thousand persons, some of our own blood and language, all our contemporaries, and yet as remote in thought and habit as Rob Roy or Barbarossa, the Apostles or the Caesars.

The first experience can never be repeated. The first love, the first sunrise, the first South Sea island, are memories apart and touched a virginity of sense. On the 28th of July 1888 the moon was an hour down by four in the morning. In the east a radiating centre of brightness told of the day; and beneath, on the skyline, the morning bank was already building, black as ink. We have all read of the swiftness of the day's coming and departure in low latitudes; it is a point on which the scientific and sentimental tourist are at one, and has inspired some tasteful poetry. The period certainly varies with the season; but here is one case exactly noted. Although the dawn was thus preparing by four, the sun was not up till six; and it was half-past five before we could distinguish our expected islands from the clouds on the horizon. Eight degrees south, and the day two hours a-coming. The interval was passed on deck in the silence of expectation, the customary thrill of landfall heightened by the strangeness of the shores that we were then approaching. Slowly they took shape in the attenuating darkness. Ua-huna, piling up to a truncated summit, appeared the first upon the starboard bow; almost abeam arose our destination, Nuka-hiva, whelmed in cloud; and betwixt and to the southward, the first rays of the sun displayed the needles of Ua-pu. These pricked about the line of the horizon; like the pinnacles of some ornate and monstrous church, they stood there, in the sparkling brightness of the morning, the fit signboard of a world of wonders.

There was a convulsive agony in the boy's white, strained face as he drew himself up, and looked half piteously, half indignantly at his judge. But when he tried to speak he could not, and there was a minute or two's dead silence whilst he was struggling to obtain the mastery over himself. All expected a confession, and General Luxton removed his eyes from the prisoner, and bent close over his papers, that none might read the compassion which was in his heart, and which was reflected in his face.

The words came at last; and shrill and incoherent though they were, there was a ring of genuine dignity in them.

"General Luxton, I have been guilty neither of cowardice nor falsehood. I swear before God, on the sword which my father himself put into my hands before I left England; by everything that is most holy to me I swear that my account of this awful occurrence is true. Ask the men of whom I was in command when I caught sight of--of him"--and he pointed with a trembling finger and a gesture than which nothing could have been more dramatic to his half-brother--"ask them whether I bore myself like a coward when those spears were whistling around us, or when we were fighting hand-to-hand after the first repulse. God knows that I did not. I left my post to encounter a greater danger still. Bitterly do I regret that I ever did so; but it is the only indiscretion of which I am guilty. I swear it."

General Luxton raised his head, and what there had been of compassion in his face was either gone or effectually concealed.

"You have sworn enough already," he said, sternly. "Herbert Devereux, I am bitterly disappointed in you. I was willing to spare your father the disgrace which I fear will kill him; but you cut away the ground from under my feet. You are most certainly proved guilty of gross cowardice in the face of the enemy found guilty, not upon the evidence of one man, but of two, and one of those your own relative. Circumstances, too, are strong against you, so are the probabilities. Most undeniably and conclusively you are found guilty; guilty of cowardice, guilty of falsehood. You will remain under arrest until I can find an opportunity of sending an escort with you to the Hekla. Your commission is forfeited to the Queen, whose uniform you have disgraced."

Never a sign of guilt in the prisoner's countenance. Proudly and indignantly he looked his General straight in the face, his cheeks red with a flush, which was not of shame, and the wild fury in his heart blazing out of his eyes.

"It is not I who have disgraced the Queen's colours; but he--he who has fabricated and sworn to a false string of lies. Rupert, in your heart alone is the knowledge of why you have done this thing. But some day you shall tell me--or die."

There was something intensely dramatic in the passionate bitterness which vibrated in the shrill boyish tone, and, as though moved by a common impulse, every one in the tent followed that threatening gesture. But the face of Rupert Devereux was little like the face of a guilty man. He looked somewhat agitated, and a good deal pained; but although he was the cynosure of all eyes, he turned never a shade the paler, nor flinched once from the passionate fire which was leaping from the eyes of the young prisoner. He seemed as though about to make some reply; but the General raised his hand.

"Remove the prisoner."

There was a sudden commotion, for, with a deep, despairing groan, and arms for a moment lifted high above his head, he had staggered backwards and sunk heavily to the ground in a dead swoon. What wonder! He was but a boy after all.

"Herbert! Why, Herbert! Good God! where did you spring from? Are you invalided?"

The moonlight was streaming in through the high oriel windows of the long picture-gallery, glittering upon the armour and crossed weapons which hung upon the walls, and casting fantastic rays down the polished oak floor. Colonel Sir Francis Devereux dropped the cigar which he had been peacefully smoking, and brought to a sudden halt his leisurely perambulation of this his favourite resort. Before him, with drooping head, with sunken cheeks, and with deep black rims under his eyes, stood his son Herbert, who, only a few months ago, had departed on his first campaign, a happy, careless young sub. Was it, indeed, his son, or was it a ghost that had stolen upon him out of the gloomy shadows of the vast gallery?

"Invalided! Would to God that I was dead!" broke from the boy's quivering lips. "Father, I have brought disgrace upon you--disgrace upon our name." And he stretched out his hands towards the long line of pictured warriors, who seemed to be frowning down upon him from the wall. "Disgrace that you will never forgive, never pardon."

Like a statue of stone the proud old soldier stood while he listened to his son's story. Then, with a half-smothered groan, he deliberately turned his back upon him.

"Father," he pleaded, "listen to me. Before heaven I swear that I am innocent. Rupert lied. Why, I don't know, but he lied. I never felt fear."

His father turned half round.

"You have been put on your defence. General Luxton would never have found your father's son guilty of cowardice had there been room for doubt. The charge was proved against you in court-martial."

"But, father, it was because they believed Rupert and his man. The only two other men who saw the struggle are dead."

Colonel Devereux turned away and buried his face in his hands.

"A Devereux guilty of cowardice!" he groaned. "My God! that it should have been my son!"

Then with a sudden movement he turned round. His son had sunk upon his knees before him, and the moon was throwing a ghastly light upon his haggard, supplicating face.

"Out of my sight, and out of my heart for ever, Herbert Devereux!" cried his father, his tones vibrating with a passionate contempt. "You have brought disgrace upon a stainless name. Curse you for it, though you be a thousand times my son. You shall not sleep under this roof again. Begone! Change your name, I command you! Forget that you are a Devereux, as I most surely shall. Turn linen-draper, or man-milliner, or lawyer, what you will so that I never see or hear from you again. Begone, and curse you."

Scathing and vibrating with scorn though the words were, they seemed to touch a chord in the boy's heart, not of humiliation, but of righteous anger. He sprang to his feet, and held himself for a moment as proudly as any of his armoured ancestors who looked down from the walls upon father and son.

"I will go, then," he cried, firmly. "It is right that I should go. But, after all, it is false to say that I have disgraced your name. It is Rupert who has done this."

He turned and walked steadily away, without a backward glance. Out of the swing doors on to the broad staircase, he passed along noble corridors, between rows of marble statues, down into the mighty dome-like hall, and out of the house which he had loved so well. And the servants, who would have pressed forward to welcome him, hung back in fear, for there was that in his face which they shrunk from looking upon. Out into the soft summer night he stepped, heedless of their wondering glances, and down the broad avenue he hurried, never pausing once to breathe in the balmy night wind, heavy with the odour of sweet-smelling flowers, or to listen to the nightingale singing in the low copse which bordered the gardens. Through a low iron gate he stepped into the park, and walked swiftly along, never glancing to the right or to the left at the strange shadows cast by the mighty oak-trees on the velvety turf, or at the startled deer, who sprung up on every side of him and bounded gracefully away, or at the rabbits who were scampering about all around in desperate alarm; once he had loved to watch and to listen to all these things; but now he felt only a burning desire to escape from them, and to find himself outside the confines of the home which he was leaving for ever. And not until he had reached the last paling, and had vaulted into the broad, white road, did his strength desert him. Then, faint and weary, and heartsick, he sank down in a heap on the roadside, and prayed that he might die.

A cloudless summer morning, with the freshness of dawn still lingering in the air. A morning which seemed about to herald in one of Nature's perfect days, on which to be sad were a crime, and to have troubles absurd. Already the dreamy humming of bees was floating in the atmosphere, and the lark had given place to noisier, if less musical, songsters. It was a glorious morning.

Over the low, iron gate of an old-fashioned garden a girl was leaning, her head resting lightly upon her hand, gazing across the pleasant meadows to the dark woods beyond, with a soft, far-away look in her grey eyes--for she was thinking of her lover. She was dressed in a blue print gown, which hung in simple folds around her straight, slim figure, and she had carelessly passed the long stalk of a full-blown red rose within her waistband. It was a very pleasant view that she was admiring; but any casual spectator would have declared that she was the most charming object in it.

And there was a spectator, although not a casual one. Suddenly, like a ghost, the figure of her dreams stood before her. Pale, haggard, and dishevelled-looking, he seemed to have risen out of the very ground; and it was very little to be wondered at that, at first, she shrunk back alarmed.

"Herbert! Herbert! can it really be you?"

He never answered her; but, as the first surprise began to fade away, she moved forward, and would have thrown herself into his arms. But he stopped her.

"Keep back, Marian," he cried, hoarsely; "keep away from me! I have come to bid you good-bye."

A swift, sudden fear drove the colour from her cheeks, and chilled her through and through; but she faltered out an answer.

"Good-bye, Herbert! What do you mean? Oh, tell me what has happened, quick!"

"The one thing worse than death, Marian--disgrace!"

And then, with his face turned away, and his eyes resting wearily on the picturesque landscape, he told her his story.

The last word had left his quivering lips, and he stood as though in a dream. The worst was over. He had told his father, and he had told her. It seemed like the end of all things to him.

Suddenly a pair of white arms were thrown around his neck, and a great red rose was crushed to pieces against his waistcoat.

"Herbert! oh, Herbert! how dreadful! Don't look like that, you frighten me!"

He was striving to free himself, but she would not let him go.

"Dearest, you don't understand! This is ruin to me. My father has turned me from the house, commanded me to bear another name, disowned me. Be brave, Marian, for we must part. I am here only to tell you this, and to bid you farewell."

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