The parsonage at Wailoa could never have been placed or built by any one of the Reverend Spener"s level temperament. He had never found anything but a grievance in the fact that he should have to dwell so far aloft from routine affairs in a spot of the wildest and most romantic beauty.
The village itself lay hidden below and to the left, at the mouth of the valley, whence the smoke of its hearths rose as incense. Half-way up the winding track stood his little chapel in a grove of limes. And here on a higher terrace of the basalt cliff, like an eyrie--or, perhaps more fittingly, a swallow"s nest--was perched the pastor"s home. The lush growth of an untamed jungle ma.s.sed up to its step; beetling heights menaced it from behind; and always, at all seasons, a rushing mountain torrent in the ravine beside made its flimsy walls to thrill, disturbing its peace with musical clamor.
That stream should have been indicted for trespa.s.s and disorder by the worthy pastor"s way of thinking. Somehow all the unruly and wayward elements of his charge seemed to find expression in those singing waters, which were not to be dammed or turned aside. From the veranda-rail one might lean and toss anything--a pa.s.sion-flower--into the current and follow it as it danced away down the broken slide, lost here and there amid mists and milky pools and the shadowing tangle of lianas s.n.a.t.c.hed at last through a chute and over a sheer outfall, to reappear some minutes later as a spark in the fret of the surf far below.
Standing there at the verge of the world, Miss Matilda watched the day"s end. For a time the bright gates stayed open at the end of an unrolled, flaming carpet across the sea, then slowly drew in, implacably swung to, while the belated spirit sprang hurrying forward--too late. With an almost audible brazen clang they closed, and Miss Matilda drew back, chilled, as the veranda shook to a heavy footfall....
"Ah, Captain Gregson--step up, sir!" Her father"s voice was unctuous with welcome as he hastened to meet the ponderous bulk that loomed through the dusk. "Happily met, sir. You are just in time to join us at prayers. I believe you must know my daughter--Matilda?"
It was strange to hear the pastor use such a tone with such a visitor, and stranger still to see the a.s.surance with which Captain Gregson entered the parsonage, where he had never until now set foot.
"Evening, Pastor. Just a moment. That path--pretty tough on a chap who"s used--ship"s deck as much as I have, d"y" see? Very kind, I"m sure. Very kind and neighborly. And this--Miss Matilda, if I may say so bold....
Very proud to know you, ma"am. Proud and happy."
He made her his bow, plying a broad straw hat and a billowy handkerchief of tussore silk. She found herself answering him. And presently--most singular thing of all--he had properly ensconced himself by the tall astral lamp like one of the family circle, balancing a Testament on his knee and reading his verse in turn with surprising facility....
Captain Hull Gregson was one of those men apparently preserved in lard, whose shiny, tanned skin seems as impervious as Spanish leather alike to age and to rude usage. But if his years were indeterminate, his eyes were as old as blue pebbles. By those eyes, as by his slow, forceful speech and rare gesture, as by a certain ruthless jut of jaw, was revealed the exploiter, the conquering white that has taken the South Pacific for an ordained possession.
He had led a varied and more or less picturesque career up and down the warm seas. He had been a copra buyer through black Melanesia in the open days; had owned his ships and sailed them after labor in the Archipelago with a price on his head and his life in his hand. And now, rich in phosphate shares and plantation partnerships, a sort of comfortable island squire, he had retired to peaceful Wailoa at last as a quiet corner where business was play and the hot roll dropped on time from the breadfruit-tree. So much was said of him, and it was not considered the part either of wisdom or of island etiquette to say much more--nor was much else required to set him in his place. Certainly he might have seemed somewhat out of it now. The type does not pervade the parlors of the missionaries as a rule.
But Captain Gregson turned it off very well. Once he had recovered his breath, and a purplish haze had cleared from his face, he comported himself easily, even impressively, neither belittling nor forcing the social event, the while that Pastor Spener beamed encouragement and smoothed a complacent brow....
"It"s like I told you to-day, Pastor. The notion came to me like that--I"ve been a bad neighbor. There"s so few of us marooned here, like. I said to myself--where"s the use of being strangers, hey? Why not get neighborly with those good folks and help along that good work of faith and righteousness. Why not, hey--?"
He spoke with an effect of heartiness that delighted the Reverend Spener, and that fell on the ear of the Reverend Spener"s daughter as hollow as a drum.
"Why not, indeed?" echoed the pastor.
"So many places you find a kind of feud betwixt the commercial people and the mission people," continued Captain Gregson. "Where"s the sense of it? I believe in you, Pastor, and your work and your church. Yes, and I feel the need of the church myself, and a chance to visit a fine respectable home like this.... Why shouldn"t I have it?"
Miss Matilda carefully avoided looking toward him, where he sat wedged between the fragile bamboo what-not and the lacquer tabouret, well knowing that she must cross his smoldering gaze and shunning it.
"And perhaps, by the same token, perhaps you might need me too and not know it," he continued. "I"ve a notion I might be of some service to the cause, d"y see?"
"Undeniably, Captain," said the pastor, eagerly. "A man so influential--so experienced as yourself--"
"Could help, hey? It"s what I think myself. I could. Why even now I"ll lay I could tell you matters--things going on right under your nose, so to speak--that you"d hardly dream yourself."
"Among my people?" asked the pastor, wrinkling.
"Aye. Right among your own people--at least some of the wild ones that you want to be most careful of. They"re a devilish bold, sly lot for all their pretty ways--these brown islanders--an astonishing bold lot. You"d hardly believe that now, would you--?" His voice dragged fatly. "Would you--Miss Matilda?"
Taken aback, she could not speak, could scarcely parry the attack with a vague murmur. She feared him. She feared that slow, glowering and dangerous man, whose every word came freighted with obscure and sinister meaning. The instinct dimly aroused by her glimpses of him had leapt to vivid conviction. She knew that he was staring across the room; staring avidly at the fresh whiteness of her there, the precise, slim lines of her dress, the curve of her neck, the gleam of her low-parted hair. And it seemed as if he were towering toward her, reaching for her with hot and pudgy hands--
But he had merely risen to take his leave.
"Well, I won"t be lingering, Pastor," he said. "Not this time. You stop by my shack to-morrow, and we"ll talk further. Maybe I might have some facts that would interest you. What I really came for to-night was to bring a bit of news."
"News?" blinked the pastor.
"You should go below and look to your chapel," chuckled Gregson. "I minded what you said about new lamps being wanted, d"y" see? And so I made bold to hang two fine bra.s.s lights in the porch there myself--as a gift-offering."
"For us! For the church--?"
"Aye. It"s a small thing. But I"ve noticed myself lately how those lamps were needed." He paused. "That"s a plaguey dark place for lurking and loitering--that chapel porch."
He was gone; the Reverend Spener had returned from escorting him to the step and was still formulating praise and grat.i.tude; but Miss Matilda had not stirred.
"Matilda--! I"m speaking to you. I say--we"ve been less than just to Captain Gregson, don"t you think? Really, a most hearty, true gentleman.
Did I tell you he"s settled the difficulty with Jeremiah"s Loo offhand?
Oh, quite. One word from him, and they"re asking for a church wedding now. And there are other things I might tell you as well--"
She turned to look full at her father.
"There is one thing I wish you might tell me. What did you bring that man here for?"
The pastor went a pinker shade.
"I didn"t bring him. He came of his own motion. He desired most earnestly to come."
"You gave him permission?"
"I did; after he had explained--after he showed me--Matilda.... The short of it is, we"ve wronged Captain Gregson. You have heard that he used to live with a native girl on Napuka?"
"Everybody has heard it."
"Well," said the pastor, solemnly, "he was married to that girl. I"ve seen the certificate--quite regular--signed by the Moravian missionary.
There were no children, and also--and also my dear, he is now free. He received word by yesterday"s schooner of the death of--er--Mrs. Gregson.
You see?"
"Ah--!" breathed Miss Matilda, who did indeed begin to see.
He laid a hand on her arm and gave way at last to a paternal quaver.
"Matilda, my child--for you are still a child in many things--I have taken anxious thought for you of late. Very anxious thought. You must trust me, my dear. Trust me to do the best for your welfare--and happiness too--as always. Good night!"...
He left her a dry kiss and a fervent blessing and they parted; the pastor to write a particularly hopeful mission report, and this child of his--who was, by the way, twenty-nine years old--to keep a last tryst with a lawless and forbidden love. She knew it must be the last. For the previous one, two nights before, had been held in the porch of the chapel--in that same dark porch so benevolently, so deceitfully endowed by Captain Hull Gregson....
[Ill.u.s.tration:
_A Rex Ingram--Metro Picture._
_Where the Pavement Ends._
A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.]