He fought a short, fierce, bitter battle with himself. He closed his eyes and struggled to hold himself rigid, immovable. And he won. Loring struck another match, and Vanya moved silently away.
The cobra was slipping quietly into the brush, but Mark scarcely noticed it. He was half-exhausted, almost panting, as if from actual physical exertion. Had Vanya really leaned against him in the darkness for a bare instant longer than necessary to regain her balance? Had she? He didn't know. It was probably that haunting imagination of his again—like his impression of her smile when the boat sailed out of Honolulu Bay.
"Whew!" said Loring, and cooly resumed his walking.
"I wonder if she ever really smiles," thought Mark.
They emerged into the Cove clearing. A hundred feet away the yellow light of the door of the Diver's Helmet shone; inside Mark could distinguish Hong and another man, a white man, talking at the bar.
Vanya left Mark and Loring without a word and walked quickly across the clearing into the building.
Loring paused; Mark perforce following suit.
"I'll leave you here," the beachcomber said.
"I owe you a bottle," recalled Mark. "Don't you want to come in and collect?"
"No, thanks, not tonight . . . That," said Loring, indicating the figure in the lighted room, "is Pearly Shene."
QUARRELS
"So that's Pearly Shene!" thought Mark as he walked out of the Diver's Helmet. It was the morning following the debacle of the native dance, and he was still a trifle angry with himself for his own part in the fiasco, and still pettishly displeased with the part Vanya had played. He wanted nothing less than to be under obligations to the girl who had so consistently displayed her aversion to him. And yet there he was. Disgusting situation!
He had spent some time, after Vanya's departure the previous evening, discussing the matter with Percy Loring.
"Were we really in any considerable danger?" he had asked.
"Figure it out for yourself," had been the beachcomber's reply. "The Tongans are not what you'd call exactly civilized. Accidents have occurred before now to white men in their hands. I'm not saying they would have done us in; but I'm not guaranteeing that they wouldn't."
'You think they might have taken the chance, then," said Mark moodily. It was not at all pleasing to him; it rather certified his unwanted obligation to Vanya.
"Well, we committed a grave enough crime against their customs, didn't we? Even civilized people are sensitive about acts they consider sacrilege. And as to taking a chance"—Loring shook his head —"How much of a chance would they really have been taking?"
He lifted a pebble in his bare brown toes and flipped it into the water.
"Looks at the facts," he continued. "True, Tonga's a British possession, and I'm British. But do you think the Governor at Taulanga would call out the navy over the disappearance of a beachcomber, a drunken wreck—even though he had claimed to be the last Loring of Abbeycroft?"
His voice had taken on that familiar sneering edge of self-indictment.
"And as for you, you're not a British subject, and besides—I'll wager not a soul knows you're here, except Hong, and he'd be very apt to report your disappearance—just the way he'd report mine."
His words had struck home; Mark had realized his neglect; he hadn't dropped a line to his family in weeks, not since this crazy obsession had taken hold of him.
"No," concluded Loring, with a keen glance at Mark, "much as you hate to admit it, you owe the lady a debt of gratitude. And I must say you took a deuced queer way of expressing it."
"I didn't hear any voluble thanks from you," Mark objected.
"She doesn't like me," said the beachcomber briefly.
When Mark had returned to the hotel—if the Diver's Helmet might be dignified by that name—the bar had been deserted. Vanya, no doubt, had retired, and Hong and Pearly Shene were absent as well. He had found his way to his own room by the light of a dim lamp, and spent much of the night in bitter reflections. His pride had been given a painful blow.
CHAPTER XV
Now, on the following morning, he had met the redoubtable Pearly Shene for the first time. A sandy haired giant of a man, with a massiveness nearly equal to the elephantine Hong, but of different nature, hard, powerful, muscular. A great pearl in a ring on his left hand and another, as large as a small walnut (but imperfect) in a pin on his dirty shirt-front, had given the man his nickname, Mark judged. He had accepted Mark's greeting with a casual grunt, but had looked him over suspiciously with his cold, impersonal eyes.
So Mark wandered out into the morning not at all pleased with himself. He looked over the usual scene of shore and ocean; Loring was munching a breadfruit, lying on his back with one knee over the other, swinging a bare foot, beneath the tree he called home. He looked up at Mark's approach.
"She's out on the point," he said with a grin, indicating the coral spit with a swing of his brown foot.
Mark followed the gesture with his eyes. A white figure sat at the far end of the reef, staring out with chin on cupped hands at the slow heave of the waves of the blue Pacific. Even at that not inconsiderable distance, Mark could see the glint of the sun on her iridescent black hair.
"That's one place I'm not going," he said in a firmly decisive voice, intended to convince himself.
"I'll lay you odds you do," laughed Loring.
"Confound your impertinence!" barked Mark. “After all, I owe her an apology for the way I acted last night."
"So you do," said Loring agreeably. 'You're becoming expert in excusing yourself to yourself, aren't you?"
"At least I try to follow the code of a gentleman."
"What code does a gentleman use," queried the beachcomber in a voice expressive of sardonic interest, "when he doesn't consider the lady a lady?"
"The code of ordinary human decency!" Mark snapped. "She's a human being."
"And a real pretty one," added Loring, "which, of course, has nothing to do with the code."
Mark turned sharply and walked away. He had at the moment no stomach for Loring's acid comments; the derelict's perception of his motives was too keen for his peace of mind.
Mark picked his way along the irregular ridged top of the coral reef, disturbing in his progress various gulls and beach birds that were resting there. His passage was accompanied by their raucous shrieks of protest.
His confidence waned as he approached Vanya. He had the feeling of having come off second best in each of their encounters to date, and he was beginning this meeting under a particularly heavy disadvantage. He had to begin with an apology.
The girl, after a single glance when the gulls had shrieked their anger, had taken no notice of his coming. She wore, Mark noticed, the same white breeches and trim brown boots that she had worn the previous night, but by daylight he could see that the breeches were mended, and the neat little boots rather scuffed and worn beneath their careful polish. Her bare arms and hands were a shade darker than they had been at their first meeting on the Orient. Mark thought the change rather becoming. He stood, finally, staring at her unresponsive back, wondering how to begin.
"Good morning," he said diffidently, by way of beginning the conversation.
Vanya turned her eyes toward him with a cool unfriendly glance. She said nothing in reply, and made no effort to ease the uncomfortable Mark.
"About last night," he said, "Loring tells me we might really have been in hot water, but for your interference. I guess I didn't act very grateful, but I wanted to let you know I appreciated your help."
Vanya continued to look at him with unchanging eyes. "I don't want nor expect any thanks from you," she said evenly.
Mark felt his temper rise again; this girl certainly possessed the knack of rubbing him the wrong way.
"I don't blame you," he said, controlling himself. "I acted like a fool."
"Do you expect me to deny that?" said his dark-haired companion tartly.
"No, I don't." Mark was seeing r
ed again. "I expected you to receive my apology in at least a spirit of understanding. I shouldn't have expected it, but I did.'
"Another example of your poor judgment," said Vanya.
"It was; I admit it."
"Are you as nasty throughout as you are on the surface?' asked Vanya. "I've been wondering if it's possible."
"Did you, by any chance, ever smile?" retorted Mark. "Or were you simply born soured on the whole world?"
"Do you know what you remind me of?" asked Vanya. "A Portuguese man-of-war that looks harmless enough, like an ordinary jellyfish; but, if you get too close, it's all poison and sting!"
"And you," countered Mark, "remind me of a package of arsenic done up in Christmas paper!"
"Would you mind," said Vanya wearily, "just leaving quietly? Your dear friend Loring is on the beach; I'm sure you'll find his company an improvement. You must have much in common with him."
"The company of Loring is a distinct improvement," concluded Mark viciously, "over that of a public entertainer, a dancer in Pearly Shene's dive!"
That remark cut; Mark saw with satisfaction the angry flush coloring Vanya's cheeks. She stared at him with tempestuous eyes so dark and bright that he suspected a rage of tears; she clenched her hands and, swallowed hard to contain her anger.
"Get out!" she ordered in a husky voice. "Keep away from me! Talbot, or whatever your name is, I hate you! Do you understand that? I hate you!"
Mark laughed down into her angry little face, turned on his heel and departed. It was not until he reached the sand of the beach that he looked back toward his late adversary; Vanya was sitting with her back to him and her face buried in her hands.
Loring was still sprawled beneath his domestic palm tree; the breadfruit had been replaced by a banana. He glanced at Mark's face as the latter approached.
"What's the matter?" he asked casually. "Wouldn't the lady listen to reason?"
"No, and that settles it!" flared Mark. "She'll have no more chances to make a fool of me."
"Permit me to doubt it."
"Doubt all you please. This finishes it!"
Loring waved an arm toward the horizon where a distant sail etched a faint square against the sky.
"That's the Ellice," he remarked. "She'll be here in a couple of hours. That means the lady in question will work tonight; aren't you going to watch her? "
"Oh, I'll watch her, all right," grunted Mark. "I'll watch her and laugh at her. I'll enjoy nothing so much as seeing her trying to please —it must quite nauseate her."
He stared angrily at the distant white figure of the girl on the reef. "And then," he continued, "I'm leaving! I'm through with Tonga; I'm off to new ports."
"Don't forget you owe me a quart," observed the beachcomber. "Where bound?"
"China!" said Mark savagely.
CHAPTER XVI
A LADY DANCES
"No," said Mark to Percy Loring, "we won't count these drinks against your quart. Tonight you're my guest. The quart is a separate proposition."
"A gentleman's proposition,” replied the beachcomber. "I accept with pleasure."
They sat at a side table in the Diver's Helmet which, for the first time in Mark's short experience, was well-crowded. The crew of the Ellice, lying at anchor in the cove beside Shene's Porpoise, filled the tables and kept Hong busy with their orders. Shene himself stood at the bar; Mark fancied his presence and giant strength were sometimes needed, for it was not a quiet gathering, though as yet a jovial one.
At the piano a small dark-haired man with pudgy hands—Shene's first mate on the Porpoise, according to Loring, was banging out automatic-sounding music with surprising facility. The pieces were ancient enough to Mark's experience, but they were popular melodies, and the crowd was not too critical.
There was a sudden burst of applause, calls of greeting, shouts of recognition, from the crowd. Mark looked up from his drink.
A girl, one of those Mark had seen on his first day at Shene's Cove, had emerged from a back room, and stood smiling beside the piano. She was dressed in costume consisting of a laced bodice and knee-length skirt ornamented with tarnished spangles; it reminded Mark of dance-hall costumes he had seen in Western moving pictures—the sort so popular with the kids in Spring Brook, Connecticut.
"Where do those girls keep themselves during the day?" he asked Loring. "I never see them."
"Oh, they visit around on the islands."
The piano struck up a tune, with a thrum of chords. The girl broke into a song, singing in a voice that seemed particularly unmusical to Mark's ears. The ballad was but an innocuous, sentimental affair, concerning itself with a longing for home and mother, but the crowd apparently liked it. A burst of applause greeted its conclusion, and the girl obligingly rendered an encore, breaking into a series of typical burlesque dance steps on the patter chorus. Not good, thought Mark, though he'd seen worse in the islands.
But the audience as a whole was well pleased. Applause and shouts of invitation greeted the conclusion of the second number. Cries of “Have a drink with us!" and "Sit at my table!" rose from the seamen. The girl chose her companion, and seated herself with a smile.
"Pretty bad," Mark observed to Loring.
"You're too critical," the other replied. "The performance pleased the audience; Pavlowa could do no more."
There was an interval of silence from the piano while its performer indulged in a drink or two at the bar. It was ten minutes perhaps before he returned to his post, and the second act in Shene's cabaret was on.
Another girl appeared; save for a different face and figure, and a different though equally inane song, her act might have been a repetition of the preceding performance. She sang and danced; after the appreciative applause, she danced and sang. Mark had seen the same thing a score of times in his wanderings about the South Seas. Her encore ended, she followed her co-performer among the tables; her shrill laughter mingled with the general hubbub.
There followed another interval of silence.
"How much of this?" asked Mark of Loring.
"Getting impatient? Don't fret —your scornful princess is next. She's the sole remaining member of Shene's staff of entertainers."
"How is Vanya? Better than these?"
Loring shrugged.
"A matter of opinion. Don't you think the present audience would prefer a burlesque show to grand opera? Personally, I think Vanya deserves a better setting than this."
"Artistically she may," granted Mark, thinking of his unpleasant encounter of the morning.
"That's all I refer to. I never judge morals."
Mark called Hong for another' drink ; he purposely ordered the rounds singly, as he had no desire to provide Loring with the means of another such fracas as the one of two nights before—at least, not until he himself was ready to leave.
"Did I tell you," he asked Loring, "that I'm marooned here for a while? I inquired of Shene this afternoon, and the next decent connection I can make is the mail packet at Taulanga — just one month from yesterday."
Loring laughed cynically.
"I'm glad to hear it. You've been a fine prospect for me; I haven't lived so well since I accidentally found a pearl in an oyster I was expecting to eat—and that was two years ago."
"Why the dubious laugh, then?" queried Mark.
"It just seemed to me that if you wanted to leave badly enough you could manage. The Ellice sails for Suva in a day or two; you might find a China-bound tramp there."
"I could manage to make China," said Mark crossly. "I want to go to Honolulu; I've changed my mind—I'm going home!"
"What's the matter — disgusted with the South Seas?"
"Disgusted with the mess I made of a voyage intended to be a pleasure trip."
"Maybe the trouble is with your conception of pleasure," said Loring. “Now, take my attitude —Look! There she is!"
Another burst of applause swept the room. Mark looked around with a curious, thrilling palpitation; Vanya stood beside
the piano, and — wonder of wonders! — she was smiling. It wasn't really a happy smile; Mark saw at a glance that her eyes retained their solemn depths, but at least the full, pouting lips were parted.
Mark muttered indistinctly, disregarding Loring's amused chuckle.
Vanya was wearing a very long, shimmering evening dress of silk or near-silk that dropped quite to the floor. If it had been pieced and mended here and there, the audience cared little; the sailors were content to accept the gown as the acme of luxury and fashion.
The piano sounded; Vanya began to sing. Another popular American ballad, but her voice was low in pitch, musical, and clear. Mark promptly forgot his threat to laugh at her, and indeed could do nothing but stare. Halfway through her song, the girl's eyes met his for an instant; he saw the faint flush and quick shifting of her gaze. He was thoroughly immersed in the song, thoroughly charmed.
"Her teeth are pretty," he murmured.
"Say," said Loring, "if you're looking for defects in the lady, you'll have to probe deeper than the physical."
The song ended; to Mark's surprise it received quite as much applause as the preceding acts. Vanya smiled, that same sombre smile, Mark thought, and bowed slightly in appreciation.
"See?" said Loring. "It's the lady's hauteur, her aloofness, her condescension, that gets the applause. It's a novelty in the islands; they like it."
"To say nothing of her looks, I 'suppose," Mark muttered.
There came a few inchoate chords from the piano; Vanya was giving an encore. To Mark's utter amazement, she sang the famous "Man Coer s'ouvre a ta Voix" from Samson and Delilah—in French! "My Heart at thy Sweet Voice", she sang, her eyes fixed darkly on the far wall; her accompanist obviously didn't know the melody, but his occasional "ad lib" chords were sufficient.
Mark stared and listened. Gradually Vanya's eyes seemed drawn to his, and she sang the final half of her song with her gaze fixed on his. He wondered if she had chosen the piece as a sardonic gibe at him; she sang it unsmiling, but clear and sweet.
The applause that she received was generous enough, but puzzled; doubtless the crowd was wondering if it were missing some subtle point.
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 95