Kat and Copy-Cat/Chapter 6
Dick had barely finished breakfast on the following morning when Evalani called to him through the ironwood screen, and he sprang to answer, knowing how anxious she would be to know exactly what had happened and where he had found the little boy; and sweeping aside the boughs he made his usual quick transit between his own lanai and that of his neighbor.
Evalani had already returned to her chair, where she was sitting with the little boy in her arms. When she looked up, he was shocked at the change which the terrible anxiety and suffering had brought into her face. She someway looked more frail and slight than he had ever seen her before, and her eyes were startlingly wide and dark circled. She looked up at him with a smile that was full of half tearful happiness. "Oh," she said, "how good you were! How shall I ever thank you? How shall I ever make you understand what you have done for me?" And she drew the child even closer to her bosom.
Dick stood before her trying to look as nonchalant and matter-of-fact as possible, with the intention of making as light as might be of the incidents of his recovery of the child, in order to lighten the grip of fear which possessed her. "I understand perfectly," he said. "It was a terrible experience for you; but it has all come out right now, so we have not a thing to worry about. He is quite all right this morning, isn't he?"
"Yes," she said, touching with her fingers the little flushed cheek; "he's perfectly all right. But, please, will you sit down and tell me exactly what happened. Of course he is too little for me to get anything definite from him at all."
And so Dick sat down and told his story, trying to make as light as possible of the occurrences and avoiding any mention whatever of the drowning episode until Evalani put the question directly to him. The boy had told her enough so that the point could not be evaded. However, Dick did not suggest that there might have been a real purpose back of the accident, but merely repeated Kat's explanation of how it happened.
When he had finished, an added terror seemed to have come into Evalani's eyes. "She did it on purpose!" she cried, passionately; "She tried to drown him! Oh, my God, how could she? How could she? A little helpless baby like this. It was Kat that made her do it. Kat always makes her do the dirty work. Oh, how terrible! And she knew that she was safe because I am helpless!" and the girl clasped her hands in agony.
Dick drew his chair close to hers. "Now listen, little girl," he said soothingly; "You mustn't let go like this. The danger is past for the present, and we have got to keep our heads if we don't want anything to happen in the future. I really do not think that Calista actually tried to drown him. It very probably came about just as Kat said; that she took him out just for fun, and a wave washed him away from her."
"No, no!" The girl shook her head in violent protest. "No, I say! She did it on purpose."
"But listen, child," he said, pleadingly; "We must use judgment here, and not let fear magnify things out of all proportion. Can't you see that there was no reason, no purpose in anything like that, when all that McKnight wanted of the baby was to take him home to his mother? The girls would, obviously, have done nothing to circumvent that, when they were trying to help him. You must use your own judgment here, and not imagine unreasonable and baseless things."
"Did Kat say that was what they wanted him for?" asked Evalani, leaning forward tensely.
"Yes, she told us all about it, and made a very pathetic little story of it, by the way."
"And you believed it?"
"Why yes. There doesn't seem to be anything else to believe. That is the only possible motive for his stealing the child, unless it was merely for revenge for what he might term an indirect injury received through you, and that is rather too far-fetched a theory to be really considered. But, anyway, there is no use in speculating about it, now that it is all over. He won't try it again, this turned out too much of a fiasco. And, besides, I'm going to take better care of you both from now on, and there is going to be absolutely no more pilikia;" and he leaned forward and smiled at her reassuringly.
The girl drew a long breath and released the youngster who had become weary of her confining arms; and they both sat looking at him silently as he raced about the lanai, chasing the great, brilliantly colored rubber ball and laughing hilariously.
At last Evalani turned to Dick again. "You said that Mrs. Sands was with you, that she helped you. What does she think? What does she know?"
Dick remained silent for a moment. "I am sorry," he said; "but I had no other choice than to tell her what had happened. There was no way to find out where the Morton girls had gone, without her help. I was absolutely at sea. But you may depend upon her silence. She will be a veritable closed book."
The girl sat contemplating her small brown hands. "But what does she know? What does she think—after seeing my child?" she persisted.
Dick hesitated. "Well—" he said, "We discussed it very little."
"It was all so self-evident," said the girl, somewhat bitterly.
Dick's eyes followed the child. There seemed no answer to make.
The girl's mouth twitched into her pathetic little smile as she looked at the romping, tow-headed baby. "Yes," she said; "the conclusive evidence is there, isn't it? There is only one thing to think. Please, Mr. Harris, do you mind if I go to my room now? I—I'm afraid that I didn't sleep much last night. Will you come again this evening? And then I will not be such hopelessly poor company." And Dick rose obligingly and returned to his own lanai, where he tried to gather together the loose ends of his work and bring them into some semblance of order.
When Moto came in, he questioned him about the fire of the day before; only to find, as he had expected, that its origin was a mystery. It had started under the farther end of Evalani's lanai, in a position which was difficult of access. The old grandmother remembered afterward that she had heard sounds under that portion, but had supposed that it was a mongoose and had paid no attention. As soon as the smoke warned them, they had all rushed out to assist in extinguishing it, and the two women and Fong and Moto had formed a sort of bucket brigade and worked madly until it was out. Moto had called to the man who had been waiting for Dick, to come and help them; but he, supposedly, had gone, and there was no time to think more about him just then. The dog had remained chained, and very naturally had barked wildly throughout the excitement. Later, when the women went into the house and found that the little boy was missing, Moto remembered about the man, and when he told Mrs. Malua, it had frightened her desperately, because she was at once sure that he had taken the boy; though Moto could not imagine why she should think that, when it was more likely that the youngster had wandered out and got lost or fallen over the pali. Anyway, Mrs. Malua and Fong and the old grandmother had gone out to look for him and left Moto to guard both houses and to give the message to Dick as soon as he should arrive; as there was no other way of having the search taken up in Honolulu, since Fong and his old Ford car would be of little use in making the necessary investigations and search.
And that evening, when Dick went over with some new magazines, the subject of the kidnapping was tacitly avoided; and in a few days their association had slipped comfortably back into the old groove; and although Evalani still showed a tendency to be always watching and listening for some ominous event, yet her old poise soon came back and even her merry moods returned and she seemed almost like her old self.
Occasionally, when Dick went to town, he ran his car out to Waikiki to have a little visit with Bert Sands; but these visits became fewer and farther between as he realized Bert's scarcely veiled impatience that he had as yet done nothing toward bringing about an interview between Mrs. Walters and Evalani. Bert averred that the Morton girls were still working their hardest to get their aunt's promise to take them upon the European trip, and that she feared, every time that she went there, to hear the announcement that they had won out and that the trip was a settled affair.
"Well, why not?" argued Dick. Why wouldn't it be a good idea for her to go, and get away from the associations which constantly recalled her sorrow and her loss? Furthermore, this would take the Morton girls away, as well; which was certainly to be desired, since they seemed to hold a bitter grudge against the Hawaiian girl and her child; and whatever its cause, with them out of the way, there would certainly be less worry and trouble for all concerned.
Whereupon, Bert quite lost her temper. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "The dumb stupidity of men! Can't you see that those two girls are after her fortune and nothing else? She does everything for them now, because their father isn't worth shucks; and if they once get her over there alone, away from everybody, who knows what will happen to her, or what will happen here before she gets back? Can't you see—" Here Bert stopped in utter exasperation. "Oh, what's the use!" she cried; "I can't get it over to you; and meanwhile, with every opportunity, you just play around like a moke and don't do a thing!—And that poor old woman just grieving her heart out day and night! It's abominable!"
Dick rose up more puzzled and worried than angry. "Well," he said, "I can't for the life of me see what Evalani can tell her that will help any. If the girl's dead, she's dead, and I should think that it would be a lot better for the mother to try to put it out of her mind; than to rake it all up again now, by talking over how it happened and all that sort of thing."
"Put it out of her mind! A lot you know about mothers!" sniffed Bert. "Can't you see what it means to have a child walk right out of your life like that, and you never to know one thing of what happened from the last moment that you saw her? Where she went, what she thought, what she suffered!"
"But," said Dick, "what would Evalani know about all that? She saw her the day before, but not on the day that she disappeared."
"Well, even then," persisted Bert, "she talked over with her—she must have—the whole situation. Perhaps she even begged Evalani to marry David, since he had sworn never to give her up; for it was after this talk that she came down and told her mother that Evalani was to marry him the next evening. If that were so, wouldn't the mother want to be told of the self-sacrifice of her child, who could give up the man whom she loved, for his happiness; and then die herself because she could not bear to live and see that happiness? Hasn't the mother a right to the bit of pride which might come to her when she could say to herself, of her daughter, 'Greater love hath no man—'?"
"Do you think that is what happened?" asked Dick, gravely.
Bert tightened her lips. "How does anybody know what happened?" she returned; "But whatever it was, the girl's mother has a right to know absolutely all that there is to be known. Evalani will not answer her letters, and every time that I go there the poor woman asks me if you have done anything—and what can I tell her? And there you are, with all the chance in the world, and you do absolutely nothing."
Dick turned soberly toward the door. "I'll try my best," he said, dubiously, and went out to his car.
Bert followed him. "Don't think that I'm a regular grouch," she pleaded; "Only if you knew what that dear woman suffers, you would understand that I have to take up cudgels for her, or I never can go back and face her; and I have to go back because she needs me. Do make just one try, and then I won't bother you any more."
"All right," said Dick, "I'll do what I can; but somehow I haven't much hope;" and he drove away, turning over in his mind possible methods of approach to the subject, and what he could say to Evalani in mitigation of what seemed to him to be unwarranted interference with her affairs.
And so, that evening, as they sat in the dusk, he spoke casually of having seen Bert Sands that day; dwelling upon her bright and crisp personality and repeating an amusing little incident which she had told him. Then he purposely let the conversation lapse without changing the subject.
Naturally Evalani's thought continued to run along the same channel, and presently she spoke: "Was she very much surprised," she asked, "—the day when she helped you with little David—was she very much surprised—when she saw him?"
"Yes," said Dick. "That was to be expected, of course, when you know what people generally think."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing, that I remember. She just hugged him."
Evalani smiled.
"I wish that you wanted to know Bert Sands," ventured Dick.
But Evalani shook her head quickly. "No, no!" she said; "I do not meet people—not anyone." And then she went on; "I suppose you think that it is rather dreadful that I should shield myself behind little David, at the cost of everyone thinking that he is—something shocking, when he is so beautiful."
Dick did not speak, and she continued. "It was a long time before I knew what they thought. I had only kept him to myself, as was my right. And when I found out what they were saying, at first it was dreadful and I felt like taking him out and showing him to everyone, so that they would know. But I couldn't. There wasn't any way that I could do it."
"You felt, I suppose," said Dick, "that the other blot would be harder for him to bear."
She looked over at him and sighed heavily. "What a queer, complicated world it is, isn't it?" she said.
"But I wonder if you have thought," Dick went on, "that you cannot keep him here this way always. That justice to him will require that he go and live in the world eventually, not always alone here upon a mountain."
"You wonder if I have thought of that?" she asked. "Have I thought of anything else all these years? I would go tomorrow if I could, but I cannot. The way isn't open yet. Just as soon as I can find some possible chance, I shall take him to the Coast and we will live like other people, where no one will ever know us. Oh, sometimes it seems to me that I cannot wait until the time comes. When he is just a little older, I can put him in school and earn my own living and his; but he is too little now, for me to leave, and so I have to wait. But it is hard, hard!" and she clasped her hands tightly.
"Could you not—" Dick hesitated, "—Would not your income go on just the same if you went to the Coast?"
"No," Evalani shook her head. "David left nothing, and—and—Mr. Walters—" She said the name with a bit of difficulty which Dick understood, "He has lost a great deal of money in the last few years, and here our expenses are very small. It would cost a great deal more if we lived anywhere else. And besides—" she halted for a moment, "he feels differently about me since—since Jean went. I suppose that he feels that I was some way to blame and he resents me and—and my baby. Oh, I will be so, so unspeakably glad when I can go to work for myself and my boy."
"But," said Dick, "how can he resent that little boy? Surely no one could see him and not love him."
"Oh," said Evalani, "Mr. Walters has never seen him. He has never been here since my mother died. He doesn't care for me. He probably thinks about my baby what every one else thinks."
"The Morton girls know differently," averred Dick.
"Yes," said Evalani quietly, "They know now. They only suspected before. But they will never tell."
"Are you sure that they will not?" questioned Dick.
"Yes, I am sure," said Evalani, with a bitter little laugh. "I can safely trust them not to tell it, much as they would like to blacken my name with such a story."
"But why?" asked Dick.
Evalani only shook her head. "It would not work in with their plans and schemes," she said, "So you may surely trust them."
"Speaking of plans and schemes," rejoined Dick, grasping at the opening; "Bert Sands says that they are trying to get Mrs. Walters to take them to Europe for a year or so."
Evalani turned and looked at him, her eyes wide and gleaming in the dusk. "They are trying to get her to go to Europe with them?" she repeated slowly; "Oh, I hope not! Oh, she will not go, will she?"
"I don't know," said Dick; "Bert is afraid that she will."
"Afraid?" she questioned; "Mrs. Sands is afraid? What difference does it make to Mrs. Sands?"
"Only that she is so inordinately fond of Mrs. Walters, I suppose, and has so much sympathy for the poor lady. And, besides, she knows the Morton girls and their schemes, and she feels that it would scarcely be safe, perhaps."
"No," said Evalani, gravely, "it would not be safe. Tell Mrs. Sands to use all of her influence to keep her from going. Oh, don't let her go!" she burst out suddenly.
"Bert thinks that perhaps you are the only person who can influence her against it," said Dick, tentatively.
"I?" questioned Evalani, leaning forward tensely; "Mrs. Sands thought that I could influence her?"
"Yes," said Dick; "Mrs. Walters is so desperately anxious to talk with you about her daughter. It has grown into a positive obsession with her. Bert says that it is the only thing that she can think of or talk of. She seems to have a feeling that you can tell her something about her daughter's last hours, something that would be of comfort to her; and—and Bert said to tell you how the poor mother is still suffering, day and night, crying and praying; and that if you could tell her just some little thing, some little last intimate thing, about what Jean said on that interview before she went—something of her attitude, her feelings, something human for the mother to cling to, instead of that dreadful blank wall of utter blotting out; it seemed that it might help her. It might even help her to get back her grip upon herself and face life again."
"You mean," asked Evalani in a hushed voice, "that she is not quite herself now?"
"Not exactly that," said Dick; "But she is in a condition verging upon melancholia, from dwelling always upon that dreadful uncertainty as to what actually happened. If she could be given just a shred of something definite—if you could see her and tell her something about that last interview with her daughter, the day before you were married—"
But the girl threw up both hands as if to ward off something. "No, no, I cannot!" she cried; "Oh, I cannot do it!"
Dick bent nearer. "Not even for the sake of that poor, grieving woman?"
"I cannot!" cried Evalani, again. "You would not have me break my faith?"
Dick spoke gravely. "If there was a promise between you and one who has gone on, can you be sure that she would not gladly release you, if she could know how her mother is suffering, and how she will continue to suffer as long as she lives, unless she has some word to relieve the awful uncertainty?"
"But I cannot! I tell you I cannot! Oh, you don't understand!"
From the farther corner of the lanai, where the shade lay deepest and where the old grandmother always sat, came a long, low wail.
Evalani started and turned, and Dick strained his eyes into the gloom.
Again came the wail, long and eerie and broken by chanted words, like the Hawaiian wail for the dead. And out of the corner came the gaunt, dark form of the old woman, in her long black holoku, her arms waving back and forth over her head. Her voice raised to a higher pitched wail and she advanced menacingly toward Evalani, her words coming with catchings of breath and breaking of tone, as of one weeping and chanting at the same time. Evalani shrank away, her hands to her breast and the woman came and stood over her, continuing her chant, sometimes as if pleading, and again as if calling down maledictions upon the girl's head. For several moments the old woman stood above her, seemingly threatening, appealing, pouring forth a flood of rapid, wailing syllables; but the girl only shrank away and reiterated "I cannot! Oh, I cannot! There is no way! There is no way!"
Presently the old woman fell silent and stood staring down at the cowering girl. Then she shook her head slowly and taking up her wail again, she turned back to her corner and melted into the shadows. And the girl only sat with her face in her hands, sobbing heavily.
Dick rose up to go. "I am sorry," he said "I am afraid that I have precipitated something difficult for you. I didn't mean to interfere; but it was only that I thought perhaps you did not realize how much it might mean to the mother. I'll say no more, and we will forget it. Am I forgiven?"
The girl raised her head and swallowed several times. "I'm sorry, too," she said. "I suppose that I seem dreadfully heartless, dreadfully selfish; but truly, truly, Mr. Harris, there isn't any way. I'd do anything that I could—oh, I'd be so glad if I could do something—but it just isn't possible. Won't you try to believe that I would help if I could? Won't you tell Mrs. Sands that there—there isn't anything that I could tell Mrs. Walters—not anything—and that I cannot see her, not ever."
"I will tell her," said Dick, soberly; "And you may be sure that I shall not judge you for refusing. No one but yourself can know your problems as you, yourself do; and no one can know so well how best to deal with them. Goodnight, little neighbor;" and he bent over and touched her hair, softly; "Tomorrow this will never have happened, as far as I am concerned." But as he turned away, there came again from the dark corner the long wail of the Hawaiian woman, intermixed with the broken words of appeal and recrimination and sorrow.
The next day Dick went to see Mrs. Sands. He was particularly crisp in his greeting. "Now see here," he said at once, "I did what you wanted me to, and it didn't work, and started a hell of a rumpus. I'm out of it from now on. Anything that you can do is up to you; but for me, no more and nothing doing!"
Bert grinned. "What happened?" she asked.
"Whatever happened isn't for repeating," he stated; "but the fact remains that she won't see Mrs. Walters, and that is absolutely flat. Now let's talk about the weather."
"Only a word," pleaded Bert. "Can't you just tell me how she took it, whether the suggestion bothered her?"
"Oh, yes!" said Dick, "It bothered her all right enough; and then the old grandmother took a hand and did the heavy part."
"The old grandmother!" exclaimed Bert, eagerly; "What did she say?"
"I don't know what she said," protested Dick; "I don't understand Hawaiian; but it sounded as if she must have banshee blood back of her somewhere."
"She wailed?" asked Bert, breathlessly.
"Maybe that's what they call it, I don't know; but I'm not hankering to hear any more of it, I can tell you that. Now will you talk about the weather or won't you?" and he made as if to get up and depart.
"All right, all right!" agreed Bert, cheerfully; "We haven't had any rain for six weeks; also, I repeat what I said the other day about your stupidity. Sorry I messed things up for you, but me intintions was good, and I'm not harboring any ill will; so if you get into any more pilikias in your role of knight to the lady, just let me know, and I'll fly to the rescue, same as ever. Now let's have tea."
And Dick appreciatively drew up his chair and devoured buttered toast while he checked up with Bert on some of the mynah bird observations which she had been making for him. "Gee!" he said, at last, "You certainly are the finest chum that ever happened. If all women had as much sense as you have, we'd reach a mental millennium in about three generations." A statement to which Bert acquiesced with grinning enthusiasm and then dared him to a swim before he went back up the mountain.
And very soon again, Dick was living in his Land O'Dreams; shutting out all thought of possibly empty tomorrows, in the joy of todays full of the rapturous devotion of an all-absorbing love. And yet, close as their comradeship had become, he never put into words the faintest hint of his feeling toward her. The time had not come. He did not, himself, know what he was going to do about it and he feared to precipitate anything for which he was not prepared—which he would not know how to meet when it came, and concerning which he had no idea of her own attitude. She permitted the easy camaraderie, which might have existed between two children, so careless and unaffected was its nature; and yet, lying back of that, there was a certain quiet reserve and poise which meant that she was perfect mistress of herself and of the situation, and the tempo of their camaraderie was entirely subject to her regulation. But as time went on Dick found it more and more difficult to restrain the tenderness which welled up in him as he sat at dusk watching the small brown hands move over the strings of the steel guitar, bringing forth the plaintive strains which aroused in him a deeper yearning than he knew how to suppress. And then he would try to bring himself down to earth by introducing some commonplace subject for discussion, in order to herd himself away from dangerous ground. But never, even when he sat alone blowing the smoke of his cigar out across the valley, did he come out and fairly face the problem with all of its factors. He dared not. In the forefront of everything was the fact that he loved the girl intensely. Back of this loomed perplexing and menacing shadows of elements which threatened and appalled him. The girl's race, her ancestry upon both sides, her own blame in the tragedy which had blackened her life, the child of her fault—all of these spectres lurked and mouthed at him, ready, he knew, to come forth and torture him whenever he would turn his eyes upon them and thus permit them to come into the open and make their claims. Truly this mountain was well named Tantalus; for here, almost within his hand, was all that he asked of life; and yet, should he reach out his hand to take it, the dusky guardians would step forth and say "What of us?" And he dared not put his soul to the test of seeking an answer. And so he stayed in his Land O'Dreams and turned his back upon the dusky guard which ever dogged him.
It was some two weeks after little David's kidnapping that he crossed over to her lanai one early afternoon and found her sitting with the youngster nearly asleep in her arms, rocking softly back and forth and humming an old Hawaiian song. He came forward quietly and sat down near her, leaning back and watching her gently swaying figure and the curl of the soft hair at her slender neck, as she bent her head over the child. She looked only a child herself, with piquant features and the sweet clearness of her eyes as she glanced up at him and then back at the youngster's apple-blossom face. She brushed her hand across the velvet cheek and looked over at Dick again. "He is wonderfully fair, isn't he?" she said, seeming to marvel at the beauty of his baby skin.
Dick nodded his head sombrely. "Yes," he said, "he is very fair."
The girl seemed for the moment to be dreamily oblivious to everything but her momentary joy in the beauty of the child's coloring. "I suppose that it is quite natural that he should be so fair," she said, contemplatively; "being three-fourths white, you know."
Dick winced. "He is a very beautiful boy." he said, gravely.
Her arms tightened about the little one. "Yes," she said; "he is beautiful." And then, still gazing down at the child, she shook her head slowly. "Oh," she said, "if David had only waited! He is so beautiful—if he had only waited, perhaps—"
A wave of hot jealousy surged up over the man. "But he couldn't have waited!" he blurted out almost savagely. "No man with a spark of red blood in him could have waited—in the face of anything like that!"
The girl turned her face to him and her eyes were soft with tears; "But he didn't give me a chance!" she cried, brokenly; "He never let me tell him. He gave me no chance to confess. He judged me—"
"It was too late then for a confession," said Dick, grimly.
"But," said the girl, trying to swallow her tears; "if he had only known—if he had let me tell him how my love maddened me—"
"No man," interrupted Dick, bitterly, with a queer feeling that it was his own case that he was defending, not that of the dead man; "—no man is ever made lenient by being told how much his wife loves his rival."
"Oh-h!" moaned the girl, and bowed her head upon the child's fair hair. "Oh, it is useless, useless!" she cried out suddenly; "It is all such a terrible muddle, and there is no way ever to make it clear. No one would ever understand. I was so young and I loved him so—I loved him so!"
Dick stood up and began walking back and forth the length of the lanai. He felt a wild, unreasoning hatred for this fair-haired dead rival of his. "I can't understand it!" he burst forth. "You knew the other man before, and yet you married David Malua—and then went back to the other man. If you loved McKnight, why did you marry David Malua? But when you did marry him, why couldn't you have—been square?"
The girl was deathly silent for a moment; then she rose up quietly with the child in her arms, and went and laid him softly upon a couch; then she returned and came and stood before Dick where he had stopped near the rail of the lanai. The tears were all gone from her eyes now and her head was poised high on her slender neck. "You say," she said distinctly, "that you do not understand. Is it needful that you should understand? I have not asked your comments upon my behavior."
"But you didn't play the game," protested Dick, nursing his own jealous suffering and his antagonism toward this unsporting quality of her which his love resented. "You dragged your husband's love through the mire of your own—"
The girl stepped back, panting a little; "What is it to you?" she flashed out. "What call have you to judge me? Who has asked for your opinion? Why should you care, one way or the other, what I have done?"
The fire suddenly went out of Dick's face, leaving it the color of grey ashes, and slowly he folded his arms and stood looking down at her gravely. His lips were tight. "That is the unfortunate part about it," he said quietly; "I do care. I care desperately." And then turning away from her he went back through the screen of ironwoods and on out through his garden and away up the road toward the mountain tops.
For the first mile or so he neither saw nor heard nor chose his way, but merely followed the curves of the road mechanically, as an engine follows its rails and with no more feeling nor observation than has the engine. The soul of him seemed to be indrawn in uncanny contemplation of itself, leaving the body to its own devices and unattended. Eventually a trail cut across the road and led into the forest, and his feet, seemingly of their own volition, turned into it and followed on through the dense wood. On and on he followed the little trail, brushing aside swaying jungle vines which swung in his way, or the bending foliage of ti plants along the more open stretches; even stopping in one place to examine the curious veinings of the ivy-like leaves of a slender vine creeping over the moss of a huge boulder. He was conscious of examining it with interest; and yet it was a sort of wooden interest which seemed not to belong to the real man at all, but to be, rather, something extraneous and somewhat curious to observe. It was not until a cold wind struck him as he came around a sharp turn in the narrow trail, high up in the mountains, that he seemed to reassemble himself again and to look about and really sense his environment; and then for a moment he was dazed and bewildered by his surroundings. The trail which he had followed for all these miles had led him to the topmost ridge of the Kooalu mountain range, a mere knife-edge cutting the line between the windward and leeward sides of the Island. The turn in the trail had brought him out upon a narrow stretch which commanded both sides of the range; the sheer, rocky precipice, and far below the tapestry of varicolored green foot-hills, grey craters and sapphire blue sea, upon one hand; and upon the other, the heavily wooded steep slopes which dropped down into the Manoa Valley, more than two thousand feet below at this point, with the rice and taro fields, the gay gardens and homes, and the curving, dark roads, all sweeping out toward the brilliant, shimmering sea. From the ridge, at one side of him loomed the dark blue-green sides of Konahuanui, a thousand feet higher; and upon the other side the line of the ridge upon which he stood, rose sharply but in less lofty peaks, curving off into the distance. For a few moments he stood spellbound, drinking in the medicine which nature has provided for a sick soul; and then he walked reverently on along the rugged trail, no longer dull and introspective; but vitally alive and tingling with the joy of living and of setting his shoulders against the big wind which came tearing over the mountain tops and roaring away down the gorges. Once more he was all human and for the moment all questions of conservatism and Grundyism were submerged in the joy of just existing in a world so beautiful and in loving with an ardor beyond all compassing. To live in Hawaii forever, to have Evalani for his wife—beyond that nothing mattered—and that he would bring to pass, so help him God!
On he trod, buoyantly along the trail, which kept to the top of the ridge, merely winding upon one side or the other of some small peak, and then coming out again upon the thin knife-edge where the wind whipped and the koa trees bent and writhed in the blast and the lehuas scattered their red stamens in crimson wind-blown flocks of fiery arrows. There was a taller peak ahead which he knew to be Olympus, some twenty-five hundred feet high; and he determined to reach that point and then return, as he began to be conscious of the demands for food and water which such a tramp engenders. He reached the point, and then finding that the real tip of the peak was a bit higher than the trail, he left the path, and climbing the little eminence he threw himself down upon the very top and lay at ease, looking out over the precipice and watching the little black specks of automobiles creeping along the ribbons of roads, or other tiny specks of sampans flecking the blue of the water, or the lacy lines of surf creeping up from the blue to the green and then on over the sand of the beaches. Life seemed good to him just then. He had solved his problem, or rather, it had solved itself, and he had no thought of questioning the decision. He accepted it, and as for details, why those would also arrange themselves, he would not bother with them now; but only revel in the fact that Evalani was going to be his own. He did not even think to admit the possibility that Evalani might have ideas of her own upon the matter; but with the egotism of one who feels that he has accepted the will of the gods, he generously conceded to the gods the task of working out the details and seeing that they all dovetailed in a proper manner.
Eventually he began to feel a bit chilly, for the wind at those higher altitudes is distinctly fresh, and so he sat up and stretched his arms luxuriously, preparatory to turning upon the back trail. He stood up and peered over the edge of the precipice and estimated its depth, and then stooped and picked up a stone as large as his fist, to drop it and find if he could figure the depth by the time of its fall, in case that he was able to hear it alight. He bent forward in order to drop it sheer, and then suddenly whirled in his tracks to look into the slightly wavering barrel of a revolver not a dozen feet away. And then it was that his boyhood's baseball training stood him in good stead. Instantly, as if he had suddenly caught a man off base, the rock flew from his hand and the revolver hurtled through the air and dropped far below in an impenetrable mass of uluhi fern, while the man immediately grasped his right arm in his other hand and bent over it in a nursing attitude.
"What made you so slow?" called Dick, jocosely. "Got buck fever?"
The man looked up and swore.
"Wait where you are!" called Dick. Near as he was, there was still the slope of the little hillock upon which Dick stood, as well as the curve in the trail, to negotiate; and by the time that Dick had made these, on the jump, the man had sufficiently recovered from his jolt to take to his heels back down the trail. Dick had recognized him from the first glance, as Carter McKnight; and now his first thought was to let him go without further attention; but in another instant he remembered that there were half a hundred places on the back trail where he could be ambushed from above and a ton or so of loosened rock rolled down upon him, where the trail was not more than a foot wide and the fall deep. And so, this not being at all to his taste, he started on the run behind the man; and, being a good sprinter, he soon had him in sight and near enough so that there was no chance for side-stepping for sinister purposes. In fact, where the curves were sharp and near together, he ran up almost upon the man's heels, and could hear him pant as he ran; and then, where the stretches were longer, he dropped back somewhat, for a bit of breathing space for himself.
And presently he began to be thoroughly amused. The man had followed him up the mountain to murder him, of that there was no question; though why he had not fired the fatal shot was a puzzle, unless he had only just arrived when Dick heard the slight sound which made him turn just in time. Possibly the man had not yet had the opportunity to more than aim the gun, or possibly it had been, as Dick said, buck fever. The man had all of the earmarks of a coward, and it was quite "in the cards" that he had been taken with qualms when he had his game covered. At any rate, he was now being ignominiously chased back down the trail, up which he had come, gun in hand, stalking big game.
At last McKnight began to show evidences of acute exhaustion. He wheezed as he ran, and now and then staggered in a manner not at all comfortable upon so narrow a trail; and at last, reaching a point where the way was wider, he stumbled and fell in the grass at the side of the path, and lay still, breathing heavily, his arms over his head; probably expecting every moment to be his last.
However, Dick only stopped and stood looking down ironically at the heaving shoulders; and presently the man, being unable to stand the suspense of this silence containing he knew not what, raised his face, crimson from his long and agitated exertion, and stared at the man contemplating him. Dick stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning down upon his prostrate enemy, and quoted facetiously the absurd little jingle which had been running in his mind as he chased the fugitive down the mountain:—
And then he laughed and walked on down the trail, knowing that the man was too exhausted to leave his recumbent attitude for an hour or more, and too chastened to think up anything new right off.
Dick whistled a gay tune as he approached the two little houses on the Tantalus ridge. Tonight he would tell Evalani that she was to be his wife, and they would together plan out their future course. Tonight they would sit in the moonlight on her lanai andhe remembered the soft sweetness of her mouth, and the curve of her throat, and the glint of her eyes in the moonlight on other nights when he had not been brave enough to come nearer. But now,—he might come very near,—when he had told her. Perhaps it might be arranged for them to be married very soon,—perhaps this week. The whistling stopped, and he hurried up the walk to his lanai and his room, to prepare for dinner and for an evening which was to mark a milestone in his life, and by that milestone a gateway into what looked for a moment like everlasting bliss.
But even with these bright prospects before him, his appetite, achieved by his strenuous walk and run, without food or water, was unimpaired; and, dinner over, he took a few restless turns upon his lanai with a cigarette, and then approached the ironwood screen and knocked upon the rail, which was the usual inquiry as to whether he might part the branches and come over. But from the other side there came no answer. The ironwoods swung and rustled with their soft surf sounds, but no cheery voice called from beyond, "Come in!" He waited for a few moments and then knocked again. But again there was no answer. Perhaps she was still at dinner. He took a few more impatient turns upon the lanai and then returned to the portal, but his summons brought no response. In fact, it was so still beyond the ironwoods that a momentary fear shot through him. He leaned forward and swept aside the long green tassels; but instead of the vista of vine-covered lanai, there was before him only the blank wall of her heavy grey canvas curtain, rolled smoothly down and fastened at the bottom.
He let the green tassels fall back into place and turned away to stand by the farther rail and look deep down into the valley below. He could scarcely grasp the import of what he had seen. Her curtain had not been dropped a single time since she had first given him the privilege of rolling up the one upon his side of the screen. It could only mean that she was offended, seriously offended. But why? What had he said this afternoon? He had only told her that he cared for her. There was nothing in that to offend any woman, surely. And yet, how had he told her? He could scarcely remember. He had been maddened by her taunting way of demanding what her behavior was to him,—why he should care? But she should have understood that he was driven to his confession involuntarily. But what had he actually said? He tried to recall it, and at last the words came back; he had said that the unfortunate part of it was that he did care. The unfortunate part! To say that to a girl of her pride, a girl whose family name was Hookano, which means pride! To call it unfortunate that he loved her! Down into the depths of despair he dropped. She would never forgive him. She ought not to. It was vile. He had said other things to her. He had said that she was not square with David Malua. He had said abominable things about matters which did not concern him; and she had been right to assert herself and to call him to account; but couldn't she understand that it was because of his love, because of the torture of his love? And then his calmer self said: "But when you called that love unfortunate and fled from her, you called down the dividing curtain between you. You lowered it yourself. What else could a woman do, in the face of anything like that? Oh, fool, fool, fool! To have had in your hand the one thing on earth that could make life worth living, and you cast it out like something unworthy,—you cast it at her feet with bitterness, as a misfortune!"
Back and forth, back and forth on the lanai he walked, hour after hour. What could he say? What could he do? How could he make her understand that this thing which he had termed a misfortune, was the dearest thing in his life? How could he ever heal the breach enough to come near again so that he might at least tell her of his torture and his humiliation; and that the proudest thing which he possessed was this love for her, whether she would have it or not? What was it to him, who she was, what she had done, what anyone said? She was Evalani, his one love; and nothing else in the wide world, past, present or future, mattered, excepting that she understand this, even though she never were to see him again, even though she should never forgive him; yet only that she might know and understand. Over and over and in and out his thoughts wove and tangled with his love and his sorrow and his unrest and his longing; but from the other side of the blank curtain there came no sound; and at last, worn out with the depths of his revulsion from the anticipations of his return along the trail, to the unbelievable emptiness of the present reality, he flung himself upon a couch and fell into a heavy and exhausted sleep.